Supply and Command = Surving a Big Snow

Whenever a big snow storm is predicted, grocery stores make out great because we all stock pile for the storm. People prepare differently for storms according to sex, age group, and marital status. Couples split into two categories; BWC (Broke With Children) or CWM (Childless With Money).

Bachelors who live alone have the shortest storm supplies list; beer.

Bachelors whose girlfriends live with them; beer and maybe a candle so she doesn’t freak out if the lights go out.

Single women with no children have the best supply list; chocolate, candles, magazines, tasty canned foods that they love since they don’t have to please anyone else, cozy comforter, charged cell phone to chat away the time if the cable goes out.

Single Mothers have the worst list; candles, Lunchables, kid’s snack foods, crayons, coloring books, games, at least 10 minutes on a prepaid cell phone to call for help if needed, and absolutely nothing for themselves. If she has a boyfriend, and if he’s coming over, she also has to buy his beer. Why? Because once a man is dating, it seems to be her responsibility to make everything he wants appear before his eyes. He comes over before the storm, opens the fridge, sees the Lunchables and juice boxes and says, “Hey, you didn’t get me any beer?”

BWC (Broke With Children) couples get everything on the single Mom list, including beer, but the man is smart enough to get shrimp and chocolate for her, bags of salt, and possibly a new snow shovel.

CWM (Childless With Money) couples can get a list of any supplies they want, but why bother? If you’re going to be trapped inside for a few days, why shouldn’t it be in a nice hotel with room service? CWM couples can stay at the Sheridan.

Retired people are the best prepared. They’ve lived long enough to anticipate every possible contingency plan for a storm. They have a wood or kerosene stove if the heat goes out. They have lots of candles if the lights go out. They have plenty of canned food, and they always know where the can opener is. The have decks of cards and know card games. They’ve lived a long time, so they have funny stories to tell and retell. They do not require TV to entertain themselves or each other. They don’t have cell phones because they can’t see the tiny buttons or figure out how the stupid little things work anyway - but it’s okay because, they don’t need any help to get through a storm. Prior to the storm, they hired someone to shovel them out. They know someone will come check on them if no one has seen or heard from them 48 hours after the end of the storm. When they go to the store for storm supplies, they get cat or dog food, toilet paper and make a pharmacy run to insure they have all their meds.

If you’re not retired, you should always know a retired couple and stay on their good side. In the event of a really bad storm and if your supplies are running low, call them. The man has a truck, or something with four wheel drive. They will come and rescue you and your children. Just pack the kids things and whatever booze you have in the house. The retired people have Margarita and Daiquiri mix and a blender that works. Whatever your hyperactive kids don’t drink, the grown-up can have. It breaks the social mores, but hey, it’s a snow storm, no one should be stuck in a house with kids climbing the walls when a little chemical intervention can make everyone’s lives easier for the duration.

Roomination = Ruination

We’ve all just dug out from a big blast of snow and the weatherman predicts another big storm in the next two weeks. Snow storms are very bad for men, more so than women. First, regardless of women’s lib, we still send them out to shovel. But worse than backbreaking shoveling, snow storms pose a great financial risk to men; ruination by roomination.

At some point, when a women is trapped in her house, she relents and says, “Oh well, might as well make the best of it, “ and makes herself a cup of coffee or hot chocolate and sits down in her living room to take a few minutes for herself. This is where the trouble starts.

As she sits and sips, she begins to ruminate, you know, to think about how things are going for her in general. As she ruminates, her eyes lazily focus here and there in the room. Slowly she realizes that the “new” couch isn’t really new anymore. It was new five years ago and now she begins to see stains and wear. A slight feeling of sadness begins. Her eyes drift away to look at her pretty drapes that she loves. But wait, they don’t really match the love seat that came in after the drapes, do they? No, they don’t. And the end tables legs are looking a little beat up from all the hits from the vacuum. If a man can catch and distract his gal at just this moment, he has a chance of diverting her from the next step which will cost him a lot to time and money in the Spring.

She Who Must Be Obeyed, ruminates over the old and beat up furniture, drapes and carpet that surround her - and suddenly she’s sick of it. Within her reach is the TV remote and within that slim magic remote is the key to heart. She turns on HGTV - Home and Garden TV. They have decorating shows every half hour. They show her how, with just a little effort and $ 2000, she can redecorate the room. Rumination gives way to redecoration.

When a woman begins to ruminate about how she can redecorate a room, all is lost. Rumination and decoration collide in her mind and roomination occurs. Roomination is the ability to peer into April and see a new living room.

She looks at the exhausted man sleeping in yon Lazy-Boy recliner and envisions him putting in a new ceiling fan, taking out old furniture, laying down new carpet, and schlepping in new furniture. She mentally reconfigures the budget to afford what she wants.

Just for the guys, here are the signs your gal is roominating:
She sifts through the junk mail and keeps the flyers from furniture stores.
She begins to complain about how uncomfortable the couch is and about it’s length; if it’s a short couch, she will lament that a longer couch would allow you to sleep on it. If it’s a long couch, she’ll point out that a shorter one would allow you to fit in a new recliner for you.
All benefits of furniture purchases will be described in terms that benefit you.
A new carpet, with a thicker pad, will absorb your fall better when you trip over the cat.
Padded arms on the chairs won’t stick to your arms in summertime.
New drapes, with blackout liners, will shut out the sun, all the better for you to nap in your new recliner my dear....

Unfortunately, once roomination has begun, there’s no stopping it’s relentless progression. The victim becomes increasing discontented, fights over money erupts, hallway sex begins (you pass each other in the hallway and say “f--k you”), always a bad sign.

Sorry guys, there’s no option but to open your wallet and, if you play nice, you may get to chose the color of your new recliner.

The Big Dig

The northeast has many ‘snowbirds’; residents who winter in Florida or other warmer climates till Memorial Day. But sometimes, people who are from warmer places think they’d enjoy experiencing a winter.

7 AM
“Look at it, Joyce. A blanket of white velvet covering the land. What a beautiful morning. Our first big snow. It is awe inspiring.”
“It sure is, Charley. Looks like you’ll get to use your new snow shovel today.”
“I can shovel the sidewalk and driveway in about an hour I think.”

8 AM
“Are you back in already, Charley? The car is still buried.”
“Yeah. I just did the sidewalk. It takes longer than I thought. But at least we can get out to the street.”
“Not anymore, honey. While you were in the can, the snowplow came by and there’s a huge block of snow at the end of the walk, about four feet high.”
“No problem. That happens. You shovel out, the plow shovels you back in. It’s part of life in the Northeast, honey. I’ll shovel out the end of the walk after breakfast.”
“Okay, and the car too.”
“No problem.”
“I saw our neighbor give the plow guy the finger.”
“Very immature. Snow is just a fact of life here, Joyce, people have to adjust.”

11 AM
“It took forever, but I got the car cleared off and and shoveled out the driveway to the road. I didn’t realize how packed down the snow was at the end of the walk. I guess the movement of the plow packs it as it goes.”
“Well, just rest in the chair. I’ll make you some lunch.”
“What’s that sound? Is that the plow? Is he on this street?”
“Yup, Oh hell, Charley, he just filled up the end of the walk and the driveway with another mound of snow. He’s giving our neighbor the finger and laughing.”
“What?”
“Yeah, the neighbor just threw a flowerpot at the plow.”
“The man is unbalanced.”

1 PM
“Well, that should be it, Joyce. I shoveled out the ends of the walk and the driveway and re-shoveled both from the snow since this morning. I put a sign at the end of the driveway for the plow man not to block us in again.”
“Oh, Charley, I don’t know how to tell you. He just re-plowed while you were in the bedroom changing clothes. We’re blocked at the ends again.”
”WHAT? He just ignored the sign? Who does that son of a bitch think he is?”
“And the neighbor hurled a lawn chair at the plow this time. He’s a local you know.”
“Call the town, Joyce, find out who is plowing this road and tell them to tell him to lift the plow before he crosses driveways that have obviously been dug out.”

3 PM
“Okay, Joyce. That’s the last I can shovel us out today. I am pooped. Did you get ahold of the town?”
“Yes. They said they’d pass the message...”
“WAIT! What’s that? Is that him coming AGAIN?”
“Yes. Charley, he’s at the corner, maybe you can get outside in time, flag him down and talk to him.”
“I’ll talk to him.....”
“Charles... what are you doing with the bat? Hold on, phone’s ringing....it’s the neighbor. He said he’ll meet you at the end of our driveway since the plow will hit us first. He says he has bottles and rags, do we have any kerosene, gasoline or lamp oil in the house? What’s he talking about, Charley?”
“He’s talking about a man’s right to the pursuit of life, liberty, happiness, and the right to defend his home front from all enemies; foreign, domestic, or armed with snowplows.”

Crabs & Roses

“I hate Valentine’s Day! I never get it right! Why do you women have to have an extra holiday besides Christmas and your birthday where the guy has to sweat out getting another gift? It’s not fair. I’m still paying off Christmas.”

“Blame no one but yourselves, Pete. For decades men have been so closed off emotionally that women only got to hear “I love you” on our death beds. Valentine’s Day picked up speed as a way for us to drive a wedge into your thick skulls and force you to demonstrate an emotion via candy, flowers, and gifts. The deal was, if you can’t say it, you have to show it. The florist and chocolate industries in this country were built on guys inability to be tender.”

“Yeah, but we’re tender now. We have all had force fed “sensitivity training to get in touch with our feelings....ooooo....” . We say “I love you” all the time now. We know we’re not to get any action without it. We got the message, and we’re still being fleeced every February 14th.”

“That’s true. Guys are much more in touch with their emotions now I guess.”

“No, that’s not what I said. We’re no more connected to our emotions than before, we just know we have to say “I love you” all the time, it’s a filler for us now. Like,

“Hi honey, I’m going to the store, what do you need? Milk? Okay, love you, see you later.” See? It’s a filler, instead of just saying “bye” I threw in, “love you”. We get free points every time we bounce a “love you” in any conversation. The points rack up, and eventually, we get a payoff.“

“You’re all using “I love you” as a filler? Just to rack up points for sex?”

“Absolutely. Every chance we get. It replaces a lot of things. Like if I make a mistake, I just say, “I screwed up, but hey, you know I love you.” I never have to say that other thing anymore.”

“You mean, “I’m sorry” ? Why are you holding up your hands and making across with your fingers? I’m not a vampire.”

“It’s those words. We don’t say the “S” word.”

“But you can say the “L’ word now - anytime?”

“Yup. The “L” word works, as long as it’s not connected to the “M” word.”

“Yes, but L is just before M in the alphabet. You don’t think that’s just a random coincidence, do you?”

“Up till this very moment, yes Sally, I didn’t think that there was secret message in the L-M order of the alphabet. But now that I’m listening to you, it’s clear that one of us is nuts.”

“So what are you getting Cindy for Valentine’s Day?”

“Flowers and candy, what else?”

“She’s an Island girl. Ditch the candy, go get some crabs.”

“Crabs and roses? Sounds like Guns and Roses.”

“Yes, but minus the drugs.”

“What about candy, crabs and roses?”

“A little short on love points are we?”

“Yeah. I made a small mistake, and blew her engine up yesterday, I didn’t tell her yet. So whaddaya think? Will candy, crabs and roses keep me out of the dog house?”

“Under the circumstances, you better add some drugs after all....”

“She doesn’t do drugs.”

“Well, then you take them. It will distract you from the pain.”

“Pain? She’s not gonna hit me with the crabs is she?”

“Of course not. She wouldn’t waste the crabs. The roses however, will need to be removed by your proctologist.”

“I guess I could break down and use the “S” word.”

“Nope, too late for sorry. You might have to resort to the “M” word...”

“Nah, I’ll just get a new girlfriend.”

“What a prince.”

50 Ways to Use the Super Bowl...

There Must Be Fifty Ways to Watch the Stupor Bowl...

I don’t watch footbal because all I see is a bunch of millionaires in shiny pants running around a field. However, I do love the Stupor Bowl.

While your football fan partner is sitting in front of the TV with eyes glazed, grazing happily on BBQ and snacks, you can accomplish a lot.

Been wanting to get out of this relationship with all your stuff and not a big hassle? Rent a U-Haul, dress in sweats and tell you’re cleaning out the back bedroom. Pass your stuff out the bedroom window to whomever is helping you and you can pull can make a clean getaway by the end of the third quarter. Matter of fact, once you’re all packed, tell him you’re making a beer run and you need some money, and poof - you’re gone.

Have you longed to have a friend he hates over for a visit? Invite her during the Stupor Bowl. He’ll be in the living room all day for the pre-game, game, post game analysis, that’s twelve hours at least. You can have any friend in you like. He won’t care as long as nobody passes in front of the TV or asks any questions.

I once painted our bedroom and redecorated the whole room while himself watched the game. Afterward, he protested vehemently, so I just said, “Fine, put it back the way it was. All the old stuff is out in the garage.” Given a choice of repainting a room, dragging old furniture back in the house, taking off new bedding and putting on the old, OR complaining for a week then living with the new decor, all men will choose the latter. Somewhere it is written: Tis easier to complain than reclaim.

I have also used the Stupor Bowl to quickly and easily integrate new dishes or kitchen gadgets into the house. New plates appear, and when - IF - he notices them, you just say, “Oh, so and so gave them to us for our wedding. I just didn’t break them out till today. I was ready for a change.” Men never know what you got for a wedding gift or from whom, so you can use the excuse over and over for years. You can sneak in new food processors, new coffemakers, just anything that goes in a kitchen, it’s terrific and a real time saver. No need to listen to hours of him telling you, “We don’t need it.” Of course you need it. It was on sale, it’s better than the one you have, and besides, you love the color, ergo, you need it.

The Stupor Bowl is perfect for getting rid of the clothes he A} No longer can fit into but insists he can B} clothes that went out of fashion after high school but he refuses to believe that the definition of “cool” has evolved beyond him C} clothes his mother gave him that look awful but he refuses to acknowledge that not everything he owns looks fantastic on him.

If you have a daughter, this is where you teach her how to use the different sports events; Stupor Bowl, Basketball playoffs, all the other contests that declares winners, to her advantage. For someday, she may be in a relationship and have to sneak you in, with your luggage, so you can move in with them and help with the baby. Like a horse with blinders on, men do better if they don’t know whats going on around them. If they see too much and know too much, they might run from the house screaming and then the neighbors know too much.

Three Sheets to the Wind

Three Sheets to the Wind

There’s a new show on television about hoarding. I like to watch it because it makes me feel so much better about my house and helps me justify anything I want to keep, because at least, whatever I have, I’m not a hoarder! I can still walk through my house and be walking on carpet the whole time.

But my claim of not being a hoarder is challenged every January by the White Sales. All the stores sell beautiful bedding sets and every woman loves fresh, beautiful, new bedding. It livens up the whole room and motivates you to make other changes in the room or house.

And here’s where the hoarding comes in. There’s nothing harder for a gal to let go of than old sheets. Sheets, like a Thanksgiving turkey, have many incarnations before they are gone.

First, if it’s a complete sheet set, it becomes a back up set. You wash it and set it on the shelf for company. The “company sheets” are always a complete set. If one piece gets lost, ruined, or mislaid, the remaining components are relegated to the second incarnation of becoming bedding for the kids. You make a passing attempt to match one of the orphaned components, like a top sheet or pillow case, with the Spiderman or Mermaid sheets the kid has. You keep this semi-matching thing going as long as you can.

Soon after the kids get the sheets, you witness the third use of orphaned sheets; sheets make tents. Suddenly, tents are all over the house. You can’t have dinner at the dining room table anymore because Superman’s Fortress of Solitude is in your living room. It might also be Aladdin’s Cave of Wonders, or Batman’s Bat Vault, whatever it is, it is impenetrable by parents. You slip food and beverages under the edges for the occupants inside who are officially invisible as they plot the takeover of the world surrounded by four wooden chairs and a canopy of Laura Ashley flowers.

After tents, orphaned sheets become part of pet bedding. Sometimes we throw them over the couch where the dogs lie, and sometimes we fold them up and make a pad in the dog bed. It takes about two years for sheets to arrive at this fourth level.

The fifth level of a sheets life splits off here. Some cover old cars in the garage. Some get ripped up for rags in the garage. And some, the ones with the most life left in them, or the prettiest, become beach blankets. If you want to know a woman’s taste without asking her, look at her beach blankets.

“Sally, where did you get this hideous sheet?”
“What hideous? These are genuine Versace knockoffs. You don’t like red floral's?”
“It hurts my eyes. Was this a gift set? You didn’t buy these on purpose...”
“I love this sheets. I couldn’t bear to part with them. This is the last time I can enjoy them.”
“Thank God.”
”What?”
“I said, “That’s odd.” I meant what a shame. They must have been really bright when they were new.”
“They were gorgeous. Lit up the whole room all night long. I love red.”
“Only you.”
“What?”
“I said, “What’s new?”

Jose Cuervo Christmas Cookies

1 juicy lemon
1 cup of water
1 tsp baking soda
1 cup of sugar
1 tsp salt
1 cup of brown sugar
4 large eggs
1 cup nuts
2 cups of dried fruit
1 bottle Jose Cuervo Tequila

Sample the Cuervo to check quality. Take a large bowl, check the Cuervo again, to be sure it is of the highest quality, pour one level cup and drink.

Turn on the electric mixer. Beat one cup of butter in a large fluffy bowl.

Add one peastoon of sugar. Beat again. At this point it's best to make sure the Cuervo is still ok, try another cup just in case.

Turn off the mixer thingy.

Break 2 leggs and add to the bowl and chuck in the cup of dried fruit.

Pick the frigging fruit off the floor.

Mix on the turner.

If the fried druit gets stuck in the beaters just pry it loose with a drewscriver.

Sample the Cuervo to check for tonsisticity.

Next, sift two cups of salt, or something. Who geeves a s....t Check the Jose Cuervo. Now shift the lemon juice and strain your nuts.

Add one table.

Add a spoon of sugar or whatever you can find.

Greash the oven.

Turn the cake tin 360 degrees and try not to fall over.

Don't forget to beat off the turner.

Finally, throw the bowl at someone you love with a spoon, finish the Cose Juervo and make sure to put the stove in the wishdasher.

Cherry Mistmas !

Choosing a Christmas Tree

All marriages and unions have certain arguments in common; with whose parents are we spending the -fill in the blank- holiday? In whose name do we put the car insurance? Do we want a dog or a cat? And, do we want a real or fake tree?

Younger people and men generally want the real tree. Older people and women, who have to take care of the younger people and men, gravitate towards the fake tree.

“Hey Mom, Dad and I agree, we’re getting a real tree. We’re going to the tree farm and chop it down ourselves, you know, a father- son thing.”
“Fine, fine..... take your father’s heart meds with him. Do you know CPR? Remember - if a father drops in a Christmas Tree forest and no one hears him, do you tie him on top of the car with the tree, or bury him where he falls?”
“Mom, he will be FINE! I’ll chop the tree. He can tie it on the car. I’ll help him.”
“That oughta be rich. You can’t tie the garbage bag ties, we have to get the drawstring ones just for you.”
“Why are you such a Grinch? Why do you hate real trees?”
“I love real trees, I hate that I’m the only one who gets under the tree to water it, and I’m always stuck with taking it down and dragging it half out the door.”
“Yeah - and how come you do that? How come you always jam it in the door halfway? Then Dad has to pull it through and take it to the dump.”
“And where are you while Dad is doing all this, huh? Watching from the window inside the house, drinking hot chocolate?”
“I’d help him it he needed it, he likes to do it himself.”
“Right. All parents prefer to do manual labor ourselves, it helps define the existential borders of our existence.”
“I don’t know what you just said, but you’d have no help at all if you didn’t have Brett and me.”
“What? You don’t help now! Everything is a negotiation. You guys don’t voluntarily do anything.”
“Well, maybe it was the way we were raised? Ever think about that?”
“More often than you know.”
“And Dad and I are tired of the same stupid decorations you put on the tree every year. We’re going to get all new ones.”
“Like hell you are! You’ll come home with fishing lures and little crab nets.”
“It’s better than those lame golden noodles that Brett and me made in First Grade that you insist on embarrassing us with every year. It bad enough that you put them on the tree, but you put them where everyone can see them and then you tell the same stupid story over and over about how there was a snow storm that day and our noodles got wet and that’s why some of the gold paint is missing.”
“It doesn’t matter what kind of tree we put up, the golden noodles go on!”
“Dad’s right! You’re impossible to talk to! You always whine about getting new decorations, and when we offer, just because you can’t pick them out, you don’t want them.”
“I cannot trust people who always look like they dressed in the dark to chose decorations that will coordinate with my color scheme.”
“Okay, just tell me the colors you want and we’ll only pick stuff in those colors, okay?”
“Mauve or a soft plum, sage, buff, and medium blue, but not a cool blue, a warm blue.”
“Pink, green, white, blue.... got it.”
“No, not pink, green, white, blue - mauve or a soft plum, sage, buff, and a medium warm blue. You see, you don’t know colors. Just let me get the decorations, all right?”
“Okay, so we have a deal, we get a real tree and you get to pick out new decorations and we burn the golden noodles.”
“The noodles stay.”
“Okay, the noodles stay, but in the back of the tree.....”
“Okay, Golden Noodles in the back of the tree, and you, your father and brother are responsible to water the tree and it goes out of the house the first weekend after New Years.”
“Tree goes out after the Super Bowl.”
“If the tree stays till the Super Bowl, the noodles go in the front, plus you sit next to your grandmother for at least one hour Christmas Day and talk to her, no watching TV from the corner of your eye, you have to make eye contact and conversation.”
“I was wondering why Dad sent me in to negotiate for a real tree. Guess I’m an amateur compared to you, Mom.”
“Honey, I had you at “Hey Mom”.”

When Christmas was Christmas

Well, here it is, a few weeks before Christmas and everyone is in a flurry of activity and anxiety to choose just the right gift. Was it really simpler when I was a child, or has time just eroded my memory?

Men, all men, either got a tie they didn’t want or a bottle of Old Spice. That’s all I recall the women in my family buying for their spouses, except for my Uncle Jimmy who was an Aqua Velva man.

Women got returnable jewelry from their men or some horrible black and red thing from Frederick's of Hollywood (but only if they were still very young). Once, one of my aunts got a football jersey, with her husband’s team on it of course. One Christmas, another aunt received a new iron from her husband for Christmas. I will never forget the look on her face as she opened the box and took out her new Sunbeam iron. It was the same look I’ve seen on the show “America’s Most Wanted”, the look the serial killer has before he reaches for the claw hammer. My uncle, clueless to the last, chimed in, “It has pulse steam.” Well, I know something was steaming that day, and it wasn’t the iron.

Christmas money went for the kids and dinner. We had real game back then that you could play right out of the box, no instructions or batteries needed. We had Rock Em - Sock Em Robots, Skittle Pool, Mystery Date game, and I always loved getting a jigsaw puzzle. Nobody got toys that needed batteries because that was a nuisance toy for the parent.

Naturally, we all wanted our parents to play with us, but by the time Christmas morning came, they were so burned out on us that they would force themselves to play with us for half an hour and then feign death on the couch. You could wrap their heads with paper and they wouldn’t even care. You could hide their cigarettes and they still wouldn’t make one move to stop you, that’s how tired they were.

One of my cousins picked the crumbs off the crumb cake on the coffee table right in front of at least seven adults and lived to tell the tale. That’s how you really knew you had them beaten to a standstill. Under any other circumstances, picking the crumbs off the Entenmann’s Crumb cake would have brought a swift slap to the back of your head. And this was in the day that no other adult would step forward to defend you from the child abuser, matter of fact, they got in line to yell or slap you.

Crumb cake etiquette was, and still is very exact, you may only pick your own crumbs off of your own piece. Crumb poaching is not allowed and has started many fights in many families. You didn’t want to get a reputation as a crumb poacher, because then everyone would keep an eye on you at all times, it was like being a drunk driver today. If you’ve gotten a DWI in the past, people watch what you drink at parties, unless you’re smart enough to drink before the party. Same with crumb poachers, best to eat some Oreo’s or Lorna Doones to take the edge off before the party so you aren’t tempted to poach.

Around noon, food would begin to appear. We had the usual fights about who could sit at the grown up table and who still had to sit at the kids table. The grown ups would eat and talk in code, spelling every other word as they spoke. Deciphering adult spelling codes created a steep learning curve for all of us. I attribute half my vocabulary to time spent trying to figure out what in the h-e-l-l they were trying to say. If they were spelling it, it was a curse word, or a really good piece of gossip, or worst of all - it was about you. There was no texting in those days, you learned to spell, or like a flattened fly, you got crushed between the pages of the dictionary of life. After dinner came the desserts, including whiskey cake and rum balls, and these were not dormant items. Our parents knew that the alcohol burned off in the baking process, so more whiskey was added after the cake came out to maintain it’s flavor. We were all allowed to eat rum balls and whiskey cake after dinner. And after that, I don’t recall anything but waking up the next morning in my pajama’s with a puck from my Skittle Pool game stuck to my face.

Dumb, Dumber, Art Form

Mon. Nov. 9, 2009 LONDON (Reuters) Kylie MacLellan – A British man on the run from police sent a picture of himself to his local paper because he disliked the mug shot they had printed of him as part of a public appeal to track him down. ... It appeared in the South Wales Evening Post, the 23-year-old sent the newspaper a replacement photo of himself standing in front of a police van. They obligingly printed it on the front page. The police thanked him for helping them in their appeal, saying: "Everyone in Swansea will know what he looks like now."

People do many stupid things in life, and we have all committed our share of stupid acts, but their are some people, such as the example above, whose stupidity is so profound, so unbelievable, so unimaginable to the average person, that we must regard it as an art form. For none, other than a true artist of the genre, could achieve it.

A man in New Jersey went into a drug store, pulled a gun, announced a robbery, and pulled a Hefty-bag face mask over his head - and realized that he'd forgotten to cut eye holes in the mask...

There was a woman in Virginia who was concerned that the cocaine she bought wasn’t real. So, she took it to her local police station to have it tested, and lo and behold, it was real. They promptly arrested her. She later sued the department for wrongful arrest claiming they didn’t have probable cause, because they probably didn’t know she had cocaine.

A guy going into a courthouse put his bag of marijuana into the pocket bowl before walking through the metal detector, according to the Abliene Reporter News.

In Rome, GA., A convenience-store thief broke into the store overnight, and tried to cover his tracks by burning the place down. He threw charcoal lighter fluid around and ignited a display and (bonus) set himself on fire! While in flames, he grabbed a roll of lottery tickets and fled. At the time of the story, police were looking for a man on fire, or smoldering, with facial, neck, and wrist burns.

A holdup man in Minnesota thought that if he smeared mercury ointment on his face, it would make him invisible to the cameras. Actually, it accentuated his features, giving authorities a much clearer picture.

ASHLAND, KY Police say Kasey Kazee entered Shamrock Liquors and attempted to rob the store. Employees were astonished that he had disguised his face by wrapping it in duct tape! The store manager chased him out with a baseball bat and an employee held him in the parking lot until police arrived. Police removed the duct tape after taking pictures...

Sao Paulo, CA: A psychiatrist was listening to a patient talk about her sex life when he pulled out a gun and shot her to death. As he explained to the court, "I just couldn't take those nut cases anymore."

Of course, nothing dumb has ever been done on the Island. Except for the time I backed up over my suitcase maybe. Or the time I hooked a swimmer by his shorts and kept reeling him in. It’s true I’ve done some dumb things, but it’s just me because here, all the men are brilliant, all the women are beautiful, and all the children are gifted. That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it...

Fat Chance...

No Thanks, I’ll Take the Chance

It seems like everything we do is unsafe, fattening or illegal.

How did my generation ever survive? We, the Flower Power generation, grew up in extreme danger compared to kids today. We didn’t even have seatbelts. Our mothers developed strong upper chest and arm muscles as they slammed us up against the car seat when they hit the brakes. Babies rode on your lap. Toddlers stood between the driver and passenger with a bottle hanging out of their mouths. Everyone smoked, and if you sat in the back seat, you always stood a chance of being hit by hot cigarette embers being flicked out the car window by someone in the front seat. When seatbelts first started appearing, we ignored them. It wasn’t until it was made into a law, which I still disagree with by the way because I think it’s an invasion of privacy, that we used them. Now, if you’re short, you get sawed off at the neck by the cross strap, and if you’re bosomy, you get to have one boob sawed off as you drive. Ahhh, I miss the days when we lived on the edge...

Water? I remember we had clean water all the time. We drank from the tap and the garden hose if we were outside. Nobody carried around bottles of water, only themos’s of coffee or tomato soup. Now, we carry water around with us all the time like we’re nomads in a desert and we can’t be sure of when we’ll hit the next oasis! And how did we get conned into buying water? People bring water to work. Why? Isn’t there a faucet somewhere in the workplace where you can get a cup of water? How much plastic and labor is used to make a bottle of water? For a society that wants to go green, it’s nuts. Somewhere along the way we bought the concept that we have to have eight glasses of water a day or some body part will shrivel and fall off I guess. I grew up in a time when we drank water only when we were thirsty.

We survived without warning labels on everything and nobody got hysterical and passed a law based on singular occurrances. Did you know that after 9/11, a law was passed that all cell phones and laptop computers have a gps chip in them now - allegedly so that you can be found in the event you are missing. Another invasion of privacy wrapped in the “it’s for your own good” banner. Suppose I’m on the run from the law? I’ll have to use payphones, which aren’t a common sight anymore, and carry around a desktop iMac, that’s a damn inconvenience for life on the lam.

On-Star navigation can be a blessing, the cops can find you in the event of an accident. They can also find you whenever they please. I predict within five years, having an On-Star type of connection in your car will be law. It will be ‘”for your own good”. Won’t it feel good to know the authorities can locate anywhere, anytime? I’m sure that it won’t ever be abused. Men in authority wouldn’t ever abuse it to track their girlfriends movements, or other abuses like that, nah, that’ll never happen.

The invention I want to see is a gps with a small explosive charge put into men’s wedding rings. I’d pay good money for that. After all, I could track his movements - for his own good - and send him a little electric shock if he’s in a bar he shouldn’t be in. And if I located him at motel he should not be in, I could activate the explosive charge and blow off his finger, which I believe would derail him from any planned immoral activity.

Drumming

Fri. Oct. 16, 9:10 pm ET
SAN ANTONIO – San Antonio police are investigating the wounding of a man after his elderly father allegedly opened fire when the victim refused to stop drumming. Police said the son, in his 50s, suffered a non-life threatening head wound early Friday while at the home the men share. Police said his 83-year-old father was detained on an aggravated assault charge. Police said the son, who was grazed in the head, ran down the block to call for help. San Antonio police did not immediately provide further details Friday to The Associated Press.

I see that the Associated Press has put a negative slant on this story. I would like to speak up for this 83 year old father. I look at it this way; for twenty years this man raised this son and put up with God knows what.

You bring a kid home fresh from the hospital. He's cute and not mobile. You can swaddle them and prop them up anywhere. They fit neatly in the corner of any chair or couch and if you're traveling, they can fit in the overhead bin. That lasts for six months and then the little terrors learn to crawl. They get into everything and you can't punish them for whatever they break or ruin because don't comprehend that they've done anything wrong. You can swat them with a rolled up newspaper, and they still won't get it. So, you child proof your home as much as you can, making it difficult to get into your own cabinets and drawers and requiring you to unlock your own toilet every time you need to go. Okay, you survive that. I won't even discuss what you've paid in diapers, the sleepless nights of colic, or the fact that everything you own has been thrown up on; clothes, furniture, bedding, pets, babies don't miss anything.

Around one year they start walking. You can slow them down for awhile by pushing them down whenever they try to stand up, but eventually, they pop up and start furniture walking. Tying their feet together effectively keeps them from walking, but people get upset and make a big deal. Once they can walk, they are not only mobile, but fast! They get behind you all the time and you wrench your back trying not to step back on them. They have no concept of safety or respect for any property. Anything you value must be keep four feet above ground level at all times.

Soon they turn two, terribly two. Two is a year of tantrums, defiance, and diabolical plotting. They rely on the fact that they are adorable and they calculate how far they can push you before you try to trade them in for a nice beagle. They make big screaming scenes in store for things they want and you can't smack them without someone, who is not stuck with this little monster, taking umbrage and reporting you to the authorities. The authorities will give you a big lecture and threaten to take your child, however, that might not be such a bad offer depending on the kid.
Ages three, four and five are precious. They are a joy and in the euphoria of parental love you forget everything they've done to you. These few years lock you in for the next levels of hell to come.

From age eight to twelve, they are brats. Tons of attitude, nothing makes them happy, they don't want to be seen with you, they pretend they don't know you when you yell, "I love you, hunny, have a good day!" from the car as you drop them off at school. You get lots of reports about how their peers have nice parents who do things for them, as opposed to you, who does nothing for them.

Then, thirteen. At age thirteen, an alien entity sneaks into your house at night and takes away your child and leaves a teenage android, a teenoid, in their place. The teenoid drains you of all your money. They don't communicate with you at all, but blame you because you don't understand them. You look at them and wonder where your precious little child went. The teenoid ate them. There's no question in my mind that the son in San Antonio was a teenoid monster who probably hammered at his parents until he go everything he wanted, including a drum set. I believe that poor father listened to bad drumming for hours on end. And when he swore he was gonna kill the kid, the mother, threw herself in harms way to save the self centered teenoid from certain death.

Finally, the teenoid leaves their human body and around 21, your child reappears! It's so nice to see them again. And you spend your time and money helping them get started in life in the hope that they will remember your sacrifices and choose a nice nursing home for you someday.

But sometimes, the children, in adult form, return to the nest. This 50 year old son had come back home. And he was going to drum, just like when he was a teenoid. And mooch, I'll bet anything this 50 year old son is unemployed and he's mooching off the old man. Drumming, mooching, eating all the food, borrowing money again, no wonder the old man lost it...

The moral of this story is, if you march to the beat of a different drummer, keep marching and take your damn drums with you.

The Deer Hunter

Reuters / Thu Oct 22, 3:15 pm ET
PALERMO, Sicily (Reuters) – A Sicilian builder transferred from prison to house arrest tried to get himself locked up again to escape arguments with his wife at home, Italian media reported Thursday. Santo Gambino, 30, did time for dumping hazardous waste before being moved to house arrest in Villabate, outside the Sicilian capital, Palermo, Italian news agencies reported. Gambino went to the police station and asked to be put away again to avoid arguing with his wife, who accused him of failing to pay for the upkeep of their two children. Police charged him with violating the conditions of his sentence and made him go home and patch things up with his wife. (Writing by Stephen Brown; editing by Philippa Fletcher)

This is the kind of thing that would never happen on Shelter Island; imagine, a man preferring to be put in jail rather than be home with his wife....

Joe: "Roger, did you see this article? This guy gets himself put in jail rather than hear his wife yammer on and on about nothin'."
Roger: "Yeah , I saw that. Jeannie is already bitching about me waking her up at 4 AM when I go deer hunting."
Joe: "Do you make a lot of noise?"
Roger: "Never. I tiptoe around, get my gear, guns, it's not me, it's Terry, he wakes her up when he pulls up to get me and the top lights on his truck cab shine into our bedroom. Then he comes in for coffee. He's not noisy, but sometimes we have to wake her up to find the filters, y'know..."
Joe: "Well, that's not unreasonable, she can go right back to sleep."
Roger: "She says the smell of the coffee wakes her up. I thought it would have been the bacon, but I guess it's the coffee. She always wakes up for some reason. Then she starts in about not leaving egg dishes all over and she's over at the sink rinsing dishes and complaining that it's now five in the morning and there's no sense going back to sleep since she has to get up at seven with the kids. Man, I can't want to get out of that house in the morning."
Joe: "We all put up with it, man. You think they'd be appreciative that we're bring home free venison. Jennie always rags on about how the venison is actually about $116 a pound. She does this weird calculation thing, adds up the cost of my gear, guns, bullets, boots, knives, gas, everything."
Roger: "You don't tell her the truth do you? You always trim off 25% of the price of anything you tell your wife you bought."
Joe; "I know that. I never tell her what the guns and gear really cost, then the venison would come out to about $182 a pound, and I'd NEVER hear the end of that!"
Roger: You know, if we could work out something, we could get arrested together after deer season and share the cell in the jail, there's only two."
Joe: "You know, that's not as crazy as it sounds. We could do something to get jailed for about two months, get three hots and a cot, no complaining about how much money we spent or how much time we spent away from the family..."
Roger: "No lectures on not letting the baby play with the empty rifle..."
Joe: "No complaints about washing clothes with deer blood on them."
Roger: "No one yelling at you not to throw your bowie knife at the shed door because someone might open the door at that exact moment and get a knife in the head."
Joe: "Women worry about the most trivial stuff, y'know...."
Roger: "I know, I always lock the shed door before I throw my knives."
Joe: "What about the time you nearly clipped Tom when he opened the door?"
Roger: "That was two years ago. Besides, Tom is a big guy, the knife couldn't have gone in far enough to do much harm."
Joe: "So what can we get arrested for?"
Roger: "We're a coupla bright guys, lets bring a six pack and we'll figure something out in the deer blind."

CANNONBALL!

What’s a Little Zoning Variance Between Neighbors?

AP Friday, Oct. 16, 2009
UNIONTOWN, PA. – A Pennsylvania Civil War buff faces a felony charge for accidentally firing a 2-pound cannonball through the wall of his neighbor's home. Fifty-four-year-old William Maser had been charged with reckless endangerment, criminal mischief and disorderly conduct. Authorities on Thursday added a felony count of discharging a firearm into an occupied structure. ... Maser has acknowledged firing a homemade cannon outside his house in George's Township..... The cannonball, about two inches in diameter, ricocheted and hit the neighbor's home about 400 yards away, smashing through a window and a wall before landing in a closet. Police say nobody was hurt.

“Hello, is Mrs. Lowry there?”
“Hi, Mrs. Lowry? It’s Sharon the babysitter. Um, there’s a problem. You know your neighbor, Mr. Maser, the man who you were saying just moved to the Island from Pennsylvania after he got into some kind of trouble?
......Yeah, that’s him. Well, he’s a Civil War buff and he likes to do that reenactment stuff......the police just told me.....
They told me just now, when they got here.... no, they’re all busy with him right now, but I can tell you what happened.
Okay, we were all sitting and watching Wall-E on the kids’ TV when, BOOM! There was this huge explosion. I jumped up and there was this big hole in the kitchen over the counter and.....
It was a cannonball, Mrs. Lowry.... no, a real cannonball. Please don’t scream, Mrs. Lowry. I heard the man tell the police he makes them himself. But wait, there’s more.....hello? Mrs. Lowry?
Oh, hi Mr. Lowry. Yes, the man next door, he shot off a cannon.... yes, I’m sure a cannon is against some Island ordinance, but I don’t know about that stuff. Anyway, the cannonball came through the wall in the kitchen....no, none of the appliances got shot... but wait, it kept going you see....it went through the wall on the opposite side and into yours’ and Mrs. Lowry’s bathroom....yea, through the tile, I know it was new, it was very pretty, maybe you can tell Mrs.’ Lowry about that later.....it was pretty loud the kids got really scarred. No, all the police are busy with the guy and they’re all over the house taking pictures of the damage, they said to tell you they’ll talk to you in just a little bit. Yeah, but wait a minute Mr. Lowry, it gets worse....please don’t yell at me, Mr. Lowry, I’m just trying to tell you....
Oh, hi again, Mrs. Lowry. You took a Xanex? That’s good. Do you have any you can give Mr. Lowry?.... yea, well, he’ll need them soon. So, after the cannonball went through the kitchen and through the wall to your bathroom, it landed in Mr. Lowry’s closet....no, the gun closet. I know he has that new gun for deer this year. Well, I don’t know one gun from another Mrs. Lowry, two of them are busted in pieces and two are all right. Maybe you shouldn’t tell him until you get home....
Hello Mr. Lowry..... Yes, it landed in your gun closet. I just told Mrs. Lowry, I don’t know one from another, but one of the police said, you were gonna be really upset when you got home and they should take the other guns out of the house as a precaution so you don’t shoot the guy. The cop said your permit got shot too. Well, I don’t know if it was in your lucky hunting vest, Mr. Lowry, I just heard the cop laugh and said, “Damn, he got the permit too!”
......okay, you’re on your way, I’ll tell the police. Oh, and Mr. Lowry, the kids and I are all right, just in case anyone asks.”

So, we lost the 2016 Olympic bid to Brazil, to Rio de Janeiro, the ultimate party town. All they know how to do is parades, very decorative, elaborate, parades. The official opening parade where all the athletes march into the stadium will take forever. We'll have all the teams wearing sequined team outfits with giant feather headdresses to match. Having the Olympics come to their town gives them justification for another five parades next year alone. They'll have to improve all the roads, build a stadium, hire top notch party planners from all over the world to prepare for the international parties. No point in hiring extra security, can't hide much in g-string. Body waxers will open up shops everywhere. You'll go out for a cup of coffee, stumble into Juan's Brazilian Coffee and Wax Works, and come back to the hotel hairless and wired on high octane coffee. I can just see the athletes doing the broad jump in thongs and with the Olympic rings symbol in sequins glued on their chests.

I don't understand why the Olympic Committee didn't choose Chicago. It has all the charm and excitement of New York, but with double the crime. Oprah lives there. You'd think the Committee would have taken that into consideration. She would have done countless shows on Olympians preparing for the big event from all over the world. The Olympic Committee can't buy the publicity that Oprah could give them, but, their loss. I'm not holding a grudge.

Of course, the East End could have bid and gotten the Olympics if we really wanted them. The course for Potato Hampton could have made a perfect course for any of the long distance running events, plus, running through towns, people would have run along side them and given them Evian water or Dunkin' Donuts Coffee Coolata's which is the heroin of iced coffees. Every one here is way too cool to be caught in public in a Brazilian Feathered outfit made of two ounces of lycra and three hundred dyed feathers. Everyone on the East End has beach chairs, we could line any highway and cheer the athletes on, in suitable dignified clothing. They could temporarily rename the Montauk Highway, the LLBeanWay. We have hundreds of beautiful estates to host teams from foreign lands. They have parties at these estate anyway, so why not party in service to your country. Initially you might think that the owners of these big estates might object to hosting teams. But you forget, hosting an Olympic team provides justification for redecorating the whole house, and that would employ thousands. Brazilians look for any reason to party, but Hamptonites look for reasons to redecorate. Parties only last a day or week at most, whereas redecoration lasts for months.

Since Shelter Island has a bonafide Olympian, Amanda Clark, we might be willing to rent her out to the East End Olympic Extortion and Facilitation Committee as the Master of Ceremonies. We'd be reasonable really. Since we have no fast food restaurants here, we would accept tributes of fast food from anyone who uses the ferries. Bic Macs, KFC Family Buckets, Taco Bell, any Chinese food, anything like that would be suitable. Just pay your ticket and hand over the bag and no one will get hurt.

Plus we have Tim Gunn here and we might be induced to let him redesign the East End for an East End Olympics, for the right price of course. He'll have to have carte blanche from all the stores and no limit to his budget. All Shelter Island will ask is that no one let any of the Olympic visitors know that Shelter Island exists and that no one else moves here for a moratorium of ten years. I think for that arrangement, we could "make it work".

For music, I think we can coerce Montauk into giving over Paul Simon. As far as living on the East End, there none Easter than Montaukers. Paul has pretty good experience, his resume isn't too bad. There's a few performers here and there, like Billy Joel, he can recruit.

And of course, we have the newly officially recognized tribe of the Shinnecocks. Let's give them their permits and get that casino in place! We'll give those Olympic tourists a place to spend their money, it's only right, it's the American way. The Shinnecock Rock 'Em and Roll 'Em Olympic Lodge.... works for me.

I'm telling you, we need to get the Olympics here. I think Dan's Papers might even devote a special insert into the paper for the Olympics. If that doesn't tip the scale, then I give up.

Caller ID, I Love You!

Caller I.D.

One of my favorite developments of this new tech era is Caller Identification on the telephone.

When I was a kid, we didn’t Caller ID.  No Call Waiting, not even answering machines. If the phone rang, you answered it. It was a pure crap shoot whether you got a friend, foe, bill collector or beau.

We had rotary phones in those ancient times.  They only had one ring sound, a bell - because there was a real bell inside the phone - and one volume - piercing. You could hear the phone ring from anywhere in the house. That bell could go through any wall.  If you wanted to put your phone on “silent” you put it in a desk drawer or under a pillow. I had an uncle who worked nights and put his phone in the refrigerator during the day. If you were handy, you could unscrew the plate underneath the phone and wrap a piece of tape around the little clacker between the bells, and that was your “soft” setting.

It was just awful on days when you were eagerly waiting for a calll from a boyfriend, hoping for a call from a good friend, dreading a call from your boss, and fearing a calll from Sears because your payment was late, all at the same time.

You’d wait and wait for the phone to ring and hours would go by.  I learned that the only sure way to get the phone to ring was to move out of answering range.  There were no cordless or portable phones then. The phone was either the desk model on a ten foot cord, or a wall model which was bolted to the wall in the kitchen with a 25 foot curly cord from the phone to the receiver. A watched pot never boils and an attended phone never rings. You’d have to be clever to get the phone to ring. You had to walk just far enough away that the phone would think you couldn’t get back to it in time to get the call, or use the bathroom. As soon as the phone was certain that you were out of range, it rang. 

There are stories people of my generation can tell you about taking a flight of stairs in three leaps, high jumping over furniture, tripping over cats and dogs, stepping on Barbie shoes or Army men in our bare feet, hurtling our bodies through space by any means possible to reach the receiver before the ringing stopped. There was no “Star 69” either because these were not the days of touch tone. You either got that ringing phone and took a chance on talking with whomever was calling, or you had to wait for their next try - if there was one.

That’s why I love Caller ID so much. If I can’t get the phone in time, I can see who tried to call me and call them or ignore them.  And I can even hold the ringing phone in my hand as they call and look at their name for a moment or two and decide if I feel like talking to them today or not.... oh the power!  Plus, I can give my own names to any callers. I have “Too Talky” as a name for a very chatty neighbor of mine, I have “Elvis” for my friend who is an Elvis  impersonator, and lot of special names that only I know.

I was visiting a friend of mine once and my mother called there from my home phone to talk to me.  It never occurred to me that it occurred to other people to have code names for their regular callers too.  I picked up the phone and saw my number with the ID “NY Mouth”.  Ooooooohhh!
    “Kathy, how come my number says NY Mouth on your phone?”
    “Because you talk forever.”
    “Oh yeah? Well next time I call, I’m just going to use three sentences. I have self control you know. And how come it says NY? You live here too.”
    “It says NY Mouth to distinguish you from my sister-in-law, NJ Mouth.”

Now I was intrigued. I scrolled through her saved IDs to see what nicknames she had.
    “Kathy, who’s  “Deadbeat”?”
    “My daughter’s ex.”
    “Who’s “Schizo?”
    “My Aunt Jerri. You can tell right away what she wants when you say hello. If she’s nice, she needs money, if she’s screaming she’s drunk, she’s got, like, 30 personalities. I named her Schizo because if I let the Caller ID try to figure out who she is on its own, the phone would explode every time she calls.” 

I just love Caller ID.   

Location, Location, Location

The Daily Telegraph,  September 16, 2009 10:11AM
A couple making love in a dumpster have been robbed of their clothes and personal possessions at knifepoint during an embarrassing hold-up.
The pair, aged in their forties, had crawled inside the dumpster so they could be alone.  But while they were engaged in what Wichita police described as "an intimate moment," they were robbed by a man armed with a pocket knife.  It all unfolded shortly after 6 pm Saturday in Kansas, police said, when the man and woman, both 44, crawled into a dumpster for privacy.  A short time later, a 59-year-old man and his 64-year-old companion interrupted the couple inside the dumpster.  With the older man encouraging him, the 59-year-old man pulled out a pocket knife and took shoes, jewelry and the 44-year-old man's wallet.

Every have one of those days when just everything seems to go wrong?
Billy Crystal said, "Women need a reason to have sex, men just need a place."  I never fully realized the truth of this statement until I read this story. Now, I have been talked into having sex in some odd places in my lifetime, as has every woman.  We've all been attacked in cars, we all get attacked while doing dishes in the kitchen, and if the sands surrounded Shelter Island could talk, we'd all be in a lot of trouble. But never, never, never, have I heard of a woman in any state of inebriation, but still conscious, consenting to sex in a dumpster.  We all have genetic coding, attached to the 'x' chromosome that prevents us from doing certain sexcapades.  I'm not sure where consenting to sex in a dumpster falls, but my guess is it's pretty high on the list, right after 'I will not have sex in a portapotty' and before 'I will not have sex in the middle of the field at the SuperBowl during halftime'.  This woman, whoever she is, needs to come to the Island for therapy.

"Now Betty, tell us what he said that made you agree to sex in a dumpster."
"He said he knew of a nice quiet place. He said he hosed the place down earlier that day, I thought he was making a joke, you know.  It was dark and I didn't really realize he was taking me to a dumpster."
"Didn't the situation smell a little suspicious to you?"
"Not at first, it was a breezy night."
"So when did you start to catch on?"
"He got down on one knee, and for a minute I thought he was going to propose to me or something. But he was just getting down to give me a leg up and help me flip over the side."
"Did he offer you any money at all Betty? For sex in a dumpster, you should have gotten $100,000 at least. I mean, if Eliot Spitzer can pay $5000 for an hour in a nice hotel, sex in a dumpster should have gotten you a down payment for a house."
"No, no money. I'm sorry. I guess I'm an embarrassment to my gender."
"I'm afraid it's true, Betty, you have set us back a hundred years. Now every man will think a rinsed out dumpster counts as a private room and they do as little as they can to get access to us anyway."
"He put down fresh cardboard - does that count for anything?'
"No Betty, it doesn't count, he could have put down a new mattress with satin sheets, it wouldn't matter, as anyone on the Island knows, location is everything.  I think you need to stay here awhile and learn to know your "No Zones" '.
"No Zones?"
"Yes, the No Zones are born into every woman, but apparently you're some kind of throw back to a stupider time.  We will have to teach you the No Zones from scratch.  For example, anything that smells of sewage or garbage is a No Zone.  Anyplace within one hundred feet of any in-law or potential in-law is a No Zone, Ferry lines are a No Zone unless you're in a limo and the driver can move the car forward. Parking lots are No Zones during business hours. Beaches are always No Zone because no matter how romantic it looks on a movie screen, sand gets everywhere and ants crawl on your head."
"Gosh, I guess I have a lot to learn.  Are there any exceptions to No Zones?"
"Of course, any No Zone can become a Yes Zone contingent on the long term benefit."
"You mean, like if he swears he'll love you forever?"
"No, Betty, that's not a long term benefit. "I love you" only lasts until they want the next thing.  A long term benefit would be a house, a car, a boat, an insurance policy, you know, a little something tangible that a girl can hold on to, for that you can endure fifteen minutes of anything."
"Okay, I'm starting to get it now. I just have to remember, location, location, location."
"You'll do fine, Betty, you'll do just fine."

Love Never Dies

"Life is a series of meetings and partings." A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens

My uncle, Master Sargeant and Green Beret, Jack C. Flynn, "went home" last Thursday, Sept 24th. He loved and visited the family on Long Island whenever he could. He loved standing waist deep in the waters of the Great South Bay off Sayville or Blue Point, or Shelter Island, with a peck (small) basket buoyed by kiddie tube while he dug clams with his feet. He loved boating and fishing. He was a favorite uncle with easy going, carefree ways. When he was a kid, my grandmother took him to see a psychiatrist because he would put his clothes on inside out or backwards. Once he grabbed the wrong paper bag from the kitchen table and ate six plain Kaiser roles for lunch because it never occurred to him that he grabbed the bakery bag and not his lunch bag. The psychiatrist told his mother, "This boy is fine. He doesn't have a nerve in his body. Nothing bothers him, he'll outlive us all."

So the boy without a nerve in his body went on to become one of the small heroes in the Viet Nam War, there are so many. He was a combat Medic with the 82nd Airborne Division. A combat tour in Viet Nam lasted one year, if you survived, you went home. Jack is the only Viet Vet I know who voluntarily did a second tour in Nam. He was decorated many times, but his favorite accomplishment was written up in the Daily News when he organized the first Boy Scout Troop in Viet Nam. He said there were many half American children who had been rejected by their families and were beggers in the streets, he wanted to do something for them. With the help of a local Catholic Mission, he organized a Boy Scout Troop, and with some other soldiers, taught the boys how to help each other as a group in order to survive.

His highest decoration was won when he was in a Huey gunship, They spotted a troop of Viet Cong escorting six captured Americans through a rice paddy. The prisoners hands were in bound in front of them and they were all tied closely together with a rope from one waist to the next to make it nearly impossible to escape; two men tied together might have a chance at a run, but not six. The gunship lowered over the men, and the VC ran for cover where they could turn and fire at the gunship. Jack jumped out. He always carried a small axe. He said it came in handy many times. One this day, as they pulled in one man, the rope between he and the next man would pull tight over the landing rail on the helicopter and Jack hacked off the rope in one chop. One by one, with bullets flying, they got five of the men in. At that point, someone spotted a shouldered bazooka pointing at the ship. One well landed grenade would disable the helicopter. Jack looped his arm through the still tied hands of the last man and grabbed onto the landing rail with both of his hands and one leg. The Huey lifted with the last man looped around Jack's arm. Two soldiers inside leaned out and reinforced Jack's hold on the rail. In two minutes they cleared the immediate danger enough to land for a minute and get Jack and the last man safely inside. Jack had been grazed by three bullets. His shoulder had been dislocated from the weight of the soldier, but they all made it back. He only told that story to us once, and I never heard him ever speak of his combat experiences again.

During his second tour, he served with his cousin, Maj. Neil Sheehan, an RN. Officer and enlisted men aren't supposed to socialize, but it was useless trying to keep them apart despite the efforts of one of the commanding officers, a Lt. Colonel, on their post. Uncle Neilly told us that one time Jack and he were driving off base to Saigon for a three day leave. Jack was driving when the LTC saw them at the gate. He ordered the jeep stopped and Jack dutifully got out and stood at attention. The LTC was a "Point Man" (West Point Grad) and a stickler for formality. The LTC saw that the back of the jeep was lined with two Army blankets and a third blanket had been folded into a pillow. The LTC asked, "What's the hell is this?" Jack responded, "Mobile sleeping quarters for Maj. Sheehan, sir." To which the LTC yelled back, "You think the back of jeep is appropriate sleeping quarters for an officer?" Uncle Neilly said he was already trying not to laugh, when Jackie said, "No, sir. I'll fix it right now." Then, he reached into Neil's knapsack, pulled out a bottle of good whiskey - that Neil had been saving for leave, placed it gently next to the makeshift pillow, turned back to the LTC and said, "I think Maj Sheehan will validate this as appropriate now, sir." To which the LTC replied, "You're killin' me Flynn, your fuckin' killin' me," and dismissed them. The story ends that Maj. Sheehan returned to base in his mobile sleeping quarters driven by Staff Sgt. Flynn all safe and sound, the whiskey however, became another casualty of war.

He will be buried with honors near his beloved Fort Bragg, home of the 82nd Airborne. The bad news is we'll miss him terribly. The good news is, he's back with his parents, Audrey and Ervin Flynn. But the really bad news is "Big Erv" is probably still mad at him for never fixing the hood latch on his car when he was seventeen, and every time Pop drove the car over the nearby railroad tracks, the hood flew up forcing Pop to open the door and lean half his body out to find a place to pull over. The stream of profanities that issued forth from his mouth are probably still hanging in the air where the railroad tracks cross Lincoln Ave in Sayville, New York.

Pidgeon Is Faster Than Internet In Some Places

Pigeon transfers data faster than South Africa's Telkom Thu Sep 10, 5:05 pm ET
JOHANNESBURG (Reuters) – A South African information technology company on Wednesday proved it was faster for them to transmit data with a carrier pigeon than to send it using Telkom , the country's leading internet service provider.
Internet speed and connectivity in Africa's largest economy are poor because of a bandwidth shortage... Local news agency SAPA reported the 11-month-old pigeon, Winston, took one hour and eight minutes to fly the 50 miles from Unlimited IT's offices near Pietermaritzburg to the coastal city of Durban with a data card was strapped to his leg. Including downloading, the transfer took two hours, six minutes and 57 seconds -- the time it took for only four percent of the data to be transferred using a Telkom line. Unlimited IT performed the stunt after becoming frustrated with slow internet transmission times. ...Telkom could not immediately be reached for comment.

Is it time for me to go a little greener and pioneer a new way to blend old and new technology? I write from anywhere I happen to be. Sometimes I can’t always get the internet connection I need to send in reports. I could start a whole new trend and maybe others would follow, it would be very Al Gore of me to try anyway...

At an event on a Long Island Beach:
“Who's the big lady with the laptop and the pigeon cage?”
“Oh, that’s Ms Flynn. She writes for newspapers you know.”
“Is she donating the bird? Is it a sacrifice? She's not going to put on a hibachi and eat it is she?”
“Ms F. can’t always get her wireless internet to transmit her articles from her laptop out here in the wild. She writes things right out here in the field you know. She loves to rough it, a real pioneer. So now she brings one of her Flynn's Flyer’s with her to these events. The pigeons have a little suitcase velcroed to one ankle. Ms F. puts in her memory card and releases the bird. Her office gets the bird in five to eight minutes. She has two birds she likes to use, Paddy and Delilah. I think she brought Delilah today. We’ll know if he gives her Perrier water in her little cup, she’s a Hampton born pidgeon, she only drinks Perrier.”
“You’re kidding me.... and what does Paddy drink?”
“Well, that's the problem. Birds love alcohol and Paddy is a pigeon raised by someone in Ms. Flynn's own family. She just found out that Paddy has a bit of a drinking problem. Paddy got a sip from somebody's screwdriver at the last event and delivered Ms. F.’s card to Al Gore’s house. Fortunately, Al is trying out this green transfer concept and sent a new bird to her office. Then he got Paddy into a new little aviary rehab, The Pickled Pigeon in the Hamptons. It’s very private. Decorated the gayest available decorators. It has a nice park and statue theme, very tasteful, and no cat statues.”
“Yeah, I can see where that would mess with a bird’s brain.”
“Definitely, you don’t want to have the DT’s around images of things that can eat you.”
“So where do you buy these birds?”
“East Hampton store, Feathers Go Farther; Giving You the Bird From Manhattan to Montauk.”

Ring Right Through Your Nosey

Aug 20, 2009 WELLINGTON (Reuters) – A New Zealand man has been dubbed the Lord of the Ring after he searched and found his wedding ring more than a year after it slipped off his finger and sank to the sea floor. The ring was lost for 16 months in the harbor of the country's capital city, Wellington, before Aleki Taumoepeau found it shining on the sea floor, the Dominion Post newspaper reported Thursday. Taumoepeau, an ecologist, said... he lost the wedding ring while conducting an environmental sweep of the harbor. He roughly marked the spot where the ring had flown from his finger, but was unable to find it despite returning to the area many times....pledging to find the ring (and)..equipped with new global satellite based coordinates and offering up a quick prayer, he found the ring after an hour's search.

In a bar on the east coast:

“Joe, did you read about this guy who says he lost his wedding ring in the water and then found it again using g.p.s. and a prayer?”
“Yeah, what a crock. You know how many guys have tried using that story - losing their wedding ring in the water? “Honest hunny, I lost it when I was clammin’”, or “it got caught in a fish’s mouth when I was trying to get the hook out.” But I give the guy credit for originality - adding the g.p.s. locater concept, nice detail. Oh yeah, and the prayer, g.p.s. and a prayer.”
“Like he had one.”
“Not a prayer of finding a ring once it goes in the water, unless you happen to be sitting underwater with scuba and a net just looking up and seeing if anything happens to drop in.”
“So how do you think he found the ring, Joe?”
“He didn’t find that ring. He did what any intelligent cheating slob would do, he bought a new ring.”
“A new ring - geez, I never thought of that.”
“That’s why when you get married, you can get her a fancy ring, but you gotta stay with the plain band, very important. That way, if you lose that ring anytime for any reason, you can replace it before she knows it’s gone if you have to.”
“Did you ever lose your ring that year you were cheating on Carol?”
“Nope. I never took it off. I just bought a set of golf clubs and told Carol I was taking up golf.”
“You lost me, Joe. How does golf cover cheating on your wife?”
“Simple. I’d pick up my girlfriend at lunchtime and later, just before I left for home, I’d go outside, run her outside hose to make a puddle in the grass, then I’d jump around in the puddle and get grass bits all splashed up on my pants. Then I’d go home and Carol would yell at me as soon as I got in the door, “Where you been all afternoon? I called work twice, they said you never came back from lunch.” And then I’d tell her the truth.”
“The truth? Joe, man, there’s no way you told her the truth.”
“Everytime, I swear. I said, “Carol, you know what I did? I left at lunch time, picked up my girlfriend, we went to her house and we made mad passionate love all afternoon. How do you like that?” And she’d say, “Don’t lie to me you son of a bitch! Look at your pants! You blew off work to go golfing again!”
“Whoa.....great cover Joe. Beats the hell outta g.p.s. and a prayer.”
“Thank you, I thought it was rather creative if I do say so myself.”