Bill Uebbing, Author, Creator, Technical Consultant, Editor, Content Manager and Community Relations Liaison to "Grandiose Ruminations Rooted in Minutiae", (GRRIM), is traveling this week and will be unable to post a blentry.
Astute readers will note the abject lack of posting as of late. The Author wishes to apologize and blames the lack of serviceable ideas for blog posts on his "day job", which lately has been a day job and night job in many different cities. Sometimes, somehow even all at one time. It's really quite amazing.
Stay tuned for next week's blentry entitled, "Still Traveling Because of the Holidays", wherein the author will discuss his inability to 'catch a break' and the affect of driving so much on his lower back and bum area. It's sure to be a people pleaser.
Until then, The author would like to recycle some road witticisms shared previously on Facebook. Sorry for the clip show. It's the best I got.
10 Immutable Laws of Staying in a Hotel:
1. You are the only one there to sleep.
2. The room is never dark enough except the floor area immediately
around coffee tables and other things that jump out at your feet on the
way to the bathroom at 2:00am.
3. The parking lot light/sunrise will be concentrated by the seam in the curtain to the exact spot where your eyes are in bed.
4. Your non-smoking room will smell just like cigarette smoke, although that's impossible, because it's a non-smoking room.
5. The dialogue on the TV will be inexplicably hard to hear, but you can make out every word coming from the neighbor's TV.
6. The light switch for the lamp is not at the door, but hidden on the wall around the corner of the closet, meaning you have to fumble around your bags to turn on a light...
7. Which will inevitably have been turned off by its switch and therefore will not turn on via the wall switch.
8. There will either be no bathroom fan, or there will be a bathroom fan that was apparently a leftover turbojet from a decommissioned 707 based on its overwhelming noise. Of course, same said fan will be completely ineffective in the removal of either steam or noxious emanations.
9. The shower mixer will have temperatures. "Oh my god, my skin melted" hot, or "Oh my god, my outty just became an inny" cold.
10.Finally the desk staff will be adept at telling you how welcome you are all the while making it tacitly known that this is the last they expect to see or hear from you during your stay and you are on your own until checkout at which point they will immediately ransack your former room looking for left over items to plunder.
And a bonus
11. The people upstairs will be tango instructors from a famous clog dancing group and have to get up exactly 30 minutes before you do, thusly robbing you of that last awesome bit of sleep you were really counting on because you stayed up too late watching "Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy" on HBO and stayed up even later wondering why you stayed up so late to watch "Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy" and truly wondering if you are as smart as you thought you were since you didn't understand not even one second of it.
OK, maybe that one is a little obscure in its specificity, but like I said... It's the best I can do right now.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Come Thou Long Expected Blog Post
What a season it has been! It seems that Thanksgiving was but a moment ago and I haven't had a moment to myself. Thus the neglect of Grandiose Ruminations. I am sure most of you have survived just fine without semi-regular thoughts from the deepest recesses of the shallow pool that is my mind. And if you haven't? You need to get a life.
Where to begin? Let's start with the "did nots", as in I did not win the Powerball and I did not therefore put into motion the plan to tell people what I really think about things in general and them in specific. That's a privilege reserved for the wealthy and socially inept. I am neither... because I didn't win the Powerball. Rest assured could I afford social ineptitude, I would practice it immediately wholeheartedly and unremittingly. People who seem to know not that the world around them is moving and pulsing and living and dying seem to have much more fun.
I also did not keep track of the events of the year on a daily basis like I swear I am going to do every year when I read Dave Barry's year in review. I suppose that is just fine, since I couldn't come close to the bard's cleverness and wit. Beside all that, it's his thing. Why not find my own thing?
I did not make anymore progress on personal writing. No more chapters of my moribund novel "One Summer on Shit Creek", no progress on my motivational/humorous speaking.
I also did not read 50 books this year. I did not read 30, nor 20. I read maybe 12. And If I go back and really look I may find it's less than that. So, for the sake of my image, let's say I eked out 12. Not good at all.
I did not manage to keep off the weight I had lost the previous two years. Better luck next year.
I did not save any money toward my goal of a new garage and driveway.
I did not, could not, get out of writing the Christmas letter this year that I know everyone sniggers at me for. Please understand, this is not my doing. I am chained up on November 1st in a cage with all my favorite foods being prepared just outside my reach until I finally write the letter. Only then am I released and able to enjoy life again in the wild. I hold out as long as I can, I promise!
Now for the "I dids".
I did reach my unspoken goal of selling over $1M this year. By a fair amount I might add. Next year's goal is now $3M.
I did get a contractor to replace the doors in the house that were long since past the pooch.
I did make progress on restoring the casement windows. I got three done. I was aiming for seven. I will have to amp that process up. It will begin this winter with the desire to restore four of the storm windows. That will leave me with six to go for next winter. My goal with casements this summer will be to finish the bay at the front of the house, which has four more to go and the two second floor casements.
I did manage to see my parents twice this year... this is a goal of mine going forward. One never knows what tomorrow holds, so you better take your chances now.
I hope you all, (ok, both!) had a good year and I hope you have a great year to come!
Where to begin? Let's start with the "did nots", as in I did not win the Powerball and I did not therefore put into motion the plan to tell people what I really think about things in general and them in specific. That's a privilege reserved for the wealthy and socially inept. I am neither... because I didn't win the Powerball. Rest assured could I afford social ineptitude, I would practice it immediately wholeheartedly and unremittingly. People who seem to know not that the world around them is moving and pulsing and living and dying seem to have much more fun.
I also did not keep track of the events of the year on a daily basis like I swear I am going to do every year when I read Dave Barry's year in review. I suppose that is just fine, since I couldn't come close to the bard's cleverness and wit. Beside all that, it's his thing. Why not find my own thing?
I did not make anymore progress on personal writing. No more chapters of my moribund novel "One Summer on Shit Creek", no progress on my motivational/humorous speaking.
I also did not read 50 books this year. I did not read 30, nor 20. I read maybe 12. And If I go back and really look I may find it's less than that. So, for the sake of my image, let's say I eked out 12. Not good at all.
I did not manage to keep off the weight I had lost the previous two years. Better luck next year.
I did not save any money toward my goal of a new garage and driveway.
I did not, could not, get out of writing the Christmas letter this year that I know everyone sniggers at me for. Please understand, this is not my doing. I am chained up on November 1st in a cage with all my favorite foods being prepared just outside my reach until I finally write the letter. Only then am I released and able to enjoy life again in the wild. I hold out as long as I can, I promise!
Now for the "I dids".
I did reach my unspoken goal of selling over $1M this year. By a fair amount I might add. Next year's goal is now $3M.
I did get a contractor to replace the doors in the house that were long since past the pooch.
I did make progress on restoring the casement windows. I got three done. I was aiming for seven. I will have to amp that process up. It will begin this winter with the desire to restore four of the storm windows. That will leave me with six to go for next winter. My goal with casements this summer will be to finish the bay at the front of the house, which has four more to go and the two second floor casements.
I did manage to see my parents twice this year... this is a goal of mine going forward. One never knows what tomorrow holds, so you better take your chances now.
I hope you all, (ok, both!) had a good year and I hope you have a great year to come!
Monday, December 3, 2012
Jack
I had never seen the mood of a large group of people in one place change so suddenly and completely as I did this Sunday morning in church when it was announced that Jack Terkeurst had passed away. Only a couple months ago, the congregation celebrated Jack and his wife Corrinne's 90th birthdays, which happened to be only a week apart.
Jack was the Grandfather to our friends Brent (Katrina) and Tricia and a fixture of the church. I half expected the very foundations of the building to begin quivering until they shook apart at the announcement. An usher for untold years, there are precious few congregants that weren't directly touched by Jack and his permanent smile and friendly greeting. Before that, Jack fought against the forces of tyranny in WWII.
It will be a sadder Christmas this year for the Terkeursts, but I hope they remember Jack had a wonderful life and a great positive effect on all he touched.
Jack was the Grandfather to our friends Brent (Katrina) and Tricia and a fixture of the church. I half expected the very foundations of the building to begin quivering until they shook apart at the announcement. An usher for untold years, there are precious few congregants that weren't directly touched by Jack and his permanent smile and friendly greeting. Before that, Jack fought against the forces of tyranny in WWII.
It will be a sadder Christmas this year for the Terkeursts, but I hope they remember Jack had a wonderful life and a great positive effect on all he touched.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Travels, Travails, Trials and Tribulations
Emily and I went out to Las Vegas to surprise my Dad for his birthday, which is actually December 2nd. We did the same for my Mom back in January and we had such a good time, that we resolved there and then to do the same thing for Dad.
And we again had a great time. Traveling by air, anymore a crap-shoot where crashing into the ground in a fireball isn't even the worst thing that could conceivably happen, was a non-event. At least where logistics and safety were concerned.There's always the passengers themselves to contend with.
The nice young lady entered the door of the plane and I knew she was going to be a problem to the flight crew. She was, after all, outfitted like a sherpa with unending attachments and bags teeming from her person. She was petite, but due to the baggage she was bouncing into each and every person in rows 1-19. We were in row 20.
Hello new seat mate.
And so, after a brief but terse conversation with the cabin attendant to consolidate some of the bags, she sat down. It was then I noticed the one large bag was actually a pet carrier. She had a cat. No problem, I have cats. I like cats. The cat wasn't making noise, didn't stink and fit nicely under the seat ahead of her. She was nice enough to ask, as we were rolling down the runway if we were ok with cats. That was nice of her.
So the cat was no problem, but my new friend was made of arms and elbows and in spite of her small size, seemed to be all over my personal bubble. This reality was happening. To me. In spite of the fact I was halfway on Emily, with my back spanning the armrest between us that spent the entire flight in its upright and locked position.
I mostly got used to that. it was when she began to start spraying a juniper smelling spray every five minutes or so into her face that got to me.
"Oh, did I spray you?" she asked. "Sorry."
How could you not? You're practically sitting in my lap! At least she apologized the first time. The subsequent 200 times we freebies apparently.
I don't like the smell of juniper. She said at the end of the flight it was for the cat, to keep him calm. I didn't buy it. The cat was fine the entire time. She said it was Lavender spray... It smelled like gin to me. Which is fine, because as much as I dislike juniper, I really hate lavender.
She was a nice young woman, I imagine about Emily's age. When she wasn't sleeping and we weren't watching our movie, we spoke pleasantly.
The movie we rented on the iPad, Dark Shadows was only so-so. I am sure with a larger screen some of the visual pizazz would have helped overcome what was ultimately a poorly executed story that was well-acted. My earbuds were cheapos that I bought in an airport and they are also extremely uncomfortable.
While out in Vegas, I looked for cheap noise cancelling headphones. I found them, at $30.00 apiece. That's pretty cheap so I didn't expect much.
We boarded the plane for our trip home and sat about 10 rows in front of a family with three young children. The wailing began immediately. As soon as the 'bong bong' indicated that we hit 10,000 feet and we could use electronic devices, Emily and I fairly dove into our bags to pull out the headsets.
What a revelation. I know these aren't "good" headphones. I know there are others on the market for even $85 apiece that are truly quality devices. But I didn't hear that baby crying the rest of the trip except when I would flip that toggle switch and turn off the noise cancelling, just to let in a little of the world.
"Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa".
Yep. Still there.
We watched "The Candidate" which it was pretty clear I enjoyed as I was getting 'the look' from my fellow passengers each time I would laugh aloud. I think they were probably just taking their anger for the wailing out on me as I sat in my pleasant cocoon of adolescent comedy.
I saved $60.00 in alcoholic beverages on this trip alone by buying these cheap headphones. I highly recommend them, no matter how inexpensive.
We touched down on the runway in a cloud socked Detroit. A little high I thought. I am one of those that can time the touchdown as I am very into flight. I really get into approach and landing. I am, in short, a nerd.
And so I counted my five... four... three... two... one.... taking away one finger until I pantomimed landing with my flattened palm.
I was dismayed that I was a second... maybe even a second-and-a-half too fast.
As I was remarking to Emily about this, the wheels, directly beneath our row began to lockup squeal. That's not a noise you want to hear. The antiskid system kicked in and we started to change direction rapidly. I could see out the starboard side that the pilot was trying to make the first high-speed turnoff. I was putting it all together now... I didn't count wrong, he landed high and fast.
It seemed to me as I was looking at the lights that he had actually stopped faster than he thought and we were now sort of transversely on the runway. Now what?
Since we were over the wing, I saw the starboard thrust reverser engage and heard the port engine spool up and we sort of backed up a little and got onto the taxi way. There were a number of planes in the pattern and I imagine not a lot of time to take evasive action. So, all things considered, they did a good job getting us off the runway.
Onto a one was taxi way. Going the wrong way.
We were now playing chicken with a DELTA MD80.
Long story short... (Too late)... We made it to the gate. I wanted to give the pilot a little good natured ribbing. But instead of standing up front at the flight deck door, graciously accepting plaudits for a job well done, the pilots apparently decided to get out of Dodge.
Long enough post for now. There's so much more I have to say about people in airports and on planes and whatever. It's all very funny. So, just suffice it to say you would enjoy it much and attribute those good feelings to me. Thanks.
And we again had a great time. Traveling by air, anymore a crap-shoot where crashing into the ground in a fireball isn't even the worst thing that could conceivably happen, was a non-event. At least where logistics and safety were concerned.There's always the passengers themselves to contend with.
The nice young lady entered the door of the plane and I knew she was going to be a problem to the flight crew. She was, after all, outfitted like a sherpa with unending attachments and bags teeming from her person. She was petite, but due to the baggage she was bouncing into each and every person in rows 1-19. We were in row 20.
Hello new seat mate.
And so, after a brief but terse conversation with the cabin attendant to consolidate some of the bags, she sat down. It was then I noticed the one large bag was actually a pet carrier. She had a cat. No problem, I have cats. I like cats. The cat wasn't making noise, didn't stink and fit nicely under the seat ahead of her. She was nice enough to ask, as we were rolling down the runway if we were ok with cats. That was nice of her.
So the cat was no problem, but my new friend was made of arms and elbows and in spite of her small size, seemed to be all over my personal bubble. This reality was happening. To me. In spite of the fact I was halfway on Emily, with my back spanning the armrest between us that spent the entire flight in its upright and locked position.
I mostly got used to that. it was when she began to start spraying a juniper smelling spray every five minutes or so into her face that got to me.
"Oh, did I spray you?" she asked. "Sorry."
How could you not? You're practically sitting in my lap! At least she apologized the first time. The subsequent 200 times we freebies apparently.
I don't like the smell of juniper. She said at the end of the flight it was for the cat, to keep him calm. I didn't buy it. The cat was fine the entire time. She said it was Lavender spray... It smelled like gin to me. Which is fine, because as much as I dislike juniper, I really hate lavender.
She was a nice young woman, I imagine about Emily's age. When she wasn't sleeping and we weren't watching our movie, we spoke pleasantly.
The movie we rented on the iPad, Dark Shadows was only so-so. I am sure with a larger screen some of the visual pizazz would have helped overcome what was ultimately a poorly executed story that was well-acted. My earbuds were cheapos that I bought in an airport and they are also extremely uncomfortable.
While out in Vegas, I looked for cheap noise cancelling headphones. I found them, at $30.00 apiece. That's pretty cheap so I didn't expect much.
We boarded the plane for our trip home and sat about 10 rows in front of a family with three young children. The wailing began immediately. As soon as the 'bong bong' indicated that we hit 10,000 feet and we could use electronic devices, Emily and I fairly dove into our bags to pull out the headsets.
What a revelation. I know these aren't "good" headphones. I know there are others on the market for even $85 apiece that are truly quality devices. But I didn't hear that baby crying the rest of the trip except when I would flip that toggle switch and turn off the noise cancelling, just to let in a little of the world.
"Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa".
Yep. Still there.
We watched "The Candidate" which it was pretty clear I enjoyed as I was getting 'the look' from my fellow passengers each time I would laugh aloud. I think they were probably just taking their anger for the wailing out on me as I sat in my pleasant cocoon of adolescent comedy.
I saved $60.00 in alcoholic beverages on this trip alone by buying these cheap headphones. I highly recommend them, no matter how inexpensive.
We touched down on the runway in a cloud socked Detroit. A little high I thought. I am one of those that can time the touchdown as I am very into flight. I really get into approach and landing. I am, in short, a nerd.
And so I counted my five... four... three... two... one.... taking away one finger until I pantomimed landing with my flattened palm.
I was dismayed that I was a second... maybe even a second-and-a-half too fast.
As I was remarking to Emily about this, the wheels, directly beneath our row began to lockup squeal. That's not a noise you want to hear. The antiskid system kicked in and we started to change direction rapidly. I could see out the starboard side that the pilot was trying to make the first high-speed turnoff. I was putting it all together now... I didn't count wrong, he landed high and fast.
It seemed to me as I was looking at the lights that he had actually stopped faster than he thought and we were now sort of transversely on the runway. Now what?
Since we were over the wing, I saw the starboard thrust reverser engage and heard the port engine spool up and we sort of backed up a little and got onto the taxi way. There were a number of planes in the pattern and I imagine not a lot of time to take evasive action. So, all things considered, they did a good job getting us off the runway.
Onto a one was taxi way. Going the wrong way.
We were now playing chicken with a DELTA MD80.
Long story short... (Too late)... We made it to the gate. I wanted to give the pilot a little good natured ribbing. But instead of standing up front at the flight deck door, graciously accepting plaudits for a job well done, the pilots apparently decided to get out of Dodge.
Long enough post for now. There's so much more I have to say about people in airports and on planes and whatever. It's all very funny. So, just suffice it to say you would enjoy it much and attribute those good feelings to me. Thanks.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Bad Joke Tuesday
The local soft rock station used to have a tradition known as "Bad Joke Tuesday", which I called frequently. I was well under age and so would disguise my voice in the way that only kids think makes them sound like adults. I always used my Dad's name.
I won a dozen donuts with one joke, which was the booby prize. Not being satisfied, I called right back, now with an accent, since I already blew my best, "Luke, I am my father" voice. Talk about commitment. And it was a long joke.
I shall not attempt to reproduce the joke here, because it is long and the punchline requires singing. They loved the joke and I won the first prize, tickets to see Yakov Smirnov. Imagine that being a prize of any size, let alone the grand prize. Hey, Grand Rapids was just a quiet berg back in the day, Yakov was a headliner.
I know I've written about this before from a different perspective, but Jerry Seinfeld was his opener and was brilliant.
I digress. The important part of this version of the story is that after telling this joke in what could kindly be considered and "inconsistent" accent, they asked my name.
I hadn't thought that far ahead.
"Yvonne," I said... "From Ecquador."
So while I am sure they didn't buy it they were cool enough to fake it. They put me on the radio, which I never heard because I had to catch a bus and I sent my Mom to get the tickets for me. I took a priest friend of mine and he treated me to dinner before the show.
So, I told two bad jokes for the privilege of hearing Yakov tell 45 minutes of them. Seems fair.
What does this have to do with anything? My sister just called me. A friend of hers from New York texted her at three this morning.
The text read, "What kind of drink is a Sandy?"
My sister, having spent a fair bit of time on both sides of the bar, wrote back, "You mean a shandy? That's a beer with lemon lime soda in it".
"No", came the reply, "A Sandy... It's a watered down Manhattan."
So, being it is an Election Day and a Tuesday, I thought I would resurrect Bad Joke Tuesday, if only for today. without further Ado some bad jokes. Some of my own, some classics. If you care to guess which are which, please feel free, but I won't tell you off hand which are which.
__________________________________________________________
Each day at 5, a doctor leaves his office and heads to a bar below his office and each day the bartender has a daiquiri with a cinnamon stick in it ready for the dock. Only today, the bartender realizes he is out of cinnamon sticks. So, thinking quickly, he grabs a piece of wood from beside the wood pizza oven, and puts it into the drink.
The doctor takes a sip and immediately asks, "What is this?"
And the bartender replies, "Why, it's your hickory daiquiri, Doc!"
_________________________________________________________
I heard the new church is state of the art. People are raving about the apse store!
_________________________________________________________
A priest and a rabbi are on a plane. They lapse into the inevitable spiritual debate. As it gets more heated, the plane has mechanical problems and crashes into the side of a mountain.
Of course, only the priest and rabbi live. the priest opens his eyes to see the rabbi giving himself the sign of the cross.
"Oh, Lord!," the priest proclaims, "In this moment of tragedy, I take notice of your glorious conversion of this man!"
"Conversion? Wvhat conversion? I was checking to make sure everything was in place... Spectacles, Testicles, Wallet, Watch!"
________________________________________________________
A priest and a rabbi who were friends we eating at a deli. They were jovially poking fun at each other when the conversation turned to eating Kosher.
The priest said, "I bet you've never had a ham sandwich. You don't know what you're missing!"
to which the rabbi replied, "But is is better than sex?"
________________________________________________________
What do you call a man with no arms and no legs in your pool? Bob.
What do you call a man with no arms and no legs at your front door? Matt.
What do you call a man with no arms and no legs in your pile of leaves? Russell.
What do you call a girl with on leg longer than the other? Eileen.
________________________________________________________
Why does the new Italian Navy have glass bottomed boats?
So they can see the old Italian Navy.
_______________________________________________________
A man is driving and suddenly sees flashing police lights behind him. Without hesitation, he speeds up and begins to drive as fast as he could.
After a chase, the cop finally gets him to pull over. the cop asks the man why he ran?
The man replied, "Last week my wife ran off with a cop. I was afraid you were trying to bring her back!"
_____________________________________________________
A man is pulled over by a cop.
"Sir, do you know how fast you were going?"
"No," says the man.
"That's not true, Harold," blurts his wife, "I told you you were speeding five minutes ago!"
"Shut up, Mildred before I slap you!" said the man.
"Jeez, lady, your husband always talk to you like that," asked the cop?
"Nah," she said, "Only when he's drunk!"
____________________________________________________
Finally, one of my all time favorites:
Timmy, Tommy and Achmed are at recess. Timmy and Tommy won't let Achmed play with them in the sandbox. The bell rings and they all go back to the classroom.
Just like every day, the kids line up before the teacher and one by one tell her what they did for recess.
"What did you do, Timmy?"
"I played in the sandbox with Tommy!"
"Very good, spell 'sandbox' and you can have a cookie!"
"Tommy, what did you do?"
"I played in the sandbox with Timmy!"
"Great! Spell 'played' and you can have a cookie!"
Achmed's turn now and he looks sad. He explains he tried to play in the sandbox with Timmy and Tommy, but they just kept kicking sand in his face and calling him names.
"Oh, Achmed, I'm sorry. That wasn't very nice of them. But if you can spell 'institutionalized racism', you can have a cookie!"
I won a dozen donuts with one joke, which was the booby prize. Not being satisfied, I called right back, now with an accent, since I already blew my best, "Luke, I am my father" voice. Talk about commitment. And it was a long joke.
I shall not attempt to reproduce the joke here, because it is long and the punchline requires singing. They loved the joke and I won the first prize, tickets to see Yakov Smirnov. Imagine that being a prize of any size, let alone the grand prize. Hey, Grand Rapids was just a quiet berg back in the day, Yakov was a headliner.
I know I've written about this before from a different perspective, but Jerry Seinfeld was his opener and was brilliant.
I digress. The important part of this version of the story is that after telling this joke in what could kindly be considered and "inconsistent" accent, they asked my name.
I hadn't thought that far ahead.
"Yvonne," I said... "From Ecquador."
So while I am sure they didn't buy it they were cool enough to fake it. They put me on the radio, which I never heard because I had to catch a bus and I sent my Mom to get the tickets for me. I took a priest friend of mine and he treated me to dinner before the show.
So, I told two bad jokes for the privilege of hearing Yakov tell 45 minutes of them. Seems fair.
What does this have to do with anything? My sister just called me. A friend of hers from New York texted her at three this morning.
The text read, "What kind of drink is a Sandy?"
My sister, having spent a fair bit of time on both sides of the bar, wrote back, "You mean a shandy? That's a beer with lemon lime soda in it".
"No", came the reply, "A Sandy... It's a watered down Manhattan."
So, being it is an Election Day and a Tuesday, I thought I would resurrect Bad Joke Tuesday, if only for today. without further Ado some bad jokes. Some of my own, some classics. If you care to guess which are which, please feel free, but I won't tell you off hand which are which.
__________________________________________________________
Each day at 5, a doctor leaves his office and heads to a bar below his office and each day the bartender has a daiquiri with a cinnamon stick in it ready for the dock. Only today, the bartender realizes he is out of cinnamon sticks. So, thinking quickly, he grabs a piece of wood from beside the wood pizza oven, and puts it into the drink.
The doctor takes a sip and immediately asks, "What is this?"
And the bartender replies, "Why, it's your hickory daiquiri, Doc!"
_________________________________________________________
I heard the new church is state of the art. People are raving about the apse store!
_________________________________________________________
A priest and a rabbi are on a plane. They lapse into the inevitable spiritual debate. As it gets more heated, the plane has mechanical problems and crashes into the side of a mountain.
Of course, only the priest and rabbi live. the priest opens his eyes to see the rabbi giving himself the sign of the cross.
"Oh, Lord!," the priest proclaims, "In this moment of tragedy, I take notice of your glorious conversion of this man!"
"Conversion? Wvhat conversion? I was checking to make sure everything was in place... Spectacles, Testicles, Wallet, Watch!"
________________________________________________________
A priest and a rabbi who were friends we eating at a deli. They were jovially poking fun at each other when the conversation turned to eating Kosher.
The priest said, "I bet you've never had a ham sandwich. You don't know what you're missing!"
to which the rabbi replied, "But is is better than sex?"
________________________________________________________
What do you call a man with no arms and no legs in your pool? Bob.
What do you call a man with no arms and no legs at your front door? Matt.
What do you call a man with no arms and no legs in your pile of leaves? Russell.
What do you call a girl with on leg longer than the other? Eileen.
________________________________________________________
Why does the new Italian Navy have glass bottomed boats?
So they can see the old Italian Navy.
_______________________________________________________
A man is driving and suddenly sees flashing police lights behind him. Without hesitation, he speeds up and begins to drive as fast as he could.
After a chase, the cop finally gets him to pull over. the cop asks the man why he ran?
The man replied, "Last week my wife ran off with a cop. I was afraid you were trying to bring her back!"
_____________________________________________________
A man is pulled over by a cop.
"Sir, do you know how fast you were going?"
"No," says the man.
"That's not true, Harold," blurts his wife, "I told you you were speeding five minutes ago!"
"Shut up, Mildred before I slap you!" said the man.
"Jeez, lady, your husband always talk to you like that," asked the cop?
"Nah," she said, "Only when he's drunk!"
____________________________________________________
Finally, one of my all time favorites:
Timmy, Tommy and Achmed are at recess. Timmy and Tommy won't let Achmed play with them in the sandbox. The bell rings and they all go back to the classroom.
Just like every day, the kids line up before the teacher and one by one tell her what they did for recess.
"What did you do, Timmy?"
"I played in the sandbox with Tommy!"
"Very good, spell 'sandbox' and you can have a cookie!"
"Tommy, what did you do?"
"I played in the sandbox with Timmy!"
"Great! Spell 'played' and you can have a cookie!"
Achmed's turn now and he looks sad. He explains he tried to play in the sandbox with Timmy and Tommy, but they just kept kicking sand in his face and calling him names.
"Oh, Achmed, I'm sorry. That wasn't very nice of them. But if you can spell 'institutionalized racism', you can have a cookie!"
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Perspectives on Current Events
On Hurricane Sandy:
View from the religious right: God has sent this storm to wipe clean from the earth the scourge of liberalism and homosexuality!
View from the extreme left: This superstorm is not normal! It is because of man's refusal to admit his effect on the global environment!
View of the Libertarians: This will cost taxpayers billions and further demonstrate big government's inability to lead.
View from a comedian: "Hurricane Sandy? Sandy? Wasn't that Annie's dog's name? Sandy? What is up with that name?"
View from the New Jersey coast: "Ahhhhhhrrrggh!"
__________________________________________________________
On The World Series:
View from The New York Yankees: We seriously lost to these guys?
View from the San Francisco Giants: The Yankees seriously lost to these guys?
View from the Detroit Tigers: We beat the Yankees!
_________________________________________________________
On the election:
View from Obama: I deserve another chance
View from Romney: I am so handsome...
View from the citizens of the United States: "Enough already!"
_________________________________________________________
On Facebook's Stock Price:
View from the stockholders: "Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"
View from white men over 50: "That's the last time I let my 14 year old daughter pick a stock.
View from Mark Zuckerberg: "Dude, I'm so rich either way. What do I care?"
________________________________________________________
View from the religious right: God has sent this storm to wipe clean from the earth the scourge of liberalism and homosexuality!
View from the extreme left: This superstorm is not normal! It is because of man's refusal to admit his effect on the global environment!
View of the Libertarians: This will cost taxpayers billions and further demonstrate big government's inability to lead.
View from a comedian: "Hurricane Sandy? Sandy? Wasn't that Annie's dog's name? Sandy? What is up with that name?"
View from the New Jersey coast: "Ahhhhhhrrrggh!"
__________________________________________________________
On The World Series:
View from The New York Yankees: We seriously lost to these guys?
View from the San Francisco Giants: The Yankees seriously lost to these guys?
View from the Detroit Tigers: We beat the Yankees!
_________________________________________________________
On the election:
View from Obama: I deserve another chance
View from Romney: I am so handsome...
View from the citizens of the United States: "Enough already!"
_________________________________________________________
On Facebook's Stock Price:
View from the stockholders: "Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"
View from white men over 50: "That's the last time I let my 14 year old daughter pick a stock.
View from Mark Zuckerberg: "Dude, I'm so rich either way. What do I care?"
________________________________________________________
Friday, October 26, 2012
This Old House
Welcome to the Uebbing's! We are so glad you could stay with us. I hope you will find our company and your stay warm and welcoming. Our home retains much of its original charm and character. Those are real plaster walls, solid wood doors and custom crown mouldings! Yes, the real hardwood floors creak when you walk on them and could use a good refinishing, but that's part of what we like to call patina!
Built by master craftsmen in 1926 and remodeled numerous times by people of increasingly lesser talent many times since, we feel it necessary to warn you that things might not be exactly like you are used to. Especially if you are visiting from a home built in 1978 or after.
The Paint:
Is missing in spots because we took it off and haven't put any back on. What's left is lead. Don't eat the paint or feed the paint to your children.
The Doors:
They stick open and closed all at the same time. We recommend making a game out of it by guessing whether you will be stuck in your room or locked out. It's harder than you think!
The Shower:
Yes, there is only one and yes, there is a window in it. That's what the blinds are for. Sure they're stained, they're in the shower!
You will notice three knobs over the spigot rather than the usual one. The knob on the left seems to have something to do with the hot water, but we are still unsure exactly what relation it has to the amount or temperature of the hot water coming out, so use caution. Turn the handle clockwise to open the hot water. As a side note, discussing what actually happens when you do this usually makes for interesting breakfast conversation! No two stories are the same!
The right handle is the cold water. Turn it counter-clockwise to unleash either a raging torrent of freezing cold water or but a trickle of something the temperature of beer in a German pub. Also, this handle operates in all axis'. You may find that by turning the knob clockwise, the expected result of which would be to reduce the amount of cold water, instead increases the flow of arctic chill. No worries, simply tap the knob twice lightly with the palm of your hand inward toward the wall. Wait a moment for a change in sound, akin to a jet engine spooling down, then recheck the temperature. Similarly, pulling lightly on the handle away from the wall produces a result, but we just haven't narrowed down precisely what that is just yet.
The middle knob is the mixer. This sends the water up to the spray head. Mind you, the water it sends to the spray head is not the same as the water that was coming out of the spigot, because the temperature and pressure are wholly unrelated to the settings you indicated by following the previous steps. Please repeat the previous steps until the water is to your liking, remembering that if the sound is like an airplane taking off, it will be very cold. If it is like an airplane landing, it will burn off your skin. You are looking for something in between, which is impossible, but good for you for trying.
Enjoy the 30 seconds of hot water that remains!
A final note:
Please do not flush the toilet within 36 hours of attempting to take a shower lest you suffer the profound and mystical consequences that result.
The Kitchen:
Welcome to 1984, Crockett and Tubbs! Sure, the rest of the house is all class and style, but here, white melamine rules the day! And yes, that is the second bathroom hanging right off the back of the kitchen there. You can run the water all you want, we will still hear everything that's going on in there, so keep it clean. It is also cold in there, so please keep the door open in the winter time to avoid the pipes freezing. This costs me on average $200 a year, so let's resolve to work together! If it is hot when you come visit, please keep the door closed. This bathroom is apparently a portal to another dimension whose seasons are opposite of those we have here in our reality. Use common sense.
If you need a pot or pan or utensil, chances are it will require you crawling wholesale into the cabinets as they stretch 37 feet into oblivion. We have tons of storage space, but most of it exists only in Narnia. Ask Emily for assistance if you can find her. I sent her to find me a medium saucepan three weeks ago and haven't seen her since.
The Windows:
Thoreau lived in a cabin in Walden Wood with no windows. Our home has splendid wood casement windows, each with 8 true divided lights. In spite of this, any resemblance to the functionality of modern windows is purely coincidental. In fact, they have a negative R value. Please leave the operation of the windows to one of the house staff.
The Doors:
Each door is equipped with multiple locks designed not so much to actually secure the doors, but more to befuddle and frustrate any would-be burglar. The exception is the sliding glass door out to the terrace on the back of the house. It uses "The Club" to bolster its lockset. "The Club" looks suspiciously like the the remnants of a broomstick handle and is propped in the corner to the right of the door, except when it has fallen over because of a cat or from being placed there haphazardly. If that is the case, it is likely that "The Club" is behind the 2,600 pound hutch on that wall.
The Driveway:
Yes, that ribbon of cracked asphalt that wends its way up one side of the house is the driveway. You will notice, among other features, it is exactly the same width as your car, with the doors closed. Excluding your mirrors and any other non-standard body accessories. If you have a trailer hitch, please do not enter the driveway, for you will not be able to back out, for your hitch will simply dig into the street and you will be stuck until a crane can lift you, (at your own expense), over the crevasse and into the street again.
The Haunted Shack at the Rear of the Property:
This is the garage. No, we don't keep it like that because we love Halloween, that's just what we have. Please don't discuss it further. But also don't go in there unless you like spiders, used motor oil in orange juice containers and abandoned woodworking projects.
And no, the combination lock and motion lights are not meant to be ironic.
The Basement:
Under no circumstances is anyone allowed in the basement. Ever.
The Ventilation:
You may notice some seasonal discomfort relating to the temperature of our home. That is because the furnace apparently blows all hot air directly to the outdoors and the air conditioner is filled with pancake syrup instead of freon. For two days in June and eight days in September, it's perfect. We suggest you dress in layers the other 355 days.
The Cats:
It may seem as though we are lousy with cats, when in fact we have only two. It's just that one comes in and out so much you'd think there were a dozen different cats when instead it's just the one, highly conflicted and totally decision averse animal. The other is only one cat as well, but seems to always be sleeping where you were going to sit down giving the illusion of being many more than one cat. Though she's old, fat and nearly deaf and blind, she has the uncanny ability to be right where you wanted to be. We suggest folding your body uncomfortably around her as she is very fat and not easily moved. If you don't like cats, don't worry, I bet ours don't much care for you, either.
Well, that's about it. We are so glad you decided to stay with us, that is, if you haven't made other plans having read this handy guide. Stay as long as you'd like, or as long as you can stand, whichever comes first. Dinner is served when dinner is done, breakfast is poured daily from our coffee pot and if you want turn down service, I'll give you a tic tac and show you to the nearest bar.
Built by master craftsmen in 1926 and remodeled numerous times by people of increasingly lesser talent many times since, we feel it necessary to warn you that things might not be exactly like you are used to. Especially if you are visiting from a home built in 1978 or after.
The Paint:
Is missing in spots because we took it off and haven't put any back on. What's left is lead. Don't eat the paint or feed the paint to your children.
The Doors:
They stick open and closed all at the same time. We recommend making a game out of it by guessing whether you will be stuck in your room or locked out. It's harder than you think!
The Shower:
Yes, there is only one and yes, there is a window in it. That's what the blinds are for. Sure they're stained, they're in the shower!
You will notice three knobs over the spigot rather than the usual one. The knob on the left seems to have something to do with the hot water, but we are still unsure exactly what relation it has to the amount or temperature of the hot water coming out, so use caution. Turn the handle clockwise to open the hot water. As a side note, discussing what actually happens when you do this usually makes for interesting breakfast conversation! No two stories are the same!
The right handle is the cold water. Turn it counter-clockwise to unleash either a raging torrent of freezing cold water or but a trickle of something the temperature of beer in a German pub. Also, this handle operates in all axis'. You may find that by turning the knob clockwise, the expected result of which would be to reduce the amount of cold water, instead increases the flow of arctic chill. No worries, simply tap the knob twice lightly with the palm of your hand inward toward the wall. Wait a moment for a change in sound, akin to a jet engine spooling down, then recheck the temperature. Similarly, pulling lightly on the handle away from the wall produces a result, but we just haven't narrowed down precisely what that is just yet.
The middle knob is the mixer. This sends the water up to the spray head. Mind you, the water it sends to the spray head is not the same as the water that was coming out of the spigot, because the temperature and pressure are wholly unrelated to the settings you indicated by following the previous steps. Please repeat the previous steps until the water is to your liking, remembering that if the sound is like an airplane taking off, it will be very cold. If it is like an airplane landing, it will burn off your skin. You are looking for something in between, which is impossible, but good for you for trying.
Enjoy the 30 seconds of hot water that remains!
A final note:
Please do not flush the toilet within 36 hours of attempting to take a shower lest you suffer the profound and mystical consequences that result.
The Kitchen:
Welcome to 1984, Crockett and Tubbs! Sure, the rest of the house is all class and style, but here, white melamine rules the day! And yes, that is the second bathroom hanging right off the back of the kitchen there. You can run the water all you want, we will still hear everything that's going on in there, so keep it clean. It is also cold in there, so please keep the door open in the winter time to avoid the pipes freezing. This costs me on average $200 a year, so let's resolve to work together! If it is hot when you come visit, please keep the door closed. This bathroom is apparently a portal to another dimension whose seasons are opposite of those we have here in our reality. Use common sense.
If you need a pot or pan or utensil, chances are it will require you crawling wholesale into the cabinets as they stretch 37 feet into oblivion. We have tons of storage space, but most of it exists only in Narnia. Ask Emily for assistance if you can find her. I sent her to find me a medium saucepan three weeks ago and haven't seen her since.
The Windows:
Thoreau lived in a cabin in Walden Wood with no windows. Our home has splendid wood casement windows, each with 8 true divided lights. In spite of this, any resemblance to the functionality of modern windows is purely coincidental. In fact, they have a negative R value. Please leave the operation of the windows to one of the house staff.
The Doors:
Each door is equipped with multiple locks designed not so much to actually secure the doors, but more to befuddle and frustrate any would-be burglar. The exception is the sliding glass door out to the terrace on the back of the house. It uses "The Club" to bolster its lockset. "The Club" looks suspiciously like the the remnants of a broomstick handle and is propped in the corner to the right of the door, except when it has fallen over because of a cat or from being placed there haphazardly. If that is the case, it is likely that "The Club" is behind the 2,600 pound hutch on that wall.
The Driveway:
Yes, that ribbon of cracked asphalt that wends its way up one side of the house is the driveway. You will notice, among other features, it is exactly the same width as your car, with the doors closed. Excluding your mirrors and any other non-standard body accessories. If you have a trailer hitch, please do not enter the driveway, for you will not be able to back out, for your hitch will simply dig into the street and you will be stuck until a crane can lift you, (at your own expense), over the crevasse and into the street again.
The Haunted Shack at the Rear of the Property:
This is the garage. No, we don't keep it like that because we love Halloween, that's just what we have. Please don't discuss it further. But also don't go in there unless you like spiders, used motor oil in orange juice containers and abandoned woodworking projects.
And no, the combination lock and motion lights are not meant to be ironic.
The Basement:
Under no circumstances is anyone allowed in the basement. Ever.
The Ventilation:
You may notice some seasonal discomfort relating to the temperature of our home. That is because the furnace apparently blows all hot air directly to the outdoors and the air conditioner is filled with pancake syrup instead of freon. For two days in June and eight days in September, it's perfect. We suggest you dress in layers the other 355 days.
The Cats:
It may seem as though we are lousy with cats, when in fact we have only two. It's just that one comes in and out so much you'd think there were a dozen different cats when instead it's just the one, highly conflicted and totally decision averse animal. The other is only one cat as well, but seems to always be sleeping where you were going to sit down giving the illusion of being many more than one cat. Though she's old, fat and nearly deaf and blind, she has the uncanny ability to be right where you wanted to be. We suggest folding your body uncomfortably around her as she is very fat and not easily moved. If you don't like cats, don't worry, I bet ours don't much care for you, either.
Well, that's about it. We are so glad you decided to stay with us, that is, if you haven't made other plans having read this handy guide. Stay as long as you'd like, or as long as you can stand, whichever comes first. Dinner is served when dinner is done, breakfast is poured daily from our coffee pot and if you want turn down service, I'll give you a tic tac and show you to the nearest bar.
Monday, October 15, 2012
Jimmy Crack Corn
I dreamed in an Irish accent last night, after having watched a couple or four episodes of the 12 part series "Titanic: Blood and Steel". So far, near as I can tell, it has as little to do with the Titanic as possible while still telling its compelling story of the labor movement and socioreligious tenor of the city of Belfast shortly after the turn of the 20th century.
People who know me, or read this blog regularly know I am a sucker for all things Titanic, even when like in this story, the Titanic is essentially a tertiary excuse for the storytelling. Who cares? It's pretty interesting. And for once, the Catholics aren't the bad guys. It's been a good long time since the media has had anything to say about Catholics unless there was some sort of sordid details involved.
I bring this up because I dreamed in an Irish accent last night. Dreamed about being in that world. Dreamed about eating popcorn. Not any popcorn, but the kind Em brought home from church that had been donated by Celebration! Cinemas.
Now I know what the song Jimmy Crack Corn is all about, because this stuff is the addictive spawn of crack and corn. And as the song continues, I don't care because it is so deliciously amazingly unremittingly good. So, I dreamed with an Irish accent about building the Titanic, but all the scenes I was in featured me throwing gobs of crackcorn in my mouth. I dreamed in Irish and popcorn.
I woke up to nasty heartburn and my mind said, "You know, Bill, a little popcorn will calm that down." I tossed and turned, trying to shake the devil. And I made it through the night without succumbing to my urges. Barely.
I just now walked through the kitchen. There it sits, in a garbage bag. Taunting me. "Eat me before I go stale!" "I'm popcorn, the healthy snack! It's ok, I'm mother approved!"
Man, work is done for the day. I got to go take a walk and try to get that evil, terrible, rotten, greasy, buttery, crunchy, salty wonderful goodness out of my head. Wish me luck.I still have 5 hours of Titanic to watch.
People who know me, or read this blog regularly know I am a sucker for all things Titanic, even when like in this story, the Titanic is essentially a tertiary excuse for the storytelling. Who cares? It's pretty interesting. And for once, the Catholics aren't the bad guys. It's been a good long time since the media has had anything to say about Catholics unless there was some sort of sordid details involved.
I bring this up because I dreamed in an Irish accent last night. Dreamed about being in that world. Dreamed about eating popcorn. Not any popcorn, but the kind Em brought home from church that had been donated by Celebration! Cinemas.
Now I know what the song Jimmy Crack Corn is all about, because this stuff is the addictive spawn of crack and corn. And as the song continues, I don't care because it is so deliciously amazingly unremittingly good. So, I dreamed with an Irish accent about building the Titanic, but all the scenes I was in featured me throwing gobs of crackcorn in my mouth. I dreamed in Irish and popcorn.
I woke up to nasty heartburn and my mind said, "You know, Bill, a little popcorn will calm that down." I tossed and turned, trying to shake the devil. And I made it through the night without succumbing to my urges. Barely.
I just now walked through the kitchen. There it sits, in a garbage bag. Taunting me. "Eat me before I go stale!" "I'm popcorn, the healthy snack! It's ok, I'm mother approved!"
Man, work is done for the day. I got to go take a walk and try to get that evil, terrible, rotten, greasy, buttery, crunchy, salty wonderful goodness out of my head. Wish me luck.I still have 5 hours of Titanic to watch.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
An Open Letter to Kraft Foods
Dear Kraft Foods,
I am writing today because I am extremely concerned about the state of one of your staple products, and a favorite of mine, Kraft Singles. I am long since past the shock that anyone is allowed by our overreaching government to call this, "cheese", but in spite of the blatantly misleading name, there are some serious issues with this product that need to be addressed immediately.
It begins with the plastic wrapper around the stack of slices. Perhaps the good people at Kraft never thought to engineer this part of the cheese packaging for strength. Perhaps you all were under the assumption that we all had avocado green or burnt sienna colored TupperMaid containers into which the slices would go once the package has been opened. This is just not realistic. My Mother-in-law is perhaps the last person in the known universe who still has her resilient cheese slice caddy, circa 1974. The rest of us are relying on the increasingly flimsy film wrapping that the stack of slices come in to keep those very slices from becoming errant in our refrigerators.
Without some kind of wrangler, the wily slices tend to slip and slide all over and end up in the darndest places. It is almost as if they are magnetically monopolarized rendering them impossible to keep together. Even if they manage to stay corralled in their general intended location, the corners tend to get all sad and dark and dry. This renders the slice inedible, even though with slight melting the condition seems to reverse. Clearly it's a miraculous self-healing product. But I have a psychological inability to eat dried up American Cheese under any circumstances.
The next problem is also in regards to the packaging. Seriously, has anyone in any consumer testing panel ever successfully opened either the outer wrapper or the individual slice wrappers successfully? Ever? Even once? Because I have been consuming your product on virtually a daily basis for at least 30 years. The mind reels at the true number of Kraft American "Cheese" slices I have consumed in my life. It is surely incalculable.
What is not incalculable is how many of those packages or slices I have opened successfully as designed. That number is zero. Zero times out of, perhaps 100,000 opportunities. This is a failure rate that even a Chinese factor wouldn't accept - and I watch Fox News, I know those Chinese are up for almost anything.
The knock-on effect is that the part you are supposed to use to grab and pull to remove the wrapping breaks, leaving behind a diabolical puzzle for which there is no solution. At the end, much of the cheese slice is mushed hard into the remaining plastic which winds up with most of the cheese in the trash can and me putting another twenty in the swear-jar. Seriously, I funded a trip to Europe after one night of making grilled cheese sandwiches. It's an epidemic.
What's left of the now wasted cheese slice needs to be dug out from under my finger nails. It is disconcerting for guest to walk into the kitchen and see you with a nail cleaner over top of their Triscuit. You can try to explain, but by then the party is pretty much over.
The usable remainder of the cheese slice that survives this common tableau is now subject to the greatest of all dangers - the nuclear nature of the now melted cheese. Seriously, what is it about the slices that retains, magnifies and eminates heat to disfiguring levels? I have burnt at one time or another the equivalent of over 80% of my body and it has to stop. There is no reason why a perfectly innocent person should fall victim to a pernicious molten glob of American "Cheese" after being melted in the microwave for only 15 seconds.
Is this product a failed prototype from your military division? Perhaps at one point it was to replace napalm? I am just speculating here, but maybe the good people at Kraft and talented engineers at Raytheon were co-developing a super weapon that became obsolete with the ever changing face of war on this planet. In order to reduce the losses, each company repositioned their product and thus was born both the microwave oven and the American "Cheese" slice.
I am asking you to please address these dangerous product flaws posthaste. Winter is coming and I don't know if I will survive another meal of grilled cheese and tomato soup. I still have the remnants of the blisters from last year when I had the audacity to bite into my grilled cheese without the requisite 2 hour cooling-off period. My dermatologist said without Kraft Cheese, he wouldn't have the boat or the second home. His son is going to Yale, and he's an idiot, so you know business is good!
Thank you for your time and attention.
Sincerely,
Bill Uebbing
PS, please excuse any typos. My hands, what remain of them, are wrapped up in gauze, leaving only the nibs of my former fingers exposed to peck out my thoughts. The good news is the Otolaryngologist says I should have some function of the left hand side of my tongue again, soon. The right side is still anyone's guess, but I refuse to lose hope. When I am able I will call you to discuss this matter further.
I am writing today because I am extremely concerned about the state of one of your staple products, and a favorite of mine, Kraft Singles. I am long since past the shock that anyone is allowed by our overreaching government to call this, "cheese", but in spite of the blatantly misleading name, there are some serious issues with this product that need to be addressed immediately.
It begins with the plastic wrapper around the stack of slices. Perhaps the good people at Kraft never thought to engineer this part of the cheese packaging for strength. Perhaps you all were under the assumption that we all had avocado green or burnt sienna colored TupperMaid containers into which the slices would go once the package has been opened. This is just not realistic. My Mother-in-law is perhaps the last person in the known universe who still has her resilient cheese slice caddy, circa 1974. The rest of us are relying on the increasingly flimsy film wrapping that the stack of slices come in to keep those very slices from becoming errant in our refrigerators.
Without some kind of wrangler, the wily slices tend to slip and slide all over and end up in the darndest places. It is almost as if they are magnetically monopolarized rendering them impossible to keep together. Even if they manage to stay corralled in their general intended location, the corners tend to get all sad and dark and dry. This renders the slice inedible, even though with slight melting the condition seems to reverse. Clearly it's a miraculous self-healing product. But I have a psychological inability to eat dried up American Cheese under any circumstances.
The next problem is also in regards to the packaging. Seriously, has anyone in any consumer testing panel ever successfully opened either the outer wrapper or the individual slice wrappers successfully? Ever? Even once? Because I have been consuming your product on virtually a daily basis for at least 30 years. The mind reels at the true number of Kraft American "Cheese" slices I have consumed in my life. It is surely incalculable.
What is not incalculable is how many of those packages or slices I have opened successfully as designed. That number is zero. Zero times out of, perhaps 100,000 opportunities. This is a failure rate that even a Chinese factor wouldn't accept - and I watch Fox News, I know those Chinese are up for almost anything.
The knock-on effect is that the part you are supposed to use to grab and pull to remove the wrapping breaks, leaving behind a diabolical puzzle for which there is no solution. At the end, much of the cheese slice is mushed hard into the remaining plastic which winds up with most of the cheese in the trash can and me putting another twenty in the swear-jar. Seriously, I funded a trip to Europe after one night of making grilled cheese sandwiches. It's an epidemic.
What's left of the now wasted cheese slice needs to be dug out from under my finger nails. It is disconcerting for guest to walk into the kitchen and see you with a nail cleaner over top of their Triscuit. You can try to explain, but by then the party is pretty much over.
The usable remainder of the cheese slice that survives this common tableau is now subject to the greatest of all dangers - the nuclear nature of the now melted cheese. Seriously, what is it about the slices that retains, magnifies and eminates heat to disfiguring levels? I have burnt at one time or another the equivalent of over 80% of my body and it has to stop. There is no reason why a perfectly innocent person should fall victim to a pernicious molten glob of American "Cheese" after being melted in the microwave for only 15 seconds.
Is this product a failed prototype from your military division? Perhaps at one point it was to replace napalm? I am just speculating here, but maybe the good people at Kraft and talented engineers at Raytheon were co-developing a super weapon that became obsolete with the ever changing face of war on this planet. In order to reduce the losses, each company repositioned their product and thus was born both the microwave oven and the American "Cheese" slice.
I am asking you to please address these dangerous product flaws posthaste. Winter is coming and I don't know if I will survive another meal of grilled cheese and tomato soup. I still have the remnants of the blisters from last year when I had the audacity to bite into my grilled cheese without the requisite 2 hour cooling-off period. My dermatologist said without Kraft Cheese, he wouldn't have the boat or the second home. His son is going to Yale, and he's an idiot, so you know business is good!
Thank you for your time and attention.
Sincerely,
Bill Uebbing
PS, please excuse any typos. My hands, what remain of them, are wrapped up in gauze, leaving only the nibs of my former fingers exposed to peck out my thoughts. The good news is the Otolaryngologist says I should have some function of the left hand side of my tongue again, soon. The right side is still anyone's guess, but I refuse to lose hope. When I am able I will call you to discuss this matter further.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Vomit, Vomit Everywhere
What is up with all these pop stars blowing chunks on stage? This isn't 1974 when rock debauchery met its ultimate zenith. I mean, Keith Moon and John Bonham never chundered on stage. Sure, they both passed out a time or two, their drum techs famously having to pinch hit for them so the show could go on. But they kept their guts in check. And they survived to party another day... right up until they died. And sure, if you want to be picky, Bonham did ultimately aspirate on his own vomit which caused him to die. At least he did it in the privacy of his own suite. And maybe Moon would still be with us if he did vomit up the 23 pills found in his stomach post mortem. But if he was alive, he would probably just be drooling away in a nice wicker chair in front of the window facing the lawn of the Syd Barret Convalescent Home for Burnt-Up Rock Gods. Who wants that?
Bieber and Gaga have both tossed it on stage within the last week. And why? Were they lip synching so hard they couldn't keep it in? Who knows. But Bieber is Canadian... I never drank with a Canadian that I could keep up with, so drunkeness doesn't seem likely. OK, I have never drank with a Canadian, but I have drank with a group of Youpers in an oddly "Deer Hunter" like scene around the kitchen table of a trailer out in the middle of nowhere. Didi Mao! Fun night. From what I can remember, which isn't much.
But I remember this; I didn't puke. My parents raised me better than that. I remember sitting down with my mom at the age of six and she said, "Son, you better hold your liquor or don't come home."
Ok, that never happened, but maybe someone should have had that talk with Bieber and Gaga.
Bieber's manager says he is exhausted. Exhaustion led to his upchucking his Bieber-ness all over the stage. Strangely the audio track never stopped, which means when people finally realize the Bieb has no talent, that he has a future as a ventriloquist. Maybe on a kids show. Or maybe in a burlesque show. Who knows, I won't see it either way. I would rather watch mimes perform "Who's on First?" while getting my teeth drilled than see a ventriloquist. It's not that I'm a fan of mimes and dental work. I don't like ventriloquists.
Gaga's manager says she is not, repeat, not pregnant. Except that she inevitably is. Why? Because as much as I hate to admit it, when Star Magazine says "Sources close to the avant garde singer say she is expecting a little miracle...", or some such tripe, they are usually right. How am I so sure? Because "sources close" to famous people like to "shit" on their "friends" so they can be famous. Even though we will only ever know them as "sources close". Those people are not friends. Someone should tell these famous people not to trust any sources close to them. Trust only strangers and vagrants you meet after the show in the alley.
Gaga is so thin that she should be showing a baby bump in like, her second minute of pregnancy. But who can tell under all that fluff and poof and whatever else she wears all the time? Does anyone even know what she looks like? Does anyone want to? Sex with Darth Vader, absolutely, but helmet on, buster, I don't want to see your left over Anakin business under there.
I can't imagine how she got pregnant. Her costumes must be hard to get off. If the anticipation of sex is the sexiest part of sex what happens after unhooking all those trusses and buckles and load bearing Lycra panels if she looks like Rosy O'Donnell?
"Oh, sorry, Gaga, I just realized I've got somewhere to be, I promise it's not your P P P P P Poker face. Although, next time, you might want to keep the costume on. Just sayin'. And, hey, get a nap honey, you look exhausted!"
My point is that these ersatz stars have nothing on our rock gods and goddesses of the classical era. For real, unless you're ready to commit to the whole Mamma Cass, keep your insides, well, inside. If you want to express yourself, hire someone to write you a song that explains how you would feel if you were human.
The next thing is kids will start thinking it's cool to puke at school while speaking at the pep rally, or having their mothers excuse them from gym class because of exhaustion. Whatever, puking on stage is so not bad ass. It's just puking in public, which where I come from is cause for sincere apology and showing up the next day with a bucket and a hose.
Of course, in today's world the person who cleaned up the puddle of famous sick is probably shopping pictures of it to the rags, or at least trying to sell it to kinky Japanese businessmen on Craig's List. I can see the title of the listing now: "Not just one, but many pieces of Bieber!" or, "Gaga's goo-goo for you-you."
My closing thought is that you pop stars better either back off the "exhaustion" juice and the "not pregnant" pills and slow it down for a spell. Your fans are too busy screaming or looking around for the nearest security guard so they can fire up their one-hitter in the relative privacy of row 322 double balcony, far left; a ticket for which they refinanced their Kia Sephia to afford, to even notice you're phoning it in. And at the end of the day, who cares? With a conservative financial plan in place, you could live forever off the money you've already bilked off of thousands of unsuspecting tweens, gay people and their beleaguered custodians. And that includes the millions in settlement money and attorney fees that are the inevitable result of those freaky sexual dalliances that you can't get off without.
Back in the golden days, rock stars taught us about the dangers of excess in the most effective way possible. They died. There was no overstaying their welcome. I blame Elton John for starting the trend of recovery from addiction and depression leading to a happy, charitable, self-actualized long life. BORING!
Nowadays, famous people don't burn out, they just flirt with disaster until they get singed and keep showing up on season after season of celebrity rehab, spitting out dime store, Dr. Phil grade psycho-platitudes until the people who once loved them wish they had choked on that ham sandwich after all.
Neil Young said it best, way back in the heyday: "My, My, Hey, Hey, Rock N' Roll Is Here to Stay. It's Better to Burn Out, Than to Fade Away. My, My, Hey Hey."
Bieber and Gaga have both tossed it on stage within the last week. And why? Were they lip synching so hard they couldn't keep it in? Who knows. But Bieber is Canadian... I never drank with a Canadian that I could keep up with, so drunkeness doesn't seem likely. OK, I have never drank with a Canadian, but I have drank with a group of Youpers in an oddly "Deer Hunter" like scene around the kitchen table of a trailer out in the middle of nowhere. Didi Mao! Fun night. From what I can remember, which isn't much.
But I remember this; I didn't puke. My parents raised me better than that. I remember sitting down with my mom at the age of six and she said, "Son, you better hold your liquor or don't come home."
Ok, that never happened, but maybe someone should have had that talk with Bieber and Gaga.
Bieber's manager says he is exhausted. Exhaustion led to his upchucking his Bieber-ness all over the stage. Strangely the audio track never stopped, which means when people finally realize the Bieb has no talent, that he has a future as a ventriloquist. Maybe on a kids show. Or maybe in a burlesque show. Who knows, I won't see it either way. I would rather watch mimes perform "Who's on First?" while getting my teeth drilled than see a ventriloquist. It's not that I'm a fan of mimes and dental work. I don't like ventriloquists.
Gaga's manager says she is not, repeat, not pregnant. Except that she inevitably is. Why? Because as much as I hate to admit it, when Star Magazine says "Sources close to the avant garde singer say she is expecting a little miracle...", or some such tripe, they are usually right. How am I so sure? Because "sources close" to famous people like to "shit" on their "friends" so they can be famous. Even though we will only ever know them as "sources close". Those people are not friends. Someone should tell these famous people not to trust any sources close to them. Trust only strangers and vagrants you meet after the show in the alley.
Gaga is so thin that she should be showing a baby bump in like, her second minute of pregnancy. But who can tell under all that fluff and poof and whatever else she wears all the time? Does anyone even know what she looks like? Does anyone want to? Sex with Darth Vader, absolutely, but helmet on, buster, I don't want to see your left over Anakin business under there.
I can't imagine how she got pregnant. Her costumes must be hard to get off. If the anticipation of sex is the sexiest part of sex what happens after unhooking all those trusses and buckles and load bearing Lycra panels if she looks like Rosy O'Donnell?
"Oh, sorry, Gaga, I just realized I've got somewhere to be, I promise it's not your P P P P P Poker face. Although, next time, you might want to keep the costume on. Just sayin'. And, hey, get a nap honey, you look exhausted!"
My point is that these ersatz stars have nothing on our rock gods and goddesses of the classical era. For real, unless you're ready to commit to the whole Mamma Cass, keep your insides, well, inside. If you want to express yourself, hire someone to write you a song that explains how you would feel if you were human.
The next thing is kids will start thinking it's cool to puke at school while speaking at the pep rally, or having their mothers excuse them from gym class because of exhaustion. Whatever, puking on stage is so not bad ass. It's just puking in public, which where I come from is cause for sincere apology and showing up the next day with a bucket and a hose.
Of course, in today's world the person who cleaned up the puddle of famous sick is probably shopping pictures of it to the rags, or at least trying to sell it to kinky Japanese businessmen on Craig's List. I can see the title of the listing now: "Not just one, but many pieces of Bieber!" or, "Gaga's goo-goo for you-you."
My closing thought is that you pop stars better either back off the "exhaustion" juice and the "not pregnant" pills and slow it down for a spell. Your fans are too busy screaming or looking around for the nearest security guard so they can fire up their one-hitter in the relative privacy of row 322 double balcony, far left; a ticket for which they refinanced their Kia Sephia to afford, to even notice you're phoning it in. And at the end of the day, who cares? With a conservative financial plan in place, you could live forever off the money you've already bilked off of thousands of unsuspecting tweens, gay people and their beleaguered custodians. And that includes the millions in settlement money and attorney fees that are the inevitable result of those freaky sexual dalliances that you can't get off without.
Back in the golden days, rock stars taught us about the dangers of excess in the most effective way possible. They died. There was no overstaying their welcome. I blame Elton John for starting the trend of recovery from addiction and depression leading to a happy, charitable, self-actualized long life. BORING!
Nowadays, famous people don't burn out, they just flirt with disaster until they get singed and keep showing up on season after season of celebrity rehab, spitting out dime store, Dr. Phil grade psycho-platitudes until the people who once loved them wish they had choked on that ham sandwich after all.
Neil Young said it best, way back in the heyday: "My, My, Hey, Hey, Rock N' Roll Is Here to Stay. It's Better to Burn Out, Than to Fade Away. My, My, Hey Hey."
Any Way You Cut It
For years, I have been entrenched in my use of a certain major label razor. Being a bald man, I have a lot of ground to cover and as such, my razors tend not to last as long as the average guy's. On top of that, my beard, particularly around my neck and jowls is very tough so my razors work hard.
But I was having to work too hard for my razors. I mean, geez, "Brand G" is pretty proud of their product, considering I am using the same design as the one from 10 years ago. The price sure hasn't gone down during that time and I'm pretty sure the tooling and R&D have been paid for by now.
So, I heard about an inexpensive place online. A service with brilliant marketing that will bill you monthly and send top quality razors to your door. The marketing really is brilliant. It is very funny. But since I am not being paid to hawk wares and I refuse to monetize this blog, I'll leave you to find them if you want. It may be worth it.
In the end, I didn't use the service because I wasn't thrilled about recurring billing or the vagaries of the US Postal Service, which lately delivers Tuesday's mail on Thursday, after 5:00pm. No joke. Anyhow, I did more Googling and found the name of the manufacturer of the shave club's blades and wouldn't you know it, they have an online store.
I bought 32 cartridges and a shaver for... wait for it... $30.00. A far cry from the $22,543.12 that haul would have cost from "Brand G" at a retail store.
The level of my neurosis becomes apparent to me every so often, and this was one of those times. I literally felt anxiety at the thought of changing razors. But at the same time, I was so excited to try something different. I poured over internet reviews which were roundly positive. Some were even done with a nod to the scientific method. I guess I am in good neurotic company. I have bought cars after doing less research. Much less. Many cars.
But I ordered the wrong item and so got 30 blades but no shaver handle. I would have to defer my excitement until the shaver came. By Saturday, I really needed a shave. I was shaggy in all the wrong ways. Not that cool CEO five O'clock shadow that popular douchebags all across America like to sport, (including me), but an unkempt sort of Rasputinesque look. And not the cool Alan Rickman Rasputin, but more like a National Geographic Rasputin. Have I made myself clear?
It was bad enough I relented and used one of my wife's disposable razors to clean up my aforementioned tough neck whiskers.
Now I know why Frankenstein had those knobs on his neck. he must have borrowed his wife's disposable razor. No wonder it takes Em 36 hours and 300 gallons of water and a full tube of goo to shave her legs! Em says she doesn't have an issue with them and I say fine. I will sooner use caustic lye t remove my stubble than use one of her razors ever again.
Wouldn't you know after I performed this task I checked the mail and in my box was my new shaver! Had I only waited 45 minutes! There's a lesson in that somewhere, but that's not where I am going with this. I tore the packaging open, ran upstairs and immediately tried it out.
I am happy to say I love it. And it's cheap, so I really, really love it. I am now a full fledged fan of these razors and even shaved my head again this morning though I didn't need to. I did it because I could without irritation.This may seem small to you, but I have, like 900 square feet of head to shave three times a week. It's a huge relief to me.
I have saved the rough equivalent of the GDP of a third world country in shaving costs over a 12 month period and I like that. They are made in Tijuana, Mexico. If not American made, at least they're made in the NAFTA region. I don't know what that means, but I suppose I feel good about it. I didn't know they made anything in Tijuana except herpes and empty, broken tequila bottles.
So I don't have a closer, really, except to say I am a happy, whiskerless guy with a good, cheap shaving solution thanks to the internet, the post office and the good people of Tijuana, Mexico.
But I was having to work too hard for my razors. I mean, geez, "Brand G" is pretty proud of their product, considering I am using the same design as the one from 10 years ago. The price sure hasn't gone down during that time and I'm pretty sure the tooling and R&D have been paid for by now.
So, I heard about an inexpensive place online. A service with brilliant marketing that will bill you monthly and send top quality razors to your door. The marketing really is brilliant. It is very funny. But since I am not being paid to hawk wares and I refuse to monetize this blog, I'll leave you to find them if you want. It may be worth it.
In the end, I didn't use the service because I wasn't thrilled about recurring billing or the vagaries of the US Postal Service, which lately delivers Tuesday's mail on Thursday, after 5:00pm. No joke. Anyhow, I did more Googling and found the name of the manufacturer of the shave club's blades and wouldn't you know it, they have an online store.
I bought 32 cartridges and a shaver for... wait for it... $30.00. A far cry from the $22,543.12 that haul would have cost from "Brand G" at a retail store.
The level of my neurosis becomes apparent to me every so often, and this was one of those times. I literally felt anxiety at the thought of changing razors. But at the same time, I was so excited to try something different. I poured over internet reviews which were roundly positive. Some were even done with a nod to the scientific method. I guess I am in good neurotic company. I have bought cars after doing less research. Much less. Many cars.
But I ordered the wrong item and so got 30 blades but no shaver handle. I would have to defer my excitement until the shaver came. By Saturday, I really needed a shave. I was shaggy in all the wrong ways. Not that cool CEO five O'clock shadow that popular douchebags all across America like to sport, (including me), but an unkempt sort of Rasputinesque look. And not the cool Alan Rickman Rasputin, but more like a National Geographic Rasputin. Have I made myself clear?It was bad enough I relented and used one of my wife's disposable razors to clean up my aforementioned tough neck whiskers.
Now I know why Frankenstein had those knobs on his neck. he must have borrowed his wife's disposable razor. No wonder it takes Em 36 hours and 300 gallons of water and a full tube of goo to shave her legs! Em says she doesn't have an issue with them and I say fine. I will sooner use caustic lye t remove my stubble than use one of her razors ever again.
Wouldn't you know after I performed this task I checked the mail and in my box was my new shaver! Had I only waited 45 minutes! There's a lesson in that somewhere, but that's not where I am going with this. I tore the packaging open, ran upstairs and immediately tried it out.
I am happy to say I love it. And it's cheap, so I really, really love it. I am now a full fledged fan of these razors and even shaved my head again this morning though I didn't need to. I did it because I could without irritation.This may seem small to you, but I have, like 900 square feet of head to shave three times a week. It's a huge relief to me.
I have saved the rough equivalent of the GDP of a third world country in shaving costs over a 12 month period and I like that. They are made in Tijuana, Mexico. If not American made, at least they're made in the NAFTA region. I don't know what that means, but I suppose I feel good about it. I didn't know they made anything in Tijuana except herpes and empty, broken tequila bottles.
So I don't have a closer, really, except to say I am a happy, whiskerless guy with a good, cheap shaving solution thanks to the internet, the post office and the good people of Tijuana, Mexico.
Friday, October 5, 2012
Personal Mascots
Schools have mascots. Professional sports teams obviously have mascots. Even community groups are named after mascots of a sort, like the Lions and Elks and Shriners, whatever the hell they are. I suppose it follows that individuals could have mascots, too. Why not?
I don't know what mine would be. The Screaming Rant? The Angry Buffalo? I don't know. The possibilities are endless. It might be a fun party game to name your friends with the most apt mascot. I'll have to remember that one next time I'm in a group. Maybe you could have two or three hats, each filled with paper on which is written an adjective and a noun or verb. That way it would be like mascot Mad-Libs!
With ideas like that, how am I not rich?
So, if I am on the fence about what mascot would fit me best, I do know what my wife's mascot would be. The Thundering Herd. No other person in the world walks with fervency equal to the clompen-schtompen of my wife. My wife is not an overweight woman, but she walks as though she were making a concerted effort to make sure the ground stays on the ground. Or maybe she is trying to step on, and pop some invisible balloon tied to her ankle.
I don't know, but the knock-on effects are obvious. Among them, I am forever repairing plaster in our old house. It cracks where the walls meet the ceilings as it flexes and vibrates under the strain of Emily's steps. Also, I can tell her mood by the sound of her walk.
Just now, the dining room chair slid back with a particular staccato and Emily's normally metered stump was replaced with a gait that was oddly fleet and powerfully heavy at the same time. She continued this pace up the stairs and I could tell by the sound alone she was skipping stairs as she went. Something got her hackles in a twitch.
"Monday is Columbus Day," she said.
"Is that still a thing," I asked?
"The banks will be closed!" she said, making that face that wives make whose power actually projects across the room and strikes fear into the heart of husbands.
"Dually noted," I said, trying not to let on that I understood that this would mess with the paycheck cycle and require certain adjustments in our spending. I mean she came all the way up the stairs to make a big deal out of this, I felt I could oblige with a little word play.
The other day when we were taking our walk, I broached the subject with Em and she said our friend Greg says the same thing about his wife, also not a heavy person. She just walks like she never fully trusts gravity, or as if that Godzilla movie she saw as a kid disproportionally influenced her step.
"I weigh upwards of 240 pounds, and yet I can move daintily about our old, creaky home without being tracked and you are this little waifish thing and sound like the thundering herd!" I said as we were walking yesterday, the sidewalk behind us buckling and crumbling.
"So what? That's how I walk? I don't know why," Em said defensively.
She then went on to remind me how she does have a history of falling. A lot. Down the stairs. Even up the stairs. And I don't mean the Lifetime Movie kind of falling a lot. I have nothing to do with it.
"Maybe I am just trying to be sure I don't die every time I take a step," came the ultimate decisive response.
Good answer. So, mascots don't have to be attractive or fully welcome if indeed they are apt. And so, if my wife is The Thundering Herd, she's the prettiest, best smelling thundering herd there ever was. And she can cook. Pretty impressive
Oooh, I got one for me. Bucket O' Lard, no, wait, Giant Blister! Blustering Wind? Category IV Hurricane? The list goes on.
________________________________________________________
Last night was my night to cook dinner. Em mentioned she had purchased some talapia. I saw it and figured it was one of those things for me, as Em doesn't really like fish so much.
"I want to try it. We had it at Amy and Adam's and I liked it. Will you make it Thursday?"
Of course. So, since Em is sort of new to eating fish, I at least wanted to prepare it in a way that downplayed the fishiness of it, even though talapia isn't really fishy to begin with. So, I lightly seasoned the fish and coated it in a 2 part breading of seasoned flower and seasoned breadcrumbs. It was very light and promised to enhance the flakiness of the fish.
I pan fried it and prepared some linguini and a cream caper sauce.
I had never made this meal before and was sort of making it up as I went along. I didn't have the stuff I would normally have to make the sauce, but it all turned out OK.
Em always talks about her meals, which are universally amazing and I love them. She has multiple recipe books, boxes and binders. They are alphabetized, rated, modified and annotated. If you want to make something, Em has the recipe. For her, a recipe is the key. I am recipe dyslexic. I can't follow one. I have to use my old actor's trick of actually memorizing the recipe so I can recite it as I go along. My brain just doesn't work that way.
I am a guy after all and therefore impotent to the challenge of reading and following directions, maps, ransom letters and the like. I lost a sibling that way. $20,000 in unmarked bills to the southwest corner of the park before 2:00 on Saturday? Southwest corner? Oh, man. Sorry, sis. I can't do this.
So, I just wanted to let the world, (or at least the 16 people in the world underemployed enough to waste their time on reading this garbage), that sometimes, I make something good, too in spite of my many disabilities, like the inability to read for information.
That is all. I really need to get some actual work done.
I don't know what mine would be. The Screaming Rant? The Angry Buffalo? I don't know. The possibilities are endless. It might be a fun party game to name your friends with the most apt mascot. I'll have to remember that one next time I'm in a group. Maybe you could have two or three hats, each filled with paper on which is written an adjective and a noun or verb. That way it would be like mascot Mad-Libs!
With ideas like that, how am I not rich?
So, if I am on the fence about what mascot would fit me best, I do know what my wife's mascot would be. The Thundering Herd. No other person in the world walks with fervency equal to the clompen-schtompen of my wife. My wife is not an overweight woman, but she walks as though she were making a concerted effort to make sure the ground stays on the ground. Or maybe she is trying to step on, and pop some invisible balloon tied to her ankle.
I don't know, but the knock-on effects are obvious. Among them, I am forever repairing plaster in our old house. It cracks where the walls meet the ceilings as it flexes and vibrates under the strain of Emily's steps. Also, I can tell her mood by the sound of her walk.
Just now, the dining room chair slid back with a particular staccato and Emily's normally metered stump was replaced with a gait that was oddly fleet and powerfully heavy at the same time. She continued this pace up the stairs and I could tell by the sound alone she was skipping stairs as she went. Something got her hackles in a twitch.
"Monday is Columbus Day," she said.
"Is that still a thing," I asked?
"The banks will be closed!" she said, making that face that wives make whose power actually projects across the room and strikes fear into the heart of husbands.
"Dually noted," I said, trying not to let on that I understood that this would mess with the paycheck cycle and require certain adjustments in our spending. I mean she came all the way up the stairs to make a big deal out of this, I felt I could oblige with a little word play.
The other day when we were taking our walk, I broached the subject with Em and she said our friend Greg says the same thing about his wife, also not a heavy person. She just walks like she never fully trusts gravity, or as if that Godzilla movie she saw as a kid disproportionally influenced her step.
"I weigh upwards of 240 pounds, and yet I can move daintily about our old, creaky home without being tracked and you are this little waifish thing and sound like the thundering herd!" I said as we were walking yesterday, the sidewalk behind us buckling and crumbling.
"So what? That's how I walk? I don't know why," Em said defensively.
She then went on to remind me how she does have a history of falling. A lot. Down the stairs. Even up the stairs. And I don't mean the Lifetime Movie kind of falling a lot. I have nothing to do with it.
"Maybe I am just trying to be sure I don't die every time I take a step," came the ultimate decisive response.
Good answer. So, mascots don't have to be attractive or fully welcome if indeed they are apt. And so, if my wife is The Thundering Herd, she's the prettiest, best smelling thundering herd there ever was. And she can cook. Pretty impressive
Oooh, I got one for me. Bucket O' Lard, no, wait, Giant Blister! Blustering Wind? Category IV Hurricane? The list goes on.
________________________________________________________
Last night was my night to cook dinner. Em mentioned she had purchased some talapia. I saw it and figured it was one of those things for me, as Em doesn't really like fish so much.
"I want to try it. We had it at Amy and Adam's and I liked it. Will you make it Thursday?"
Of course. So, since Em is sort of new to eating fish, I at least wanted to prepare it in a way that downplayed the fishiness of it, even though talapia isn't really fishy to begin with. So, I lightly seasoned the fish and coated it in a 2 part breading of seasoned flower and seasoned breadcrumbs. It was very light and promised to enhance the flakiness of the fish.
I pan fried it and prepared some linguini and a cream caper sauce.
I had never made this meal before and was sort of making it up as I went along. I didn't have the stuff I would normally have to make the sauce, but it all turned out OK.
Em always talks about her meals, which are universally amazing and I love them. She has multiple recipe books, boxes and binders. They are alphabetized, rated, modified and annotated. If you want to make something, Em has the recipe. For her, a recipe is the key. I am recipe dyslexic. I can't follow one. I have to use my old actor's trick of actually memorizing the recipe so I can recite it as I go along. My brain just doesn't work that way.
I am a guy after all and therefore impotent to the challenge of reading and following directions, maps, ransom letters and the like. I lost a sibling that way. $20,000 in unmarked bills to the southwest corner of the park before 2:00 on Saturday? Southwest corner? Oh, man. Sorry, sis. I can't do this.
So, I just wanted to let the world, (or at least the 16 people in the world underemployed enough to waste their time on reading this garbage), that sometimes, I make something good, too in spite of my many disabilities, like the inability to read for information.
That is all. I really need to get some actual work done.
Thursday, October 4, 2012
Climbing Mt. Irony
We all have our strengths and weaknesses. I don't know anyone who doesn't wish they were good at something they are not whilst overlooking the things at which they are truly talented. I, for one, wish I could draw. As it stands, I cannot make a credible stick figure. I am truly awful at drawing. And I so admire people who can create a reality from a blank canvas.
Emily, my wife, is at our dining room table as I write this, pouring over some forms that people have filled out. Filling my 17th cup of coffee of the morning in the adjacent kitchen, she looks up and says to me, "What is so hard about filling out a form?! I mean, seriously, why can't people fill out a form?!"
I dropped my coffee, but luckily caught it in my lower jaw, which had also dropped to the floor, for my wife is famously unable to fill out forms without constant intercession. It is a running joke amongst us. If St. Peter has a clipboard at the pearly gates Emily's well-lived life is all for naught. Unless we go together in which case I will help her fill out the form. That is, if I even make it that far. Personally, I'm thinking I should just buy a place in Purgatory. Why rent when you can own? It's not like I'll move on anytime soon.
You know the form you have to fill out at the doctor's office? The one that asks if your pee smells like asparagus and if you can see the back of your head when you roll your eyes? Em is incapable of filling it out.
"It says 'Name', here. What do they want me to put down? Do they want my maiden name? I was to be called Tom if I had been a boy, do they need to know that?"
It only goes downhill from there as the second page asks you to check off the maladies that brought you in to the office today.
"I don't know... do I suffer from headaches? I had that one in January...", she said earnestly.
"Honey," began my condescending retort, "I think the form means do you have chronic headaches that cause an issue in your life."
"Well, they're an issue when I have them. I don't like headaches..."
"But you could hardly call one headache in the last year 'chronic', now could you?"
"Well, maybe there is something wrong. I should check the box." She continued.
"Yes, fine, check the box. I don't care." I said dismissively and turned my attention back to the fascinating video on geriatric care.
"I guess I won't." Em resolved, somehow.
All was well until the very next item which started the process all over again. "... honey, you don't have a prostate..."
Our polling place is close to the house, so we get up early and walk over to avoid any traffic. Walking home, then we have the inevitable "how'd you vote" discussion. We share these things with each other, even though we occasionally disagree. That's what life is all about. Last time, there was a proposal that was written in such a way that you had to vote "Yes" to mean "No" and vice versa. I won't get into the what the proposal was because I don't intend to betray the privacy that we all have rights to as voters. Suffice it to say, Emily voted opposite of how she intended to because of the (intentionally?) confusing language of the proposal.
In the end the result worked out OK, but since then, Em and I sit down before hand and discuss all the proposals and referenda in detail so she knows how she wants to vote before she even goes in. We discuss them in order they appear on the ballot so that she can even create a mnemonic device if she feels the need to do so. This year's ballot has several proposals on it, so we have created a little rhyme so she doesn't choke in the booth.
The point is, that Emily, my dear wife, talented and gifted in so many ways planted a flag at the summit of Mt. Irony when she railed against others for not filling out her form correctly. And that's OK, she says, because "this form is simple. Even I know how to circle the best contact method!"
I am the annual hero in my home each winter when I sit down to complete the taxes. "I don't even know how you can do that", Em says. And it's actually not hard, but I don't let her know that. I stomp and brood around the house, sighing at measured intervals to feign duress. I usually get some good meals out of it. "Come here you big strong man, you need potroast!" Yes, I do!
My dearest wife wrote one about my failure to put away clothing after she washes and folds it with such care and how I finally get nutty after about a month and empty my dresser and reorganize it so everything fits. And even though I perform this task 12 times a year, I am still surprised by what I find. "Hey, look, my Tommy Brann's little league jersey!" By the way, the second 'n' really throws Em off... She still calls it 'Brawns', even though it is clearly a short a. But that's another idiosyncrasy and I don't want to appear to pile on, here in my attempt to make a point...
...Which is we all have our 'things.' And even though we know we all have our things we don't often see our things as things, but we readily see other peoples' things, even if they are the same things as our things. This is called "Fundamental Attribution Error" by academics.
I call it the top of Mt. Irony. It's funnier that way.
Emily, my wife, is at our dining room table as I write this, pouring over some forms that people have filled out. Filling my 17th cup of coffee of the morning in the adjacent kitchen, she looks up and says to me, "What is so hard about filling out a form?! I mean, seriously, why can't people fill out a form?!"
I dropped my coffee, but luckily caught it in my lower jaw, which had also dropped to the floor, for my wife is famously unable to fill out forms without constant intercession. It is a running joke amongst us. If St. Peter has a clipboard at the pearly gates Emily's well-lived life is all for naught. Unless we go together in which case I will help her fill out the form. That is, if I even make it that far. Personally, I'm thinking I should just buy a place in Purgatory. Why rent when you can own? It's not like I'll move on anytime soon.
You know the form you have to fill out at the doctor's office? The one that asks if your pee smells like asparagus and if you can see the back of your head when you roll your eyes? Em is incapable of filling it out.
"It says 'Name', here. What do they want me to put down? Do they want my maiden name? I was to be called Tom if I had been a boy, do they need to know that?"
It only goes downhill from there as the second page asks you to check off the maladies that brought you in to the office today.
"I don't know... do I suffer from headaches? I had that one in January...", she said earnestly.
"Honey," began my condescending retort, "I think the form means do you have chronic headaches that cause an issue in your life."
"Well, they're an issue when I have them. I don't like headaches..."
"But you could hardly call one headache in the last year 'chronic', now could you?"
"Well, maybe there is something wrong. I should check the box." She continued.
"Yes, fine, check the box. I don't care." I said dismissively and turned my attention back to the fascinating video on geriatric care.
"I guess I won't." Em resolved, somehow.
All was well until the very next item which started the process all over again. "... honey, you don't have a prostate..."
Our polling place is close to the house, so we get up early and walk over to avoid any traffic. Walking home, then we have the inevitable "how'd you vote" discussion. We share these things with each other, even though we occasionally disagree. That's what life is all about. Last time, there was a proposal that was written in such a way that you had to vote "Yes" to mean "No" and vice versa. I won't get into the what the proposal was because I don't intend to betray the privacy that we all have rights to as voters. Suffice it to say, Emily voted opposite of how she intended to because of the (intentionally?) confusing language of the proposal.
In the end the result worked out OK, but since then, Em and I sit down before hand and discuss all the proposals and referenda in detail so she knows how she wants to vote before she even goes in. We discuss them in order they appear on the ballot so that she can even create a mnemonic device if she feels the need to do so. This year's ballot has several proposals on it, so we have created a little rhyme so she doesn't choke in the booth.
The point is, that Emily, my dear wife, talented and gifted in so many ways planted a flag at the summit of Mt. Irony when she railed against others for not filling out her form correctly. And that's OK, she says, because "this form is simple. Even I know how to circle the best contact method!"
I am the annual hero in my home each winter when I sit down to complete the taxes. "I don't even know how you can do that", Em says. And it's actually not hard, but I don't let her know that. I stomp and brood around the house, sighing at measured intervals to feign duress. I usually get some good meals out of it. "Come here you big strong man, you need potroast!" Yes, I do!
My dearest wife wrote one about my failure to put away clothing after she washes and folds it with such care and how I finally get nutty after about a month and empty my dresser and reorganize it so everything fits. And even though I perform this task 12 times a year, I am still surprised by what I find. "Hey, look, my Tommy Brann's little league jersey!" By the way, the second 'n' really throws Em off... She still calls it 'Brawns', even though it is clearly a short a. But that's another idiosyncrasy and I don't want to appear to pile on, here in my attempt to make a point...
...Which is we all have our 'things.' And even though we know we all have our things we don't often see our things as things, but we readily see other peoples' things, even if they are the same things as our things. This is called "Fundamental Attribution Error" by academics.
I call it the top of Mt. Irony. It's funnier that way.
Tuesday, October 2, 2012
Whispering Pines Redux
Both of you who read this blog on a regular basis will recall my ode to Whispering Pines, a place Em and I went to this spring. It was on the market outside the little town of Kalkaska, itself about 25 minutes from the resort town of Traverse City in Michigan's northwest lower peninsula. It is just a little log cabin on 10 acres of tall, swaying pines and gently rolling sandy hills. Emily christened it Whispering Pines because it was breezy the day we went and looked at it.
We stood in the clearing that emerged to the right of the gently ascending two-track that ran along the property line, listening to the trees sway in the wind and occasionally crack together at the top. It was not ominous in any way. It was peaceful. I could have stayed all day, the dappled sun falling gently on my face as I watched the tall pines sway in the wind, (All apologies to Don Henley for the phrase grab).
Though the price was reasonable and in my estimation would only go up, we simply couldn't have purchased it. We both briefly bought into the dream of having a quiet place out of town. It seemed to come up every time our next door neighbors had people over, (pretty much every night in the summer, it seemed), and the smell of their cigarettes would waft into our house, situated essentially on top of theirs. We do live in the city after all. That's the price you pay.
Later in the summer I had a couple opportunities to camp, first in West Virginia and then in Pentwater, MI. These were enough to help me remember how much I love being outdoors. Reminded how in nature, surrounded by peace and quiet I am alone, but not lonely. Whispering Pines became a goal for me. Something to be reached for.
I checked on my Zillow app daily to see if anyone bit. The price went down a time or two, but there was no change to the disposition of the place. Until Sunday. That's when it changed from "For Sale" to "Pending".
Pending. The word stabbed at my eye and stung me in my chest. My stomach lurched and my mouth went dry. Someone with the money to do so bought Whispering Pines. And they probably didn't even know the name of the place was Whispering Pines. They'll probably call it something stupid and hackneyed like "The Stumble Inn" or, "The Last Resort" or even more ubiquitously, "The Cabin". Or worse, the new owner won't name it at all!
I don't know if you know this about me, but I name everything. If I don't have a name for an object it means I truly don't care for it. I name cars, houses, things... each one of my cats has at least a dozen pet names on top of their given names and that's because one name can't contain the love I have for the stupid critters.
And so would be the same with Whispering Pines if I were able to make it mine. A home is a major purchase. It is no small decision to buy a place... especially if you already have a place and the second place is essentially a nod to superfluity. And if you don't love something enough to name it, why spend money on it?
We just worked on the 2013 family budget and it's gonna be a lot of years before I can ever have a place out in the woods. Priorities have to take... well, priority over things not needed. These are austere times for society and indeed for us.
I don't know the new owner or owners. I hope they love the place and it is everything they want it to be.In my opinion, they got a fetching place for a great price. The land is truly blessed with natural beauty and I hope the new person or family is blessed with good health and good times there.
And for God's sake, I hope they give it a name. I humbly suggest Whispering Pines. You can have it, free and clear.
We stood in the clearing that emerged to the right of the gently ascending two-track that ran along the property line, listening to the trees sway in the wind and occasionally crack together at the top. It was not ominous in any way. It was peaceful. I could have stayed all day, the dappled sun falling gently on my face as I watched the tall pines sway in the wind, (All apologies to Don Henley for the phrase grab).
Though the price was reasonable and in my estimation would only go up, we simply couldn't have purchased it. We both briefly bought into the dream of having a quiet place out of town. It seemed to come up every time our next door neighbors had people over, (pretty much every night in the summer, it seemed), and the smell of their cigarettes would waft into our house, situated essentially on top of theirs. We do live in the city after all. That's the price you pay.
Later in the summer I had a couple opportunities to camp, first in West Virginia and then in Pentwater, MI. These were enough to help me remember how much I love being outdoors. Reminded how in nature, surrounded by peace and quiet I am alone, but not lonely. Whispering Pines became a goal for me. Something to be reached for.
I checked on my Zillow app daily to see if anyone bit. The price went down a time or two, but there was no change to the disposition of the place. Until Sunday. That's when it changed from "For Sale" to "Pending".
Pending. The word stabbed at my eye and stung me in my chest. My stomach lurched and my mouth went dry. Someone with the money to do so bought Whispering Pines. And they probably didn't even know the name of the place was Whispering Pines. They'll probably call it something stupid and hackneyed like "The Stumble Inn" or, "The Last Resort" or even more ubiquitously, "The Cabin". Or worse, the new owner won't name it at all!
I don't know if you know this about me, but I name everything. If I don't have a name for an object it means I truly don't care for it. I name cars, houses, things... each one of my cats has at least a dozen pet names on top of their given names and that's because one name can't contain the love I have for the stupid critters.
And so would be the same with Whispering Pines if I were able to make it mine. A home is a major purchase. It is no small decision to buy a place... especially if you already have a place and the second place is essentially a nod to superfluity. And if you don't love something enough to name it, why spend money on it?
We just worked on the 2013 family budget and it's gonna be a lot of years before I can ever have a place out in the woods. Priorities have to take... well, priority over things not needed. These are austere times for society and indeed for us.
I don't know the new owner or owners. I hope they love the place and it is everything they want it to be.In my opinion, they got a fetching place for a great price. The land is truly blessed with natural beauty and I hope the new person or family is blessed with good health and good times there.
And for God's sake, I hope they give it a name. I humbly suggest Whispering Pines. You can have it, free and clear.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Tune On, Tune In, Tuneup?
I made an observation to someone the other day that I am most prolific a writer when I am pissed off or exhausted. I have been neither. In fact, mostly quite the opposite. Secondly, I have been legitimately busy. Ironically, writing. Writing for work, writing for professional groups. Writing, writing, writing. I like to write and for once, it's actually a component of what I get paid to do. Who can complain? Not me. And that's part of the problem.
More than a writer, I am a ranter. I like to rant. Since I try so hard to make this blog apolitical, and this is politics season, I don't have a lot to rant about in this forum. Come have a beer with me and wind me up and I'll give you ranting. But not here. Work is great, Em and I are great. Sure, I'm a little behind on some chores and I could use some more money, but really, is that anything to write a blog about?
Well... There is one thing. Em is training to be and will take over as our church's wedding coordinator late this year. Why? Apparently, in spite of being married to a giant hairy man-child, and having two other part-time jobs and being an integral part of countless committees, commissions, panels, advisory boards and community action groups public and private, sacred and secular, she decided she needed more stress in her life. What could possibly be more stressful than dealing with brides to be?
Well, dealing with bridal parties and mothers and mothers-in-law, but that's beside the point. I think we can all agree to just lump that whole melange under the term "brides."
This is important to me how? Well, it wouldn't be except that being a husband who believes his job does not begin and end at being the breadwinner and fiddling with the greasy bits around the house, so I got sucked in.
Emily said to me in July, "Honey, the couples have to take premarital counseling before they can get married in the church. I want to take it so I know more about it and can help them in the process."
"Super!", I said. "I think you should. It will be interesting."
"Well, I don't want to take it alone."
"So, divorce me and find a new man to marry and do the counseling. Talk about commitment. It would look great on your next performance evaluation."
"As tempting as that is, I want you to take it with me."
"O.K. When is it?"
Sheepishly Em replied, "It's two Saturday mornings in September."
"College Football Saturdays? The only Saturdays of the year that mean anything to me? My reason for living between August and October to say nothing of bowls?"
"They'll be done by 12:30."
"They better damn well be, lest you will find me walking out the door with you or without you."
This is me being supportive and loving and such. Good, eh? O.k., maybe we could use this class after all.
So we took the class over the last two Saturdays and we basically busted the curve. It wasn't really fair, all these doe-eyed youthful twenty-somethings wandering haplessly toward either the best thing they will ever do or the biggest mistake they will ever make. Here among them, two people who have been married for 12 years and regard each other so comfortably we may as well be an old pair of gym shoes.
We did some activities and had a lot of discussion... and you know, it wasn't a bad class. A couple of the guys would look over at me with terror in their eyes as if to ask me, "Is what they're saying right now true?" to which I responded wordlessly with the slightest of smug smiles and almost imperceptible nod. It was actually pretty fun and opened up a lot of good conversation between Em and I. I suppose you can always use a tune-up.
Turns out, I didn't even miss any football of consequence and Em paid me back by being a great hostess with me at our gala event for my work this last weekend so it all works out in the end. She has hers, I have mine, we have ours. It's a pretty good setup.
We applied this knowledge afterward when I got a big appointment in Ann Arbor on a day where we need to be in Indianapolis for a wedding. The appointment, four hours away from our destination is only 6 hours before we need to be there, so like the famous Booker T and the MGs song, time is tight. We were able to avoid panic and came up with a workable solution. Em will get her hair done at a salon while I am in my meeting. I'll already be dressed in a suit, so I'll be good to go. Since Em's hair will be done, all that will be left is for her to slip on her dress and touch up her face, and voila! Instant formal couple, none the worse for wear.
I don't want to get too smug, but we really are starting to get this marriage thing down pat. For now. Stay tuned, these things run in spurts. I may have a good old fashioned rant just around the corner.
More than a writer, I am a ranter. I like to rant. Since I try so hard to make this blog apolitical, and this is politics season, I don't have a lot to rant about in this forum. Come have a beer with me and wind me up and I'll give you ranting. But not here. Work is great, Em and I are great. Sure, I'm a little behind on some chores and I could use some more money, but really, is that anything to write a blog about?
Well... There is one thing. Em is training to be and will take over as our church's wedding coordinator late this year. Why? Apparently, in spite of being married to a giant hairy man-child, and having two other part-time jobs and being an integral part of countless committees, commissions, panels, advisory boards and community action groups public and private, sacred and secular, she decided she needed more stress in her life. What could possibly be more stressful than dealing with brides to be?
Well, dealing with bridal parties and mothers and mothers-in-law, but that's beside the point. I think we can all agree to just lump that whole melange under the term "brides."
This is important to me how? Well, it wouldn't be except that being a husband who believes his job does not begin and end at being the breadwinner and fiddling with the greasy bits around the house, so I got sucked in.
Emily said to me in July, "Honey, the couples have to take premarital counseling before they can get married in the church. I want to take it so I know more about it and can help them in the process."
"Super!", I said. "I think you should. It will be interesting."
"Well, I don't want to take it alone."
"So, divorce me and find a new man to marry and do the counseling. Talk about commitment. It would look great on your next performance evaluation."
"As tempting as that is, I want you to take it with me."
"O.K. When is it?"
Sheepishly Em replied, "It's two Saturday mornings in September."
"College Football Saturdays? The only Saturdays of the year that mean anything to me? My reason for living between August and October to say nothing of bowls?"
"They'll be done by 12:30."
"They better damn well be, lest you will find me walking out the door with you or without you."
This is me being supportive and loving and such. Good, eh? O.k., maybe we could use this class after all.
So we took the class over the last two Saturdays and we basically busted the curve. It wasn't really fair, all these doe-eyed youthful twenty-somethings wandering haplessly toward either the best thing they will ever do or the biggest mistake they will ever make. Here among them, two people who have been married for 12 years and regard each other so comfortably we may as well be an old pair of gym shoes.
We did some activities and had a lot of discussion... and you know, it wasn't a bad class. A couple of the guys would look over at me with terror in their eyes as if to ask me, "Is what they're saying right now true?" to which I responded wordlessly with the slightest of smug smiles and almost imperceptible nod. It was actually pretty fun and opened up a lot of good conversation between Em and I. I suppose you can always use a tune-up.
Turns out, I didn't even miss any football of consequence and Em paid me back by being a great hostess with me at our gala event for my work this last weekend so it all works out in the end. She has hers, I have mine, we have ours. It's a pretty good setup.
We applied this knowledge afterward when I got a big appointment in Ann Arbor on a day where we need to be in Indianapolis for a wedding. The appointment, four hours away from our destination is only 6 hours before we need to be there, so like the famous Booker T and the MGs song, time is tight. We were able to avoid panic and came up with a workable solution. Em will get her hair done at a salon while I am in my meeting. I'll already be dressed in a suit, so I'll be good to go. Since Em's hair will be done, all that will be left is for her to slip on her dress and touch up her face, and voila! Instant formal couple, none the worse for wear.
I don't want to get too smug, but we really are starting to get this marriage thing down pat. For now. Stay tuned, these things run in spurts. I may have a good old fashioned rant just around the corner.
Friday, September 7, 2012
A Study in Contrasts
This is an idea I had, malformed and only partially so at that. With all apologies, I will try to work this treatment out for all to see, though it is ill conceived and probably not as funny as it struck me to be when it presented itself as a fleeting thought at five o'clock this very a.m.
Without further adieu, here is a letter written by a civil war era soldier back home to his sweetheart, Cordelia... all Civil War era ladies were named Cordelia. These soldiers were young, and held to the bar of modern standards, poorly educated. And yet, it seems when you read some correspondence or watch a Ken Burns film that these young men were so eloquent, even poetic in their descriptions of battle, life and longing.
Following this, is something on the order of what you may see today by an average teen or young man to his girlfriend.
My Dearest Cordelia,
My mind aches at the distance between us. My entreaty to the almighty is for us to be reunited safely and soon and that we shall never again be parted so long as God's will be done on Earth. For while here in this untidy place, woven of chaos and fear I cannot be complete for lack of your countenance.
The men are afeared as our previous efforts against our foe have lead to nothing but unceasing death and pestilence, resulting only an utter loss of morale and continued intransigence of the line of battle. As of late, no man here is a soldier so much as an undertaker and no recently dead man's corpse regarded so sacred as to save it the indignities of being stripped of its possessions like one would do with an old twenty dollar plow.
But of course, my love of loves, I shall not continue to press upon you my burden as I envision your frame being laden with worry at the description of my vicissitude. It is with this concern that I lift to you the depth of my faith in my return to you, a man who is able and very much alive all the better for that which I have endured. And as it comes to be so, I shall marry you with immediacy and set aside the horrors of this war and set about providing for you a life which you will regard as a blessing.
It is in my deep and abiding love for you, my sweet Cordelia, that I find my strength to suffer the inequities of war, and hunger and cold. For no campfire, indeed no burning hot sun can provide the warmth my heart desires. Only your dear sweet smile, the dulcet tones of your melodious voice and the beauty of your face can provide these elusive things.
As I continue on in my struggle, I keep your picture at my breast and envision the coming day whereupon I shall walk up your path, gravel crunching beneath these boots, no longer the engine of war, intent upon only holding you in my embrace until the day is gone and exhaustion sets upon us.
Until then, my darling Cordelia, I shall whisper your name each morning and night in the hopes that somehow the echo of my emotions find your ear that you may know fully the conviction of my heart.
Yours Forever,
Francis Beauregard Tuttle-Ashford Lee III
_____________________________________________________________
Babe,
This class sux. I can't wait 2 see u again in the hall. Yo booty looks so good in those jeans. I don't like them dudes checkin' you out, but what can i do? Study hall blows. It is so boring. There's like, 15 min left and I don't think I'm gonna make it.
Later we should hook up at my place. My parents won't be home for an hour, so if you don't mess around I could tap you like a keg before dinner.
Peace,
Moogie.
Without further adieu, here is a letter written by a civil war era soldier back home to his sweetheart, Cordelia... all Civil War era ladies were named Cordelia. These soldiers were young, and held to the bar of modern standards, poorly educated. And yet, it seems when you read some correspondence or watch a Ken Burns film that these young men were so eloquent, even poetic in their descriptions of battle, life and longing.
Following this, is something on the order of what you may see today by an average teen or young man to his girlfriend.
My Dearest Cordelia,
My mind aches at the distance between us. My entreaty to the almighty is for us to be reunited safely and soon and that we shall never again be parted so long as God's will be done on Earth. For while here in this untidy place, woven of chaos and fear I cannot be complete for lack of your countenance.
The men are afeared as our previous efforts against our foe have lead to nothing but unceasing death and pestilence, resulting only an utter loss of morale and continued intransigence of the line of battle. As of late, no man here is a soldier so much as an undertaker and no recently dead man's corpse regarded so sacred as to save it the indignities of being stripped of its possessions like one would do with an old twenty dollar plow.
But of course, my love of loves, I shall not continue to press upon you my burden as I envision your frame being laden with worry at the description of my vicissitude. It is with this concern that I lift to you the depth of my faith in my return to you, a man who is able and very much alive all the better for that which I have endured. And as it comes to be so, I shall marry you with immediacy and set aside the horrors of this war and set about providing for you a life which you will regard as a blessing.
It is in my deep and abiding love for you, my sweet Cordelia, that I find my strength to suffer the inequities of war, and hunger and cold. For no campfire, indeed no burning hot sun can provide the warmth my heart desires. Only your dear sweet smile, the dulcet tones of your melodious voice and the beauty of your face can provide these elusive things.
As I continue on in my struggle, I keep your picture at my breast and envision the coming day whereupon I shall walk up your path, gravel crunching beneath these boots, no longer the engine of war, intent upon only holding you in my embrace until the day is gone and exhaustion sets upon us.
Until then, my darling Cordelia, I shall whisper your name each morning and night in the hopes that somehow the echo of my emotions find your ear that you may know fully the conviction of my heart.
Yours Forever,
Francis Beauregard Tuttle-Ashford Lee III
_____________________________________________________________
Babe,
This class sux. I can't wait 2 see u again in the hall. Yo booty looks so good in those jeans. I don't like them dudes checkin' you out, but what can i do? Study hall blows. It is so boring. There's like, 15 min left and I don't think I'm gonna make it.
Later we should hook up at my place. My parents won't be home for an hour, so if you don't mess around I could tap you like a keg before dinner.
Peace,
Moogie.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
RIPs
Mr. Funk died the middle of last week. He was my next door neighbor growing up. The Funks were great neighbors, invited us to parties, kept the house looking nice from the street and didn't roll their eyes every time I came around.
Mr. Funk was funny, and as a final joke, he left us in his casket, shirt and tie pulled back just enough to reveal the Superman shirt on underneath. He was a huge fan of Superman. It was fitting. I will always remember him being a funny man. He told me jokes that were above my age limit and understanding, some I didn't get until much later.
When I was a wee lad, I was going out with a cute red-headed girl. Mr. Funk asked me to describe her and after I was done he said "yeah, but do the curtains match the rug?" I was maybe 10. I had no idea what he meant until a few years later when it just sorta hit me. It still makes me laugh.
RIP, Mr. Funk, you will be missed here on earth.
__________________________________________________________
Phyllis Diller cannot be explained, she must be experienced. My first experience with her was as an animated guest star on Scooby Doo. Like so many in my generation, that's how I learned about pop culture. I met the Globetrotters, The Monkees and so much more on Scooby Doo. Following the career high of Scooby Doo was The Muppet Show and The Love Boat. Both were really big in my house; and so even from the time I was very young, I knew who Phyllis Diller was.
And that she was funny. And classy. I like funny and raunchy... Roseanne, way back before she lost her last name(s) was funny raunchy. I liked her stuff. Joan Rivers could swear a blue streak and was terribly mean spirited. Funny. But mean. Diller was first, and like Bill Cosby, seldom resorted to overtly blue material, opting instead for delighting in entendre. Classy.
I cannot eulogize Ms. Diller as well as those who knew her personally, but it really does say something that everyone I know who is a cohort of mine knew Phyllis Diller and her humor and was sad to see her go. Considering she was in her late fifties when I was born that is quite a long and lasting legacy.
Here's to you,Ms. Diller. I hope you and Johnny and Bob and Dinah are having a ball up there... speaking of a ball... say hey to Lucy for me.
__________________________________________________________
I have never been to San Francisco, but Scott MacKenzie's eponymous city song always made me want to go. A troubadour in the classical sixties mold, he wrote and co-wrote many songs you and I know word for word, even if we didn't know he had a hand in writing them.
Thanks for the gentle melodies from a turbulent time.
_________________________________________________________
We are all immortal, really, or at least we live on long after we are physically gone. Through children or the people who surrounded us. We will continue to be the subject of stories anecdotes, and maybe even legends. I am amazed that people I haven't seen in a long time or don't talk to with regularity will quote back to me things I have said to them. It is as shocking to me they remember what I said as it is when I hear what I told them and really like it.
I guess in the end, that's what we are all living for if we are doing it right. Leave a lot of good memories, wisdom, humor and positive energy. Immortality without having to pay income tax... not a bad gig.
Mr. Funk was funny, and as a final joke, he left us in his casket, shirt and tie pulled back just enough to reveal the Superman shirt on underneath. He was a huge fan of Superman. It was fitting. I will always remember him being a funny man. He told me jokes that were above my age limit and understanding, some I didn't get until much later.
When I was a wee lad, I was going out with a cute red-headed girl. Mr. Funk asked me to describe her and after I was done he said "yeah, but do the curtains match the rug?" I was maybe 10. I had no idea what he meant until a few years later when it just sorta hit me. It still makes me laugh.
RIP, Mr. Funk, you will be missed here on earth.
__________________________________________________________
Phyllis Diller cannot be explained, she must be experienced. My first experience with her was as an animated guest star on Scooby Doo. Like so many in my generation, that's how I learned about pop culture. I met the Globetrotters, The Monkees and so much more on Scooby Doo. Following the career high of Scooby Doo was The Muppet Show and The Love Boat. Both were really big in my house; and so even from the time I was very young, I knew who Phyllis Diller was.
And that she was funny. And classy. I like funny and raunchy... Roseanne, way back before she lost her last name(s) was funny raunchy. I liked her stuff. Joan Rivers could swear a blue streak and was terribly mean spirited. Funny. But mean. Diller was first, and like Bill Cosby, seldom resorted to overtly blue material, opting instead for delighting in entendre. Classy.
I cannot eulogize Ms. Diller as well as those who knew her personally, but it really does say something that everyone I know who is a cohort of mine knew Phyllis Diller and her humor and was sad to see her go. Considering she was in her late fifties when I was born that is quite a long and lasting legacy.
Here's to you,Ms. Diller. I hope you and Johnny and Bob and Dinah are having a ball up there... speaking of a ball... say hey to Lucy for me.
__________________________________________________________
I have never been to San Francisco, but Scott MacKenzie's eponymous city song always made me want to go. A troubadour in the classical sixties mold, he wrote and co-wrote many songs you and I know word for word, even if we didn't know he had a hand in writing them.
Thanks for the gentle melodies from a turbulent time.
_________________________________________________________
We are all immortal, really, or at least we live on long after we are physically gone. Through children or the people who surrounded us. We will continue to be the subject of stories anecdotes, and maybe even legends. I am amazed that people I haven't seen in a long time or don't talk to with regularity will quote back to me things I have said to them. It is as shocking to me they remember what I said as it is when I hear what I told them and really like it.
I guess in the end, that's what we are all living for if we are doing it right. Leave a lot of good memories, wisdom, humor and positive energy. Immortality without having to pay income tax... not a bad gig.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
The D Word
The patient has NOT fulfilled his deductible.
Those are the words that appear at the bottom of the explanation of benefits from my insurance provider. Over top of that is a graph that shows how much the insurance paid for my surgery. The answer? Predictably zero. Zero dollars. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Nil.
I pay my insurance like anyone else... about $600.00 a month, or $7,200 per year. And on top of that, I have a $2,000 deductible for each of us, (Em and me). So, that means, in simple terms that in order for my insurance to really "pay" for anything, I have to spend $7,200 first. Except prescriptions, I don't pay a lot for those.
Now, at the ripe old age of 37, I have never, ever spent $7,000 on medical anything. I know I am only a few tests and a polyp or a tumor away from that number, which is pretty small in the face of a hospitalization. But, really?
For my recent surgery, I had a doctor's consult which cost me money, an MRI which cost me a lot of money, another test which cost me money and a surgery which cost me a lot of money. When all is said and done, it all combines to cost me less than $2,000. But the insurance still didn't pick any of that up because of my "deductible".
Well, so should I just "deduct" insurance out of my life?
Because of the aforementioned and unavoidable tumor or polyp or car accident. I scarcely know anyone who gets out of life alive without some sort of hospitalization. Which assumes some sort of hospital bill. There are no small hospital bills.
And when it comes down to it, I can pay the $2,000 without selling off the family silver or hawking Grandma's mink, (back then fur wasn't murder, it was cold outside). But what about all the people that are low/no income earners who will soon be forced by the universal health care plan to have insurance?
I am not asking because I am espousing a particular view... I'm asking because no one seems to know, or want to tell me what happens to those people. And anyone who claims to know has a different answer from the last person who claimed to know.
From what I gather:
A. Great, now I have insurance and I can finally get all that work done I need... Holy shit! What's a deductible? I can't pay that! What a scam. Well, they'll have to send it to collections and take me to court and garnish my wage so I will have to get some sort of assistance because now I can't afford to eat.
B. Great, now I have insurance premiums that come out of my check so I am taking home less money. And to top it off, I still can't afford to go see a doctor because of the deductible, so I guess I'll just have to pay and not receive any services in return.
C. I ain't buyin' no 'surance from no gubment. This is 'Merica! And I'm 'Merican! Then, I guess according to the plan (at least from what I have heard) is that Jimmy Rick Joe Bobby will have to pay higher taxes because he didn't buy insurance of one form or another. Wow... that doesn't seem 'Merican, either. But again, and I don't know if this is fact so don't go getting your britches all in a hitch, the IRS doesn't think it can constitutionally enforce that levy!
D. Nosotros no hablan Inglés, y aunque yo nacà en los Estados Unidos, mis padres son ilegales. Asà que me temo que el gobierno va a utilizar este programa para encontrarnos y separar a nuestra familia.
Por lo tanto, mis padres están abandonando sus puestos de trabajo y tomar los nombres de mis tÃos para que podamos solicitar prestaciones por desempleo. No confiamos en el gobierno y la Piensan que están tratando de dividir y deportar a nosotros.
(We do not speak English, and although I was born in the United States, my parents are illegal. So I'm afraid the government will use this program to find and remove our family.
So my parents are leaving their jobs to take the name of my uncle so that they can apply for unemployment and food stamps. We do not trust the government and think they are trying to divide and deport us. )
E. I'm an insurance company executive. I am so glad the government made everyone in America have insurance, because we want everyone to be healthy and live forever... so they can buy more insurance! And because those suckers pay us whatever we charge for anything, because, and I'm letting you in on a little secret here, the government... Doesn't know anything about insurance! Whooo, dog... these are good times, indeed. Good, good times.
And since every consumer is beholden to our industry, we have more latitude than ever to charge whatever the hell we want to and no one can do a thing about it! We all cry about how it cost us so much money to insure the previously uninsured and someone has to pay. Hey, I guess it's you!
F. My name is Bill Uebbing, I am a Business Development Manager for a mid-sized building services company that operates in 8 states and has about 1200 employees. We are in a cutthroat industry where every cent counts. The only reason people use a contract company like us is because we can do a better job for less money than if they tried to do it themselves.
The problem is, companies have been squeezing us for 10 years. We are doing jobs now for less than we did then. And the companies still want us to give more.
What happens when we have to provide insurance to all 1200 employees? We will certainly have to raise our prices. This will cause the financial and economical advantage of having a contractor to virtually disappear causing businesses to look at us as a middle man.
Once the economic advantages are gone, many companies will "in source" their services because it will become cheaper for those people to be company employees.
My living will dry up and I will be unemployed. I will lose my house, I will have my cars repossessed. I, once a member of the working middle class, the class that supports the backbone of this country, will be poor.
I guess I don't know the facts on health care or Obamacare or whatever you call it, but I do think I know this much... the government doesn't, shouldnt, cannot care about you in that much depth unless you are shooting someone, being shot at by someone or planning to do either of those things.
Why should they even try?
Monday, August 6, 2012
Monday Miscellany
On The Other Hand
My left hand, the dominant one, is wrapped up. I had a little surgery last week to relieve the carpal tunnel in my wrist so I could feel my fingers again on that hand. It has been three years since I last felt them consistently.
The procedure went well, was short and the results immediate. The only issue now is the off-an-on pain at the site of the incision, which is mostly minor, and this bandage, which I can't ditch for seven more days.You see, there is a long list of things you can't do with a hand when it's bandaged. There are only a few things on that list that truly matter. For me, those important two are cooking, and wiping my butt.
Gross. I know, but everybody poops, and I am no exception. For some reason, I can't make my brain work using my right hand for that particular function. It's a pain in... well, suffice it to say neither hand is especially happy with the current arrangement and both will be all too happy to get back to the way things were real soon.
Of course if I can't prepare food for myself I suppose I could significantly reduce the effects of the other. I have a nice wife and nice friends who have been providing for me in the food department. Also, does it look like I am prone to skipping meals?
Bathing is another fun project. I have taken to double wrapping ol' lefty in grocery bags to keep it dry and kneeling in the tub. It works. I can't complain, there are people with disabilities who deal with far greater obstacles every day. I just think it must look awfully funny to see me holding my razor with my double-bagged left hand. Did I mention the bags are taped around my forearm with painter's tape? Did I have to?
Today being my first day back to work, I got around writing notes for my appointment by taking the iPad and clacking notes out on that. Even now typing this I am able to use the wrist bump thingy as a sliding fulcrum and use the middle finger of my left hand to hit the keys. It causes no pain to my wrist, though I must admit I am not as fast, nor as accurate with this arrangement.
Again, the human spirit and my natural indefatigability rise up over small obstacles. It's nothing that other heroes don't do every day, so let's not make a big deal out of it, shall we?
____________________________________________________________
Men are From Mars...
Kudos, NASA, for your triumph today of landing a rover on Mars. I can't wait to find out what you learned by way of the dulcet baritone of Morgan Freeman. I wonder, do you have Mr. Freeman watch the images as they come in and narrate them to you in real time?
You should. that guy makes science really, really interesting.
___________________________________________________________
...Women are From Venus
Emily is now the wedding coordinator at our church. Why anyone would want to be married to me, be the junior high youth director and a wedding coordinator is far beyond even Morgan Freeman's ability to make me understand.
I bring this up because the couples in our church have to attend a class about the ravage...I mean the joys of marriage. My dear wife, being one who must experience things in order to understand them, decided she should take the class.
Which means I will also be taking the class. Actually classes, as they are on two Saturdays during college football season.
Help me, Mr. Freeman!
___________________________________________________________
The Great Divide
We are a nation divided. This is not the forum to get into deep political commentary as I endeavor to keep things light around here. But I wonder what ever happened to agreeing to disagree agreeably? It seems that we as a people have allowed every issue to become a wedge and are using those wedges to drive us out to the fringes of political thought.
I think we need a national debate, moderated by Morgan Freeman, whose soft, comforting tones will help us all gain the perspective we need to help understand that we have many more sames than differences. Ossie Davis would have been my first choice, but he appears to have died seven years ago so that is likely out of the question.
Waylon Jennings always did a great job narrating the cliff hangers before each commercial break of "The Dukes of Hazzard", but alas, Mr. Jennings checked out a decade ago. He really would have appealed to the traditional country conservative demographic.
Though facetious, I really am in search of the one person or persons trustworthy enough, likeable enough and neutral enough to help us all get back on the same page... or even in the same book! It isn't either man running for the top spot now, and I bet no such person exists. If he or she did, one side would declare them the antichrist and boycott their business and molotov cocktail their neighbor's house for putting up a sign that they don't like.
I leave you with this latent response to the also now deceased Rodney King's most famous utterance; "No, we clearly can't all get along. Now, make room at the bottom of that swimming pool."
My left hand, the dominant one, is wrapped up. I had a little surgery last week to relieve the carpal tunnel in my wrist so I could feel my fingers again on that hand. It has been three years since I last felt them consistently.
The procedure went well, was short and the results immediate. The only issue now is the off-an-on pain at the site of the incision, which is mostly minor, and this bandage, which I can't ditch for seven more days.You see, there is a long list of things you can't do with a hand when it's bandaged. There are only a few things on that list that truly matter. For me, those important two are cooking, and wiping my butt.
Gross. I know, but everybody poops, and I am no exception. For some reason, I can't make my brain work using my right hand for that particular function. It's a pain in... well, suffice it to say neither hand is especially happy with the current arrangement and both will be all too happy to get back to the way things were real soon.
Of course if I can't prepare food for myself I suppose I could significantly reduce the effects of the other. I have a nice wife and nice friends who have been providing for me in the food department. Also, does it look like I am prone to skipping meals?
Bathing is another fun project. I have taken to double wrapping ol' lefty in grocery bags to keep it dry and kneeling in the tub. It works. I can't complain, there are people with disabilities who deal with far greater obstacles every day. I just think it must look awfully funny to see me holding my razor with my double-bagged left hand. Did I mention the bags are taped around my forearm with painter's tape? Did I have to?
Today being my first day back to work, I got around writing notes for my appointment by taking the iPad and clacking notes out on that. Even now typing this I am able to use the wrist bump thingy as a sliding fulcrum and use the middle finger of my left hand to hit the keys. It causes no pain to my wrist, though I must admit I am not as fast, nor as accurate with this arrangement.
Again, the human spirit and my natural indefatigability rise up over small obstacles. It's nothing that other heroes don't do every day, so let's not make a big deal out of it, shall we?
____________________________________________________________
Men are From Mars...
Kudos, NASA, for your triumph today of landing a rover on Mars. I can't wait to find out what you learned by way of the dulcet baritone of Morgan Freeman. I wonder, do you have Mr. Freeman watch the images as they come in and narrate them to you in real time?
You should. that guy makes science really, really interesting.
___________________________________________________________
...Women are From Venus
Emily is now the wedding coordinator at our church. Why anyone would want to be married to me, be the junior high youth director and a wedding coordinator is far beyond even Morgan Freeman's ability to make me understand.
I bring this up because the couples in our church have to attend a class about the ravage...I mean the joys of marriage. My dear wife, being one who must experience things in order to understand them, decided she should take the class.
Which means I will also be taking the class. Actually classes, as they are on two Saturdays during college football season.
Help me, Mr. Freeman!
___________________________________________________________
The Great Divide
We are a nation divided. This is not the forum to get into deep political commentary as I endeavor to keep things light around here. But I wonder what ever happened to agreeing to disagree agreeably? It seems that we as a people have allowed every issue to become a wedge and are using those wedges to drive us out to the fringes of political thought.
I think we need a national debate, moderated by Morgan Freeman, whose soft, comforting tones will help us all gain the perspective we need to help understand that we have many more sames than differences. Ossie Davis would have been my first choice, but he appears to have died seven years ago so that is likely out of the question.
Waylon Jennings always did a great job narrating the cliff hangers before each commercial break of "The Dukes of Hazzard", but alas, Mr. Jennings checked out a decade ago. He really would have appealed to the traditional country conservative demographic.
Though facetious, I really am in search of the one person or persons trustworthy enough, likeable enough and neutral enough to help us all get back on the same page... or even in the same book! It isn't either man running for the top spot now, and I bet no such person exists. If he or she did, one side would declare them the antichrist and boycott their business and molotov cocktail their neighbor's house for putting up a sign that they don't like.
I leave you with this latent response to the also now deceased Rodney King's most famous utterance; "No, we clearly can't all get along. Now, make room at the bottom of that swimming pool."
Tuesday, July 31, 2012
National Grammar Rodeo
I made myself laugh just now, from something I wrote four years ago. It was a response to an e-mail I got from a co-worker... truth be told, a boss. It said exactly this:
bcbs-omni?????????????
My reply was:
Wow, thirteen question marks and I still have no idea what you are asking me. Can you add some more question marks, please? I'm sure I get it then.
I didn't much care for the person who wrote this to me and I am glad she has been gone for quite some time now. The company, at least my life within it, has been much to the better for her absence.
Emily's blog, is about a proposal she is reading for a project committee she is on. It is terrible. It is clearly schlocked together and was not proofread, or even really given a once-over before it was turned in. A large part of my job is putting out proposals, so this is something that really sticks in my craw.
On top of that, I am considered a bit of a snit when it comes to usage, grammar and speaking. This is not to say I am perfect... I make plenty of mistakes and I can't diagram a sentence to save my life. The fact remains I put more than a little thought into my professional proposals and in my regular writing. I try to speak and write with clarity and precision, following the rules that have been lain out before me.
Except, I don't know whether I just used "lain" right, so I looked it up. I found this handy chart, courtesy of The Grammar Girl Website at www.grammargirl.com:
It made my head hurt. I may have to lay down. Lie down? Ugh... I don't know. So I took a quiz, also on The Grammar Girl website. Somehow, I got 5 out of 6 correct. "Congratulations!", she said, "You have mastered lie lay lain."
Could've (could have) fooled me. I don't (do not) feel any smarter or more prepared now than I did before. All I know is that I have a better than 80% chance of guessing correctly if you write a sentence with a blank in it and ask me to guess which word I should use.
I make that digression so you know I am not wallowing in my pomposity and do not believe I am holier than thou art. That being said, I would like to turn on the "Rant Button" for a few moments.
When did the apostrophe (which looks like ' for my truly lost friends) come to rule the world? I don't remember when people started putting an apostrophe in all words ending with the letter S. Do they put it in because they can't (cannot) remember when to put it in or take it out so they put it in just hoping it is right? And then does the person reading it say, "Oh, crap... I don't (do not) remember if I'm (I am) right or not, so I won't (will not) say anything so I don't (do not) look like a douche."? And then the apostrophe scattering mad man says, "Whew... apostrophes everywhere from now on!"?
Let's (let us) review
You have a singular word: Phone
The plural of which is: Phones
Never: Phone's
When you write Phone's, what you mean is a contraction of "phone" and "is", like in, "Honey, the phone's ringing."
Now, just because we are lazy and fat and stupid and say things like "Honey, the phone's ringing" doesn't mean we should write it that way. There are a few contractions that are acceptable and I don't (do not) want to get into them now, but I will say that some people go way too far out of their way to make a contraction.
What is this powerful evil draw the apostrophe has upon Americans? I wikipedia lists "shouldn't've" as an acceptable contraction. It is not an acceptable contraction. If you are contracting more than two words, you are spending more time being lazy than if you just typed them out!
Ok, I am experiencing a little topic drift here... back to the basics of singular, plural, possessive and possessive plural. Please jot down, in your own words the following sentences. Go ahead, this is all prerecorded. I will be here when you are done. You won't (will not) be left behind, (though perhaps someone in third grade should have pondered doing just that).
A man, whose name is David, has a phone. The phone is ringing.
First of all, notice I did not write "A man, who's name is David. Why? Because if anyone on the street caught you saying "A Man Who Is Name Is David..." would shoot you and it would be justifiable homicide. That's (that is) why!
Now, whose (not who's) phone is it?
A. David's
B. Davids
C. Davids'
D. David's'
If you answered A, you are correct. If you answered B or C you may still read on to discover the error of your (not you're) ways. If you answered D, please pin some mittens on your jacket, go to the street, wait for the shortest bus you see and hop on. You have found your people! Be free, perpetual field tripper, the world is your oyster!
What if David has more than one phone? David has:
A. Phones
That's (that is) the only answer. Stop being so complicated. It a simple plural word. Phones. Leave it.
How many of you wrote sentences that looked like this?
David's phone is ringing.
You are my people.
How many of you wrote a sentence that looked like this?
Davids' phone's ringing.
First, there are a lot of Davids in that sentence and we already talked about "phone's" as being lazy and inappropriate unless you are Mark Twain. If you're (you are, not your) Mark Twain, you can write any old thing in quotations, because you are brilliant and aren't (are not) to be questioned.
Are you Samuel Clemens, (that's {that is} Mark Twain)? Are you? I didn't think so.
Now, smart ass, you say, what about when a word ends in S?
Here in west Michigan, we have a restaurant called Russ'. It is pronounced "RUSSESS". It belongs to Russ, (hence the apostrophe to show possession), or the Russ family, which means it belongs to multiple Russessessesss. That is expressed the same in our language so it's (it is) still Russ'.
It is not Rus's and it certainly is not Russe's or Russ'es'. Laughing? Don't. I've seen things, man... bad things.
Whose (not who's) restaurant is it? Russ'.
Who's (not whose) the owner? Russ.
The truly astute among you, and I believe I have two or even three astute readers, will notice I've (I have) been adding a handy parenthetical guide to contractions right in the text of this blentry. Use it.
I would get into "its" and "it's", but I have already passed an aneurism just trying to get all this out so far. I fear my body won't make it, so I'll (I will) give up.
Grammar sucks. Grammar is boring. However, all is not lost. Check out the book "Eats, Shoots and Leaves - The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation" by Lynne Truss. It is a small book, handily sized to go with you anywhere. I am sure for those of you advanced enough, you could download it to your iPad or Kindle or Nook, (Of course, I am not totally comfortable recommending anyone download anything to their nook).
Thanks (not thank's) for listening. Y'all (you all) have a great day now, y'hear (you hear)?
bcbs-omni?????????????
My reply was:
Wow, thirteen question marks and I still have no idea what you are asking me. Can you add some more question marks, please? I'm sure I get it then.
I didn't much care for the person who wrote this to me and I am glad she has been gone for quite some time now. The company, at least my life within it, has been much to the better for her absence.
Emily's blog, is about a proposal she is reading for a project committee she is on. It is terrible. It is clearly schlocked together and was not proofread, or even really given a once-over before it was turned in. A large part of my job is putting out proposals, so this is something that really sticks in my craw.
On top of that, I am considered a bit of a snit when it comes to usage, grammar and speaking. This is not to say I am perfect... I make plenty of mistakes and I can't diagram a sentence to save my life. The fact remains I put more than a little thought into my professional proposals and in my regular writing. I try to speak and write with clarity and precision, following the rules that have been lain out before me.
Except, I don't know whether I just used "lain" right, so I looked it up. I found this handy chart, courtesy of The Grammar Girl Website at www.grammargirl.com:
Could've (could have) fooled me. I don't (do not) feel any smarter or more prepared now than I did before. All I know is that I have a better than 80% chance of guessing correctly if you write a sentence with a blank in it and ask me to guess which word I should use.
I make that digression so you know I am not wallowing in my pomposity and do not believe I am holier than thou art. That being said, I would like to turn on the "Rant Button" for a few moments.
When did the apostrophe (which looks like ' for my truly lost friends) come to rule the world? I don't remember when people started putting an apostrophe in all words ending with the letter S. Do they put it in because they can't (cannot) remember when to put it in or take it out so they put it in just hoping it is right? And then does the person reading it say, "Oh, crap... I don't (do not) remember if I'm (I am) right or not, so I won't (will not) say anything so I don't (do not) look like a douche."? And then the apostrophe scattering mad man says, "Whew... apostrophes everywhere from now on!"?
Let's (let us) review
You have a singular word: Phone
The plural of which is: Phones
Never: Phone's
When you write Phone's, what you mean is a contraction of "phone" and "is", like in, "Honey, the phone's ringing."
Now, just because we are lazy and fat and stupid and say things like "Honey, the phone's ringing" doesn't mean we should write it that way. There are a few contractions that are acceptable and I don't (do not) want to get into them now, but I will say that some people go way too far out of their way to make a contraction.
What is this powerful evil draw the apostrophe has upon Americans? I wikipedia lists "shouldn't've" as an acceptable contraction. It is not an acceptable contraction. If you are contracting more than two words, you are spending more time being lazy than if you just typed them out!
Ok, I am experiencing a little topic drift here... back to the basics of singular, plural, possessive and possessive plural. Please jot down, in your own words the following sentences. Go ahead, this is all prerecorded. I will be here when you are done. You won't (will not) be left behind, (though perhaps someone in third grade should have pondered doing just that).
A man, whose name is David, has a phone. The phone is ringing.
First of all, notice I did not write "A man, who's name is David. Why? Because if anyone on the street caught you saying "A Man Who Is Name Is David..." would shoot you and it would be justifiable homicide. That's (that is) why!
Now, whose (not who's) phone is it?
A. David's
B. Davids
C. Davids'
D. David's'
If you answered A, you are correct. If you answered B or C you may still read on to discover the error of your (not you're) ways. If you answered D, please pin some mittens on your jacket, go to the street, wait for the shortest bus you see and hop on. You have found your people! Be free, perpetual field tripper, the world is your oyster!
What if David has more than one phone? David has:
A. Phones
That's (that is) the only answer. Stop being so complicated. It a simple plural word. Phones. Leave it.
How many of you wrote sentences that looked like this?
David's phone is ringing.
You are my people.
How many of you wrote a sentence that looked like this?
Davids' phone's ringing.
First, there are a lot of Davids in that sentence and we already talked about "phone's" as being lazy and inappropriate unless you are Mark Twain. If you're (you are, not your) Mark Twain, you can write any old thing in quotations, because you are brilliant and aren't (are not) to be questioned.
Are you Samuel Clemens, (that's {that is} Mark Twain)? Are you? I didn't think so.
Now, smart ass, you say, what about when a word ends in S?
Here in west Michigan, we have a restaurant called Russ'. It is pronounced "RUSSESS". It belongs to Russ, (hence the apostrophe to show possession), or the Russ family, which means it belongs to multiple Russessessesss. That is expressed the same in our language so it's (it is) still Russ'.
It is not Rus's and it certainly is not Russe's or Russ'es'. Laughing? Don't. I've seen things, man... bad things.
Whose (not who's) restaurant is it? Russ'.
Who's (not whose) the owner? Russ.
The truly astute among you, and I believe I have two or even three astute readers, will notice I've (I have) been adding a handy parenthetical guide to contractions right in the text of this blentry. Use it.
I would get into "its" and "it's", but I have already passed an aneurism just trying to get all this out so far. I fear my body won't make it, so I'll (I will) give up.
Grammar sucks. Grammar is boring. However, all is not lost. Check out the book "Eats, Shoots and Leaves - The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation" by Lynne Truss. It is a small book, handily sized to go with you anywhere. I am sure for those of you advanced enough, you could download it to your iPad or Kindle or Nook, (Of course, I am not totally comfortable recommending anyone download anything to their nook).
Thanks (not thank's) for listening. Y'all (you all) have a great day now, y'hear (you hear)?
Friday, July 27, 2012
Friday Miscellany
TIME
The week after coming home from being out of town is always a little surreal. Time is referenced by what you were doing last Thursday at 8:20 pm and measuring that against what you are doing now on Thursday, 8:20 pm.
Here it is, Friday and I can't believe this week has gone by so quickly. Since I had to jump right into travel and meetings upon my return, the week has been a blur. This morning at oh-dark-thirty when I woke up, I couldn't believe it was already Friday.
It is now 9:48 and I can't believe it's still Friday.
My, how the gears have changed. I have finally downshifted and find my brain struggling to understand the new speed. I am moving fast and slow at the same time.
I wonder if Einstein ever felt this way and that opened his mind up to the assertion that space and time are not constant, but instead they bend and flex and speed up and slow down like water in a river.
Indeed, Dr. Einstein, it is all relative.
____________________________________________________________
SPACE
After spending a week on a gym floor with a bunch of boys, my perspective is all changed. I put some clothes on the floor of my office Monday while unpacking and they are still there. I have walked past, through and over them innumerable times since and it hasn't phased me.
Time to get back into normal. I am sure my "gym floor" organizing system is starting to get on Em's nerves. Especially since I would never let her get away with the same.
_____________________________________________________________
DAYS OF RECKONING
Friday, August 3rd is my day of reckoning.There is a tri fold brochure on my desk staring at me. It's features a happy looking elderly African American couple smiling confidently with the words "Having Surgery?" written on it.Not being elderly, and not being entirely confident, I am having a hard time relating to the brochure, which is full of dos and don'ts.
Have I mentioned I don't like being told what to do and don't do? I suppose if you know me that comes as no surprise.
One item asks, "May I shower or bathe before surgery?"
The answer is "Please shower or bathe before surgery. You may brush your teeth."
So, not getting out of that for the day.
They can't even let me know more than a day in advance when my surgery on that day will be. And I can't eat for 8 hours before. Have they met me? I am already carb loading in case I can't eat between dinner on Thursday and say, 2:00 pm on Friday. I can't stay up all night and eat later... that only makes me wake up famished. Isn't that weird? The later and bigger I eat the more hungry I am when I awake.
And what of coffee? Do they know what I am like with no coffee? Emily might need to keep a TASER handy.
I had always hoped to get through life unaltered. Now I hope to live past Friday, August 3rd. Can the bear survive minor surgery?
_____________________________________________________________
FAST FOOD
I like fast food. I have owned up to that on these pages before. Last week, I had plenty of opportunity to indulge in all manner of fast food.
Last night, we had BLTs and corn on the cob, (Em's favorite summer meal). Let me tell you, that is better than any fast food out there. Are you listening, fast food establishments? If you make it, I will come.
____________________________________________________________
AND FINALLY...
It is that time again, where the world gets together and attempts to transcend racial and political differences and compete on a purely human level. Every four years, we dust off our brightest and hope for medal counts and bragging rights.
Fat Americans ironically wedge themselves into their Barcaloungers or mount bar stools and cram deep fried somethings into their mouths and shout USA!, USA! at a TV upon which is playing a sport that in non-Olympic years exists only in the heads and hearts of the athletes and coaches.
McDonalds will hawk 2,000 calorie meals and Budweiser will tempt us into drinking too much, while Wal*Mart will brag about their low prices on China made goods. The Church of Latter Day Saints will make us feel like we have no moral character, (which they are probably right about), and the political candidates up for election in November will relentlessly pummel us with lies and negativity, statistics out of context and fake smiles.
Look closely at what you are watching and make an attempt to actually "see" our country at a glance. Then we can talk about how we can once again be proud to shout USA! USA!
The week after coming home from being out of town is always a little surreal. Time is referenced by what you were doing last Thursday at 8:20 pm and measuring that against what you are doing now on Thursday, 8:20 pm.
Here it is, Friday and I can't believe this week has gone by so quickly. Since I had to jump right into travel and meetings upon my return, the week has been a blur. This morning at oh-dark-thirty when I woke up, I couldn't believe it was already Friday.
It is now 9:48 and I can't believe it's still Friday.
My, how the gears have changed. I have finally downshifted and find my brain struggling to understand the new speed. I am moving fast and slow at the same time.
I wonder if Einstein ever felt this way and that opened his mind up to the assertion that space and time are not constant, but instead they bend and flex and speed up and slow down like water in a river.
Indeed, Dr. Einstein, it is all relative.
____________________________________________________________
SPACE
After spending a week on a gym floor with a bunch of boys, my perspective is all changed. I put some clothes on the floor of my office Monday while unpacking and they are still there. I have walked past, through and over them innumerable times since and it hasn't phased me.
Time to get back into normal. I am sure my "gym floor" organizing system is starting to get on Em's nerves. Especially since I would never let her get away with the same.
_____________________________________________________________
DAYS OF RECKONING
Friday, August 3rd is my day of reckoning.There is a tri fold brochure on my desk staring at me. It's features a happy looking elderly African American couple smiling confidently with the words "Having Surgery?" written on it.Not being elderly, and not being entirely confident, I am having a hard time relating to the brochure, which is full of dos and don'ts.
Have I mentioned I don't like being told what to do and don't do? I suppose if you know me that comes as no surprise.
One item asks, "May I shower or bathe before surgery?"
The answer is "Please shower or bathe before surgery. You may brush your teeth."
So, not getting out of that for the day.
They can't even let me know more than a day in advance when my surgery on that day will be. And I can't eat for 8 hours before. Have they met me? I am already carb loading in case I can't eat between dinner on Thursday and say, 2:00 pm on Friday. I can't stay up all night and eat later... that only makes me wake up famished. Isn't that weird? The later and bigger I eat the more hungry I am when I awake.
And what of coffee? Do they know what I am like with no coffee? Emily might need to keep a TASER handy.
I had always hoped to get through life unaltered. Now I hope to live past Friday, August 3rd. Can the bear survive minor surgery?
_____________________________________________________________
FAST FOOD
I like fast food. I have owned up to that on these pages before. Last week, I had plenty of opportunity to indulge in all manner of fast food.
Last night, we had BLTs and corn on the cob, (Em's favorite summer meal). Let me tell you, that is better than any fast food out there. Are you listening, fast food establishments? If you make it, I will come.
____________________________________________________________
AND FINALLY...
It is that time again, where the world gets together and attempts to transcend racial and political differences and compete on a purely human level. Every four years, we dust off our brightest and hope for medal counts and bragging rights.
Fat Americans ironically wedge themselves into their Barcaloungers or mount bar stools and cram deep fried somethings into their mouths and shout USA!, USA! at a TV upon which is playing a sport that in non-Olympic years exists only in the heads and hearts of the athletes and coaches.
McDonalds will hawk 2,000 calorie meals and Budweiser will tempt us into drinking too much, while Wal*Mart will brag about their low prices on China made goods. The Church of Latter Day Saints will make us feel like we have no moral character, (which they are probably right about), and the political candidates up for election in November will relentlessly pummel us with lies and negativity, statistics out of context and fake smiles.
Look closely at what you are watching and make an attempt to actually "see" our country at a glance. Then we can talk about how we can once again be proud to shout USA! USA!
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