Another Final Blog By The Same Old Rob Adcox

Good Dr. Patel (Chapter Selection: Rough Draft)

2021-09-23T11:27:00.003-04:00

"Did you really think you would get away with it?", asked the man whose badly-burned face was scarcely covered by what appeared to be a mismatched set of prosthetics. The voice, unusually gravelly, was no doubt the result of heavily-damaged vocal chords. "Your first mistake was coming back. You left me for dead here", lamented a man who used to be recognized as Dr. Patel. "I suppose it's ironic to call any room in this morgue home, but after the oxygen explosion and subsequent investigation, they stripped me of my license. I'm screwed all the way around, kid". Patel fired up a Winston. "I tell myself that these things will eventually kill me. Probably a good thing. Hey, with any luck at all maybe I'll satisfy a nicotine fit one night and set off a methane pocket in here. Kill myself and collapse the old building down onto me. Kind of a two-for-one deal, and easier to explain to the insurance company. You know, my kids won't come anywhere near me, not that I blame them. Still, they are my kids and I want to provide for them -even if you took that option away from me by not following protocol." Carl could barely glance upon the former surgeon without feeling a wave of revulsion.

"Did I tell you Winick hangs around here these days? You remember him. He lost half of his right hand in the accident. Said something about returning the favor. I don't recall him mentioning anesthesia, though. 

Free Time

2020-04-24T02:51:00.000-04:00

I don't know what to say because I haven't written anything in awhile. There is one thing I might try. You know, to see how it goes.

In intro psych, which I endured for an entire school year way back during the end of Carter's term, we learned the basics of free association. Hopefully, that will fill up enough space to make this look like an article while allowing enough room for a dry cleaning ad.

I tried free association with a psychiatrist once. He assumed that I was schizophrenic, so I had to take Haldol for months. Or maybe the assumption was made because, during a Rorschach test, I thought I saw a gorilla lifting a barbell while admiring himself in a mirror. If the Rorschach weren't a projective test, I swear I could almost have laughed.

The Free Association Technique, for some reason or another, always makes me think of food and I gain weight following the technique. (There's a joke in there.)

Free association is actually fun when you don't feel resistant to opening up and you know that your doctor doesn't take you all that seriously. However, if either of those conditions isn't met, one of two things will probably occur: either you feel too uncomfortable to say what's on your mind ("when I was seven, I got caught peeing on a neighbor's bush" may be on your mind, but if you don't know your doctor would you be comfortable telling him that?), or you do feel comfortable about spilling your guts to a doctor who may be considering reserving a room for you where Xanax is free and the windows only open from outside.

Sorry. That last sentence was longer than Bernie Madoff's.

Every few minutes or so, I lean back in my Broyhill chair and look up at the ceiling fan. That always reminds me of the beginning of Apocalypse Now, when Martin Sheen's character confused the sound of a ceiling fan with the rotating blades of a Huey that had come to take him to his next duty assignment. Mine is dustier. I stare at the thing hoping not to distract myself from that fact that I'm trying to think of something to say. It occurs to me, looking at Glacier Bay's finest, that maybe there's no such thing as Schizophrenia. Maybe there's only the inability, by some, to segue between thoughts. I can segue like a pro when I'm not tired and I have something to write about. Wouldn't be awful to be thought of as crazy because you don't include "speaking of that..." in conversation? What some may perceive as Schizophrenia may actually be parsimony.

I empathize with my brothers and sisters who have Schizophrenia. I don't, but I do have a Bipolar disorder and that sometimes drives me to evade segues in an attempt to be parsimonious.

Speaking of that, we Bipolars also like to cut to the chase when we're feeling "up". On the other hand, when we're feeling low we can really go off on tangents. I loved writing term papers in college, and I feel sorry for every proff who had to give me pointers regarding avoiding tangents in my term papers.

I took Xanax, they took tranquilizers and wine.

Sorry to drag you into this. I don't think I'm going anywhere with this rambling other than to have a little fun and to get back into writing. Oh, and maybe to inspire a few people to wonder what the hell my problem is.

That's okay, though. It's 2:48 AM and I had some free time.

Of Boxers And Coffee Tables: A Letter To My Dog

2018-03-24T04:34:00.002-04:00

The following is a letter which I should have written to my dog. Being a Boxer, he would have been too stubborn to read it.

Dear Dube,

I believe we recently had a heart-to-heart talk regarding your proclivity for snacking on the corners of the coffee table. I'd like to hear your comments upon your having read this letter.

First, I wish to remind you that Gravy Train and Gains-Burgers are both sufficiently high in fiber. Now, I realize that the hardwood (which is of an unknown wood) provides your teeth and gums with a lovely workout. However, I believe that the beef knuckle, which mom brought home from the butcher, should have provided such dental hygiene. As a dog of your ninety-five pound stature can express, that was readily apparent by the loud cracking sound which brought certain family members running to investigate the sound's source. Who knew that even a cattle bone can shatter like that?

The fact that you were able to crack the rather heavy bovine bone with such mandibular prowess indicates to me that you knew the risks which you placed upon one of Grand Home Furnishing's finest living room offerings.

And yet, the fact that you chose to go beaver on the living room's centerpiece indicates a suspicious degree of impulsiveness on your part.

Now, to be clear I love you. Any dog who can lip synch opera music, which mom happened to be listening to while grading papers, is certainly one who can attract any heart. (I don't think you were actually yawning, by the way.) And yes, I love you even though you do steal my dirty clothes from my laundry basket and occasionally stop off at the hallway bathroom for a nightcap. But you have to admit that snacking on the furniture is a poor substitute for being productive.

Which brings us to the immediate issue: when do you intend to find a job so that you can pay for the damage? I realize that you can't drive yourself to work since (a) you don't have your own car, and (b) since you couldn't reach the pedals anyway. Please keep in mind that I'll be happy to drive you to and from work, and even sit with you during your interview. (As a reminder, you'll need to do something about your breath. I can appreciate the importance of good hygiene and manners, but PLEASE do everyone involved a favor and don't lick your butt while at work.) Be advised that if you don't find some source of income, I'll have to dock your allowance until the table has been repaired and refinished.

The Boxer breed is highly mischievous, which I adore. I hope that you won't take that as a green light to continue chewing the wood trim between the window panes in the living room window no matter how many squirrels you see outside, however. It would be better for the entire family, including you, if you were to find a hobby, or at least renew your library card.

One more thing: I love you unconditionally. I think you learned that last Wednesday, when you jumped onto my bed and pushed me out of it. Did I complain? Well, yes, but at least the doctor said that the concussion wasn't a serious one.

Please relay to Bouncer that I love him too, and I forgive him for what he did under the pool table the other day.

Your big brother,

Rob

All Keyed Up

2017-07-31T23:44:00.000-04:00

Workouts are wonderful experiences.

Among other things, they contribute to the flow of endorphins, lead to lowered blood pressure, and a sense of accomplishment. A good workout can lead to a day of happiness.

Usually.

Today was a bit of an exception to that long-supported rule. This afternoon, I went to the gym to engage in my usual routine of lifting, stretching, walking, and several other -ings amidst my fellow exercisers, all equally determined to earn that day of happiness if it killed them.

I had bench-pressed proudly, which isn't really a bench press unless you grunt loudly enough to impress the lady over on the abductor machine, who's now walking away very quickly out of concern that one more grunt may signal either a hernia or an alien emerging from a gore fest of matter, blood, and whatever you put on that slice of pizza last night which you know you weren't supposed to eat because of your blood pressure.

Moving on the oblique machine (which is an absolutely wonderful piece of equipment, and due to its singularity often leads to several people racing to see who can get to it first), I set the machine to the familiar seating height and selected the amount of weight suitable for my 56 year old body. Bending forward, I performed my first crunch. Something didn't quite seem right, but I couldn't quite place my finger on it. Anyway, crunch two didn't erase that nagging feeling that something was wrong. Crunch, crunch, crunch.

Something stabbed me in the right thigh.

I didn't want to take a chance that the machine was out of calibration in some weird way, so I decided that I'd exercise my oh-so-manly biceps. Having adjusted the machine's seat, I once again selected the appropriate amount of weight and had at it like NFL spring training.

The stabbing pain returned, and this time it felt like it was stabbing me down my thigh. "Something is wrong with this place", I mused. "Maybe they need to call an exterminator." With that in mind, I decided that it was time to go do something else for a day or two. As is my custom. I reached into my pockets to make sure I didn't have any paper towels which I always get prior to my workouts. Wiping machines clean after using them is common courtesy, after all.

My car keys were missing.

In fact, my car, apartment, mailbox and several other keys were now gone the way of aircraft in the Bermuda Triangle.

Under such circumstances it's my preferred emotional defense mechanism to shift the blame for my loss. Freud calls it projection. I call it convenience, if also immaturity. "some crumb bum stole my keys!" I said in a voice not loud enough to be heard over the in-depth story about the latest Dallas Cowboys player having gotten a speeding ticket or something, splashing across the tv screen courtesy of ESPN. I took a shortcut through the mavens of stationary bike professionals, who have been proudly sculpting muscle mass on their thighs since 1998, to the service desk. "Can you help me?" I half-shouted to the lady behind the desk while Olivia Newton-John's ghost from 1981 belted out "Let's Get Physical" over the Muzak machine's 400 or so strategically placed speakers. "Has anyone turned in a set of keys?" The lady informed me that since no one had, she'd be willing to help me look for them. We had taken all of four steps back into the workout area when her rather keen hearing directed her attention to cuff of my right legging. "Are you jingling?" she asked me, with no small amount of surprise in her eyes.

In fact, the hole in my right front pocket -barely large enough for a key ring to slip through- had allowed my keys to play an evasion and escape game with me, taking several opportunities to impale my leg en route to my cuff and sock.

The next several minutes were filled with apologizing, thanking, and feeling both stupid and ashamed for having assumed that someone had had nothing better to do than reach into my pocket. All of this was bound with a strong sense of guilt. I'm thankful to the lady who detected my keys by being able to hear them rattling around. I left feeling very relived, which was a real blessing for me.

It beats being all keyed up.

A Clean Sweep

2017-01-11T05:31:00.000-05:00

Recently my mother asked me what I'd like for my birthday.

That's a loaded question for a guy who dreams of owning his own machine shop so he can "repurpose" shopping carts into room-for-one vehicles capable of topping one-hundred fifty miles per hour.

Ah, but then reality set in, which sometimes appears more mundane than a Barney Miller rerun. Thinking sacrificially of needs rather than wants, I imparted my need for a new vacuum cleaner (turns out that maturity is painful, and best left to adults). "You got it" was the reply I received over my Motorola Android Razorback Twin-Supercharged Megadata Blaster phone.

Before I get into the result of my mom's generosity, let me describe the vacuum it was replacing. Constructed of bright yellow plastic -apparently the same type used in the manufacture of 1960s Trim-Line phones, it seemed to be impervious to anything, including the dirt which it was designed to pick up. I once dropped it when I was carrying it back to the closet, and tripped over a porcelain dog sculpture in the living room. Anything else of that size and mass would have at least cracked under its own weight.

This thing didn't. It bounced.

It was a vacuum in the academic sense. It had a motor which spun rotors. It made a long, continuous inhaling sound not unlike a room filled with Zen Buddhist monks releasing energy verbally. And it had a container for the dirt it was supposed to sweep but didn't. Whenever I cleaned my home, I'd follow up with trotting out the yellow pretender -not so much to clean the floor but to go through the motions. It was about this time last year that the only way I could clean the carpet along the baseboards was by buying cheap duct tap at the dollar store and sticking it along the corners in a desperate attempt to pick up things that I either can't or won't describe in case you're eating while reading this, even though some of them were still moving. Somehow, housework never seemed complete without at least hearing the sound of a vacuum cleaner.

Enter the new Hoover.

Thrilled with the prospect of seeing what color my carpet originally was, I began pulling the new addition to the family out of its cardboard box, along with all of its extra parts.

And pulling...

...and pulling...

...and pulling. Finally removing the final bag of parts from the container, I opened Roanoke's new Hoover assembly line in anticipation of seeing what my carpet actually looked like under approximately four years' worth of dust. "Seems like it was some neutral color", I missed to myself as I attached some gizmo which looked like a stage prop to Star Wars III. "Too bad I'm a little colorblind. Otherwise, I could fully marvel at the berber under my feet."

I hadn't felt this psyched about anything since that time when I lived in New Mexico and goaded my former landlord into a chase on the interstate. The carpet was at least two shades lighter than I remembered. And the smell! What I had originally thought was a sinus hallucination turned out to be dust-free air. It felt less arid than it had for years. Frankly, I had felt, well, desiccated for want of a better word. Who knew it was humid in Virginia?

Eventually I healed from the first use of the vacuum. I didn't mention that the cord is both retractable and long. As I finished the inaugural sweep, I shut off Hoover's finest and stepped on the pedal which draws the cord back onto its spool.

I forgot to unplug it first.

Conveniently enough, I had plugged it into a wall outlet in the kitchen -right behind three bottles of balsamic vinegar and olive oil. Let me say right here, and emphatically so, that a vacuum cleaner like this one really comes in handy for such situations even if it doesn't come with a first aid kit. The plug shot around the corner, missing a portrait and raking me across the cheek. The welt took longer to heal than the broken glass, which I cleaned with a broom and a piece of cardboard. The ramen noodles, which I had left on the counter in anticipation of a snack, were whisked onto the floor where they suffered one of the most devastating explosions since the crash test dummies were hired by Chrysler to test the interior safety of the Cordoba.

In all, the vacuum has contributed to my health, welt notwithstanding. My home is clean. Olive oil and vinegar were replaced. The cord was wrapped more tightly than I was during midterms.

I was swept off my feet.

Living Simply

2016-07-04T00:21:00.000-04:00

I don't understand marketing.

I'll qualify that. I don't know whether or not I understand why certain brand names sell and others don't. I'm certain that no one would buy a laxative called "At Least It's Laundry Day".

Names for products and services are trendy because their originators are intent on capturing the most up-to-date fads and styles in an effort to appeal to a specific market. Really savvy businesses not only conduct surveys, they also invite potential customers to take part in "focus groups", which seem to me to be a fancy way of saying "representative sample of a desired population". Put another way, focus groups appear to be created by business people as a means to tell a given group of people, "you should eat Bongo-Bongo Peanut Butter And Vodka Corn Flakes because two guys and a gal from Boxers Or Briefs Idaho seem to like them.

This bothers me for multiple reasons. First, I feel left out. I have never received an email, phone call, or postcard inviting me to determine the future success of some up-and-coming company. I think it would be pleasant to be ushered into some corporate setting, invited to sit on a corporate chrome-and-fabric office chair, and asked, on a scale of one to ten, how much I enjoy taunting fish with neoprene rubber swim fins.

Secondly, the names of some products and services are so transient that one wonders what their originators were thinking. I can tell you that I literally had to swallow my Bongo-Bongo Corn Flakes the other day when I came across yet another long-hackneyed "Creative Concepts" business logo. That was uber hip in the nineties. Not so much now.

I'm also bothered by overused motifs for business products. The other day while en route to a supermarket I passed a beauty salon called "Simply Coiffed". Perhaps the salon owner decided to take a minimalist approach to advertising his or her services. (I noted that there was no "Simply Lipstick" sign on the shop next door.) Normally, this wouldn't have registered in my memory. But I began to notice a trend when I opted to buy my favorite brand of citrus drink. I began musing about this as I placed three bottles of "Simply Lemonade" in my basket. I can appreciate the desire to "get back to basics". Maybe the word "simply" in a logo is meant to convey the message that the economy is weak, so we're cutting back to less-involved kinds of product names. I'll worry when I see "Simply Defibrillators" on sale at medical supply houses. I know that it would be a real letdown to see "Doesn't Smell Like An Old Fireplace" laundry detergent retailing at a lower cost than the good stuff with the teddy bear and Febreeze on the label.

Why can't we drop the nonsense and give names to goods which encourage consumers to buy them? I'd much rather head to the checkout with a bag of "Cookie Addiction" than with "These Almost Have Flavor". While we're on the subject, every shampoo I've ever used promises to make my hair "manageable", "silky soft", "radiant", and "luxurious" -practically to be nominated for an Oscar due to my gorgeous tresses and their "swingy, vibrant" qualities. (And I thought power words were for resumes. Silly, radiant me.)

The whole issue has me feeling tired of the pretense, including the disingenuous appearance to "harken back to a simpler time" with pseudo-honest branding. As far as I can tell, no one seems to be interested in either grandiose product names or Spartan ones. My favorite brand of lemonade might as well be called "Here's Your Drink, Pal. Try Not To Spill It On The Rug This Time." Living simply doesn't necessitate depriving ourselves of interesting brand names.

I simply wanted to make a point.

The Dube Memoirs

2016-05-27T02:03:00.000-04:00

The other night I was reminiscing about Dube.

If only you had known him. Dube (pronounced "Doo Bee", as in the Romper Room Doo Bee) bounded into our lives Christmas Eve 1974. My parents said they had some "last minute" Christmas shopping but would be home in a couple of hours.

To this day I'm unclear why his former owners gave him that name, especially considering the spelling. My memory is clear, however, of how we met.

At age thirteen, I was going through a tough time at school. The eighth grade isn't easy for anyone. For me that included the onset of a Bipolar disorder (which to this day I swear that dog somehow incorporated into his own psyche). I was in the living room with my grandmother playing Chinese Checkers. I was sitting on the floor, half-engaged with the game which was on the coffee table. My back was to the front door.

I wasn't sure whether my imagination was playing tricks or not. It turns out that it was the sound of a one year old, galloping ninety-five pound Boxer -a sound which lasted for perhaps half of a second before impact. What felt like the entire defensive line of the Pittsburgh Steelers suddenly on my back was followed quickly by a forced faceplant into the carpet and a cold, wet nose in my ear. As quickly as I had been tackled, I was on my feet and marveling at the rapidly disappearing hind quarters of my soon-to-be best friend. We let him roam the house, investigating all of the rooms (and stealing clothes from my clothes hamper). In less than one second, our lives were forever changed by someone who would engage in no end of antics, including eating (and I do mean eating, not merely chewing) all four corners of the coffee table when his palate didn't fancy a window pane, linebackering my poor dad, eating apples from an apple tree in the back yard -leaving the cores still hanging on the trees (!), joyfully dragging bags of trash through the house when we were all at work or school, leaving all of mom's shoes on the stairs with various degrees of chew marks, sleeping on the sofa and/or using it as his personal napkin, constantly egging me on to an infinite number of wrestling matches, and putting an exclamation mark on all of this by charging across the basement at full speed and headfirst through the patio door.

That was the first time I discovered that mom took valium.

My closest friends all knew and loved him. And what wasn't to love, from that docked tail to those pointy ears and permanent mischevious facial expression which was a spot-on match for the earliest Marmaduke comics. He loved all of my friends and treated each one of them differently. His intelligence level constantly made me rethink everything I did at home. Leave food on the counter? He reached it no matter how far back one pushed it. A bowl of cereal errantly left for a moment at the kitchen table was a near-certain casualty. He couldn't reach the top of the table, but that didn't stop him. On more than one occasion I returned to find him sitting at the table eating my breakfast! This was a real feat since the chairs swiveled. One morning I thought I'd get even by spinning the chair, effectively chasing him out of it. In true Boxer spirit, he hunkered down a little and gave me a very mischevious "make it go faster. I dare you" look.

They say that the first year of development in a dog's life is equivalent to fourteen years in a human's. That might explain why in our household I had to compete with him for pack status. I'm sure that in his mind, anyone who can learn to open doors and gates, get even with the Beagle who lived down the street, and keep everyone within four blocks in any direction on their toes must be worthy of some serious Boxer street cred.

I miss him to this day. I'm convinced that he's in Heaven, waiting for the rest of the family and friends to catch up. Not that I'm in a hurry to die, but seeing him again will bring closure to the loneliness I've felt without him over the years. On the other hand, I'm happy for him. He's in Heaven, he's surely a delight to God, and he's with my dad.

I just hope he hasn't linebackered dad again.

The Worst of The Best

2016-05-26T01:39:00.000-04:00

Life was turmoil.

I was the least coordinated and least athletic kid who ever played Little League baseball. I made the team, I suspect, because some other kid's dad was offered a raise and a promotion which necessitated moving to another state. Being one left-handed kid short, whatever rightie got stuck with the unenviable task of playing first base while being right handed would likely have to think his way through the play whenever he had to throw to third base.

I empathize. I had to play third. Playing third while under the influence of Southpaw should be a crime in all fifty states. That extra half-turn meant Albert had just time to get to first. Worse, having to think one's way through throwing a ball usually had the consequence of throwing it so wildly that parents would occasionally duck and umpires would give me very stern looks.

My teammates all seemed self-confident, if not ready for tryouts with the Pittsburgh Pirates. I envied them. Sometimes it seemed like I was the only kid who felt outnumbered when at bat. Don't get me wrong. I loved playing the game. But there were times when I'd be at bat, noticing teammates on base with two outs and feeling the butterflies. in my stomach. That's usually when the pitcher would go into his windup and the entire world would disappear except for the baseball. And in that one magnificent moment, with the ball hanging in the air for a compartmented eternity I swear I could count every stitch on that baseball.

That reverie would then be broken by a cracking sound -I was usually completely unaware that I had swung and made contact with the ball. The moment was sometimes capped off with a good friend admonishing me from the dugout to "RUN, stupid!!" and me jogging my mounds of baby fat around two-hundred forty feet of baseline lovingly donated by some company looking for a tax write off.

The first time I ever played baseball, I noticed that all of the right-handed batters who didn't get called out went to first base. Being a rationally thinking kid, or so I thought, being left-handed must mean that I needed to run to third. I was perhaps halfway there before I heard my teammates and the line coach frantically telling me to go to first. I can still see, in my mind's eye, the look of absolute confusion on the opposing pitcher's face as I short-cutted across the pitcher's mound en route to being called out by an umpire who looked for all the world like he wanted to retire and escape this type of nonsense.

One learns a lot about baseball simply by playing it. For instance, I learned that daydreaming and playing first base is incompatible. One lovely June Saturday afternoon I was feeling on top of the world; school was out, I was playing baseball, and the only concerns I had in the world were cleaning my room, taking out the trash, and mowing the lawn. Granted, to a kid that's probably the adult equivalent of writing contracts for a major corporation or selling the company's product to a major wholesaler. For me, life couldn't get any better. I hadn't missed Scooby Doo that morning, I got the lawn mowed and out of the way, and I was already thinking of ways to blow my allowance (that '55 Chevy drag race car model kit is molded in yellow, so I should probably buy that one. Then the money I save on spray paint could go toward three or even four bottles of black paint for the chassis, and...) While I was ruminating about those kinds of things, in addition to worrying about whether or not I'd have enough money left over for candy bars and Coca-Cola, my left foot was resting comfortably on the first base bag. Staring slack jawed into my glove and marveling about how the day couldn't possibly get any better, my reverie was again broken by the crack of an opposing player at bat. The ball appeared in my glove before I could shake the self-debate between "Which is better: Hershey's or Nestle's?" from my mind. As if to put an exclamation mark on the moment, the ump standing near me yelled "YOU'RE OUT! at a very disgusted batter.

To this day, I have no idea how that ball found my glove. I was probably from a supportive teammate who wanted to win in spite of my cognitive magic carpet ride, but I occasionally wonder if it was a million-to-one short fly ball which happened to find just the right trajectory.

My apologies to all of my former teammates. I hope adult life has found you well and vice-versa. And if your church or business needs a substitute first baseman, you know where to find me.

I'll be at the concession stand where it's safe.

A Clean Sweep

2016-05-08T22:44:00.000-04:00

Holy cow.

My mother bought me an early birthday present -one which was badly needed, in fact. A vacuum cleaner with every bell and whistle sans headlight, this thing picks up so much dirt and dust in its self-contained plastic "tornado box" that it's a miracle I was able to breathe these past seven years.

Don't get me wrong. My old vacuum was a vacuum in the academic sense. It was an upright. It had a handle. It had a brush rotor which I believe actually spun until sometime in the late nineties. For some odd reason, it never seemed to pick dirt up from the floor although it always found a way to clog itself like a bus in a roundabout. The only good thing I can say about it (and I'm being kind here) is that it was a blinding solar yellow, so misplacing it was sure never to happen, assuming misplacing vacuum cleaners are common occurrences among American homes.

The Hoover MegaHemiTurbo II Upright Vacuum entered my home, ready for duty and its first "sweep and destroy" mission, some assembly required. An unassuming light green, this Clark Kent color belies the machine's true character; once the power button is clicked, I have to engage in hand to hand combat techniques imparted to me some three decades ago in security specialist training at Lackland Air Force Base. This is to protect my new coffee table, my television, and my bookcase, all of which my new vacuum apparently seems to want to devour in an all-out manic charge. If you've ever had the opportunity to block, trap, and redirect an upright vacuum cleaner, you'll know where I'm coming from. I may be developing Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, but I may have the cleanest carpet in the neighborhood.

Uncrating the new arrival was a bit of an ordeal; I immediately recognized the man body of the vacuum, but was at once both immediately horrified and fascinated by a tiny micro attachment which is reminiscent of the monster which pops out of the abdomen in "Alien". I still haven't used it.

Another feature which is nice -and scary- is the retractable cord. It's nice not to have to wrap the cord around and around as though I'm weaving a basket. On the other hand, after I stepped on the cord release pedal and the cord whipped from the kitchen, through the dining room, and into the living room, I'm pleased to say I was able to pick the toaster off of the floor and put it back on the counter. And my cheek will make a full recovery.

I can't help thinking, as cruel as it may seem, what it's going to be like the day I'm vacuuming and the vacuum picks up some insect. I mean. the whole middle of the vacuum is clear plastic, so you're looking right at all of the dirt you're picking up. Poor insect. It's going to be a Hoofer F5 tornado. I bet I can make it spin fifty miles per hour.

Actually, I hope that never happens. All I want is a clean home. This vacuum is a Godsend. Thank you, mom. The air in my home is immeasurably better. My lungs no longer feel as though they have a restrictor plate on them due to the dust.

Now if I can find some mag wheels for this baby...

Well Equipped For Weighty Issues

2015-10-06T03:38:00.002-04:00

Recently the health club I belong to replaced most of its exercise equipment. Evidenced by the looks on club members' faces, this was entirely unexpected. The expressions were reminiscent of several friends' faces in middle school when pop quizzes guaranteed a bad grade and a scolding by their parents.

Once one is used to the layout of a gym, knowing exactly where all of the equipment is located becomes a subconscious part of the routine. Somewhere, way down in the nether regions of one's predominant prefrontal cortex a long-established map reminds one that the crunch machine is directly across from the oblique machine currently occupied by that cute brunette number who seems perfectly content to show off her ability to occupy it for the next forty-five minutes while receiving no fewer than thirteen dirty looks from frustrated sales reps, underwriters, and guys named Eddie, all of whom had aspirations to firm and tone their midsections within the next three minutes or so.

In my case, the cognitive map was outdated the day forty or so new pieces of equipment arrived to replace the old.

To say we got lost would be an understatement. For some reason, the club thought it would be fun to mix everything up such that lower body machines would be interspersed among bicep-builders, bench press-type equipment, and the occasional fly machine (that's the one which makes you look like you're having an obsessive-compulsive episode trying to move your arms like the windshield wipers of a '39 Buick). An exercise routine which heretofore took an hour and fifteen minutes to complete became a two hour ordeal as we negotiated with other patrons, asking if they knew the whereabouts of the rowing machine, and informing them that the cute brunette number previously mentioned has already located the new oblique machine, in case they were looking for it. One of the members -a physician- alerted me to having used the new crunch machine too quickly. "You'll twist your back -and then where will you be?" was almost answered with, "most likely in your waiting room, reading the July 7th, 2012 edition of Sports Illustrated".

I noticed that they also changed the Muzak, which was a welcome relief from the badly-flogged rendition of "Cool Kids" which has a way of sneaking up on me whenever I'm anywhere near the treadmill. Judging from how well we patrons pulled together to help one another locate the new gear, I was mildly surprised not to hear the theme music from "Band of Brothers". I cannot imagine how much ibuprofen one would have to ingest in order to endure the same songs all day, every day, in order to earn an income. Then again, whenever they play "Hey Brother" perhaps it's meant as inspiration to coworkers to soldier on through an overabundance of synthesizers and tone-deaf singers.

The equipment is wonderful; there's no play due to new steel cables which won't have stretched beyond their capacity before Donald Trump takes over the Treasury Department by 2020. There were times when I would lift the handles on the old shoulder press machine, only to discover that the weights didn't actually move until my hands were almost scraping ceiling tiles. The workouts are honest. Guesstimating a workout, as it turns out, won't guarantee physical fitness unless getting in shape is theoretical.

Everyone seems to be settling in; as we familiarize ourselves with the additional (and entirely alien) handles on some of this stuff, we discover muscle groups which we were unaware of. And that's good. It's a weighty issue to have to rethink through one's fitness routine.

For that, we're well-equipped.

On The Ball

2015-09-25T04:45:00.001-04:00

That's a phrase which has always bothered me. As a kid I was a daydreamer, a dawdler, and an idealist. On occasions too numerous to mention I was admonished by my dad to "get on the ball", usually in regard to receiving a bad grade or carelessly going over a small tree branch while mowing the lawn. These days, I recall The Cliché when it occurs to me that I'm in slacking mode. That's why I felt it my duty to share that bit of advice recently -to a pen.

Having a Bipolar disorder is often a hassle for melodramatic reasons I'll spare you from (you're welcome), but occasionally a mild form of manic episode (called a "hypomanic episode") leads me to say some pretty impulsive things. And that, of course, draws the kind of attention which makes my socially anxious self want to blend into the wallpaper. One day, amidst a hypomanic episode, I was feeling very productive. I had completed several online grad school information requests and was in the process of taking notes of which schools I had sent those requests to when my pen inexplicably seized.

Now, I'm not exactly sure how to loosen the ball of a ball point pen when it stops turning. For that matter, I'm not exactly certain how, or why, the dumb thing knows how to spin in the first place. Seems to me that it would collapse under the pressure of being applied to the sheet of printer paper you're using to take notes on because your printer stopped working four years ago, mysteriously turning itself on and off between 2:37 and 4:12 AM., and because you actually think it's easier to write down the info than to hit "file" and "print". I am sure of my frustration over having a brand new pen collapsing under the sheer emotional pressure of seemingly having to takes notes. (Or am I projecting?)

I'm even more certain that stage-whispering at one's pen to "get on the ball!" is awkward, especially when others turn to see what the heck is going on, and should we call the rubber truck? "I've never actually seen someone pick a fight with a pen", they seem to muse while gathering their things as quickly and as quietly as possible, lest the big crazy guy with the grubby gray t shirt yells at them to "get on the ball", as though I'd somehow feel prone to chase them out of the county library shouting that command while weaving around SUVs and an occasional Fiat. More to the point (no pun intended), yelling at one's failing ink pen for not getting on the ball is even more awkward, considering. Seriously, not much is more irritating than having a need to make notes only to have a pen freeze up right when you're about to write down an important contact number. It doesn't matter that I had purchased an entire pack of Bics. It had become a matter of principle. I refused to lose a battle of wills to a stubborn punk pen. Digging in, I resolved to bear down on the already-overtaxed writing instrument.

Did you know that you can actually cause a pen to collapse? Specifically, if you really put pressure on one, you can make the tan-colored part "turtle" its way up into the shank. Seems to me that they'd be designed not to be susceptible to hypomanic note-takers. The paper was furrowed, literally, by the bottom of the shank, leaving a telltale blue line of ink on the table underneath, and where the now-displaced, furrowed paper used to be.

All was not lost; I managed to control my temper, successfully resisting the rather powerful temptation to further my wrath by yelling at public furniture. I took stock of my victory, and was thankful for it.

I was on the ball.

It Applies

2015-09-10T02:56:00.001-04:00

Ah, the joys of online job applications, said no one, ever.

All right, that little bit of snarkiness is old. It does, however, fill me with a certain comfortable degree of smugness.

Last night, while my exercise clothes were in the washing machine (thereby precluding a potential crime against humanity, judging from the odor of my socks), I took it upon myself to fill out an application for a low wage, part time job. In my day, one went to the place of business, requested a paper application (back before trees were on the endangered species list, apparently), sat in the parking lot while the radio belched out "Knight Fever", and quickly devised smooth ways of explaining exactly why you left your previous job. "Building accurate-scale models of the Eiffel Tower with forks during work hours" might explain how you came to be unemployed, but it doesn't allow much room for "upon further reflection, I feel that I've grown since that incident, for which I take full responsibility".

Online applications have certain advantages that paper ones lack. For example, making an error on the paper application leads one, inevitably, to an "uh-oh" moment. Oft-times I've had to perform surgery on a misspelled word, my Bic ballpoint pen being the scalpel of choice. Turning an N into a G is possible IF one minored in linguistics. I did. Online applications, of course, preclude the applicant from having to perform consonant surgery without a license. In fact, the backspace and delete buttons have saved more botched words than I care to recall, and have certainly saved me from anti-grammar lawsuits filed by Edwin Newman. Another favored word-surgery implement I cherish -cut and paste- has guaranteed that I wouldn't have to return to the business, quietly approach a different employee than the one I met the first time I requested an application, and ask for a second, all the while doing my best to appear competent despite evidence to the contrary.

On the other hand, submitting applications online has rather cheapened the job-seeking process in that one never can quite follow up to determine whether or not the job is still available, and to impart that NO one ever stocked green beans quite as well as I can.

Another issue regarding online applications pertains to an entirely misplaced screening process which I encountered the other night. Having completed the application process for kitchen work, I was directed to some unholy conglomerate of psychological testing to determine both my intelligence and my character. Excuse me. I'm not the smartest person around, but I'm familiar with the administrative scales of the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory II when I see them. The items I encountered, repeatedly, were set in place to test for consistency of responses, in addition to temperament, honesty, and emotional stability. I believe I was answering "sometimes it's okay to steal a little bit since everyone does it a little. Please choose true or false" while my now-clean socks were twerking about in the dryer. Somehow, it seemed more congruent to answer "false"; after all, how can one agree to that's okay to be dishonest when one has clean socks?

I'm still shaking my head. I'm pretty sure that a kitchen job shouldn't require a psychological background check rivaling that of a CIA applicant. Who cares that Jason has "had very peculiar and strange experiences" (item 33, MMPI II) as long as the dishwashing machine hasn't run out of soap? On the other hand, if he answered true to item 39, "At times I feel like smashing things", I'd feel more confident about the conglomerate's content validity. In any event, such testing is a bit high-falutin' for a minimum wage job, much like cloth napkins at McDonald's.

Seeking work is a fascinating, if sometimes aggravating, experience. I've learned a lot about how businesses sometimes respond to a sluggish economy by directing job seekers to take poorly-constructed psychometric tests which, hopefully, at least make Human Resources feel productive and weed out as many Jasons as possible. More to the point, I've learned not to give up. That goes for life in general.

It applies.

An Open Letter To WalMart

2015-08-19T17:14:00.001-04:00

Let me start by saying that I love to explore. Whether it's the terrain around the next curve, some topic under the letter K in the encyclopedia, or the source of that creaking sound emanating from some unseen portion of my home at 4:47 AM, I want to know what it's about.

It was that passion for exploration which led me to apply for work at WalMart online recently. Well, that, plus I'd like to earn a little more money.

Online job applications are typically straightforward. Questions such as, "Where have you worked most recently?", "What skills do you have which best suit you for the position you seek?", or even "How many years has it been since that last bottle rocket incident led to four thousand hours of community service?" are pretty routine. In fact, the sense of exploration has long since evaporated regarding filling out applications for Barney's Jigsaw Emporium's stockroom.

And then there's WalMart.

Allow me to correct and qualify that. And then there was WalMart. My application experience was, in a word, traumatic.

First of all, WalMart assumed, on page two of the process, that I'm a woman. Not that I'd necessarily mind, assuming that the company's sales associates get employee discounts on clothing which must surely be inexpensive, if of a very low quality. And it would have to be inexpensive since I'd need a whole new wardrobe to cover up my huge, hairy back.

Then there's the issue regarding my numerical identity. Having finally convinced WalMart Online that I am, in fact, a man, the next step involved contorting myself in order to enter my oh-so-lengthy social security number. My electric bill's account number is even longer than that. WalMart, apparently, has questionable bandwidth issues for any number exceeding 1. In a mere fifteen minutes I was finally able to sway WalMart into believing that, as a US citizen, I do in fact have a social security number. Thank you, WalMart. I appreciate your willingness to accept the obvious.

The following step in this exploration was to list my work experience. Specifically, this step didn't include glitches, frustration, and wasted time listing my employment history. Within mere moments of having entered Habitat For Humanity as my most recent employer, WalMart rewarded my efforts with "WalMart web page expired during application process". Having shared this on WalMart's Facebook page, someone in IT was kind enough to issue a "so sorry" response which fell on the deaf ears of perhaps a thousand or so disgruntled customers, which equates to approximately two thousand ears if my public education hasn't completely failed me.

In the end, I have a little more fodder to include in an upcoming column. For that I'd like to thank WalMart for providing me with some very rich material. My frustration with WalMart will likely lead to rewards for me later. I look forward to that.

When you're finished reading this, WalMart, please press the forward button at the bottom of the screen.

Thank you for reading.

Which Way Is Out?

2015-08-12T00:23:00.001-04:00

I'm frustrated.

Let me qualify that. I'm frustrated because I have writer's block. Not in the sense that I can't think of anything to write about, but because there's too much.

There seems to be an overload of topics, issues, observations, and experiences -a veritable glut of potential conversation fodder. I could prattle on about politicians' proclivities regarding balanced budgets, snarky debate comments, and toupees. I could expound on how "if I were elected, I'd..." is tired old speculation best reserved for the young who have yet to hear empty promises of lowered taxes, world peace, and global prosperity in our lifetime.

Then again, I could write an entire column about those nifty small shopping carts they have at Kroger -the ones which are the metaphorical equivalent to Smart cars -those nerdy little golf cart-looking commuters which look like something you'd actually enjoy slapping while feeling grumpy. I'd delve into how maneuverable they are, slaloming deftly around those Hummer-sized carts which were apparently designed to accommodate enough groceries to feed Houston. Heaven knows the thirty dollars' worth of groceries I cram into my polite little cart gives me a smug sense of satisfaction, especially when I see those bulky Hummer types slam into one another at the ends of the aisles. This is usually followed by the requisite "excuse me, didn't see you" and the bag of Doritos which comes dislodged from Gladys' cart and nearly takes out a stock clerk rotating cans of green beans.

One topic I've considered is what it's like sitting in the waiting room at the veterinarian's office, but since I don't have a pet I'd probably look kind of creepy sitting there with a pad and paper. "Nice St. Bernard. What's his name, and where are you going?" would make for an entirely discomfiting read. Even so, the potential for the chaos theory to unfold as Rugby the Boxer chased Fluffy the Persian cat around the room, creating special forces-level havoc and terrifying toy poodles could provide some rather satisfying afternoon news.

If I weren't worried about being perceived as a whiner (with my nasality, it's a given), I could talk about how my former upstairs neighbor threw a foot stool through her living room window at three in the morning, but since we all have our own problems to deal with, no one would want to read about that. But if I did bring it up, I'd expound on the broken glass still laying in my window well along with an entirely bizarre-looking toy frog which stares at me in utter disbelief whenever I open my blinds. (Apparently, she really needed to vent that night.)

An interesting thing to write about is my slow learning curve when it comes to exploring my Motorola Android Turbo. I'm pretty sure that I'm a poor student of the thing, taking into account that calling a friend who lives exactly 4.6 miles from me frequently leads to "international rates don't apply to your calling plan" being intoned from a computer in Verizon's basement in Passaic New Jersey.

In all, there's an entire universe of discussion points waiting to be discovered, explored, ablated, analyzed, and even laughed about. I intend to write about all of them. Either that, or I'm going to write about writing about them. Or would that be redundant considering the point of this article?

I'd better get started. The earth alone has exactly 3.7 trillion topics, not counting any life forms which may somehow be able to survive and hide in the Marianas Trench and my high school GPA.

This must be the way out.

Waxing Frustrated

2015-07-28T01:56:00.001-04:00

I was at my wit's end.

My home has the usual amount of clutter. A few newspapers, some dirty clothes piled up, conveniently enough, in the corner next to the clothes hamper, and a microwave oven which should probably be wiped down soon. In general, I keep my home clean.

And that's what had me in a snit.

You see, I've been a fan of a certain furniture polish which smells like lemons. It's a nice fragrance, reminding me of warmer days when it's snowing outside and the world seems to turn in early. In the summer, however, it isn't such a pleasant thing to use the polish.

That's because the polish had attracted fruit flies. Not a few, mind you. Enough to make me realize that a full scale invasion has occurred.

I killed perhaps two hundred, not that I kept a body count tally. No matter how many I wiped out, more seemed to have flown in to replace them. It had become entirely frustrating, knowing that they had such air superiority early on. I swatted. I batted. Once, in an act of desperation, I even chased one around the coffee table with a can of Right Guard Sport Scent. At the end of the first campaign the fruit flies had increased their numbers exponentially.

Then I decided that, if spider spray could kill spiders it would virtually dissolve fruit flies. Dumping pesticides into the air of my home was an act of desperation for me; the thought of achieving a pyrrhic victory over the pesky things at the cost of my lungs' healthy functioning wasn't something I was willing to leave to chance. Not that it made any sense, but in order to ventilate my home for my own safety, I opened the front door.

You can see where this is going.

Did I mention that the fruit fly population had become exponential? It was like the insect version of the big bang theory as untold numbers of fruit flies exploded in to the cause of their brethren courtesy of my involuntary open door policy. In a last ditch effort, I set aside the furniture polish. I had had a somewhat radical thought: spider spray is kind of greasy. Furniture polish is also kind of greasy. Therefore,...

I opened the front door again, spraying the doorway with spider spray in two-minute intervals -long enough to keep the fruit fly national guard at bay long enough to set up a protective barrier on my furniture. Stepping back and forth between the front doorway and the living room furniture brought to mind the footwork which fighters learn early on in their careers. Either that, or I was discovering the Samba.

It worked. The few surviving fruit flies retreated, preferring to take their chances with the birds. The furniture was nicely dusted, even if somewhat toxic (not that I lick my furniture). In the days that passed, I resumed using the furniture polish; the insecticide had long since gassed out, and was no longer present on the end table or the TV stand. The fruit flies' leaders must have had a joint chiefs meeting to examine cost-benefit analyses regarding whether or not to mount a counterattack. The decision was that they preferred to move on and breed an entirely new invasion force against a neighbor. Victory had been accomplished, peace of mind, achieved.

My furniture positively glistens now. Interestingly, the wax buildup on the end table had been corrected. Best of all, it isn't covered with hundreds of little winged casualties.

It was good to return to the great scent of lemons.

Breakfast: Story of A Cereal Killer

2015-07-27T02:54:00.001-04:00

The other night I was hit, nay slapped across my psyche, with a craving for cereal.

For the past couple of years I've contended myself with that oh-so-grownup oatmeal. Flavor? Save that for the kids. Cereal is serious business. None of that "magically delicious" with leprecahuans would do. No sir. Oatmeal is one of the healthiest foods you can shovel down your gullet. Want flavor? Slice up a banana, Jerry. We're talking hardcore fiber here.

I've been on a diet for the past fifteen months, and you can tell it's tough on me because I'm counting by the month, as though that sounds like more of an accomplishment than a year and three months.

It was with that in mind that my mind began to wander while I trudged up the grocery side of the behemoth retail store. Walking past the pizza, cracker, and candy aisles (it's best to leave past love interests in the past), I began first to ruminate, and then to rationalize, about happier times. "Why shouldn't I enjoy the occasional sweet flavor of Cap'n Crunch?" echoed through the predominant prefrontal cortex of my cerebrum as I recalled spooning through two bowls of that marvelous cereal (part of a complete breakfast, if diabetes and heart murmurs count) while watching the latest goings-on with Scooby Doo before Dad admonished me to go rinse out the bowl and mow the lawn. "And clean up after the dogs" invariably followed while my ten year old version of me was at work digesting high fructose corn syrup, vitamins B6 and B12, and, for all I know, formaldehyde 97%.

It was almost a homecoming, looking at the Cap'n's mug itself spread over Quaker Oat's most colorful breakfast carton. I remember the early commercials -the Cap'n had a nervous laugh, as though he feared a mutiny occurring on his ship and his crew sailing the commander up Battle Creek to Kellogg for interrogation. Those commercials somehow made me crave the product that I'd yell upstairs. "Mooomm! If you're going to the grocery store, can you get me some Cap'n Crunch?" It was as if I had hit the jackpot when she returned, triumphantly, not only with the Crunch, with Crunch Berries.

Admittedly it was an impulse purchase. I craved the comfort of something sweet, though I felt like an idiot watching Scooby Doo reruns on YouTube while articulating the spoon around the Crunch Berries, saving them for last. For that matter, I felt like an idiot letting my OCD lead me to eat first the red berries, then the dark blue (Black?) berries, and finally the red ones. Should it take forty-five minutes to consume a bowl of cereal?

I'm still on a diet. I diverted from the course to take a mini vacation along memory lane. The cereal wasn't the healthiest thing I've eaten for the past, well, more than a year. It did serve as a "cheat" day on my diet. Considering that most of the contents are still in the box, I have a choice: I can eat another bowl in a couple of days and stretch out the elapsed time necessary to finish the box until August 6, or I can toss it out for the birds with the hope that they don't grow too fat to fly. The last thing I need is for birds to give me the evil eye for making them so obese that they have to walk.

I can't do that to the birds, even though I should considering what they did to my newly-washed car last Tuesday. No, I think I'll eat another bowl tomorrow.

Even if they don't stay crunchy even in milk these days.

Of Messes And Trauma

2015-07-18T02:32:00.000-04:00

One day a couple of years ago I decided to clean out and reorganize all of the stuff which I had tossed in my walk-in closet for four years.

That's kind of like saying I decided to join the Army so I could learn a trade, and somewhere along the line ended up in Special Forces. Not that I've ever been in the Army, unless taking a wrong turn while looking for an interstate on-ramp and ending up in Fort Bliss counts.

"Deciding to clean out and reorganize" my possessions is an understatement; among the dangers and other perils awaiting me, it's something of a God-Given miracle that I'm alive and writing this, albeit with a substantial does of nervousness while recollecting the events of the evening. First of all, for some reason a television cable had become inextricably woven around the legs of a chair, a plastic milk crate, and an old vanity light. Since these items were closest to the closet door, they'd have to be moved out of the way first.

At least, that was the hypothesis. A hypothesis which failed as unwinding the cable required tugging on it, resulting in an old floor lamp falling over and beaning me on the forehead as I continued freeing the chair from Cox Cable's wiring amidst some eyebrow-raising epithets. After enduring hand-to-leg combat with the chair, I was able to liberate the torchiere which had moments prior been a mortal enemy. Old car magazines, suitcases, cans of spray paint, and clothes hangers had conspired to create a second line of defense against anyone brave enough to step in and reach for a tee shirt. My foot never bled despite having stepped on something which I couldn't see due to the shadows caused by metric tons of stored junk. I have a high threshold for pain. Stepping on what turned out to be a dulled hobby knife didn't phase me.

What did phase me was noticing something moving on the wall to my right. While I never saw it again that night, I took in the fine detail of the eight legs, the glossy body, and the red hour glass of a spider which to this day has successfully played a mind game with me. It didn't help that the spider was approximately six inches from my face and scuttling into a cardboard box filled with documents which suddenly became unimportant as they were tossed, immediately, into the dumpster on the other side of the building.

That may be the only time I ever sprinted with a container of old bank statements to a dumpster in my boxer shorts.

Eventually, I began to restore some semblance of order as shirts were rehung, car magazines were organized by title, painting supplies were relocated to a different closet, and my beloved Steelers memorabilia was placed in a more prominent position among my other things. It was around the time I began to wonder if all of that work would ever pay off that I noticed a few pennies clustered near the back of the closet. Initially I meant to throw them away -nine pennies can't buy anything.

On the other hand, loose change amounting to one-hundred twenty-seven dollars can.

That's the amount of loose change which I had absentmindedly tossed through the doorway whenever I returned from a Taco Bell foray. It had become a part of my routine. From my observation later, the change-taking machine at Kroger jammed up more disastrously, from the sheer volume of coins which I fed it, than the Pacific Coast highway during an 8.6 magnitude earthquake. The assistant manager was very helpful, digging the thousands of coins free with a screwdriver so the machine could tally the rough equivalent of my next payments to Verizon and Geico.

It was a hard-won victory that night. I had literally turned trash into gold. My creditors would be paid. My FICO score would rise. My possessions were finally accessible.

I was no longer ashamed of the mess in the small storage area. I had attained peace of mind.

And no more trauma.

It Applies

2015-07-11T02:55:00.000-04:00

I'm looking for work.

I'll qualify that. I'm looking for a simple, part time minimum wage job which doesn't involve scraping dried cheese from dishes while a stressed-out manager badgers me to stack, wash, and return approximately four-hundred plates within .03 seconds lest his restaurant go out of business for the denizens of customers who wouldn't have starved to death in that massive time span.

I'm also giving serious consideration to returning to grad school, if only to indulge in my favorite hobby: seeing how high I can take my student loan debt. The last time I did that, I rivaled Paraguay's gross national product and the value of the US dollar plunged by fifteen percent.

Why, then, do I keep shooting myself in the foot? By now I'm pretty sure that neither Kmart nor WalMart would hire me, not that I blame them for feeling that way after the messages I left their customer dissatisfaction escalation teams -comments which likely induced post-traumatic stress disorder in the unfortunate souls who answer the phones at corporate. Seriously, being carded simply for attempting to purchase household glue was ridiculous. I should never have mentioned to the cashier that it was for my Poodle. "Yeah, I can't get him to stay in the living room. Maybe Gorilla Glue will work. Perchance is it hypoallergenic? Because Dexter sheds very easily."

I had no idea a cashier's eyebrows could shoot so high.

I also want to stay away from any position involving cash registers. Not that I can't figure out how to operate one of those (I set speed records at the now-defunct Hill's Department Stores back in the 80s with nary a penny over- or undercharged), but because the thought of being chained in one small spot for an entire shift seems like being the corporate equivalent of a Wagyu cow. I'm a free range kind of employee. I worked at Habitat For Humanity's store for seven years. There were some things which I didn't like about the store, but at least I had the freedom to monitor the various departments and organize the merchandise. I walked three miles every day, approximately, while doing my job. There was something nice about getting to choose where in the store to work, even when that meant being stopped by customers who first observed the pricing gun in my hand and then asked if I worked there.

I've given serious consideration to doing volunteer work in the hopes that it might open a few doors. I can see it now: "Hey Rob, I love how you stacked those four thousand bags of oil dry compound. Very neat and precise. But next time, please use the stockroom. I can't get to my desk!" If nothing else, I'm known for my work ethic -when I work.

The next time I fill out an application, and the question "What type of experience do you have?" pops up, I'm going to reply with a couple of questions of my own. "Exactly how much experience should a successful candidate have regarding stocking merchandise so that the labels on those cans of green beans faces the customer?" and "Although I didn't declare a shelf-stocking major while pursuing my undergraduate degree, do you offer a nationally accredited testing program so that I can prove I know which way the DelMonte label goes?"

All of the above speaks of my experiences and, I'm sure, of tens of millions of other people who share similar plights. It's only a matter of when I find that job.

When I do, it'll apply.

Hungry For Success

2015-05-17T04:44:00.001-04:00

The other day I dropped by a local restaurant to place a to-go order. As is my weekly habit, I opted for a steak fajita salad. (I'm a firm believer in eating any meal which comes in an edible bowl.) They always cook the steak strips to perfection, and the salad does to the taste buds what Jackson Pollack did to canvasses amidst drinking bouts and fits of rage. The toppings included tomato chunks (which I toss due to citric acid waging war with an old ulcer), olives, and a couple of different kinds of cheese. All of these are chopped, shredded, and diced as though choreographed for the Broadway hit "A Chorus Line". The meal is, in a word, unbelievable.

And then there's the silverware. Or, as is often the case with takeout, plastic ware.

Plastic spoons, forks, and knives seem to have changed over the years as their manufacturers seek ways to cut material costs. Recently this seems to have led to thinner (and less reliable) utensils.

That isn't so bad until one tries to slice a strip of steak which apparently missed the chef's personal Wustoff Ikon steak knife. I tried, at first, cutting into it with a plastic knife which was likely sold in a thousand-for-a-dollar bulk. I've seen some weird things in my life. I've never seen a piece of beef wear down the serrated edge of a knife until this past Thursday.

"Ah, well", I thought to myself. I'll have a bite of some of this fantastic-

That's when the fork "wonked". That is, it bent approximately forty-five degrees, looking eerily similar to a spoon after an evening with Uri Geller, immediately before pitching back and showering my freshly-laundered shirt with Italian dressing and croutons, and the latter of which likely won't be discovered until five years after I begin collecting social security checks. I was eating in my car, enjoying a beautiful afternoon at a public park. After the culinary rebound inside of my sedan, it occurred to me that my only remaining option would have to include the use of the spoon.

This turned out to be a metaphorical "strike three" as the spoon, molded in an inappropriately thin plastic, torqued so much that I punctured not only the tortilla bowl but also the Styrofoam container. Laundry day would prove to be that very afternoon as an ocean of salad dressing, grated cheese, and several other ingredients oozed through a hole seemingly smaller than a grain of sand. Amidst sharing more than a few rather rude epithets (and thereby startling an entire flock of birds), I quickly inverted the container in a desperate attempt to avoid having to include my Accord in laundry day. Having regained control over my rebellious meal, it occurred that using chunks of the bowl as scoops might save the day.

Alas, the plan betrayed me, as had every previous attempt to gain sustenance. Shards of fried tortilla shell showered me in an explosion. The headliner, the dashboard, my clothes -everything not associated directly with my digestive system- was now going to be triaged at the local car wash while I'd amuse myself with the rumblings of my now very hungry stomach.

As for my car and my clothes, both turned out clean enough to pass boot camp inspection. I settled on microwave spaghetti a few hours later. A stainless steel fork ensured me that the meal would be safe from any disasters attributed to tension, torque, or torsion. I had spent the entire day for that meal, and I had finally conquered it.

I was hungry for success.

Dialing In

2015-04-28T03:21:00.000-04:00

Recently I got a new cell phone.

I'm not sure, but I think the reason they're called cell phones is because the people who market them know that it's only a matter of time before we all end up in a cell following a near-homicidal rant amidst trying to learn how to use them.

Take my new phone, which is a gift from my mom. Now, let me admit that I've become a spoiled brat, especially as of late. Mom wanted me to have a good, reliable, up-to-date phone, and for that I'm grateful.

Having said that, this new phone dwarfs, dimensionally, my old flip phone in the same way that a drive-in theater screen dwarfs an early seventies portable nine inch television. The photos I took on my flip phone were so small that I had to take Verizon's word that they actually existed. On the other hand, the old phone was simple and straightforward; calling a friend was as easy as opening the phone and pressing the buttons until "why are you calling me at such a late hour, Adcox?" came through the speaker. When finished, I only had to fold it and let it drop, nay fall, into my pocket.

In contrast, this Motorola Droid Turbo Bentley Mission To Mars Supreme is so involved that it requires something akin to a certificate from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology to learn how to access text messages. (Speaking of which, my favorite feature is the voice activation unit; speaking into the phone, I can now say "Hi, Mom. I love you and I hope you're having a wonderful day" while watching the screen interpret that message as "Hi Moom. I love the wonderful day you're having and Hi day moom".)

My mom has been incredibly patient with me as I skip the instructions, as befits we guys, and explore this very involved piece of electronic wizardry. By now she's quite accustomed to receiving phone calls from her son who imparts such communications as, "Hi Mom. Sorry to bother you -I was looking for Google on this thing and somehow ended up calling you. I thought Google had some kind of ring tone app to let me know that it was about to appear on the screen. Turns out it was actually calling you. I love you. 'Bye mom."

I mentioned pictures a moment ago. Being a car show kind of guy, I had approximately two-hundred show car pics transferred onto this phone, which was nice since the screen is so much larger than that of the flip phone. That's nice, because after having spent the better part of two years trying to remember why I had a photo of what appeared to be bright green fungus the pic was large enough for me to see that it was actually a beautifully restored '69 Camaro. At least I assume that it is, unless General Motors used photosynthesis to paint its cars back in the day.

In all seriousness, I love this phone. If I sound cranky about it, please forgive me. It's because new technology frightens me the way that the discovery of gravity frightened villagers who ended up burning scientists at the stake before realizing that such discoveries would only make life better. I love to explore things, which always leads me to getting stuck when it comes to anything involving computers. Even so, I won't give up until I've figured this thing out, MIT certificate and all. I'm learning my way around this phone, sliding my finger across the screen, issuing voice commands, and even making phone calls.

Be patient with me.

I'm dialing in.

Seal Training: I Quit!

2015-04-09T02:04:00.000-04:00

You know those tamper-proof seals they put on condiment bottles? I'm referring to the nasty little "peel-and-toss" kind which promise that you'll be chowing down on that sour dough-and-pepperoni masterpiece you slammed together the other day during a commercial break.

Those seals are, in a word, evil.

Let me qualify that. Those things are designed, apparently by someone working in the psyops division of the National Security Agency, to test the approximate elapsed time necessary to reduce a normally sane person into a raging lunatic.

Now, I'm all for keeping our food products as safe as they can be. I also understand the potential liability issues associated with such tamper-proof seals. And, I understand that if they're so tamper-proof that the consumer can't remove them, then the whole point of squirting that fancy Chez Snitty Poupon-And-Fescue mustard on your delicately-toasted bread becomes moot.

Take Monday. Amidst the balancing act of timing toasting some bread, microwaving a small portion of spaghetti, and pouring a glass of apple juice, I had several minutes' worth of time to peel and remove the seal.

Didn't happen.

What did happen is that, for the first minute or two, I struggled to remove the seal. The bottling company's accounting firm must have been in a generous mood, given that they apparently approved forty dollars' worth of glue to be spent on keeping my condiment of choice from being breached by anything less than trained professionals from MI6. As I was in the process of removing the seal, the clear plastic part finally gave, however grudgingly. The heavily-foiled underlay part of it, however, remained in what can only be described as a condiment bottle's equivalent of a Super Maxx prison during lockdown.

The toast popped up, issuing its wonderful come-hither aroma while I began issuing a very rude litany of words which I won't repeat here. (You're welcome.) And, while that was happening, the microwave began beeping its desire for my attention even as I knocked over my glass of juice which flowed all over the kitchen counter amidst my struggle with the seal.

The remainder of the seal, however, remained the one constant in what was quickly becoming in the kitchen what the Broncos became in their Super Bowl quest against the Seahawks the other year. It became all-out pandemonium as I tried stabbing the seal in a vain attempt to puncture it, bending the tip of the knife blade instead. People don't normally engage in hand to hand combat with mustard bottles where I come from, by the way.

In a valiant, if desperate act, it occurred to me that the only way I'd ever be able to enjoy my mustard would be to cut the top of the bottle off using a hobby knife, and dumping the contents into a plastic food container.

It worked. Out of sheer determination I had achieved victory. Never have I made a sandwich which tasted so good. I could simply have settled for just the spaghetti and apple juice, but I was in a mood for a sandwich on the side as well. And let me say this: when I want a sandwich, a sandwich I shall have. One wouldn't have needed a background in forensics to determine the cause and effects of events in my kitchen that afternoon. Even so, I did calm down and enjoy what was a very satisfying meal.

If I call the bottling company to share my experience, that might lead to another column. It might also lead to a quick trip to a mental hospital if I have to relive the experience again.

As for these condiment seals, I quit. From now on I'll eat my sandwiches plain.

It certainly wasn't a flavorful experience.

Feeling Chippy

2015-03-23T02:16:00.000-04:00

A couple of years ago I decided to spruce up the ol' Honda. By "spruce up" I decided to make myself feel like I had hit it big in life. My reasoning for doing so was based on some admittedly weird ideation.

I've been a pretty avid reader of Car & Driver. Seems like everyone who drives the latest Mercedes M16 Bigshot or the Infiniti Q-Ship (complete with wet bar and foot massager) has fancy wood appliques (Peruvian Elm Burl, thank you) affixed around the gauges so they can think to themselves, "wow, I have genuine reproduction wood trim around my tachometer. Hope this puts me on the fast track to upper management". To me, wood burl signifies that one has successfully scratched his or her way to the top. Leave the plain old black gauge clusters for the cubicle people. The wood look is for the movers and shakers, baby.

Seriously, when applied correctly, it does lend a certain feeling of "move over, you in the Prius. Success is coming through!"

That "success" was successful for about a year and a half. After approximately forty-seven Armor-All baths, each applied with the same loving care that is taken when shearing a sheep in preparation for making an angora sweater, the appliques began to lose their charm.

By that, I mean they began to erode and chip from the caustic solution in the wondrous greasy stuff. Seriously, it began to look like some lady with long fingernails and a short temper had clawed her way, Freddy Kruger-style, across the fake knotholes and simulated stress lines of the decals which I had applied, so lovingly, one July afternoon following a long day of work.

My first mistake was that I used decals rather than the fancier plastic parts which are much sturdier. Those are much more durable, even if "Please Peel And Stick" is sometimes visible through the parts encircling the cup holder.

The second mistake was using gallons of that fantastic, slimy protectant which we all love to use on our vehicle's interiors. Knowing that your center console is the shiniest one in the parking lot can make you feel like Mitt Romney in a primary debate. Armor-All, as it turns out, dry rots cheap decals over time. Unfortunately, it also virtually welds decals to interior panels. I discovered that during the four hours or so I spent removing them, one square millimeter at a time (with my thumbnails, which proves how doggedly determined I can be when I can't find tools), across each panel proudly displaying enough wood grain to cover the entire Amazon region.

And, along the way, I managed to compact approximately forty-seven square miles of decal scrapings under both thumbnails, thereby causing no small number of cuts under each nail and making me worry about staph infection by next Thursday.

I can say this: the man who operates the detailing site expressed a limitless degree of patience, though I'm sure he wondered if I was homeless and had decided that my current residence should be Brambleton Car Wash, Roanoke, Va. I do know that he appreciated the large number of tokens I had to purchase in order to vacuum out the cubic yards' worth of "look like a big shot with burl!" now covering my floor mats, the front seats, and the coin tray like fungus.

Now, at 2:03 AM I'm typing this, my thumbs finally not hurting so much. In all, I had a pleasant afternoon. The interior looks great. I learned that I can't design a Honda interior as well as Honda can. It's back to the basics for me: humble I-work-in-a-cubicle black plastic (not that I work in a cubicle, but you get the point about the unpretentious black plastic panels). I'm sure that, for the next several years, the occasional chip of simulated burl will flit out through the vents whenever I crank up the AC or the heat. And that's okay.

That's the price I'll pay for feeling chippy.

An Exit Strategy

2015-03-03T20:39:00.001-05:00

Ah, the perils of grocery shopping.

I never expected going for food to be fraught with danger. Serendipity's evil twin showed up this afternoon, provoking future PTSD among those of us who were merely imparting "no, dear, I haven't forgotten the pralines" to unseen loved ones while trying their Rambo best to evade and escape the malfunctioning electronic door at the Towers Kroger this evening. I judged, from behind the safety of someone's Granada, approximately how quickly I'd have to exit past the electronic gadget which was doing its best to inflict malicious wounding upon those who dared violate the space within its bowels, possibly in Aisle Six.

Now, I'm not a commando, at least not in the normal sense. However, having been blessed with YouTube, I've been privy to Special Air Services training tactics. That's why I felt as though I had committed dereliction of duty this evening. Rather than taking an "everyone for himself" attitude, as I did, I should have played the role of force multiplier. Specifically, had I won the trust of my fellow shoppers entering the store, I could then have convinced them that (a) the door posed a threat, and (b) our best bet to obtain microwave spaghetti and sourdough bread would include storming the door in waves. Given the average speed of the twenty-seven or so of us, we could breach the entry in approximately thirty seconds. This would likely have included casualties, especially among those who hesitated while searching purses for coupons.

While an employee was busy telling his coworker "I told you so" regarding the failing contraption, I stormed my way in (please, no puns about "stormed doors" here). I did sustain a sore left elbow for my efforts. Still, when apple juice is at stake, is that really such a big price?

One could feel the tension in the air, even as far away as the cereal aisle where little Joshua was locked in a battle of wills with his mom over Lucky Charms. Distracted by the lure of Mountain Dew, Hostess cupcakes, Budweiser, and Bubba Burgers, how we were going to escape was the one detail which we all had apparently overlooked. One Carillon physician's assistant suggested wedging the door with a small piece of wood. That idea was quickly nixed, however, when some guy in bib coveralls asked the critical question, "wouldn't we have to be outside to find wood?"

Another woman, whose only identity came from an apparent overdose of Botox and perhaps a gallon of highly vulgar perfume, suggested that several of the younger men engage the door in a suicide mission long enough for her to escape to her Mercedes SUV with her poodle. Again, another idea tossed into the trash heap of history by several younger men who weren't suicidal. Despite Precious's yapping insistence that we weren't being brave enough, none of us decided that the honor of Alpo's biggest stock investor was worth the risk. A small dog was highly offended, but no blood was spilled.

Finally, it happened. Someone noticed that there's another door on the other side of the storefront. Mired in the tactics and logistics of escaping, evading, and buying pretzels, we had unknowingly become victims of Occam's Razor. I, for one, felt silly about the whole thing. My personal plan of escape was to exit through the back door, traverse down the interior alleyway which Tower's Mall is famous for, and Force Recon my way back to my car. That would have been formidable at best; the guy at GNC is always on the lookout for me so he can try to sell me "Muscle Gain 10,000 RPM Macho Max". And, of course, there's always the specter of the Great Wall Chinese Restaurant, whose seductive aroma intoxicates one to come inside and spend money whether they want to or not.

A great many of us turned to look back, possibly to assess what we had all endured, or maybe simply to remember the casualties of the day. Whatever the case, Triscuits were purchased, along with eggs, any number of Betty Crocker dessert mixes, broccoli, and Jerry's Fancy Red Wine For Fancy Off-Yellow Noodles. Most of us survived, and that includes the poodle.

We had discovered our door. That was our out.

The Big Picture

2015-01-22T04:16:00.000-05:00

I'm on a diet.

By that I mean I'm on a good old fashioned I'm-determined-to-validate-myself-through-this-midlife-crisis attempt at weight loss. This has been pretty easy so far, other than those moments when friends decide to buy doughnuts and offer you one. What is it about friends that give them so much pleasure knowing you're sweating, nay staving off a nervous breakdown trying your prison camp best to keep from imploding under the pressure to reacquaint yourself with the bakery's finest lemon-filled?

Over the past nine months or so I've managed to shed seventy-six pounds, which I swear makes my doctor want to kiss me. Yes, brothers and sisters, there was a time, not so long ago, when I had to lug my way around everywhere I went. Automotive spring warranties were stretched to their limit. I considered getting a wide screen TV because I didn't know whether or not my face was getting too large for me to see the image on a twenty-seven inch job. McDonald's used me as an opportunity to teach new hires how to upsell. I was so overweight that if Moses had seen my bathroom scale, there would have been another commandment.

Now, having slimmed ("slim" being a relative term) from three-hundred twenty to two-hundred forty-four pounds, I'm beginning to find energy I never had before unless Seven Eleven was having a burrito sale.

With this weight loss comes extra energy for exercise. Approximately nine months ago I had barely enough energy to burn off fifty calories on a treadmill, which was fine with the treadmill, judging from the sigh of relief it issued whenever I finished some five minutes later, winded from being pushed to the limits of my endurance. Now I'm cranking along for half an hour, knocking off three hundred calories to top off another rigorous half hour of weight training.

And this, I'm afraid, is turning me into a bit of a brat.

"Excuse me", intones a pretty brunette as I perform yet another crunch. "Are you going to be finished soon? Because I'm planning on going to grad school and I'd like to use the equipment before I go gray and my grandchildren are retired." This irritates me; I know that she has a point. I've been on this contraption, trying, failingly, to become fatigued ever since crunch number seven-hundred sixty-two, give or take a decade. If I don't feel tired yet, have I gotten enough exercise?

And yet I know she has the better point. Climbing off of the machine, I wipe any vestige of perspiration out of common courtesy and sanitized for your protection, thank you. The look of disdain shot from her eyes (green, I think) is quite a feat; how in the world does she manage to look down her nose at me while seated?

Humbled, I head over to an exercise bike. This, as it turns out, becomes an opportunity to vent any frustration I may have had a moment earlier regarding Miss Howdareyou. Selecting the "quick start" option, I begin pedaling my way along an imaginary European countryside. I wait until I've spent twenty calories and then increase my speed to one-hundred twenty RPMs. Things are going well as my sweat increases like Niagara Falls during the spring thaw. In fact, I'm really getting into this.

So was the guy in the bike next to me, who apparently was having the same daydream I was having. In almost no time we were Lance Armstrom-ing our way down some nonexistent mountain, each determined to see whose bike could get to one-hundred sixty-five rpm first.

Victory was mine as the strap on one of his pedals broke, sending his foot into the aisle and almost kicking some lady in the butt. In all, I managed to wear out another hundred calories.

And so the diet continues, aided by the exercise and even the occasional bratty experience. This is a growing experience for me, even if that comes off as ironic. I think I'll be lean enough one day before the swimming pools close. Strutting my stuff isn't anything I've ever done. In fact, I don't even have any strut stuff. I'm so poor that I have to strut someone else's stuff. Still, I'm on the right path, even if that path sometimes leads me into imaginary bicycle races down European mountains and riles pretty brunettes with green eyes who can feel themselves aging whenever I inadvertently hog a crunch machine. I'm going to lose another thirty pounds before I'm finished.

I'm happy with that.

I see the big picture.

A Rite of Errors

2014-12-21T03:20:00.000-05:00

I've never been an athlete.

Let me rephrase that. I've never been a gifted athlete. If I ever join a church around here, let me be the first to say I'll scoot down low in the pew when the pastor's looking for volunteers for the church softball team.

That reluctance stems back to my preteen years. I played little league baseball for a few years. When I say "play", I mean that in the academic sense of the word. I didn't play well. I occasionally hit the ball and even scored a few runs.

At age fifty-three I can remember vividly the first time I went up to bat. "I'm going to hit the ball like Babe Ruth", I imparted to my teammates, most of whom had to prop themselves up, weak from the laughter at that arrogant comment of mine. Their giddiness was validated by two awkward words, which seemed amplified by a factor of ten: "Strike three!

Returning to the bench, I vowed to redeem myself. "Serves me right", I mused, determined to get on base.

That almost payed off the next time I was at bat. My giddy teammates were on the edge of the bench, eager with anticipation the next time I was up. What they didn't realize was that I had armed myself with deductive reasoning. Observing that the right-handed players lined up on the left side of the plate prior to heading to first base, and being left-handed myself, I was about to show them that I was smart enough to redeem my earlier goof.

Didn't happen.

I took the right side of the plate, and having gotten a piece of the ball, promptly ran to third. "Go to first!" seemed to be the collective mantra of my teammates, the parents, and even some of the opposing team members as I corrected my direction and short-cutted directly across the pitcher's mound to be met with "you're out!" by another umpire, who by now was probably wondering what was wrong with me, and could he get a refund for his officiating uniform? By now, my teammates were already planning for futures as financial planners, calculating how much money they'd need to spend on Kleenex to keep their eyes dry while I Don Quixote'd my way around the diamond.

Over time, I began to figure out how to get to get on base. "Keep your eye on the ball!" was sage advice for accomplishing exactly that. Turns out that it was also keen wisdom for anyone playing infield. I learned that while playing first base. On a beautiful Saturday summer afternoon, I happened to have my left foot on the bag with my glove out and palm face up. Daydreaming about the model car kit which was waiting for me on that idyllic day, and how I'd get to stay up and watch the late movie that night, I didn't see the ball which was apparently heading my way. To this day I have no idea how it happened; either one of my teammates assisted me or it was a one-in-ten-thousand shot, but my reverie was promptly interrupted by the ball suddenly appearing in my glove (accompanied by "you're out!" by the same umpire who was by now no doubt questioning his civic duty as a little league official). Someone later told me that I caught a fly ball which seemed targeted for my glove. I'm not sure about that.

My coach (aka, my dad, which was the only reason I actually made the cut) decided to put me out in left field in future games since I was already there anyway, so to speak.

Lo and behold.

Everyone is good at something. In my case, it was standing further away from opposing batters and trying my best to "talk it up" in an attempt to unnerve them and to distract them from focusing on hitting the ball. In a storybook finish to one game, we were ahead by one run with the opposing team at bat and two outs against them. At the bottom of the ninth, the winner of the game would go on to the All Star game. The kid at bat swung, desperately.

And connected.

To me.

Things went quickly. The ball was sailing. I was backpedalling, equally desperate not to let the ball get behind me. The ball was outpacing my "husky" body. I had no choice except to turn my back and beat feet in an effort to turn in time to catch it. When the ball came down, it came down into my glove. My teammates stormed out of the dugout, racing to me. I actually thought, for a moment, that I had screwed up again. "Why are they running at me? Why do they want to beat me up? Wasn't I supposed to catch the ball" I asked myself as "way to go!" was echoed by guys who became future classmates and friends.

The whole thing ended with my dad sending me and my brother to Illinois for a week, ostensibly, to visit my aunt, cousins, and grandmother. I suspect that he was afraid I'd get eaten alive by guys who really knew what they were doing on the field. As it was, I had a great summer. The model car was built, with me hiding in the basement during its assembly, when I got back home. We lost the All Star game, as it happened. Even so, the summer of '72 was a learning curve for all of us. I learned that I wasn't the reincarnation of Babe Ruth. My teammates learned to be patient with my non-athletic prowess.

And we all endured a rite of passage.