Category Humor

Making a Connection

Michael Leave a comment

Have you seen that commercial where everybody does everything with their phones? Check bank balance, pick airline seat, buy donut, trade stock, start car. Do anything as long as you never ever don’t have your phone in your hand. That commercial. Or was that real life I saw that?

Yesterday I did something I hadn’t done for ages. I stopped at the bar yesterday. Not too long ago it would have been a rare day when I couldn’t say I stop at the bar yesterday. Nowadays it’s an event. I think it came from being in the hospital for 7 months. They don’t let you drink there and if there should ever be a place where drinking is mandatory it’s the hospital. Instead they turned me into someone who can say that now when I go to a bar it’s to pick up a sandwich that I ordered. And this place has killer sandwiches! But that’s a different story.

Anyway, I got there before my sandwich was ready so I sat and had a drink, joining the dozen or so people similarly spending their mid-afternoon. I noted that there were 14 other people there and 11 of them had phones in their hands. Eight were actively typing, tapping, or swiping. The other three were, I suppose, on standby.

You know how ubiquitous cell phones are but when you see it clustered in one spot it really hits you. Just a couple of years ago if there were 14 people sitting in a bar some afternoon there would have been a couple conversations, a few people checking out the TVs hanging from the corners, somebody at the jukebox, and perhaps a card game. Today I saw 8 people more connected with somebodies not there than there. And three on standby.

I’m not sure how I feel about that. Whether they were talking among themselves or conversing electronically I still would have been there just waiting for my sandwich. Still killer. Thank God some things don’t change.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

Call It What You Will

Michael Leave a comment

I read an article in the paper last week that would have made go “Hmm” had I not been struck speechless, or even hmmless. The U. S. Department of Justice will no longer refer to people who have completed sentencing and released from prison as a “felon” or “convict.” Instead the terms “person who committed a crime” or “individual who was incarcerated.” will be used. The announcement included the comment that the newly forbidden words are disparaging. Hmm, we are talking about convicted felons – I’m sorry, I mean we are talking about people who committed crimes, aren’t we?

I have to expand my daily reading to include papers from around the world. I see the headlines and whatever American editors determine are newsworthy enough for U.S. media to re-report, but what might I be missing. Is the appellation of formerly incarcerated individuals high on justice departments’ priority lists worldwide?

If it catches on it will be the biggest “they said” since “they said” someone is a person of interest when the police want to talk to said someone about a crime and that it has nothing to do with being interested in someone. This person is not to be confused with a suspect whom police would want to talk to about a crime or a material witness who is presumed to have information about a crime. It seems that one shouldn’t call a suspect a suspect until all suspicion is removed in the favor of certainty less the person of interest is disparaged in the event some doubt remains.

It all reminds me of another article I saw a while ago about some organization now using the term “companion” rather than “mistress” when referring to a prominent person’s person of interest.  Now that would be disparaging. Not being a companion, nor even a mistress. Being said to hang around with someone who passes for prominent. Now that may be most disparaging.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

 

The Case of the Missing Drive Thru (sic)

Michael Leave a comment

Last night I wanted Chinese for dinner. When it comes to Chinese I’m flexible. It can be General Tso Chicken, Orange Chicken, Kung Pao Chicken, Lemon Chicken, Hunan Crispy Chicken. I’ll even make it myself. I can make a chili-based sweet hot sauce, I always have some spicy orange glaze in the fridge (don’t ask, I’ll write about that some other time), I can do a lemon sauce. I even have rice and lo mein noodles on hand so the side is just a flip of the coin. I even have a couple of fortune cookies somewhere in a cupboard. If I only had chicken.

That scuttled the whole Chinese thing. See, in addition to me not having chicken, it was raining. If it wasn’t raining I’d have been happy to drive to the nearest Chinese restaurant and pick up dinner. But since there are no drive through Chinese restaurants I was forced to eat leftover pork chops, assemble and bake a pizza, or get a Quarter Pounder. Why are there no drive through Chinese restaurants?

If you look at what we have driven through, drive thru General Tso shouldn’t be that hard to pull off. Just in the food category we have burgers, tacos, gyros, donuts, deli sandwiches, and hot dogs. We can get chicken sandwiches, chicken nuggets, chicken wings, and chicken eggs scrambled or poached. What’s so different between a chicken nugget with your choice of sauce and fried chicken pieces tossed in a spicy glaze to commemorate some long forgotten military leader from the nineteenth century.

We have drive through pharmacies, drive through banking, drive through coffee houses. There are drive in movies, drive in oil change places and drive in car washes. We live in a time that we can eat, drink, bank, be cured, and get our cars serviced and washed without ever getting wet. (You know what I mean.) It wasn’t that long ago before photography went the way of digital that we had drive through photo processing. But when it’s raining and we’re hungry for what we don’t have on hand we better not have Chinese on hand. Where’s the outrage here!? (or here?!) Am I the only one who feels it!? (it ?!)

So that’s my rant for today. Sorry it’s not as conscience raising as transgender restrooms, American presidential candidates’ lies and mis-speakings, or international internet censoring but I still haven’t gotten my General Tso.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

 

The Sporting Life

Michael Leave a comment

Life is made of moments. There are the “aha!” moments,” the “you wouldn’t trade for anything” moments, the outright epiphanies. And then there are the things that make you go “really?”

Saturday evening I was out shopping and the couple in the check-out line in front of me was in full on, game day football garb. Replica jerseys of two of the biggest names in local pro football team history, team hats, scarf around her neck, logo emblazoned leather jacket for him, right down to the NFL licensed wristwatch. Their cart held beer, mixers, pretzels, crackers and cheese platter, and a custom made football shaped chocolate chip cookie. These guys were set for some serious football watching.

The problem with this picture is that it is the end of April. Football is as far out of season as deer hunting. The local hockey team is in the second round of the Stanley Cup playoffs. The local baseball team was that day on a six game winning streak. The city’s annual marathon was due to step off the following morning. Basketball, golf, soccer, and lacrosse were going strong. Football?

I wasn’t the only one wondering. The clerk at the cash register noticed it also. “You guys are set for a party.”

“Yep,” football man fan replied. “A draft party.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot about that. I heard the..”

“Don’t say it! We recorded the draft and we’re watching it tonight. All we need now is to make it home without hearing any about it and we can enjoy the whole thing at one time.”

Now, the NFL draft was just winding up its third and final day at the time this conversation was going on. I know I’m not the world’s biggest fan and even I have at times not wanted to be made aware of the result of a particular event because I was recording it for later viewing. The women curling finals from the 2014 Winter Olympics comes to mind. And this part of God’s green earth is such a football fanatic’s fantasy to the point that a cable network has presented a series about the excesses that pass for local little league football. But I have never encountered a devotee so zealous that taping the sport’s entry draft qualifies as appropriate accompaniment to cheese and crackers.

They say it takes all kinds. I’m certainly thankful of that. Otherwise how would I be able to carry on the fine tradition of blogging about the real reality that is out there for five years now. Let’s keep those kinds coming. Go reality! Go team!

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

Happy Birthday To Me

Michael Leave a comment

Just in case anybody is wondering, today is my birthday. Thank you. Now, on with today’s post.

If you should be one of those young’uns who believe age is just a number, let me introduce you to my spam folder. Most of the time, I don’t even think about it. I’m not sure exactly how it works and who decides what is junk and what I want to see in an e-mail, but it works pretty well. So much so that most of the time, I don’t even think about it. (Did I already say that?) (Sorry.)

Every now and then I take a look around in there just to make sure that whoever is running things doesn’t toss out any babies with the bath water. I’ve discovered something about the junk mail I’m getting. It’s getting older with me. Let me ‘splain.

Once upon a time I would get solicitations to buy hot tubs. Now I get messages encouraging me to consider a walk-in tub. I used to get pleas to buy this miracle weight loss pill. Now I get messages offering me ways to reverse twenty years of bad eating. When I once got offers for low interest signature loans I now get offers for reverse mortgages.  And then there is the one transition no man wants to see in his mailbox. All the ads for penis enlargement concoctions have been replaced by advertisements for erectile dysfunction remedies. (If there is an equivalent female harbinger of old-age I can’t imagine what it would be.)

Yes, age may just be number. But to the junk-mailers of the world it is a number still preceded by a dollar sign.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

The Not Quite So Bad Smelling Pot

Michael Leave a comment

My last post was the bad side of a potpourri of encounters at the local retailers. This post is the better smelling side of that pot. It’s still a bit rotten but it has a less pungent odor about it.

On top of this list of things that don’t smell quite right (or if you prefer, things that make you go hmm) are shopping carts. Shopping carts themselves are not new fodder for the RRSB. Type “shopping cart” into my search bar and you can relive tales of shoppers with carts, carts without shoppers, crazy people with carts and crazy carts out to maim me. (My personal favorite that one. Relive it specifically at “Handicap Hate Crime,” (June 19, 2014)). But what put shopping carts on this particular list is that they officially are now everywhere, and some of it is intentional.

An intentional, yet questionable placement of shopping carts is now at the greeting card store. I’m ambivalent about greeting cards. I like them well enough. I like the idea of sending and getting real mail even if some far afield professional has written the sentiment. They fill a void that mere mortals like me could not and I for one feel accomplished just putting my name after somebody else’s perfectly chosen words. But I’m not so enamored with greeting cards that I feel the need to greet every occasion with a professional acknowledgement. Apparently the greeting card store people feel differently. So differently that they believe so many people will be buying so many of their cards in a single transaction that they have taken the step to make one’s shopping experience less physically exhausting and are now providing shopping cards in which to haul about your selection of selections as you go about selecting their cards. It is clearly just another overstated case of exaggerated hyperbole. Indubitably.

On the other hand, at stores where shopping with carts is advisable and often indeed a necessity, we are now faced with a decision as we pass through the doors that open automatically (and just in case you were unsure of that they are clearly so labeled but that’s a post for a different day). Of course I am talking about our basic supermarkets. At my closest go-to store the vestibule has 6 differently sized wheeled carts (one motorized) and two carry basket variants. For some reason the sporty compact models seem to be the most popular and never about when I need to pick up a dozen or so articles. Thus I am forced to wobble about poorly balanced (as if I wasn’t to be begin with) with a too small basket held in the crook of my arm or to reach deep into the void at the checkout line as I rummage for those 12 items in the bottom of the cart sized suitably to carry a month’s worth of groceries for a family of 4 (plus 2 pets). Where are all the cute little carts? They are being wheeled about by the family of four (pets safely locked in the over-sized SUV idling at the end of parking row 3) sagging under the weight of the soon to be purchased vittles and the pair of matching mini-monsters (aka 3 year olds who prefer to be at home in bed). It is clearly a case of bad choices. Several.

The last petal in our pot comes at the consideration of the local home improvement store. Today my needs that can be satisfied at a lumber, hardware, plumbing, electrical, lighting, appliance, paint, paper, carpet, and appliance store and nursery (the plant version, not the refuge for 3 year olds taking a break from mom and dad) can be met at that very nursery (the plant version). My biggest takeaways from the lawn and garden department begin at the garden half and end on my patio in the forms of plants, pots, and potting soil. Plants or seeds that will someday grow up to be young strapping plants and pots with a simple stand for the pots after the plants have been therein potted are light enough that a supermarket style shopping cart handles them with ease. But then there is that bag of potting soil. First I shouldn’t be lifting anything heavier than a five pound bag of donut holes and second I don’t want to be lifting anything heavier than a five pound bag of donut wholes. A flat bed cart that I can drag the bag of soil onto from the stack o’ bags would be ideal. But no, even though there is an entire store of wood, concrete, and refrigerator-freezers that have their own special carts, in the garden center you have only the extra-large version of the supermarket shopping cart that just ate my twelve items (no waiting) in the preceding paragraph.  It is clearly a choice of too many choices inside and not enough outside. By design.

At here you have it, today’s mélange just this side of rotten.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

 

For Sale

Michael Leave a comment

They tell me that you only need three things to make a car look good: black tires, shiny chrome, and clean glass. I spent this weekend getting the little convertible ready to go on the selling block. Its tires have been black ever since I’ve been buying tires for it. There really is no chrome to speak of. Now, isn’t two out of three good enough?

I have never, ever, ever, never been good at cleaning windows. That might be why I like convertibles. In the right configuration there is only one window to worry about keeping clean. It’s the one that is hardest to keep clean but that’s the way it goes for me sometimes. Oh alright, most of the times.

Why do windows hate me so much? And not just car windows. Any window is my nemesis. Even some non-windows treat me like windows. TV screens, computer displays, mirrors, eyeglasses, and would you believe even snow globes are out to make my life a living hell. I’ve tried every tip, trick, and old wife and maiden aunt tale. I’ve used cotton rags, polyester no-longer-fit-to-be-hand-me-downs, microfiber cloths, newsprint, and brown craft paper. I’ve used brand name cleaner, cheap cleaner, foaming cleaning, ammonia, water, and combinations of two, some, or all of the aforementioned. I’ve spritzed the cleaner on the glass and on the wiper. Now that I think about it, I’ve even used wipers. You know, those squeegee thingees.

I think I’m just not destined to have clean glass in my life.

But wait a minute. Let’s rewind a few paragraphs. I’m selling the little convertible? I guess so. For 15 years it has defined me: short, squat, red, and not much on top. I suppose I’ve had my fun with it and the fun I had with it was in a different place in my life. I’m getting old and can’t get in and out of it without making some very interesting noises, fortunately mostly verbal. So even though it has been brought up in more posts than any family member, it is time to set it free. If you know anybody interested in a very well maintained, low mileage, revered red roadster, drop me a line.

Buyer to clean glass.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

Eat your veggies!

Michael Leave a comment

Supermarkets are a great place to get your dinner. Duh. No Kidding? Isn’t that what they are for? Well yes, you can get all the bits and pieces you need to make a dinner. Yes, they have your meats or non-meats as you prefer, bins and bins full of fresh produce, rices, pastas, salad fixings, and desserts both ready to eat and in pieces waiting for you to create them. But today’s mega-marts also have their own salad bars, hot foods lines, and prepared dishes. Sort of semi-healthy fast food alternatives.

My most often visited market has taken to packaging some of their more common selections into grab-and-go choices sized for one. They have each package, in fact the entire section, labeled “Meals For One.” It’s nice and handy and it saves the single shopper like me the embarrassment of asking the attendant at the prepared food counter for the ridiculously small portions only one requires. I can’t tell you the number of over-the-glasses-glances I’ve received after asking for a quarter pound of orange chicken and one egg roll. It’s nice to be able to take refuge at my own cooler of prepackaged loser portions – err, solo selections.

But they still don’t have a good handle on how much, or more appropriately how little only one eats at one meal. It’s not often that I’ll want to eat one pound of rigatoni in meat sauce at one sitting. Nor do they yet have a grasp of what makes a meal. At my last visit to the market I noted packages of the aforementioned rigatoni along with chicken marsala, stuffed shells, baby back ribs, chicken wings, and General Tso chicken with a choice of rice or lo mein. Except for the inscrutable general, none of them included anything other than the protein. No veggies, indeed no sides anywhere in site. Your mother would not approve.

They mean well. They just have to temper their desire to sell, sell, sell with the single consumer’s wish to save, save, save. Still, I grabbed a packaged chicken marsala knowing I could augment it with pasta and a nice salad after I got home.  That’s when I saw it. Proudly labeled Meals For One there was a pound of fried mozzarella sticks. With marinara. Back in went the chicken and into my cart when the cheese sticks. Hey, it’s not my place to argue with professionals about what makes a meal. And a tomato is a vegetable. Our government said so.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

The Music in my Mind

Michael Leave a comment

I can’t wait for spring. I really need a new diversion. This winter I’ve spent a lot of time in front of the keyboard. Not this one typing out these missives. The musical one. It’s a diversion that I’ve spent more time with than I have in years. But then, I have more time now than I’ve had in years. I have to do something with it.

I fiddled with the piano for the first time about 55 years ago. You’d think with all that time I’d be pretty good at it. Honestly I’m just ok. I know how to play the notes but that’s not the same as how to make the music. It must have been about 54 years ago that I said to myself, “Self,” I said, “you should take up the tuba where you only have to play one note at a time to be good.” Even back then I recognized the limitation of my short and uncoordinated fingers.

Instead of seeking out a used tuba to practice on (which in hindsight was a good thing I didn’t since most of the helicon style tuba are larger than me) I gravitated to musical styles that didn’t require 14 notes played to be played in unison.

Over the years I got very good at plinking out one or two notes with my right hand and running scales with my left, all the while filling in three or four other instruments’ parts in my mind. And as long as I was alone I was pretty darn good. So good that all I needed was the melody to a song and some time to noodle around until I was able to figure out what chords went with it. Then I could amuse myself for hours rarely ever striking more than 2 or 3 keys at once.

But then I came across that song in my head that try as I might I couldn’t find the right tones on my own. So I broke down and bought sheet music for it. And there they were. The notes that I was looking for. Lots and lots of notes. More of them on ledger lines than on the staff proper. Written in the key of A Flat. In 6/8 time. Allegretto. And that’s just how it sounded in my mind.

It was just that my body wanted to play it in the Key of C in common time and a bit more ritardando. Just like me. <Sigh> I can’t wait for spring.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

Spring Up To Research

Michael Leave a comment

Remember that Saturday night last fall when an extra hour was tossed out there to be used as we pleased? Maybe you used it sleeping, maybe you saw half a movie, perhaps you spent 60 minutes on a midnight shopping spree. It could be that you were ahead of the curve and drank like you meant it. Whatever you did with it, they want it back this Sunday morning.

A good number of Americans on Monday will be desperately trying to remember if they changed their clocks early Sunday morning and if they did it the right way. For us that would be ahead an hour thus making 2am actually 3am without even having to say “abracadabra.” However, I’m guessing that most of us will be muttering “Spring Ahead, Fall Back” or “Spring Forward, Fall Behind” before, during, and after the un-ceremonial clock setting.

About 70% of the world’s citizenry will be similarly mumbling something sometime this spring as we move into or out of Daylight Saving Time. A big chunk of those mumblers will be somewhere in the Northern Hemisphere but there are quite many of them south of the Equator also. Between now and early May people around the globe will be waking up some random Monday wondering if they will be on time for work.

As near as I can tell from my online research, there are no countries that lie on the Equator observing any sort of time change. To be thorough about this I am willing to accept the challenge and spend a summer sailing to as many tropical islands as possible to confirm this hypothesis limited only by the funds available to me through grants, endowments, and/or crowd funding.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?