The Evolution of the BluzMobile

I’m in the process of buying a car this week.  Let me start by saying that I’ve never been a “car guy.”  I’m not into having the latest or greatest in self-transportation… I just want to get from point A to point B reliably, and it helps if it’s comfortable.  And the stereo is loud.

I learned to drive in a big, yellow Jeep Wagoneer.  We named it “Jaundice.”  (I knew another guy with a green one that he named “Algae.”)  Jaundice was indestructible… it used to belong to my Grandpa and had navigated many rough Pittsburgh winters, with its high wheel base and AM-only radio.  (Unfortunately, we couldn’t get KDKA from northwest Ohio.)

I loved driving that Jeep and would have happily done so for years.  My buddies and I used to go out terrorizing in it during my high school years, as did my brother later on.  But it was the family car and I would need one of my own to drive back and forth to college every day.  So what did my dad get me to drive in the face of the brutal northwest Ohio winters?

A 1976 Honda Civic hatchback…  Front wheel drive, 5-speed manual transmission, manual choke knob, baby-shit brown.

It looked just like this, except for the color.  Although Jaundice was painted a slightly paler version of this color.

I’d never driven a stick before, so Dad had to take me out to teach me.  I think I set a world record in Greatest Number Of Times a Car Can Be Stalled in Twenty Minutes.  By the time I stalled it out in the middle of our area’s busiest 6-lane red-light intersection, Dad had enough.

“Drop me off at home and go work on it yourself.  You know what do to, just practice.”

I got the hang of it fairly quickly after that.  It’s easier to concentrate when your passenger isn’t grasping at the armrest, pawing at the non-existent passenger-side break pedal and yelling, “Clutch!  Clutch!”

I do admit to a bit of panic the first time I drove it in the snow and failed miserably in attempting to perform a maneuver called “a left turn.”  I turned the wheel, the car continued moving straight ahead.  I don’t know how I even got home.

I convinced them to let me drive the Jeep to school for a couple more days, but eventually I had to solve this problem l if I wanted to make it to school again.  (The solution?  Slow the hell down.  But where’s the fun in that?)

Later, we had the car painted red, to match the Olds 98 my mom was driving.  It was quite a sight seeing us getting our of our respective cars… her being 5-foot nothing in her enormous 4-wheeled yacht and me being 6’4”, unfolding myself from this little roller skate.  I could have parked my car on top of hers and it would have looked like a hood ornament.

I think it was just after I graduated college that my little Honda broke down for good, so Dad got me another Civic, I think it was a 1980.  This one, he put in my name and onto my own insurance.  I was on the hook for this one.

That meant trouble because I was just starting out in life and pretty much piss-poor broke.  That car did NOT get much in the way of maintenance.  My buddies would always bust my chops about changing the oil.  I’d be like, “Why?  I just checked and there’s still oil in it!” 

To me, you changed the oil when the oil light came on.

I drove this car for my first years in Cleveland and that was a real adventure.  That’s when I learned that you didn’t actually need wipers to drive in the winter.  My wipers just quit.  I drove it as long as I could but eventually I took it into a garage and they fixed it in about 10 seconds, and showed me how they did it.  They didn’t even charge me, which was good because I was still pretty broke.

There were 2 moving parts… Imagine your arm making big pot-stirring motions.  That was one part.  Then there was another arm that had kind of a cap on it, that went over what would be the “elbow” joint on the first piece.  That 2^nd arm drove the wipers.  My problem was the cap would pop off.  So I learned that when the wipers quit, I’d just pop the cap back on.

The trouble was, after enough times with the “on and off” the cap barely stayed on at all.  It got so where I’d get 1 wipe out of a reset and I’d have to plan it carefully.  I’d get it set before I left the house and try to get at least half way to work.  (Remember, this was Cleveland during the winter... there was always snow and slop on the ground.)  When I couldn’t see, I’d try to follow a truck or some other car that was throwing a lot of road spray.  (My washer fluid never worked in the first place.)  Then I’d trigger the wipers.  One swipe and done.  I never had time to pull over and reset on the way, plus I was usually on a freeway.  I’d just have to make it to my destination the best I could.

Round about 1988, I could sense that the old Civic was about to give up the ghost.  I was having all kinds of problems with it and while I was able to have a number of smaller problems fixed, I knew the Big One was on the way.  I knew I’d have to get a new car but I had neither the time nor the know-how about how to do that (without getting screwed).  In the meantime, Dad had bought a Honda CRX; a little 2-seat car with some zip.  Then my brother bought one.  So I figured, why not make it a complete set.

I summoned my buddy Rik to come out from Toledo and buy one for me.  I said it would be like you’re my “consigliore”.  I told him what I wanted and what I could afford, and sent him out to make me a deal while I went to work.

When I came home that day, he had a deal in hand; I just had to go in and sign stuff.  We made the deal but it pissed me off because they still wanted me to have a co-signer on the loan.  Dad was willing to do it, but I didn’t like it.  I was like, “I’m on my own, have my own place and a full-time job!  Why the fuck can’t I do this myself?”

(Answer: Because you’re a 27-year old putz and still don’t make squat.)

But I got the car and paid it off in the required time… Dad never had to worry.  The biggest problem was getting there to pick it up.  I think my Civic sensed that its days were numbered and began doing a lot of choking and wheezing during that last week.  I was totally sweating that last ride to the dealership. I was sure that even if I made it, the car was going to fall apart like the one at the end of the Blues Brothers movie.  But I made it, and hey, I got $50 for it as a trade-in!

I loved my CRX.  You’d think a car that small wouldn’t fit a big guy like me but that was never an issue.  I had plenty of room… the only drag was that I sat about 6” off the road. 

My little red roller skate, back when it was new.

The car did surprisingly well in the snow and there was a lot of it.  After Cleveland, I drove it for my entire time in Albany.  I beached it once, due to the low clearance.  I thought I could get up my driveway but that ridge of snow left by the last plow pushed the wheels right up off the ground.  Luckily, the car was small and light enough that I was able to free it without having to summon the Future Ex from the house.

The thing that always bothered me was that about 6-months after I bought it, some motherfucker gouged their key around 3 sides of it, while it was in the parking lot behind my apartment.  Pretty much broke my heart.  I never knew who or why, leaving me with a great deal of rage and nowhere to direct it.  And worse, I never got it fixed.  I had a guy paint over it once, while the was in the shop for something else, but I never had the money to have it done right, nor the time to be without a car.  So every time I saw those scratches, it would piss me off all over again.  This is why we can’t have nice things.

Regardless, I drove the CRX for 13 years.  I definitely got my money’s worth out of it.  I drove it until I moved to Maryland and found I couldn’t get it to pass inspection without a major overhaul.

I’ll continue the story with the next post, which will include 2 Neons, a Maryland Transit Authority Sting Operation and the car I’m buying now.  Stay tuned…

Restroom Symbolism

To get to Amelia Island, we had to fly through Jacksonville airport and I must say, they had fascinating restrooms.

First of all, their sinks were amazing, in that there weren’t any.  I went to wash up, (not because I peed on my hands, but because it’s just the right thing to do), and I saw lots of soap dispensers and spigots, but no sinks.  There was only a long flat countertop.  Upon further review, I noticed that the counter was slanted back towards the wall and between the end of the counter and the wall, there was a long trough for the water to run into.

It really doesn’t take much to amuse me.  I would have taken a picture but then I’d be letting women in on all the secret stuff we have in men’s rooms.*  Luckily I found this one with The Google:

Photo by David King via his Flickr photostream.  Apparently, he thought it was as cool as I did.  More importantly, he avoided showing the secret restroom stuff*.

But the real interesting thing to me was the décor of the restroom entrances.  It seems they put up every existing variation of the restroom symbol of “trouser guy” and “skirt girl” know to mankind.

I stood and stared at it for a while, as ideas began to bubble up.  (Any time you travel with a female in general, or Pinky in particular, there is a lot of time spent standing outside restrooms.)  So of this vast display of manly restroom symbols, I did take a picture, so that I could come home and bring you this:

Click the pic for the full image, which is larger and more readable.

There wasn’t room to describe all the symbols, so I picked my favorites.  I hope you can tell to which symbol each description is pointing.  With one exception, the captions are directly above the arrows that point to the symbol.

I was really intrigued by the one I labeled “WTF?”  I mean, how the hell is that “male”?  I checked the corresponding female one and it was practically the same thing, only the curve was upside down.  What is that?  Bowing dude?  Parenthesis man?  Comma guy?  Scoliosis person?  I give up.

Note: Due to the nature of how I put the picture together, by the time I was done I’d thought of a better one than the one I labeled “Guys w/ T-Rex arms”… I should have labeled it “Jesus.”  (Go look again.)  But I’d have to undo a boatload of other labels and arrows to remove the original label, so I’m left with leaving this anti-climactic and semi-blasphemous note.

*Ok, we really don’t have any secret stuff in the men’s room; I’m just trying to create intrigue.  I know there is secret stuff in the lady’s room.

A Red, White and Bluz Weekend

As mentioned in the posts below, my family spent the 4th of July weekend at Amelia Island Plantation, in celebration of our parents’ 50th wedding anniversary.

The trip started with a near miss at the airport.  We were there in plenty of time, but unfortunately, we were at the wrong gate.  Who knew Southwest would have two flights to Jacksonville scheduled 10 minutes apart?  Fortunately, I figured it out in time and got our butts to the proper gate just in time to walk into line and board the plane.  “Thank you, travel gods!”

Mom and Dad were driving out from Pensacola so we landed a good 2 hours before they could come get us.  We killed some time in the Chili’s in the airport and walked around a bit, then before too long, we were in the car and heading to the resort.

Amelia Island is about 45 minutes northeast of Jacksonville, just across the Intercoastal Waterway.  (Hence, “Amelia Island”)  The Amelia Island Plantation is a huge, sprawling facility with all condos, a big hotel, different shops and restaurants, a spa, places for water activities like fishing, kayaking, plus bicycling and walking trails.  I loved the trees there… these ancient gnarled trees with moss dripping down from them.

The moss was hiding in this picture.

As the bellhop got our gear loaded, I could see Dad was loaded for bear.  It looked like he was planning for one of our old Cleveland football trips.  Besides our suitcases, he had three boxes of booze, mixers, sodas and water.  I could see it was going to be a good trip.  And I figured I’d better take some notes because I might not remember much when it was done.

I realized immediately that bringing our own drinks was a brilliant idea.  When you checked in, they gave you a card with which you had to use to make any purchases on the grounds… services, meals, drinks, activities, etc.  When you’re not parting with actual cash, it doesn’t seem so bad when you sign everything to your room, no matter how overpriced.  Also, they factor in the 20% tip right into the bill (where applicable).  I didn’t mind that so much because the service was generally fantastic.  I’d have been tipping them 20% anyway.

We all got our own rooms at the hotel.  Pinky and I had a room on the first floor, in front of the pool.  My parents were just around the corner.  My sister and her husband were one floor over us.  My brother and his family were on 5.

All of our rooms had nice patios, upon which we could sit out and chill.

Sunrise as seen from our patio.

You know, they shouldn’t have such great restaurants in a place where you’re supposed to walk around in your bathing suit.  I felt like a beach ball the entire time I was there.  (Note: I gained 10 pounds in 5 days.  Now I have my work cut out for me to lose it again.)

But we had fun with it.  Our first meal there, Dad actually tried their designer “4^th of July Pina Colada” that was made to be red, white and blue.

This, from a man whose most adventurous drink endeavor in his whole life has been putting flavored vodka in his vodka and tonics.

Quote of the Trip, Part 1

My brother Ed: “The man that invented the cupcake was a genius!  You have a cup… and it’s filled with cake!” (Dramatic “arms out” gesture…)  (Yes, he was serious.)

I decided it was the breakfast buffets that did me in.  I usually don’t eat breakfast so any intake is more than I normally have.  But I mean, how many calories is it for a couple chunks of fruit?  Not that many?  OK, then what about the omelet from the omelet bar?  And the pancakes?  And croissant?  And sausage links and stacks of bacon?  All right, never mind.  I did have some fruit though; that was my nod to nutrition for the weekend.

We spent 3 of the 4 days at the pool.  Actually, there were two pools… the lower one house most of the little kids.  That left the upper pool (the one outside my room) for us and other random families and teens.  We played a lot of Monkey in the Middle.  Daniel made an excellent monkey.  His Uncle Scott said at one point, “Daniel, you’ve been a monkey for an awfully long time…”

To which I piped up, “11 years, to be exact.”

It wasn’t his fault.  His Uncles cheat.  OK, his Uncle Bluz cheats.  I told him my mantra point blank, “Age and treachery always beats youth and exuberance.”  I would put my hand on his shoulder or latch onto his waistband to keep him from jumping for the ball.  Or I’d sweep his legs out.  Or box him out of the way.  Or just toss him out of the way when the ball was coming.  Age and treachery, baby!  It’s a wonder he even played with us.

Throughout the weekend, we talked a lot about music.  He’s working on loading up his I-pod and is becoming very interested in AC/DC tunes.  This is right in Uncle Bluz’s wheelhouse.  I told him I have every song they’ve ever done and know most everything about them.  Big mistake.  He proceeded to ask me questions about everything… how old they are, who plays what, what happened to the old singer, how old were they when they started… Anyway, I wrote down a list of songs I thought he might like and told him to check out the videos on YouTube, then let me know which ones he wanted.  Boy plays his cards right, I can start melting those ear buds but good!

We spent the 4^th of July itself on the beach.  It was a beautiful clear day but the surf was really pounding.  My brother rented some boogie boards and he and his boys had at it. 

Sam bugs out while Daniel waits for the waves.

Well, Sam was a little more cautious.  He mostly played in the outer edge of the surf, but still could scoot along on the board for 20 feet or so.

Daniel and his Dad got tossed around pretty good.  I told Daniel, “You always have to respect the waves.  They have no conscience and no pity.  They don’t care if you just got pelted, they’re coming to dump on you again.”

Ed, Daniel and Uncle Scott get pounded.

But nothing bad happened in the surf… it was the beach that drew first blood.  My folks headed up to the room… Mom was going to rest; Dad was bringing back some beer.  Unfortunately, they didn’t think to take their shoes.  This was probably about 1:00 and the sun was blazing.  The walk across the sand softened them up and by the time they got onto the boardwalk, it was actually burning their feet.  Mom has trouble with her feet as it is and doesn’t walk very fast any more.

The Amelia Island Boardwalk of Death.

Just as Dad was about to pick Mom up and make a dash for it, two Spanish-looking women came up and sensing their distress, offered them their shoes.

“What about your feet?” my dad asked.

“We can walk a lot faster,” they answered.

And so the day was saved by a couple of Spanish angels.  You know, I hate to complain, given the lawsuit-happiness in this country, but the resort should really address that.  They could have some kind of sprayer to keep those boards cool, or maybe coat them in something that didn’t act like freakin’ Teflon.  Or, just post a sign that says, “Hey Dummy!  Go back and get your damned shoes!”

Speaking of other irritations, I want to know why, in an atmosphere that’s highly conducive to sunburn, would a resort provide soap that has bits of oatmeal in it?  For fuck’s sake, I’m getting toasted out there and you’re giving me sandpaper to wash up with??  WTF??

Anyway, Bluz Sister got some lotion on Mom’s feet and all was well.  But they stayed put for the rest of the day.  And they didn’t even have to miss out on the day’s entertainment.  There was an air show, right over the beach, that features five different kinds of planes doing various tricks.  Now I couldn’t name you one if my life depended on it, but there was a red bi-plane and a bomber and a little white one that only weighed 800 pounds (which is less than some passengers on my flight)  and a couple others.

The Red One.  I couldn’t get very good pictures because my zoom blows.

Bomber, courtesy of Bluz Sister-in-Law, who has a much better camera.

The folks could see the whole show from their patio and even hear the commentary over the PA.  It was especially cool when they had one of the pilots on the mic as he was doing all kinds of loops and turns.  Dude was from Alabama and was all, “Woooooooooo!”

Later on that night, they had fireworks, again, right from the beach.

I have no idea how they were able to make a Fireworks Blowfish.

But before that, we had a stellar dinner at the hotel and the servers brought out a special dessert for the distinguished Guests of Honor.

It may not look like much but it was fantastic… berries and 3 kinds of cheesecake.  Everyone got a taste.

Quote of the Trip Part 2

My mom was talking about how her mother didn’t like to wear underwear.  She and her sister, as girls, would tease Grandma about it, going, “Mom, how come you’re not wearing any underpants?”

Grandma replied, “If you wanted kissed, would you wear a veil?”

End of teasing, Mom said.

Amelia Island is also a hotbed of turtle activity.  Every night, you’d see these big turtles come walking up the pavement, on their way to their nests in the bushes.

First time we saw one; it looked like an old WWII army helmet laying on the walkway.  Then it started to move.  They must be pretty well conditioned to people… they didn’t deviate much out of their paths when kids came around.

"That helmet has feet!"

I hated to see Tuesday morning come.  For all the things Amelia Island Plantation offered, all I really did was hang out by the pool and ocean.  Every day was like, breakfast, pool/ocean, shower, gather for drinks in Mom and Dad’s room, go to dinner, gather for nightcaps, go to bed.  Repeat.  Sometimes lunch would replace breakfast.

But that’s what I like to do.  Like I’m going kayaking???  Not bloody likely.  I wanted to spend every moment I could with my family.  We so rarely all get together and when we do, it’s not usually for more than a football weekend.  So this was pretty cool.  I totally didn’t want to leave.

Would you?

Back in the Saddle

We're back from our Florida vacation long weekend and I can't say I'm really happy about it.  I mean, would you want to leave this?

I didn't think so.  But return, we did, leaving temps in the mid-80s to land in a sweltering Baltimore cooking at 105 degrees.

I'll have a full update tomorrow night but suffice to say, we had a great time.  The facility was great, the weather was beautiful and the company was grand.  The food and drink?  Merely exceptional!

I need another vacation day to rest up from all the resting up.

Happy 4th of July!

50 Years

D-fish will be going dark this weekend.  I’m hanging up a sign, “Gone Fishin’”.

OK, it would probably be more accurate to hang a sign that said, “Going to the beach and laying around for four days, playing in the surf and eating and drinking like a pig.”  But the other one’s easier.

We’re heading for Amelia Island Plantation, a resort just to the northeast of Jacksonville, right up in the far northeast corner of Florida.  The reason?  Besides the aforementioned laying, playing, eating and drinking?  July 4^th will be my parents’ 50^th wedding anniversary.  For this occasion, my parents, my brother and his family, my sister and her husband, and Pinky and I are all getting together for a beach weekend.  That’s all my folks really wanted; the whole family together in one place. 

Married only 5 years, and here we all are!

We’re heading out early Friday morning and returning Tuesday.  I’d like to say I plan on dropping a post or two… my nephew is bringing his laptop, but I don’t see a situation where that happens.  But rest assured I’ll provide a full recap upon my return.

I know what you’re saying… “Your parents really got married on the 4^th of July?”

Yep, they did.  Dad says they did it so that they’d always get their anniversary off work.  And you wonder where I get my “planning” compulsion…

They honeymooned up in Pennsylvania’s Pocono Mountains.  Mom says Dad spent the night throwing cherry bombs in the pool.  OK, that, I disown.  Also, Dad won the Bathing Beauty Contest, where all the newly minted husbands dressed in their wives’ clothing and had a pageant.  It’s true… I’ve seen the pictures.  Lucky for Dad, I don’t have a copy. 

My parents got married pretty young… they were 21 and 20, I believe.  Five years later, we three kids show up.  A couple years later, they moved our whole motley crew out of Pittsburgh.  That meant there was no more built in support system.

What the hell is Mom up to?  Probably just waiting to send our little asses to bed!

But that’s how we rolled.  We moved about the Midwest as my Dad saw fit, whenever he could get a job that bettered our family’s situation.  There were tough times, but nothing we kids noticed; we never wanted for anything. 

Dad told me a number of years ago that for our first Christmas in Chicago, the year after we left Pittsburgh, they got us second-hand ice skates because they couldn’t afford new ones.  Dad said he’d felt guilty about that, even now. 

I told him to forget about it!  I remember that Christmas and I was thrilled just to get the skates!  We never even noticed that they weren’t new. 

Mom and Dad are different as night and day and the influence of both has made me the dude I am now. 

Mom is the wordsmith… the teacher, the poet, the writer, the activist.  You can see the effects from my mom in every post I write.  (Even the ones about poop!  In fact, Mom gave me my first “dirty” jokes to tell.)  Mom was the Editor in Chief of every paper I ever wrote, which often led to some spirited disagreements.  Mom would point out every incomplete sentence, misspelling, clunky paragraph and incomplete thought.  I thought all of my papers could be turned in as is, always.  Remember, this was before PCs… if you had to revise; you had to retype… usually the entire goddamn paper.  Gah!

Eventually I began to learn what the hell I was doing.  Still, I remember once, long after I was on my own, I’d mailed Mom a story I’d written to see what she thought of it.  I called home about a week later and Dad answered.  I asked if Mom had read my story yet.  Dad said, “Yeah, but she’s out at the store now… she had to go get a new red pen.”

Dad… the ball-buster, the breadwinner, protector of the family, the arbiter of all disputes and layer down of the law.  Dad was the engineer… the numbers guy.  I didn’t get any of that, unfortunately, but my brother did.  But I have the need to have things make sense.  If something doesn’t work, I need to figure out why.

He didn’t like having to travel for his job, leaving his family alone, but he did what he had to do to provide.  And he was still there to coach our teams or throw a ball with us.  He taught me to seize an opportunity when it presented itself… to weigh the pros and cons and then do the right thing. 

He taught me to value self-sufficiency.  With his guidance, I paid for almost all of my college degree.  I decided to go to a local college and live at home to lower the bill, but I worked part time jobs all the way through and banked ¾ of every check.  I pulled it off right up to my last semester, when I came up about $500 short.  They wrote that last check for me, but still, they got off pretty lightly with my education.  And by the end of that summer, I moved out on my own, just because I thought it was the right thing to do.  (OK, I wanted to shack up with my girlfriend too, but still…)

I only wish we could get everyone there to Florida… everyone from my generation upon whom my parents had an impact.  They were like de facto parents to all my buddies… they were the grownups that kids came to see when they had a problem that they couldn’t bring to their own parents.  Around the neighborhood, they were known as “The Oldes”, or “The Elderlies”.  They were terms of endearment and said with affection.  They had to be… hell, I’m as old now as they were when my friends were calling them The Elderlies.  (Ouch!)

But this weekend, the family is getting together to have a Wild Rumpus and for the first time in quite a while, it’s not revolving around a football game.  In fact, we’ve all been to Amelia Island before, back in 2006, when the Steelers were playing Jacksonville.  But this time, it’s just us and the beach.  And 50 years of stellar memories.

Happy Annivesary, you old farts!  Now let’s play…

Same Hearings, Different Name

This cartoon surfaced during the Sotomayor hearings, but it is just as appropriate now.

Thanks again to First Door on the Left.

Award to the Wise

I realize that this is déjà vu all over again, but not only did I just receive another award, but earlier this month, I was given the same one: The Versatile Blogger Award.

Yeah, I’m so versatile, I’m writing the exact same post again…

Seriously, though, thank you to new blogger friend, Jennifer Juniper, who is currently vacationing in Switzerland Colorado.  Check out her blog; she’s funny and very cool.  I’m always amazed that anyone reads my crap, let alone give me some kind of award for it.

The funny thing is that the award graphic is different from the one I was originally given, so I feel absolutely no shame in posting them both, to bolster the illusion that I’m a decorated writer.  But also, since the graphic IS different, I also feel no shame in changing the rules.

I still don’t like passing it on, which gets me out of having to choose between so many writing friends.  And instead of providing 7 tidbits about me (which I just did a month ago and there are only so many tidbits to go around), I thought I’d drop 7 links to posts I did long before you ever came around.  Can you say “Cheap post?”

Feb 20, 2009: Is That a Towel in your Pants, Or are You Just Glad to See Me?  A public stunt at work peters out.  I also recall a similar prank from college.

Feb 23. 2009:  Bluz’ Rules of Vegetables.  One of my all-time favorites, which spells out my feeling on… gulp… vegetables.

March 10, 2009: Obama 3 Dogma 0.  This is one of my first political rants that, if you know my most of my other work, should be celebrated for its brevity.

March 31, 2009: I the Jury.  I drew jury duty last year and blogged the whole thing.  Welcome to “Justice: Baltimore Style”.

April 30, 2009: A Word From our Sponsor:  “You’re Stupid.”  My media courses in college pay off here in this rant about TV advertising and what advertisers must think of us.

May 10, 2009: Musical Memory Lane.  You know how certain songs immediately take you to some other time and place?  This post is about that.

May 25, 2009: Goodbye Old Friend.  When Yours Truly turns in his old reliable TV for a shiny new HDTV, he can’t help but wax nostalgic about the journey they’d taken together.

These are some of my favorite posts that no one knows about.  I hope you know about them soon.  And please feel free to comment… it’s never too late to tell me I’m full of shit!

Even More Odd Bits - The Sequel

My brother sent me a YouTube video the other day, that showed the reactions of various people gathered in bars and such across the country, to the game winning goal the Americans scored in their World Cup game against Algeria.

I’d intended to watch the next game the US played, Saturday at 2:30, but watching the video made me think that maybe I should go out to see it, instead of sitting at home by myself.  Why not make it an event?

So I went down to my local watering hole, Jilly’s, where I usually go whenever the Steelers aren’t on local TV.  I thought the place would be packed, but I thought wrong.  I sat down on an empty side of the bar, but soon moved to an empty chair on the other side.  I could see a young couple sitting there… the girl had a little American flag with her.  I figured these people would be fun and might even know something about soccer.

I’m not really a soccer fan… they didn’t have youth soccer when I was a kid… or if they did, it was just a haven for kids that weren’t coordinated enough to hit a baseball.  So I don’t really know anything about it, but I know that the World Cup is a very big deal.  I figure it’s like watching the Olympics… I don’t know anything about the finer points of the luge, but I know enough to root loudly for the U.S.A.

It turns out that my young friends both played soccer, so they helped me a great deal with the rules.  (Besides “kick the ball in the net.”  I get that part.)

In talking about the food at Jilly’s, I mentioned that I go there any time “my team” in football isn’t on local TV.  I didn’t want to here a bunch of shit from Ravens fans about Ben Roethlisberger, I just wanted to watch the soccer game, so that’s why I didn’t volunteer my affiliation.  But of course, they asked, so I had to answer.

When I said, “The Steelers,” their eyes lit up like Christmas trees…

“Oh my God, we just moved here from Harrisburg!” 

They were fans of both the Steelers and the Penguins.  Like I always say, “we’re everywhere.” 

The USA may have lost the game in agonizing fashion, but I now have 2 new friends to watch the game with when I have to venture outside my living room to see my Steelers.

Another Night at the Yard

Sitcom Kelly and I went to see the Orioles again on Thursday night.  We sat in the same seats we were in the last time we went; 10 rows behind home plate.  Only this time, there was no rain.  Remember when I said the last time, there would be nights when we wished it was 50 and drizzling?  This was one of those nights.  The high temperature Thursday was in the high 90s.

Actually, we kind of lucked out.  We weren’t in the sun at all and there was some air moving.  Also, it was Adam Jones Mini-Bobblehead Night.

Perhaps if the O’s were doing better, they could afford a regular-sized bobblehead giveaway.  Although I may have discovered a reason for their under-whelming season… their centerfielder is playing in orthopedic shoes.

The second I took it out of the box, it came apart, revealing the unusual footwear.  I guess the Orioles can’t afford high quality glue, either.

Anyway, we had a good time, and the Orioles actually came from 3 runs down to win 11-5.  It’s a start, but still a long way out of the basement.

McCrystal Balls

I’m by no means any kind of military expert or strategist, but you’d have to think that on the first day of “Generals School,” someone would come in there and say, “Hey, don’t disparage the Commander In Fucking Chief to god-damned Rolling Stone Magazine!”

What the hell was he thinking, even allowing access?  Was he trying to get the hell out of that useless hellhole with its unsolvable problems?  Maybe he was just crazy like a fox.

It’s not like he was a favorite in the White House in the first place after his attempts to publicly box the President into committing more troops for a longer time period, back when Obama was trying to reach a decision on a course of action.

And I’m still glad we have a President that gathers information, seeks opinions and formulates a strategy based on all information at hand, as opposed to one that thinks with his nutsack and goes with his gut.  It’s EXACTLY what we need in the White House.

I subscribed to Rolling Stone for years, up until around 2000.  I was hitting a bit of magazine overload and had to cut down some.  Once I was out of the music business, I really didn’t need Rolling Stone around as much.  All they seemed to be doing was covering bands I either didn’t like or couldn’t relate to.  Or they’d be all over some old dinosaur bands I never liked in the first place.

I almost cancelled my subscription on them a couple times, but then they’d come out with some dazzling piece of reporting on our eroding civil rights, reproductive freedoms or the rampant political hackery going on, so I’d grant them a reprieve and re-up.

Thank Heaven for Little Girls

I originally wanted to put this bit in my last post but after further consideration, realized that it didn’t belong in with the tales of vasectomies, 9-way sex parties and lottery extravagances.

Have you ever noticed how little girls move around the room?  I noticed this when I was back in Ohio and my buddy’s granddaughter was visiting.

She didn’t exactly skip and didn’t exactly run… she would just kind of “flit” from place to place, like a butterfly would do.  It was kind of a cross between skipping and prancing. 

John’s granddaughter Jaidyn (L) and the neighbor girl whose name I can’t recall.

When not munching on popcorn, these two flitted all about the garage and front yard.  I’ve seen the same thing with my other buddy’s daughters as well, back when they were little.  Is it just an Ohio thing, or do all little girls “flit”?

Political Cartoon of the Moment

Again, lovingly pilfered from The First Door on the Left.

Odd Bits - Vacation Leftovers Edition

I still have some random ideas on scraps of paper left over from my trip back to Ohio, so in an effort to empty my mental in-box, as well as clean off my desk, I thought I’d spill them out all over you today construct another informative “Odd Bits” post. 

The Deferens Rests

I may be the oddest friend ever.  You know how sometimes when old buddies get together; they come up with some kind of group bonding activity?  Like getting tattoos, or taking a road trip, or building some kind of large leisure equipment?  Guess what I suggested.

Bluz:  Hey have you guys ever thought about getting vasectomies?  What if we all went and got vasectomies together?

The Guys:    Um, you go ahead… We’re good right here.

I’ve been thinking about it a lot recently.  I’ve looked up some reputable snippers on line, talked to some people that have had it done, and practiced saying “vas deferens…” Still, I don’t react well to even the thought of something happening to The Boys.  (Or as nephew Sammy would say:

My dad had it done ages ago when we were still very young, probably right after going Christmas shopping for his three kids.  He told me they had to put the anesthetic needle right smack into the ballular material.  The mere thought of that made me drop to the floor and curl up like a boiled shrimp.

I figure that surely the state of medicine has advanced enough that such drastic measures would no longer be needed.  At work, I spoke with someone that just had it done last year and asked about how they numb it.  (And no, they don’t have a nurse go down there and go “num num num num…”)

Unfortunately, he told me, they still stick the needle straight into the nards.  Next thing you know, I’m all…

Then as I banged my head on the underside of the desk and the world swam in and out of focus, I realized it might be better if they just put me under general anesthesia. 

But back to my buddies...  I figured if I could get some fraternal support going, I might be able to go through with the whole long, hard ordeal.

One of them had a perfect alibi… his wife has already had a hysterectomy.  As long as he was a good boy, he had no worries.

But the other one… my buddy Rik… Shit, he ought to be the Poster Boy for vasectomy.  When you look up “cocksman” in the dictionary, they show you his picture.  He should have jumped at the opportunity to no longer risk being Rikky Appleseed.

Brilliant Segue

Aside from spawning all over town, Rik’s other obsession is hitting a major lottery.  He has it all worked out.  First he’d set up his kids.  Then John and I can quit our jobs and become his posse.  John will be in charge of arranging hunting and fishing trips, and supervising the grill.  My job would be organizing the schedule and acquiring tickets for all the major sporting events.  (It’s funny how many things you can get tickets for once money is no object.) 

We would both take turns in handling money requests from charities and estranged family members.  Call it the Dr. No detail.

I also suggested that Rik appoint me as his biographer.  Dude has lived more sex stories than I could ever conceive of.  In fact, as we were driving to Cincinnati, he reminded us of the time he took part in a “9-way.”

Yes, you read that right… a “9-way.”  It was an intimate crowd consisting of him, his buddy, and 7 girls.   See, THIS is why he should have went for the vasectomy idea… This kind of shit just doesn’t happen to regular people.  This isn’t real life, it’s Hef’s softball team.

He and the other guy had to have rules though… they had to stay within sight of each other at all times, so that nothing accidentally got slipped somewhere it wasn’t supposed to go. 

Personally, I’d find it counter-productive to see some sweaty, hairy guy going at it five feet away from me… I’d have to come up with another way of detecting unsafe proximity… perhaps wearing bells, like the ones people put on their cats to warn the birds.  I know it would probably sound like Santa was coming… Someone would be, that’s for sure…

Anyway, once you throw a zillion dollars into the mix, you know the stories would be legendary and they’d need to be documented.  I even have the title picked out: “Memoirs of a Feral Bachelor”. 

Of course, at that point I’d have to insist that he get the vasectomy.  With that kind of cash in the balance, he’d be hearing from paternity lawyers like they were Jehovah’s Witnesses.  He’d need his own express window at the DNA Lab and a Frequent Boner Card.

With that in mind, I’ll leave you with the words of Chicago comic, “Uncle’ Larry Reeb:

“I don’t have any kids, I got a vasectomy.  It happened on a Saturday at Toys R Us.  All these kids were running around screaming, I took out the pocketknife, did it myself.  You ever been to Toys R Us on a Saturday?  They ought to have a bar at Toys R Us.”