What is your life's story? Do you have one to tell? Is your life worthy of a story?
I knew at an early age mine was! How could I know? I knew because my mother Frances and my Aunt Eileen were always saying "we should write a book!" This would usually follow some semi to very colossal event that we just experienced. When you are four or five every event is colossal!
I have a good memory; at least I think I do. When talking about the past with family members they say, "Really, you remember that? Now that you mention it I do too." Perhaps we are just making it all up.
I think my memories are real and fairly accurate. I remember back to three and four years old. Not a whole lot but a few bits and pieces. Perhaps enough to write my life's story? We shall see!
I am sixty four years old. Is that old? I don't know; refer to Blog "It's All Relative." Sixty four may or may not be that old; in terms of technological and life styles changes, it is very old!
The last ten years have brought about mind staggering changes. I have a 32 Gigabyte iPhone, unless you were Warren Buffet, you could not have purchased that much memory ten years ago.
Step back in my story to 1950. My parents were renting a huge two story home in the middle of Denver's exclusive County Club area for about thirty dollars a month. The house was heated with a coal furnace. The coal was one dollar a ton! Our kitchen stove was a cast iron wood/coal fired beauty. Yes! You had to light a fire in the stove, in its fire box in order to cook or bake. We had a Franklin stove, another wood/coal stove in the dinning room. It would keep the chill off, so you would not have to fire up the big furnace in the basement. There is a certain romance to warming a frigid room to a comfortable temperature, with these old cast iron stoves.
My Dad's car was a 1928 Chevrolet Coupe, complete with a rumble seat in the back! Think about it, now 1950 and driving a 22 year old car! Not that it was strange to have and old car like that, there were plenty of them around ; there were not many, if any new cars made during World War II, driving old cars was the norm. Memory? Yes, I remember taking a screw driver and poking a hole in the radiator of the old Chevy. After watching the water run out for a few moments I ran into the house and told my Dad, " the car is going piddle." He came out, took a look, he agreed that it was indeed going "piddle".
Are you serious, "cooking on a wood fired stove?" Yes I am! What else may we talk about? You shared your phone line with 2, 4 or 8 other family's. It was called a party line. The phone company, Mountain Bell, did not have the equipment or enough wires running out (each line needed its own two wires) for everyone to have a private line. Everyone on the party line had their own "ring," so that you would know when the call was for you. You could listen in on the other party's calls, they would listen to you as well. You could always tell when someone was eavesdropping, as the quality of the sound would be degraded. When you wanted to use the phone and someone else kept yapping away, you might ask them to hurry up, or just keep picking the phone up, creating a click in their ear, hoping they would get the hint and free up the line.
"Sharing phone lines, are you nuts?" It gets better! There was no such thing as a copy machine, calculator or cell phone. If you wanted to copy something you could type on a sheet of paper with a piece of carbon paper between it an another sheet of paper. Carbon paper was a thin sheet of paper impregnated with ink. When the typewriter key hit the top sheet of paper it would indent the carbon paper against the next sheet, making a copy. You could put three of four of these together, however the the bottom sheets would be blurred. With typewriters there was no corrections! Whatever you typed, is what you got. You could make multiple copies with a mimeograph machine. You would type a master copy on a stencil piece of paper. The Stencil was placed on a round drum on the mimeograph machine. There was a hand crank you would turn and it would work like a little printing press, churning out a new page with each crank turn. This process used mimeograph fluid to transfer the image to a special paper. This fluid had a solvent, paint thinner, alcohol type smell. It is probably the reason half the people my age have cancer. Every school test you ever took was on one of these printed papers. They would pass out your test and you would get high on the fumes!
No calculators and no cell phones! No more writing this evening; time for bed. More of my story later!
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Girl Scout Cookies and Milk
I was a Cub Scout. Wearing my uniform blue shirt with the gold neckerchief, I was as proud as I could be! We had Cub Scout meetings in Billy Knapp's basement. His mom was the Den Mother. We would work on getting our next badge; othertimes building little craft projects that we could take home and show off.
Scouting takes money. I am sure my parents paid some amount for weekly or monthly dues plus the expenses for the nifty little outfit, badges, books and the other scouting necessities. Non-profit organizations need more money than your paltry little dues cover. Non-profits may not make a "profit" but there are plenty of folks who need money to keep the Scouting, real estate and the light bill going.
Back to Billy Knapp's basement. Billy's mom, the Den Mother said we had to make some money for the Scouts! We would do this by selling lights bulbs. Light bulbs? My little eight year old brain did not light up over the light bulbs; not one bit! However being a good little Scout, with the "helping little old ladies across the street ethic," all of us in Pack 303 took our instructions, and with our new order pads in our little child like hands, hit the streets.
"Little Old Ladies!" Bingo! I lived next to an apartment complex named County Club Gardens. The place was loaded with widows living in little one and two bedrooms units. I think the husbands all died trying to make enough money to keep the old gals happy, in their former larger homes. Now the widows had these cute little pads; they could all hang out doing widow things together. I figured one thing they could do, would be to order Cub Scout light bulbs. WRONG! "Light bulbs? Young man why would I want to order light bulbs from the Cub Scouts? The Girl Scouts sell cookies, I always buy those; why don't you sell cookies like they do?" This widow was letting me have it, albeit with her false teeth grin.
I knew this project was doomed. Until then I didn't know that Girl Scouts sold cookies. The little Brownies at school never let on to that fact. They likely took an oath not to discuss it with the Cub or Boy Scouts. It must have been a closely held fundraising secret.
It is no secret anymore. I couldn't sleep tonight. I just got up and had a glass of milk and ten Thin Mints. IT'S OKAY, they are THIN MINTS--I will get thinner the more of them that I eat. The Girls Scouts and their cookies are a success story. How can you say "no" to a cute little Girl Scout? "Sir would you like to buy some Girl Scout Cookies?" "You bet I do! I'll take a case!"
Back as a little kid, the girls said they were smarter than us boys. When it comes to fundraising they sure are! The only light bulbs I sold were to my mom and dad.
I wonder what the Boy Scouts are doing today for a few extra bucks?
Scouting takes money. I am sure my parents paid some amount for weekly or monthly dues plus the expenses for the nifty little outfit, badges, books and the other scouting necessities. Non-profit organizations need more money than your paltry little dues cover. Non-profits may not make a "profit" but there are plenty of folks who need money to keep the Scouting, real estate and the light bill going.
Back to Billy Knapp's basement. Billy's mom, the Den Mother said we had to make some money for the Scouts! We would do this by selling lights bulbs. Light bulbs? My little eight year old brain did not light up over the light bulbs; not one bit! However being a good little Scout, with the "helping little old ladies across the street ethic," all of us in Pack 303 took our instructions, and with our new order pads in our little child like hands, hit the streets.
"Little Old Ladies!" Bingo! I lived next to an apartment complex named County Club Gardens. The place was loaded with widows living in little one and two bedrooms units. I think the husbands all died trying to make enough money to keep the old gals happy, in their former larger homes. Now the widows had these cute little pads; they could all hang out doing widow things together. I figured one thing they could do, would be to order Cub Scout light bulbs. WRONG! "Light bulbs? Young man why would I want to order light bulbs from the Cub Scouts? The Girl Scouts sell cookies, I always buy those; why don't you sell cookies like they do?" This widow was letting me have it, albeit with her false teeth grin.
I knew this project was doomed. Until then I didn't know that Girl Scouts sold cookies. The little Brownies at school never let on to that fact. They likely took an oath not to discuss it with the Cub or Boy Scouts. It must have been a closely held fundraising secret.
It is no secret anymore. I couldn't sleep tonight. I just got up and had a glass of milk and ten Thin Mints. IT'S OKAY, they are THIN MINTS--I will get thinner the more of them that I eat. The Girls Scouts and their cookies are a success story. How can you say "no" to a cute little Girl Scout? "Sir would you like to buy some Girl Scout Cookies?" "You bet I do! I'll take a case!"
Back as a little kid, the girls said they were smarter than us boys. When it comes to fundraising they sure are! The only light bulbs I sold were to my mom and dad.
I wonder what the Boy Scouts are doing today for a few extra bucks?
Thursday, February 17, 2011
One Blue Coat
I was a twenty one year old kid just out of the Navy. I came back home to Denver in December of 1967 with my new bride of less than a month. I had just spent three years at a Naval Air Station in South Texas. My new bride, now my officially my ex-wife for the past twenty five years, and I arrived in Denver to stay with my Dad, his new bride of five months, her two teenage kids, along with my eighteen year old brother. We arrived in Denver in a snow storm with everything we owned in a 51 Chevy. The old car had four bald tires and we had less than one hundred dollars between the two of us.
My goal was to have a job making at least $10,000 a year and to buy a $40,000 house. I was young, happy and energetic. Life at my Dad's house was not working out very well. My new bride and his new bride did not get along. This was his new brides fault not mine!
My Dad was working as a Maintenance Man at an office building in South East Denver. He said he would pay me $1.50 an hour to help him with some electrical work at the building. This was a great opportunity and I was up for the task. After a couple of weeks I asked one night at dinner if I might get paid for all of the hours I had put in. His new bride chimed in; she stated that they would keep the money owed to me for room and board! I understood where she was coming from but now felt like an indentured servant. Being stuck living with them, in what was rapidly becoming a toxic relationship, was not in line with my goals.
The very next day, being a resourceful young lad, I went to a private employment agency looking for a job. They said I would be well suited as an insurance salesman. On their referral and signing a note for $400 dollars for their fee, I went to work for Mutual of New York as a salesman. I was feeling like I had the world by the tail.
I told my wife that I had just landed a great job and we needed to get the hell out of our current living situation. She said she had her life's savings of $125 back home and would ask her Dad to send it to her; which he did. We found a furnished basement apartment for $65 a month. The owners who lived upstairs in this little bungalow agreed to let us pay $32.50 for the first month, if we would paint the apartment; my idea!
We announced to my Dad, his snippy wife and all the children, that we were moving. My Dad and his wife couldn't figure our how we were pulling this off; we did not offer an explanation.
To be an insurance salesman you have to dress professionally. I owned one blue blazer, one pair of grey pants, one oxford cloth white button down collar shirt and one regimental stripped tie. That was my wardrobe. Every Saturday I would take my sales outfit with my one blue coat to the one hour cleaners; to have everything ready for the next week's work.
Having only one outfit didn't seem too strange to me; although the other guys in the office were able to vary their wardrobe. I knew that we were pretty darn poor; I hoped that someday I would own more than just one blue coat.
The insurance sales job lasted about four months. I sold a few policies to some friends and family members.
Once that dried up it was the end of my Mutual of New York career.
I now have many coats; not really sure how many. I have two blue blazers, a light and heavy weight; a classic camel; some with patterns; winter and summer ones. I gave this some thought yesterday: I really don't feel much different than I did forty three years ago! I don't feel poor, but all the coats sure don't make me feel rich. I have to step back and think, what would it have felt like then, to have all the coats I have now?
My goal was to have a job making at least $10,000 a year and to buy a $40,000 house. I was young, happy and energetic. Life at my Dad's house was not working out very well. My new bride and his new bride did not get along. This was his new brides fault not mine!
My Dad was working as a Maintenance Man at an office building in South East Denver. He said he would pay me $1.50 an hour to help him with some electrical work at the building. This was a great opportunity and I was up for the task. After a couple of weeks I asked one night at dinner if I might get paid for all of the hours I had put in. His new bride chimed in; she stated that they would keep the money owed to me for room and board! I understood where she was coming from but now felt like an indentured servant. Being stuck living with them, in what was rapidly becoming a toxic relationship, was not in line with my goals.
The very next day, being a resourceful young lad, I went to a private employment agency looking for a job. They said I would be well suited as an insurance salesman. On their referral and signing a note for $400 dollars for their fee, I went to work for Mutual of New York as a salesman. I was feeling like I had the world by the tail.
I told my wife that I had just landed a great job and we needed to get the hell out of our current living situation. She said she had her life's savings of $125 back home and would ask her Dad to send it to her; which he did. We found a furnished basement apartment for $65 a month. The owners who lived upstairs in this little bungalow agreed to let us pay $32.50 for the first month, if we would paint the apartment; my idea!
We announced to my Dad, his snippy wife and all the children, that we were moving. My Dad and his wife couldn't figure our how we were pulling this off; we did not offer an explanation.
To be an insurance salesman you have to dress professionally. I owned one blue blazer, one pair of grey pants, one oxford cloth white button down collar shirt and one regimental stripped tie. That was my wardrobe. Every Saturday I would take my sales outfit with my one blue coat to the one hour cleaners; to have everything ready for the next week's work.
Having only one outfit didn't seem too strange to me; although the other guys in the office were able to vary their wardrobe. I knew that we were pretty darn poor; I hoped that someday I would own more than just one blue coat.
The insurance sales job lasted about four months. I sold a few policies to some friends and family members.
Once that dried up it was the end of my Mutual of New York career.
I now have many coats; not really sure how many. I have two blue blazers, a light and heavy weight; a classic camel; some with patterns; winter and summer ones. I gave this some thought yesterday: I really don't feel much different than I did forty three years ago! I don't feel poor, but all the coats sure don't make me feel rich. I have to step back and think, what would it have felt like then, to have all the coats I have now?
Monday, February 14, 2011
It's All Relative
I remember as if it was yesterday. I was a sixteen year old kid who just quit high school. My mother and father were divorced, my brother and I were living with our Dad. He was a good guy, heck he was a great guy; he was more like a friend than a father. Dad, we called him by his name, Rudy, was pretty much a kid himself. He grew up in an orphanage in New York City during the depression, as did my mother. They married young, moved to Colorado with an entire exodus of family and friends from the East Coast. They hoped to find true happiness in the Rocky Mountains.
I was a smart sixteen year old. My friends were all adults for the most part. Okay, I did have peer friends but I always prided myself on being very mature. I was not a trouble maker. I didn't steal or vandalize; I was not angry; I just lacked parental direction. I was taking ROTC at East High in Denver. Taking ROTC meant you did not have to take gym. I was never big on running around the track, getting naked in the locker room with a bunch or guys; trying to smack you in the ass with a rolled up wet towel.
While taking ROTC you had to wear a wool Army uniform once a week; perhaps it was on Thursday. The ROTC Sargent was a real enlisted Army guy. He had been in WWII and Korea. He was a no bull shit, behave or else Sargent. If you "forgot" to wear your uniform on "uniform day," you would have to wear it for two days in row. Whenever you wore it, the cool kids, the ones taking gym, would make fun of you. I decided not to wear the itchy god damn thing at all! The Sargent, his name evades me, took me to the Principal's office. The Principal said that I would have to wear the uniform for a solid week, for not obeying the rules. I told him, the Principal, and the good Sargent, to have a nice day and I was quiting this ridiculous High School; studying for half the year, what you already had learned the year before! I was going to get a real job.
After working for a few months, sacking groceries for a buck and a quarter an hour, working as the maintenance boy at a health club; another whole saga on that; I had been convinced, steered and coerced in to joining the Navy. My Grandmother said, "join the Navy, we are a Navy family." "Really now, who in the hell was in the Navy?" Okay Aunt Jean, Aunt Eileen and Uncle Roger and some distant relatives I never met. I will join the Navy!
The Navy it was. The recruiter had me take some tests. He said I was really smart and because of that he would guarantee me that I would be in Naval Air. I said "like a pilot?" "Not exactly," was he reply, "but you will like it."
Now to the "Relative" part. After boot camp I went to Memphis Tennessee. There was a Naval Air Station about 25 miles from Memphis, in Millington Tennessee. This was the Navy's Technical Training Center. Aviation Electronic Technician! That is what I was going to be. Nineteen weeks of electronic fundamentals and ten weeks of whatever your specialty was; mine was navigation.
It was I recall, May of nineteen sixty four. Our instructor, who likely had been in the Navy for six years, or so, was asking us about numbers. "Is one thousand a lot?" "Sure, one thousand is lot," I thought. "Is it a lot compared to ten million?" "Hmmmm, no it's not," my seventeen year old brain decided "How about compared to one?' "Yes, now it is a lot!" I was right after all! He explained that this is an important concept; being relative to what? In electronics you have little milli, micro and pico numbers. You have large and larger, kilo and mega numbers. This made a real impression on me--it has been part of me ever since. It is all relative!
In recent years I have had a lot of shoulder problems; both right and left. I had the left surgically repaired this past August. The right one needs to be done and is a constant source of pain. Back to the "relative" concept. Who ever is working with me at the time on my latest shoulder event; the Doctor, PA, Physical Therapist, all ask what is your pain number. Pain number? What is that? The reply is, "between 1 and 10, 10 being the worst pain you have ever had, what is your pain number?' I don't know why, but this really makes me crazy. What if I say 6, and it is really a 7; will they over prescribe my Percocets? "Try to be exact," they request. I will say, "It is about a seven point three six five." That doesn't cut it, they don't want decimals; nothing that exact! There is not a way to prescribe pain killers with that precision.
Temperature is also a relative issue. My wife will come home from walking the dog when it 5 below zero out. When she gets in the house she will say, "damn it is hot in here!" "Well honey, it is sixty four in here, and that is not hot--relative to outside, it feels hot, but it is not!" To this she tells me to keep my mumbo jumbo to myself and turn the heat down! ".........ah, it's not on!" I retort. This conversation is going nowhere fast and I am going to lose no matter what!
The point being, you may benefit from my experience without going to a Navy school; "it is all relative!" Relatively hot, cold; rich, poor; relatively stupid, really friggen stupid; stacked, not stacked; happy, sad; relatively tired of the bull shit; the long winter; bad TV; screwed up relationships; relatively bad breath, really bad breath ; and relatively reasonable co-pays!
....and if you can't stand it, move in with your relatives!
I was a smart sixteen year old. My friends were all adults for the most part. Okay, I did have peer friends but I always prided myself on being very mature. I was not a trouble maker. I didn't steal or vandalize; I was not angry; I just lacked parental direction. I was taking ROTC at East High in Denver. Taking ROTC meant you did not have to take gym. I was never big on running around the track, getting naked in the locker room with a bunch or guys; trying to smack you in the ass with a rolled up wet towel.
While taking ROTC you had to wear a wool Army uniform once a week; perhaps it was on Thursday. The ROTC Sargent was a real enlisted Army guy. He had been in WWII and Korea. He was a no bull shit, behave or else Sargent. If you "forgot" to wear your uniform on "uniform day," you would have to wear it for two days in row. Whenever you wore it, the cool kids, the ones taking gym, would make fun of you. I decided not to wear the itchy god damn thing at all! The Sargent, his name evades me, took me to the Principal's office. The Principal said that I would have to wear the uniform for a solid week, for not obeying the rules. I told him, the Principal, and the good Sargent, to have a nice day and I was quiting this ridiculous High School; studying for half the year, what you already had learned the year before! I was going to get a real job.
After working for a few months, sacking groceries for a buck and a quarter an hour, working as the maintenance boy at a health club; another whole saga on that; I had been convinced, steered and coerced in to joining the Navy. My Grandmother said, "join the Navy, we are a Navy family." "Really now, who in the hell was in the Navy?" Okay Aunt Jean, Aunt Eileen and Uncle Roger and some distant relatives I never met. I will join the Navy!
The Navy it was. The recruiter had me take some tests. He said I was really smart and because of that he would guarantee me that I would be in Naval Air. I said "like a pilot?" "Not exactly," was he reply, "but you will like it."
Now to the "Relative" part. After boot camp I went to Memphis Tennessee. There was a Naval Air Station about 25 miles from Memphis, in Millington Tennessee. This was the Navy's Technical Training Center. Aviation Electronic Technician! That is what I was going to be. Nineteen weeks of electronic fundamentals and ten weeks of whatever your specialty was; mine was navigation.
It was I recall, May of nineteen sixty four. Our instructor, who likely had been in the Navy for six years, or so, was asking us about numbers. "Is one thousand a lot?" "Sure, one thousand is lot," I thought. "Is it a lot compared to ten million?" "Hmmmm, no it's not," my seventeen year old brain decided "How about compared to one?' "Yes, now it is a lot!" I was right after all! He explained that this is an important concept; being relative to what? In electronics you have little milli, micro and pico numbers. You have large and larger, kilo and mega numbers. This made a real impression on me--it has been part of me ever since. It is all relative!
In recent years I have had a lot of shoulder problems; both right and left. I had the left surgically repaired this past August. The right one needs to be done and is a constant source of pain. Back to the "relative" concept. Who ever is working with me at the time on my latest shoulder event; the Doctor, PA, Physical Therapist, all ask what is your pain number. Pain number? What is that? The reply is, "between 1 and 10, 10 being the worst pain you have ever had, what is your pain number?' I don't know why, but this really makes me crazy. What if I say 6, and it is really a 7; will they over prescribe my Percocets? "Try to be exact," they request. I will say, "It is about a seven point three six five." That doesn't cut it, they don't want decimals; nothing that exact! There is not a way to prescribe pain killers with that precision.
Temperature is also a relative issue. My wife will come home from walking the dog when it 5 below zero out. When she gets in the house she will say, "damn it is hot in here!" "Well honey, it is sixty four in here, and that is not hot--relative to outside, it feels hot, but it is not!" To this she tells me to keep my mumbo jumbo to myself and turn the heat down! ".........ah, it's not on!" I retort. This conversation is going nowhere fast and I am going to lose no matter what!
The point being, you may benefit from my experience without going to a Navy school; "it is all relative!" Relatively hot, cold; rich, poor; relatively stupid, really friggen stupid; stacked, not stacked; happy, sad; relatively tired of the bull shit; the long winter; bad TV; screwed up relationships; relatively bad breath, really bad breath ; and relatively reasonable co-pays!
....and if you can't stand it, move in with your relatives!
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Technology Will Bite You
Looking at the time many of these Blogs were posted, one can see I am frequently up in the middle of night pounding the heck out of my HP Laptop. What happens is, I go to bed and I something will wake me. Most often it is from shoulder pain. One shoulder has been rebuilt and still hurts from the surgery last summer, the other hurts because it needs to be rebuilt. We live in the heart of the Denver University neighborhood. Many times I wake up to sound of young people laughing, drinking, goofing around, not realizing--or caring for that matter, that everyone is not awake as they are. Several times recently I have been woken by the pungent smell of a dog fart. I don't know what is going on with our precious little pup but paint peels off the woodwork when she passes gas! If the EPA gets wind of one of her episodes, our Lab will likely be arrested for exceeding the legal limit of sulphur dioxide, or whatever a dog fart is composed of, leaking into the atmosphere.
I am up tonight because my iPhone4, yes the one I have professed my love for, beeped at midnight to alert me that Valentines Day is in 2 days! I know it is! Why is is beeping me now? It is beeping because like some damn fool I programmed my Google Calendar to remind me that Valentines Day is coming. Its my own fault! I didn't know it would do it at midnight; give me a break!
Technology can be wearisome. I knew back in the 1980s we were in trouble. Chrysler had cars that would talk to you. They quit doing that a short time after a few people set their cars ablaze or had them stolen following the nagging, ex-wife sounding voice, told you were low on fuel 12 times in 8 miles. My wife actually got into an argument with the British accented female on our GPS during a resent out of state trek! "She doesn't know what she is talking about, where is the damn map--we're going the wrong way!" I got out the map and the little sweety from the UK was CORRECT! Now the Brit and my wife are at odds for the entire length of our road trip!
Technology will bite you in the ass--literally! Electronic flushing toilets. I am not the first to go off about this less than thought out creation; many a comic can do ten minutes of stand up routine on these damn devices. Think about the insanity here. Electric + Water + Naked Butt = DisASSter. Half of the ones we have at work have been converted back to manual flush; their little electronic brains were toast after 10,000 flushes. Now as a guy, I can stand up, most of the time--yes the urinals can be electric as well; however when the occasion is such, and Airports are the worst, these satanic devises may "pre-flush." You have noticed the little red light on the wall, about where a flush handle would be if there was one; the light is watching you--check out the slow to rapid blinking as you near it? The sensor should do its "electric flush" after you stand up and are re-clothed, heading out of the stall--at least that is what should happen. If the sensor, red light thingies are not set up correctly, you get a "pre-flush!" Just lean forward 2 inches on an airport potty--WHHSSSS--you are suddenly sitting on a combo potty-bidet! You just got an ice cold butt wash--and you didn't want one! What about the plumber setting one of these damn things up? How does he adjust the sensitivity? Does he pull his pants down and up again on each test? Oh; urinals will pre-flush as well. As you are standing there, trying to wrap things up, should you lean back to stare at the ceiling--WHHSSSS--your kakis' now have a two-tone leopard spot pattern. STOP, don't forget to use the electric paper towel dispenser after you wash your hands under the electric, the temperature is whatever you get, faucet!
Back to bed for me. I hope I can sleep until 7 or 8; it is now Saturday and I have the day off!
I am up tonight because my iPhone4, yes the one I have professed my love for, beeped at midnight to alert me that Valentines Day is in 2 days! I know it is! Why is is beeping me now? It is beeping because like some damn fool I programmed my Google Calendar to remind me that Valentines Day is coming. Its my own fault! I didn't know it would do it at midnight; give me a break!
Technology can be wearisome. I knew back in the 1980s we were in trouble. Chrysler had cars that would talk to you. They quit doing that a short time after a few people set their cars ablaze or had them stolen following the nagging, ex-wife sounding voice, told you were low on fuel 12 times in 8 miles. My wife actually got into an argument with the British accented female on our GPS during a resent out of state trek! "She doesn't know what she is talking about, where is the damn map--we're going the wrong way!" I got out the map and the little sweety from the UK was CORRECT! Now the Brit and my wife are at odds for the entire length of our road trip!
Technology will bite you in the ass--literally! Electronic flushing toilets. I am not the first to go off about this less than thought out creation; many a comic can do ten minutes of stand up routine on these damn devices. Think about the insanity here. Electric + Water + Naked Butt = DisASSter. Half of the ones we have at work have been converted back to manual flush; their little electronic brains were toast after 10,000 flushes. Now as a guy, I can stand up, most of the time--yes the urinals can be electric as well; however when the occasion is such, and Airports are the worst, these satanic devises may "pre-flush." You have noticed the little red light on the wall, about where a flush handle would be if there was one; the light is watching you--check out the slow to rapid blinking as you near it? The sensor should do its "electric flush" after you stand up and are re-clothed, heading out of the stall--at least that is what should happen. If the sensor, red light thingies are not set up correctly, you get a "pre-flush!" Just lean forward 2 inches on an airport potty--WHHSSSS--you are suddenly sitting on a combo potty-bidet! You just got an ice cold butt wash--and you didn't want one! What about the plumber setting one of these damn things up? How does he adjust the sensitivity? Does he pull his pants down and up again on each test? Oh; urinals will pre-flush as well. As you are standing there, trying to wrap things up, should you lean back to stare at the ceiling--WHHSSSS--your kakis' now have a two-tone leopard spot pattern. STOP, don't forget to use the electric paper towel dispenser after you wash your hands under the electric, the temperature is whatever you get, faucet!
Back to bed for me. I hope I can sleep until 7 or 8; it is now Saturday and I have the day off!
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Blackberries in Canada Eh?
Hello Canadians!
In the short time I have had this Blog going, I am blown away by all the hits I get from Canada! On my Blog Dashboard, I can click on Stats to see where my hits are coming from, along with the operating system being used. I have now had 277 hits, with 25% being from Canada. Yesterday I had 9 hits, 7 from Canada and 2 from the U.S. Now what really makes me wonder is; most of the Canadian hits are using Blackberries! What is going on? Are you at work, home, off on a ski vacation; post a comment please. I would love to know my audience better. How did you find out about this Blog? I think my humor runs along the lines of the Red Green Show; my favorite Canadian delight, albeit not as funny or successful at this time.
I have been to British Columbia, it was 1972. I had an aunt and several cousins I went visit. I recall it was near Kootenay Lake in Argenta. It was summer time and absolutely one of the most beautiful places I have had the pleasure of visiting. Hope to make it up there again.
Okay Canadians, fire up those Blackberries, post a comment or two, let me know who, where, what you are up to, and how did you find me!
Thanks for reading my Blog,
Dennis
In the short time I have had this Blog going, I am blown away by all the hits I get from Canada! On my Blog Dashboard, I can click on Stats to see where my hits are coming from, along with the operating system being used. I have now had 277 hits, with 25% being from Canada. Yesterday I had 9 hits, 7 from Canada and 2 from the U.S. Now what really makes me wonder is; most of the Canadian hits are using Blackberries! What is going on? Are you at work, home, off on a ski vacation; post a comment please. I would love to know my audience better. How did you find out about this Blog? I think my humor runs along the lines of the Red Green Show; my favorite Canadian delight, albeit not as funny or successful at this time.
I have been to British Columbia, it was 1972. I had an aunt and several cousins I went visit. I recall it was near Kootenay Lake in Argenta. It was summer time and absolutely one of the most beautiful places I have had the pleasure of visiting. Hope to make it up there again.
Okay Canadians, fire up those Blackberries, post a comment or two, let me know who, where, what you are up to, and how did you find me!
Thanks for reading my Blog,
Dennis
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Only The Government Could Do This!
BATF! Bureau of Alcohol Tobacco and Firearms! You have got to be kidding me! Who in their right every-loving mind would have put these together under one burearucratic agency?
Okay, don't get me wrong, I am not a liberal! I believe in the 2nd Admentment right to arm bears. In fact I have a CCW from Utah!
Good God folks, this about Alcohol, Tobaccco & Firearms! What does this bring to mind? Okay you have some smoking, drinking guy, with an AR-15 or an AK-47 ready to let it it rip!
Not so fast there Bukco! It is about TAX. Anything that feels good, tastes good, or has a high capacity magazine is worthy of a TAX. TAX everything! We need a TAX on having a good time, a TAX on laughter; see where this is going? A Tax on SEX! If it feels good TAX it!
This has been very Taxing--time for bed. BED? Is there going to be a Bed Tax? "I want to go night-night, what will that cost?"
Okay, don't get me wrong, I am not a liberal! I believe in the 2nd Admentment right to arm bears. In fact I have a CCW from Utah!
Good God folks, this about Alcohol, Tobaccco & Firearms! What does this bring to mind? Okay you have some smoking, drinking guy, with an AR-15 or an AK-47 ready to let it it rip!
Not so fast there Bukco! It is about TAX. Anything that feels good, tastes good, or has a high capacity magazine is worthy of a TAX. TAX everything! We need a TAX on having a good time, a TAX on laughter; see where this is going? A Tax on SEX! If it feels good TAX it!
This has been very Taxing--time for bed. BED? Is there going to be a Bed Tax? "I want to go night-night, what will that cost?"
Sunday, February 6, 2011
One Word - Plastics
This is the classic dialogue from the 1967 movie The Graduate. Dustin Hoffman in his film debut, plays a 21 year old college graduate, Benjamin Braddock, with little direction of where to go with his life, he is getting advice from a family friend:
This darn good plastic is wrecking havoc on my life. Should you try to open, let say computer parts, and I have done this--you may be seriously injured! When you buy a part that is in this molded plastic, you can not open the package! You think you can pop the clam shell design apart but you can't. You have to get a sharp object like kitchen knife, or a pair of scissors to attack the package! Guess what? The PLASTIC is cut proof! If it happens to be rot proof as well, some archaeologist digging in a landfill will find it fully intact 2000 years from now!
Okay, I exaggerate, you can cut it. Very slowly and with great difficulty. When you do cut, usually part way, and you try to wrestle the package open, you may lacerate your hands on the razor sharp edge you created by cutting the plastic! Yes, I have inflicted injury on myself in this manner. I didn't need stitches but it was close to an ER visit.
Forget the parts, lets talk COOKIES! Clear plastic food containers can be opened with your hands. There are nifty little buttons in the plastic. A male and female type of configuration--like a wall plug. Now it isn't easy pulling the plastic boy and girl apart; it can be done. If you are going for a chocolate chip cookie at 2am look out! When that package POPS open it will bellow a sound that will wake the entire house; now explain to the dog and your wife what the hell you are doing up, eating cookies in the middle of night. There is a chance with the windows open in the summer, you might wake a neighbor as well.
The reason these packages are so noisy, is that they are like a little speaker cabinet, amplifying every pry and twist you are applying, trying to get to that cookie.
Plastics--here to stay; not sure what my future will be with them.
Mr. McGuire: I just want to say one word to you – just one word.Mr. McGuire was right on the money on this one! What is this clear plastic that everything comes in these days? This is a quality product. It is bullet proof! Blueberries, strawberries, computer parts, flashlights, batteries, screws, nails and COOKIES are all sold in these clear plastic molded containers. They are now the new restaurant "dogie bag" for that half a piece of pizza you take home and never eat. This plastic is as clear as your living room window. There is no distortion, what you see is what you get. This is some darn good plastic!
Ben: Yes sir.
Mr. McGuire: Are you listening?
Ben: Yes I am.
Mr. McGuire: ‘Plastics.’
Ben: Exactly how do you mean?
Mr. McGuire: There’s a great future in plastics. Think about it. Will you think about it?
Ben: Yes I will.
Mr. McGuire: Shh! Enough said. That’s a deal.
This darn good plastic is wrecking havoc on my life. Should you try to open, let say computer parts, and I have done this--you may be seriously injured! When you buy a part that is in this molded plastic, you can not open the package! You think you can pop the clam shell design apart but you can't. You have to get a sharp object like kitchen knife, or a pair of scissors to attack the package! Guess what? The PLASTIC is cut proof! If it happens to be rot proof as well, some archaeologist digging in a landfill will find it fully intact 2000 years from now!
Okay, I exaggerate, you can cut it. Very slowly and with great difficulty. When you do cut, usually part way, and you try to wrestle the package open, you may lacerate your hands on the razor sharp edge you created by cutting the plastic! Yes, I have inflicted injury on myself in this manner. I didn't need stitches but it was close to an ER visit.
Forget the parts, lets talk COOKIES! Clear plastic food containers can be opened with your hands. There are nifty little buttons in the plastic. A male and female type of configuration--like a wall plug. Now it isn't easy pulling the plastic boy and girl apart; it can be done. If you are going for a chocolate chip cookie at 2am look out! When that package POPS open it will bellow a sound that will wake the entire house; now explain to the dog and your wife what the hell you are doing up, eating cookies in the middle of night. There is a chance with the windows open in the summer, you might wake a neighbor as well.
The reason these packages are so noisy, is that they are like a little speaker cabinet, amplifying every pry and twist you are applying, trying to get to that cookie.
Plastics--here to stay; not sure what my future will be with them.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Where's My Friggen Rose?
This was surreal! I just flipped on my TV the other night, just as my daughter Ashley called me. The channel was on ABC, the show currently running was The Bachelor. As I was engaged with Ashley I turned the sound off, to continue my conversation with her.
I will admit, I did watch a few of these Bachelor and Bachelorette series when then they first aired. They never held my interest, so I went back to watching The Weather Channel. Okay folks, you have to do it. Watch the Rose Ceremony with the sound off! You will capture the true essence of human emotion. Ten million weekly viewers can't be wrong; I researched it, yes ten million sets of voyeuristic eyes, watching this for fourteen seasons; since the series' inception in 2002.
For those that do not know, the premise of The Bachelor is this: One eligible bachelor gets to pick one lucky little filly, from 25 or 30, beautiful, not a pound over-weight, non-acned, young, fertile and reasonably coherent women; pretty well made up, sporting longer than shoulder length hair dos and outfits they would not normally be able to afford. After I think eight episodes, he eliminates all but one lucky dream girl that is likely good marriage stock.
Okay, back to the Rose Ceremony sans audio input. This season's Bachelor, Brad Womack, recycled from a past episode, is the eligible guy. Near the end of each show he has a silver tray of red roses. The number of roses are less than every dwindling number of, already have fallen in love with Brad, ready to settle down and get hitched, little honeys. Assisted by ex-game show host Chris Harrison, standing, facing this bevy of beauties, he asks his latest selected list, one-at-time--called by name to step forward, if they will accept a rose. Getting a rose means you get to play for another week! This takes a LONG TIME. With no sound I watched, the face wrenching, lip pouting, tear welling, blood pressure rising expressions of these Brad loving women. My respiration quickened, I explained to Ashley what was going on; which girls where going to get CUT? Sensing my empathy for these poor young women; all under 30, Ashley said we could pick our conversation up later.
I said goodbye to Ashley, turned the sound back on, to capture the beauty of the remaining rose recipients stepping up one at a time as Brad called them, saying; "--insert name-- will you accept this rose?" The winners would all exchange a kiss with Brad and say something like, "yes," "absolutely" or a good old Sarah Palin "you betcha!"
Down to one last Rose and with perhaps a good half dozen, now panicked contenders remaining, the facial pain and anguish was almost unbearable to watch! Now that the last rose has been accepted and the losers all get to say goodbye to Brad, ONE AT A LONG TIME, he tells each one he is sorry that he has kicked them through the "goal posts of life!" Now the camera follows each broken hearted, on the way to her therapist, young woman to her Limo, whisked away into the California sunset.
Now Brad, who most of these women wouldn't give the time of day to in your local singles bar; gets to spend another week of dating, hugging, kissing and forging possible life long relationship with; deciding who will not make the cut on the next show.
Back to The Weather Channel for me. The mid-west blizzard is a little more my speed.
I will admit, I did watch a few of these Bachelor and Bachelorette series when then they first aired. They never held my interest, so I went back to watching The Weather Channel. Okay folks, you have to do it. Watch the Rose Ceremony with the sound off! You will capture the true essence of human emotion. Ten million weekly viewers can't be wrong; I researched it, yes ten million sets of voyeuristic eyes, watching this for fourteen seasons; since the series' inception in 2002.
For those that do not know, the premise of The Bachelor is this: One eligible bachelor gets to pick one lucky little filly, from 25 or 30, beautiful, not a pound over-weight, non-acned, young, fertile and reasonably coherent women; pretty well made up, sporting longer than shoulder length hair dos and outfits they would not normally be able to afford. After I think eight episodes, he eliminates all but one lucky dream girl that is likely good marriage stock.
Okay, back to the Rose Ceremony sans audio input. This season's Bachelor, Brad Womack, recycled from a past episode, is the eligible guy. Near the end of each show he has a silver tray of red roses. The number of roses are less than every dwindling number of, already have fallen in love with Brad, ready to settle down and get hitched, little honeys. Assisted by ex-game show host Chris Harrison, standing, facing this bevy of beauties, he asks his latest selected list, one-at-time--called by name to step forward, if they will accept a rose. Getting a rose means you get to play for another week! This takes a LONG TIME. With no sound I watched, the face wrenching, lip pouting, tear welling, blood pressure rising expressions of these Brad loving women. My respiration quickened, I explained to Ashley what was going on; which girls where going to get CUT? Sensing my empathy for these poor young women; all under 30, Ashley said we could pick our conversation up later.
I said goodbye to Ashley, turned the sound back on, to capture the beauty of the remaining rose recipients stepping up one at a time as Brad called them, saying; "--insert name-- will you accept this rose?" The winners would all exchange a kiss with Brad and say something like, "yes," "absolutely" or a good old Sarah Palin "you betcha!"
Down to one last Rose and with perhaps a good half dozen, now panicked contenders remaining, the facial pain and anguish was almost unbearable to watch! Now that the last rose has been accepted and the losers all get to say goodbye to Brad, ONE AT A LONG TIME, he tells each one he is sorry that he has kicked them through the "goal posts of life!" Now the camera follows each broken hearted, on the way to her therapist, young woman to her Limo, whisked away into the California sunset.
Now Brad, who most of these women wouldn't give the time of day to in your local singles bar; gets to spend another week of dating, hugging, kissing and forging possible life long relationship with; deciding who will not make the cut on the next show.
Back to The Weather Channel for me. The mid-west blizzard is a little more my speed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)