Tag People

Getting from There to Here

Michael 10 Comments

Last week I noticed I now have over 300 followers, assuming everyone who ever followed still is. A huge assumption that and all that goes with it. Three hundred might not seem like a lot to those who have followers reaching towards four digits. Or it might seem like a lot to those who published their first post sometime this weekend. I know that I’m happy that 300 people think enough of the stuff I push to the Internet to want to know when something new gets pushed there and to me that seems like an accomplishment all in itself.

I got to wondering how the first person who decided to follow my blog even found it. I’ve never published it on any social platform. It’s not linked to a Facebook or Twitter or any other account. I can count on one hand and have at least two fingers left over the number of people I’ve told that twice a week they could read questionably creative ramblings of mine if they so cared. So…how did you come about to be reading this? Inquiring minds and all that, you know.

I follow about a dozen blogs and about another dozen I have loaded onto my browser’s favorites list. I guess that’s not a really great quid pro quo ratio. I’d follow all three hundred of those who follow me but some of the notices I’ve received of a follower don’t include a blog for me to seek to see if I would like a steady dose of their offerings. And in fairness (real or imagined) of all those that I do follow, not all follow me in return. I’m fine with that. I can see myself more interested in someone’s writing and want to follow him or her more closely that that someone might be interested in mine and would prefer to only occasionally peek into my brain, psyche, or whatever corporal component is putting fingers to keyboard that week. You can’t like everything you find crossing your path in life.

Still I wonder why some do, some don’t, and would some others if they even knew that it is available. What makes us like one thing, not like another, and not care enough about some to form an opinion?

Now that I think about it, I should probably stop before I lose the few of you that are still out there. I don’t know if Word Press counts to negative numbers.

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

 

And the Survey Says…

Michael 6 Comments

Two or three times a month I take an Internet poll. I’d love to be one of those people who make $100,000 a year taking polls on line. Frankly, I don’t have 48 hours a day to take that many polls and if I did, even with no life, I have a life. And even more franklyer than that, two or three a month is getting to be too many any more.

I do most everything on a mobile device nowadays. Even when I’m not out of the house I’m more likely to be on my tablet than on the desktop computer – which, oddly enough is actually on a desk. I don’t think that it’s so unusual that I’d rather connect with a handheld device in the comfort of a comfy chair. Yet more often than not when I open a survey invitation polling people’s opinions on “technology,” I’m presented with the error message explaining “that survey does not support mobile devices.” Am I using old tablet technology?

ResultsThis weekend I opened my emailed during one of the intermissions in the hockey game I was engrossed with on TV (and you thought I was too old to multi-task) and found a survey opportunity on “social issues.” The notice claimed it would take about 15 minutes to complete the poll. Since I had 17 minutes of non-hockey time left I clicked the link. There I was presented with a survey on “social issues,” AKA what I think of my cable provider. Such burning “social issues” we should face every day.

Yesterday I did a little shopping and was presented with an opportunity to express my opinion on a truly pressing “social issue.” Let me see if I can present it in poll-like fashion.

People who stop suddenly as soon as they cross the threshold to a shopping establishment, i.e. stop in the middle of the freaking doorway:

[    ] should be avoided with all available alacrity so as to not be made to feel like their presence is at all any sort of intrusion into your space lest you intrude into their space.

[     ] will have their shoppers reward cards revoked and never be allowed in public without a escort

[     ] must be run up the back of their ankles with any available shopping cart

[     ] truly deserve the death penalty

Now that’s a poll on social issues.

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

The Hi Guys

Michael 6 Comments

“’S’up.” “Hey” A nod up. Then another. One went east, one west. And the world kept turning. Thanks in part to the Hi Guys.

The Hi Guys are those guys (generically speaking of course – guys, gals, hims, hers, undecideds, too young to tell, too old to matter, too desperate to care – all of those) those guys are the guys that nod a “hello” to a perfect stranger one meets walking down the road, crossing a lobby, waiting for an elevator, or standing in front of or behind in a really long, really slow line – or on the line if that’s your geographic preference.

HiGuys

Drawing by me. Can’t you tell?

It’s just a nod, a recognition that says “Hey, you too are human and we are all part of a team and I recognize your contribution even if I don’t know you, don’t care if I ever know you, might never see you again, and will be just as happy if I do or if I don’t.” Sometimes that’s really hard to do. It’s easy to give that little finger wave over the steering wheel when you see a neighbor taking the dog for a walk along your own street on your way to work in the morning. But to acknowledge a total stranger, no, more than that, to show value to a total stranger is quite another.

Think of the number of times you run across somebody you don’t know versus the number you do of the number you do. (It might be awkward but if you parse that sentence you’ll see it works. Just like the Hi Guys!) An Oxford University study (Oxford, really) confirmed that the human brain can manage only 150 friendships. A simple “Hey, how ya doin’?” can expand your circle to unknown numbers. And make you smile at the same time.

Remember when you were a baby – probably not but you probably have seen babies. When a baby smiles at someone and makes that baby gurgle that only babies can make, everybody smiles back. Even me, and I’m usually fairly grouchy. So if a baby, who probably doesn’t understand that the world needs a little help to keep turning, can make a total stranger smile and feel good even for just a second or two, you can do it also.

So, keep the world turning. Become a Hi Guy*!

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

*I thought of this a couple of days ago when I was running into the store and stopped at the entrance to let a fellow carrying a double armload of grocery bags come out of the doorway before I went in. I didn’t expect a thank you for anything since I didn’t do anything. The door was automatic and wide enough for both of us.  As I passed him on my way through I did my usual nod and said something like hi or h’lo (the local equivalent of hello). He paused and sort of half-turned and said back to me, “Hey. Thanks.” And smiled. A real smile. I thought to myself, wow, somebody really does pay attention to that half-grunt I make now and then. That could be blog-worthy. Well, after I wrote this I thought I’d do a quick search for “Hi Guy.” I don’t know why, I just did. Maybe because I’m getting sort of up there in years and things sometime mean different things now than then. And sure enough I found something. My go to for stuff like this, the Urban Dictionary, defines “Hi Guy” pretty succinctly as a salutation to a man or woman. Clean enough for my purpose. Then I went one step further and plugged it into Google. There I found a link to “Lingomash” pronouncing that my Hi Guy in slang means “(1)Excl. When something outrages (sic) or unusual occurs. (2)Excl. When you don’t agree with one’s actions.“ Well that’s not right at all. Since I don’t have anything else to write about I’m going to ask that if you know “Hi Guy” as this completely antithetical twist to what I just wrote, could you please not tell anybody else. Thanks.

Oh, and one more thing. Some of you might remember “Hi, guy!” from the Right Guard commercials of the 1970s when two guys share a medicine cabinet and every morning they “bump into” each other in the bathroom. They were great. One guy would open the cabinet on his side of the wall and the other would be there and he bursts out with “Hi, guy!” It went on for years and the actor (Chuck McCann, an already well established actor) became known as the Right Guard Hi Guy. Except that in the very first commercial of the series he never said “Hi, guy.” If you should be wondering, here’s a link to it. Hi Guy.  (by Genius via YouTube)

I just realized my “post script” is longer than “letter.” I should stop now. In fact, I will. Really.

What’s In a Name?

Michael 2 Comments

I once read that the two most common ways a person will select an alias are turning his first name into a last name while picking a very common first name (thus John Doe becomes Bob Johns) or picking a famous person’s name then shrugging off the similarity (“Well, this is the first time we’ve had Johnny Carson stay with us,” is replied to with HMNI2“Yeah, I get that a lot.”). The problem with these is that they don’t work well for women. While Peter can become Peters and Jeffrey turns into Jeffries, what’s Melissa supposed to become or who would believe Mary Catherine unless she was wearing a habit. Why I was researching aliases is the topic for a different post.

Well, have no fear. I have the perfect manner for a person of the female persuasion to disappear into the ephemera as easily as her male counterpoint. You probably have seen this since it has been floating about the Internet in one form or another since at least 2011. Everyone has six names. Those are:

  1. Your real name
  2. Your soap opera name: Your middle name + the street you live on
  3. Your Star Trek name: First three letter of your last name + first two of your middle name+ last 2 of your first name
  4. Your superhero name: The color of your shirt + the item to your right (or left if you prefer)
  5. Goth name: “Black” + the name of one of your pets
  6. Rapper name: “Lil” + the last thing you ate

Thus George Bush (one of my favorite aliases (aliai?) becomes:

Herbert Bizzell (of course I meant Daddy Bush (really),
Bushege,
Gold Shredder,
Black Millie (we may have to work on that one), or
Lil Peanut Butter depending on the  particular alias requiring circumstance

So you see, this is not only a terrific party game but also an amazing alias break for all opportunities. Going to a night club and don’t want your significant other to find out. Have no fear Melissa Elizabeth Mainlady of 123 Elm Street, Elizabeth Elms will be your wing woman. Gong to Comic con and prefer your law office buddies don’t find out. Maielmel will cover the registration fee. Yes, the possibilities may not be endless but they should cover almost any possible alias requirement.

So now, speaking of researching aliases…oh yes, that’s a topic for another post.

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

 

Luck O’ the Irish

Michael Leave a comment

FIFTY-FIFTY! GET YOUR FIFTY-FIFTY HERE! FIFTY-FIFTY! THE MORE YOU PLAY, THE MORE YOU WIN!

Anybody who has been to a high school football game, band festival, or cheerleading competition knows that call. The fifty-fifty raffle has long been a stalwart fund raiser for these and other family-supported extracurricular activities. I remember some years ago being on the calling end for my daughter’s high school band and color guard counting up $300, $400, sometimes $500 dollars in the Saturday competitions pots. But you don’t expect them at the professional levels.

Last Friday I was at the hockey game and thought about buying a fifty-fifty ticket orpot-of-gold eighty. Yes, at the hockey game. A professional, NHL type hockey game. Our local team’s affiliated foundation uses fifty-fifty raffles at all of the home games to help fund their philanthropic activities. To date they have raised over $3 million for local charities. That means over $3 million dollars have been awarded to lucky ticket winners. I wasn’t one on Friday even with the special Luck o’ the Irish promotion of 80 tickets for a $20 donation versus the routine 40 tickets.

As I saw the total pot announcement during the third period ($57,000+) I wondered what the odds were of hitting that. There were over 18,000 people in attendance. If 10% bought tickets and the average purchase was 20 tickets that would be 1:36,000 odds of hitting the jackpot. Not bad when you consider similar odds in the Powerball (1:36,525 last Saturday) will net you only $100. Actually that will gross you $100. You’ll need to spend two bucks on the ticket. Sometimes even I spend those two dollars. With winning jackpots averaging about 100 million dollars, why not. Well, the odds for one reason.

The odds of winning the Powerball jackpot change with how much is played but you can figure they’ll be around 1 in 290,000,000 (that’s million). The Mega Millions is about 1 in 250,000,000. The odds of winning the Publisher Clearing House $1 million a year for life jackpot are one in 1.3 billion (with a B), but at least you don’t have to pay for one of those chances. Long odds but for big winnings. Still, not something you want to bet the mortgage on.

I have nothing against betting. I’ve already documented my big winnings (Confessions of a Lottery Winner, July 5, 2014) and even helped out at our state lottery drawing (Pressing My Luck, September 22, 2016). But even with the unfathomable amounts that are possible out there I think I’ll stick with the local band fifty-fifties. And if I ever should win one of them, I’ll probably donate my winners back to the kids.

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

Have you ever hit it big in the lottery? Sweepstakes? Basket raffle?

Buffets Make Strange Plate Fellows

Michael Leave a comment

Yesterday I went to brunch at a local family restaurant. Not a fancy Sunday Brunch at a high end establishment. Not a how-much-can-you-pack-on-this-here-plate carnival at a big national chain. A nice, tasty brunch buffet with soups, salads, breakfast regulars, lunch goodies, baked goods, fruit, and desserts at a place you’d not be ashamed to bring your mother to. And while I was there I had one of those “did your mother teach you to do that?” moment. Several, actually.buffet

I suppose I have made some unusual looking plates at a buffet. No matter how structured you might plan your how ever many trips to those tables something in the organization inevitably disappears. Oh but yesterday’s observations took the cake. Or pancake. Or waffle. As in waffles with pierogis? Or fried chicken and sausage gravy with biscuits? Or how about mashed potatoes and scramble eggs all covered with thick, rich brown gravy?

Mind you, I‘m not saying any of those are wrong. Unusual? Yes. Unconventional? Yes.  Unexpected? Certainly to me. But then I did walk away with a plate featuring French toast, sausage patty, eggs, and a selection of olives. I wasn’t going to but I just love those briny, little fruit and it had been so long since I had any. When I heard the containers calling my name I was certain they’d be offended if I asked them to wait until my next trip when their presence on my plate might not raise eyebrows. So I succumbed.

At least I was somewhat original in my combination platter. Not like the guy who ran around from end to end selecting chicken and green beans from the lunch offerings and the waffle and bacon at the breakfast side. Where’s the dare in that? No, my vote for most unusual (at least among those on the same replenishment schedule that I was on) was the lady with a bowl of chili topped with pierogis, bacon, and pine nuts. Now there was a lady who understood the challenge of the buffet!

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

Can You Heat It Now?

Michael Leave a comment

I was working on a household budget for this year over the weekend (so I’m a little late – things happen), when I had to make the decision of whether to renew the car’s satellite radio subscription. That got me thinking about all the iterations of mobile music over the years.

The first car radio I remember was in my father’s 57 Chevy. Of course that was in ’61 long before it would become a classic but that’s a story for another post. That radio was a simple AM job that got music, news, and sports from a handful stations that were within 20 or so miles of the read mounted, stainless steel antenna. It came as a package option that included the radio, an under-dash heater, and cigarette lighter. Talk about luxury!

Sometime in the mid-60s I remember friends’ parents with cars that had AM-FM radios. Now that was something. None of us knew exactly what FM was although a few years later in high school physics they talked about the different types of sound waves and that had something to do with the difference between AM and FM but by then we were too concerned with the music coming from the radio than how it worked. But back in the 60s all we knew about FM radio was that was where the classical music stations lived and that one station that played what they called “album tracks” that our parents wouldn’t let us listen too.

radioAnd that was it for car radio until those high school years. Then the changes came fast and furious. Nobody’s factory model was good enough. The aftermarket offerings included AM, AM-FM, 8-Track, and that newest alternative, the cassette player. Cassettes were cool. They let you listen to “your music” instead of relying on the DJ choices on the radio, they didn’t skip when you couldn’t dodge the potholes fast enough like the 8-track players, and the really good ones include auto-reverse so you could listen to the same album over and over without even having to pull the cassette out and flip it over.

Fast forward (no pun intended but now that I think about it not a bad segue) through college and young adulthood when nothing much new happened other than the ubiquity of CD players in addition to or in place of the cassette to the 1990s and the advent of MP3 players, Bluetooth, and satellite radio. Suddenly deciding on a source of music while riding down the road brought back memories of debating the merits of cassette versus 8 track.

After a few years you didn’t have to make a choice which one to get as much as which one to use since every car seemed to offer every option. Even in my modest family sedan I can choose between AM, FM and satellite radio, an auxiliary jack into which I can plug an MP3 player (or a portable cassette or even 8-track player if I could find one, or the other, or both), or anything that can transmit Bluetooth such as my phone that could play music from memory or stream music from an outside source. With all that decision making to do it’s no wonder only 85% of people decide to buckle up before pulling out.

Now that I’ve put this all down in writing I can see I have plenty of options even if I don’t opt to renew the satellite subscription. That saves me a couple hundred dollars for this year that I can use on 5 or 6 weeks of cable. Hmm, I think it might be decision time again.

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

 

Looking Back

Michael Leave a comment

Sometime toward the end of last year I mentioned the Real Reality Show Blog turned five years old. That happened on November 7 but I didn’t get around to mentioning it until much later that month. Shortly after that it became December and life got turned upside down for me. Again. I ended 2016 two days shy of actually being home from three separate hospital stays during the last month of last year. Hanging around for so many days in a hospital bed leaves one with only so many things to do. Read. Watch TV. Work a crossword puzzle or two. Roll over on top of the nurse call button. Think about life.

I hate thinking about life. Here’s why. Why is because thinking about life interferes with life. While I was lying about wondering “what had I done to deserve this” I got to thinking of life and the life I specifically had last year.

It started celebrating the end of the holiday season in a strange place. For the first time in 29 years I wasn’t in my old, wonderful house with a Christmas tree in every room highlighted by the 12 foot job under the cathedral ceiling of the natural wood finished sun room. And worst of all, I didn’t have all 37 of my nativities displayed. That’s because for the first Christmas after 29 years I was celebrating it in a miniscule one bedroom apartment so I could move about and function better in my new “challenged,” – screw that, make it disabled! – state. But then but the end of the year I got used to those not that miniscule quarters, I got used to working around the complex, I got used to hanging out at the pool, I got used to my new neighbors, and I missed those, that, and them when I wasn’t there in December.

In April I turned 60. I didn’t think anything of it. But for some reason my sisters thought I should have a party to celebrate that milestone. I look at milestones for birthdays years like 16, 21, 30, maybe 50, definitely 75, and by all means every year from 80 on. But I figured, why not. At least I knew I’d get a more extravagant meal than I was planning for myself and maybe even cake. Now, it happened that the last party I had thrown for me to celebrate a birthday was indeed at 30. (Hold that thought.) The selected venue for last year’s event had a guest limit of 25.I got to thinking how I was going to limit a guest list to 25. I pulled out my address book and mentally started drafting explanations to those who wouldn’t make the cut. After much serious review, and even more serious reflection, I handed my sister a list of 22 names. Thirty years previous there were three times that many people on hand to commemorate my becoming a thirtysomething. Had I or anyone got around to hosting a 50 year party I could imagine at least one guest for each lived year. Now, I couldn’t scrape up two dozen friends to watch me move another year closer to Medicare. And then the day came and those few all showed up and I realized these were mostly the same people who were around to see me turn 16 and a few years later, 21, and would have been among the crowd at 50. Friends. Old friends, close friends, real friends. Friends who saw me move not only from year to year but from trials to successes to failures to challenges to successes to every high, low, dull, and exciting phase of life. My life. And I hope they’ll all be there for 75, 80, and every one from then on.

Sometime in August I was at a routine doctor appointment. One of those that you get ready for a week before by going from lab to x-ray to CT to have as much of your insides available for the doctor to review as your outsides when you get there. She looked at the numbers and then at me and then back at the numbers and declared that I had a year, maybe, before my kidneys would go the way of so much else in my insides and I’d need the use of a dialysis machine to do what comes naturally to most others after a couple of cups of coffee. She was off by just a little. About 8 months. It was, in fact, while I was thinking all this in the hospital sometime in early December after I had been transported back to my hospital room from the dialysis unit after the second or maybe third of what would become a new thrice weekly event for me. But it wasn’t that much later that I reminded myself that the reason any doctors were even looking at lab and x-ray and CT scan results for the state my kidneys was that 15 years ago I was diagnosed with a pretty rare, chronic condition that feeds of internal organs like kidneys and if they found just the right treatment for me I had a 37% chance of living longer than three years. Somehow they hit it right and I was one of the lucky ones who got at least 12 more years so I could have a birthday party in a non-milestone year and all I had to do now was give up a dozen hours a week that I wasn’t doing anything with anyway and maybe make it to 75, 80, and a few more after that.

See, those are just a few reasons why I hate all this “looking back.” It just ends up finding the silver lining instead of dwelling on the uncontrollable like human beings are supposed to do. And it means I spent the entire 500th post of the RRSB talking about me. Instead of talking about the me you got to see in the past 500 posts. I guess I’ll do that next time.

Hmm. Five hundred. Not as compelling as 75, or 80, or all the numbers that come after that. But I bet somewhere there’s a word for that.

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

 

Flavor of the Month

Michael Leave a comment

“Orange or grape?”

It was a simple enough question given the context. Where my mind went added a level of complexity three words had rarely seen. Orange or grape? Well, some orange stuff actually tastes like orange. Orange juice (the good stuff.) Orange marmalade. Chili orange stir fry sauce. They taste like orange because they come from oranges. Then there are orange popsicles, orange jello, orange baby aspirin. Hardly orange.

But at least orange has some orange tasting progeny. Grape. Poor grape. I have eaten thousands of grapes over the years. Perhaps hundreds of thousands. And I have had many grape things: juice, jam, gum drops. Some are good. Some are questionable. Some just suck. But none taste like the grapes that I chow down in when I’m looking for a tasty snack. Just what are those things flavored with? I don’t understand.

And while we’re at it, another food thing I don’t understand is why crackers are perforated. Go on. Check out your graham crackers and saltines in your cupboards. They’re not like the Townhouse Crackers are they? No, those got cut all the way through at the cracker factory. If you want two Townhouses you take out two. If you want two grahams you have to snap them apart yourself. And douse your counter/table/lap with graham crumbs.

But the question is “orange or grape?” What was it? A shot of a protein drink. I figured neither was going to taste like the real thing. In fact, they probably taste the same.

There are all kinds of flavors that when you have them the first thing you say to yourself is “yum, grape.” Unfortunately, none of them are grape flavored.

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

It Just Happened

Michael Leave a comment

You wouldn’t think Dr. Seuss would come up when a 60 year old is looking back on the year almost gone by. Being just out of the hospital for but a few days I actually haven’t gotten all the way home yet. Since I live alone and am still a little while away from taking care of myself with a greater chance that I end a day in the emergency room rather than the bedroom, my sisters have opened their house to me so I can be pampered in the style an only son should be pampered…even at 60. But I digress. I think.

I was sitting alone in a corner pondering how I got to this place in space and time while the younger of the two siblings, the one still working the poor dear, was modeling the many holiday themed hats she was planning on bringing to work with her on the next day. You know the kind you see this time of year. The baseball hat with antlers that reads “Oh Deer,” or the one decked out in gingerbread cookies saying “Oh Snap!” As she dug deeper into her bag of headwear I got a greater memory sense of a story about a boy with a never-ending collection of hats.

It didn’t take too much more reflection that I recalled the hats indeed did end. The young man was Bartholomew Cubbins and the tale was Dr. Seuss’s “The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins.” If you don’t remember it, it is the story of a young boy who cannot bare his head to the king. Every time he removes a hat another appears in its place. Finally at the 500th reveal he doffs the yet finest example and presents the highly decorated hat to the king and is rewarded with a bag of gold.

So, how do we get from a child’s story from the 1930s to my consideration of all that happened to me this year? The last line of the story tells the tale. Though they could never explain how it happened, “They could only say is just ‘happened to happen’ and was not very likely to happen again.”

And isn’t that really the tale we are all told?

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