Wry Bother?

Of Animal Carcasses and Geniuses

2012-01-11T09:52:00.000-08:00

“I can’t download the new photos from my ITouch to the computer,” I whined to Kathie. “I used to be able to, but now I can’t.”

This seems to be happening with increasing frequency: you turn on the computer and things look different in subtle ways, or aren’t quite where they were before. Kathie usually blames me, saying that I hit something or moved something and set off a chain of unfortunate consequences. I will admit that my life history would seem to confirm this.

“Did you hit something or move something,” she predictably asks.

" Well, I signed us up for the Cloud."

“What does that do?”

“I have no idea but a pop-up popped-up and said I should sign-up. It’s like a big computer in the sky, I think.”

The pop-up said that with the Cloud everything now goes everywhere all the time and that things from my devices go straight to the computer and vice versa. It seemed like a good idea, though I only have one device. I have also learned that if you don’t keep up with these things, pretty soon you are behind the eight ball and can’t even get your Groupon fliers.

“ I think it is time for us to schedule another session with the geniuses,” Kathie says.

This is what they call the employees at the Apple Store, all of whom have unwashed hair, dirty finger nails and are 16 years old. When we purchased our Mac, we signed up for one year of free counseling. So far we have had three sessions and are as confused as ever, but we take notes that we lose and always go to California Pizza right after.

We show up at the appointed time and the genius introduces herself. She is older and better groomed than the standard model. She goes into an explanation of the Cloud, that I would summarize here if I understood it.

She explains that the reason I can’t download my pictures from the ITouch is that, although I have signed up for the Cloud, I have not turned it on. She fixes this and says the pictures will now go automatically to all of my devices and the Cloud, but I will have to move them from the Cloud to the computer. She has me take a picture, which not only goes directly to my ITouch and the Cloud, but shows up on our computer as well.

“It’s not supposed to do that,” she says in stunned disbelief. “I will have to consult with my manager.”

With that she disappears, but soon returns.

“Okay, the pics now go to your computer too. This is a change that took place this morning. It’s strange we didn’t get a memo on it,” she says.

It is obvious to me that the Big Computer in the Sky made this change by itself without informing any mortals, and we are one step closer to Terminator world.

“Let’s see these pictures you want to move,” she says.

I highlight them on my device and up they pop.

A stifled gasp escapes the genius.

“These are the pictures you want to upload? What in God’s name for?”, Kathie shouts.

You would think they had never seen pictures of scavenged animal carcasses before.

Here’s the back-story on the dead beasts:

On one of my walks, I cut across a rarely used farm field. Several hundred feet off the little used rural road, I noticed a small clearing among some trees that contained what looked like a deer carcass. Walking over for a closer look, I noticed, judging by the number of rib cages, that there were the remains of at least five deer.

There were also the carcasses of several large, dead birds, perhaps pheasant or grouse. All the animals had been heavily scavenged.

Coming across a dead animal in the woods is not unusual, but this many is really odd.

It struck me that there was something almost feline about it. Our cat was an inveterate and highly efficient hunter. She would stockpile the remains of her kills in one spot in the backyard. I called this the dead pile: a chip of chipmunk here, a bit of bunny there.

Tigers do this as well. I am told if you stumbled across something like this in India, it would probably already be too late, as a big striped kitty would soon add you to its collection.

I also thought it could be the work of poachers or some bizarre cult.

Tigers, cultists, poachers? By now I had completely spooked myself and could feel unseen eyes watching from the darkened woods.

I had my ITouch and bravely decided to record the scene, perhaps to post on Facebook to see if my friends might have some thoughts on what I was observing, or to forward to the fish and game authorities.

After I explained the photos, the genius remained silent but not my wife.

“Facebook??? You were going to put these on Facebook? What is the matter with you?”

She had a point. My friends who might know what was going on here, never go on Facebook. Those that do, might be put off by graphic color photos depicting piles of bleached bones, rotting skin, and feathered bird limbs.

“Well, there they are on your computer,” the genius observed. “Are we done now?” she asked clearly anxious to move on.

I can picture the conversation around her dinner table later that night:

Parent: “Did anything interesting happen at the store today?”

Genius: “Some guy wanted to load a bunch of creepy pictures of dead animals on his computer and was having trouble.”

Parent: “Why in God’s name did he want to do that?”

Genius “What am I, a genius?”

As we drove home in silence digesting our thoughts and our pizza, Kathie suddenly asked : “Why did you have to bring those pictures?”

Desperate to change the subject, I replied: “Hey, maybe they digitized Steve Jobs spirit and he is up in the Cloud? It would be just like him to start changing things without consulting his staff.”

“Yeah,” she said, “and maybe there’s tigers in New Jersey”

An Irritable Old Man Gets A Christmas Card

2011-12-31T09:40:00.000-08:00

The irritable old man is an alter ego who takes the helm once in awhile after I have had a few too many glasses of wine the night before or attended a funeral. His opinions do not necessarily reflect those of my, er, regular ego.

Who are these people, anyway?

The Christmas card from the Rourkes is addressed to us and appeared in our mailbox last week. The photo shows four human males and one female all smiling. At the center of the composition is a table bearing two dogs. Since their genitals are prominently displayed, it is apparent they are both males.

One dog ding-dong on a Christmas card is probably okay, but two is over doing it.

With the exception of the dogs, they are all wearing black polo shirts and tan trousers. They look more like the police academy graduating class than a festive family.

Unknown guy senior looks like he could be a cop. Maybe he is the Gestapo bastard who ticketed in me in High Bridge rubbing it in. Or maybe it is his idea of “community policing” to send a Christmas card to some poor slob he just nailed.

Surely they are Republicans and mistake us for their cronies because they wished us “prosperity” in the coming year clearly a reference to their plan to plunder our Social Security and Medicare.

Despite their smiles, the three teenage males look like bullies. I’ll bet they put their black shirts on and go to New York to hobnail stomp some poor Occupy Wall Street dude.

The one dog definitely is part pit bull and probably bitch humps on the other one who is one of those repulsive Pug things.

Almost invisible in the left hand corner sits a mousey female with a cheesy grin. Although judging from her demeanor she might be an abused servant, she is probably the mother of the thugs and wife of the sadistic policeman.

Kathie does not recognize these people and no one we know knows who they are.

“I wonder where they think they know us from?, Kathie asks.

“Either gun club or prayer group, I would guess,” I respond.

I have to admit, I am somewhat put off by the fact that this card came in well after Christmas.

“Should we send them a New Year’s card?,” she asks. This is her fix for dealing with people we have dropped from our Christmas card list because we didn’t get one from them last year only to receive one from them this year. Of course, they will drop us next year while we will re-instate them….and so it goes.

“Although they think they know us,” I reply, “They don’t think enough of us to get our card to us in a timely manner, so the hell with them.”

Who do these people think they are anyway?

Things We Did Last Summer

2011-10-27T09:36:00.000-07:00

In case you hadn’t noticed, no new posting has appeared on these pages since last July. Of course you hadn’t noticed, but I will explain my absence anyway.

By the way, thanks to my good friend Googlebot who faithfully visited three times a day and accounted for thirty per cent of my readership during the Absence.

Also, a check of my site meter reveals that many of you continued to come here looking for information on how to get a haircut like George Clooney. Get over it: I posted “George Clooney Stole My Haircut” three years ago and I am sure he has changed his hairstyle sixteen times since then. I, of course, have not changed mine.

The long and short of it is I decided to take the summer off. Okay, it is almost November, but I am retired and lose track of time.

Here is what I did on my summer vacation:

. Played “Angry Birds.” I found this a productive way to fill the empty, wasted hours I used to spend senselessly blogging. After thirty-three days, I got to the end of the free version and opted not to spring for the 99 cents to upgrade to the full edition.

. Spent a week in my daughter’s bathroom. Elisabeth and her husband, Alex, are renovating their house in Boston. I was called in to install moldings and baseboards in the upstairs. I was supposed to finish the whole project in a week, but didn’t manage to get out of the bathroom. Each evening she would examine my progress and comment: “Is this all you managed to get done.” In my defense, I would state that I spent most of the time in a semi-conscious state due to constantly banging my head on the ceiling that slopes off precipitously on one side of the room.

. Tried to stay dry. We have had a lot of rain in this part of the country and two major floods in town. My house has stayed dry but I had two pair of Wal-Mart sneakers rot right off my feet. I replaced these with a pair of Crocs. These are the same rubber clogs that Mario Batalli wears and are sometimes called bistro shoes, although I think, as Mario probably does as well, this sounds a little girlie. I call them my puddle jumpers because they are perfect for that enjoyable recreational activity that swept the northeast this summer.

. Played “Zombie Highway.” This is what I took up after besting the Angry Birds. This involves running over and shooting lesser sorts while hurdling along the highway in your black SUV. While this may sound like it would only appeal to Dick Cheney, it filled in the time I used to spend thinking about writing a novel or going back to work.

. Got an IPod Touch. I must admit I got somewhat addicted to this amazing little gadget (see Played “Angry Birds” and Played “Zombie Highway.”) Don’t even get me started on the ApStore. You can have just about every piece of information ever assembled instantly at the touch of this magical device. This includes every sexual position in the Kama Sutra. No kidding! When your new girlfriend suggests that you and she make the Monk With Two Backs, you will know she is not recommending you team up on a Halloween costume.

A New Outlook

2011-07-13T10:08:00.000-07:00

Looking at the deep tooth marks on the temple ends of my eyeglasses, Kathie said: “Well, you’ve chewed through these, maybe it’s time to start on another pair.”

This was her way of saying she thinks I need a new pair of glasses.

I agreed because, frankly, I was fed up with the half-eaten ones.

“I really don’t like these progressive lenses,” I said. “If not being able to see in any scenario is progress, I’ll be getting around with a red tipped cane and a dog before long.”

“Just get your regular distance glasses and take them off when you read,” she suggested, “but don’t lay them down in the grass and run them over with the mower like you did with your last pair.”

Elisabeth was home for a visit and was delegated to accompany me and prevent any fashion miscues from occurring.

Upon arriving at the eye glass store, our different approaches to shopping became apparent: she headed straight for the European and Designer collection while I perused the $69.95 and under collection. Everything she chose made me look like either Dame Edith or Buddy Holly; everything I selected made me look like a Wal-Mart employee or a really cheap retired guy. “Those will really go well with Velcro sneakers,” she snottily opined about one pair I tried on.

Finally, we settled on a nice tortoise shell pair that I thought gave me a certain scholarly air and that she agreed to because she thought it would get her out of the store before Starbuck’s closed.

Now, you may well ask: Why is someone still wearing glasses when everyone else is wearing contacts? Well, why does someone still have a flip cell phone with a screen photo of a dog that died six years ago when everyone else is simultaneously watching American Idol, posting naked pictures of themselves, and filing their income taxes on theirs? I am slow to change.

Also, glasses hide the tote bag size sacks that hang beneath my eyes. These bags are so large that it has been suggested that I get them monogrammed.

It is also part of my image. How will all of my senior friends who have forgotten my name identify me if they cannot refer to “You know, that guy with the glasses”?

I did spring for one option: I got the non-glare lenses. When I put the new glasses on my world went from a "Foggy Day in London Town" to "It’s a Bright, Bright Sunshiny Day."

Shit, I guess I wasn’t clinically depressed after all.

The Test Drive

2011-06-13T10:45:00.000-07:00

I knew the test drive of the speedy, stylish Hyundai Sonata wasn’t going well when I saw my wife, who was sitting in the passenger seat, pounding her fists on her headrest and making noises like she was being throttled from the back seat like Luca Brasi.

“What’s the matter?,” I asked as I brought the car to a stop.

“This damn headrest is pushing my head forward and giving me a headache,” she complained. “I can’t ride around for the next ten years with a crooked neck and a headache.”

We keep our cars for a long time. “But we’ve only gone around the block,” I whined.

Kathie is usually a gamer, but this seemed to be really giving her a problem.

I was crushed. I REALLY liked this car and I sensed that this was a game changer.

As we rolled into the dealership, Frank, the affable, overweight salesman, was waiting in the driveway. “Whatya think?,” he asked clearly expecting good news.

“The passenger side headrest gives her a headache,” I responded. “I think it’s a deal breaker.”

“Huh?,” he asked, his rubbery face contorting in stunned confusion. “But they are all like that,” he explained. “It’s a new Federal safety regulation.”

I can occasionally understand why conservatives get fed-up with government over-regulation, and I for one can’t understand why Obama wants us all driving around with our heads between our legs.

Frank, however, was not about to let this sale go quietly into the afternoon. “Let’s try adjusting the seat back,” he suggested.

With Kathie on board he gradually lowered the back of the seat until she pronounced that her head was comfortable. Unfortunately, by the time this was accomplished, she was in a three-quarter supine position.

“There!,” Frank shouted, sure the problem was solved and now the haggling could begin.

“I can’t ride around on my back. I’ll get car sick and I can’t knit,” my wife complained.

“Try rolling on your side,” he suggested.

Turning to me, the creative salesman asked: “Do you have a vise.”

“I drink too much and smoke cigars. What of it?,” I replied.

“No a VISE. You can put the prongs of the headrest in the vise and gradually bend them back; or you can rest the prongs on the pavement and hit them with a hammer.”

I had to admire his persistence, but a withering glance was my only response.

“Do YOU have this problem in the passenger seat?,” he asked me.

I said that, since I am a shrunken old man whose head slumps forward naturally, it was not an issue for me.

“Great! Then let her drive!,” Frank shot back, convinced this was a Eureka moment.

Still, our expressions told him that there was no way around the forward-thrusting headrest and he quietly slumped back into the showroom.

We continued on to the Subaru dealer. The salesman seemed surprised that the first question we asked pertained to the orientation of his product’s headrests. He confirmed that those on the Subaru also slant forward.

“I have only seen this as a problem for people with pony-tails,” he said.

While it was obvious that Kathie does not have a pony-tail, he seemed to be examining the back of her head to see if there was some sort of bony projection that might be contributing to her discomfort.

We had now both lost our enthusiasm for car shopping and returned home.

Later that evening, our son called to ask how we liked the Sonata. “We loved it, but the headrest gave your mother a headache,” I gloomily responded.

“I’m not surprised,” he said.

For Sale: My Stink Bug Civil War Diorama

2011-06-08T09:27:00.000-07:00

Kathie and I are not hoarders, but we are very much both I’ll-deal-with-that-laterers. This explains the unconscionable amount of stuff that has accumulated in our basement in the 35 years we have lived here.

With a move looming in the foreseeable future, I have been assigned the task of cleaning the basement and finding any treasures we might sell on eBay. I don’t have high hopes for this project because typically we throw out anything of value and retain the worthless leftovers of our lives.

Still I did find a few things that I think might go over big at the web auction site:

. A large quantity of Asian Stink Bug carcasses. How these poor creatures died I am sure would be the makings of a fine nature special, but dead they are and I wracked my brain for a way to turn dead bugs into bucks. Of course, they would have value to the entomologically inclined, but I decided to cash in on the 150th anniversary of the Civil War, by creating a diorama of a battle between the blue and gray painted insects. I only have enough for a skirmish now, but by the way they are reproducing in our house, I will soon have enough for the whole three days of Gettysburg. I was discouraged to find, however, that there are a dozen Stink Bug Civil War Dioramas already on EBay, plus the work of one poor soul who was infested enough to stage the Normandy Invasion.

. My son’s sixth grade science project which is a realistic plaster-of-Paris rendition of Mount Vesuvius, complete with puffing smoke. Strangely, it is also a realistic rendition of the left cup of a brassiere worn by Madonna during her “Material Girl” tour, complete with puffing smoke. I have always thought my son spent an inordinate amount of time stroking the smooth, wet plaster into just the shape he desired. This should be big with eruption fans of all stripes.

. A rare CD of a lecture given by then Alaska Governor Sarah Palin explaining T.S. Eliot’s “Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock” to the juniors at Fairbanks High School: “He’s the one who was a-coming, he was a-going, he was a-Michelangelo-ing.” This will be of interest to illiteracy collectors everywhere.

. A nearly complete gallon of Martha Stewart’s “Heat Rash Rose.” According to “Rare Paints Digest”, only one gallon of this color was ever sold. Hey, we only used it as an accent color in our bathroom and it went perfectly with her “Deathly Pallor Gray.”

. Two dozen two piece plastic martini glasses. For some reason known only to the Chinese, these had detachable stems which detached when you raised your glass to your lips depositing four bucks worth of gin on your tie. Understandably, these are a highly sought after gift items by dry cleaners and liquor distributors.

Still, it seems a shame to sell off these things when the market for collectibles is at a low…..maybe we should hang onto them for awhile.

Tea Party Reject

2011-05-25T14:56:00.000-07:00

Dear Mr. Andersen:

Thank you for your application, but we are unable to accept you as a member of the National Tea Party at this time.

We appreciate your sending your medical records, but the fact that you have both irritable male syndrome and irritable bowel syndrome is unfortunate, but does not qualify you for membership per se. The fact that most of our members also have these conditions is merely a coincidence. The same goes for your two blocked cranial arteries.

At this point, we would like to disabuse you of the notion that we in any way actually sponsor tea parties. Congratulations on your granddaughter’s birthday, but we cannot participate in her Alice in Wonderland theme event. Besides, the “guy with the top hat” and the “guy with the bunny suit” have prior commitments on that day.

We note with dismay that you confess to being a registered Democrat. While we take under advisement your idea for forming a Decaffeinated Division for Disgruntled Democrats, we seriously doubt it will build our membership in a meaningful way.

However, all we require is a simple letter of resignation from the party. You do not have to “stick your registration card up your ass in Macy’s window” as your brother-in-law suggests.

By the way, we cannot imagine where you ever found a photograph of Michele Bachmann clad only in her American flag panties, but we firmly reject your suggestion that we name her the Tea Party Muffin of the Month. We must admit that such an idea shows a certain lack of moral turpitude on your part, Mr. Andersen. Unfortunately, we are unable to return the photo at this time.

We were also not particularly impressed with your religious background as explained on your application. We hardly think you are qualified to call yourself a born again
Christian merely because you once dated a stripper named Rapture.

And while we admire your enthusiasm to prove you loyalty by dressing up as a tea bag and jumping in Rachel Madow’s swimming pool, we think it shows a poor grasp of our strategy and tactics.

Your remark about tea that “you hate the damn stuff” also caused us to question your understanding of our goals. It isn’t about tea, Mr. Andersen. Tea is a symbol…er...well it has something to do with the revolution. Go look it up.

For these reasons, we are unhappy to report that the party must go on without you.

Sincerely

Membership Committee
National Tea Party

Adventures of a Poll Worker

2011-05-13T09:45:00.000-07:00

My wife, Kathie, frequently finds jobs in the newspaper or via the grapevine for me in the forlorn hope that I will begin to bring some income into the family.

She feels this way because I spend most of time whittling, blogging, or fighting crab grass, none of which produces a farthing.

My usual response to one of her suggested positions is to look up and say: “Great! That sounds right up my alley”……and get back to my pathetic activities.

This time she said that several women in her book club were poll workers and that the work was easy, infrequent, and the pay good.

This not only matched my three top employment priorities, but perked my interest as well. I have always been interested in the political process and served as an elected town councilman many years ago. I am also conscientious about voting and always do so, usually with unhappy results.

I went to the county web site and filed my application. “Message Sent” had no sooner appeared on the screen when I received a reply saying I was accepted and should appear for training two days hence. This should have raised my suspicions because my email applications usually wind up in the great round file in the sky never to be heard from again.

I appeared at the county office complex on the appointed day. As I entered, I walked into a swarm of the oldest human beings I have ever seen. I was sure that Meals on Wheels was just getting out or it was enrollment day for the county nursing home.

I asked a gentleman standing next to me if he could direct me to the poll worker training registration. He indicated that it was somewhere in the midst of the swarming wheel chairs and colliding walkers. I asked where the line started and he responded: “There is no damn line. Just look at them.” The old folks were surging around a table scanning sheets of registration documents. “How do you expect me to read this?”, one old gal piped up to no in particular.

“I usually wait for them to move on,” my companion said. I am not sure if he meant into the auditorium or the next plane of existence, either of which could happen at any moment.

I’m old but these folks were OLD, Mr. Riley, Sr. old. A number of years ago, friends of ours had a father and son living next door. Mr. Riley, Jr. was in his sixties and Mr. Riley, Sr. was considerably north of that. The friends’ daughter, who was 5 or 6 at the time, made a reference to one of them and her mother asked which one she meant. “Not old Mr. Riley, Mom, I was talking about almost dead Mr. Riley,” she replied.

I entered the hall and took a seat at the end of a row near a side exit. This is my usual spot at any assembly. I choose it so I can bail in a hurry in case a crazed person comes crashing through the center door with guns blazing. Hey, I didn’t live this long by being stupid.

I was nicely settled when a voice boomed behind me: “I want that seat!” Suddenly, I was transported back to high school and turned expecting to see Anthony Nadjatowski looming over me with fists clenched. Instead, it was a large scowling woman leaning on a walker with a large foam pillow under her arm. Like high school, I vacated in a hurry before I got my ear flicked.

Soon a young-by-comparison older woman came to the lectern and bellowed into the mike: “Can everybody here me?” A chorus of “no’s” echoed across the room. She repeated this several times turning the volume up each time until it was at ear splitting level. Still, the consensus was no. Finally, she gave up and went on anyway.

Here is something I didn’t know: if a blind person wants to vote and asks for assistance, he/she must be accompanied into the booth by both a Democrat and a Republican. He/she can also bring a guide dog. A Democrat, a Republican, a blind person and a dog enter a voting booth…..write your own joke.

At that moment, another large woman with a walker began to stagger down the aisle in search of a seat. We all eyed her carefully fearful that she would either demand our seat or fall on us. She shoved a chair to the end of a table. She also carried a foam cushion, but her’s was the size of a two person life raft. After she got all comfy, she began ripping the pages from her employee’s manual.

Another Board of Elections staffer took the floor and explained how to open and start the voting machine. This seemed beyond the physical abilities of most of my co-workers, but they didn’t seem too concerned as many had dozed off.

The staffer pointed at me and asked if I would come up and play the part of a voter in a simulation. I suppose she thought I was one of the few who could make it to the front of the room in the allotted one hour of training time. As I signed in as myself, the staffer chirped: “Oh, Mr. Andersen is a Democrat!” This the old dears heard and a collective growl rose up. Democrats are few and far between in our county and are hunted with dogs when flushed out.

The trainer said that we would work in teams and stressed the need for mutual assistance and preparation. She asked for questions, but there were none, although I was tempted to ask if each team would be supplied with a defibrillator and body bags.

As I left I thought that if these good folks, despite their physical limitations, are motivated to perform a community service at considerable inconvenience and discomfort to themselves, what is wrong with the rest of us slackers? That’s why they are the Greatest Generation.

Scrambled Thoughts on a Ramblin Ride

2011-04-27T13:51:00.000-07:00

I’m heading for Reading.

The Outsider Folk Art Gallery there is including my carvings in an upcoming exhibit and I am driving out to deliver my work.

I love road trips and today is a perfect day for one: the sun is shining and the temp is in the sixties. I’ve loaded my old Volvo wagon which I had to do by climbing over the front seat because the tail gate is broken.

I’m taking Route 78 west to Allentown and 222 east to Reading. It’s a 90 mile trip each way. I’m rolling. Got the Eagles cranked up and away we go:

“I’m runnin down the road tryen to loosen my load, got seven women on my mind.”

Seven? I don’t think I know seven women, and if I did I forgot six of them. And if I did know them, I sure as hell wouldn’t have them all on my mind at the same time. I’d mix up a name and be down to six in no time.

Oh, hell. There’s a cop. I poop my pants every time I see the fuzz because my speedometer is broken. Normally, I track my speed with the GPS but I left it on the dining room table on my way out the door.

Whew, guess I’m okay. Glad to be off 78 and driving through rural Pennsylvania. Things are a lot greener here than they are back at home. I guess I’m in farm country because I just passed the Barn Dance Boutique. And there’s a store called Cash for Guns. Wait a minute. Let me think about that. I walk into your store with a gun and you give me cash? Isn’t that a stick-up? Heh, heh.

What’s this? Kutztown University. Looks like a big layout. I guess I heard of it, but it didn’t appear on my kid’s radar when they were college shopping. Their name must really hold them back. You know the kids who go there have to call it Klutztown University.

Ha, ha. There’s a sign for a town called Virginville. I’ll bet nobody lives there anymore. Heh, heh. Well, you know what they say out here in Pennsylvania Dutch country: if you’ve come to Virginville, you’re practically in Blue Balls.

These are real town names. I read that back in the 1920’s or 30’s the National Geographic Service cleaned up most of the racy place names in the US. There were a lot of them because most places were named by lonely, horny trappers. They got rid of Tickle Pussy Creek and most of the Big Tit Mountains. They missed the Grand Tetons because it was French.

Ah, here comes Hendrix singing “All Along the Watch Tower.” I usually bellow along to this one, but can’t because my windows are open on account of the air conditioner being busted. My mechanic says this car is tired. Funny, my doctor says the same thing about me. I guess that’s why the Swedish Nightmare and I have bonded.

Damn, it’s starting to pour rain and I left my umbrella on the table next to my GPS. Seven women my ass, I can’t even remember my stuff.

Oh, no. The road split and, according to the sign, I am heading toward Lancaster, the heart of Amish country, and not Reading. Damn, I’ll bet I get stuck behind a horse and wagon. Sure enough. MOVE IT, YOU SCRAPPEL EATING SCHMUCK!!

Whew, I passed him. HERE’S YOUR BIRD OF PARADISE, YOU QUAINT BASTARD!!

I am heading for Ohio and starting to get really rattled. I need my Third Man.

I watched a show last night on NatGeo about how many people who survive harrowing escapes attest to being aided my a mysterious stranger who suddenly appears and leads them to safety. It’s called the Third Man Phenomenon. The religious say it is proof of guardian angels, but scientists think it is some kind of neurological defense mechanism.
What they didn’t get into though is whether you should listen to this guy. They only interviewed those who survived. Perhaps the ninety percent who didn’t got lead over a cliff by this dude. Good point, huh?

And nobody was surprised by the fact that no one claimed to be saved by a Third Woman. Maybe none of them made it out because she kept stopping to ask directions.

Look. There’s sign for downtown Reading, the rain has stopped and the sun is out. Maybe my Third Man did weigh in. I’d buy him lunch, but I only have eight bucks.

Farewell, My Ass

2011-04-19T05:20:00.000-07:00

My ass went away and I haven’t a clue.
Turned around one day and-oops!-no wazoo.

My butt and I were firmly attached.
He followed me around and loved to be scratched.

At times when my mood took a downward route,
He brightened my day with a playful toot.

For heavens sake, I miss the old bum.
Where do you suppose I’ll put my thumb?

My ass got canned, and I’m feeling crummy.
How come that memo didn’t get to my tummy?

If told to put it up my ass,
I will sadly say I have to pass.

In his day he held my wallet on high
Now it droops down below my thigh.

Today, as I wander the shops and malls,
It swings right and left like an old elephant’s balls.

Not much to look at, so I’ve been told.
To me he was worth his weight in gold

Phooey on those who say he was lead
And the principle place to look for my head!

I went to the doctor and this he did say,
When men get old their butts go away.

He puffed himself up and said with a sigh,
“You’ll have to kiss your ass good-bye.”

As I left the office I was quite perplexed.
I said to my dear Willie, I hope you’re not next.

A Trip to New York City....Almost

2011-04-12T08:58:00.000-07:00

Though we only live 50 miles from New York City, sometimes it is a daunting struggle just to get there.

I know this after 35 years of commuting there every day. I know it sometimes takes a steely determination to keep on going in the direction of the office or home. I’ve been roasted, toasted, blacked out, smoked out, flooded out, crowded out and wrecked; and still I got to work everyday.

I have literally stepped over bodies to keep moving toward my job.

I had plans and counter-plans to deal with every possible contingency. I had car routes, alternate train routes, bus and ferry schedules. I knew every back street that led to every tunnel and bridge. I have ridden between cars exposed to the elements in a blizzard. I have perservered through derailments and accidents and kept moving. I have slogged through snow covered farm fields. I have hitch-hiked.

I was, I am proud to say, a fierce and savvy commuter. Once I turned to a badly shaken companion as train personnel led us past the mangled remains of a woman who ended her life by jumping in front of our train, and said: “We can’t help her. We have to keep moving and connect with that train over there before the coroner arrives and shuts everything down.” Yes, I had been ambushed by the coroner on other occasions. We made the train and I was proud that I had navigated a suicide with only a ten minute delay. Usually, a suicide is two hours at least.

Yesterday, I blinked.

It was a roasting hot day with the temperature hovering near ninety. I was planning to take 2:50 bus out of Clinton, NJ, to attend a six o’clock cocktail party in the city hosted by a group of friends and former associates in the association management field. I have not seen some of these people since I stopped working three years ago. I was really looking forward to it.

As I was sitting in the air-conditioned ticket office along with five other people, an attendant announced that the enroute bus only had four available seats remaining and we might want to get on line outside. Instantly, my old juices kicked in and I bolted for the door nearly bowling over a grey haired woman with a peace decal on her pocket book. I was the first one out. So far, so good.

Once outside, I discovered there were already four people ahead of me. Great, I thought, all I have to do is elbow past one person, unless they decide to move that old guy with the walker back there ahead of me.

The bus pulled in and savage jockeying began. I held my own in fifth place but was not able to improve my position. This was the first sign that I might have lost my edge.

I decided to play it out anyway. When the driver collected my ticket he said there was one seat left all the way in the back. Ha! I’m in! As I made my way rearward, I saw that what looked like a family of migrants had set up house-keeping all along the back seat. There was a man, a woman, a dozen or so snotty-nose brats, and one empty seat all the way in the corner.

Imagine my chagrin when I discovered that the so-called empty seat was occupied by yet another snotty-nosed brat in a carrier.

Screwed. Now my choice was either to ride for an hour and a half on the NJ Turnpike standing with my crotch in the faces of the migrants and my ass against the bathroom door, or leave the bus.

I left. I got my ticket refunded and hopped into my car to execute Plan B: drive to Hoboken and take the Path to the city. I still had plenty of time.

The car was roasting after having sat in the sun for 45 minutes. Then I remembered the air conditioning didn’t work in the old Volvo. I decided to push on anyway. As I rolled down the highway with the windows wide open and the roar of trucks and traffic drowning out the radio, I felt a pool of perspiration building up along the top of my abdomen and sensed the onset of the dreaded Belly Sweat. If I showed up like this I would either look like I was a few drinks ahead of everyone, or I’ve slobbered on myself.

Suddenly, I had an inspiration and would adopt Plan C: hop off Route 78 at the next exit, head for Kathie’s office, stick her with the non-air conditioned car, and take her comfy Subaru into the city. She was a trooper about it, and I was back in business rolling down the highway.

Soon it became apparent that this air conditioning wasn’t working either and the Subaru was even hotter than the Volvo. Now the belly sweat was hooking up with the armpit sweat and all was headed south to create the even more dreaded Soggy Bottom. This was not going to work. By the time I got to the city I would look and smell like I had swum the Hudson.

I glanced at my watch and saw that I had plenty of time to get back to Clinton and execute Plan D: catch the next bus at 4:30. For some reason, this bus takes two hours to get into New York, but this would still get me to my party for the last hour.

I arrived at Clinton with a half hour to spare and headed for the air conditioned waiting room. It was locked. My choices now were to sit in the overheated car or stand in the sun for a half hour.

Suddenly, sitting on the front porch in my shorts with a beer sounded like the best option. Good old Plan E!

Into the Closet

2011-03-21T08:16:00.000-07:00

Welcome to my closets.

That’s right I have two. Neither of them is of the walk-in variety which is just as well since you would probably break your neck on the shoes heaped up on the floor.

Here in Closet One are my dress clothes. I rarely go here anymore since I stopped working. Yes, I have a lot of neckties. I love the little dears but rarely have occasion to wear one. Take a look at this one. Looks like just an abstract design right? Wrong! If you look real close you will see that the pattern actually spells out “fuck you.” I would wear this from time to time when meeting with disagreeable sorts such as the IRS auditors. I think I’ll hang onto it in case I’m ever invited on the Glen Beck Show.

Since ties have gotten skinny again and mine are of the plumpish sort, I think I may download a bunch of them on Ebay. It would all be gravy because I got most of them for free. Back when I was executive director of the Men’s Furnishings Association my members kept me well stocked in shirts and ties. Getting a tie was easy, getting a raise was tough.

It may surprise you to know that I was once considered something of an authority on men’s fashion. I even have a web site, www.shirtsandties.org, offering wardrobe advice to the rare man seeking it. I am thinking of starting a blog on men’s wear that ties into the web site. Unfortunately, the only fashion advice I can think of at the moment is “don’t wipe your hands on your pants.” I just ruined a new pair of jeans by doing exactly that after changing the oil in the lawn mower.

Oh look, here’s my tweed sport jacket that I wear all the time. Well, maybe not so much all the time since it seems to still have hair on it from the cat that died five years ago.

I am getting nostalgic, so let’s move on to Closet Two. This is the sanctuary of my more sporty items. You will notice that it is organized in two tiers. On the top are my bottoms, on the bottom are my tops. Here on the right are all my short-sleeve shirts waiting to go into storage in the basement until the spring. Oh, it is spring. So I guess I can let that one slide.

Why so many pairs of pants? Well, we have fat pants, medium pants, and thin pants so that I always have something to wear regardless of my ever shifting profile. If, after my demise, some archaeologist counts the pants by type and studies the wear patterns, he will learn that I spent most of my adult life in fat pants. I am happy to report, however, that after an intense diet and fitness program inspired by my daughter’s approaching wedding, I can squeeze back into my medium pants. I think it will take a really frightening report from my doctors to get me to go for the thins.

Up there on the top shelf are two of my favorite sweaters: the Irish sweater my mother bought for me in 1964 and the Norwegian ski sweater I purchased in 1971. I still wear both regularly. When I tell some middle aged person I have clothing older than they are, I speak the truth.

Oh, you have to run along? But we haven’t gotten to my dressers yet. Well, maybe next time.

Sinatra Quiz

2011-02-17T13:36:00.000-08:00

I am in the midst of reading “Frank: The Voice” by James Kaplan.

I have long been a fan of Sinatra’s music, but never cared much for him as a man.

Nothing in this book that traces his life from his childhood in Hoboken to his career resurgence in 1953 changes that. We learn that he was a momma’s boy, a bully, a wimp, a prodigious philanderer, ruthlessly ambitious, ego maniacal, mobbed up, obsessive compulsive and a prima donna.

Hey, nobody’s perfect. Still, to paraphrase the author, he gave us the best part of himself in his music.

Now for you Frankophiles and Frankophobes, it’s time for a little quiz to test your knowledge of things Sinatra.

As usual, there will be no cash prizes. So, put your dreams away for another day and pick up your pencils.

1. How did Frank Sinatra get the scars on the left side of his face and left ear?
a. In a knife fight on the streets of Hoboken.
b. A little over-enthusiastic discipline from his over-bearing mother, Dolly.
c. Forceps marks from his birth.
d. Ava Gardner

2. Frank Sinatra was…
a. macrophallic
b. monochromatic
c. hydrocephalic
d. hydrophobic

3. Why was Nancy Sinatra called “Big Nancy”?
a. She was a foot taller than her husband.
b. To distinguish her from her daughter who was called “Little Nancy”
c. Because she took up two seats on the band bus.
d. She was macrovaginal.

4. How often did Frank change his underwear?
a. Never
b. Once a week
c. Every day.
d. Four times a day.

5. In a famous photo from 1951, Frank is shown getting off a plane to attend a mob meeting in Cuba. He is carrying a suitcase that is so heavy he has to support it on his hip. What did the suit case contain?
a. Narcotics
b. A cash delivery to Lucky Luciano
c. It has never been determined.
d. A three day supply of underwear.

6. How did Frank come by his legendary breath control?
a. He was born that way.
b. From studying Tommy Dorsey’s trombone technique.
c. By holding his breath until he got what he wanted from his mommy.
d. By studying Ava Gardner’s trombone technique.

7. In the Dorsey days, he had a clash of egos with Buddy Rich. How did Frank resolve it?
a. He hired goons to beat him up.
b. He hid Buddy’s drum sticks.
c. He told on Buddy to Tommy Dorsey.
d. He suggested sensitivity training.

8. Why did he flunk his army physical during WWII?
a. A punctured ear drum and emotional instability.
b. The army couldn’t afford his underwear tab.
c. He was too short.
d. His macrophallus kept getting caught in his boots.

9. Who was his major competition for the role of Maggio in “From Here To Eternity”?
a. Wally Cox
b. Eli Wallach
c. Dana Andrews
d. Charlton Heston

10. When he accepted the Academy Award for Best Supporting Actor for his performance in “From Here to Eternity”, whom did he thank?
a. Samuel Cahn
b. Dolly
c. Ava Gardner
d. No one

Answers: 1-c; 2-a; 3-b; 4-d; 5-c; 6-b; 7-a; 8-a; 9-b; 10-d

Lost

2011-02-03T12:51:00.000-08:00

I got lost the other day going to someplace I knew how to get to.

Getting lost is literally my worst nightmare. I have this recurrent dream that I am lost in the city (always the city) and have just trudged dozens of blocks only to realize I am going the wrong way and have to trudge all the way back to where I originally became lost. At this point panic and exhaustion are overwhelming me and I am already looking to the Conscious Observer to blow his whistle and weigh in with his usual ruling: “Enough with the trudging. You are not trudging another block. You are getting up to take a leak.”

I was on my way to drop-off my entry in an art show which was being held at Prallsville Mill in Stockton, NJ, about an hour drive from my house. I have been there on several occasions and passed it on many others.

I decided on a scenic route which would take me through miles of farms and small villages.

As I rolled along in my semi-trusty, twelve year old Volvo station wagon, I felt disoriented by the dramatic change in the landscape created by all the snow that has fallen this winter. Nothing looked the same. I began to feel disoriented and uncomfortable expecting Rod Serling at any moment to advise me I was about to enter the Twilight Zone.

Route 29, on which I was driving, runs right through Stockton, but I was uncertain which side of the town the mill was on. Traveling across the snow covered countryside, I was on autopilot having a lovely little daydream about how I would spend my Nigerian Sweepstakes winnings buying large houses in warm places.

Soon I came to Stockton.

Since Stockton is one of the smallest towns in New Jersey, I was through it in a nonce and out the other side without ever encountering the mill.

Now my disorientation became panic. Perhaps the mill isn’t in Stockton at all. Perhaps, it is some other part of the state altogether. Perhaps it doesn’t exist. Perhaps I dreamed it. Perhaps I’m dreaming now.

Now you may be wondering why someone in such a fragile navigational state would not have a GPS. Well, as I am sure you might guess, I seem to have lost it.

When I am befuddled, I usually compound my predicament by making a foolish decision. Stockton is on the Delaware River. On the other side of a short bridge lies the State of Pennsylvania. The address on the art submission clearly states Prallsville Mill, Stockton, NJ. The building is owned by the Hunterdon County (NJ) Cultural and Heritage Committee.

Inexplicably, I decided to seek it in Pennsylvania.

And so, I sped through the Pennsylvania countryside looking for a New Jersey destination. Just as I was about to yell to the Conscious Observer, “ISN’T IT TIME FOR ME TO TAKE A LEAK, FOR CHRIST SAKE,” I decided to call Kathie.

Here is how the conversation went:

Me: I’m lost.
Kathie: How could you be lost? Where are you?
Me: I am in Pennsylvania.
Kathie: Why are you in Pennsylvania? Prallsville Mill is in New Jersey.
Me: I thought a little bit of the other side of the Delaware may still have some New Jersey on it.
Kathie: It doesn’t.
Me: I thought I heard that some of it wound up there because the Penn family back in the 17th century got into a boundary dispute with the Jersey Proprietors and that’s how they settled it.
Kathie: You’ve GOT to stop drinking while you watch History Channel! I’ll put the address in Map Quest. It’s in Stockton.
Me: No, its not. I went through there.
Kathie: You must have driven right by it. You were probably daydreaming.
Me: Of all the damn nerve, I don’t daydream when I drive!

And so I re-crossed the bridge and went through Stockton again keeping an eagle eye out for the mill and, sure enough, there it was right where it was supposed to be. In my defense, let it be noted that it was very difficult to spot because the building was below road level and curbside snow piles hid it entirely.

I had submitted my work and, because I was so happy to have made it there, I volunteered to gallery sit and bring an appetizer to the artists’ reception.

Soon I was heading happily and confidently toward home and wishing I hadn't volunteered to make an appetizer.

A Visit to the Other Side

2011-01-25T17:05:00.001-08:00

As the little old lady and I stood next to each other at the sinks washing our hands and avoiding eye contact in the mirror, I wondered when she would start to scream. Instead, there was just an awkward silence that seemed to last forever.

Of course, the absence of a urinal should have clued me in that this was the lady’s room. However, it was a Chinese restaurant and I thought I read somewhere that the Chinese hadn’t invented the urinal yet.

What really threw me off was that, as I was heading for the facility, the door was wide open and a middle age man with two male children was leaving. He even held the door for me, thus preventing me from seeing the handsome bronze plaque that announced “Women.” One of the children was screaming his head off complaining of an injured finger.

Why the male delegation was using the lady’s room when in fact there was a men’s room next door, we will never know. Why the dad didn’t give me a heads-up, so to speak, also remains a mystery. I can only think the old lady was part of their group and was forgotten about in the injured finger ruckus. Who coldly offers up granny to a stranger of the opposite sex?

After I noted the absence of a urinal, I proceeded to the first of the two stalls. I attempted to enter but the door did not yield. Assuming it was stuck, I pushed a little harder. Suddenly, the occupant cried out: “go away!” I assumed it was another of the children who was still finishing his business, when in fact it was the little old woman.

She must have been terrified to see my large sneaker clad feet looming under her stall door. And since they are overly conscientious about refilling your water glass at Chinese restaurants, her worst fears must have been confirmed when she heard me strafing the toilet with a loud and long leak from the stall next door.

Of course, her fear was nothing compared to my chagrin when she suddenly appeared beside me at the sinks. It instantly became obvious where I was. I am thinking arrest and public humiliation. I am thinking front page of the New York Post, but I am also thinking nonchalanting it out. I decide that if she asks why I am here, I will respond with the punch line from the old Myron Cohen joke about a cuckolded husband who discovers his wife’s naked lover in the closet: Everybody’s gotta be someplace.

But she slowly and quietly scrubs away seemingly unconcerned about her proximity to a potential sex fiend. I get a terrifying vision that she might not be a little old lady after all, but a homicidal transvestite dwarf like the one in the Daphne DuMaurier movie who wanders around Venice slaughtering innocent men with a butcher knife.

In the end, nothing was said and we both silently left the room.

When I got back to our table, I told Kathie what had happened. Without looking up from her menu she said: “I’m sure you left the seat up.”

Toning It Down

2011-01-14T12:16:00.000-08:00

In case you missed it, there is a national conversation going on about whether violent language leads to violent acts.

Take it from me, it does.

Here’s my personal experience..

I was typing away on my much hated Dell PC with the witticisms flowing like fine wine when up pops an ad smack in the middle of my work warning me of the dangers of “getting hacked.” “I’ll hack you, you cookie-crammed piece of crap,” I cried in a pique of interrupted genius and raised my Wolfgang Puck meat cleaver to put the wretched computer out of my misery. Only the pitiful bleating of its terrified mother board snapped me to my senses.

If even a master wordsmith like me can be pushed to the brink by violent language, just think of the effect on ordinary people?

When I considered all the violent language we casually use in our everyday conversation and the potentially tragic outcomes if any of it was acted on, I decided I would do the patriotic thing and tone it down. I suggest you do the same.

No longer will I take a stab at something, neither will I take a shot at it, or give it a crack.

I won’t have a blast, get bombed, wasted, or hammered.

I will not gun my motor, kill my engine, or stomp the pedal because, technically, the car still belongs to the bank.

If I am on target with something, I will try not to picture some hard projectile I have launched striking something soft and squishy. I will consider the store of the same name just a name and not an invitation to mayhem.

I won’t knock my socks off because I’ll hurt myself. I won’t whack off for the same reason.

I won’t shoot the breeze, fire off a letter, punch in or punch out, blow it, kick the habit, bite the bullet, shoot from the hip, go in with guns blazing, or aim to please.

Where have you gone, George Carlin, when we need you?

On Turning Sixty Six

2011-01-06T06:38:00.001-08:00

Today is my birthday, and time for some kicks.
Today is the day I turn sixty-six.
Please send best wishes, oodles and oodles,
But no greeting cards that speak of limp noodles.

To say sixty’s the new forty is all the rage.
Even with the discount, I’m late middle age.
It’s not a big landmark like sixty five.
But, nevertheless, I made it alive.

Seventy's the big one looming ahead,
But I hope to make sixty nine before I am dead.
I can’t help but find it an amusing condition;
It's the one time one's age is a sexual position.

Social Security had some good news.
I can earn all I want with nothing to lose.
To learn of this I'm quite overjoyed,
Despite the fact I am unemployed.

It’s time to reflect on friends who have passed.
I hope they won't mind if I go last.
Maybe it’s my movie, I say with delight,
And the good guy will be standing when they turn on the light.

Tho long in the tooth, I think with no smirk,
All my moving parts continue to work.
All runs smoothly, no bumps or no hicks.
Nothing wrong with me that prune juice can’t fix.

To celebrate life I head to the fridge.
Oh hell, where did I leave my damn bridge?

The Second Hand Christmas Tree and Other Coniferous Musings

2010-12-22T13:12:00.000-08:00

We have a second hand Christmas tree this year.

It’s a little smaller than the ones we usually get, but is very nicely shaped. We purchased it from the Boro of Califon. It had been used at the Nellie Hoffman House, the restoration project with which we are involved, for a Christmas reception two weeks ago.

Kathie and I thought it was a shame for it to sit there and go to waste, so we bought it back from the town. However, since it has some miles on it, we fear that it might not make it to Christmas. I have this vision of waking Christmas morn to a brown stick and a pile of needles in the living room.

This was not the official town tree, however, which is a scrawny little thing next to the funeral parlor parking lot. This has only served for the past two years. Before that the tree was a rather splendid, large pine in front of the Historic Society Headquarters at the old train station. Unfortunately, it was planted on the right-of-way for a long distance gas transmission line.

The gas company said that the tree had to go because its roots were threatening to compromise the pipeline. This is a lot of hooey because the line, after it leaves Califon, runs through miles of heavy forest where enormous oaks and maples grow right up to the edge of the right-of-way and whose roots must surely “compromise” it.

But what town father wants to see a headline that reads: “Town Citizens Die in Fire Ball Caused by Village Christmas Tree”? So they caved-in and the funeral parlor tree became the official conifer. To me, the proximity of the parlor casts a pall over the tree lighting festivities and caroling that takes place in its very shadow. Lord only knows what mourners think when they see Santa has shown up on a fire truck at their loved one’s wake.

Many years ago, when our kids were young, I was Chairman of the Town Recreation Committee and in charge of the Christmas tree lighting. Unfortunately, I created a controversy with my music selections. At the time we were struggling financially and only owned one Christmas album. It was Walt Disney characters singing carols.

Well, there was outrage and I was forced to appoint a music director who had a more extensive and traditional collection.

I don’t know what the fuss was about. I liked the Disney album and my kids loved it. How could you not admire Goofy’s “five onion ring” riff on the “Twelve Days of Christmas,” or the way he artistically adlibbed a series of “dootey, dootey, doo, doos” through various other standards? And it’s all low brow, secular stuff like “Frosty”, “Here Comes Santa,” etc.

It’s not as if Donald Duck had a go at the “Ave Maria.”

And frankly, I’d rather listen to a duck with a speech impediment do “It’s a Marshmallow World in the Winter” than Johnny Mathis. If I hear him simper “it’s a yum,yummy world made for sweethearts,” one more time, I’ll toss my Christmas cookies.

Kathie and I are down-sizing. Several weeks ago, our son, Kris, and grandson, Owen, came down to go through his childhood possessions and to bring back home those he wanted to keep.

One of the things that went back was the Disney album. And so, another generation of kids will chime in and bellow “FIVE ONION RINGS” whenever they hear the “Twelve Days of Christmas.”

Hark! Do you hear what I hear? Pine needles falling everywhere….

Merry Christmas.

A Bad Idea

2010-12-15T14:22:00.000-08:00

I fell off the ladder today.

I fell off the ladder because I don’t have a car.

I don’t have a car today because it is in the shop.

Since I don’t have a car today and the wind chill outside is in the single digits, I am house-bound.

When I am house-bound bad ideas come hatching out of me like the aliens in the movies of the same name.

Of course, I was only house-bound for an hour or so. This morning I took a four mile walk in the frigid wind. It was lovely. My new down coat was up to the task and I saw a flock of bluebirds.

As soon as I got back and finished my lunch, the bored, guilty feeling came over me. I had to find something to do.

Of course, it’s all my mother’s fault. When we were kids we could not be in the house during the daytime reading or watching TV. She insisted we be out in the fresh air, despite the fact that we lived in Jersey City in the 1950’s, a time when chemical production was in full swing and the air actually tasted worse than it smelled.

This rule even applied when she took us for afternoon visits to our grandmother’s house which was up the block from a gentian violet factory and where the fresh air literally turned our clothing blue. My mother said this was okay because gentian violet was a “medicine.”

As I sat in the empty, quiet kitchen trying to think of something to do that would take me out of the house, I thought first of raking the leaves. Since I had raked most of them and the survivors were being whipped about in a 20 mile per hour wind, this was a weak option. I briefly considered chasing them down with the pool skimmer, but decided this was desperate even by my standards.

I recalled an observation Kathie had made a week or so ago about our outside Christmas decorations. We have a pine tree at the corner of our house that our son planted as sprig when he was a sprig some thirty years ago. Each year I would string it with lights and, along with a wreath here and there, that was our Christmas display.

I gave that up when the tree developed Rockefeller Center Syndrome, perhaps picturing itself being aahed at by Al Roker and sung to by Josh Grobin, and suddenly shot up at an alarming rate. Or maybe, I just got older.

Kathie said that she thought that, since the tree was located facing our driveway and our lane, it was a shame that people approaching the house would not see any festive seasonal décor. This was not presented as a criticism or a challenge, and I did not take it as such at the time. It was just an observation.

Still, as I sat at the kitchen table, it formed the seed of the evil alien that would soon burst out of me as a fully developed bad idea.

“Yes,” I thought, “It is a shame that people approaching our house will think that the Andersens don’t know how to keep Christmas.” The fact that this sounded like something Clark Griswold would say, did not deter me.

By Jove, I would string lights on that tree! Since the tree had grown, I thought surely it would hold my 20 foot ladder extended to its limit. This still would not enable me to get lights to the top of the tree. However, by duck taping two brooms together and balancing the lights on the end, I would create a device that would enable me to place them at the top of the tree from the top of the 20 foot ladder. This was the bad idea.

I extended the ladder and leaned it against the tree. Carrying my placement device with the end of the light string cleverly gripped by the bristles of the broom, I ascended the ladder. When I got to the top and full extended myself to place the beginning of the string, I felt the ladder slowly sliding to my left.

I knew something bad was about to happen. The soft pine branches were gradually sagging away from the ladder carrying it away and downward in the direction of the living room window.

On the other side of that window is my comfy chair where I have spent many pleasant evenings reading in front of the fire. I wondered if my glass-shredded corpse carrying the ducked taped brooms landed in the chair, whether anyone would solve the mystery of how I perished.

Just then, the ladder snagged long enough for me to leap off with just a sore knee to show for my misadventure.

From where I am sitting in my comfy chair I can see the cursed evergreen. If I can cut it with my chain saw, I just might to able to drop it between the two power lines that come into the house on either side of the tree.

The Interview

2010-12-09T11:03:00.000-08:00

The moths ate my crotch.

Kathie says its my own damn fault because I hung the suit up without sending it to the cleaners first.

I put it in the closet two years ago at the end of my last day of work, and apparently the moths fell upon it like the Greeks and Trojans struggling over the armor of Achilles at the death of Patroklos.

(I am sure you “regular” readers of this blog are stunned to see a classical reference. Rest assured, I don’t plan to make a habit of it. It’s just that I recently finished a book titled “The War That Killed Achilles.” No, I haven’t read everything else.)

The reason I am down to one moth eaten suit is that I tossed all the others when I stopped working, but kept one all-season and one summer model in case I needed a suit for a wedding or a funeral.

Now I have a dilemma because I have an honest-to-God job interview tomorrow and can either wear Mothra or my Big Daddy seersucker model.

I am leaning toward the pre-chewed version, since nothing says clueless and out of work like some schmuck wearing a seersucker suit in December.

I will just keep my legs crossed. On second thought, this might send the wrong message body language-wise. It might indicate I am uptight and not open to new ideas and directions. And besides, since real men spread their legs and sprawl, it might be a sign of passiveness or submissiveness on my part to be sitting there like one of the stenos in Mad Men waiting to take dictation.

Maybe I will just face it out and dare the interviewer to gape at my tattered nether region. If he is worth his Blackberry, he will realize that doing so would create a hostile work environment for me and subject him to onerous penalties. Neither can he ask what’s up with my crotch without breaking many State and Federal codes.

Still, I wonder why the moths went for my crotch? If it was salty sweat they were after they might have struck the armpits as well, but they did not. I suppose I will never know what was oozing from down there that was like a dinner bell for moths. Here’s an even creepier thought: I wonder if the larva was already down there squirming and oozing while my family jewels were in residence.

I won’t go there. I have an interview to prepare for. It’s a shame this thing took the direction that it did because I intended to write a blog about how morale building it is to have a real interview and how great it feels to be in the hunt for something…..anything! Instead, I wrote about bugs in my britches.

Maybe my pants weren’t the only thing that got moth eaten.

The Jurist

2010-11-29T10:06:00.001-08:00

On December 6, I report to the County Court to serve my jury duty.

I am looking forward to it. This wasn’t always so. Back in my working days, I would moan and groan and wiggle liked a hooked fish to get out of it. I never did.

However, though I have been called four or five times in the last twenty years, I have never actually been on a jury and have only been empanelled once, which shows the system is fairly efficient at keeping crack pots off of juries.

The one time I got empanelled I was frantic to avoid getting picked. Someone told me that if you told the judge and lawyers that you believed in the death penalty, you wouldn’t get selected. From what I was hearing from the interviews with the other panelists, it seemed like the case involved the theft of car radios. My mind was racing to find a way to work my views on the death penalty into a radio pilfering case. Even for a hardliner, it seemed a touch severe to execute someone for depriving a motorist of Howard Stern.

Neither did I want to waste two weeks of my life pondering the fate of a radio thief.

With a heavy heart I took the chair to be interviewed by the lawyers and judge. After several preliminary questions, however, one of them asked if I had cause to be incredulous of police testimony.

Suddenly, I saw a shaft of sunlight breaking through the clouds. As someone who grew up in the city, I firmly believe no one in his right mind would ever believe a thing a cop said. I also feel the same about lawyers, but if everyone who thought cops and lawyers were liars was disqualified from jury duty, our criminal justice system would grind to a halt.

However, I pointed out that, as a member of the borough council in my town, I was involved in a law suit with our police chief whom we were trying to discharge for sexual harassment of a crossing guard

This was the infamous case of the Pissing Police Chief.

Before I even got to the pissing part, the judge dismissed me.

Now that I am retired, however, I hope I get a case and it is a juicy one. Nothing violent with gory crime scene photos and splatter analysis though; and definitely not anything where retaliation against the jury is even a remote possibility. Something involving a high class escort service with lots of yummy young ladies vamping to the jury would be ideal.

Or something involving malfeasance in the county Republican Party. I’d love to send those guys to the chair.

I don’t think I’d want me on my jury though. Kathie says I never listen and form my opinions before any of the facts are in. Guilty. If some goon shows up without a necktie, I’ll send him up the river before he can open his mouth.

I also can’t remember anything I have heard or read for more than fifteen minutes, so it is totally possible that I could completely forget someone’s alibi: “Oh, he was out of town? Oops, I forgot. We can straighten it out on appeal.”

That brave juror in “Twelve Angry Men” who steadfastly holds on to his belief in the defendant’s innocence against the 11 others is not me. I am more the if-you-want-to-fry-this-guy’s-ass-that’s-fine-with-me-where-are-we-going-to-lunch sort.

Also, I don’t see well or hear well, have to go to the bathroom every half hour, get antsy if I have to sit in one place for too long, and always doze off after lunch. Sounds like it might not go well. I’ll keep you posted.

99%

2010-11-18T13:37:00.000-08:00

You must be worried about me.

I know what you are thinking: “If they rescind the tax breaks for the top one per cent of earners, will this hurt Jerry?”

Well, put your minds at rest, I am firmly ensconced in the lower 99%. In fact, as a struggling writer (lower 5 %) and artist (lower 2.5 %) who is also unemployed, I am dropping in the rankings faster than the N.Y. Mets in September. I have a very comfortable cushion between me and tax cut rescindination, thank you very much.

I don’t feel too sorry for those one-per-centers, either. I had to cough up my unemployment, so let them kick in a few zillion to keep the Polarized Express rolling on the tracks.

I am not a mathematician (upper 20 %), but it strikes me that 99 per cent is clearly a majority. Why do we keep electing people who just want to help the top tier?

Supposedly, because it helps us. I am not an economist (top 10 %), but theoretically, some of the money they save is supposed to trickle down to the masses. Let me tell you, I am an old guy and have been waiting since the Reagan administration for some of that gravy to reach me, but my drip-pan is still dry.

There are other reasons that many of us think that it helps us to help rich people: a.) we are not smart; in fact, many of us watch Fox News; b) we really don’t want to see Oprah get screwed; c) we don’t want to screw ourselves, since it would be just our luck to hit the lottery AFTER the tax breaks have been rescinded.

This exposes an inherent flaw in the Trickle Down Theory: rich people ARE smart. Unlike us, they don’t run off to Wal-Mart to buy a hot tub and a new shotgun as soon as they get a few extra bucks. No, they invest. And what do they invest in? Hedge funds. And who runs hedge funds? The top one per cent of wage earners. I rest my case (lawyers: top 5%)

Also, the rich can afford the best. Who produces the best? You guessed it, the top one per cent of earners. Let’s personalize this by focusing on writing. A rich person couldn’t buy this crap if he wanted to because I can’t sell it to anybody who would sell it to him. So if he wants something to read, he has to buy a book by James Patterson.

According to the N.Y. Times Magazine, this guy is like a digitized Dickens who works on 12 novels at once, all sure-fire best sellers. While texting one with his toes, he tweets another on his iphone, dictates a third and has a legion of minions working on the others. In other words, he is in the top one per cent of earners. No gravy for moi.

So as you tuck yourself in tonight, say a prayer for Rush, shed a tear for Cheney, but don’t worry about me: I’m good. Oh, and a goodnight thought for my children: don’t lose any sleep about that whole estate tax thing. You don’t have a dog in that fight.

Sneaking Up

2010-11-11T09:38:00.000-08:00

I just got an email asking me to rate and review my new sneakers.

The vendor said that, if I did this, I could not only then Twitter and Facebook my review to my legion of friends, but would also be automatically entered in a drawing with a cash prize of $1,000.

In the first place, I am an Old Writer and actually remember the days when writers and reviewers, rather than being “eligible” for a cash prize,actually got paid for their services. In the second place, it takes more than a long shot at a thousand bucks to get me off the couch.

That’s pretty chintzy, I must say, in a day when a grand won’t even buy a pair of sunglasses or a half hour with one of Elliott Spitzer’s companions.

In fact, every time I purchase Aleve at the pharmacy the clerk tells me that, as the 3,632nd customer of the day, I have just been entered in drawing with a cash prize of $10,000. Let me tell you, it is a lot easier to pop pain killers than it is to write reviews.

Raise the stakes to twenty Gs, however, and I am ready to support the Bush tax cuts for the wealthy.

In the third place, most of my friends and acquaintances don’t give a rat’s ass if I live or die, never mind concerning themselves with my state of well-being footwear-wise.

All of that being said, however, I like my new puppy palaces. They are still new with that wonderful new sneaker smell, and not the rancid odor of a decomposing swamp creature they take on later.

I don’t buy new sneaks often, but one sign that the time has come is when I have to look for them on the front porch rather than their usual parking place in the middle of the living room floor. Another is when, as we are leaving on an auto trip, my wife suggests that, rather than packing or wearing my sneakers, I might want to bungee them to the roof of the car.

It is also time to re-shoe when walking in them feels like riding in a car with four flat tires. These new guys have so much bounce that I can’t resist breaking out in a few choruses of “The Happy Wanderer” as I schlep to the post office.

I usually only buy new sneakers in the fall or winter because in the spring or summer I quickly forget I have on the new ones and mow the grass in them. Grass stains are a sure fire sneaker killer for me and once they are thus sullied they are never allowed out in public again. A man wearing grass stained sneakers is saying three things: a.) I am too poor to own more than one pair; b.) I mow my own grass because I can’t afford to hire illegal aliens to do it for me; c.) I use a walk behind mower because my yard isn’t big enough to use a tractor. All of these things, if nothing else, brand you as a Democrat at a time when it probably isn’t safe to be one.

So, I am not going to take the vendor up on his offer to review my shoes. I have better things to do than write about sneakers.

Autumn Song, Redux

2010-11-03T06:57:00.000-07:00

As you sit at your desks and do what you do,
I am raking leaves and stepping in pooh.
As through the leaves I gamely do slog,
No time for Facebook, Twitter or blog.
If bad poesy’s your bag, here’s an oldie for you.
If it offends, just scrape from your shoe.

The last leaves have fallen from their perches on high,
And litter the ground right up to his thigh.
In their legions and armies they boldly stack.
Small children and dogs have to turn back.
As he thinks of his wife it gives him the lumps
She can't go to work with leaves on her pumps!

He rattles the heavens with a mighty cry.
“If you weren’t already dead, now you would die!”
He straps on his vacuum, the dreaded El Toro.
(Which he had to buy since he couldn’t borrow.)
He falls upon them from hillock to gulch
And grinds the quivering foe to a powdery mulch.

Like the heroes of old he absorbs all his licks,
Leaf dust up the nose and bites from the ticks.
As he lays about him, he considers his shoe.
Oh, no! He’s stepped in the neighbor’s dog’s pooh.
He stops for a sec to consider this scandal.
He wonders if noble Caesar,as he slaughtered the Vandal,
Had to stop to clean dog shit off of his sandal.

For weeks and weeks the grim battle roils
On and on the suburban Hercules toils.
At missing his football and baseball, he curses.
He is caught in an epic with too many verses.
As the Aeolian blast delivers the neighbors' pile,
“I’ll bet they’ll miss their cat,” he says with a smile.

The bags of the fallen line the drive.
Oak, maple, cherry, none made it alive.
He shoulders El Toro and surveys the field.
He is glad he fought on and never did yield.
His chest swells with pride like mighty El Cid
Then his wife whispers: “Next year, hire a kid.”

Confucious Say, Deux

2010-10-27T07:11:00.000-07:00

If you are like me, each time you open that fortune cookie and read that little nugget of wisdom, you ask: “Hey is that Confucius or Shecky Greene?”

After dinner speakers, Borsht Belt comics, and shaving cream companies have been inventing Chinese proverbs for generations to the point where it’s hard to tell “Enjoy yourself. It’s later than you think” (real) from “Passionate kiss like spiders web. Soon lead to undoing of fly” (false).

A year ago, in a feeble effort to generate reader interest, I ran a quiz that allowed you to test your knowledge of Chinese proverbs. Generous prizes were offered (false). Due to the enthusiastic response (false) and demands for more of same (false), here is the next installment.

So, pencils ready. The answers appear below the questions. Remember the words of Confucius: “Anyone who cheat on dumb quiz is real lame-o.”

1. When you hold a big Tea Party, old Shitz will always show up.
2. A deer in the road is beef in the wok.
3. If you can’t think of a lie, just say something stupid.
4. Fail to steal a chicken when it ate up your grain bait
5. Never bet against the eunuch in the Who Can Go Longest Without Sex contest.
6. A clear conscience never fears midnight knocking.
7. Fight a wolf with flex stalk.
8. Even a comb of purest gold cannot remove unsightly back hair.
9. Donkey’s lips do not fit into a horse’s mouth
10. One never needs humor as much as when one argues with a fool.

1. False. Although, old Shitz and his annoying little dog, Tzu, were not welcome in too many places.
2. False, but it could be real because a Chinese restaurant near here was closed down for serving road kill.
3. False. Actually, advise to candidates from the Republican National Committee.
4. Real. And obviously translated by the same guy who translates user manuals for Chinese made electronic devices.
5. False. The size of the Chinese population makes it apparent they never invented the Who Can Go Longest Without Sex contest.
6. Real, but Jerry say ALWAYS fear midnight knocking.
7. Real, but probably a little too deep for our shallow western minds.
8. False, but oh so true.
9. Real. Why do I keep getting a mental picture of Ann Coulter?
10. Real. And advise to candidates from the Democratic National Committee.

Lord Googoo

2010-10-20T06:13:00.001-07:00

A publisher friend of mine recently told me that it was unlikely I would find employment at my age, and that I needed to “re-invent myself” and do something on my own.

Coincidentally, I read in the paper how Lady Gaga had been a semi-successful cabaret singer named Stefani Germanotta before she “re-invented” herself by taking off her clothes and imitating Madonna.

Say hello to Lord Googoo!

Show biz, here we come. I can already picture the first GOOGOO,GAGA TOUR. The name of the act says it all: one member in her first childhood, the other in his second; she strutting around the stage nekkid, and he trying to remember why he used to find that interesting.

I know what you are thinking: Jerry, in show business you need a shtick.

I’ve always been a big fan of Old Blue Eyes, so I am going to do a Sinatra act. I’ve already purchased one of those itty bitty Fedoras he used to wear.

I know what you are thinking: Jerry, you can’t sing. Well, neither could Frank in his last years, but that didn’t stop him from making a public spectacle of himself.

Just picture Gaga wiggling and caterwauling “I want your disease,” while I croak “that’s why the lady is a tramp.” Talk about your point/counterpoint, that’s it right there!

I am aware, however, that here in the 21st century, over-stimulated audiences need a strong visual component. While the sight of a tiny hat perched at a cocky angle on my enormous noodle is very cool, it isn’t enough, because as Frank once observed: “A funny hat can't upstage a naked lady.”

I was stuck for a shtick.

Then one day last week, while I was sitting in the Starbuck’s in Chester, NJ, a man about my age entered wearing clear plastic pants with little or nothing underneath.

This made such a profound impression on the four women sitting at the adjacent table that they successfully executed the rarely attempted quadruple frapuccino spit take.

When the coffee mist cleared, I realized he was onto something and I had solved my visual problem.

Picture this: at the end of our last encore, I, wearing my tuxedo with the clear plastic trousers, get up from the piano and walk to center stage where, with my back to the audience, I take Gaga’s hand and perform such a deep, gentlemanly bow that, if he didn’t have chronic post-mortem dry eye, would surely have brought a tear to Old Blue Eyes’ blue eyes.

Music fans, there are not enough defibrillator paddles on the planet to handle the ensuing pandemonium.

So the GOOGOO,GAGA TOUR is good to go-go!

I don’t know why I am SO excited.

It must be the plastic pants.

The Irritable Old Man's Facebook Rant

2010-10-15T09:41:00.000-07:00

The irritable old man is an alter ego who takes the helm once in awhile after I have had a few too many glasses of wine the night before or attended a funeral. His opinions do not necessarily reflect those of my, er, regular ego.

I don’t get Facebook.

Two snot nose Harvard twerps come-up with a “social network” web site, undoubtedly to help them get laid, and now 500 million people are on board.

And they made a movie about these jerks’ lives. They’re twenty three freaking years old. Twenty three years! I’ve spent more time than that on the can and nobody’s making a movie about me.

Kathie suggested I sign up because our children were using Facebook to share pictures. Of course, it would kill them to actually send or email us a picture, so we have to go on an Easter egg hunt to find photos of what’s going on in their lives. And now that they suspect their parents are lurking about, they have stopped posting altogether

In the year or so I have been on, I have accumulated 38 friends, which is 37 more than I have in real life. I have another five hanging in limbo because I know they will annoy me.

One friend request was from a woman whose profile picture was a snap of her vagina. It might not be hers, but I am not going to do the research. I reported her to the twerps who are probably trying to date her as we speak. By the way, I’ve been out of circulation for awhile, but when did women start shaving down there?

Many of my friends are guys who were signed up by their wives and, hence, never go on. From time to time I am asked by the twerps to find friends for these lost souls. I have thought of brightening their lives by suggesting Lady Vagina.

Some other friends really started to annoy me so I blocked them. Send me a hug and you got blocked; ask me to join your Mafia Wars crew, you got blocked; tell me what you had for breakfast, you got blocked. My page was a pretty quiet place. Then they made it harder to block and I still haven’t figured out how to do it. Now my page is like a cocktail party full of people I don’t know all talking at once. And just like a real party, when I finally go to chime in,everyone has moved on. And I can’t even find the damn bar.

In the old pre-blocked blocking days, if I made a pithy, cogent comment it would stay on my page for weeks for me to revisit and enjoy. Now, in a heart beat, it is bundled in blather and shipped off to No-More-Posts-to-Show land.

I guess they made it hard because if everyone blocked everyone else ,no one would be talking to anyone.

And enough with the demographic based ads. I get it, I’m old; but I’m not ready to buy a cemetery plot and my prostate works just fine, thank you very much. And I am not voting for Sara Palin or “liking” Rush Limbaugh, so stop asking. Where on my profile does it say “stupid”?

Still, they say everything is going over to Facebook. For example, supposedly no one emails anymore. Gee, somebody forgot to tell that to all the Nigerians trying to con me out of my money.

Oh, speaking of money, those snot nosed twerps have made a ton of it from this. I have news for them though: if they skateboard on my sidewalk their moola won’t save them from a whup-ass.

315 Elephants

2010-10-06T06:12:00.000-07:00

As I was logging into my account at the gym the other day, a note appeared on the screen informing me that since I had been using the weight machines, I had lifted 2.5 million pounds, or the equivalent of 315 elephants.

I was thrilled and stunned. I quickly found Daryl, the trainer, and asked if this was based on Asian or African elephants. He gave me a look I am sure he reserves for one of his third grade students who has just asked if dinosaurs had boobs.

I, naturally, wondered what 2.5 million pounds would equal in chipmunks. As soon as I got home I Googled and found out that it would come to 20 million of the cuddly creatures. That’s the entire populations of Los Angeles and New York if those populations happened to be chipmunks!! And probably half the amount our cat dispatched in our front yard during her life time. Not that I would know this from personal experience but it is also equal to the weight of hoisting 20,000 Snuggie clad barmaids.

I know the trainers were just trying to boost my morale, but I wondered why they didn’t use a machinery analogy. I also learned that, since the curb weight of a Chevy Camarro is 3,769 pounds, I had hoisted the equivalent of 663 of the sporty coupes or three fully loaded 747’s.

Incidentally, 2.5 million is also the number of pounds I have lost and regained since beginning my exercise program and an underestimate of the number of peanuts I can consume when I really get on a roll.

However, I guess they went with an imposing beast analogy because they understand it appeals to something primitive in the male gym goer’s nature. In a hunter/gatherer culture, I would now qualify for membership in the Elephant Cult giving me the right to wear an elongated gourd on my penis and to lie around in a drunken stupor with the other cult members while the women gather food to feed the clan.

Some guys would be strutting around gym going “Is that the best you have, you lop-eared lummoxes?” I, however, remain humble in my pachyderm dominance. Though I have hoisted many a one, and while I toss them about like so many Snuggie-clad barmaids, I respect the gentle giants.

Though I am your master, Descendants of Dumbo, I raise my elongated gourd to you in a timeless salute of hunter to prey.

Calling All Geniuses

2010-09-30T09:48:00.000-07:00

October 16 is National Testing Day for Mensa, the society of geniuses.

For a mere $40, you can take the test and find out whether you qualify to hang out with all the other self-important types who think they are smarter than other people.

I know this because I saw it on a banner ad at a web site I was visiting. The hook was that if you are smart enough to be here you might, therefore, be smart enough for Mensa membership. I don’t remember the site but know for sure it wasn’t bigboobs.com or Ron Paul for President.

I have often thought that I might be a genius. I know what you are thinking: “If you are a genius, you wouldn’t be writing this crap.” Touché, but I am not basing my suspicion on my paltry life achievements, but rather on the size of my cranium.

Headwise, I am a XXL in a one size fits most world. I just put a tape measure around my noggin, and that puppy measures 25” inches around. (It’s a rainy day and there’s not much else to do, so give it a try yourself.) This is an approximation because I couldn’t find the cloth tape, so had to use my metal carpenters tape. That equals two linear feet of noodle! That must count for something. I would compute the cubic volume, but I am not smart enough to do that.

Scientists tell us, however, that there is no correlation between head size and intelligence. Really. Go ahead and name one pin-headed genius. I think they call that an oxymoron.

Being the callow, superficial type, I checked the benefits of Mensa membership and the kinds of goodies you can buy. Basically, you get to hang out with other smarty pants and purchase lots of stuff that proclaims your braininess: tee shirts, tote bags, bumper stickers and the like.

You would think that, instead of putting on a $12.95 tee shirt, winning the Nobel Prize would be a better way to declare your genius.

I wanted to see if they had hats; convinced that Mensa, of all people, would offer a XXL lid. No hats. I think they are missing the boat. I’m sure that a cap with a light bulb on top that went off whenever the wearer had a Big Idea would be a winner for them.

Just picture hundreds of Mensians (?) seated in a darkened auditorium listening to a lecture on the beauty of Euclidian geometry with their headlights twinkling like camera flashes at a Bon Jovi concert…..a stirring sight indeed!

Still, I decided against taking the test. While not unexpected, I would still be disappointed to learn I am not a genius. Also, you have to be a joiner to join.

Some people are joiners and others are the sorts who sit around measuring their heads on a rainy day.

Chicken Coup

2010-09-24T05:37:00.000-07:00

A chicken controversy has hatched in Califon.

Some residents have taken to keeping chickens in their yards, and their neighbors are getting their feathers ruffled about it.

It seems that one family blew the whistle on their chicken keeping neighbors. Both parties and their supporters showed up at a town council meeting to make their cases. The anti-poultry crowd pointed out that the borough has an ordinance against keeping farm animals on town-size lots.

The pro-poultry group countered that the chickens were pets, not farm animals, and held that the ordinance should be changed, since many people in town keep chickens. The difference between a farm animal and a pet is that one you get to kill and eat, and the other you get to spend a fortune on at the vet to keep alive.

We had a rabbit once, which I guess counts as a pet farm animal. I hated the damn thing. All it did was eat and shit, which, come to think of it, is pretty much the story of me since retirement.

The mayor, upon advice from the borough attorney, had to recuse himself from the discussion because, lo and behold, he also keeps chickens. The council passed the matter along to the Planning Board to consider changing the ordinance.

At the Planning Board meeting the pro-poultry group presented a petition signed by 83 residents in favor of revising the ordinances to permit chickens. One proponent said that backyard egg farming was “sweeping the nation.” Kathie and I missed this memo. We are still working on the one that said eggs are bad for you.

They came armed with facts, such as the sound of chickens does not travel beyond ten feet, and backyard chicken keeping doesn’t affect property values. One supporter quoted a study, probably funded by the Economic Recovery Act, that found that five chickens generate less waste in a day than one medium sized dog. Our rabbit, on the other hand, could shit like a damned St. Bernard.

Another pro-position is that chicken keeping is a “great way to teach children to grow something and get something back from it.” I think a tomato plant would accomplish the same thing, but agree that it puts the young ones closer to the food chain: “Hey kids,chicken for dinner! Go throttle Cluckie!”

I like chickens and do think they teach valuable life lessons like don’t put all your eggs in one basket. If the boys at Lehman Brothers had learned that one, my IRA wouldn’t look like a plucked hen.

The anti-position is pretty much the old slippery slope argument: If you allow chickens, what next? …oxen? Another concern is that if people are allowed to break the farm animal ordinance and are then rewarded by having the ordinance changed, that would set a precedent and encourage residents to break any borough law they disliked, something Califon citizens have been happily doing for over 100 years.

According to the antis, chickens also attract predators. I know this is true because a friend of mine once saw a German porno film of a man having non-consensual sex with a chicken.

All hands, however, agree that the number of chickens should be limited and that roosters should not be permitted.

If the chickens get too numerous they can always hold an event like the one we had some years back. The mayor at the time decided there were too many ducks on the river and scheduled a Duck Round-Up; for one day anyone who wanted a duck could come and get one. The actual event proved disturbing to some residents as many of the participants seemed to be Chinese restaurant owners.

The chairman of the Planning Board said that he would have a few chicken experts on hand for the next meeting. In order to qualify, I have been doing some boning up on the topic and have come up with some very relevant chicken facts.

In a group of chickens with no rooster, female members will assume the role and even start crowing. Sort of like “The View.”

It also seems that chickens are not as harmless as we thought in that they are the closest living relative to a tyrannosaurus rex. It would be just like some wise-acre in Califon to reverse engineer a chicken to get a dinosaur. Just watch your property values tank when old T-rex goes pecking at a school bus for his lunch.

I plan to start a petition to allow pigs. I always wanted to have a pig farm. What the hell, I already have the wardrobe.

Slum Dog on My Counter

2010-09-09T12:34:00.000-07:00

“Slum Dog Millionaire” has been sitting on our kitchen counter for three months.

It was next up on our NetFlix queue, and duly arrived after we sent back our last viewed flick, “The Pink Panther, II.” I think we watched that one, but I can’t say for sure since I have no recollection of anything that happened in the film. The only thing I recall for certain is that I was disappointed to see that Peter Sellers was not in it.

Many of our NetFlix selections go unviewed because we have lost interest in them by the time they arrive, or we can’t recall why we selected them in the first place, or which of us was the guilty party. “Did you request ‘Charlie Chan in Honolulu’?” Kathie asked with the same expression she wears when I have whipped up something unsavory in the kitchen. I take ownership of that one because I thought it would be an interesting period piece with pre-war glimpses of old Oahu. Of course, it never occurred to me that such a low budget flick would be filmed on some dismal sound stage on the outskirts of LA.

However, I take no responsibility for ordering up “Hobson’s Choice” a 1940s British comedy starring Charles Laughton about an alcoholic shoe store owner and his family. Some fun, huh?

We watched both of those, but Slum Dog lingers. I think it is because we have achieved some kind of cosmic balance: we don’t want to see the movie badly enough to actually put it in the DVD; and we don’t NOT want to see it enough to actually send it back.

Appropriately, the envelope is starting to look a little slummish as it lies on the counter gathering a patina of spaghetti sauce and coffee. At $9 per month, “Slum Dog” has cost us 27 bucks to not watch. I have begun referring to it as my “rent-a-coaster.”

It isn’t an incentive either that the next movie in our queue is “Land of the Lost” starring Will Ferrell which carries a hefty one and a half star rating. This was also my pick. I don’t know what I was thinking but the combination of Will Ferrell and dinosaurs seemed like a good idea at the time.

With like 60,000 movies to choose from why would two relatively intelligent people wind up with “Charlie Chan in Honolulu”, “Land of the Lost” and “Moon Over Miami”? That’s a good question.

I May Be a Neanderthal

2010-09-03T12:29:00.000-07:00

At lunch today, I was watching a History Channel show about Neanderthal man. The big debate in archaeology is whether modern humans wiped them out or assimilated them. Based on our track record since, I would go with the wipe out theory.

Still, it could be that some of us are descendants of these obsolete humans.

Here are ten reasons why I think I might have Neanderthals in my family tree:

. According to the show, Neanderthals did not add a single new tool to their kit in their two hundred thousand years of existence. My tool box still has the same hammer my Dad gave me when I got married forty years ago. And somewhere under my bed lurks my KayPro computer from the 1980’s.

. Given a modern haircut and modern clothes, they could blend right into any city in the United States. Hey, given a modern haircut and modern clothes, so could I!

. We don’t really know if they were religious or not. I don’t really know if I’m religious or not.

. They had heavy sloping brows, long powerful arms, and short legs. That’s my uncle Frank!

. They couldn’t spell Neanderthal. Neither can I, but I have spell checker.

. They lived and traveled in very small family groups. Any wedding we go to, the other side outnumbers ours 3 to 1.

. They ate no vegetables and had no agriculture. I’d rather eat raw mastodon gizzards than broccoli. Talk about no agriculture, I bought one of those upside down tomato growing thingees this year and produced one tomato the size of a gonad.

. They had horrible manners, were dirty and brutish, and practiced cannibalism. My wife has been telling the kids for years they get their bad traits from my side of the family.

. We think they had language, but we have not idea what they were talking about. That’s me trying to explain the concept of parallel universes!

. They had no concept of math. What number are we on?

. They were overwhelmed by the modern world. Ditto!

An Irritable Old Man's Theory of Humanity

2010-08-29T09:26:00.000-07:00

(The author disclaims all responsibility for the crack-pot opinions expressed below)

With all of the intolerance on display surrounding the issues of the downtown New York Islamic Center and illegal immigration, I decided it was time for an irritable old man to weigh in.

After working and living for 65 years in the most diverse city on the planet, I have come to a conclusion about the human species: all people regardless of race, religion, nationality, gender, etc. are the same. Wait, it is not all good news.

Ninety percent of them are honest, hard working folks making their way in the world and trying to do the right thing. However, ten per cent of them are no-good-sons-of -bitches. The kind of people who would cut across your lawn to save a few steps on the sidewalk. Sons of bitches!! In a village of 50 people this is no big deal, i.e. five SOBs. Everyone knows who they are and acts accordingly (“Uh,Oh, here comes Yahudi. Lock up the chickens!)

In a planet of 6 billion people, however, this ratio yields 600 million of them. No wonder we are in trouble. This is more than the entire global population in the 18th century, and more than enough to populate every terrorist cell, law office, and executive suite in the world.

It gets worse, because you now have to add in the Village Idiot (VI) Factor. My theory posits that another 10 per cent of humanity is too stupid to get out of its own way. Once again, in a small village this is a manageable problem. (“Let’s not make Golub the town sanitation officer again. The last time, he emptied the commodes down the well.”)

But it is all about the numbers and over a 6 billion population this yields 600 million VI’s, more than enough to keep Oprah’s guest couch full, staff every DMV office in the world, and keep BP in employees for a generation.

So, VIs + SOBs = 1.2 billion people who are either stupid or nasty. And no, I don’t know why they all seem to be on the Long Island Expressway at the same time.

I know what you are thinking: Jerry, the number is probably a lot less because of those people who are both stupid and nasty. Well, excuse me, but to calculate that I would have to come up with some sort of like algebra formula and I flunked that in freshman year. On a spectrum, as they say in education, I am more toward the VI end than the SOB.

Still, I agree with the premise that there are large numbers of people who are both stupid and nasty.

That’s why they get such big turnouts at Tea Party rallies.

International Food Festival

2010-04-26T17:01:00.000-07:00

This past Saturday was Elisabeth’s bridal shower.

As father of the bride, I was told, one of my duties was to entertain the male guests who were not invited to the shower. The party, in addition to me, would consist of Alex, the groom, his brother, Anthony, and Charlie, husband of the shower hostess.

There were two problems with this mission: we live in the Land of Nothing to Do; and my idea of a good time is to pull my aluminum lawn chair curbside and wave at passing motorists.

I took to the local papers and internet in search of anything other than a Gentleman’s Club that would occupy four males of disparate ages for several hours. Bingo! I saw in the paper that the nearby town of Washington, NJ was having an “international food festival.” Kathie was skeptical. “Washington?”, she said. “It has to be lame.” I had to admit that locally Washington is known more as a tattoo destination, than a hub of fine dining.

She advised Alex and Anthony who had visions of sampling exotic cuisines and maybe even some beers to “put the whole Feast of San Gennaro thing out of your head” and to think more of a hot dog vendor and few kids selling Girl Scout cookies.

With high hopes and appetites, we headed for Washington. The first hint that things might not be too festive food-wise after all was the total lack of drool inducing aromas wafting toward us as we approached the blocks on the main street that had been designated for the event.

We walked the first block and did not encounter a morsel of any description amid the vendors of junk jewelry and cheap craft items. Suddenly, I was approached by an enormous young woman on roller skates with purple hair and wearing a tutu that made her look like one of the dancing hippos in Fantasia. “Can I interest you in roller derby?”, she inquired. I feared that if I said yes, she would hip check me through the antique store window. "I can't skate," I replied and kept moving.

Things started to look up when we passed a little shop that was having a “Pierogi tasting.” We decided not to waste precious stomach space on this, but to hold out for better fixings which were sure to come.

On the next block, we came to a booth manned by an angry looking old gent that was selling militia apparel (“Maybe this is where the Tea Partiers gear up,” I suggested.), several tattoo artists and some young women selling cats. I feared for the poor kitties, since it seemed that most of our fellow gourmets had pit bulls in tow who would definitely consider a plump Persian international food.

Still no food vendors. I began to think that Kathie was overly optimistic about that hot dog wagon.

Soon we were done. Aside from the Pierogi place, there was not one thing to eat at the “international food festival.” What were the organizers thinking? “ I thought I saw a pizza place a few blocks back. Does that count?”, Alex inquired. “I suppose so,” I said. “There was also a Subway back there and I guess you could always get Swiss cheese on your Italian sub.” “Maybe it was a typo and they meant to say ‘international foodless festival’”, Anthony ventured.

Disappointed and starving we went to the Brew Pub on the way home which was as advertised.

On Assignment

2010-04-16T14:16:00.000-07:00

A week or so ago, I responded to a listing on Mediabistro.com seeking free-lance writers.

I was required to submit a writing sample which, according to the listing, would be reviewed by the editors. I would be contacted if I was accepted. Despite the fact that I submitted one of these essays, I was hired.

I was sent to a web site where I was required to provide bio info, etc., and instructed that I should browse through the thousands of assignments available, claim the ones in which I was interested, begin writing and commence raking in the bucks.

The client list on the site included some well-known and heavily trafficked web sites. The downside is my new employer pays a whopping $7.50-$15 per article. Undeterred by this paltry pay, I decided the best strategy was to plow through the assignment list and select topics that I could write about without wasting a lot of not-so-precious time on research.

I have now struggled through 38 pages of assignments and learned that, despite being a resident alien on this planet for 65 years, I know nothing about anything.

I didn’t know where to begin with “What is a Flaring Block for Through Hall Transducers?”

The only thing I could contribute to “How to Open a Snowball Business” was to suggest refrigerated delivery trucks.

I spent and hour with scissors and paper trying to figure out “How to make a 3D Paper Reindeer” only to come a cropper on the goddamned antlers every time.

If I could write a learned essay on “How to Get Rich in the Stock Market”, would I really need the $7.50?

I will venture a guess on “What is a Crotch Cricket”: A rare sex disorder that causes your sex organ to chirp when you rub your legs together?

Do I really want to go down in history as the author of “The History of the Wrestling Mat?

It’s a sobering thought that much of the “content” that we all depend on when we Google some important question in our lives is written by desperate, under-paid writers trying to research and crank out three articles an hour so they can earn the same hourly wage as plumber’s assistant.

Oh, boy. At last one I can handle: “How do Bread Boards Work?”

The Screw

2010-03-31T17:51:00.001-07:00

There it sat somewhat to the left of center on the wooden living room floor: one 2 ½ inch sheet rock screw standing straight up on its head. I didn’t put it there or drop it there.

I spotted it from the dining room where I was mixing plaster in a bucket on the floor standing all by itself at attention. It got mine.

The site is an early nineteenth century farmhouse owned by the borough of Califon. Kathie is chairman of the committee charged with raising funds and restoring the property as a town museum. As is true of our marriage, she is management and I am labor. I go down there for an hour or two at a time when I get the chance and have been working to get the place in shape. Currently I am repairing the plaster in the old kitchen. At this point I am the only one who goes in there on a regular basis.

I purchased the screws and a piece of sheet rock with the idea that I could use them to span some of the larger holes in the wall before re-plastering them.

I went into the living room and looked at the screw. There were no other fasteners in the vicinity and the box sat on the window sill six feet away exactly where I had placed it. It is entirely likely that I dropped it there since I am whatever the opposite of anal is in my work habits.

Still, I did not understand how a screw with a very narrow head and a long body could randomly drop in this position. As an experiment, I dropped a few handfuls on the floor and, not surprisingly, they landed on their sides. Some fasteners, like roofing nails, with heads that are wide in relation to the length of their shaft will often land in this position. Take this as a fact from someone who gave himself two flat tires and a punctured foot while re-roofing the garage.

I am not a believer in ghosts, but I am a fan of the Ghost Hunters show on SyFi. I don’t know why, perhaps it's an older person’s longing for any proof of life after this one. They would have a field day with this evidence.

There are reports that this house is haunted. According to the story, an elderly woman who lived in it had a son who was a “little bit off” or disabled, depending on the source. One Thanksgiving the woman went to dinner at a friend’s and left the middle age son a plate of turkey and fixings. Supposedly, he choked to death while trying to eat the goodies in bed.

Confronted with the “evidence” of the screw, the Ghost Hunters would have read the spook the riot act for placing an object in a position where it could do someone some harm. I didn’t have the heart for that. After all, the poor guy choked to death on a turkey bone by himself on Thanksgiving Day. He has a right to be pissed off.

Well, I told myself, as unlikely as it is that a screw could land in this position by itself, it is still more likely than the notion that someone from the next dimension placed it there in my path.

I go back to work, but not without the occasional look over my shoulder.

100

2010-03-09T14:54:00.000-08:00

Well, dear reader, we made it.

This is our 100th posting.

When we started on this journey we call Wry Bother in March of 2008 with high hopes and boundless naiveté, I had a job and the United States had an economy.

Who knew? I am sorry I didn’t give you a heads up on the economy, but what do you expect from someone who doesn’t have a job?

Think of all you HAVE learned from these columns. (Pause) Okay, think of something else.

In my defense, I never promised you knowledge, information or any of that content stuff. And many of you responded by going elsewhere.

Not all of you, however. According to my little counter gizmo at the bottom of this page, over 4,000 of you have visited here since we began. Of course, 3,000 of you were me checking to see if you had stopped by.

I have accumulated one Follower. I don’t know if you can refer to one Follower as an accumulation, but thank you anyway Mary Lois for bravely putting your face on this disreputable undertaking.

I could ask my wife and children why they have not become my Followers, but I think I learned the answer to that question many years ago.

Oh, I had high expectations of being the next David Sedaris and having my own show on National Public Radio. But I would have run out of things to say very quickly and then there would have been that whole silence thing that upsets the radio execs so much. The fact is I never have had anything to say and Wry Bother has been the perfect vehicle to say it.

Where else could you read a whole column about this being the 100th column?

Anyway, I have run out of nothing to say on this subject and will go and lift a frothy glass to you brave souls who have made the journey along with me.

I hope you have had a few laughs at least.

To be continued.

More Snowy Thoughts

2010-02-25T08:58:00.000-08:00

Here we go again: Snowmageddon, Deux.

Luckily, most of us survived the first one two weeks ago, but we are not likely to make it this time. Here we are supposed to get twenty inches with gale force winds. Run for your lives.

Housebound once again, I am more likely to die of boredom. Kathie is home today and cleaning closets and making to-do lists, so eventually I will be dragged from my hiding place and put to work.

If you are getting the impression that the only time I write to this page is when I am bored and have nothing else to do, you may be right.

So for now, in an effort to look busy and dodge hanging pictures in the living room, I am scanning the news on my AOL browser. You learn things here that you never see in the New York Times. At least you could learn them if you could just click on the headlines before they disappear. I, of course, cannot, so what information I can mine comes from the teasers. Here is a sampling

. TIGER WOODS IS A “SEX ADDICT.” Really? If I knew this was an option, I never would have settled for becoming an alcoholic.

. THERE ARE SUPRISING NEW WAYS TO USE LIP BALM ON YOUR FLOORS. Chapped linoleum maybe?

. THREE THINGS YOU CAN DO FOR FLAKY LIPS. I can only think of two: don’t make strange remarks and don’t use the tube of lip balm your spouse cleaned the bathroom with. I’m stumped for a third.

. Speaking of stumps: WOMAN CAN’T STAND HER SHORT LEGS. The up side: she can apply lip balm to her floor without bending down.

. WOMAN ADMITS HER JOWLS BUG HER.

. WOMAN SACRIFICES SWEETS FOR LENT. What is it about you women? It’s always about YOU. My legs are so short my jowls drag on the ground, but I’m not whining to AOL about it.

. NEWLY DISCOVERED DINOSAUR SWALLOWED FOOD WHOLE. I gave up swallowing my food whole for lent.

. JOHN MAYER RESUSCITATES REP WITH HELP FROM TWEEN. Huh? Someone named Mayer either saved his congressman with help from a twelve year old, or his under-age sweetheart dropped the statutory rape charge.

Snowy Thoughts

2010-02-10T11:56:00.001-08:00

It is really snowing hard now. According to Weather Channel, and other hysterical news outlets, we are all about to die. Snowmaggedon is what they are calling it.

Washington, DC, is buried in the white stuff and the government has come to a virtual halt. I wonder at what point we average angry voters will notice that the government has come to a grinding halt? I thought the Party of No had accomplished that mission a long time ago.

Around here they are calling for 3 inches to a foot. That’s a lot of wiggle room. In the guy world that is the difference between stuffing your crotch with a sock and being a highly paid porn star.

Here’s a bulletin: they are just trying to scare us and keep us glued to our TV sets. I am not afraid of snow. I commuted through some doozies in my 35 years going into New York and got stranded more than once. Never as disastrously as a friend who was stuck on a bus in the Lincoln Tunnel with a gospel group that sang for 9 hours straight. He had a Castro Convertible put in his office the very next day.

It’s the same thing with Sarah Palin. She is all over the TV (not that I see her anymore since I blocked her with my parental controls) and the media is buzzing about the millions she is getting from Fox News to mount a serious presidential bid in 2012.

Now they have really succeeded in scaring me. Freezing to death in a snow drift sounds like a refreshing treat compared with being slowly rogued to death for 8 years. The plus side is maybe my future autobiographical memoir, “Goin’ ExPat”, will finally bump her's off the best seller list.

I just looked out the window and, if anything, it is snowing harder. Kathie’s school closed today so I know she is hiding somewhere here in the house. She knows that sooner or later I will find her and begin whining about how we wouldn’t have to put up with this if we moved to Florida. She doesn’t like Florida, and I do.

As I put on my hat, coat and gloves and shoulder my snow shovel on my way to reconnect us with civilization, I tip my tam to those elderly shovelers who gave their lives to keep their sidewalks safe for meter maids, defecating dogs, and skateboarders.

If I make it back alive, I will have a toddy. If I don’t, what the hell, at least I will never have to sit through President Palin’s State of the Union Address.

The Soiled Sneaker

2010-01-28T14:46:00.001-08:00

It rained in torrents on Monday, my regular gym day.

Usually, I wear my sneakers and change into my shorts and tee shirt when I get there. The YMCA is a 15 minute drive from my house.

I decided, in a rare flash of consideration for my fellow gymnasts, to pack my sneakers in a plastic bag because the shoes I was wearing were bound to get soaked and muddy up the Nautilus machines. Kathie was stunned to hear this, since my usual modus operandi is to come into the house from the rain and head right for the living room carpet. It always annoys me that my neighbor requires that we remove our shoes before entering her house. Where does she think she lives? Tokyo?

However, as the old cliché goes, no good deed goes unpunished. When I arrived at the locker room, I removed my shoes and took my sneakers from the bag. To my dismay, I discovered a generous helping of dog poop ground into the sole of my left sneaker. Now I was faced with a perplexing quandary: wet shoes or poopy shoes.

The trainer already had his eye on me from a previous encounter. We nautili are required to spray down each machine we have completed with disinfectant and finish with a wipe with a paper towel. I approach this in the same manner as washing my car: a good soaking always gets the job done. I gather he had some complaints from some gym prima donnas who took umbrage at sitting in a puddle and completing their work out with soggy bums. He felt compelled to take me by the ear and demonstrate proper clean-up technique.

He completed the demonstration by saying that he thought it a trifle OCD-ish to spray down the computer screens. Guys tap on those screens with their stinky fingers (yuck!) I was about to inform him but decided that, since he was one bulked up dude, I would let it slide.

I opted to have a go at cleaning up the poop. Anyone who has ever gotten dog dropping ground into the grooves of their sneakers knows how daunting a task it is to remove it. At home my usual technique is to take the sneakers out to the driveway, wedge them soles outward against the garage door, and blast away with my power washer. Voila, like new. (Those of you who have arrived at this blog by googling “cleaning dog poop from sneakers” have hit pay dirt (as it were) because this really works.)

The next best thing is to give them a hearty scrub with a tooth brush. I briefly thought of rifling through the unlocked lockers in search of same, but instead went to work with water and paper towel. I turned the tap on as high as it would go and scrubbed away with the towels. I kept one eye on the door for the trainer because the sight of me washing the soles of my sneakers would only confirm his OCD diagnosis.

At last I was relatively confident that the shoe was clean enough not to soil the machines. To be on the safe side, I decided to do all of my exercises on my heels with toes and insole pointed in the air.

“That’s NOT how I showed you how to do it,” the trainer harshly observed.
No good deed goes unpunished.

Old People Go Shopping

2010-01-25T15:14:00.000-08:00

I turned 65 on January 6.

I know. It’s taken me this long to face up to it.

I went grocery shopping at our local Shop Rite recently, not on my usual day, and found the store awash with other old people. I started to cheer up since most of them seemed to be older and further gone than I. Maybe it was shopping day at the managed care facility.

I stood there and watched them drift aimlessly about the aisles like those colorful fish on the early screen savers clearly having forgotten what they were looking for or why they were there. It takes a little doing to navigate the store around old people. They park there carts in the middle of the aisle and wander off; they walk out from aisles into the main corridors without so much as a glance; they check every potato.

The PA system fairly crackles with updates on their doings: “Someone has left a pair of glasses in aisle six”; “clean-up in the dairy aisle.”

I pull into a check out lane with just one very elderly couple ahead of me. The clerk on duty is a pro and clearly passed the Old Person Management course. “Dear, are you sure you want seven loaves of pound cake,” she asks the old woman.

Just then an announcement comes over the PA: “Someone has taken the wrong cart. If you have a chocolate cake, and didn’t intend to buy a chocolate cake, you have the wrong cart.” I look down the row of shoppers waiting behind me and all are checking for the incriminating chocolate cake. I don’t look in my cart. I have decided to face it out even if I am the offending cake purloiner: “Yes, I meant to buy the chocolate cake. And yes, I MEANT to buy 5 bottles of stool softener.”

The clerk finishes up the pair ahead of me and in one fluid motion snatches the credit card from the old gent’s hand, spins the input screen around to face her, swipes his card, and hands it back to him. A real pro.

As she starts checking me out, she notices a bag left by the aged duo and hollers toward them as they lumber through the doors. There is no response. I snatch the bag and with a relative burst of speed race toward the glacially moving couple and deposit the bag in their cart. They don’t seem to notice and continue on their way. When I return to the check out the clerk says: “You’re probably the only person in the store right now who could have made that move.” I am feeling younger by the minute. I compliment her on her deft credit card snatch and swipe. “NEVER let them swipe their own cards,” she replies.

I pass the last check out station as I leave. Suddenly, bells start sounding and a light over the station starts blinking frantically. An old chap stands there with his credit card in his hand and with a stunned expression on his face. “Now what do I do?,” he asks. A rookie clerk, I assume.

I Broke My

2010-01-14T14:46:00.000-08:00

The letter “ " on my computer just stopped working.

I don’t know why. It could be some English Muffin or Swiss cheese got in there. Seems like I’ll need to get in touch with the geek group. It’ll be over $150 to blow out some crumbs, I’m sure.

There goes the piece I’m editing on the epic outfielder Hnk Ron titled “Hnk Ron: Plyer's Plyer.” Also, sunk is the one I’m doing on NY’s Rodriguez cold shouldering of the big time rock singer: “Rigid Rod Won’t Bend on Mdonn.” Nd who will know what my piece “Scndl Stlks Brrck Obm” is even bout?

There goes my expose of the huge uto club and the help group for drinkers.

Seems like only yesterdy tht I hd n endless supply of them. Oh, those were the dys! Just tp on the key issued stedy strem of the little buggers. Mybe tht’s wht hppned. Mybe I just rn out.

Someone told me Microsoft only issues you so mny " " ‘s nd then you hve to buy more, like toner crtridges.

You, der reder, should cherish your little friends while you’ve got them. Who mong us hsn’t portryed frustrtion or delight with long string of " " ‘s, n "h", nd n exclmtion point? Like in not hving n " " is enough to mke you go h!

Still, writing perfectly solid English is possible without the previously mentioned letter. There I just did it. I just did it once more.

I know wht you’re thinking: “He hs lwys been short of content, now he is short of letters.” To which I say, H!,H!,H! Isn’t it better I should run out of " " ‘s thn the folks writing up the helth cre legisltion? Though it would shorten it by hundreds of pges.

Elisbeth, my dughter, is big on texting, so she doesn’t use ll her letters nywy. Perhps she will spot me some " " 's until pydy. She thinks I might get new followers mong the tweeters.

I like the way this pge is looking, though. There is very Christmsy feel to it in Word with ll the red nd green spelling and grmmr flgs decorting the pge. h!, I miss Christms.

Oh, joy! My “a” just came back! Perhaps I smashed that offending crumb. Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!!

Jerry and Me

2010-01-07T09:53:00.000-08:00

A friend of mind, purportedly a reader of this column, says he likes it because it reminds him of the Seinfeld show: it isn't about anything.

It has been a point of pride with me that this blog is content free, so I decided to take his comment to heart, and to its logical conclusion, by simply not writing anything about anything. This explains my absence from these pages over the past few weeks.

However, I have been thinking Deep Thoughts and pursuing inquiries that might actually lead to substantive columns in the future.

One thought that I have been wrestling with is this: why do librarians all look like librarians? I began my investigation by visiting all the branches of our county library and, sure enough, all the librarians look like librarians.

Apparently, this is also a source of concern within the trade since an internet search turned up a web site called “You Don’t Look Like a Librarian.” This site is dedicated to "shattering librarian stereotypes" and “building new images in the internet age.” Here we are introduced to the Belly-Dancing Librarian, the Lipstick Librarian, and, God save us, the Butt-Kicking Librarian. We even sample what’s new in stylish librarian tattoos. A book by the same name is also being purveyed on the page (available at your local library, I hope).

I don’t think there is anything wrong with librarians looking like librarians. I would rather have the person handing me my copy of “How to Improve Your Sexual Performance” look like a librarian rather than a motorcycle mama or someone who is about to kick my butt.

At the bottom of the page, the author of the site and book writes about herself and concludes: “No, I don’t look like a librarian………wait, yes I do!” I rest my case.

The other thought came to me while driving around our local roads: How do people with “Hidden Drives” find their houses? I decided to pursue this by interviewing these people, but sadly I could not find them.

I think both of these topics should add to my readership by snaring in those folks googling for information about librarians and hidden drives. They can join the legion of fans googling on for the latest on George Clooney’s hair, “black poop”, and “what makes my storm door squeak.” A reader from Iraq actually arrived looking for info on Clooney’s do. I wondered if I should report this to Homeland Security as I feared he may be designing a hair bomb by piling up layers of mousse and gel and igniting his noggin on an airplane. I rejected this because I decided that if this were the case he would be seeking information on Weird Al Yankovich’s hair. (note to all CIA and FBI agents scanning this page: it is a joke.)

Anyway, I am getting off the subject and have to get back to writing nothing about anything.

Enshrined

2009-12-18T14:21:00.000-08:00

Call it an ego thing, but I have flagged the Google search engine to send me an email with a link every time my name, Gerald Andersen, appears somewhere on the internet.

This would not work if your name was John Smith as you would be inundated with emails. Oddly, there seem to be very few other Gerald Andersens kicking around out there. An actor goes by that name, and often I get references to him. Mostly what I get is mentions of me. A lot of it is older stuff from my working days at the Men’s Dress Furnishings Association and Neckwear Association of America. Why I would be suddenly notified of an article that appeared in 2006, I really can’t say, but they come in at a fairly regular rate.

Today I got one that kind of spooked me, and impressed me in a way. It was a letter to the editor that I wrote to the New York Times in 1989. The letter was published and is apparently enshrined on their web site, since the link I got from Google took me there. I wonder how it got there. I believe in 1989 the internet was still a twinkle in Al Gore’s eye. So someone at the Times must have taken the time and trouble to scan it. Do you suppose they actually scan every line of type that has ever appeared all the way back to God knows when? Why it popped up now on Google alert is also a mystery.

I prefer to believe they only preserve the best of the best. The letter was actually pretty good and was written in response to a Times article or op ed, I don’t recall which, bashing neckties. My members took “anti-tie” rhetoric seriously and expected me to respond. I would have done so anyway since I have always loved neckties. I still do.

My members loved it. For years some them displayed it framed on their office walls.
I am glad, according to an article in the Times last week, that ties are making a comeback with the younger generation. That is a good thing.

Here is my 1989 letter to the editor that is permanently enshrined in the Time archive at least until the lights go out or they run out of band width:

To the Editor:

Why does something as seemingly mundane as a necktie get loaded with so much symbolic baggage? Through the years, ties have been seen as symbols of genteel birth, social rank, coming of age, blind following of tradition and, of course, male sexuality. In the 1960's, the tie was the symbol of the Establishment (negative). In the 80's, it represents power and financial success (positive).

Efforts have even been made to link trends in the economy to neckwear fashion. Do ties really get wider when the stock market is booming?

Greg Spring now equates neckties with the big lie (''A Diploma, a Tie and a Lie,'' Op-Ed, Sept. 19). He equates them with all of the currying and toadying to which one must stoop to make one's way in the world. We, of course, see the tie as the symbol of truth, justice and the American way.

No one inflicts all of this philosophy on shoes, shirts, hats or belts. Why neckties? Because there is an air of mystery and romance to neckties. They do not cover one's nakedness or add warmth on a blustery day. They definitely are not practical, nor are they particularly modern.

They are a link to the misty past when a knight strapped on his colors before setting forth to meet the world.

They are banners that proclaim just about any range of mood, emotion, or socioeconomic message that the wearer wishes to admit, or the viewer wishes to interpret. They are a celebration of color, beauty and tradition in an otherwise drab and rootless world.

Symbolism is attached to ties, because their function is largely symbolic. However, like beauty, symbolism is in the eye of the beholder: One man's big lie is another man's great tie. GERALD ANDERSEN Executive Director Neckwear Association of America New York, Sept. 19, 1989

Makes me want to go out and buy a Christmas necktie.

Honey, I Shrunk....

2009-12-02T14:41:00.000-08:00

I am 5’9” tall, marked down from 5’11”

It’s no wonder I am always stepping on my trouser cuffs.

The 5’11” thing is a bit of an exaggeration. I was actually 5’10 ½” but always stretched it a half inch because it made me more comfortable about claiming I was “about” six feet tall.

I always wanted to make it to six feet and would hang from a bar in my bedroom doorway like a bat for hours at a time hoping to stretch out. Now, I am closer to 5’6”, the height of many an eighth grade girl, than I am to six feet.

I found this out at my physical several weeks ago. My doctor didn’t seem too concerned and attributed the shrinkage to “gravity.” This might have been going on for some time, since I don’t recall being measured at other physicals. I do recall being amazed that my son, Kristopher, seemed to continue growing well into his thirties. Obviously, I was going in the opposite direction.

It would be a lie to say that this hasn’t come as a blow to my ego. I don’t know why, since the only downside seems to be that it makes me more overweight than I already am since it knocks me into a lower category on the weight chart, as my doctor gleefully pointed out.

It’s also depressing to think that soon all those annoying short guys with short guy complexes are going to be taller than me. You know who I am talking about. I hope I don’t get a complex. I have enough problems.

I expressed my dismay to Kathie, and she was puzzled by it. Perhaps, she thinks I want to date tall women. It is just disconcerting to think that you are sinking into the ground like the wicked witch in the “Wizard of Oz”. Soon, my Yankee cap on the ground will be the only evidence of my existence.

A friend, in an effort to cheer me up, pointed out that I still have a long way to go before they ban me from the rides at Disney World.

I pointed out that a loss of 2 inches is a 3 per cent decline in my personal altitude. "Look at the bright side," he said,"your penis will look bigger." I hate optimists.

I recalled with anxiety the “The Incredible Shrinking Man,” the 1950’s thriller about a man who suffers radiation exposure and proceeds to shrink into oblivion. At one point he has to battle his own cat just to survive. Thank God our cat died.

I decided to fight back by joining the Y and hitting the gym. I seem to recall reading somewhere that resistance training is good for men of a certain age. I don’t recall if it had to do with shrinkage, or keeping joints flexible, or raising a flagging libido. What the hell, it’s all good.

Even if it doesn’t help with my elevation challenge, it may keep me from devolving into a beach ball as I shrink in one department and expand in another.

I decided to do the nautilus circuit. This is what I call it. I have no idea as to its real name. There are eighteen weight machines, each of which exercises a different muscle group. When you have completed the circuit, you have had a total workout. On the first day, Daryl, the trainer, set the machines up for me. I noted that he adjusted all of the height settings to the lower categories. I am just one or two settings away from having to wear elevator sneakers to use the equipment.

It’s enough to give one a sinking feeling.

Autumn Song

2009-11-19T13:18:00.001-08:00

The last leaves have fallen from their perches on high,
And litter the ground right up to ones thigh.
In their legions and armies they boldly stack
Small children and dogs have to turn back.
As he thinks of his wife it gives him the lumps
She can't go to work with leaves on her pumps!

He rattles the heavens with a mighty cry.
“If you weren’t already dead, now you would die!”
He straps on his vacuum, the dreaded El Toro.
(Which he had to buy since he couldn’t borrow.)
He falls upon them from hillock and gulch
And grinds the quivering foe to a powdery mulch.

Like the heroes of old he absorbs all his licks,
Leaf dust up the nose and bites from the ticks.
Still he lays about him like a ninja on narcotics.
He doesn’t care, he’s on antibiotics.
For weeks and weeks the grim battle roils
On and on the suburban Hercules toils.
At missing his football and baseball, he curses.
He is caught in an epic with too many verses.
As the Aeolian blast delivers the neighbors pile,
“I’ll bet they’ll miss their cat,” he says with a smile.

The bags of the fallen line the drive.
Oak, maple, cherry, none made it alive.
He shoulders El Toro and surveys the field.
He is glad he fought on and never did yield.
His chest swells with pride like mighty El Cid
Then his wife whispers: “Next year, hire a kid.”

Watson, Come Here. I Need You

2009-11-10T17:12:00.000-08:00

Our downstairs phone broke.

It hung on the kitchen wall for about five years delivering faithful, reliable service: You spoke into it and you could hear another person speaking back. Mission accomplished.

Then its number two broke. We could still call a lot of friends and family, but only those without a two in their phone number. We could, of course, just drop any two bearing individuals from our social network, but this seemed harsh.

As usual, since I am home, the task fell to me to find a replacement. Kathie’s only criterion was that it had to be a wall phone and hence not take up precious counter space. Buying a phone used to be easy. In fact, you often didn’t have to buy one. A subscription to Sports Illustrated netted you a football shaped phone; an example of which was in my son’s bedroom for years.

When you got your new phone, you plugged the jack into the wall and you were in business.

Not so today. I was greeted at Best Buy with an enormous array of phones. Oddly, most of the true wall units are still corded and you can still attach a 20 foot cord to them and multi-task around the kitchen, as Kathie did twenty years ago, gleefully garroting spouse and children while dicing the carrots.

I decided not to go this retro. The helpful young man who waited on me suggested a model that did what I wanted: mounted on the wall, was cordless, had an extra hand-set, and an answering machine. The best news was that it was under fifty bucks.

As soon as I got home, I started the installation. In no time, it was hanging on the wall ready to go. It looked a little odd since it is not a true wall phone but a desk top model fitted with a wall bracket. It appeared to be emerging from the wall like something out of a Dali painting as it sat there without any visible means of support.

It also didn’t work. A read-out on the hand set said “Connecting……..” Of course, if it had said “this phone doesn’t work and never will”, I would have known right away that it had to go. But no, all those animated little dots implied that important electronic stuff was happening and soon all of the necessary handshakes, protocols, etc. would be completed and communication with the outside world restored.

Three hours later, of course, the same message and busy little dots were still there.
I went to the manual and, sure enough, there was a description of what to do if you got a persistent “connecting” message. I performed the steps as outlined in the book by disconnecting and unplugging the phone, disconnecting the batteries and starting over.
No luck.

The instructions then threw in the towel and confessed that if this procedure failed, the phone is probably being interfered with by some other electronic devise like a wireless router, TV, or microwave.

Well, this would be the perfect phone if you were a survivalist living in the great north woods who decides it would be nice to check in with mom once in awhile, but in a modern household like ours where the air crackles with every brain damaging wave known to science this phone is not going to hack it.

Although, you could use it like a canary in a coal mine: "Mary, the phone just died we must leave at once before our heads explode."

So back to Best Buy I went where another bright young man discovered that the returned phone was not compatible with my digital phone service. He sold me one that worked with my service and soon all our two bearing relations were back on the A list.

No wonder Sports Illustrated stopped giving out football phones.

A Trip to New England

2009-11-02T14:30:00.000-08:00

Kathie and I just got back from a quick trip to New England to attend a folk art show and have a visit with the kids.

I have been pleading for this because it felt like I haven’t been out of the house since July.

We left on Saturday morning and got back on Sunday evening. It was one of those trips where everything dovetailed perfectly. We called Elisabeth from the road and set up a lunch with her and her fiancé, Alex, at the Cheesecake Factory restaurant in the Natick Mall. They were coming from Boston and we were on the Mass. Pike. Not only did we get there at the same time, but they were parking in a spot two spaces over from ours when we arrived. The visit was great and the food was okay. The noteworthy thing about the Cheesecake factory is that they have an 18 page menu. How they turn any tables is a mystery since it took me a half hour to get to the end. I suspect most people are like me and order something from the last page, since by then they have forgotten the tasty morsels they spied on pages 5 and 12.

We got back on the road and headed north for Marlboro, Mass., the site of the craft fair. We checked into our hotel and headed for the show. There were lots of wood carvers there and I soon developed an inferiority complex. While most seemed to be more technically adept than me, they seemed to devote most of their creativity to carving images of Santa and Uncle Sam.

The highlight of the show was the presence of Will Moses, noted folk painter and grandson of the even more famous Grandma Moses. Kathie and I are fans of his work and actually own several lithographs. He was sitting alone at a table waiting to sign copies of his books and calendars. After a brief conversation with him, I understood why he was alone. He brings new meaning to the term taciturn New Englander. I asked what he remembered about his grandmother hoping to gain some insight into the life and work of this beloved American icon. “She was old,” he replied after a few moments consideration.

After the show we headed to Andover and spent a delightful evening trick or treating with our grandson, Owen, and Kris and Jen.

We had a comfortable night in our hotel room and in the morning decided to avail ourselves of the complementary breakfast. Here I had another in my long series of epic struggles with technology. As I perused the buffet I decided to have a piece of toast. The toaster was one of those commercial conveyor types where you put your bread in the top and it comes out the bottom all nice and toasty. I did this and got a piece of barely warm bread for my troubles. I tried again with the same result. Frustrated, I found the temperature control and turned it all the way up. My piece disappeared into the toaster and slowly made its way through the inner workings. After what only seemed a few seconds into its journey smoke started to belch from the machine. Of course I broke into a sweat as there was no way I could stop it or retrieve the toast.

After what seemed like hours, and just as management was arriving on the scene, the charred remains of my toast plopped onto the plate. “I like it well done,” I commented with all the cool I could muster to the panicked looking kitchen staff surrounding the smoking machine.

When I got back to our table, Kathie said: “Where is all the smoke coming from?”
“I just set fire to the buffet area,” I replied.
“Oh. I’m not surprised,” she said without looking up from her plate.
“You’re not going to eat that?”, she said as she gazed at the steaming slab of pure carbon on my plate.
“No. I just didn’t want to leave it for evidence.”

We checked out and headed down Route 28 on the way to Andover for another visit with Owen. Two fire trucks with sirens wailing passed in the opposite direction. I stepped on the gas.

The Diet

2009-10-22T08:54:00.001-07:00

I am on a diet.

I gained 20 pounds in the five or so years before I retired, and packed on 20 more since. So I have dug a 40 pound hole I have to climb out of.
My motivation is simple: I want to be able to fit back into the tux I wore to Kris’ wedding 7 years ago by the time of Elisabeth’s in July.

I’ve been down this road before. In the mid-1980s I hit my all time high of 267 pounds. I fought my way to 175, regained 30 pounds over the ensuing years, lost that, and tacked on the 40 I am currently toting around.

My problem with dieting is I am either all in or all out. I can’t see a 5 pound gain and say “Oh gosh, I’d better get on that.” I have to wait until I’ve added the weight of an average sixth grader before I swing into action. Once I am on a diet, I am the very soul of virtue and usually see pretty fast results.

I love to eat. I have an eating disorder which I refer to as the Boa Constrictor Syndrome:
If I can get my mouth around it, I will eat it; If I can swallow it, I can digest it.

I prefer good food but in a pinch, any food will do.

I never get indigestion or gas (this is subject to dispute in my household). I can polish off a box of Cheezits before bed time and sleep like a baby.

I never leave food on my plate. I blame my mother for this whose mantra was “you better finish that there are children starving in Korea.” I feel that if I don’t clean my plate the population of the entire Asian sub-continent is endangered.

No doggy bags for me. Recently, we were dining in Cajun restaurant and I ordered a spicy rice and seafood dish. It came piled so high on my plate that snow was forming on the peak. As the waiter was clearing, he was stunned to see not a single, solitary grain of rice on my plate. He remarked that in all the years the dish had been on the menu, he had never seen anyone finish it. He called another waiter over to confirm this observation. “You should be embarrassed,” Kathie said. I wasn’t. I had a warm glow in my tummy as I pictured all of those contented Korean children.

I am also a serial eater. I eat constantly. This has been the source of my downfall since I am at home. If there is food around, I will find it. I’ll go for the good stuff first, and when I have gone through that I will get creative. I have no problem scooping peanut butter from the jar and eating it by the spoonful, or gnawing on a chunk of parmesan cheese from the rock-hard block.

Pretzels are a real weak spot. I can demolish a bag of pretzels in one sitting. One night I consumed three quarters of a one pound bag, and in a fit of self-loathing tossed the rest in the garbage. The next day, I was pleased to see Kathie hadn’t taken the trash out so I dug through the coffee grounds and potato peels, fetched the bag, and polished off the contents. I guess my self-loathing spell had passed.

I’ve stopped doing this sort of thing, at least for the duration of my diet. Basically, I’ve cut my portions and stopped noshing. In three weeks, I have lost 8 pounds.

To paraphrase Mark Twain’s remark about quitting smoking, dieting is easy, I’ve done it hundreds of times.

The Bear

2009-10-13T14:36:00.001-07:00

It must be Newfoundland retriever, I thought as I gazed at the large, black creature looking back at me from the middle of the trail about 50 yards away.

I raised my binoculars and all doubt was removed: it was a big black bear. It was looking at me, but not in an aggressive way. Its expression was more “uh oh what’s he up to” than “yum lunch.” He slowly wandered across the trail and into the woods. By the time I reached the spot, he was no longer in sight.

I was very excited. Bears are common enough in this part of New Jersey, but in all the years I have been walking the Colombia Trail I have never seen one. In fact, it is more common to see one raiding a dumpster than to come across one in the woods.

The reason is that bears are shy and have more sensitive noses than dogs; hence they will smell you coming a mile away and make themselves scarce. They also have very good reason to be frightened of humans.

I know this because I attended a lecture a few months ago called “Living with Bears.” At first I thought that this might be a talk aimed at helping women deal with the housekeeping habits of male family members. But no, it was about real bears.

Unlike grizzlies, black bears are not predators. Their diet consists mostly of vegetation, nuts and roots. They will, however, scavenge a carcass. The lecturer observed that if you are attacked by a grizzly, playing dead often works as a defense strategy. Not with black bears. They will just dig in.

Basically, they are not dangerous to humans. However, “habituated” bears can be a different story. These are not bears supporting a crack habit by preying on humans, but those that have lost their fear of us: the dumpster divers, in other words. Some people actually encourage this by leaving food out for them or not properly securing their trash. The lecturer told the story of a bald man in the area who used to coat his head with peanut butter and allow the bears in his yard to lick it off, proving that not all humans occupy the top rung of the evolutionary ladder.

The uh-oh look on “my” bear’s face, and the fact that he moved off, indicated he was not of that ilk, so I was not scared. However, if he had moved toward me aggressively it would have time for some serious pants pooping, because a human cannot outrun or out climb a bear.

Following my sighting, I called Kathie, texted the kids, and bounded down the trail with the hope I would run into someone to tell. Soon I encountered a lone woman walking along. “I’ve just seen a bear! I’ve just seen a bear,” I hollered while hopping up and down, like my 2 year old grandson does when he sees a tractor.

“Now, you’ve frightened me,” she said.

I don’t think she was talking about the bear.

Don't Let the Storm Door Hit You in the Ass

2009-09-30T15:13:00.000-07:00

Well, you’re packed up and ready to go. So leave already. See if I care.

Usually, I’m hanging onto your ankles begging you to stay for one more cigar on the patio, one more warm evening on the river with the katydids and crickets. Sometimes I even lay a guilt trip on you, whining that I might not even be here when you get back.

Not this time. So go already. To put it politely, as summers go, you’ve been an underachiever.

Twenty five days of rain in June? What was that all about? You ruined everyone’s tomatoes. I hope you’re happy. Oh, by the way, you stepped on autumn’s toes by spreading your blight to the pumpkins as well. I read that Smashing Pumpkins is changing their name to Squishing Pumpkins.

I schlep two enormous air conditioners from the garage to the third floor to create a little island of coolness for when you are pumping up the old heat and humidity index. Did I get to use them even once? Not. Now I have to take them out and haul them back to the garage. I’m not getting any younger, you know.

I don’t think I ever broke a sweat during your term in office. I blame you for my water retention problem. I like nothing better than digging in the yard and working up a good, stinky sweat in the heat of the August day and then settling down with an icy cold beer. You even took the fun out of beer and that takes party pooping to a new level. Oh, and thanks. Did I get out of one single back-breaking project because it was too hot to work?
I don’t think so.

Speaking of pooping on parties, I went to exactly one barbecue and got eaten alive by the horde of mosquitoes you brought with you.

Who told you people like mosquitoes? When was the last time you saw a mosquito feeder in someone’s front yard? I even got a bite on my ass this year and embarrassed Kathie by scratching it all through church. How could you be so inconsiderate of that good woman?

Well, get moving and light out for Argentina or wherever the hell you go next. Crank up Nat King Cole’s “Lazy, Hazy Days of Summer” and think about how you can be a better season next year.

Now go. I have to stack firewood on the porch.

National Cliche

2009-09-26T10:09:00.000-07:00

It is what it is.

I am sick to death of hearing this. One hears it twenty times a day, and enough already. In the first place, as Sister Helen would point out with a crisp whack of her ruler, it is bad form to end a sentence with is. Although, she would have phrased it in such a way that it didn’t end in is.

In addition, this poorly structured sentence has virtually become the national catch phrase in these trouble times, and a poor reflection indeed of our can-do spirit.

My research has also revealed that it was authored by the Bush administration in an effort to justify its unfettered free-market policies: “We can’t rein in those crazy bankers because it is what it is.”

Once it entered the national lingo, it lulled us into a passive acceptance of their contemptible policies:

Dick Cheney: “We can only keep America safe by plucking out prisoners’ fingernails and wringing their nuts.”
American People: “Oh, well. It is what it is.”

Which raises another point: frequently it is not what it is, and it never was. A more appropriate national catch phrase for the Bush years would have been “You’re a lying bastard.”

Bush: “We have to invade Iraq because Saddam caused 9/11.”
American People: “You’re a lying bastard.”

Hear the difference?

I would like to propose a new catch phrase that reflects the new administration’s crisis mentality and interventionist policies: “Holy shit. We better do something about that.”

Now I know what you are thinking: the use of the S word in the national cliché will lose the religious right. Guess what? They are already lost. Let them go shit in their hats, as my Uncle Vinnie used to say. Come to think of it, this could also be the new national catch phrase as it totally reflects the level of bi-partisanship in the land.

However, I concede the point and now am prepared to offer a compromise: “Holy Barrack. We better do something about that.” This captures the near Gandhian status the president has achieved, particularly with the younger voters.

Or at least that’s how it was as of last January when Kathie cancelled my subscription to the New York Times. Now the only news I get is from my web browser. So while I know what Gavin MacCloud has been doing since the Love Boat sank, I am a little sketchy on political developments.

Kathie: “I am canceling your Times subscription because reading it only makes you depressed.”
Jerry: “Oh well. It is what it is.”

I'm In, Not Out

2009-09-16T09:39:00.001-07:00

I’m in. I entered one of my wood carvings in the month long Phillip’s Mill Art Show and it was accepted by their panel of judges.

It is considered prestigious and they claim to reject 50-75 per cent of entries. The show runs from the end of September to the end of October.

Last year I entered a piece and was rejected. I was very snivelly about it and all who-do-those-stuffed-shirts-think-they-are? at the time. This year I am in. I feel sorry for those who are out, but get over it already.

Frankly, I don’t know why I am in. One thing you can say about my art work: it never gets any better. It pretty much stays the same. The piece I entered last year, I actually liked better than this year’s entry. Shows what I know. If I knew the first thing about art I would be doing it instead of what it is that I do.

This year’s piece is called “Herding Cats” and shows a character trying to drive a group of reluctant cats forward. I based the idea on a remark made to Kathie by an old alum at a class reunion at her school. “Trying to round us up for a picture is like trying to herd cats,” he remarked. It actually came out pretty good, although carving all those cats drove me nuts. I accidentally whacked the ears off two of them and had to fudge by giving them loppy ears. When my daughter, Elisabeth, saw the piece sitting on our dining room table her only remark was “I never saw a loppy eared cat before.” Everybody is a critic.

Still, I am in, loppy ears and all. On registration day when I placed it on the table with the other sculptures, I was not optimistic. Among the swooping marble shapes, twisting metal forms, and precisely realistic carvings, Herding Cats looked a tad lumpish, like a Velveeta on Wonderbread at a Food Channel buffet.

I’m in though and now have to decide what persona to adopt for the artists’ reception.
Should I adopt my outsider art image by wrapping my head in tin foil, and swatting at the alien craft buzzing about the room? Or should I take on my shit kicker image by donning overalls and remarking “lookie me with all these here arteeestes”? That will have to be a game time decision.

I also have to spend one afternoon at the show discussing my artwork with interested parties. I better come up with a response to the loppy ear thing.

These are the concerns you have when you are in….and I am in.

Dear Jerry

2009-09-09T08:21:00.000-07:00

In another cheap and brazen ploy to boost this blog’s readership, I am starting an advice column. I will be answering questions on all topics including finance, garage maintenance, closet organization, and, of course S-E-X. Since I am more of a Dark Ages Man than a Renaissance one, readers should take it from whence it comes.

Dear Jerry,
I just broke my left arm. Now what?

Hire a left handed Mexican.

Dear Jerry,
I love George Clooney’s hair. How does he achieve that look?

George is actually bald. The look is achieved with plaster of paris and Martha Stewart’s Ebony Passion low luster house paint. By the way, for the rest of you pathetic souls who keep Googling these pages seeking info on Clooney’s hair style, he admits he copied it from Demi Moore. Does that make you feel gay, or what?

Dear Jerry,
I tried to trade my boy friend in for a Camaro under the Cash for Clunkers program.
Now he is mad at me. What can I do?

Tell him you would have missed his tail pipe.

Dear Jerry,
Our only daughter just eloped with a homeless septuagenarian. We are heartbroken.

Heartbroken, my ass. You just saved 50 big ones on the wedding.

Dear Jerry,
If the Chinese are so smart, how come they didn’t invent “Dancing with the Stars”?

They did. It was called “Clogging with the Eunuchs.” In Chinese, of course.

Dear Jerry,
Is love a two way street?

Yes. That's why there are so many head on collisions.

Should I buy cheap and sell dear?

Don’t call me dear. We hardly know each other. Badda-Boom.

Percy and Me

2009-09-05T09:55:00.000-07:00

There has always been a tradition in my family that we are descended from Percy Bysshe Shelley on my mother’s side.

I have never taken much interest in pursuing this or asking what the connection might be. Unfortunately, anyone who might have had such information has passed.

As a child, I was embarrassed at the possibility of having anyone named Percy in my family tree, much less a poet. Of course, my only point of reference was Percy Dovetonsils, Ernie Kovacs characterization of a lisping poet with Coke-bottle thick glasses who read doggerel while sipping martinis.

My maternal grandfather was big poetry fan. I can remember sitting on his lap and playing with his pocket watch while he read from the works of the Irish poets. This, of course, proves nothing, but may be where the story arose.

His mother’s name was Mary Shelly (I’m not sure of the spelling), but who her antecedents were, I do not yet know. To my knowledge, both of his parents were Irish-Americans whose parents came over in the first potato famine. Shelley the poet was English and a peer to boot. So on the surface, at least, the connection seems unlikely.

After watching a program that made reference to Shelley and his wife, Mary, I decided to see what I could find out on the internet.

I signed up for a trial membership at Ancestry.com and punched in what names I knew. So far, I have not been able to push past my great grandparents. This type of research is not my cup of tea. As my wife will attest, keeping names and relationships straight is a challenge for me in the here and now, never mind the long ago.

Here is another daunting thought: If you just trace your family back 10 generations, you will find you have 1024 ancestors, since the number doubles each generation. This sounds like too much work for me to establish my relationship to the author of Prometheus Unbound. Try slogging through that little ditty some time.

I just looked at a Percy Dovetonsils skit on YouTube and think there is a better chance of my being related to him. The quality of the writing has a familiar ring:

The Moon
By Percy Dovetonsils
The moon is full of craters
It has some mountains too,
But because there are no people,
No one goes to the Zoo.

Ah, Granddad!

Youthful Offender

2009-08-27T18:23:00.000-07:00

I ratted out my 2 year old grandson to the fuzz.

Here is what happened:
Kathie and I, along with our son, Kris, his wife, Jen, and their son, Owen, were in Portsmouth, NH last weekend for a wedding. Kathie and I were assigned the task of babysitting Owen while his parents attended the rehearsal dinner.

Owen is a good natured, happy little guy who is also highly inquisitive. To describe him as “active” is like describing a tornado as a “bit of a blow.”

Gramsy and Pop were barely settled into the kids’ beautiful room at the Portsmouth Hilton and Owen had already turned the microwave oven on often enough to foul up TV reception in a 12 block area, turned the air conditioning off and the heat on, and placed a 911 call.

It was the last activity that caused the problem. I was letting him play with the phone because, worst case scenario, he would probably get someone at the front desk. “Maybe you shouldn’t let him do that,” Kathie said. This sentence, I should point out, was enough to exonerate her from all of the subsequent consequences, as in “I told your father not to let him do that.”

As soon as Owen put the phone down, it rang. It was the front desk asking if everything was okay, because someone had placed a call to 911. Without batting an eye, I sold the little guy down the river. It would have been easy enough for me to take the rap by saying I thought I was having a spell, but feel better now, thank you; or I was trying to order a pizza but misdialed because I am legally blind. But, nooooooo. “My two year old grandson did it”, I sniveled. “I was watching him like a hawk, but being old and infirm, could not wrestle the phone from his vice-like grip in time.”

I could hear the contempt in the clerk’s voice as he said: “I’m glad things are alright, but you will be getting a visit from the police as a matter of procedure.”

I started to hyperventilate. I am not one of those people who take comfort in the presence of police. Having grown up in the city, I regard an approaching officer as trouble on the way. Not that I am a career criminal, but most previous encounters have ended with a citation.

Sure enough, ten minutes later there was a knock at the door. It was the fuzz. A handsome young officer who’s stony expression could not hide his pissed-offedness at being sent up five stories to run down an errant 911 call.

I had made up my mind to be a man about it this time and do the right thing: blame my wife.

“Is everything okay here?” the officer inquired. Owen approached and was eyeing him as if trying to decide whether to make a grab for his gun or some other do-dad dangling from his belt.

“He did it, officer,” I said pointing at the pint-size perp.

“How old is he?,” the cop asked. Now, it had not occurred to me that he might actually bust Owen. Then I recalled that they haul away nursery school children for pointing at their classmates and making bang-bang sounds; and prosecute kindergarteners for kissing each other, so why not lock-up a two year old for making a bogus 911 call?

“He isn’t two yet, and he is not potty trained,” I replied. I pointed this out because I was sure this must be the base line for youthful incarceration, since the powers that be do not want to deal with the public outrage that running up huge diaper bills might entail. I could picture John McCain waving a Huggie from the floor of the Senate inveighing against government “waste.”

The officer looked disappointed, but tipped his hat, wished us a pleasant evening and left.

“We better not tell Kris and Jen about this,” Kathie said. I disagreed because I didn’t want them blind-sided when his nursery school application is rejected due to prior criminal activity.

They were actually amused. “He loves to play with the phone,” my daughter-in-law said. “We were afraid something like this would happen and glad it happened on your watch and not ours,” she continued. “ Here’s what we do to prevent this,” she said as she disconnected the phone.

Why didn’t I think of that?

Squirrely

2009-08-18T08:11:00.000-07:00

There are too many damn squirrels.

It seems to me that their numbers have grown exponentially in recent years, to the point that we are being over-run by the damn things.

I take a long walk each day along a rural road and trail. It seems like I encounter a squirrel every 25 feet. I saw on Nat Geo recently that ants (a future rant subject) account for the greatest percentage of bio-mass on the planet (and those are just the ones in my kitchen). Apparently, squirrels have taken this as a challenge.

They certainly are taking over my place. A year ago I purchased for 300 bucks a largeRubber Maid storage locker to keep recycling and bird feed. The seed was in a sealed plastic garbage barrel within the locker. The gray demons chewed their way through the locker in two places and the garbage container to get to the seed.

I know it was squirrels because I saw their stupid bucky teeth marks in the plastic and I encountered one up-close-and-personal when I opened the locker one day. I lifted the lid and looked in; staring back at me, bird seed all over his furry little face, was one of the cursed rodents.
His expression was like that of the squirrel on the tire commercial that is about to be run over by a car. I swear every hair on his body stood up and he let out a scream before hurdling from the bottom of the locker to the ground in one leap.

They are amazing athletes, I will grant them that. They have confounded my every effort to keep them out of my bird feeders. They can thwart any “anti-squirrel” devise ever invented. I even had to take the shudders off the side of the house where we have our feeders because the squirrels would climb them and launch themselves from there to the feeders some six feet away.

They have turned my 100 year old horse chestnut tree into a condo. They go in one hole and emerge from another twenty feet away on the other side of the tree. I am sure they have it on Craig’s list as “conveniently located to well-stocked bird feeders.”

Get a dog or cat, you might suggest. I have had both and neither was willing to take on the job. Our cat, a voracious hunter, had very distinct ideas about how large an animal she was willing to take on to satisfy her blood lust. Squirrels, she deemed, were outside her size range. I tried to explain to her that, factoring out their fluffy tails, squirrels were not much larger than the chipmunks and baby rabbits she slaughtered in profusion much to the distress of my children. I pointed out that, unlike alligators, squirrels don’t use their tails to batter their foes into submission. Try talking sense to a cat sometime and see where that gets you.

My two Irish terriers, however, were only too happy to chase squirrels. Two problems: they couldn’t catch them, and they preferred to chase them on other people’s property.
My male, an affable but not bright fellow, never figured out where the critters went when they would suddenly disappear just as he closed in. The whole up-a-tree idea was beyond his conceptual reach.

They were also like Arab chieftains in that they felt an obligation to be hospitable to enemies within their own tent. The dogs would happily wage war all over town while our squirrels lay on pillows eating dates.

Some people actually encourage the beasts by feeding them corn in the winter. Some even get excited by sighting an unfamiliar species. I saw a group with binoculars getting all ga-ga because they had spotted red squirrels in Califon. These are the same people who got excited 30 years ago by the appearance of Canadian geese and now employ dogs to run them off their property.

There is hope though. Squirrels really suck at crossing the road; this is why the roadways are littered with their rotting carcasses. They dash out into the street, and just as they seem to have made it to the other side, will run back right under the wheels of the car. This, it was explained to me, is because squirrels have home trees, and will bolt to them in times of danger even if it takes them to their doom.

I am sure that is on my chestnut tree’s listing as well: “On a quiet cul-de-sac, its the perfect home tree for you and your children.”

Musikfest

2009-08-11T07:11:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday Kathie and I took a ride out to Musikfest in Bethlehem, PA.

We go every year and it is usually a good time. This year, not so much.

There are stages set up all over the downtown area and in an adjacent park.
Bethlehem basks in it German Moravian heritage, so these stages are called “platz” as in America Platz and Polka Platz.

The city also capitalizes on its name with a big Christmas festival, the highlight of which is a huge nativity scene set up in the cellar of a church. This, with some degree of faux naiveté I suspect, they call a “putz.” There are signs all over town pointing bemused tourists in the direction of the putz. If these are not among the most stolen signs in the US, I would be greatly surprised. Every Jewish guy on the east coast must have one displayed in his man cave.

Anyway at the fest, there are bands and groups representing every sort of music imaginable playing at the platz throughout the day and into the night. All the street concerts are free. Quality, however, is spotty. We have made some discoveries over the years including our first exposure to zydeco and a terrific 50’s rock band from central Europe called “Red Elvis.” One of my favorites is a guy who dresses up as the Phantom of the Opera and plays baroque tunes on a gigantic truck load of bells called a carillon.

This year our timing was off and only one of the bands we heard was good. This was a group that pounded out mambo tunes at deafening volume. They were excellent though and the crowd was fun. We didn’t mambo because I wasn't drinking and Kathie was wearing flip-flops.

Among the low lights was a Jamaican group that pounded the bejesus out of what seemed like a dozen drums. If I wanted to get psyched up to raid and plunder another village this would do the trick, but on a hot afternoon in eastern PA it was just painful. It was fun though to watch over weight white people trying to dance to it.

Another loser was “Witches in Bikinis.” When I saw them on the program, I had to check them out although I expected it was like “Bare Naked Ladies”, three grubby fat guys in shorts and tee shirts. When we got to the platz, it was so crowded we couldn’t get in. Even from a distance, however, I could tell that, as advertised, the group consisted of at least four or five nubile young women attired in bikinis and witches hats and masks. I would have elbowed my way to the front for a closer inspection, but a look on Kathie’s face that combined both scorn and pity prevented me from doing so. (Why don’t I ever have my binoculars when I need them?)

Their music, however, seemed to consist of discordant wailing and screaming. It reminded me of what my neighbor blares through his speaker system on Halloween to set the mood for trick or treaters.

We decided to eat dinner at the fest and wandered among the many food vendors set up in the park. Kathie went with a pulled pork sandwich which she reported was good. I, perhaps inspired by the Mambo Kings, opted for arroz con pollo.

The vendor ladled a big scoop of the stuff onto a paper plate and handed it me. “I see the arroz, but where the hell is the pollo?” I said staring at a pathetic shred of chicken that looked like a half eaten Mac Nugget clinging to the edge of my plate. “It’s mixed in,” the vendor replied. It wasn’t. I tried spearing a few pieces of Kathie’s pork that fell from her sandwich, but she growled and I backed off.

As we wandered about, I began to take a hard look at my fellow Musikfesters. If ever there was any doubt that Americans are the worst dressed, most over weight people on the planet this group settled the issue. Fat, tattooed slobs in every imaginable get up, all of whom made the “Witches in Bikinis” look like they were dressed for the prom.

And most of them weren’t young. Kathie pointed out a 70 something woman in a wheel chair with a gaudy tattoo emblazoned across her amply displayed cleavage. “That should put and end to the tattoo craze,” she remarked.

We spotted an obese young woman with an entire garden of flowers and birds etched on her calves. “That looks like about four acres of scenic wonder to me,” I said. “Maybe she has the grand canyon tattooed on her ass.” “You’re getting cranky,” Kathie said. “It’s time to go.”

We got in the car, popped some Frank Sinatra in the CD player, and headed for home.

No Moose for You

2009-08-04T07:10:00.000-07:00

Elisabeth called on her cell phone to say she was parked on the side of the road looking at a moose.

She didn’t actually say “na,na,na,na,na” but it was in the tone of her voice: I saw a moose and you didn’t.

We have been going to Maine every summer with few exceptions for over twenty years. We favor the mid-coastal area for it’s beauty, relaxed ambience and because we have friends there. We were visiting them when the call came in from Elisabeth, who was driving up from Boston to join us, that she had accomplished what has eluded me for twenty years: she had seen a moose.

It is not from want of trying that the over-sized ungulate has eluded me. Every year I drive around at dusk seeking out marshy areas that they favor. I go on early morning moose stake-outs. Many years ago, I found a marshy, sandy area behind a newish subdivision that was chock-a-block with moose tracks. As often as I could, I would stake myself out behind a dune or bush and await the beast whose huge kaddidle hoppers had made the tracks. It never came to pass. Once, I met a woman back there who was berry picking. I asked if she had ever seen a moose. “Often,” she replied, “Take my word; you don’t want to run into one up close. It’s scary.” Indeed, but probably no more scary than running into an over-weight old guy in a bucket hat and shorts lurking behind a blueberry bush.

I would like to see a moose, not engage with it. A friend of mine came close to having this type of encounter. While on a fishing trip at a lake Canada, he had waded a short distance off shore. Suddenly, he was engulfed in a stomach turning odor which he described as a potpourri of every bad smell imaginable: backed-up septic, rotting flesh, extreme halitosis. He turned to see a bull moose giving him the old stink eye from shore. Fortunately it wandered off.

While we were in Maine, Kris, my son, was attending a bachelor party at Moosehead Lake. As the name implies, this is in the heart of moose country. He emailed a host of moosian snaps showing the big lugs dining, bathing, and basking in the sun. “Dad,” he wrote, “if you want to see a moose you have to come here.” I am sure in the world in which he lives moose in northern Maine are as common as squirrels. However, I live in a mooseless parallel universe, so I am sure I would schlep all the way up there and find, well, squirrels.

Granted, coastal Maine is not where they are most common in the state. They are common enough, however. Some years ago one leaped through the plate glass window of a laundromat in Rockland in broad daylight causing several people to re-soil their freshly washed undies.

The moose has become a monkey on my back. Friends and family who have moosed don’t hesitate to share their good fortune with me. I wouldn’t call it out-and-out gloating, but it is borderline. We have a niece and her family who live in southern Maine. Their children, like everyone else in the family, are aware of my condition moosewise. They have sent me pictures of moose they have taken in their backyard, stuffed toy moose, refrigerator magnets, etc. They even sent me a book about a boy who despite obsessive searching has never seen a moose. Lo and behold, he gives it up. As soon as he stops looking, he sees one.

I tried it, but not looking produced the same result as looking and looking is a lot more fun.

I’ll keep searching because someday my moose will come.

Summer Re-Run

2009-07-22T12:17:00.001-07:00

We are off to Maine for a week of lobster eating and probably freezing our butts off.
Since, I expect my hands to be dripping butter and clam goo all week, it would be messy for me to attempt to type a blog.

So, enjoy this entry from our trip last year. I hope I finally see a moose.

2-DOLLAR DIGGER

I fell when we were up in Maine last week.

Here’s what happened:

My wife, Kathie, and I always visit Pemaquid Beach when we are up there. It isn’t much of a beach by New Jersey standards. It’s rocky and weedy and the water is cold. Still, it is beautiful in a Maine way and the scene of many happy memories from the days when we went up there with the kids every year.

Then, they never enforced the two dollar per person admission charge and you could evade it altogether by entering the beach at one of its ends, rather than the main entrance. Now they are making a more concerted effort to collect it. Kathie dropped me at the end that required me to walk through a swamp to access the beach. She went to the parking lot and paid her two bucks.

After wading through the muck, I had to climb a huge mound of sand that had been placed where the swamp trail meets the beach in an apparent effort to block it. I climbed up and over this obstacle and was on the beach. Hey, two bucks is two bucks.

I found Kathie and she said she could not carry my chair and book from the parking lot. I took her ticket stub so I didn’t have to pay admission to get back on the beach and went to fetch my things.

As I was returning along the sandy path that wound in front of the concession stand and passed some picnic tables before leading to the beach, I was feeling all happy and content with my two buck savings. As usual, this was when disaster struck.

Suddenly, I lost my footing and lurched forward in a Spiral of Doom. My falls are rambling, sprawling affairs with lots of arm flapping and leg wagging ala Ray Bolger’s Straw Man.

I came to earth under a picnic table at which a late middle age woman was seated talking on her cell phone. She looked at my twisted corpse in shock and said to her phone mate: “I have to go. A man has just fallen at my feet.” Now, you know the chance to utter those words must have made her day, if not her entire vacation.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “You fell a long way.”
“Not so far,” I replied. “I’m only five foot ten.”
“No. You started to fall over there,” she said pointing at a spot 25 feet away. “ I thought for a second you were going to recover, but then you seemed to give up.” She sounded disappointed in me.

I realized I was having a conversation with someone from under a picnic table and decided now was a good time to get up and take stock.
“ I seem to be fine. Sorry for interrupting your conversation.”
I immediately launched an investigation into the causes of this calamity. I suspected divine retribution for my admission fee evasion, but soon found solid physical evidence for a more mundane explanation.

My efforts revealed the following: I tripped on a root that was hidden by the sand in the path; and I was wearing sandals.

The Witness said that she would report the root to management. In New Jersey this would have resulted in the whole area being sealed off with crime scene tape and the beach being evacuated until it could be determined if foul play was involved. This is Maine, however. Since the root was as thick as my arm, I suspected it has been happily tripping fee evaders and payers for generations.

The sandal thing is another story. I hate sandals. The only reason I was wearing them was that I was at the beach and I had a momentary brain freeze that made me think I could get away with it. Sandals, in my view, are a public health hazard. I believe New Jersey, a state that requires wearing a crash helmet for most human activities, is about to require helmets and kneepads when sandals are worn.

It should come as no surprise that people who REALLY don’t want to fall-high iron workers, tight rope walkers, mountain climbers-don’t wear sandals. I saw a History Channel special that revealed that the Fall of Rome was caused by the fact that all of the occupants were wearing sandals at the time.

Anyway, I thanked the Witness, gathered my scattered belongings and headed for the beach. Just to cover the retribution thing, next time I paid the admission.

PPP 2

2009-07-17T06:47:00.000-07:00

As the Father of Pants Pocket Photography (PPP) I am pleased to announce that it is sweeping the country.

Based on overwhelming response to my last blog ("Pocket Shots") introducing the new art form it is evident that Americans from coast-to-coast are PPPing in their pants and loving it.

Funnun submitted a wonderful example she shot inside her habit. It is titled “Pocket Full of Miracles.” The good sister reports: “I haven’t had this much fun since the diocese banned corporal punishment.”

Another reader, Stopnstart, credits the photo sensation with easing his prostate condition.
“Since I started PPPing, my gonads have shrank,” he gleefully proclaims. Three cheers for your gonads, Stopnstart.

Fashionista worries that tight pants aficionados may be excluded from the fun. Fashionista, either get a smaller camera or loosen up!

Canman, a California proctologist, reports a technical breakthrough: “I have found my ColonCam works perfectly for Pants Pocket Photography. I can even double bill Blue Cross.” I think that may be cheating, Canman.

I am thinking of running a contest of reader submissions. I don’t want to spring for a prize though, so I am looking for a sponsor. That credit card company would be a good bet. They would just have to change their slogan to “What’s in your pocket?”

How about the AARP? They should jump on the bandwagon. We geezers take millions of inadvertent cell phone shots inside our pants. Now it can be perceived as a form of artistic expression, and not the onset of mental deterioration….. that can be their motto: “It’s not Alzheimer’s, it’s art.”

There’s a fly in the ointment though. I just got an email from the lawyer for Billy Mays estate saying that, prior to his demise, he was set to promo a Pants Pocket Cam for $19.99 (order right now and I’ll double the offer). Too bad, Billy. Guess I will just have to mop up my tears with my Shamoo and huckster on without you.

Singleagain sounds a cautionary note, however. His wife left him after she spotted his wedding ring, six beer bottle caps, a motel room key and a condom in his first Pants Pocket Photo. This isn’t cinema verite, singleagain. A little artistic editing is recommended.

Pocket Shots

2009-07-09T11:53:00.000-07:00

No, the photo above is not a lost work by Mark Rothko. It is the first work in a new art form, invented by me: pants pocket photography. I call this work, “Left Pocket, Blue Shorts.”

Like most great cultural discoveries it happened by accident. Several months ago as my son was cleaning all the old messages and photos from my cell phone, he remarked: “Dad, do you know you have a few gazillion photos of the inside of your pants?”

“No,” I replied, “why would I take pictures inside my trousers?”

“You probably did it by accident. With your cell phone turned on in your pocket you probably squeezed off a few shots every time you moved or turned. Didn’t you hear the clicking sound?

“Yes,” I responded, “but I thought it was my trick knee sounding off. It comes as a relief to learn it was my phone.”

“Do you want to save them?”, he asked.

I looked at the pictures all of which had a dark, murky, mysterious look about them with strange unidentifiable shapes floating like creatures at the bottom of a sea cave.

Somewhat embarrassed as I was presented with the evidence of yet another technology gaff on my part, I told him to go ahead and delete.

Now when I am walking I prevent this from happening by keeping a tight grip on the phone. Of course, the sight of a man with his hand thrust deep in his pocket grasping a hard cylindrical object, causes many of my fellow walkers to cut me a wide berth (“Is that a cell phone you’re clutching, or are you just happy to see me.”).

Upon consideration, however, I rued my haste in sending this material into oblivion. This could be the Next Big Thing. A photographer friend of mine does very nicely by taking photos of leaves in various undulating positions. He gets big bucks and has had shows at Madison Avenue galleries.

If pictures of his lawn sweepings are grist for the artistic mill, why not an in-depth study of the unexplored world of pockets? The galleries will eat it up.

The picture above is my first effort. You, dear reader, are in at the birth of a major movement.

I shot this picture by sticking the lens of my Nikon digital SLR camera into my pocket. The blasted thing won’t shoot if there is not enough light, so I had to insert a small flash light as well. Why didn’t I use shots right off my cell phone? Simple, I couldn’t figure out how to get them from my phone to the computer.

The tan objects you see in the photo are rubber bands. I keep them handy to fire at snot nose brats who walk on my lawn or at those annoying cat birds that seem to be everywhere. I shoved a supply in my shorts about a month ago and there they will reside until the clothes drier melts them into a solid lump. The black object is my cigar cutter which, frankly, I am surprised to see since I had given it up for lost.

See if you can guess the name of this work:

That’s right, “Pocket Full of Rye.” You catch on quick.

The expressive possibilities of this art form are limitless. Once I have fully explored the depths of my drawers, I will be asking celebrities to shove a camera in their own bottoms.

Stick around and see what develops.

Califon Carnival

2009-07-08T08:11:00.000-07:00

The Califon Carnival has ended. This event held the first week in July and sponsored by the local volunteer fire company is the official start of summer in our community.

It is five nights of food, rides, games of chance, and fireworks. It is the highlight of the Califon social calendar, which doesn’t say much for the Califon social calendar.

It is small by most standards encompassing a football field size lot with perhaps a dozen rides, an equal number of games, and a few concession stands.

And like most things Califon, it is journey to a simpler past. It is exactly like the fireman’s carnivals I used to attend as boy during the summers at our lake cottage. It hasn’t changed in the 32 years that I have been attending. They switch a few rides around, add some new features, but the core remains the same.

The kids love it. Kathie and I still go. Now that our children are grown and gone, our grand nieces and nephews are the main reason for our attendance. Our nieces begin asking us around Christmas if there will be a carnival this year.

They came again last week and a fine time was had by all. Faces were painted, cotton candy consumed, and enormous sums of money spent in pursuit of winning each child a cheap trinket.

When we got back home, we sat out in the bank parking lot next to our house and watched the fireworks. Eventhough, you can’t see the ground displays from there, we have an unobstructed view of the aerial works. Years ago, our neighbors down the lane used to carry the wicker sofa from their porch up to the lot and sit and sip their beers while taking in the show.

Many “townies” go every night just to feast on clams, burgers, and the best funnel cake anywhere, while sitting at a picnic table under the bright carnival lights.

We did as well when our kids were in their early, pre-driving, teens. The carnival is a big deal with this set who dress-up in their latest duds to strut and flirt among their peers. We, like many parents, would go, take a seat on a strategically placed bench, catch up on the latest news and gossip, and keep an eye on things.

Though the carnival is still a big deal, it was a bigger deal years ago. In the days before reality TV kept people glued to their sofas, they would come from miles around to attend.

Cars would fill the town. They would park everywhere with total impunity: in driveways, on lawns, where ever they could squeeze regardless if they blocked someone else. My neighbor, a large man who wore overalls, would discourage would-be parkers by sitting on his front porch with the light on, a baseball bat clearly visible on his lap.

One night a car carrying four outlanders pulled right into my other neighbor’s side yard without so much as a by-your-leave, locked up, and marched off to the carnival. Unfortunately, they failed to note that the neighbors septic had backed up into her yard in precisely that location.

Upon their return, the revelers’ car became stuck in what they took to be mere mud. Three of them got out to push and noticed that the substance splashing on their clothes was of a more pungent, organic nature. Cries of anguish and disgust filled the air as they freed their car and proceeded on their long and odiferous journey home.

Well, this is starting to sound too much like the “Prairie Home Companion”, so enough already.

Portrait of the Artist of an Old Man

2009-06-22T05:57:00.000-07:00

George Viener, Director of the Outsider Folk Art Gallery, left a message the other day with exciting news: two of my wood carvings, Father of His Country and Eve of Liberty, have sold and I will be a featured artist in the gallery during July and August.

The gallery, which is based in Reading, PA, specializes in outsider and folk art. Both are the work of self-taught artists. So,what is the difference? The proprietor of a Manhattan folk art gallery has this to say on his web site: “Outsiders live on the margins of American life. Folk artists live in the mainstream. Outsiders are often troubled people living their lives in isolation or, frequently, they find themselves institutionalized because of emotional or mental instabilities or incarcerated because of criminal conduct. Folk artists are everyday Americans, with families and friends, and homes, and mortgages, and pets, and soccer games, and tuition, and church, and bills, and debt, often with full-time jobs.”

Clearly, he takes a dim view of outsider artists, but manages to make folk artists sound like Republicans. Based on his character description, it could go either way for me. Maybe because I haven’t been institutionalized yet, most people, if they consider my work art at all, consider it folk art. I don’t think much about such things. As I say on my bio on the gallery web site:” I do what I do, and it is what it is.” (Note: the use of two clichés in one sentence, though a crime, is not enough to get me categorized as an outsider artist.)

George took an interest in my work after I had bombarded him with emails urging him to visit my blog site, http://www.jandersenfolkcarving.blogspot.com. Several months ago, at his invitation, I took some of my carvings out there. He liked them, but was not sure where they would fit in the gallery at that time. We agreed that he would keep them and try to sell them on the gallery web site.

His phone message was followed by several days of missed calls and intense fantasizing on my part. As befits a borderline outsider artist, I am bi-polar in my wool gathering.

In my manic mode, I convince myself that the American Folk Art Museum is the buyer of the pieces and that I can now quadruple my price. I am picturing my grandson taking his children there and saying: “The American art treasures encased over there were carved by your great grandfather. You come from a proud legacy, my dears.”

In my depressive mode, I am sure they will break in transit and the buyers will demand their money back. Or worse yet, one of their children will poke his eye out on George Washington’s sword and they will sue me for every dime I have.

Anyway, I am relieved to hear from George Viener. The buyers are collectors from Louisiana and really like my work. I will be a featured artist at the Outsider Folk Art Gallery for July and August.

I am very pleased. This is a highly regarded gallery in this niche of the art world, and I never in the world expected to sell anything. When I told my daughter the good news she said: “Well, you topped Van Gogh. He never sold anything in his lifetime.” At least I have cleared that hurdle. In case you are wondering, Vincent Van Gogh, although he meets most aspects of the aforementioned expert’s description of an outsider artist, ironically, would not be considered one since he received extensive art training.

But now I worry that perhaps these Louisiana buyers live on the Gulf coast and my art might be lost to history in a catastrophic flood like what happened to that potter in Mississippi or Alabama whose name I don’t remember who would never sell any of his work only to have all his pots broken in a gigundus hurricane. Well, as the philosopher once said: nothing breeds anxiety like success.

I will enjoy the moment, though, and not let it go to my head. Speaking of which, I wonder how I would look in a beret?

The Navigator

2009-06-12T08:42:00.001-07:00

I purchased a Garman.

This is a little GPS gizmo that gives you real time driving directions in a firm, but friendly, female voice. I think they chose a female voice because most men are married, or have significant others, and are used to taking orders from women (“Dear, if I follow your directions can we make whoopee tonight?). Women on the other hand are probably more comfortable with some sisterly advice than with the ravings of a bullying male. (“What the hell is wrong with you? You missed our damn turn!”).

I am liking the little thing so far, since I have absolutely no sense of direction. Whichever way I am heading feels like up, or north, to me. I have to turn the map with the direction I am supposed to be heading pointed up to determine if my next turn is a right or left. The whole sun thing doesn’t work for me either, because I can never remember if it rises in the east and sets in the west or the other way around. Aside: I wonder if people who have a sense of direction feel like they are going down, or falling, when they are heading south?

I waited to get one because they have been expensive and Kathie and I had a bad experience with one on a rental car in Florida. The directions said that tapping the home prompt would route us to the Budget Rental desk at the Tampa/St. Pete airport. Instead, it took us to an alligator infested swamp in what we assumed was the Everglades. This being Florida, an airport or Wal-Mart will appear there soon, but we couldn’t wait.

It has been useful in my job with the Census. I was recently sent to Trenton, a city with which I am totally unfamiliar, to do some address canvassing. My little Garman got me to my start point with no problem. After a tiring day of walking the streets, dodging free-range pit bulls, and a near fatal encounter with a kielbasa and kraut on rye, it was nice to not have to worry about finding my way home when I returned to my car. When the screen prompted “Where to?, I just tapped home and off I went smooth as pie.

I think the Garman folks are missing the boat though. They should come with a device that helps us navigate the highways and byways of human intercourse. Such a device would eliminate panicky name groping (“The male approaching from your left is Steve Donnelly, your neighbor. Be sure to inquire about his prostate.”); or skillfully reroute us when we have wandered astray on the Rue de Faux Pas (BEEP, BEEP, ROUTE CORRECTION: “Oh, it must be that stunning, loose fitting frock you are wearing that led me to inquire if you are pregnant. Where DID you get it?").
For someone like me who spends so much time on the Rue de Faux Pas that he is considering buying a pied-a-terre there, such a device would be very useful indeed.

Unemployed...Again

2009-06-08T10:52:00.001-07:00

Well, my job with the Census Bureau has come to an end….at least for now.

The next phase will start in August and we are told that we have a good chance of being called back because we have experience. I doubt this will happen. I think the Government way is to re-invent the wheel, dismantle this temporary bureaucracy, and replace it with another with all new employees.

We were told the job would last ten weeks and it barely made it to five.

So what next? Clearly there is no income to be derived from blogging. I read in the Times yesterday (“Blogs Falling in an Empty Forest”) bloggers are abandoning their little corners of the internet in record numbers. According to a survey by Technorati, which runs a search engine for blogs, only 7.4 million of the 133 million blogs the company tracks have been updated in the past 120 days. “That translates to 95 per cent of blogs being essentially abandoned,” the article reports, “left to lie fallow on the Web, where they become public remnants of a dream-or at least an ambition-unfulfilled.”

Of course, the major reason for this is failure to attract readers and, even if readers are attracted, the inability to translate that into income. Book deals are few and far between.

Oh well, there is always pooper scooping. Another article in the Times reports that this is a real growth industry with franchises sprouting up that do millions a year in business. The premise is that armed with a pooper scooper you hire yourself out for $12-$15 a week to pick up Fido’s deposits in people’s yards. Apparently, even in these hard times, people are unwilling to pick up their own pet’s crap.

There is even a trade association for these folks: The Association of Professional Animal Waste Specialists. Companies in the field have clever names like DoodyCalls and Poop Patrol and slogans like “we are number one in the number two business.”

It is claimed that an independent poop professional with 20 or so clients can generate an income of $30,000 a year.

I may take a shot at this. First, I need a name. Doodie Howser, Canine Crapologist, has a classy ring to it. Or how about Dr. Doo-Little? Or The Feces Fanatic? Actually, I am kind of partial to Scat-Man-Doo. If you, dear reader, have any suggestions feel free to unburden yourself, so to speak.

Even though most of the franchises have cute little uniforms (not brown, I hope) for their workers, I would prefer to be incognito. However, I think it is absolutely necessary to have specialized footwear. I have designed shoes that have bald, Teflon coated soles. Take it from someone who has been there, there is nothing worse than trying to dig fresh dog poop out of sneaker treads with a toothpick.

AHA!!! I have just had a Eureka moment. With all of that abandoned bullshit fouling up the internet, there might be a market for a blog pooper scooper. For a low fee, I will wander hosting service sites tidying up the “public remnants” of abandoned dreams. And no special footwear is required!

While I was Working

2009-05-22T13:12:00.000-07:00

Sorry, I had to leave the room for awhile to go to work.

Three weeks ago, I started my temporary job as census worker.

I am not allowed to discuss what I do because Title 13 of the Privacy Act says that if I blab I will get 250,000 years in jail or a $7 fine. Maybe it’s the other way around. Anyway, you get it: loose lips sink ships.

Without getting specific, the job involves a great deal of stomping around with hand held computer and GPS device plotting where people live. It’s kind of fun in a way, but I have had my unsettling moments. I will have more to reveal when the statute of limitations expires.

It’s a pretty simple job actually, and the computer guides you along. Naturally, since this is the Federal Government, there is an 800 page training manual and 200 page handbook that we must carry with us at all times.

Speaking of scary, here is my favorite safety tip from the training manual: “As you walk towards your vehicle, scan beneath the vehicle for persons waiting to charge out at your ankles.” I think this constitutes an official recognition on the part of the Federal Government of the existence of elves. Now that this thought is planted in my head, each time I pull away from the curb I tense up awaiting the agonized death scream of a squished elf.

This is my first visit to my blog since I started working. As I am not allowed to talk about what I do, and since that is all I am doing, I don’t have much else to say.

I note, however, that there have been more visitors to my blog since I stopped writing. If this trend continues, I may stop altogether and really push this thing over the top. It’s almost like you guys decided that this isn’t a bad place to hang out now that Elvis left the building.

I still get dozens of visitors seeking info on George Clooney’s hair (see “George Clooney Stole My Haircut” and “George Clooney Doesn’t Live Here Anymore”). This is global phenomenon with people checking in from China, Madagascar, Korea and the Middle East. Curiously, there have been no inquiries from the land of my ancestors, Scandinavia.

I think this is because they are all natural blondes whose hair looks great all by itself, so they don’t give a crap what gloop Clooney puts on his pathetic mop.

Anyway, that’s it for now. I don’t know when I will be able to check in again. Not to worry, you seem to be doing fine without me.

Note to Earth

2009-04-27T08:29:00.000-07:00

I’m sorry I didn’t send you a card on Earth Day.

I was angry with you at the time. Elisabeth, who was visiting us last week, asked me to recycle my water bottle, since it was Earth Day, and I responded with “up earth’s ass.” These words were no sooner out of my mouth than they were on her Facebook page. So I am sure you heard about it.

All I was trying to do was plant a lousy hydrangea. A two foot hole for cripes sake. But you have to go and park a boulder the size of a Camaro right where the thing was going. A simple job requiring a cute little spade became an epic struggle with pick axe and shale bar. Since it is about the hundredth time you’ve pulled this little stunt, you’d think the gag would be getting stale. But nooooooooo. I swear I could hear you chuckling.

And since I am complaining, would it kill you to lighten up on the gravity thing? This might help us both. I recently read that obese people produce more methane gas than average weight folks. If you cranked the gravity down a scoach, I would go from a chunky 210 to a svelte 160 and you wouldn’t have that nasty smell that’s hurting your popularity with the other planets.

What’s that you say? You have laws and they cannot be broken? What are you, the Planet Nazi? Today’s management style calls for flexibility.

We blame ourselves for a lot of your problems, but, frankly, I don’t think you were doing that great a job running the show before we got here. You decide to freeze everyone’s ass for about million years just for the heck of it. You can’t blame that on us because we were wandering around the savannas of Africa at the time trying to figure out what to do with our tails now that you hid all the trees.

Just ask the dinosaurs. Oh, that’s right you can’t because they’re extinct along with 75 percent of the species on the planet at the end of the Jurassic because you couldn’t trouble yourself to get out of the way of a measly asteroid. They don’t teach the side step or hitting the brakes in planet school? A little defensive driving might do you some good.

And what is with this whole fang and claw, survival of the fittest, extinction thing? A tad insensitive for modern times, don’t you think? Here’s an idea: have Simon, Paula and the gang decide which species get to move on to the next round. This might not be that much more humane but it could be a hit and put a few bucks in your pocket. We all know your resources are not what they used to be.

And another thing: ease up on the volcanoes and tsunamis. They are scaring us and not helping property values at the shore. Who ever told you that bouncing continents off each other was a good idea anyway? It’s seems pretty childish to me. Maybe it’s time you grew up. You are 5 billion years old after all.

I hope this clears the air. And about that water bottle: I did recycle it. I hope this helps.

My Novel

2009-04-17T12:01:00.001-07:00

All of my sure fire, money making schemes-the blog, the website, the wood carving-are coming up dry. So it is time to switch to Plan D: I am writing a novel.

This is classic JerThink. What better time to launch my literary venture than the worst period in the history of publishing when many suggest books are on the verge of extinction?
Hey, ya gotta start sometime.

I don’t have a plot yet, but I do have the first sentence: “The bowling ball whizzed by narrowly missing his nose.” Nose as the named body part felt right from the get-go because I thought proboscis sounded hoity-toity.

I tried many objects, however, before I decided to go with bowling ball. I chose it because it gives me a great deal of flexibility. This could be a science-fiction work about a race of aliens who make a sport of exterminating humans by pegging us with bowling balls; or one of those very popular serial killer detective stories about an embittered pin spotter who turned homicidal after his job got automated in 1956; or one of those disaster epics about a tornado that takes out a sporting goods store.

I even have the title: “Himself.” Once again, since I am sans plot, I am looking for flexibility here. This could be about anything that features a male protagonist; or it could be one of those heart-wrenching memoirs about growing up poor in Ireland (note to reader: I did not grow up poor in Ireland, but faked memoirs are huge these days).

Kathie takes issue with the name. She says that any title that has the “him” word, or any derivative, is going to lose the female dominated book club market. The only exceptions might be “He Sucks” or “Him a Jerk.” Apparently, since the advent of internet pornography, men have abandoned reading altogether.

However, she notes that books containing the words wife or daughter in their title are sure fire hits. She suggests “Himself’s Wife”, the heart-breaking tale of a valiant woman’s efforts to keep her dysfunctional family together despite the worst efforts of her violent, abusive, alcoholic, sniveling, drooling, Irish husband. She says this will not only make Oprah cry, but will get the book club ladies scampering to Barnes & Noble. I like it.

I don’t even have to change my first sentence. The opening scene can take place in a bowling alley where the violent, abusive, etc., father goes ballistic at his sensitive but unathletic son who has just tossed a gutter ball. Hellllllooooo, Oprah!

I may even run teasers and snippets of the tale in these columns as it unfolds.
Don’t expect anything soon, however, because I feel a writer’s block coming on.

You know the symptoms: You sit at the computer determined to crank out 500 words and next thing you know you are prowling used car sites and googling the whereabouts of the kid who stole your lunch money in third grade.

In fact, I think I will check out what a 2003 Subaru is worth these days.

Where Did Easter Go?

2009-04-13T13:31:00.000-07:00

Easter used to be a big deal, but not so much anymore.

We went up to Boston (Natick, actually) to visit the kids and grandson. I even managed to get out of going to church on Easter morning, thus cutting my annual church attendance in half. There were two masses offered at the local church at 7:00 and 9:00 on Easter morning. Elisabeth and I told Kathie we would accompany her to the 9:00, but count us out for the 7:00. She opted for the early mass, thus giving us an extra two hours of sleep while damning our souls to perdition in the process.

She reported that most of the attendees were elderly people. We had brunch at a local café where most of our fellow diners, young family groups mostly, were wearing the usual assortment of faded jeans, rumbled t-shirts and greasy Red Sox caps; not a lacy dress or pill box hat in the crowd.

That’s the way it seems to be for us anyway: Easter is just another Sunday.
It wasn’t always this way. When I was growing up, Easter was right up there with Christmas on the holidays-to-look-forward-to list. Of course, you had to get through Lent first when you were expected to give up something you liked and keep a Lenten box that you filled with leftovers from your allowance and turned in to the nun on the last day of school before Easter vacation. If you filled it up, you received a glow in the dark statue of the Infant of Prague. It was pretty neat actually.

My sister and I each got a new set of clothes and my mom got a new hat. My Dad’s standing joke was that he got a new pair of shoelaces. I don’t recall if I got a new suit every year, but I vividly recall getting a handsome grey suit with pink pin stripes when I was ten or eleven. This was a very hot color combo in the fifties. We were going to my aunt’s for Easter dinner and while waiting outside for my parents I got to running around with some friends in the vacant lot next door. I fell and tore the knee out of my new suit.

I don’t recall if I was punished but remember that my mother cried, the worst form of punishment I could receive.

We believed in the Easter Bunny, although not with the fervor with which we embraced Santa Claus. A large rabbit who delivered candy and colored eggs was a stretch even for naïve children of the fifties. Still a basket of candy appeared every Easter Sunday morning and we sure as hell weren’t asking any questions.

We made a big deal about it when our kids were little: dying eggs for the bunny to hide, putting the baskets out after they went to bed, and getting dressed up for church. Kathie didn’t get a new hat and I didn’t get shoelaces since I always preferred laceless shoes.

I can’t imagine kids still believe in the Easter Bunny today, though they might say they do. I miss the big fella. Here, on the day after Easter, there is not a piece of chocolate or a hard boiled egg to be found; no sugar egg that you can hold up to your eye and view an Easter scene; no marshmallow chicks or jelly beans.

I guess to recapture the Easter spirit I will have to get in touch with my Inner Rabbit. He says his name is Harvey.

Hold the Phone

2009-04-02T13:29:00.000-07:00

We got a mini cam for the computer.

This was my son’s suggestion. They have a camera built into their Mac and he thought if we were similarly equipped we could have video chats with our grandson.

Seemed like a great idea, but I don’t have $1,800 right now to drop on yet another computer.

He thought I might be able to get a mini cam that would work on our Dell laptop at a reasonable cost. Sure enough, a visit to Best Buy hooked me up with a cam with a built-in microphone for under 100 bucks.

I clipped the camera to the laptop screen, loaded some softwear, turned the thing on and a wrinkled visage that was a composite of the worst of Yoda and Joba the Hut was staring back at me from the screen. Holy crap, do I really look that bad. This was a vision that would surely stunt the growth of any one year old.

The next step was to go on the Skype site and download the free software. Skype is the web site that enables you to have video conversations with anyone else who is also signed up. It is free.

This all went pretty smoothly and soon we were having very nice visits with our grandson and his family.

I am amazed by this technology and pretty pleased with myself for pulling it off. However, I am sure it has been around for awhile. Usually by the time I hear of something like this it has already peaked and is on the slippery slope to obsolescence. Given its ramifications for the phone sex industry, I’ll bet it has already been explored and developed into a multi-billion dollar industry with its own trade association. In the process I am sure it has already put out of work hundreds of ex-truck drivers who had been posing as dominatetrixes.

Still I don’t think it will replace the good old voice phone. The cordless phone was a bigger leap because it freed us to do other things while talking with friends and business associates. Who hasn’t chatted with dear old mom while seated on the crapper? This would be awkward on the video phone.

Also, one can no longer use the stress relieving hand gestures we have all grown used to. No more flipping the bird while talking soothingly to that angry client berating you on the phone, or tucking it under your chin and firing a double bird as he rants on. Who hasn’t held the phone away from their ear and executed the universal blah-blah-blah sign as Aunt Matilda wound on for another hour about the novena she had recently attended?

I read that the next generation of phones will produce a life-size 3-D image of the person with whom you are speaking right in your home or office. Excuse me, but I thought the point of talking to people on the phone was to keep them out of your home or office.

Now that annoying insurance salesman will appear sitting with his legs crossed in your favorite chair asking for a martini.

Adios, Florida

2009-03-18T09:45:00.001-07:00

We just got back from Florida.

It was a great trip. We had lots of quality time and laughs with the sister-in-law and brother-in-law.

I like Florida. Kathie has reservations. This is an ongoing debate with us: is this a place we should at least spend part of the year when we are both retired? I am in the “yes” camp, she is not so sure.

I like being outdoors and away from our Jersey winters. This one has been especially difficult and I have felt as though I have been sliding on ice for the last four months, when I haven’t been chopping it or falling on it. And since I am no longer commuting, the housebound thing has been getting to me.

Kathie doesn’t like all the out of control development. Granted, it is a little bizarre to see new shopping malls going up alongside recently abandoned ones.

This trip, however, we decided to get in touch with Florida’s wild side.

We took a drive to Myakka State Park, a wild life preserve that features air boat rides and canopy walks to observe the local flora and fauna.

As usual, we got lost getting there and drove through some scrubby areas that, while free of condos and strip malls, were heavy on ranches that all resembled the place where the Manson family used to hang out.

By the time we found the park it was well passed noon. Since we had to have the rental car back by 3:00, that pretty much ruled out the air boat trip since the next one was scheduled for 2:30. We took a drive around the park and stopped at the various observation areas. We saw lots of wild life including gators, feral pigs, and Osprey. We also saw a motorcycle gang which looked much more dangerous than any of the animals.

We went back to the concession area and got on a long line to buy lunch. In fact, we spent a fair portion of our remaining time on the line. When we got close enough to read the menu we saw that it featured such items as alligator stew and pulled pork sandwiches. I said to Kathie: "This is really neat; first we get to observe the animals in their natural habitat, and then we get to eat them for lunch." I guess they were out of Osprey burgers that day.

When we finished we took a walk on the Nature Loop. This is a schlep through the jungle where you have the chance to observe the infinite variety of souvenir tee shirts worn by other tourists. We did not see one animal, not even a squirrel.

The canopy walk wasn’t all it was cracked up to be either. You climb a whole bunch of stairs and then navigate a 30 foot walk suspended at tree top level. There is not much to see except, well, the tops of trees. It is fun, however, to jump up and down on the bridge and scare the crap out of your wife.

Although we didn’t see them, there are dangerous animals other than alligators in Florida. The coral snake is probably the one you would least like to have camping out in your pants, since it bite is deadly.

In all the years we have been coming here, I have gone out of my way to prevent Kathie from learning of their presence, since it is a remote risk that she would ever encounter one and since her knowing that even one was in the entire state would knock Florida permanently off the potential Andersen habitat list.

At Myakka, I pounced and led her away as soon as I noticed her starting to read about the snakes that reside in the park.

However, a few days later while touring a sugar baron’s restored mansion with my guard down, I saw her reading one of the exhibit signs and heard her cry out: MY GOD, there are coral snakes here!!!???”

Well, adios Florida.

The Test, Part 2

2009-03-03T16:27:00.001-08:00

Not been able to concentrate on the latest doings of the Bachelor? Oblivious to the current caterwauling on American Idol?

You must be on tenterhooks waiting to learn if our Dilated Dynamo recovered his eyesight in time to take the census taker’s exam.

Squirm no more, all is about to be revealed.

If you have not read The Test, Part 1, my last blog, I suggest you do so now. Upon completion you may decide you don’t give a rat’s ass and can spare yourself Part 2.

I arrived home from my eye exam with just 45 minutes to spare before I had to leave for Clinton, a ten mile drive, to take the census test. Still feeling like the girl with kaleidoscope eyes, I decided to snooze for a few minutes in an attempt to stabilize my vision. No luck.

Next I scoured the house in a search for sun glasses. No luck.
I stopped at Rite Aid on the way and picked up a pair of clip-ons.
Unfortunately, when I got to the car and attempted to put them on, I discovered there was a large tag affixed to the nose bridge with one of those confounded plastic gizmos that are impossible to break. Not having anything to cut it, I rode the next eight miles with the tag flapping in front of my eyes. It didn’t matter that much, since I was blind already. It’s scary to contemplate how many idiots like me may be driving around out there risking life, limb and the public safety to take a test for a low paying, part time job.

Somehow I made it to the Clinton Library, the site of the test, with 15 minutes to spare. I dashed in and asked the librarian to direct me to the test room. The fact that she took two steps back and reached for what I assumed was an alarm button, reminded me to remove my tag-encumbered sun glasses.

I entered the test room and found 12 other applicants already seated and filling out their preliminary forms. I took a seat at a table with three other men. All were retired and all had been employed by ATT or Lucent Technologies. A sense of doom crept over me: not only was I blind, but I was competing for a bureaucratic position with a bunch of bureaucrats. I tried to concentrate on my forms as they whined on about the sad state of their pensions and 401Ks.

The moderator, also an ATT&T vet, launched into his spiel about the exam. I don’t remember everything he said, but he stressed the fact that if we had a criminal record it was unlikely we would get a position even if we passed the test. One gentleman got up and left the room. I hoped I had locked my car.

He also emphasized the importance of not writing on the exam paper, and directed us to confine our notes and calculations to the answer sheet and scrap paper.

He passed out the exam and told us we had 30 minutes to complete the 28 questions which were divided into 6 categories. I don’t remember all of them but they included organization, math, reading and management skills.

Pencils ready, and off! Panic sets in right off the bat when I realize the questions are badly blurred. I discover the best way to bring them into focus is to remove my glasses and bring my nose as close to the paper as I can. This disconcerts the woman across from me who either thinks I am so brilliant that I have time to doze off, or that I am having a spell.

I struggle with the organization section of the test pretty much as I have struggled with the organization section of my life. The math is even worse. The 7s look like 1s and the 3s look like 8s. Half way through the math, the moderator announces there are fifteen minutes remaining. I glance to the right side of my answer sheet and see I have four more sections to complete after the current one. In addition, I notice that I have been calculating and doodling all over the test paper in clear violation of Federal regulations. Visions of spending my golden years at Levenworth pass through my head as I frantically erase.

Panic gives way to despair. I don’t want to be a Census taker anyway. Who wants to be crawling around a trailer park in the dead of night trying to figure out who is married to which cousin? Besides, what do you expect, I’m blind for cripe's sake.

I catch a break when I blow through the reading section in 2 minutes flat. The rest is a blur, mentally as well as physically. I answer the last question and put my pencil down just as time expires.

We wait while the moderator grades our exams. I am convinced I have failed and determine that I will not take it again. I just hope he doesn’t read our grades out in front of the whole group as the nuns used to do back in grade school or say something snotty about all the erasures on my test form.

He doesn’t. He calls me over and tells me that I have passed and answered 24 of the 28 questions correctly. How this can be possible, I don’t ask.

When I get outside I put my sunglasses back on, tag flapping proudly in the afternoon breeze, and head for home.

The Test, Part 1

2009-02-26T08:58:00.000-08:00

I may soon be working for Obama. That’s right, ridin’ with the federales.

How so, you ask? On Monday, I took the test to be a U.S. Census taker.

It was an interesting day. I had a long overdue visit with my eye doctor scheduled for 9:00 AM on February 23. Unfortunately, they were only giving the Census test once in our area for the foreseeable future, also on February 23 at 1:00PM. Since I no longer have a life, I don’t often have scheduling conflicts, but this was a beaut. I knew the eye doc would be dilating my pupils which causes me difficulty in seeing in general and driving in particular. I wondered if I would be able to read the test, even if I got there.

I wasn’t too concerned since there was a four hour period between the dilation and the exam, more than enough time for the effects to wear off.

Off course, it didn’t go that way. I got to the eye center at 8:45 to find the waiting room chock-a-block with very old ladies. Seems the doctor was running 40 minutes late already. Usually, when you are being dilated, a tech comes out and zaps you while you are in the waiting room, so that you are ready to go when you are called into the office. No one came to do me.

I sat there for 40 minutes. The old gals almost drove me crazy. One regaled everyone about how she was an hour early, but it didn’t matter, she had no place else to go. “I guess I need cataract surgery on my brain,” she quipped. When she checked in, the receptionist informed her that she was not an hour early, but a week late, since she was scheduled for the 16th, not the 23rd. “Today is not the 16th?,” she said. “I guess I need cataract surgery on my brain.” Another was regaling the poor soul next to her about her “deceased pussy,” presumably her cat. Yet another yelled across the room to her daughter on three occasions to inquire if she had change for a $20 bill.

At 9:45 I was rescued by a nurse who led me to the examining room and immediately dilated me. The doctor arrived ten minutes later, checked me out and decided I wasn’t dilating fast enough and added more drops.

When he began the exam, I asked if he thought I would be in shape to take a written exam at 1:00. “It looks iffy to me,” was his professional opinion.

When all was done at 10:30 my exit into the parking lot was like Timothy Leary waking from a bad trip. The world was awash in blinding light and throbbing colors and populated with unidentifiable moving objects I could only assume were autos and pedestrians. Somehow I drove the 15 miles to my house without incident. At least I think so, since I have seen no hit and run fatalities reported in the paper.

I got home at 11:15 and realized that I had just forty five minutes to regain my eyesight before having to drive the ten miles to Clinton to take the census exam.
(to be continued)

Me on Steroids

2009-02-21T14:09:00.000-08:00

Move over, A-Rod, Jer-Rod’s on the juice.

That’s right, the roids. No, My Unidentified Dominican Cousin is not shooting it up my arse. I am not a naïve multi-million dollar athlete with a legion of trainers, lawyers, and agents who had no idea what he was putting into his body except “it wasn’t Tic-Tacs.” Mine came from my doctor complete with a 27 page list of possible side-effects.

I went to the doctor because I was experiencing a return of some of the symptoms of the Bell ’s palsy I had contracted sixteen years ago. The symptoms were mild, so he could not be sure if what he was seeing was damage from the first event or signs of a new flare-up.

To be cautious, he prescribed steroid tablets to ease any possible inflammation on the left side of my face, and an anti-viral medication, because that is the protocol with Bell’s these days.

I have never taken steroids before and, frankly, I am impressed. By the second full day on the juice my back, shoulders, and other late life hot spots had ceased to hurt. I was able to increase my daily walk from 2.5 miles to 4 with no additional fatigue. I hauled and stacked 10 forty pound sacks of wood pellets from the barn to the front porch in ten minutes; a task that usually takes a half hour with several stops to stretch out my back.

I felt stronger, younger, and more energetic.

And, you will be pleased to hear, my testicles did not shrivel up like prunes in the dehydrator. This cannot be said for Jose Canseco. I recently watched a real life special about him (this was before I was on the roids and could sit through a 2 hour show about a self-indulged jerk). He goes to his doctor who tells him that his body is no longer creating semen. The doctor is not sure if this is a result of years of steroid abuse, or a side-effect of his affair with Madonna. As cruelly Darwinian as this seems, it is good news to those of us who shuddered at the thought of generations of Jose Cansecos coming down the pipe, so to speak……one and done.

No doubt, the list of side-effects is daunting. It includes such things as thinning skin, puffy face, seizures, black stool, unusual hair growth, severe dizziness, trouble breathing, unusual skin growths, trouble sleeping, and the most mysterious, to me anyway, “coffee-ground” vomit. I have made sure to double filter my coffee for the time I am on the drug. Oddly, it does not include back-acne, which is what we are led to believe coaches and trainers look for to spot steroid abusers in the locker room. If back acne was a felony, I would have been incarcerated between the ages of 16 and 25.

It can also cause delusions (of grandure in A-Rod's and Canseco's cases). I only had one experience of this which occured when I sat down at the dinner table and checked to see if I had my seat belt fastened.

Unfortunately, I have to go off. It has sent my blood pressure skyrocketing. I would rather have inflammation in a facial nerve than run the risk of my head exploding. You have to wean yourself gradually though because, according to the directions,“some conditions may become worse when this drug is suddenly stopped.” Depression is also a possibility caused by suddenly waking up back in a crapped out, aching, 64 year old body.

It was fun while it lasted though and I can see why it appeals to the professional athletes. I wish I could have stayed on it until we went to Florida in March. I bet the roids would have added 20 yards to my golf drive.

It might have been worth thinning skin, unusual hair growth and raisin nuts to accomplish that feat.

George Clooney Doesn't Live Here Anymore

2009-02-17T10:32:00.000-08:00

I have had a significant surge in readership lately.

My first thought was that with everyone out of work, people have more time to spend reading inane blogs. I was sure every blogger benefited from this, since a rising tide raises all blogs. However, an analysis of Site Meter revealed that all of the new readers arrived at my site by Googling the words “George Clooney hair”, or some variation thereof.

This took them to my post entitled “George Clooney Stole My Haircut.” Even though I am sure they didn’t stick around, I was glad they stopped by. Still I am puzzled that so many people would be Googling for info on Clooney’s hair with a persistence that would take them through twenty pages of results before they came to my reference.

Then my Inner Cynic weighed in: “Wise up. I am sure every part of Clooney’s anatomy is Googled thousands of times a day.”

He suggested that I test his hypothesis by Googling “George Clooney lower intestine.”
“I am sure you will find a You Tube video of his most recent colonoscopy,” he said.

Wrong, Oh Wise Ass! All that came up were several bloggers who compared sitting through a Clooney movie with getting a colonoscopy. Not that those young twerps would have a clue. Take it from the voice of experience: any Clooney movie is better than a colonoscopy. However, I wouldn’t quibble with anyone who would prefer the procedure to this blog.

Oddly, a sponsored link offered me one free minute to search for George Colon. I almost bit, but decided he couldn’t be that well hidden if it would only take a minute to find him. Besides, I have better things to do than prowl the bowels of the internet in search of Mr. Colon.

Another link high on the page took me to a story about how George was grieving the death of his pet pig; an animal that slept with him for eighteen years at his Hollywood mansion. I didn’t finish the article for fear I might stumble upon the reference to the lower intestine of either Mr. Clooney or his dead pig.

I feel badly for the all the legitimate Cloonian scholars, who while seeking to expand humanity’s understanding of the great man’s hair, have wasted valuable research minutes by becoming entangled in this content deprived blog.

However, I have no sympathy to waste on those who arrived here seeking to copy the coiffeur that George and I apparently share. To those pathetic wretches I say: Get a Howie Mandel and leave us alone!

Of course, the down side of posting this blog is that every low life and sleaze ball seeking the scoop on Clooney’s lower intestine or his relationship with his deceased pig will wind up here. To them I say: welcome, new readers.

Valentine's Day in Califon

2009-02-13T17:44:00.001-08:00

Enough said.
HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY TO ALL

The Hustler

2009-02-09T06:33:00.001-08:00

Okay, here is the new career plan…..I am going to become a TV pitchman.

If Billy Mays can do it, so can I. He sells everything from toilet bowl cleaner to health insurance by being fat, obnoxious and shrill. I have two out of the three down AND AM ALREADY WORKING ON THE THIRD.

I saw recently that he was voted the most annoying man on television. This is a little bit like being named the toughest guy in Rahway state prison: an amazing accomplishment considering the ferocity of the competition.

Or how about the skinny schlemiel who hawks the Shamoo? This appears to be a chunk of foam that he puts through its paces mopping up spills, drying off bodies, etc. He makes a big deal about the fact that it was invented by the Germans: that’s right, the people who brought you the Third Reich have now revolutionized spill clean up.

There are also several Australians out there pushing a variety of useless products as well. There is something about the abrasiveness of an Aussie accent that seems to lend itself to the hard sell.

One is selling the Point and Paint which is a piece of foam (again) pasted on something that looks like the pointer on a Ouigi board. You dip it in the paint and push it around the wall in whatever way the spirits move you.

Although there seems to be a recent surge in the number of pitchmen working on TV, the profession is as old as the medium itself, and has been parodied for almost as long. Who can forget Johnny Carson’s Art Fern character pushing Dickie the Stick (“It’s a bat, it’s a gun, it’s a light sword. It’s Dickie the Stick. No batteries required.”), or Dan Akroyd’s unscrupulous huckster with his dangerous toy, “Bag O’ Broken Glass”?

The current crop of products is almost as ridiculous. My favorite is the blanket that has sleeves. Is it my imagination or does this thing makes everyone wearing it look a little creepy, like the last survivors of the Hale Bopp comet sect?

If I am going to pursue this, I too will need product.

One thought is to improve upon the gadget that you plug into your wall and via high frequency audio signals drives out vermin. My version would send your in-laws scurrying by broadcasting Billy Mays shouting: “Get out! Get out before I kill you.”
A simple flip of a switch would get your lazy teenagers out of the house by blaring Celine Dion’s greatest hits.

Grapefruit technology is another area that could be a good product niche for me. I recently started eating grapefruit again in another pathetic effort to lose weight. I had forgotten how annoying it is to eat one of these things. By the time you separate one of the little chunks from its mooring, it has disappeared; or you get a mouthful of pulpy white material that separates the chunks, all the while spraying juice all over yourself. All the smart bomb technology we developed while slaughtering thousands of Iraqi’s will seem worth it when folks try my laser guided grapefruit knife.

My “Erecto Detecto Necktie” is another sure fire winner. This product turns blue and let’s your date know when your Viagara has kicked in. All by itself it could revive the sagging fortunes of the necktie industry.

Another innovative product is my designer name tags. Seniors can affix these attractive items to their outerwear and will no longer have to be calling each other Hon and Buddy whenever they meet. A casual glance downward serves as a useful reminder of your own identity, should that be necessary.

So I have the goods, now I have to get the price down to $19.95.

George Clooney Stole My Haircut

2009-02-01T07:22:00.000-08:00

I got a good haircut. I know…stop the presses.

However, it is a big deal because it is the first good haircut I have gotten since I evacuated New York.

I have worn my hair the same way for the last 30 years: short on the sides, long enough on top to lay flat, shoved to the side with no part. The beauty of it is that after stepping out of the shower, a quick squeegee with the palm of my hand is all it takes to put things in order. Same deal when I take my hat off. No comb necessary. No gel or mousse needed.

Mr. C, my barber of thirty years ago suggested it, I think, to save himself from wrestling with my unruly locks, which I wore long at the time. His shop was located on Lexington Avenue about a block from office. I used to get there a half hour before my appointment to catch up on all the fine articles in his enormous stack of Penthouse and Swank magazines.

Unfortunately, he died about twenty years ago leaving me bereft and barberless. After a long string of bad haircuts, I landed in Ana’s chair at Super Cuts. She is from Guiana and may be the only stylist in Manhattan who was eaten by an alligator as a child. I take that back. There probably are many others. She was sitting by the canal near her house when a gator grabbed her leg and pulled her in. Lucky for my hair and I, her dad leaped in and pulled her from its clutches.

She automated my haircut by using her electric shears to do the sides and back and only using her scissors on top. I was either #2 or #3 on her shears depending on the time of year: shorter in summer, longer in winter. I took a haircut with her right before I left New York. By the way, my Dad used to always say he “took” a haircut. Of course, I would always say “who did you take it from?”

Anyway, I hate getting a haircut. It stems from my childhood when my dad would take me to his barber, Mike, who was either inept or a sadist. He would chop my ears with the scissors and scratch the back of my neck with whatever else he was using. When he went to work with his straight razor on the back of my neck, I held my breath in terror. When he was finished mauling me, he would dust me off and say to Dad: “Looks like Jerry has been playing with the kitty cat again. He’s all scratched up.” Of course, my dad knew we didn’t have a cat, but he also knew he was next, so he didn’t say anything. He didn’t do much better. For some reason, his haircut always came out lopsided so that he looked like he was walking on the side of a hill. Sometimes he had sideburns, sometimes not. On one occasion, he had a sideburn on one side and not on the other. His hair was cut short on one side and left long on the other, so that he looked like a completely different person depending on which way he was facing you.

My hair has always been unruly. My mother tried everything known to the science of the time to tame it. She drowned it in Vitalis and slicked it down with Brylcream. Take my word; a little dab didn’t do me. Finally, she found a substance that resembled human nasal excretion in color and consistency. Even my very ladylike mother said "let's get some snot on your hair" as she liberally applied it to my head each morning. This stuff dried as hard, stiff and impervious as varnish. My knitted cap came off my head molded in the shape of my hair, dashing pompadour and all.

It stayed where it was put. All except the cowlick on the back of my head which used to erupt each morning during arithmetic. I could feel it snapping to attention but knew there was nothing I could do to restrain it once it had gained its freedom.

I gave up on my hair as soon as I had anything to say about the matter and wore a crew cut throughout my high school and college years. In the sixties and early seventies, I succumbed to the long hair trend. This was an unfortunate choice for me as the many photos of the era prove. My daughter once asked after looking at our wedding pictures: “Dad, would it have killed you to get a haircut for your own wedding?” I had to explain that it was the style. However, I must admit that it was also a style that played into my distaste for visiting the barber regularly. It was never that long anyway because as soon as it reached the top of my ears it would curl upward in what I think the ladies refer to as a flip. The flip going horizontal and the cowlicks going vertical made my outsize head resemble one of the early mobiles of Alexander Calder: very sculptural,but a few too many moving parts.

The Mr. C fixed everything with the haircut and it has served me very well even as my hair has thinned and grayed.

However, none of the stylists and barbers within a ten mile radius of Califon could duplicate it. One even managed to reactivate my long dormant cowlick much to Kathie’s amusement who commented when it sprang up in all its glory: “My God, I haven’t seen that in years.”

This week I decided to try the shop in Hackettstown. The barber, a brassy blonde woman about my age, listened patiently as I went though my explanations of shears settings, etc. Then she looked at me and said as though belaboring the obvious: “You want a George Clooney.” I could not summon a mental picture of what Clooney’s hair looked like. She produced a photo and sure enough he had my haircut. He pushes his forward rather than to the side, but other than that it’s the same deal.

I was stunned and mortified. All these years’ people have been thinking that I have been trying to look like George Clooney. In my head I could hear their whispered comments: “Look at that old guying trying to look like Clooney. It’s going to take more than a haircut to pull that off.”

Clooney, you bastard, you have everything why do you have to have my haircut?

When you see him on Oprah and he mentions that he took a haircut, you will know who he took it from.

Inaugural Thoughts

2009-01-21T10:37:00.000-08:00

I didn’t get invited to the Inauguration.

Athough I am the sole proprietor of this “highly influential” blog, I was passed over once again.

I watched it on TV most of the day because Kathie took both sets of car keys with her to work.

I wonder if Ann Coulter was there. I didn’t see her. For a fleeting minute I had the shocking thought that she was Biden’s date. Turns out it was his wife.

Martha Stewart attended. She made a point of boasting about it on her show (note: I don’t sit around watching Martha all day long, just at lunch). She explained that Obama “owed her one” because some insider stock tips she gave him paid off big time and helped him launch his Senate campaign. I heard that since she was the first person released from Gitmo, they were signaling that the healing had started.

What was up with Aretha’s hat? My sources tell me that she was trying to make a statement about alternative energy. Those big propellers on top of her lid were supposed to turn in the wind and power her teleprompter. It didn’t work that’s why she had to substitute the lyrics with a series of impromptu shrieks and bellows.

My son thought the Yo Yo Ma and Isaac Pearlman tune was the theme from Star Wars.
My wife tells me that, actually, it is an old Shaker piece. The Shakers were a religious group that practiced celibacy, went into ecstatic trances, and did an early version of the Hokie Pokie during their services. And we thought the Bushes were weird.

How bad was that poem? It didn’t even rhyme. I suggested that Martha and Snoop Dogg could team up as they did at the Grammys a few years ago and deliver a hip hop offering.
I even wrote it for them:

Hey there, Barack
Time to go on the attack
Give Al Qaeda a whack
Be like Kennedy, as in Jack
Get the US back on track
Send George Bush to Iraq
Give them bankers another stack
Where’d you get that suit?
Off the rack?
I am still waiting for them to get back to me.

Who screwed up the oath? Apparently Chief Justice Roberts thought he could “ad lib” the words to the hallowed oath. My sources say he also ad libs his legal opinions when Judge Judy is not available for consultation.

How cool was that car? With all those darkened windows, blue and red strobes and flashing lights I expected it to start bouncing and playing salsa music every time it stopped.

The downer for the day was poor Ted Kennedy. I hope he is okay. Although I know from when I used to plan events, if you get enough old guys in the same room, one of them is bound crap out. The fact that not one, but two, went face down in their fruit salad shows how many tottering old guys there are in Congress.

I guess Tom Brokaw didn’t check out all of the old timers at the lunch because he kept going on about how Obama’s election was a generational change. Seems we Boomers are out and gen x or y or whatever is now in. Hang on!! We just got here. The Greatest Generation has been in power for like 80 years, but it looks like we are two presidents and done. I think he is just greasing the old promotional machinery for another of his best selling generation books.

Well, I think I will go check in with Martha and see if she managed to get Hillary’s cookie recipe.

64

2009-01-15T11:26:00.000-08:00

Last week was my 64th birthday. A lovely day celebrated in the company of old friends.
Of course, the Beatles tune “When I’m Sixty Four” has been running through my head ever since.

I wonder why they chose 64? Is it an age that has special significance in English culture? Maybe it just fit their rhyme scheme better, although I find it hard to believe that John and Paul couldn’t rhyme anything they chose. At any rate, Sixty-four is a landmark now simply because the Beatle made it one.

My original idea for this blog was to re-write the Beatle’s song from the perspective of one who has reached that hoary age rather than a young man looking from afar. However, you cannot improve upon perfection. The Beatles got it right the first time.

When I get older losing my hair,
Many years from now,
Will you still be sending me a valentine
Birthday greetings bottle of wine?

If I'd been out till quarter to three
Would you lock the door,
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
When I'm sixty-four?

oo oo oo oo oo oo oo oooo
You'll be older too, (ah ah ah ah ah)
And if you say the word,
I could stay with you.

I could be handy mending a fuse
When your lights have gone.
You can knit a sweater by the fireside
Sunday mornings go for a ride.

Doing the garden, digging the weeds,
Who could ask for more?
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
When I'm sixty-four?

Every summer we can rent a cottage
In the Isle of Wight, if it's not too dear
We shall scrimp and save
Grandchildren on your knee
Vera, Chuck, and Dave

Send me a postcard, drop me a line,
Stating point of view.
Indicate precisely what you mean to say
Yours sincerely, Wasting Away.

Give me your answer, fill in a form
Mine for evermore
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
When I'm sixty-four?

Whoo!

Of Buffleheads and Barnacles

2009-01-07T06:32:00.000-08:00

There was a bufflehead in Califon the other day.

For the avian challenged, a bufflehead is a small duck. It is, in fact, the smallest diving duck in the United States. It was bobbing along in the river all by itself like a bath toy. Bufflehead is the name we humans have given these creatures. I would not call anyone a bufflehead unless I had a distinct height and weight advantage, as we clearly do in this case. We don’t know what they call themselves, but if they are as self-centered as us I’m sure it translates from the duck as something like God’s Chosen Birds.

These are uncommon but not rare here in Califon. The big news though is the annual arrival of the Barnacle Goose. This rare Asian bird has arrived around Christmas for the last several years. It comes with an entourage of hundreds of migrating Canadian geese which makes spotting it like finding a needle in a haystack.

This causes great excitement in the “birding community.” The web sites chirp and the e-mails twitter with hourly updates on the bird’s whereabouts. Birders come from miles around eager to add this prize plum to their life list. This is a list of every bird that a particular birder has seen in his lifetime. You don’t need photos or corroborating witnesses to add a bird to your list. In fact, you don’t actually need to see the bird; hearing it suffices.

It seems to me that bad birders like myself probably have more impressive life lists than our more adept counterparts, since we often see and hear birds that we don’t actually see and hear. It’s not that we are dishonest, its that when two birds look or sound alike, it is much more satisfying to opt for the more exotic.

Professional birders, or ornithologists as they like to be called, do this as well. Witness the flap over the Ivory Billed Woodpecker. Several experts have persuaded themselves that they have seen this presumably extinct creature. Others say they have seen the common Pileated Woodpecker and opted for the exotic. Hey, if O.J. can persuade himself that he didn’t do what everyone else knows he did, it’s no big deal for some professor to convince himself he has seen a defunct woodpecker.

It also speaks to the pace of life in this community that the big mid-winter event is the arrival of a goose. Groups of people wearing binoculars stroll the riverbank. Carloads of them cruise about asking locals for the latest goosian gossip.

Most locals couldn’t tell a Barnacle Goose from their sister-in-law but for a few precious days we are the Keepers of the Goose and special.

I, have in fact, seen the goose. Frankly, it isn’t all that exciting. It’s a little smaller and darker than a Canadian, but stands out about as much as a Bosnian in a crowd of Serbs.

Of course, the wet blankets at the Audubon Society are having none of it. They will not accept it in their annual Christmas bird count because they say that it is an escapee from a private collection rather than a true immigrant.

I say bully for the Barnacle and more reason to celebrate the gaggle of Canadians who, rather than “cleansing” him, have accepted him as one of their own. It’s nice of them to drop in on us at Christmas. Maybe they have room in their midst for a wayward Bufflehead.

Things I Won't Miss About the Holidays

2008-12-31T11:39:00.000-08:00

Well, they are all gone…..and I miss them. The kids, the grandchild, spouses, boyfriends have all moved on after a warm and happy holiday visit. On the whole it was a very successful and satisfying time. All major family groups and sub-groups were checked in with. Friends were wined and dined.

Still, as I sit in my easy chair gazing at the Christmas tree wondering whether I will put it out for the birds or just chuck it for pick-up, it occurs to me there are things I won’t miss about Christmas.

Father Bill’s Holiday Homily. We all pack up and head for Mass on Christmas Eve at the local parish. It is, in general, a very pleasant if not inspiring event: great decorations and good music are the highlights. The low-light is the pastor’s Christmas sermon. Any presentation (or at least the two I attend annually) usually contains references to the latest motion pictures, sometimes including reviews, and also to bodily functions. This year the theme was water and the good man was linking water with the divinity. He is not the first to do this. The Druids did it several thousand years ago and burned at the stake for it. He also did a clinical description on how our bodies use and excrete water. How this tied in to the higher message, I am not sure. The classic in this genre was the Jesus Farts homily he delivered a number of years ago. Granted, he was trying to make the point that Jesus was a human being, but he could have done it in a way that didn’t send the first three rows of the faithful into cardiac arrest.

Eating. Each year prior to the holidays I sit myself down for a lecture that goes like this:
“Look you do not have to shove everything that comes down the pike in the next two weeks in your pie hole. It’s embarrassing that you are always the guy with two plates at the buffet. Really, no one else even eats fruit cake. Do you really need three slices?” However, when the festivities start the little Christmas elf that lives in my hypothalamus starts to sing: “We need another cupcake, right this very minute….”

Snow. We have had more than our share of ice and snow this holiday season and I hate every infernal chunk and flake of it. Whenever guests are expected, I have to make sure every square inch of the place is shoveled and sanded and then hold my breath that someone doesn’t fall and test the boundaries of my home owners insurance. Every time I hear Bing whining about a white Christmas, I think that he didn’t deserve to die on a warm, sunny California golf course, but should have perished in a bone crushing fall on a snow covered Jersey walkway.

Christmas cards. The politics of Christmas cards in our household would give a Hapsburg diplomat the heebeejeebies. Weeks before the big day we review our lists and axe those people who have not sent us a card for two years. This is kindly Kathie’s policy. I have more of a hair trigger when it comes to non-senders and one slip up would dispatch them. Then there are the people on our list who send us a card every year, but we have either forgotten who they are, or never knew in the first place. We considered striking these people this year, but when Kathie mentioned a few names she was considering lopping, I countered by saying they sounded like my relatives and, in fairness, we should also strike some of the unknown that sounded like her relatives as well. A stalemate resulted and they all stayed.

Trips to the mail box are filled with angst or anger: either we will get a card from someone we didn’t include, or worse, realize we are not going to get a card from someone to whom we sent. I hope those rats realize they have entered their one year probationary period. Our response to getting a card from someone to whom we did not send depends on when we get the card. A few weeks before Christmas, and we fire one off to them, even if we don’t know who they are. A few days before the holiday and we are flumfloxxed. In our household, senders of cards that come after Christmas go on the probationary list because it is obvious that they only sent us one because we sent them one. Kathie has proposed that we either send e-cards or New Year’s cards to those we omitted. I don’t think e-cards count because you can’t clutter up the mantel and window sills with them like you can with real cards. Those who receive a New Year’s card will be pissed because they will think they have to send us one next year at a time when they believe they are clear of the whole stinking card mess.

The FedEx Guy. The regular delivery guy has a hard time finding our house, the holiday reinforcements are hopeless. We wind up chasing our packages all over creation. This year one showed up at our door with a nice and expensive looking package. A Wii, I’m thinking. Needless to say, it was not for us. On the way out, he backed over the spotlight that was a key element in my outdoor lighting display. We need another cupcake, right this very minute.

Naked Jen Aniston and Me

2008-12-20T06:57:00.000-08:00

Jennifer Aniston appears on the Cover of the January 09 issue of GQ Magazine naked save a strategically placed necktie.

This apparently is big news. A few nights ago she presented the tie to David Letterman on live TV. This apparently is even bigger news.

This story caused a media firestorm. Just google “Aniston tie” and you will get some idea of what I am talking about.

I will not belabor the injustice of it all: you and I labor mightily at whatever we do and no one seems to notice, while Ms Aniston drops drawers and the world has an aneurism.

Still, I heard the sound of opportunity knocking. I have a web site, www.shirtsandties.org, that offers advice to men on how to dress and present a professional appearance. Not that they are interested. So far it has been about as successful as this blog. Still I saw the opportunity to ride Jen’s coattails (this is what is called a figure of speech since she wasn’t wearing a coat. I was going to say piggy-back but it sounded lurid.)

So I issued the following press release:

Aniston Could Have Found
A Match for That Tie
New York- Jennifer Aniston, who appeared naked on the cover of the January 09 issue of GQ Magazine wearing only a tie, could have benefited from a visit to www.shirtsandties.org the new fashion advise for guys web site.

“Obviously, she couldn’t find a shirt or suit to go with that boldly patterned necktie,” says Gerald Andersen, founder of www.shirtsandties.org and former Executive Director of the Men’s Dress Furnishings Association. “If she had visited my site and played the matching game, she would have realized that there are many stripe, plaid and check patterned shirts that coordinate beautifully with that tie.” The matching game is an interactive feature of the site that teaches visitors how to match patterned ties with patterned shirts.

He also takes issue with her choice of pattern. “The tie is the most expressive item of male apparel. You can find a tie that expresses any taste or personal interest,” he notes.
“If she had gone with a Labrador retriever theme tie, she could have gotten in a subtle plug for her new movie, Marley and Me. Women, who always look at a man’s tie, would have noticed and said ‘Hey, let’s go see that movie’ .”

“Clearly, the look works for her, but a guy showing up for a job interview similarly attired is going to have a problem,” Mr. Andersen cautions. Shirtsandties.org also has tips and advice on how to dress for a job interview.

Since the tie is unknotted, she seems to have issues in this important accessorizing step.
Once again, shirtsandties.org comes to the rescue with step-by-step tie knotting directions. “Halle Berry, who appeared on the cover of the November Esquire wearing only a jacket, bra, and tie, got it right. The tie was perfectly tied and dimpled.”

###

Pretty slick, huh? I, of course, expect an avalanche of press on this and am already picking out my tie for the Letterman appearance. Either that or I will get a cease and desist from her lawyers.

The Holiday Party

2008-12-16T12:57:00.000-08:00

I went into to New York City last week to attend the holiday party of an association of which I had been a member for many years.

After I was no longer working, I let my membership lapse. So I plopped down 85 bucks to attend as a non-member thinking it money well spent to touch base with old friends and network in the forlorn hope it may lead to employment.

The party was held at the shopping mall of the Time Warner Center in the showroom of a consumer electronics company. I was later told by one of the attendees that this is the latest trend in event planning: holding activities in commercial sites like stores and malls. I guess it makes sense because no one is using the stores anyway.

I made my way through the holiday shoppers and tourists and went up the escalator to the party site. I picked up my name tag and checked it out. In big letters it said “Gerald” and on the line below my full name. In the space where a company affiliation appears it had my name again. At least it didn’t say “Consultant” which is badge-speak for “Unemployed.” I scanned the crowd for familiar faces. There were few because, in a cost saving move, our group was co-sponsoring with several others. I spotted our Executive Director, a man I have known for 20 years, and went over to say hello. As I approached he smiled the tentative smile of the lost as his eyes went straight for my name tag. Either he was checking out my unique badge, or it was a case of out of association, out of mind.

It was an unpromising beginning. I wandered off to the men’s room. To get there you have to leave the cordoned area and mingle with the Uninvited. After washing up, I searched for a paper towel or blower. On the wall was a gizmo that resembled the kind of pants press you occasionally find in hotel rooms. I reasoned that this must be a hand press. I hesitated to put my hands in the device as I feared it would grip me and I might not be able to figure out how to release it. I would be trapped in the men’s facility. I had a flashback to the first grade when I inadvertently locked myself in the boy’s room stall and Sister Anita Therese had to crawl under the door to get in and release me. I will never forget the sight of her habit encased head glaring up sternly at me from the bathroom floor.

I dried my hands on my handkerchief.

As I was leaving, a homeless man was entering. He must have been going in to wash up and try out the new hand press because it was obvious from his cachet that he had already taken care of business.

Back at the party, I headed for the bar. My friend, David, greeted me there with the sobering news that they were not serving red wine. This is our libation of choice at these gatherings. I asked the bartender for an explanation and was told that red wine could not be served because it might stain the floor.

This left us bemused because the floor appeared to be some sort of industrial grade composite stone that people nowadays insist on having on their kitchen counters and the exact same stone that is used throughout the mall. If red wine can damage the material, I shudder to think what would happen if the homeless guy, a veritable walking sack of stone staining toxins, downloaded upon the stuff.

After chatting with old associates in the bar area, David and I wandered into the showroom where the younger attendees were playing with the many devices and gizmos on display. Since I couldn’t figure out the hand dryer, I thought it best to refrain from this activity. The last thing New York needs is another black out.

I asked a friend where she got the stuffed animal she was carrying. As a new grandfather, and an unemployed one, I am always on the prowl for free toys. She said if you have your picture taken with Santa he gives you a toy. After determining that I didn’t have to sit on his lap, I submitted to this procedure. Santa asked if I had been good and what I wanted for Christmas. I gave him an honest reply: a Porsche Boxter. He gave a jolly ho-ho and said: “Everyone has been asking for peace and prosperity. Finally someone has asked for some good shit.”

The resulting picture of two red faced, bearded, overweight, old men was too terrifying to ever show my grandson, or my wife.

I shoved the stuffed toy in my pocket and went forth into the cold New York night.

50

2008-12-11T10:22:00.000-08:00

This is my fiftieth blog.

That’s right the big Five-Oh.

When I started back in March, it was my goal to reach this number. Of course, I thought I would be picked up by New Yorker Magazine or the talent hunters in the book biz, who I assumed regularly prowled the internet, long before I reached it.

And since I tend to live in my own little world, I thought that blogging, while not a unique thing to do, was at least somewhat unusual. This is not true. There are a lot of bloggers out there. I have recently learned that there are 13 right here in town who are signed up at Blogspot. Califon has a population of 1,300 which means that one per cent is blogging. Sounds like a small number but if one per cent of the American citizenry is blathering away, it means there are 3 million bloggers out there from Blogspot alone.

One more thing about numbers: according to my SiteMeter, about 1,200 people have read these pages since I started. Of course, you have to factor in that SiteMeter counts me every time I go on to see who has been on. Since I do this about 10 times a day, this thins out the crowd of Wry Bother aficionados considerably. In fact, I suspect it produces a popularity rating for my efforts of near Bushian proportions.

I am aware that there are ways to pump up my readership. Writing about things that people are interested in would surely help. Using key words that people might Google is another way of suckering in readers. I noticed that many misguided souls seeking information about Irritable Male Syndrome land here because it is a subject about which I have written. I recently read that “sex”, “money”, and “big tits” are three of the most frequently Googled words. There, I’ve just increased my readership.

Had you read this, you might well have asked: “Jerry, which of your 50 (congratulations, by the way) essays is your favorite?” That would have been a very good question. I would have responded by saying that I like them all, but have a special fondness for “The Unemployment Office” (July 12) because that actual event was so surreal that the piece wrote itself. Weigh in with your choice and I may actually re-run it, thus sparing myself several hours of needless effort.

I will end with a poem (maybe someone Googling “doggerel” will land here) to mark this special occasion.

Happy 50th, Wry Bother, my favorite spot,
Full of wit, humor, and Tommy-rot.
There is no quit in this old dog
As my laptop I happily flog
Grinding out wit and drivel in equal measure
Because in so doing I take great pleasure.
It’s fine to be stroked by an adoring nation,
But there’s much to be said for self-gratification.

Deck the Walls

2008-12-04T10:48:00.000-08:00

The outside Christmas decorations went up yesterday.

No Griswaldian displays for us, we are low key all the way. The colored light vs. white light dispute was resolved years ago when the colored adherents, the kids, left the premises.

Here are the Outside Decoration Commandments:
. Large wreath with white lights on gable end of the house highlighted by spot light.
. Large fir tree at front corner of house draped with white lights.
. Electric candles in every window.
. Spotlight highlighting front of house.
. Wreath on front door.
. Spotlighted wreath on barn.
. Skating frogs in front yard pond.

It takes me just moments to list these because I know them by heart. This is the way it is every year. My family is very tradition oriented when in comes to holiday trappings. If there is deviation from the scriptures above it will be commented on, noted, and complained about. I am as bad as anyone, I guess, because Christmas feels incomplete unless everything is in its assigned place.

The wreath in the gable is the keystone of our scheme and it is the most acrobatic installation I face. It requires my climbing to the porch roof, then to the kitchen roof, and from there, via stepladder, up to the gable. It’s easy enough in nice weather, but a challenge when there is snow on the roof. I take great care to avoid creating a headline like “Local Man Dies in Tragic Holiday Fall” for my neighbors to tsk and cluck over.

We like to think that the spotlighted wreath against the stone of the house creates a look that would please Andrew Wyeth……or at least Jamie Wyeth.

Placing the spotlight to shine on the front of the house is easy, but takes some tweaking. I know I have got it right when guests leaving the front door throw their arms over their eyes and stagger blindly down the path. One told me once that he thought he had stepped out into a police raid.

The real challenge is getting the lights on the tree at the corner of the house. Kathie suggested that I might not want to attempt it this year which inspired me all the more to do just that. I refuse to make compromises to age and circumstances, particularly when it comes to holiday decorating.

I used to be able to get all the lights on from a stepladder. However, the rapid growth of the tree combined with my equally rapid shrinkage has forced me to change my strategy. I duct tape two broom handles to a scrubbing brush, place the light cord on the brush and hoist it to the top of the tree. I then feed more cord and place it with the brush until I get to a point where I can finish flatfooted. I originally tried a rake but the wire would get tangled on the tines. The brush works nicely because it holds the wire in place without gripping it. So if you got to this page by Googling “putting lights on a tall outside tree”, I hope this helps.

Last year I wound up with the female end of the light string at the bottom. In some human endeavors female on bottom or on top is equally satisfactory. However, in tree light stringing it is an irreversible error. I had to start over.

Things went smoothly this year, though the damn tree swallows lights like a black hole. I ended up with about 1200 bulbs. Still, the total impact is worth it. Kathie said that the effect was so dramatic that it should be the town tree.

Not to boast, but she is right. The present town tree is a forlorn little fir that sits at the edge of the funeral parlor parking lot.

It used to be a modest, but handsome, tree next to the railway station museum. However, the gas company pronounced it a threat to its line that ran underneath and lopped it down. This was a tad on the Scrooge-ish side since it did not seem to bother them that the path of the line soon proceeds straight into a forest where it is surrounded by 40 foot trees.

However, caroling at the Califon tree lighting in the very shadow of the funeral parlor adds a gravitas to the festivities that visitors to the Rockefeller Center event never get to experience.

My Thanksgiving Gift to America

2008-11-25T13:55:00.001-08:00

I am the cause of the collapse of gas and oil prices.

Call this version of chaos theory the Andersen Effect.

Just as the Butterfly Effect posits that a butterfly flapping its wings in Guatemala causes a typhoon in Malaysia, my decision to purchase an expensive wood stove has sent the global petroleum market tumbling.

Back in the summer, when heating oil was around four bucks a gallon, Kathie and I decided to seek an alternate means of heating our house. With an old stone house and oil heat we were facing potentially devastating heating bills this winter. I crunched the numbers based on our usual consumption and panicked.

I envisioned that the only way we could stay warm was sweating over how to pay the oil tab. Based on the numbers I came up with, Kathie and I could close the house up and move to Florida for the winter for free. However, since I have a working wife this was not a possibility. I couldn’t persuade her that we could at least save half by shipping just me and my golf clubs south.

We decided on a wood pellet stove insert for our dining room fireplace. This is a very expensive piece of equipment costing twice as much as the new oil furnace we put in a few years. However, based on the price of oil at the time I calculated a two year payback on the investment.

In August, we purchased our stove from a local merchant. We were not the only ones seeking alternate solutions to heating problems, so the stove we wanted was backordered. We made a down payment and were assigned an October 31 installation date.

Since that time the price of oil has marched steadily downward.

I also learned that since I did my research, which included investigating the supply and price of wood pellets, a pellet shortage had developed. Of course, the prices shot upward as well.

Another sign that things may not be going our way was the freak blizzard that arrived on our delivery day postponing it for a week.

Finally, the thing was installed. I was informed that I could not use it until it had been inspected by the local fire officer. After it passed, the installer would return and complete the hook-up. It took a week to get the fire inspector on the premises because he couldn’t find our house and then got mad at us and sulked for a few days. After five minutes of poking and prodding the thing, he pronounced it passed.

I called the stove merchant and for another week could get no one to return my calls. On one occasion, the aged proprietor put the phone down with me onboard and wandered off to tend customers. He never returned.

Finally I decided that a trip to the store was in order. After all, these people install woodstoves, a mid-nineteenth century technology, and obviously hadn’t caught up with phones and the like.

After launching into my grumpy old man routine, it was agreed the installer would be back the next day to complete the work. Mike, a nice and eager, though somewhat disorganized young man, completed the task.

For two days the stove did its thing. It made noises like the boiler room of the Titanic in its death throes, but it heated the house. On the third day it stopped.

Mike returned and pronounced the heat distribution blower dead. This thing apparently has more blowers than the Tijuana Brass. He said he had some coming in and would return on Monday with a new one. I waited all day but he failed to appear. I guess his horse and wagon broke down.

He arrived today and after much grunting and groaning got the thing up and running again. It didn’t inspire my confidence when I asked if he thought this would take care of the problem and he responded: “I know as much about these things as the next guy.”

As the price of oil continues to drop, I find myself in the awkward position of rooting for a rally. At this rate my break even point is fading into my twilight years.

I guess I should feel like a good little butterfly. My decision to buy a pellet stove has enabled millions of Americans to pack up the gas guzzling SUV and head for grandma’s house this weekend after all. Happy Thanksgiving, America!

The Answers

2008-11-25T05:14:00.000-08:00

Enough of you had trouble with the quiz (see last blog) that I think it would be well worth everyone’s while going over the answers in class. Okay. Get your papers out.

The challenge was to distinguish between actual Chinese proverbs and the faux variety coined by your humble instructor.

Here we go:
1. Beat your gong and sell your candles. This is an actual proverb. A contemporary American way of articulating it might be “advertising is an important part of your candle marketing strategy.”
2. Never link whole global economy to debt swap derivatives. This is not a Chinese proverb. Neither is it an American one, unfortunately.
3. Do not allow the sheep to die for a half-penny of tar. This one is real. I think it’s like “don’t throw the baby out with the bath water”, which is not a Chinese proverb because very often the ancient Chinese did throw the baby out with the bath water.
4. Cold water makes a limp noodle. I confess but it expresses a universal truth in any language.
5. An unhappy pig tastes the same as a happy one. This may have fooled a lot of you because it sounds like an actual proverb. Not!! I had a chicken in there first but switched to a pig when I saw I had a chicken in the next one. As the Chinese say, too many chickens spoil the proverbs.
6. The weasel comes to say “Happy New Year” to the chicken. This is the real deal and I haven’t a clue what it means. I suppose it’s like “beware of Greeks bearing gifts.” This refers to the Trojan horse. One time the Greeks screw up with a bad gift, and they hear about it for the next 3,500 years.
7. Never fart in silk pajamas. Good advise and deeper than it appears at first glance, but not a proverb.
8. Dead song birds make a sad meal. I couldn’t have made this one up.
9. Put the fat lady in the back of the row boat. Wise counseling that will be appreciated by anyone who ever put the fat lady in front, but not a proverb.
10. Do not use a hatchet to remove a fly from a friend’s forehead. Except if your friend is a debt swap derivatives trader. This one is real.
11. Don’t believe the menu, it ALL contains MSG. This is me and I stand by it: it does all contain MSG
12. Falling hurts least those who fly low. I’ll bet you thought this one was a fake because the ancient Chinese didn’t have airplanes. Gotcha! It’s not. They had kites.
13. All people are your relatives, therefore expect trouble. I WISH I had written this.
14. Never bet on the eunuch to win the Most Eligible Bachelor contest. Me, again. It’s believable because eunuchs were commonplace in the Imperial Court. Also, it’s a well known fact that the Emperor Hon Lo was addicted to Most Eligible Bachelor contests because he always won.

A Quiz

2008-11-20T10:48:00.000-08:00

Let’s do something different.

My plummeting readership, if going from four to two is considered a plummet, leads me to believe I need to shake things up a bit for you not-yet-terminally-bored survivors.

How about a quiz? First off let’s make it clear that I am unemployed and broke, so there are no prizes. If you are the sort who likes to reward each of your life’s successes by going shopping, doing well on this test is as good an excuse as any. So consider this my effort to aid the ailing economy.

In my last blog, I made up a Chinese proverb. I did this for two reasons: comic effect; and I don’t know any real Chinese proverbs. Now in my opinion any writer worth his salt can quote Chinese proverbs, although no such writers immediately come to mind.

So I decided to broaden my literary range by Googling a list of Sino-Bromides (I invented this expression because I used Chinese proverb three times in the last paragraph).

Anyway, I found a site that had over 620 of them. So here is the game: From the list of proverbs below, you have to decide which are real and which are made up by little Norwegian-Irish-German-American me. The answers will be provided at the end of my next posting. Bet that’ll bring ya back, huh?

Pencils ready. Here we go:

One more thing, this particular form of humor used to be called Confucius Say jokes and was popularized by Burma Shave road signs in the 1930’s and declared Politically Incorrect during the Carter Administration.

Okay, here we really go:

1. Beat your gong and sell your candles.
2. Never link whole global economy to debt swap derivatives.
3. Do not allow the sheep to die for a half-penny of tar.
4. Cold water makes a limp noodle.
5. An unhappy pig tastes the same as a happy one.
6. The weasel comes to say “Happy New Year” to the chicken.
7. Never fart in silk pajamas.
8. Dead song birds make a sad meal.
9. Put the fat lady in the back of the row boat.
10. Do not use a hatchet to remove a fly from a friend’s forehead.
11. Don’t believe the menu, it ALL contains MSG.
12. Falling hurts least those who fly low.
13. All people are your relatives, therefore expect trouble.
14. Never bet on the eunuch to win the Most Eligible Bachelor contest.
.

Okay. Pencils down. I hope you didn’t cheat by Googling. Confucius say person who cheat on dumb quiz is real lame-o.

By the way, don’t use the comment section to bug me for early answers. If that happens, I may decide to never release them. Remember: one bad apple spoils it for everyone.
That is not a Chinese proverb but the words of Sister Helen Maurice spoken in 1956 when she kept the whole sixth grade in because one misguided youth locked her in the stationery closet.

The Monitor

2008-11-14T18:28:00.001-08:00

My blood pressure has gone up.

I have had hypertension since senior year in college. It has been under control for years but bumped up on my last visit to the doctor. He decided that I should wear a monitor that would track my blood pressure for 24 hours before deciding if a change in medication was called for.

Nurse Phyllis fitted me out. Here’s the deal: a standard blood pressure cuff is installed on my arm and is attached by hose to a controller that hangs from my belt. As soon as she fired the thing up and it inflated, gripping my arm like a boa constrictor on steroids, I started to whimper and cry. She responded: “You have such big arms that we have to use our biggest cuff and it is still a bit too tight.” I quieted down immediately. Nurse Phyllis, a trained professional, knows that stroking a man’s ego is the best way to stop his whimpering.

She explained that the controller would beep several times before the cuff inflated. This would give me time to get my arm in position to get the best reading. It would take a reading every hour. I was to record in a preprinted log what I was doing at the time. The log had three columns labeled time, activity, and position. The position column offered only three options: standing, sitting, and lying. I suppose this would discourage people who were inclined to engage in sex while wearing this contraption from putting down things like “missionary” and “flying monkey”

As I leave, I take stock of my situation. The controller is not exactly an Ipod. It weighs at least 2 pounds and immediately starts pulling my pants south. There has to be at least six feet of hose from the controller to the cuff. Unfortunately, since the distance from the controller to the cuff on my arm is a foot or two at the most, this leaves four feet of hose hanging outside my pants.

Also to the casual observer, it looks like the hose is going down my pants and not up my shirt. I decide to forgo the trip to Shop Rite and Wal-Mart I originally planned. I really wanted to avoid hearing the following conversation on the check-out line:
First woman: “Why does that old man have a hose going into his pants?”
Second woman: “Maybe he's getting his cellar pumped."
Also, beep is an understatement. This thing sounds like a UPS truck backing up and will terrify small children and the elderly when it goes off in public.

This of course, is followed by the sight of my arm blowing up like Bruce Banner’s as he morphs into the Hulk.

I decide that the day, a rainy one anyway, is best spent on quiet activities at home.

As the hours go by I dutifully record my activities. As I read them, I begin to feel self-conscious:
1:00 PM watching TV
2:00 PM watching TV
3:00 PM watching TV
4:00 PM watching TV
Etc., etc.

When the doctor sees this he is going to think I don’t have a life. So I start zipping things up with activities like: “inventing”, “hypothesizing”, “parsing”,"dissecting" and (my favorite) “cogitating.”

Soon it is time for bed. Nurse Phyllis told me that the beeping stops automatically after 11:00, so I don’t have to worry about that. The main problems are that it is going to wake me up as it cuts off circulation to my arm, and where to park the controller and 6 feet of hose. I decide to put the controller under my pillow. I wake up during the night, but I am able to get back to sleep.

When I wake up at 7:00 AM the hose is wrapped around my neck. Kathie, all too familiar with my nightly contortions, says she is surprised I didn’t manage to get the cuff wound around my neck.

I am done. I find the off switch and shut the thing down.

As I am packing things up, I see a list of do’s and don’ts on the back of the log. It is my modus operandi to always read the directions after things have gone haywire. Sure enough, Don’t Numero Uno is “NEVER TURN THE CONTROLLER OFF UNLESS THERE IS AN EXTREME EMERGENCY.”

Oh well, I hope it is idiot proof. I have been hoping that a lot lately. I don't think I will tell Fearsome Phyllis.

I Almost Voted. I Think.

2008-11-05T08:48:00.000-08:00

Well it has happened again.

Faced with a new device that performs a well-established function, I again went into Consternation Mode. This is happening so frequently that I suspect yet another of my brain functions has wandered off. Last week it was my run in with the McCormick salt grinder (see Salt Shaker Blues). This week it was the voting booth that bamboozled me.

Like putting salt on my food, I really thought I had this one down. Califon is a small town so every vote counts. That’s why I try to vote in every election. It’s not like it’s something new to me.

And I really wanted to weigh in on this the most important Presidential election in years.
This being so important and all, you might think I would have troubled myself to read the voting instructions on the sample ballot that was mailed before the election. You would be wrong. In the first place, I don’t usually read directions unless I break something that I am operating without having read the directions. In the second place, the ballot went out with the recycling on Monday.

As I enter the electronic voting booth I am faced with the ballot. What I do not see is any obvious box or button that I can push to place my vote. Immediately I am in Consternation Mode. I resort to reading the directions. It says to push the button to the right of the candidate's name to record your vote. Still not seeing a box, I push next to the candidate of my choice’s name. A green light goes on at the top of the column, but I see no indication next to the name that I have placed my vote for him. If I push again, the green light goes off. Now I hear the impatient shuffling of feet outside the booth. I fear I am seconds away from hearing the booming voice of the chief election lady cry out “WHAT IS HE DOING IN THERE!!!.

Now I am in Panic Mode. I cannot believe that I am screwing up voting. I push a bunch of buttons, record my vote, and leave the booth. The only vote I am absolutely positive I registered was for a public question that “provides that method of selection and appointment of certain municipal judges be set by statute rather than by the constitution.” This is a very important issue I am sure, but not why I shaved and put on a clean shirt to come out and voice my opinion.

Later in the day, I am telling Elisabeth about my difficulties executing my democratic privilege. She tells me not to worry because Oprah had problems with the voting booth as well.

I wondered if her problems were similar to mine. That evening I saw an interview with her and she said she was so excited about the prospect of Obama becoming President that she was “throbbing” and “pulsating.” Well I was for Obama as well (now it can be revealed), but I was not suffering from this condition. I was in the booth long enough that I think the chief election lady suspected I was throbbing and pulsating in there, but I was not. In some situations I do throb and pulsate, like when I am thinking about my supper, but I voted in mid-morning so this was not a factor. Being familiar with the condition, I could sympathize with Oprah if she was afflicted while in the voting booth.

In any case, the election was a rout so it didn’t matter. As the old Chinese proverb says: “All leaves fly before a strong wind.” Actually, this is not a Chinese proverb. I just made it up as I am sitting here watching my neighbors strategically placed pile of leaves blow into my yard.

I am beginning to throb and pulsate.

Salt Shaker Blues

2008-10-31T15:02:00.001-07:00

Charlie, Ray and I, the tres retired amigos, took a road trip the other day out to Famous Cigars in Easton, Pa.

After loading up on enough stogies to smoke out an anti-Bush rally, we headed for lunch at a local burger joint.

When our food arrived, my first move, as usual, was to reach for the salt shaker. Don’t tell my doctor, but I put salt on everything. I would even salt my ice cream if it wasn’t for that whole melting thing.

Now in my 63 years, one thing I thought I had mastered was the use of a salt shaker.
As is my wont, I inverted the shaker and shook. Nothing came out. I realized that this was a salt grinder, not a shaker. This was something new to me. I also noticed that it had a McCormick label on it. I turned it right side up and twisted the top as one would a pepper mill. No salt was forth coming for the simple reason that there were no holes in the bottom. So, I turned it upside down and vigorously twisted the top. In the dim light, I thought I could see salt landing on my burger. Satisfied, I dug in.

Soon after, Ray, who apparently had some experience with this sort of contrivance, picked up the shaker. He turned it upside down and removed the cap. Approximately a teaspoon of freshly ground salt landed in a pile on his potato chips. “Well”, he said, “There’s all the salt Jerry ground into the cap.” This was not said in a critical or reproachful tone, but just as a statement of fact. Chagrined, all I could say was “What do you expect? I was an English major in college?”

Later, the more I thought about this the angrier I got. The old system worked for me: a couple of holes in the top of a container. No password, no PIN, no technological ability required. What is the advantage of freshly ground salt? It’s laid in the ground for a few million years. How fresh can it be? What I don’t need in my life is more opportunities to embarrass myself.

I decided, because I was mad and because I have too much time on my hands, to take this up with the folks at McCormick.

Here is a summary of the e-mail I sent them:

Dear Sirs/Madams,

I recently had an unfortunate experience with one of your products while lunching at a restaurant with my friends, Ray and Charlie. (Here follows a description of the tragic events) The teaspoon or so of salt I had ground into the cap landed on his burger rendering it inedible. Charlie was so traumatized by this that he could not finish his lunch. I, mortified by my failure to realize there was a top and for being the cause of ruining Ray’s meal, was similarly indisposed.

Now I am not seeking compensation or a free supply of McCormick products for my friends, but I would like you to explain why you would unnecessarily complicate what had always been a very simple task: salting one’s food. Do we not all face enough complications in life without adding new ones?

I would appreciate a quotable response as I would like to include in my widely read blog.

Thank you for your prompt reply.

Regards,
Jerry Andersen
Editor
Wry Bother

Now let’s examine this letter which I think is a masterpiece. Ray’s meal was not rendered inedible. The salt landed on some chips which he shook off and consumed. Charlie was not traumatized, unless mild amusement is traumatic. And nothing puts me off my feed, certainly not embarrassment. This is what I call Strategic Misrepresentation, because contrary to the next paragraph, I am, in fact, seeking compensation and/or freebies. Hey, I just priced out some McCormick’s dill and they want four bucks for a jar of dead weeds. Who’s conning who?

If I had said I was seeking compensation or free stuff, the letter would land on the desk of some lawyer who would do what all lawyers do….nothing.

By sounding like a journalist seeking the truth, they might decide to schmooze me by sending a few crate loads of over-priced herbs and spices. Pretty slick, huh?

The reference to my “widely read blog”,however, is not a Strategic Misrepresentation, but a big, fat lie.

It has been two hours since I sent this and I have still not had a reply.

Since you are probably as anxious as I to drop this subject and move on, here is what I imagine their response might be.

“Dear Mr. Andersen,

We regret your difficulties with our new Saline Delivery System. This device was extensively tested on animals in our lab before it was released into the market. Our standard is that if a chicken can operate it, the average consumer should have no problem.
In this case, we did not feel that chicken had the manual dexterity to operate the grinder so we sought out the dumbest primate we could find, in this case, the Malayan Lemur.
After one demonstration, the lemur successfully salted his nuts ten times.

While we cannot offer you free products at this time, we can offer you a position in our test lab as the lemur succumbed to hypertension.

Here is a step by step explanation of how to operate the devise (if there is a big word you don’t understand, let us know and we will send you a simpler one.)

. Remove cap by pulling upward (^)
. Turn bottle upside down (The M in McCormick should now resemble a W)
. Twist bottle neck in any direction you prefer.
. The appearance of white flakes on your food indicates salt is being dispensed.
. Reverse the procedure and replace bottle next to the pepper.”

That’s what I would write if I was their PR guy, but they may not be as snotty as I. Anyway, I have to sign off now and see if I can figure out my new talcum powder grinder.

What Howie Said

2008-10-29T13:48:00.000-07:00

The other day I learned from Howie Mandel that I have Adult Attention Deficit Disorder.

I was channel surfing when I stumbled upon Howie talking about how he was diagnosed with AADD. At least I think it was Howie. Maybe it wasn’t. Anyway he was that bald guy with an earring who hosts a quiz show that I have channel surfed through a number of times.

In any event, my attention wandered before he was finished, so I moved on. However, his discussion of the symptoms got me thinking: that’s me!

My chronic lack of organization and procrastination may stem from a certifiable disorder rather than poor potty training as I have always thought.

It also excited me to think that I may now have both a disorder and a syndrome; since Kathie insists I already suffer from Irritable Male Syndrome. Handicap license plates seem like a real possibility. No more trudging a half mile across the parking lot to get to the liquor store.

Before I let myself get too excited though, I reflected on the fact that I have been down this road many times before. It goes back to my college days in psychology 101. Each time a new neurosis or psychosis was discussed, I was sure they were talking about me. I was convinced I was a lobotomy candidate by the end of the semester and even affected a black watch cap like Jack Nicholson in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest".

My first and last step in self-diagnosis was Wikipedia. We AADD types like Wikipedia because it gives us a great deal of superficial information before we lose interest in what we are doing.

The discussion of AADD lists the 21 signs that you might have the disorder. Here are a few highlights of my self evaluation:
. Sense of underachievement. This blog sucks!
. Difficulty getting organized. My sock drawer speaks for itself.
. Chronic procrastination. Like waiting until your 63 to find out you have AADD.
. Many projects going simultaneously…poor follow-up. This is hard because I don’t have many projects going simultaneously. In fact, I don’t have any. But if I did, I know I wouldn’t be following up on them.
. Easy distractibility…..tendency to tune out in mid conversation. Kathie is nodding her head and giggling.
. Inaccurate self-evaluation. Does this mean maybe I don’t have AADD because I think I do? I’m getting a headache..

Of the 21 signs, I have myself down for 20. The only reason I don’t think I have #9, “creative, intuitive, highly intelligent”, is because I do have #19, “low self-esteem.”

Now I know what you are thinking: most everyone has these symptoms. However, you are missing the point: this is about me. If you care so much about everyone else, read their damn blogs. Sorry, please excuse my Irritable Male Syndrome.

The depressing thing is that, according to the Wikipedia article, AADD results in a loss of $77 billion in income. Even if I had been able to hang on to a just a couple billion of it, my pension would be in a lot better shape today.

Leaf Me Alone

2008-10-23T08:05:00.000-07:00

Here they come.

First they waft down in twos and threes in mid-October like scouts or pickets probing for the enemy’s weakness. Later in the month the main body arrives in their thousands, their legions, their hordes.

Falling leaves. Frank Sinatra can break your heart singing about them, and you can break your back cleaning them up. They are the price one pays for a shady yard and the magnificent display of fiery color we have been enjoying these past few weeks.

Well, the price some people pay. It seems I am the only homeowner in the area who does not have an illegal immigrant to clear up Mother Nature’s litter. I have always done my own leaves. We looked into hiring a yard service, but found they would charge $500 to clean up our modest little yard. Kathie, my wife and Finance Minister, said it would be better if I did it again. “You have nothing else to do and it would save us a lot,” she said. “It would be like working again and earning money.”

Yes, I remember those days, but frankly, I would rather have a paper route. But she is right in a way; it would be like working again: slaving away and not actually seeing the money.

Although we have a small yard, we have four large trees that spew a staggering amount of leaves into a very small space. When our kids were little, they enjoyed making huge piles and jumping off the porch roof into them. No kidding.

There are three maples, a horse chestnut, and an almost dead cherry tree. The horse chestnut is the worst. It not only puts forth leaves, but not surprisingly, chestnuts. When these fire out of the discharge port on my mower they become deadly missiles that can fell a grown man like a…..well, like a tree. I have often considered donning the kids’ old soccer shin guards to fend off the bruising chestnut wounds. I have to admit that I enjoy firing a few in the direction of our neighbor’s cat as she sashays through our yard on her way to wreak slaughter at my bird feeder. She can really levitate her fat feline ass as she dives for the trenches.

Since I know what these leaves look like, it really burns me up when I find alien species amid my native domestic crop. This means the ill winds of fortune are delivering the neighbors' output to my turf. I would like to sort each and every one out and return them with a sharply worded note. Now I am sure it works the other way as well, since I have been known to use the Prevailing Wind Direction approach to leaf cleanup. Still, it is human nature to assume one is getting the short end of the leafy stick.

We have to bag our leaves in Califon and leave them at the curb for pickup. In a typical season, I put out 50 bags of mulched leaves. Without mulching, I would probably put out more like 150 bags. This takes hours of work.

Here are the tools of my trade: leaf blower with vacuum attachment, several rakes, lawn mower and plastic garbage barrel. My modus is to blow the leaves into a pile, run the mulching mower over them, and vacuum the mulch into the bag lined barrel.

A word here about leaf blowers: I hate them. In October and November the drone of leaf blowers is the background music of our lives. My neighbor runs his 24/7. In bed at 11:00 clock we are lulled to sleep by the whine of his blower. I have to admire him though. He is a true warrior and engages each and every individual leaf in hand-to-hand combat. A leaf appears, and he is on it before it hits the ground. I prefer to let things pile up a bit before starting the mass destruction.

When people approaching the house are only visible by their hats, it is time to start leaf clean up.

I keep trading up my leaf blower. They all stink, as far as I can tell. My current model says it blows air at 230 mph. A 230 mph wind will flatten a city, but this thing can barely move you’re shoelaces, much less a leaf clinging for its survival to the grass.

I have tool envy for the commercial guys who wear these backpack blowers that look like the flame throwers the Marines used on Iwo Jima.

The powers-that-be keep making the job more difficult as well. You used to be able to burn your leaves and the fall air was filled with the pungent aroma. Plus, burning leaves was fun; at least if you were a guy for whom burning things is always fun. Now we have leaf blower gas fumes.

This year someone has decided that plastic bags are a no-no. We now must use paper bags. I bought some at the hardware store yesterday and they are more expensive than plastic, hold less, are more difficult to work with, and when filled must be stored indoors until pick-up day. So now anyone who lives close enough to the river to blow their leaves into will do so, or hire a yard service.

I will soldier on paper bags and all.

Although I sometimes wonder what would happen if I just left the leaves to their own devises. Let nature take its course. What could be more environmentally correct?

Plus I wouldn’t have to mow the damn grass in the spring.

Hung Up

2008-10-17T07:11:00.000-07:00

It was a beautiful Indian summer day in Califon. After some internal debate, I decided to go fishing. I have not been retired long enough not to feel guilt about doing recreational things during the workday. I rationalized that there would only be a few more days like this before we settle into another cold and drab winter.

So I packed my guilt and my gear and went fishing. I decided to select a spot along the river where I haven’t fished before. The area I chose was along a bend about a mile from my house. There is enough room to park one car. A trail leads through the woods to the river.

To access the trail you can either go around the guardrail through a thick undergrowth of flora bunda and poison ivy, or you can go over the rail.

The top rail is made of wood, maybe a 6x6, and is several feet off the ground. There is a drop off of a foot or so on the trail side.

I donned my chest high waders and put on my vest. During warmer months I wear shorts underneath, but today I was wearing jeans.

Since I really didn’t feel like plowing trough poison ivy, I chose to go over the rail. I often wish my body and mind would get on the same page when faced with these situations. My brain looks at things from the perspective of a thirty year old: “Leap that ditch? Sure no prob.” While my aching body is like “you gotta be kidding.”

I managed to get my left leg over the rail. I hate to admit it, but I actually had to partially lift it up to get it started. Now I was astraddle the rail with several inches between my feet and the ground.

The problem is immediately apparent. I cannot get my right leg over the rail, and, because of the drop off on the trail side, I can’t get my left leg in contact with the ground.

A touch of arthritis in my right hip is partly to blame, but my waders are the major issue.
There is no doubt that I have chubbed up a bit since I retired and because I am wearing jeans, there is little slack to be had in my waders. They are too tight for me to move either leg upward. Michelin Man, meet the guardrail.

I am hung up. Beached. Stranded.

I consider my options. I can call Kathie. She, however, is hard at work while I have gone fishing. My male pride removes this from the table.

I can flag down a passing motorist. There is little traffic on this rural road and what there is consists mainly of stay-at-home moms running errands. What woman is going to stop and check out an overweight man in the missionary position atop a guardrail? I wouldn’t want the woman to stop who would stop in such a situation.

I could fish out my cell phone and call the fire company. They could rescue me like I was a large stranded cat. With one burly lad grabbing me under the arms and one on each leg, I would be out in a flash. However, I have lived in this town many years and know most of these guys. It would be chuckled about for generations.

Also, the incident would surely make the police blotter section of the local paper.
I could see the story: The Califon fire department was called out to rescue Jerry Andersen who was stranded astride a guardrail. He was treated for acute humiliation at the scene and released.

No. I was going to have to get out of this on my own. I could just throw myself off to the right and land head first, or gimpy shoulder first, in the parking lot. A last resort.

I undid the suspenders on my waders and managed to shove them down far enough to get some slack in the legs. I was then able to lift and drag my right leg over the rail.

Free at last, free at last………

I went fishing, but I didn’t catch anything.

Driving New Jersey

2008-10-13T11:48:00.000-07:00

People in New England don’t drive like we do in New Jersey.

For example, they just mosey onto the interstate without looking. All of them. Everyone. I have even had New Englanders try to tell me that cars accessing the highway have the right-of-way and vehicles already on the road must yield. That is not the case here. In New Jersey we are taught that if you are coming onto the highway, you must speed up or slow down to merge seamlessly with the flow of traffic. This is purely theoretical of course since traffic on the interstate is usually at a complete standstill anyway.

I can see why they had to change things around in New England. The typical New England driver cannot see out his rear windshield because it is totally encrusted with Red Sox decals. Nor can he look over his left shoulder because the brim of his Sox cap will bump into his visor. Since all he can do is pull on the road and hope for the best, the states had to accept reality to prevent needless slaughter and preserve the Sox fan base.

Not that we are such great drivers in New Jersey. Our state motto should be “We Will Not Yield.” New Jersey drivers will not let another driver in… no way, no how. Drivers in other states are not so dogmatic. Despite their fearsome reputations, New York City drivers will let other cars in ahead of them. Usually they do so by swerving into the next lane and cutting that driver off who swerves into the next lane, etc., etc.

It is not so in New Jersey. Even if you innocently find yourself in a pickle because of roadwork or a stalled vehicle in your lane, Jersey drivers will not let you in. They will creep forward until their bumper is locked with the car in front. They will stare icily ahead, never making eye contact with the motorist seeking salvation. Most New Jersey drivers would rather have an accident than yield to another driver. We pay the highest auto insurance rates in the country; we might as well get something for it.

The only chance you might have of getting in is for your wife or female companion to roll down the window and plead with the other driver that she is with child and due to deliver momentarily. Even this doesn’t always work because many Jerseyans take a dim view of adding another child to the school rosters, thus pushing their already insane property taxes even higher.

Yielding not only costs you your position and possibly delays you reaching your destination by a few nano seconds, it is perceived as an insult to your manhood and self-respect.

The worst form of this is what I call “Getting Taken From the Rear.” This happens on state and county roads that go back and forth from one lane to two. These two lane stretches are usually provided on the upslope of steep hills or to accommodate access to the ubiquitous Jersey strip mall. During these short two lane stretches, everyone is either trying to advance his position or resist Getting Taken From the Rear. Slow drivers will speed up and occupy the left lane, daring anyone to pass them on the right. Faster more aggressive drivers will rocket in the right hand lane trying to knock off as many slower cars as possible before the road goes back to one lane.

And that, of course, is the moment of truth. Someone will dominate, and someone will Get Taken From the Rear. The Taken driver will feel a sense of humiliation and violation that will remind him of his times in the showers at Rahway State Prison.

Another thing about Jersey drivers is that apparently we believe we are the only ones who know how to drive a traffic circle. I have seen this on several “You are from New Jersey if” joke sites: “You are from New Jersey if you know how to drive a traffic circle.”

In New England they call them rotaries. This confuses the New Jersey driver to whom a Rotary is a social/business club. If he sees a sign that reads “Rotary Ahead” he will be having a warm and fuzzy vision of sharing a few coldies with insurance brokers in polyester sport coats and loud ties only to find himself navigating the incomprehensible complexities of a traffic circle that no one but he knows how to drive (“keep moving, you idiot!”).

Anyway, I have come full circle. I think I will go for a ride.

Hey, Lay Off McCain

2008-10-03T07:24:00.000-07:00

I got your hopes up there when you read the title. You thought: “He is going to write a political piece. At last some meat in this content free stew he calls a blog.”

Not so fast. In the first place, I don’t like your tone. In the second, I wanted to see how many googlers and spiders would wind up on my blog if I mentioned McCain in the title. I am told that, although it sounds like a halloween party, having googlers and spiders is a good thing.

As I said before, I know nothing about anything and even less since Kathie cancelled my subscription to the New York Times.

Thus, I know little about McCain’s positions. I slept through half of the first debate and spent the other half flipping back to the Food Channel when it was his turn to speak. Hell, I didn’t want to miss ALL of “Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives.” It’s not that I don’t care; it’s just that I made up my mind a long time ago. Besides, I am the type who likes to cover his eyes when he sees a train wreck coming.

However, I don’t think it is fair that everyone is getting on McCain because he is an elder. By the way, I prefer “elder” to the more common “senior”. Elder suggests wisdom and respect, as in “village elder.” It also suggests a position one is elected to rather than arrives at via the passage of time. Senior brings back memories of those smug wise asses we all hated when we were underclassmen and someone who is about to graduate and move on to the University in the Sky.

Anyway, every comedian in the world has been having a field day with the fact that he is on in years. There have even been serious suggestions that he agree to a one term limit because he will be 106, or whatever, when he starts his second term. If one of these politicos started that with me, I would tell him: “Yo, whipper-snapper, your heart could explode at any given second. Then who would have the last laugh?”

I for one am not worried about his age. It's not that big of a deal to make sure that the nuclear launch button is not hooked up to his Clapper.

Some people also think it is a negative that he is not computer savvy. It’s OK with me. I would prefer my president to not have a FaceBook page. And he won’t spend the next four years blogging, chatting, gaming, trolling, texting and prowling porno web sites. No, I wasn’t referring specifically to Bill Clinton.

Besides, as I can personally attest, taking a nice little nap is far more productive than blogging.

And, so what if his cell phone is a Jitterbug?

He does seem to have a touch of Irritable Male Syndrome, however. That may be a good thing. Someone has to tell Chavez, Kim Il Jung and the rest of the neighborhood brats to stay the hell off our lawn.

Anyway, Palin can stop by the White House on her way from dropping the kids at soccer practice and make sure he has enough tuna and tea bags and is keeping himself clean.

That’s as political as I am going to get. This elder feels a nap coming on.

Portrait of a Lady

2008-09-29T13:00:00.000-07:00

Well, she is gone. Out of my life. Adios. Hasta la vista.

I know she has gone to a better place. Being housed in my barn took a toll on her.

An early bird at the Califon town yard sale last week bought the mid-nineteenth century portrait of a woman that I acquired at an auction years ago. I paid a hundred bucks for her. She hung for many years in our living room before being banished to the barn.

It was 7:30 AM and I was getting ready for the sale that kicked off at nine. I was just pulling the furniture I planned to sell out of the barn when a black Mercedes pulled up the lane. Out popped a petite middle-aged woman who immediately began poring over the furniture I had just dragged out. “I’m not interested in any of this,” she declared while slipping past me into the barn. “What else are you selling from in here?”

The lady, hanging in a dark corner, seemed to shout: “Me! Me! Me!”
“I suppose I could part with the portrait,” I said. She was interested.

We took her out into the daylight for a better look. She’d seen better days (the portrait that is). Some mold had grown on her nose. The layers of dust and grime hid the great swaths of paint I had inadvertently removed in an ill-advised cleaning effort.

“I suppose I could take a chance for $100”, the early bird said. Sold and she and the lady were gone.

I texted my daughter, Elisabeth, that I sold the lady. She immediately fired back: “No way!!!”

Elisabeth always hated and was spooked by this painting. When she was little she would not be in the living room alone with her ladyship.

The portrait shows a middle-aged woman with curls piled on her head and with what I would describe as a forlorn expression, neither menacing nor severe. To me she always resembled a depressed Joan Baez after a bad perm.

Elisabeth was not the only one uncomfortable with the painting. Most of her friends shared her unease. In fact, we later learned that several older girls declined to baby-sit for us because they thought Joan Baez was giving them the evil eye.

So she was replaced by a non-threatening portrait of a child and packed off to the barn.

There she hung for a few years. Kathie felt that it was foolish to hang a potentially valuable painting in the barn and, now that Elisabeth was a few years older, we should find a place for her in the house. We decided on the upstairs hall. In those days, with the long commute, I usually didn’t get to these kinds of projects until after the kids went to bed. So I fetched the picture, took down the one in the hall, and replaced it with her ladyship.

Later, in the deepest, darkest night, Elisabeth awakened, troubled by a dream that the woman in the portrait was chasing her. She got up to go to the bathroom for a drink, turned on the hall light, and came nose to canvas with her nemesis.

She let out a scream that would not only have awakened the proverbial dead, but would have caused him to run for his life as if he had one.

Twice in my life I have been awakened from a sound sleep to find myself standing in the middle of the room. The first time was during my childhood when the abandoned house across the street blew up. This was louder.

After we quieted the poor child, I traipsed out to the barn with the portrait in tow and there she has hung until last Saturday.

Elisabeth called shortly after the early bird and her prize had left. “I am so glad you got rid of that picture,” she said. “It has a really weird vibe. I am sure your luck will greatly improve now that she is gone.” Hold on sec. I am in good health, retired, and supported by a working wife. What’s so bad about my luck?

Anyway, I expect to see the Baez ancestor again. She will either show up at my door with a note from the early bird begging me to take her back. Or worse, I’ll see her on Antiques Road Show all primped up and worth thirty grand.

The Great White Whale

2008-09-25T06:03:00.000-07:00

Moby Dick is my favorite novel. The 1956 John Huston film starring Gregory Peck as Ahab is my favorite movie and for my money perhaps the adaptation of a novel to the screen.

The film recently aired on Channel 13 and seeing it inspired me to do a woodcarving based on the great white whale.

I was looking for a dramatic idea for a piece that I could enter in a prestigious art show in Buck’s County. Also, I have a perfect spot for it in the house. This is important, since I have never been able to sell any of my works, they must all find a home with Kathie and I.

About a year ago we purchased an old New England sea chest that resides in the upstairs hall of our house adjacent to my closet. Kathie has given me carte blanche to decorate this area in any way I choose. Actually, this is carte semi-blanche since there are some constraints on what I am allowed to display. For example, my Indian artifacts are out because they scratch the furniture. The photo of Jack Nicklaus and I is also out. Why I don’t know, but it keeps winding up back in my dresser drawer.

I have chosen a nautical theme since I have a few pieces of scrimshaw. A model made by my grandfather of the whaling ship he sailed on in his youth also sits on my dresser top.
Moby would be the perfect addition to this collection.

I had ten days to whip this thing up for the show. I carved like a fiend, as monomaniacal as old Ahab himself. My X-Acto knife was my harpoon as I stabbed and carved life into the great white whale. Wood chips were everywhere: in my beard, in my food, in my bed, on my wife. Finally, as Michelangelo wrenched David from a block of marble, Ahab and his nemesis emerged from my scraps of #2 pine. Ta-da! My masterpiece was complete. And a giant it is at 2 1/2 feet long and 2 feet high.

Next step: haul the Colossus of Califon to Bucks County for the big show. This is a juried event. A panel of la-di-da judges passes on the entries and admits only the worthy. I was blissfully unafraid in my ignorance.

First surprise: there was a line a block long of artists submitting their work. We all shuffled along dragging our artwork behind us. One poor man staggered along in a pornographic embrace with a life size wooden statue of a nude upside down woman. A very nice young artist in front of me, whose specialty is painting pictures of smooth stones on smooth stones, told me it was kind of hit or miss whether one’s work was accepted. She said that some years she got in, others not. I guess it depends on how the judges feel about smooth stones from year to year. I was not worried. Moby was a lock. And, like Ahab, I might have exhibited some hubris as I was pondering whether I should wear a turtleneck or a tie to the artists reception

Several days later a letter arrived. Moby was not accepted. That’s the words they used: “Not Accepted.” I was stunned. The great white whale was harpooned and sent to the bottom with old Ahab on his back, just like in the book. I was told to pick up my work on a specific date or I would be charged five bucks a day.

I couldn’t make it on that date so I called the Chairman of the show to arrange to pick it up on another occasion. She asked why my gallery rep couldn’t come for it. I did not inform her that I did not know what a gallery rep was, never mind have one, but lied and said she was too busy delivering my works to eager buyers.

When I got Moby/Ahab back it had a paper taped on with a big, red “N” (as in “not accepted”). I was going to leave it on as a part of the piece’s history and to bring the big fellas down a peg or two. Kathie removed it.

So now Moby is docked on my sea chest where he will sit until the tide of artistic appreciation rises and launches him on the sea of fame and fortune…or until my grandson knocks him over.