Shortages

Tags

freaks, humor, shortages

Well hello from unsupported browser land where my internet stands on it’s own without any help from you Mr. And Mrs WordPress. It still seems to work just fine so I may sue you for lack of support. But that’s not why I’m here this evening.

I was with a couple of musical friends last week and over coffee one of us proclaimed that there was a real crisis a brewin’. Coffee -brewing. That one fell into my lap – hope you appreciate the humor.

The crisis is a shortage of half and half. I asked, which half were we short? Milk or cream because if you have enough milk you can always make cream but a surplus of cream doesn’t translate into more milk.

Suppose you had 3/4 milk and 1/4 cream then you would have not half and half but some sort of Frankenstein fractional freak of dairy nature and goodness we have enough freaks running around here as it is.

It seems to me that there is no shortage of politicians who are mostly the only ones spouting off about shortages of everything.

I was on an airplane a few weeks back and there is no shortage of people to fill seats as all my flights were booked solid from window to aisle front back and side to side with passengers. No one caused any trouble and I brought along my own roll of duct tape in case I misbehaved. I did not and the roll of tape remains untouched.

Shortages – eh? Maybe, just maybe we have too much of everything we really don’t need, can’t afford and really don’t want anyway.

Maybe we’re just plain spoiled and shortages, such as they might be are just symptoms of a larger issue which neither time nor space allow me to investigate at this time.

I have no shortage of words which is a good thing because at the present time they are still free and not manufactured in a far off land across the Pacific in factories manned by cheap labor and loaded onto freighters heading eastward to the Ports of Los Angeles and Seattle and the likes of others.

There is a dearth though of some words like common sense, reasonableness and caring for your neighbors. You can figure out who or whom I’m writing about.

So choose your words carefully and maybe save some for a rainy day before they are loaded and locked up on a container ship somewhere off the coast of California.

That’s Some Catch

Tags

bullies, Catch 22, humor, irony, Joseph Heller

That Catch would be Catch -22 as in Joseph Heller’s novel of the same name.

I think I read it for the first time when I was in high school and again several times since then. When my daughter had it assigned to her in English class we sort of read it together. My original copy is long gone so I’m turning pages in hers from 2008.

Given the times in which we live, how many different ways can we all say “Uncertain?” the book sadly makes sense of what we’re going through when Heller describes autocratic bullies with a lust for power and we don’t care who gets hurt.

One scene is about briefings where men can ask questions. Only the big shots don’t like the kind of questions being asked.

Those people are no longer invited to briefings. The only ones allowed into the briefings are the ones who don’t ask questions.

So they hold briefings but no one asks questions and the briefings are discontinued because no one asks questions.

I still have a ways to go in the book but another episode strikes me as eerily happening in our present present.

One Colonel says we can’t admit to this terrible mistake so another one says we should boast about it.

Boasting about doing what one would normally be ashamed of doing. As if that makes what you did somehow legit.

It’s the best Catch there is.

Can This Marriage Be Saved?

Tags

Connecticut, humor, husbands, Jello, marriage, the 1950's, wives

When I was a kid growing up on the mean streets of Long Island I remember that my Mom often bought what used to be called “Women’s Service Magazines” at the local supermarket.

There was Redbook, Family Circle, Better Homes and Gardens, Good Housekeeping and so on. The mags were chock full of ways to make your life and the lives of your family better often in just a few simple steps.

There were recipes, laundry hints, ideas for dealing with pets and so on and so on.

There were also room set photos of impossibly sunny and airy kitchens, enormous living rooms, sun rooms (who even knew what sun room was?) and gorgeous flower beds.

These places only existed in a far off land where it never rained or snowed, no kid ever got a runny nose and the family car was replaced every two years.

This land was called Connecticut.

Seriously, I remember one of the magazines had a self help recurring monthly feature for women and it was called “CAN THIS MARRIAGE BE SAVED?” I forget where the question mark goes, inside or outside the quote marks.

There would be a case study of a marriage ostensibly on the rocks and a team of experts would analyze the situation regarding the relationship and render a verdict at the end of the article right before the Jell-o and meatloaf recipes on page 78.

I have no way of knowing of these articles were actually written by women or men I guess or if they were plain fiction like much of what comes out of the mouth of the current occupant of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

And I also don’t know if anyone took the advice to heart and left the cad or went to counseling or whipped up a lemon pie with graham cracker crust in 5 easy no bake steps.

Which brings us, you and me dear reader to the point of this piece.

Dear Abby still lives on in syndication and in my local newspaper.

One of today’s letters was from an unhappy wife who had a husband known as a pillar of the community to the outside world but was a cad (see above) at home.

The final sentence from the women went something like this:

” I sleep in my own bedroom with the dog.”

Can this marriage be saved?

I’m going out on a limb and saying – Nah.

Take the dog and the Jell-o with you.

Classes in Individualism

Tags

humor, nonsense

Sign in a coffee shop –

Group classes now being offered in how to be an individual.

Bring a friend.

Time Flies

Tags

humor, road races, time travel

I ran in a local 5 miler yesterday.  This was the 43rd running of the race making it the granddaddy of ’em all  in the county.  You can do the math if you’re interested in knowing exactly when it all began.

It was during the early days of the running boom what ever that means.  Me?  I’ve been running since I was in the 4th grade.  We don’t need to do that math.

I used to kill this race.  Now it kills me.  But to the title.

First, the course…Start/Finish is on North Queen Street.  Go right on West Lemon for one block, go right on North Duke all the way to Chesapeake Street, go right, then left to enter the County park. or as the locals refer to it, County Park.  Once you become a local you don’t need to modify landmarks or places with the word the.  Everyone knows what you mean.

Run through County Park and go left back onto Duke Street. Instead of proceeding all the way to Lemon you chop off a block and go left on to West Walnut to Queen and then you see the Start/Finish line a couple of blocks ahead.

A side note here, our town dates to pre-revolutionary times so streets have royalty sounding names like Duke, King, Prince and Queen further subdivided by whether they run east/west/ north or south.

You have your North Queen, South Queen, East King and West King among many others.  We also in this interesting mix have a Lime Street and a Lemon Street.  You can actually stand on the corner of Lemon and Lime.

Further the street signs have been abbreviated thusly like N. Queen, W. King and of course S. Lime which reads S Lime Street.  That’s all I got in the roadway department.

Back to the 5 miler.  I’ve reached the back marker phase of my running career.  I know it, you know it and so what anymore.

I started either dead last or next to dead last.  Pro tip – If you wait for the starting corral to fill up the porta john lines disappear since all your fellow runners rush to the middle of the street for a good place on the starting grid.   This ain’t F-1 or NASCAR.  It don’t matter.

The horn goes off and I walk the 100 or so yards to the start line before I start my watch.  The front markers are sprinting their behinds off and I’m running a good  clip for me anyway up Queen to Lemon and on to Duke.  Here comes the title reference.

As I’m approaching what I know is the one mile marker and clock I look to right where it oughta be and it’s not there!  Did the organizers not have a budget for course clocks?

I file that away and continue up Duke where off to my left I see a guy walking and carrying what seems to the clock that was supposed to be at mile one.  I guess he figured since he had to pull double clock duty he yanked the clock off the tripod and trundled up to where the 4 mile mark is coming back.

Keen eyed readers will note that above I mentioned the course cuts one block off the return so one mile and four miles are not in the exact same place.  Hence, the one mile clock serves both one and four miles.

As I’m running and I see the clock being hand carried upside down I make out 10:44 as the seconds keep ticking away.  Suddenly I have this ” Lucy in The Sky With Diamonds” moment.

I am running faster than the clock is physically moving.  Soon I’m even with it and just as quickly I’m passed it leaving time in my wake.  Picture that Dali painting of the melting clock.  Saucony meets surrealism.  I am not running faster than the speed of sound  or light.  I am outrunning time itself.

I continue up Duke, go right on Chesapeake, go left into the winding roadway of the park cutting all the tangents I can find and realizing that tangent running is probably not taught in school anymore but that’s one class I passed.

I run back up Duke and eventually I find the one/four mile clock right where it’s supposed to be.  I’m also toast at this point but I’m passing some people and some people are passing me.

I have found in a marathon when you are bringing up the rear you make a lot of friends who are just as slow as you are.  Everyone talks, jokes, laughs and encourages each other.

Sadly, now everyone except me and maybe two other people are not wearing ear buds. Everyone else is and they can’t hear anything.  Conversation is not longer a part of group runs.  One guy had a speaker in his backpack and was his own little running/walking jukebox.  Maybe he couldn’t find his buds.  I forget what song he was playing.

I go left on Walnut, left on Queen, it’s my version of Right on Hereford, Left on Boylston.

I cross the finish line and grab a water.  There is a fenced in beer garden set up and normally your entry would be guaranteed by virtue of your: 1- wearing running gear,      2- sweating like a racehorse, 3- panting like a cheetah and 4 – your race bib.

But if you don’t have your Real ID or something similar you are turned away.  Fine.  Just fine.

I grab a bag of chips and leave.

Time is on my side anyway.

 

 

This is a True Story

Tags

Frank Sinatra, humor, knees, MRI, music, pumpkin spice

During my prolonged summer and early fall absence from these pages I’ve been awarded customer of the month twice at the local orthopedic surgeon store.  The details are unimportant.

I highly recommend the nerve block for any surgery.  It’s got a delightful aroma of hickory with a hint of whimsy.  Plus, your arm, leg, shoulder or knee feels like a 2 x 4 for a day and a half after the surgery so there’s that.  I have no idea what it costs but I’m telling you it’s a bargain at twice the price.  Which bring us to our most recent MRI.

I get suited up or dressed down as the case may be and as I’m lying (laying?) on the table that’s about to slide me into the magnetic tunnel the MRI tech asks if I would like to listen to music instead of bricks rolling around in a dryer.  I say yes – what do you have?

He hands me the play list and I say channel 788 which is the Frank Sinatra station.  The quality of the audio in the headphones is terrible but I don’t care.  I’m just hoping I haven’t forgotten if I have a pacemaker or a stent or any other piece of metal in my body which I guess would get zoomed out of me at hypersonic magnetic speed once the machine starts.  Clearly there would be blood everywhere, all of it mine along with an internal organ or two draped over the MRI machine.  And so much paperwork – Oy.

In I go, the music begins, it’s old Blue Eyes, the Chairman of the Board and the first sounds I hear are… BANG BANG BANG BANG AND NOW THE END IS NEAR AND SO I FACE THE FINAL CURTAIN …BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG…

It’s ” My Way” one of Frankie’s biggest hits not exactly appropriate but I laugh it off without moving cause you can’t move once the magnets start taking pictures.  That tune is followed by Dean Martin’s ” Ain’t that a Kick in the Head?” and soon the hammering stops, I’m back on my feet and on the way home.

I don”t know if Frank was trying to reach me from the great beyond or if I was a victim of a simple twist of fated black humor.  But Frank, if you’re listening keep those hits coming.  I’ll take the pumpkin spice nerve block next time.

 

I Feel the Earth Move OR You Are the Father !!

Tags

earthquake, humor, observations

Quiet day yesterday here in these parts except at 4:29 pm eastern whatever time I heard a loud boom.  I mean a big honkin’ kaboom.

At first I thought, well, this is it – Kim Jong what’s- his -name managed to lob one over the net and I wondered how much canned soup I had left in kitchen since trips to the grocery store were liable to be severely curtailed for the next million or so years.  There goes all the Supermarket Bonus Reward points I had stocked up.

It turns out we experienced a 2.3 sized earthquake down the road apiece towards the southern end of the county.  No damage, nobody hurt so that’s good.

Back to the Kim Jong thing- apparently several 911 callers to Country Control feared the same thing I did, that our little buddy finally found a way to ruin everyone’s weekend forever.

I got to thinking though – What if you were taking a polygraph test at the same time ground shook?  And what if the question was one that would prove you guilt or innocence?

What would Maury say besides, ” You are the father, bub.”

I suppose you could ask for a do over just like we used to do when we played stickball in the streets.

Really, we played in the street literally all the time.  We painted bases on the asphalt and our parents watched us.  They told us to go outside and play.  The best was tackle football in the snow in the street while the roads had yet to be plowed.

That’s all I got.

Film at 11.

 

 

 

Blow Up Your TV( Phone)

Tags

bicycles, cell phones, humor

It’s a long way to pay off the title but stay with me.

I left the house today and took off for downtown on my trusty bicycle.  Halfway into the trip I realized I was sans telephone.  I could have used it for a few interesting pictures but in reality I would have been waiting for that Pavlovian response when it vibrated and let me know that the outside world was looking for me.

I continued pedaling into town bound for the library, the bank and coffee.  One of my latest neurotic tendencies is to stare at the phone when it lies ( lays?) dormant.  And then I think – yeesh – I’m becoming one those people.  You know the sort who are obsessed with that little piece of plastic and glass and circuit boards.

To the title before I get too far.  There’s John Prine tune called ” Blow Up Your TV” and you can look it up if you wish.  I’m not gonna insert a video.  It’s a great piece of work and as a rail against modern time wasting conveniences it’s right on.  Substitute cell phone for TV and it still works.

As Grouch Marx once said. ” TV is very educational.  Every time I turn it on I go into another room and read a book.”  He really did say that.

So I survived my sojourn without that little devil in my back pocket.  It’s pretty amazing that I can pick it up, punch a few buttons and talk to someone anywhere on the planet or order a pizza or buy a car or finance a mortgage.

Amazing though is not always good.  Maybe that should have been the title.

However, on the amazing front a good friend tells me that the Space Station will be visible tonight in my corner of the night sky around 8:29pm.  I saw the flyover on Saturday evening. It’s much faster than a plane and displays no running lights.

I suggest you hop over to the NASA website and see if the station will be traveling through your neck of the woods tonight.  The whole trip across my field of view takes about three minutes as it’s zooming along at 17,500 miles per hour as in 17 thousand mph!

Now that’s amazing.  Put the phone down and go outside tonight.  I want a full report.  But don’t call or text me.

 

 

 

 

 

The Children of America

Tags

candidates, humor, kids, politics

We, the undersigned, The Children and Teenagers of America, have a bone to pick with you,  ” Adult Politicians and Adults in the News Media of America.”

We are sick and tired of you referring to the actions of certain presidential candidates as “childish” or ” acting like a 5 year old” or ” immature.”

We’re kids for heaven’s sakes and we know better.

In the future ( assuming there is one by the time we grow up) we request that you describe the boorish behavior of certain candidates as ” being like grumpy old men” or ” acting like a 90 year old” or ” senior citizen like.”  See how grandpa likes them apples.

Don’t lay this circus on us or we will cut off your Medicare and Social Security as soon as we are able.  The kids are all right to coin a phrase that’s already been coined.

Give us the vote and take it away from anyone over 18 years old. If there is a stupidity test in order to vote then clearly most adults we know have passed with flying colors.

To sum up.  Kids may act like kids but we know better.  Adults who act like kids also know better but choose not act like grown ups.

So, if these two guys are acting like jerks please call them jerks.  Leave us out of it.

 

 

 

One of These Things is Not Like the Other

Tags

humor, irony

Walking along a downtown sidewalk this morning.

A local cafe had a signboard on the curb advertising the lunch special for today and it was…

” Vegan Meatball Sandwich.”

One of these things just doesn’t belong.