Thursday, December 3, 2015

And the very same to you

I have decided that it is time for me to put away my scoffing at those who take all the fun out of life by insisting on Political Correctness, even if they attempt to force us into it by emotional blackmail.

In fact, I plan to be so ridiculously correct, politically, in all things this holiday season -- I mean, this season in which there are, um … well, holidays -- but in order to be safe I guess I should just say, in December, but in some cases, up to and including January – 

Well, I guess my best bet is to say, “at this time of year.”  That seems acceptably PC to me.

So here is my plan:  If anyone wishes me a Merry Christmas or Happy Hanukkah or Joyous Kwanzaa, or anything to do with Ramadan or St. Lucia Day or Tet Nguyen Dan or the Twelve Days of Anything -- or for that matter, if they wish me a Happy New Year – and I guess that would have to include anybody’s new year, you know -- Chinese, Jewish or Ethiopian – as well as the Occidental …

Anyway, if anybody does reveal their own proselytizable prejudices by saying something like that to me, I am simply going to flash them a big toothy grin and in all Political Correctness carefully designed so as not to offend ANYBODY, I am going to reply very sincerely, “Open Moon Pudding!”

If that ain't innocuous, I don't know what is.

Tuesday, December 1, 2015

I'm still trying to decide

I don't know why I fall for these things.

I just tried to log on to Ancestry.com to do a little work on my wife's family tree, and before I got there a screen came up announcing I had been chosen to participate in an eight-question survey, my reward for which would be a free gift worth up to $112. (Yes, not $100 or $125, but $112.)

I clicked the button out of curiosity, and it turns out that seven of the eight questions were about Ancestry, so I figured this one might actually be on the up and up. The eighth question asked my gender, so I dutifully checked "Female."

The screen immediately moved to the rewards page, and I was asked to choose my prize. (But don't wait! You only have ten minutes! These things are going fast!) Here are my choices:

1. A product to smear on my face for 30 days after which I will look 10 years younger
2. Something to make my hair grow thicker and fuller (risk free)
3. A device that vaporizes smoke so I can smoke a cigarette anywhere
4. A weight-loss kit especially designed to fight Holiday Fat Buildup
5. A male testosterone booster to make me more muscular, lean and mean

I don't know why I fall for these things.

Monday, November 23, 2015

You just never know

The recent terrorist attacks in Paris and elsewhere caused me, as I’m sure it did many people, to think back to the attacks on our soil in 2001.  We were in Las Vegas at the time. (I told how I heard about the event on an anniversary -- see posting “Nine Eleven” of September 11, 2012).

We had taken quite a bit of cash to gamble with and were lucky to bring a lot of it back with us. A week later after we finally got home (that’s a whole ‘nother story), I was counting the money, preparatory to putting it back in the bank, when I came across what I described at the time as “the weirdest thing.” 

There was a $100 bill that had been stamped with your basic rubber stamp, on the back, on the short edge – exactly where one would endorse a check. It must somehow have gotten mixed in with some checks or something, but that wasn't the weird part.  The weird part was what the stamp said:

DA AFGHANISTAN BANK, KABUL

By that time there were more details coming out about the terrorists who flew the planes, and it was said they had spent time in Las Vegas some days or weeks before the attacks. We debated about what, if anything, to do about it, and finally I called the FBI.

The local number I found switched me to the FBI office in Detroit. I felt kind of stupid, but the agent I talked to was very nice.  He asked where I got the bill, and I couldn’t tell him, of course.  I said it could have come from any of the casinos in which I had played blackjack, at least fifteen of them.

He said there was no way to trace it if I couldn’t say exactly where it came from, and I apologized for wasting his time, but it is of note, I think, that during our brief conversation he said, “That’s really interesting,” three times.

I agree.  Very interesting.

Sunday, November 8, 2015

A Grave Mistake

Long about 12 years ago, my partner (then, now wife) Judy Brown and I traveled to Findlay, Ohio, for a couple days to see what we could dig up about her family, genealogically speaking. We did some research in the local library, finding that quite a few of her forebears were buried at Maple Grove Cemetery, so we drove over to have a look.

The woman at the cemetery office was very nice and, having everything on computer, was able to provide all the information we wanted for the people on our list. Then we went out to see and photograph the tombstones.

Near the family plots, we found this:



Paul and Ethel were not on our list, but JB remembered that her grandmother had a sister, one Ethel Miller who, according to the grandmother’s obituary we had just read, had married a Tussing – and here they were. JB was sorry to see that her great-aunt’s dates were not complete, showing just “1899 – 19 .” Ethel must have been the last one in the ground and there was nobody to arrange for her year of death to be added.

JB felt so bad about it, in fact, that we went back to the cemetery office to ask when Ethel died (1959) and to see what it would involve and what it would cost to have the date added to the marker.

We were directed to the nearest monument dealer, which was more or less across the street.  There we talked to a fellow named Dave who appeared a little bemused by the idea, since the woman had already been dead 45 years, but he talked to his stone carver, and they decided that for $92.00 plus tax, we could have “59” added to the “19” on Ethel’s tombstone. We would have paid up front, but Dave said it might be a few weeks before they got around to it; they'd send us a bill.

The next day we went back to the library to do more searching, and JB unearthed the obituary of Ethel I. Tussing of Findlay, Ohio, widow of Paul E., which gave her parents’ names (including the mother’s maiden name), and armed with that information, JB was able to determine with complete certainty that this woman was absolutely no relation to her whatsoever. I dug around a little more and found that her real great-aunt Ethel was married to William Tussing and was buried in Toledo.

When we got home the next day, I called Dave at the monument company and cancelled our order. Dave laughed when I told him why.

Saturday, November 7, 2015

So, are they ducks, or not?

In a crossword puzzle I was working this morning there was a clue ("note regarding a debt") the answer to which was IOU, as in, I owe you some money. It seemed to me that I O U fits right in with the current sort of text-speak that uses single letters for words, but it was centuries ahead of its time.  The first known use, according to at least two dictionaries, was in or around 1795, and someone pointed out that I O U can be found in a mid-19th-century novel by Dickens.

So much of text-speak involves acronyms, such as YOYO for "you're on your own" and the ubiquitous LOL ("laughing out loud"). Also nothing new. ASAP has been used in business for decades, and any genealogist whose research antedates the Internet knows what SASE means ("self-addressed stamped envelope").

There is also the use of numbers for words, as in B4 for "before." At least 50 years ago, somebody wrote in my high school yearbook, "2 good 2 be 4gotten."   So that's not new either.

The single-letter words are probably my favorite.

Where R U going
Home
Y
2 P
K

And I won't even guess how long this has been around:

A B, U C M ducks?
L M R N O ducks.
O S M R ducks. I C M P N.
L I B.  M R ducks.

And with that, all I can say is YOYO.


Sunday, October 18, 2015

Definitely Autumnal

Sometimes I think I can fool myself into thinking that fall isn't really here yet. There are still lots of trees whose leaves haven't turned yet. One day this week was so sunny and warm(ish) that I was tempted to wear shorts. I haven't needed a heavier jacket. The baseball season isn't over yet.

But then comes the inevitable moment when pretending cannot make it so. Yesterday I picked the last tomato, the only red, unblemished one left on the vine. I set it on the kitchen counter to rest (and warm up), putting off that inevitable moment as long as I could.

But it has finally arrived. A short time ago I stood at the kitchen sink holding the fruit in one hand and sprinkling salt with the other, biting into its soft flesh, savoring its delectable sweetness, feeling its ripe juices trickle down my arm as I lifted it to my mouth.

Summer is now officially over. The last lone tomato is gone.

Thursday, September 24, 2015

All right, I won't

There is a television commercial for a sleeping pill that features two little pretend creatures that appear to be fashioned from giant, fuzzy pipe cleaners which are twisted into words. One, in a light gray color, spells out the word Sleep, and the other, a darker color, is Wake.

They are about the size of your basic house pets, which appears to be the point, because, unlike the semi-rigid keepsakes we created from pipe cleaners at Girl Scout troop meetings, these critters are pliant and ambulatory. They follow around behind a woman we presume is insomnious, waving that part of their initial letter that mimics a tail, rubbing against her ankles, and hopping up on her bed. Eventually, through the miracle of modern pharmacology, our insomniac goes to bed cuddling the little cat-like Sleep in her arms while the somewhat more canine Wake dutifully lays down in its own bed on the floor.

The whole thing is uncommonly creepy.

The real outstanding moment in this ad, however, comes at the end during the recitation of the myriad side effects, contraindications, and possible drug interactions of this sleeping pill when the speaker actually says, "Do not take Belsomra if you have narcolepsy."

Really? Ya think?

Wednesday, September 16, 2015

Room With a View

I just finished washing up some dishes, which at our house comes with the added-value opportunity to look out the window above the sink at our lovely back yard while you do it.

My mother would have loved that. I remember when I was a kid she often said how much she wished there was a window above the sink. When my parents built a new house in 1966, she finally got her wish.

I saw an old photograph last week that somebody in the family dug up and emailed to me. It shows me and my Aunt Blanche sitting at the kitchen table in that house, taken at least 40 years ago. Behind us you can see that nice big window over the sink that my mother wanted so much.

The irony of it is that when you looked out that window, all you saw was the side of the neighbor's garage.

Tuesday, September 15, 2015

Chihuahua Day at our house

It is the birthday of my tiny dog. She is 14 years old today.

She came to us from our local humane society when she was nine months old, having been manhandled by a three-year-old whose (infinitely stupid) grandmother gave it to her for Christmas.

She is a plucky little dog, brave, loyal and as cute as a button. Unlike most Chihuahuas, she is calm and easy-going. All she really wants is to be loved and cuddled. She is deaf now and has lost most of her teeth, she sleeps 23 hours a day, and when she is awake, she pees. She has been a joyful addition to our family.

Happy birthday, Soji. We love you.

Wednesday, September 9, 2015

Long To Reign Over Us

On February 6, 2012, Queen Elizabeth II celebrated 60 years on the throne, which I, being her cousin, joyfully commemorated in a posting here. I also said I hoped she would be able to last another 3 years and 216 days so that she would overtake Queen Victoria as the longest reigning British monarch.

And today she did it.

It isn't just her longevity that will always distinguish her reign but also the dignity, poise, intelligence, and selfless sense of duty she brought to it. It was on her 21st birthday, five years before she ascended to the throne, that she made a famous speech to the Commonwealth in which she declared that her "whole life, whether it be long or short, shall be devoted to your service."

Happily, her life and reign have been long, and Her Majesty has fulfilled her royal promise.

God Save The Queen.

Tuesday, September 8, 2015

No Lots

Sometime in the last 25 years, I was talked into shopping at a store called Big Lots. It was explained to me that this particular store bought up lots of discontinued or overstocked merchandise at bargain prices, which savings were then passed on to its shoppers.

It was a terrifying experience. The store was dirty and messy, there was little or no organization to it, and many of the store's "aisles" were created by long lines of large cardboard boxes on the floor that customers were expected to paw through. I about had a nervous breakdown, as my wife described it.

I could not be prevailed upon to visit a Big Lots store again, at least not until this weekend.

Except that there were no boxes on the floor, this store was just like the other one -- messy and dirty and disorganized, and many items were clearly created for them because the Big Lots name was printed right on the packages. As if that were not enough, the prices were outrageous. One would do better at a dollar store.

Perhaps because I felt forewarned by my previous visit, I did not have a breakdown this time, and I did actually make a small purchase because they had something I can't find anywhere else.

Just now I came across the receipt, the bottom of which asks me to tell them how they are doing, and if I logged into the web site and took their survey, I could win a $300 Big Lots Gift Card. That stopped me right there. I would love to tell them what I think of them, but it would be just my luck to win the damn $300 and have to go into that store again.

And I will not. Ever.

Monday, September 7, 2015

This is too much

There is a role-playing game for mobile devices called "The Walking Dead: Road to Survival" which is advertising itself on television with images of what I guess are the undead engaged in combat with their enemies, whoever they are, over which a male voice recites, in somber tones exemplary of melodramatic over-acting, several lines from what is probably Robert Frost's most famous and possibly most beloved poem, The Road Not Taken. There is only one very tenuous connection between the two that I can see, and that is the "road" that the game player and Frost's narrator will travel.

I am appalled and insulted by the use of something so sublime to sell something so ignoble, and if it were up to me, I would set the game makers and their admen on the road to perdition.

Thursday, August 20, 2015

And also in addition Arschbutz too

Fugitive thoughts caught up with me yesterday when a reference on a cooking show to Pork Butt made my mind jump to Rump Roast, and then I suddenly heard an anonymous but southern-drawled voice in my head saying, "Chicken butt fried in grease - want a piece?"

That led me to ruminate on the myriad names we have for that part of the human anatomy (if not that of fowl) that is medically known as nates (NAY-tees). Not a word common enough for general use. ("He fell on his nates" just does not work.)

For polite society, I suppose buttock and buttocks would come next, but those are laughable words, especially the way some people pronounce them. Then there would be gluteus maximus, too big a mouthful and actually a reference to the three muscles that comprise the nates.

That leaves the door open for so many fine names for it, and there are plenty, viz:

arse - ass - backside - back end - behind - booty - bottom -  breech - bum - buns - butt - caboose - can - cheek(s) - derrière - duff - fanny - fundament - haunches - heinie - hind part - hindquarters  - keister - moon - posterior - rear - rear end - rump - seat - sit-upon - stern - tail - tail end - tuchus - tush - wazoo

I presume that final word makes the list in relation to "up the" rather than "sit on."

Fundament and breech are new to me as euphemisms for the tuchus, for which I am using the Yiddish spelling.

Finally, there is no further point to any of this, or, therefore, none at all. My last random thought on the subject is that, as children, my brother and I thought that Fanny Butts was the funniest name in the universe. Maybe it is.

Okay, it's time to get my nates off this chair and go do something productive.

Wednesday, August 5, 2015

Once a skeptic, always a skeptic

There are evidently people who do not believe that the New Horizons spacecraft actually flew past Pluto and sent us back pictures. They say NASA made the whole thing up and that the pictures are fake.

They are in league with the folks who think that global warming is not real, the moon landings were faked, and the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting was a hoax.

I can almost understand it. When I was in grade school in the (Cold War) 1950's, we were told that the people of Russia were oppressed by a totalitarian government and had none of the fundamental freedoms (speech, press, habeas corpus) that we have; that even though they could vote in elections, there was only one person on the ballot to vote for; that they were lied to all the time about Mother Russia's achievements in every field of human endeavor (which led them to invent television, chewing gum, and the flush toilet, or so they claimed).

There came a time, when I was about 10 or 11 years old, that I began wondering about that. What if my teacher and my school and my government were lying to me? What if we were the oppressed ones, expected to believe whatever we were told? How would I ever know?

As I got older, of course, I was able to accept the view of the world that was revealed to me, taking on faith whatever I did not know or see or experience myself.

It's highly likely that I still take a lot on faith. Like the sun will be rising in the east tomorrow.

Which reminds me of something else I heard in grade school, namely that one day the sun was going to burn out and die, and so would the planet and so would I. That scared the poop out of me, but then I learned that it wasn't going to happen for a few million years, and I felt a lot better.

Saturday, August 1, 2015

Beating the Heat

All this recent hot weather got me to thinking about a hot summer day long ago when one of my schoolmates and I decided to open a lemonade stand. His name was Jimmy, and he lived in the next block. We were probably about ten years old.

We set up shop on the sidewalk in front of his house. Instead of the traditional lemonade, however, we were purveying Kool-Aid at two cents per little Dixie Cup.

We had served several customers when a big semi-trailer stopped across the street. The driver hopped down from the cab and came over to us. He must have been very thirsty to stop at a kid's Kool-Aid stand.

He gave us two pennies, and we poured him a cupful, which he swallowed in one gulp. Obviously it didn't slake his thirst. "I'll tell you what," he said.  "I'll give you a nickel for whatever is left in that pitcher."

A nickel? Zowee!

Jimmy accepted the five cents while I poured, but there wasn't enough left to fill the Dixie Cup more than 2/3 full. Jimmy immediately grabbed the pitcher and started off, saying excitedly, "I'll go make some more!"

The truck driver tossed back the contents of the cup and said, "That's okay. Never mind," and went back to his rig, climbed in, and drove off.

Jimmy watched the truck trundle down the street for a few seconds, then  turned to me and said very decidedly, "That guy got gypped."

Yes, he did. Because we kept the nickel.

Friday, July 31, 2015

If you won't eat it, then just take its picture

The shooting of the Zimbabwe lion Cecil by the Minnesota dentist Palmer has created a hubbub that is taking on a life of its own. I am already tired of it, but since everybody else has spouted off about it, I think I am entitled to do the same.

I think killing animals for food is perfectly acceptable. I am a carnivore at the top of the food chain.

I think killing animals for sport is despicable. I even object to people who go fishing for fun but throw back all the fish they catch.

People will agree or disagree with those statements, and I don't really care who does. What I want to know is this:

If the dentist with more money than decency had shot an unknown lion with no name and no microchip in whom no researcher had ever taken an interest, would people from all over the world suddenly be all up in arms about it?

But I already know the answer to that: No, they wouldn't.

And isn't that a shame?

Sunday, July 26, 2015

Pilgrims

I recently took a flying interest in the Mayflower colonists and found a list of passengers at mayflowerhistory.com that pretty much satisfied my curiosity. Before I lost interest completely, I happened to follow a link they provided that sent me to the website of the Archives of the State Library of Massachusetts.

There I found a picture of a manuscript written by William Bradford in 1651. He was governor of the Plymouth Colony from 1621 to about 1657, and for some reason, he took it upon himself to write down the names of all the Mayflower passengers, grouping them by family and including, as appropriate for each entry, the husband, wife, children, and any servants they brought with them, including indentured ones. In the margin next to each entry he wrote the number of people listed so that he could easily get an accurate count, which might have been part of his motivation in writing it all down about thirty years after the fact.

It took me a while to get used to the antique handwriting, what with the funny double-S and the word the looking like a y with an e on top of it (which he doesn’t use all the time), not to mention the old haphazard spellings, but by the time I had plowed through about half of it, I was able to read it just fine. (In quoting from the document here, I have spelled all the words the way he did; there are no typos.)

At the top is his lengthy title:

“The names of those which came over first, in ye year 1620 and were (by the blessing of god) the first Beginers, and (in a sort) the foundation, of all the plantations, and colonies, in New-England. (And their families.)”

Bradford’s own entry is fourth on the list and reads:

“William Bradford, and Dorothy his wife, having but one child, a sone left behind, who came afterward.”

After concluding the list of the original passengers, he writes further, telling what has become of them all. This entry contains familiar names:

“Mr. Molines [Mullins], and his wife, his sone, & his servant dyed the first winter. Only his doughter Priscila survived, and maried with John Alden, who are both living, and have .11. children. And their eldest daughter is maried & hath five children.”

His accounts include nothing but prosaic facts: who “dyed,” who is still living and how many children they have, all reported without comment or criticism. All he says about John Billinton, for example, is, “executed, for killing a man.”

All but one of them, that is, and this particular one is what I find so fascinating:

“John Turner, and his .2. sones all dyed in the first siknes. But he hath a daughter still living at Salem, well maried, and approved of.”

She must have been a very special person for him to editorialize even that much.

___________________________________
You can see the manuscript for yourself at:

Monday, July 20, 2015

How's this for fugitive thoughts?

I need to schedule some time to sit down at my computer and write for this here blog thing. God knows I have plenty to say, I just don't get around to typing it out. Here's what I would have been saying in the past several weeks:

When I said I thought it was inappropriate for the Confederate flag to fly at the South Carolina capitol, I did not know that it is (was) flying at a memorial to the state's Confederate soldiers. I take it back. We would not object if the Lakota, Cheyenne and Arapaho erected a monument of war feathers and tomahawks to honor their fallen warriors at the Little Big Horn or at Wounded Knee, would we? No. As I said in the previous posting, people have a right to honor their war dead, even if they lost and even if their cause is now embarrassing, politically speaking.

The association of the Confederacy with slavery is not going to go away any more than racism is, so we might as well just suck it up.

I let the Supreme Court's decision on same-sex marriage go right past me. As blog topics go, that one was right up my street, as the Brits say. Well, good for SCOTUS, and good for us. Maybe America is growing up.

Although not a big soccer fan, I do like to watch Olympic and World Cup matches if the USA is playing, and I got a major thrill out of our women winning the World Cup. I was just sorry that no player on the American side took her shirt off like the men do and Brandi Chastain did. A great victory nevertheless.

And finally, sick and tired of Bruce/Caitlyn Jenner as I am, I still think it is incumbent upon me to point out that he must have wanted to become a woman real bad if he was willing to give up the ability to pee standing up.

Now I think I'm all caught up.

Friday, June 26, 2015

Symbolicism

I have been giving a great deal of thought to the current brouhaha over the Confederate flag flying at the South Carolina capitol. That is mostly because I have had a hard time making up my mind how I feel about it. I now have a decision.

I think that displaying the Confederate flag in, on, or around any governmental property is wrong. By "any," I mean city, township, county, state, and federal.

However, I do not think it is wrong for individual private citizens to have and display Confederate flags or other items depicting the Confederate flag on, in, or around their personal property.

Americans do and should remember and celebrate the dedication and sacrifice exhibited by the soldiers who fought so bravely in our great Civil War, whichever side their ancestors were on. So if folks in the South want to fly the Stars and Bars in remembrance of their defeat, let them. After all, this is America. (See Amendment 1 to the Constitution).

What makes the Confederate flag objectionable, of course, is its association with racism, and we will not be able to ignore that association until racism in America disappears.

Good luck to us on that one.

Friday, June 19, 2015

Allow me, s'il vous plait.

A co-worker told me this story.  I wish I had been there.

A businessman took four clients, including my colleague, out for dinner at a very fancy and expensive French restaurant. He asked his guests what they would like to have and then took it upon himself to order for all of them in French. He did it all -- appetizers, wine, entrees, side dishes -- struggling mightily at times to dredge up vocabulary and syntax buried deep in the memory of his high school French. It was a slow and tedious process.

The whole time he spoke, the waiter stood silently, his pen poised over his order pad, but he wasn't writing anything down.

When at last the ordeal was over, the guy closed his menu with an air of finality and permitted himself a small triumphant smile.

Then, very politely, the waiter said, "I'm sorry, sir. All the French-speaking waiters have gone home."


Wednesday, June 10, 2015

Bury My Heart at Wounded Pride

Our errand-running this afternoon led us down a nearby road that passes a chunk of land that calls itself a memorial garden and which I call a cemetery. It's one of those with no above-ground tombstones, just plaques that lie flush to the ground. It is tucked snugly between a golf course and the airport.

According to their web site, in addition to "traditional in-ground burials," they also offer cremation, lawn crypts, a mausoleum, and a niche columbarium. (That's the official name of the structure with the little cubby-holes that hold the urns of cremated remains. My grandmother's ashes are in one of those at Bohemian National Cemetery in Chicago.)

What is really fascinating about the place is the large banner waving in the breeze at the corner of the property announcing "50% SAVINGS ON SELECTED GARDENS." Probably the ones closest to the airport.

We are living longer, but I don't think that it's too few deaths that is causing the garden in memoriam to throw a half-off sale. More of us are evidently opting for the less expensive cremation and ash-scattering.

Although -- I did click the button that said "This Week's Burials," and it returned a screen that announced there were none this week.  Hmm.


And while I'm on the subject, and since I may never have an opportunity to mention this again, I want those who are not already aware of it to know that in Kalamazoo, Michigan, there is a cemetery called Mount Ever Rest.  I am not kidding.

Thursday, April 9, 2015

Oh, yeah?

There is a television commercial in which we find an elderly woman sitting in the passenger seat of a car driven by a young man.  Upon learning that the car is equipped with Wi-Fi, she says delightedly, "You mean I can update my blog from here?"  The young driver turns to her and says incredulously, "You have a blog?"

What's wrong with an old woman having a blog, you smart-alecky young whippersnapper?

Wednesday, March 4, 2015

For the Tines of Your Life

I have discovered exactly why dessert forks have shorter tines than dinner forks.

It's so that when you are trying to get a large forkful of cake into your mouth, you don't stick the fork down your throat.

So let's be grateful for the dessert fork.  (Also, the cake was excellent.)

Friday, February 6, 2015

Too Ashamed to Plagiarize

I saw something on the news last night which must not have impressed me much because I can't remember what it was about, but the guy who was the subject of the story had a blog, and I saw that the title of one entry was something like, "Too Tired To Think of a Title."  I thought about stealing that, but I'm not really too tired this morning, just not very clever.

After my long year of unwellness during which the only time I left the house was to go to a doctor's office or a hospital, I visited a casino this week. We were on our way to Wal-Mart actually, but my wife was amenable to my suggestion that we pass it by and keep on heading a little further north. We didn't stay long, but I got to play blackjack (single-deck pitch) for about 90 minutes, and I won $80. A dealer named Nancy remembered me, even though the last time I was there was 16 months ago.  I suppose somebody who was there every Monday afternoon for a several months running might well be remembered.

I wouldn't mind resuming that practice, once the weather can be depended upon. If I could be sure I'd win at least 80 bucks every Monday, that would be even better.

Saturday, January 24, 2015

No News Today

Sometimes I think of things I'd like to blog about, and I jot them down -- well, keep track of them, anyway. Typing on a keyboard attached to a computer with a word processing program isn't actually "jotting," is it? Anyway, I just consulted that list, all the items of which are at least a year old, and was confounded by these three:

Dirty martini

Clean kitchen towel

Doctor office, waiting room, magazine flip

No idea whatever. Because of my recent illness, I haven't had a martini in over a year. I like them only ever so slightly dirty, but that doesn't seem like much of a topic for contemplation, much less conversation.  The clean kitchen towel doesn't ring any bells either, and I suppose I was going to make a crack about people flipping through magazines in doctors' waiting rooms, but I don't know why, except, perhaps, because I myself do not flip through magazines.

When I pick up a magazine in a waiting room, I turn to the Table of Contents at the front to see if any article appeals to me. If so, I open to that page. I do notice that many people tend to flip backwards, which seems rather silly, but I'm still not sure there is anything here to blog about.

So, I guess I won't write about any of those things today.



Thursday, January 15, 2015

Spell Bound

I have seen a television commercial a number of times for State Farm Insurance in which they continue their (somewhat ridiculous) theme about assisting people, attempting to draw a parallel between assisting people with insurance claims and scoring an assist in a basketball game. In the commercial, apparently to spotlight the teamwork concept, someone says, "There is no I in assist."

Really?  How are they spelling that? Assyst? Or maybe they mean a cyst.

If you doubt it will cause school children to misspell the word, remember how many thought that relief was spelled R-O-L-A-I-D-S.

Thursday, January 8, 2015

Just Shout

Speaking of Spartan Village, we had a problem with some very noisy neighbors in Apartment J when I lived there (in E).  J was right above my next-door neighbors in D, and we started to enlist other neighbors in our cause to do something about it.  The people from D said they'd talk to the people in C, the man in I would talk to the people in H, and they assigned K to me, since it was directly above me. I had never seen the person from K and, in fact, for a long time thought it was vacant because I never heard anything from that apartment.

I walked down to check the names on the mailboxes and was disappointed to see that the person in K was named Yoshihara.  In my experience, foreign students do not like to get involved in matters of this sort, but I planned to give him or her a try.

A day or two later I looked out my front window at the parking area for our building and saw a Japanese woman washing the windows in her car.  I assumed she was Yoshihara, so I took a deep breath and went forth to try to recruit her.

I said something like, "Hello," and she turned to look at me.  I pointed to her apartment and said very carefully, "Do - you - live - there?"  She just sort of stared at me, but I carried on.  "Those - neighbors," I said a little more loudly, pointing at J, "are - very - noisy."  She nodded her head.  "We - want - all - the - neighbors - to - get - together - to - complain." I used broad gestures, and since she was looking at me so strangely, I followed the universal law that if someone doesn't understand you, you say it louder.  Finally Ms. Yoshihara said somewhat tentatively, "I would be willing to join with you."

Her English was perfect, and I suddenly asked curiously, "Where are you from?" to which she replied, "Hawaii."

So that explains why she stared at me as if I were nuts, because shouting English at a fellow American is kind of a crazy thing to do.


Sunday, January 4, 2015

No Phone

I keep my own personal Book of Lists, not necessarily of "curious things" of which Wallechinsky's original boasted, but such things as every address I've lived at, every job I've had, every state I've been to, and so forth. (The longest is the list of casinos I've gambled at.)

There is one missing piece of data that bugs me: I can't remember the phone number I had when I lived in Spartan Village, Michigan State's apartment complex for graduate and married students.

My wife and I took a joy ride last Friday, just to get the stink blown off us, as my mother used to say, and happened to find ourselves in the general neighborhood of Spartan Village.  When I lived there, the telephones were provided by the University, with 355- as the exchange, and the numbers went in order as you went down the line of apartments.  I wondered if the numbers were still the same, so I insisted my wife drive to the building I once lived in. Although MSU is still on break, I saw a light on in Apartment E of my building and boldly approached. My knock was answered by a tall young man of some foreign persuasion who seemed curious but friendly, and I began by saying, "This is going to seem real weird, but I used to live here."

That delighted him, for some reason, and he invited me in. I explained what I wanted and why, and so that he wouldn't suspect me of wanting to stalk him, I asked for just the last four numbers of his phone number. I figured I would know it when I heard it, even if it was 30 years ago. But the number he gave me, which he read off the telephone itself, had a zero in it, and I know my number didn't have a zero in it.

The young man invited me to sit down and when I declined, invited me to stay and have supper with him. Poor guy. Christmas break can be a lonesome time of year.

My wife still can't believe I had the nerve to do that.  Moxy, she called it.

Well, yeah.

Thursday, January 1, 2015

Starting Afresh in the New Year

That illness I spoke of last April is, I sincerely hope, behind me now.  Finally.

From March to November, five hospitalizations, one major surgery, and plenty of at-home care, provided by a few visiting professionals but mostly provided by my loving, saintly wife who learned so much about pills, needles, drains, infusions, nutrition, and general nursing that several of my doctors thought that she must have a medical background.  But no, just a loving interest in her patient.

The medical types seem convinced I was near death, and if that was really true, then my beloved wife saved my life.  I could not have recovered without her.

My wish for everyone in the new year is that they have a spouse (or someone in their life) even half as dedicated and wonderful as mine.

Thanks, JB.  Now, let's get back to enjoying our retirement.  There definitely is travel in our future.