I found myself waiting for my brother at the mechanic this morning, and the mechanic had a snack machine, and the snack machine had carrot cake. And I wanted carrot cake.
I pull a dollar out of my wallet and the machine feeds it back to me. I folded the dollar and reinserted it. The machine resent it. I folded the dollar another way...the machine did not like that way either.
I tried another dollar. The machine tried my patience.
After the third dollar wouldn't work, I gave up. I didn't want the stupid, moist carrot cake with the lovely cream cheese incing anyway. Nope. Didn't want it. Not at all.
I wonder if the party store has carrot cake. I'll have to check when it opens.
Monday, September 30, 2019
Sunday, September 29, 2019
Squirrelly customers
When you've dealt with drain cleaning and drain cleaners for as long as I have, you hear many stories. It's amazing what can find its way into your sewer. Potatoes, toys; once at my Church a candle holder, a flat brass circle about three inches in diameter, was somehow flushed through a toilet and was acting like a butterfly valve, allowing the commode to work only at its whim. Sometimes even animals can get into a line and die. Their bodies swell up and block the drain. It's yucky, to be sure.
Once an old plumber, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, had to deal with a dead squirrel which had plugged a sewer. I won't go into details (remember, there's yucky) but Cloyce worked and worked until he removed unfortunate rodent by then a member of the choir invisible. Yet his heroics did not satisfy the old woman who owned the house where the chore took place.
"She got mad at me. She was yelling at me!" Cloyce exclaimed to me Pops one day, shock still in his voice. "She didn't want to pay. I said, lady, I didn't put it down there!"
"Well how else did it get in?" she demanded.
"How should I know?" Cloyce barked back at her. "I mighta come in from the city main. It maybe slipped through your downspout and got caught. But I didn't put it there and you owe me for opening your sewer!"
He got paid, but it was an effort. More effort, he told Pops, than the actual work.
Once an old plumber, I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name, had to deal with a dead squirrel which had plugged a sewer. I won't go into details (remember, there's yucky) but Cloyce worked and worked until he removed unfortunate rodent by then a member of the choir invisible. Yet his heroics did not satisfy the old woman who owned the house where the chore took place.
"She got mad at me. She was yelling at me!" Cloyce exclaimed to me Pops one day, shock still in his voice. "She didn't want to pay. I said, lady, I didn't put it down there!"
"Well how else did it get in?" she demanded.
"How should I know?" Cloyce barked back at her. "I mighta come in from the city main. It maybe slipped through your downspout and got caught. But I didn't put it there and you owe me for opening your sewer!"
He got paid, but it was an effort. More effort, he told Pops, than the actual work.
Saturday, September 28, 2019
It cannot be, until it is
I love it when people come to me for my expertise (I assure you that there are indeed subjects however few and far between which I am expert in) yet will not accept my report. You had a problem, you brought it to me, I resolved it, yet you will not accept my explanation? It is even especially exasperating when it's something which is indeed particularly straightforward. It gets my alliteration going.
A gentleman recently brought in a machine which was not running. To save me time (he thought) he had already checked that electricity was getting to the motor. Okay, fine, thanks. He left, and I diagnosed that the power cord was bad. I installed a new cord and hey presto, his machine was fully and completely operational. I called and told him it was ready. "What was wrong?" he asked.
"The power cord was bad."
There was silence on the other end of the phone. Eventually he said, "That cannot be, man. There was power to the motor."
That set me off. Channeling the spirit of me easily agitated Grandpa Joe I wanted to yell, "Yes, that can be, man! It wasn't running, the cord was bad, I replaced it, the machine runs. It. Can. Be." Instead I calmly, rationally explained, "Electricity is a circuit. There's more at work than power getting to the motor. It has to go through the motor and return to its source or an electric motor won't work." I am no genius on this issue. This is Electric Power 101, folks.
"But power was getting to the motor," he replied incredulously.
Did you not hear the words that were coming from my mouth? Still, I replied simply, "The cord was bad, my friend. I replaced it, and your snake works."
He came by, watched it run, toyed with the unit for a few minutes and paid me, all the while looking at me as though I were an alchemist or a charlatan. Dude, I believe you that power was getting to the motor. But it's gotta get back out for the motor to work. It's that simple.
I may be, in fact I am, incompetent on many levels. Spectacularly incompetent on several, I admit. But don't question me on my rightness when I actually am right please.
A gentleman recently brought in a machine which was not running. To save me time (he thought) he had already checked that electricity was getting to the motor. Okay, fine, thanks. He left, and I diagnosed that the power cord was bad. I installed a new cord and hey presto, his machine was fully and completely operational. I called and told him it was ready. "What was wrong?" he asked.
"The power cord was bad."
There was silence on the other end of the phone. Eventually he said, "That cannot be, man. There was power to the motor."
That set me off. Channeling the spirit of me easily agitated Grandpa Joe I wanted to yell, "Yes, that can be, man! It wasn't running, the cord was bad, I replaced it, the machine runs. It. Can. Be." Instead I calmly, rationally explained, "Electricity is a circuit. There's more at work than power getting to the motor. It has to go through the motor and return to its source or an electric motor won't work." I am no genius on this issue. This is Electric Power 101, folks.
"But power was getting to the motor," he replied incredulously.
Did you not hear the words that were coming from my mouth? Still, I replied simply, "The cord was bad, my friend. I replaced it, and your snake works."
He came by, watched it run, toyed with the unit for a few minutes and paid me, all the while looking at me as though I were an alchemist or a charlatan. Dude, I believe you that power was getting to the motor. But it's gotta get back out for the motor to work. It's that simple.
I may be, in fact I am, incompetent on many levels. Spectacularly incompetent on several, I admit. But don't question me on my rightness when I actually am right please.
Friday, September 27, 2019
Baseball, me, me Pops, and September 27
Today it has been twenty years since Detroit's Tiger Stadium saw its last major league baseball action. I still remember the first game me Pops took me to. He wore a suit because in those days you wore a suit even to sporting events, and I held his hand as that wonderful green cathedral opened up before me as we entered the stadium through a runway. We played Kansas City that day and won 9-7.
The Tigers beat Kansas City on September 27, 1999 by an 8-2 score. Me Pops wasn't at that game (though he went the day before with a bunch of us) but I was, along with my family. It was a great if bittersweet time, capped by a Robert Fick grand slam in the 8th inning and a Todd Jones strikeout to end the Ninth and thus the ball yard's history.
Then the Tigers played Kansas City on this date in 2012. In that game, Doug Fister (on the mound for Detroit) struck out nine straight Kansas City batters to set the American League record for most consecutive strikeouts in a game. We listened to that game at the Shop, the old barn, me Pops and I hanging on every pitch as Fister struck out batter after batter. The old man laughed happily at every strikeout after about the sixth one. It was one of the best times I had listening to games with him. And though I did not know it that day, it was the last Tiger game I ever listened to on the radio with me Pops.
It's funny, isn't it, the symmetry we so often find in life. The last game at Tiger Stadium was against Kansas City. The first game me Pops took me to was against Kansas City. The last game we shared was against Kansas City. I don't about you, but, I like it.
The Tigers beat Kansas City on September 27, 1999 by an 8-2 score. Me Pops wasn't at that game (though he went the day before with a bunch of us) but I was, along with my family. It was a great if bittersweet time, capped by a Robert Fick grand slam in the 8th inning and a Todd Jones strikeout to end the Ninth and thus the ball yard's history.
Then the Tigers played Kansas City on this date in 2012. In that game, Doug Fister (on the mound for Detroit) struck out nine straight Kansas City batters to set the American League record for most consecutive strikeouts in a game. We listened to that game at the Shop, the old barn, me Pops and I hanging on every pitch as Fister struck out batter after batter. The old man laughed happily at every strikeout after about the sixth one. It was one of the best times I had listening to games with him. And though I did not know it that day, it was the last Tiger game I ever listened to on the radio with me Pops.
It's funny, isn't it, the symmetry we so often find in life. The last game at Tiger Stadium was against Kansas City. The first game me Pops took me to was against Kansas City. The last game we shared was against Kansas City. I don't about you, but, I like it.
Thursday, September 26, 2019
Semi serious
The prefix semi, often used with a dash, is very common in English usage. I understand it; it indicates partial. Notice for example I just employed a partial, semi-colon. A half colon. Marty gots good English skills.
So why doesn't this rule apply on the highways and bi-ways of our once proudly English speaking nation? I often pass trucks with trailers and the license plate on the back says semi trailer. But they're always full, complete, entire trailers! There's nothing half way about them.
Then there's what I believe the state of Maine has on their trailer licenses: semi permanent. So is the plate not permanent, not there all the time? Or is the entire truck subject to the whiles of some errant space time continuum thing, going in and out of existence? Because, I tell you what, they've never blipped out of our universe when driving past me, especially when it's raining heavily so that my van gets thoroughly drenched and my wipers can't keep up.
I mean, if we want the children of our country to learn English, we really need the consistent use of terms.
So why doesn't this rule apply on the highways and bi-ways of our once proudly English speaking nation? I often pass trucks with trailers and the license plate on the back says semi trailer. But they're always full, complete, entire trailers! There's nothing half way about them.
Then there's what I believe the state of Maine has on their trailer licenses: semi permanent. So is the plate not permanent, not there all the time? Or is the entire truck subject to the whiles of some errant space time continuum thing, going in and out of existence? Because, I tell you what, they've never blipped out of our universe when driving past me, especially when it's raining heavily so that my van gets thoroughly drenched and my wipers can't keep up.
I mean, if we want the children of our country to learn English, we really need the consistent use of terms.
Tuesday, September 24, 2019
The tell-tale heart
So I was sitting in an examination room at my Doctor's office as he listened to my heart. He held the stethoscope in one spot on my chest and listened. He moved it across my sternum and listened more closely. He asked me to breathe deeply, and listened more. He told me to hold my breath, and listened intently. He then put the stethoscope down, and went to the door. I heard him say, "Nurse, please bring the EKG cart".
On his return I asked with no small concern, "Why do you want the EKG cart?"
"Well, your pulse is slow. Not dangerously slow, but enough that I'd like to do an EKG," he explained.
"Okay, fine," I replied, relieved. "But could I ask you something?
"Of course."
"Maybe next time you do that, tell me what's up before asking for the EKG machine?"
He smiled sheepishly and said, "Yes, sorry. I should have done that."
No real worries on my part. He's a great doctor and I'm very glad to have him. It was simply a bit of a shock to hear the order for the EKG without knowing why, that's all. But I think we both saw it as the humorous inadvertence that it was, and nothing more.
The EKG was good by the way. I do have a functioning heart.
On his return I asked with no small concern, "Why do you want the EKG cart?"
"Well, your pulse is slow. Not dangerously slow, but enough that I'd like to do an EKG," he explained.
"Okay, fine," I replied, relieved. "But could I ask you something?
"Of course."
"Maybe next time you do that, tell me what's up before asking for the EKG machine?"
He smiled sheepishly and said, "Yes, sorry. I should have done that."
No real worries on my part. He's a great doctor and I'm very glad to have him. It was simply a bit of a shock to hear the order for the EKG without knowing why, that's all. But I think we both saw it as the humorous inadvertence that it was, and nothing more.
The EKG was good by the way. I do have a functioning heart.
Monday, September 23, 2019
Off by a mile
People don't think. They have to realize sometimes that they don't. Don't they?
Whatever. What does, yet should not astound me, is how I can still be amazed when it happens.
The latest examples come from my sales job. In directing a potential new customer to my store, I cautioned him not to go beyond Warren Avenue here in Detroit; he would have gone too far if he had. An hour later I get a call from the guy's cell. He was more than a mile beyond our place of business. "I saw Warren and never saw you so I kept on going," he explained to me. You saw the street which I told you was too far and KEPT GOING? It never occurred to you to circle around?
Another fella called to asked if he could have his snake (slang for the drain cleaning equipment we sell) repaired by us. "Probably, but tell me what you have so that I can tell you if I have access to the parts you might need," I asked.
"A snake," he responds.
"Okay," I said, trying to be patient, "But what type of machine exactly?"
"Uhh, the kind that opens sewers."
I asked, with no little exasperation, "I need a make and model number."
"Uhhhhhh, y'all worked on it 'bout five years ago..." he began.
Click.
Dang. I hung up on my only customer from 2014. That was such a good year too.
Whatever. What does, yet should not astound me, is how I can still be amazed when it happens.
The latest examples come from my sales job. In directing a potential new customer to my store, I cautioned him not to go beyond Warren Avenue here in Detroit; he would have gone too far if he had. An hour later I get a call from the guy's cell. He was more than a mile beyond our place of business. "I saw Warren and never saw you so I kept on going," he explained to me. You saw the street which I told you was too far and KEPT GOING? It never occurred to you to circle around?
Another fella called to asked if he could have his snake (slang for the drain cleaning equipment we sell) repaired by us. "Probably, but tell me what you have so that I can tell you if I have access to the parts you might need," I asked.
"A snake," he responds.
"Okay," I said, trying to be patient, "But what type of machine exactly?"
"Uhh, the kind that opens sewers."
I asked, with no little exasperation, "I need a make and model number."
"Uhhhhhh, y'all worked on it 'bout five years ago..." he began.
Click.
Dang. I hung up on my only customer from 2014. That was such a good year too.
Friday, September 20, 2019
Uncle Frank's driveway
I find myself, well, okay, I haven't exactly found myself here as I drove here quite purposefully, in Hessel in Michigan's glorious eastern Upper Peninsula and pondering, remembering what once was. And what once was was my Uncle Frank teaching me the precise way to turn around in the driveway.
He had retired here, and while the house already existed the garage and the driveway did not. So he had a garage built, a very good one from where I still listen to Tiger baseball and will again tonight, and a driveway laid from asphalt. And the asphalt needed precise care.
As such, he instructed me on how to turn around on it without doing damage. You pull up and turn hard left, then go hard right to back up into place, all the while moving so that the turning of the wheels did not harm any spot on the asphalt. Never, never stop and turn the wheels in one place. Keep your car moving.
After about an hour of practice Uncle Frank was satisfied that I could make the maneuver. And ever since then, I have made the maneuver rather well. I think.
Uncle Frank is gone better than 23 years now. But I have not and will not harm his driveway. He has seen to that.
He had retired here, and while the house already existed the garage and the driveway did not. So he had a garage built, a very good one from where I still listen to Tiger baseball and will again tonight, and a driveway laid from asphalt. And the asphalt needed precise care.
As such, he instructed me on how to turn around on it without doing damage. You pull up and turn hard left, then go hard right to back up into place, all the while moving so that the turning of the wheels did not harm any spot on the asphalt. Never, never stop and turn the wheels in one place. Keep your car moving.
After about an hour of practice Uncle Frank was satisfied that I could make the maneuver. And ever since then, I have made the maneuver rather well. I think.
Uncle Frank is gone better than 23 years now. But I have not and will not harm his driveway. He has seen to that.
Wednesday, September 18, 2019
Out of touch
As I've been talking about baseball a bit lately, and as I'm especially talking about appeal plays (see Monday's entry), let me regale you with one of me Pops favorite stories. It involves the Ol' Perfesser himself, Casey Stengel.
Casey was brought on to manage the New York Mets as they started out. The club was expected to be awful initially (and it was) and I believe anyway that he was hired as a distraction to how bad the new team would be (The Mets would finish 40-120 their first year, with two cancelled games; who says cancellations are always bad?). Those early Metropolitans were known for less than stellar baseball, making simple mistakes with regularity.
All this did nothing to dampen the Ol' Perfesser's competitive fire. During the course of one game a Met happened to hit a triple. Yet the defense felt the runner had missed second base on his way around and appealed the play. The umpire consequently ruled him out because he had indeed failed to touch second on his way to third.
Casey stormed out of the Mets' dugout to argue the call. But his third base coach quickly stopped him. "Don't bother, Casey, because he missed first base too," Coach morosely explained.
Damn, I love baseball...
Casey was brought on to manage the New York Mets as they started out. The club was expected to be awful initially (and it was) and I believe anyway that he was hired as a distraction to how bad the new team would be (The Mets would finish 40-120 their first year, with two cancelled games; who says cancellations are always bad?). Those early Metropolitans were known for less than stellar baseball, making simple mistakes with regularity.
All this did nothing to dampen the Ol' Perfesser's competitive fire. During the course of one game a Met happened to hit a triple. Yet the defense felt the runner had missed second base on his way around and appealed the play. The umpire consequently ruled him out because he had indeed failed to touch second on his way to third.
Casey stormed out of the Mets' dugout to argue the call. But his third base coach quickly stopped him. "Don't bother, Casey, because he missed first base too," Coach morosely explained.
Damn, I love baseball...
Tuesday, September 17, 2019
Showing the love
Go! Cubs! Go!
Go! Cubs! Go!
Hey, Chicago, Whaddaya say?
Cubs are gonna win today!
Let me tell something about going to Wrigley Field this past Sunday: The Northsiders know how to show love to their baseball team. They play this song after each Cubs win:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A9XtDyDUjIU
I got your earworm going now, don't I? Maybe I'm still basking in the glow of a great if short weekend, but singing that song Sunday was right up there with listening to Sweet Caroline during the Seventh Inning Stretch at Fenway. Those of you familiar with that just went bum bum bum, didn't you?
Baseball wears tradition like that comfortable old cardigan you can never throw away. You might have to patch it up until the day you die but you never lose your love for it, treating it almost sacredly along the way. The same with baseball. It runs through a family thicker than blood.
It's said you can't beat the classics. I'll tell you what: you can't beat baseball. An afternoon at a Cubs game reminds you of that.
Go! Cubs! Go!
Hey, Chicago, Whaddaya say?
Cubs are gonna win today!
Let me tell something about going to Wrigley Field this past Sunday: The Northsiders know how to show love to their baseball team. They play this song after each Cubs win:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A9XtDyDUjIU
I got your earworm going now, don't I? Maybe I'm still basking in the glow of a great if short weekend, but singing that song Sunday was right up there with listening to Sweet Caroline during the Seventh Inning Stretch at Fenway. Those of you familiar with that just went bum bum bum, didn't you?
Baseball wears tradition like that comfortable old cardigan you can never throw away. You might have to patch it up until the day you die but you never lose your love for it, treating it almost sacredly along the way. The same with baseball. It runs through a family thicker than blood.
It's said you can't beat the classics. I'll tell you what: you can't beat baseball. An afternoon at a Cubs game reminds you of that.
Monday, September 16, 2019
Baseball bizarre
My son and I went to a Cubs game at Wrigley Field in Chicago yesterday, as part our stadium tour. We try to hit a new Major League Baseball venue per year. This year it was Wrigley's turn. It's a great ballpark, one the last two classic baseball stadiums left (the other being Fenway in Boston).
Not only did the Cubs win, a favorite former Tiger of mine (Nick Castellanos) have a great game, going 3-5 with two doubles to increase his MLB lead in that statistical category to 54. Yet more than that: I saw the most bizarre play I've ever seen in baseball. I still shake my head about it this morning. The Cubs' opponents, the Pittsburgh Pirates, botched an appeal play. Rather spectacularly in fact.
For the non-baseball fans out there the quick explanation is that, when the defense believes a runner missed touching a base, they may 'appeal' the play by tossing the ball to a defender, who then touches the base with his foot. If the umpire saw that the runner did indeed miss the base, the runner is ruled out on appeal. Get it?
In this case, the Pirates felt a Cubs runner missed third while scampering home. The pitcher was simply to toss the ball to the third baseman, who would catch it and touch the bag. A simple throw. Just a lob really.
The pitcher proceeded to lob it five feet over the third baseman's head.
A different Cubs runner who occupied third then sped home for another run.
I still can't wrap my head around it. How in the world does a major league player lob, soft toss, a 55 foot throw, clean over the fielder's head? Bear in mind this was from a standing still position; the pitcher wasn't fielding a ball in any way, shape, or form. He was simply standing there. It should have been the easiest play on Earth for him.
Then to make matters worse, the Pirates went on and appealed again. The third base umpire ruled safe, that the original runner, the one in question in the first place, had in fact touched the base en route to home. Talk about salt in the wound: Pittsburgh would have lost the appeal anyway, but gave Chicago a run in the process.
I chuckle incredulously even now. How does that happen at that level of play?
Not only did the Cubs win, a favorite former Tiger of mine (Nick Castellanos) have a great game, going 3-5 with two doubles to increase his MLB lead in that statistical category to 54. Yet more than that: I saw the most bizarre play I've ever seen in baseball. I still shake my head about it this morning. The Cubs' opponents, the Pittsburgh Pirates, botched an appeal play. Rather spectacularly in fact.
For the non-baseball fans out there the quick explanation is that, when the defense believes a runner missed touching a base, they may 'appeal' the play by tossing the ball to a defender, who then touches the base with his foot. If the umpire saw that the runner did indeed miss the base, the runner is ruled out on appeal. Get it?
In this case, the Pirates felt a Cubs runner missed third while scampering home. The pitcher was simply to toss the ball to the third baseman, who would catch it and touch the bag. A simple throw. Just a lob really.
The pitcher proceeded to lob it five feet over the third baseman's head.
A different Cubs runner who occupied third then sped home for another run.
I still can't wrap my head around it. How in the world does a major league player lob, soft toss, a 55 foot throw, clean over the fielder's head? Bear in mind this was from a standing still position; the pitcher wasn't fielding a ball in any way, shape, or form. He was simply standing there. It should have been the easiest play on Earth for him.
Then to make matters worse, the Pirates went on and appealed again. The third base umpire ruled safe, that the original runner, the one in question in the first place, had in fact touched the base en route to home. Talk about salt in the wound: Pittsburgh would have lost the appeal anyway, but gave Chicago a run in the process.
I chuckle incredulously even now. How does that happen at that level of play?
Friday, September 13, 2019
The sigh moment
I made a trip to Electric Eel in Springfield, Ohio yesterday, just one of dozens (maybe a couple hundred) I've made in the last six years. It was uneventful, which is good. You don't really want eventful road trips as a rule because that nearly always means trouble. About the worst that happened was the sigh moment. Typically, there's one of those for me per road trip.
Yesterday it happened as I passed a Wendy's in Bellefountaine, Ohio. For whatever reason it popped into my head that one Friday years ago, me and me Pops stopped there for fish sandwiches for lunch. And a Frosty; you gotta have a frosty at Wendy's. Anyway, we actually had stopped at that particular fast food joint several times over the years. And I looked at it, merely sighing as I drove past.
At this point in my life I figured that me and Pops would be making these trips together regularly. I had in fact resolved that on his next birthday, when he would have turned 78, I was going to screw up my courage and insist that either me or my brother Phil go with him on all road trips. He was going to get the Son Speech, similar to the Doctor Speech we all get after a certain age. You don't need to be traipsing alone all over the country at your age Pops. You don't need to be trying to lift hundred pound boxes at all, let alone by yourself Pops. Me or Phil need to go with you on sales runs.
Obviously enough by now, I never got to make that speech. Maybe it's just as well on one count. I know the old man would have gotten his dander up to hear it. We'd have likely went around and around about it, reasonably politely to be fair and honest, before coming to tepid agreement. But it would have been uncomfortable for all involved.
Instead, I take road trips and see things which remind of old times. Places and haunts which he liked to stop at whether anyone was with him or not. Places I often stop at solely because he would have stopped there.
And I have the sigh moment. Then it's just on to my next destination.
Yesterday it happened as I passed a Wendy's in Bellefountaine, Ohio. For whatever reason it popped into my head that one Friday years ago, me and me Pops stopped there for fish sandwiches for lunch. And a Frosty; you gotta have a frosty at Wendy's. Anyway, we actually had stopped at that particular fast food joint several times over the years. And I looked at it, merely sighing as I drove past.
At this point in my life I figured that me and Pops would be making these trips together regularly. I had in fact resolved that on his next birthday, when he would have turned 78, I was going to screw up my courage and insist that either me or my brother Phil go with him on all road trips. He was going to get the Son Speech, similar to the Doctor Speech we all get after a certain age. You don't need to be traipsing alone all over the country at your age Pops. You don't need to be trying to lift hundred pound boxes at all, let alone by yourself Pops. Me or Phil need to go with you on sales runs.
Obviously enough by now, I never got to make that speech. Maybe it's just as well on one count. I know the old man would have gotten his dander up to hear it. We'd have likely went around and around about it, reasonably politely to be fair and honest, before coming to tepid agreement. But it would have been uncomfortable for all involved.
Instead, I take road trips and see things which remind of old times. Places and haunts which he liked to stop at whether anyone was with him or not. Places I often stop at solely because he would have stopped there.
And I have the sigh moment. Then it's just on to my next destination.
Wednesday, September 11, 2019
Eighteen years
Eighteen years have now passed since what may become the defining point of a generation. Eighteen years, almost to the minute as this is being written, terrorists attacked the Pentagon, the World Trade Center, and were overcome by the passengers of an airplane over the hills of Pennsylvania. All that time, and we still cannot make any sense of it.
The trouble is that there is no sense to be made. To be sure, we can understand the reasons for even such terrible actions, in the same way that we can understand the reasons Hitler did what he did. Yet that is not the same as understanding.
How do we, how can we, come to actually understand rape or murder or thievery, mass murder or any any other evil which may be added to such a gruesome list, if we are to be decent human beings ourselves? It is only in a warped mind where such heinous acts may be justified. As such, reasonable people simply cannot understand them. It is beyond their ability; it is to them pure nonsense.
So the goal today should be to remember. Remember the victims and their families, remember the countless acts of heroism that day, remember even the perpetrators of such despicable carnage if for no other reason than to remind ourselves that such twisted souls do exist, seeking the ruin of those those not in lockstep with them. But hopefully, remember even so that their redemption may be possible. If we are the good people we claim to be, even that shouldn't be so difficult of a task on so difficult of an anniversary.
The trouble is that there is no sense to be made. To be sure, we can understand the reasons for even such terrible actions, in the same way that we can understand the reasons Hitler did what he did. Yet that is not the same as understanding.
How do we, how can we, come to actually understand rape or murder or thievery, mass murder or any any other evil which may be added to such a gruesome list, if we are to be decent human beings ourselves? It is only in a warped mind where such heinous acts may be justified. As such, reasonable people simply cannot understand them. It is beyond their ability; it is to them pure nonsense.
So the goal today should be to remember. Remember the victims and their families, remember the countless acts of heroism that day, remember even the perpetrators of such despicable carnage if for no other reason than to remind ourselves that such twisted souls do exist, seeking the ruin of those those not in lockstep with them. But hopefully, remember even so that their redemption may be possible. If we are the good people we claim to be, even that shouldn't be so difficult of a task on so difficult of an anniversary.
Tuesday, September 10, 2019
What's in a (nick)name?
We've had our share of characters come through the Old Barn. I've described some in detail and a few in passing but I haven't really mentioned the bulk of them. Here are a few glimpses of other notables who have stepped through the door.
There was California. I never did learn his actual name nor why he was nicknamed for the state. What I do remember is that he sounded exactly like Huckleberry Hound. You could hear him singing My Darling Clementine like he owned it. If you heard his voice from behind a screen you'd swear it was the guy who voiced that bluish Hanna-Barbera hound dog.
Speaking of voices, there was a guy who sounded exactly like Eeyore, the woeful donkey from Winnie the Pooh. Eeyore's main complaint was that he could never get a girlfriend. "Who'd want to date a guy who does what I do (clean sewers) for a living?" he often lamented in that dullish monotone. Then he found a girlfriend. He told us about it one day, in exactly the manner Eeyore would have. "I got me a girlfriend. Now I have to paint her kitchen."
Grandpa Joe christened one guy 'Cash' Adams. Mr. Adams would walk into the door and Joe would say, "There's Cash Adams. He gets cash and pays cash." Grandpa explained to me that he wasn't sure he could trust the guy so he came up with the moniker to embarrass him from asking for credit. Apparently it worked.
Then there was Mr. Clean. I don't know that anyone called him that to his face as he was a muscular, mountain of a man. But he always wore a white t-shirt and had a big gold earring in his ear. Yes, he looked just like the guy on the bottle of cleaning fluid.
So what's in a nick name? Sometimes it's the best description of a person.
There was California. I never did learn his actual name nor why he was nicknamed for the state. What I do remember is that he sounded exactly like Huckleberry Hound. You could hear him singing My Darling Clementine like he owned it. If you heard his voice from behind a screen you'd swear it was the guy who voiced that bluish Hanna-Barbera hound dog.
Speaking of voices, there was a guy who sounded exactly like Eeyore, the woeful donkey from Winnie the Pooh. Eeyore's main complaint was that he could never get a girlfriend. "Who'd want to date a guy who does what I do (clean sewers) for a living?" he often lamented in that dullish monotone. Then he found a girlfriend. He told us about it one day, in exactly the manner Eeyore would have. "I got me a girlfriend. Now I have to paint her kitchen."
Grandpa Joe christened one guy 'Cash' Adams. Mr. Adams would walk into the door and Joe would say, "There's Cash Adams. He gets cash and pays cash." Grandpa explained to me that he wasn't sure he could trust the guy so he came up with the moniker to embarrass him from asking for credit. Apparently it worked.
Then there was Mr. Clean. I don't know that anyone called him that to his face as he was a muscular, mountain of a man. But he always wore a white t-shirt and had a big gold earring in his ear. Yes, he looked just like the guy on the bottle of cleaning fluid.
So what's in a nick name? Sometimes it's the best description of a person.
Monday, September 9, 2019
Sports emotion
Detroit 27, Arizona 27. The Lions have earned (if that's the right word) their first tie since 1984. I was young then.
Michigan 24, Army 21. I actually had a bit of dual allegiance in that one. With my son being a veteran, it's hard not to root for Army despite my long held Michigan fandom.
But what do they both have in common? For me, the fact that I did not obsess over either game. I simply didn't watch them.
I have made no secret that the older I get the less sports mean to me, although I still pay attention (especially to baseball, and as a Tigers fan that's a challenge). Yet for all my complaints about the games themselves, criticisms which I still and emphatically stand by (time outs should only be called by officials for reasons based on rules and not because coaches want to talk, I don't care what anyone says) what's really gotten me away from athletics is the realization that they're not worth the emotional investment.
My day yesterday was spent better with my mother, getting lunch, shopping, and taking a leisurely Sunday drive. When I got home I did spend about a half hour switching between the Tigers and the Lions. Then I turned on something innocuous, Disney XD or the Weather Channel or something, and picked up my current book (Thomas Jefferson and the Tripoli Pirates BTW), reading until I fell asleep. Then after I woke up this morning I eventually heard about the Lions tie and my emotional investment consisted of a shake of the head and a Same Old Lions. And that's it. Neither my Sunday nor my Monday was diminished by it. I've simply went on about my business since.
I freely admit that this attitude has little to do with the games themselves. But it's made me I think a better man, consciously not letting sports mean any more than they should. I know I'm happier having not made the emotional investment in what, after all, should only be diversions, should only be barely above trivial.
Michigan 24, Army 21. I actually had a bit of dual allegiance in that one. With my son being a veteran, it's hard not to root for Army despite my long held Michigan fandom.
But what do they both have in common? For me, the fact that I did not obsess over either game. I simply didn't watch them.
I have made no secret that the older I get the less sports mean to me, although I still pay attention (especially to baseball, and as a Tigers fan that's a challenge). Yet for all my complaints about the games themselves, criticisms which I still and emphatically stand by (time outs should only be called by officials for reasons based on rules and not because coaches want to talk, I don't care what anyone says) what's really gotten me away from athletics is the realization that they're not worth the emotional investment.
My day yesterday was spent better with my mother, getting lunch, shopping, and taking a leisurely Sunday drive. When I got home I did spend about a half hour switching between the Tigers and the Lions. Then I turned on something innocuous, Disney XD or the Weather Channel or something, and picked up my current book (Thomas Jefferson and the Tripoli Pirates BTW), reading until I fell asleep. Then after I woke up this morning I eventually heard about the Lions tie and my emotional investment consisted of a shake of the head and a Same Old Lions. And that's it. Neither my Sunday nor my Monday was diminished by it. I've simply went on about my business since.
I freely admit that this attitude has little to do with the games themselves. But it's made me I think a better man, consciously not letting sports mean any more than they should. I know I'm happier having not made the emotional investment in what, after all, should only be diversions, should only be barely above trivial.
Friday, September 6, 2019
115
No, it's not just a number. And it's not the time. It's a restaurant at a truck stop outside of Marshall, Michigan.
It's really nothing fancy. The place is neat and clean, the service is good and friendly, and it's right off the highway, meaning it's very easy to get to. A quick exit off I-94 and a quick re-entry and you're on your way after a meal.
The only reason it sticks out in my mind is because me Pops liked it. He typically stopped there to eat on his swings through the western part of Michigan. I tend to stop there too.
I think I might even take my son there when we drive to Chicago next weekend, just to show him one of his grandfather's haunts. I mean, why not? You gotta eat somewhere.
It's really nothing fancy. The place is neat and clean, the service is good and friendly, and it's right off the highway, meaning it's very easy to get to. A quick exit off I-94 and a quick re-entry and you're on your way after a meal.
The only reason it sticks out in my mind is because me Pops liked it. He typically stopped there to eat on his swings through the western part of Michigan. I tend to stop there too.
I think I might even take my son there when we drive to Chicago next weekend, just to show him one of his grandfather's haunts. I mean, why not? You gotta eat somewhere.
Wednesday, September 4, 2019
Marty live!
Just a friendly reminder: I've gone the video blog route with The Sublime to the Ridiculous! Now you can hear my dulcet tones as I recite tales and stories and jokes right at ya! You can put a pretty face with a sonorous voice.
Or you can watch my vlog. You can find it here:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qnriFrmyKpo
Please like and subscribe. I'll keep it short, I promise!
Or you can watch my vlog. You can find it here:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qnriFrmyKpo
Please like and subscribe. I'll keep it short, I promise!
Tuesday, September 3, 2019
The Hessel slow roll
We rented a cabin in Hessel, MI in the Upper Peninsula for years, and for years this one fella rented almost at the same time. I'll call him Cloyce just to give him a name. The thing is, his rental and ours offset by one week, meaning Cloyce and his family left during the middle of our two week stay.
The cabins rented Saturday to Saturday. On Cloyce's second Saturday one year the family which was renting his place next arrived, rudely, at 7 AM. They knocked on his door and basically demanded to know when he was leaving. Cloyce, properly annoyed, answered, "Checkout time is 11." He thought for a moment and then explained further, "And check in time is 2."
They didn't like that. Yet they were the ones being insensitive. They figured if they sat nearby staring it might hurry Cloyce up.
They were barking up a tree, and those of us who knew Cloyce knew that.
He quite understandably took his breakfast: at around nine. He then took one suitcase to his van. Then he took one article of clothing out, folding it at the van door and putting it in the suitcase. Filling the case one piece of clothing at a time took about a half hour. Then he filled, in the same way, a second suitcase. Then he took about 15 minutes finishing the last cup of coffee from the kitchen, sipping it on his porch as he watched the watercraft go by. Then he emptied the fridge one item at a time, after bringing out the cooler empty. Lastly he packed his fishing gear one piece by one. Finally he took the folding chairs from the porch and tied them to the roof of his van.
The he sat on the stoop of the porch and stared back at the early arrivals. Eventually he looked at his watch and called to his wife, "Okay, let's go. It's 10:59, just about checkout time." And they were on their way home.
My guess is that it was actually about 10:59 and fifty-five seconds.
The cabins rented Saturday to Saturday. On Cloyce's second Saturday one year the family which was renting his place next arrived, rudely, at 7 AM. They knocked on his door and basically demanded to know when he was leaving. Cloyce, properly annoyed, answered, "Checkout time is 11." He thought for a moment and then explained further, "And check in time is 2."
They didn't like that. Yet they were the ones being insensitive. They figured if they sat nearby staring it might hurry Cloyce up.
They were barking up a tree, and those of us who knew Cloyce knew that.
He quite understandably took his breakfast: at around nine. He then took one suitcase to his van. Then he took one article of clothing out, folding it at the van door and putting it in the suitcase. Filling the case one piece of clothing at a time took about a half hour. Then he filled, in the same way, a second suitcase. Then he took about 15 minutes finishing the last cup of coffee from the kitchen, sipping it on his porch as he watched the watercraft go by. Then he emptied the fridge one item at a time, after bringing out the cooler empty. Lastly he packed his fishing gear one piece by one. Finally he took the folding chairs from the porch and tied them to the roof of his van.
The he sat on the stoop of the porch and stared back at the early arrivals. Eventually he looked at his watch and called to his wife, "Okay, let's go. It's 10:59, just about checkout time." And they were on their way home.
My guess is that it was actually about 10:59 and fifty-five seconds.
Monday, September 2, 2019
An important public service announcement
Well, I think I'm going to do it. I think I'm going to pull the trigger and green light myself.
Tomorrow I begin a video blog.
I've already recorded the opening segment. I just have decide on the finishing touches. I'm going to keep it light if occasionally pointed. When I get serious I intend to be mere honestly poignant. In short, it will be most likely along the lines of what you've read (and thank you, I appreciate all who've read my ramblings) only with yours truly directly relating the tales and jokes and sometimes outright lies which I may over time produce.
I want it to be fun. As I say, many will be rehashes of old stories but I plan to throw in generous portions of new stuff. And Marty original comedy. Well, at least jokes and such which Marty finds clever and amusing.
I will make two or three new vids per week, and will continue with this effort for those of you still old fashioned enough, like me, to want to read. But if you actually (and I wouldn't know why) want to see my smiling face, I'll fire up tomorrow with a link and invite on Facebook.
I plan on my vlogs being short, in the two to three minute each range due to the shortened attention spans of so many of us in this face paced day and age. Hell, I'm already bored with it, so I can imagine an audience reaction.
We'll see what happens. Wish me luck...or does break a leg apply?
Tomorrow I begin a video blog.
I've already recorded the opening segment. I just have decide on the finishing touches. I'm going to keep it light if occasionally pointed. When I get serious I intend to be mere honestly poignant. In short, it will be most likely along the lines of what you've read (and thank you, I appreciate all who've read my ramblings) only with yours truly directly relating the tales and jokes and sometimes outright lies which I may over time produce.
I want it to be fun. As I say, many will be rehashes of old stories but I plan to throw in generous portions of new stuff. And Marty original comedy. Well, at least jokes and such which Marty finds clever and amusing.
I will make two or three new vids per week, and will continue with this effort for those of you still old fashioned enough, like me, to want to read. But if you actually (and I wouldn't know why) want to see my smiling face, I'll fire up tomorrow with a link and invite on Facebook.
I plan on my vlogs being short, in the two to three minute each range due to the shortened attention spans of so many of us in this face paced day and age. Hell, I'm already bored with it, so I can imagine an audience reaction.
We'll see what happens. Wish me luck...or does break a leg apply?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
