Riff on "Native American"

I lay awake in bed thinking about things a lot.
This is one of those times:

Riff on "Native American"


About fifty years ago, in the interest of political correctness, it was decided that the term "Indian" was offensive and needed to be replaced.

We came to accept and embrace the term "Native American" as the less offensive term, in spite of the fact that the majority of those "offended" by it were not, and actually preferred the old, offensive term.  

Yet we accepted the term, as we usually do, without scrutiny.  No tests of logic were applied, no empathetic lens applied.  This was our term and we're stickin' to it. The white man has spoken.

Now that it's part of our everyday vernacular, let's take a closer look:
Surely the "American" part of "Native American" refers to the geographical and not the national.  I doubt that any group of people, slaughtered by the millions by another group, wished for inclusion into that group.  Anything to do with "American" is precisely what they fought not to be a part of. Then, "American" must refer to a geographic region - the Americas.  But "America" is a Johnny-come-lately term coined by disease-spreading, musket shooting, land ravagers with little or no respect for the geography they were naming.  

You're inviting me to join your new club? 
Pardon us, but it's been our club for the past several hundred thousand years.

No matter what angle you look at it, tagging these people with an "American" label is certainly much more offensive that any phrase previously applied to them.

Maybe a less insulting term is "Native Inhabitants."
Or maybe, when it comes to Indians, we should have left well enough alone.

It's better to have loved and lost... and the supporting math.

Not all aphorisms are created equally.

Some aphorisms seem viable only until scrutinized.  Take for example the old chestnut, "Don't take any wooden nickels."

Your knee-jerk reaction may be, "No, never take a wooden nickel. It's counterfeit and effectively useless as currency."

But when you further consider the concept of a wooden nickel, the following thoughts may ensue, "I wonder what a wooden nickel looks like? I think a wooden nickel would be a wonderful novelty.  I could play tricks on my friends. I would gladly pay fifty cents for a wooden nickel."  Surely you would now forgo the real nickel to take the wooden one in its stead.  "Don't take any wooden nickels" is now bad advice.

Likewise, "I'm a glass half-full kind of guy." Really?  A glass half full means you were unable to fill it completely.  You don't have enough beverage! A glass half empty was once full, now partially consumed.  We have lots of beverage!

Then there's the concept of, "It's better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all." Even with further consideration, it's hard to tell if this claim holds true.  How would you know if loving and losing is greater than not loving at all?  There is a direct relationship between loving in losing.  When you increase love, the pain of loss increases in kind.

If we set never having loved equal to zero, we must determine if Love minus Loss is greater than zero. But how do you measure Love?  Love is the sum of intangibles experienced during a lifetime, however short.

Love is remembering when you were young as we were headed back to the house.  I called for you but you stopped, looked at me, then turned and did a running belly flop into the seasonal stream running next to the house.  There was such joy in your wet face.

It was your love for all other animals.  How when it was clear Cookie was spending her last night on Earth, you laid by her side all night so she wasn’t alone. It was when Jelly was a puppy who could fit in the palm of my hand, you doted on him and made him feel welcomed. It was your look of hurt when a dog or cat or bird showed you hostility, a reaction alien to your nature.

It was your virtue. It was how after losing your patience with the other dogs, you would later apologize with a lick to the head. How we could communicate with just a look into each other’s eyes.  How you took responsibility for securing the property, with your morning "walkabout" the grounds.

It was how you scared the daylights out of strangers, only because they didn't know the big baby you really were. How you would take things from my pocket, or steal the cat's bed, or horse toys, just for the attention.

It was your look that told me you couldn't fight the cancer anymore and it was time to say goodnight.  It was us holding you on your last moments on Earth, so you weren’t alone.

Can we put that into a mathematical formula?

 We can try.

Love equals virtue to the power of the intangibles.

L=Vi  

 Levi            

My Toy Museum

For my sixth birthday, I received some of the coolest presents any kid had ever seen.  Granted, it was the late nineteen-sixties, so what was cool then may seem antiquated and quaint now, but I’d still put them up against any toys available today.   It was my sixth birthday party and I eagerly unwrapped each present until I reached the shiny plastic toy encased in the box with a picture of a kid laughing with amazement – the same amazement I would be experiencing in mere seconds!  One of the toys I received that birthday was a caterpillar-like creature that could climb the walls.  I had never seen anything like that and today still can’t explain how it worked!  Amazing! Another was a clock that did similarly amazing clocky things, the details of which I don’t recall, but it was still super groovy!

The reason for my lack of recollection will be clear in a moment.

My parents must’ve know how much I dug those toys and wanted to be sure I didn’t break them, thereby depriving myself of hours of caterpillar and clock-toy entertainment.  They implemented a plan guaranteed to preserve the toys – a plan that was so successful that both toys are probably in mint condition to this day:

They hid them from me and I never saw them again.

Over the years, protecting my prized possessions from myself instilled itself into my mindset so that by the time I was living on my own, I had learned to self-deprive myself of anything that had a remote chance of breaking.  I have toy-like gifts given to me by my children that remain displayed on shelves, vacuum sealed in their original packaging.  Hot Wheel car collections, Mets paraphernalia and movie figurines – all have that new Hot Wheel car smell, that sparkling Mr. Met smile, that Buzz Lightyear glimmer.

My wife, Hilary, bought me a very expensive remote control helicopter for Christmas two years ago and continues to ask, “When are you going to fly your helicopter?”  Fly it?  Are you kidding?  Not only am I never going to fly it, I’m going to bubble wrap it and put in another vacuum sealed box and store it on a shelf in my closet, away from damaging sunlight.

My office consists of shelves of preserved toys – boomerangs that have never boomed. Or rang.  Model planes, adventure tools, weather radios, fishing tools, yo-yos – every kind of toy a fifty-three-year-old kid could want.  All sitting in their original packages, safe from inevitable destruction.

Last year I attempted to defy fate and bought a toy for myself, opened it, removed it from the box and did what had never before been attempted –I played with it. 

It was a drone.  The man who filmed the virtual tour for our house when we listed it for sale seemed gleeful in his "work” as he soared his drone up down and around our house while we watched from a remote video receiver.  I had to have one of these, so I bought an entry level drone. A drone toy that I actually touched and felt in my hands as I gingerly snapped the propellers into place on their rotors and mounted the camera into its cradle. I was ready for my inaugural flight.  And this wasn’t just my inaugural flight of the drone, it was my first flight into the world of playing with toys. I set the drone on the lawn – conditions were perfect. Camera? Check! Throttle? Check! Visibility? Clear and sunny – check!  We had liftoff.  The drone lifted off the ground with the buzzing whir of a thousand bees.  Up it went, just over the peak of the roof.  It started to drift northward, so I tried to steer it back into the yard.  I was losing control to a slight breeze that had pulled it just over the roof of the house into the front yard.  Abort! Abort!  I eased off the throttle and the drone gently fluttered back to earth. I ran around the house into the front yard and… the drone was nowhere to be seen.  For the next hour I searched every tree and every square foot of the property for the drone and it was gone.  I knew all along where it had gone.  I had tempted fate by playing with a toy and the toy wormhole opened up and swallowed it.  I’m sure if I could activate the remote camera on the drone, I’d see an amazing caterpillar-like creature climbing the walls and a clocky-thing that did amazing things, the details of which I don’t recall.

Death and The Sharper Image

I used to believe that when you died, BAM!, you found yourself in either heaven or hell.  Automatically. 

Now, every ghost-hunting show I watch - and I watch them all - tell me that you have to find your way to heaven. Ghosts, it seems, are  those departed who either don't realize they're dead or don't know the way to go to get to heaven.

First, this hardly seems fair.  I mean, I've lived the good life (we're talking hypothetically here) and earned my way to the Pearly Gates.  Can't you send a car for me?  I didn't realize that death was going to be just as much a hassle as life was.

Secondly, I've spent a lot of time watching the living attempt to follow direction and they're not very good at it. They don't  have to be.  Everything is done for them.  Cars park themselves.  Drinks tell them when they're cold.   And Navigation systems give them turn by turn verbal instructions so that they're never lost.  I have yet to hear a ghost-hunter mention any kind of Death-Navi.  (Patent Pending)

Can you imagine that when you die, you're handed a wrinkled, mis-folded Esso road map from 1970 and told Heaven is at G2?  Or  worse, when we die we find ourselves at a mall directory. "You Are Here." And according to the guide, Heaven is in the upper  level near Lord & Taylor, right next to the Sunglass Hut?

The problem is, dead time and living time are not nearly in sync.   So while you just spent three minutes of dead time locating Heaven in the mall directory, you unwittingly made the spot where you died a haunted attraction for the last four hundred years.  Ghost hunters with tape recorders have captured other-worldly voices saying, "What exactly is Build A Bear?"

All of this begs the question, if we can get lost finding our way to heaven, can we do the same if we're damned to hell?  I  can imagine the demon who has come for me waving a wrought iron collar from a long chain while standing near the portal to  hell, "It's over here.  You know damned well where you're going."

You knowingly wink at the camera pretending not to notice. "Did you hear something?", you feign, as you push all the  doors you KNOW are not the portal to hell.

The demon shakes his head, "You know, it's this sort of behavior that sent you here to begin with."

My new vacuum (strictly self-indulgent)

(click on the image to see full size)

St Anthony

My wife, Hilary, and I spent a good part of the past two days slowly driving our golf cart through the pasture looking for lost horseshoes. It's not that we can't afford to lose a three dollar shoe, it's that around here, riding in the pasture in a golf cart is considered a 'night out'.
After several minutes of scouring the ground, Hilary invoked St. Anthony to help us find them.
My first thought was that this Anthony fella surely has more important matters on his plate than helping us find a couple of rusty horseshoes, but being unfamiliar, I asked who he was.
"He's the patron saint of lost articles", she said.
"Really? They have a saint for everything, don't they?"
Lost articles.
I began wondering what it must've been like for Anthony that day he earned his wings.  A group of angels and wanna-be angels gathered around the holy water cooler, lamenting the poor play of the Giants, and the entire NFC east, in fact.
"Even the boss can't help the Redskins" one of them joked.
"Ant'nee!", St Vinny, the patron saint of summoning other patron saints gathered by the holy water cooler calls, "They wanna see yous in the office."
The other angels good-naturedly rib Anthony, "Oooh, Anthony, somebody's getting promoted!"  "Way to go, Anth ole' chap!"
"Alright, alright" Anthony interrupts, "Give it a rest"
Anthony and St Vinny leave the holy water cooler, past rows and rows of white cubicles, down a white hallway, up a white escalator, past the gates into God's office.
Anthony nudges St. Vinny and points to a painting on the wall, "Dogs playing poker? Really?"
St Vinny pushes Anthony's arm down, shaking his head. "Don't ask."
Soon after, a voice speaks to them, "Anthony, we've appreciated the work you've done around here and decided it was time we promoted you to full angel."
"That's awesome boss."
"Vinny, the wings" God commanded.
Vinny opened a filing cabinet, removed a pair of angel wings and securely tied them to Anthony's shoulders.
"So what am in charge of?  Defending mankind from evil?  Battling demons and protector of truth, honor and justice?"
"No, no, we've got one of those" God said, "You are the patron saint of findin' stuff."
"No, really, the suspense is killing me."
"Yes, really.  You are now St. Anthony, patron saint of finding things. Have at it."

Cut to 1000 years later:

St. Anthony, running through heaven, wearing a paper hat, red smock and carrying a set of car keys.  He's perspiring, out of breath and disheveled.
"Lady, here's your keys.  They were in your purse the whole time." Anthony says, as he tosses the keys and runs in the other direction.
"Johnny, here's that tic-tac you lost in the couch."  "Try getting a few in your mouth next time" he mutters under his breath.
Suddenly, a voice booms over the public address system, "Anthony, we've got a pair of horseshoes missing in Virginia.  They asked for you personally."
"Really? They've been looking for all of two minutes!" he barks.  Resigned, however, to his duty, he hangs his head, adding, "Be right there."
And that is how we came to find our horseshoes.

The Difference Between Men and Women #613: Light as decorative accent

My wife and I play a game that neither of us has ever acknowledged playing: She walks around the house turning the lights on, I follow her, turning them off.   While this game is played in households all across America, I don't know that anyone has stopped to look into the origins of the game.  Here they are:

As little boys, all men spent hours of their childhood watching the little wheel on the electric meter on the side of the house spin around in circles; sometimes it spun slowly, taking a couple of minutes for the little black line to make one revolution.   Other times it whirred around like a deli slicer, lethal enough to cut off that arm and a leg it was going to take to pay the bill.  

As curious boys, we wondered what made it spin.  What we found was an underground pit, a portal to hell, where ogres and beasts  are whipped while demons play "The Rowing of the Galley Slaves" on kettle drums made from human skulls.  Medusas cackle with glee at their pain while deformed and grotesque souls revel in their damnation.  The ogres and beasts, covered in the grime and soot and grease of hell, labor to push a giant turnstile, like Conan the Barbarian bellowing to Crom!  The whip cracks, the beast master roars, the turnstile grinds ever so slowly while fire and brimstone scorch the backs of the damned.
That's how electricity is made.

Meanwhile, my wife skips through the house from room to room, sprinkling potpourri and straightening throw pillows, always turning the light on as she leaves the room, as though it were a treat plucked from her little basket of sunshine.  
"Why are you turning the lights on?" I dared ask on one occasion.
"It makes the room so much brighter and cheerier" was the answer I already knew. She obviously had no concern for the ogres and beasts of hell, suffering to bring us every drop of artificial sunlight.

I've learned to pick my battles and deal with the lights, but sometimes I've got to stand strong.  One of those times was when we were recently leaving the house to start several hours of errand-running. As I reached for the door, my wife turned on all of the lights in the kitchen.
"Why are you turning the lights on? We're leaving."
"I know, but it makes the kitchen so much cheerier."
"For whom? No one will be here."
"I know, but when we come back into the house, it'll be cheery."
"Tell you what, when we get home, you wait in the car and I'll run inside and turn the lights on."
"It's just a few lights."
"If you multiplied 'just a few lights' times every household in the world that was leaving them on, that's billions of lights."
"C'mon, I want to get home so we can take a nap."

Fine, we leave the lights on so the house will be cheery when we get home.  
But they'll be no naps for the ogres and beasts and rest of us slaving away to make the little wheel spin.  Crom!

Our Tale of Woes at Lowe's

My wife and I had just relocated from our home in New Jersey to a slightly larger one in Kinsale, Virginia.  It was no minor logistical feat moving not only ourselves, but our ever-growing menagerie of horses, goats, dogs, cats, chinchillas, bird and a pig named Rudy, in a caravan consisting of two and a half tractor trailers, one horse trailer and one rental van stuffed with animal cages resembling a bad game of Tetris.

We finally made it to Virginia and the stress of all the planning, harassing and threatening washed away as soon as we were able to sell the NJ home shortly thereafter.
Our thoughts then turned to all the fixer-uppering that needed to be done to make our new house a home.  Included in that was replacing the out-of-place, undersized refrigerator in the kitchen with a built-in model, some new cushions for the outdoor furniture and about eight hundred feet of black aluminum fencing that would allow us to let the dogs roam free without having to hover over them.  Being savvy NJ suburbanites, we knew the best place to go for all of our homeowning needs was the Lowe's in Tappahannock, about a thirty minute drive from Kinsale. It should be noted that everything is at least a thirty minute drive from Kinsale.  Some places you can't get to at all from there.

The refrigerator purchase:

We initially shopped at Lowe's online, browsing for just the right built in refrigerator, but realized it would behoove us to rely on the expertise of the sales professionals in Lowe's appliance department to guide us through the options of each make and model, pros and cons of one feature over another and maybe even show us hidden price cuts only known to those with the secret Lowe's decoder ring.  We arrived at Lowe's in Tappahannock and met the very accommodating and friendly Sherrell, who showed us a computer that we could use to shop online at Lowe's so we could browse for just the right built in refrigerator. We clicked on one we liked, added it to cart, paid the nine-thousand dollar price tag and were told the in house delivery would be scheduled within two weeks.  Hey, if you consider the price per pound of the five hundred pound refrigerator, we got a bargain.
Done.

The cushion purchase:

In my world, the way you replace outdoor furniture cushions is by running over to Wal*Mart - also a thirty minute drive to Tappahannock - spending forty-two fifty on some plastic cushions with green and white stripes and bam! you're done.  (I'm a savvy NJ suburbanite, remember?)  Hilary had another vision for our outdoor furniture cushions and this, once again, began by browsing online - a browse that ultimately and inevitably led its way to Lowes.com. There she was able to find just the right cushions made of just the right fabric and filled with just the right material for under two-thousand dollars. (is one of those materials golden fleece?)  She placed her order online and we eagerly began counting down the twenty one days until they arrived at the store for pickup in... wait a second... La Plata, Maryland?  Oops, the website defaulted to the wrong store.  A brief, two hour call to Lowe's not only straightened out the store mishap, but they were now going to deliver the cushions for free!  Let the three week anticipation begin!

The fence purchase:

This time, Lowe's had to drive the half hour from Tappahannock to see US!  We met with David, who didn't actually have the samples we were expecting, but he did have a nice seven page pamphlet showing the different styles of fence available to us.  David and I spent the next half hour walking the yard as I showed him the desired path of the fence while he measured it by walking the grounds with the little wheel on a stick thingy.  From the side door, past the party pavilion, along the trees in the back, being sure to leave a wide enough path for lawn mowers, along the rip rap and back across to the other side of the house.  Eight hundred feet. I did the long multiplication in my head - eight hundred times the price per foot I saw in the little pamphlet, carry the one, add seven, divide by two - roughly eighty five hundred for the fence, a couple thousand for installation... we should be somewhere around twelve thousand dollars installed.  (I am a savvy NJ suburbanite, after all)
"That'll be twenty-two thousand three hundred forty two dollars and fifty one cents."  gulp.  
"Can you double check that math?"  
"Sure."
"Carry the one, add seven, divide by two.. that'll be twenty-two thousand three hundred forty two dollars and fifty one cents."
I wrote the check for twenty-two thousand three hundred forty two dollars and fifty one cents and we anxiously awaited the thirty days until the crew could begin installation.  
I noticed that the check cleared two days later.  It's reassuring to see that Lowe's is on the ball.

The refrigerator delivery:

From my office, I could see the straight truck pull up the driveway.  I met the driver outside. 
"I have your refrigerator.  How are you getting it off the truck?"
"Excuse me?"
"This thing weighs five hundred pounds.  I hope you have a way to get it off the truck."
"Wait here."
I ran inside and called the customer service desk of the Tappahannock Lowe's.
"Your driver is here and he's expecting me to unload the refrigerator. Am I missing something, or aren't you supposed to move it into place?"
"Oh, that's ridiculous.  They absolutely need to bring it inside."
"That's what I thought."
Now I find myself in the position of making the Lowe's delivery guys do their job.  I went back outside, where it seems the driver had just spoken with the store.
"I'm willing to work with you to unload the refrigerator," he tells me.
That's mighty nice of you.  
Knowing the only way I was going to get my nine thousand dollar refrigerator into the house was to grab an end and lift, I rolled up my sleeves and we unloaded the truck.  The two delivery guys schemed thirty-seven different ways to get the refrigerator inside the house that didn't involve heavy lifting, until we found ourselves staring at the refrigerator as it lay on its side outside the front door.  At this point there were no more options - they strapped on their heavy-lifty things, secured them around the refrigerator and with a heave, lifted the refrigerator between them and crab-walked it into the kitchen.  The lead driver removed the cardboard box, leaving the refrigerator on a wooden pallet in the kitchen.  Being a savvy NJ suburbanite, I did not tip them.
I spent the next hour struggling the refrigerator off of the pallet, gouging the hardwood floors in the process.  
Not the refrigerator shopping experience I was expecting.

The fence cancellation/non-cancellation:

It had been a month since we ordered the twenty-two thousand three hundred forty two dollars and fifty one cents worth of Lowe's fencing, yet we had not been contacted regarding the installation.  Hilary decided to call to inquire.  After a brief, forty minute conversation with their helpful customer service staff, she informed me, "The order never went through.  There was some kind of flag on the order and the manufacturer doesn't have it or they never ordered it.  No one is really sure"
The next day we received a call from those same helpful customer service people, "Just kidding!  It was ordered, but we won't be able to install it until the end of August."
Fine.

The cushion non-delivery:

Three weeks had elapsed and we had not seen hide nor hair of our outdoor cushions, green and white striped or otherwise.  Hilary called the Lowe's eight-hundred number that had been so helpful previously to find that the order had been canceled.
"What do you mean it's been canceled?  We already paid for them!"
"The manufacturer stopped making the style you ordered."
"So, you sold us cushions that don't exist, took our money, cancelled the order without telling us and that was that?  Were you ever going to call us to tell us the order was canceled?  What about our money?"
The call went on like this for the next two solid hours.  To this day I'm not sure they ever refunded our money.  Perhaps as a savvy NJ suburbanite I should check.

At this point my confidence that Lowe's is capable of not only delivering but installing twenty-two thousand three hundred forty two dollars and fifty one cents worth of fencing has waned.  What kind of confusion and frustrations lie ahead, given the larger scope of this project?  I reviewed their contract, saw the two-day only cancellation policy, and decided to cancel anyway.  I sent the following email to David as well as customercare@lowes.com:
Dear David,
Back in June we signed a contract to purchase fencing on our property in Kinsale, Va.  The purchase was for a non-custom fence, with installation still scheduled three weeks out.
Due to factors that have arisen since we signed the contract, we find it necessary to cancel.
Please oblige our request and provide a full refund at this time.  At that point, we will consider this contract, as well as all other outstanding matters with Lowe's closed.
Thank you,
Michael Holmes

Surprisingly, I did not get any push-back from Lowe's regarding the cancellation. I did received a voice mail from the Tappahannock store manager, asking me to call the assistant manager tomorrow.  He, apparently, is a savvy Virginia suburbanite.
I spoke to Matt, the young assistant manager, to make arrangements for our twenty-two thousand three hundred forty two dollars and fifty one cent refund.
"What we have to do, Mr. Holmes, is wait til we have a good day at the store, give you the money back on a series of two-thousand dollar gift cards, which we'll then cash our for you here at the store. It may take a few trips because we generally don't have that kind of money on any one day here at the store."
"Sooo, like, you can't just cut me a check?"
"No, I'm sorry. I know that would be much more convenient but we don't have any kind of account where we can do that."

I thought, how about corporate cuts us a check and you run bags of money back and forth until you settle it with them?  But I felt I was in a precarious situation so I agreed to go to the Tappahannock store on Wednesday for our first installment.
I arrived at the store at four pm on Wednesday and met with Matt, who apparently skipped school today to play assistant store manager.

the pile, still $9300 to go

"Hi Mr. Holmes, let me grab our head cashier and I'll be right with you."
Matt disappeared into the back room and quickly emerged with a manila envelope in his hands.  He removed the contents and began counting seven thousand thirteen dollars and fifty cents, mostly in tens and twenties, right on the customer service desk at the front of the store.  I've since been in to collect another six thousand dollars, leaving a balance of ninety-three hundred twenty nine dollars and one cent. Matt called yesterday afternoon to inform me that they would be able to pay us the balance of the money tomorrow, if I could show up after five pm.  I imagined someone must have paid cash for a John Deere mower.
"Absolutely, I can be there."

Today I'll make that last half hour drive to the Tappahannock Lowe's, pick up the balance of ninety-three hundred twenty nine dollars and one cent and our relationship with Lowe's will draw to a close.  After all, I am a savvy NJ suburbanite.



Update: I traveled to Lowe's to collect our final installment of ninety-three hundred twenty nine dollars and one cent and found that Matt had rounded up to ninety-three hundred thirty dollars!  Sweeeeeeeet!  

Moy Soylent 'ell

There are certain words in the English language that I'm sure were created solely to torment me. Very simple words that no one on the planet seems to have difficulty with, other than me.

One of my (least) favorites is "months". Sure, everyone seems content to go about their lives pretending this is a one-syllable word pronounced "munce" but it's NOT! It's the three syllable tongue twister 'mun-th-sss'. Fortunately, for words like months and Connecticut and clapboard, there are ways of avoiding them - use some other increment of time, not go there, vinyl siding. But there is one torturous word that I can't avoid because it's my name - Holmes.

Logically, I realize that "homes" and "Holmes" sound virtually the same when spoken. Yet the letter L is stuck in the middle of Holmes, and I'm incapable of ignoring it. As a result, when trying to utter my last name, I somehow manage to swallow my tongue. It's not a pretty sight as I walk to the pharmacy counter at Wegman's, ask for the "prescription for Holm...glg-gugg", my eyes roll back in my head as I'm asphyxiated by my own tongue. I fall to the ground, seemingly constricted by some invisible Anaconda. While writhing on the floor, I direct a stranger to the epi-pen kept in my back pocket for just such an emergency. With consciousness restored and dignity in the toilet, I pay for my beta-blockers and leave, thankful not to be Carl Holmes.

Growing weary of the negative attention saying my name tends to draw, I came up with a plan. This time, meds reordered, I stride to the pharmacy counter - shirtless, except for a black crocodile skin vest, black hat with shark tooth band, tight black jeans and alligator boots.
"G-dye Luv! Ohms here, and I've come fer me meds!"
"Can you spell the last name?"
"Oye certainly can - Oytch oh el, em ee ess"
"It's for atenelol?"
"That's royt. Me pressures skoy-rocketin' of loyt. As I said tuh me mates the other doy, that's nut a systolic, this is a systolic."
"That'll be eight fifty."
"Comin' royt up."
"Say, you look a lot like the guy that comes in here and swallows his tongue."
"Nup, oym nut 'im - 'e can't live with moy silent 'ell."

Let's Rape Us Some Whopper Virgins!

In case you're one of the fortunate few who've missed it, Burger King is sullying the airwaves with an ad campaign where a Big Mac/Whopper taste test is done by people who've never eaten either, let alone a BK Smokehouse Cheddar Griller, Eggwich w/ Canadian Bacon, Egg & Cheese or King French Fries.

In the ads, Thai Hmong tribesmen, Transylvanian farmers and Greenland Inuits allegedly choose the Whopper over the Big Mac. They never tell us how close the margin of victory is, but Hooray BK!

I haven't been this proud of western civilization since we first introduced bourbon to Native Americans. Screw those whopper virgins. Who needs to live to 110 anyway? We need to bring their primitive vascular systems into the 21st century. Drape their bones in Hugo Boss, slap a blackberry in their hands and by all means, fill their wide-open veins with flame-broiled McGoo. If only Typhoid Mary was avalable as BK spokesperson.

I guess anything beats those creepy skulking-King commercials.

Retard Jeopardy!

I had a dream last night that I'm sure is common to a lot of people - I was a contestant on the show Retard Jeopardy!
Soon after drifting off to sleep, Don Pardo, in heels and a feather boa, introduced us:"Now entering the studio, an obsessive compulsive fingernail clipper from central Jersey, Michael G."
I enter the stage cautiously, unsure why all these people were in my living room. As I assumed the position at my podium, I noticed that my dogs are the only two in the audience who are clapping.
Don continued, "An elementary school principal from Upper Black Eddy, Pennsylvania, Ephraim Roth. And our returning champion, a clinical psychologist from Casper, Wyoming, Sylvia Bitterman."
Ephraim and Sylvia enter the stage holding hands and kissed each other on the cheek. They both walked over to Don Pardo and the three partook in a group hug. Ephraim and Sylvia then retreated to their respective places on stage. Everyone apparently knows each other.
Alex Trebek enters wearing a pink bathrobe, top hat and bunny slippers. He gets right to it.
"Hello contestants, let's get right to it."
There is only one category today - "Opposites Attract"."
In this category, contestants", Alex informs us, "We will give you a word, you must tell us its opposite. Sylvia, as returning champion, you begin."
"I'll take Opposites Attract for two hundred."
"Tall" Alex announces, sure he has a stumper on his hands.
I'm pretty sure I've got this one and am the first to buzz in.
"Michael?", Alex asks.
"What is Short?"
"Ooh, no, sorry."
Ephraim is the next to buzz in.
"Ephraim?"
"What is 'Not tall'?"
"Correct. Select again"
"I'll take Opposites attract for seventy-two hundred"
"The answer is... 'Fast'"
Thinking the first question was an aberration, I take my chances and again buzz in first.
"Michael?"
"What is 'slow?"
"Sorry, incorrect again. Sylvia?"
"What is 'Not fast'?"
"Correct, select again."
Although there was only one category, it seemingly had no end. I continued my routine of buzzing in and guessing incorrectly until Final Retard Jeopardy! mercifully arrived. My score was in the negative hundreds of thousands of dollars range, which they informed me I would have to pay before I left. Sylvia and Ephraim had battled to a virtual dead heat and placed their wagers.
"Today's Final Retard Jeopardy! category is 'State Capitals'. Good luck."

Easy.  "Montgomery," I thought, as I confidently scribbled my answer.

Vanna White walked over to the board and spun around the Final Retard Jeopardy! answer - "Alabama".
Sylvia went on to become a two day champion after Ephraim forgot to write his answer in the form of a question, "What is A?"
I awakened startled, but quickly reassured myself, "It was only a dream, right?"

SPAM, Now in HD!

I've learned to live with SPAM, much the way one learns to live with a malady such as high blood pressure or marriage. As long as watch my intake, I can lead an otherwise normal, happy and productive life. Okay, I can lead a life.

Yahoo! has become very efficient at redirecting e-mail with subjects like "Experience 4 Nights in Beautiful Cancun - Free !" into my Spam folder. Likewise, the third part SPAM filter we use at work has managed to repel all unwanted e-mail, unless it happens to be Cyrillic. Not sure what's up with that. Of course, I can't simply delete these without first copying and pasting them into Google's language translator. Hey, I may learn some new words that I can use in rush hour traffic. I occasionally review the daily summary of filtered e-mail, just to see be sure I didn't miss one truly meant for me. I'm always compelled to allow one particular malware e-mail with the subject "Michael what a stupid face you have" into my inbox, because, obviously, the guy knows me.

By now, disposing of junk snail mail and SPAM has become routine, but my cable company, Comcast, recently started SPAMMING me in a new way - into my cable box. I know when I've been SPAMMED because there will be a little red light on my cable box, notifying me of the new "message". This message is an invitation to watch an upcoming WWF or Ultimate Fighting pay per view event. They haven't offered to enhance my manhood yet, but I'm sure that's just around the corner.

Unlike e-mail SPAM, I have no protection against Comcast SPAM. And I can't ignore it, because until I clear the messages, the little red light will continue to taunt me. I stop whatever I'm doing to get rid of the red SPAM light, but I wonder where SPAM will hit next? Will my next roll of Charmin contain those little cards that fall out of magazines? Will I tear off eight sheets and have an ad for Bob's Steakhouse fall into my lap? Tear another eight sheets and find an offer to save a dollar off my next purchase of Ex-Lax?

Let's get it over with and hide SPAM everywhere.

And don't forget to click here for a great deal on Zoloft!

Duck! A Vent!

This really isn't a vent, it's just that I amused myself so with that headline, I had to leave it in.

The actual, significantly less clever headline, should be something along the lines of “Watt?? That's An Out(r)age!”

The other working title is, “My God, this is boring.” Whatever the title, here it is:

I'm pretty certain my power company's infrastructure is mostly made of linguine. I won't mention the power company by name because it may Jeopardize Current Profit & Loss. But every time the forecast even CALLS for rain, the power goes out. Yesterday, it poured.

The first hint of trouble came yesterday afternoon as I was sitting outside around 5:30 when the skies suddenly darkened with flying monkeys. I told myself it was merely their springtime northern migration, and went back inside. That was a mistake.

At 6:15 the power went out with the dreaded, all too familiar “POP”. As the basement flooded with darkness, the boys emerged upstairs like rats on the Andrea Doria. The dogs, too, hypersensitive to the ultrasonic fluttering of monkey wings, ran into the living room in search of some explanation. I had none.

We sat on the couch, passing the time until I needed to take my daughter, Alex, to her Babysitting gig in the next town over. We were confident that the power would be restored by the time we returned, if not sooner.

After dropping off Alex, the boys asked that we go for a drive, obviously not wanting to leave the haven of functioning electronics, bright lights and XM Radio. But even after milking the ride home with a stop at the gas station, we returned to find our little piece of the development still without power.

Inside, I lit a candle and taught my son Michael to play solitaire – using REAL playing cards. After a while, we both learned that double-clicking on an Ace does not move it up top, and saying “undo” has no effect on your last move.

While Michael arranged red jacks on top of black queens BY HAND, Paul and I amused ourselves by making our 400 pound Rottie-mix, Remi, chase the circle of flashlight. We were all embarrassed for her when we stood the flashlight on end and pointed the beam onto the ceiling. Yet, somehow I felt vindication, watching this sealionesque dog jump at the ceiling, considering her gnawing of our new coffee table, our old coffee table, our new kitchen set, our old kitchen set, the patio furniture, the patio, even the new smoke detector that previously sat in the box on a table in our hallway. Now every time she flatulates, the fire department comes.

By now we were getting a bit antsy. I had tried willing the power on several times, to no avail. Suddenly I heard a rumbling on the back porch. Fearing a wayward flying monkey, I distracted Remi from the flashlight long enough to make her go first. Peering outside, we saw that the angry winds had grabbed hold of the patio umbrella and were trying to take it and our wooden table northward.
“Why couldn't it have been a monkey?”, I thought.

I ventured outside and grabbed the umbrella, trying to slide it out of the hole in the center of the table. The wind calmed long enough to let me get the base of the umbrella out of the table, then gusted to several thousand miles per hour. Let's just say, if you live below the skies of central Jersey and happened to hear the ominous overhead caterwauling of:

A Spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down
The medicine go down-wown
The medicine go down
Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down
In a most delightful way

Don't be alarmed. It was me.

Seeing how it was also “spring ahead” night, Michael suggested calling Domino's at 1:59, knowing there was no way they could get us our pizza by 2:14. We explored devious abuses of Daylight Savings Time, until Alex returned home at 9:30. We chatted for a while about flying monkeys, Domino's pizza and what the elementary school looks like from the air. But since her babysitee forgot to pay her and it was clear the power would not return, we all decided to call it a day.

And to think, two hundred years ago this was EVERY day.

What the...?

What the...?

Younger, more patient me came to accept the fact that every once in a while, you just have to stop and ask, “What the...?”. The problem older me has with this is that I seem to be asking this question far too often. I don't know if it's that I'm more observant, more curmudgeonly, or if everyone else on the planet has plum given up. Maybe it's a combination, but I'll let you decide as we relive a very recent, very typical Saturday afternoon I spent running errands with the kids.

First stop – the grocery store.
Now, I can accept the fact that shoppers in my local grocery store move as randomly and haphazardly as ping-pong balls on Mega-Millions night. I can even accept my shattered kneecap caused by the shopping cart of the woman who decided to make an abrupt U-Turn without signaling. Sometimes you remember that you forgot Cheez Whiz four aisles back. But what I'll never understand is this guy's inability to nest the little blue baskets under the conveyor belt. This is a blatant and hostile act that takes more effort to accomplish than if he put it away the right way. What the...?

Did he ride the short bus to school after failing the square peg-round hole test, this boy with skewbasketosis? Ultimately to be fired from his job at the paper cup packaging plant because he could only squeeze 9 cups into the 50 count bag? What must the bowls in his cupboard look like, all asunder?
As usual, I pull the stack of baskets out and rearrange them. Wegman's can thank my OCD for this.

My kids begin to whine that they're hungry. I remind them that I fed them last week, but they persist. I agree to stop at a nearby Dunkin Donuts for bagels and hot chocolate.

As we exit the super market parking lot, I'm struck by

the sign I see spiked into the ground. WE BUY SCRAP GOLD.
Scrap Gold? Is that like scrap diamonds or scrap cash? Or are they expecting to be paid
a visit by the kid who stocks the shelves at
Fort Knox, hoping to claim some of those gold bars that have survived past their sell-by dates? What the...?

As we arrive at Dunkin Donuts, we see all that is left are the NOINO bagels (noy-no). Fortunately, a fresh batch of plain bagels have come out of the oven, and rather than risk a NOINO, the kids opt for those. What the...?
One thing not seen in this picture is the Tips jar. Why does everyone feel they are entitled to tips for doing their job? I can see tipping a waiter or call girl, but someone who essentially functions as a cashier? If this Dunkin Donuts didn't exist, I could simply drive two miles down the road to another one. If we customers didn't exist, however, this Dunkin Donuts would go out of business (depriving the world of NOINO bagels). I decide to make my own tip jar and carry it around with me.

Their tummies now full, it's off to our last stop of the day – Barnes & Noble to buy a few more books for my sixteen year old daughter. We stop at the TEENS section where I begin flipping through some of the new releases prominently displayed on a table.
One of the books that catches my eye is “Baby Names”. At first I thought it was a cutesie named book that didn't just list all the possible names for boys and girls. I was wrong.

What other titles will be popping up on the Teens table? “How To Score the Best Crack”? “When Dropping Out is Best for You”? “What Do Parents Know, Anyway?”? What the...? I took a picture with my cell and figured I'd show it to the clerk, just for kicks. I knew the conversation would go one of two ways: We would both get a good chuckle out of it and they would find out why the book was there, or they would be a humorless sourpuss and spout some corporate gobbledygook about not being at liberty to comment.
It was the latter.

Perhaps she mistook me for Mike Wallace or Morley Safer.

I wonder if "Morley" is in the Baby Names book?

On the way home, I see the gas gauge is getting a little low, so I decide to fill up. As my head is awhir with thoughts of NOINO bagels and scrap gold, I pass a van belonging to a Brooklyn seafood wholesaler whose address is 155 63ST ST. Sixty Thirst Street!

I try to get closer to get a picture of the door, but the van eludes me with Nessie-like skill. I regret that I can't stop them and tell them that the prized ST is reserved only for one, with two earning the silver with ND, three gets the bronze with RD while the rest of the field settles for TH. I decide that the system is too complex, particularly for those in the fish mongering field, and perhaps NOINO slinging Dunkin Donuteers, and think it best if all number ordinals be TH. Firth, Seconth, Thirth, etc. Perhaps I should run the idea by the woman at Barnes & Noble.

I ask the attendant at the Valero Station to fill it with regular as I get out to check the pressure of my left front tire. As I crouch down with my gauge, I notice smoke wafting under my car. There's a cigarette butt, still aglow, inches from me and dozens of shiny little puddles. Bluebasket Boy from Wegmen's was here, no doubt, and he's trying to kill us all.
What the...?

iBlog

The new Apple iPhone is quaint, but it isn't quite there yet.

I'm saving my money for when a truly useful piece of electronics hits the market, and iPhone isn't it.

As a 21st century guy on the go, my needs far outweigh any piece of electronics yet in existence.

I want to be able to shove a Blu-ray disc up my ass (iButt) and have it play on the inside of my eyelids (ultimately called "Cap'n", but for now iEye). I want to be able to plug the optional speakers into my voice box (iCords) so I can enjoy the movie in surround sound. I want to download forty gigs worth of music and store it in my veins (iB-negative). I want the entire system wired to my occipital lobe (iBrain).

I want to bleed Pearl Jam and urinate Paris Hilton (iPeedaily). I want my cell phone implanted inside my skull (space not an issue). I want the speaker wired to my eardrums (iHearyounow) and my voice transmitted telepathically (iBabble).

I want to get drunk on Netflix and chew my entertainment news like a Flintstone vitamin. I'm a multimedia nympho and need it all the time.

But I can't.

So for now, I wait it out. An incomplete person living an unfulfilled life until they introduce my iAm.

Therefore iThink.

Augmentin Blues

Friday, May 11th has been marked on my calendar since the middle of winter. Wait, that's soy sauce. Underneath that, it's circled. May 11th marks the day of my annual getaway weekend when I drive out to the east end of Long Island to open up the beach house. Just me. And the dogs. I have a similar getaway weekend each October when I shutter the house closed, but the two weekends are as spiritually dissimilar as night and day, hot and cold, SPAM and... some other meat product not quite as delicious as SPAM.

The work week leading up to Friday the 11th was zipping right along - I managed to squeeze in a couple of go-lives, blow off a handful of conference calls and ignore those coworkers who tend to make me double my high blood pressure meds (in other words, everyone).

I went to bed Wednesday night looking forward to getting through that one last day of work, then hitting the Belt Parkway, Southern State and yes, even the LIE. In case you're unfamiliar - no one looks forward to driving that stretch of road.

I woke up around 12:30 AM Thursday, which is nothing unusual, but I had a slight chill. So I stumbled around my pitch black bedroom until I felt something resembling a blanket. I threw the washcloth over my legs and went back to sleep.

1:30 AM. I'm shivering now. Shivering is certainly a good indication that something may be wrong health-wise, but what made me know for sure that I was in trouble was the flurry of nonsensical thoughts coursing through my mind:

"If text is left justified, you can probably get more words per page, dependant on the font. Of course, it's up to the typesetter to determine exactly the alignment and layout of the page. Helvetica, Arial, Times New Roman.. all feasible options, but I don't know if any of the..."

I interrupt myself: WTF are you blathering on about? Oh God, I have a fever. To me, this is the worst part of having a fever - I babble inanely to myself. It's like being stuck in a room full of Realtors. I grab another washcloth and throw it over my legs. The inner babble continues:

"Rather than redoubling our efforts, why don't we just quadruple them the first time?"
"If someone tells me they believe nothing I say, can I quote them as saying I'm incredible?"
"If I dream of Jeannie turns my shoes with wheels in the soles into a size 32, would that be a Major Heely?"
The fever worsens and I get very little sleep. At 7:00 I manage to send the text message "Mike Sick" to someone on my cell contact list. I'm not quite sure who I sent it to, but don't really care.

This is the last thing I'm sure actually happened. For all I know, I'm still lying in bed and not even writing this. I may have a fever of a hundred and four. I might have malaria. Jeez, that means the dogs haven't been fed or let outside in days... if it's even been days. Sure, I see them sitting on the floor looking at me as I type this, but are they really?

Real or imagined, I grind ahead though the weekend.

The Requisite Call from Work
I was making myself angry imagining the call from work knowing that someone out there was in possession of a text message on their cell declaring "Mike sick". Sure enough, the phone rang and the message started, "Hey, hey, Mike, I see you're out sick on the calendar, but Betty called and..." * delete *I slept through Thursday.

The Drive
Friday morning, after taking my newly prescribed Augmentin, three Advil, 2 Sudafed, two DayQuil, two puffs of Albuterol, one Emergen-C vitamin supplement, two cigarettes and a cup of coffee, I throw a weeks worth of clothes into a duffle bag and toss the dogs into the car. They think we're going to the dog run, so it's an hour and a half before they realize we're not and settle down. They're not very bright. It's about this time that I realize there's been no traffic. None. I'm not very observant. I've made it to the Southern State in an hour and a half. Now, for anyone that's ever driven on 287 South/ 440 East, across Staten Island, through Brooklyn and to the end of the LIE knows this doesn't happen. (And no, I'm not even going to address how 287 south suddenly becomes another highway going in a different direction) We make it to Greenport in under three hours.

Nessie
We haven't been at the beach 5 minutes, when I stretch my legs and look out at all the docks in the "crick". The water is smooth as glass and there are very few boats in the water yet. I'm looking at my next door neighbor's dock to see if it suffered any winter damage, when *doink* something rams into it with enough force that it shakes and sends wave ripples to the other shore. It was something unseen. Under the water. I walk down to the end of our dock hoping not to see anything. I don't.

Goose Lady
The dogs rode patiently in the car for nearly three hours, with very little backseat driving. I look at the clock in the back porch and see that it's five minutes to three. The first thing I need to do is take them for a walk around the point. One of the perks of being at the beach when hardly anyone else is there is having the freedom to let the dogs run free, which I do. As I near the tip of the point, I see a figure across the water waving her arms and signaling to me. I hear bits and pieces of her shrieks. "Goose!" "There's" "Nest" "Goose!"I tried to telegraph my "I really don't care" shrug across the water."yes, Goose" "nest" "there!". I resort to Plan B - pretend I don't see the crazy woman performing scenes from The Karate Kid a hundred feet from me. Wax on. Wax off.

Dock Debacle or...

Bedacle
be·da·cle (b-däkl) KEY

NOUN:

A sudden, disastrous collapse of a wharf or other boat storage area; a rout.
A total, often ludicrous failure during pier installation.

The only dreaded part of my spring ritual is reassembling the dock. This involves hoisting the 300 pound ramp off of the floating section and reattaching it to the end of the fixed pier. The only way I can get onto the floating dock is to wait until low tide, which makes the lifting distance that much higher, but my legs that much dryer. This year I have the added benefit of feeling lightheaded from all the medication I've been taking. I procrastinate as long as I can, but the clock now says five minutes to three, so it's time to get to work.The first thing I notice is the 3/4 inch thick bolt that pins the ramp to the dock is missing. I take a quick measurement and buy a 30 inch by 3/4 rod at the hardware store. I'll need to drill holes in it once I have it in place, but this is best done when I'm sure where to drill. The lift itself is a thing of engineering beauty. I attach the winch to a 4"x4" beam I've spiked to the top of two dock pilings and begin to raise the ramp slowly. I'm sure not to go underneath the beam because I've envisioned the scenario where the whole thing falls on my head and it's not pretty. Finally I get the steel eyes lined up and insert the new pin. I unhook everything and stand on the ramp to survey the situation."Hmm", I think to myself, "that pin is a little shor..."
The pin falls out on one side and the ramp quickly flips 90 degrees sideways. (This is a scenario I hadn't envisioned) Somehow I find myself dry, but hanging precariously onto the inverted ramp. I'm impressed that I didn't go for a swim and make staying dry my new goal.I finally manage to make it back onto the dock, a little bloodied, but dry! I win! I spend the next 20 minutes wrestling the ramp back onto the floating dock, to the amusement of anyone watching, I'm sure.Neighbors from a few doors down arrive once the dust has settled, to ask if I need any help. All this does is confirm the fact that people had been watching."No... I just wanna go inside now."

Who drives these things?
It's five minutes to three, so I take a drive to the IGA supermarket (If you can call 6 aisles a supermarket) to buy dinner and rice cakes. For the third time since I've been out here, I follow a Maserati driving very slowly. It's been a different Maserati each time. Now, I think it's been about 20 years since I've seen one of these things, and this is the third one in two days. For some strange reason, I think about the Flintstones each time I see one. I add DayQuil to my shopping list.

When I return home, I take the dogs around the point and once again the Goose lady is flapping furiously at me. I contemplate having eggs for breakfast tomorrow.

Do you mind, I'm sleeping
I was in a deep sleep Saturday night/ early Sunday morning when a woman's voice asked me, very clearly "Are you sad?"Dammit, no, but now I'm cranky. Couldn't this wait until morning? I refused to answer and she didn't ask again. I forgot to get her number.

TMI
Sunday I found it a little difficult to walk due to a large bone bruise on my right thigh resulting from yesterday's bedacle. But I was dry!It was five minutes to three on Sunday, so I called my 83 year old mother to wish her a Happy Mother's Day. I think we spoke for about twenty minutes, but my mind was still frozen by her remarks early on.
"My implants are really bothering me. I may have to go back to the doctor to have them checked."
"uh-huh."
"Mostly the left one. It's very uncomfortable."
"uh-huh."
"I was afraid something like this would happen when they put them in."
"uh-huh."

After the call I doubled my DayQuil and decided not to drive home that afternoon.

I took the dogs for a walk around the point. It got to the point where I would feel something was amiss if the Goose Lady was not out flapping at me. She was and all was well.

As far as I can tell, I made it home Monday at around five minutes to three, which is also the time I left. Or maybe I'm still there. Or maybe I never left. The unliklihood of one or two of the events of the past weekend would definitely shake my trust in my own cognizance. The fact that they all happened makes me glad to know I'm still safe at home in bed. Maybe I'll wake up soon and find it's still April. Maybe then I'll have an answer for that voice.