Larry’s Lollygaggings Volume 2, Number 2 19 November 2009
Just thinking about…routines and randomness
I think being spontaneous is one of the true joys of living. You know how special the smallest tilt or tweak to your routine can be in making a bad day good or a good day great. Like coming home with flowers when it’s just any old Wednesday, waking up one morning and telling the kids you are taking them to Disney World, or answering the Wal-Mart gal’s “How are you?” with a “Super-dee-dooper!” that makes her giggle. It is what helps spice the otherwise mundane days that we all too often muddle through.
But (my father always said “beware of the ‘buts’; what comes after is the reality”), sometimes the routine things make me wonder.
Why is the seemingly simple routine of a checkout line so difficult? Why is it that the express line at Wholesale Freddy’s Food-O-Rama for 12 items or less? I can’t tell you how many times I put back two things because the lady behind me ratted me out and I was afraid they’d make me return my Happy Dappy Customer Card or something. And why isn’t it 11 items? We all know why not 13. No one would dare buy 13 items for fear of bad luck. Kinda like how there is no 13th floor in a hotel. Do you think those people on the 14th floor are really fooled into a sense of security? And for that matter, if there was a checkout line for 666 items or less and you went on it with 667, would you go to Hell? See what goes through my mind when I’m waiting to restock on the necessities that I save so much money on by going to the wholesaler’s club?
Who decided that the senior citizen’s discount at Zippy Mart starts at 62? Or 65 at The Rusty Buddah Asian Seafood House? It’s only 55 at Plastic Bag Mart. I don’t know how it will be when I’m at those senior ages. But with it coming up faster than my lunch after reading the health department bacterial culture report at a Chuck E. Cheese’s, I hope I can remember what age is what discount at what place. As it is, I already have trouble figuring out what my own kids’ names are – just come over here…YOU!
What about the random way people spell? There must be 100 spellings for ‘omelet’.
Or the random way people speak? No one thinks of what words mean anymore. It seems that every time I go to the out, I hear someone say add some senseless words like “where are the cracker jacks?”… “they were around the corner yet.” I guess the randomization of language has invaded our lives. We should have been warned when Missing Persons sang ‘What are words for?’. (On a related note, it is Cracker Jack. Not Jacks. That is a game, not a snack.)
Hey, maybe I liked the thrill of surprise! Now, automation has taken the randomness out of my life. My car is idiot-proof so I won’t lock the keys in it, my phone dials people by name so I can’t call my parents when I am at using any phone other than my own, my toaster won’t let me burn my bagel…MAYBE I LIKE IT THAT WAY! I’m so frustrated at organization in my life that I had to buy a circa-1972 toaster on ebay from ColdWarEraSurplus.com just so I could have a well done, crunchy poptart. Does anyone have any idea what the shipping charge is from bloc Vladbekistan?
It seems the only spontaneity left in my life is finding out if that my shopping cart is the one with one crippled wheel that twists and screeches and binds up when pushed. Of course, this wheel problem only starts when you are as far away from the front of the store as possible. Too far to go back, we’ve all thought about stealing Old Lady McGurtie’s cart when she was thump-testing the melons. I know. I know. The bad carts look just like the good ones – mixed in so well, they are impossible to pick out. But coming down the aisle, I’m as easy to spot as Opie Griffith juggling flaming chainsaws in a Carmen Miranda hat on a solid gold unicycle playing the electric guitar in Duke Ellington’s Band.
Anyway, looks like I finally finished the 55 gallon industrial drum of sauerkraut that I bought at Costco to save 5 cents in 1987. It took years of sauerkraut pancakes and sauerkraut parmigiana to do it. Maybe I’ll surprise the kids with a new supply.
And, by the way, what do you do when the public bathroom sink is so dirty that you don’t want to wash your hands?...just thinking.
If you think writing a blog about age is difficult, you should only know how long I had to stare at the word ‘ageing’ to figure out if it was spelled with the ‘e’ or not.I’m still not sure which is right, so I just went for the extra letter…hey, it’s free!
Anyway, I am currently on a plane.This is seemingly the only time when I have enough of a stretch of uninterrupted peace to write a blog.
I am finishing spending a few days away with my oldest son, Sam, and his friend, Max.They are great kids.Smart.Respectful.Intelligent.Oh, and fourteen years old.
This trip taught me a few things that I either never learned, didn’t realize, or failed to experience when I was that age.Some things are so strange that I may have to go check the replay of my life to see if I ever WAS 14!
For example, what did I ever do without text messaging?I can only assume that I had to converse with the people around me.There were a number of times where one of the boys would tell the other to read the message that he JUST SENT TO THE OTHER!!!I am amazed even reading that!I am now intimately familiar with the crown of their heads from looking at them looking down all day.I guess this is what Andre’ The Giant felt like.(I notice I use a lot of wrestler references in my blogs…what’s up with that?)Oh, yeah, in 1980 at 14, we wrote notes and then waited six class periods to pass them to our girlfriend.Most of my relationships didn’t last a full six periods.Oh, well.I think I still have all the old notes.
Regarding ages…I am not sure at what age males become aware that there is such a thing as a floor mat and it should be laid down OUTSIDE the shower to be stepped on while drying off, but apparently it is older than fourteen.
Likewise, I learned that the age at which we y-chromosomed Cretans learn how desirable Brazilian women are is less than 14.After the boys got a glimpse of the Rio Teenie-Bopper Crowd, they followed them around with more interest than Brad and Angelina at an African orphanage.I kept wondering if either they got the Evelyn Woods/Portugese Version of Rosetta Stone sent by FedEx, or there was some type of universally understood language called grunting.While these girls were probably thinking “what the heck are they saying” in Portugese while the boys were thinking” what the heck are they saying” in English.On top of that, they thought they had scored an immense international coup after getting a smile and an illegible email address.I guess they can always text them a smiley face emoticon thingie.
I wonder why is it that now that I am twice as old as when I was first legal to drink, I have to drink half as much to get the same results?
Another thing.At some age, men stop listening.To everyone and everything.Just stop.I don’t know when.I don’t know why.And this is not random.We don’t listen to our wives, our kids, our friends, the waitress, the safety talk on the plane, the toll-taker, the boss, the TV, the movies.Come on!How ridiculous is it that we are AT A MOVIE and have to ask our wives what the character just said?There is nothing else going on there!No microwave timer going off, no dog asking to be walked, no doorbell ringing.Just listen, will you guys?!?As a gender, there is some age where we males have the collective attention span of a gnat.I guess I’ll ask my wise old dad if how I’m acting at my age is ridiculous.But he probably won’t pay attention.
This is kind of like my favorite Winnie-the-Pooh scenario where our humble bear is awoken by Rabbit after snoozing during an instructional speech.He tells Rabbit that he couldn’t hear the whole talk because he got fluff in his ear and asks if Rabbit could repeat himself.“From what point?”asks Rabbit.“Well, from the point that the fluff got stuck in my ear, of course”, replies Pooh.
That proves that Pooh is a male.I’m just not sure how old.
It took me 40 years, but I am finally at peace with the fact that I AM MY FATHER.There.I said it.It’s out there in the world.That is my admission to everyone that what I swore never would happen has indeed happened.Now everyone knows.Except my wife, Martha.If you see her, please don’t mention it.
What I am especially referring to is my life of listening to Dad’s descriptions about what life was like when he was a kid and how ‘now-a-days’ (which is now then-a-days) was rotten.I knew that everything was getting better.He knew everything was getting worse.I think neither of us was right – everything is getting, well, different.
I think so so so much now IS better.Not everything, but a lot.Then, I went on a run with the wonderful Josh Nemzer.While running up the Newton Hills on the Boston Marathon Course, we stumbled on a discussion about the state of our country’s civility, or lackthereof, today and it got me thinking.So, I want to point out some of my main concerns regarding where civility in our world is (the gutter) and where it is going (the sewer).
First up – technology.Ahhh, the wonders of technology.Technology is like a child.When taken care of with care and concern it makes life better.When ab-used and taken for granted – look out!For example; it wasn’t long ago that if you were out and about and needed to make a call, you had to find a phone booth and have a dime.
**NOTE:if you are unfamiliar with the term phone booth or have never used cash for any purchase, there will be a tutoring session that covers that information as well as trivial wonders of the past such as portable radios, VHS & Betamax tapes, leaded gasoline, typewriters, passing notes in class, cooking in ovens, and afterschool, unscheduled, random, unsanctioned, choose-up-sides, no referees, honest to G-d ‘pick-up’ basketball games.
Now, we complain like second-graders when recess is cancelled ‘due to muddy playground’ if we have bad cell coverage, a dropped call, or poor reception.When I was 21, not enough bars meant something completely different than it does today.So here we are, having evolved to the point of being irate because we are inconvenienced and unable to find out, while travelling at 75 miles per hour in Mumbledeegook, Montana, exactly what lamppost my buddy is standing under for our meeting.I HATE being inconvenienced regarding the things I have become so comfortable taking for granted (read that line again…I love it).That reminds me of my wife.But that is for another blog.I can hardly remember what it was like to arrange a meeting time and place, describe what you were wearing and actually LOOK for the person instead of talking to them on the phone until you are actually touching noses before you hang up.On that note, did you ever notice how when that happens, you still say goodbye even though you immediately follow it with a handshake hello?
These phones can do everything!I can’t.But the phone, when in the careful hands of a properly trained, experienced 8 year old, can seemingly do it all.I forget to zip my fly and 8 seconds later it’s on YouTube with a link to a homepage of me adjusting wedgies!What’s more is that they are each rated and commented on in a forum.By the time I finish writing this blog, there will be a Larry Wedgie Fan Club on Facebook.
There was a time when I could remember every phone number of every person I met.Now that I have speed dialing, auto dialing, picture dialing, and voice recognition, I don’t NEED to remember any numbers.So I CAN’T remember any numbers!Last month I lost my phone and couldn’t even recall enough information to call my parents!People ask me how old I am and I have to check my PDA!If I only knew the auto-encrypted secret password key that I created so my kids couldn’t see adult things on my computer I might be able to access that vital statistic.But, lo, they are the only ones who can recall what the passwords are so I can watch adult things on my computer.You know it’s getting out of hand when I need my dog’s help to put my mother on hold so I can receive a fax while speeding on I-95.
People have lost their sense of civility through texting and email.It is so terrible that we can’t even talk anymore.The lost art of conversing.Soon, universities across our great country will offer courses or even major fields of study in human recognition and simple communication.As a society, we’ve stopped meeting.Then stopped calling.Then stopped using complete words in our text messaging.Punctuation?Are you kidding?My daughter couldn’t understand why she got essay points off in school for writing a 250 word essay without any vowels and thought starting her concluding paragraph with IMHO was completely proper.(IMHO=In My Humble Opinion for all you uncultured swine that have not seen Legally Blonde on Broadway).
So, we don’t talk to our friends or family anymore.And strangers?On an elevator?On a plane?On a train?Oh, come on! Forget it, Sam I Am.We ignore the airplane safety talk.I’d love to see an emergency where the flight attendant won’t help you because you ignored her schpeil about how to open the seatbelt.(I spell checked ‘schpeil’ and ‘schlemiel’ was the only thing that came up.Holy Laverne & Shirley!)
We’ve even lost our basic form of outgoingness (is that a word?)…people don’t wear watches anymore.They use their cell phone to get the time.So, since nobody, even the homeless, is without a cell phone, we don’t even talk to strangers to ask the time.I used to like giving the time and meeting someone new.A little, tiny good deed that made me feel like I helped someone in some way.Oh, well.Another smack in the head for civility.
Speaking of phones, here is a true story.One of my favorites.
A few years ago, my brother, Jan, and his teenage daughters returned from a vacation and could not find where they had left the cordless phone in the house.Since it was left off of the cradle, it had a dead battery and they could not use the dummy-finder-beepie-beepie button on the base.So, they searched.And searched.They looked for an hour, turning over pillows and cushions, looking under and over everything in the house.After the futile hour passed, my 14 year old niece, Bethanie said she had a great idea for an invention.“Dad, they should make a string that goes from the phone to the base.That way, it would never get lost!”“Yes.” Jan said, “They used to have that.They called it a PHONE!”
While I’m on cordless phones; in my house, the only place they are certain NOT to be, is on the charger.We have 38 phones at home and none are charged.I bet right now they are all dead and sitting next to the charger instead of in it.Trust me, don’t take that bet.You can’t find a seat on a couch in my house without sitting on a receiver.My butt had dialed 911 more times than Brittany Spear’s housekeeper.When I hear a ring in my house, I am trained to stand and run AWAY from the chargers to find the phones since running towards them only entices frustration.
On the same note, we don’t ask for directions.We use Mapquest or a GPS.I now have to ignore the lady on the GPS box since she has replaced Martha in giving me directions.All I need now is a more realistic one that says, “DING.I told you so.DING.You should have turned back there.DING.Now you can figure it out by yourself.DING.I’m just going to shut myself off.DING.In one mile, prepare to drop dead, Mr. Knowitall.”
Forget about the Brooklyn Voice or Jersey Attitude option.
Getting back to the after school games, we used to get off the bus, grab our bat, glove and assorted balls, and run to Steven Hirschberger’s house so we would be there before teams were picked.He had the biggest yard.You would bring everything because nobody knew what we would play that day.It was usually whatever the season was at that time, but we might play anything…or everything!The only constant was that the games would last until dark.Then dinner, homework and bed.
Now, my kids have lives choreographed with standards so exacting that their days look more like a Bob Fosse production of All That Jazz than the Peanuts cartoon that my childhood actually paralleled.They have play ‘dates’ where the collection of participants and order of activities is coordinated like the engineering and building of the Maginot Line.Then there is class after class, league upon league, lessons on top of lessons.Martha never leaves a 5 mile radius from our house, but still manages to put in 100 miles of driving every day.Sam does homework in the car while waiting for a Emily’s Oriental Ribbon Curling Class to be through.Brian changes into proper Wii video gear during Sam’s Puberty Training Classes at the YMCA.Shortly thereafter, Emily has dinner on the hood of the car while Brian attends orientation for the All-Star Travelling Lego Building Club.No wonder why I find Martha having long, meaningful conversations with her coffee mug.Her afternoons are the mental equivalent of Fred Flintstone’s closet.
This lack of creating games, rules and teams has made us quite anti-social.We are a society void of understanding and appreciating body language, voice inflection and emotion.We are forcing and being forced to assume what the other person meant when they sent that text, email, etc. without the option of simply asking what in the world they really meant when they said such-and-such.
Actually, it goes so much further than that.So far that there are actually websites where you can use a one-time email address that is deactivated forever after your one faceless use.That way, weenies everywhere can hide while they make comments about others that are cowardly, untrue, and non-debatable!Not that I’m taking this one personally, but I do NOT chew like a cow and I absolutely DID wear blue socks and black pants last week on purpose.I was making a point, mrshelpfulgal@aol.com!
All of this lack of face time causes our society to think the following things are not only acceptable, but courteous, behavior.
-The clerk yelling for the next customer when I am the only doshgarm person in the bakery.
-Forcing me to drag my kid up to the register for ID proof so I can have the honor of buying an overpriced under 10 wacky meal filled with trans fat high fructose bleeeech when all he really wants is the toy.(The toy is healthier to eat than the food.)
-Then, I have to pass some six point background check before they will accept my signature as being my signature.Seems to me that if I wanted to commit fraud, I’d do it for something heartier that a Filet-o-Fish sandwich.
-We talk on the phone while ordering and mouth our detailed wants and needs to the counterperson as though they were lip-sync-ologists.It’s like the whole world is Milli Vanilli!And seriously, what is so important about your call that it can’t be put on hold for 12 seconds while you map out your size and style of slushie?Are you relaying the formula for cold fission to Mrs. Pactwa’s Odyssey of the Mind Team?
-Responding to my “Thank you” with an “uh-huh”.And an uninspired “uh-huh” at that!At least sometimes I get some vocal inflection…as though that was being courteous.It’s not.
-Clerks asking “how are you today” with a level of enthusiasm on par with a comatose carrot.So uninspired are they, that when I answer anything other than “fine”, like “superdeedooper”, I get a look more puzzled than that of seeing Jimmy Swaggart at Miss Lily’s Jiggle-a-Rama.Uh, scratch that last reference.It’s already been done.
-I hold the door to be nice at the mall and the people entering ignore me as though I was Ralph the doorman on The Jeffersons and it was my turn to hold the thing opened for half of the visitor’s to Macy’s that day.Even Lerch got a thank you from Gomez Addams when he did the work.
Alas, like Styx said in the song Mr. Roboto…The problem’s plain to see. Too much technology.Machines to save our lives.Machines de-humanize.
Maybe when it comes to learning civility, we can all agree like we did back on Steven Hirschberger’s back yard.We’ll have a ‘do-over’.
I’m going out to ask the first person I see for the time.
And one more thing… Why do we talk about $2.49 per gallon gas like it’s the best deal ever?
Larry’s Lollygaggings Volume I, Number 3 25 July 2008
Just thinking about…Air Travel
Apologies to my Homeland Security Princess Debbie for this one…
Traveling on (or is it IN ?) a plane is exciting.It is.For everyone.However; different ages are excited for different reasons.As a kid, I used to love every second.Whether it was walking on to see where my very own seat was or my own little tray table and magazine or how the food trays and utensils fit so neatly on each other or looking out the window through the cloud of cigarette smoke in the plane (non-smoking started the row BEHIND us) as we taxied in to see where at the gate my Grandma and Grandpa were so they could kiss me the second we got off the plane.Ahhh, the good old days of innocence and purity.Go get a tissue.Take a breath.I’ll wait.
Welcome back.
I now love flying for other reasons.Now, I know what you are thinking…I’ve really lost my mind with that line.Hey, I fly more than most people.So, whatever your collective complaints are, I get them ALL – more often – and to a greater measure.I now actually look forward to – even embrace – the things we go through for the pleasure of air travel.
Recently, in Denver, I was strip-searched because of suspicious contraband in my carryon bag.Those guys are scarred for life at that sight of me stripping.Yes, after dressing and undressing 4 times that morning, they found a can of air used to clean my camera lens in my camera bag.Great-googly-moogly!What in the name of Lindbergh is THAT doing in THERE?So, after consulting with the TSA Grand Poobah, they decided that it was a hazard to have AIR on the plane.I can’t win.I just exhaled and forfeited the can of air to the guy who before September 11, 2001 would have been asking if I wanted fries with that.Where did they get these TSA agents from, anyway?I think they couldn’t make it at the DMV.Too nasty for that place.Not fast enough.Conversation went something like, “Hey, Matilda, she can’t work here any more.Get her a TSA application.”I just saw her saying there wasn’t enough paperwork and the proper signatures were missing.Problem is, she was saying it to her reflection in the restroom mirror!”I never actually used the canned air, anyway.I just thought it made it look like I knew what I was doing when I took pictures.They always take away stuff you don’t really need.But we still freak out, like there are no toenail clippers or avocado zit cream Portland.I also have to get dressed and undressed seven times before breakfast just to have the privilege of sitting so close to the people next to me that when I try to scratch my ear, I am forced instead to tickle the mustache of the guy next to me.To make matters worse, it was a lady!There are so many levels of security that what used to be a drop off virtually next to the gate is now a hike longer than the commercial breaks during Deal or No Deal.They actually have moving walkways.Excuse me, but if it is a WALKway, why isn’t anyone walking?
Let’s see how things have changed.
Walking on to see my assigned seat?I fly Southwest Airlines.Nowadays, you need to arrive at the airport early to get a good seat.Very early.Very, VERY early!How early?Let’s just say that you are already late for your next flight.So, after getting to the airport so prematurely that I bring a cot, a 6 way power strip surge suppressor to set up (near an outlet, of course) and my High School Musical 2 pillow.Don’t start with the ‘that is so immature’ stuff - I LOVE Zac Ephram and don’t care how much they raise the prices of Tiger Beat and Seventeen Magazines, I’m buying! I cuddle up with the other homeless-looking-travelers and we share laptop battery charger splitters and read old, discarded newspapers – even if they are written in Sanskrit.I then wait in the corral to try for a coveted early spot on the seating line.Now, really, does anyone actually think that they are going to sit on a plane and have the seat next to them go untaken when the door is finally closed?Seriously, those people are more out of touch with reality than the local Hershey, PA Weight Watchers Counselor enthusiastically preparing for her weigh-in meeting the day after Thanksgiving.The number of flights are being cut down right, left, and center faster than Sheik Machmood El-Quazi Habdiji raises the price of gasoline at my local Exxon gas station.Because of that, planes are so overcrowded that last week I was seated in 52-L – THE TOILET!At first, I thought it might be OK.At least I had a seat.But if you think getting up to let the guy next to you go stretch his legs is bothersome, how ‘bout having to give up my seat every 2 minutes because someone drank too much water.Oh well, at least the seat stayed warm.
I usually get seated early, and then begin wildly hacking and sneezing while I peruse a pamphlet full of papers that say ‘Communicable Disease Test Results’ on the outside to avoid someone sitting next to me.It usually works well, but ever so often it just attracts some other hacking sneezer to sit next to me that pulls out the same papers.Uh-oh!If I’m not on early, I have the dreaded task of asking some weirdo (aren’t they all) if the seat is taken.You know, by anything other than his briefcase, family sized bag of Combos, or collection of PC Weekly Magazines.With almost 100% certainty, I will get a worse response than if I were on Broad Street in Philly trying to hock a buck washing car windows.I feel as unwelcomed as a Jehovah’s Witness going door to door in Boca Raton at the Sunset Gardens Senior Village.
I also play the ‘Do-be-do’ game.Taken from an idea in a Robert Fulgham book, when I am asked what I do for a living, I pretend to be something exciting.In the past, I’ve purported to be a hand model, the guy who creates the new crayon color names for Crayola, chassis engineer for the Oscar Meyer Weinermobile, and Chief of Security for the Oprah Winfrey Show.It is fun, and you should hear the stories I tell!
Little tray table and magazine?The tables are useless since even without them being in the ‘down position’ (‘down position’ is flight attendant talk for ‘down’), I have my knees so far into the back of the guy in front of me that after 2 hours, I can bill him for a Chiropractic Adjustment.All you get now is some crummy issue of “FillInTheCatchyFlyingWordHere” that by the third day of the month it has been picked over more than the peel and eat shrimp area at Golden Corral Seafood Night after the Goody’s 400 Nascar Race has let out in Talladega, Alabama.And who are these people who do the entire Sudoku puzzle without having any idea how the puzzle works?Is everyone that clouded or is it only the ones that sit in my seat before I do?
Next come the food trays and utensils.You used to look at the ticket to see if it was a meal or a snack.Now, a flight attendant throws me a bag of peanuts like I’m Jumbolina, the Ringling Brothers Elephant.And to make it worse, as though that is possible, the bag is sealed with that slick, shiny stuff that can only by a superhero.I think that last month, at 3 am, I saw Magnus Lars Yurgenson fail twice at the airline-peanut-bag-opening competition during The World’s Strongest Man competition in Vienna on ESPN-9.He couldn’t do it, but he could rip a phonebook in thirds.By the way, bald people must not get a lot of sleep.The shows at 3 am are all about hair replacement and growing stuff.Please don’t confuse them with the 10 am show-watchers.The only shows on at that time are Judge Judy, Judge Joe, Judge Hatchett, Judge Alex!!!Is that convict time?Where have you gone, Joe Wapner?
And yes, people used to smoke in the plane.Good choice – being trapped in a pressurized tube for hours and hours with cigs, cigars,hookah pipes, you name it.And there was no unique smoker’scompartment, lounge, wall, half wall, or curtain; the only thing that separated them from the non-smokers was hope.And there wasn’t much of that.My, how things have changed.
Gradma and Grandpa at the gate?Oh, forget that!Last month, I jumped out at the curbside, my wife walked around to give me a peck goodbye, and not only was the car ticketed and towed, they put a metal parking boot on my shoe and it took $324 to have it removed.I had to pay the fine because there is no way that thing would have passed security.To make matters worse, if that is possible, while I was applying for a loan so I could buy a bag of overpriced trail mix, my baggage was 17 inches beyond my reach, so the bomb squad blew it up.I would use cash, but now I have to pay extra for everything on the plane ride.They are nickel-and-diming us to death!Pay extra for a piece of luggage, a second, a third, an overweight bag, an oversized bag, a beer, some wine, a shot, a cup of water, a blanket, a pillow, a movie, some music, a good seat, a better seat, the best seat.What’s next?Standing Room Only Flights?Surcharge if we use more gas than expected?Fees for using the restroom?“Oh, sir, a number 2 – that’s gonna cost you, plus a per-square toilet paper charge”.Suffice it to say it was a rough morning.
All of this throwback thinking reminds me of when, while driving in the family minivan, my kids asked if I liked watching SpongeBob DVDs when I was a kid.Do you realize how many steps removed these kids are from what my reality was.I haven’t the heart to tell them how three of us slept lengthways in the back of a 1976 Toyota Corolla the entire way to Fort Lauderdale with my parents and 2 dogs!Videos?The only entertainment we had was fighting with my brothers - and I think my Dad would have yelled for us to stop more often if our screaming didn’t help keep him awake.Game Boys?PSPs?It was more likely a ‘noogie the little brother’ or a ‘don’t blink/staring’ contest that kept us occupied.We were so stir crazy by the time we got to our destination, we would do anything to see who was first to the pamphlet holder collection in the hotel lobby.Oooooohhhh, Luray Caverns, The Stuckey’s Museums of Spoons, and Pedro at South of The Border!
And finally, the race to turn on phone race after landing.Every junior executive checking back with the office to make sure the deal went through and his meeting is still on.I feel like redheaded step child if there are no calls for me after having the phone off for 2 hours.Looks like a bunch of meth addicts when the clinic nurse comes to dispense the daily hits.
And one more thing…do they have classes to TEACH the pilots that voice that they use?
Larry’s Lollygaggings Volume I, Number 2 26 June 2008
Just thinking about…Food
I used to think a serving size was one package.Regardless of size, one package was one serving.Now, thanks to the NUTRITION BOX, I know that my tiny bag of trail mix has 16 servings of 220 calories EACH!.So, my 30 second rummage through the bag basically takes up my requirement of daily calories, weekly fat, and monthly sodium.
So they started making these 100 calorie packs of stuff.I think it’s a good idea, but like so many others, it has gotten out of control.I think it is a conspiracy.They make them for every kind of snack imaginable.Now, I know that I can have 17 packages of Oreo crispy-guys, baked cheesy thins, and Nutter Butter-ettes.OK.Stop.Just STOP, already!You can have the Oreos, but don’t mess with my Nutter Butters!Surely Congress can pass a resolution that regardless of if something tastes like peanut butter, it is not to use that magical name.Nutter Butters are proof positive that there is a greater power.Accept it.Embrace it.Move on and play games with the Fig Newtons or something, will ya?Speaking of Fig Newtons, remember the great TV commercial with the Big Fig dancing to the jingle?Here is a picture…classic greatness.I can remember it like it was this morning…
Oo-ee, gooey, rich and chewy inside. Golden, flaky, tender cakey outside. Wrap the inside in the outside. Is it good? Darn Tootin' Doin' the Big FIG NEWTON, the big FIG NEWTON
Mr. Newton got the message across to me clear as day in 30 seconds; yet lately, every Thursday night, I am so confused as to whether Boone should have been kept on LOST in lieu of Hurley or how in the world Sawyer’s parents could have been conned so badly, or, or, or…sorry.I got carried away.Anyway, I practically end up in a wrestling match with my wife.Meanwhile, my dog keeps asking me about what the bark happened to the one dog on board.
And on that nostalgia note, what ever happened to the old time style of Ice Cream truck?You know, where the guy with the change machine on his waist jumped out and ran around the truck grabbing fudgcicles from every nook-and-crannie-hidden-super-secret door?
Now all we get is the orange van driven by Mr. McScary who I wouldn’t trust my kids around without a police escort.He’s got Marilyn Manson blaring from the loudspeaker and while I can deal with the black nailpolish, I wish he didn’t sharpen his fangs so much.Every time I hear the truck go by, I log on to see if I can find his picture on my local predator website.
Hey…do they feed the dogs in the cages that travel on planes if it is really long trip?
Larry’s Lollygaggings Volume I, Number I 28 May 2008
Just thinking about…Hair
I‘ve had so many kind compliments from so many people who enjoy reading the stories about my meanderings that I have decided to take a shot at blogging.
Let me start by saying that I don’t really like that word – blog. It just sounds mysterious in an unsanitary way. I am also not one to quickly grasp nouveau words, concepts, and ideas, I’m not particularly ‘fresh’, and my underwear is...get this…UNDER my pants! Novel idea, huh?
My goal is to concentrate on things other than the new ‘hood’ vocabulary, a new way to wear my baseball cap, set my ringtone, use the latest IM abbreviations, knowing whether or not having a sheep thrown at me on myfacebookspace is a compliment or a curse, or pour over, oh, let’s say…my hair.
Now, I know I don’t have much in the hair department. But that might just be a blessing. I never did grasp the concept of spending whoknowshowmuchtime making sure your hairdo is perfect. I usually apply whatever bottle of shampoo is most neglected and don’t think twice. I usually don’t even read the label. If it was up to me, I’d use Lava soap with pumice as a shampoo. That way I could get a scalp massage at the same time. But I don’t. You see, sometimes my near-perfect wife, Martha, tries something new and, after one use, decides better of the purchase. It is then up to me, the frugal waste-hater, to finish the junk. Heaven forbid I throw out the bottle of nastiness. For example, there was the time it took me the better part of 6 months to finish the Burt’s Grapefruit and Sugar Beet, Organic, PETA-blessed, environmentally-friendly, hypo-Republican shampoo. Every morning I would open it and not know if I should lather, chug, or organize an Obama ’08 rally. Until I first tried the stuff, I never realized how little I wanted to smell food in the shower. Sounds like a good idea, but trust me, don’t eat in the shower. Unless, of course, it’s bacon. ‘Cause bacon is good. Anyway, after about 3 months of trying to use up the stuff, Martha tells me I’m using too much! I’m lectured on how I should only use a dime’s worth at a time because I have so little hair. OK, I thought, she has a point. But, now that she mentions it, I have more hair. I started using it on my legs, underarms, you get the point. Yes, I finally finished the bottle, but I had a period of time where goats were stationed outside my door every morning and winking at me like I was Carmen Miranda at harvest time.
I also don’t understand shampoo directions: 1. Lather 2. Rinse 3. Repeat.
Kinda reminds me of Jason’s 1980 Atari 800 computer (If you remember that, I have a great Fabulous Moolah story for you). So here we go, retro-geeks. Back then, you would write lines of computer code in BASIC like this:
10 PRINT “Tommy is a pud” 20 GOTO 10
The screen would then print Tommy is a pud over and over and over until you hit the break key. Remember that? While I’m at it, was it REALLY fun to stay at the YMCA? To play at the YMCA? I think not. Anyway, we all thought we were Steve Wozniak. We might have been if we could ever do anything besides that. I actually took a computers class at Rutgers thinking that was enough computer programming knowhow to get me an easy ‘A’. Did it work out? I’m now a burrito-making chiropractor…you guess the answer.
Back to the hair. I lather, rinse, lather, rinse, lather, rinse…how many times until I can stop this vicious cycle? I’ll ask my therapist. Actually, I’ve burned out my 5th therapist and I have a new one. Usually after a few sessions with me they go into a bit more soothing profession like blindfolded flaming chainsaw juggling pit bull trainer. I guess I’ll have to ask my personal hair product advisor, Anne Marie. She has given me some great tips on how and when to use the stuff. Some people sing in the shower, I think of Anne Marie.
Don’t you feel so completely out of your element bathing at someone else’s house? There is absolutely zero percent chance that they have ANY item in their tub that you normally use. I mean none. No chance. No way. No how. Look, I’m not asking for much. I know that It is not reasonable to hope they also use Coast Summer Breeze Bath Bar Limited Edition Bronze Color Soap, but can I just have a something that has a word I can read and understand??? It’s either in French or says pumice bar or cleansing step or body rejuvenator or exfoliate accelerator. Please! Stop the ride! I want to get off! A year ago I had to send one jar to the FBI for evaluation and recognition. Worst of all is seeing a cavalcade of bottles with useless, meaningless pictographs trying to tell me what they are. I never understand them. The last time I was at Jeanine’s house, I had to have Brian bring in his Pokemon Trainer Strategy and Guidebook in to the bathroom to walk me through the process of selecting which hair and body product to use. I ended up getting 35 hit points when Squirtle used his conditioner attack on Pickachu. Can someone please just keep a bottle of Prell and a cake of Ivory under the sink in case I show up?
And another thing; I don’t feel comfortable using someone else’s loofa. Or even my own, for that matter.
By the way, if the soap gets you clean, what gets the soap clean?
