Monthly Archives: November 2017

Humor, Uncategorized

A Higher Dosage of Nothing

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Announcement: I am accepting appointments for my new R&B / Urban door singing service, just in time for the yuletide festivities. It’s called GIFT RAP.

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Time-saving tip #24: If you are sufficiently lazy, anywhere in the house can technically become a fireplace pretty quickly.

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Now that my mother-in-law Julia’s 82nd birthday has passed, she’s decided to have her eye surgery. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that we switched one of her 2 “cats” with a raccoon last year.

We’ve decided to wait until after the surgery to tell her unless she figures it out sooner. We assume she will announce the discovery with a high, piercing scream, similar to the one which woke Darla from her 22-hour nap on Nov. 8th last year.

Once her eyesight improves following her surgery, she’s going to be surprised by a few other things, too. Those surprises though I will leave for another day.

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My mother-in-law’s cataract doctor, Dr. Marty Feldman, gives each patient of his a personal guarantee that their eyes will not only have improved vision but will also look as good as his once the procedure is completed.

Don’t be nervous, Julia!

We are all behind you. Hiding, but still – we’re behind you.

PS: How much do you know about raccoons?
Love, X

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I’m starting a hybrid fast-food place: Taco Bill. It fuses bbq and tex-mex, and the fabulous punchline I wrote for the end of this joke is unbearably insensitive.

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I too worked as a 9-1-1 Dispatcher for the City of Springdale.

…at least until some guy identifying himself as “The Captain” ran in and yanked my headset off my and reminded me that I didn’t work there.

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Life can be such a startling slap in the face.

As I walked around a building this morning, I heard screaming. I ran through the dark to find a woman being thrown out of a vehicle. As she vainly tried to extricate a bag from the back the car tore away. The woman sobbed. It was a heart-wrenching sound.

It was one I heard too often in my youth.

I calmed her down and listened to her. Another person walked by and I told her it was okay and motioned for her to get help while I listened. After a couple of minutes someone did come out and I wished the sobbing woman well.

But the sound of her scream will linger in my day. I’m sure of it.

Her life will need a lot of supoort in the coming months.

That man, whoever he was, he might not realize how closely he came to feeling the wrath bubbling from my youth.

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My colleague Jake Elliot just finished the course requirements for his Early Soviet Economics degree. He’s finally a Lenin-grad.

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I heard that the new guy James Covert was starting work today. But I can’t find him anywhere.

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I invented a new hybrid breakfast decongestant cereal: Halls and Oats.

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I walked a mile in his shoes because the parable instructed me to do so.

He had a lot of questions, such as “How did you get in my house?” and “Why do your feet smell like rotten avocados?”

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At work today, I pondered the Kennedy assassination – but only because my supervisor made me feel like I was with him on the gassy knoll.

(This joke won’t work if you misread it….)

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As you may have heard my good friend Chip Mhoon was in a collision on N. College.

He was exiting Whole Foods and hit an accountant head-on.

He is okay but his car was sub-totalled.

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Time-saving tip #24: If you are sufficiently lazy, anywhere in the house can technically become a fireplace pretty quickly.

Personal, Social Rules

70 Degrees of Daylight Savings Time in November

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I’m not sure if it was 3 a.m., 4, or 5, given the reach of idiotic daylight savings time. Want to have more daylight? Get up earlier. (But not so early as to infest my beloved early morning treks across our shared urban landscape, please.) Daylight savings is proof beyond reproach that we can collectively tolerate some of the most outlandish and ridiculous impositions.

It was 70+ degrees this morning, another bit of lunacy to match the time change debacle we all are experiencing. The wind was howling and the moon was huge in the early morning sky. I parked at an old, vacant church and walked roads I had never walked upon. Since the roads were all mine at that hour, I walked down the middle of the highway, the wind whipping me. At the low point of one of the valleys, the wind carried the glasses from the perch atop my head. I was wearing shorts and briefly considered walking shirtless, the idea of such a thing in November making me chuckle.

At a considerable distance from my car, two dogs confined by a fence howled and jumped into the air to express their disdain at my presence. Against my better judgment, I approached and spoke to them in a low voice, putting my right hand across the barrier of the fence. Being left-handed, I decided I could afford to feed my right one to them, if necessary, in the pursuit of comforting a canine or two. It turned out that the only danger from those two howlers was one of being licked to death. I think I could have stayed in that spot and petted them both until noon, given the enthusiasm and whimpering they repaid me for petting them. As I left them behind, they ran around in circles, happy, barking at the night. It was my hope that the owners were in bed, listening and wondering what nonsense their dogs had begun.

Toward the end of long arc away from where I parked, one large house caught my attention. It was a 2-story house, or 3, depending on whether the owners considered the top to be for storage of disliked in-laws or their hoarded possessions. Its yard was massive, suitable for riding horses or playing a full game of soccer. Every light in the house was on. Most of the windows were large and beautifully inset. Given that I had quite a long view of the house, I watched it with interest to see if anyone would pass in front of the windows. No one did. Except for the entire structure being internally lit, there was no sign of life or movement. As creative as I consider myself to be, I couldn’t devise any reasonable explanation for it.

Returning, I noted an ambulance parked about 50 feet from my car, the doors open wide, and a stretcher sitting parallel to the ambulance. At first, I couldn’t tell if anyone was on the stretcher. It was an unusual sight in the Sunday morning dark. I watched for a minute to catch any movement. None materialized.

Across the intersection, the bright moon hung high above, illuminating the cemetery at the crossroads. Above, the spires and wires of a 6-line high voltage tower marched across the landscape. I walked across the intersection before leaving, leaning against the fence facing the cemetery. I bid the silent occupants a good morning as I turned and departed, leaving their stones to have their daily exchange with the moon as it looked down upon them.

Off I went, to take advantage of this mysterious hour the powers that be insisted that I agree to accept, even as none of the clocks surrounding me could reach an agreement on what time it actually was.

 

Personal, Razorback Greenway

Saturday Morning Considerations

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The fog was thick this morning, enveloping everything. It looked like a 1970s bingo hall – and just as promising. The hilltop towers seemed to be just floating red orbs, blinking their presence. For November, I was once again pleased to see that I didn’t need a jacket to walk in comfort. I had on pants, though, for the comfort of any potential onlookers.

Leaving the house, I toyed with the idea of pranking one of my neighbors. He came home yesterday afternoon, probably under the influence again, and sat in his vehicle in the road, windows down, radio blaring at an insane volume. His issues aren’t limited to alcohol, though. I have an ongoing bet with myself regarding how long it is going to be before he kills someone, and I’m not referring to his poor fashion choices, either. At least I haven’t seen him urinating in broad daylight in a few days. I keep an eye on him because I hope to be as classy as he is one day. It would have been so easy to startle him awake at 4 a.m., the stupor of bad choices and a mean spirit still thick in his eyes. PS I did confuse him yesterday. I exited the house through the back door, went around the opposite side of the house and entered my car from the passenger side. I then hit the horn a couple of times, holding it for a few seconds, dipping my upper body below sight as I did so. It amused me but also made me a tad sad because, in a just world, I would have been able to fling open the front door, aim a bazooka, and launch the raucous neighbor into the stratosphere.

I added a couple of versions of the theme song to “Stranger Things” to my playlist, knowing the eeriness of the music would be perfect for this warm November morning. I wasn’t disappointed, either. As I walked along the Razorback Greenway, I looked up at the largest of our local cell towers. It loomed like an alien monolith, partially obscured by the fog. I had parked at Lokomotion, the only car within sight, and walked from there. As I often do, I paused in the middle of 71 below the mall, the neon promise of a slow death by grease flashing behind me in the guise of a Golden Corral sign. I just can’t help myself. There is something sublime and glorious about my solitary status in the middle of such a major road, absent cars, people, and the demands that will choke the pavements as the day progresses. I stood there a full minute, looking both directions and only chose to move along when headlights crested the hill between the Mall and Zion Road.

I walked a long distance on the portion of the trail intersecting 71 near Golden Corral. It’s a beautiful stretch. At 4 a.m., when you start walking, the building on top of the hill at the edge high above the trail looks like an imposing modern castle. The light emanating from the commercial behemoth above is surprisingly filtered, yet somehow casts an eerie light across the trees, creeks, and brush below, similar to a surgical room with a dimmer set to “starting anesthesia,” if such a setting were possible. I laughed when I encountered the “Speed Limit 15” sign along that section. I could have been riding a rocket through there this morning. The only thing to slow me would have been the mass of spider webs I collected as I walked. I managed to get several in my mouth, too, which is always a surprise. As far as I know, no spiders were present. As for the speed limit, I vote that we allow cyclists to go 40 mph if they can. The dropoffs on the other side are spectacular and I can think of nothing more amusing as a careless cyclist flings himself off the side to the creek far below, the theme song to “Dukes of Hazzard” echoing in the leaves as I laugh.

“Welcome to Johnson” the concrete inlay indicated ahead of an elegant bridge near the creek. I looked around, half expecting to see one of their finest on a small bicycle, loaded with a million dollars of hardware and 3 radar guns, just waiting to issue me a ticket for having sunglasses too tinted or failing to indicate a turn by morse code. The one good thing about getting a ticket in Johnson is that it invariably is written in crayon and in the language and font most commonly used on Chik-Fil-A billboards. I’m not bitter about the Johnson police; likewise, though, they shouldn’t get defensive when I use satire to mock them. They should have thought of that while submitting me to the shenanigans of their playbook. “Never start a fight with an ugly person,” and “Don’t argue with someone who buys ink by the gallon” are both true for a reason.

The trail section through the area, though, is hauntingly pretty. Oddly enough, though, I’ve never seen it in actual daylight. There are a few trees along that mile stretch which should be removed. I’m glad they haven’t been, though, especially now that they’ve dropped their leaves. Their limbs now reach craggily across the trail, wide and expansive. They are a sight to behold in diminished light of early morning. I’ve always loved the look of leafless trees, even those already dying. If I could afford it, I would have a tree similar to the one gracing the entrance to Crystal Bridges Museum.

The trail was mine this morning, as is usually the case. I saw no one and found the tranquility so compelling that I removed my headphones for almost all of the walk. It’s still hard for me to believe that other people aren’t out there in the dark. The trails are such a treat and the world is a different place during those hours.

On the way home, I stopped at the neighborhood market, the one which looks like it is being redesigned by an expert on urban torture. Dawn and I went to Harps yesterday afternoon. I had to dig in the freezer section for her to reach a few Lean Cuisine pizzas. (Which, by the way, are exceedingly good.) I didn’t check the dates. Dawn had already wisely decided to ignore the yogurt selection, as it suffered from the “O Brother Effect,” meaning everything in the selection range was at least two weeks out of expiration. When we arrived home, Dawn discovered that Harps had once again punched us in the face with poor inventory control. Harps is a place we want so much to love – but we can’t. The location near us is like a brother-in-law with a heart of gold but also suffering from a massive heroin addiction. (He’ll give you the shirt off his back but sell your dog.) The Gutenshon location is such a massive upgrade from our branch. Dawn was surprising her mom with a cake, though, and she had ordered one from that location.

As I wandered around the market, I had several encounters which amused and confused me. Several areas were roped off due to store redesign and I stopped to ask a question. The employee looked at me as I asked and just walked off. I laughed at his brazenness. He might not have spoken English very well but I’m not sure walking away without comment is the correct choice. I could be wrong though. Maybe my picture was on a “Warning” sign in the breakroom?

The next question I lobbed at two women holding either scanners or stolen Star Trek phasers. It’s tough to know that early in the morning. “Where are the canned vegetables?” They looked at one another, spoke a few quiet words back and forth. One of them said, “We don’t know.” They turned and walked away. I made a mental note to write J.D. Powers and nominate them for some kind of award.

I went around past the hideous meat section and found a small cadre of employees in front of a massive stack of supplies on the floor. The younger male was a few feet away, watching a video on his phone. Just because I was now in a mood to engage in tomfoolery, I stepped slightly behind him, acted like I was looking at his phone and said, “PORN?!” in a very loud outdoor voice. Everyone froze and looked at me, standing behind the young man holding his phone out. I pantomimed and pointed at his phone and laughed. He jerked the phone in the other direction and put it in his pocket.

“I wasn’t looking at porn. This guy is crazy,” he told the other workers.

“I know what I saw!” I said, jokingly.

Still laughing, I asked them where the canned vegetables were. One of the girls pointed back behind me and I walked away. I could feel the porn guy’s eyes drilling holes in my backside as I sauntered away.

I left the store without any canned corn. But I had something much greater: a great story to amuse myself with.

Humor, Music

Don’t Take Notes! A Cautionary Tale

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When I attended the University of Toledo I took 4 semesters of music theory. It’s a world-renowned musical arts university, eclipsing even that of the famed Cincinnati Arts College. As part of the curriculum, I was required to attend several lectures by prominent composers and music composition experts. I considered opting out for religious reasons, as the university adopted a policy that stipulated that music theory was just a theory, like evolution, and if you wanted to pretend it wasn’t a real thing, no one would stop you. Even percussionists were allowed to invoke the rule but due to their chronic lateness, we couldn’t be sure they ever heard about the exemption.

Before each outing, the professor would always look at the students sitting in front of him and insist that we take notes. It was a refrain we heard as often as “good morning.” I knew he was going to be a pain in the ass the first time I heard him speak, right after he told us that he started learning music on the clarinet. Reed instruments are the byproduct of devilish design – a fact well-known in music circles but seldom expressed so as to not harm the delicate feelings of those unlucky enough to have been cursed with reed instrument afflictions.

In my last semester of music theory, I was lucky enough to get an invitation to Fred Winnebago’s solo performance at the Nancy Drew Arts Project. Fred had just had his 6th major symphony recorded and was doing musical presentations around the country. Interestingly, his prosthetic leg didn’t slow him down very much.

Before the performance, Fred Winnebago took 30 minutes to lecture the audience about his musical methods. My professor had already done the introduction and once again reminded us to “Take notes!”

As the curtain opened, Fred sat at an ornate piano. The lights dimmed. As Fred’s fingers began to press the ivories, no sound emerged. Fred seemed confused and removed his hands from the keyboard. After a moment, he once again dropped his fingers lightly to the keys and began to move his fingertips over them. No sound whatsoever.

The professor stepped out from backstage, tentatively, holding a microphone up so that he could speak.

“It seems as if we are having technical difficulties,” the music professor began.

“Yes, you shouldn’t have told us to take notes – now there aren’t any left to play,” someone shouted from the back.

After a long, loud collective groan of mock disgust from the audience, we broke out in applause.

Even the professor, who now seemed uninterested in anyone taking more notes.