Make big money

I ran across an early 1900’s postcard in a funky old card shop in San Francisco that read:  “Be an ARTIST Make $10 to $50 a week.”  The copy below that read:  “Many of our students are now making big money, etc, etc.

I laughed outright, bought one, enlarged it and put it up in my studio.  For a lot of artists it’s still true today.

Mans greatest invention

Mel Brooks, playing the two thousand year old man, said man’s greatest invention was the thermos, or Saran wrap.  I’m not sure which.  He made a funny joke about hot or cold stuff, or wrapping a sandwich or something.

With all due respect to Mel, I think mans greatest invention is the zipper.

Especially if you have arthritis.

Plus, zipper is a great word.  It looks good on paper and is really fun to say.  Zipper, zipper, zipper.

The cat doesn’t understand

My wife saw the cat playing with something in the back yard last night and went out to see what it was.  It turned out to be a tiny little mouse, quite dead by the time my wife got out there.

It’s what cats do, right?

The cat wanted to bring it in the house; she tried two or three times, but my wife kept blocking her and saying “no”.

The poor cat sees us bring food in by the bag-full all the time, and she can’t bring in one lousy little dead mouse?

You can see how that would be confusing.

Great exit line

I overheard this conversation at a fancy fundraiser the other day:

“I’m sorry, I have something important I have to do.”

“Oh, what is that?”

“Get out of here.”

I managed to stifle an outright laugh, but had to look the other way until I was able to stop grinning.

When I finally looked back, the person left standing there was glaring at me.

Hey, I’m not the one who said it.

Sure, I’ll go fishing, if you insist

On the subject of matrimony, it seems to me, one of the hardest things for any guy to do in any marriage is:  Make his wife think it was her idea.  Right guys?

Roger, leaf-raker. You are cleared for take-off

So, there I was, holding a giant industrial fan over my head, aimed at one of the trees in my front yard.  The fan was really loud, and difficult to maneuver because of the gyroscopic effect of the spinning blades.

My reasoning:  If I had to rake leaves, I wanted as many down as possible.  That way next weekend would be easier.

It didn’t seem that absurd to me.  Until I saw my neighbor watching from across the street, hands in his pockets, just slightly shaking his head.

And to add insult to silly, it didn’t really work.

Hooray for the Red White and Black

Happy Thanksgiving.  The stores have dubbed tomorrow ‘Black Friday’ but it puts most of us in the red.

It starts at midnight, it’s very exciting, people line up to get a jump on the bargains, its cold, maybe snowy, people are giddy, somebody counts it down, the doors open, everybody crowds in, and everybody bustles around.

Reminds me of Times Square at midnight on New Years’ Eve.  It was easy to get your pocket picked there too.  But tonight, at least you’ll get a receipt.

The leaves vs. Mariah

Everybody knows you can’t blow the leaves in a swirling wind.

But try telling your wife that when the bridge club is coming in three hours.

Got your good side

This is a bit from my novel, Running Wounded:

An aggressive young reporter on his first field assignment jabbed his wily old cameraman.  “This is my big chance so keep it steady and make sure you get my good side.”

The veteran cameraman gave the kid a condescending glance and raised his camera.  “Any time.”

Extremely hyper, Dick pointed to himself as he walked to the police officer.  “Dick Anderson here, with an on the spot interview of this horrendous shot-out.”  He stuck a mike in the cop’s face.  “What happened here?  How many innocent people were hurt?  Did you get the bad guys?  Were any of them shot?  How much money did they get?”

The cop stared at the young kid for a second, glanced at the camera.

The cameraman was trying not to smile too broadly.

The cop cocked his head, thought about the questions for a minute before counting the answers off on his fingers.  “Robbery -- none -- yes -- all six -- and none.”

The young reporter was blank.  “Excuse me?”

The cop laughed.  “They all shot each other.”

“What?”

“Hey, if you don’t want a bunch of answers, don’t ask a bunch of questions.  Get it?”  The cop walked away, laughing.

The young reporter looked at his cameraman.  “What?”

The wily veteran got it, but tried not to laugh.  He held his camera steady on the kid.  The kid awkwardly smiled at the camera.  “Dick Anderson, here --” At a loss for words, he finally slashed his hand across his throat.

The cameraman lowered his camera and tried not to smirk.  “I got your good side, Dick.”

The story isn’t about the cops, or the newsman.  This is a story about a gang of inept bank robbers who screw up a robbery, then afterward, manage to make the worst of every situation they find themselves in.

Longstanding watch

I believe the Marines have a song in which the lyrics declare that the gates of Heaven are guarded by United States Marines.  Okay.  So how long do you suppose each watch is?  Four hours?  Eight hours?  A hundred hours?  Do they even have hours?  As far as we know, Heaven doesn’t spin or move around the sun to give Heaven-dwellers days or nights, or years, so it begs the question; does one sleep in Heaven?  And if so, how long are the nights?  And who guarded Heaven before 1798?

They could beat each other with it

I occasionally watch political talk shows on television.  What a racket they make.  I think they should do what the Indians did, or maybe it was the Aborigines.  They passed around a ‘Talking Stick’.  Until you had the stick in your hands, you had to keep your mouth shut.

Six people diving over a table, trying to wrestle the stick away from each other would make great Television.

An even better idea would be to tell them that’s the rule and then hide the stick.

Wait a minute – or ten

The University of New Mexico holds many events for the public at large.  Plays, concerts, traveling Broadway shows, etc.

The parking garage has a vehicle entrance that is level with the street.  One drives straight in and down to the lower level, or up to the higher levels.  Which is fine, I guess.

But that design puts the walking exits either up or down stairs to the outside.  Anyone using a walker or any kind of wheelchair has to use a tiny little elevator to get out of the building.

That’s fine too, I guess, if one doesn’t mind waiting for the little hamsters to run in their little wheel-cages long enough to raise the elevator to any given floor.  It only takes about eight or ten minutes for the little critters to get it there.

So, what would happen if there were a special event for older folks, all with such devices?

Two or three at a time in the elevator at eight or ten minutes a trip would take about three hours to get a couple dozen out wouldn’t it?

Wouldn’t the show be over by then?

Happy birthday not to you

Our local newspaper The Albuquerque Journal, lists, on the second page, the birthdays of a dozen or so celebrities.

I’m guessing Roger Moore doesn’t give a crap that his 84^th birthday was called out there.  Or that Gary Puckett cares that we know he hit 69 on the 17^th.

I suppose that information falls under the category of human interest.  It’s certainly not news.

But wouldn’t it be nice if the paper also listed Albuquerque’s “Teacher Of The Year” birthdays as well?  It would sure make his or her day.  Or maybe list a fireman?  For no other reason than a fireman is pretty much a hero every time he rushes into a burning building.  Or list a cop who didn’t shoot somebody on his or her birthday?

You can’t make this stuff up

The headline in the Albuquerque Journal read: Police Officers in Beating Video Fired.  The bold subhead read: Former APD Boss Says Cops Saved Suspects Life ‘By Not Shooting Him’.

Jeeze.  And the city wonders why the police have a teeny tiny image problem.    

You were going to be a rock star, right?

Everyone should try to keep in touch with at least one friend they had from way back in high school, don’t you think?  It keeps one grounded and reminded of one’s early goals.

And whether you achieve your goals, or not, the friends are the best part.  My wife has dozens from back then.  It makes her life richer.

I have one.  Hi Jim, how’s it going?

Of goats and men

This is a bit from my novel, R&R:

“He picked up his binoculars, carefully scanned the horizon.  There was nothing to be seen in the direction the tank came from, except the raggedy oil trail it left while staggering into the village.

Two little boys cautiously walked up to watch him.  He looked at them and smiled.  They giggled and grinned back.  One of the boys pointed his finger at Willis.  “Boom boom.”

Willis shook his head no.  “No boom boom, boom boom sucks.”  But realized it was probably a lost cause to try to convince them, in the middle of a war, that war wasn’t the answer.

He offered to let them look through the binoculars.  “Here, you guys want to take a look.”

The first little boy jumped at the chance.  “Prego!”

Willis responded with the only Italian he knew.  “Spaghetti.”

The first boy eagerly looked through them and smiled.  “Ohh.  Fantastico.”

The second boy kept nudging the first boy.  After a bit, the boy handed them to his companion.  The kid nodded to Willis and looked out over the wall.  “Grazie.  Grazie.”

Willis laughed.  “Spaghetti, ravioli.”

The boys traded the binoculars back and forth taking turns looking.

“Okay, you’re now my official watch dogs.”  Willis leaned against the wall and relaxed.  “You’ll let me know if you see any Germans, okay?”

The boys look at him blankly.

“Germans?  Krauts?  Nazis!  Boom boom?”  He pointed his finger over the wall.

“Ah, Tedesco.”  The boys suddenly got it and eagerly nodded, okay.

“That’s my boys.  You let me know if you see any fricken Tedescos.”  Willis chuckled, got comfortable and closed his eyes.

After a bit, the boys glanced at each other, grinned, nodded, and ran away with the binoculars.

“Hey.  Come back here you little Tortellini’s.”  Willis clambered up and ran after the two boys.

They screamed and laughed as they ran.

Willis was catching up.  He almost had them.  Suddenly, they cut between two buildings.  Willis almost skidded past, recovered and rounded the corner after them.

The two boys ran back out onto the road past the next building.  But no Willis.

In the back, a goat had cornered Willis.  He used his rifle to fend off the goat's head butts but the goat was very determined.  “Ah crap.  Get away from me you hillbilly goat.”  After fending off three or four head butts Willis growled.  “Stop it, dammit --“ Suddenly Willis’s eyes got crazy.  “I’m warning you.  I’m warning you!”

A few paragraphs later the goat is seen staggering around the village and Willis’s rifle is in two pieces.

At least snail-mail makes a pile

So.  When snail-mail makes a comeback will you be ready?  I mean, do you even know where your nearest Post Office is?  And if you don’t think it will ever come back, just wait until your Email has accumulated twelve thousand messages you haven’t had time to read.

And suddenly you get an angry phone call, or maybe an actual letter in your snail-mailbox, from some angry friend or associate that implores you to please read your damn Emails.  Then we’ll see.

Better late than never, I guess

I’ve come to the Internet world reluctantly.  Late adaptors I think they call us.  Well, me.  My wife has been connected for many years.  And, since you’re reading this, you must think that the super electronic, vastly interconnected, globally accessible, instantaneous, unblinking, ubiquitous eye is perfectly fine.  I don’t know if I think it's fine or not, but I’ll grant you this: One of the really nice things about Email is: you can have six thousand messages you haven’t had time to read, and still find your desk.

Oliver’s gruel and Las Vegas

This is a bit from my novel, Where’s Mrs. Bendouski?:

Scott wandered around the Flamingo carrying a small package.  He shuffled past the twenty-one tables where serious players watched the cards being dealt face up on the green felt in the same hopeful way Oliver watched the gruel being ladled into his wooden bowl.  A trip through the slots where the not quite musical calliope of sound urgently called to be fed more dollars, more quarters, more nickels.  As he wandered to the edge of the mêlée, almost to the registration desks, he succumbed to the Rapture, stuck a dollar in a slot machine -- and lost.  “And that’s why I don’t gamble.”

“I beg your pardon?”  The lady at the next machine looked at him.

“I said I don’t gamble.”

“You just put a dollar in that machine.”

“Well, I didn’t want to run all the way back up to my room and flush it down the toilet.”

“Smart ass.”

He shrugged and wandered over to the front desk.  “I have a package for a Mrs. Bendouski.”

It’s a murder mystery.  Mrs. Bendouski is dead.  He can’t find her.  When I find an agent, and the agent finds a publisher, you can read the rest.  I mean, if you want to.

Soccer ball trumps brain

My wife read in the New York Times, or maybe it was in the Albuquerque Journal, that they conducted a study on the effects of hitting a soccer ball with your head. Headers I think they call them.  And, big surprise, they discovered that hitting a soccer ball with your head is really bad for your brain.

Well, duh.

But now, at least we have a plausible explanation for Italian politics.

Adults don't take naps

Nap.  Funny word.  Naps are for kids, right?  Adults take siestas.  A siesta carries with it a sense of dignity, of rejuvenation.   A nap, on the other hand, is something your mother made you take when you were cranky, or bad.  Thank God for the Spanish language.   Siesta is Spanish, right?  It sure sounds Spanish.

Che Guevara and the monkey

This is a bit from my novel, Heavenly Hash:

A faded picture of Ché Guevara was nailed to the wall.  Next to Ché hung a dartboard sporting only two darts.  The third dart left the building in the buttocks of a spider monkey.  The poor little guy made the mistake of wandering in through an open window one afternoon.  The dart was probably only a few yards into the jungle but Koko Joe had never bothered to look for it.  And the monkey had never come back.”

The book starts in the South American jungle but is actually about a batch of marijuana-laced chocolate and a candy factory in the United States.

The homeless and basketball

A homeless person wandered through our residential neighborhood yesterday.  He got to the end of our street, a cul-de-sac, sat down on a rock in my neighbor’s front yard for a while, basking in the sun.  He already looked pretty tan.  Well, it could have been grime, there aren’t a lot of places the homeless can take showers here in Albuquerque.  In any case he sat there in the sun.  I glanced over at him every once in a while as I worked in my front yard.  I was tempted to walk over and ask him how he felt about NBA players complaining they’re only getting two million dollars a year on average.  But I never got around to it.  Eventually he wandered off, and now I’ll never know.