Mr Bluz, Please Come to HR Immediately

I work with a great group of people.  I’m one of only two guys in the department, but somehow I fit in.  I sit in a corner cube, and the next three cubes down are all women who are older than me, two of whom are African-American.  These are the people with whom I meet in the mornings to talk about what shows we all watched the night before.

This is so much fun, I watched that series “Mistresses,” (a B-list version of “Desperate Housewives), just because the others were watching and I didn’t want to miss out on a lively conversation.  So you can say we’re pretty comfortable with each other.

But still, I have to be careful, because once I’m comfortable with people, I loosen my filter a little bit, and sometimes I forget I’m actually at work.  Here’s what happened today.

Another woman from my department, also African-American and older than me, was checking with everyone to see if we were going to be in tomorrow.  When she got to me, I said I’d be in, but she wouldn’t see me again until after New Years, except when I come in for our gift exchange on 12/30.  (It was supposed to be this week, but we had too many people out sick.  I agreed to come in for the event, even though I’m still on vacation.)

Bluz: Maybe I’ll go get all liquored up at “O’Shea’s before I come in, and really get loose.

My cube mate:  Yeah, Bluz’ll be pullin’ a shorty out his pants, goin’ “Who wants some?”

Before I could stop myself…

Bluz: Excuse me, but no guy will ever refer to something he pulls out of his pants as a “shorty.”

[Big laughs from the row of cubes]

Bluz: A “long-neck,” maybe.

[Huge howls of laughter]

Bluz: No “shorty,” but maybe a “forty.”  

[More laughter, Bluz drops metaphorical mic] 

I may have gone one too far on that one.  I’m hopeful I don’t get any calls from HR tomorrow.  You know how this would look in the newspapers, stripped of context...

OFFICE WORKER COMPARES HIS JUNK TO THE A QUART-SIZED BOTTLE

I mean, come on… I wasn’t even talking about ME… just every guy I know.  I have to remember to save the dick jokes for the blog.  You won’t tell HR, will you?

Director's DVD Commentary: When my cube-mate referred to a "shorty," she meant a small bottle of liquor... Just in case you were about to reference Urban Dictionary.

More Christmas Stories

Technically, I should say "More of the Same Christmas Stories."  Because I've already told all my best tales of Christmas past, I don't have much seasonal material on tap.  However, I wrote them so long ago (in 2009) that unless you're Carpetbagger, you haven't seen them.  So here they are again and we both win.  You get a nice, high-quality post, and I get to hit the couch early.

I put up my little Christmas tree last weekend. I don’t do one every year any more… usually not if I’m going somewhere for Christmas, like to my folks’ place for a week. Doesn't seem to make it worth the effort. But if I’m staying home through the holidays, I usually do a tree.

As an apartment dweller, I just have a little 3 and a half-foot fake tree. It’s small but gets the job done.

Growing up, the tree was always a big deal. When we were real little, it would just appear there Christmas morning, shining like a magical apparition.

This is from the first Christmas I can remember, when I was 4, my brother was about 21 months, and baby sister was 4 months. The trike was for my brother, I think. The mail truck (lower right) was all mine though.

Note the stockings on the mantel: when we went to bed, we hung up some of my dad’s white sweat socks. (Yes, they were clean.) When we got up, Santa had replaced them with those “official” Christmas stockings. They were very stretchy and held a ton of little goodies. The Lifesavers Storybook was an annual find in there. One year my brother got a can of cherry pie filling. I got a bag of in-shell walnuts and a set of nut crackers and picks. We always found these unusual little things in the stocking and they were always perfect for us. My brother and I used those stockings every year until we moved out on our own. I still have mine, I don’t know about my brother’s.

That Christmas Eve, my brother and I were hustled off to bed, knowing that tomorrow was The Big Day. We shared a room back then, which had access to the stairway that went up to the attic. Not long after we bedded down, Mom came into our room, clutching a fistful of carrots, by their long green tops.

“Santa just got here. I’m going upstairs to feed the reindeer.”

As we sat down there with eyes like saucers, Mom went upstairs into the attic and we heard a lot of stomping around and jingling bells. She came back down with nothing but the carrot tops and told us that Santa was going to be in the other room, so we better stay put and go to sleep.

Right.

You try being 4 and knowing Santa was out there right now!!! We just laid there in bed, quietly vibrating from the several gallons of adrenaline coursing through our little veins, too scared to move a muscle, lest Santa find out and take all our presents away. I don’t know how we ever got to sleep that night, but we must have because come morning, Santa had been all over our house, putting up a tree, replacing our sad little white stockings and decorating the house.

A Tradition Starts
Every year, each of us kids was given an ornament for the tree. The thought was, once we’re all grown up, we would each have a box of very special ornaments with which we would start our own Christmas trees. Our first couple of “Specials” weren't all that special… just regular bulbs, but with our names printed on them in Mom’s nail polish.

These are the first ones I remember. They are also some of the most “special” to me.

So as we grew old enough to participate in putting up the tree, it became a Griswaldian adventure to go out and cut one down. We always went to places where we could cut down our own, so we’d go tromping around until we found The One. Dad would cut it down, we’d cram it in the car, get it home, then wonder why it was crooked.

Here’s where the surgical Christmas Tree Strike Team jumped into the fray.

Dad wrestled the tree into the stand and got the lights on, then went to watch football. Then it was time for us kids to put our box of Specials on the tree. This, of course, would leave one very densely decorated patch at the front of the tree, with the rest pretty much bare. Mom's job would be to come in later and disperse our decorating efforts. That was her job: Christmas Tree Redecorator.

We used to make ornaments too… It always seemed to be one of those projects meant for all us kids, but the two younger ones would lose interest after a couple minutes, leaving me, as the oldest, to get the job done. One year it was paint-by-numbers partridges and pears. Another it was decoupage elves and Santas.

Often times, it was gingerbread men. Those were my favorites. We’d have cinnamon red-hots for buttons, currants for eyes and all kinds of sprinkles and colored sugar. Sometimes all that stuff even made it onto the cookies. Our best work would be put on the tree, at least temporarily, until someone was hungry enough.

Just about anything could be an ornament though. Now my dad likes to put hooks on plastic miniature Jack Daniels bottles and hang them on the tree. He also has this black and gold knit , um, “schlong-warmer” that he got as a gift from one of his buddies. Every year he hangs it right on the front of the tree. Then Mom moves it to the back after he goes back to watching football.

A Smashing Christmas
By the time I was in Junior High, I was old enough to baby-sit my brother and sister. So on Christmas Eve, Mom and Dad went out for dinner. Naturally, my brother and I began screwing around in the living room, throwing the throw-pillows at each other, and one of the pillows hit the tree and knocked it over.

It had even been wired up, in case the cat decided to climb it.

We flew into action, throwing the ornaments back on the tree as best we could. I played the role of Mom and tried to make sure they were evenly distributed. We tried to re-wire it up again and managed to get it so it didn't lean toooo badly. Then we did what any reasonable kid would do… we went to bed. At 7:00 pm.

Isn't it funny how when you’re a kid, you think you can make anything unpleasant go away simply by going to bed? I guess that’s because parents will seldom wake you up to give you a spanking.

It worked though. My parents never even mentioned it and we had a perfectly lovely Christmas that year. We couldn't believe we pulled it off. We thought we really did some kind of job fixing up that tree!

Many years later, when talking with my parents over drinks one Christmas, I mentioned how we’d knocked the tree over that year. They were shocked! They knew the tree had been knocked over, but they thought the cat did it, and that we tried our little hearts out to fix it.

Luckily, there’s a statute of limitations on childhood screw-ups and I wasn't sent to my room.

I still have every one of my Specials. It’s a lot of trouble to get that Specials box out and unwrap each ornament, but it always makes me happy when I do. Each one has a story. And you know me… I’m all about the stories.

The GOP Civil War and Obamacare

I’ve been watching with amusement, over these past months, as the Republican party tries to bring their factions together after losing some key elections in November, while simultaneously tearing themselves apart.  This week’s budget deal was fertile ground for dissention, as Majority Leader Boehner finally grew a set, and called out tea party leaders and outside conservative groups, for criticizing the bipartisan deal.

Obviously, Boehner and the GOP establishment learned that when they shut down the government, people notice and blame them, despite creative efforts to shuffle the blame to the Democrats.

The Republicans are in a spot.  Traditionally, conservatives’ primary mission has been to prop up big business, by all means possible.  Most often, that means maintaining expensive, government-funded programs and tax breaks that benefit the chosen few, despite the constant rhetoric of “smaller government.”  (What they mean is smaller government for “us.”)

This is coming into conflict with the Teabagger faction, who actually wants smaller government and less spending (in areas that don’t benefit themselves, personally).  So the tug-of-war is on.

As for me, I remain a bemused spectator.  As long as they’re fighting among themselves, they’ll never wage effect campaigns for national office.  The people have shown that aside from some secure, heavily gerrymandered districts, they don’t like operational dysfunction.  They want the bills paid, roads cleaned, fires put out, and the trains running on time.

But it’s not like they’re completely ineffective.  Just look at the ACA website.  Sure, it’s been a disaster and the rollout was poorly executed.  But did you think conservatives were just going to let it totter out without some added roadblocks?

What most people don’t know is that there has been an orchestrated effort by conservative groups to wage a “denial of service” attack on the site, to further weaken confidence in Obamacare.  That’s right.  The GOP is actively working to disrupt the system and simultaneously criticizing Obama because the system isn’t working.  (Just like they’ve been doing in Congress for the last 6 years.)

 This information was disclosed in a video from a hearing by the Homeland Security Committee, where acting assistant secretary of the Department of Homeland Security’s office of Cyber-Security and Communications, Roberta Stemphley, confirmed 16 separate cyber attacks on the ACA portal.  Right-wing websites have been distributing the tool to carry out these attacks, calling it, “Destroy Obamacare.”

That all sounds pretty official, so why don’t you know about it?  Here’s why.  The Republicans don’t want anyone to know that their people are behind these attacks, because it undermines their credibility.  And the DHS and Democrats don’t want to give these tools and websites any more publicity than they already have, so to lessen the severity of the attacks.  All sides pressure news organizations, which will not do anything that is going to cost them access to party VIPs.  We must never forget that cable and network news shows* are not interested in educating or informing the public; they are interested in getting you to watch.  Period.

*This obviously excludes Fox “News,” whose only goal is to energize existing conservatives and generate new ones.  Which is not really news.

So the American people are left to believe that the ACA site is a mess purely because Obama fucked it up. 

So I’m happy that the GOP is fighting with itself.  The more shit they throw at each other; the more rational people wonder what they ever saw in them.

I wonder if there are any rational people left?

Snow Job

You may have noticed that I haven’t been writing a lot about football, this season.  Mostly it’s been on purpose, but recently, there just hasn't been much to write about.  The Steelers have been miserable this season.  The high point was probably beating the Ratbirds in October.  Low point, no doubt, was losing to them on Thanksgiving night, in the “Tomlin-gate” game.

All week long, that’s all anyone wanted to talk about… our coach getting caught watching the scoreboard, with a foot on the field.  At least the Internet produced some funny memes out of the whole affair.  This was my favorite, just because it's so well done:

(Thanks for the email, Dad.)

Another by-product of the Steelers sucking this year and last, is that fewer of their games are on local TV this year.  I've already seen more games at my local sports bar than I have in any other year.  Mind you, I’m not complaining.  I always have a great time there, and the food is excellent.  (I hear there’s beer there, too.)

So I was there again last Sunday, and it really served me well.  The snowstorm that was pelting the eastern portion of the country made itself known in several of the football games, including the one right here in Baltimore against the Vikings.  It was the first time it had ever snowed heavily on a Ratbird home game.

In looking up at all the screens, I could see the blizzard play out in Pittsburgh, Baltimore, Washington and Philadelphia.  It was snowing so hard in Philly, the game looked like one of those old football highlight films from the 1940s.  And it was funny to see the Browns and Patriots playing (in New England) without any snow at all.  What are the odds? 

So even though the Ratties won and the Steelers lost (to the damned sunshiny Dolphins), it was a fun afternoon, just for the sheer “WTF” of it all.

Then I saw in the paper, Monday morning, that Viking running back Adrian Peterson tweeted that the Raven fans were throwing snowballs at the players, and registering his disgust. 

“Wow talking about bad officiating & the worst fan base I've ever experienced! They threw snow balls the entire 4q like lil kids. Smh”

“Worst fan base I've ever experienced.”  Wow, now I have something in common with an All-Pro running back.  I've been saying that for years.  It’s not exactly surprising… it’s always seemed to me that the patrons of M&T Bank Stadium, aka, “That Big Purple Toilet” felt the need to model themselves after the Philadelphia Eagles fans.  But at least the Eagles fans know something about football.

In this morning’s paper, Ratbird coach John Harbaugh defended the fans. 

“Who doesn't throw snowballs when it snows?  Maybe Minnesota, because they’re so used to snow.  Maybe that has gotten old for them.  What do you want me to say?  We have the best fans in the NFL, I can tell you that.”

Way to suck up to the locals, Coach.  I’ll give Harbaugh this… he knows what plays here.  And I bet it was those really good fans that were calling for your quarterback’s head, round about the middle of last year… right before he went on a tear and lit up the playoffs on the way to a championship.

I’ll tell you this… I guarantee that if someone wearing the opponent’s jersey is throwing snowballs at the Raven players, the ushers bum-rush him out of the stadium so fast it makes a sonic boom. 

Later, Peterson took to Twitter again to sharpen his statement: “You just enjoying the game & the next thing you know ur hit in the face with a ball of ice, correction, not snowballs, ICE BALLS.  Not funny or fun, that’s all I’m saying, it wasn't cool.”

No, Coach Harbaugh, your Best Fans in the NFL weren't lobbing nice fluffy snowballs, like in the back yard of some idyllic youth, these were hard, heavy chunks of ice being flung from a great distance.  You could call that “assault.”  And if it were the other way around, you’d be screaming bloody murder.  Ray Lewis would probably call it a conspiracy and blame the league office.

As far as I’m concerned, this is just one more instance of a bush-league organization, who pays lip service to providing an enjoyable game experience, but does nothing to ensure even the basics of spectator safety.

Watch Out for Those Old Ladies

I was talking with a friend and she was telling me about her fears for the future.

Friend: I always told myself if I didn't find a good man, I’d just go live in a convent. 

Bluz: You... in a convent… [busts out laughing].

Friend: OK, maybe not a convent… Maybe I’ll start a farm for old women that are sick and tired of men.

Bluz: Like a “Crone Farm.”  [Uproarious laughter at his own joke]

Friend:  Yeah!  Like, we could make sweaters and art and stuff…

Bluz: But you’d better make sure none of them wandered off… you’d have to put up some “scare-crones.”  [More uproarious laughter at the mental image.]

I know; a pun is the lowest form of humor… unless you think of it yourself.

But you know, they have all-woman health spas and gyms and stuff, why not an all-woman retirement home?  That way, they don’t have to deal with a bunch of horny old men, who are all hopped up on Cialis, but can’t get in and out of the dual bathtubs.  They can watch the shows they want to watch, play cards, knit, and of course, participate in arts and crafts.

Right… you gotta watch out for the old ladies, because they don’t get to be old ladies without learning how to be crafty. Which reminds me of a story…

A farmer stopped by a local mechanic shop to have his truck fixed. They couldn't do it while he waited, so he said he didn't live far and would just walk home.

On the way home he stopped at the hardware store and bought a bucket and a gallon of paint. He then stopped by the feed store and picked up a couple of chickens and a goose. However, struggling outside the store he now had a problem - how to carry all his goods home.

While he was scratching his head he was approached by a little old lady who told him she was lost. She asked, 'Can you tell me how to get to 1603 Mockingbird Lane ?'

The farmer said, 'Well, as a matter of fact, my farm is very close to that house I would walk you there but I can't carry this lot.'

The old lady suggested, 'Why don't you put the can of paint in the bucket. Carry the bucket in one hand, put a chicken under each arm and carry the goose in your other hand?'

'Why thank you very much,' he said and proceeded to walk the old girl home.

On the way he says 'Let's take my short cut and go down this alley. We'll be there in no time.'

The little old lady looked him over cautiously then said, ‘I am a lonely widow without a husband to defend me. How do I know that when we get in the alley you won't hold me up against the wall, pull up my skirt, and have your way with me?'

The farmer said, 'Holy smokes lady! I'm carrying a bucket, a gallon of paint, two chickens, and a goose. How in the world could I possibly hold you up against the wall and do that?'

The old lady replied, 'Set the goose down, cover him with the bucket, put the paint on top of the bucket, and I'll hold the chickens.'

What a Week

This has been one weird week.  It’s been good, but I’m glad it’s over and we’re into December now. 

I had a couple days off this week, Monday and Thursday, so I spent a lot of it trying to get my place back in shape, after the Great Separation.  It’s not like Pinky left me a mess or anything… I just felt it was time to strip down some of the clutter and decorative chaos with which I tend to surround myself.

One of my attempts was to try to get rid of my old hockey gear and golf clubs, by taking them to a second hand sporting goods store.  A sign on the door saying they weren’t taking golf equipment at that time thwarted me once.  They thwarted me again when they got a look at my hockey equipment.  It wasn’t that it was in poor shape; it was just old.  Apparently the state of the art has expanded since I started playing rec league hockey in 1994, with improvements to padding and fasteners and stuff.  They let me down gently.

I fear the same when they get a look at my golf clubs.  Mind you, they’re in practically perfect condition.  I’ve only used them 4-5 times, ever.  But almost all of those times were in 1995.  I KNOW the golf club technology has grown by leaps and bounds since them.  Even my new, still-in-the-box golf balls have lost compression, according to my brother.

So yesterday, with a heavy heart, I tossed my hockey bag into the apartment’s dumpster.  As for the golf clubs, I may try to move them on Craig’s list or something, as a beginner’s set.  If no one bites, to the dumpster they go.  With that weird hive condition I get on my hands, I’ll never be able to use them again.

Thanksgiving was nice… I went to my brother Ed’s house for dinner and football.  I always have a blast there, just hanging out with my nephews.  Daniel, 14, is never at a loss for words.  And that led to this exchange, over dinner:

Daniel: If Bigfoot were real, I’d go on that reality show where they go out and look for him.

Ed:  Seriously?  You’re too afraid to take the garbage out at night.

The boys and their Dad, wrassling it out and working off dinner.

I stayed through the first half of the Steelers-Ravens game, then made a break for home at halftime.  The Steelers were losing, so for mojo purposes, I figured I’d better try to change locations.  Of course the fact that I had to go to work on Friday also played into it.  When the game was over, I knew I’d just want to tumble straight into bed.

The Ratbirds won, when one of our guys dropped a pass in the end zone, on a 2-point conversion that would have tied the game with time running out.  But all anyone wanted to talk about the next morning was how the Steelers’ coach Tomlin had a foot on the field during a long kickoff runback by the Ratties.  They claim that the runner wouldn’t have been caught from behind if he hadn’t had to change course.

I don’t know if that’s true or not, (I kinda doubt it), but it’s funny to me how the fans and media seem to want to make a big deal over it.  I mean, their team won.  Why collect excuses for a game they already won?  It’s not like they can claim official bias (like usual).  The refs pulled two separate Steeler touchdowns off the board… how biased can they be?

At least I didn’t have to talk about it on Friday, when I went in to work.  I was the only one in my area of the building.  The entire place, all downtown, for that matter, was like a ghost town.

In fact, I had to settle for my 3^rd choice of eating establishment, for lunch.  The first two places I went were closed, so I ended up back at my favorite pizza shop.  There was nothing wrong with that, it’s just that I was already there on Wednesday.  I didn’t really need another big, carb-laden meal.  But it was so good…

Saturday was the annual Ohio State / Michigan slugfest, and this one went right down to the wire too.  Michigan had the chance to tie the game with an extra point, but chose to go for two (and the win) instead.  Ohio State intercepted the pass and essentially ended the game.

To remind you of the importance of this game to us Midwesterners, check out this classic ESPN spot.  It’s old, but it still kills me.

Thanks, Dad, for sending it around again.

Lastly, let me leave you with this… It’s an email exchange I found recently, between a friend from our former Treasury Department and I.

Bluz: I think that in the Treasury Dept, you should make it a rule that every “S” should be written as “$”.

T-Gal: $ounds $uperb.

Bluz: Great, now spread the word to your minions.

T-Gal: First we’ll need an auditable policy… and forms, YES, forms… and a web portal… ackkkkkkkkkk!

Bluz: Have the minions write the policy, create the forms and build the web portal.  That’s what they’re for… to do your bidding.

T-Gal: Except I’m the minion.

Bluz: Then you need to get yourself some sub-minions.

T-Gal: WalMart?

Bluz: Place a want-ad.

JOB POSTING

Position:           Minion, Class-A

Description:      One that I can send to do my bidding.

Qualifications:   Blind, eternal loyalty

                        Flexible moral compass

                        Above average toadying skills

                        Ability to take a beating and remain functional

                        Good with animals; snakes, attack dogs, dragons

                        Expertise in electronics, weapons, explosives

                        Willingness to take a bullet for Master

                        Background in eavesdropping, surveillance and riot incitement is helpful

Salary:              Must be willing to pay employer for the chance to serve.

Perks:               Own dungeon

                        Hood and cowl provided

                        Health care (experimental) on site

EEO:                Disfigurements welcome

T-Gal: Love it.

Mind you, this exchange took place in 2008, which long pre-dates:

(Source)

I was thinking a minion would be more like:

 “HUMP DAAAAAAY!!”      (Source)

Thanksgiving Story - Again

The last couple Thanksgivings, I've posted on all the stuff for which I'm thankful.  It all still holds true.  I continue to be blessed with a bounty of family, friends and good fortune.  So why dwell?  Instead, I'm rerunning the Thanksgiving post I wrote in 2010.  You probably didn't see it.  This is a story about the Thanksgiving Day adventures I had with my best buddies, back when we were teenagers.

One thing about having friends for a really long time is that you have ball-busting material that goes back decades… IF you can remember it all, that is.  This story goes back to the Thanksgiving after my buddies and I graduated high school.  This is one of those stories where you hope you’re going to have one kind of day but it turns out to be one CF after another.

So it’s Thanksgiving morning, 1979, and I get a call from my buddy John.  Seems he beached his Camaro on a big sand berm on the side of one of our country roads.  He needed some help dislodging the car and wanted us to come out with "Jaundice," our big Jeep Wagoneer, and pull him out.

I have no recollection of how the Camaro got up there, or where John was coming from, but I’m fairly certain he was up to no good.  That’s just how we rolled back then.

My buddy Rik and I took off and found him a couple miles away.  His car was perched up on the undercarriage, with the back wheels in the air.  It wouldn't be a problem to attach the chain and yank the car off the berm.  As we started fiddling about to get everything hooked up, John started swearing.  Seems he just locked his keys in the car.  Or maybe that was us swearing.

Not being versed in breaking and entering a car; we decided to track down his 2^nd set of keys.  They happened to be with John’s dad, who was having Thanksgiving dinner with his side of the family, somewhere in the city.  So off we went, into the urban jungle that is Toledo Ohio.

We found the place easily enough and John was in and out in no time, keys in hand.  We started back to the original scene, when just as I was about to pull onto the interstate, there was a big *BANG* from under the hood, followed by a great deal of racket thereafter. 

Shit!  Now what?

Luckily, I had Rik and John in the car, both of whom knew their way around under a hood.  Me?  I know the big holes where the oil and washer fluid go, but not much else, so I let them dig in. 

Rik immediately burned his hand on one of the hot parts.  More fevered profanity ensued.  Then it started raining.

Come to think of it, the only two times I've been in the car with these guys and there was car trouble, it started raining.  This was the other time.

Eventually they figured out that one of the spark plug thingies (technical term) popped out.  They popped it back in and we were moving again.  We got back to the beached Camaro and pulled it off the berm with relative ease.  It was mid-afternoon by this time, so we headed back to my house to enjoy a little Thanksgiving.

Immediately, Dad set us up with some Jack on the rocks and we told him of our adventures.  (And that he’d better have those spark plug thingies checked out.)  Mom, who was in the midst of creating a stellar Thanksgiving Feast, sent out a plate of stuffed mushrooms.

Not a photo of our actual mushrooms, but these look close.

Oh, they were fantastic… big mushroom caps stuffed with sausage, the ground mushroom stumps and assorted seasonings.  Naturally they were a big hit… at least at first. 

As we passed the plate around the room, Rik went to put them back on the coffee table, and, well, missed.  He set the plate half on and half off and it promptly toppled right over onto the floor.

You should have seen us dive down there to retrieve the mushrooms.  It was like a fumble on the goal line… nothing but bodies flying and rooting around on the ground.

What, you think we weren't still going to eat them?  We were 18-year old guys.  We didn't care that they hit the carpet.  He could have dumped those mushrooms onto a pile of nuclear waste and we’d still try to pick out at least the big chunks of plutonium before we resumed munching.

So we get all the shrooms put back on the plate and Rik goes to put the plate back and he does the same goddamed thing again!

Mushrooms go rolling all over the floor and we go chasing after them again, thus ensuring that the subject of mushrooms will never, ever come up again, without one of us piping up, “Just make sure you don’t pass them to Rik!”

Yes, we still ate the mushrooms.  But we knew not to pass Rik the turkey that day.

The Follow-up

My mom used to make pizzelles for the holiday every year.  If you’re Italian, you know what I’m talking about.  If not, pizzelles are thin, waffle-type cookies made with a pizzelle iron. 

These are pizzelles.

They’re usually flavored with anise, so they taste mildly of licorice.  They are often served after dinner, to dunk in your coffee or wine.  But for this batch, Mom also made some with cocoa added, which turned them brown and gave a nice hint of chocolate.

So as we all snarfed down the plate of pizzelles, Rik pipes up, “These are really good, Mrs. Dude, even the burnt ones.”

So for the last 30 years, any time we hand Rik a chocolate cookie, we can’t help but add, “We know how you like the ‘burnt ones.’”

So as you gather today for your Thanksgiving celebration, aside from giving thanks for your family, your health and relative well-being, be sure to give thanks for old friends.  Without them, who else would remind you of the stupid shit you did when you were a kid?  And who would, in turn, tell you to shut your pie hole and pass the mushrooms?

John, me, and Rik in 2008, being thankful for beer.

Happy Thanksgiving to you, my friend.  May your legs be plentiful, your thighs be juicy, your breasts swell pleasingly and you get all the stuffing you could want.

Hip Pointers

There’s nothing like a Saturday night out with the girls, to get a spring back in one’s step.

Well, more “evening” than “night.”  OK, an hour, but still…

I heard from my friend Misty, this week, that our blog friend Val was coming into town for the weekend.  Val and I have been commenting on each other’s blogs for a couple years now, so I've been looking forward to meeting her for some time.  Judging from her blogged exploits, I knew a good time was to be had.

Misty and Val were planning on seeing a play on Saturday afternoon (Elf), then going on a Fells Point haunted pub-crawl at 7:00.  We decided to meet for dinner and drinks in-between.  Misty suggested meeting at a designer pizza place called Joe Squared, in the nightclub area known as Power Plant Live.  When I looked the place up online, their website had some interesting information, which I immediately shared with Misty.

Bluz: A hipster bar?  You’re taking ME to a hipster bar? I can see it right now…

Hipster: Hey, you’re not wearing skinny jeans!

Bluz: What are skinny jeans?

Hipster: Jeans that are really snug through the waist and legs.

Bluz:  [shoveling pizza into mouth]  I’m workin’ on it…

Misty pointed out that hipsters never acknowledge that they wear hipster stuff; they just wear it.  I figured I’d be OK, because my closet is full of t-shirts with antiquated references.  I’d be fine with anything, as long as I wore it ironically.

I showed up a mere 3 minutes past our meeting time, just as Misty was beginning to text me to meet them somewhere else.  But then the hipster bartender started making promises about a free shot, so they agreed to stay.  Once we dispensed the hugs and settled in at the bar, I realized immediately that Val was all that I expected, from the first words out of her mouth.

Bluz: So how was the play?

Val: Some fuckin’ c*nt almost ruined our day!

Bluz: [Spews beer all over the bar, almost chokes]

Seems that the lady sitting beside them in the theater was unimpressed by all their laughing and applauding (at a comedy) and told them to “Pipe down or I’m calling the manager, because I’m tired of your shit.”

Nice.  That’s the Christmas spirit!  It’s a good thing the lady made tracks out of there after the show, because Val swore she tried to track her down so she could step on the back of her shoe and give her a flat tire.

Anyway, I had a great time and I learned a number of things:

* Val is not only funny, but very quick on her feet with a retort.  The bartender was trying to run some shit with her, but she basically had him roped and tied with her banter.

*  Val is for sale, perhaps even as a timeshare.  A transaction was proposed and accepted, wherein the bartender was to purchase Val for a short period of time, and she would live in his basement.  I’m not sure if there was a pit involved, but I need to recommend this option to Sitcom Kelly.  Cash payment is quicker and easier than all the stalking.

*  Woe be unto he who takes pictures of women from a low angle.  We took a number of pictures among ourselves, which I thought were perfectly lovely.  However I was the only one with that opinion.  Misty tricked me into letting her see my camera (I can’t believe I fell for that) and proceeded to erase all the offending pictures (which was most of them).

That’s funny, because Pinky used to yell at me about the same thing.  Apparently, it’s all about chin camouflage, so the only acceptable angle is from above.  Somewhere, Pinky is probably reading this and proclaiming, “Revenge is mine!”

I still left with at least a couple of useful shots…

Bluz and Val.

I’d show you one of all three of us, but Misty does not appear on camera.  No, not like a vampire, I mean she actually does a good job of maintaining her online anonymity.  But trust me when I say, we looked dazzling!

*  No one uses actual cameras any more.  When we wanted the bartender to take our threesome shot, I had to provide some instruction.  What he really wanted to do was take a selfie, but without the “screen reverse” feature, it proved daunting.

When Val gave him some shit about how we were all bloggers, about to write some shit about him, he panicked.  Then they revised their statement, saying they were just kidding, and only I was a blogger.  He said, “I can tell, because he still uses a camera.”

Fucker.  I dare anyone to take a picture like these, with a freakin’ cell phone:

I shot these earlier that evening, on my way to meet Val and Misty.

*  Bartenders lose major cool points when they drop the bottle they've been flipping around.  (That’s the shit they were going to write about the bartender.)  But Val was mostly upset because he wouldn't serve her anything that was on fire.

*  It’s a good thing I was only with them for an hour.  I might have sprained my face, from all the laughing.  We’d met at 5:30, and by 6:30 they had to get out to Fells Point for the start of their pub-crawl.  It only took an hour for my cheeks to get sore from the constant laughter.

*  At 52, I am too old to be hip, no matter what I wear, or use to take pictures.  Fortunately, I’m also too old to give a fuck what anyone else thinks about it.  Life is much easier this way. 

I love when I get to move a person from my mental “Blog Friend” file to just plain “Friend.”  So I say thank you to Misty and Val, for allowing me to hang out with you for a while.  It totally made my weekend. 

And Val, you totally have to come back for HonFest!

Marginally-related note: On the way home, I realized why I'm always so unsettled by the subway station I had to use to get to Power Plant Live.  Tell me that this...

Doesn't remind you of a brightly colored version of this...

Source

Who knows what really dwells in the subway tunnels... 

The Nuclear Option

Speaking of bombshells, (see the prior post) a bomb went off in Washington today as the Senate enacted the so-called “Nuclear Option” to curtail the rampant use of filibusters on judicial and cabinet nominees.  Filibusters will still be in play for bills and Supreme Court nominations.

You may recall that over the last couple of years, there has been talk of enacting these reforms, usually when the GOP is holding up more nominations than usual.  In fact, Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid was close to going nuclear before Mitch McConnell agreed to ease off on the filibusters, so to get a little of The People’s business done.

Unfortunately, that promise turned out to be hollow, as the obstructionism continued, well, unobstructed.  At the moment, they are holding up 3 judicial nominations to the US Court of Appeals right now, essentially to maintain the conservative tilt that it currently on the bench.

I wrote about it at the time, expressing my worry, because I feared that when the Republicans eventually reclaim control of the Senate, they will have no such qualms about taking the filibuster away from the Democrats.  And it that’s the case, the Democrats might as well see some of the benefits first before they inevitably get screwed when they become the minority.

It’s sad that such a venerated Senate tradition had to fall by the wayside, but it was being used in a manner that was worlds away from its original intent.  From 2006 to the end of 2012, the Republicans have put forth 380 filibusters.  (They no longer have to go up to the podium and speak for long period of time… all they really have to do now is say, “I call filibuster!” and the bill or nominee is held up.)

“Cloture” is a vote that is called to end a filibuster.

For contrast, Lyndon Johnson faced one filibuster during his entire term. 

This is why we can’t have nice things.

I think if they’re going to have filibusters at all, I think they should at least have to go up and hold the floor.  Even better would be to have them go through an increasing series of twists, as if it were a “Survivor” competition.

Say, the Senator starts off by merely speaking.  Then after a couple of hours, the start a cold rain machine on him.  An hour later, they kick on the giant fan, and so forth until the speaker gives up or the vote him off the island.  That would certainly make CSPAN more entertaining.

That’s a joke, of course, but then so is the current process, where a minority of Senators can hold the rest of the Body hostage and indirectly nullify the results of the last two elections.  The Senate’s approval role is supposed to be “advise and consent,” not dictate at gunpoint.  “Put in a guy that shills for US, or the country gets it.”

Part of winning the presidency is getting to appoint the judges and cabinet members you want.  That right is mixed into the stew when we’re voting (or at least it should be).  Seeing people with whom you disagree put into these positions is the cost of losing the election.  That the minority side should insist that the President appoint people who believe the exact opposite of what The People voted for, is blatantly un-American.

But then, the GOP only believes in “America” when they’re on the campaign trail.  And they believe in Americans even less. 

Unless, of course, they’re white, male, Christian and well off.

Going Solo

Just in case you noticed a shock wave on Facebook last weekend, or a “disturbance in The Force,” Pinky and I split up.

OK, it wasn't quite that dramatic, but it was still pretty rough.  I’m not one to air my dirty laundry in public, so I’m not going to go into the meat and potatoes of the situation, but since her presence has been a part of this blog since it started, I feel I owe an explanation.  Plus, I’m sure it will extend ripples into future posts. 

This was a change that I initiated.  (And no, I’m not doing this for better blog material.)  She didn't do anything wrong, she’s not mean, cruel or obnoxious.  In fact, she has a huge heart and would do anything for anybody.  She’s taken care of me for seven long years, from the daily slog of shopping, cooking and cleaning, to the big-ticket items like advocating for me during my various hospital stays.  (Including making sure I went there in the first place…)  She doesn't think I appreciate all that, but I do.

So what was the problem?  Well, I just don’t feel like we connect the way we should.  I've hinted at some of the problems before, here, and here.  The way I see it, we’re like a couple of gear cogs that don’t quite mesh; in fact, we grind.  We don’t communicate well and any time we’re stuck together for more than 45 minutes, we inevitably end up squabbling. 

It has to be a bad sign when I look forward to the nights when she’s at her place, far more than those when she’s here.  That’s not fair to either one of us.

In no way am I saying it is all her fault; it’s the way we are together, so I’m in for a minimum of half the blame. 

This has been on my mind for some time, and I have been looking for the right moment.  It’s taken years and has been very elusive, but it finally came about.  I am making sure that she has every chance to be self-sufficient.  But we both have to walk our separate ways.

It’s been hard, and very sad, watching her packing up and saying her goodbyes.  It kills me to know that I’m the cause of her pain.  I’m much better at getting dumped.  In fact, I should write a “coping” book about it.  I hate being on this end.

As I read my friends’ blogs, I see the kind of relationships they have with their spouses.  I realize that it’s usually just the good stuff that gets written about, but I want the kind of close relationship that I see in others.

Aha!  It’s all YOUR fault!

OK, I’m kidding.  But curse you all for being such a good example for me.

There was a time when I was terrified of ending up alone, but that’s no longer true, otherwise, I’d never be able to do this.  I've been alone for huge swaths of my life, so I know I can deal.  In fact, I got so used to it, I probably inoculated myself from ever cohabitating again. 

So, wish us the best as we make our ways alone, for however long it takes to trick someone new into loving us.  But you’ll have to send your wishes another way, because I’m not opening this post for comments.  I've already said more than enough, publicly, about a very personal topic. 

You probably have my email address already, so you can write me directly.  (It’s on the Helpful Stuff to Know page, if you don’t.)  I’ll tell you whatever else I can, in private.  (Or just let you call me an asshole.)