Tag Fun

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?

Fishing For Memories

Michael Leave a comment

Trout season begins this week. Saturday specifically. In my state. I’ve never fished for trout. I’ve fished for walleye, I’ve fished for bass, I’ve fished for compliments. But I’ve never fished for trout. And that’s unusual for around here because there is a lot of trout around here. Of course, to catch trout around here you have to fish around here and I’ve never done that either.

Around here is huge on fishing. The county I live in issues more fishing licenses than anywhere else in the state, odd for an urban area but the numbers don’t lie. Even though the county sports only 10 percent of the state’s population it has ranked number 1 in fish licenses since 1919. Probably before that but that’s as far back as I could find records. For most of those years there were more fishing licenses issued in this one county than in the rest of the state combined.

I’m not a real fisherman – or fisherperson as the TV reporter reminded the viewing public of the start of trout season put it. I fish, or fished, once or twice a year and at what could at best be called sporadically over 40 years or so.

My first fishing memory was of my father taking me up into the mountains for an overnight trip with two friends of his and their sons. I didn’t catch anything. I’m not sure that anybody caught anything. I remember cooking something outside for dinner but it was probably hamburgers. After dark we piled into someone’s station wagon and went deer spotting and that night slept in someone else’s hunting cabin. That was the first fishing memory I have. It is also the first memory I have of doing something special with my father.

My second fishing memory came 20 years later and 20 states away. Floating in the middle of some lake in the middle of Texas were me and an Army friend in a rented bass boat. It had all that was required for fishing for bass. We had the trolling motor attached to the bow, the big Merc mounted on the stern, the electronic fish finder, the funny chairs that looked like bar stools. We got just far enough out to finish our to-go coffees and were when his pager went off. Return to base. His unit was being mobilized. In less time to write about it we were back at the dock, secured the boat, gotten to the car, and were two-thirds of the 15 minute drive to base. That’s when my pager went off.  Later that day we found ourselves as parts of one of the largest training exercises our base had mounted in years. We ate in the field that night but it wasn’t fish.

Another 20 years and in the middle of another lake, this one called Erie, I was one of a group of five pulling in our 30th, and last, walleye. After years of doing so, my friend had the planning down pat for this trip. We left the day before for the drive north, now mostly highway making it a relatively quick trip. Quick enough that we got there hours before anyone else. We picked up our licenses, checked into the hotel, and asked for wake up calls for 4 the next morning. That gave us twelve hours to meet the rest of the gang, have a few beers, have dinner, retell our lies from previous years’ trips, make our ways back to the hotel, and turn in for the night. What was much more than but felt much less than a couple of hours later we were back in the lobby with our coffees and headed for the dock. Our hired captain and his boat were waiting in the dark and we clambered in for the ride to where the fish waited in the dark. The lines weren’t all in yet when the first walleye struck. As he was being brought in another line was hit. The first fish was landed, pictured, and chucked into the well when number three hooked on. And so it went. Nobody remembered a year when the fish came so willingly to us. We had reached our limit and turned back to the docks before some other boats had begun their day. The picture of us with our racks straining under the morning take was on the captain’s charter company’s website the following day. A copy of it is still on one of my walls. A week later we reassembled in my friend’s back yard to fry fish and tell lies. That was the last fishing memory I’ve had. Three weeks later I was in the hospital where a surgeon took longer than we did to fish for his limit.

Trout season starts this Saturday. I’ve never fished for trout.

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

 

Are you ready for some Bockey?

Michael Leave a comment

My favorite season began yesterday. No, not spring. That was a couple weeks ago, but it has what has been called a sign of spring, baseball. Actually, my favorite season is the ultimate overlap of seasons of baseball and hockey – it’s Bockey Season.

Major League Baseball 2016 opened down the road from me as the “Boys of Summer” braved temperatures in the 30s in their home opener. Then a few hours later across the river, the “Boys of Winter” burned up the ice at their last regular season home game for 2016. There’s nothing in common between the two sports other than they are my favorite sports. People around this town would call it anti-American but I don’t care much for football. People across the world would call it most typical for an American but I don’t care much for soccer. Basketball is best played by college kids and only for a couple of weeks around now. Golf confuses me, tennis exhausts me, curling is ok but even with rumors of a local club (with a waiting list to play even) try to find it to somewhere sometime, anywhere anytime.

For my money baseball and hockey are the way to go. To those who say baseball goes too slow or hockey goes too fast I say they aren’t paying close enough attention to either. Strategy and purpose abound in the movement of both games. A swing of the bat or stroke of the stick doesn’t just send the puck or the ball on its way but the choreographed movement of everybody on the playing surface. If you think hockey games are only where fights break out and baseball games are only good for catching up on your afternoon napping you clearly need to spend some time actually watching the games to see what really goes on in them.

If you don’t share my enthusiasm for these two sports that’s fine. I’ll still enjoy them – and I’ll get to enjoy them for a couple months. And they have more in common than just having me for a mutual fan. They might be the Boys of Winter but when the playoffs get tight and the wins go back and forth, the Stanley Cup might not be raised until mid June less than a week before the solstice. And before the Boys of Summer threw out the first pitch yesterday, the grounds crew had to scrape the snow off the outfield. That’s blending the seasons.

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?

In Like a Lyin’

Michael Leave a comment

March may traditionally come in like a lion but the first week of this month had me thinking of all the official lies we have had forced upon us. Damn those government bureaucrats. They’ve taken four shots per bottle away from us in the name of world-wide conformity and nobody has said a thing about it. Clearly I am talking about the metric system. Either that or else clearly, I’ve completely lost it this time.

Once upon a time, in fact once upon the 1890s as the temperance movement was gaining ground, laws were being passed to permit sales of alcohol by bottles “to go” rather than by the drink “for here” to discourage people from drinking outside the home and thus appearing drunk in public. Better to be drunk in front of family I suppose. Anyway, the lowest legal amount one could sale for removal from the premises was four-fifths of a quart, aka 25 2/3 ounces or one fifth of a gallon. Thus a fifth was born.

Then, once upon another time, this one in fact once upon the mid 1970s, the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms further reduced that commercial package to a standard volume of 750ml, a loss of an additional 7ml. Why, after three-quarters of a century of people losing almost 6 ounces of good whiskey per bottle did the aforementioned bureaucrats see fit to lop off enough to make for a full four shot loss (based on a 1-1/2 ounce shot)? Because President Gerald Ford signed the Metric Conversion Act and ATF wasn’t going to be remembered as slackers when people looked back during the next century to see how terrific life became because of the metrication of America. (And now when somebody brings up Gerald Ford’s accomplishments as President, you’ll have something to contribute.) (You’re welcome.)

That’s why every year when I hear somebody trot out that old saw “March, in like a lion, out like a lamb” (guffaw, guffaw), my brain translates that to “in like a lyin’” you-know-what and mourns the loss of all that good bourbon.

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

The Groundhog and the Chicken

Michael Leave a comment

One thing that makes this country great is our sense of tradition. Granted we’re homing in on only 240 years of tradition and not the thousands you see in Europe or the tens of thousands in the very cradle of civilization but I’m still quite happy with our couple hundred years. And now it’s under attack – and it’s under attack by some of our very own people, the marshmallow peeps people who are trying to take over the groundhog’s God-given right to tell us when spring will begin.

Yes, the folks at Just Born Candy, makers of those cloyingly sweet, overly sticky, artificially colored candy barnyard animal facsimiles are trying to dethrone Punxsutawney Phil as Pennsylvania’s, as America’s, as the world’s number one prognosticator of the commencement of Spring. For 230 of America’s 239 springs, Phil has been the constant by which people have determined whether it’s safe to venture out or remain sheltered for six more weeks.

So universal is Phil’s attraction that official chapters of the Groundhog Club are found across the globe. So loved is Phil that over 30,000 people visit the small town of Punxsutawney situated in western Pennsylvania not far from the Allegheny National Forest to catch a glimpse of Phil emerging from his tree stump on Gobbler’s Knob.

Now the eastern Pennsylvania candy-makers claim their mascot is the true sign of the coming of Spring coinciding with the arrival of their marshmallow Peeps in stores. What a bunch of greedy hogwash if you’ll excuse my frankness. Those silly, sickly sweet confections are in the stores year round. There are peeps masquerading as marshmallow ghosts, Christmas trees, hearts, cherries, bunnies, and snowmen. Phil knows when his job is done he gets to take a well-deserved rest and chill out for the rest of the year content in the knowledge that he doesn’t have to try to invade our lives lest we forget his contribution to society.

Peeps versus Phil. How ridiculous! We’re supposed to substitute a fake chicken for a real groundhog? Ludicrous. Who ever heard of a ground chicken? Hmmm, ground chicken. Now that might be worth pursuing!

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

Clearly you can tell I’m more than a bit passionate about Punxsutawney Phil. So much so that the only picture in the entire blog is of him, sort of. That little guy has made it into close to a dozen RRSB posts making him a Real Reality frequent flyer. See his debut – and his “picture” – here (Six Weeks, Feb. 2, 2012).

Cockle Warming Time!

Michael Leave a comment

There’s so much that today’s post could talk about – Winter Storm Jonas coverage is wrapping up, the Super Bowl stage is set, the NHL All Star Game is just a week away, we are approaching the RRSB’s 400th post, how to celebrate National Opposite Day –  but what we will talk about is something really important. Today is National Irish Coffee Day. (Those of you in other nations, feel free to consider yourselves one of us today.)

So, everybody, put down that morning coffee you have going and let’s re-start the day and do it up right. Brew up some good strong coffee and pour about six ounces into a warmed mug, add an ounce and half of Irish Whiskey and teaspoon of brown sugar, then float about an ounce of heavy cream on top. You have now made the classic Irish Coffee.

The origin of this cockle warmer is not quite so distinct as the main ingredient. Most barkeeps attribute it to Joseph Sheridan, an Irish restauranteur who “whipped up” a collar of whipped cream to top a hot coffee/whiskey combination for weary travelers arriving on a wet, cold, dreary night at his Limerick establishment. The story goes that someone asked if they were drinking Brazilian coffee to which Sheridan replied, “No, it’s Irish coffee.”

Now all that happened in 1942 but recipes for the drink have been traced to Irish High King Brian Boru who ruled from 997 to 1014.Since most people agree that coffee was not “discovered” until the 11th century and didn’t reach Europe until the 15th or 16th century, Brian might have had less to do with Irish coffee than some give him credit for.

In addition to Irish whiskey, people have been adding all sorts of adult beverages to coffee including Scotch whisky, rum, vodka, gin, tequila, and various liqueurs. There are variations of Martinis, Cosmopolitans, and Margaritas starring espresso and other bold coffee blends. Then there’s my personal favorite – Kentucky Coffee made with dark roast coffee, bourbon, and a splash of honey.

However you take your coffee, take it today with a healthy dose of whatever you have measured in “proof” and raise your mug to Misters Sheridan and Folger. Long may they weave!

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

Two all beef patties, special sauce, etc., etc.

Michael 1 Comment

I love sandwiches. I alluded to that in a post last year (Sandwiched Between Here and There, June 4, 2015) but never came right out and actually said so in public. Well public, I love sandwiches.

I suppose if it wasn’t for that card game back in 1760-something I would have to invent it myself. If you read this blog religiously over the past year you might think I had a hand in its invention in a former life. I say that because just over the past year I’ve referenced sandwiches in seven posts. Considering that I only post twice a week and that half of last year I was in the hospital and posted only 95 times in 2015, seven posts is a big chunk of my on-line presence for 2015. And the biggest contribution I made to society was my feeling about sandwiches. Not even any good recipes (meat, cheese, condiments, bread) (chips on the side), just…feelings, nothing more than feelings.

When you get down to the nitty and gritty of great sandwiching you see that the love of sandwiches is pretty universal. Or sure, the first thing you might think of is the classic portable meal the Fourth Earl of Sandwich is rumored to have called for (meat, bread) (no word about chips). But a sandwich is so much more than that – it’s a wrap, a taco, a burrito, a calzone, a Stromboli, a gyro, a falafel, a muffaletta, …. Oh I could go on and on (as if I haven’t already) that’s how strongly I feel about sandwiches. They are just plain, old-fashion, good eating.

So now that you know how I feel about fine dining, when you come to visit plan on a stop at the neighborhood bar and grill for a cold one and a hot one (frosty adult beverage and two-handed manwich at the bar) or a hot one and a cold one (soup and sandwich daily special at the grill).  We’ll get along just fine!

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

Now See This

Michael Leave a comment

We’ve made it through the first full week of the new year. Already I’ve come up with some observations.

Happy Trailers
The Oscar nominations come out later this week. Over the past several decades I have seen hundreds of movies. I think two of them have been Oscar winners. I guess my tastes don’t jive with the nominating committee. How do you decide what movie you want to see? If you’re like most of the world you let the trailers be your guide. The thing about trailers is that they are about as relevant to the movie as a cover blurb is to a book. They make everything sound exciting but they have little to do with the movie. Then you go see the movie and get disappointed. I say, stay with the fluff. If you go into it with no expectations you can’t be disappointed.

Snow Business
As I write this it is snowing. That shouldn’t be surprising considering how far north I am. But this year there hasn’t been any snow. Well, there has been very, extremely very, almost as verily very as you can get, very little snow this year.  Last month I spent a week in New Orleans, about 1,100 miles south of here and it was warmer here than there then. Some people might say that I should quit complaining and enjoy the unseasonal warmth, especially when you consider the harshness of last year’s winter. It’s just that I sort of like the snow. It makes it pretty out there.

Dance With Me
It’s time again for my state’s annual farm show and that means tractor square dancing. First you have to wrap your head around having a farm show in January where it’s usually so cold that I just questioned the lack of snow. I don’t know. I’ve lived in the city my whole life but they’ve been doing a winter farm show here for 100 years now and it seems to work for them. Anyway, it’s my one chance to get to see tractor square dancing on TV. It’s so bizarre you can’t help but watch it. (I even devoted an entire post to the phenomenon. See “Swing Your Partner” from Jan 22, 2015 for more. Go on. You know you want to.)

A Sticky Situation
I’m out of syrup. I finished it yesterday. That might not be a big deal to some people. Go to the store and get some more. Can’t do it. I have to admit, I’m a syrup snob. I have only had local syrup bought at a local maple festival for years. The first one of three nearby fests doesn’t happen until April 2. I suppose I have to do a search of farm stores and locally owned corner markets to find some. Don’t judge me. Some things are best when made closest to home. Maple syrup and wild flower honey are two.

Wise Guy
To add to my list of sayings I’d like to see hanging on my wall, as seen recently on a t-shirt (I told you it was warm here), “It’s Not Broken. It Just Needs Duct Tape.”

It’s going to be one of those years.

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