The Stationary Explorer

Flushing My Career Down The Toilet

2012-01-27T12:31:00.000-05:00

Using the toilet at work can be tricky business. Our bodies are capable of so many vile sights, sounds and smells. One little slip up and you'll be the talk of the town. A lifetime of embarrassment is always just a red cabbage fart away.

In the men’s bathroom here at the office the lights automatically go out after 10 minutes of inactivity in an attempt to conserve energy. The motion sensor does not detect a person inside a stall, so apparently moving your bowels is considered “inactivity” to the cold, inhuman sensor. Due to my rather poor digestive system (and even poorer diet), I have, on several occasions, surpassed my allotted 10 minutes of light.

Herein lies the problem.

You see, I’ll be in the midst of completing my personal business when all of a sudden…*BOINK!*…The damn lights go out and I find myself sitting in complete darkness.

The mechanical sensor is attached to the bathroom’s ceiling and doesn’t recognize a hand reaching up and waving over the stall wall. A futile action such as this will not restore the lights. Through much trial and error I have come to the conclusion that the only way to get the lights back on is to carefully get up off the toilet, shimmy over to the stall door, open it and wave your full arm frantically.

My biggest fear was having someone enter the bathroom while this ridiculous ritual was taking place. They might come in and find me sitting in the darkness, suspecting that I am engaged in some weird act of lewdness within the stall. Or they could walk in and see me with my pants down around my ankles leaning out of the stall and waving my arms around like an air traffic controller.

It was the second of these two scenarios that just occurred moments ago. After my allotted 10 minutes, I inevitably found myself sitting in total darkness. I immediately got up, opened the stall door and waved my arm, just as I had done in the past.

Strangely, no amount of waving was doing the trick this time. The sensor continued to ignore my desperate pleas. Finally, I bent my knees and waved a little lower, which finally triggered the light. At that exact moment, the men's room door began to open.

It was the Assistant Superintendent.

Did he notice the lights coming back to life as he entered? I can’t see how he couldn’t have. Most surely he also noticed me quickly retracting my arm into the stall and stumbling my way back down onto the can.

What do you think is going through his mind at this moment? Does he think I like to flap my arms around in the bathroom with my pants down? Or is he also aware of the 10 minute time limit? Will he ever look me in the eye again? Is my career over? Have I shamed myself publicly for the last time? Only time will tell. Stay tuned…

Pondering Ponderosa

2012-01-27T02:02:00.000-05:00

One of my fondest memories from my high school years is my trip to the beloved Ponderosa buffet. Ponderosa was a steakhouse with a lunch buffet. It was a precursor to the current popular “all-you-can-eat” buffet chains, “Golden Coral” and “Old Country Buffet”, although the Ponderosa’s food was of a substandard level seldom seen in today’s competitive food industry.

The now defunct Ponderosa was conveniently located right across the street from the local mall, our weekend hangout. We’d organize a posse of unwashed longhaired headbangers and then storm the gates of the unsuspecting restaurant, with its employees totally unaware that they were in harm’s way. A couple of us actually paid; the rest just sat down and helped themselves to this immaculate feast.

Our goal was a simple one: chaos. Our success would be based upon the size of the mess created. We would pile our scraps in the center of the table, eating with our hands like grunting animals. Our policy was to take one bite and then throw the rest away. Why waste your time finishing something when you can experience the ecstasy of the first bite over and over again? Our chicken wing death toll reached triple digits, with the staff barely able to keep up with our relentless pace.

My buddy The Colonel went far beyond the call of duty and snatched the shaker of multi-colored ice cream sprinkles from the unmanned dessert station, unscrewed the metal top and periodically raised the jar to his mouth and "drank" them during his meal. When we began to feel the ill effects of our crazed overindulgence, we popped peppermint Rolaids (I would always carry a steady supply thanks to my undiagnosed Lactose Intolerance, and the Nazi school system which forced white milk on me every day at lunch) and continued with our gluttonous expedition.

Keep in mind these events took place back in the days of “The Smoking Section”, a cancerous initiative that has faded away in these bland politically correct times. We would light up and take a “breather” between plates. This helped in prolonging the adventure and further added to our offensiveness to the other restaurant patrons.

There was a wide array of edible abominations to choose from. Crap tacos overflowing with unknown meat. Stiff hamburgers smothered in white, hardened grease. Undercooked macaroni in a yellowish sauce that couldn't have been much more than a distant cousin of actual cheese. A selection of grotesquely discolored liquids being passed off as soup. These were not for eating, of course, but for “accidentally” spilling on the dining room rug. Lumpy chocolate pudding was smeared across the table like an abstract finger-painting. Our utensils were used only to gouge holes into once pristine seat cushions.

Occasionally the pimple-faced waiter would come by and attempt to clear some of the debris from the table, but we'd chase him away with our dull butter knives and uncivilized profanity. We anticipated that a shift manager would inevitably remove us, but it never happened. Apparently this place was running on autopilot, with inbred teenagers and dope fiends heating up pre-prepared slop in the filthy rat-infested kitchen, while incompetent stooges were handling the registers and waiting tables. The Ponderosa was nothing but a ghost ship of imitation nourishment with no sane voice of reason to bring this situation back under some semblance of control.

After almost two hours we finally moved on. Chairs were knocked over, packets of butter were smeared on walls, and the floor was littered with random garbage and broken glass. The table was no longer visible, lost beneath a hardening crust of half-eaten food, soiled plates, cigarette butts, gnawed bones, melted ice cream and human waste.

And then came the final insult: No tip, although there may have been some loose change mixed into the travesty, which the waiter could certainly keep for himself, if he felt courageous enough to roll up his sleeves and go exploring through that vile heap we left behind.

I feel a mild pang of guilt when looking back at our horrible actions. Boys will be boys, yes, but we may have crossed a line on that fateful day. Our insensitivity to the patrons and the employees was reprehensible. I’m sure my friends and I are at least partially responsible for the hard times that the Ponderosa franchise has fallen upon, for it may have been our wasteful behavior that finally pushed the struggling business into the red. I must pause now and ask forgiveness from the powers-that-be for the sins of my pampered youth.

Our local Ponderosa restaurant closed up shop many moons ago, replaced by a short-lived Southwestern sludge-hole that also went belly-up after only a couple of miserable years. Maybe an angry Native-American tribe damned that miserable piece of land centuries ago, banishing all who tried to prosper from it into a vortex of failure, food poisoning, and bankruptcy.

Alas, restaurant chains come and go. The Ponderosa’s food was vile, but the memories are delicious, getting more sweetly decadent with each passing year....

The Ten-Cent Chocolate Walrus

2012-01-19T11:22:00.000-05:00

I was in Walmart buying groceries when I stumbled upon an isle of clearance items leftover from Christmas. Being nearly four weeks after the holiday, the store was eager to part ways with these unwanted items, therefore they were being offered at a 90% discount.

In most cases, the items for sale were legitimate junk. There were some god-awful outdoor decorative items that would cheapen the appearance of any home, and ridiculous tree ornaments that had no business being sculpted in the first place. These things would most surely be tossed into a dumpster shortly, but for now they remained on the shelf, attempting to entice the misguided consumer with their rock-bottom clearance prices.

Pushing past the garbage, I reached an area of the isle which featured some aging edibles; mostly candy canes in non-traditional holiday colors which nobody wanted. But then I spotted something resembling chocolate, so I brought my shopping cart to a screeching halt to investigate.

The box said "North Pole Pals" and showed friendly images of a penguin, walrus, and polar bear, all beckoning me to come away with them for some wintry fun. Inside the cellophane window was a small piece of chocolate, sculpted in the image of one of the friendly animals in the drawing. There were no polar bears or penguins on the shelf, but there were a couple walruses.

The chocolate was made by the Palmer Company, a name which is synonymous with the so-so tasting chocolate candies you received as gifts on Christmas, Easter, and Valentines Day growing up. It ain't Hershey, but it’s good enough. And at 90% off how could I say no?

"Let's be friends!"

I carried the chocolate walrus over to one of those price scanners that Walmart has conveniently placed around the store in order to help customers who can't find a price tag or have no basic arithmetic skills. I placed the bar code of the North Pole Pals chocolate under the laser and heard a loud beep.

".10" read the display.

A measly dime. Can you believe it? How can there still be starving children in the world when there are ten-cent chocolates to be had at Walmart? I added the walrus to my cart and continued on with my grocery shopping.

Days later at home I opened my cupboard and saw the chocolate walrus sitting there silently waiting to be eaten. Having been unable to consume anything of this nature since my dental surgery, I was eager to get my hands (and mouth) on something sweet. I grabbed the box and took it over to the kitchen counter.

I looked over the decorative packaging, admiring the artwork and glancing momentarily at the mildly distressing nutritional information. Then I carefully opened the box and shook the chocolate walrus out into my hand.

It was a very handsome looking piece of candy. I was in awe of the craftsmanship that must have gone into creating it. A shaped piece of milk chocolate for the body, a pair of darker chocolate dots for his eyes and nose, and a pair of white chocolate tusks. It was beautiful. And now I was going to eat it.

I felt a pang of guilt over my yearning to devour the beautiful candy. Maybe I should save the walrus and keep him around as a decorative item. I could place him on top of the television and feel a warm glow in my heart every time I looked in his direction. He was, after all, my North Pole Pal, and pals don't eat each other (at least not the last time I checked).

I set the candy down and turned to the sink to wash some melted chocolate from my hands.

"Hey buddy! Aren’t ya gonna eat me?"

The voice came from behind me. I turned quickly but saw no one.

"Down here! Hyuk hyuk hyuk!"

It was the walrus on the counter. The candy was motionless; its mouth did not move, yet the voice emanated from it just the same.

"What do you want?" I blurted out, suddenly fearing that some sort of demon had entered my humble home.

"I wantcha to eat me!" the walrus replied.

I took a step forward and looked down at the candy.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because, silly goose, that's what I was made for!"

"But if I chew you up and eat you, I won't get to see you anymore. Isn't that a bad thing to do to my...'North Pole Pal'?"

"Hyuk hyuk...naw! When you eat me, I don't die! I get to live on inside you...forever! We'll be the best of buddies, you and me! But first you have to eat me!"

I picked the candy up off the counter and looked at it very carefully. The face showed no expression whatsoever, yet somehow by looking into its dark chocolate eyes I sensed the candy was telling the truth. Here was a walrus that was made specifically to be eaten. He was created to bring joy to the boys and girls with his tasty chocolate favor. It was his destiny, and I must not stand in his way.

I bit down into the candy, taking the walrus' head and half his chest into my mouth with one bite. Good old Palmer chocolate, with that same so-so flavor I remembered so well from my childhood. I finished the walrus on the second bite, letting the chocolate melt slowly in my mouth, savoring every moment it was there before chewing and swallowing it away.

And then it was gone. My North Pole Pal, the walrus, was gone forever and never to be seen again.

"Hello? Mr. Walrus?"

Nothing.

I had killed my special friend. I was quickly overcome with grief and loneliness. Then I heard a voice. Not with my ears, exactly; the voice seemed to come from within me.

“I’m still here buddy! Nyuk nyuk nyuk!”

Mr. Walrus was alive and well!

“You and me and gonna be pals forever,” he said. “And we’re gonna have so much fun! Now let’s get started! First, we’re gonna need to buy a gun…”

The Apicoectomy

2012-01-17T09:59:00.001-05:00

It was one week ago today. The dreaded apicoectomy.

As reported previously, I had an infection involving the tooth I had a root canal on about eight years ago. The prognosis was that the dentist who performed it (that no good son-of-a bitch) had done a half-assed job and the root canal had to be retreated. The endodontist said the best course of action was to perform an apicoectomy. This is a procedure where an incision is made into the gums above the tooth, the bone beneath it is penetrated, and the roots that the quack dentist had previously failed to remove are taken out and the canals sealed off. The cost would be around $1,400. Add to that cost the price of antibiotics to clear up the infection, the cost of the original root canal, the stress and the aggravation I've suffered, and suddenly I feel like driving over and assaulting my formal dentist.

My appointment was for 8:30. I arrived at 8:20 with my wife, who was my designated driver. The dentist sauntered in at 8:29 and in less than a minute I was in the chair. I immediately received the inevitable anesthetic injections. Once I was good and numb, we were ready to begin in earnest.

I closed my eyes and went to a happy place in my mind while my ears were filled with the sounds of bone being chiseled away. Blood and water splashed down my cheek as the dental assistant kept rinsing the surgical area so the doctor could see what he was doing. Finally the drilling stopped and the doctor did whatever it is he had to do in there, including removing an infected lesion in the area around the roots. Then they sealed the root canals in and stitched me shut. All in all, the procedure took a little over an hour, but wasn’t all that unpleasant compared to other dental high jinks I’ve endured.

When we were finished I felt great relief, but knew the ordeal was only just beginning.

I was given an ice pack to hold up to my cheek while the doctor told me about the long recovery process. The area needed to be iced, 20 minutes on, 20 minutes off, the entire first day. I was told to expect swelling and some bruising (I didn’t see any bruising but did look a little puffy). The flap of gum that had been stitched down was very delicate and must not be disturbed. This meant no hard foods that could poke at it and disrupt the healing process. Thus, I was on an all pudding, mashed potatoes and soup diet. Talking, smiling and laughing had to be kept to a minimum (not a problem). And I could not brush my teeth. After a day or two, I would be allowed to take a dry toothbrush and brush the teeth on the side of my mouth opposite the wound, but I could not get anywhere near the surgical site. As you can imagine, my teeth soon got rather funky; my breath even funkier.

Yesterday afternoon I returned to the doctor’s office for a follow-up. After a brief glance into my mouth, the doctor gave me an “A-plus”, as far as healing goes. He told me I could now start rinsing with hot salt water several times a day (to prevent infection and help the stitches dissolve), and that by Thursday I could start eating some normal foods again, albeit in a cautious and gentle manner (table for one at the Chinese buffet!).

Anyway, that’s where I’m at as of today. The recovery continues, as does the uninspired diet. But it looks like I’m going to get through this, just like everything else life throws at me.

Next?

School's Out

2012-01-05T22:21:00.005-05:00

Barbara Walters: If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?

PRESIDENT OBAMA: I deeply regret not having learned a musical instrument. And I regret not having focused more on Spanish when I was studying it in school. I would love to be able to speak Spanish fluently and play an instrument.

Well, it looks like President Obama won't be alone in his regrets as school funding in New York State continues to get slashed by Governor Cuomo. In fact, a certain local school district is considering eliminating all elementary level music and art, and all non-mandated high school courses.

I don't know about you, but I can't imagine an elementary school without art and music. Being a right-brained sort of person, these were my two favorite classes (at least when I wasn't being physically and mentally abused by the music teacher). No more putting on smocks to finger-paint or sitting in a semi-circle of tiny wooden chairs to sing "Go Tell Aunt Rhody". Sounds like Nazi Germany to me.

Removing some non-mandated high school classes would mean deleting some of the advanced Foreign Language courses, and it is this minor detail which will negatively impact my fragile life. For my wife is a high school Spanish teacher in this particular school district, and if her job is cut we're pretty well screwed.

My wife always wanted to be an educator. I don't know why any sane person would. Imagine having to walk into a room with thirty disobedient teenagers. Imagine having to stop every 5 minutes to tell someone to stop talking or stop fooling around. Imagine taking phone calls from arrogant parents who demand to know why their smart-mouthed little bastard was given detention or a failing grade. All this and then being paid slave wages while working around the clock grading papers and formulating fresh lesson plans.

Maybe she didn't think this career choice through.

My wife takes her job very seriously. Too seriously, if you ask me. She gets home each afternoon around 4 p.m. and spends the rest of the night doing school work. When I tell her she should just recycle old lesson plans and make it easy on herself she says that she has to keep it fresh and interesting for the kids.

Not that they appreciate it.

"Duh, why do we have to do this? It's stoopid."

But for every moron who doesn't want to learn there are a handful of kids who are grateful for her efforts. They've come up to her and told her how they’ve learn more in her class than any other. Some students have even pursued teaching careers following graduation, and told my wife it was her shining example which lead them in that direction.

Well, maybe they should think twice as well, because the educator is not appreciated in these modern times. The educator is taken for granted. And recent actions by our state government indicates our governor does not care much about the people who have chosen to devote their lives to readying America’s future citizens.

I realize this state is in a financial crisis the likes of which have never been seen and that drastic cuts need to be made, but surely they can find somewhere else to tighten the belt rather than continuing to reduce funding to schools. These actions have left districts scrambling to make ends meet, forcing them to let hard working professionals go.

My wife and the other teachers in her district took a pay-freeze last year to save a few people's jobs. But it looks like they were just prolonging the inevitable. There is no end in sight for this financial calamity. If she doesn’t get the ax this year, it could be the next, or the one after that. We are doomed.

My poor wife spent all that time earning her Masters Degree and becoming a certified Spanish teacher and now, as a show of gratitude for her efforts and her entry into such a noble profession, she is likely going to be shown the door. She did everything like you were supposed to do. She took the high road. So where is her piece of the American Dream?

If my wife loses her job my pathetic income won't keep up afloat very long. Goodbye house. Goodbye standard of living. Goodbye starting a family. We'll be back in the apartment complex before you know it, surrounded by annoyingly noisy white-trash neighbors.

My wife deserves better than this. She paid her dues. It's not supposed to turn out this way. Her degree was supposed to provide her with a solid career for the rest of her life. Hell, she hasn't even finished paying off her student loan.

We're screwed, that's all there is to it. If I had my shit together maybe I could somehow save the day. But I am a failure with no useful skills. Unless someone out there reading this blog wants to hire me for routine writing assignments, I think the end is probably near.

Get Off The Damn Bus!

2011-12-23T15:17:00.001-05:00

I'm a person who sometimes needs direction.

On my first day of elementary school I failed to get off the school bus when it reached my home. I guess I expected the bus to stop on cue and for the lady bus driver to tell me what to do. "Okay, kid. Here's your stop." This did not happen. I looked on in horror as the bus passed right by my house without even slowing down.

Too much of an introverted pile of quivering fear and anxiety to speak up, I sat by the window and cried as the bus made stop after stop on its route. I was frozen to my faux leather seat, unable to act and unable to speak. It was a pathetic display of ineptitude.

Soon there were no children left and I was all alone. I rode unseen back to the bus garage with the driver. Once she parked the bus she made her routine check of the vehicle. This is when she discovered the sobbing idiot about eight rows back.

She went back to her chair and picked up her CB radio. She reported her findings to dispatch. Sobbing kid. Idiot. Didn't get off the bus. Probably retarded. But it didn't take long to get things sorted out. My mother had seen the bus go by the house and had gotten in her car and followed us to the depot. She told the driver that the sobbing idiot child belonged to her and I was escorted off the bus and into her safe custody.

Look, it’s not my fault. My parents should have prepared me better for the first day of school. I need directions when it comes to being a functioning member of society. The pieces of the puzzle don't always fall into place the way they do for everybody else. Things you'd assume were common sense need to be written out. Maybe it's a mild case of Asperger’s syndrome. More likely it's just uncontrollable bashfulness with a side order of stupidity.

My older sister called the girls down the road she occasionally babysat and asked if they could see to it that her idiot brother got off the bus when he was supposed to. They said they would and the next day on the way home they told me when to get up and get off the bus. I think soon after that I finally got the hang of it. Eventually I became a pro. One more daunting challenge successfully overcome. But there were always plenty of others lying ahead.

The Office Holiday Party (or Mr. Anti-Social Strikes Again)

2011-12-22T11:17:00.005-05:00

The office Christmas party is today, so I'm looking forward to 90 minutes of silent discomfort. Each year, I enter the board room, gather a plate of edibles from the buffet line (usually ziti and cold cuts), then take my seat as quickly as possible before I have a chance to embarrass myself.

Once seated, I marvel as no one sits on either side of me until all the other seats are taken and there are no alternatives left. Then I eat in silence, unable and unwilling to participate in small talk with my co-workers.

When I finish eating I wipe my mouth and then zone out, staring blankly at my plate and counting the minutes until this miserable ordeal is over.

We have a grab bag gift exchange, which is usually good fun. It's of the “Chinese Auction” variety so people can steal gifts from others. Everyone is always vying for that elusive bottle of wine. I used to participate, although I liked to bring a gift that nobody in my office would want or need. I think there should always be an "old maid" novelty item in the mix that people go out of their way to distance themselves from. So I would watch with amusement as my $5 “Essence of Slug” scented candle got passed around like a hot potato.

I no longer participate in the grab bag. A couple of years ago when it was my turn to go up and choose a gift I humiliated myself. The room is rather tight and in order to get up to the gift table I had to squeeze behind a row of office chairs (suck it in, you old bat!). I was pressed tight up against the wall for a moment, shimmying my way along before finally reaching the clearing. But little did I know that as I pressed my mid-section up against the wall I had inadvertently unbuckled my belt.

There I was, the center of attention, choosing a gift from the table, with a long leather phallus jutting out from my waist band. When I became aware of the situation I snatched the first gift I saw and scurried back to the table as quickly as possible. Once seated, I carefully re-buckled my belt, moving my hands under the table with a surgeon’s precision. I hoped and prayed that my co-workers hadn’t noticed what had just transpired. This is unlikely.

It was then that I vowed never to participate in the grab bag again. It's safer just to stay in my seat. There's less chance of unfortunate mishaps...like accidentally de-pantsing myself.

Oh, My Aching Tooth

2011-12-13T16:30:00.000-05:00

No sooner did I revive my computer than I felt a slight pang in the tooth that had a root canal about 8 years ago. Surely this can't be right, the nerves are supposed to be dead?

By Saturday it was an annoying ache, by Sunday it was a throbbing nightmare. Naturally, I had to wait until Monday morning to call a dentist and have him look at me.

Since I had no intentions of returning to the crook who took me to the cleaners last summer, I called a dentist that several of my co-workers recommended. They said they could see me at 9:30 that morning. I was grateful that I wouldn't have to suffer long.

I arrived at the dentist's office and took a seat. I was presented with a lovely tote bag as a special gift for new patients. This would certainly help me forget all about the thousands and thousands of dollars I've invested in dental treatment over the past decade.

After a while I was called into the room. They sat me down and put on my bib. I gagged. Then they told me to hold a little gizmo wrapped in a plastic bag up to my tooth so they can take a digital x-ray. I gagged again, but managed to keep it in place long enough for them to get the x-ray. The dentist looked at the image and instantly recognized the problem.

"This root canal is short."

It seems the quack that performed the procedure all those years ago short changed me and failed to fill the canals as far as he should. I swear, if I ever see that guy on the street I'm going to knee cap him and stomp him like a NARC at a biker rally.

The dentist pulled out a small metal object.

"Open wide, please".

He struck the tooth to the left of the crown.

"How's that feel?" he asked.

"Fine," I said.

He hit the tooth on the other side of the crown.

"And that?" he asked.

"Fine," I said.

Then he struck the piece of metal to the crown.

"Sweet bastard!" I cried.

"Yep, that's the one," the dentist remarked.

The dentist explained that the root canal would have to be redone. He would send me to an endodontist, a man who specializes in root canal treatment. With a copy of the x-ray, a letter of referral, and a prescription for antibiotics, I was sent on my way.

I wasted no time getting the pills (Clindamycin). The inflammation was out of control and the constant, maddening throb made me want to lay down in the street and die. Then I went home and got on the phone. I called the endodontist .

They said they could see me the next day, so I agreed. No sense in beating around the bush. The following day I woke up and looked in the mirror. The gums around the crown were now discolored and swollen. I tasted the presence of pus. A day's worth of antibiotics and this is all I have to show for it?

I got dressed and went over to the endodontists office at 9 a.m. After a few minutes of waiting a lady called me in. She sat me in the dental chair and took another x-ray. She handed me the plastic object which I was to hold in my mouth. I gagged again, but we got the x-ray. She too said it was clear that the root canal did not go far enough up into the roots. Then she left and I waited patiently for the doctor.

The doctor came in. He looked at the x-ray and made the same prognosis as the others. A poorly done root canal was the culprit. He went on to say that it was likely the canals were sealed off and he would be unable to reach the roots by burrowing through the crown. He instead suggested cutting a flap in the gums and removing the inflamed roots that way. It would be an hour long procedure, require stitches, and cost between $1300-1600.

Considering the pain I am in, it seems I have no choice. I signed up to have the procedure done in early January after the holidays. In the meantime, I must continue to take the antibiotics, rinse my mouth with salt water, and eat soup and pudding gingerly until the pain subsides and I start to feel normal again.

Just another speed-bump in the road of life.

Life on the Sinking Pirate Ship (Walking the Plank with The Buccaneers)

2011-12-05T12:20:00.001-05:00

Do you like football? Me too. I was a baseball guy when I was very young (New York Mets!), but made the transition to full-time football fanatic in the 8th grade.

The first step in becoming a football fan is to choose a team to root for. I live in New York, so naturally most of my school chums at the time were fans of the New York Giants, New York Jets, or Buffalo Bills.

Then there were those damn Cowboys fans. I don't understand how they had infiltrated our state, but there sure were a lot of them. I guess it’s easy to root for a winner. After all, The Cowboys were “America's Team”.

I could have taken the easy route and chosen to root for a team that actually won games. Instead, I decided to be a rebel and follow a team that no one in their right mind would root for: The Tampa Bay Buccaneers.

I remember the day I made that fateful decision. I opened a newspaper mid-season and looked for the team with the worst record. I didn't have to look far. The Buccaneers were 2-8 and were generally one of the worst teams in the league year after year. They wore jerseys that were the color of orange cream sickles and their mascot was a rather dainty looking pirate named “Bruce”.

Yep, this was gonna be my team.

It started out as a joke. My friends would mock my sad devotion to this horrible franchise. I didn’t mind. I love rooting for an underdog. When I got my first job my boss would always have a good laugh at my expense. He'd introduce me to his friends and say, "This guy’s a Buccaneer fan. Ever see one of them before?"

Yes, I suppose I was a rare creature in the northeast. It was sort of like seeing a Sasquatch, or at the very least a Florida alligator rolling around in a snow bank.

Before the Internet came along, my only resource for Buccaneers news came from the newspaper and ESPN. I'd watch the highlights of their games and see a team constantly getting outclassed. They lost so much that I didn't even mind, really. The constant losses only served to make those rare victories all the more pleasing.

Then something strange happened: The Buccaneers started to show signs of improvement. It all started when they were given cool new uniforms of red and pewter. On their helmets, an ominous skull insignia replaced that nonthreatening smiling swashbuckler “Bruce the Pirate”.

The team opened their 1997 season going 5-0. I finally had something to crow about. I'd go into work and start making crazy predictions to entertain my boss and co-workers. I’d tell them the Bucs were going to go 16-0, and quarterback Trent Dilfer would break every single season record before the year was through (I think the only record he ended up breaking was in interceptions).

Well, sure enough the Bucs hit a skid and they didn't go undefeated that season after all. But they did reach the playoffs, and that alone was an exciting change of pace.

The Bucs continued to be a pretty good team for the next few seasons, with some real superstars emerging like Mike Alstott, Warren Sapp, Warrick Dunn, Derrick Brooks and Ronde Barber. It was an exciting time to be a Buccaneer fan. Everything finally seemed to be falling into place.

And then, following a glorious 2002 regular season, the Buccaneers reached their pinnacle: Superbowl XXXVII. They beat the Raiders 48-21. After the game I receive a phone call from my old boss congratulating me. After years of loyalty, I finally got to see the Bucs bring home a championship.

In the years since the Superbowl things have been going steadily downhill. The players I admired so much were traded away or retired. The win/loss records got less and less worth mentioning. By 2009, the Bucs were pretty much starting from scratch with a whole new team of young rookies. They started the year losing seven (7) straight games and ended the season with only 3 wins.

It looks like we've gone from feast to famine. This year the team is playing especially poorly, currently in the midst of a six game losing streak. But losing is nothing new for Buccaneers fans. It's going to be a long climb back to the top for this young Bucs team, but I shall remain loyal and root for them each Sunday regardless of how badly they stink (and boy do they stink this year!).

"Windows Has Failed To Start"

2011-11-30T11:36:00.002-05:00

This blog has served only to illustrate to me what a hassle life is. The weekly predicaments really start to pile up when you see them laid out before you. Every time I turn around there’s something else to feel bad about. My car is leaking transmission fluid, my 5-disc CD changer died, my new furnace's air vent is dripping water down the side of the house, and giggling mice are running rampant through my attic. What else can go wrong?

Well, this week my computer broke down for no good reason at all. There's something wrong with Windows and it won't load properly. It can probably be repaired, but I'm trying to rescue the contents of my C drive before reformatting the machine and losing everything. This requires some effort on my part.

Apparently I needed an External Hard Drive Docking Station. Not being very tech savvy, I didn't even know such a thing existed until some Internet friends gave me the tip. I wasted no time and immediately went over to Staples (formerly Chuck E. Cheese, remember?) and bought one for $40.

The idea is to carefully remove the C Drive out of your malfunctioning computer tower, plug it into this gizmo, and then plug the gizmo into the USB port of a functioning computer. You will then be able to access the drive using the functioning computer and retrieve your precious files.

Well, I tried it with an older computer I had collecting dust in the closet, but unfortunately that one was incompatible. It was running Windows Millennium Edition which is sadly outdated. So I guess I'll have to go over to my parents' house this weekend and try to hook it up to theirs. I will then transfer the important C Drive documents to a newly purchased 16-gigabyte flash drive memory stick so I can reinstall the information back onto my computer once it is repaired.

When all is said and done this might turn out to be a blessing in disguise. I'd been trying to clean up my computer's hard drive for a while now, for I am a bit of a pack rat when it comes to pictures, music and video clips. I won't be able to save it all. It's way too much to transfer. I will have to make careful choices and sacrifice some of it. But that’s probably for the best. There is far too much clutter on the drive.

But there are a few things that I absolutely have to retrieve, specifically, my photos from this year's vacation to Maine. I uploaded them to the computer but foolishly failed to back them up to a CD, which is what I usually do. And I have to rescue my wife's folder of school work. She is a teacher and has many worksheets and PowerPoint presentations she's made over the past several months that we have also failed to backup. If I am unable to retrieve them she is going to be extremely upset.

But I don't see any reason why this project should fail. It seems pretty cut and dry. What could possible go wrong with such an easy procedure? Oh, wait, now I remember. Everything goes wrong for me. So yeah, this plan will probably fail too.

I donated $20 to the Multiple Sclerosis Foundation in an attempt to improve my karma. Maybe it will help. I doubt it. I'm not so sure there’s anyone behind the wheel. If there is, I have shaken my fist in their general direction once too often, and now must pay the price.

Blackballed By Brooks

2011-11-21T23:21:00.001-05:00

A few days after Halloween my friend and I walked over to Brooks Pharmacy in the strip mall to get something to drink. We went to the rear of the store, grabbed a couple of bottled waters from the cooler, and headed up to the cashier to pay.

When we reached the counter the girl at the register started hollering at us.

"What are you doing back in here?" she said.

"Huh?"

"You were told not to shop here anymore."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You'd better leave right now or I'm calling security."

"Call them," I calmly replied.

My friend looked at me nervously, but I waved him off. I knew we had nothing to worry about, for we had done nothing wrong. This is America. We have rights.

The girl picked up the phone and called security. When she put the phone down she asked us to wait outside. We complied, leaving behind the refreshing bottled waters we had hoped to buy.

In a couple of minutes we saw the flashing yellow lights of security van approach and pull up to the curb outside the store. The girl employee came outside to meet him. She was running her mouth about shoplifting and how we had been permanently banned from the store. I spoke up and told the security guard that I had no idea what she was talking about and that we had never been in trouble in this store or any store in the strip mall. The security guard thoughtfully nodded in agreement and turned back to the girl.

"I've never seen these guys before. These aren't the same kids who you threw out last week."

Vindication! Surely the girl would accept that she had made a mistake and allow us back into the store. Hell, maybe they’d even give us the water for free as a form of apology for being so rude.

But the Nazi clerk wasn't satisfied. She still wished to ban us from the store anyway, just because we slightly resembled some other long haired troublemakers. The security guard gently explained to my friend and me that the store reserved the right to ban anyone they chose. I mused aloud how well this would go over if we were black. It was stereotyping and bigotry, plain and simple. Somebody call the headbanger equivalent of Al Sharpton.

The girl wanted our names so she could add them to her list of drug store exiles. She already had a pen and paper in her hand and was ready to write them down. I looked at the security guard, who shrugged and said it was up to us whether we wanted to give our names to her. I told her to forget it; I was not about to have my good name associated with a pack of petty thieves. Believe it or not, there were still some shreds of dignity left beneath that smelly leather jacket and gnarly long hair.

In the end, we went on our way and Little Miss Fancy Pants went back inside her precious store. As we were departing the sympathetic security guard took a moment to comment on how well we had conducted ourselves by not becoming confrontational with the irrational clerk. We appreciated his words and, out of respect, we did as we were asked and did not return to the store, no matter how thirsty we became.

By the following summer Brooks Pharmacy had gone belly-up and the store was replaced by Revco Pharmacy. The day the new store opened I walked right in and bought all the bottled water I damn well pleased. We never again crossed paths with the idiot clerk, so I’ll just assume she lost her job at the pharmacy and had to resort to selling her once untainted body on the street for food money in order to stay alive.

Sounds like a satisfying story conclusion to me.

The Boy Who Wouldn't Fly

2011-11-17T00:40:00.001-05:00

Shameful admission - I've never been on an airplane.

I don't like to travel. In fact, I don't like movement of any kind, really. I won't go on amusement park rides, water slides, or even a merry-go-round if I don’t have to. This is not a form of entertainment for me. It just leaves me feeling dizzy and sick.

I don’t find anything even mildly enticing about being launched up into the sky in an airtight tin can and breathing toxic recycled air while mutant germs and deadly parasites from every country in the world crawl over me unseen. There's no way I'm putting myself at that much risk just for the privilege of shaking hands with some crystal-meth addict in a Mickey Mouse costume at the Epcot Center.

Sometimes I get pressured by my wife to take her on a "real" vacation. I guess she bases vacation quality solely on the distance we are from our house and the amount of money wasted on travel accommodations. Summer after summer she is thoroughly disappointed as we visit such far away exotic locations as Hyannis, Burlington, and the majestic Lake Placid.

I’m not about to put my life in the hands of some anonymous drunkard who’s slumped behind the wheel in the plane’s cockpit. These professional airline pilots are paid minimum wage and have the credentials of a sanitation worker. Many suffer from unchecked acute mental disorders and are legally blind. They have no business hauling me and my loved ones twenty miles into the sky before sending us all into a spiraling, hellish death. No thank you, sir, I’ll take the stairs.

Things have only gotten worse in these troubling modern times. Back in the “good old days”, all one had to worry about was pilot error or mechanical failure. Now there’s the constant risk of finding yourself seated next to an Al-Qaeda operative with a shoe full of plastic explosives and a box cutter with your name on it. Is a chance to sit in the studio audience of “The Tonight Show” really worth the risk?

Maybe my fears are irrational. I suppose, statistically, the odds of my flight ending in a fiery calamity are rather low. But I’ve made such a big deal about it over the years that I’ve surely created a self-fulfilling prophecy. After all my refusals to fly, to board a plane now would surely guarantee that I, along with all the other innocent passengers who were unlucky enough to share my flight, would wind up as a pile of charred debris after taking a sudden nosedive into the side of a mountain in the Poconos.

I guess I won't get to see the Hawaiian Islands, the Eiffel Tower or the Roman Coliseum. So it goes. I'm a land animal, dammit, and if I can't get there on foot or by automobile I have no business being there in the first place. Flying through the sky is for the birds. Amen.

Double Quarter Pounder (Medium Rare)

2011-11-12T21:13:00.001-05:00

When I was in high school I'd hang out on the other side of town with my headbanger friends. On weeknights I'd get picked up by my mother around 9 p.m. and she'd take me home. Sometimes I'd be hungry (I usually skipped dinner after school) so Mom would hit the drive-thru on the way home and I'd grab a burger (Eating this late was probably not a good idea. No wonder my stomach hurts so much).

My friend Dexter from school worked at McDonalds. Dexter worked the grill, flipping hamburger patties. Sometimes my friends and I would stop in at the end of his shift and he'd give us free stuff to eat. Dexter was a nice guy. But as an employee Dexter was unreliable and often stoned out of his mind.

This appeared to be the case on the fateful night my mother stopped at the McDonalds’ drive-thru to buy me some dinner. I ordered a Double Quarter Pounder value meal. When I received it, I noticed the meat looked uncommonly rare. It was bright pink. Usually, McDonalds serves everything well done. Apparently there is a reason for this, as I soon found out.

The lights of the restaurant faded into the distance as we drove away. Soon I couldn’t see the pink meat in my hand anymore. So I went ahead and ate the burger. What I can't see won't hurt me, right?

Moments after pulling into our driveway inhuman noises began erupting from my belly. Pain shot through my mid-section as if I had been stabbed. I knew I was in for some serious trouble.

I leaped from the car and ran into the house and straight for the bathroom. The urge to vomit came fast and hard with little time to prepare. I dropped to my knees in front of the toilet and the puking began.

On and on, my body was locked in horrible agony. Suddenly, in the midst of the vomiting, the diarrhea hit like a foamy brown tidal wave. It was too late to pump the brakes. I soiled myself.

I vomited a little more then flushed that awful vision away. I quickly staggered to my feet, dropped my drawers and sat down on the can, looking down at the soiled underwear sagging between my legs. Feeling another wave of sickness coming up, I grabbed the nearby bathroom garbage can and puked into it. The puking action loosened my bowels again and more waste exploded out of my backside.

I had done my fair share of puking and crapping in my life, but I had never experienced anything like this. My body could not purge the undercooked McDonalds hamburger fast enough. I could almost hear the alarms going off inside me. “Abandon ship! She’s gonna blow!”

After twenty minutes of purging I was finally finished. I stood up and looked in the mirror. My eyes were bloodshot and tears were streaming from them. My throat was raw and my ass was sore. I began the long, delicate process of cleaning myself up.

With shame I told my mother what happened and placed my soiled garments in the washing machine. Even though I was shaken up emotionally and physically, I was also thankful that my body was wise enough to remove the horrible poison I placed inside it. It probably saved my life.

The next morning at school I told Dexter all about what he’d done to me and to this day, everytime I stop at McDonalds and see a photo of the Double Quarter Pounder, I think of Dexter and the night I soiled myself.

What's That Smell?

2011-11-08T13:37:00.001-05:00

It's no secret that I love my wife, but living with her has shredded my nerves. She always manages to find the worst case scenario and run wild with it.

Case in point - I was awakened at 3:30 in the morning by my wife who was suddenly sitting upright in the bed.

"Wake up. I smell something."

I had only been asleep for 2 hours and my brain was not fully functional.

"What do you smell?” I asked.

"I dunno. Maybe skunk. Its so strong it woke me up."

I inhaled. My sense of smell has never been that great, so naturally I came up empty.

"I don't smell anything."

She got up out of bed and started sniffing around the room like a crazy person.

"It smells like skunk. What if there's a skunk in here?"

Ah, a reasonable deduction. A skunk is inside the house.

"It's probably coming from outside. Please go back to bed."

She goes over to the window and cranks it open.

"I don't smell anything outside. What if there is a skunk in the attic?"

I feel a warm flush inside me as the seeds of irritation begin to grow.

"How would a skunk get into our attic?"

"Why not? Raccoons get into attics!"

Seeing as how I was just in the attic dealing with our mice problem two days ago I'm pretty sure I would have noticed if there was a large, gaping hole in the side of the house where woodland creatures were entering at will.

"If there was a skunk in the attic you'd hear it running around."

She went downstairs and into the kitchen. I could hear her sniffing around down there.

Then she went out into the garage.

"I think I smell gas. Come down here."

Sigh.

I get up and go downstairs. I start to shiver because I'm under-dressed and it's freezing cold.

I join my wife in the garage. I inhale deeply. I smell nothing. I go over to the furnace room, where any sort of gas leak would most likely originate from. Again, I smell nothing.

"I don't smell anything. Now can we stop this lunacy and go back to bed?"

Before the words are out of my mouth she's already heading back upstairs. After a few more sniffs she gets back into bed. I join her, now shivering uncontrollably.

"Do you still smell it?"

She muttered something unintelligible, neither confirming nor denying the presence of the smell. Soon she was asleep again, while I lay there in the dark letting her irrational fears get the best of me.

Is there a gas leak? Is there an animal in the attic? A dead mouse rotting in the wall? Did we make a mistake buying this house? Do we have enough money? Do I have cancer? Will my wife go blind? Is the furnace going to blow up?

My stomach continued to twist and turn as the sky slowly brightened and the birds began to sing.

I Don't Want to Talk About It

2011-11-07T11:09:00.000-05:00

I haven’t written anything for the blog in a while.

It’s not that things haven’t been happening around here. On the contrary, since my last installment, I’ve gone to a wedding, seen a movie, dealt with more mice in my attic, visited the doctor because I had the stomach flu, I ate a bagel in the bathroom, and I tried to console my sad wife who has been told that due to a slightly enlarged optic nerve she is a future candidate for glaucoma.

Yes, there have been things I could talk about, but I just don’t want to. I’m tired of dodging the curve balls life throws at me. And I’m tired of writing about it. And you’re probably tired of reading it. I cannot inject humor and wit into things which make my stomach twist up in knots. At night I lay down and my mind whirls with visions of impending doom. And there’s always more coming. The pain is inevitable.

These are all subjects that I’ve already tackled. There’s nothing new to say about them. Seeing my old entries only reminds me that life is a miserable cycle of stress and heartache. Seasons pass, loved ones die, and then when it’s your turn you shake your head and wonder what the point of it all was. There’s nothing to look forward to now but loss, loss, loss.

How’s that for an uplifting blog entry? See what happens when we mess with the clocks?

A Perfect Physical Specimen

2011-10-20T22:44:00.003-04:00

I finally got the results from my blood work.

I had gone for a physical two weeks ago and have had a hard time getting a hold of someone at the doctor's office who would give me the straight dope on the situation.

Anyone who has read this blog (or just seen me in public) knows that I'm no health nut. Little exercise. A diet of sugar and grease. A family history of cancer and diabetes. Every Swiss Roll brings me one step closer to an early grave.

In a way, I sort of hoped they would find something wrong with me. It would finally give me an excuse to correct my bad habits. Year after year I swear I'm going to change my ways, and year after year I fail. A grim dose of reality at the hands of a concerned physician would leave me no choice but to shape up or prepare to die.

I held the phone to my ear expecting bad news.

"Everything is normal."

"Say what?"

"Cholesterol is good. Glucose is good. You are in perfect health."

"You wouldn't know that by looking at me," I said.

The nurse stiffled her laughter.

She read some meaningless numbers off to me but what it all added up to in the end is that my self-destructive ways have not yet gotten the better of me.

How can that be possible?

Perhaps my body is so used to running on pure garbage that it has actually adapted in order to survive. This would explain why I’ve felt so ill on those rare occasions when I've eaten salad greens. My digestive system is no longer capable of processing them. It has been re-equipped to extract nutrition from Friendly's SuperMelts, Reese's peanut butter cups and cheap whiskey. It takes what it needs and then flushes the sugars and bad cholesterol out my back door with little hesitation.

I guess all those trips to the bathroom is actually my body protecting itself from that which can damage it. Amazing. The ability to adapt is what has kept this species around for all these millions of years. I am merely the next step in humanity's evolution.

What worries me is that once the news gets out of my special ability the government scientists will come calling for me. They will want to dissect me and find out what makes me tick in hopes of putting an end to the obesity epidemic sweeping this nation. I'll constantly be on the run, like Drew Barrymore in Firestarter, desperate to live a normal life and not wind up a human guinea pig for the CIA.

I think I'll celebrate the good news by treating myself to a Filet O' Fish and one of those chocolate pies they sell at the gas stations (mmmm... beef tallow). No point messing with a winning formula. If it ain’t broke don’t fix it.

Halloween Hijinks and High School Heartache

2011-10-18T23:47:00.002-04:00

I've had my share of memorable Halloweens. My favorite was probably in 1992 when I was sixteen years old.

Halloween conveniently fell on a Saturday that year, so I could stay out as long as I liked (although if I didn’t call home by 11 for a ride I’d have to find a place to stay for the night). Long past the age for trick-or-treating, we spent the evening vandalizing the neighborhood and ultimately found ourselves at a memorable house party.

My friends lived on the other side of town from me so I had to get a ride over to their neck of the woods. I spent most of my time in their suburban neighborhood since mine was a rural wasteland of desolate boredom.

I enjoy wearing disguises and pretending to be somebody else so to get into the Halloween mood I smeared a tube of red muck across my face as an unconvincing substitute for blood. It wasn’t very creative but it did the trick.

I got dropped off and met up with the boys. We killed time that afternoon doing our usual thing, whatever that may have been back then (probably hacky sack and cigarettes). Once it started getting dark we knew the time for Halloween tomfoolery was at hand so we sprang into action like a pack of devilish fiends running through the night.

For obvious reasons, the local stores refused to sell shaving cream, spray paint or toilet paper on Halloween. Being the geniuses that we are, we simply walked over to the Burger King and stole rolls of toilet paper out of the bathroom dispensers. We left a few scraps behind so the next poor soul who ran into the stall with the Whopper trots wouldn’t have to resort to using dollar bills.

There I was, dressing head to toe in black (my “invisible pedestrian” costume) with red muck smeared across my face and an industrial sized roll of toilet paper shoved into my armpit beneath my smelly leather jacket. It’s hard to believe I didn’t get more dates in high school.

We went back across the street and toilet papered the hell out of a tree at the corner of Elkwood Street. We were right out in the open, in clear view of the main road. I was surprised that nobody tried to stop us.

One of my friends had a can of shaving cream he had swiped from his parents’ bathroom. He used it to write profanities on the side of his neighbor’s garage. Interestingly, the shaving cream residue didn’t completely wash away. For the next year or two, if you had a keen eye, you could still make out his crude message on the side of that garage.

Half an hour later we had gotten all the vandalism out of our system and were heading on foot over to Jake's house. Jake’s parents were away and there was going to be a big party. We took our usual short-cut through the woods via a well-worn footpath. Once we got back out onto the road a police cruiser quickly pulled up beside us and the cop inside commanded us to halt.

Momentarily frozen in panic, I had completely forgotten about the somewhat depleted toilet paper roll wedged under my arm. I had more than enough time to discard it before the cops got out of the car, but I didn't. When the cop patted me down he immediately found it, pulled it out and held it in front of my face.

"What's this for?" he asked.

"Oh, well… you see, sir, I have a bit of a cold and have been blowing my nose a lot."

"Uh-huh...yeah, we saw your handiwork down at the end of Elkwood Street."

"It wasn't me! That must have been some other kids! And I hope you catch those vandals! There's nothing worse than young people who ruin Halloween by using it as an excuse to cause mischief and property damage..."

"Enough with the bullshit," he said.

He took my toilet paper away and moved on to search the next kid.

And that was it! I thought for sure he'd throw me into the back of the car and take me down to the station house, but he did not. No misdemeanor, no probation, no nothing. Not even a stern warning.

Soon enough the police car was pulling away and we were back on course towards the house party, travelling a little lighter now that all our contraband had been confiscated. We arrived at Jake’s house. It was a small, single story cottage. Very little room inside to do much of anything. Yet I'll be damned if there weren't 25 or 30 dirty head-bangers inside enjoying beers and other unmentionable amenities.

The lights were dimmed. The music was loud. There was a strobe light and a purple black light giving the pad that ominous Halloween vibe. The dirty kitchen was packed with people pounding beers. Never much of a drinker in those days, I quickly found a circle of friends in the yard and loosened up through alternative methods. Then I went back inside the house to find a place to chill.

It was then that I located Crystal, a girl I had a thing for. She was sitting in a rocking chair. I sat down cross-legged on the floor beside her. She had apparently drunk a couple of beers and had a case of the giggles. We talked amongst ourselves all through the evening while inebriated carnage raged on all around us. She'd lean over the arm of the chair towards me so I could hear her over the loud music and shouting. Her long blonde hair (dyed) kept falling into my face. It smelled sweetly mysterious, as if she had washed it using a secret shampoo just for girls. Her mischievous blue eyes danced like wildfires in the dark.

And then I was gone.

Clouds. Stars. Nebula. Butterflies. Sparkling ocean at sunset. Warm. Dry. A stomach full of sunshine (probably Kit Kats). Marlboro Country. Pixie dust sprinkled on the noses of sleeping children. Rippling waterfalls. Rebirth. Relief. Forgiveness. Hope. Lunar eclipse. Marshmallows whispering sweet nothings. God. The universe humming like power lines over a stinking dumpster swarmed by flies.

Charlie came into the room and said he was leaving. Charlie was her ride home, so she had to go. She cunningly stuffed two cans of Budweiser into her purse and I walked her out the front door. She stumbled into Charlie’s van and moved towards the back. Then she reappeared in the little window on the side and continued talking to me. She laughed and laughed. Everything was so funny to her. I'd never seen her so positively jolly. But then the van roared to life and we had to say goodbye.

I goofed around with my friends a little while longer, then got picked up by my mother around 11 and went home. I washed the red muck from my face and sat awake until the dawn. I replayed the night over and over in my mind.

On Monday when I saw Crystal again at school she had reverted back to her usual self – quiet, distant and impossible to know. So I went ahead and resumed dreaming my life away.

Too bad they didn’t serve Budweiser in the school cafeteria.

My Friend Friendly's

2011-10-14T19:58:00.002-04:00

Friendly's restaurants has filed for bankruptcy and closed sixty of its national stores, five of which are in my vicinity, one of which I regularly frequented. While there are still a handful of Friendly's restaurants in the area I can eat at, the fact that the company is in such sad shape doesn’t bode well for the future. I imagine a few years from now Friendly's restaurants will be a thing of the past; another fading memory of yesteryear.

I always order the same thing at Friendly’s - the Barbecue Chicken SuperMelt. It consists of three deep fried breaded chicken strips tossed onto toasted white bread then drenched in barbecue sauce, ranch dressing and melted cheese, topped with a generous amount of crispy bacon. It doesn't sound that remarkable on paper, but damn is it good.

Sometimes Friendly's has a promotional special where if you buy a SuperMelt and a soda you get a free "Happy Ending Sundae". This may sound dangerously close to an edible “rub and tug”, but in fact it's a two-scoop sundae with your choice of delicious topping. I usually get Peanut Butter Cup ice cream topped with chocolate sauce.

Then I rush home to use the can.

Friendly's has always been a good place to bring kids. You'll always see noisy families piling in on a Friday night. The Kid’s Menu offers simpler things like hot dogs and macaroni and cheese. Sometimes, as an adult, I feel a little envious. Only children under 12 get to order from the “Kid’s Menu”. This sounds a lot like age discrimination to me. Why can't I have a hotdog too?

They also have a menu for senior citizens collecting all the “Olde Fashioned" Friendly's favorites that have remained reliable staples throughout the decades. Among these is the delightful "Fish-A-Majig". It’s an apt name for the sandwich because when you bite into it you’ll ask aloud, "What the hell is this thing?" It's a grilled cheese sandwich with a fish fillet somewhere in the middle, but the fillet is a watery mess that barely resembles fish at all. It’s still oddly enjoyable, though.

Friendly's has surprisingly good burgers. They insist the meat isn't some frozen patty, and maybe they're telling the truth. The burgers always taste flavorful and juicy when you shove them into your drooling mouth.

Now that the company is in jeopardy I plan on doubling my visits to Friendly's and showing my support. Like the old saying goes, you don't know what you've got till it's gone, and the day Friendly's Restaurants are gone for good just very well be the day I cash in my chips and declare this God-awful world too painfully bleak to live in any longer.

I went to Friendly's tonight. As usual, I ordered the Barbecue Chicken SuperMelt. And, as usual, my meal came to it's inevitable conclusion.

Sock It To Me

2011-10-13T09:09:00.000-04:00

I have a bad habit of wearing socks that don't match.

My wife is always on my case about it. I guess it's understandable. It is a rather juvenile inclination.

It's not like I go so far as to wear one black sock and one white sock (although, if pressed for time, I'd have no qualms in doing so). Generally, I wear two black socks, but they will be two black socks of conflicting patterns or texture.

I don't really see what the big deal is. The general public never ever sees my socks. And if they do catch a glimpse of my ankles it won't be long enough for them recognize the fact that one sock is silky black with a pattern of little gold diamonds and the other has zigzags of red and gray.

I've got a drawer full of socks and none of them match. When a sock gets too holey to wear anymore I naturally throw it away. But I’ll keep the other. Why throw away a perfectly good sock just because its partner wore out? Seems like a waste to me.

I always get my money's worth from these socks. I push them to the limit. Unless two or three of my gruesome toes are completely exposed, I'll continue wearing them. I hold onto socks far longer than any sane individual would.

There is the occasional embarrassing incident, though. For instance, the other day when I went to the doctor's office for my physical examination I had to strip down and put on a billowing hospital gown. I didn't mind that so much. But after I changed into it I sat back down on the table and noticed that, as usual, I was wearing socks that didn't match. And it wasn't the sort of mild variation that I could get away with. One was a silk black dress sock with an eye-catching pattern (little gold squares) and the other was a faded black athletic tube sock (closer to gray at this point). The tube sock was riddled with holes all along the heel.

I wished I had taken my socks into consideration when I got dressed that morning. But it was dark and I was in a hurry. When the doctor came in and started pressing on my stomach I thought I saw him glance momentarily towards my socks. Maybe he was just checking out my ankles and feet for signs of illness. I’d like to think so. I’d hate to have my lazy choice of footwear affect my social status.

The Heat is On

2011-10-07T12:10:00.000-04:00

Last week the new furnace arrived.

A pair of workmen arrived in a truck at 8:45 in the morning. They left at 6:45 that night. Installing the new furnace was quite a project, as you can imagine.

It’s a shiny new energy efficient model. No more standing pilot. This machine is smart enough to ignite and extinguish itself as needed.

"Now witness the firepower of this fully armed and operational gas furnace!"

When the job was finally finished, the technicians turned on the furnace to test it out. The house became as hot as an oven within seconds. My hair blew back from the powerful, hurricane-like gusts emanating from the air vents. The new furnace’s fan was far more powerful than our previous model. And the built in humidifier will hopefully eliminate those miserable winter mornings where I’d wake up with a dry mouth and swollen uvula.

After dealing with an old, weak and unreliable central air system for the past several years I am now looking forward to some genuine comfort and peace of mind. My heating bills will rapidly decline while my happiness level goes off the charts.

The only downside to this situation is that there will be no more entertaining blog entries about waking up cold in the middle of the night and dealing with a malfunctioning furnace. No more curses, tears, or overpriced demonic exorcisms. We’re sailing into uncharted waters of optimism and tranquility.

Then again, knowing my luck, I’d better find some wood to knock on.

There Goes The Neighborhood

2011-09-26T20:22:00.000-04:00

“There are times when I look at people and see nothing worth liking.” – Daniel Plainview, There Will Be Blood

Some new people have moved in next door to me and, big surprise, they're already getting on my nerves.

I have not met the people face to face yet, but my wife has. She said it's a father and his two sons. One son lives with him full-time, the other apparently lives with his mother but comes around from time to time to visit. The father seemed to be a nervous sort of fellow. The kid was your typical teen; too self-absorbed to respond to my wife's attempt to say "hello".

They moved in last Sunday. By mid-week the kid was already blasting music. The booming bass penetrated our walls and reduced our brains to puddles of jelly. My wife was angry but I turned the other cheek and gave the new neighbors the benefit of the doubt.

On Saturday the music started around noon. It was even louder than before. BOOM BOOM BOOM went the bass. My wife and I were annoyed, but since we were going out to run our weekend errands I figured it was best just to let it go. Let him play his music while we're out. By time we get home he'll have had his fill and we'll enjoy a nice, quiet Saturday night in front of the television.

We got back from our shopping expedition in the evening around 7:30. The father was out. His car was gone. But the neighbor's kid was in his garage with a couple of his hoodlum friends. They had some music playing on a portable radio (I successfully identified the songs "Clint Eastwood" by The Gorillaz and "Me So Horny" by 2 Live Crew) as they cursed and fiddled with their skateboards and did whatever it is that young people do these days. The kids had apparently been left alone by the father to fend for themselves for the day. It was like Lord of the Freakin’ Flies.

My wife didn't like that the kids were out there making noise in our quiet little neighborhood, but I didn't mind. As long as they were out in the garage I knew I wouldn't be hearing them blasting their booming bass music and rattling my skull. So we went inside and put away our groceries.

We were just about to settle down for a movie and a snack at 9 p.m. when the music started again, louder than ever. BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM. This was the straw that broke the camel's back. We work long hours all week and Saturday is our day to relax, not be pummeled to death by this shitty music around the clock. I was going over there to break it up.

After having kept my shit together pretty well thus far I had now become completely unglued. I started ranting and raving.

"Where the hell is his father?...What kind of people move into a new neighborhood and immediately make a nuisance of themselves?...We live in a society!...Has the whole world gone crazy?!? Am I the only one who still gives a shit about the rules?!?!"

My wife was getting angry with me, worried that the neighbors would overhear me since we had our living room window open. I told her she was nuts, with the music blasting the way it was those kids wouldn't hear a jumbo jet crashing into their driveway.

I was slipping my sneakers on when the music abruptly stopped. Maybe common sense had finally prevailed. Or maybe they heard me raving. I didn’t care either way.

This neighborhood is mostly older folks who enjoy quiet strolls and bird watching. That is why we liked it so much. We like quiet. We like calmness. And now these stupid-ass kids are here and the whole thing has gone to shit. We feel like we’re living in an apartment again, surrounded by noisy white-trash a-holes.

It seems like this sort of thing happens to us too often. Is it just bad luck? Or are we simply unable to coexist with anyone in this world? Perhaps some self-appraisal is in order.

Maybe it is me. After all, it’s no secret that I hate everyone. Maybe I'm the one who is wrong because I still try to be considerate of those around me. I don't move into a new neighborhood and start blasting heavy bass music right away. I don't talk loudly on a cell phone all day long at my desk while my co-workers try to concentrate (or write blog entries). I don't use the median as a passing lane. I use a turn signal. I keep my voice down when I’m in a theater. I don't swear loudly in public places in front of women and children. I pull my pants up over my waistline and don't expose my stank-ass skid-marked boxer shorts to the world.

I guess I’m just a miserable old grouch. I’m out of step with the way things are. Maybe I should just join in and start acting like a self-absorbed asshole like everybody else. My unhappiness is due solely to my refusal to evolve. Times have changed. I should change too.

I'm gonna go home tonight, cue up some Dr. Dre, crank the sub-woofer, and rattle some motherf***ing skulls. No more pussy-footing around. It's time to hop aboard the Douche-Train and stop giving a shit. I’m ready to adapt. I am legend.

Getting Off on the Wrong Foot

2011-09-24T20:26:00.002-04:00

A word of advice - don't be cheap when it comes to your feet.

I don't like spending money. Scratch that. I don't like spending my money on things other than records and DVDs. When it comes to necessities like food and clothing, I always look for ways to cut corners.

A nice pair of shoes can be expensive. So when I saw that pair of sneakers at the Walmart for $10 I had trouble saying "no". It seemed like a dream come true. So I went ahead bought them.

Two weeks later I could barely walk. The shoes offered no support and no shock absorption. Every time I stepped on a pebble along the street it felt like a dagger being drive into my heel. It was only a short time before I had done severe damage to my feet.

The proper medical term for my injury is Plantar Fasciitis. It certainly sounds impressive. I guess there's a group of tendons on the bottom of my heel that have been damaged due to my carrying around “a little extra weight” and wearing substandard $10 Walmart sneakers. This is what I get for being cheap.

Even though they were barely broken in, I went ahead and ditched the Walmart sneakers and bought a slightly more expensive pair. These new sneakers were $25. Still pretty cheap by normal people’s standards, but I consider the Rolls Royce of shoes. They are Dr. Shoals brand sneaker, scientifically designed make standing on your feet more pleasant. The insides of the shoe have extra gel padding, and there is an air pocket cushion on the bottom. I tried them on in the store and felt like I was walking on a bed of marshmallows. It felt terrific.

However, the pre-existing injury is still present and simply will not heal on its own. I limp around all day long like Anton Chigurh. In a way it's kinda cool; it makes me look even more unapproachable than before, which is helpful at work where I hate everybody. But damn, does my foot hurt. I wake up in the morning and my foot is so stiff I can barely make it to the shower.

The doctor gave me some tips on how to relieve the pain, (like rolling a frozen bottle of water under my foot) but at this point it seems like the only way to cure me is to get an injection into my foot. This is very painful, I am told, so I’m not looking forward to it. But it’s been about seven months now and time to take real action.

So take it from me, kids – being cheap is cool but short-changing your feet will lead to more trouble than it’s worth.

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas?!?!

2011-09-23T20:06:00.000-04:00

I stopped at my local Target the other day to grab something to drink and was astounded to find that they already had their Christmas decorations out on display. I had to stop and check my watch. Yep, only September 21st. Christmas is still 3 months away.

Stores have been quietly sneaking their holiday stuff out earlier and earlier for years. I suppose the ideas is that if you extend the holiday-shopping period you'd increase holiday gift sales. A fine strategy. I wonder how that's working out for them?

Personally, I refuse to acknowledge the holiday season until the day after Thanksgiving. Anything prior to that is madness. I mean, what sort of individual has a desire to buy their Christmas decorations and holiday cards in September? Its 85 freaking degrees outside. Who wants to think about arctic temperatures and back-breaking snow? Not I. Sure, I like to the jump on the holiday rush and get my shopping out of the way early as much as the next guy, but that doesn't mean I need to see Christmas trees and paper snowflakes dangling from store ceilings in September.

How special can a holiday be if it takes up a full quarter of the year?

And don't get me started on holiday music. There’s nothing worse than shopping for Halloween candy and hearing Burl Ives telling me to have a "Holly Jolly Christmas" over the store’s loudspeakers. Get bent, Burl.

The radio isn't any better. Our local oldies station switches to a 24-7 Christmas music format each holiday season. And each year they start earlier and earlier. They used to wait until December, which seemed to be a sane decision. Then they pushed it up to the day after Thanksgiving. Last year, they reached a new low by switching to non-stop holiday music effective November 1st. Can you imagine having to listen to that crap for two months straight? If I were a DJ at that station I’d probably go on a shooting rampage.

By time the actual holiday arrives everyone is so sick of it that they can't wait to rip the tree down and move on with their miserable lives. So much for those feelings of generosity and good cheer. But this is the world we live in, ruled over by corporate warlords that study our every move and exploit us for financial gain at every opportunity. If retail sales go up during the Christmas season, why, they’ll just make the Christmas season last longer and longer until they meet our desired quota. Who cares if in the process they reduce the once magical merriment of the holiday season to an annoying nuisance of a thing?

Scrooge was right. Humbug.

All Yesterday's Parties

2011-09-14T22:27:00.003-04:00

Freddy the dope dealer said there was gonna be a hip party downtown. He knew a guy who knew a guy and said it was going to be a real happening. Eager for a cheap thrill we said okay.

Freddy was older than us, about 22. My friends and I were 15 and 16. For us, a party was a simple kegger in the woods by campfire. But this would turn out to be a different sort of party than what we were accustomed to.

It was a Tuesday night in late October but the weather was unseasonably warm. Freddy was the only one of us with a driver’s license so we relied on him to transport us around town. Freddy's Honda CRZ only had two seats, so 3 or 4 bodies would have to squeeze beneath the hatchback's glass. Thank God we never got into an accident, because there would have been a stack of dismembered teens in the back.

I was the biggest and the tallest, but that didn't necessarily mean I had dibs on the passenger seat. On this particular night I did not have dibs. So I was one of the crushed, pressed tight against my grubby friends in the darkness, the stench of cigarettes and ancient joints emanating from their dirty clothing.

It took about half an hour for us to get downtown and reach our destination. Downtown after dark was not the sort of place a sane person would want to be caught. Being young and ignorant, we had no problem walking the city streets at these ill-advised hours. I felt rather invincible at the time. I wouldn't stay that way for much longer.

We parked across the street from the address in a Dunkin Donuts parking lot. The boys that were crammed into the hatch back slithered out of the car one by one. We crossed the city street on foot. The party was in an old brownstone building, downstairs in a basement loft. I don't remember if there was someone at the door letting people in or not but we entered without incident. The moment we crossed that threshold we had truly entered a whole new world.

This was not some kegger in the woods. This was a happening. An Andy Warhol-like psychedelic freak out. There were strobe lights, loud music, and a sea of people from all walks of life. We were way out of our element; a pack of long haired headbanger teens in a room full of sophisticated adults.

It was one big room. The walls were brick, the floors well-worn hardwood. There were flashing colored lights in all directions. At the center of it all was a live band. They were an eclectic bunch of musicians. The singer was a skinny porcelain white girl with long dark hair. She wore a tattered green gown that flowed down to the floor. The bass player was a black man wearing a red t-shirt and crooked beret on his head. He sure could slap a funky one. The rest of the band was your standard fare; a drummer, a guitarist, and a keyboardist. They had a mean groove going. It wasn’t until the girl started singing that I recognized the song. It was a funkified version of the Beatles' "Glass Onion". The music bore little resemblance to the original, but this worked in the band’s favor.

In front of the band were a pack of groovy people getting down on the makeshift dance floor. Many were dressed up in lunatic attire. Lots of glitter, sequins, and multi-colored hairstyles. One was dressed convincingly as a nun. When the nun turned around I realized she was a man. I thought I had truly stepped into the realm of the freaks, but then remembered that Halloween was only a handful of days away. I figured the party must have had a costume theme.

There was a large metal tub filled with ice and Budweiser to the right of the entrance and my posse wasted no time helping themselves to it. Freddy led the way through the crowd, exchanging words with party goers. His "connection", the guy who invited us to the party in the first place, wasn't there. He had invited strangers to a party he wasn't even attending himself.

I was surprised that no one took offense to our presence and threw us out. The underage boys kept pounding beers and the band kept pounding our eardrums. We stuck close together, afraid that separation would lead to permanent assimilation. One wrong move and you’d find yourself on the freaky train with no desire to get back off.

There was a hallway off to the left that lead to a backdoor exit and a light green staircase. On the staircase we spied a rather normal looking man sitting alone. He was busy rolling a joint in clear view. Eager to catch a buzz, we wasted no time heading in his general direction hoping to get in on the action.

My friends were an uncouth bunch, doing a poor job disguising their sweaty desperation. I, as always, stood silently in the rear and let them handle the dirty work.

“You gonna smoke that, man?”

The man was friendly and didn't mind sharing. After a few moments of small talk we headed out the back door and into a small, grassy yard. There were already some other guys out there. Men, not kids like us. We had no business being there at all and yet they welcomed us and let us join their circle.

And so there we stood, in the darkness of that city night, the funky music rumbling from beyond the brick walls behind us, the stars blinking down approvingly from above. We formed the sacred hoop. Germs were spread. Brains were damaged.

Naturally, my memories following the ritual are dim. I recall a merry-go-round blur of costumed freaks, street hustlers, the occasional tranny, and intellectual beatnik snobs. At one point I found myself exchanging words with the man-nun near the tub of beer. He turned out to be a rather normal and well spoken individual, even if he was wearing a nun's habit and had two throw pillows stuffed into his shirt.

I eventually got so comfortable with my surroundings that I even went so far as to bust a move on the dance floor while the funky musicians played on. I was beginning to succumb to the siren’s song. The freaky train was pulling away from the station and it would be oh so easy to climb aboard and leave this life of monochromatic monotony behind.

The next thing I remember is being smothered in the back of Freddy's undersized car again. Our time at the party was over and we were heading home. A bunch of dirt bag kids from the suburbs had slipped under the circus curtain and gotten a peek of the exotic art-house world. The next day we would be back in our assigned seats at school, killing time until our next wild adventure.

While my cohorts were mainly interested in a cheap high, I appreciated the overall learning experience. All the sights, sounds, smells and freaky-deaky-ness of the party left a strong impression on me, which is undoubtedly why I still reminisce about that majestic night even today, twenty years later.

One Last Trip To Borders

2011-09-13T22:49:00.002-04:00

This was the absolute final weekend to shop at Borders Books & Music. The one-time corporate giant has gone belly up and prices had been slashed up to 90% off. Everything must go. I figured I'd go inside and see if there was anything of value left hiding in the rubble.

There was still a decent amount of stuff to sift through. Half the store was taped off; the other half was abuzz with greedy shoppers looking for that final bargain. I moseyed on over and joined the ruckus.

I flipped through the small assortment of CDs. Not much to write home about. A lot of unwanted holiday music. But then...what's this? Wanda Jackson's new album? Originally priced at $15.99, according to the sign taped above the rack it was now a mere $2.30. Well, I certainly couldn't pass such a thing up, could I? I tucked the CD under my arm and continued to dig.

The DVDs were mostly trash. They had at least a dozen copies of Megan Fox's film, Jennifer's Body. They also had several copies of the television show My Name Is Earl. There were three copies of The Mary Tyler Moore Show Season 2. I paused a moment for consideration. Originally $29.99, it would only have been $3 and change, but I have a tendency to neglect television shows after bringing them into my house, so I passed. I just don’t have the shelf space to spare on non-essentials anymore.

Plenty of books left, but nothing I'd want to take home. Several books with Sarah Palin on the cover. Hopefully they’ll remain unsold and end up in a landfill where they belong. You betcha.

The ravenous people in the store were an interesting group of fiends. For starters, a crazy woman had brought her large dog into the store. Mere moments after entering the dog took a pungent dump on the carpet. I don't know why the dog was even allowed inside in the first place. The woman clearly wasn't visually impaired, since she quickly bent over and picked up the dog's waste with her grubby hand. Now the air was filled with the stench of feces and horrible perfume. I would be unable to shop here much longer.

There were several small children in the store who were running amok, singing and screaming and bringing the overall noise level up to an unbearable level. One child wandered off into a taped-off section of the store and started ripping the tape down. His mother put little effort into retrieving her kid as she was too busy rummaging through a piles of romance novels and cookbooks. The dismayed Borders staff had no choice but to look on in bewildered disgust as their store was torn apart by lunatics.

A woman to my left suddenly held a book I didn’t recognize up over her head and made an announcement. "This is a great book! A classic! I can't believe this is here! Somebody buy this, please!"

"She's lying, it’s crap," I replied, to no one in particular.

The woman looked at me with an expression of disgusted amazement. I ignored her and pressed onward.

Finally I’d had enough and joined the rather long line of sheep leading up to the checkout counter. One last time getting rung up at Borders. When I reached the clerk I felt overwhelmed with emotion. I wiped a tear from my eye and demanded the clerk swipe my “Borders Rewards” card for "old time’s sake".

Oh Borders, why didn't you do things differently and fight off your competition? Why didn’t you adapt to the changing tides? Where am I supposed to go to browse books, music, and movies in the dead of night?

All I have left is Barnes and Noble, but I’ve never enjoyed the store’s ambiance. Nor do I like having their stupid Nook i-reader constantly shoved in my face. They won’t rest until books as a physical medium is eliminated once and for all.

Someday book stores will resemble the Apple store - just a big empty space in the mall with people lined up to buy invisible "apps". No books to thumb through, no flashy covers to catch your eye. Just more crap emanating from an illuminated screen for your tired eyes to enjoy, and more debilitating migraines for me to live through.