I have a Zen-like belief that if my car doesn’t want to take me someplace, maybe it’s better that I don't go. Today my car did not want to take me to the battery store. I wanted to go to the battery store because the car’s battery has been acting like a sullen teenager lately, only working part time and grudgingly at that. So I thought it needed replacing.
Sullen batteries are easier to replace than sullen teenagers. I know. I was a sullen teenager. There were times when my parents wished they could replace me with a battery. Unlike sullen teenagers, batteries don’t eat everything not frozen solid, don't break curfew, and don't get other batteries pregnant with little batteries. Not that I got any batteries pregnant, you understand, but that was then and this was now, and now my Zen thinking was in conflict with my desire for automotive mobility. It was quite an internal crisis. For both the battery and for me.
Anyway, I thought I had charged the battery with a 100 mile drive last week, but when I tried to start the car today, the engine said “crick crick.” See, it’s a Japanese car, and Japanese cars don’t say “click click” when the battery is acting like a sullen teenager and refuses to start the car. They say…well…you get the picture.
But out of the mud may bloom the lotus. It’s possible that my sullen teenaged battery may have saved me from a gruesome wreck on the way to the battery store. I thought about being squashed into road kill by a speeding big rig whose driver was so hopped up on truck stop coffee that he thought my car was a speed bump. I puddled up at the thought my untimely demise. Poor Mike. Cut down in the prime of his senility. Then I wiped away my tears and blew my nose in a Handi Wipe or maybe on the nearest sleeve and tried to start the car again. “Crunk,” it said, and that was that.
Okay. I can take a hint. I called the Insurance Angel whose company provides roadside assistance. This was my third call this month. We’re getting to be old friends.
“You again,” she said. “What is it this time?”
I told her my car would not start. It sat there like a sullen teenager and muttered ’crunk’ the last time I turned the key.
She let out a sigh that crossed state lines. “Ooookay, Mister Brownie. I’ll call a tow company. Again. And stop buying cars that don’t speak English.”
As it happened, my car did not need a tow. Just a shot of battery Viagra from a more virile battery that worked out consistently and ate a lot of battery vitamins, which the tow company truck provided.
“You again,” the driver said. “Why don’t you get a battery with better manners?”
That’s just what I did when I finally got to the battery store.
“You again,” said the battery man, then he took the battery’s pulse and blood pressure. The prognosis was not good. “Your battery terminals are terminal,” he said, and got me another battery. This battery recently finished a stint in battery rehab, “but I can’t guarantee that it won’t relapse,” said the battery man.
Well, if this battery won’t start my car, maybe it’s my car’s karma. But it did, and me and the car were as happy as Buddha under a Bo tree.
Comments?
"Prime of your senility" Dang, you're younger than I am and I'm NOT senile. Always fun to read your stories. -- Carol M.
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You again? By the way, I think our cars are related. -- Beatysr
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Ahaaaaa loved it -- Juli
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I enjoyed reading your column. I am delighted with my low tire pressure light that has kept me from having a flat tire on 3 occasions. -- Ken
Thanks, Ken. I dunno about having a car smarter than I am.
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I'll probably never look at little batteries the same, again -- Pirate
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Crick? Pretty funny Mike -- Lynda
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Cutest one yet! -- Tab A
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Laughing so hard I ....well you know. That was one of the funniest ever. Good job! -- Mary Pat
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Entertaining as always.
You know, I had to chuckle. First, my AAA man knows me by my first name because for some reason I obstinately will not put a key box magnet on my car somewhere or keep an extra key in my really tiny purses. I simply get out of the car and leave the keys in the ignition enough times that when I call AAA, the man says "Hi, Zoey. How have you been...I mean, other than today when you locked your keys in your car again?"
So, I chuckled at your piece. We know something's going wrong but we just put it off a little longer. We make love to it with our voices as though it was a familiar lover with no intention of failing to make you come just like he always does. Well, perhaps a bad analogy, but that's where my head...uh...my mind was.
Anyway...thanks for the smile, Mike -- Zoey
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Funny, as usual. You're such a joy to read. -- Amanda
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You sure know how to turn a demi-tragedy into a good comedy -- Karen S.
Friday, July 20, 2012
Saturday, July 14, 2012
A Fun Read And A Funner Site
In case you missed it the first time around, I've linked a site kept by Ken Babbs, an author who wrote a novel entitled Who Shot The Water Buffalo, based on his experience as Marine helicopter pilot in Viet Nam.
SKYPILOTCLUB HOME PAGE
Mr. Babbs was a buddy and neighbor of the late Ken Kesey, author of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest; Sometimes A Great Notion; Kesey's Garage Sale; Little Tricker the Squirrel Meets Big Double the Bear, a children's book; Sailor Song; Last Go Around; and a collection of essays entitled Demon Box, which a friend borrowed five years ago and never returned. [Marcia: I want my book back.]
In 1964 Babbs and Kesey were the de facto leaders of a scruffy band of free spirits named The Merry Pranksters who made a cross country odyssey in a psychedelically painted ex-school bus they named "Furthur" with "Weird Load" painted on the back.
The driver was the late Neal Cassady, a natural speed freak and literary icon made famous as the character Dean Moriarity in Jack Kerouac's 1957 book, On The Road, and as the central character in his Visions Of Cody.
Author Tom Wolfe wrote about the Merry Prankster journey in The Electric Kool Aid Acid Test, published in 1968, and mandatory reading for every sophomore boy who wanted to run away from home to get loaded and laid in a tie-dyed heap of stoned hippie bodies.
Mr. Babbs' site is sad and funny at the same time. It has pictures of old hippies with bulging bellies and gray hair attending what looks like a counter-cultural VFW cookout, their free love, free dope and free chalmydia days long since cast aside for raising families, paying mortgages, and now babysitting grandchildren when their parents need a break.
I kinda wish I had joined those folks in 1968. But I was a short-haired Navy vet, a registered Republican with two jobs and a full-time college student whose own mother thought he was too stuffy for his own good. No exactly a candidate for the Woodstock Generation.
As it was, I thought most of the patchouli reeking, draft dodging, furry headed hippies were spoiled refugees from the middle class playing at poverty with their gawdawful macrobiotic diets and glassy-eyed readings of Herman Hesse's books. Oh, and The Hobbit was also big among the dopers who could read without moving their lips too much. Jesus H. Christ.
I did have a distant connection with that bunch many years later when I was drying out in the same VA hospital where Kesey had worked as an orderly, stealing LSD from the psych ward to share with his friends. At the time he was enrolled in Wallace Stegner's creative writing program at Stanford, along with Larry McMurtry, author of Lonesome Dove. Okay, enough with the name dropping.
My snarkiness about the 60s hippies aside, I sometimes wish I had been on that bus.
I'd post a picture of the bus, but this e-blogger service is being difficult. Tech support is no help. Neither is swearing, but it makes me feel better.
Comments?
I was married in 1962 and had babies in 1967 and 1970. My husband was a crew-cutted chemical engineer and I was a grad student and T.A. at UMass, and then at Miami of Ohio. I had no time or respect for hippie hijinks. Having been born and raised in Colorado, I could not BELIEVE the mess they created there, camping all over the place in the mountains (with no sanitary facilities), killing people's cows for food, lying stoned on sidewalks all over once-beautiful Boulder. HOWEVER, I first read Lord of the Rings in 1966 and it has given me joy all my life. (The Hobbit is a children's story and I cannot understand how Peter Jackson is going to make a two-part epic of it, but I am withholding judgment.) Don't shoot the dog; keep me on your mailing list! I enjoy your writings! -- Eve
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I do enjoy a good read by someone else on occasion, and I especially enjoy your rather good hand at it. -- Zoey
Thanks, Zoey. Instead of sending you a Wal*Mart gift card in appreciation for your nice comment, I’ve entered your name in the Publishers Clearinghouse sweepstakes.
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I love your blog and envy your trip to Alaska!!!!! -- Cyn
Cyn is a former Alaskan who lived in Juneau.
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Fabulous read! -- Julisari
Juli: I’ve always respected your intelligence and judgment. Got any nude pix?
_____
Well ...at first I thought you were a teenager writing, then you seemed to grow into a 25 to 35 year old, then I realized you were an old geezer like me and your writing made a lot more sense and it was much funnier, since it wasn't coming from a wise ass teenager. -- PlaceboDomingo
Yup. Just another old fart with an advanced case of arrested development.
_____
Wow, you make it sound so wonderful. Everyone I know who has gone to Alaska has raved about it. I hope i see it one day. -- Angel G.
It will change you.
_____
Very nice, Mike. The only thing was that I was the only one to vote against the softball team [ being named] Liquor in the Valley, but I had agreed I would adhere to majority vote. Someone of my station (Indian princess) would NEVER come up with a name like that. -- Sandy
Who am I to argue? Arguing with an Indian princess is not a good career move.
_____
I found it interesting to read about you and the wheelchair treatment, followed by the blog about the cigarette tax. -- Brat Patrol
I know, I know.
_____
So, you DID enjoy the trip, events, family ties and the scenery? -- Kent
Immensely.
SKYPILOTCLUB HOME PAGE
Mr. Babbs was a buddy and neighbor of the late Ken Kesey, author of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest; Sometimes A Great Notion; Kesey's Garage Sale; Little Tricker the Squirrel Meets Big Double the Bear, a children's book; Sailor Song; Last Go Around; and a collection of essays entitled Demon Box, which a friend borrowed five years ago and never returned. [Marcia: I want my book back.]
In 1964 Babbs and Kesey were the de facto leaders of a scruffy band of free spirits named The Merry Pranksters who made a cross country odyssey in a psychedelically painted ex-school bus they named "Furthur" with "Weird Load" painted on the back.
The driver was the late Neal Cassady, a natural speed freak and literary icon made famous as the character Dean Moriarity in Jack Kerouac's 1957 book, On The Road, and as the central character in his Visions Of Cody.
Author Tom Wolfe wrote about the Merry Prankster journey in The Electric Kool Aid Acid Test, published in 1968, and mandatory reading for every sophomore boy who wanted to run away from home to get loaded and laid in a tie-dyed heap of stoned hippie bodies.
Mr. Babbs' site is sad and funny at the same time. It has pictures of old hippies with bulging bellies and gray hair attending what looks like a counter-cultural VFW cookout, their free love, free dope and free chalmydia days long since cast aside for raising families, paying mortgages, and now babysitting grandchildren when their parents need a break.
I kinda wish I had joined those folks in 1968. But I was a short-haired Navy vet, a registered Republican with two jobs and a full-time college student whose own mother thought he was too stuffy for his own good. No exactly a candidate for the Woodstock Generation.
As it was, I thought most of the patchouli reeking, draft dodging, furry headed hippies were spoiled refugees from the middle class playing at poverty with their gawdawful macrobiotic diets and glassy-eyed readings of Herman Hesse's books. Oh, and The Hobbit was also big among the dopers who could read without moving their lips too much. Jesus H. Christ.
I did have a distant connection with that bunch many years later when I was drying out in the same VA hospital where Kesey had worked as an orderly, stealing LSD from the psych ward to share with his friends. At the time he was enrolled in Wallace Stegner's creative writing program at Stanford, along with Larry McMurtry, author of Lonesome Dove. Okay, enough with the name dropping.
My snarkiness about the 60s hippies aside, I sometimes wish I had been on that bus.
I'd post a picture of the bus, but this e-blogger service is being difficult. Tech support is no help. Neither is swearing, but it makes me feel better.
Comments?
I was married in 1962 and had babies in 1967 and 1970. My husband was a crew-cutted chemical engineer and I was a grad student and T.A. at UMass, and then at Miami of Ohio. I had no time or respect for hippie hijinks. Having been born and raised in Colorado, I could not BELIEVE the mess they created there, camping all over the place in the mountains (with no sanitary facilities), killing people's cows for food, lying stoned on sidewalks all over once-beautiful Boulder. HOWEVER, I first read Lord of the Rings in 1966 and it has given me joy all my life. (The Hobbit is a children's story and I cannot understand how Peter Jackson is going to make a two-part epic of it, but I am withholding judgment.) Don't shoot the dog; keep me on your mailing list! I enjoy your writings! -- Eve
_____
I do enjoy a good read by someone else on occasion, and I especially enjoy your rather good hand at it. -- Zoey
Thanks, Zoey. Instead of sending you a Wal*Mart gift card in appreciation for your nice comment, I’ve entered your name in the Publishers Clearinghouse sweepstakes.
_____
I love your blog and envy your trip to Alaska!!!!! -- Cyn
Cyn is a former Alaskan who lived in Juneau.
_____
Fabulous read! -- Julisari
Juli: I’ve always respected your intelligence and judgment. Got any nude pix?
_____
Well ...at first I thought you were a teenager writing, then you seemed to grow into a 25 to 35 year old, then I realized you were an old geezer like me and your writing made a lot more sense and it was much funnier, since it wasn't coming from a wise ass teenager. -- PlaceboDomingo
Yup. Just another old fart with an advanced case of arrested development.
_____
Wow, you make it sound so wonderful. Everyone I know who has gone to Alaska has raved about it. I hope i see it one day. -- Angel G.
It will change you.
_____
Very nice, Mike. The only thing was that I was the only one to vote against the softball team [ being named] Liquor in the Valley, but I had agreed I would adhere to majority vote. Someone of my station (Indian princess) would NEVER come up with a name like that. -- Sandy
Who am I to argue? Arguing with an Indian princess is not a good career move.
_____
I found it interesting to read about you and the wheelchair treatment, followed by the blog about the cigarette tax. -- Brat Patrol
I know, I know.
_____
So, you DID enjoy the trip, events, family ties and the scenery? -- Kent
Immensely.
Friday, July 13, 2012
The Return Of The Native Tomato
Okay, so last month my cousin Sandy told me I will be visiting her and her family in Juneau, Alaska, in July.
You see, Sandy and I are descended from a matrilineal tribe of Alaska injuns where women pretty much run the show. Tribal leaders are chosen from the female side of families in line of succession and arguing with Sandy is not a good career move. She also teaches karate. I tried to beg off in a weak ass way, saying I have emphysema (which I do), and was promptly informed that I could have emphysema in Juneau as easily as I could in Sacramento. She cemented the deal with a round trip ticket on Alaska Airlines, including wheelchair service and an order not to put on a Mr. Macho act and refuse the courtesy.
I did put on that act when changing planes at the Seattle-Tacoma airport -- and regretted it. The frapping airport passageway was 10 miles long and uphill in all directions, or so it seemed. Lesson learned. I ain’t no young tomato no mo and I requested wheelchair service for the Seattle to Juneau hop, knowing that me ‘n Alaska Airlines would catch triple Hell from Sandy if I showed up in Juneau wheezing along under my own power, such as it is.
I got back to the furnace heat of the Sacramento Valley last night after an altogether too brief stay of seven days amid the mountains of Southeastern Alaska, where forests of spruce, cedar and pine slope down to the dark emerald waters of the Inside Passage, where daytime temperatures hover in the 60 degree range and where formal evening wear consists of a reasonably clean Pendleton shirt.
Sandy and her husband, Keith, took me to a beach where flocks of eagles swoop for salmon and where tiny strawberries grow wild along the shore. The only sound was the hissing of waterfalls that had been centuries old glacier ice just hours before.
We had lunch at a Mexican restaurant, which I thought ironic for my first meal in Alaska, with Sandy, Keith, their 18-year-old son Kevin, and members of Keith’s family I was meeting for the first time. Sandy's reclusive Thoreauvian brother, another Mike, who lives on island instead of a pond, showed up too. Then we were off to a high school stadium where Keith and Sandy play on a softball team. Instead of parking me in the bleachers, Sandy got me a folding chair and a lap robe, which made me feel like the old fart I guess I’ve become. Their team is sponsored by a liquor store. Sandy’s idea of naming the team “The Juneau Lickers” was not met with wild approval, for some reason.
This trip was not my first rodeo, but it was one of the few times I did not want to come home.
Comments?
Glad you went and had fun! Alaska is the only state I have not visited and still hope to get there eventually. Why in the world would anyone not take advantage of a generous offer of a trip, etc., when it is offered in love? -- Eve
I hedged at first, as I did with a similar offer from relatives in Seattle last November, thinking of the cost of transportation, and not wanting to be burdensome on anyone’s finances, but was promptly put in my place. It now occurs to me that people who go out of their way not to be burdens can be the most burdensome of all when it comes to accepting the gift of grace; grace being defined in my Webster’s as “unconstrained and undeserved good will.” I am very, very fortunate to have the family I was given. Were it not for a state of grace, I would be writing them from prison with requests for cigarettes
_____
I do enjoy a good read by someone else on occasion, and I especially enjoy your rather good hand at it. -- Zoey
Thanks, Zoey. Instead of sending you a Wal*Mart gift card in appreciation for your nice comment, I’ve entered your name in the Publishers Clearinghouse sweepstakes.
_____
I love your blog and envy your trip to Alaska!!!!! -- Cyn
Cyn is a former Alaskan who lived in Juneau.
_____
Fabulous read! -- Julisari
Juli: I’ve always respected your intelligence and judgment. Got any nude pix?
_____
Well ...at first I thought you were a teenager writing, then you seemed to grow into a 25 to 35 year old, then I realized you were an old geezer like me and your writing made a lot more sense and it was much funnier, since it wasn't coming from a wise ass teenager. -- PlaceboDomingo
Yup. Just another old fart with an advanced case of arrested development.
_____
Wow, you make it sound so wonderful. Everyone I know who has gone to Alaska has raved about it. I hope i see it one day. -- Angel G.
It will change you.
_____
Very nice, Mike. The only thing was that I was the only one to vote against the softball team [ being named] Liquor in the Valley, but I had agreed I would adhere to majority vote. Someone of my station (Indian princess) would NEVER come up with a name like that. -- Sandy
Who am I to argue? Arguing with an Indian princess is not a good career move.
_____
Did you get to see the Northern Lights? -- Carol
Nope. The're not common at the latitude and time of year.
Well, Poop. -- Carol
Carol is a southern Californian who once saw the northern lights and has been looking for them ever since. The farthest south I've seen them was in Seattle in 1957, a sight so rare at that latitude that people set up lawn chairs outside to watch God's own light show, but I'm afraid if they appeared over Southern California, police switchboards would be jammed with panicked callers reporting UFO sightings. Plus every nutcase evangelical preacher south of Barkersfield would see them as an indication of End Times and really make a killing collecting cash donations and tithes from frightened sinners, proving that solar flares, like clouds, have a silver lining.
_____
So, you DID enjoy the trip, events, family ties and the scenery? -- Kent
Immensely.
You see, Sandy and I are descended from a matrilineal tribe of Alaska injuns where women pretty much run the show. Tribal leaders are chosen from the female side of families in line of succession and arguing with Sandy is not a good career move. She also teaches karate. I tried to beg off in a weak ass way, saying I have emphysema (which I do), and was promptly informed that I could have emphysema in Juneau as easily as I could in Sacramento. She cemented the deal with a round trip ticket on Alaska Airlines, including wheelchair service and an order not to put on a Mr. Macho act and refuse the courtesy.
I did put on that act when changing planes at the Seattle-Tacoma airport -- and regretted it. The frapping airport passageway was 10 miles long and uphill in all directions, or so it seemed. Lesson learned. I ain’t no young tomato no mo and I requested wheelchair service for the Seattle to Juneau hop, knowing that me ‘n Alaska Airlines would catch triple Hell from Sandy if I showed up in Juneau wheezing along under my own power, such as it is.
I got back to the furnace heat of the Sacramento Valley last night after an altogether too brief stay of seven days amid the mountains of Southeastern Alaska, where forests of spruce, cedar and pine slope down to the dark emerald waters of the Inside Passage, where daytime temperatures hover in the 60 degree range and where formal evening wear consists of a reasonably clean Pendleton shirt.
Sandy and her husband, Keith, took me to a beach where flocks of eagles swoop for salmon and where tiny strawberries grow wild along the shore. The only sound was the hissing of waterfalls that had been centuries old glacier ice just hours before.
We had lunch at a Mexican restaurant, which I thought ironic for my first meal in Alaska, with Sandy, Keith, their 18-year-old son Kevin, and members of Keith’s family I was meeting for the first time. Sandy's reclusive Thoreauvian brother, another Mike, who lives on island instead of a pond, showed up too. Then we were off to a high school stadium where Keith and Sandy play on a softball team. Instead of parking me in the bleachers, Sandy got me a folding chair and a lap robe, which made me feel like the old fart I guess I’ve become. Their team is sponsored by a liquor store. Sandy’s idea of naming the team “The Juneau Lickers” was not met with wild approval, for some reason.
This trip was not my first rodeo, but it was one of the few times I did not want to come home.
Comments?
Glad you went and had fun! Alaska is the only state I have not visited and still hope to get there eventually. Why in the world would anyone not take advantage of a generous offer of a trip, etc., when it is offered in love? -- Eve
I hedged at first, as I did with a similar offer from relatives in Seattle last November, thinking of the cost of transportation, and not wanting to be burdensome on anyone’s finances, but was promptly put in my place. It now occurs to me that people who go out of their way not to be burdens can be the most burdensome of all when it comes to accepting the gift of grace; grace being defined in my Webster’s as “unconstrained and undeserved good will.” I am very, very fortunate to have the family I was given. Were it not for a state of grace, I would be writing them from prison with requests for cigarettes
_____
I do enjoy a good read by someone else on occasion, and I especially enjoy your rather good hand at it. -- Zoey
Thanks, Zoey. Instead of sending you a Wal*Mart gift card in appreciation for your nice comment, I’ve entered your name in the Publishers Clearinghouse sweepstakes.
_____
I love your blog and envy your trip to Alaska!!!!! -- Cyn
Cyn is a former Alaskan who lived in Juneau.
_____
Fabulous read! -- Julisari
Juli: I’ve always respected your intelligence and judgment. Got any nude pix?
_____
Well ...at first I thought you were a teenager writing, then you seemed to grow into a 25 to 35 year old, then I realized you were an old geezer like me and your writing made a lot more sense and it was much funnier, since it wasn't coming from a wise ass teenager. -- PlaceboDomingo
Yup. Just another old fart with an advanced case of arrested development.
_____
Wow, you make it sound so wonderful. Everyone I know who has gone to Alaska has raved about it. I hope i see it one day. -- Angel G.
It will change you.
_____
Very nice, Mike. The only thing was that I was the only one to vote against the softball team [ being named] Liquor in the Valley, but I had agreed I would adhere to majority vote. Someone of my station (Indian princess) would NEVER come up with a name like that. -- Sandy
Who am I to argue? Arguing with an Indian princess is not a good career move.
_____
Did you get to see the Northern Lights? -- Carol
Nope. The're not common at the latitude and time of year.
Well, Poop. -- Carol
Carol is a southern Californian who once saw the northern lights and has been looking for them ever since. The farthest south I've seen them was in Seattle in 1957, a sight so rare at that latitude that people set up lawn chairs outside to watch God's own light show, but I'm afraid if they appeared over Southern California, police switchboards would be jammed with panicked callers reporting UFO sightings. Plus every nutcase evangelical preacher south of Barkersfield would see them as an indication of End Times and really make a killing collecting cash donations and tithes from frightened sinners, proving that solar flares, like clouds, have a silver lining.
_____
So, you DID enjoy the trip, events, family ties and the scenery? -- Kent
Immensely.
Friday, June 29, 2012
Okay. One More Time.
Well, goody. California voters rejected a ballot proposition at the polls Monday to increase the state cigarette tax to a $1.87 a pack. Even the mighty Los Angeles Times editorialized against the measure, stating the skim would not be spent to help decrease California’s umptajillion dollar state budget shortfall. But, according to the Associated Press, the victory for unrepentant smokers was less than one percentage point, giving the nicotine vigilantes all kinds of encouragement to continue being pains in the buns come the November election. Here’s one:
"This came so close, I think this is worth another try," said Stan Glantz of the University of California's Center for Tobacco Control Research:. "I think it would be horrible if Philip Morris and Reynolds get away with this."
Or, in the words of former Governor Swartzenmuscles, “I’ll be back.”
Seems the anti-smoking bunch have been hammering away since 1492, according to one of their web sites, http://www.stopsmokingsacramento.com/info.html:
"On October 12, 1492, Christopher Columbus was given dry leaves by the Arawaks, but threw them away. Rodrigo de Jerez and Luis de Torres were the first Europeans to observe smoking, and Jerez became the first recorded smoker outside the Americas. Throughout the 16th century, the habit of smoking was common mainly among sailors. Tobacco was introduced to England in the 1560s by the crew of Sir John Hawkins but did not begin making an impact on European society until the 1580s
.
"As the use of tobacco became popular in Europe, some people became concerned about its possible ill effects on the health of its users. One of the first was King James I of England. In 1604, he wrote A Counterblast to Tobacco in which he asked his subjects:
'Have you not reason then to be ashamed, and to forbeare this filthie noveltie, so basely grounded, so foolishly received and so grossly mistaken in the right use thereof? In your abuse thereof sinning against God, harming your selves both in persons and goods, and raking also thereby the markes and notes of vanitie upon you: by the custome thereof making your selves to be wondered at by all forraine civil Nations, and by all strangers that come among you, to be scorned and contemned. A custom loathsome to the eye, hateful to the Nose, harmefull to the brain, dangerous to the Lungs, and in the blacke stinking fume thereof, neerest resembling the horrible Stigian smoke of the pit that is bottomless.'”
.
Well, I had abundant notes of vanitie that kept me from quitting this filthie noveltie. I was not the least bit ashamed to be a walking air polluter. But I must admit that smokers have become latter day lepers. As far as the Health Nut Axis is concerned, smokers should be forced to wear black shrouds, clang handbells and shout “Unclean! Unclean!” when venturing forth in public.
Social pressures aside, I’m gonna give quitting another shot. I’m tired of hearing my lungs whistle “Dixie” and running out of breath on a walk to the mailbox. Plus I could use the extra $150 or so a month I was spending on smokes for more healthful pursuits, like skydiving. Plenty of fresh air and some really swell views. I’ll also have more moolah for a trip I’m taking to Alaska next month, courtesy of some relatives in Juneau. Maybe I can avoid the embarrassment of having wheezing fits at their dinner table.
Comments, Critiques & Snarky Asides:
You are so funny. I wish we had never lost touch for all the years past. If you can quit, that would be wonderful. I'm afraid that I will mostly likely quit when the last breath arrives. Have a great time in Alaska. Stay safe.-- Carol
Carol and I were neighbors during the Eisenhower administration. We're now coughing our way through our Medicare years.
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Gee. Thanks for writing one (it seems) just for me. You should send this to my Doctors. It would give them more fodder for my torture. Guess I really, really have to join you in quitting. Have a blast in Alaska. Glad you're writing again. Keep up the good fight. -- Penny
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Mater man....you must be the valedictorian of veggies. Know that you have dear friends wishing you well in all ways, and if you do get to Seattle, you'd best take a side-trip to see RJ and I -- Canids
Aww, wish I could, but I’ll be in Seattle only long enough to change planes and maybe have an airport Cinnabon.
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Good luck. Save your money for a trip to Seattle -- Tammy
Okay. Next trip I’ll allot enough time for us to get rowdy on industrial grade coffee and get kicked out of Starbuck’s together.
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The chanters should follow, the "unthin, the unthin." obese people. I believe diabetes has overtaken the ills of the still smoking smokers. Good luck. I can't hear my breath yet. When I can, I may join you. Glad to see your return. -- Linda B
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My Detroit brother-in-law was just here with my sister for a family gathering. I never thought this guy would quit smoking. But he is taking Chantix, and was about at day 40 when here, still drinking his Scotch, tolerating my wife's Benson & Hedges smoke and casino floor smoke very well, and he never lit up. I enjoyed the quote from King James I of England, VI of Scotland. I seem to recall having seen it before, but totally forgot it was his. I've read other stuff he wrote, and it is in the same style. -- Trog.
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Thank you...glad to see the Tomatoman Times again!! -- Anne G.
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Glad to see you are still writing, and hope you have fun in Alaska! -- Eve
_____
Well, I have a friend now who is fifty, and he has smoked for 34 years. He has a raspy, ragged voice, coughs continually, can't sleep long at night because he is programmed to wake up and smoke. He lights up the moment he wakes in the morning, and he smokes several cigarettes right before he goes to bed. He smokes on average three to four cigarettes every hour he is awake, and spends well over $400 dollars a month on them. Everything on and around him smells like smoke - his hair, his beard, his clothes, his hands, every room in his house, his cars. even the food he cooks His nose runs, his sinuses are a mess, and his throat is constantly bothering him. He knows he's going to die sooner than he would have to because of it, and even with all of these reasons to quit, he says he can't. He can't muster the strength to even slow down. He is resigned. Mike, if there is any way in hell you can quit, do it. -- Zoey
Seems familiar, Zoey. Too familiar.
_____
Ah me boyo, I wish you luck and if you figure out how to put down the fags....please let me know. The other night I was laying in bed and thought sheesh the dog sounds congested...then I realized it was me. So I did the obvious, I got up lit a butt and thought about how I should work on stopping this habit. You know James the 1st was a Scot, so he was only thinking of the wasted cost...nothing else...he lied with the other stuff. -- Mary Pat
I’m sucking on 4 mg nicotine tablets like they’re Emily Proctor’s toes. It’s either that or buy a deer rifle and find a rooftop.
_____
Hello Mike Ole Online Buddy, glad you’re back, thought your were dead or dying. Will look forward to reading your stuff tonite Have a fantastic day -- Nick
_____
Bless you - my son! And good luck. -- Diane and Lowell
_____
Funniest one ever! -- Jim
_____
Love it!! -- Julisari
_____
Show off! -- ZipLaPrune
______
That was great – very entertaining. I’m quitting on July 10th. Want to join me? -- Sandy
Can you put it off until after I leave? Only one set of short-fused withdrawal symptoms per family is permitted. I’d like to return uninjured. (Sandy is my karate expert cousin I’ll be visiting in Juneau.)
_____
I enjoyed your essay and wish you good luck in quitting smoking. I told my son today that if I had lost weight years ago, I might not have type 2 diabetes today. I have lost about 30 pounds and want to lose 20 more. I enjoyed the humor in this essay. I have enjoyed writing a newspaper column four times a year for free. You once told me about a web site that paid me $50 for a paragraph that I wrote. I hope that we both live a long life. I will be 70 in October. Or at least my goal is to be 70. -- Ken
Same here.
_____
Glad to see you in print once again. Good luck on the smokeless life, and I am not being sarcastic, really, I wish you all the best in that particular endeavor my dear. Are you really going to Alaska? -- Lynda
Yup. Leave Tuesday for a week in Juneau as the guest of my cousins. Gonna be a blast! (Lynda is a writing buddy of over 20 years standing who worked in Alaska’s Denali National Park and drove a cab in the very tough city of Anchorage. She is also a former freelance birthday clown who got stopped by a traffic cop when in costume and face paint, running late to a birthday party. She only got a warning, “I just can’t give a ticket to a clown,” the cop said. Had that been me, I would’ve been spread-eagled on the pavement for looking like John Wayne Gacy.)
Monday, April 30, 2012
The Click It Or Ticket Nanny State Blues
Now I know better, I really do, so I had no ready excuse when the Oh Shit lights of the California Highway Patrol lit up my rear view mirror. I was not wearing an over-the-shoulder seat belt. In fact, I wasn’t wearing any seat belt at all when I made a left turn around a Highway Patrol car waiting at a traffic light. Less than a minute later I was stopped on a side street, hands on the steering wheel and driver’s side window rolled down when Buford Pusser approached my car.
“Something wrong with your seat belt?” he asked in a concerned, motherly way.
Oh no, not at all, why do you ask? I didn’t say. I just shook my head.
“License, registration and proof of insurance, please.”
Highway Patrol cops are always courteous. Even the late Hunter S. Thompson said so. “No matter what they do to you, they’re polite about it,” he wrote in Hell’s Angels - A Strange And Terrible Saga.
That is, they are polite as long as you pass what’s known as The Attitude Test. Indignant protests of innocence and threats to “have your badge” will not get you a passing grade. Neither will whining, groveling and offers to show your tits, even if you have tits worth showing, which I don’t. Best to just keep quiet and mentally wear beige.
It also helps to look at the situation from the cop’s point of view. He or she may have just come from the scene of a horrific accident with eyeballs, teeth and swatches of bloody hair among the twisted metal all over the pavement. This particular cop did not look like a rookie, so he’d probably seen a lot of such accident scenes in the course of his career -- and would probably see more.
Besides, the California taxpayers are keeping him in doughnuts to do exactly what he was doing, which was writing me a ticket for breaking California’s mandatory seat belt law. It even has a catchy slogan prominently displayed on freeway billboards: Click It Or Ticket.
The cop took my license, registration and insurance card back to his car so he could radio the dispatcher and find out if I was a wanted felon or maybe a misdemeanor wiseass with a history of unpaid traffic tickets. Nope.
He returned, noting that I had a commercial license with a passenger endorsement. “What do you drive?”
Limousines, I said, silently telling myself the chances of future employment in that career field had just been reduced to zero. Limo companies and their insurers take a dim view of traffic tickets among the ranks.
“Well, this won’t add any points to your record, “ he said.
Swell, but limo companies are not so tolerant. But that’s okay. I haven’t had a limo gig in months and do not anticipate looking for one. I’ll probably donate my tuxedo drags to Goodwill and find something else to so. Anyway, most limousine work is at night and my night vision is fading fast.
I was not alone in being a seatbelt scofflaw. No less than Governor Jerry Brown was stopped and ticketed for not wearing a seatbelt some years back when he was between political jobs. “California is the nanny state,” he grumbled at the time.
The cop showed me where to sign the ticket, gave me my copy, and that was that. He closed his ticket book and I was very grateful for one thing:
He did not say “Have a nice day.”
Comments?
Mike...I was just at the store today when I realized that I was deliberately NOT wearing a seatbelt, and it was PROBABLY because I looked gorgeous today, and had we been stopped, I would have had someone to talk to. So sorry your experience was not deliberate, and that you had to get the damned fine...is it REALLY so bad that you won't be able to drive limos anymore...uh..is it okay for you to RIDE in em without seatbelts? Your favorite scofflaw and fan -- Amanda
I quit driving limos months ago when I realized how badly my night vision had deteriorated, and I don’t really miss that vocation, and yes, stretch limos are equipped with seat belts for passengers, but in my experience, they are seldom used. I also drove vans dedicated to carrying airline crews. Surprisingly, airline crews never fasten their seat belts in crew vans during runs to and from the airport, even though that short road trip is statistically the most dangerous part of their working day. Only one time in 10 years did a crew fasten their seat belts in my van, and only then at my request. It was after a near miss on the way to the airport on a day that turned out very eventful indeed: 9/11/2001. -- MB
_____
Sorry about your ticket, Toots. I'm so damn short that my seat belt cuts me right across the carotid...I HATE the stupid thing, but my grand kids absolutely panic if I "forget" to use it. -- Cyn
_____
Well bummer...but a good article none the less. -- Mary Pat
_____
I had done Palm-Desert to Scottsdale in about 4 hours, while I had been told it would take a bit more than five. So I had decided the return trip wouldn't last more than 3 and a half. And I was just in my schedule when...
It was night, and in my small hired Japanese car, I was doing 110 behind a huge American thing that was speeding like crazy. When a car with more lights than a Xmas tree got between me and him, I thought the poor sucker had been caught. Then I noticed the other Xmas tree flashing its lights behind me. I didn't know what the appropriate attitude is in these circumstances.
In France (where I hardly ever get arrested), I get out of the car and talk to the cops, eyes in the eyes. Equal to equal. So, I lifted my hands high, showing they were empty, then slowly got out of the car.
"Get back to your car, or you'll be dead in 30 seconds!".a metallic voice said.
Minutes later, asked if he had really intended to shoot me, he laughed and explained my life expectancy was less than a minute on the side of an American motorway. He kindly offered to minimize my speed to "close to 90", to spare me major problems and a visit to court.
I produced all sorts of papers with different addresses. A 1969 driving licence with the address of the time; an ID with a 1982 address, and even a Floridia driving license with a 1992 address.
He sighed..."Were are we supposed to mail the ticket?"
I told him to decide by himself, and added that French postmen would be smart enough to deliver it no matter the address.
And guess what? They did! -- Gerard
So much for the rumors about French inefficiency. -- Zur alors! -- MB
_____
Loved it Mr. Mike. Take care guy! -- Kate
_____
Ah Geeeezzzzz..... do they have senior discounts on these? -- Lynda
No. The fine for a first offense in California is $142 regardless of age, race, creed or national origin. It’s a truly equal opportunity fine. -- MB
_____
OOOPS -- Karen S.
_____
Ahhh loved it. Juli
_____
I have received in my driving career three tickets - one for going 32 in a 25, one for going 52 in a 35, and one for not having insurance - stopped for a light out and found only an expired insurance card, later proved I had current insurance and the ticket was torn up. I have been stopped twice besides that, both for speeding. Once he just told me he would verbally warn me, and to lighten my foot on the accelerator. The other time the officer walked up to my car, noticed the Arabic tattoo on my wrist and asked me what it meant. I said "It means 'Guardian angel that watches over a woman'". He said..."Hm. I guess one is watching over you today. Just slow down." Nicely written article as always, and enjoyed by me, always. -- Zoey
_____
Here in New Hampshire they actually allow adults over 18 think for themselves regarding seat belts. Of course we were never exposed to the drift from Hiroshima and Nagasaki and have retained the ability to think for ourselves, something I have always suspected Californians lost along the way. -- Ig Bear
Envy is a terrible thing. -- MB
_____
“Something wrong with your seat belt?” he asked in a concerned, motherly way.
Oh no, not at all, why do you ask? I didn’t say. I just shook my head.
“License, registration and proof of insurance, please.”
Highway Patrol cops are always courteous. Even the late Hunter S. Thompson said so. “No matter what they do to you, they’re polite about it,” he wrote in Hell’s Angels - A Strange And Terrible Saga.
That is, they are polite as long as you pass what’s known as The Attitude Test. Indignant protests of innocence and threats to “have your badge” will not get you a passing grade. Neither will whining, groveling and offers to show your tits, even if you have tits worth showing, which I don’t. Best to just keep quiet and mentally wear beige.
It also helps to look at the situation from the cop’s point of view. He or she may have just come from the scene of a horrific accident with eyeballs, teeth and swatches of bloody hair among the twisted metal all over the pavement. This particular cop did not look like a rookie, so he’d probably seen a lot of such accident scenes in the course of his career -- and would probably see more.
Besides, the California taxpayers are keeping him in doughnuts to do exactly what he was doing, which was writing me a ticket for breaking California’s mandatory seat belt law. It even has a catchy slogan prominently displayed on freeway billboards: Click It Or Ticket.
The cop took my license, registration and insurance card back to his car so he could radio the dispatcher and find out if I was a wanted felon or maybe a misdemeanor wiseass with a history of unpaid traffic tickets. Nope.
He returned, noting that I had a commercial license with a passenger endorsement. “What do you drive?”
Limousines, I said, silently telling myself the chances of future employment in that career field had just been reduced to zero. Limo companies and their insurers take a dim view of traffic tickets among the ranks.
“Well, this won’t add any points to your record, “ he said.
Swell, but limo companies are not so tolerant. But that’s okay. I haven’t had a limo gig in months and do not anticipate looking for one. I’ll probably donate my tuxedo drags to Goodwill and find something else to so. Anyway, most limousine work is at night and my night vision is fading fast.
I was not alone in being a seatbelt scofflaw. No less than Governor Jerry Brown was stopped and ticketed for not wearing a seatbelt some years back when he was between political jobs. “California is the nanny state,” he grumbled at the time.
The cop showed me where to sign the ticket, gave me my copy, and that was that. He closed his ticket book and I was very grateful for one thing:
He did not say “Have a nice day.”
Comments?
Mike...I was just at the store today when I realized that I was deliberately NOT wearing a seatbelt, and it was PROBABLY because I looked gorgeous today, and had we been stopped, I would have had someone to talk to. So sorry your experience was not deliberate, and that you had to get the damned fine...is it REALLY so bad that you won't be able to drive limos anymore...uh..is it okay for you to RIDE in em without seatbelts? Your favorite scofflaw and fan -- Amanda
I quit driving limos months ago when I realized how badly my night vision had deteriorated, and I don’t really miss that vocation, and yes, stretch limos are equipped with seat belts for passengers, but in my experience, they are seldom used. I also drove vans dedicated to carrying airline crews. Surprisingly, airline crews never fasten their seat belts in crew vans during runs to and from the airport, even though that short road trip is statistically the most dangerous part of their working day. Only one time in 10 years did a crew fasten their seat belts in my van, and only then at my request. It was after a near miss on the way to the airport on a day that turned out very eventful indeed: 9/11/2001. -- MB
_____
Sorry about your ticket, Toots. I'm so damn short that my seat belt cuts me right across the carotid...I HATE the stupid thing, but my grand kids absolutely panic if I "forget" to use it. -- Cyn
_____
Well bummer...but a good article none the less. -- Mary Pat
_____
I had done Palm-Desert to Scottsdale in about 4 hours, while I had been told it would take a bit more than five. So I had decided the return trip wouldn't last more than 3 and a half. And I was just in my schedule when...
It was night, and in my small hired Japanese car, I was doing 110 behind a huge American thing that was speeding like crazy. When a car with more lights than a Xmas tree got between me and him, I thought the poor sucker had been caught. Then I noticed the other Xmas tree flashing its lights behind me. I didn't know what the appropriate attitude is in these circumstances.
In France (where I hardly ever get arrested), I get out of the car and talk to the cops, eyes in the eyes. Equal to equal. So, I lifted my hands high, showing they were empty, then slowly got out of the car.
"Get back to your car, or you'll be dead in 30 seconds!".a metallic voice said.
Minutes later, asked if he had really intended to shoot me, he laughed and explained my life expectancy was less than a minute on the side of an American motorway. He kindly offered to minimize my speed to "close to 90", to spare me major problems and a visit to court.
I produced all sorts of papers with different addresses. A 1969 driving licence with the address of the time; an ID with a 1982 address, and even a Floridia driving license with a 1992 address.
He sighed..."Were are we supposed to mail the ticket?"
I told him to decide by himself, and added that French postmen would be smart enough to deliver it no matter the address.
And guess what? They did! -- Gerard
So much for the rumors about French inefficiency. -- Zur alors! -- MB
_____
Loved it Mr. Mike. Take care guy! -- Kate
_____
Ah Geeeezzzzz..... do they have senior discounts on these? -- Lynda
No. The fine for a first offense in California is $142 regardless of age, race, creed or national origin. It’s a truly equal opportunity fine. -- MB
_____
OOOPS -- Karen S.
_____
Ahhh loved it. Juli
_____
I have received in my driving career three tickets - one for going 32 in a 25, one for going 52 in a 35, and one for not having insurance - stopped for a light out and found only an expired insurance card, later proved I had current insurance and the ticket was torn up. I have been stopped twice besides that, both for speeding. Once he just told me he would verbally warn me, and to lighten my foot on the accelerator. The other time the officer walked up to my car, noticed the Arabic tattoo on my wrist and asked me what it meant. I said "It means 'Guardian angel that watches over a woman'". He said..."Hm. I guess one is watching over you today. Just slow down." Nicely written article as always, and enjoyed by me, always. -- Zoey
_____
Here in New Hampshire they actually allow adults over 18 think for themselves regarding seat belts. Of course we were never exposed to the drift from Hiroshima and Nagasaki and have retained the ability to think for ourselves, something I have always suspected Californians lost along the way. -- Ig Bear
Envy is a terrible thing. -- MB
_____
Saturday, April 7, 2012
The Unabashed Birthday Blog Of Your Sometime Correspondent
Sunday is my birthday, two years shy of my allotted three-score-and-ten. So, in case you’re thinking of giving me a present, I’m registered with Quik-Stop, 7-11 and K-Mart. Not only that, but already Publishers Clearinghouse assures me that I may already be winner! Imagine!
I’m surprised I’ve lasted this long, considering my diet. I mean, until recently my Four Basic Food Groups consisted of alcohol, nicotine, caffeine and Cheetos. I’ve eliminated alcohol with the encouragement of a superior court judge and some professional scolds in the health care field. The latter want to publish my chest x-rays in the pulmonary trade press as a find-the-funeral-wreath puzzle embedded in a picture.
I’ve also substituted Ruffles potato chips for Cheetos. Ruffles don’t get that sticky orange stuff on my fingers and whatever else I touch, like some kind of junk food Midas. As for coffee, I now cut the caffeinated stuff in half with decaffeinated, which is tantamount to a pot smoker adding oregano to his or her stash, but I sleep a little better. Still, I will not give up coffee entirely until my bean grinder is removed from the my cold dead hands by a mortician with a buzz saw.
As for the nicotine, well, I don’t want to get too pure all of a sudden. That way lies a future of annoying zealotry and maybe even street corner evangelism after I’ve exasperated my friends into shunning me because of my smoke free smugness.
Come to think of it, most of my friends don’t smoke at all, the sissies. In fact, tobacco smokers have become latter day lepers. I’m surprised the obnoxiously health obsessed do-gooding meddlers of the anti-tobacco lobby haven’t bullied lawmakers into mandating that surviving smokers wear black shrouds in public and clang handbells while shouting “Unclean! Unclean!”
Thank goodness the tobacco lobby has more clout with our esteemed legislators than the grim Naderites and fresh air fiends who banish smokers out-of-doors in the nastiest of weather, perhaps hoping that a bolt of righteous lightning will incinerate us into ashtray-sized cinders.
Anwyay, after age sixty birthdays become unwelcome reminders of “Time’s wingéd chariot hurrying near,” as Andrew Marvell wrote in the Seventeenth Century when he was trying to get in the knickers of his coy mistress, hoping he would do so before he croaked from old age. But Marvell did not die from old age, unless 57 was considered old at the time. If frustration didn't get him, maybe tobacco did. No word on what became of the coy mistress. Perhaps she went to her final reward with her knees clamped firmly together in prim determination. Bet she was a non-smoker too.
Two people my age I know have birthdays within five days of mine. There was a third, but she died from lung cancer at age 35 (“Remembering Edie,” T-Times, March 4, 2012). Lung cancer nailed three other friends in the past few years as well.
Maybe I should learn to take hints?
Naaah.
_____
Any Comments, Critiques or Anonymous Hate Mail?
Happy Birthday and all that. Not wanting to call attention to your aging and all, but just wanted to say that I'm glad you've survived another trip around the sun. Hope you had a good day! -- RJ
_____
I would send you my heart if it would fit in a prepaid box with stamps included, and someone took care of the bill. Happy birthday DEAR MAN, and terrific writer that you are! That was hilarious. Keep sending these Tomatoman Times things to us. -- Amanda
_____
I sent a donation in your name to the American Lung Association, in honor of your B-day. Happy Birthday to you Mike. -- Holly
_____
Unfortunately (4 u; 4 me? fortunately!) I can't think of one. Still, u enjoy -- Leon
_____
Mike, you are your OWN gift...I hope you recognize that. I love how you show the authentic you in your writing...that's what makes it so attractive. May you live long on the vine, get some rest in the compost and then come back again as a lovely little yellow flower! Forever. -- Love from Diane and RJ
With my karma, I’ll probably come back as a skunk cabbage. -- MB
_____
Your turn, Mike! Happy birthday and many happy returns! Be wholesome, be happy, keep on writing, dearest fellow Aries.. -- Galen
Galen is my senior by one day. -- MB
_____
Happy birthday. I will be 70 in October. I share you enjoyment in writing. -- Ken
_____
Happy birthday, Mike, from a fellow Aries! -- Ann C
_____
Interesting, I was told that we came from cabbage patches. Now I find out that the Easter Bunny delivered you (in a pretty, woven basket, no doubt). I have no discretionary income at this time which would enable me to send you a birthday gift; however, I expect to shortly receive notice from a bank VP in Burkina Vaso that I have many millions in US dollars left to me by my fifth cousin twice removed who died in a spectacular plane crash several years ago. I shall be happy to forward you a few dollars at that time. -- HM
That’s okay. I’m sure Publishers Clearninghouse will come through. Several Nigerian bankers have also e-mailed me with attractive offers, but thanks anyway -- MB
_____
From Abby McLoughlin, age 6: [re: Abby And Her Locks Of Love, T-Times, March 30]
Dear Mr. Mike,
My mommy says your birthday is tomorrow. Mine is April the 10th So Happy Birthday to you! I had a birthday party at gymnastics yesterday. It was fun and I had an alligator cake! Mommy says that your lungs are sick and it is very hard for you to breathe okay. Please don't smoke cigarettes anymore. They will make you more sicker. If you try really, really hard to stop I will save a cupcake for you and we can eat it at lunch at Panda-era's. 4, 2, 1 (this is our secret code meaning: Forever 2 hearts, 1 love).
Love,
Abby or Abigail whatever you like to call me.
Dear Abby or Abigail (your name, your choice),
That is the nicest birthday greeting I have ever received. Your offer of a cupcake in exchange for my quitting smoking is more than a fair trade. As far as I know cupcakes are healthier than cigarettes and taste better, too. I'm not sure about an alligator cake, though.
421,
Mike
_____
Now, who could refuse an offer like that? You should try, really, really
hard to quit. After all, a cupcake is at stake, along with a lunch at Panda-ears. -- Shannon
_____
Happy Day! Mine's on the 16th...you buy yourself something for $10 and I'll do the same and we'll celebrate "together" ... very funny post, BTW -- Cyn
_____
And I just send you a carton of cigarettes! Damn. I didn't think you'd stopped. Well, Happy Birthday from one of the last smokers in the world. -- Beaty
_____
Wow, I don't know anybody as old as you <WEG>. Have a happy birthday. You point out all the foibles of the over-culture and yet you live on....just goes to show they don't know everything! -- Mary Pat
_____
I remembered in late March and said: do NOT forget to sent greetings. Then I forgot. Happy Birthday, yungin' -- and so far 68 is OK back here. -- Tim
_____
Ordinarily I'd say you really would rather I didn't...even before reading the post...burt since it's you, I figure you're game for anything, and that just creates a challenge for me, so no. But happy birthday! ...but I did have Cheetos for lunch. That's celebratory, right? -- Shag
Certainly! -- MB
_____
I have realms of free advice. Just pick a subject. I am 62 -- Doc
Thanks, Junior. -- MB
_____
Good job Mike: Which 7-11? -- Lowell & Diane
Whichever one accepts promissary notes. -- MB
_____
Damn those wingéd chariots anyway! -- Sum
_____
Happy Birthday Mike!! -- Soy
_____
Wonderful and HAPPY BIRTHDAY! !!! -- Julisari
_____
Happy Birthday, you ol' grouch! Hope you have a great day! -- Shan
_____
Happy Birthday! -- Kan
_____
Sure. I'll send you a present if you send me some money first. Funny article. Happy Birthday/Easter! -- Anneg
That was present a-plenty, thank you. -- MB
_____
No! You never sent me anything for my birthday a few weeks ago! So there!!! BTW, Happy Birthday -- BP
I didn’t you know it was your birthday! Good heavens! I’ll forward my Publishers Clearinghouse packet right away! -- MB
I’m surprised I’ve lasted this long, considering my diet. I mean, until recently my Four Basic Food Groups consisted of alcohol, nicotine, caffeine and Cheetos. I’ve eliminated alcohol with the encouragement of a superior court judge and some professional scolds in the health care field. The latter want to publish my chest x-rays in the pulmonary trade press as a find-the-funeral-wreath puzzle embedded in a picture.
I’ve also substituted Ruffles potato chips for Cheetos. Ruffles don’t get that sticky orange stuff on my fingers and whatever else I touch, like some kind of junk food Midas. As for coffee, I now cut the caffeinated stuff in half with decaffeinated, which is tantamount to a pot smoker adding oregano to his or her stash, but I sleep a little better. Still, I will not give up coffee entirely until my bean grinder is removed from the my cold dead hands by a mortician with a buzz saw.
As for the nicotine, well, I don’t want to get too pure all of a sudden. That way lies a future of annoying zealotry and maybe even street corner evangelism after I’ve exasperated my friends into shunning me because of my smoke free smugness.
Come to think of it, most of my friends don’t smoke at all, the sissies. In fact, tobacco smokers have become latter day lepers. I’m surprised the obnoxiously health obsessed do-gooding meddlers of the anti-tobacco lobby haven’t bullied lawmakers into mandating that surviving smokers wear black shrouds in public and clang handbells while shouting “Unclean! Unclean!”
Thank goodness the tobacco lobby has more clout with our esteemed legislators than the grim Naderites and fresh air fiends who banish smokers out-of-doors in the nastiest of weather, perhaps hoping that a bolt of righteous lightning will incinerate us into ashtray-sized cinders.
Anwyay, after age sixty birthdays become unwelcome reminders of “Time’s wingéd chariot hurrying near,” as Andrew Marvell wrote in the Seventeenth Century when he was trying to get in the knickers of his coy mistress, hoping he would do so before he croaked from old age. But Marvell did not die from old age, unless 57 was considered old at the time. If frustration didn't get him, maybe tobacco did. No word on what became of the coy mistress. Perhaps she went to her final reward with her knees clamped firmly together in prim determination. Bet she was a non-smoker too.
Two people my age I know have birthdays within five days of mine. There was a third, but she died from lung cancer at age 35 (“Remembering Edie,” T-Times, March 4, 2012). Lung cancer nailed three other friends in the past few years as well.
Maybe I should learn to take hints?
Naaah.
_____
Any Comments, Critiques or Anonymous Hate Mail?
Happy Birthday and all that. Not wanting to call attention to your aging and all, but just wanted to say that I'm glad you've survived another trip around the sun. Hope you had a good day! -- RJ
_____
I would send you my heart if it would fit in a prepaid box with stamps included, and someone took care of the bill. Happy birthday DEAR MAN, and terrific writer that you are! That was hilarious. Keep sending these Tomatoman Times things to us. -- Amanda
_____
I sent a donation in your name to the American Lung Association, in honor of your B-day. Happy Birthday to you Mike. -- Holly
_____
Unfortunately (4 u; 4 me? fortunately!) I can't think of one. Still, u enjoy -- Leon
_____
Mike, you are your OWN gift...I hope you recognize that. I love how you show the authentic you in your writing...that's what makes it so attractive. May you live long on the vine, get some rest in the compost and then come back again as a lovely little yellow flower! Forever. -- Love from Diane and RJ
With my karma, I’ll probably come back as a skunk cabbage. -- MB
_____
Your turn, Mike! Happy birthday and many happy returns! Be wholesome, be happy, keep on writing, dearest fellow Aries.. -- Galen
Galen is my senior by one day. -- MB
_____
Happy birthday. I will be 70 in October. I share you enjoyment in writing. -- Ken
_____
Happy birthday, Mike, from a fellow Aries! -- Ann C
_____
Interesting, I was told that we came from cabbage patches. Now I find out that the Easter Bunny delivered you (in a pretty, woven basket, no doubt). I have no discretionary income at this time which would enable me to send you a birthday gift; however, I expect to shortly receive notice from a bank VP in Burkina Vaso that I have many millions in US dollars left to me by my fifth cousin twice removed who died in a spectacular plane crash several years ago. I shall be happy to forward you a few dollars at that time. -- HM
That’s okay. I’m sure Publishers Clearninghouse will come through. Several Nigerian bankers have also e-mailed me with attractive offers, but thanks anyway -- MB
_____
From Abby McLoughlin, age 6: [re: Abby And Her Locks Of Love, T-Times, March 30]
Dear Mr. Mike,
My mommy says your birthday is tomorrow. Mine is April the 10th So Happy Birthday to you! I had a birthday party at gymnastics yesterday. It was fun and I had an alligator cake! Mommy says that your lungs are sick and it is very hard for you to breathe okay. Please don't smoke cigarettes anymore. They will make you more sicker. If you try really, really hard to stop I will save a cupcake for you and we can eat it at lunch at Panda-era's. 4, 2, 1 (this is our secret code meaning: Forever 2 hearts, 1 love).
Love,
Abby or Abigail whatever you like to call me.
Dear Abby or Abigail (your name, your choice),
That is the nicest birthday greeting I have ever received. Your offer of a cupcake in exchange for my quitting smoking is more than a fair trade. As far as I know cupcakes are healthier than cigarettes and taste better, too. I'm not sure about an alligator cake, though.
421,
Mike
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Now, who could refuse an offer like that? You should try, really, really
hard to quit. After all, a cupcake is at stake, along with a lunch at Panda-ears. -- Shannon
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Happy Day! Mine's on the 16th...you buy yourself something for $10 and I'll do the same and we'll celebrate "together" ... very funny post, BTW -- Cyn
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And I just send you a carton of cigarettes! Damn. I didn't think you'd stopped. Well, Happy Birthday from one of the last smokers in the world. -- Beaty
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Wow, I don't know anybody as old as you <WEG>. Have a happy birthday. You point out all the foibles of the over-culture and yet you live on....just goes to show they don't know everything! -- Mary Pat
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I remembered in late March and said: do NOT forget to sent greetings. Then I forgot. Happy Birthday, yungin' -- and so far 68 is OK back here. -- Tim
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Ordinarily I'd say you really would rather I didn't...even before reading the post...burt since it's you, I figure you're game for anything, and that just creates a challenge for me, so no. But happy birthday! ...but I did have Cheetos for lunch. That's celebratory, right? -- Shag
Certainly! -- MB
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I have realms of free advice. Just pick a subject. I am 62 -- Doc
Thanks, Junior. -- MB
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Good job Mike: Which 7-11? -- Lowell & Diane
Whichever one accepts promissary notes. -- MB
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Damn those wingéd chariots anyway! -- Sum
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Happy Birthday Mike!! -- Soy
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Wonderful and HAPPY BIRTHDAY! !!! -- Julisari
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Happy Birthday, you ol' grouch! Hope you have a great day! -- Shan
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Happy Birthday! -- Kan
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Sure. I'll send you a present if you send me some money first. Funny article. Happy Birthday/Easter! -- Anneg
That was present a-plenty, thank you. -- MB
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No! You never sent me anything for my birthday a few weeks ago! So there!!! BTW, Happy Birthday -- BP
I didn’t you know it was your birthday! Good heavens! I’ll forward my Publishers Clearinghouse packet right away! -- MB
Friday, March 30, 2012
Abby And Her Locks Of Love
Mountain-Democrat photo - Pat Dollins
Last week I had lunch with six-year-old Abby McGloughlin. Her mother, Bre, was allowed to accompany her as long a Bre promised to behave herself and eat all her veggies. I’ve known Bre for about 15 years, getting acquainted with her on-line when she was quarantined for a year while recuperating from leukemia. Her meds had knocked her immune system down, so her social life was limited to chatting on her computer.
Bre and her husband, Stephen, are both from Ireland and we share a liking for Celtic music. As it happens, Bre had sung Gaelic ballads in a heartbreaking contralto before the leukemia meds took away her singing voice as well as her immune system. She even cut a CD for her church, a Protestant denomination. Seems that Bre cast aside centuries of her family's Irish-Catholic history to become a Baptist. “They seemed to have more fun” she explained when asked why.
For her, church attendance should not be a grimly pious occasion, which she demonstrated by such stunts as putting a motorized shark fin in the baptismal font prior to a service. When the pastor finally noticed, he looked right at Bre. As did the entire congregation. Bre put on a “Who, me?” expression and feigned innocence.
In addition to losing her singing voice and immunity to bacteria, Bre also lost custody of her three daughters and three stepdaughters as a result of the disease, but managed to keep her three legged turtle, Tripod, and formed a circle of new friends and admirers on-line while housebound.
Once her quarantine was over, Bre organized Wednesday Night Pizza at a pizzeria for the eclectic bunch she had befriended via computer. They included a locomotive engineer, a commercial pilot, a computer geek or two, a 15-year-old girl whose sneeze could open a garage door, a few college students and one unemployed writer. All we had in common was an affinity for computers and a deep affection for Bre.
We both moved to different areas but kept in touch now and then over the years. I didn’t know about Abby until recently. We agreed to meet for lunch at a restaurant halfway between Sacramento and her pastoral home in the Sierra foothills where the McLoughlins moved to escape Sacramento's urban sprawl.
We met at the Panera sandwich emporium in Folsom. Bre brought Abby with her. My usual attitude toward children is that they should be locked up until they are 30, but Abby promptly improved my thinking. When we met, she looked at me with eyes as blue as the lake waters of Lough Derravaragh on a clear Erin day, extended a small hand and said, “Hello, Mr. Mike,” with the poise of someone many years her senior. While Bre and I chatted about boring grownup stuff, Abby quietly amused herself by drawing Bre’s initials on a napkin while I quietly fell in love with that kid.
We met at the Panera sandwich emporium in Folsom. Bre brought Abby with her. My usual attitude toward children is that they should be locked up until they are 30, but Abby promptly improved my thinking. When we met, she looked at me with eyes as blue as the lake waters of Lough Derravaragh on a clear Erin day, extended a small hand and said, “Hello, Mr. Mike,” with the poise of someone many years her senior. While Bre and I chatted about boring grownup stuff, Abby quietly amused herself by drawing Bre’s initials on a napkin while I quietly fell in love with that kid.
I’m not the only one, as shown by the following newspaper article from the Placerville Mountain Democrat:
By Rosemary Revell
Mountain Democrat staff writer
February 21, 2010
Abby McGloughlin of Placerville used to have hair that fell like a waterfall down her back to below her bottom, but now she has hair that just reaches her shoulders. Abby, 4 years old, had 12 inches cut off so that she could donate it to Locks of Love, an organization that provides hairpieces to disadvantaged children suffering from medical hair loss caused by chemotherapy or disease.
Abby is the daughter of Stephen and Bre McGloughlin of Placerville, and she attends Montessori Country Day School. She is quite precise about her age, saying “I’m 4 and three-fourths years old” and equally articulate in explaining why she gave her hair away. “I want to give my hair to someone who doesn’t have any hair,” she said.
Abby’s mother explained that in October, Abby saw a program on the Discovery Health TV channel. “She saw a little girl who was 5 and had Alopecia, a condition where you can’t grow hair. She’s had the idea to donate her hair since then,” although she admitted that she and her husband tried to talk Abby out of her donation.
“Her hair’s been growing since birth. I only trimmed it once when her brother Brendan put bubble gum in it,” said McGloughlin.
Dressed in a red valentine dress, Abby hopped up and down and swung her little purse back and forth on the big day. She appeared excited and happy that the moment had finally arrived when she could give away her hair. Abby was ready for the shearing, but her parents were not.
“My husband couldn’t bear to come today. He’s worse than I am. She’s daddy’s little girl,” said Bre McGloughlin.
McGloughlin herself came bolstered by the presence of two of her friends. The big event took place at Super Cuts on Golden Center Drive in Placerville, “the only salon I found that worked with Locks of Love,” McGloughlin said. Nine people were in the salon, but Abby did not seem to be intimidated by their presence.
Hairstylist and salon manager Laura Winter seated the little girl on the big salon chair, draped her, brushed her hair out, bundled it into a pony tail, and trimmed off 4 3/4 years of hair growth in just seconds. Then she dampened Abby’s hair, trimmed it to be even and blew it dry. The new Abby was revealed as every bit as beautiful as the old Abby - inside as well as out.
“I’m going to grow it out so I can donate it again,” she said, apparently unfazed by the loss of an entire foot of hair.
Abby has two brothers, Matti, 6, and Brendan, 8, and Bre McGloughlin said she and her husband, who is from Ireland, have raised their children to care about others - although McGloughlin admits it backfires from time to time.
“Brendan came home from school one day without his shoes. I asked him what happened to his shoes, and he said, ‘There’s a boy in my class who didn’t have very nice shoes, so I gave him my shoes,’” McGloughlin said.
Wendy von Haesler, one of McGloughlin’s friends who accompanied her to the salon, said, “Their mom and dad are such wonderful people. They are very giving. She is a giver - always giving, giving, giving.”
Comments?
I enjoyed the essay and the story. Chloe, 6, my granddaughter, said something that amused me. I was babysitting her in a motel room in Oklahoma City. I took off my shirt and lay on the bed. I still had a T shirt on. She later told her parents that Pappy had taken off his shirt and lay on the bed, and it was awkward. -- Ken
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Great posting, Mike - very touching! Two of my granddaughters do the hair thing regularly -- they're so spoiled they spend most of their time just growing their hair. -- Cyn
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Well Mike, you're approaching tearjerkers. What a wonderful child. It seems European children are raised a little more thoughtfully on average. Maybe there's no baby talk. -- Wht
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Mike...that was a beautiful article. Such lovely people! Thanks, as always, for sharing. -- SOY
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Great piece, Mike. -- L. G. Vernon
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Love this! -- Juli
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What a beautiful article. -- Pamela
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Mike, this was a lovely story, and how fun that you and Abby and Bre had lunch together. Please give my best regards to Bre and her family next time you see her. -- Shannon
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I'm real glad that you sent me this story. I'm glad you were ready to share it. And perhaps you only suggested we needed tissues because we might be more moved than you, but I doubt it. I wonder if your tears are stuffed into a pocket somewhere or if they can ever been seen. Whatever the case, good on you for the words. And good on you again for knowing that sometimes there are moments that we just watch, wordless, and are amazed. -- Zoey
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Very loving piece, Mike. Would that more of us learned how to give at that age, and did not forget.-- Kent
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That was a beautiful story, Mike. Thanks for sharing it with me. -- Amanda
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Abby is the daughter of Stephen and Bre McGloughlin of Placerville, and she attends Montessori Country Day School. She is quite precise about her age, saying “I’m 4 and three-fourths years old” and equally articulate in explaining why she gave her hair away. “I want to give my hair to someone who doesn’t have any hair,” she said.
Abby’s mother explained that in October, Abby saw a program on the Discovery Health TV channel. “She saw a little girl who was 5 and had Alopecia, a condition where you can’t grow hair. She’s had the idea to donate her hair since then,” although she admitted that she and her husband tried to talk Abby out of her donation.
“Her hair’s been growing since birth. I only trimmed it once when her brother Brendan put bubble gum in it,” said McGloughlin.
Dressed in a red valentine dress, Abby hopped up and down and swung her little purse back and forth on the big day. She appeared excited and happy that the moment had finally arrived when she could give away her hair. Abby was ready for the shearing, but her parents were not.
“My husband couldn’t bear to come today. He’s worse than I am. She’s daddy’s little girl,” said Bre McGloughlin.
McGloughlin herself came bolstered by the presence of two of her friends. The big event took place at Super Cuts on Golden Center Drive in Placerville, “the only salon I found that worked with Locks of Love,” McGloughlin said. Nine people were in the salon, but Abby did not seem to be intimidated by their presence.
Hairstylist and salon manager Laura Winter seated the little girl on the big salon chair, draped her, brushed her hair out, bundled it into a pony tail, and trimmed off 4 3/4 years of hair growth in just seconds. Then she dampened Abby’s hair, trimmed it to be even and blew it dry. The new Abby was revealed as every bit as beautiful as the old Abby - inside as well as out.
“I’m going to grow it out so I can donate it again,” she said, apparently unfazed by the loss of an entire foot of hair.
Abby has two brothers, Matti, 6, and Brendan, 8, and Bre McGloughlin said she and her husband, who is from Ireland, have raised their children to care about others - although McGloughlin admits it backfires from time to time.
“Brendan came home from school one day without his shoes. I asked him what happened to his shoes, and he said, ‘There’s a boy in my class who didn’t have very nice shoes, so I gave him my shoes,’” McGloughlin said.
Wendy von Haesler, one of McGloughlin’s friends who accompanied her to the salon, said, “Their mom and dad are such wonderful people. They are very giving. She is a giver - always giving, giving, giving.”
Comments?
I enjoyed the essay and the story. Chloe, 6, my granddaughter, said something that amused me. I was babysitting her in a motel room in Oklahoma City. I took off my shirt and lay on the bed. I still had a T shirt on. She later told her parents that Pappy had taken off his shirt and lay on the bed, and it was awkward. -- Ken
_____
Great posting, Mike - very touching! Two of my granddaughters do the hair thing regularly -- they're so spoiled they spend most of their time just growing their hair. -- Cyn
_____
Well Mike, you're approaching tearjerkers. What a wonderful child. It seems European children are raised a little more thoughtfully on average. Maybe there's no baby talk. -- Wht
_____
Mike...that was a beautiful article. Such lovely people! Thanks, as always, for sharing. -- SOY
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Great piece, Mike. -- L. G. Vernon
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Love this! -- Juli
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What a beautiful article. -- Pamela
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Mike, this was a lovely story, and how fun that you and Abby and Bre had lunch together. Please give my best regards to Bre and her family next time you see her. -- Shannon
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I'm real glad that you sent me this story. I'm glad you were ready to share it. And perhaps you only suggested we needed tissues because we might be more moved than you, but I doubt it. I wonder if your tears are stuffed into a pocket somewhere or if they can ever been seen. Whatever the case, good on you for the words. And good on you again for knowing that sometimes there are moments that we just watch, wordless, and are amazed. -- Zoey
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Very loving piece, Mike. Would that more of us learned how to give at that age, and did not forget.-- Kent
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That was a beautiful story, Mike. Thanks for sharing it with me. -- Amanda
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Saturday, March 3, 2012
Remembering Edie
Edie and I had a lot in common. Our birthdays were a year and a day apart; we‘d lived in the same Alaska city as kids but didn’t know each other then; we both liked the ballads of Gordon Lightfoot; and we were both majoring in English at the same community college where our British literature instructor took an avid interest in the two of us, although for vastly different reasons.
Edie was also smarter than me. If I got a B on a paper, Edie got an A. If I got an A, Edie got an A+. She was a natural writer. He her prose was concise and uncommonly witty for the turgid style and fussy formats inflicted by English departments on the undergraduate hoi polloi.
I was not intimidated by Edie’s literary superiority, nor envious or sullen in the manner of morbidly sensitive English majors who have all the social graces of poison clams when encountering their intellectual betters. Hell, Edie turned me on, and I let her know it with all the subtlety I was capable of at the age of 24, when my hormones ruled my head.
She let me down gently, explaining that she and our Brit Lit instructor were lovers. She was divorcing her husband, had custody of her six-year-old son, lived in a 3-room cabin built in the 1930s, and subsisted on child support payments and county welfare assistance. In short, she was not available for horizontal fun or even an upright quickie over the kitchen sink. At least not with me, but said she could always use another pal. She was astute enough not the use the phrase “just friends,” when describing any future interaction between us, which is the Alcatraz of male-female relations. Hard to escape.
The Brit Lit instructor was also married, natch, and had three kids and houseful of Welsh Corgis. But he was a handsome devil; half Cherokee with a dark brooding manner and a Van Dyke beard that gave him a menacing Mephistophelian look that many young women with poetic aspirations find irresistible. He completed the ensemble with a closet full of turtleneck shirts, corduroy jackets with leather patch elbows and several pairs of Birkenstock sandals. The Compleat Humanities Professor.
He had discovered poetry as a Marine, of all things, aboard a troop ship bound for Korea, of all places, during the height of American involvement in that stalemated war. After the service, he enrolled in U.C. Santa Barbara where he earned a bachelor’s degree in English, followed by a master’s from Yale. Then he began an itinerant career as a teacher, refining his angry seeker-of-truth-and-beauty act at 11 year junior colleges in 11 years before settling down at our marvelous little campus in the redwood country of California’s north coast.
There were other complications, or course. A large rolling tank of female assertiveness who taught American Lit zeroed in on him as mating material and campaigned relentlessly for his attention. And Edie? She was being wooed by a humorless biology major and poet manqué who’d spent five years in community college to avoid the draft.
Edie would sometimes invite me over for a spaghetti dinner. I’d bring a jug Red Mountain wine and we’d talk about books, poetry and listen to Gordon Lightfoot’s latest release that I’d liberated from the radio station where I worked alone as a DJ five nights a week. She would ask my advice on what she should do about her love life. Even then I knew the last thing she wanted was advice. What she wanted was an accomplice, or at least a confidant. Edie had another male pal for the same purpose, a married middle-aged projectionist at one of the town’s two movie theaters whom she also visited at work.
Edie was definetely not a woman’s woman, yet her closest friend was a woman named Donna who served as surrogate sister and a partner in mischief.
I got snagged into one of their stunts. When Edie was perplexed about being in a pickle between her lover and her suitor, she and Donna put on their shortest skirts and made a cockteasing run at a fleshpot bar that catered to the college crowd. They met two Canadian boys at the bar who were touring America on a motorcycle. One of the boys claimed to know his fellow countryman, Gordon Lightfoot. Hearing that, Edie dialed up her erotic wattage and almost exuded a fog of mating musk. By the time last call was announced, Edie and Donna had decided to continue the party at Donna’s, which was nine miles away, and left the bar with the Canadian lads in tow, everyone piling into Donna’s car.
The night air cooled Edie‘s libido and assailed her with second thoughts. She called me at home and rousted me out of bed. In a panicked voice, she said there were “two men in Donna’s house that we can’t get rid of,” her tone implying that they were about to be raped at knife point by two Hell’s Angels.
I was at banging on Donna’s door within 10 minutes. One of the supposed brutes, who looked about as menacing as a 13-year-old, was dozing on the couch. The other pillaging Visigoth was hiding in the kitchen, trying to squeeze himself into the narrow space between the refrigerator and the wall. I sighed, looked at Edie and Donna in sleep disturbed disgust, and offered to drive the unlaid Canadian lads back to their motorcycle. “You‘re saving the dragons!” Edie wailed as I herded the frightened and bewildered boys out the door. I didn’t speak to her for a month after that.
True to form, the Brit Lit prof quit our college after a year and took a job teaching at a community college in Calgary, Alberta, and wanted Edie to move to the same city and continue to be a friend with benefits. She was still being pursued by the draft dodging perennial student too. She asked me what she should do. Well, I said, you can move to strange cold city where you don’t know anyone, rent a furnished room and wait by the telephone, or you can stay here and give your draft dodger a chance.
What she did not know about the draft dodger was that his mother was a letterhead partner in an accounting firm with offices in San Francisco, New York and London. She also owned a summer home in one of the gated communities of the Sonoma Valley wine country. I did know that, but kept my mouth shut.
Edie stayed put and eventually married the draft dodger, whose mother always wanted a daughter and who showered Edie with presents, including two weeks in London at one of Europe’s grandest hotels, Claridge’s, where visiting kings and presidents rest their weary heads, and where rates begin at $600 USD per night. She wrote to me on Claridge’s stationery reporting that she was seeing places we had only read about: the Tower Of London, Mayfair, the British Museum, and that she could not stop crying. “I was out walking around in tears from just being in London when I saw a small brass plaque on a gate. It identified the house behind the gate as the home of William Blake! That started another crying jag!”
Not bad for former welfare case who'd lived in a three room shack.
She and her husband returned to northern California. He adopted her son, became serious about college, earned a master’s degree in biology, and got a job with the state Department of Fish & Game in the San Jaoquin Valley. Edie was hired as a case worker for the county welfare office, since she knew the system so well, and her mother-in-law bought a house for the new family about 35 miles from where I had moved. I’d stop by now and then. The year was 1978.
Edie did not look well at all the last time I visited. Her surrogate sister Donna was present and appeared to have moved in. Edie’s actual sister, Bernice, had also taken up residence. A feather of foreboding touched the back of my brain.
“You look like hell,” I said. Mr. Tact.
“I’m sick,” she said.
“How sick?”
“Very.”
“Got the Big C?”
“Yes.”
“Mammary? Cervix?” Mr. Sensitive.
“Lung.”
“How much time?”
“Maybe a month. Maybe three to six months if I take chemo, which I won‘t.”
"God damn it!" I yelled and threw my hat against a wall. Donna and Bernice looked at me sympathetically. Edie had been a light smoker. A pack of her favorite menthols would last her a week, but her susceptibility to lung cancer may have been genetic. Her father had died early from the same disease.
A month later Edie was dead. She was 34 years old. Her husband was with her at the moment she died. "She woke up, smiled at me, closed her eyes, and that was it," he said.
What brought all this on was my recent visit to the VA hospital in Sacramento, where I was diagnosed with emphysema. I was not surprised. I’ve been a heavy smoker for over 50 years. I once asked a cousin of mine, who had been an emergency room doctor for many years, what was the greatest single cause for emergency room visits. Alcohol? Drugs?
“Lifestyle choices, “ he said.
The key word is choices. I seem to have made some poor ones. Well, shoot. The best I can do now is to take it easy and not sweat the petty stuff or pet the sweaty stuff, as another former teacher of mine once said. She died from lung cancer too. Another smoker.
I’ve almost reached my allotted three-score-and-ten of longevity anyway. Like other old farts, I’ve been wondering about an afterlife, in which I don’t really believe. But if there is one, I’ll consider Mark Twain’s counsel: “Heaven for the climate. Hell for the company.”
An easy choice. I’m accustomed to lousy climates and I’ve always been gregarious. I just hope I can go as gently into that good night as my friend Edie did. Even now, she remains a guide.
Comments?
As always, well done, poignant, up, down and around every emotion. Hang in there kiddo, I'm still smoking, 3 score plus 10 and refuse to give in. We will surprise everyone! -- Linda
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I've got a couple of friends here with emphysema, and as long as they follow their doctor's orders, they live pretty well...so, quit smoking, and follow your doctor's orders. -- Shannon
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Mike...lovely piece about Edie but I'm so sorry to hear that you are not well. I hope that with good medical attention you will be able to keep it controlled for many years. -- Soy
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It's never too late. Please, please take better care of yourself. Otherwise, who will send me such evocative stories? My life is made richer from reading what you've written over the years. Your stories, while personal, always touch upon the universal somehow, and what makes us so very human. --Tab A
Will you be my agent? -- MB
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I'm sorry to hear you have emphysema. That is a disease that can be lived with for years. I presume you know that. If you take care of yourself, and do what the doctors tell you, you may have many good moments -- and years -- remaining. -- Ann C.
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Gloomy, schmooomy.....good writin' is good writin'....all the good writers got lung disease...keep writing up til the last breath (pun intended), and never, ever apologize! you are beeeeauuuutiful...never forget that. -- Canny
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Hello Mike, just a quick word here .. 3 score isnt long enough , get greedy , get angry get a few more decades damnit..get a lung . Sorry Im so busy I'd come cheer you up wirth hookers , wine some good cannibis in cookies or brownies. Whatever it takes, buddy -- Nick and Amy in Arkansas
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Please do not leave. I need you living even if you do not write often. -- Fay
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You've never made me cry...before. -- Bach Lennon
Didn’t mean to do that. Just meant to spread a little gloom. -- MB
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Beautifully written, but so sad to hear that you're not well. Hugs, prayers,and warm, healing thoughts. -- Kerry
Appreciate that. -- MB
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Thanks. I needed this. Just posted to Facebook.-- Sum
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Another beautifully written essay, spanning details to the big unknowables. -- Galen
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As I get older, I, too, often think of my mortality, and what lies beyond. Of course, we don't really know unless we embrace the beliefs of the Believers, and, of course, that is at best something I only speculate about and raise my eyebrows. Still, there might be something to it. After all, I fancy thinking that when I go, my father will be waiting for me. I've missed him for eighteen years and I really would like to hug him again on some puffy white cloud. -- Zoey
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Nice, descriptive writing. The college scene was too much for me. That and the drugs! -- Gambatay
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Poignant ..loved it -- Juliari
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Mike, I don't know about an afterlife. I just know that people who face it with dignity are to be admired. God help us all with that. -- Wht
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I enjoyed reading the essay. I am sorry about your illness. I am thinking about writing about some embarrassing experiences for my next newspaper column. Here are two experiences that you might find amusing. When I was a freshman at Yale, I was on the front row in a psychology class. The professor started talking about sex. I fainted and fell on the floor dramatically. The professor asked a student to escort me to the infirmary. Another time I was standing in a bookstore in Grand Central Station. I was reading a passage in a book about the sex habits of French girls, and I fainted again. I later was able to enjoy sex without fainting. I do not remember what the book said about French girls. -- Ken
Gee, Ken, some women mind find that fainting quirk endearing, if it didn’t alarm them. They might even invite some of their girlfriends to watch, which could lead to some intriguing possibilities. MB
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Mike...lovely piece about Edie but I'm so sorry to hear that you are not well. I hope that with good medical attention you will be able to keep it controlled for many years. -- Soy
_____
It's never too late. Please, please take better care of yourself. Otherwise, who will send me such evocative stories? My life is made richer from reading what you've written over the years. Your stories, while personal, always touch upon the universal somehow, and what makes us so very human. --Tab A
Will you be my agent? -- MB
_____
I'm sorry to hear you have emphysema. That is a disease that can be lived with for years. I presume you know that. If you take care of yourself, and do what the doctors tell you, you may have many good moments -- and years -- remaining. -- Ann C.
_____
Gloomy, schmooomy.....good writin' is good writin'....all the good writers got lung disease...keep writing up til the last breath (pun intended), and never, ever apologize! you are beeeeauuuutiful...never forget that. -- Canny
______
Hello Mike, just a quick word here .. 3 score isnt long enough , get greedy , get angry get a few more decades damnit..get a lung . Sorry Im so busy I'd come cheer you up wirth hookers , wine some good cannibis in cookies or brownies. Whatever it takes, buddy -- Nick and Amy in Arkansas
_____
Please do not leave. I need you living even if you do not write often. -- Fay
_____
You've never made me cry...before. -- Bach Lennon
Didn’t mean to do that. Just meant to spread a little gloom. -- MB
_____
Beautifully written, but so sad to hear that you're not well. Hugs, prayers,and warm, healing thoughts. -- Kerry
Appreciate that. -- MB
_____
Thanks. I needed this. Just posted to Facebook.-- Sum
_____
Another beautifully written essay, spanning details to the big unknowables. -- Galen
_____
As I get older, I, too, often think of my mortality, and what lies beyond. Of course, we don't really know unless we embrace the beliefs of the Believers, and, of course, that is at best something I only speculate about and raise my eyebrows. Still, there might be something to it. After all, I fancy thinking that when I go, my father will be waiting for me. I've missed him for eighteen years and I really would like to hug him again on some puffy white cloud. -- Zoey
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Nice, descriptive writing. The college scene was too much for me. That and the drugs! -- Gambatay
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Poignant ..loved it -- Juliari
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Mike, I don't know about an afterlife. I just know that people who face it with dignity are to be admired. God help us all with that. -- Wht
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I enjoyed reading the essay. I am sorry about your illness. I am thinking about writing about some embarrassing experiences for my next newspaper column. Here are two experiences that you might find amusing. When I was a freshman at Yale, I was on the front row in a psychology class. The professor started talking about sex. I fainted and fell on the floor dramatically. The professor asked a student to escort me to the infirmary. Another time I was standing in a bookstore in Grand Central Station. I was reading a passage in a book about the sex habits of French girls, and I fainted again. I later was able to enjoy sex without fainting. I do not remember what the book said about French girls. -- Ken
Gee, Ken, some women mind find that fainting quirk endearing, if it didn’t alarm them. They might even invite some of their girlfriends to watch, which could lead to some intriguing possibilities. MB
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Planned Parenthood And The Girl Scout Cookie Conspiracy
It’s about time! At last, a powerful beacon of conservative reason is illuminating the rocks and shoals of corrupt left wing immorality!
I am referring to Rep. Bob Morris (R-Indiana) and his shocking disclosure that those commie pinko Girl Scouts of America are in league with the dark forces of that spawn of Satan, Planned Parenthood, in promoting homosexuality and abortion on demand.
Right thinking Americans have suspected as much for years. “Take those cookies, for example,” said a spokesman for the George W. Bush Liberty And Literacy Foundation, “they are a gateway cookie that could tragically lead to a birth control or morning after pill addiction. We’d then have to divert tax revenues from defense and into addiction recovery programs, which could even lead to financing godless projects like stem cell research.”
As for homosexuality and abortion, the parent of a 12-year-old Girl Scout in Sacramento, California, reported that her daughter summed up, in one word, the consistently uniform sentiments of her pre-teen peers regarding those issues: “Ewwwwwww!” I don’t think Rep. Morris need lose too much sleep over that one.
And what about the Girl Scouts’ connection with Planned Parenthood and its sinister agenda? Well, in 2004, the Blue Bonnet Council of the Girl Scouts in Waco, Texas, endorsed a Planned Parenthood education event without donating money or sending a Girl Scout to hand out pamphlets. Even so, the right thinking citizens of Waco boycotted Girl Scout cookies and formed their own scouting organization, American Heritage Girls. However, their kneejerk commie liberal neighbors retaliated and bought a record amount of mints, samoas and tagalongs, no doubt sending the cookies to their Communist masters in Albania, North Korea, or worse, California.
I had my own brush with the Fascist tactics of Girl Scout storm troopers when I was registering voters in 2010. I was stationed at a supermarket entrance with registration forms on a small table, two folding chairs, and wearing a pleasant expression when a carload of green uniformed Girl Scouts swarmed the place, unpacked their cookies, and began ambushing shoppers like snipers. Of course the little wretches charmed the bejabbers out of everyone, except me, I moved to a different location, only to be told that the Green Pestilence had infected every frapping supermarket in town.
I called the boss about my predicament. “I know, I know,” he said. “They’re everywhere. Do the best you can.”
So, I set up my little operation at a supermarket near my place for a quick getaway, and yes, the little sugar merchants were there, too. If fact, I thought maybe I was in a bad mood because my blood sugar was low. So I bought some thin mints from The Enemy and felt just fine after eating six or maybe a dozen cookies.
Maybe Rep. Morris should do the same. Might give him the strength to combat other Communist threats, like the Visiting Nurses Association and those collective agriculturalists in the radical wing of 4-H. Imagine babies being fed milk from commie cows that graze on grassy knolls! The mind reels!
Comments?
I'm going "armed" to Publix, as soon as I can find a "cookie shooter." Will let you know how the Scouts vs the consumers fracas turns out. You're an inspiration, as always. - Linda B
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I took the liberty of posting this piece on my facebook page--great job! -- Bgrant
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That was wonderful. I haven't laughed so hard in ages. You really pointed a finger (not saying which finger) at the fear based over-culture of our country. Honestly this piece of work should be in the Washington Post and NY Times. -- Mary Pat
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I have 3 boxes coming today -- Lynda
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Poor Tomatoman....You are clever and witty, but you are also a useful idiot of the left. Anyone can twist anything into a tale of stupidity, which you do in fine fashion. Politics are not your bag. I am all for Planned Parenthood, they keep crime down. Don't need to pretend they are all about women's rights. -- Placebodomingo
The political right needs no assistance in fostering stupidity. MB
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You said what needed to be said and ably. I am a former Girl Scout, and this news story made me wish I could rip my Orienteering, Sewing, Abortion, and Cooking badges off my old uniform. I left scouting before obtaining my Lesbian badge, a regret to this day, as it would have greatly expanded the available dating pool now...women live longer. Thanks for another fun read, Mike. -- Linda
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HAHAHAH man yah too much - I love the angle you took in dealing with these people to the right of Darth Vader and their absurd logic nonlogic. Send me more ! -- Goxando
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Mike - this one should be a national editorial. Your best!! -- Diane
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Great piece, Mike. Those girl scout racketeers need to be exposed. -- Sunne
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I'm amazed - and really shouldn't be - that just when I think maybe somebody out there in Twisted Politician Land has a forward-thinking, prioritized-rationally, sensible comment to make backed up by a plan that actually makes sense, something like the Satan and Girl Scout Cookies surfaces as a topic of "important" conversation. Heh...I chuckled at your piece knowing you have it figured out as well.
I happen to think that the government should keep its rather sticky fingers out of my vagina and anyone else's as well, and as for Girl Scout Cookies....I really could eat a dozen of those chocolate covered mint ones at a sitting. You can't tell me that politicians across this land have not consumed those overpriced little morsels themselves under the cover of Darkness. Fun piece. Always entertaining. -- Zoey
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Hahahahahah!!!!!!! You're such a great writer, Mike. These things need to be in national syndication as a weekly column written by you, in the very LEAST. (yikes, are they?) Well, and of course, books, films, you have all the talent to be an Oscar Winner if you like..sharing this stuff with me is like having Spielberg call me up to say, how you doin? Great work. -- Amanda
Your check is in the mail -- MB
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