Test...
Testing... 1.. 2.. 3... Testing
Blog checklist...
...Computer? Check!
...Keyboard? Check!
...Monitor? Check!
...Narrator? ...
...NARRATOR? ...
Narrator not responding. Engage backup narrator...
Backup Narrator reporting for duty.
Very good. Commence with introduction...
Hello World, and welcome to "Just a blog, nothing more"
Hold on, B.N., you put a comma in the blog title...
There's suppose to be one
No. If you look closely you will see that there is no comma.
Well, that's wrong!
Don't matter. If its not there, then you don't include it. You are not here to change things around. You are only a substitute filling in for today only. Please follow the protocol set up by the blog's originator.
No one gave me a protocol to follow...
There should have been one included with the paperwork given to you when hired for the position of Backup Narrator.
Nope. All there was was an agreement stipulating that whatever I say or write as Backup Narrator will be become the property of the blog's originating Narrator.
You signed that, right?
Yes...
Good. Well did you look at the format of the blog?
Yes...
Then follow that format.
There is no format. This John guy writes all over the place. Sometimes its a story from his past. Sometimes its comments on current events. Sometimes its just made up silly crap. He even writes about two-headed pygmies or cows that use to be human. You never know what he's gonna spout off about.
Really? I'll have to take a look at some of his old posts...
You haven't read any?
I've been meaning to get around to it...
You haven't read this blog and you're the manager?
It's my first day...
Still... You should have familiarized yourself with the content.
I didn't think the Originating Narrator would not show up...
John. His name is John!
Whatever... He should have been here.
Well, he's not. That's why I'm here. And if I find flaws, I'm gonna correct them.
I'm sorry, I can't let you do that.
Then I'm out of here!
It's okay with me. I don't care for you anyway.
Good bye!
... and good riddance. Smart ass! Um, is there a fallback backup Narrator around here?
...and can we do something about this font size?
Anyone? ...hello?
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Rambler Rumblings
Riddle me this: If you are trapped in a room with no windows or doors and all you have is a mirror, how do you get out?
Solution: You look in the mirror to see what you saw. You take the saw and cut the mirror in half. Two halves make a whole. You climb through the hole and you're out.
Do you remember that oldie? It is said that sooner or later, everything old becomes new again. Can hardly wait until I become old enough to be new again. I may have said that before. History repeats itself. Those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it. The definition of insanity is to do the same thing over and over and expect different results. So why do I play the same numbers over and over again trying to win the lottery? In an eternity the improbable becomes the inevitable.
I'm just chock full of quotes this morning. Betcha never thought of me as a "chock" type of person, let alone to have my chock full. Mostly I'm accused of going off half chocked. You can chock that up to good misfortune. But, on the other hand, I do enjoy a good chock-let bar. As luck would have it, I have run out of chock puns.
I continue to babble on with my rambling. Or is that ramble on with my babbling? My father use to own a Rambler. (Finally, I have hit upon a reminder to a story from my past...)
My father use to smoke. The reason he quit smoking is because he died. I quit smoking because I don't want to die. Back in the days when he was still alive and I had not yet taken up bombarding my lungs with nicotine, Dad owned a Rambler, one of the finer examples spewed out by Detroit automobile manufacturers. On one summer day, after a morning's worth of hard play, as I came home to eat lunch, I saw the windows in father's car all steamed up. It was an odd sight. I know winter can cause windows to frost, but why would there be frost on the windows in summer? I touched the window expecting to feel cold glass. The glass was hot. I opened the door and smoke came billowing out. I ran in the house doing a Chicken Little impersonation. Instead of yelling "the sky is falling," I was shouting "The car is burning! The car is burning!"
My father, who generally moved like a glacier, shot to his feet and was outside in a flash. This was amazing to me. Not only did I have the excitement of announcing our flaming family vehicle, I got a front row seat for father's record breaking foot race. Jesse Owens beware, my father can put you to shame.
The house we lived in had two outside water faucets. One towards the back of the house on the side sporting the driveway with the parked family car. The other on the opposite side of the house towards the front. We only had one hose. As the day of the Roasting Rambler would have it, the hose was connected to the far side's faucet. Dad turned on the spigot, grabbed the hose and ran towards the fiery ride. He would only make it 75% of the way before the hose drew tight and Dad would do his acrobatic clown impression. His legs and torso stretched out horizontally three feet off the ground, his right hand pulled up under his armpit holding tight the hose dousing his shirt and head, his left arm lifting skyward doing a frantic wave to God for assistance, and his face contained the most surprised expression I had ever witness on him, the kind of expression a man might have on the gallows when the floor suddenly vanishes.
Dad flopped down on his back, continuously wetting himself with the hose. He jumped back to his feet and tried to do a tug of war with the hose. The hose was stretched to its limit, yet my father was insistent to elongate it further. He only needed forty-five feet, why wouldn't the thirty foot hose relent?
Meanwhile, while my father demanded the garden hose to lengthen itself by fifty percent, my mother had brought out a potful of water, examined the interior of the car, and had thrown water on the back seat blaze extinguishing the fire. There was a burn hole in the back seat about eight inches in diameter. This is what happened. My father had returned to the house a few minutes before I. As he was driving down our street, he threw a cigarette butt out the driver side window. The cigarette butt did not want the eviction so it jumped into a wind stream and returned through the same window and nestled in the back seat of the Rambler. My father was not aware of the butt's re-entry, he assumed the butt had taken up residence with all the other cigarette butts, in the gutters waiting for rain to wash them into the sewer system. When he parked in the driveway, he rolled up the window before exiting the car. The butt smoldered on the cloth material of the rear seat. I opened the car door igniting the small sparks of the butt and cloth into flame. The flame barely got going before my mother put an end to it.
There was hardly any burn damage, but boy did that car stink. A throw pillow was wedged into the burn hole for aesthetics, but the smoke left an incurable odor and from then on we had to drive with the windows down. That was a rough winter. Dad finally replaced the Rambler with a new family car, a Chevrolet Corvair.
Solution: You look in the mirror to see what you saw. You take the saw and cut the mirror in half. Two halves make a whole. You climb through the hole and you're out.
Do you remember that oldie? It is said that sooner or later, everything old becomes new again. Can hardly wait until I become old enough to be new again. I may have said that before. History repeats itself. Those who fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it. The definition of insanity is to do the same thing over and over and expect different results. So why do I play the same numbers over and over again trying to win the lottery? In an eternity the improbable becomes the inevitable.
I'm just chock full of quotes this morning. Betcha never thought of me as a "chock" type of person, let alone to have my chock full. Mostly I'm accused of going off half chocked. You can chock that up to good misfortune. But, on the other hand, I do enjoy a good chock-let bar. As luck would have it, I have run out of chock puns.
I continue to babble on with my rambling. Or is that ramble on with my babbling? My father use to own a Rambler. (Finally, I have hit upon a reminder to a story from my past...)
My father use to smoke. The reason he quit smoking is because he died. I quit smoking because I don't want to die. Back in the days when he was still alive and I had not yet taken up bombarding my lungs with nicotine, Dad owned a Rambler, one of the finer examples spewed out by Detroit automobile manufacturers. On one summer day, after a morning's worth of hard play, as I came home to eat lunch, I saw the windows in father's car all steamed up. It was an odd sight. I know winter can cause windows to frost, but why would there be frost on the windows in summer? I touched the window expecting to feel cold glass. The glass was hot. I opened the door and smoke came billowing out. I ran in the house doing a Chicken Little impersonation. Instead of yelling "the sky is falling," I was shouting "The car is burning! The car is burning!"
My father, who generally moved like a glacier, shot to his feet and was outside in a flash. This was amazing to me. Not only did I have the excitement of announcing our flaming family vehicle, I got a front row seat for father's record breaking foot race. Jesse Owens beware, my father can put you to shame.
The house we lived in had two outside water faucets. One towards the back of the house on the side sporting the driveway with the parked family car. The other on the opposite side of the house towards the front. We only had one hose. As the day of the Roasting Rambler would have it, the hose was connected to the far side's faucet. Dad turned on the spigot, grabbed the hose and ran towards the fiery ride. He would only make it 75% of the way before the hose drew tight and Dad would do his acrobatic clown impression. His legs and torso stretched out horizontally three feet off the ground, his right hand pulled up under his armpit holding tight the hose dousing his shirt and head, his left arm lifting skyward doing a frantic wave to God for assistance, and his face contained the most surprised expression I had ever witness on him, the kind of expression a man might have on the gallows when the floor suddenly vanishes.
Dad flopped down on his back, continuously wetting himself with the hose. He jumped back to his feet and tried to do a tug of war with the hose. The hose was stretched to its limit, yet my father was insistent to elongate it further. He only needed forty-five feet, why wouldn't the thirty foot hose relent?
Meanwhile, while my father demanded the garden hose to lengthen itself by fifty percent, my mother had brought out a potful of water, examined the interior of the car, and had thrown water on the back seat blaze extinguishing the fire. There was a burn hole in the back seat about eight inches in diameter. This is what happened. My father had returned to the house a few minutes before I. As he was driving down our street, he threw a cigarette butt out the driver side window. The cigarette butt did not want the eviction so it jumped into a wind stream and returned through the same window and nestled in the back seat of the Rambler. My father was not aware of the butt's re-entry, he assumed the butt had taken up residence with all the other cigarette butts, in the gutters waiting for rain to wash them into the sewer system. When he parked in the driveway, he rolled up the window before exiting the car. The butt smoldered on the cloth material of the rear seat. I opened the car door igniting the small sparks of the butt and cloth into flame. The flame barely got going before my mother put an end to it.
There was hardly any burn damage, but boy did that car stink. A throw pillow was wedged into the burn hole for aesthetics, but the smoke left an incurable odor and from then on we had to drive with the windows down. That was a rough winter. Dad finally replaced the Rambler with a new family car, a Chevrolet Corvair.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
And the Winner Is...
This week the sad news is that Justin Bieber did not win a Grammy. If I could, I would give him one of mine, but both my Grammies died decades ago. I could give him an Auntie instead. I still have one of those. On second thought, I'd rather keep her. Justin will have to fend for himself.
While I'm thinking about awards and award shows, I'd like to ask a question. Why is it when I see Halle Berry, or Julie Roberts, or Sandra Bullock, or Meryl Streep, on a talk show, they claim to be actors? Yet, when the Oscars come around I never see one female nominated for Best Actor. Suddenly, the label Actress is no longer shunned.
As for Best Picture, the 2011 nominees are:
1. Black Swan
2. The Fighter
3. Inception
4. The Kid's Are Alright
5. The King's Speech
6. 127 Hours
7. The Social Network
8. Toy Story 3
9. True Grit
10. Winter's Bone
I have seen all except for The King's Speech and The Kid's Are Alright. Of the ones I have seen, the only ones I plan to see a second time is "Black Swan" and "True Grit." I have already watched "The Fighter" and "127 Hours" twice. "The Fighter" was worth the encore, "127 Hours" was not. The reason I would watch "Black Swan" again, is to try and catch the minute details I have missed on the first showing. Kind of like watching "The Sixth Sense" again; to search for the clues that you now know is there. On the other hand, I would re-view "True Grit" to fill in the blanks that I opened by using the bathroom, talking on the phone and making snacks during the film. This John Wayne remake may be better than the original, but not different enough to keep me rooted to my seat.
Right now, if I were the one who chooses the Best Picture, I would select "The Fighter." My opinion may change after watching "The King's Speech" or "The Kid's Are Alright." I have not seen enough of the movies that featured the Best Actor and Best Actress nominees to post my opinion for those categories. But I do have a sentimental favorites; Natalie Portman and James Franco. Natalie's movies have always pleased me, starting with her first: "The Professional." And James Franco is superb in "127 Hours."
If you're wondering how I can like James Franco in "127 Hours" and not select it for Best Picture, the reason is this: Franco made you feel his character's pain, you suffered along with him. Only great actors can do that. The movie itself was such a downer, there was no redemption. This was a true story that I did not find inspiring. He has to cut off his own arm to live, but it was his own megalomania that resulted in this self amputation. If his deformity saved others from doing the same, then the movie may have had a worthwhile message. If you burn your fingers by touching a hot iron and you don't do that any more, that's a message only to yourself. If you burn your fingers by touching a hot iron and then stop others from doing the same, that's a message with meaning.
Another nomination that bothers me is "Toy Story 3." It is running in both "Best Picture" and "Best Animated Feature Film" categories. I can understand the second category, but not the first. Is it because they doubled the amount of nominations that a cartoon is now included for Best Picture? If "TS3" can run for Best Pic, then "Inception" should be included in the Best Animated category. What's next, adding Buzz Lightyear to the Best Actor selection?
I've been seeing the advertisements for this year's Oscar Ceremony, and I must say that Anne Hathaway and James Franco may make the show worth watching. The little stunts they do in the ads are very funny. I liked the wardrobe malfunction bit where Franco tackles Hathaway with a wrap-around tarp. If these commercials are glimpses of what's to come, I definitely will watch. I generally start watching the awards every year, but after a few of the extraordinarily long acceptance speeches, I will change channels and only return to watch the very end.
I have under two weeks to watch "The King's Speech" and "The Kids Are Alright." When that task is complete, I will report my opinion of what should be the Best Picture of 2011. Who knows I may even throw in some nominations of my own. If cartoons can be included, why not porn?
While I'm thinking about awards and award shows, I'd like to ask a question. Why is it when I see Halle Berry, or Julie Roberts, or Sandra Bullock, or Meryl Streep, on a talk show, they claim to be actors? Yet, when the Oscars come around I never see one female nominated for Best Actor. Suddenly, the label Actress is no longer shunned.
As for Best Picture, the 2011 nominees are:
1. Black Swan
2. The Fighter
3. Inception
4. The Kid's Are Alright
5. The King's Speech
6. 127 Hours
7. The Social Network
8. Toy Story 3
9. True Grit
10. Winter's Bone
I have seen all except for The King's Speech and The Kid's Are Alright. Of the ones I have seen, the only ones I plan to see a second time is "Black Swan" and "True Grit." I have already watched "The Fighter" and "127 Hours" twice. "The Fighter" was worth the encore, "127 Hours" was not. The reason I would watch "Black Swan" again, is to try and catch the minute details I have missed on the first showing. Kind of like watching "The Sixth Sense" again; to search for the clues that you now know is there. On the other hand, I would re-view "True Grit" to fill in the blanks that I opened by using the bathroom, talking on the phone and making snacks during the film. This John Wayne remake may be better than the original, but not different enough to keep me rooted to my seat.
Right now, if I were the one who chooses the Best Picture, I would select "The Fighter." My opinion may change after watching "The King's Speech" or "The Kid's Are Alright." I have not seen enough of the movies that featured the Best Actor and Best Actress nominees to post my opinion for those categories. But I do have a sentimental favorites; Natalie Portman and James Franco. Natalie's movies have always pleased me, starting with her first: "The Professional." And James Franco is superb in "127 Hours."
If you're wondering how I can like James Franco in "127 Hours" and not select it for Best Picture, the reason is this: Franco made you feel his character's pain, you suffered along with him. Only great actors can do that. The movie itself was such a downer, there was no redemption. This was a true story that I did not find inspiring. He has to cut off his own arm to live, but it was his own megalomania that resulted in this self amputation. If his deformity saved others from doing the same, then the movie may have had a worthwhile message. If you burn your fingers by touching a hot iron and you don't do that any more, that's a message only to yourself. If you burn your fingers by touching a hot iron and then stop others from doing the same, that's a message with meaning.
Another nomination that bothers me is "Toy Story 3." It is running in both "Best Picture" and "Best Animated Feature Film" categories. I can understand the second category, but not the first. Is it because they doubled the amount of nominations that a cartoon is now included for Best Picture? If "TS3" can run for Best Pic, then "Inception" should be included in the Best Animated category. What's next, adding Buzz Lightyear to the Best Actor selection?
I've been seeing the advertisements for this year's Oscar Ceremony, and I must say that Anne Hathaway and James Franco may make the show worth watching. The little stunts they do in the ads are very funny. I liked the wardrobe malfunction bit where Franco tackles Hathaway with a wrap-around tarp. If these commercials are glimpses of what's to come, I definitely will watch. I generally start watching the awards every year, but after a few of the extraordinarily long acceptance speeches, I will change channels and only return to watch the very end.
I have under two weeks to watch "The King's Speech" and "The Kids Are Alright." When that task is complete, I will report my opinion of what should be the Best Picture of 2011. Who knows I may even throw in some nominations of my own. If cartoons can be included, why not porn?
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Of Mice and Dogs
My first real pet was a white mouse I named Archie I was in my thirties at the time. I never had any pets when I was growing up. In my youth, the closest I came to being a pet owner is when our next door neighbor, who also happened to be my junior high English teacher, owned a female beagle that had had a litter. He gave one of the pups to me and my family. He had already named the puppy Scotty. I was disappointed that I did not get to do the naming. It never occurred to me to rename the dog. Our back yard was fenced off on all sides except for the driveway leading to the garage. So when we let Scotty outside, he was put on a leash. On the third day of ownership, Scotty disappeared from our back yard. I walked the neighborhood for the next several days shouting out Scotty's name. No luck.
The following week, I had finally given up the non-stop search for Scotty. Even though I had quit perusing the neighborhood hollering his name, I still kept one eye peeled for the puppy as I resumed a dog-free life. On the second week of his disappearance, Scotty suddenly reappeared on our doorstep. He had a portion of a clothesline tied around his neck. You could see where, at the end of its two foot length, Scotty had chewed through for his freedom. Someone had been keeping Scotty against his will. He had broken free from his captors and returned to our house. This was amazing. Scotty had only spent two nights with us. By all rights, if he was seeking his roots, he would have returned to our neighbor's house where he had been born and spent the first five or six weeks of his life. If fact, he would have known the dognappers better than me and my parents. Yet he came home to us.
My father did not enjoy the rigmarole caused by the puppy. First by the abundant attention by joining our family, second by the upset to my mother and myself at the dog's disappearance, and thirdly by the commotion and celebration at his return. So on the day after Scotty's return, my father deemed that puppy proprietorship is not meant for our family, that he had found a safer sanction more suitable for Scotty with one of his co-workers. He made the argument to relinquish our pet for the benefit of Scotty; how he would be loved by a bigger family who's children were still very young (I was sixteen), he would have a larger yard to play, and he would not have to worry about being snatched away.
To disagree with my father was futile. Once he set his mind, his decree was as if etched in stone. Plus, my mother and I never had the chance to attach ourselves strongly to Scotty. Of the three weeks since we got him, he had only been with us for a total of four and a half days. Mother would quickly side with father's will and I, without further recourse, reluctantly agreed to forfeit the puppy. I would not have another pet for twenty years; which would be my first real pet.
I bought Archie on a whim. I had taken the girl I had been dating at the time to go shopping. Being bored at her comparing the different types of washcloths ("Ooh, John, feel the texture on this one. Do you like the lemon yellow better than the canary yellow. I wish they had egg yolk yellow."); I slipped away and ventured out of Bed, Bath and Beyond, and made my way to the pet store next door. I was just killing time. I looked at the kittens and puppies, the hamsters and the ferrets, the guppies and the goldfish, the snakes and the snakes food... What? They sell live mice here as snake food! I looked into the glass case that held Archie and his relatives. Archie stood out amongst the rest by his actions. He was wedging himself into a corner while the others romped freely across the cage. I could tell he was trying to make himself less conspicuous, praying that he would not be the next mouse to end up down a snakes throat. Archie looked at me with pleading eyes. The small white mouse tried to smile and make himself more appealing. Archie knew that I was not a snake owner and sanctuary awaited him at my home. The price on Archie was seventy-nine cents. I made the purchase and our man/mouse relationship began. From that day forth I always wore pocket shirts. Archie loved to nestle in my pocket, peaking out on occasion to take in the ever changing scenery. At times he would crawl onto my shoulder to see where we had been. Archie was amazed at the distances he traveled just by hitching a ride on my shirts.
Since Archie is the only mouse I ever owned, I did not know if his intelligence was normal or extraordinary. It took me several weeks to teach Archie to do simple math problems. If you were to ask Archie how much is two plus three, his right front paw would tap the ground five times. If you asked him how much was seven take away four, he would tap three times. If the answer was five or less, Archie could do it. Sixteen divided by four? Four taps. What is one seventh of twenty one? Three taps. The square root of nine? Three taps. But ask him what is four and two, and he'll tap the ground once, hesitate, tap once more, then roll on the area he had tapped as if to erase it. He'll tap five times, look at you to see if his guess was correct. He would finally curl up into a ball, close his eyes to feign sleep, and not respond to anything for the rest of the day.
Archie loved going to the bar with me. He was always eying the waitresses. He would do little tricks trying to impress them. He would balance a swizzle stick across the top of two beer bottles. Then he would take the cocktail parasol from a Mai Tai and use it to keep his balance as he crosses from one bottle to the other. I never saw a waitress that did not enjoy this exhibition. He would also pull three pits from lemon or lime wedges and juggle them. He could only juggle three pits and not very well. Yet the more he drank the more determined he was to perfect his juggling. He could make a fool of himself at times. It was pathetic to watch a drunken mouse dropping pit after pit, never getting close to success. He would get so upset at his failure that he would knock over every drink on the bar as he makes his way to the bathroom where he would yell in frustration. Archie thought no one heard his baneful wails. He was wrong. When I offer to replace the drinks Archie had spilled, the barflies usually sympathize with me and decline my invitation. They, too, have had friends that have embarrassed them. I wish Archie would have been content only to do his tightrope walk. I am not certain, but it may be because Archie did not have thumbs that he so bad at juggling.
Archie stayed with me for almost a year before moving on. He met a cute little field mouse and was smitten. He no longer wanted to go barhopping with me. He wanted to spend all his time with Prissy May. I guess I can't blame him. But it still hurt to lose a friend. I have to admit that I did not handle it well. I would hint to Archie that Prissy May was seeing other mice. It wasn't true. I just wanted my friend back, so I said some things that I am not so proud of. I told Archie that Prissy May made a play for me. That it was because of my loyalty to him that I turned down her offer and to let him know what a two timing mouse she was. Archie quit seeing her and then moped around all miserable. All because of my pack of lies. I had never seen Archie so depressed, so dejected. I felt so bad at what I did, that I arranged for Archie and me to meet up with Prissy May at the Cheesecake Factory, and I confessed the truth to them both. They were furious with me, but who could blame them. They left together and I didn't see either of them for about a week.
Archie came home only to pack up his belongings. Our friendship was over. Still, just before he left to start his life with Prissy May, he looked back at me and gave me one of his sweet smiles. He was such a forgiving mouse. I miss our good times together, but at last I am happy for him and the love he found. I truly do wish them the best.
The following week, I had finally given up the non-stop search for Scotty. Even though I had quit perusing the neighborhood hollering his name, I still kept one eye peeled for the puppy as I resumed a dog-free life. On the second week of his disappearance, Scotty suddenly reappeared on our doorstep. He had a portion of a clothesline tied around his neck. You could see where, at the end of its two foot length, Scotty had chewed through for his freedom. Someone had been keeping Scotty against his will. He had broken free from his captors and returned to our house. This was amazing. Scotty had only spent two nights with us. By all rights, if he was seeking his roots, he would have returned to our neighbor's house where he had been born and spent the first five or six weeks of his life. If fact, he would have known the dognappers better than me and my parents. Yet he came home to us.
My father did not enjoy the rigmarole caused by the puppy. First by the abundant attention by joining our family, second by the upset to my mother and myself at the dog's disappearance, and thirdly by the commotion and celebration at his return. So on the day after Scotty's return, my father deemed that puppy proprietorship is not meant for our family, that he had found a safer sanction more suitable for Scotty with one of his co-workers. He made the argument to relinquish our pet for the benefit of Scotty; how he would be loved by a bigger family who's children were still very young (I was sixteen), he would have a larger yard to play, and he would not have to worry about being snatched away.
To disagree with my father was futile. Once he set his mind, his decree was as if etched in stone. Plus, my mother and I never had the chance to attach ourselves strongly to Scotty. Of the three weeks since we got him, he had only been with us for a total of four and a half days. Mother would quickly side with father's will and I, without further recourse, reluctantly agreed to forfeit the puppy. I would not have another pet for twenty years; which would be my first real pet.
I bought Archie on a whim. I had taken the girl I had been dating at the time to go shopping. Being bored at her comparing the different types of washcloths ("Ooh, John, feel the texture on this one. Do you like the lemon yellow better than the canary yellow. I wish they had egg yolk yellow."); I slipped away and ventured out of Bed, Bath and Beyond, and made my way to the pet store next door. I was just killing time. I looked at the kittens and puppies, the hamsters and the ferrets, the guppies and the goldfish, the snakes and the snakes food... What? They sell live mice here as snake food! I looked into the glass case that held Archie and his relatives. Archie stood out amongst the rest by his actions. He was wedging himself into a corner while the others romped freely across the cage. I could tell he was trying to make himself less conspicuous, praying that he would not be the next mouse to end up down a snakes throat. Archie looked at me with pleading eyes. The small white mouse tried to smile and make himself more appealing. Archie knew that I was not a snake owner and sanctuary awaited him at my home. The price on Archie was seventy-nine cents. I made the purchase and our man/mouse relationship began. From that day forth I always wore pocket shirts. Archie loved to nestle in my pocket, peaking out on occasion to take in the ever changing scenery. At times he would crawl onto my shoulder to see where we had been. Archie was amazed at the distances he traveled just by hitching a ride on my shirts.
Since Archie is the only mouse I ever owned, I did not know if his intelligence was normal or extraordinary. It took me several weeks to teach Archie to do simple math problems. If you were to ask Archie how much is two plus three, his right front paw would tap the ground five times. If you asked him how much was seven take away four, he would tap three times. If the answer was five or less, Archie could do it. Sixteen divided by four? Four taps. What is one seventh of twenty one? Three taps. The square root of nine? Three taps. But ask him what is four and two, and he'll tap the ground once, hesitate, tap once more, then roll on the area he had tapped as if to erase it. He'll tap five times, look at you to see if his guess was correct. He would finally curl up into a ball, close his eyes to feign sleep, and not respond to anything for the rest of the day.
Archie loved going to the bar with me. He was always eying the waitresses. He would do little tricks trying to impress them. He would balance a swizzle stick across the top of two beer bottles. Then he would take the cocktail parasol from a Mai Tai and use it to keep his balance as he crosses from one bottle to the other. I never saw a waitress that did not enjoy this exhibition. He would also pull three pits from lemon or lime wedges and juggle them. He could only juggle three pits and not very well. Yet the more he drank the more determined he was to perfect his juggling. He could make a fool of himself at times. It was pathetic to watch a drunken mouse dropping pit after pit, never getting close to success. He would get so upset at his failure that he would knock over every drink on the bar as he makes his way to the bathroom where he would yell in frustration. Archie thought no one heard his baneful wails. He was wrong. When I offer to replace the drinks Archie had spilled, the barflies usually sympathize with me and decline my invitation. They, too, have had friends that have embarrassed them. I wish Archie would have been content only to do his tightrope walk. I am not certain, but it may be because Archie did not have thumbs that he so bad at juggling.
Archie stayed with me for almost a year before moving on. He met a cute little field mouse and was smitten. He no longer wanted to go barhopping with me. He wanted to spend all his time with Prissy May. I guess I can't blame him. But it still hurt to lose a friend. I have to admit that I did not handle it well. I would hint to Archie that Prissy May was seeing other mice. It wasn't true. I just wanted my friend back, so I said some things that I am not so proud of. I told Archie that Prissy May made a play for me. That it was because of my loyalty to him that I turned down her offer and to let him know what a two timing mouse she was. Archie quit seeing her and then moped around all miserable. All because of my pack of lies. I had never seen Archie so depressed, so dejected. I felt so bad at what I did, that I arranged for Archie and me to meet up with Prissy May at the Cheesecake Factory, and I confessed the truth to them both. They were furious with me, but who could blame them. They left together and I didn't see either of them for about a week.
Archie came home only to pack up his belongings. Our friendship was over. Still, just before he left to start his life with Prissy May, he looked back at me and gave me one of his sweet smiles. He was such a forgiving mouse. I miss our good times together, but at last I am happy for him and the love he found. I truly do wish them the best.
Friday, February 11, 2011
A Jester and a King
I finally went to the website Procrastinators.org. I had first heard about this site a few years back. That's one more item checked off my bucket list. (Interesting side note: The Procrastinators Club is still planning its 50th anniversary party. The club was started in 1954. You do the math.) I will write more on this later.
Okay, what else can I talk about? I reach deep into my memory bag and pull out the year... 1977. The month of August. That week the world lost one of the greatest entertainers of all time. For those of you who are now figuring that I must mean August 16th, 1977, the day that Elvis Presley died, I will tell you that you are wrong. Yes, I will agree that Elvis had a very big impact on the culture but not as big as the other celebrity who died three days later. Of course I am referring to... the one, the only... Groucho Marx. (Insert music from song "Hurray for Captain Spaulding.")
Let's compare: Elvis vs Groucho.
Civil Service: Elvis reached the rank of sergeant in U.S.Army
Groucho was President of Freedonia in Duck Soup
Siblings: Elvis had one brother who died at birth
Groucho had five brothers, only one died at birth
Songs: Elvis sang "Teddy Bear," a stuffed doll named after
President Theodore Roosevelt.
Groucho sang "Lydia the Tattooed Lady" for
President Franklyn Roosevelt.
Frank Sinatra: Elvis performed a song on a Frank Sinatra TV special
(3 min. shared screen time)
Groucho co-starred with Frank Sinatra in Double
Dynamite (80 min. shared screen time)
Movies: Elvis starred in "Stay Away, Joe" which was enjoyed by
dozens of people.
Groucho starred in "A Night At The Opera" which was
enjoyed by millions.
Quotes: Elvis said, "I don't know anything about music. In my line
you don't have to."
Groucho said, "Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best
friend. Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read."
Death: Elvis died alone on a toilet.
Groucho died at home in bed surrounded by
family and friends.
Novelty Items: Elvis sequin jumpsuit sells hundreds every decade.
Groucho glasses w/thick eyebrows, nose and mustache
sell thousands daily.
Elvis died at age 42. Groucho died at 86, over two of Elvis's lifetimes. So with all this information, if you were to ask if Groucho was the more popular of the two, I would answer, "You bet your life."
Next time: Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson; dangling golden locks vs dangling children off balconies.
Okay, what else can I talk about? I reach deep into my memory bag and pull out the year... 1977. The month of August. That week the world lost one of the greatest entertainers of all time. For those of you who are now figuring that I must mean August 16th, 1977, the day that Elvis Presley died, I will tell you that you are wrong. Yes, I will agree that Elvis had a very big impact on the culture but not as big as the other celebrity who died three days later. Of course I am referring to... the one, the only... Groucho Marx. (Insert music from song "Hurray for Captain Spaulding.")
Let's compare: Elvis vs Groucho.
Civil Service: Elvis reached the rank of sergeant in U.S.Army
Groucho was President of Freedonia in Duck Soup
Siblings: Elvis had one brother who died at birth
Groucho had five brothers, only one died at birth
Songs: Elvis sang "Teddy Bear," a stuffed doll named after
President Theodore Roosevelt.
Groucho sang "Lydia the Tattooed Lady" for
President Franklyn Roosevelt.
Frank Sinatra: Elvis performed a song on a Frank Sinatra TV special
(3 min. shared screen time)
Groucho co-starred with Frank Sinatra in Double
Dynamite (80 min. shared screen time)
Movies: Elvis starred in "Stay Away, Joe" which was enjoyed by
dozens of people.
Groucho starred in "A Night At The Opera" which was
enjoyed by millions.
Quotes: Elvis said, "I don't know anything about music. In my line
you don't have to."
Groucho said, "Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best
friend. Inside of a dog, it's too dark to read."
Death: Elvis died alone on a toilet.
Groucho died at home in bed surrounded by
family and friends.
Novelty Items: Elvis sequin jumpsuit sells hundreds every decade.
Groucho glasses w/thick eyebrows, nose and mustache
sell thousands daily.
Elvis died at age 42. Groucho died at 86, over two of Elvis's lifetimes. So with all this information, if you were to ask if Groucho was the more popular of the two, I would answer, "You bet your life."
Next time: Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson; dangling golden locks vs dangling children off balconies.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
I Read the News Today, Oh Boy...
In California a man was killed by his own cock. Now, keep your mind out of the gutter, cock is a rooster. Jose Luis Ochoa armed his rooster by strapping knives to its talons. The purpose was to enter the bird in a cockfight at an advantage. Well, the rooster was no cheat and he let his master know this by slicing open Jose's leg. Jose bled to death. The cock is now in police custody. The district attorney hinted that this may not be the bird's first homicide and stated that they are once again looking into the 1980 death of Colonel Sanders, and also have reopened the 1983 Kentucky Fried Chicken murders.
In other news; Charlie Sheen has spent over two million dollars to have sex with porn stars last year. If I were to throw away one week's salary like that, Linda would never let me hear the end of it.
In Egypt, the people are still protesting. Don't worry, I won't make a pun about how their current political system sphinx. Viva la revolution!
Lindsay Lohen is once again in the news. Actually, this would be more astounding if she wasn't in the news. Her newest exploits has her being charged with grand theft for borrowing a $2500 necklace from a jewelry store. She really should have told someone she was borrowing it. I'm certain it only slipped her mind.
"Fed's Ben Bernanke says he's not worried about inflation" reads one headline. Oh course he isn't worried, he can afford the rising costs. Now if only the rest of the country could make that claim.
On a happier note, Gabrielle Giffords is regaining her ability to speak. I'd love to see her fully recover and then debate Sarah Palin.
Barbara Bush, George W's daughter, stated that "Everyone should have the right to marry the person that they love." Who'd have thought that a Bush could have a worthwhile thought.
In Sports, Lawyers have filed a lawsuit against the Super Bowl because of a seating shortage. If you are one of the thousand people who were refused their seats for the game, you should make about $3300 from the suit. If you are the lawyer who's filing the suit, you will make $1,650,000. The moral here is: The next time you feel like attending a sporting event, go to a law library instead. You will win out in the end.
That's all the news for now.
In other news; Charlie Sheen has spent over two million dollars to have sex with porn stars last year. If I were to throw away one week's salary like that, Linda would never let me hear the end of it.
In Egypt, the people are still protesting. Don't worry, I won't make a pun about how their current political system sphinx. Viva la revolution!
Lindsay Lohen is once again in the news. Actually, this would be more astounding if she wasn't in the news. Her newest exploits has her being charged with grand theft for borrowing a $2500 necklace from a jewelry store. She really should have told someone she was borrowing it. I'm certain it only slipped her mind.
"Fed's Ben Bernanke says he's not worried about inflation" reads one headline. Oh course he isn't worried, he can afford the rising costs. Now if only the rest of the country could make that claim.
On a happier note, Gabrielle Giffords is regaining her ability to speak. I'd love to see her fully recover and then debate Sarah Palin.
Barbara Bush, George W's daughter, stated that "Everyone should have the right to marry the person that they love." Who'd have thought that a Bush could have a worthwhile thought.
In Sports, Lawyers have filed a lawsuit against the Super Bowl because of a seating shortage. If you are one of the thousand people who were refused their seats for the game, you should make about $3300 from the suit. If you are the lawyer who's filing the suit, you will make $1,650,000. The moral here is: The next time you feel like attending a sporting event, go to a law library instead. You will win out in the end.
That's all the news for now.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Typical Spousal Dispute
Trying to remember the actress who was "American Beauty." I'm telling Linda her name was Mea Savali or Mila Savoli. Linda insists that it was not Mira Sorvino. I agree, it was not Paul Sorvino's daughter Mira. I was talking about Mia Savilo or Mina Savora. Linda insists that I am referring to Mira Sorvino and I am wrong about her being in "American Beauty." I tell her the actress who I am trying to recall was the teenage cheerleader that enamored Kevin Spacey. Her name is something like Milo Sarivo or Mara Silverado. Linda claims no such actress exists.
This is my life such as it is. Linda and I banter back and forth for a half hour before we let the internet tell us the truth. I go to IMDB.com and enter "American Beauty" in the search field. The page comes up and we scroll down to see who played what roles. The high school cheerleader character was named Angela Hayes and the actress who portrayed her was Mena Suvari. AHA!
Linda says, "I told you it wasn't Mira Sorvino."
"I never said it was. Her name is Mena Suvari. That's who I was talking about. I was right."
"You were wrong!"
"No I wasn't. I said just about every combination of her name that I could think of."
Linda makes a buzzer sound. "BRRR... Wrong! You never said Mena Suvari. You were trying to say Mira Sorvino."
"No, I wasn't. I even said I wasn't talking about Mira Sorvino."
"NOW you say it. You didn't say it before."
"What are you talking about? You know damn well I was trying to say Mena Suvari."
"It's not that hard a name to say. You should not pretend to have said something you didn't. Who do you think you're fooling?"
"I'm not trying to fool anybody. I just want some credit for being correct."
"But you weren't correct. You even said you got her mixed up with Mira Sorvino. Now you want to change your story."
"Look I know who Mira Sorvino is. I always liked her movies. I would not mix her up with someone else."
"Then why did you?"
Totally frustrated by this silly argument, I say, "Fine. Have it your way. You win."
"Well then admit what you did."
"Look this isn't a crime. There's nothing to admit. Let's drop it."
"As soon as you say you were wrong."
There is stubborn streak in me that I have to overcome. I am breathing hard through my nose and squeezing my eyes shut. Slowly I say, "I was wrong. I never said Mira Suvari's name. I may have come close, but I never pronounced her name correctly."
"And..." Linda prods on.
"And nothing. That's the whole thing."
"What about Mira Sorvino?"
"What about her?"
"Admit you were wrong to say she was in "American Beauty.""
"I never said she was."
"Only because you couldn't think of her name."
AARRGG! This will definitely go down in the annals of "Stupid Linda/John Arguments." It may even surpass the "Great Keith David - David Keith Debacle" of 1998.
This is my life such as it is. Linda and I banter back and forth for a half hour before we let the internet tell us the truth. I go to IMDB.com and enter "American Beauty" in the search field. The page comes up and we scroll down to see who played what roles. The high school cheerleader character was named Angela Hayes and the actress who portrayed her was Mena Suvari. AHA!
Linda says, "I told you it wasn't Mira Sorvino."
"I never said it was. Her name is Mena Suvari. That's who I was talking about. I was right."
"You were wrong!"
"No I wasn't. I said just about every combination of her name that I could think of."
Linda makes a buzzer sound. "BRRR... Wrong! You never said Mena Suvari. You were trying to say Mira Sorvino."
"No, I wasn't. I even said I wasn't talking about Mira Sorvino."
"NOW you say it. You didn't say it before."
"What are you talking about? You know damn well I was trying to say Mena Suvari."
"It's not that hard a name to say. You should not pretend to have said something you didn't. Who do you think you're fooling?"
"I'm not trying to fool anybody. I just want some credit for being correct."
"But you weren't correct. You even said you got her mixed up with Mira Sorvino. Now you want to change your story."
"Look I know who Mira Sorvino is. I always liked her movies. I would not mix her up with someone else."
"Then why did you?"
Totally frustrated by this silly argument, I say, "Fine. Have it your way. You win."
"Well then admit what you did."
"Look this isn't a crime. There's nothing to admit. Let's drop it."
"As soon as you say you were wrong."
There is stubborn streak in me that I have to overcome. I am breathing hard through my nose and squeezing my eyes shut. Slowly I say, "I was wrong. I never said Mira Suvari's name. I may have come close, but I never pronounced her name correctly."
"And..." Linda prods on.
"And nothing. That's the whole thing."
"What about Mira Sorvino?"
"What about her?"
"Admit you were wrong to say she was in "American Beauty.""
"I never said she was."
"Only because you couldn't think of her name."
AARRGG! This will definitely go down in the annals of "Stupid Linda/John Arguments." It may even surpass the "Great Keith David - David Keith Debacle" of 1998.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Recipe for Fun?
Time once again to enter a new post. As usual, I do not have a subject when starting to type. So I shall put some words together and see where it leads. "Casino" is on at the moment. How many movies do De Niro and Pesci star together in? That's Bobby and Joe for those of us who are on a first name basis. [I am going to act like they are close personal friends. I really doubt that they will read these words and rebuff me.] So back in the 1970s, I tell Marty (Martin Scorsese) that I have a couple of pretty good actors for his "Raging Bull" movie. Marty had used De Niro before, so he was alright with that suggestion. He hired Pesci on my word. Didn't even need a screen test. He liked the pairing so much he included them in "Goodfellows" and "Casino." When Bobby did the directing along with acting, he included Joe in "The Bronx Tale" and "The Good Shepherd." The five movies I mentioned are all the ones I can think of that had the pairing.
Anyway, I was hanging with Bobby at Sardi's when who should walk in, Diana Ross. She and Bobby had been an item many years back. I knew that, but I didn't know how they would relate to each other nowadays. Diane, upon seeing Bobby, picked up a vase and threw it at him. I guess they no longer get along. Bobby ducks and the vase shatters on the wall behind him. I happened to be wearing a new suede jacket at the time and the water that had been in the vase splashed all over me. I jump up and yell, "Dammit, Diane, this better not stain!"
As I am yelling, Bobby picks up the sorbet he had been eating and hurls at Diane. Everyone knows how hard it is to throw sorbet with any accuracy. The sorbet missed Diane and splatted on the back of Ernest Borgnine's head. Ernie had been eating dinner with his wife. He and his wife, surrounded by open boxes of wigs she is hawking, are outraged by the attack. (On a side note: Don't ever get cornered by Mrs. Borgnine. She's relentless. She won't leave you alone until you buy a wig.) Ernie feels the back of his head and tries to scoop the sorbet off. When he has a decent size clump of sorbet, hair, and hair gel in his hand, he stands up and addresses the room. "Who threw this?" he demanded.
A couple tables over was Kevin Bacon and his wife, Kyra Sedgwick. Both of them had seen everything occur and started laughing. Borgnine snarls at the couple and walks to their table. He splits the nasty clump into both hands and simultaneously pushes the glops into both their faces. "Laugh about that!" Ernie growls and finishes wiping his hands on their tablecloth.
Kevin and Kyra exchange knowing looks. They grab mashed potatoes and gravy off their plates and send it flying at Borgnine's back as he walks from their table. Mash potatoes and gravy have about the same percentage of accuracy as sorbet. Kyra does hit the corner of Borgnine's shoulder but the majority of her throw smacks Regis Philbin in the chest. Regis was sitting with Don Rickles. Rickles laughs at Regis and Regis throws a glass of tomato juice into Don's face.
Kevin Bacon's toss hit Diana Ross in the crotch. She looks down at the potato/gravy mess as it slides down her skirt. She glares around the room and states, "Oh, it's on now!" She grabs a fistful of rice pilaf from Mayor Bloomberg's plate startling him, and slings it across the dining room.
"Now that was uncalled for..." Bloomberg objects.
"Shut up, you little twit!" Diana retorts and shoves his face into his Chicken Cordon Bleu.
In the meantime Don Rickles had picked up his Porterhouse Steak (Charbroiled to a perfect medium rare) and is racing table to table using it to slap every patron he can.
Kevin and Kyra are scraping their plates for more ammunition. The only person left in the dining area without food or beverage on their person is Bobby De Niro. He is chuckling to himself as he sits unharmed as if in the eye of a hurricane. I decide to bow out of the food fight and retake my seat. I plop right down on a chocolate mousse. It squishes up between my legs. As I am making a face at the dessert, I get drenched with French Onion Soup courtesy of Sean Penn. I mouth the word "why" looking over at Sean. His head has about a foot and half of whipped cream piled on. He smiles and mouths back "why not."
Don Rickles slips on a Cobb salad that Ernie Borgnine has thrown under his feet. Don bowls over Diana Ross. She lands on him belly to belly. Rickles remarks "I got the black chick," and wraps his arms around her.
The Maitre 'D stands up on a table in the center of the room. He his yelling to get everyone's attention. The food fight stops as the patrons all look towards the head waiter. "Come on, everybody, let's stop this insanity..." Bobby blows him the raspberry and throws a dinner roll at him. The rest of the people take their cue from Bobby and start pelting the Maitre 'D with whatever food is handy. He jumps off the table and runs screaming out of the restaurant.
With the Maitre 'D gone, the celebrities quit throwing food. Everyone is laughing except for me. Bobby helps Diana Ross off Don Rickles. She smiles and thanks him. I did not enjoy the melee at all. I'm soaked in Soup with my pants all sticky from mousse. It is not one bit comfortable to walk around with chocolate mousse between your legs. It was obviously apparent that famous people can go wild on the spur of a moment without being phased by the consequences.
Bobby, still unscathed, announces to the crowd that he is picking up everybody's check. He gets a round of applause at this news. Well at least I got a free meal out the ruckus, even if most of it was being worn by others.
Next time I will share with you my experiences on the International Space Station. For some of you it may be over your head.
Anyway, I was hanging with Bobby at Sardi's when who should walk in, Diana Ross. She and Bobby had been an item many years back. I knew that, but I didn't know how they would relate to each other nowadays. Diane, upon seeing Bobby, picked up a vase and threw it at him. I guess they no longer get along. Bobby ducks and the vase shatters on the wall behind him. I happened to be wearing a new suede jacket at the time and the water that had been in the vase splashed all over me. I jump up and yell, "Dammit, Diane, this better not stain!"
As I am yelling, Bobby picks up the sorbet he had been eating and hurls at Diane. Everyone knows how hard it is to throw sorbet with any accuracy. The sorbet missed Diane and splatted on the back of Ernest Borgnine's head. Ernie had been eating dinner with his wife. He and his wife, surrounded by open boxes of wigs she is hawking, are outraged by the attack. (On a side note: Don't ever get cornered by Mrs. Borgnine. She's relentless. She won't leave you alone until you buy a wig.) Ernie feels the back of his head and tries to scoop the sorbet off. When he has a decent size clump of sorbet, hair, and hair gel in his hand, he stands up and addresses the room. "Who threw this?" he demanded.
A couple tables over was Kevin Bacon and his wife, Kyra Sedgwick. Both of them had seen everything occur and started laughing. Borgnine snarls at the couple and walks to their table. He splits the nasty clump into both hands and simultaneously pushes the glops into both their faces. "Laugh about that!" Ernie growls and finishes wiping his hands on their tablecloth.
Kevin and Kyra exchange knowing looks. They grab mashed potatoes and gravy off their plates and send it flying at Borgnine's back as he walks from their table. Mash potatoes and gravy have about the same percentage of accuracy as sorbet. Kyra does hit the corner of Borgnine's shoulder but the majority of her throw smacks Regis Philbin in the chest. Regis was sitting with Don Rickles. Rickles laughs at Regis and Regis throws a glass of tomato juice into Don's face.
Kevin Bacon's toss hit Diana Ross in the crotch. She looks down at the potato/gravy mess as it slides down her skirt. She glares around the room and states, "Oh, it's on now!" She grabs a fistful of rice pilaf from Mayor Bloomberg's plate startling him, and slings it across the dining room.
"Now that was uncalled for..." Bloomberg objects.
"Shut up, you little twit!" Diana retorts and shoves his face into his Chicken Cordon Bleu.
In the meantime Don Rickles had picked up his Porterhouse Steak (Charbroiled to a perfect medium rare) and is racing table to table using it to slap every patron he can.
Kevin and Kyra are scraping their plates for more ammunition. The only person left in the dining area without food or beverage on their person is Bobby De Niro. He is chuckling to himself as he sits unharmed as if in the eye of a hurricane. I decide to bow out of the food fight and retake my seat. I plop right down on a chocolate mousse. It squishes up between my legs. As I am making a face at the dessert, I get drenched with French Onion Soup courtesy of Sean Penn. I mouth the word "why" looking over at Sean. His head has about a foot and half of whipped cream piled on. He smiles and mouths back "why not."
Don Rickles slips on a Cobb salad that Ernie Borgnine has thrown under his feet. Don bowls over Diana Ross. She lands on him belly to belly. Rickles remarks "I got the black chick," and wraps his arms around her.
The Maitre 'D stands up on a table in the center of the room. He his yelling to get everyone's attention. The food fight stops as the patrons all look towards the head waiter. "Come on, everybody, let's stop this insanity..." Bobby blows him the raspberry and throws a dinner roll at him. The rest of the people take their cue from Bobby and start pelting the Maitre 'D with whatever food is handy. He jumps off the table and runs screaming out of the restaurant.
With the Maitre 'D gone, the celebrities quit throwing food. Everyone is laughing except for me. Bobby helps Diana Ross off Don Rickles. She smiles and thanks him. I did not enjoy the melee at all. I'm soaked in Soup with my pants all sticky from mousse. It is not one bit comfortable to walk around with chocolate mousse between your legs. It was obviously apparent that famous people can go wild on the spur of a moment without being phased by the consequences.
Bobby, still unscathed, announces to the crowd that he is picking up everybody's check. He gets a round of applause at this news. Well at least I got a free meal out the ruckus, even if most of it was being worn by others.
Next time I will share with you my experiences on the International Space Station. For some of you it may be over your head.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
"Airport 2011"
Sunday:
It has become abundantly clear that snow is on the way. It is being predicted that come Wednesday, the Detroit and the tri-county area will be buried in 12 to 18 inches of the white stuff. Wednesday is the day that Linda is suppose to return from Omaha. Looks like a dilemma in the making.
Monday:
I call Linda and advise her to reschedule her departure; either a day earlier or day later. She calls back and informs that she will be flying in this very night. I am to retrieve her at 10 pm at Metropolitan Airport. She gives me her flight info and I watch the Southwest web page to chart her whereabouts. She leaves Omaha after an hour and half delay. She has to change planes in Chicago. As close as I can tell, she lands having twenty minutes to make it from one gate to another. The Chicago-Detroit flight takes off after a fifteen minute delay. I leave the house at 9:30 pm. Metro Airport is about 45 minutes away; thirty odd miles. Driving there I get caught in a traffic jam due to an accident. As every driver well knows, it is our duty to slow down to a crawl and try to view as much carnage as possible. The more pain and destruction you can observe, the luckier you feel that you are not involved. The focal point of the misery did not contain any bloody victims, just squashed vehicles. My luck scale rested at 75 percent. Then the odds turned against me. My phone rang and it was Linda's daughter. I am now three or four miles from airport. Linda missed her flight out of Chicago; I don't have to pick her up. I am told that Linda will call and tell me when she'll be completing the last leg of her trip.
Tuesday:
Six o'clock in the morning my phone rings. It is Linda. She says she'll be leaving Chicago at 8:00 am. I check the web site and find her new flight. She will arrive at 10:10. I plan to leave the house at 9:30. By the time Linda deplanes and gets her luggage and leaves the airport, I should have just arrived. With my meticulous timing, neither one of us should have to wait on the other for more than one or two minutes. Right before leaving the house I check the web page again; Linda's flight is arriving early at 9:55. Out goes my plan to pit stop for a McDonald Egg McMuffin; there isn't the time. About halfway there the phone rings and once again its Linda's daughter. I fear another missed flight, but the call was to garner information from me; have I heard from her Mom? Why, yes, I am en route at this very moment. She was worried because she hadn't heard from her since the prior evening. Linda was suppose to call her from the hotel when she got a room. I repeat to her what Linda had told me, Linda had slept on a cot the airport supplied. She asks to have her Mom call her as soon as I get her. I finally arrive at arrivals. Linda is nowhere to be seen. I depart arrivals and circle the airport to arrive at arrivals a second time. This time I pull to the curb and wait. The time is 10:20. I am standing in the no standing zone. I do not desire to circle the airport again. I have one eye out for Linda, the other out for police. Luckily, Linda was the first to spot my illegally parked vehicle. As we drive home, Linda does not want to hear about my driving twice to the airport, (an exciting story that you can now verify as such) she is insistent on telling her tale of delayed departures, missing change-overs, sleeping in an airport, paying six dollars for a small fruit cup, running out of phone change and other assorted incidents. She didn't even give me a chance to tell her about the accident I passed on the expressway.
Anyway, Linda is back home and my life has resumed its regularly scheduled mayhem.
It has become abundantly clear that snow is on the way. It is being predicted that come Wednesday, the Detroit and the tri-county area will be buried in 12 to 18 inches of the white stuff. Wednesday is the day that Linda is suppose to return from Omaha. Looks like a dilemma in the making.
Monday:
I call Linda and advise her to reschedule her departure; either a day earlier or day later. She calls back and informs that she will be flying in this very night. I am to retrieve her at 10 pm at Metropolitan Airport. She gives me her flight info and I watch the Southwest web page to chart her whereabouts. She leaves Omaha after an hour and half delay. She has to change planes in Chicago. As close as I can tell, she lands having twenty minutes to make it from one gate to another. The Chicago-Detroit flight takes off after a fifteen minute delay. I leave the house at 9:30 pm. Metro Airport is about 45 minutes away; thirty odd miles. Driving there I get caught in a traffic jam due to an accident. As every driver well knows, it is our duty to slow down to a crawl and try to view as much carnage as possible. The more pain and destruction you can observe, the luckier you feel that you are not involved. The focal point of the misery did not contain any bloody victims, just squashed vehicles. My luck scale rested at 75 percent. Then the odds turned against me. My phone rang and it was Linda's daughter. I am now three or four miles from airport. Linda missed her flight out of Chicago; I don't have to pick her up. I am told that Linda will call and tell me when she'll be completing the last leg of her trip.
Tuesday:
Six o'clock in the morning my phone rings. It is Linda. She says she'll be leaving Chicago at 8:00 am. I check the web site and find her new flight. She will arrive at 10:10. I plan to leave the house at 9:30. By the time Linda deplanes and gets her luggage and leaves the airport, I should have just arrived. With my meticulous timing, neither one of us should have to wait on the other for more than one or two minutes. Right before leaving the house I check the web page again; Linda's flight is arriving early at 9:55. Out goes my plan to pit stop for a McDonald Egg McMuffin; there isn't the time. About halfway there the phone rings and once again its Linda's daughter. I fear another missed flight, but the call was to garner information from me; have I heard from her Mom? Why, yes, I am en route at this very moment. She was worried because she hadn't heard from her since the prior evening. Linda was suppose to call her from the hotel when she got a room. I repeat to her what Linda had told me, Linda had slept on a cot the airport supplied. She asks to have her Mom call her as soon as I get her. I finally arrive at arrivals. Linda is nowhere to be seen. I depart arrivals and circle the airport to arrive at arrivals a second time. This time I pull to the curb and wait. The time is 10:20. I am standing in the no standing zone. I do not desire to circle the airport again. I have one eye out for Linda, the other out for police. Luckily, Linda was the first to spot my illegally parked vehicle. As we drive home, Linda does not want to hear about my driving twice to the airport, (an exciting story that you can now verify as such) she is insistent on telling her tale of delayed departures, missing change-overs, sleeping in an airport, paying six dollars for a small fruit cup, running out of phone change and other assorted incidents. She didn't even give me a chance to tell her about the accident I passed on the expressway.
Anyway, Linda is back home and my life has resumed its regularly scheduled mayhem.
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