A couple Band Aids and I’ll be fine

Every year I make a piece of furniture for a charity auction here in Albuquerque.

And I’m basically terrified of my own power tools.

Twice, I’ve seen woodworkers with only three fingers on one hand.  Once would have been plenty, but if you visit woodworking supply stores often enough you run that risk, right?

Anyway, I finished my project without a mishap and used all ten of my fingers to put my tools away.  Then I discovered I needed to make one little extra cut.

Being too lazy to re-set everything, I did it with a handsaw.

And chewed up the skin on one of my fingers in the process.

Happy all the time could make one angry

The thing about being happy is that it’s different from being normal, or sad, or angry, or any other emotion, right?

It’s good to be happy, really good, but not all the time.  If one were happy all the time wouldn’t one eventually forget what other emotions felt like?

Eventually happy would become the norm and there would be no place to go when something good happened so that one could be, you know … happy.

That would be sad.

And that would make one angry, wouldn’t it?

Doctor time

Many of the nice doctor folks have changed the time they’re asking you to come for an appointment.  Instead of asking you to come in fifteen minutes early they’re now asking you to come in twenty minutes early.

There’s some paperwork and a co-pay, or a credit check, or the bartering of your car, or the surrender of one of your children, so it seems a certain amount of early time is required, but twenty minutes?

Okay, okay, it might take twenty minutes to sign away one of your kids, but that rarely happens, right?

Nothing’s changed of course.  You still check in and wait in the waiting room.  The nurse can’t take you into an exam room because there isn’t one available or the doctor isn’t able to see you yet.

That’s okay.  You’re early, right?

So, you sit waiting, along with ten or twenty other people, sharing germs via coughs and sneezes, touching stuff and generally breathing each other’s air.

Ten or twenty minutes later someone calls your name and you’re ushered back to an exam room where you’ll wait another ten or twenty minutes for the doctor.

That’s okay, too.  I guess.  There’s interesting stuff to look at and read on the walls of course: What your urinary tract looks like, your arteries and veins, what part of your brain explodes when you go nuts waiting, your testicles, all kinds of interesting stuff.

Eventually the doctor comes in.

He or she is usually smiling, but clearly overworked.  There’s a pleasant greeting and he or she buries his or her face in the computer.

Once he or she has you “up” on screen the business of doctoring can commence.

If you glance at your watch you’ll notice that your one o’clock appointment started at roughly one thirty-five.

That’s okay.  It’s doctor time.

I worry about my attention span

I don’t know about eternity.  It seems like a long time.

I mean a really loooooooooooonnnng tiiiiiiiiiimmmmme.

And I can barely stay interested in anything for more than twenty minutes.

The cat thinks she’s invisible

When there’s too much commotion in the house, the cat slips up under the bedspread on our bed.  It’s kinda funny to walk into the bedroom and see a big lump in the middle of our bedspread.

I’m pretty sure she feels safe, and thinks she’s hidden under there.

I’ve been tempted to go over and pet her through the spread, but I think it might really freak her out, so I don’t.

What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her, right?

We’re not all Frank Sinatra

The problem with being stubborn, no, strong willed, and doing it your way is; if you’re an average person, you’re probably only going to be right about half the time.

Doing it your way probably means you’ll have a fifty-fifty chance of being wrong and screwing up.

Or maybe not being completely wrong, and only screwing up a little.

On the other hand, you have the exact same odds of being right, and being successful.

Or maybe of being almost right and being somewhat successful.

That’s good.  Or at least not bad.

If you’re in the half that make it, you’re probably pretty happy, or should be.

If you’re in the other half?  Well, you’ll take the blows, as Frank would say.

Nobody wants to be vanilla

I’ve heard it said that vanilla ice cream is the most popular flavor.  Well, it’s certainly used more.  In more recipes I guess.  But does that make it the most popular?

I’ve never actually heard anybody say “Mmm, vanilla!”  Have you?

Vanilla is used to describe the ordinary, isn’t it?  As in: “He’s nice and all, but he has such a vanilla personality.”

We all know what that means, and nobody wants to be that guy.

I believe strawberry comes in second, but I’d put chocolate ahead of both.  After that, I’d put chocolate marshmallow.  And mint chocolate chip would be in a tie with fudge ripple for third.  Black cherry with little bits of chocolate gets an honorable mention, then every other flavor, and in any order you choose.

Did I mention I like chocolate? 

Aren’t corn flakes great?

I normally have Cheerio’s when I have cereal for breakfast.  I bought into the heart-healthy business they portray in their commercials.

But, yesterday morning, a bowl of corn flakes snapped me back to my childhood.  You should try it.  Put sugar on the flakes instead of fruit, the way you did when you were young, and use whole milk.

Oh, come on, one bowl of real milk and a little sugar won’t kill you.  Do that and you’ll be blasted back to when you were twelve.

It won’t cure your arthritis or make your back feel better, but for a few minutes your taste buds will make you feel like a kid again, where anything’s possible.

Unless of course, you had a crappy childhood, like Oliver.  Gruel won’t do it.

In that case forget about your childhood and have eggs Florentine.

I’ve got to pay better attention

I saw our neighbor in the grocery store yesterday, the one who gave us a bag of luscious tomatoes last fall.

We said hello and I asked her how her hip replacement was doing.  And she said her new knees were doing fine.

Damn.

We probably won’t be getting any luscious tomatoes this fall.

Never give an eight-year-old boy Styrofoam

He’ll destroy you.  He’ll take a three foot by four foot, half-inch thick piece of Styrofoam, cut the whole thing up to make an eighteen inch sword and in the process bury your studio in teeny tiny bits of styro-crumbs that float around and stubbornly resist any device you use to try to pick them up.

For weeks they’ll be in your paints, on your keyboard, and in every nook and cranny within thirty feet of his project.

You’ll smile, and like a good uncle (or aunt), tell him what a neat sword he made.

The sword will last for about five minutes, as Captain Blood slashes around the house, then it’ll break and he’ll be on to the next project.

I know I should have made him clean it up.  But he’s eight, and at eight the studio is for making stuff, and having fun, right?

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking right now, that’s what my wife said too.

It’s in the ear of the beholder

The phrase: Sooner or later really only means sooner doesn’t it?

When someone says; sooner or later you’re going to have to – bite the bullet, do the deed, make the move, have the talk, play your hand, set things straight, face the music, tell the truth, or get a job, they really mean now, don’t they?

But, if you’re the recipient it means later, doesn’t it?  Yes, it does.

Phrases are funny that way.

How could you pass it up?

While waiting at the Albuquerque Airport to pick up a friend, I wandered into in one of the gift shops and saw a sign that read:  T-shirts $10 each, or two for $20.

I blinked – then couldn’t help but laugh.  What a deal.

I’ll bet if you were really forceful you could talk them into selling you three for $30. 

Two loose, Lautrec

If you’re ever in downtown Detroit, try the Lafayette Coney Island, or the National Coney Island next door.  I worked in Detroit many years ago, and went there often.

It makes no difference, which one you go into, I think the owners are brothers, or cousins and I think they share everything.  But I could be wrong.

Anyway, order two hamburgers, loose, with everything.  The surly waiter will yell: “Two loose!” And the surly guy standing at the windows in front will make them up in nothing flat. (The grills are at the front windows so passers by can see all the food.)  Then he’ll yell: “Two loose!” He’ll toss them on the counter and they’ll land with a clatter.

They’ll come to you on too small a plate; a shovel-full of loose hamburger meat in a steamed hotdog bun with chili, mustard and onions dripping off, and will be one of most delicious eating experiences you’ve ever had.

It’ll be messy, you’ll need a few extra napkins, but it will be worth it.

And I always wished the man at the window had been named Lautrec.

Think what the waiter could have yelled.

I’ll be visiting Detroit someday soon.  God, I hope they’re still in business.

I hope it hasn’t turned into a sushi joint.

Just folks – and sushi

When we moved to Albuquerque I didn’t expect to see many sushi joints.  But to my surprise, there were quite a few.  Seven actually.  I’ve tried most of them and most are pretty good.  They all seem to be doing fairly well and I chalked it up to patrons, like myself, who came from somewhere else.

But a group of people I know, just regular folks, who have regular jobs, and never lived anywhere but here, went out for sushi recently.

The only reason it was a big deal to me is – it wasn’t a big deal to them.  It was as common to them as going to Applebee’s.

My wife said sushi is trendy now, in Albuquerque.

I smiled.  It was trendy in LA when I moved there in nineteen sixty-seven, and probably earlier.

It’s still trendy in LA.  Although when something’s been popular that long I guess it isn’t a trend any more, is it?

I Goggled Sushi in Detroit, where I grew up, just out of curiosity.  There are seven Sushi joints listed there as well.  Is that a trend?  

Her heart is in the right place

I like to watch professional football and my wife tries to show some interest in the game to support me.

She said recently that she was tired of all the Tom Tebow hoopla.

Tim, I said.

And she hoped that Adam Smith and the Forty-niners would do well next week.

Alex, I said.

It’s nice to have a partner who cares.

They kinda screwed it up for me

It seems to me the food at the ballpark has radically changed.  When I was a kid in Detroit I had the impression Briggs Stadium only served hotdogs.

I don’t know for sure because the only ballgame we ever tried to sneak into, we were caught and ushered to the curb.

My buddies and I couldn’t have afforded a hotdog even if we’d gotten away with sneaking in.  Did I mention none of us had any money?

Anyway, now that I can actually afford a ticket, I’m conflicted about the variety of foods offered in ballparks.

Standing outside, listening to the cheers of the crowd inside, we imagined how much fun it would be to scream, wave our hotdogs around, and smack each other on the back when our team made a great play.

You can’t wave a bread-bowl full of clam chowder over your head when your team scores, can you?

Or nachos with extra cheese and jalapeños, or an Indian taco with beans, shredded beef and chopped lettuce and tomato, or the big mess of charro (it looks like fried worms) with a ton of powered sugar dumped on it, or Dippin’ Dots, or a big sub sandwich overloaded with salad and stuff, or an actual salad, or even sushi for God sakes.

You can wave a giant warm pretzel with mustard on it over your head I guess, but you get my point.

They’ve improved the food and trampled my fantasy.

When I go to the ballpark, I always get a hotdog, in homage to my childhood.

Oh, I get it

We were at an Albuquerque Isotopes ball game, the Dodgers triple-A farm club.  I asked my friend if he wanted a hotdog.  He said no, he couldn’t eat food on an empty stomach.  And ordered a beer.

I laughed and ordered a hotdog and a beer and we found our seats.  After a few innings he finally got himself a hotdog – and another beer.

I like the man’s style.

Not the answer we’re looking for

If you’re not married or don’t have a significant other, you probably don’t know how many different answers there are to the question: What time is it?

The simple answer is pretty straightforward.  It’s whatever time it actually is, in your time zone, at that moment, right?

No, not really.

If you’re in a relationship you know that the answer can, and probably will be, any one of a great number of answers.

Such as:  The movie doesn’t start ‘til seven.  Or: We don’t have to be there for another hour.  Or: The stores stay open until ten o’clock.  Or: Dinner won’t be ready until the noodles are done.  Or: I just have to fold your shorts and then we can go.  Or: We can leave as soon as I feed mother.  Or: As soon as I feed the cat.  Or: Don’t worry, I told them we might be late.  Or: I just have to put my makeup on.

Or, if you lead a really exciting life, the answer could be:  You’ve got ten seconds before the bomb goes off.  Just snip the blue wire!

They’re all good answers, some more exciting than others, all very informative.

But they’re not actually the answer to the question are they?

No, they’re not.

And if you’re in a serious relationship, you know she’s just anticipating what she thinks you’re really asking, so you can’t show your frustration.  You just have to go find a clock.

Eleven minus one equals zero?

Is it possible to be named NFL’s most valuable player without ever taking a snap?  If it is I nominate Peyton Manning.  It’s obvious why.

You gotta start somewhere

A movie channel was showing a really old movie “She Done Him Wrong” or maybe it was “He Done Her Wrong”.  Well anyway, somebody did somebody wrong in the movie.

I turned it on because the listing said it starred May West and Cary Grant, and I was curious.

May West is oddly famous isn’t she?  I mean she wasn’t super attractive, she wasn’t particularly curvaceous, kinda plump actually, and she couldn’t sing.  I guess she did it with innuendo.  “Why don’t you come up sometime ‘n see me?”  One of her famous, often misquoted, lines is cute rather than sexy.  And the flirty way she pumped her hips when she said it was almost LOL.

It was too painful to watch very much of the movie.  The stilted dialogue alone was a killer.  And from what I saw, Cary Grant played a chauffer.  When he showed up in that little cap and jacket I turned it off.

My car don’t get no respect

Everybody dumps on my thirty year old Diesel Rabbit.  My son took a look at it when I drove it to California recently and said: “What a piece of crap.” He was smiling and chuckling when he said it, so I suppose it was okay.

I was going to meet some friends for lunch and my wife said to me: “You’re not taking your car, are you?”  In that tone of voice.  Jeeze.

But if we have to carry anything big, or dirty, or eight feet long, like plants, or fertilizer, or lumber, then it’s another story.  Then my crappy old car is just fine and dandy.

My son’s car doesn’t get 42mpg, my wife’s car doesn’t get 42mpg, but I get 42mpg.

Blow that out your tailpipe.

Can’t fool a smart four-year-old.

I realized my son was smarter than I when he was only four years old.  He hadn’t finished his dinner one night and I said to him what was said to me when I was a kid.  “Finish your dinner, there are children starving in Europe.”

Without batting an eye he offered me his plate and said: “Well, send them this, I’m full.”  I was dumbfounded.

Why couldn’t I have thought of that when I was four? 

At four I didn’t even know what a Europe was, so I stupidly ate whatever was left on my plate.

The title needs work

Among short pieces of music, I really like Fanfare for the Common Man, by Aaron Copland.  There’s nothing common about it.

Come to think of it, I’ve never met a common man.  I’ve met funny, smart, mean, weak, strong, stupid, interesting, dull, devious, dangerous, lazy, angry, goofy and serious men, but never one I would describe as common.

We’re gonna’ have to find a new title for Aaron’s wonderful piece.

You parked where?

We drove to the movies in San Francisco once.  Just once.  I dropped my wife off and went looking for a parking space.  The closest one I could find was in my own garage, so I parked there, and jogged back to the theatre.

My wife started laughing when I explained why it took so long.  And she giggled through the first half of the movie until I pointed out she’d have to walk all the way back home in those shoes.

It turned out okay.  We stopped for coffee.  Twice.

Code words

Your wife is having her usual oatmeal with dried cranberries for breakfast, and you’ve chosen to cook up some ham and eggs with toast.

When you sit down and she says: Those look good.  That’s not what she means.

You married men know what she means.  So you dutifully put a bit of egg, making sure to get some yoke, and a small piece of ham on a corner of your toast and reach across the table.

She smiles, takes the bite and says something like: Well, I wasn’t going to ask for a bite, but since you offered.  And gets the first morsel of your breakfast.

Understanding the code is the secret to a happy marriage.  Right guys?

Lets go visit our car

For twelve years we lived in San Francisco, in North Beach.  Parking there is close to impossible.  My wife and I had a garage so it was easy for us.

And we both had spaces at work.

But, if you live in San Francisco, anywhere near downtown, and don’t have assigned parking it’s really, really tough, right?

The solution is simple: buy a car that’s already parked.  You can visit it on weekends.

The same goes for anyone living anywhere near the Plaza in Santa Fe.

Two tips but no canoe

Here’s a tip:  Leftovers taste even better if you pour homemade stewed tomatoes over them.  No kidding, pour some over leftover turkey tetrazzini, for example, and you’ve got a whole new dish.  Or try pouring them over leftover pot roast.  It will give the roast some extra zip.

And if you don’t have friendly neighbors who are willing to share their tomatoes with you, I guess canned tomatoes would work in a pinch.

Here’s another tip, mostly for bachelors:  If you take two kinds of canned soup and mix them together it tastes more like homemade.  Okay, okay, it tastes a little less like canned.

Try mixing bean soup and fajita chicken soup for instance.  Or mix vegetable with cream of corn.  It almost works with almost anything.

Well, maybe not barley, barley is – well, what can one say about barley?

Oh.  In case you’re wondering what the title is all about, “Tippecanoe and Tyler too” was a presidential campaign slogan a million years ago.  Sorry to be so obscure.  

Good neighbors vs. canned stuff

Our neighbor’s tomatoes all ripened at once so they shared quite a few with us.  They gave us so many my wife made homemade stewed tomatoes.  They were unbelievably delicious.  They were so much better than the canned kind.  No kidding, it was like the difference between a really good filet mignon broiled on an open flame and the filet mignon you get in a can.

I’ll get this one. You’ll get the next.

Have you ever noticed that in bar and restaurant scenes on television you rarely see anyone pay the bill?  Especially comedies.

Something funny happens and everybody runs out of the restaurant, and no waiter runs after them with the check.

Or two people are staring at each other over a candlelight dinner and, ‘pling’; they’re in bed – or on the Staten Island Ferry, or something.

Or, if it’s an old Monty Python episode, they’re in the bed – on the Staten Island Ferry – along with a couple of nuns.

Anyway, wouldn’t it be nice to live in a television show like that?

I’m not crazy about the ferry part, seasick and all, and sleeping with nuns would be wrong, but if I didn’t have to pay, I’d eat out every day.

Yes, I know Whoopi Goldberg paid forty dollars for some breadsticks in the movie Jumpin’ Jack Flash and Becker always paid for his coffee.  I mean generally.

Maybe he hitch hiked

While touring Tunisia we got lost in the desert.  We were miles from nowhere when we came to a fork in the road without a sign and our driver and our guide got into an argument, in Arabic, over which road was right.  The driver had the wheel so we went his way first.

The road ended in the scariest outpost of a town I ever saw.  We rolled up over a slight rise in the sand and there it was.  The driver stopped quite a bit short of the enclave, had a few quick words with our guide, in Arabic, made a hasty U-turn and sped away in silence.

We eventually got back to the fork in the road and on to where we were going.   And the next morning, surprise, we had a new driver.

I never really wanted to know what was in that town, but I always wondered if the old driver had to walk home, or what.

America’s contribution

We were in Tunisia some time ago, long before the recent events.  And the only languages the people spoke there were Arabic and French.  At least that’s all we ever heard.

We don’t speak either, and neither did the couple we traveled with, but we had a guide and a driver so we were okay.

The only two words we ever saw, or heard in English, were fast and food.  We saw fast food signs almost everywhere.  Some contribution, huh?

But it wasn’t the kind of fast food you’re thinking of.  It was usually a pretty beat up old, small building with a hand-painted sign on it, or occasionally, some guy sitting at the side of the road with what looked like a wok or some version of one, with a hand-painted sign and a bucket of chopped up seasoned meat, probably camel, or maybe lamb, that he would cook up real quick for you.

I never had the guts to try any.  If you saw the buildings or their buckets you’d understand why.

We ate mostly in hotels and upscale restaurants.  So I guess we missed out on two things: interesting local food, and serious stomach problems.