A Streetcar Named The Economy

In a brief conversation with a friend earlier, somehow a discussion of the political climate morphed into screaming for Stella. I then thought that it might be an entertaining idea to re-work Tenessee William's, "A Street Car named Desire," to reflect our trying times. Thus far, these are the main characters:

Stella = The American people; pretending nothing's wrong and avoiding the truth. Just trying to make a nice home...

Blanche = The Republican party, The Tea party, Glen Beck et al; unrealistically longing for a kinder more gentile time but, in reality is really kind of soiled and nuts.

Stanley = The ECONOMY; angry and out of friggin' control. He really wants to F*** somebody.

Mitch = President Obama; trying to turn a "ho" of an economy into a housewife. He doesn't quite realize that politely courting a b***h this messed up is kinda useless.

More to come...

Merry Christmas, baby!

The peace of the season be with you all!

Unattended

So, earlier I was in a store and I notice almost immediately at the end of one of the aisles, a woman's purse sitting in a cart full of crap. The weird thing was that the cart was unattended. The still weirder thing was that there were cupcakes in the cart in a plastic bag along with; a humidor, a man's black ski jacket, some fake red stemmed flowers and other strangeness. This was a department store that did not sell food, mind you. I was in that area of the store for more than a half hour and no one went near the cart or purse. And for most of the time the cart with the purse just sat there taunting curious me. I shopped around and it was now roughly 45 minutes later. I happen back and noticed that the cart was still sitting there unattended.

I went to the counter and told the saleswoman. She and I went over to the cart, opened the purse and took out the wallet. We looked about and saw a woman near the dressing rooms in the distance who looked like the person in the driver's license photo. We asked her if the cart was hers and she nodded with a scowl, yes. She appeared annoyed by our question. She then slowly went off in the opposite direction leaving the cart and purse sitting there. She did not stop at her cart or even walk that close to the thing. Wouldn't it be natural to check the thing at this point? She appeared mad rather than concerned.

The sales woman went back to the front of the store and I moved a safe distance from the cart. I watched the woman and the cart. At all times she was no less than 20 feet from the cart. She shopped and looked at merchandise as if the cart was not hers. Not once did she even look in the direction of the cart. Yeah, I realize that none of this is any of my business but... What was this about? My first thought was that it was some sort of sting and the first person to remove an item from the cart would be tackled to the ground and prosecuted as a shoplifter. The saleswoman and I suggested among ourselves that perhaps the woman had some sort of issue(s). Perhaps she had some sort of psycho-social problem that precluded her from being careful of her belongings or going about without cupcakes. Who knows?

I finally felt uncomfortable in the store and bid the saleswoman a good day. It still bothers me though.

Drama in Real Life

Yesterday morning, I spent a couple hours wondering about my local library branch. I was unable to find any of the five titles I was searching to borrow. That point is far less significant to what happened when I left.

I should start by stating that I have always been an exceptionally curious guy with the exclusion of screaming police cars and fire trucks. Most people run towards them with camera phones at the ready. I usually go in the opposite direction. I don’t really know why. Perhaps, I have some deep rooted fear of being an “eyewitness,” brought on by what I discovered that young couple doing in the park when I was but, a lad of six?

Moving right along… Directly across the street from the library is St. James Catholic Church. St James is a late ‘50’s- early ‘60’s well manicured complex which includes a school building. In front of and blocking traffic in both directions of St. James were a half dozen police cruisers and the police chief himself. I glanced over and first thought that maybe there was a funeral in progress but, then quickly realized that something else was going on. What? Don’t know, don’t care; I continued to the corner cross street which was no more than a half block away. I was briefly forced to walk in to the street to avoid a mound of snow on the sidewalk.

At the corner was a credit union bank. The parking lot was to may left as I walked by and it was necessary also to walk into that lot to avoid the unplowed snow on the sidewalk. (In a minute you will see this as more significant.)

I continued my walk; I stopped at a store and then eventually arrived home to eat apple pie instead of a healthy lunch. The pie made me sleepy or it was the episode of, “Design on a Dime,” I was half watching. Anywho, I woke up a couple hours later. It was around 4:30pm. I flipped on the TV and the cable news was beginning. Apparently, while I was in the library; the credit union bank was robbed at gun point by a man of my approximate; age, height, weight and race. WTF! Yeah, I said this out loud. Wait, it gets better… While the police were searching for the bank robber they found a body of a half naked man sticking from the snow bank in front of St. James church.

While certainly odd, the body did not appear to have been the result of foul play. We are told that the deceased; walking about without a shirt, outer jacket or coat died somehow; got buried in the snow bank and with 40 degree temperatures, voila! I should offer that the dead man also fit my general description and that the police feel certain that because he was dead for two days at least. He was most likely not connected to the bank job. What an eerie coincidence; I too have been known to on occasion go about half naked, in some ways I am dead inside and, I have never been involved with a bank heist.

Now, the way I see it I dodged two bullets yesterday. I pretty much walked on to two crime scenes in an attempt to remain oblivious. Do you believe that perhaps some deity is trying to tell me something?

You'd Cry Too If It Happened To You...

Yesterday I stopped by my favorite thrift store haunt. My eye was immediately drawn to a vintage 1950's black leather motorcycle jacket. The jacket had the single zipper up the front and two zippered pockets across both sides of the chest. I had one years ago which I loved and alas someone apparently loved it more than myself, if you know what I mean.

I looked for a size in the jacket and found none. I removed it from the hanger and checked it out further. It was in perfect condition with the exception of perhaps needed a good conditioning. I then tried it on. It fit as if it were made for me. It was sleek cut, trim through the waist and had all the signs of being genuine. The collar label was however missing and I had no idea who made the thing. That did not much matter in that for all purposes it was the same jacket I had had years before. (I would provide a pic for you but, the option to insert a pic into blog posts seems to be missing today.) Maybe I should describe it further. The jacket is meant to be trim fitting, almost like a shirt and sits right at the waist. It has a single six inch vertical zipper at the sleeves and a banded collar with two snap buttons at the closure. Truly hot!

Good for you, Les and thanks for sharing. Silly, you know there’s a problem. I tried the jacket on and looked in the mirror. Fantastic, I thought. I zipped up the jacket. It was a perfect fit. I was again amazed at how this jacket was exactly like the other I had once. I stared in to the mirror imagining how the jacket might look with various jeans and boots and such. Well, dress-up play time was over and I was hungry. As I reached to pull the zipper down, I noticed that the slider was missing its pull tab. In an attempt for full disclosure, I just Googled “zipper parts,” This increased my knowledge base of zipper parts. If you’d like to learn more about zipper parts click here: http://www.zippersource.com/parts/definitions.asp

Anywho, the pull tab was missing. I tried to hold the slider tightly between my thumb and index finger to pull it down. It would not budge! After about five minutes or so of trying I became increasingly frustrated. The jacket which I loved was now becoming a straight jacket. My mind drifted to a former relationship (a metaphor perhaps) and immediately back to the slider. It seemed that the harder I tried to release myself from this “straight jacket,” the more my efforts were in vain. I started to do that thing where I breathe through my nose when I am totally frustrated. Nothing seemed to work. I looked around me to see if someone, anyone could release me from my leathery hell. The store or at least about me was empty save for two old birds looking at tchatzkah or rather knick knacks. Speechless, I looked towards them as if they would see my plight and make haste and come to my assistance. They saw me not. I started to sweat now. Goddamnit, I was going to have that nervous breakdown I have been avoiding for the past several years. I thought I was even going to cry. It then occurred to me to make my way to the counter. Maybe someone there had giant scissors or something else to get me out of this thing. I tripped and almost fell I hurried so.

When I got to the counter I blurted out my plight and the four foot six or seven inch tall cashier laughed and said, “I have an idea.” Her tone was as if to say, “Step aside people, I’m a doctor!” She handed me a large paper clip and instructed me to fish it through the hole that once held the tab. I did as she instructed. Oh, sweet relief. By this time I had sweat through my hat and there was the little woman barely able to contain herself. I mumbled a thank you and quickly returned to the coat rake. I left the store like I had stolen something. How good the rain felt.

Serious business

Bright and early yesterday I went to my local polling place. After some difficulty they found me on their list. The name was just like it was written on the card that I had presented that had been issued from the Board of Elections. “Hmmm, Lester Bryant III is an impressive name,” someone's granny told me. "I'm working on it," I told her. She didn't get it and I was eager to get votin'. I signed my name in the book right above my mother's and was given the ballot in a grey folder. Following instructions, I did as I am certain that you my civic minded friends did and went over to the little cardboard booth setup and selected your candidates. It did not take long in that just about every “opponent” had by this point succeeded in pissing me off . I recalled them as I voted: the guy who wanted to unseat the incumbent who had spent much of his adult life not voting and living in NYC and abroad; the nut job who would be king; the hateful looking lady who would unseat the Ivy-leaguer etc. etc. As well, I refused to cast a vote for anyone without an opponent. It makes sense to me anyway. I quickly marked the ovals for my choices. Teacher, I’m finished. I returned my glassed to my face and looked around as to where to go next.

A smiling woman directed me to the voting machine near the right wall. I inserted the ballot and the machine returned it to me. “Is there a message on the little screen,” the woman asked? It reads, “blah, blah, blah... I’m stupid.” Apparently, I had not filled in the ovals or at least most of them but rather I had placed heavy X’s. With the same Mrs. Cleaver smile she seemed to announce to the room my error. I was embarrassed. I voted in the primary, certainly I knew to color in the ovals rather than do what I did. I slowly put my hands behind my back fearing a ruler was coming to attack them. “Please return to the table and fill all of your selections in correctly." The room seemed to frown. As I turned it seemed the entire room was watching me. The older gentleman behind me had an expression that could only be interpreted by me that I was a dick. Head down and with a lifetime of standardized test floating through my brain, I did as I was told.

Did I do it right this time, teacher? The woman was tempted to check my answers as had been long ago but, obviously remembered her duties as a poll sitter. I was directed to try submitting it again. “Did it work this time,” I was asked? Indeed it had and I asked, “Am I going to get into a good college?” “Sir, you’re next,” she said to the voter behind me, ignoring my smart mouth.

Come hungry... leave?

“Where are you going,” I said with a slightly raised voice? My friend turned slowly towards me with his familiar albeit confused glare. We’ve known each other long enough for me to immediately recognize the glare as really more of a question: “WTF are you bitchin’ about now?” “Where are we going? Are we on some Sunday drive or something,” I demanded? “Well it’s lunch time. Aren’t you hungry? There’s that place just up the road that we went to before. You liked that didn’t you?” I had no idea where or what he was referring to but, I said, “no” anyway. Why did I say no? I imagine partly because where I went to grad school most questions were first answered with a, “no.” Also, I never enjoy the meals or service in this town so; I thought it generally safe to answer in the negative. In addition, this week I have, “not been in a good place,” as self-help books might term my funk.

“I thought we were going shopping?” “No, I don’t want to shop!” His tone suggested that this wasn’t negotiable. “Well, why the f**k am I in this car? He offered, “Well, if you don’t want to go there to eat, then where?” I don’t know why I suggested this but out came, “let’s go to IHop. I want to go to IHop.” Boy do I have fond memories of IHop from high school. Those memories were culminated with looking up one morning staring into Spud’s disapproving face; his arms crossed and uttering simply, “gentlemen?” (Never mind who Spud was, if you were there you’d remember him) We went to a private high school and senior year had first period as a free period. We used to slip away to the IHop a couple miles away from campus and hold court over stacks of pancakes. This was long before they started putting chocolate chips and other weird stuff in the cakes. What made them great then were their fluffiness and your choice of four types of syrup. But that was then...

Now, two, maybe three decades later depending upon how honest I want to be here; I was on my way to IHop again in a Buick. We walked in and I felt like that character from mythology that flew to close to the sun. This wasn’t the place I remembered. Whose design idea it may have been I don’t know but, you could see directly through to the grimy kitchen. Three kitchen workers looked up at me from their work. They sneered as if I had just arrived unannounced to their kitchen at home. They looked over-worked and a bit pissed. I put my head down and followed what appeared to be a tenth-grader/host to our table.

The room seemed much smaller than I remembered; much dirtier too. I took the menu from the table and whipped away the food left on the seat by the last customer. I rested my forearms on the edge of the sticky table trying to take it all in. The place looked as if it had not been painted since I was there last. Thirty-five to forty percent of the paint from the deep window sill had chipped way revealing hunter green underneath the creamy white. The room had a yellowish, golden hue as if we were sitting in a recently emptied deep fryer. I ignored my friend’s expression which suggested both blame (me, for a bad choice) and fear (of the meal to come). I tried to make light of the situation as we waited and waited for service. A waitress finally came over. “Sorry guys, I didn’t see you over here in the corner.” (The restaurant floor is all on one level) We asked for water and coffee and if we could just place our orders then rather than waiting for her to come back. After some consideration, she finally agreed leaving me to feel as if I had been done a great favor.

People entered the room, were seated and served while we waited. We caught the waitress in passing and asked for cream and sugar for the bitter coffee. There’s nothing like craving coffee and receiving a rancid cup from a dirty pot. Yummy. I found it extremely odd that when she came with the sugar packets she asked me to pass her their container. She did not give us a few packets to get started. She fumbled and adjusted and re-adjusted the packets until they all fit neatly in their container. This took maybe five or six minutes and was more than a bit painful to watch. OCD? I don’t know what was happening but, for a moment I was weirded-out. About fifteen minutes later our meals came. I had the mushroom and spinach omelet. It was covered in canned strange yellow “Hollandaise.” It needed no Hollandaise, canned or fresh. Why then? I believe that the answer most likely is; because this big ass country loves goo? It also came with a stack of pancakes. Who needs to eat a large omelet and a stack of pancakes? Anywho, the mushrooms were raw and the spinach barely blanched. I love mushrooms and spinach and was starving by this point so...

As we ate I surveyed the room further. My friend asked if this experience would, “appear as a blog post tomorrow?” I lied and said that it would not as I was distracted by an attractive blond woman who seemed to be flirting with me. The big black dude she dined with had his back to me. I never know when people are flirting with me unless they are obvious. She was obvious. “Maybe she wants to trade up,” I thought aloud and moved on to obsessing about the enormous woman to my left who handled her bacon more delicately than I have ever seen. “Then the magic words, “let’s get out of here” came from my friend.

We were done and it was time to go. As I left I felt ashamed for some reason. Again, walking with my head down, I could hear discontented rumblings from my stomach. I sent my friend a text message later that evening, “Hollandaise hated residence in my tummy. It left quickly with little notice.”

Oh well, I’ll always have high school...

BTW: I came across this on the internet on 05/16/12

The Sole of an Environmentalist

So, what's with me and old shoes, doctor? I have always had the hardest time throwing away old shoes and I am not sure why. These aren’t Johnston and Murphy dress shoes that can be resoled as many times as necessary in your life. These are casual shoes used mostly for walking; even sneakers. This problem came to a head a couple days ago.

The other night I watched an episode of the television show, “Hoarders.” If you have not seen this show, it concerns people who cannot part with stuff. Stuff and things enter their homes and nothing leaves. Not even the wrappers or bad food leave. Eventually moving about is all but impossible and facing condemnation, health problems or a threatened spousal separation, the residents are forced to solicit the help of a therapist and a “professional-throweroutter.” I should add that these poor folks are now considered mentally ill, thus the therapist. The stuff has taken over their lives and they cannot even move about their homes. They have the most ungodly floor to ceiling pits of junk that you would ever wish to see. I immediately thought of the old “Sanford and Son” television series from the ’70’s where Fred G. Sanford and his son Lamont lived in a junk yard. Well, the situations on this show are similar but, this isn’t funny. As well, we should consider ourselves lucky that smell-a-vision has yet to be invented.

While I have held onto things for much longer than I probably should have in the pass, I don’t consider myself a hoarder. However, shoes are a different story. I can’t seem to part with them. After watching the show I got up to get a glass of water and tripped over shoes in my bedroom. When I came back with the water I sat and looked about me. At any point in time I have at least a dozen pairs of shoes and boots that are in terrific shape and at least a half dozen pairs of shoes and boots that should have been tossed a year ago. I pulled stuff from under the bed, out of the closet and made a pile of every piece of footwear I own. There was a two to one ratio of great footwear and garbage footwear. I sorted the pile leaving only the garbage footwear. It was hard. I fondled a pair of Sperry Topsiders whose right heels were so worn that it appeared to have at least an inch missing from the outer edge. I finally put them in a trash bag and immediately removed them to consider again if I was making the correct choice. I know, I know, this is odd to me too. It wasn’t as if I did not have plenty of other shoes. I don’t wear the Topsiders and haven’t for a while; in fact the insides are so ruined that they would cause great pain to wear. I took a pair of scissors and cut the leather cord that runs the side of the shoes so as not to be tempted to retrieve them again. I then thought that the cord of leather might be useful in a craft project or something so I removed it. Shaking my head I quickly put all of the garbage in a plastic bag and set it at the curb for the next morning’s trash pickup.

Where did all this old shoe saving come from? It is not as if I spent my childhood shoeless chasing critters about the “holler.” I have thought about this and can offer no explanation other than; it pains me to add to the landfills. I always try to recycle and find second and third lives for most everything. Old tuna cans become paint dishes for projects; spent sauce jars become the receptacles for spent grease; Styrofoam packing peanuts are used for drainage for newly potted plants; old towels and t-shirts become shop towels and so on. I believe this my responsible in an attempt to reduce my carbon footprint and all. Other than that explanation, who knows? I of course also acknowledge that I have yet to find any use for old shoes other than a make-shift hammer. Maybe, I’m just plain…

By some standards all this old shoe saving might seem nuts. I might even seem in need of some sort of intervention and care of a trained professional. Nah. Aren’t our neuroses what make us more interesting individuals? Other than being on occasion unsightly or perhaps a tripping hazard; who am I hurting? Besides, as I told a friend the other day, “we all have problems; some are just a bit more visible than others and few really require a group meeting.”

Never wait...

Life has been a bit strange for me lately. I recently connected with an old friend that I was very close to eight or so years ago. Back then we drifted apart I would like to say because we were different people. The truth is that we both had a couple three emotional problems; unfortunately while we needed each other greatly, those problems pulled us in different directions. Neither of us ever forgot during this period apart what we had meant to each other.

We found our way eventually back to each other’s lives through social media. As you well know Facebook collects every key stroke. On a couple occasions I entered my friend’s name and came up goose eggs. You know how on Facebook in the right handed column they offer suggestions for friends? Facebook suggested that I friend a young woman who turned out to be my long lost friend’s cousin with the same last name. My friend has an uncommon last name so, I assumed their might be some relation. I sent that young woman a message asking if she was indeed related to my friend and she immediately sent a message back stating that she was. I then sent her my contact info and asked that she pass it on to my friend. She was happy to help.

As the weeks and months passed, I heard nothing from my friend and had all but given up hope. I surmised that he just did not want to look back. I understood this in that I too have received requests and thought the same thing. Sometimes it is not best to look back. Then about a month ago my friend contacted me. We picked up where we had left off; long conversations now supplemented with texts, emails and Facebook messages. It was like old times. We greatly enjoyed the renewed connection and told each other so a couple times. There was something wrong though…

I don’t know if you can but, I can sense so much from a telephone conversation or an email about someone’s life. My friend seemed greatly unhappy. He seemed almost to pretend the opposite. However, I am not one to ask about private matters even with close friends and certainly not through social media. I have always thought that people would/will reveal to me what they want me to know. And he did. Each connection told me a bit more about his life. Each connection also told me that he was greatly discontented with his life and the world. It was my plan to actually meet up with him sooner rather than later. I have moved cities since we knew each other and we were now a couple hundred miles apart. Not a real problem at all, we just needed to set the date.

Last Tuesday we were to chat again. He sent me a text about one o’clock in the afternoon and asked if I was going to be around for a chat that evening. That evening I sat and watch mindless television waiting for a call that never came. Then Wednesday came and I texted him. Knowing that he did seem on edge I did not want to pester so, I left a couple texts for him that I thought would make him laugh as I have before. Oddly, there were no responses to those texts. Wednesday became Thursday, then Friday and then Saturday. Friday night into Saturday I barely sleep. I knew something was wrong. Sunday morning I went directly to the computer and without thinking I “Googled: his name. The search engine returned two obituaries for his name and city. In disbelief I even rebooted the computer. They were real. Neither of the death notices for my friend offered any real info other than next of kin and funeral arrangements. I signed the online guestbook with the truth; “I would always remember him as one of the kindest people that I have known.”

As you might guess I am torn apart by all this. I have no idea what happened. I searched his local newspaper and other search engines and only came back with those two obituaries again and again. Someone suggested I contact the family. Having been through such events myself I thought it inappropriate to contact his bereaved family with the question: “how did he die?” I have always found such questions a bit insensitive.

Right now all I feel certain of is that the universe brought us together again if only for a month to in some way say goodbye. My pain is only consoled by the joy we shared in the past month.

Next question...

Today is Sunday. For each of the past eight days before going to bed, I have written a question inspired from my day on the same pad. Most of these questions are rhetorical and should not be used as tools of definitive diagnosis of my current mental state. The questions follow:

Sunday
Is the price of your vehicle directly correlated with the potential invisibility of pedestrians?

Monday
Why is it that the elderly people I meet are either super friendly or just plain miserable and hateful? There does not seem to be a middle ground.

Tuesday
When did please and thank-you, as well as other manners become, “uncool?”

Wednesday
Why don’t people realize that children are much like bank accounts? If you don’t put much into them...

Thursday
Would I appreciate the sunshine as much if it was sunny every day?

Friday
Is there anything more comforting in life than the smell and taste of fresh baked apple pie?

Saturday
Why do people become defensive when they are not making any sense to you? Also, do they really believe that raising their voices makes them correct?

Sunday
Does, “I can take the next person in line,” actually mean; “I can take the next impatient a**hole who’s fast enough to get ahead of every else waiting in line?”

GR8 FAVR' ed

I should preface this post by stating that I in no way mean to be offensive here. I just once again find myself a bit confused by our culture.

As I walked along this morning I saw a church that had set up for a tag sale of some sort. I immediately noticed a brand new Cadillac parked alone on the side of the church building. Don’t quote me but, I believe that the church was a bank when I was a kid. This is of course not pertinent to the tale here but, I did just think of it- The shiny black Cadillac had personalized license plates. The plates read: “GR8 FAVR.” I took this to actually mean, “Greatly Favored.” I have heard the term before as a response to a greeting. How are you Miss. Gladys? “Why, I am blessed and greatly (or highly) favored,” she might respond. While I have heard the phrase at least a dozen times or more in my life, I have never asked anyone who uses the term to explain or expand. I have simply assumed that it meant that because of the righteous Christian life you live, you are in receipt of God’s blessings and counted among his favorites. –Much like those other groups believe that they are…

The obvious question might be, says who? Who deems that you are greatly favored? As well, I might assume the answer might have something to do with keeping the Ten Commandments and avoiding those pesky Seven Deadly Sins and such. If we assume for a moment that my interpretations are correct here and I certainly acknowledge that I have not sought theological counsel, how does a new Cadillac fit into the picture? Is the blessing associated with “blessed” to mean material blessings? Am I further to assume that I do not have a Cadillac because I am not blessed or highly favored? Attaching those personalized plates creates the confusion for me. I try to lead a good life; I don’t kill people or lust after the wife of the guy across the street or even engage in gluttonous activities; which is why I don’t keep Oreo’s in the house… Why am I not greatly favored with a fine luxury automobile?

BTW: The pic above is St. Frances; the Patron Saint of Automobiles and Drivers... maybe that's my problem, wrong religion?

...And a Scholar

Gentle reader, I imagine that by this point you realize that I am a bit old fashioned or even old school or ol’ skool, if you will. By way of example I share with you the events of yesterday afternoon.

As I wandered the aisles of a local thrift store, I happened upon a woman of roughly 40 to 45 years and her identical elder who I assumed to be her mother. I went unnoticed by the younger woman as the elder smiled broadly. I of course returned the greeting. A few moments later our paths crossed again. It was at this point that the younger woman having been overcome by the stale musty air of the thrift store was now coughing and sneezing uncontrollably. I immediately offered the young woman my crisp starched white cotton handkerchief. I never leave home without one. The younger woman with an ever so slight head tilt gave me a cock-eyed stare. The stare suggested that she knew I was indeed crazy although, she was not entirely sure what brand of crazy I suffered. As well, she cautiously peered down at the offered handkerchief as if it were a great turd.

The mother watching the awkwardness gently pulled the woman to her left and whispered a few words in to her ear. Like the train wreck watcher that I am, I just stood there. Then the woman quickly took the handkerchief and they were both off without a word. For the next twenty minutes that I was in the store at every turn I almost literally ran into the younger woman. She smiled broadly (dare I say, giggled) now as her mother had earlier. A smile that was reminiscent of Daisy Mae and a red flag to alter-fearing gents everywhere.

A rant about cookies and service

I have often told people that I believe that the very moment we became a “service economy,” service began to suck. Yesterday, I had lunch with a friend who was in town visiting his parents. Another friend also joined us. Our first choice of dining establishments was as we used to say in college, “shit canned.” There was a sign out front which read “Closed for Beautification.” I am not sure what that means other than we could not have lunch there. My first thought was that without the U, the sign might at least have been interesting. Our second choice was nixed by me because the food is very heavy there and more importantly; you have to stand in a line cafeteria style although the décor does not match this approach. The third and final choice was an over grown bar with a lunch and dinner menu. We ran into friends of one of my lunch dates and made niceties’ before standing around awkwardly waiting for an invisible someone to direct us to seating. The bartender stared at us the whole time not uttering a word until; I asked if we should seat ourselves? He gestured with his hand and gave me a, “well duh,” expression. We sat awkwardly and I felt faint in that it was now almost 1:30pm and I had only two slices of dry toast earlier at 6am. No one came over so, my friend went back to the bar and asked for help and was told that we needed to get in line to place an order. The only person behind the bar was the bartender. He finally let us knows that around the end of the bar was the line. After a couple minutes a haggarded woman appeared to take our order as if it were a great chore. She gave us one of those child-like beeper thingies that light up to let us know when to return for our food. We did just that.

The meal sucked pretty much. How do you f –up a tomato and cheese sandwich? Well, we finished and as we chatted a lad took our plates (some of them.) As we rose to leave the same lad returned to take the remainder of the plates; this time he smiled. As we rose he stood looking much like a bellhop waiting for a tip. I was almost in shock. Had I been wearing pearls, I would have clutched them. “He wants a fucking tip?” We ignored him and left.

We made our way down the street to a coffee shop. It is obvious an independent sort. I have been in there before and cannot understand the absence of furniture. The place looks as if they are moving and have one trip to go. We stopped there because my friend wanted a cookie. He ordered the 4 inch oatmeal. No bells or whistles, just a four inch round oatmeal cookie. “That will be $2.50, the cashier stated.” We all were in shock and the cashier returned a look suggesting we were douche bags for not liking the cost. We quickly left. My friend asked if I wanted a piece of the cookie and I told him that I wasn’t worthy.

My lunch experience here is a long about way of asking, “What the heck is going on in this country?” We complain about taxes, NAFTA, welfare and a host of other maladies that affect our pocket books but, we don’t consider that we suck. We don’t consider that we need to offer a decent product served up well to the public. We can’t even produce a cheese sandwich (which by the by was $7.00 and immediately left as quickly as it had entered) but, we expect a tip? Maybe we should look at how we run businesses great and small before whining about how the government won’t let us or encourage us to make more money?

This soapbox will self destruct in five, four, three...

Poor, poor, literal me...

Isn’t it interesting how seemingly out of the blue, you can flash on stories from long ago; stories from your childhood that you thought long since forgotten? Yeah, that was a long awkward sentence but, read on. As I was washing dishes last night such a story popped into my head. As I recall, I was about six or seven years old and apparently very literal. While pouring myself a glass of juice I made an awful mess of things by over-filling the glass. When I picked up the glass I splashed much of the juice on to the floor.

My mother came into the room and immediately noticed my “accident.” I was given a small bucket of water and a cloth and told to get every bit of the mess up. Instead of following those instructions, I merely smeared the juice around with the cloth. A few moments later my mother came back into the kitchen; shaking her head she demanded that I put some elbow grease into the task at hand. She went back to the living room only to return to the kitchen five minutes after that to find me on my knees half-way inside the cabinet under the sink where she kept cleaning products. “What are you doing under there? I thought that I told you to get that juice up?” Sheepishly I crawled backward from the cabinet to announce, “I was just looking for the “elbow grease” but, I can’t find it.”

A TV Weekend in Review or Get A Life

• Caroline Rhea, who once hosted televisions, “The Biggest Looser,” is now roughly 20 pounds heavier and hosting the opening of the new Times Square, “Pop Tart Store.” –Talk about taking your life in a different direction… BTW: I love the sound bite about, "PopTarts are not about nutrition, they're about fun..."

• I believe that you can have a PX90 body in three months only if you recently had a PX90 body or its’ equivalent. The average couch potato would explode on or about the 4th or 5th session. I imagine that they might look like a baked potato after you squeeze the ends and put a big gob of butter and sour cream atop.

• “Burn Notice,” “White Collar,” and “The Glades,” in that order but, only if there is nothing on the Sundance Channel.

• “This ain’t no party”… Don’t forget, “Tea Party,” is not a third party or any kind of party for that matter so, it’s okay if you didn’t go.

• And another thing… “Fox and Friends” Whose friends? My friends don’t hype inane sh*t just to scare me.

• The UK series’, “Shameless,” and “The Inbetweeners,” are brilliant!

• F & F reported that soccer star David Beckham’s sister lives on a few hundred dollars a month via the public dole in England. Shouldn’t F & F be the first to suggest that she does not deserve money she has not earned (from the state or her brother)? I hate inconsistent hard-asses.

• There is actually a “reality” show about; three teams in NYC who collect scrap metal to sell for a living. I was only able to sit through 12 minutes. Oh, the high jinks those guys get into.

• There is actually a “reality” show about; a 400+ pound woman and her peeps who repossess vehicles. Call me crazy but, I am not entertained by the troubles of others. (think about this one)

• Speaking of the troubles of others… Really, Brooke Shields? “A prescription medication to make your eyelashes longer and fuller.” Has it really come to this?

• How come when I parade around in tight vinyl briefs people don’t assume I’m a wrester and fear me? Maybe I could gain 60-70+ lbs and legally change my name to, “The Academic Crusher?”

• Mental note: don’t let this TV thing happen again.

Kenneth Cole and the economy...

I’m climbing onto my soapbox again. This time I want to wax on about how intolerant I am of intolerance. When did we get to be so intolerant? When did we get to this point where any and all perceived or actual differences are taken as a personal affront?

It seems that everywhere I turn these days someone is horribly bothered by someone or something to the point of speaking out in anger. What concerns me of late is how stupid and small those things are that so many are angered by. It almost seems that if someone has a thought that might in any way be taken as contrary to one of our own, we are personally offended. We even go as far as damning them.

Here is an example: The other day in honor of our president’s 49th birthday and of course to encourage business, Kenneth Cole had a 49% off sale. Social media was used to get the word out about this event. As a result, Birthers and Right-Wing Nutters alike came out of the wood work. Some people were so offended by the sale that they vowed to never purchase another KC product and to unfollow or unfriend as the case may have been. My first thought was that this was their baby-out-with-the-bath-water loss in that Kenneth Cole has always designed some pretty sweet clothing, shoes and accessories. As well, they have also always been a demonstratively socially conscience organization. -That and 49% off, how could you go wrong?

Upon further reflection I wondered what the heck was/is wrong with people that a sale connecting itself to a president’s b-day would outrage some. Honestly, the only thing more ridiculous might be if as a black man I complained about January “White” sales or February, Presidents Day sales when my own February birthday seems to go wholly unnoticed by retailers. Are they just nuts? I imagine that some might be… The more I pondered the matter, the clearer things seemed. I believe it has much to do with the economy and choice. Now hear me out…

I believe the point that so many lives have been affected by our current economic situation; (a situation that does not seem to be ending soon) has unleashed hate and intolerance of everything. During prosperous times we generally don’t sweat the small stuff. (I wondered aloud, why weren’t these same people as vocal on our long road to hell?) Yeah, there have always been nut jobs and always will be but, this current muck we are in where people seem to search for reasons to hate and to be discontented are connected to our economic sorrows. Hate becomes an easy diversion; it is something that we can control. Our futures are out of control and uncertain so, rather than spending our times in productive pursuits to get where we need to be we blame and hate instead. Don’t ask me how to get people to rechannel their energies; I’m sure a lot of people have already written about this in vain. I will say that how you approach and process life is a choice.

Man this!

It has been too hot to write much as of late. I get miserable when the temps rise much above 80 degrees. Besides, I like to keep things current and humorous here and I am certain that no one wants to giggle about me sweating.

Moving right along… Does language evolve or is it bastardized? I’ll table that academic discussion for another time when good Port is handy. For now, I’ll just go with my gut, it is indeed bastardization! Sorry, but I need to whine a bit today. Whine about what, Les? We love it when you whine. Well, if you insist…

I am just about done with extending any degree of patience with the use of the word, “Man” as a prefix. I actually saw a movie promoted yesterday that used the made up word/term, “Man-tears or “mantears.” As well, recently I heard about two “straight” men who went on a “man-date” or “mandate.” This was of course confusing because there is another meaning for that word. Man bag, man cave, mandals (sandals for men), manpris (capris pants for men), manyhose (see pic insert) etc... I am sick of it all. Who thought of this man madness? In addition, who does not feel foolish actually uttering the word man before common items that aren’t even gender specific?

As a culture are we so gender bound and so afraid of being labeled as the Jamaicans might refer to as a bhatti boy or batty boy? Are we so stupid that we believe that the pretend prefix “man” absolves us of gender bending much like avoiding sidewalk imperfections will prevent mother from having a severe back injury? Geez, if you are going to wear Capri’s’ in public at least, man-up!

BTW: I have a personal branding blog on WordPress that can be found here: http://lesb3.wordpress.com/2010/08/02/your-personal-brand-and-originality/

So goes the calzones...

Believe it or not I do try to look on the bright side of things in most every situation. Last night’s news cast required too much effort. I never watch the local news (in any town) in that I have always believed the "news" to be regionalistic (not sure if that's a word). "We're the best town ever and here's why…" Not only that, it is usually slanted to help people justify their over priced homes by harping on and even exaggerating stories from "that" part of town. The type and quality of the news usually provides little interest for me.

I have also even seen broadcasts where there was actually less than a minute of "news." It seems that unless there is immediate info to make the "nicer" parts of town appear nice and the "bad" parts of town seem worse, it is interpreted as a, “slow news day.” Where am I going with all this? Well, I accidentally saw the first three minutes of the local news last night. I had just brushed my teeth and cleaned my eye glasses and returned to my bedroom when the broadcast started. As I've already wrote, I don't watch local news so the anchor seemed unfamiliar. No matter, his exuberance and plastic looking hair were indeed familiar. In a much trained professional excited voice he led off with a story too bull-shity to believe.

Apparently, this town has successfully survived the economic downturn. Apparently, released state figures show the unemployment rate at 7.3% or some such manufactured number. That rate is lower than the state's and the nation’s. The point that the rate is still too high was only addressed as an aside. The field reporter took the story after the lead in and ran with it. He interviewed a woman who had just opened a Calzone shop in an area this town terms "trendy." She had a “help wanted” sign in her shop window which has gone mostly unnoticed, she told the reporter. She needed people to help make the Calzones and deliver them to her hungry patrons. The story ended with her telling the reporter that she hoped to find people for her minimum wage slow deaths (not her words) soon so her husband could spend a bit more time at home. I know what you're thinking. There are indeed all sorts of literature about starting your own business because you want to work less but, one argument at a time. My problem was that a calzone shop with a couple of minimum wage openings is hardly evidence of an economic recovery.

The calzone as an economic indicator? I guess maybe an interview with say an economist or a corporate CEO might have fared better. Are manufacturing jobs up? Are people spending more on stuff they don't need? Aren't these some of the many questions that are usually queried to judge economy health? Not in this town. Apparently, so goes the calzones, so goes the town.

Further, the idea that someone in search of a minimum wage job would even be on the street where the calzone shop is located is silly in and of itself. The city has funded and designed that neighborhood to discourage "po" folks from being about. I am sure you know what I mean; every city has such an area.

I think I will stop writing here. I am getting depressed by a number of things. The thought that the story passed for news, the thought that many watching it will actually believe that it is a sign of things getting better and most importantly that it discourages those in power from doing their jobs better because we now have jobs and people are just not applying. Oi!

What Not to Gift a Germaphobe

I don't want to slam the maker of that fruit arrangement that you can send to anyone anywhere in the country. They are a business with an idea; an idea that has caught on. I chatted with the neighbor Tom (not his real name) yesterday when a delivery van pulled up. The cheerful driver after checking the name and all, handed the neighbor this large munchable arrangement. It had what appeared to be pieces of melon on sticks carved like Clip Art flowers. They were bright and melon colored with pineapple even. Although, it had plastic wrap about it the neighbor said exactly what I was thinking, "Dear God," or "Dios Mio" or words to that effect. Who would send such a thing? It was at this point that the neighbor and I discover that we had much in common. We are somewhat germaphobes. The idea of eating something not knowing where it comes from is foreign to both of us. I have over the years learned to fear restaurants for the same reason. I even make certain that my own hands are sterile to prepare food for myself.

I stared at the arrangement and then the neighbor. "WTF," he offered. "Indeed," I offered. "Who sent you that," I asked? It had come from one of the neighbor's pleased customers. We both looked as if we had stepped in poop. We confessed that we were thinking the same things. We had seen the commercials many times and thought that peeled fruit and most likely underpaid labor was a very bad combination. Can you honestly imagine what has had an opportunity to create a biological home on that carved and peeled fruit while it is being arranged and transported? Is the factory sterile? Do the workers were face masks and multiple mil thick elbow length gloves. And how are those plastic bags that cover them made? No, I can't imagine any of it would meet the standards of a person who uses hand sanitizer each and every time he sits down at the computer. Yuck.

Tom told me that he felt the same and added he was insulted to receive such a gift. "Who the hell would eat that," he demanded? We made our way to the side of his house where the gift could make a new home in the galvanized garbage car waiting there.

We then wondered how much the thing costs. I checked on line and the thing was close to one hundred bucks. It costs a great deal more than a simple thank you note that one might file and remember longer or rather pleasantly longer. Now, the unwitting sender will long be remembered for sending brightly covered germs as a token of his thanks. What a swell idea, an expensive bacterial arrangement.

A Stinky Idea

It’s raining, lighting and thundering and I am not afraid. I do not know why I thought of this tale from years ago this morning. There might be lessons here though-

I saw four large men wheel it away this morning, the French Fry Vending Machine. It has been replaced with an additional soft drink machine. The French fry vending machine was monstrous. It was almost twice the size of an average soft drink vending machine. The McDonald's French fry machine prepared piping hot deep fried Waffle Fries. Can you believe that, hot deep fried waffle fries at your convenience while you wait? It was almost as if we had died and gone to clogged artery heaven. However, there were negative aspects to this badly market tested technological and culinary marvel.
I believe it frightened people. All anyone ever knew of was that French Fries came from fast food establishments, the microwave or in some rare instances from the kitchens of elder matrons and guy with big guts. "From a vending machine," was different, it just was not right.
To assuage their fears, they made fun of it in the campus newspapers. They even gave it funny nicknames, none of which I can recall. Regardless of the nicknames, some were brave or hungry enough to eat the product. I would often see a waffle or two just below the monster on the floor where someone's eagerness led to carelessness. "Unfortunately," these curious fans did little to help make the Fry monster a profitable venture.
Given that the waffle fry fans probably totaled no more than an order of the space age delicacies, this could not out-weigh two important facts. The monster generated great heat and cooking oil invariably becomes rancid and smells bad. The hallway where the monster stood was at least 20-30 degrees warmer than the rest of the building. I would feel ill just walking through there. It was after a few weeks that I made the connection along with everyone else that the Fry monster was the culprit. A few hours after the Fry monster was taken away to where bad vending ideas go to die, I noticed these words scrawled on a sheet of notebook paper and taped to the wall where the monster once stood, "I Can Breathe Again."
In addition to the great heat generated, the dirty oil smell was almost immediate and filled the hallway near the library tunnel entrance. I really don't believe that others did but, I wondered where the oil went; was it just recycled indefinitely; was it at least filtered each time? My guess from the smell would be the obvious answers of, no and no.
The passing of the McDonald's French Fry Vending Machine was significant in that it may be one of the first times that something that we did not need, wasn't good for us and did not want left the market place so quickly. Yeah, yeah, I know you're thinking it was because of the lack of profits but, I say, "...his wonders to unfold."

Funeral Duds

Yesterday afternoon I walked past a funeral home. Near the edge of their property was a large sign reading, "FREE." My immediate thought was that, "this has got to be good," and it was. No, the thought to keep walking never occurred to me.

There was a large brick planter that holds the huge name signage of the funeral home. Something German, I think. Lying on the rim of the ledge of the planter were a two button navy blue suit and a navy blue double breasted blazer. They were constructed of what appeared to be only the finest polyester. As well there was a pair of men's size 8 1/2 black wing tip shoes. Leaning against the side of the planter were about two dozen 18" x24" bulletin boards. Finally, there was also an average sized acrylic suggestion box (empty).

I like to believe that I have a fairly active imagination but, I have not as of yet been able to come up with an explanation here. The best I have been able to figure out is; maybe the next of kin required a couple three wardrobe changes before being satisfied? That might explain the shoes and the clothing but, what about the two dozen bulletin boards and the suggestion box? Who knows, perhaps the departed was not familiar with PowerPoint and wanted to take suggestions and an old-school presentation to the pearly gates. He of course learned at the last moment that he couldn't take them with him. On the other hand, perhaps the funeral home thought that rather than placing the stuff in the dumpster, someone may find it useful?

BTW: Wouldn't you just about go naked before wearing those clothes or shoes?

Baby Steps

It was an absolutely beautiful weekend! We have also gotten the new week off to a great start with high temperatures expected in the mid-eighties. I am so affected by the weather; it makes me do things out of character. Today, for the first time in my adult life I presented myself to the world in sandals (new Bass ones) without socks. Can you friggin' believe it?

Even as a child I had an unnatural disgust and embarrassment about my feet. I always looked upon them as god's mistake that only I acknowledged. Why the change? Well, I put on those little ankle sock thingies I wear this time of year and then the sandals. The look appeared somehow corrective to me and uncomfortable to boot (pun intended). My feet felt much cooler without the socks (pun not intended). Hmmm, why did I not think of this before? After staring at my feet for several minutes and then at the sandals, a pedicure followed. Yes, a pedicure. I wouldn't want anyone to believe that they have been fooled by me walking upright. Pedicure complete and creamy emollients applied, I was ready. I walked around the house for 20 minutes or so just to get the feel of things. I was comfy and not horrified by the sight.



I needed something from the store so I decided to walk. Would you believe that not one single person looked at my feet. And it wasn't like when you see someone who is deformed and you remember your mom telling you that, "it's not polite to stare." No one grabbed their little ones to their beast in an attempt to shield them from the horror. I did constantly look down while casually judging the faces I passed. No one seemed to give a sh*t about my feet except for me, imagine that? About half way into my mile walk I was totally fine with it all.

I guess the "moral" to the story might be that no one really cares about our insecurities and hang-ups quite like we do. They may not even care at all. Knowledge is truly power, man. And with this knowledge I am now confident that someday, (probably soon) I may well be seen in public with a dress shirt sans undershirt. Dare to dream.

Better Than Therapy

So, yesterday afternoon I found the missing bow saw. It was under a bunch of stuff in the garage. How it got there or why I did not see it the first four times I looked in that place is beyond me. I realize now that it had been hiding from me. It knew that I would tire it out as I did.

There is a tree in the far right corner of the lawn, a stately and once more beautiful Blue Spruce. The lawn slopes downward where the tree stands so, unless you actually walk over to that corner you would never even notice how over grown the tree was. It is so huge and the branches and limbs so gigantic that when I mow the lawn I have avoided the thing. It was almost scary. It had grown for three or more years without pruning. It had branches that were less than two feet above the ground. They are or I should say were ten feet out-stretched. When I would come near the thing the branches would reach out and try to grab me like that killer tree from the old SNL skit but, more sexual. It would caress my neck and the back of my head. I swear it did! I had wanted to do something about all this but I could not find the saw and my mind made it easy to forget about the molesting tree until the lawn needed mowing again.

What a friggin' job. The trimmings produced a mound about five feet high and roughly seven feet wide at the curb. Somehow the whole process was therapeutic in a way. The sawing motion was somehow very relaxing for me. When you add that I am very anal and the imagined result of a well trimmed tree ready to continue to grow skyward you may well understand how good it was for me. The trimming of each branch seemed to energize me further. An hour or so later when the tree was once again a thing of beauty, a wave of sadness came over me as I stared at the bow saw.

I then looked about the yard and there were both real and imagined branches and limbs that needed to come down all over the property. In my controlled madness I sawed vigorously the limb of a tree of undetermined specie near the curb. The neighbor stopped what he was doing to watch. His expression was distracting as if he knew that there might be a better way to address whatever would cause me to attack even a dead limb with such determination. I quickly waved giving him the universal sign to stop watching me. I continued with my work and then it happened. I had misjudged the connecting limbs and branches. The thing although dead was huge and was it not for my cat-like reflexes... Covered with sawdust and sweat it was now time for a shower. What a fine mood I was in for the rest of the evening.

A New Shirt for Les or ... Less

Two things you have probably already learned about me from reading here is that, I read a lot (some might say too much) and I am frugal (some might say a cheapskate). When I can combine activities that satisfy both those basic needs, whoopee!

Among other genre, I read men's fashion magazines. While reading one such publication earlier in the week I came across a $25.00 off coupon from a well know department store. Possessing a rather lengthy list of retail disappoints in my life, I read the coupon carefully three times. It was true. The coupon was for the store's men's department only and was not one of those blank dollar off a greater dollar amount like, $25.000 off $100.00 or more as I first thought. This coupon clearly stated that it was for $25.00 off period. So, as long as I purchased one cent or more, I could use the coupon. Any unused portion would of course be forfeited. Naturally so, no one is going to pay you to take merchandise away even in this economy. The only slight down side here was that I could not use the coupon for cologne or socks, both of which I really need.

Friday night I made my way to probably the ugliest and largest mall I have ever or hope to see. An architectural embarrassment, the structure looks like a giant white prison. After driving what seemed like at least a half mile to a side of the mall, there I was at the store's entrance. I walked in an within sixty seconds was asked by two very attractive women if I would help them select a rain coat for the brunette. No, they did not believe that I worked there. The white coat was the nicest. The tan one looked very much like one my mother owns but, let's not go there. Believe it or not the women offered to take me for a drink as a thank you for my help. "No thanks," incredibly hot ladies, I have a coupon to spend! I made my way to the second floor and eventually to the men's department.

Around and around the department I went and it seemed that the only items approved by the coupon that were $25.00 or less were neck ties and three shirts in my size hanging on a discounted rack. Yes, yes I do realize that I could have applied the coupon to an item greater than $25.00 but, I was a tad annoyed that they did not seem to have any items that were less than $39.99. I felt a little tricked.

While the floor plan and displays were cleaner and more eye-catching, the quality of the merchandise was not any better than that you might purchase from stores this one would consider their lesser. Not bad stuff at all, just a bit over-priced. I imagine I must have roughly 75-100 neck ties so, the choice of a shirt seemed to have been made for me. The choices were; a white one, a celery one and a black one. They were all button up dress shirts. The white one and the celery one carried the store's label and the black one was Ralph Lauren. If all else fails wear black! The Lauren shirt was a perfect fit and it's tag claimed a regular price of $58.50 and was marked down to $19.99. I then stood at the register for far too long before a salesperson appeared.

The funny part here and there is always a funny part is, that the sales dude tried to convince me that because of the $5.00 difference between the shirt and the coupon, I should keep the coupon for another time. "Here, I'll give you a 20% off coupon to use," he said as if my IQ was a few points shy of 75. Hmmm, I wondered aloud..., "20% off or free?" Never missing an opportunity for sarcasm, I offered, "while that was a remarkably generous offer you have just put forth, I'll take free!" He seemed very disappointed when I added that I would and could forfeit the $5.00 difference as per the coupon. I almost pranced to the car.

I suppose from a marketing perspective the store got what they wanted; a new customer who would not have otherwise come to their store and who walked out with merchandise. I will definitely check next month's magazine issue for another coupon in the very real possibility that the store does not see it's folly.

The Hills have thighs

Speaking of television, how are you supposed to tell which of the half dozen or so vapid blonds on The Hills is which?

I saw The Hills for the first time last week. That guy on The Soup always makes fun of the show. The Hills was unbelievable! I do not believe I have ever seen anything so bad, ever, ever. It was so badly acted, sadly written, poorly cast and not even a train wreck. A train wreck would have had interesting elements. I was amazed. I kept waiting for something to happen like maybe Allen Funt suddenly appearing and telling everyone to smile, or perhaps an alien popping out of Spencer Pratt’s hair or something, anything. I watched a couple more episodes out of curiosity and in a vain attempt at figuring it all out. I understand that this show has been on the air for 2 or 3 years. How? Even pre-adolescents must be insulted. It’s amazing. It’s directed as if it is an actually a real show. Somebody please tell me what I am actually missing here. I do realize that I am not getting something because the mess has a spin off called The City and yet another called Kell on Earth or some such truck. The City is the same crap as The Hills only a different locale and Kell on Earth is just another odd “reality” show about being 20 and someone’s bitch or rather assistant. Both Hills and City need several rewrites just to be classified as stupid in my opinion.


Help me out here. What am I not getting?

I fully realize that I am not super smart. I suppose if there’s smart, I’m actually Kmart smart. But, I can usually figure out friggin’ TV. One of my favorite things to do is to tune into Univision. Then with a Spanish/English dictionary at the ready, I can figure out 98-99% of what’s going on. Very often with the sound muted I make up my own story lines complete with jokes that are responded to by the laugh track in my head. I thank teachers and a school system that extruded me way back when elective courses were in their infancy. I digress. My point is that I can’t figure out what the heck The Hills is supposed to be about.

I'm a vampire... or maybe not.

Around a quarter to six last evening I took a nap. I woke up an hour later scratching the left side of my neck. I even applied hydrocortisone which only helped a little. I finally went into the bathroom to check out my neck in the mirror. There, there on my neck were two tiny red spots about 1/16th of an inch apart. I thought it odd for bug bites because they were identical and so close together. Then I thought…

Holy Twilight Batman, I’m a vampire. But, wouldn’t I remember having the blood drained from me by some incredibly good looking undead as seen on TV? I wouldn’t remember it if I fainted from the shock?

I put alcohol on the bites. –Nothing, they still itched. It finally occurred to me that maybe it still itched because I kept futzing with them. I applied more itch cream.

I then went to the kitchen table and tried to remember what happened in the movies when people were made Slurpees by the undead. None of it seemed to apply so, I started dinner. I found the pork chops and apple sauce most satisfying and didn’t crave blood even once. I haven’t grown fangs but, I do always look great in black, especially with a cap. The day light doesn’t seem to bother me and I ate ice cream for dessert. I guess I’m not a vampire after all but, the bites are still there.

Then it occurred to me. New windows were installed in my room earlier in the day. Who knows what sort of bugs/insects might have made themselves indoors? See there? There’s always a plausible explanation which is never as exciting or as cool as what you have seen on television.

I can see clearly now

It's Friday and I am outfitted with new glasses. On Tuesday, I had the eye exam and on Wednesday I went to select frames. I am almost embarrassed to admit that my selection of frames were somewhat limited. They were limited because I have a large round bald head. Go ahead and laugh if you must. It is not necessary for you to feel my pain.

As I waited to be served I noticed a young hip guy on a poster. Hey, I'm young and hip? Some say, I was never either of those things but, they would be wrong. Anywho, the nice young gal (old man talk, I know) finally found the frames from the poster. I tried them on and voila. They were all wrong. The sales woman's expression was priceless. I could not quite tell if she was suppressing a belly laugh or if she had thrown up in her mouth just a little. I stepped over to the mirror. There I stood looking exactly like an old dude trying to look like a young dude. The frames were too square and the contrast with my circular noggin was more than should be aesthetically borne. Moving right along.

"Perhaps you might fine this section more suitable," she told me. "Oh is this where the elephant man gets his glasses," I thought? I tried a few pairs. They did not cause an instant headache by gripping the sides of my head too much. And, then I found them. I found the glasses I was looking for two years ago when I got new ones. They fit well and looked even better. I turned towards the sales woman who beamed similarly to those who receive great value from there work. "Yes, those are perfect!" I checked the mirror again. I felt like that kid with the one big shoe who finally gets a pair of pants long enough to hide it.

"Your prescription suggests bifocals but, your insurance only covers glasses which are lined bifocals and not unlined," she said. "You're kidding me?" After dancing around the absurdity of the vision plan and weighing the possibility of going about with lined bifocals at my age, I made the only sensible choice. I will look over my new single vision glasses when I need to read much like my old art teacher who I used to mock. I am sure there is some lesson or moral there but, who gives a crap. I heard the woman at the counter say the word "hot" as I walked out.

Green with Irony

The sullen and jaded Les believes that many parts of the "Green" movement are a bunch of phooey or hooey. He often wonders aloud about the process and production of green materials. Jaded Les however concedes that green products more times than not are kinder to the environment, but is the process kind?

Submitted for your evaluation... A non-profit organization here has a program that is dedicated to making the homes of older Americans more energy efficient. This agency conducts some sort of an "energy audit," and advises as well as offers assistance to older folks to bring their homes to acceptable levels of usage. During my mother's audit it was discovered that her 15 year old refrigerator - freezer has been gobbling up far too much energy. The organization offered to replace the old side-by-side with a brand spanking new one. How could the old gal decline? The new model was delivered around 2:00p.m. yesterday afternoon. The old monster's doors as well as the front door of the house had to be removed to get the thing out. After about an hour and one broken glass candle holder later, the new fridge was in place gleaming white in all it's efficiency.

The part that first confused and then got Les' dander up was; during that entire hour the movers left the 20ft truck that they had came in parked in front of the house with the engine running.

...an explosive chemical reaction can occur.

I know nothing of plumbing but, logic is another thing. The kitchen sink had been very slow draining for what seemed like forever. After rinsing out a glass yesterday nothing happened, the water just sat there. I used the trusty new plunger brought just for this anticipated occasion. Squish, squish, gurgle, squish and still the water just sat there. After trying several hopeless avenues I then unscrewed all of the pipes underneath. The pipes were of course crammed with green algae-looking stuff. I cleaned those and put them back into place. I then ran the water a few feet and it just sat there. I went down to the basement and tapped on pipes and tried to unscrew caps as if I knew what I was doing. Hint: if you spray WD40 at an angle above your head it will float back down to your glasses and you skill will feel warm... like burning. A fools errand. It was the wrong order I know but, this required some thought.

I ate dinner, Chicken and Rice. Afterwards, I removed the pipes from under the sink again, placed a pan there and washed the dinner dishes. I dumped the pan of soapy water outside. I then made a cup of tea and sat on the side of the bed when, Sulfuric Acid came to mind. That was it! The 32oz bottle of Sulfuric Acid drain opener had warnings and instructions which I carefully read twice. Some of the warnings seemed pretty obvious like, "don't look directly in to the drain after pouring the acid down." -Oh, so tempting. 'My eyes, my eyes,' the burning would be a bit too King Lear-esque for me. "How sharper than a serpent's tooth," and all that. I therefore stepped as far away as I could while pouring the stuff down. I used four ounces as the instructions read and nothing happened. I eventually dumped the entire bottle down and waited 15 minutes before flushing the drain with cold water. I even put an upside down bucket over the drain because the instructions led me to expect an eruption. There were no eruptions but, the drain made a sigh and was now clear. I ran the cold water for about 10 minutes and I was home free. I was starting to feel proud of myself until I looked under the sink.

I usually toss the dirty towels under the sink and eventually wash them. I neglected to remove them before I started my little project. About an eighth of a cup of the acid had leaked from the pipe fittings on to the towels. Even through my rubber gloves the towels were extremely hot. I guess there were about a dozen towels there all ruined and steaming, but kinda cool in a 9th grade Earth Science kinda way. I guess it was a good idea after all not to look into the drain.

Speaking of drains... After putting everything back to normal I giggled through Larry King as (D)Eric Massa's career circled the...

Eric Massa... not funny

Sorry, gentle reader I have no humor for you today.

My friends, we have entered the age of the bad politician, politician. For about a year now it has been particularly annoying to me how bad most politicians are at well, being politicians. As my grandmother would say, "they lie when the truth will do," which often creates a mess that will not only destroy their lives but the lives of those around them. The latest in this lying league is (D) Eric Massa, (I'll table New York's current and most recent former governors for another rant...).

Massa will not seek re-election the headlines read. Here's a link if you have not heard: http://www.politico.com/news/stories/0310/34001.html He has had cancer a few times and his doc said in effect, "find some place and sit down." A few days later the headlines read that he is really resigning because he talked naughty to a boi. Now, I am to learn that he says he was really forced out because he was going to vote "No" on the health care thingy. Here's what the White house had to say about it: http://abcnews.go.com/GMA/HealthCare/white-house-eric-massas-charges-ridiculous/story?id=10048764

Hmmmm. I admit I wasn't there but, it seems to me that the bill is not up for a vote yet, therefore for Massa to suggest that he is some sort of tie-breaker is a bit premature. Here's what I think happened...

Massa got scared. The ethics committee found out about the naughty talk and Massa in an attempt to avoid that on coming train resigned. Never mind that others have weathered far greater storms. The entire "forced out" story, I do not buy. As a Democrat I am sure he faced pressure to vote with his party but, again, it is too early to tell if he mattered that much. The man just does not want to go home in disgrace. A martyr sounds a lot better. He was set up and railroaded because he held strong to his beliefs sounds better than isn't he that guy who tried to...

Further, I could spend all afternoon talking about what this means in terms of easily ignoring the commitment he made to the people of his region, this country. I believe the oath goes something like. "...and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter: So help me God." So, after making that kind of a commitment he lies rather than fights? Fighting does not count after you've stepped aside.

Now, here's were the really bad politician comes into play. If the set up were remotely true and he really wanted to remain true to his oath, then I would think that "set up" would have been the first words out of his mouth. The storm would have easily subsided concerning the naughty words (given our attention span) and we would have moved on to another story. But, we are to believe that the first 2 "lies" are to be ignored and now believe the set up story? Pardon the reference but, that's a bit too hard to swallow.

What can I say?

You know I have a reputation as a cheap-skate but, I'd rather think if it as 'thrifty.' Yesterday, I went to the grocery store with coupons and sales circular in hand and walked out with $16.54 worth of goods for a mere $00.32. Yes, 32 cents total! And BTW, yes, I do have too much time on my hands. :D

A Brazilian what?

Last night it was too cold to do anything other than veg. I found myself mesmerized by a show named, "Dr. 90210." If you haven't seen it, the show's about plastic surgery. Dr. 90210 is about as pretty and metrosexual as an adult male should be allowed. He's buff and tanned with what most consider a great sense of humor. Being the jacka** I am, I felt a great urge to punch him in the neck and I'm not even a violent person.

Anywho, there were three different patients in this week's episode. The most interesting was the woman who was so dissatisfied with her own bum that she wanted it "inflated," and lifted. she stated that she had done every thing she could to affect this monumental problem. She had tried all sorts of exercises at the gym and her prospects of lifting and plumping her bum were in vain. Dr. Funny-Handsome-Guy to the rescue! During the consultation it was discovered that she wanted, dare I say needed a "Brazilian Butt." A what, you ask? Me too. The best I could tell was that this Brazilian butt thingy is the latest in desired perfect arses. It has just the right amounts of plump and pertness. I'm still a little confused in that for my entire life I have had a "Black Butt," and I was led to believe that there was none better. -Not my arse in particular but, the black butt in general.

I guess I have to move my black butt over, the Brazilian Butt is in town. So, back to the consultation... The doctor tells the woman (Opps, I just remembered that this was a different doctor now.) during the consult that she was too thin and she needed to gain ten pounds. Why? She needed to gain ten pounds so the doctor could extract it from her belly and re-inject it into her butt. This is what he did. The injection made a big lump which the doctor smoothed and shaped as desired. Voila, a Brazilian Butt. Her boyfriend stool off in the distance looking as giddy as a third grade boy to hearing his first poop joke. He was so pleased that at the end of the show as he welded up in tears, he asked the woman with the new Brazilian Butt to be his wife... she accepted. I guess I am to assume that this might not have happened had she not filled her bum with belly fat?

The whole thing kind of made me a bit sad. I took a mirror in to the bathroom and for the first time I felt that my black butt just wasn't enough. Not.

Pedestrian Rage

I hate to be a downer on a Friday and all but, what the heck is wrong with this world?

As I have posted, Most people don't shovel their snow these days. Therefore, because of the snow and ice as well as occasional balance issues related to my ankle "fixation," on particularly bad weather days I use my James Bond-like cane. It collaspses into four equal parts. With the flick of the wrist it is fully extended for use. It's like having a third leg.

Yesterday, I waited to cross the street near the Rite-Aid. I usually wait until there are absolutely no vehicles coming in either direction. Most people in this town pay no attention; they coast through right-on-reds and it is as if they learned to drive playing Bumper Cars at the fair. I don't want to end up like that poor squirel I saw the other day so, I'm overly careful. I saw no cars in sight so, I started across the street. Then out of nowhere came a guy in a Chevy truck down the street facing me. I was in the middle of the road when I saw him without even looking zoom through the stop sign and turn right onto the road towards me. The car was coming directly towards me and his lack of attention and conversation with his passenger caused him to also turn in to the far left lane. I shouted, "HEY" as loudly as I could to get him to notice me in that I had nowhere to go other than back to Jesus. What happened next is beyond crazy.

The guy stopped his vehicle and gestured while dropping F-Booms. Why the F**K was I yelling at him... he didn't hit me? He was about to get out of the truck and really go after me when it appeared his passenger said something to him. He looked at the cane, gave me a dirty look and then drove onward a few feet ahead. He stopped his truck and watched me by looking out the back window over his shoulder. Now, it was my turn to use the F word once I reached safely on the other side of the street. 'So, you are going to carelessly run down a guy walking with a cane and because he interceeded on his own behalf, you are going to kick his arse?' I was three blocks from home and every step of the way I imagined the jerk would appear, jump out of his truck and beat me in some sort of twisted pedestrian rage. WTF!

A little correspondence

A bit of correspondence to share...

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Dear Neighbor Woman:
No, I'm not some kind of an idiot! I did however believe for the past two and one half years that you were a man. The Flannel over shirts, chain smoking voice and constant spitting all converged to confuse me. I am indeed sorry. With that settled my cousin wants to know if she can add you to her Avon customer list?
Les-

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Dear Colon:
Sorry about that second bowl of Oatmeal. I guess that was over kill.
Love
Les-

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Dear MTV and VH1:
Instead of Think Tanks do you guys have Dipsh*t Tanks to come up with your sucky reality show ideas?
:-(
Les-

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Dear The SCOOTER Store:
Please remove me from your dang, darn, dabnabbit mailing list!
Yours in mobility,
Les-

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Dear Paperboy:
What, three days and no paper again? Hmmm. I guess I could always read it online... forever!
Les-

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Dear Large woman in tight white "pants":
You do know that the Laws of Physics apply to spandex?
Les-

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Dear Experts:
Most of you are full of you know what.
Les-

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What's in a number?

Yesterday, I got a letter from my primary doctor in the mail. It states that her office has been trying to get in touch with me for two months. I don't see how this is possible in that had they called as they said there might have been some indication of it on my phone. I imagine that someone just did not do their job and decided it would be easier to pin it on the patient. The reason they were "trying" to get in touch with me is that I had blood work done a couple months ago for which I had never received any results. Apparently, the only negative result of that lab work was that my Cholesterol was a bit high at 229 (200 or less is good). Well, as a result my doctor has decided that rather than altering my diet, I should go on a medication called Lovastatin (10mg). Now, I'm not that kind of doctor but, this makes no sense to me. Couldn't those 29 points be arrested by a few less ham and cheese omelettes and a few more bowls of oatmeal? All of my other stats are markedly characteristic of a man with a much higher bum than my own. So, if those 29 points are the only indicator of ill health then, why medication?

I went on line immediately and Googled, Lovastatin. One of the first lines of the three different sites I checked stated that the stuff is normally prescribed when adjustments to diet, exercise and weight have failed. I ask again, why medication? I read further to discover that possible side effects can be constipation, muscle damage severe stomach pain, kidney/liver problems, yellowing, of the eyes yada, yada, blah.

Now I'm confused. I feel that it would be a silly waste of time to start on these meds rather than adjust my diet and all. Well, why don't you discuss this with your Primary Care Physician as they do on the commercials? I'm not good at that besides I suspect she thinks I'm a whiner anyway. The "I know better, I'm the doctor," stuff does not set well with me either. Besides, the letter failed to actually mention the 229, which I thought significant. It just read it was "high." It was not until I telephoned the office and whomever answered the phone and looked up my file told me me the actual number. That person even questioned medication and told me that diet could easily adjust the number. She added that she wasn't the doctor though. I guess the bottom line here is that I am not at all pleased with the level of professionalism at that office and as such this situation makes me a bit uncomfortable. Why medication?

Right now my options are to call on Monday and try to get in touch with the doctor or follow my gut which at present is experiencing absolutely no severe stomach pain.

Let it snow

I used to love snow. I Cross Country skied. I lacked the coordination to actually make Downhill pleasurable. That seems like a lifetime ago. I guess it was. Now, I don't really hate snow I just like it better staring out of the window at it. I've had to shovel the stuff for the past four days and I'm done. Some place dreamy with white sandy beaches and year 'round temps of 75 degrees would be nice. I could sell beaded necklaces to the tourists. Unfortunately, reality slaps its windy hand in my face.

The short story is... Yesterday, as I walked to the library I stepped in a hole. I did not see it of course and was trying to be careful. Yes, the ankle with the six inch plate and the eight screws (to anticipate your question). I spent the evening in bed feeling sorry for myself and wondering why people don't clear their walks. On average it seems that one out of every eight homes actually shovels their sidewalks. This is an informal visual survey and not to be quoted. I remember in a happier time when I was a lad growing up in Butte. I didn't really grow up in Butte, I just liked the sentence. Actually, where I did grow up it was illegal not to shovel your walk. The mailman would not deliver your mail and God forbid should someone fall on your icy/snowy walk. You would be in sooo much trouble. I'm sure that these laws have been just ignored rather than repealed. Maybe, I'm just whining but, when you consider that the bionic ankle is the result of falling on ice... I tell myself that I expect too much and that the world has changed. People are too busy to shovel walks or come to a complete stop at

right on red

when I am in the road. Too busy... there's a pizza and PlayStation getting cold.