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.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
For Sale: My Stink Bug Civil War Diorama
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Tea Party Reject
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
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
Friday, May 13, 2011
Adventures of a Poll Worker
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Scrambled Thoughts on a Ramblin Ride
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Farewell, My Ass
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
A Trip to New York City....Almost
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!
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!
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