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.

De-evolution

I've decided to start a social movement. Hey, it was either that or do laundry.

So far, I've come up with a catchy name for the movement and the basic premise, but the details are still a little fuzzy. Details, schmetails - I'm hoping to form a panel to work on those.

The name of the movement is De-evolution, or D-Ev for short. I figure D-Ev will look snappier on bumper stickers, T-shirts and the cover of Newsweek. The goal of D-Ev is to de-evolve us humans back into the sea - I think we've spent enough time on land. This plan, while simple in concept, will solve most of the worlds problems in one fell swoop.

With two-thirds of the planet covered by water, we will instantly double our living space. Of course, we'll need to figure out who among us will become FRESHIES and who will become SALTIES, but scissor, paper, rock will take care of that. Some of the other benefits:

Obesity: Once we take to the water, we will immediately weigh a fraction of what we weighed on land. And there will be no Big Macs, pork rinds or Twinkies in water, so we'll quickly take those pesky inches off of our waistlines. A steady diet of fish, seaweed and lobster bisque will have us fit in no time.

Noise pollution: This is my personal favorite - underwater is so serene. Cell phones, I-pods, blackberries and mothers-in-law will all remain on land. We won't have to listen to the guy on the cell phone at the checkout counter drone on about his new lawn tractor to his brother in Chicago. Because, you know, this is urgent news. We won't all constantly check to see if it was us who made that beeping nose. We won't have to drive behind the guy who hasn't used his turn signal for thirteen miles because he's got his cell to his hear and the other hand hanging out the moon roof. We will also have laws preventing those creeps at L-G and Apple from inventing waterproof electronics. I hereby lay claim to the name "O-Pod".

Crime: Have you ever tried to flee underwater?

War: All of our weapons of mass destruction will become ineffective underwater. (And if they're not, there'll be no one on land to push the buttons) Besides, there are no boundaries in water, only more water. So the only potential for conflict that I can see is a great FRESHIE-SALTIE showdown. This is one for the panel.

Smoking: No one can say that I'm not making any sacrifices. Hopefully D-Ev can gain momentum before the hit squads from RJReynolds find me.

Dolphins: We get to hang with them. How cool is that? Sure, this may not be a "world problem", but... Dolphins - we get to hang with them!

Power and Arrogance: A few minutes with a Mako is the cure for this. All I can say is, Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming...

Disease: As any grandmother will tell you, "Just stick it in saltwater".

Talk shows, game shows and Reality TV: Even the networks will be able to figure out that it will only take a month or two of Rosie O'Donnell and Pat Sajak gurgling bubbles to make the viewing audience lose interest. (I'm anticipating millions of TV's left at water's edge when we finally make the transition. TV junkies will gather in the shallows, watching them like alligators at a Kenyan watering hole)

Guy's with TB flying on planes: No planes. No coughing or sneezing. No airborne sickness.

Now all I need to do is work on the details of HOW we get reacclimated. I'm pretty sure that if I spend a lot of time standing in the shower or lazing in the pool, the gills will form in no time. I'd really like to have them by this time next year. I'm sure the panel will offer additional tips for reamphibianation.

There you have it. I think it's a solid plan. And if, after a few million years, we decide it's just not working out, we can always come back on land. I'm sure whomever was in charge during our absence will have things in a lot better shape than when we left.

Wait... I just realized that if the plan is successful, there will BE NO bumper stickers, T-shirts or Newsweek.Never mind.

Postal Empathy

[The names have been changed to protect Emil]

For the past ten years, I've shackled my leg to my desk, much the way a werewolf will shackle himself to the bedpost on the eve of a full moon. I've turned down customer requests to visit, never attended a go-live, and pretty much stayed in the basement of our building, devouring the occasional slab of raw meat tossed into my cage. This changed recently when I decided that I would attend the go-live of a project that had been festering for several years.

News of my decision rang out like a shot. Denizens of the cubicled forest were seen popping their heads above partitions in fright, flying from their perches, and generally squealing and squawking in that primitive form of communication only they understand.And they feared most for Milo's safety. Milo is the person I decided would accompany me. After all, I needed Milo to deal with.. those things... those things that can be found at customer sites... noisy, sometimes droning, superficial, clueless, irrational, parasitic things...oh yes - people!Soon, an e-mail was circulating with the link below:

http://www.videovat.com/videos/969/chappelle-brady.aspx

Afterwards, a small group had formed and the point was made:

"Hey, maybe Milo will surprise everyone."
"Yeah, maybe he's the one to watch out for."
"Yeah, Mike, I may go Philippino on your ass."
"What, you're gonna wash my dishes?"
I tend to abruptly end conversations that way.

As it turns out, the trip was uneventful. The most dangerous moment came when Milo and I grabbed lunch before heading to the hospital.We stopped at a Mexican fast-food joint and both wound up ordering dishes filled with beans and rice and peppers. We decided right then it would be best not to stay on-site too long.

The go-live took place on Thursday and Friday, and went relatively smoothly. I WAS interrupted several times with issues arising out of another integration project with a Fortune 100 vendor that was slated to go live Sunday in NC. That vendor must include my anxiety and irritation on their list of good things they bring to life.

Since all was well in VA, Milo and I decided to leave Friday afternoon, instead of our originally planned Saturday morning departure. I was quite annoyed that the drive back from Virginia took five hours until I learned that I would actually be PAID for this time. I'm traveling more often.
On other work-related fronts, I'm find it increasingly difficult to sever the umbilical that connects me to the office.On those days when I just need a break, I'll post an entry in our company-wide electronic calendar declaring, "Mike out".
I've found that this message doesn't have the desired effect, as I will continually get calls to my home and cell phones, which will then be sullied with voice-mails. Last Wednesday, I tried making this calendar entry a little more clear, "Mike out in afternoon. This means not working."

Still the calls came and again I found myself not "out", but working until 7 or 8 that night.

Yesterday I made a calendar entry that I hoped would leave no question, "Mike leave at noon. Do not call. I won't answer. The caller's identity will be noted and the appropriate action taken."

That afternoon I actually received a message on my home phone stating that a customer had called, but it was nothing important and could wait until Monday, but she thought she would let me know. (See earlier definition of "people")

The trip to Virginia clearly was good therapy for me, as someone noted on the company calendar, directly below my last "out" entry:It is clear that Mike has softened up since his Go-Live attendance

Yeah, but I'll chain myself to the bedpost, just in case someone calls.

Moving Story (2002) - Part III

We found it!
After months of searching and miles of driving, we finally found the house of our dreams. Okay, we found a house that didn't give us wake-up-screaming-in-the-middle-of-the-night, cold-sweat nightmares. I'm not about to split hairs. The house was in a small outcropping of new construction in what we considered a desirable town. And thanks to the high tax rate, our new monthly tax payment alone will equal our current Principle, Interest, Taxes and Insurance, which the sadists in the mortgage biz facetiously refer to as "PITI" - though they seldom show any.

When I first walked through the builder's model, I noticed a large flock of home-buying vultures circling overhead. Just the sight of them gave me shills… er .. chills. So keeping in mind the age-old adage that "he who hesitates has time to make an objective, informed decision", I quickly signed the contract. This immediately set two imposing wheels in motion: Attorney Review and Options Selection. This instant stress had a strange chemical effect on my brain as the voices in my head became more boisterous than normal. They changed from TV golf commentators – hey, self, let's go out and shoot pool tonight. to a busload of elementary school kids - ÑÚýCct???+?¤???! Like any good school bus driver, I ignored them and popped a xanax.

Choosing all the decorative and structural options is the fun part – or so you would think. But I'm a typical guy. When it comes to shopping, I can't be bothered. "Whatever" is my typical response when asked an opinion. Considering some of the responses I've been known to give, "whatever" is the lesser of my evil-tongued replies. Granted, over the years I have learned the right and wrong things to say while shopping with my wife. I'm not completely clueless. It's just that nowadays, I'm never sure if I'm thinking it or actually saying it.
"Honey, do these pants make me look fat?"
"No, dear, the salt & vinegar potato chips make you look fat."
Ooops. I thought I thought that. And believe it or not, that's the wrong thing to say – I have the scars to prove it.

But whether it's shopping for clothes, shopping for food or shopping for a house, it should be quick and painless. After all, somewhere there's a ballgame on, or a show with power tools or, perhaps, another Gladiator rerun.
Someday we'll all be able to drive into a development site, pull the car up to a speaker and place our house order into the clown's nose:
"Welcome to Fuzzy Knolls Development, may I take your order please?"..:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />
"Yeah, I'll take the Mördö model with a three car garage, morning room and, uh, Berber carpet in the basement."
"Would you like to super-size that?"
"Sure, why not."
"That'll be four-hundred and fifty thousand. Please drive around aimlessly mulling your huge mortgage payment."

Someday, maybe. But for now, I decided to eliminate those factors that may confuse and prolong the cusomization process – namely Lois. I go alone to consider an endless combination of options and add-ons: Lengthen the family room, widen the family room, raise the basement ceiling, add a third car garage. Do I want crocodiles in the moat, or just piranha? Too many decisions. I fumble through swatches and samples. Carpet swatches, curtain swatches, tile samples, cabinet samples, brick samples, siding samples – swatches of samples, samples of swatches - you name it. And I don't know why I bother thumbing through them at all. Every time I pause and consider the potential of a piece of wood or slab of stone, Sarah, a.k.a. Silicone Sarah Salesbabe, makes a face like she fell head first into a septic tank. I soon found myself checking with her for approval. What a coincidence that the samples she likes are also the most expensive! She must have very good taste.

Finally, after countless minutes of mixing and matching samples, I had completely personalized our home from top to bottom – into model 1274A.
"Can I go now?" or don't you like the colors we chose for the master bath?
"Yes, and remember, we need your forty-five thousand dollar down payment by Tuesday."
"Oh, right.", I said nonchalantly, trying to sound like a guy who didn't have to borrow most of the money from his mommy.
"No problem." Hope you don't mind it all in loose change!
"Goodbye…" in-over-your-head homebuyer, "Michael." I know she was thinking that.
That over with, it was now off to the attorney's. At least he's on my side...
Attorney Review is a three day festival where your lawyer looks over the contract and tries his darnedest to put the kibosh on the deal. During this time I pay him $200 an hour, giving him the right to repeatedly ask me, "Did you actually read this?" and "Are you stupid or something?" My pat answers to those questions are "no" and "I guess so", respectively.
"Did you read this first clause?", he asks me as I walk in the door, without so much as a how-do-you-do, a glass of water or After Eight Mint.
You're the attorney. That's why they call it attorney review, not knucklehead review. "No, what's it say?"
"Paragraph 1: The seller and/or seller's representatives, friends and relatives have the right to enter the property at any time after closing to perform neurological, digestive and/or reproductive testing on buyer"
"Um, I requested that one." Although I never said anything about seller's representatives! Some nerve!
"Are you.." stupid or something? "sure about this?"
We've already established that. "Yes."
"Alright, skip that one. Paragraph six: Seller may substitute building material of equal or lesser value without notifying buyer."
Hey, pretty shrewd. "So I can end up with a tin shack with a corrugated roof? How do they get away with that."
"They get…" dummies like you "people to sign without reading."
"I see."
"Did you know there's a sewer easement on your property?"
Easement-schmeasement "So, like, I can't build a shed in the back yard?"
"The easement runs through your living room."
"Oh, that explains the manhole." Shoot, I bet Lois 10 bucks it was a decorative floor pendant.
"This contract is filled with heavy-handed language…" so I'm not going to let you buy this house and if you argue the point I'll boggle your mind with legalese and make you feel stupid so just do as I say and nobody gets hurt. "so I'd advise against going through with this purchase"
But…" But I tried to think of something intelligent to say, but as you can see, failed miserably.
But nothing! Write a letter stating that due to the overwhelming number of non-negotiable items in the contract, you're canceling it and want your deposit returned immediately." And don't be a wimp about it or they'll string you along from now till doomsday and you won't have the funds to pay my bill.
"But…" Darn, drew a blank again. Oh-fer-two..
"But what?" I have a three o'clock tee time so let's wrap this up, huh?"Never mind." I can see you're in a hurry to get somewhere.
"Fax me a copy of the letter."
"Of course." I wouldn't expect YOU to actually have to do something for your money. "Goodbye" you humorless, dream shattering, stuffed-shirt.
"Goodbye…" dumb-as-a-box-of-rocks "Michael"

I felt like I'd just gone thru the meat grinder… not one of those old cast iron crank ones like my mother had, but a Cuisinart. One where the blades whir at really high RPMs so the victim has no idea what just hit it. We had put all we had in what we thought was a filet mignon of a house, only to find it was Spam. Granted, a processed meat metaphor may be a stretch, but I'm not thinking clearly at the moment. You get the idea.

Now not only weren't we getting our custom built model 1274A, but I had to face Silicone Sarah and try to get my money back. "How inferior could the building materials be?", I thought. "And what's so bad about a sewer line in my living room?" If anyone could rationalize this into an okay deal, it was me. After all, I managed to convince myself that the new Mustang Cobra was a sensible commuting car because I could get to work faster and that buying a 19 inch flat screen computer monitor to play video games would pay for itself in the long run with the money I saved on optometry bills.

I arrived home to find my wife Lois sorting through pool supplies in the garage.
"Bad news." I said.
"The liquor store's out of Merlot again?"
"The house deal's off. The lawyer put the kibosh on it."
"Oh well, It's probably for our own good. There'll be other houses."
Wow, she's taking this better than I am.
"If you need me, I'll be out back. I'm going to shock the pool."
"Oh? Going skinny dipping?"
Oops. Wrong thing to say

Moving Story (2002) - Part II

Buying a new house can be very exciting. Then again, getting ready for an IRS audit can be very exciting, too. Both allow you to enjoy that sick to your stomach, I'm gonna throw-up feeling, sleepless nights and complete mental distraction. (I've come to realize that IRS, at least in my case, stands for "I'm really stupid") I haven't been able to concentrate on anything other than moving or finances for a couple of months now. I become confused and befuddled doing even the simplest things - walking, driving, speaking on the phone. I have bruises all over my body from walking into walls. The other day I got lost driving home from the storage facility I rented a few weeks earlier. I was three miles from my house, at an intersection I've driven through a thousand times. I didn't know which way to turn.

"Let's see, do I turn right or left… If I can get one-hundred forty thousand dollars equity from my house, I can pay off all my credit card bills and…"
*honk*
"Left turn it is"
I finally made it home by trial and error.

I don't know how many times I've left my desk at work to go do something, walked down the hall and forgotten what that thing was. I spend more time as a Rodin sculpture than doing anything productive. I suppose audits and moving make me feel this way because both involve fabricating financial documents that will be heavily scrutinized and I know that both are gonna cost me in the long run. At least with the IRS, I know there isn't the possibility that I won't have a place to live. The odds are pretty good that they'll be providing me with one.

So I pull myself together at least long enough to house hunt. I've toured more houses than I care to admit in recent months and I've come to this conclusion -- people are really weird. Stick your nose in enough closets and peek under enough cellar steps and this quickly becomes evident. Sure, these people are masters at blending in with us normal folks during the day. But know this - Aliens and homeowners walk among us. Take away their Arrow shirts, khaki pants and tasseled loafers, put them in their natural habitat, and they do the strangest things. "Hon, what say we stucco the tub?""Super idea, sweetie!"

More often than not, their ideas are just plain dangerous.
My all-time favorite was the draw-bridge. While house-hunting, I nearly fell to my death as I was heading out the back door because I didn't see the "bridge out" sign.
It seems the homeowner followed the building plans he found in, "The Chainsaw Remodeler". He had removed the cellar steps, left the opening in the floor, and covered it with a thin sheet of plywood that could be lowered and raised drawbridge-style by pulling a rope.
This really happened.

I've seen it all. The windows were all painted black in one house. Now that I think about it, that would explain the absence of mirrors and the "Thank you for not wearing garlic" sign. I've seen Parquet floor tiles on walls, wall tiles on floors, wood paneling in shower stalls, swing sets in the living room. It's scary. And I blame The Home Depot for this. They've fooled Joe CPA and Billy Bob bus driver into believing they're now Norm Abram. No, the rule of thumb is - If you don't own a Solar Powered Plasmatic Laser Dovetailer and Dado maker cum apple peeler like Norm - leave it for the pros!

Seeing these types of things day after day started to diminish our spirits. Were we naive to think that we could find our dream home in our price range? We sunk lower and lower.

My hopes were temporarily lifted one exhaustive Sunday after I explored the real estate a little to the west of where we are now. Just as I was about to turn around and head home, I saw an open house sign on one of the most beautiful houses I'd ever seen.
"This is a beautiful house", I said to Realtor. "The taxes must be high."
"Yes, around thirty-two hundred a year"
"Thirty two hundred?? That's dirt cheap! What town are we in?"
"Sandusky."
"That's funny, there's a town in Ohio called Sandusky"
"This is a town in Ohio."
"Of course it is."
With head hung low, I started to leave.
"Just out of curiosity, what time does the commuter train leave for Philly?".
"Tuesday."
It was a long ride home… but, a productive one.I drove past a cul-de-sac of new construction that I had never noticed before. By the looks of the one partially built house, I couldn't afford it. But I decided to go in anyway. Who knew, maybe I was in Battle Creek.

As I walked into the sales trailer, I noticed a handwritten sign offering a special deal - Be the first to make an offer on lot #15 and get it for $35,000 less. Right then, the two little guys who offer me conflicting advice appeared on opposite shoulders.
Don't get any ideas.
Don't listen to him, it's only $40,000 more than you can afford. It's a once in a lifetime deal!
That's only the base price. With upgrades it'll be way more.
So what, you can swing it.
You gonna listen to the same guy that nearly made you lose your drivers license?
'Nearly' is the operative word there, grandma.
Hey, give me a minute to think, will you two?
Sure, sure, take your time. And when you're done thinking, go get your checkbook.
We'd better talk to Lois, first. Call the mortgage guy, see if we'd even qualify.
Qualify, schmalify. He who hesitates is lost. Hey, that sales chick ain't half bad, eh?
Sshhh… here she comes.
"Hi, would you be interested in see the available floor plans?"
No!
"Sure."
"The lot sizes are just under one acre and the smaller Werkenstiff model is just under twenty-eight hundred square feet."
"That's very nice. And I can put any of the style houses on the lot that I want?"
"That's right."
Yeah, go bigger! Bigger!
"How about this one?"
"Ahh, the Mördo. (I'm told it has a Finnish basement) That's twenty-nine hundred square feet and the base model starts at only twenty-five thousand dollars more."
"I see."
"And for the ultimate in spaciousness, there's the Gluttone, which boasts thirty-five hundred square feet."
"How much is that?"
"The base price is only seventy-five thousand more than the Mördo."
Go for it. Ya only live once.
I wanna go home. This is making me dizzy.
WhatdoIdo? WhatdoIdo?
"I'll take the Mördo."
Ooops. That kind of just blurted out.
Instantly, six briefcase carrying gentlemen materialized from all directions, one of which handed me something. I'm thinking he's not Welcome Wagon.
"Is this the local phone book?"
"Contract."
"If you must", right shoulder guy relents, "take the contract to our lawyer, he can review it, point out the pitfalls - we'll do this in an orderly fashion. There, it's settled. Can we go home now?"
"Where do I sign?"
That's my boy. What say we celebrate with a drink?
I still have to drive home.
You have to drive, we don't.
Okay, maybe just one.

Moving Story (2002) - Part I

[Since I've been slacking of late, I'm posting a three part story I wrote about 5 or 6 years ago. This is Part I. As always, the names have been changed]

I'm moving.

Moving is full of scary propositions, not the least of which is taking out a mortgage. It doesn't help to know that translated, 'mortgage' is Latin for "Pledge Unto Death". I thought I already did that on my wedding day. The concept that little ol' me is going to borrow some fraction of a million dollars is enough to make me double my Zoloft. You're talking about a guy who still refers to twenty bucks as two large. But hey, if borrowtilithurts.com says I qualify, I must qualify. Everybody knows the internet doesn't lie. So we forge ahead… blindly.

The first thing we need to do is make our house somewhat presentable. Now, if real estate were a pick-up bar, my house would be the 54 year old optician with a paunch, caps, and combover hair who sucks in his gut and winks every time a young girl walks by. But that's okay—I don't need a supermodel. Any broad with money will do. We bought this house eleven years ago when it was just my wife, Lois, and me, three cats and a dog. That blissful solitude didn't last very long. Before I could suggest, "What say we drop 2 grand on a big screen TV for the living room?", there were five of us humans (or evolving facsimiles) plus three cats and a dog... and not a whole helluva lot of living space. You'd recognize my house if you ever drove past—it's the one where all the walls have bowed under the strain, giving it the appearance of a vinyl-sided pickle barrel. You'll also notice the occasional blanket, chest of drawers, or femur projecting from an upstairs window or vent. If you bring something in through the front door, something else must squeeze out an open orifice. It's just physics: Newton's ten-pounds-of-stuff-in-a-five-pound-house law.

And the fun doesn't end there. Ten years ago, Lois, being the sadist that she is, decided she no longer wanted to work at some steady, nine-to-five job with dental coverage and paid holidays off. She was going to start a daycare center IN MY HOUSE! If she wants to kill me, why not grind glass into my Hamburger Helper like other wives? It would be less painful. But no, I'm being slowly and methodically stripped of the precious few bits of reasoning I have remaining. The worst part is that not only did the clutter increase, it spread to the great outdoors. It looks like the Japanese bombed Toys R Us outside my kitchen window. We've got the plastic nondescript seesaw, the plastic alligator seesaw, the plastic octopus thingy that spins round and round and flings kids off when it goes too fast (my personal favorite). We've got the plastic slide/clubhouse combo, the plastic turtle sandbox, the plastic shopping cart, plastic pool, plastic jai-alai set, plastic golf clubs, plastic bats, plastic balls, plastic chairs, and a functioning plastic post office where plastic letters are delivered in a plastic mail truck and paid for with plastic money (at least I can relate to the last part). I'm convinced that 3 million years from now, an archeologist poking around in my backyard will shock the scientific world with his discovery of Plasticene Man. They'll design new "Evolution of Man" posters and depict Plasticene Man using the picture of me they found in one of those Plexiglas picture cubes. There I'll be, walking nearly erect, smack between Cro-Magnon and Australopithecus. (I'll be the one with the cell phone)

No sir, I've made a management level decision: Time to get rid of some of this junk! I was feeling so cocky I wanted to issue an official memo, but decided not to press my luck.

"Lois, I'm renting a 30 yard dumpster and we're throwing all this stuff out."
"No were not. I need it for work"
"We need six varieties of seesaw?"
"We're not throwing anything away."
"Four plastic picnic tables?"
"Forget it."
"I can walk from the back door to the edge of our property without ever touching the ground! I'll just step from one Little Tikes toy to another, and maybe rely on the occasional PlaySkool or Step1."

No response. Okay, scratch that—no words were spoken. Her response was clear.

"How are we supposed to sell this place with all this clutter?", I whined.

Just then I knew I'd blown it. Up to that point, I still had a strong foothold. We were toe to toe, eyeball to eyeball, mano a mano. This was my Cuban Missile Crisis and I blinked first.

"Rent a storage unit. We'll keep it there until we move."
"I absolutely refuse to rent a storage unit. I've made my decision and I'm sticking by it!"

The man at the storage rental place was very nice. I found a charming little 10 x 20 unit right near the office for 114 bucks a month. I decided to go home immediately and begin emptying out the garage. I figured if I could clean that out, I could accomplish anything.
Our little one car garage was filled to capacity with everything you can imagine—and then some.

In some cases, I had two or even three copies things. I always felt it was more cost-effective for me to go to The Home Depot and buy another Makita Hammer Drill than it was to try to find the ones I bought previously. So I loaded up the Ford Ranger with the top strata of household sediment: A broken Nordic Trac, a few hundred pieces of crown molding and corner bead scraps varying in length from 1 ½ to 9 inches, a roll of leftover vinyl flooring, one kitchen chair (we liked to keep an even 5 in the kitchen), a box of high school yearbooks and several boxes of assorted glove compartment and trunk fallout. Never know when I may need those starter checks from the bank that went out of business six years ago.

As I grabbed the last boxful of bric-a-brac from the garage, I unearthed a metallic green patch that caught my eye. It was familiar, yet I couldn't place it. I dug deeper, tossing aside empty golf bags, a moldy sleeping bag and dilapidated accordion doors. There it was! Of course! I had always wondered what happened to that little Dodge I used to drive. I guess I should call my insurance guy back and apologize for so strenuously insisting, "I don't own an Omni!"
Nah, that was years ago—he forgot by now.

Despite my objections, Lois insisted on coming with me on this trip so she could check out the storage place. I knew I was going to have some explaining to do, but figured I'd wait to see if she caught on to what I was scheming. We backed the truck up to the unit and I opened the orange corrugated door. Then I unhinged the large, rusted, secondary door and braced myself to see if the jig was up. It was.

"Two doors?", Lois asked.
"It's for added security."
"Why does this one say DiNunzio Carting on it?"
"It's an advertisement. Some places'll do anything to make a buck."
Lois cautiously inspected the "unit".
"Um, don't mind that lettuce and coffee grounds", I said. "The previous tenant was a Colombian sharecropper. Guess he forgot to sweep up before he vacated."
"Are you going to get the dumpster out of here or shall I?"

I suppose that would make this my Chernobyl—I melted down and had the dumpster gone in half an hour.

I rationalize it this way—I may not be getting rid of all the clutter, but at least in the new house I can spread it over a larger area.

Useful Internet Translation Tools... or not

I tend to rely on the web for a lot of things, including text translations. So I thought I'd validate the accuracy of babelfish.altavista.com, which I've typically used as my main translator. I started with a benign English paragraph and translated it thorugh several languages back into English. Here it is:

Original Text:
Hello. My name is Michael. I am forty-three years old and live in Branchburg, New Jersey. I have three children ages fifteen, twelve and nine.I was born in Tulsa, Oklahoma in 1963 and moved to Franklin Township, New Jersey at a very young age. Most of my formative years were spent in Bridgewater, New Jersey, where I graduated from high school in nineteen eighty-one. I'm presently the Vice President of Integration and Support for a medical software company located in Somerset, New Jersey. The hours are long, the stress is great and the pay could always use improvement. I've been with the company for ten years, but would someday love to make my living writing. Okay, it's time to make my dinner and watch the Mets go 3-0.

English to Italian:
Ciao. Il mio nome è Michael. Ho anni di forty-three ed in tensione in Branchburg, Nuovo-Jersey. Ho tre età dei bambini quindici, dodici e nove. Sono stato sopportato a Tulsa, Oklahoma in 1963 e mi sono mosso verso la borgata del Franklin, Nuovo-Jersey ad un'età molto giovane. La maggior parte dei miei anni formativi sono stati spesi in Bridgewater, Nuovo-Jersey, dove mi sono laureato dalla High School in diciannove eighty-one. Sono attualmente il vice presidente di integrazione e di sostegno un'azienda medica situata in Somerset, Nuovo-Jersey del software. Le ore sono lunghe, lo sforzo è grande e la paga potrebbe usare sempre il miglioramento. Sono stato con l'azienda per dieci anni, ma qualche giorno amerei fare la mia scrittura vivente. Approvazione, è tempo di fare il mio pranzo e di guardare il Mets andare 3-0.

Italian to French:
Salut. Mon nom est Michael. J'ai des ans de forty-three et en de tension en Branchburg, nouveau- Jersey. J'ai trois âges déesses enfant quinze, douze et neuf. J'ai été supporté à Tulsa, Oklahoma en 1963 et je me suis bougé vers la borgata du Franklin, nouveau- Jersey à un âge beaucoup de jeune. La plupart de mes ans y formés ont été dépensées en Bridgewater, nouveau- Jersey, où je me suis passé la licence du High School en dix-neuf eighty-one. Ils sont actuellement le vice président d'intégration et de soutien une entreprise médicale située en Somerset, nouveau- Jersey del software. Les heures sont longues, je force est grand et la paye pourrait employer toujours l'amélioration. J'ai été avec l'entreprise pour dix ans, mais quelque giorno j'aimerais faire mon écriture vivant. Approbation, est temps de faire mien déjeune et de regarder le Mets aller 3-0.

French to German:
Heil. Mein Name ist Michael. Ich habe Jahre forty-three und in einer Spannung in Branchburg, neu - das Jersey. Ich habe drei Alter déesses Kind fünfzehn, zwölf und neues. Ich bin in Tulsa, Oklahoma im Jahre 1963 getragen worden, und ich habe mir gegen das borgata von Franklin, das neue - das Jersey in einem Alter viel Jugendlichen bewogen. Die Mehrzahl meiner dort geformten Jahre ist in Bridgewater, neuem ausgegeben worden - das Jersey, wo ich mir die Lizenz High School in neunzehn eighty-one übergegangen bin. Sie sind momentan der Integrations- und Unterstützungspräsident ein medizinisches Unternehmen, das in Somerset angesiedelt ist, neu - das Jersey del Software. Die Stunden sind lang, ich forciere bin groß, und die Bezahlung könnte sich immer die Verbesserung gebrauchen. Ich war mit dem Unternehmen für zehn Jahre, aber einig giorno möchte ich meine lebende Schrift machen. Zustimmung ist Zeit, meinss zu machen zu Mittag ißt, und anzuschauen stellen Hinfahrt 3-0.

German back to English:
Welfare. My name is Michael. I have years forty three and in a tension in Branchburg, again - the jersey. I have three age déesses child fifteen, twelve and new. I was carried in Tulsa, Oklahoma in the year 1963, and I have myself against borgata from Franklin, which new - the jersey at an age much young person moved. The majority of my years formed there was spent in Bridgewater, new - the jersey, where I changed myself over the license High School in nineteen eighty one. They are momentarily the integration and support president a medical enterprise, which is settled in Somerset, new - the jersey del Software. The hours are long, I force are large, and the payment could always use itself the improvement. I was with the enterprise for ten years, but united giorno would like I mean living writing to make. Agreement is time, meinss to make noon eats, and to look at place hinfahrt 3-0.

I wasn't writing a letter to Welfare, or even Unemployment for that matter, but it got the "tension" part right. And I probably WAS carried in Tulsa, but have nothing against borgata. I was also in the Enterprise for ten years and can tell you that Sulu is a sly little bastartd (and yes, Kirk DID wear a rug - even then) Okay, I'm tired. The Hinfahrts are on soon, and I need to meinss to make noon eats.
Let's go Hinfahrts! Let's go Hinfahrts!

TDT for 3/16/07

(I apologize in advance to anyone who reads this)

One of the disabilities I'm forced to deal with on a daily basis is what's clinically know as TDT, or Trivial Debilitating Thoughts.
TDTs are thoughts that, without warning, pop into your head and consume all your mental processing power until a) you solve them b) you pass out or c) you're hit by a truck. There's been many instances where I would be going through a normal, daily routine when all of a sudden I'd be stricken by TDT, effectively rendering me vegetative.
There are many different levels of TDT, with some being more severe than others. TDTs range all the way from a Category One TDT, which may involve something like "Why is clapboard such a stupid word?", to a Category Seven TDT, which… I'm not thinking of, I'm not thinking of, I'm not thinking of.. Two all beef patties, special sauce lettuce cheese pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun. Dead puppies. Naked old ladies. (Sorry, that's a little recovery trick I've learned)
But God forbid I should be stricken by a TDT involving Pi or Perpetual Motion, I'd… um…. brb…
[nine days later]
Anyway, nine mornings ago, I was stricken with a Category Three TDT that startled me out of a sound sleep and made me late for work, and here it is: What the hell is mince meat?
Is it meat? If it is meat, why would you call it "mince meat" and not just "mince"? For Thanksgiving, do we say we're having Turkey Meat or Pig Meat for dinner? If it's NOT meat, why? Just "why?"
Are there Thanksgiving conversations taking place all over the world that I'm not privy to that go something like this?
"Grandma, what are we having for dinner?"
"We're having Turkey meat and green beans, sweetie."
"Mmmmmmmmmmm, my favorite! Are we having dessert?"
"Yes, I made a lovely mince meat pie."
"Oooh, I like mince meat pie! Where did you get the mince?"
"Your Grandad brought it home."
"He did?"
"Yes, why don't you go ask him about it."
"O-kay!"
"Grandad, Gramma said you brought home the mince for our mince meat pie."
"That's right darlin', I did."
"Tell me how you got it?!"
"We were on safari… just me and my guide Hoopafoofoo, when we came upon a clearing in the jungle."
"And? Go on!"
"Out of nowhere a mince came charging at me, hell-bent on killin' me."
"What'd you do, Grandad?"
"Well, I raised my musket, aimed the barrel square between its eyes and squeezed the trigger. But the durned thing jammed on me!"
"Oh No!"
"So I pulled my Popeil Pocket Mincer and wrassled the critter to the ground."
"Tell me you made it out alive, Grandad?!"
"I did. We wrassled around in the dirt... the mince mussed my hair an' tore ma blouse, but I made it out okay, Sugarbritches."
[she hugs Grandad]
"Thank you Ron Popeil! This mince meat pie is gonna be extra special!"
So yeah, I was a little late to work today thanks to this TDT.

In an effort to avoid another morning like this morning, I tried to find out exactly what mince meat or mincedmeat or whatever the hell it is - is!
Now that I know, I'm sure I'll be sleep deprived for other reasons.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mincemeat

Why does Neil Clark Warren hate me so?

I've taken the e-harmony profile exam FOUR times, only to be greeted with a message at the end saying something along the lines of,

"Sorry, we can't help you."

After the first time, I thought, okay, my answers may've been a little too brutally honest, let me give them the answers they want to hear now.
Sorry, we can't help you.

I let a year or so pass and took the profile questions again.
Sorry, we can't help you.

Once again, I reanswered the questions with those answers I thought they wanted to hear.
Sorry, we can't help you.

Years pass when I finally get over Neil's rejection and decide to write a little blog about it. For authenticity, I wanted to accurately word the little rejection letter at the end, so I took the test one final time knowing the rejection was merely a matter of course… and the sonofabitch lets me in!

So I reiterate – why does Neil Clark Warren hate me so?

And not fer nuthin', but has anyone ever seen these two in the same room at the same time? Didn't think so.

No, you still can't use the phone!

I'm expecting an important call.

That's what I tell the kids or anyone else who tries to use the phone. Maybe "tell" isn't accurate enough. When I see someone picking up the phone from the cradle, I dive across the coffee table and wrestle it from their hands. Because, you see, there's not just one life-altering phone call I'm waiting for – there's two.

The first is from Verizon Wireless. Since moving into this townhouse, my cell always displays the "Just Say No to Signal" icon when I'm home. Of course We Can Hear You Now – you're on the freakin' Tel – A – Vizh – Un!
So I called Verizon support, and after being bounced around, was finally able to speak with a real, live technical person. He had me dial *128. Called me from his cell. Checked the tower locations in my area. Had me make a call to see when it was dropped. Had me whisper sweet nothings in his ear. (You know, in retrospect, I don't see how that would've helped – but he's the expert.) Finally, he said he would do some investigating and call me back.
"Is there a land line I can call you on?"
"Yes." I gave him the number.

That was the summer of '05, so he must be coming up with some really good information.
Or maybe he actually said, "Is there a land mine I can throw you on?"
I was on my cell and couldn't really hear him then.

The second call is from Geoff Harris, a VP with NBC.
I entered two original sitcoms I had written into a B-grade screenwriting competition. The first place prize was 800 bucks and a six month option from NBC. The competition was judged by the aforementioned Mr. Harris since his company, NBC, would be considering the show among the hundreds of other schlock-scripts that wind their way onto network television.

Both of my scripts made it into the finals – "Against The Tide", which, in my opinion, was the better of the two, and "It's a Jungle Out There". Jungle won.
The day after winning, I received a call from the guy who runs the competition, praising my work, blah, blah, blah, and telling me that Geoff would definitely be calling me.
That was 1997.
No one has used the phone since.

I'd order call waiting, but my cell gets no signal and I can't tie up the line.

My Trip to NC

By Me

Wednesday, Feb 28, 2007

The biggest news of the day is that I actually made the flight. Or rather, that Continental actually got the plane into the air. I boarded the plane and crawled down the aisle to my seat in the back of the plane. I couldn't breathe. Here is a picture I drew of me on the plane.


A screwdriver mid-flight helped make the plane bigger.
Of course, Dollar Rent A Car didn't have the car I reserved (Why did I bother?) So I wound up with a big, red Dodge Ram pickup, complete with gun rack, spittoon and complimentary can of Skoal. Since I've been driving an Escape since trading in my Cobra nearly two years ago, it was nice to feel the testosterone flowing again.

Before arriving in NC, I was asked whose house I would be staying at - my sister's or my cousin's. Thought bubbles could be seen floating near my head as I weighed the choices. My sister's: Sounds of demons banging on garbage cans are only outdone by their black German Shepherd, Stickintheye, who barks at me incessantly. Of course, there is also their other dog, a miniature Dachshund who has lost her girlish figure and come to resemble an engorged tick. I would be sleeping on a bed of nails in the basement, adjacent my nephew's room, where he recently demonstrated his Tasering skills.

My cousin's: The sound of a chorus of harp-playing cherubs gently wafts upon your ears when you first enter the house. You're soon greeted by Casey, a soft retriever who slowly walks up to greet you, but is never pushy when seeking affection. I would have my own private suite, complete with a bed with FOUR pillows and those drape-like things that hang between the box spring and the foot of the floor. I had also heard rumors of their buxom, 28 year old neighbor who could often be seen working in the backyard - which also contained a trampoline! Hmm... decisions, decisions

I finally made it to my cousin's house around 11PM

Thursday, March 1, 2007
I learned that while being squished on the plane, the frames to my prescription sunglasses broke, so that was my first priority. I wound up finding a pair of shiny gold sunglasses that *almost* fit my lenses at Wal*Mart. I felt that, by all rights, I needed a gold tooth if I were to continue wearing these glasses as-is, so my next stop was at Lowe's, where I bought the supplies needed to sand and paint the frames black. That's better. Now I can party.
I went back to my sister's house where we engaged in a game of Chinese Checkers with Randy, whose unique gameplaying strategy had him winning the game. Soon after it started to rain, so my mother and I watched as my sister moved her ferns (three potted, one not) from the shelter of her porch out into the rain. We even let the Tick out to pee at this time. At this point, I needed to catch my breath - my sister was expecting UPS to deliver the $65 Persian rug she bought on e-bay. The house was abuzz with anticipation.

When the rug finally arrived, we spent the next hour expertly installing it in the dining room while my sister kept remarking, "I didn't know the Persian rug would be from Iran, honest." The first 55 minutes of the installation was done as we tried to work the rug into position with the dining table and chairs still in the room. We finally relented and moved the table and chars, unrolled the rug and put the furniture back in the room. 5 minutes.

I recovered from the afternoon's excitement and was looking forward to dinner at Vinni's that night. The most memorable part of dinner was watching my sister hit on our waitress for me. It was so Cyrano, without the death. Or drama. Or anyone named Roxanne that I know of. And my cousin wasn't there. Okay, it wasn't Cyrano, it was more Dude, Where's My Car?, but you get the idea.I think I dropped my card by the check before we left. Oops.

My sister drove home with me in the truck so she could bum.. um... tic-tacs off of me. You know the Universe is topsy-turvey when I'm the DD. She chain tic-tac'd until we got to her house.

Friday, March 2, 2007
Today I decided to don my Rustoleumed sunglass, pinch some Skoal and giddy up in the ole' pickup to mingle with the locals. Since I rarely travel, I knew I'd better take advantage of this opportunity to do some things that I couldn't do back in Jersey. First, I made my way over to the local Verizon store to buy a new cell charger, since mine was sitting on the seat of my car back in Newark - where I wouldn't forget to bring it. (The new charger promptly ripped the metal guts out of my cell, making it unchargeable)Next stop - Target! I was dismayed to find that this Tarjay had a men's clothing section that measured about 12' by 10'. It wasn't until I ventured through the remainder of the store and heard the chorus of angels that I realized why - they needed to make room for the liquor store section. Ah, North Carolina. On to Wal*Mart! (or Wal*Martz as my Lawn-Guyland native family members call it. Has a nice ring to it) Wal*Martz had a much better selection of my-kinda clothes... not that I needed any. Still, for $9.99 a shirt, how could I go wrong? I grabbed three of the same shirt in different colors and headed back to the ranch. There was a 2PM fern-watering on the agenda that I simply could not miss.

Friday night we went to Joker's, a dueling piano bar not too far away. It was my cousin Claire, her husband Bruce, my sister, me and one of my happenin' ten-dollah Wal*Martz shirts. I realized when we walked into the bar packed with twenty-somethings that we were officially the old couples. The "old" part didn't bother me so much as did the idea that we looked like two couples. Oh well, we sat in the back of the bar and drank Lite beer with Geritol shooters. My sister did not hit on anyone for me this night, not even our waitress, who looked about nine and probably weighed all of sixty pounds. I think her day job was playing harp at my cousin's house.
I seem to recall that we also visited my sister's NJ native friend, Karen, at some point during my four day visit. For the sake of argument, let's say it was Friday - but I can't be sure. Hell, I don't even remember who went to visit. (Friday must've been a very GOOD day) I DO know that my sister, my mother and I were there, and maybe a nephew or two. Here's my recollection of visiting NJ Karen:

My mother, sister and I are sitting at the kitchen table, along with Karen. The rest of her family, including her husband, mother, mother's boyfriend, and children are huddled standing in the corner, frightened to death by the loud, heathen clan that's invaded their sanctuary. I remember seeing rosary beads. Meanwhile, my mother tries to tell the riddle where you need to get a fox, chicken and bag of chicken feed across a river without having more than one of them in the boat at the same time. (I'm sure there was a reasonable segue into this, and she didn't just blurt it out in the middle of a discussion of the Presidential Primaries.) The only problem was, she didn't remember the three things that you needed to get across the river, so our conversation went something like this:

"Here's an old riddle. You come to a river and you've got a sheep, a duck and a penguin and you have to get them across the river."
"Ma, a sheep, a duck and a penguin?"
"Or whatever, it doesn't matter."
"Of course it matters, that's the point of the riddle."
"No it doesn't. Okay, it was a man-eating tiger, a duck and a penguin."
"If it was a man-eating tiger, there is no riddle - you're dead."
"You have to get them across the river."
"Okay, I put them in the boat and row across the river."
"No, because if you take the tiger and the penguin, the tiger will eat the penguin."
"Not if I'm there to stop it, which I wouldn't, because I'd already be dead. Since it doesn't matter what the three things are, how about we make it a deck of cards, a lamp and an emu?"
"Oh Michael, now you're being idiotic."

The conversation went on like this for some time and when it wasn't about the sheep, the duck and the penguin - it may as well have been.

Saturday, March 3, 2007
Saturday morning, my sister, mother and I headed down toward Charlotte to have breakfast at IHOP, then hit the local indoor/outdoor flea market. Upon noticing orange garbage bags scattered along the shoulder of Rt. 77, my mother commented, "Oh, the fugitives left their garbage bags. You know, the fugitives that pick up the garbage.""That's mighty conscientious of them", I said, "What with their busy lives on the run and all." That one took a moment to sink in.

That afternoon, we decided to take the Skoal truck and drive it through The Lazy 5 Ranch, which is Mooresville Carolina's version of Jungle Habitat. Or is it Mooresville's equivalent of Niagara Falls? Not because it's swarming with naive honeymooners, suiciders (like there's a difference?) and surrounded by water, but because any mention of The Lazy 5 Ranch evokes an Abbott & Costelloesque response by any relative Larry:"Slowly I turned, step by step... you're taking a rental car through Lazy 5 Ranch?..."It got to the point where one would think we were driving their testicles through a metal press."Don't worry about it - I got it covered."

Once in The Lazy Five Ranch, we proceeded through the sloooow, winding road that exposed us to all the free-range animals. First we saw a pig. Then another pig. Then we drove for a few minutes without seeing anything, but soon encountered... a pig. Then another pig. Inside the car was your driver, me, my mother, Claire in the rear passenger-side seat and my sister in the rear driver's-side seat. Three nephews and one friend-of-nephew were riding in the bed of the Skoal truck. No matter how hard I slammed on the gas or brakes, all four remained in the truck throughout the ride.

The trip finally became interesting when we encountered a herd of longhorn steer who apparently didn't have enough sense to turn their heads to the side when walking past my side view mirror. The last animal we encountered was a rhinoceros (One a them there Carolina rhinos) who surprisingly did not get pissed off when I threw animal feed at him. Name-calling didn't fare much better.
We finished the tour. It was almost 5:00. Snack Time.

Snack Time occurs every day around 4:00PM, when all cousins, sisters, brothers and mothers and degenerates-by-association get together for drinks. Not that we need an occasion. One of my fondest memories of NC is when I drove my mother over to Claire's for Snack Time. There we were, Claire waiting at the front door while my mother and I walked up the hill of her front yard - a 1.5 liter bottle of Smirnoff in ma's arms, a magnum of Cabernet in mine. Ah, family.

Sunday, March 4, 2007
I had a 6:00PM flight, so I woke up early and paced for 10 hours until it was time to go. By this time, I had STILL not seen the elusive buxom neighbor, Nessie. I had, in fact, seen an elderly couple walking up and down the street on several occasions and concluded that this is really who lived next door to my cousin. We had "snacks" one more time before I left.

Around 3:00, I began checking the status of my flight online. The first check showed: Delayed, 6:30 PM.
Around 4:00 it showed: Delayed, 7:00PM. At 5:00, it was: Delayed, 7:20PM. And by 5:30: Delayed 6:30. Huh? As far as I was concerned, undelaying a flight is against the rules, but in any case, it was time to go. I hopped into the Dodge Ram, pinched my last bit of Skoal, threw on the Rustoleum shades, waved goodbye and drove off into the North Carolina Sunset.

Everything went surprising well from that point forward. The drive from Mooresville to the airport in Charlotte was uneventful. Finding Dollar Rent A Car was surprisingly easy. There was a shuttle from Dollar to the airport ready to go in no time. We were within the first 200 flights on line to take off on the runway, unlike departing from Newark. We landed upright, and my luggage appeared on the carousel by the time I reached it. The only mishap turned out to be a pleasant experience. I was parked in Cheapo Parking lot P6, and waited at the shuttle bus stop outside the terminal marked "P6, P7". I got on the first bus to come by and headed for the long term parking lots.
Now, you may think that given their names, P6 and P7 are next to each other, but in reality, they are a good mile or two apart. As it turns out, the bus I got onto zoomed past P6 and was an express to P7.
I heard the driver make an announcement:
"hrfus scwhiggam zerrrb brrrip"
Huh?
In a few minutes, the bus was empty of all passengers except for me and we were headed for the exit gate.
I mentioned to the driver that I was in P6, so she naturally stopped the bus and kicked me out. According to her, the actual lot destination is clearly marked on each bus tire, right next to the maximum tire inflation PSI. My mistake. There I stood, 10:30 at night, dragging my Swiss Army luggage through a vast Newark parking lot. Suddenly a woman in a white minivan asked me where I needed to be.
"I got on the bus thinking it would go to P6 but it went to P7."
"Happens all the time. C'mon, I'll give you a ride."
I threw my luggage in the minivan as we zoomed through the back roads from P7 to P6. I related my "Terminal C" story. She begged me to write the airline.
Telling this angelic minivan-driving woman the general area of my car did not suffice – she dropped me off AT my car and made sure I got in okay.
Would it be too much to ask for her to be in charge of flight scheduling, luggage retrieval and everything else to do with air travel? I guess so.
But she was a good end to a good trip.

My Bout with Terminal C

This is essentially therapy, written this morning after spending 11 hours in Newark Airport yesterday. I figured I may as well get a little airplay out of it:

Trying to forget the disastrous time I had on Wednesday trying to reschedule my canceled flight to Charlotte, change my return flight, reschedule my Sunday furniture delivery, reschedule the rental car, dodge phone calls from work, contact the kennel and change my parking, I loaded the dogs into the car and dropped them off in Hillsborough.Returning home, I finished packing some odds and ends and checked the flight status one last time before shutting down my laptop and rendering it "carry on". The flight was still on.
I zipped along Rt. 78 East towards Newark Airport, past cars that *I think* were parked in various staggered locations along all three lanes. (Am I the only one who still drives 85?) This left me plenty of time to tour scenic Newark looking for the Avistar parking lot, where I had prepaid for my long-term parking. [CUT TO: TWENTY pot-hole jarring, garbage-truck following, Escalade-counting MINUTES LATER] Not having much time left, I decide to settle for airport parking. As I nestle into a parking space, I felt much the gratified cheese-seeking mouse at the end of the maze.
I depart the AirTrain at Terminal C and headed for "Domestic Check-In".
Now, either U2 was putting on a concert at the Domestic Check-In counter, or I need to queue myself at the end of a very long line of domestic travelers. It was the latter.
t this point, I'm still feeling pretty good - I blew a couple bucks on parking, the thermometers at the airport all read "Absolute Zero" and I was standing at the end of a line containing most of humanity, but it's all good. An hour and a half later, I show my expedia.com itinerary to an agent who is finally able to find me in the computer.
"I'm sorry, that flight's been canceled."
"I see."
"Let me see if there's anything else."
Susan proceeded to type the entire text of Gone With The Wind into the computer terminal, and finally declared, "I can get you on stand-by for a 4:00 direct flight to Charlotte."
"I guess I don't have any choice."
I took my ticket for seat SBY and eagerly headed for Security Checkpoint C-2, where I was disappointed to learn there would be no frisking or cavity searches done. By the time I reach Gate 103B, I see on the Departure Board that my flight has been delayed until 5:20. It's 12:45 now, so I boot up the ole laptop, plug in the Verizon Wireless network card and check my Yahoo! and work e-mail.
Okay, it's now 12:48. I look around at the other alleged passengers and realize that in order not to look like a newbie flyer, I should assume the posture of the veteran, annoyed passenger. I surprisingly find I have little trouble nailing this role.1:00. Must move about. I load up my laptop and head back out to the civilian masses, secretly hoping that they've initiated the frisking and cavity searching policies in the interim. I sit. Look around. Change seats. Buy a NY Times and complete the crossword puzzle (Thank you). Sit. People watch. Change seats. This goes on until 4PM when I make my way through frisk-less / cavity-searchless Security Checkpoint C-2 once again and resume my seat-changing, people watching pastime inside at Gate 103B. Another look at the Departure Board shows my flight still scheduled to take off at 5:20, but now from Gate 101. Yes! Progress! And something to do! I make my way down the 16 feet of corridor to Gate 101 and resume my activities.
A few minutes later I feel eyes on me and notice a guy standing in line at the desk is staring at me. I look away, assuming he's not really staring, but lost in thought. Five minutes later I look again and he's still staring. Okay, he should not be doing this. Especially not to me, especially not now. I stare back at him and feel my molars clench. He looks away and doesn't look back. That was easy… and entertaining. I search the crowd for other people staring but could find none.
The Continental people working the gate make an announcement, "Flight 5072 to Charlotte is booked solid, so we won't be able to board any standby passengers until the plane is completely boarded."
That's encouraging.
The woman sitting next to me and I begin commiserating on our travel mishaps.
"I've been trying to get from Buffalo to Tampa for three days now and I've been stuck in Newark for two of them.", she says.
"Wow, that sucks. This is my third attempt to get to Charlotte in two days."
She continues, "I'd give a hundred dollars if someone would just give me their ticket. You'd think somebody FROM here would give their ticket to somebody stuck in a layover. Be a gentleman or something."
"Yeah."
"Where did you say you were from?"
"Here."
"Oh, sorry."
Finally 5:10 arrives and all the general boarding passengers are on the plane. They make the final boarding announcements for flight 5072 "Last call for passenger Chickita Rodriguez", then call two standby passengers to the desk, "Cotto" and "Holmes". There are only two available seats and Cotto and I stand by the counter as if we'd won the lottery. I use the counter and a tall potted plant to hide myself from the Buffalo woman."This is really, really the last call for passenger Rodriguez. I really mean it this time. I'm not kiddin' around now."Cotto and I both mutter, "Yeah, yeah, hurry up and close the gate so we can get on board."The gate guy takes my ticket and tears the stub. He does the same for Cotto, and we slowly head for the plane. Suddenly I hear a screeching "coochie-coochie" and a woman rushes to the counter with her ticket in her outstretched hand. It's Chickita Rodriguez.
"Cotto you go, Holmes, you stay (In Newark)."
"Okay, se ya."
I find it best not to stand in one spot for fear I may break, harm, injure anything in my vicinity, so I head back to the "Re-Accommodation" line, which is similar to the U2 line, only Foreigner is playing and no one is moving.
After the first hour in the Re-Accommodation line, I can feel the dam that holds back my inner evil slowly become compromised. It's subtle at first. "What exactly IS a book repository?", I wonder. This place makes Ellis Island look like an EZPass lane.Three hours and several imagined assassinations later, I reach the re-accommodation agent and explain my situation.There are no flights available to Charlotte until Sunday.I reach into my lapel for my silenced .45 but quickly remember those were only happy dreams. In disgust, I cancel everything I could possibly cancel, the return flight, my Newsweek and Cable subscriptions. I canceled the guy NEXT to me's flight.Whatever. I'll just get my one piece of luggage and go home.
It's now 7:40 PM.
The agent instructs me to go the baggage center with my ticket with a piece of the baggage check stuck on it to reclaim my bag.The line here is only 20 minutes and I'm told they will retrieve my bag, where it will be sent to Carousel 9.
Relieved to be done with this ordeal, I sit at Carousel 9 and wait for my luggage. And I sit. And I wait. And I sit. I chew on a few more tic-tacs, which have accounted for all of my sustenance today.At 9:00 I return to the baggage center to explain that it's been an hour and my luggage is still missing.
I receive more encouraging news, "If they find it, it'll be sent to Carousel 9."
"If?"
"Yes, if"
"That's encouraging."
See? I told you it was encouraging.
I return to Carousel 9, watching happy travelers come and go - WITH their luggage. As my confidence in airline efficiency is beginning to wane, I begin checking the other carousels in the off-chance that they mixed up carousel numbers. Carousel 8. Nope. Carousel 7. Nope. Carousels 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1? Nope. Now equating my missing luggage with Polly Purebread, I reach into the secret compartment of my ring for a beta-blocker. "There's no need to stroke-out, Antenolol is here."
10:10PM. (Read: LIQUOR STORES ARE NOW CLOSED) I return to the baggage center where I learn that baggage retrieval is now closed for the night. I tell the woman behind the counter my plight.
"This bag was loaded onto the flight at 5:00"
"You mean it SAYS that in the computer?"
"Yes. Who did you talk to? Why didn't they tell you that?"
I don't remember who they were, I just recall them looking strangely like Abe Lincoln and Anwar Sadat.
I file the claim and arrange for my luggage to be dropped off at my house and board the AirTrain, where I'm pleased to have successfully traveled SOMEWHERE, even if it is from Terminal C to parking lot FP-4.
I paid $24 for parking and shivered my way home.

If you're looking for the ray of sunshine in this story, there are two:I had considered tossing my car keys into my luggage when I reached the airport. Fortunately I zipped them into my laptop case.I never DID get to reschedule my Sunday furniture delivery, which means I'll have new couches this weekend.This little story is the only mileage I'll ever get out of Continental.