Twilight Zone Returns

Camera zooms in on a blue Ford Explorer cruising down the highway on a calm day with blue skies, green pastures and McDonalds at every mile.

Camera angle switches to an interior view of a driver enjoying music on the radio, rapping his fingers on the steering more or less in time with the music, singing embarrassingly loudly more or less in tune with the music.

Voice over narrative by Rod Serling: This is Bill. Returning home from an ordinary weekend get-away that included some camping, a fire on the beach, hot dogs, potato salad and the other little diversions that comprise recreation in the Twenty-first Century. Bill is heading home. He has a full tank of gas, he knows the way and he’s looking forward to that hot shower that awaits him at the termination of his journey. What Bill doesn’t realize is that his next stop won’t be home. Not on this highway. This highway leads to another dimension of sight and sound. On this highway Bill’s next stop will be…The Twilight Zone.

Dum dum dummmmmmmmm…diddily dump de dump. (Bongo music)

Background

When I was a kid I watched The Twilight Zone every Friday night and it used to creep me out.

I watched it, anyway.

Like a moth to a flame I was drawn to tales of the weird and weird tales. Twists of fate, the unexpected turn of events, the shock, the horror, the anticipation that something strange was going to happen.

In retrospect, Twilight Zone was never about horror. The monsters were in our own minds, not on the screen. We anticipated the worst. We anticipated something shocking. It was psychological. The stories were all fake. This stuff didn’t really happen.

Or did it?

In the Twilight Zone episode 91, “Little Girl Lost” (March 16, 1962) (Thank you, Google!) a little girl disappears through the wall under her bed into the Fourth Dimension. She’s there one minute and gone the next. Through the wall into a rift opened up into the Fourth Dimension.

I’m convinced that’s where single socks go.

I’m also convinced that a rift into the Forth Dimension swallowed a chestnut many years ago and a cell phone antenna today.

Years ago, as a college student, I was sorting chestnuts to roast. I was looking for chestnuts that were rotten or full of mold. At one point I dropped a chestnut and it rolled “somewhere.” Now, “somewhere” wasn’t a Great Where because I was in a dorm room, a concrete cube 10 by 10 by 10 with a single door. I heard the chestnut hit the floor, roll for a while, then…nothing.

I figured the chestnut rolled under the bed I was sitting near. Nope. We searched the room for a while and never found the nut. Eventually, we were distracted by beer and forgot about the disappearing chestnut.

A few weeks later, however, was the end of term and as we cleaned out the dorm room I was reminded of the Lost Chestnut and kept a sharp eye out for it. We all did. Finally, the dorm cell was totally empty of everything: beds, desks, chairs, carpets, kegs and the pesky nuclear reactor that we could never get going above 25%.

No chestnut.

It simply wasn’t there. It’s like it bounced twice, rolled a bit, and disappeared into the Fourth Dimension.

Today

Today I was unpacking the blue Ford Explorer from a weekend of camping, fires on the beach, hot dogs, potato salad and a generally great time. I used my cell phone several times during the journey from the Wilderness to Civilization, so I know the cell phone sported its little nubby antenna.

I returned home to my house, apparently my house, not the Fourth Dimensional house, enjoyed a hot shower and prepared a nice lunch. Then I went out to put the camping stuff away.

That’s when I whacked my cell phone. It was a little whack. Just getting too close to the car or the wall or what I was carrying or whatever. I felt a whack where my cell phone lives on my hip.

Shortly later, like a minute, I noticed that my cell phone antenna, that little stubby thing that sticks up on a Motorola cell phone, was gone.

What?

Gone. Missing. Absent. Detached.

I looked around and found nothing that resembled the grey, rubber antenna. I searched under the car, around the carport and in the flower bed.

No antenna.

“It has to be in this general area,” I thought.

But it wasn’t. I searched for an hour. Under the car. I moved the car. Under the Explorer. I moved the Explorer. In the grass. In the flowers. I looked in my pockets. Under my belt. In the cell phone holster. I expanded the search to the kitchen, bathroom and pool.

No antenna.

Finally, I gave up. It’s gone. Disappeared. In the Fourth Dimension. It was getting late and I had used up two sets of AA batteries searching the carport and flower beds.

Finally, I decided that this (and other) problem was best resolved by a good night’s sleep. As I drifted into the Land of Nod I distinctly heard the Antenna and the Chestnut.

“Yo, Antenna, Wazzzzzup?” Chestnut said enthusiastically.

“Not much, Chestmeister, just got here,” replied Antenna, “what’s with all the socks?”

Meanwhile

Meanwhile back in the Third Dimension the following conversation is occurring.

“Is that a coat hanger sticking up out of your cell phone?”

“Yeah, it’s all the rage. I’m surprised you don’t have one.”

Epilogue

Exit one Bill. Denier of Reality. He lost a chestnut and a cell phone antenna into the Fourth Dimension. Bill denies this and continues to pretend that the chestnut and antenna went “somewhere.”

To Bill, they went “somewhere” but we know that Somewhere is signposted: The Twilight Zone.

Not the Santa!

My favorite time of the year is here: Christmastime!

Christmas lover; I am fond of Christmas. I like the music, the food, the spirit and, well, the whole thing. Bring it on, I’m ready!

Which is to say I’m never ready. Occasionally I’ve been “ready,” but generally it’s Christmas Here I come Ready or Not. I’ve learned not to mind but just let the season flow around me and soak it all in.

And that reminds me, you’re all invited to host a fondue party at your house on Thursday, December 22. Send me email updates and pictures as your party is happening and by hook and by crook I’ll post them here.

Global Fondue Party.

OK, back to Christmas.

“It’s a Wonderful Life” with James Stewart, I can watch that at least once, maybe twice if I’m cooking and only see bits and pieces. “Simpson’s Christmas”, a classic. All of them; I’m sure there’s been more than one. “Charlie Brown Christmas” I’ll listen to for the music but I’m not likely to plop down and watch it from start to finish.

As for Christmas music I can listen to it year round. It really puts me in a good mood at this time of year, though. Manheim Steamroller, Liz Story, Cambridge Singers…I’m all over it.

Now, lest we think that I’m a total pushover let’s spend a moment in the reality of the season. I went to the Mall this weekend. I usually avoid the Mall and I REALLY avoid the mall between October and February. However, this weekend I needed a particular item only available at the Mall so I went.

Big mistake. I won’t go into the details but they involved parking, parking, parking, crowds, crowds crowds and kiosk vendors selling flying things that basically scare the hell out of me. Who are these people and why are they selling this stuff? Score for me, I got my cell phone belt clip and beat a hasty retreat. That’s it for the year.

One of my favorite TV shows was Dinosaurs, about a dinosaur family and a rip-off of the Honeymooners. The baby dinosaur would often whack his father on the head with a spoon and exclaim “Not the Mama! Not the Mama!”

I sympathize with Baby D looking next door. Not the Santa! Not the Santa!

The Neighbor’s Christmas Display. If there’s not a law against inflatable, lit from inside, plastic Santas and Snowmen, there should be. At the very least there should be a hunting season on these gaudy, offensive blights and the owners should be required to fill them with hydrogen gas so they explode magnificently when shot.

“Come on, kids, let’s go see the lights and shoot us some snowmen!”

“Yeaaaaa!”

These monstrosities rise from the lawn at dusk like Yule time zombies glowing and swaying in the wind, maniacal, rigor mortis grins fixed on their cheap, plastic faces and proclaim to the world “Crass is good!”

Finally, I’m a terrible shopper. That is, I’m terrible at figuring out what to get for someone else.

In a perfect world everybody would get a quad processor Macintosh G5 with dual 30” monitors and 10 Tb of disc storage. And that’s just for email.

A few years ago I gave my daughter a really cool stapler. Metallic silver, ergonomic design and a Swingline, too! I’m hoping this year she’ll start speaking to me again. You’d think she’d appreciate quality, but noooooo.

Nobody gave me a stapler. I dropped hints, yes I did. Oh, well. There’s always this year.

Sackmeister

At the supermarket there are many roles played. Some people are simply customers, oblivious to the world around them, just getting by, trying to avoid hassle.

There are those who work in the supermarket. Shelf stockers, the meat and fish people, the produce managers, janitors and last but not least, the people you see at the end of your shopping experience: Checkers and Sackers.

Checkers are the people who scan your merchandise glacially or, if you’re very lucky, with some modicum of efficiency.

Sackers are the people who place frozen turkeys on top of bread and eggs, glacially or if you’re very lucky, with some modicum of efficiency.

Rarely, an individual will rise to the pinnacle of the profession and become a Master Checker or a Master Sacker.

But, the ultimate accolade, the highest honor, the Palm d’Or is accorded only to the very few. And in the sacking profession that would be the Sackmeister. An individual so skilled at bagging groceries that he has transcended into legend.

I’m the Sackmeister.

I’m the King of Sacking.

When I walk into Kroger’s the sack boys cower in my presence because they know, instinctively, that

I. Am. The. Sackmeister.

What that means is that I can beat the Checker. Any Checker. Always. Without fail. My hands are a blur when sacking groceries, my eyes swiveling like the Terminator’s scanning for the next item. I anticipate. I snatch. I sack. I am victorious.

I am the Sackmeister.

When I’m sacking by the time the checkout printer spits out the receipt I’ve got all the groceries sacked up and in the cart.

The conveyer belt loops its endless life empty. The checker is finishing his business at the cash register and I’m standing at the end of the counter, arms folder, supercilious smile on my face, gloating. Waiting on you, Dude, I imply. The Sackmeister always waits on the Checker. The Checker never waits on the Sackmeister.

Then I do the Beat the Checker Dance out the store. The other sackers form a bridge line, arms outstretched in reverence as I cruise out into the parking lot.

“Who IS that guy?” I once heard.

“He’s the fastest sacker on the planet,” a colleague whispered, “Never been beaten by a Checker. Never.”

“Not even by the Old Hand?”

“Shhhh! We don’t speak of the Old Hand and the Sackmeister together. That’s just wrong. I mean, that’s like saying Starsky beat Hutch or Yogi beat Boo Boo or Sonny beat Cher. That’s just wrong.”

I pushed my cart to my car that was parked in the special spot marked for the “Sackmeister.” Lovingly, I polished the little plaque that identified my special parking place.

“Like candy from a baby,” I thought, “like candy from a baby.”

Later, after Thanksgiving, I needed a major shop. I was out of a lot of standard items like armadillo shells, and weevils had gotten into my special Hungarian hot paprika, so that needed replenishing. Also, I cooked up all my specialty vegetables: Sonoran chipotle, southern collard greens, Klingon gaqh and Italian cheese.

I made a list, grabbed my sacker gloves off the hook, put on my shades and drove into battle.

Word must have leaked out. When I arrived at Kroger’s the lot was nearly empty. Not a problem since I owned a reserved parking spot. I eased into my Sackmeister stall and paused to reflect on my shopping strategy. A key strategy to winning is to arrange items in the cart in a particular order designed to slow down or confuse the Checker.

Easy stuff up front, weird vegetables at the back. Hide a few items below the main basket and buy a greeting card for Amy; those always take extra time to scan.

I cruised through the store like a demon possessed picking out Kroger Card Special items on instinct. Case of dog food half price. I don’t have a dog, but half price is half price. I was thinking of tacos for the soccer team picnic. Yeah, that would work nicely.

Finally, cart piled high, I approached the checkout lines.

Whoa, baby, I’m in luck! Nine lines open! I’ve never seen so many check-out lane lights lit. (Try saying THAT three times!) Glad I brought my shades.

As I cruised up to Lane 3, the light went off. Sorry, closed.

I moved to Lane 5 and the light went off. Sorry, closed.

As I looked up, all the lights blinked off one after another until only Lane 8 was open.

I cruised up to Lane 8 and as I swiveled around the magazine rack I came face to face with Carlos, aka Spot Boy. Carlos was in great form tonight sporting a zit the size of Rhode Island smack dab in the middle of his forehead. I hoped I wouldn’t have to use this cheap trick, but something told me that tonight was going to be just a little different.

Carlos looked at me, stretched out his hands and cracked his adolescent knuckles loudly. With the back of his hand he tossed his greasy hair and locked eyes with mine.

“Ah, it’s you,” he said as if he didn’t know, “All the sackers are on break. Pity. You’ll have to sack your own groceries.”

He paused, then spat out, “Up to it, Old Man?”

I fixed Carlos with my steely gaze and smoothly pulled out my Binford 3000 Sacker Gloves from my back pocket and slowly pulled them on. The Cordovian leather hugged my muscled fingers and I pulled the Velcro tight around my wrist. The theme song from “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly” played in the background. Whoo-eee-whooooo, wha-wah-wahhhhhh.

My spurs clinked and my boots beat a sad tattoo as I strode to the sacking position.

Not breaking his gaze Carlos sprayed Windex on the scanner and wiped the glass surface with a practiced hand, clockwise three times then counterclockwise twice. Carlos was a pro.

“Yeah, Carlos, I think I’m up to it,” I sneered as I fanned the plastic bags and loosened my neck muscles.

“Ready when you are…Carlos.” I was in a crouch, shades down, feet firmly planted, bags open. Ready.

“Oh, by the way, Carlos,” I injected, “nice spot!” I pointed to my forehead.

Carlos looked self-conscious. Rattled he instinctively placed his hand on his forehead directly over the Cyclopsian zit dominating his skull.

This was my advantage! With Carlos focused on his blemish he would be unfocused on scanning groceries and that was an edge, however slim. But in the Olympian event of grocery sacking, every advantage, however cheap, was an advantage. It was survival of the fittest and the sneakiest. I knew Spot Boy’s Achilles’ Heel was his forehead.

Then Carlos grinned a face-splitting grin, dug his fingers under the volcanic eruption and ripped it off. Ewwww, I thought, how gross!

What? Instead of cascades of pus running down his face his forehead was as smooth as an overripe mango. It was apparent that the giant pimple was a ruse. A diversion. Carlos planned the whole thing!

“Fake zit, loser!” Carlos spat, and with that started zinging cans, boxes and packages across the scanner like a demon possessed.

I confess I was caught off guard. Gloating over my zit reference I missed the first three cans and nearly dropped a package of bacon on the floor. Two bags of flour piled up against the rail as 40 cans of cat foot came streaming down the belt. I was behind. That would have been all she wrote, but I compensated with a double axel, pike position and bagged like a man possessed.

I switched to Riverdance mode as Clint Eastwood became a giant Leprechaun.

Next came the wine bottles but I was ready with a special wine box that I produced from under the counter. Zip zip zip and I was done.

Carlos’ hands were a blur as he scanned product after product. Anticipating the vegetable produce at the back of the cart, Carlos activated his Heads-Up display of produce numbers and began to key in items before he weighed them. Whoa, this guy was good!

My game plan is to bank on a slowdown as the checker gets to produce. One call to the manager and I’ve won!

“Lane 8 needs a product code for Peruvian Llama hooves.” Ah, sweet victory would be mine.

But, Carlos with his Heads-Up produce display had the entire catalog in front of him.

It was going to be close.

Check, check, check. Carlos threw llama hooves, Mongolian turnips, purple sage blossoms and Not Too Hot peppers without so much as a flinch.

I was getting behind.

By the time I had the Pima fava beans in my grasp, Carlos was pressing the total button.

The receipt ticked out of the printer. Hastily, I sacked the fava beans and slam-dunked them in to the cart.

I heard a rip.

Looking around there must have been fractions of a second between the time I dunked the beans into the cart and the receipt was torn from the printer.

The store manager watched us from the balcony above. His was the final decision.

I felt confident I had won. Carlos looked worried, then he brightened somewhat. Pointing to the counter he positively beamed.

What? I thought.

And there, nestled against the wine bottle bags at the far end of the checkout counter lay a single kumquat, tiny and orange. Unmoving. I had failed to pack an item. It’s possible that Carlos won. Dejectedly, I picked up the kumquat and dropped in a bag, tossed it into the cart.

“Miss sacking something?”, Carlos sneered.

Yes, so I had. I was done for. In my confusion I couldn’t even remember buying kumquats.

I looked up as Caesar Gaius Krogerus gave me the thumbs down.

Defeated I pushed my cart through the door amid the shouting and derision of the Kroger employees.

“Ya, boo!” they shouted as they threw vegetables and fruit at me.

In the parking lot as I loaded my shopping into the car, including some extra fruits and vegetables I hadn’t purchased, (thank you Kroger staff!) The store manager was already removing my special sign. In its place read “Carlos – Kroger Employee of the Month”

The store manager smiled.

I got nose to nose with him and in my best Austrian accent said

“I’ll be back.”

Yes, I’ll be back, Carlos. You don’t beat the Sackmeister by a kumquat. No, revenge will be mine!

As I drove through the parking lot to the exit I passed the Old Hand who was on break, Starbucks grande in his hand, munching on a kumquat.

The Old Hand waved, and smiled wryly.

Air Apparent

When did they start selling air?

“They” are gas station owners. I’m sorry, “service station proprietors.” No longer is a gas station a place to fill up the vehicle, check the oil, clean the windshield and maybe get a soda pop to go. Nope. Long gone.

Service stations have gone up market. Now, they all have convenience stores. Convenience, indeed. In addition to gourmet gasoline these new service stations proffer more than watered-down, generic soda pop. At the very least a Starbucks kiosk will be nearby. Not content with day-old tuna wrapped in cellophane the modern service station will offer a selection of croissant sandwiches with watercress and Parma ham. I say, would you happen to have any Grey Poupon?

It was only a matter of time, I guess, before they discovered they could sell air.

Air and water used to be free services. Well-used, dented machines set off from the main car court in a dim location, you could always rely on them to pump up that nearly flat tire, or quench a leaky radiator. Just pull in, do your business and get back on the road.

Simple. And free. After all, the planet is three-quarters covered with water and enveloped under 50 miles or so of air.

Today I discovered I had a slow leak in one of my tires. Not a big deal, yet, but it was looking a bit flat and I couldn’t do anything about it until next week so I figured I’d air it up and watch it a few days. Tire problems tend to ripen quickly. I set my procrastination meter to “Medium” and headed off to Perry’s Service for some air.

Perry’s used to be called the “59 Exit Service” but that was when it was a gas station. Now that it’s a “service” station it was renamed Perry’s. Not only did they change the name, but they started charging for air.

“Seventy-five cents? For air?” I exclaimed in outrage as I pulled up to the shiny new air and water machines, “That’s outrageous!”

I looked around for someone to yell at. I knew I shouldn’t have left that participle hanging at the end of the previous sentence, but I was feeling a little dangerous at that moment. I get edgy with my prose when I’m huntin’ bear.

Presently, a well-dressed young man strolled out of the convenience store heading in my direction.

“Good afternoon, sir, air service for one?” he bowed low.

“Er, I just want to pump up my tire. It’s a little flat, you see.”

“Ah, quite. Do you have a reservation?”

“For air? No I don’t have a reservation. I just want some air. Not for me. For my tire. There, the going-flat-thing on my car.”

I was getting a little exasperated.

“On moment, sir, let me check my appointment book.”

“Appointment book?” I thought, “For air?”

“Right, sir, you’re in luck. Just pull up right here, oh, I see you’re way ahead of me, sir! Sir knows best, doesn’t he?”

He handed me a menu.

“A menu? For air? I just want air. In the tire. How difficult is that?”

Undeterred, the Air Waiter proceeded to tell me about the daily specials.

“You are in luck today, sir, as we have some spectacular offerings. First, we have fresh south Texas air, 78 percent nitrogen, 21 percent oxygen with just a hint of argon. That’s served at 30 pounds per square inch on a bed of Vulcanized rubber.”

“Next, we have a rare Washington State air tanked in from the Columbia River served with a twist of krypton and a helium glaze.”

“We also offer an imported French aire, 2003, estate bottled with, how do you say, je ne say qua, a strong hydrogen sulphide finish.”

“And, finally, we have Austin Statehouse air that’s usually served hot, but we present it filleted of Blarney at 32 pounds per square inch with neon relish.”

I gazed at the menu and made my selection.

“I’ll have the Combination Number 5: atmosphere l’ordinnaire at 35 pounds per square inch, grande Starbucks coffee of the day and tuna sandwich au cellophane.”

Air Waiter stared at me with quiet resignation. “One of ‘those’,” he was surly thinking. Quickly, he wrote my order, pumped up my tire and strode off to the store for my coffee and sandwich.

Returning without my sandwich, Air Waiter informed me that the tuna was “off”, and presented me with a rain check.

“Do I have to come back when it rains?” I offered jokingly.

Air Waiter turned on his heel and marched back to the convenience store.

“Pardon me for breathing,” I muttered as I got back in my car. I took a swig of the coffee. Lukewarm.

On the way home I rolled down all the windows and opened up the moon roof. I put in a Kate Bush CD and cranked up “Breathing” to an obscene volume. Bathed in air I took in a great lungful and exhaled lustily, spewing carbon dioxide into the atmosphere with gay abandon.

“Better take advantage of this while it’s still free,” I thought and headed back to the house to enjoy the remaining hours of my weekend.

Thanksgiving, I think

Not that there's sibling rivalry in the house, but...

Overheard at the Thanksgiving dinner table.

"See? I am the favorite child."

"You're the favored child."

"oh."

I'm glad we got that cleared up.

Wanted: Smart Oven

I haven’t baked bread for a while and I thought that while I was home on Thanksgiving Vacation I’d fire up the old oven, get the yeast a-going and fill the house with yummy bread baking smells.

I rummaged around and found all my old friends in the kitchen: large bowl, yeast, salt, Kitchen Aid mixer, baguette pan and favorite recipe.

I got to work.

The yeast bubbled nicely, very happy to be back in service. Kitchen Aid performed a Steamboat Willie dance on the countertop and the oven beeped cheerfully announcing it was hot to trot! The dough rose favorably; I punched it down, formed baguettes and laid them in the baguette pan.

Finally, it was showtime! In the oven they went and I set the timer for intervals at which I’d spray the loaves with water to develop a crusty crust.

At last spray, I set the timer for 21 minutes and settled down with a good book (Victoria’s Secret Christmas Catalog) for a brief “read.”

BeeeeeP! Ah, smelled good and I opened the oven to remove golden baguettes…

…only they weren’t golden. They were barely tan. In fact, they were downright pale.

WTF?

I checked the oven.

It was OFF.

OFF? OFF?!?!? What OFF?

True, the oven temperature was about 200, a far cry from the 400 bread baking temperature.

Then I realized what was going on. When I turned off the oven timer after the final spray I must have hit the main oven OFF button by mistake and the oven obeyed.

This is why I need a Smart Oven. I need an oven that will have a conversation with me.

“Yo, Baker Boy, you just put that bread in. Do you really want to turn off the heat? ‘cause that’s gonna make a mess of your bread.”

That would have been a big help.
As it turns out, I reset the oven, resprayed the bread, popped them in for 15 minutes and they came out OK.

I’m calling it Twice Cooked Bread.

Uh, yeah, that’s the ticket. I MEANT to do that. Yeah.

Twelve Two Two Fondue II

It’s a party!

You’re all invited!

Yes, everyone. All of you. Even you who are reading this now.

Here’s the blueprint.

Fondue Party
Twelve Two Two Fondue II
December 22, 2005
7pm local time
At Your House

Send me pictures and descriptions of your party as it’s happening and I’ll post them on the site throughout the day. Here’s the address:

12tutufondue@gmail.com

I hope to spark a Global Party in Celebration of Fondue, Friends, Family and Fun.

Check out the original entry for this blog on December 20, 2004, A Fondue Happening.

Woo Hoo! Par-TAY!

The P is for party, and the A is for all night! (clap clap)
The R is for rhythm, and the T is for tonight! (clap clap)
The Y is for you, and you know what to do so let’s
PAAAAAAAAAAARTY! (don’t let your momma know)
PAAAAAAAAAAARTY! (cause she won’t let you go)
PAAAAAAAAAAARTY! (all right all right all right!)

Thanks

Tonight I’d like to take a moment to thank all the people who stop by to read this blog and to acknowledge a few people who I don’t know and I’ve never met.

How strange is that?

I use a device called “StatCounter” to provide me with some statistics on my blog. It’s a clever piece of code and it provides me with a wealth of interesting information. It would be easy to get hooked on StatCounter, and maybe I am.

Earlier this year I thought StatCounter had gone beserk when my page hit number jumped by 6,000 in one day.

The Day of the Dooce.

Google “dooced” if you’re interested in that story and check out the Urban Dictionary, definition 3.

StatCounter also provides a little information about visitors, mainly through the ISP’s they use to access the Internet.

Although I’ll undoubtedly miss some people using today’s data only, I’d like to thank some of the people who visit this site regularly and I’m just going to acknowledge those StatCounter entries that show over a hundred visits. It boggles my mind, but here goes.

Thank you Atlanta and Billings and Little Rock and Ontario, Canada and New Rochelle and Anaheim and York, Pa, and Beaverton, Or, and a special thanks to Soddy Daisy, Tennessee just because I think the name is so cool.

Speaking of cool, I have documented readers from every continent on the planet including Antarctica. Here’s to you, Genevieve, doing your job on the end of the planet in conditions that would break most of us.

Thanks to all of you. You are my inspiration.

Tomorrow, an announcement and an opportunity. Get your calendars ready. Pencils ready to reserve a special date. If you can guess what I’ve got planned, well, there is no prize, just the satisfaction of being a good guesser. Sorry.

Anyway, until tomorrow.

GASP-acho

Today I received a cookbook in the mail to review. It was a nice book and I gave it a favorable review. One of the recipes brought back memories of the dangers of excess.

Gazpacho.

I learned to make Gazpacho from Pete the Gazpacho Master. I bow to his greatness. As an acolyte of Peter the Great I have come close to the exquisiteness of his vegetableness, but never quite met the bar he set all those years ago.

In short, Gazpacho is a cold, vegetable soup. Initially I was put off by all three words.

Cold.

Vegetable.

Soup.

Years previously I had an unfortunate and most remarkably bad, so bad it’s etched into my brain to this very day, of a cold, vegetable soup albeit consisting mostly of cantaloupe, a vegetable I would dispense with if I were King of the Vegetables.

OK, the purists will claim that the cantaloupe is a gourd or a pumpkin or a fruit or some kind of cow, but I don’t care. To me cantaloupe is survival food. If there’s nothing remaining to eat, and that includes family members, pets and the Pool Dude, I’ll munch on a cantaloupe. But, not until then.

Anyway, it was with some trepidation that I helped create a Gazpacho those many years ago. We chopped tomatoes, carrots, zucchini, Spanish onions, green onions, cucumber, celery and probably some other veggies I don’t remember. We added a can of beef consume, which, for a vegetable dish I though a bit strange, but in it went. Then some ketchup, hot sauce, Worcestershire sauce, garlic, salt and possibly some other spices that I don’t remember, either.

The point is that once you have the basics, the details don’t matter all that much. Don’t have cucumber? Don’t add it!

The key was to chop everything very fine. And this is where I have come into conflict with Gazpacho recipes. Most recipes I’ve read call for a food processor. I tried this once and the result was this thick, yucky vegetable mess.

I repeat. I was unimpressed with the food processor, pureed version of Gazpacho. No character.

So, getting back to the gasp part, there are two features of Gazpacho that warrant attention: spices and time.

On the spice front, adding jalapenos, hot sauce and something called Wicked Death is excessive. This combination results in a GASP-acho that’s entertaining, but not very edible. If you’re serving it to your in-laws then I’d recommend a double dose of Wicked Death; the entertainment value is high.

But, if you’re making Gazpacho for yourself, avoid the Death and go for flavor.

That’s where time comes in. In my experience the Gaz is best after 24 hours but falls off quickly after that. Fresh Gaz is a little thin on flavor, and after a day or so it becomes soggy and a bit ripe.

I’d go for overnight. Make it in the afternoon and serve it the next day for dinner.

Finally, my chopped versus food processor rant.

Food processors will smooth things out and turn your Gaz into pablum.

I like the edginess of hand-cut vegetables. Individual chunks of vegie goodness give the Gaz character and makes it interesting to eat.

That’s my opinion and I’m sticking to it.

Chili Reception

“Hey, I’m going to make chili tonight if that’s alright by you,” said the Voice.

What’s not to like about an offer like that, you say? Let me tell you. That simple sentence is a loaded minefield. One false step and, Boom! Here’s the analysis:

“Hey” – friendly attention getter. Warning! Will Robinson! Danger! Danger!

“I’m going to make chili tonight” – Establishing the playing field. Do you want to play? (see above warning)

“if that’s alright by you.” – Translation: Do these pants make my butt look big?

There are several responses to this statement, each with its own consequence.

a. “Noooooooo! Get out of the kitchen right now!” Boom!

b. “Thanks, honey, but how about I make the chili?” Boom!

c. “Uh, didn’t you make chili last year?” Boom!

d. “Thanks, that would be nice.” Tick, tick, tick tick…

Coward that I am, I chose answer “d” and awaited the moment the ticking stopped.

After much clanking around in the kitchen all went quiet for about half an hour. Tick, tick, tick, tick…

Then…

“Sweetie?”

“Yes, light of my life?”

“Would you please check the chili and adjust the seasoning? It seems sort of bland to me.”

…tick, tick, tick…Boom!

Lifting the lid I could detect chili powder, a little garlic and not much else. Water, tomatoes, onions; it all looked very unhappy. Yep, a bad case of bland. This was a chili emergency. Quickly, I added a can of tomato paste, a little salt, pinch of sugar, ton of garlic powder. Still, something was lacking. I knew the answer but I enquired.

“Dumplings, did you add any cumin?” I asked as I shook several tablespoons of cumin into the chili. It was already looking happier.

“Cumin? Oh, no, never. I hate cumin. Always have. I’d never put cumin in chili.”

Well, this response gave me a severe case of whiplash. What? I’ve been loading down my Prize Winning Chili with cumin for years. Decades, even.

“What do you mean no cumin, Sweetie Pie? I’ve been putting cumin in chili for 20 years! After all that time how can you say you’re off cumin?”

“I’ve had it up to here with cumin,” raising her palm to her nose.

“Now you tell me?”

“Better late than never.”

“You’ve had it up to here with cumin,” and I placed my palm against my nose, meanwhile shaking cumin into the chili for all I was worth.

“Yep, that’s about it.”

“I see. OK. Well, I’ll get back to adjusting the spices in the chili, and, uh, I’ll skip the cumin this time. Yessiree, no cumin. Nope, this is a Cumin Free Zone.”

I lifted the lid and took a deep whiff of the chili. Pure cumin. Glorious cumin. Forbidden cumin! Thinking fast I asked myself, I said “Self, what’s the opposite of cumin?” and self answered “Nutmeg.”

So, I dumped a load of nutmeg into the chili, gave it a stir and let it ripen for an hour.

Much later as the chili was served there were purring noises coming from around the table.

“Hey, Dad, best chili ever!”

“Don’t thank me,” I said, “it’s Mom’s chili.”

The Voice looked up after serving herself seconds and said, “And you know the best thing? After all these years he finally learned to get the spices right. No cumin!”

…tick, tick, tick, tick…Dud.

Jade West

When I was a student in college I never went anywhere without wearing my Jade East. I’d get half-way to class, realize I’d forgotten to put it on and go BACK to my dorm to correct that sad situation. Serious stuff.

Jade East is a men’s cologne that used to come in a bamboo-shaped bottle that was way cool. Now, it comes in an ordinary bottle which reduces its coolness factor to zero, according to me.

All of us alpha apes back then had our own scent. Joe was Hai Karate, Dennis was Old Spice and Al was Right Guard.

Al didn’t get many dates.

As time went on the idea of having a scent made less and less sense until finally, at long last, we became scentless and senseless. It just became unimportant to smell special. It became more important not to smell bad. So, I guess that particular bar of life was lowered a few notches.

And, that brings us to the present and my quest for shoes this weekend.

My destination was the shoe department at Dillard’s where I bought my previous pair of Ecco’s about 5 years ago. Finally, the Ecco’s gave up the ghost, so to speak, bless their soles.

Standing between me and the shoe department, to my horror, was a gauntlet of Scent Ladies armed with bottles of the latest and greatest. As I walked briskly through the minefield of myrrh each Scent Lady offered her wares trying to bark louder than her competitor on either side.

“Jaguar?”

“No, thanks.”

“Tommy?”

“No, thanks.”

“Apollo?”

“No.”

“Virile?”

“I’m not sure, let me check. Nope.”

Finally, I made it to the sanctuary of the shoe department. The Shoe Dude came up to me and asked “May I help you?”

Ah, a question I could answer. “Yes. I like your hair and the fact you have no scent. Now, I’d like a pair of Ecco Tracks, size 45 European, brown suede, Gore-Tex.”

Shoe Dude pondered this request and replied, “Could I interest you in some Clarke’s?”

I leaned in close, almost nose to nose and hissed:

“What do you think, punk? You have to ask yourself this question. Am I feeling lucky today? Well, punk, are you feeling lucky?”

Shoe Dude, obviously a Clint Eastwood fan, swallowed hard, turned slowly and walked briskly into the back room. Presently, he returned with a box of shoes exactly as ordered.

“You want to try these on?”, he asked weakly.

“Nope. You done good, kid.” I paid for the shoes and headed back out through the Gauntlet of Scent. With a new pair of shoes I was feeling my oats and my good mood was not going to be dampened by the Scent Squad.

“Beachboy?”
“No, thanks.”

“Kachina?”

“No, thanks. But I’ll try Pork Bar-b-Que if you have it. No? Pity.”

“Irresistible?”

“Why, yes. I am.”

I snatched a plastic rose out of a nearby display, grabbed the Scent Lady around the waist and with head held high, back straight and knees bent proceeded to tango around Men’s Scent, through Men’s Ties, passing through Men’s Shoes and almost mowing down Shoe Dude, and finally through Men’s Suits, pausing to dip several times to great applause from shoppers, and back to Men’s Scent.

Breathless, Scent Lady gazed at me, her eyes limpid pools of blue and asked –

“When will I see you again?”

“That, my dear, was the title of my favorite soul song from the 70’s.”

I gave my self a squirt of Irresistible and headed off into the sunset. A good day, by all accounts.

Talent for Teeth

There’s an old joke about a patient who’s concerned about an upcoming procedure. He asks his doctor –

“After this is over will I be able to play the violin?”

The doctor, trying to reassure her patient replies, “Why, yes, of course you’ll be able to play the violin.”

“Great,” the patient replies, “I’ve always wanted to play the violin!”

ha ha

I actually pulled that joke on a real doctor as I lay on a gurney prepped for an emergency appendectomy. Never miss a chance to be a smart-ass. I always say that.

To the question posed by me, my doctor, whose name is Hatchet by the way (would I kid you about something this serious?), replied –

“Well, that all depends. Do you play the violin now?”

Trapped like a rat I improvised.

“No, I don’t.” I paused for effect then said, “How about the accordion?”

Hatchet stared at me in such a way that I began to regret crossing swords with a man who was soon be wielding a scalpel over my unconscious body.

Finally, he said, “Yes, you’ll be able to play the accordion. As well as anybody.”

I guess old Hatchet wasn’t a Lawrence Welk fan. Good for him!

So, as I was having my crowns fitted today I mused (aloud, apparently) that wouldn’t it be great that after one had a crown fitted one would develop a new talent.

“Like what?” Doc asked.

“Murfff furg aggl arp.”

Why dentists have to ask you an essay question after stuffing your mouth full of stainless steel and cotton I will never know.

Patooie!

“Well, like tap dancing. Wouldn’t it be cool that after you fit the crown, I get out of the chair and can tap dance like Gene Kelly.”

“Or paint like van Gogh? “

“Yeah, now you’re cooking, Doc! Or sing like Pavarotti.”

“Or party like Paris Hilton.”

“Talent, Doc. I said acquire a talent, not a curse.”

“Perhaps there’s not much difference,” Doc mused philosophically.

I decided to take the theme even further. After all, I was being fitted with two crowns.

“Suppose two crowns gave you two talents, but they were at odds. Lumberjack and exotic dancer, for example.”

“Pig farmer and chef.”

“No, Bobby Flay has already done that. Haven’t checked his teeth, though.”

“Here. Bite down on this until I tell you to stop.”

Doc jammed a bale of cotton in my mouth.

“So,” Doc asked, “how ‘bout those Rockets? In 500 words or less I’d like to hear your analysis of the upcoming season.”

Doc folded his arms, sat down on his stool and, arching his eyebrows in anticipation, awaited my reply.

Thoughtfully and with expert knowledge of the NBA I replied –

“Mffph um arpp eff ithh ummmp. Frmrrrre, yoww foomp pfufff ifft luffft fummm.”

“Exactly and well put. I agree completely. Let’s get this bale out of your mouth. Check the fit. Bite down. Good. El perfecto. Youredonepayathefrontdeskseeyoulater.byebye.”

And in a flourish Doc was gone to his next appointment.

As I was walking to the receptionist’s desk to check out I met my hygienist in the hallway. On impulse, I snatched a plastic flower from a nearby display, grasped the hygienist around the waist and with head held high, back straight and knees bent, tangoed towards the front desk.

The hygienist was a good tango dancer. I reckoned she’d had a crown or two. We circled through the waiting room a couple of times, performed some deep dips in the hallway and finally, to thunderous applause, made our finale at the front door.

I bid my partner adieu and headed out to the truck with an overwhelming urge to locate some goats.

Goat herding. I’ve always wanted to do that but never had the talent. Somehow, now I had talent galore. I could herd goats. I felt it in my bones. By Hercules, I could be the greatest goat herder ever!

Not only that, I’ll teach them the tango. Step step dip! Step step dip! The whole flock whirling and dipping down the greeny, grassy hillside.

It will be grand!

Special

“Today’s special is roast haunch of prairie dog with a poblano-raspberry sauce accompanied by pineapple potatoes and gratin au gratin. We also have a chicken fried chicken with French fried fries and deep fat fried deep fat, au gratin. Finally, we have the Chef’s bucket o’ soup, and house salad, au gratin.”

Gazing at the menu, I said, “I think I’ll have the snapper with crab and shrimp, and a Caesar salad.”

[crickets chirping]

[tumbleweeds rolling down the street]

[winter wind noises]

[coyote howls]

“’scuse me?”

“What?”

“’scuse me. Do you not want one of the specials that Chef Ptomaine created specially for you today? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes, I’d like the snapper.”

“Well, that’s your choice. Sir. Just so you understand. That’s. Your. Choice. Sir.”

I had a bad feeling about this exchange but I was in a hurry and I just wanted a light lunch. Nothing fancy. A little fish and a salad. How tough is that?

Later, the waitperson appeared by the table, empty-handed.

“Chef informs me we’re out of snapper.”

I checked my watch. Time was a’wastin’.

“I’ll just have the Caesar Salad, then.”

“You don’t want one of the specials?”

“No, just the Caesar Salad. That will be fine.”

“Is that your final answer?”

“Yes, (Attila) that is my final answer.”

I sat there and focused on my watch. I calculated my travel time back to the complex. I calculated the heat death of the Universe. I wondered which would come first.

Finally, a Kitchen Server appeared.

“Prairie Dog haunch and Caesar Salad?”

“No, sorry, snapper and the salad. No haunch.”

“What do you mean, no haunch? I’ve got it right here. It’s cooked and everything.”

“No haunch. Just snapper and salad. I didn’t order haunch. But, you’re out of snapper so it’s just salad. Leave the salad and all will be cool.”

The Kitchen Server was clearly out of his depth.

“What do you mean ‘no haunch’? Do you think these things grow on trees? Do you think Chef Ptomaine prepares these exquisite, succulent, morsels for free?”

“Sorry, but I ordered snapper and a salad. You’re out of snapper, so I just want the salad. Cancel the snapper. No snapper.”

Kitchen Server retreated with haunch and salad, only to appear somewhat later.

“Prairie dog?” he offered hopefully.

“No,” I replied, “Caesar Salad.”

“Chef cooked this special. Tastes like snapper.”

“No, thanks”

“OK, well, I don’t know quite what to do. I mean I’ve brought out haunch after haunch and, like, there’s no satisfying you. What do you want, man, what do you want?”

“Just bring me a Caesar Salad in the next 2 minutes and I’ll gobble it down, leave you an obscenely large tip and get the hell out of here!”

“Right, Sir, that’s clear enough. I’m on it! Back in a flash.”

And, with that the waitperson plus haunch disappeared in the direction of the kitchen and hibernated for awhile.

Finally, the waitperson appeared.

Empty handed.

“Regarding your order, sir.”

“Yes?” I looked expectantly?

“The kitchen informs me that we’re out of snapper. Now, we’re out of haunch.”

He paused.

“And,” I pressed?

“Regarding your Caesar Salad, sir.”

“Yes?”

“We’re out.”

Got the Edge

I pulled Griptilian out of the drawer and clipped him to my belt. The Benchmade folding knife with locking blade and sure-grip handle snuggled against my hip. Griptilian is one sharp dude.

He woke up and yawned a big ole yawn.

“What’s up, Boss,” he asked, “we going somewhere?”

“Yep,” I replied, “big weekend. We’re on staff at the Outdoor Skills Leadership Training weekend. We’re cooking for the staff.”

“Cool beans,” Griptilian offered.

“Hopefully not,” I countered, “I bought extra jalapenos.”

“Cool beans,” Griptilian repeated. “Hey, maybe those wild jalapenos need to learn who’s boss, huh? I could do that.”

“Sure thing, Grip. Sure thing. You just hunker down and relax. We’ll be on the road soon.”

With that I finished packing up the truck, loaded up all the food and training materials and headed out into the sunset for a weekend of training, camping and fun.

We arrived at the campsite and set up our tent. Griptilian made himself useful cleaning up a few pieces of frayed rope and slicing a sheet of plastic in half. Not a stretch, but Griptilian reveled in being useful. The camp pulled itself together and soon people were drifting to their tents for the night.

Clear and cool, perfect sleeping weather, we decided to call it a night, too; tomorrow we had a lot to do.

Dawn broke like it always does, too early, but we were already up and getting the coffee on. Soon the staffers appeared and hung around the Chuck Box area where the good smells were coming from. Griptilian was still snoozing which was fine by me.

Breakfast was a simple affair: scrambled eggs and smoked sausage with warm flour tortillas, salsa and cheese. Fresh fruit, juice and coffee rounded out the menu. Griptilian slept through it all as I used the kitchen knives from my chef’s kit to prepare breakfast. I have a couple of Chicago Cutlery knives and a special Japanese blade for the heavy duty work.

There were no complaints from the participants, just yummy noises. My favorite.

When I’m the staff cook I take no chances. Sure, the District quartermaster is going to provide me kitchen gear, but, you know, it’s not quite the same using other people’s stuff when you cook. So, I bring my own kit: knives, peelers, a whisk, serving spoons and that sort of stuff. I store it in a very cool chef’s roll up bag that keeps everything neat and tidy, but at fingertip’s reach. Just pull the string and the bag unrolls to reveal a bunch of pouches where my tools rest, waiting for their opportunity to spring into action.

Mid-morning on Saturday Tom started to lay out his training session on knife safety.

Tom’s the Expert.

I like to pretend I’m an expert and show him a thing or two. Usually, that’s a big disaster. After all, Tom’s the Expert and I’m the Pretender. Cue the Platters.

This weekend, though, I struck it rich.

“Hey, Tom, did I ever show you my Griptilian? Locking blade using an AXIS mechanism and, oh, so sharp. Matte black. Sure-grip grip. Ambidextrous control. It’s a very safe tool. Did I mention sharp?

Tom was interested. “Oh, yeah, that’s a very nice knife.”

I felt Griptilian purr on my hip.

“Hey, would you mind if I used it in my demonstration?”

Griptilian nearly jumped off my belt in anticipation. “No, I don’t mind at all. Here.” I slipped Griptilian off my belt and placed him on the demonstration table among the other knives on display. Griptilian was definitely the coolest knife there, and he knew it. I thought I detected a little gleam from his blade.

“Hey, Tom, I’ve got another knife you might be interested in. It’s one I use for cooking. A Japanese santoku. What do you think?”

“Sure, bring it out. I’m always interested in showing specialty tools.”

The santoku is a nice knife. Meaning “three things” it’s the Japanese equivalent of a chef’s knife, good with vegetables, fish and meat. Can you say “way sharp?”

To describe my santoku is to describe every blade that was made and not made by Hatori Hanzo. Priceless.

I opened my cooking kit and pulled out the santoku. Schwinggggg! It gleamed in the sun catching the attention of those who were standing around. There were lots of Ohhs and Ahhs. The schwingggggg faded and it was silent.

I placed the santoku on the demonstration next to Griptilian.

Griptilian said, “Psst. Hey, Boss! Who’s the cutie?”

“Cutie,” I asked?

“Oh, yeah, man, she’s sharp and I mean way sharp. If you get my drift.”

“She?” I had never thought of the santoku as “she” but Griptilian seemed quite animated.

Later, Griptilian informed me, man to man, like, that the santoku’s name was Gin-Suki, meaning “beloved silver” and I must admit the name fit. Sleek and bright, the santoku was the sharpest and best balanced knife in my cooking collection. All other knives, even my workhorse Chicago Cutlery were flint tools by comparison.

She was a beauty all right. Griptilian was clearly captivated. And, then I got busy preparing lunch, demonstrating cooking techniques and started working getting dinner ready. Thoughts of Griptilian and Gin-suki faded away.

Dinner was a splendid affair, cooked in a Dutch oven. Smoked chicken enchiladas with a chipotle cream sauce, charo beans, green salad with Mexican goat cheese and an apple/pear/mango crumble, also cooked in a Dutch oven.

You know, it would be embarrassing to most people to get proposals of marriage at a training weekend like this, but having cooked for the staff in the past I’m used to the offers.

Later that night I asked Tom where my knives ended up.

“Oh, I saw you were busy,” Tom said, “so I stuck them in your chef’s bag. Figured you’d find them in the morning.”

“No prob,” I said, “just so long as they’re safe for the night.”

And, with that I headed over to my tent for a nice sleep. It had been a long day, all that cooking and other activities. I looked forward to a little shut-eye. Sleep came fast and I was out until sunrise.

Dawn arrived about two hours earlier than it should, and, as an aside, when I’m in control of the Universe I’ll fix that problem. I was up to get the coffee and staff breakfast going.

Rummaging around in my chef’s kit looking for a knife to open the bacon I found something unexpected.

A small, folding knife, barely two inches long.

Hmm, I thought, haven’t seen this before. I wonder where it came from?

I pulled it out and opened the blade. Wow! A folding santoku knife! It was a small blade, but santoku in shape. The locking mechanism was AXIS, patented by Benchmade. It was cool beyond belief.

Then it cried. Not a very loud cry, but a little wimper-cry.

“Oh, little bitty knifey, do you want something to cut,” I asked?

I grabbed a packet of bacon and ran the little knife blade across the top. It cut through like butter.

The crying stopped and the little knife settled down in my palm and went to sleep.

At that moment Griptilian peeked out of one of the pouches in the chef’s kit.

“Yo, Boss,” Griptilian yawned, “morning already? Where’d the night go?”

Gin-suki stretched next to Griptilian, looked up and said “Ohayou-gozaimasu!”

“Genki-desu,” I bowed.

I looked at Griptilian and said, “You have some ‘splainin’ to do, Bud.” Griptilian blushed a matte pink.

I placed the folding santoku next to Gin-suki and closed the pouch. That was enough excitement for one day. The bacon was starting to cook and I had work to do.

Then it hit me. Hey, I’m a grandpa. And I felt proud.

50,000

Congratulations to 12tutufondue for receiving it’s 50,000th page hit.

The Lucky Winner is a Firefox user from Corbin, Kentucky accessing the Internet through Charter Communications.

Thank you, Kentucky, we are very proud.

And if you, Lucky User, from Corbin, Kentucky think that you were the person to tipped the scales at 9:10 PM CST arriving from FoodPornWatch, let us know and we’ll send you a special gift of appreciation your way.

Woo Hoo! 50,000!

Sonoma Storm

Williams-Sonoma is desperate. They want me to buy something. Anything. This week I’ve received a Williams-Sonoma catalog

Every

Single

Day

It’s Thursday and I have four different catalogs.

What’s with those guys? One catalog would be just fine. Each catalog has basically the same stuff: tableware, kitchenware, cleaningware and werewolfware.

I laid the catalogs out on my kitchen table, appropriately, and went through them page by page. OK, I had a lot of time last night. Indulge me.

The only thing that differed was food. Each catalog offered a bunch of food: cakes, pastries, meats, cheeses and all sorts of stuff. That stuff was different, to some degree, in each catalog.

But, the stuff I was interested in, knives, bowls, knives and knives were the same in each one. I checked the prices, too, and no discounts.

Where’s the Christmas Spirit?

Tomorrow I expect to receive my post-Halloween pre-Thanksgiving Williams-Sonoma catalog extraordinaire with no discounts on knives but plenty of food I don’t want.

Actually, it’s plenty of food I do want but don’t need. Of course, I don’t need another knife, either, but that’s another story!

King for a Day

I got crowned today.

Twice.

Believe me, it was not my idea. In fact, I have been putting off getting my aged back teeth crowned for eight years.

Finally, my dentist said:

“Well, you’ve lost a filling and that old tooth is about half filling and we can’t replace it because it would be a Super Fund site. All that Mercury. You need a new tooth.”

Prior to my current dentist, my previous dentist wanted to crown all my teeth, twice. Every year. I didn’t buy it, literally.

But, with bits dropping out it was time to bite the bullet, fix the bite and move on down the road to Crownsville.

To be honest, I was worried about two things. First, the ripping out, shaping, grinding, drilling and chipping away at my very own, home-grown tooth. And, second, I was worried about the “fit” because I have all these crowned cow-orkers who complain around the coffee pot about their bad-fitting crowns.

Next to bad soccer referees, bad fitting crowns is the Number Two topic of conversation at work.

To cut a long story short, the crowning experience wasn’t that bad. My dentist apparently paid attention in class, unlike yours truly, and did a fantastic job of removing the old tooth and replacing it with a new tooth.

Feels good as new.

My dentist is an artist. He fixed something that was going to cause me some pain and I’m good to go for years.

So I said, Doc, I’ve got this employee of mine who’s been giving me a hard time. Do you think…

BlueToothed

BlueTooth is the greatest technology not to catch on in the Twenty-First Century.

No kidding.

BlueTooth has been around for almost as long as its Viking namesake Blue Tooth. We all hope his name was due to being smacked in the face during a fierce battle and not due to a piece of spinach on his front tooth that his colleagues were either too polite, or terrified, to point out.

Yet, BlueTooth isn’t everywhere. It should be, it’s that cool.

All my clothes should have BlueTooth built in. All I’d have to do is pick out a shirt from my closet and it would communicate to all the matching garments which would light up. I’d dearly pay for such technology if only to never again hear:

“You’re not going to wear that shirt with those pants, are you? Seriously, now, you’re kidding, right?”

Yep, BlueTooth could be my salvation.

Those BlueTooth cell phone headsets are pretty cool, too. Talk about the Star Wars look! How cool is that? Well, it’s that cool. I wear one of those headsets even though my phone doesn’t support BlueTooth. I like walking around with a piece of blinking plastic in my ear.

It’s a babe magnet, too.

However, BlueTooth has its own pitfalls as illustrated by this conversation I had just the other day. It went something like this:

“Hey, how’s it going?”

“Er, fine. OK, I guess.”
“Yeah, yeah, OK, uh-huh. Whatcha doing for lunch?”

“Oh, I dunno. Grab a sandwich, I guess.”

“Uh-huh, yeah, OK. What’s happening at Bob’s house this weekend?”

“Bob? Uh, which Bob is that? I think there’s a BBQ planned.”

“Yeah, right, OK, uh-huh. When you getting off work?”

“Well, the usual time, I guess, around 5. Why do you ask?”

“Hey, honey, I can hardly hear you. I’ve got some weird-o jabbering away right in my ear. Inconsiderate creep. Call me back later.”

And with that, the stranger strode off purposefully to the salad bar. I overheard him say to a workmate

“See that guy there? He was yaking in my ear while I was on the phone. How rude is that?”

I’d been BlueToothed. How rude is that?

Already?

For those of you who have been in a Walmart or Lowes or mall or department store of your choice, you have probably walked by a Christmas display and thought

“Already?”

It must have been just before Labor Day, early September, that I saw a stand of fake Christmas trees and thought “already?” Now, nearing the end of October the Christmas displays are crowding out the Halloween candy and costumes, and there’s no sign of Thanksgiving!

Has Thanksgiving been cancelled this year? How come I didn’t get the memo?

It is a sure sign of curmudgeonhood that one complains of the earlier and earlier commercialization of annual holidays.

“Why I remember when they didn’t have Christmas wrapping paper on sale until Christmas Eve – at 10 p.m.!”

“That’s nothing! We were too poor to afford a 10 p.m. We had to go from 9 to midnight directly!”

“You had a midnight? Whoa, you must’ve been rich…”

The real harbinger of the Christmas season, as we all know, is the daily arrival of catalogs. You’d think that LL Bean could send one catalog a week and spread thing out a bit, but, nooooooo, they think it’s better to send out 52 catalogs on one day.

Today, the Victoria’s Secret Christmas catalog arrived. Victoria’s Secret is a lingerie company that sells a strange mixture of exotic and practical “clothing” for women, although to be fair, they have a nice line of sensible pants, dresses, shirts and coats, not that I’ve ever managed to work my way to that part of the catalog. However, I’ve heard it’s nice. And practical. Did I mention practical?

Going through the mail it was, like, junk, junk, junk, bill, junk, bill, bill, oh-my-god-what-is-she-wearing?

“What’s who wearing?” a Voice from the other room said.

“Uh, we got a blender catalog from Wharing,” I offered hopefully.

“That’s nice,” said Voice.

“Nice isn’t half of it,” I mused, holding up the catalog for better light.

“What was that?” asked Voice.

“Uh, it would be nice to have it,” I was scrambling, “the blender from Wharing, that is. Nice. To have it. That is.”

You know, it was years before I realized that the Victoria’s Secret catalog was actually a catalog from which you could order real things. I mean, I saw the order form in the middle of the catalog, but I thought it was some kind of inside joke.

It was only when I left a bunch of catalogs out and asked the kids to circle anything they think Santa might, in his infinite generosity, deem appropriate to bestow upon them on Christmas morning, subject to approval, etc. Whatever.

That was the plan and among the LL Bean and Land’s End, Metropolitan Museum and Smithsonian suggestions was a single request from my daughter, light of my life, from Victoria’s Secret.

I didn’t even know what the thing was. Holding the catalog upside down didn’t help. I couldn’t tell if your wore it or painted it on. Yet, the price was right and in two shakes of a Victoria’s Secret model’s various anatomical bits, I ordered it.

It’s easy to understand why Victoria’s Secret can keep their prices so low. They save a bunch on shipping. I used to order hardware from Sears and the stuff weighed hundreds of pounds. It was made of steel.

Not so, VS.

The package arrived in a postage stamp that had been folded over. I nearly missed it in the mailbox.

“What’s this? A folded over postage stamp?”

Inside was the “garment.” Hmm, I thought, maybe I should have ordered a “medium.” It was like a microgram of fabric.
As I held it up I thought, well, it might fit a flea. A small flea.

Oh, well, at least it won’t need a lot of wrapping paper.

Christmas morning, daughter opened her tiny present with glee and anticipation. Holding the “garment” high for everyone to see she exclaimed:

“Oh, isn’t this pretty?”

Most of us looked away in embarrassment.

She paused. “Although, I might have to exchange it. I think it’s too big.”

Astros Smastros

I'm sorry, but I'm not a baseball fan.

OK, I'll pack my bags and you can send me to Siberia, so long as they don't play baseball there.

Don't get me wrong. I don't have anything against baseball, per se, it's just that I'm not a fan. I don't have a favorite team. I don't have a favorite player.

I just don't give a rat's ass about baseball.

My ambivalence towards baseball may stem from the pick-up games we had as a kid where I was the last player chosen. Yes, I was the Charlie Brown of my neighborhood, doomed to play the outfield forever.

Once we had an injury and the Coach asked if I could play Second Base. I lept at the chance. Second Base was my ideal position because I was fast, but I couldn't throw far. I was a disaster in the outfield. I was probably nearsighted at the time, too, which didn't help.

Anyway, I was brilliant at Second Base. I scored several outs and made a number of crucial plays. It was my finest moment. Then the Coach said that I was to go back to the outfield because the Second Base player was well. Coach told me that I was a good Second Base player but the other guy had started at second base and his parents sort of expected him to play that position and if I went back to Center Field where I would drop balls and be unable to throw them into the infield, well, that would help the team a whole lot.

So, I went out to Center Field and got yelled at a lot. I felt good, though, becuse I knew I was helping the team.

I sort of lost interest in baseball after that.

There was an article in the paper about a Houston team in some sort of play off. Are the Astros from around here?

I wouldn't know.

Ted and Me

As a kid I enjoyed being a pen pal. Pen pals, often people who had never met in person, exchanged letters and generally corresponded. I collected pen pals from several states and a number of countries. I saved the foreign stamps in my collection and kept all the letters in a cigar box.

Fast-forward to today and being a “pen pal” has taken on a whole new meaning with the Internet. Now, you can fire off a note to anybody who has an email address and usually get a reply. Factoid of the week is that email addresses have exceeded phone numbers as a way of contacting people. So, there you are.

Some years ago on National Public Radio I heard an interview with a college professor from Wales who had studied comedy and discovered, or determined, the funniest joke ever told. That has to be qualified somewhat, and it’s actually the funniest joke ever told in the UK among literate people in the 20th century. “Ever told”, therefore, is a bit of a stretch. And, in my humble opinion, the joke was funny but not that funny.

To get to the point, somewhat, I had the professor’s name and college and armed with that information it was an easy couple of clicks to discover his email address which he had conveniently listed on his department’s website. Minutes later I had sent him a note expressing my opinion and sending him what I thought was the funniest joke I had ever heard; as if it mattered.

Later that day I received a reply thanking me for my interest and in the course of a few days we exchanged several more notes and jokes. And, that was that.

Well, not quite.

Over the years I’ve sent email notes to all sorts of people I would normally never cross paths with in my day-to-day life. For example, after reading the book “Contact” by Carl Sagan I corresponded with Jill Tarter at the SETI Institute about the strategies of contacting extraterrestrial civilizations. I also received a nice note from Emeril Legasse on soufflé techniques. I think ET would enjoy an orange soufflé flamed with Grande Marnier.

Thus it was that this week I heard on NPR an interview with Ted Kooser, the 13th Poet Laureate of the United States.

Heavy stuff.

But, when the interviewer asked about writing something clicked. The question was, can you tell when the words are working, when what you’re trying to write is coming together?

I commented before Ted answered, oh, yes, boy howdy! In my case, the story is either pushed or pulled. When it’s pushed it’s hard work. Every word is a strain and the result is OK but not anything to write home about. Email or otherwise.

Then, there are those magical moments when the characters come alive and pull the story out of me and it’s such a rush. The story is alive and it’s all I can do to keep up.

Back to the interview, Ted commented that, yes, sometimes the words came easily, like a flock of geese coming in.

Flock. Of. Geese. Coming. In.

Yes, that was it. Perfect. The words come down in formation, still in the air with a destination in mind. I’ve heard the whooshing sound that geese make on the descent and that’s the sound the words make as they work together to tell a story.

The pen pal in me awoke. I Googled Ted’s website and he graciously published his email address. In a rush I sent him a note about the NPR interview and writing and geese and words and his description and how much I appreciated what he had said.

Send.

The next day I received a reply. This is the cool part. I received a reply from the Poet Laureate of the United States, Ted Kooser.

To me.

He sent me a poem. Well, that’s my story and I’m sticking with it. It’s a personal poem from him to me. It’s about writing and words and geese and the rush when ideas crystallize and it was his words, the Poet Laureate’s, to me.

In what may be a poem considered by the Nobel committee for a prize in literature I am nevertheless compelled to share it with the blogging community and the world.

Here is Ted Kooser’s poem to yours truly, me:

Thanks, Bill.

Ted and me. We’re tight.

Starbucks Traffic Controller

Radio frequency ID’s are little tags that can be placed on just about anything and read by a scanner, not unlike the EZ Tag I have in my car that automatically sucks money out of my bank account every time I use the toll road.

Man, I got to get me one of those!

When rfid’s are available for humans I’m going to be the first in line.

Why you ask?

Well, the first company that’s going to make use of those tags will be Starbucks and I want to be ready.

To appreciate this fully consider the now and then airport situation.

In the “now” you trudge your way through Security, the Starbuck’s kiosk in sight. Finally, after getting your shoes on, repacking your stuff and getting organized you approach the kiosk and stand in queue behind the Lady With The Giant Handbag. Three days later after she’s finally found the penny she “knew was down there somewhere” you order your Coffee-of-the-Day, black, pay with exact change and make your way to your gate.

In the rfid future the airport will be covered with sensors that can track your every movement. You will be a blip on a screen and tracked by professionals. Through your cell phone you will be able to place your Starbucks order and transmit your Personal RFID to the Starbucks Traffic Controller who will guide your approach to the kiosk.

Wearing a Bluetooth earpiece you will experience something like this:

STC: STC, Bill-1351 you are clear to proceed to Concourse C.

Bill-1351: Bill-1351, STC roger that.

You make your way towards Concourse C. Your RFID is transmitting your position to Starbucks Control with every step.

STC: STC, Bill-1351 advise congestion at Junction Alpha-Niner, high school volleyball team. Suggest you descend to Ticketing Level Two and proceed to Junction Baker-Deuce.

Bill-1351: Bill-1351, STC roger that. Descending to Ticketing Level Two.

Neatly avoiding the crowd blocking your way to Concourse C, you confirm with control that you are on time and on schedule.

Bill-1351: Bill-1351, STC descent complete, approaching Junction Baker-Deuce and on track for arrival at SB-kiosk Kappa Sigma in zero three minutes.

STC: STC, Bill-1351 roger that. STC, SB-kiosk Kappa Sigma do you copy?

SB-kiosk Kappa Sigma: SB-kiosk Kappa Sigma, STC copy that. Coffee-of-the-Day, black positioned at bay door. Activated. Awaiting acquisition. We are green to go, repeat, we are green to go.

STC: STC, Bill-1351 SB-kiosk Kappa Sigma is go. Repeat, SBK-KS is go.

Bill-1351: Bill-1351, STC roger that. I have them in sight. Deploying arm, hand open. We are go for pick-up. Approaching target. Approaching target. We have positive acquisition. Repeat. We have positive acquisition.

And with that you snatch your coffee from the deployment station and move on down Concourse C without missing a step. Through your rfid the cost of the coffee is deducted automatically from your account and you’re good to go.

STC: STC, Bill-1351 nice job, bud, have a good flight. STC out.

Yep, I’ve got to get me one of those!

Wet Cat

Sandy appeared for breakfast right on time. If there’s something that Sandy does with great precision, aside from sleep, it’s to arrive at mealtime.

Sandy Boy was looking a little damp. He strolled into the kitchen, avoided eye contact with me, and proceeded to shake his wetness all over my briefcase.

“Sandy Boy, you’re all wet!”, a voice said, “Is it raining?”

Skies were clear. I looked out back at the pool. Hmm, I thought, I can probably get those claw marks in the plaster filled. Yeah, good as new.

“Good boy, Sandy!”, I offered cheerfully.

Sandy gave me a hard glance, swiped at my briefcase with his claws and marched to his bowl.

Nice cat.

Frisky

Frisky had been acting up.

I know that Frisky is around because on a Saturday morning when I’m catching those special Z’s he beats on the window with a quick tattoo, just a rapid rat-tat-tat to let me know he’s on the job, after which he submerges to get on with whatever he does.

Frisky is our automatic pool cleaner. He lives at the bottom of our human pond attached by a line to some nozzle or whatever that powers his innards which enables him to suck up all the gunk that blows into the pool and sinks to the bottom. He’s got a gazinta and a gazouta. The gazinta is the hose attached to the magic nozzle on the pool wall that pumps high-pressure water into Frisky’s gullet and the gazouta is, well, where the water comes out. It also serves as his sweeper tail which, occasionally, comes out of the water and sprays the bedroom window with a rat-tat-tat.

We call him “Frisky” because of his habit of climbing up the wall of the pool and whipping his tail into the air, spraying a jet of water in all directions. He’s powered by water from that nozzle-thing that gives him his friskiness.

Frisky, he’s the man.

Frisky, you’re the man.

“Frisky, who’s that you used to play fer?”

“Frisky Thomas. I was the drone, I was the cone, I was the Frisk-master. Whatever they play in Texas, I could play it.”

“Frisky Thomas! He’s the man! Frisky, you’re the man!”

Of course, all you Kill Bill 2 devotees know that Frisky Thomas got aerated soon after that dialog. Shot full of holes. Sunk to the bottom.

Thus it was that Pool Dude looked down on the immobile Frisky at the bottom of the pool and mused, “Hmmm.”

“What, 'hmmm'?”, I asked.

“The blue dude is, like, he’s not movin’, man.”

“Yeah, I kinda, like, noticed that, like,” I offered hopefully, trying to slip into the parlance.

“Bummer, dude.”

“Like bummer for the blue dude, dude, or bummer for the paying-guy-dude, dude?” I asked, hoping to break through the fog.

Pool Dude took a long time to answer. Clouds moved across the sky. Birds were born, died, and were born again. I heard Enya in the distance.

Finally, Pool Dude answered: “Well, all things considered, I’d say…both. Only you’re not at the bottom of the pool not moving, dude, so that’s probably a plus in your ledger.”

Great, I thought, a CPA for a pool guy. But, hey, I got a plus. I’ll go with that.

“So, Pool Dude, old buddy, what are we going to do about this sad situation with Frisky lying on the bottom of the pool and all, unmoving?”

“Uh, like we can haul on his hose, pull him out of the pool, take him to the shop and have Tech Dude work on him?”

“Is that a question or a plan of action?”

“Whatever.”

We hauled Frisky out of the pool, disconnected his hoses, carried him around the side of the house and dumped him into the Pool Dude’s Toyota pick-up.

“I thought you’d at least have a Ford 150, you sorry sack of algae slime,” I muttered.

“Wazzat?”, asked Pool Dude as Frisky clanked into the bed of the truck.

“I said he’s on-board,” pausing, “just in time.”

Pool Dude got in the “truck”, started the pitiful motor and chugged off into the dusk.

I went back inside, refilled my wine glass and headed out back.

It was quiet out back without Frisky thrashing around in the pool. I looked into the water and already stuff was starting to blow in, sink to the bottom and our pool was rapidly turning into a pond. Until now I hadn’t appreciated how much work Frisky did. Attached to his water jet hose he navigated around the bottom of the pool sweeping up bits and pieces, whisking the rest to the drain and offering us entertainment as he surfaced, spraying us with water from his tail jet. The water coursed through his body from head to tail, with the outflow whipping his tail around the bottom of the pool lifting the pieces to be sucked up later. A very efficient system, I mused.

Without Frisky I was going to have to do some work to keep the pool clean. I took a pull on my wine and grimaced at the thought.

Already, the pool was starting to fill up with gunk.

Too bad I don’t have a “Frisky 2”, I could clean up this mess. On the pool deck were Frisky’s connecting hose and tail. All I need is the middle bit. Too bad I ain't got no middle bit.

Yep, too bad. No Middle Bit.

At that same moment in time, Sandy Boy the Cat came sauntering around the corner and rubbed around my ankles. “What do you want,” I thought?

I looked at the hoses and back at Sandy. He was about the same size as Frisky. I considered the plumbing. Hmmmm, I wondered. I wonder…

Later that evening someone asked, “My the pool looks nice! Did the pool people ever show up? Oh, good. We’ll have to give them a tip! The pool looks very clean. All the gunk’s gone. By the way, have you seen Sandy?”

I got up to refill my wine glass.

Carlos, RIP

Claire called the other night.

“We got Carlos.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. It’s Carlos and he’s dead.”

“Did you kill him?” I whispered.

“Finally. He put up quite a struggle and we had to chase him, but we got him. He’s dead.”

“Well, play the music real loud. Carlos deserves at least that much.”

“OK, Dad-0, will do. Ciao!” *click*

Carlos, RIP, was the condo cockroach. About two inches long, shiny, dark brown, six legs. He had been scurrying around the place for months causing havoc, screams, cockroach dancing (not unlike the hot chili dance or the spider dance) and general mayhem.

Carlos’ demise required music in celebration.

I suggested the album “Mexican Spaghetti Western” by Chingon.

First, they have a track, Malaguena Salerosa, from Kill Bill 2, the best movie of all time.

Second, and I hope Carlos, RIP, is paying attention to this from Cockroach Heaven, they play Cuka Rocka (extended) and I didn’t even know you could play a guitar that fast. When I hear that song I’m ready to dance like nobody’s looking. The Cucaracha Dance. I'm John Travolta. I'm Napoleon Dynamite.

Chingon is Killer Music.

Birthday Blogger

Amy

Happy Birthday to you!
You live in a Zoo!
You look like a monkey!
You smell like one, too!

And many more on Channel Four!
And Scoobie Doo on Channel Two!
And Live Update on Channel Thirteen by Maaaaaaarvin Zindler, Eyewitness News!

Yes, Marvin busted the Chicken Ranch Story in the 60’s here in Texas. That story was immortalized or immoralized in the play, later the movie, The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. Yes, it was real and, yes, Marvin broke the story.

Now Marvin reports for Channel 13 on Slime in the Ice Machine, or restaurants that don’t meet city health codes. Like ALL OF THEM!

“Fish tacos? Yes, m’am, that’s a fine choice. Fish tacos for your, sir? Very nice choice. Cockroach Souffle? Our specialty! Would you like our Salmonella Sauce? Yes? Very good, you’ll be raving about it for weeks.”

So, me and Marvin were wondering what you wanted to do for your birthday? Go to the State Fair in Tulsa, Oklahoma?

Yeah, maybe you didn’t hear the question. We were asking if you wanted to do something FUN. No kids, lots of alcohol, some farm animals and a gallon of vegetable oil.

No, huh. You’re going to the Fair. Foot long corn dogs, cotton candy, bar-b-qued turkey legs.

OK, how about this: No kids. Lots of alcohol. Foot long corn dogs with double D-cells, cotton candy thongs and a bunch of guys with Turkey Legs.

What? You are such a difficult person to please! ( and the juvenile response would be “that’s what SHE said” which I won’t repeat )

So, here’s to you on your birthday. You are not a year older, you are a year wiser. I am a better person for having known you than not. You will succeed in anything you do because if anyone or anything gets in your way you will shout at them. And, most importantly, Twelve Two Two Fondue would be Zero Zero Nowhere without your inspiration and support.

So, with a glass of wine raised at this very moment, here’s to you, my friend and colleague, on the anniversary of your birth. Live long and prosper. Inspire those around you as you have inspired me. Be faithful to yourself and confident in your abilities. Drive safely in spite of that reputation you have (which is legend or legenedary, I don’t know which). Continue to take care of your family and friends because we can’t do it ourselves. And, at last, be you. We know Amy and our lives are enriched by you and what you do. You are an inspiration and in the Grand Scheme of the Universe, that’s pretty good.

All the best to you, Amy, and I speak for the entire Planet when I say Happy Birthday!

Casa Bonita

I had a nightmare last night.

I dreamt that the local Casa Bonita was closing and we had to have

One. Last. Meal.

Casa Bonita is like a Taco Bell that serves beer and if any restaurant deserved to go out of business it’s this one. First of all, the food is, well, let’s not go there. Second, they encourage families to bring kids and, well, let’s not go there, either. Finally they serve cheap, flat, tasteless beer and, you know, we shouldn’t go there, no sir.

Rather than go to Casa Bonita short of an apocalypse, I’ll buy some good Mex-Tex-to-go at a hole-in-the-wall place where the cook is getting yelled at by his wife and his kids are whacking cockroaches with a hammer, buy a six-pack of Bohemia and I’m rocking.

Pull my finger in the morning.

Anyway, back to the entertainment, my nightmare. I was standing there with a bunch of kids. It was a birthday party and I was in charge. I remember thinking that I could sprout wings and simply fly away but every time I looked behind me another kid appeared.

Across the street was my favorite Mex-Tex restaurant, Pico’s. The Pico Toucan was winking at me and holding a giant 128-oz frozen margarita. Scantily clad Picochita’s were scurrying around taking orders from excited customers and squealing their way into the kitchen where you could hear in the background…

“Junior, you worthless slob, I need Enchilada Dinner Numero Uno right now! Right now, do you hear me! Don’t make me come back there and kick your ass…”

Ah, the restaurant biz. Nothing like it.

Meanwhile, in my dream, Casa Bonita became more surreal.

“Penguin, party of four! Penguin, party of four!”

A troupe of 400 penguins strolled past me. I pondered on setting a table for 400. Do they need highchairs? I could see the server taking orders: Fish tacos? Very nice choice, and you m’am? Fish tacos? My favorite and you sir? Fish tacos, they’re very good today. And you, m’am? Fish tacos, we’re featuring salmon, is that OK? Great! And you sir? Fish tacos, it’s our specialty. Sir? Undecided? May I suggest Fish Tacos, they’re very good today. Fish tacos? You won’t be disappointed. M’am? Fish tacos, very nice choice…

I looked down and the kids were now wearing little tuxedos. They looked like penguins but with kid faces.

“Are we there yet? Are we there yet?”

The kidguins were jumping up and down and chanting in unison: Are we there yet? Are we there yet?

Exasperated, I threw my arms wide and shouted, “I haven’t had four 128-ounce margaritas! Hell, no, we ain’t there yet!”

At my shouting the kidquins got all quiet when all of a sudden the ground started to tremble. Something big was happening, but what?

Without warning a Southwest Airlines 737 painted like Namu broke through the ice, it’s nose cone opened to reveal gigantic teeth (Note to Self: be more polite to SWA ticket agents in the future.) and chomped down on the kidquins snapping them all up in one ferocious bite! The Namu Whale Plane nosed over into the hole in the ice, the legs of little kidquins kicking into the thin air.

As suddenly as the Whale Plane had appeared, it was gone.

Quiet descended. I was alone. My heart was pounding. Oh, the humanity! All those kidquins! Their parents, their friends! What will I do?

I heard a whistle and looked up. The Pico’s Parrot was beckoning me to come over. He had a 128-ounce margarita in one hand and a Cuban cigar in the other. A Picobabe was giving him a neck message. He jerked his head but didn’t speak. Whatever, I heard “Come on over, big guy.”

I looked back at the wreckage of Casa Bonita, heard the sirens in the distance and knew that I didn’t want to be answering any questions.

Reaching into my pocket I pulled out a 20. The Parrot winked. As I strolled across the street, nonchalant-like, I thought

Score!

Employee of the Month

It may come as a surprise that I have not memorized completely the entire dialogue from Kill Bill 2. Alas, it’s true, but I’m working on it.

Which brings me to the scene in which Bill is advising Beatrix before she begins her cruel tutelage under Pei Mai, the Kung Fu Master.

“Whatever Pei Mai says, whatever! Do it immediately. Do not hesitate,” Bill admonishes, “Cast him a defiant eye and he’ll pluck it out! Disobey him and he will snap your back like a twig. And, that will be the end of you.”

Having recently traveled and experienced the joys of airport security it is my belief that if Pei Mai worked for the TSA he would be Employee of the Month.

Now, don’t get me wrong (speaking into the hidden microphone in the Blogorium) I have nothing against airport security, in fact, I’m positively overjoyed that we have secure airports. But, there comes a point where security becomes Extreme Security and I have thoughts that driving from Houston to Seattle might be better.

Such was the case this weekend.

As a rule I travel as light as possible. I’ll take my trusty laptop in its own special case and all my other gear fits into a thimble. This weekend it didn’t matter. I could have been lugging a sea chest. The long line on an off-peak travel day should have been the tip-off. By the time I got up to the scanner I realized I was going to need a bunch of those grey, plastic tubs.

Laptop in tub. Thimble in tub. Shoes in tub. Coat in tub. Cell phone in tub. I had my own Amtrak of grey tubs chugging their way into the scanner. I was a railroad tycoon.

OK, that part wasn’t so bad but walking through the detector, that’s something I dread. It’s no different than when I leave CompUSA with a bag full of things I don’t need that I fear the store detector will go off. Then it’s stop, open the bag, go over the receipt, loads of apologies, sorry, sir, this always happens. Damn computers, you know. Come again! I just don’t need that.

It’s my theory that you have to walk through the detector just right, not too fast, not too slow. Maybe with a spring in your step or a little hop.

I turned to walk through the metal detector and they guy in front of me was doing the Hokey Pokey. The TSA agent gave him the hairy eyeball, but scored him a 8.5, anyway. He probably lost half a point or so for poor artistic expression. Ah, today is Hokey Pokey day. I can do the Hokey Pokey.

As I approached the detector the TSA agent held up a little card. It had one word written on it:

Riverdance

Oh, man, not Riverdance! Please, not Riverdance! But, the agent was firm. She smiled and nodded her head for me to proceed.

I put my boarding pass into my mouth, balled my hands into fists, arms straight down by my side, looked ahead with a steely gaze and started my jig. I did a couple of impressive hops followed by some rapid tappity-tapping as I approached the threshold. Pirouetting twice while passing through the gate I increased my tappity-tapping to a furious pace. My feet were a blur. I ended the routine with several high-knee kicks and one final high leap which I planted directly in front of the agent. Man, I stuck that landing!

Breathing hard I awaited the results.

9.0

Yes! I beat Hokey Pokey Man! I picked up the roses being thrown by other agents, blew a few kisses, collected my train of tubs and headed off to the Gate.

Maybe it’s going to be a good trip after all, I thought. The last time I went through security I only scored a 7.25 doing a Brazilian Samba, but that was because my thong slipped.

Wardrobe malfunctions will do that. Yes, they will.

Consequences

Voice: Hey, we're getting low on soft margarine.

Me: Uh, huh.

Voice: You wouldn't happen to have any squirreled away in your sock drawer, would you?

Me:

Trilogy

Fine Print

The other day while foraging for dinner I rolled down the aisle containing pickles, peppers and preserved stuff when I spied a tall jar of green olives stuffed with pimentos. Large olives looking very nice indeed.

Mmmmm, olives!

In the basket they went.

Fast forward to last night. I’m preparing dinner, feeling a little peckish and rediscover the olives in the fridge.

Mmmmmm, olives! I think I have a couple or three while I cook. I open the jar, fish out four giant olives, pop two in my mouth and chomp down. I was not prepared for what followed.

Fire in the hole! What th’…? I chewed faster hoping to stamp out the fire. My lips were welded shut and I started to sweat on the top of my head. Milk, I need milk!

Holy volcano, what were those things? Calmer, now, I checked out the label and read:

Large Spanish Olives
In vinegar

And in very small print the following:

Extremely Hot Stuffed With Whole Chilies

Not pimentos, whole chilies. No kidding! Man, those things were dangerous. They needed a large warning label; maybe a government warning. Those could hurt somebody. Sometimes it pays to read the small print.

I ate four more and did the Hot Chili Dance around the kitchen.

Cat Swap

I looked for Sandy the Cat all morning. I checked out his favorite haunts and places he goes when he wants to hide. He was nowhere to be found. Perhaps he was outside, but I doubt it because he hangs around the yard and would be easy to spot. No Sandy.

Oh, well.

Nobbs the Cat, though, was ready for breakfast. He came in, trotted over to the cat bowl and sat patiently for me to fix something tasty. I decided to give him some of the new Cat Chow we bought the other day, which Sandy had thoughtfully opened for us, scattering a quarter of the contents around the kitchen floor. We keep our Cat Chow in a large, plastic jar which is large enough to hold an entire sack of Cat Chow. The jar keeps the food fresh, makes it easy to dispense into the bowls and is gnaw-proof, unlike the Cat Chow bags as Sandy has demonstrated to us on several occasions.

I didn’t even have to open the bag this time. I poured the chow into the jar through the hole that Sandy made; it was just the right size.

Rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, rattle, and on and on and on…finally done.

“Here you go, Nobbs old boy,” I said as I turned around to fill his bowl, “fresh Cat Chow!”

I looked down and Nobbs was gone. Sandy was sitting there looking expectant. Nobbs apparently got tired of waiting and went to sleep on one of the kitchen chairs. Sandy, who can hear food being prepared 10 miles away had slinked out from his hiding place and sneaked into the kitchen. He sat there looking up at me, waiting.

I filled the cat bowl, looked at Sandy and said “Yes, Master, anything else you desire?”

Sandy, nose in the bowl, twitched his tail.

Dismissed.

Squirrels

When it comes to packing for a trip I’m not too efficient. I don’t like packing so I’ll do just about anything to avoid it until the last minute. So, there I was “packing” and looking out the window.

“Stupid squirrels,” I thought, “Look at them running around the yard chasing each other and picking up acorns. They drop as many as they pick up.”

The squirrels were “squirreling away” their cache of nuts for the winter. It was 90 degrees. The squirrels were running around, picking up acorns and burying them all over the place. Not in one big cache, but in lots of little places. Stupid squirrels.

I picked up the camera I was going to take on the trip and remembered that it needed new batteries. I went to the battery drawer, also known as the Junk Drawer, and spent a minute or so in a fruitless search for a couple of AA cells.

None to be found, but not a problem. I recall having stashed a 4-pack in my sock drawer some months ago “just in case.” They were still there and I fished out a couple for my camera.

Rats, I was nearly out of travel toothpaste. I had meant to buy some more, but forgot. Fortunately, I had a spare tube I hid in the spare room medicine cabinet for just such an occasion. I ran upstairs and, yep, there it was undiscovered.

Oh, and before I leave I need to mail a couple of birthday cards but we used the last stamp the other day and I forgot to stop by the Post Office for a refill. Not to worry, I keep a few spare stamps in my briefcase. I walked across the house to the front room, pulled my briefcase out of the cupboard and there in the secret pocket were 4 stamps; I only needed two. Perfect!

Whew, all this running around worked up a bit of a thirst and a cold beer would go down well about now. Casting my mind back to last night I dimly recall a voice saying something like “oh, that’s the last beer. Try to remember to pick up a 6-pack the next time you’re out shopping.” But, I hadn’t been shopping since then. However, I always keep a spare beer in the hydrator behind the lettuce and under the zucchini. Nobody would look there. I walked back across the house, into the kitchen, rummaged through the hydrator and, sure enough, found my emergency beer.

I poured myself a glass of beer, sat at the kitchen table and looked out the window. The squirrels were still at it picking up acorns and hiding them all around the yard.

I chuckled as I watched them. Stupid squirrels.