Tuesday, December 12, 2006

Loose change   <This story has two endings: one is fact and one is fiction. The truth is the stranger of the two.>   A few weeks ago I gathered up all the loose change from the small dish on top of my dresser. I also scooped up the spillage alongside the dish (which had been overflowing for months), the change in my pant pockets, in my car’s cup holder, in the junk drawer in the kitchen, every last cent that I could find. I put the whole kit and caboodle into a plastic Zip-lock bag and took it to the Coinstar machine at the grocery store.     I did this not because I needed the money, but because I needed a jumpstart in my life. It was a symbolic gesture. I was frustrated that I wasn’t writing. It was the usual writer’s block for me.  I had succumbed to a revolving door of excuses: I didn’t have time; didn’t have fresh ideas; didn’t have energy. I was in a rut and all those coins were to blame, so they had to go. It’s probably worth mentioning here that symbolism isn’t always the straightest branch in the logic tree. The bottom line is I needed a scapegoat and that weighty Zip-lock bag of change was, in my mind, the physical manifestation of all my problems.   I must admit that I find it very satisfying to dump a large bag of change into a Coinstar machine. If you’ve ever used one, you know what I mean. I trade in my coins pretty regularly, even when I’m not trying to lick writer’s block with a symbolic gesture. I love the ring of the coins filling the hopper; the rapid fire ka-ching as the metal disks are mechanically separated and counted; the digital readout spiraling upward with the dollar amount I’m being credited. Coinstar’s cut for this transaction is 8.9 cents per dollar, a bit steep I think. But by the time I’m standing in front of one of these machines, change is my enemy and I’ll pay what it takes to be rid of it.   At the end of my Coinstar transaction the device spit out a receipt for $27.89 along with instructions to take it to a cashier to redeem. Yes, that is exactly what I was after on this day: redemption. I would buy back my creative spark by ridding myself of all this burdensome coinage.   Since I was at the grocery store, I figured I might as well apply the money on the chit to some food items that I needed. So I walked the aisles and picked up some milk and bread, pasta and marinara sauce, meats and cheeses, some salad makings, a bottle of wine, a tube of toothpaste, and so on. When I was satisfied that I had what I needed, I headed to the checkout lanes.   The store wasn’t very crowded, but there weren’t enough cashiers, so the checkout line was long. It took a few minutes before I was able to move my basket into the lane. Once there, I placed my items on the conveyer belt and put a spacer bar down behind my stuff. The woman next in line starting unloading her groceries.  I couldn’t resist taking a look at what she was buying. I always do this. I suspect that everybody does. What a strange little voyeuristic experience: the casual association of strangers and the things they buy. “Whoa. Look at that. A tube of Preparation-H. Somebody’s got a little itchy-scratchy problem down below.”     As the cashier scanned my items, I fingered the Coinstar receipt in my shirt pocket making sure it was at the ready. Nothing worse than getting this far only to forget to turn in the receipt, which is only good for one day. Think of the psychological damage that would cause:    He never wrote a word after that day. For years he just wandered the streets begging change from strangers, and dropping the coins into public fountains wishing for God knows what…   The cashier finished with my order and read the total off the register. I didn’t hear the amount, focused as I was on my own little internal banter.   “Oh, here,” I said, “I need to cash this in.”   Ending #1   The cashier took the receipt from me, looked it over to verify that it was legal tender, then scanned the bar code. Next thing I know, he had his hand stretched out toward me. He was trying to give me something.   “Eighty-three cents is your change,” he said.   This caught me by surprise. I hadn’t considered change. Dollar bills, maybe, but coins to replace the coins I just turned in?   “No, you don’t understand,” I explained. “I traded in all my coins at the Coinstar machine so that I could have a fresh start. This is more than a Coinstar redemption. This is a personal redemption. A catharsis, of sorts.”   The cashier looked at me in disbelief. “Well,” he said after a moment, “your catharsis has change coming back.”   “You can keep it,” I offered.   “I’m not allowed to do that,” he countered.   “Well, don’t you have one of those little charity boxes that you can drop the coins in for me. You know, something that Jerry Lewis is heading up. That would be perfect.”   “Sorry. Not at the moment.”   “Look, I can’t take this change.”   “Well, you have to.”   “O.K., then I’ll buy something else. What can I get for 83 cents?” I reached for a candy bar from the rack behind me. “How much is this?”   The cashier scanned the jumbo-sized Snicker’s bar. “Eighty-two cents.”   “Hmm, is there anything that costs a penny more?”   Sensing the futility of this situation, the cashier leaned back and folded his arms, waiting for me to decide.   “All right,” I said,  “I’ll take the candy bar.”   Visibly relieved, the cashier put the change he was holding back into the register and pulled out a single penny.   I considered refusing the coin, but the look on the Preparation-H lady behind me told me that she was either becoming agitated by all this or was in need of the aforementioned product. It dawned on me that my new jumpstart on life could be dampened if it started by pissing off people in line at the grocery store. What good is Yin if you don’t have Yang?   So I put out my hand and took the penny from the cashier along with a receipt for my groceries and a coupon for a pasta sauce I don’t particularly like. I grumbled “thank you” and started pushing my cart away, not really pleased with this outcome.   As I turned the corner, my cart bumped into something and…   …the penny I was holding in my hand suddenly came loose and dropped to the floor.   I’m sure you are thinking that I dropped it on purpose. I admit that I had repositioned the penny between two fingers so that I was barely holding on, like some sort of dried fleck from my nose that I wanted to get rid of.  But it was the bump of the cart that ultimately dislodged the coin from my hand, and that part wasn’t planned.   The penny rolled forward ahead of me a few feet, then veered to the left into the next checkout aisle where it settled somewhere out of view. I don’t think anybody else saw the penny fall, but I never looked back. Nor down. Instead, I continued moving forward, pushing my cart through the automatic doors and out into the parking lot, thus starting the clock on this new phase in my life, which, not surprisingly, already includes a fair amount of loose change on my dresser.    Ending #2   The cashier took the receipt from me, looked it over to verify that it was legal tender, then scanned the bar code as I loaded my groceries into the cart. I pulled out my credit card to pay off the balance of what I owed, even though I had plenty of paper money in my wallet. This was a Coinstar redemption. A catharsis of sorts. The last thing I needed was change coming back. But before I could swipe my card into the reader, the cashier spoke to me.   “This is strange,” he said.   “What’s that?” I asked.   The cashier smiled and handed me the receipt. “Your bill is exactly the same as the Coinstar receipt.”   I looked at the blurry computer receipt and noted the zero on the “balance owed” line near the bottom. “Well, I’ll be damned,” I said laughing out loud. But I couldn’t spend too much time gloating, as the line behind me had grown longer and the lady with the hemorrhoid cream really looked as though she needed to get home and take care of business.   As I started walking toward the exit of the store, I was thrilled by the strange twist of fate that had just befallen me. This was a most excellent beginning to my fresh start on life.  Looking over the groceries in my basket, I suddenly had a strange feeling that something wasn’t right. All these groceries had to have cost more than the Coinstar credit of $27.89. The bottle of wine alone was $10. The toothpaste was nearly $5. There were four full bags of groceries here. I stopped and read the receipt more closely. I was right; something was amiss. The cashier had accidentally scanned the Coinstar receipt twice. I was credited for $55.78.   So, in fact, my grocery bill wasn’t the exact amount of my Coinstar chit but exactly twice that amount. I owed $27.89, which was another strange twist of fate. What to do? Part of me was thinking, “well, it was the store’s mistake; your gain.” But another part of me was thinking, “this is bad karma…you’re going to walk outside and get hit by a bus.”   I must have stood there for five minutes contemplating my options. In the end, I decided this fresh start of mine would be tainted if I kept the ill-begotten money. I needed to do the right thing. And that’s what I did. The store manager thanked me for my honesty as I swiped my credit card and paid the money that I owed.   I left the store without a penny in my pocket, and yet I felt as rich as Bill Gates. Then I went home and started writing this story. 10:47:16 PM    comments []

	Monday, November 27, 2006

House of Slack   Hey, nice digs. Love the couch. I believe I am familiar with its pedigree. Mind if I sit? No, I can’t stay long. The shoes come off; the shoes go right back on. Just ask the argyles. I’m chilling now, but I can get busy in a hurry. I got the know how. I got the degree. I just got no place to be. This moment is a blank page in my day planner. Next moment could be different. The cell phone rings – just like that, maybe I’m moving on. Meantime, I would gladly partake of the contents in that snack bowl. Have you a beverage at the ready? Refrigeration is not absolutely necessary. It is, however, an appropriate luxury for first-world men such as ourselves. Hey, is that what I think it is? I haven't seen one of these since the 1980s. What are we talking here? Atari 2600? Sega Genesis? Of course, I am kidding. Your Playstation 3 is the pinnacle of gaming superiority. And it still has that new console smell. Sorry, though, I must pass the joystick. The wanton killing of intergalactic androids only serves to aggravate my carpel tunnel syndrome. Indeed, sir, it is as you declare: getting old bites. What say instead we sit back, click on the TV and see what's playing on the Discovery channel. I do believe those Mythbuster guys are sleuthing up some cool, scientifically verifiable entertainment. That would be channel 278 on satellite, 46 on cable. I see from the way your dog is pacing by the door that he wants to go outside. Isn't there someone else available to take him on his daily rounds? Someone less busy than ourselves? Someone who might also use the opportunity to drop by the pizza shop on the corner and bring us home a large pie with three topping that I know we could agree upon by compromise? I would certainly be willing to contribute this $2 off coupon that I have been carrying in my wallet for just such an occasion. Sounds like your neighbors upstairs really dig the Allman Brothers band. I too find them quite enjoyable. Shame about brother Duane dying in that motorcycle accident back in 1971, thus precluding a strictly-defined ‘reunion’ tour that we might attend by winning tickets through a radio station listener call-in promotional campaign. Ahh, these are the moments worthy of eschewing gainful employment, wouldn’t you agree? I could quite easily kick back in this plush, multi-positional La-Z-Boy reclining couch of yours, close my eyes and lull myself to sleep listening to the classic southern rock tunes pulsing through the walls of your apartment. Wake me when the pizza gets here. 8:40:15 PM    comments []

	Monday, November 20, 2006

Tag of tags   Last night I played a game of frenetic tag with my 11 year old son, Conor, in the kitchen. Frenetic tag is like the basic version of the game, except that both players are never more than an arm's length away and the "tag, you're it" exchanges happen, oh, say, every two seconds. He tags you with his right hand, you swing around and tag him with your left. He comes at you low, you respond by going high. He pretends the game is over and swats you like a fly while walking away. You slip a leg out and tag him on the butt with your foot just before he is out of reach. This re-energizes him and he comes back for more. It goes on and on. Last night, though, in the midst of our frenetic tag match (while I was it), I stopped and closed my eyes. Slowly, I turned my head skyward. My muscles tightened. I started to quiver. I was in a trance-like state. Almost religiously, I threw my hands up to the heavens and roared like some mythical beast. Finally, after an extended spell, I came back to reality. I opened my eyes. Conor, was looking at me, baffled. I reached over slowly and tagged him gently by poking my finger into his chest. "What was that all about?" he asked. I looked at him and told him that I had retreated deep within myself and, miraculously, I had come away with “the tag of all tags.” This tag had lain dormant inside of me since I was born and had been passed on to me – on this night – from my father who had gotten it from his father before him. "This tag," I told my son, "was good for 100 years…game over.” Conor thought about this story and declined to believe it. He swatted me in the shoulder and waited.  I shook my head. “One hundred years,” I repeated. “Oh, come on,” he replied. I refused to relent. “O.K.,” he said, smiling, a bit too deviously. Conor walked around me. And around me again. Then, without warning, he reached into the back of my pants, grabbed the elastic waistband of my boxer briefs and yanked them. Hard! “Atomic wedgie!” he yelled, pulling higher and higher. While he had me in, well, a tight spot, my son explained that the “atomic wedgie” was much stronger than my lame “tag of tags” and that nobody knew how long its effects lasted – “certainly longer than 100 years.”  I have to say, twenty-four hours later, sitting tenderly on this soft chair, he might be right. 9:11:20 PM    comments []

	Friday, November 10, 2006

Talk to the hand because the feet aren’t listening   We're cold! my feet are telling me. My feet don’t believe in global warming. No sign of warming down here, they point out. Well, I say…(I can’t believe I’m talking to my feet now)…global warming doesn’t mean every place will be warmer. Strange as it sounds, on a globally warming earth, some places may actually be cooler. The warming trend we hear about reflects a comparison of annual averages calculated from thousands of temperature readings around the planet – in cities, out in the country, on top of mountains, over the oceans. Regional and local temperature is controlled by the input of solar radiation, complex ocean/atmosphere circulation patterns and heat trapped by greenhouse gases. In fact, it says here in the newspaper today that the concentration of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere is at a record high and is expected to go much higher still. What does that mean? my feet ask. It means, more trapped heat – even warmer temperatures. Good, my feet say, wiggling in delight. We’re in favor of more trapped heat, especially inside of these thin socks. No, you don’t understand, I correct them. It’s not good; it’s not good at all. Higher temperatures may sound appealing, but there are very serious consequences: ice sheets and glaciers are melting at an alarming rate, sea level is on the rise, and drought threatens the fresh water supply of more and more people every day. We don’t like ice sheets, one of my toes says, speaking for the others. Ice is our enemy. The other toes grumble in agreement: brrrr…we hate ice…bad ice! Ah, hell, I say. This is what I get trying to reason with a bunch of dumb fat toes. What do you guys know, anyway? All we know, my feet fire back, is that we are always cold and this floor could use a good sweeping. 10:52:36 AM    comments []

	Monday, July 17, 2006

Postcard from Park City, Utah   Conor does a bungee-assisted double back flip     Early on in the cascade of days making up this mountain holiday, amid the bungee-assisted trampoline bounce, the 3300’ long (550’ vertical drop) alpine slide, rock climbing, hiking, swimming, mountain biking, fly fishing and horseback riding, someone in our group suggested we break for lunch in town.   “Ahh, man!” Conor could not contain his disappointment.   We told him we understood the need for immediate gratification when you are eleven years old, but there would be plenty of time to do everything.   “It’s not immediate gratification,” Conor corrected us rather sharply. “It’s just that I want to do more fun stuff right now.”   Perhaps there is a distinction worth considering there, but not on an empty stomach. You need food (and perhaps beer) for thought. On this particular day, lunch won out. 6:09:23 PM    comments []

	Monday, July 10, 2006

Peeling wallpaper (for real!)   What does this wallpaper say to you?       Ugly? Psychedelic sixties? Tacky?    Okay, maybe. But does this wallpaper say Jack to you? Well, it should. This was my wallpaper at one time. In fairness, I didn’t hang it on the wall. I didn’t go to the wallpaper store, drop acid and make free love with the proprietress in the back room on the faux zebra carpet, and say, “wow, that was great, now I’ll take three rolls of the naked chick wallpaper and I’ll be on my way.” No, my wife and I bought this place without knowing about the naked chick wallpaper. When we purchased the house, the bathroom had shiny silver 19th century newsprint wallpaper with make believe historical headlines and advertisements for miracle-working elixirs. As difficult as it is to imagine, this outer layer of wallpaper was even worse.   We decided to peel off the shiny wallpaper one weekend shortly after we moved in. Surprisingly, it came right off. And there, underneath, were the beautiful naked ladies from the sixties. These walls were like a Roman archeological dig. And getting better with each successive layer! We briefly contemplated leaving the naked chick wallpaper up on the wall – well, that’s my recollection anyway – but in the end it had to go. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t go! Whoever hung this wallpaper did so on bare walls without sizing them first. Our attempts to remove this under layer of wallpaper also removed pieces of the wallboard. So we stopped. We left the ample-breasted nymphs on the wall – before we could do more damage – and papered right over them with some tasteful wallpaper purchased from a store that didn’t even have a back room with a faux zebra carpet. Still, for years after that, I enjoyed knowing that my girls were under that wallpaper waiting for me, thinking only of me. Eventually, I forgot about them (hey, I’m a guy). Then we moved.   Amazingly, we became great friends with the couple who bought our house (providing evidence that life blossoms even in the company of real estate lawyers). Carolyn and Jon, both regular readers of this blog, still live in our former house. Their history with this house and the neighborhood where it resides goes back further still, but I won’t digress one iota more.   Recently, Carolyn decided that the walls in her bathroom needed to be redone. So she pulled off the wallpaper that we had installed and, for the first time in nearly two decades, the naked chicks were free to let it all hang out again. Carolyn took the digital photo that you see above. I believe she is much further along now in her remodeling efforts. I think that she may have even made use of a sledge hammer in her quest. I don’t like to think about that.  I prefer to remember these girls, umm, I mean walls, as they were back when I knew them: young, perky and devoted to me.   Be gentle, Carolyn. 10:43:58 PM    comments []

	Thursday, July 06, 2006

Totally tubular   The other day I dismantled a toilet. Not the flappy bits inside the tank, the kind that spring a leak every so often and make the water run all night long. I’m talking about the seal down at the bottom of the porcelain fixture, at floor level. It’s a no man’s land down there, I’m here to tell you.    Really, when you think about it, a toilet is nothing more than an attractive interface between your large intestine and an even larger intestine, a 4” diameter plastic tube that snakes its way through the earth to god knows where. This plastic tube is ringed at the top by a wax seal that keeps what’s gross inside and on its way. Except that our wax seal had sprung a small leak. And while I am pretty darn masterful at looking askance from household projects that are calling for my attention (what do you think blogging is really about, anyway?), there was no denying that this breach of sanitary hygiene would have to be addressed. Sooner, rather than later.   The toilet in question was in our basement; the lowest point in the house. And the basement had only just been converted to a finished room with a half-bath a few years back. And thank heaven for that newness. The toilet came apart with ease. There hadn’t been enough time for rust or corrosion to cease up the connections and make this job any worse than it was by design.   With the porcelain throne off its base and the bulk of the old wax ring removed, I found myself on my knees staring down at a white plastic tube that dropped a few inches into the ground before curving sharply away. I have to admit that the tube looked remarkably clean. Clean as a whistle. Well, clean as a shit whistle.   The connector on the end of white plastic tube is the part that sits flush with the floor. It is perfectly round with a smooth, flat, inch-wide ring. The wax seal melds this surface with the bottom of the commode. The connector has a couple of holes in it to hold two bolts; these bolts when passed through holes in the base of the toilet and tightened down with nuts, keep the fixture from moving. The bolts sit in channels carved into the plastic connector and move in a limited fashion from side-to-side. This is because not every toilet has its fastening holes in exactly the same places, so you need to be able to slide the bolts a bit this way or that in order to line things up exactly.   Note that I am spending a lot of time here, describing in detail this small plastic connector. I could have posted a picture. But I wanted to paint one in your mind instead. Because I’m about to involve you, the reader, into the discussion.   The bolts not only slide side-to-side, but at the edge of their tracks the opening widens so that they can come off completely. It hadn’t occurred to me to take the bolts out as I scraped and cleaned in preparation for the new wax seal. I wasn’t even aware that the bolts came off until one did and fell down into the tube with a plunk. What’s worse, the bolt rolled down beyond the curve of the pipe, out of sight. Shit! Metaphorically and otherwise.   As I have already mentioned, the tube was remarkably clean. Certainly cleaner than I was expecting. But with the prospect of having to stick my hand down there in order to retrieve this bolt – a bolt that was absolutely critical to finishing the job – I was suddenly embracing a very different definition of cleanliness.   Of course, in the end, I did what needed to be done. I reached down into that tube all the way to my elbow. Not only that, but I had to blindly feel my way around in there. The bolt did not willingly produce itself. My fingers groped every inch of that pipe, and when I did make contact with the bolt, it slid away, as if taunting me. With my arm extended as far as it could possibly go into the tube (any farther and I would have had a “call 911, I’m stuck in a toilet hole” moment), with frustration mounting, I was finally able to reach the bolt and pull it out. After that, putting the toilet back together was a breeze. The best part is that the operation was a success. The toilet no longer leaks. As with all homeowner quick fix projects, it could have gone otherwise. That’s all I can say in the end.   Okay. Now, here’s your part. Tell me. What would you have done? Would you have stuck your arm down that shit hole? Having thought this over (and believe me have), your only other choice is another damn trip to the hardware store. For a bolt. I might add that not just any bolt will do. I assure you that you don’t have one of these bolts in your tool chest. And chances are you won’t find the right bolt even if you do go to the hardware store.  It will be too wide, or too long, or not the right thread. So I ask you again…what would you have done? 12:39:28 AM    comments []

	Tuesday, June 20, 2006

One   Welcome to the Mid-Continent Airport Bar. How ya doin’ tonight?   One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do   Ahh, I see you’ve been to Wichita before. Two can be as bad as one You lost me there, fella.   It's the loneliest number since the number one I see. Well, how about a drink then? No is the saddest experience you'll ever know   No doesn’t have to be sad. Not really. Yes, it's the saddest experience you'll ever know   Hey, I’m just a bartender. What do I know? `Cause one is the loneliest number that you'll ever do One is the loneliest number, worse than two   Wait a second. You’re from that band Three Dog Night! It's just no good anymore since she went away   I saw you guys back in ’73. Now I spend my time just making rhymes of yesterday Those were the days, dude. Rock and Roll ruled. One is the loneliest, number one is the loneliest Number one is the loneliest number that you'll ever do   Okay. Okay. Just keep it down, my friend. One is the loneliest, one is the loneliest   Jeeze, you really need to talk to someone about this – a professional. One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do   Are you crying? Come on now. It's just no good anymore since she went away   Look, man, it’s been like 35 years. You really need to get over her. Move on, you know?   (Number) One is the loneliest (Number) One is the loneliest (Number) One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do (Number) One is the loneliest (Number) One is the loneliest (Number) One is the loneliest number that you'll ever do   Okay, you know what? No chorus. No chorus! You’re starting to unnerve the other customers.   One…   Two. Three. Time for you to go. 10:09:24 PM    comments []

	Wednesday, June 07, 2006

High and dry – for now   I am in Orlando gazing out on the Disney skyline from my 8th floor balcony with its sparse plastic furniture and yellow stucco walls, listening to blackbirds squabble and air conditioners hum and a delivery truck beep as it backs up over some brown palm fronds on the ground, and I’m thinking about the flatness of the land from horizon to horizon, the muted orange sunrise just outside of my view, the miracle of the cup of coffee brewed in my hotel room and lightened with powdered milk substitute. I’m thinking about the originality and banality of the Disney concept all wrapped up in one. I’m thinking about how splendid this land must have been before Mickey ears in a bygone era when the rain fell and didn’t bounce off pavement. But even this halcyon thought of ribbons of grass and wading birds is interrupted by a car alarm in the parking lot below. I’m thinking about sea-level rise. 7:37:15 AM    comments []

	Saturday, June 03, 2006

Head case   Don't try to get inside my head. It's a dangerous place. An LA freeway populated with Boston drivers. You'll get run over in there. Blindsided. It's fraught with danger, I tell you. There are hundreds of brain cells inside my head whose job it is to fully understand what the word fraught means and whether it could be used in an expression other than “fraught with _____.” That's how compartmentalized it is inside my cranium! There is an entire section of my brain that has for years been contemplating whether life would be worth living without french fries (right brain, philosophy section, subsection fast food). And another section, over in R & D, looking at new methods for pushing out those annoying songs that you can't stop humming once you've heard them. Last week these cells were experimenting with dispatching the Elton John song “Philadelphia Freedom” by visualizing Tammy Fay Baker naked and singing the lyrics in the shower, mascara streaming down her face. Unfortunately, involuntary convulsions ensued and the experiment had to be abruptly halted. That's the kind of danger you face if you start messing around inside my skull. Then there are the rogue brain cells. Those are the ones you really need to watch out for. The ones with their own crazy agenda. Just yesterday a small group of maybe ten brain cells somehow worked its way front and center in my consciousness demanding to know more about that brown spot that is developing in the front lawn. I don't have time for this, I told them. And I didn't! At that very moment I was working with the right brain, organizational section, subsection excessive children's toys cluttering the basement, on a management plan involving a bonfire. But there was no denying the brown spot commando cells. Next thing I knew I was out in my yard contemplating the application of green spray paint to cover up this blight. Sex. Just mention the word and every cell in every brain on the planet is brushing its teeth and combing its hair. I have about a bazillion brain cells dedicated to fear, each with its own cause. Very vocal, these guys. What about avian flu? Should we be worried about avian flu? Nah, the research is still... How about now? Like I was trying to tell you... Well, how about now? And so it goes with fear. At this very moment, it's quiet in my brain. Morning's are often like this. Peaceful. Calm. Without all the cerebral static, I can actually start making sense of things, one issue at a time. The committee on french fries just presented its final report. Apparently life is worth living without certain varieties of french fried potatoes. The committee pointed to those seasoned curly fries as an example. However, fresh homemade shoestring fries served piping hot with plenty of salt, those are to die for. Case closed. So, what’s next? What about avian flu? Oh boy. 8:45:53 AM    comments []

	Sunday, April 23, 2006

Block that metaphor!   Each week in The New Yorker magazine, wedged in at the bottom of a page, often one hundred pages or more back, there is a small blurb taken from another newspaper or magazine that pokes fun at the writing to be found there. Sometimes, the chosen piece, never more than about fifty words, focuses on an unusual occurrence in a small town. A crime beat report, say, where a citizen is hearing voices (From the Amherst Bee: “A Peppertree Drive resident reported that his phone was talking to him and that he wants it to leave him alone.”) or a report of an accidental death (From the Financial Times: “On March 23, she fell into an elevator shaft. Police, who declared her death an accident, were unable to interview her.”).    The event itself doesn’t matter much. In order to make it onto the bottom of the page in The New Yorker the writing will usually be (how shall I say it?) ill-conceived. The editors of The New Yorker are vigilant in their quest for short, punchy snippets where the writing can be misconstrued in humorous ways. Double entendres, unfortunate word choices, bumbling clauses, unintended messages – one and all – that jump off the page at the reader, but somehow never occur to the author or his editor.   Another favorite category of The New Yorker editors is the metaphor. Over the top, groan-inducing metaphors end up in a category called “Block that Metaphor!” Here is an entry from the March 6, 2006 issue:   Block that Metaphor! From the De Moines Register.   “I’m tired of being Charlie Brown and putting in more hoops for teachers to jump through and then pulling the football of higher salaries away at every turn.”   Here is another one from the April 21, 2006 edition:   Block that Metaphor! From the Astoria (Ore.) Daily Astorian.   “Rather than wallowing in tears, let this passionate community strike while the iron is hot. It probably won’t cost the National Park Service a single penny, will be no skin off its nose, will heal the community and it presents a golden opportunity for first-person interpretation.” Sure I groaned when I read that. But the thing is, I also feel sorry for the person who wrote it, probably late at night under deadline. If you are a writer, you want your work to be published in the New Yorker. But not this way! Imagine the deflation that follows when an old school mate drops you an email: “Hey saw your piece in the New Yorker. Hah!” Only you didn’t submit anything to The New Yorker and what did that “Hah!” mean? Perhaps you don’t subscribe to The New Yorker. And you can’t even get the magazine at any of the news kiosks in town because – hey, it’s a small town – there aren’t any news kiosks here. So you go to the library, find this week’s torn and tattered copy of The New Yorker on the shelf and start paging through it.  Finally, you find what you are looking for, way in the back, the passage you wrote for the local newspaper many months before. There it is, larger than life, being lampooned by only the single most important literary magazine in the world. Phfffff. I don’t know. All I can say is it’s a good thing the metaphor police at The New Yorker aren’t paying attention to blogs. At least, not yet. We all have comparably bad days out here in the blogosphere. I, for one, have been known to cook up some pretty wicked metaphors that stink like poker night in a one room apartment after a bean burrito dinner. Just don’t quote me on that. 1:00:23 PM    comments []

	Monday, April 17, 2006

Tucson   I was in Tucson, Arizona this past week. Oxford, England the week before. The time zones are like notches on a combination lock. Five ticks right. Eight ticks left. Three ticks right. My internal clock is messed up.  I travel enough to know this feeling well. I know that sleep isn’t coming tonight of its own accord. So, I just knocked back a couple of sleeping pills. I’ve got a few minutes before they kick in.   I drove by a store front in Tucson that caught my eye: House of Hubcaps. I love the name. I love that stores like this still exist out there in America. As far as I know there isn’t a hubcap store within fifty miles of my house, maybe more. The House of Hubcaps is on a busy Tucson road with countless other small businesses stretched out across the desert from one mountain range to the next. Also on the House of Hubcaps sign, below the name, were the words:   BUY SELL NEW USED EXCHANGE   That’s useful information, I thought, driving by at forty miles per hour. Those five words pretty much said it all for someone in the market to buy, sell or exchange a new or used hubcap. Or two. Or four.  Basically, this is your one stop shop for hubcaps. It kind of bugs me, though, that EXCHANGE is at the far end of the sign. Shouldn’t it be in the middle with the other verbs?   BUY SELL EXCHANGE NEW USED   This is what I was thinking as I drove on past the House of Hubcaps towards my hotel. That’s all I could think about. It’s hard for me to shake a thought like that. And I’m not finished thinking about it. This is going to stay with me for a long time. Perhaps forever. Five words. A nearly perfect advertising statement except one of the words is out of place. My brain is full of useless crap like this. It hardly seems fair. My car doesn’t even have hubcaps. 12:21:43 AM    comments []

	Sunday, April 09, 2006

The Quad     The colleges of Oxford University have their quads. Small geometric patches of perfectly maintained grass bisected and surrounded by paved walkways. Thick green blades of genetically exceptional fescue all clipped exactly at the same low height. You may not walk on this grass. Not students, not teachers, not headmasters, and certainly not bright-eyed border collies with bandanas tied around their necks just itching to run down a Frisbee. Only one man may walk on this grass. The college lawn keeper. And he doesn’t so much walk on the grass as just above it. His feet leave no impressions on the turf as he tends the quad. Nor do the wheels of his lawnmower quite make contact with the grass. There is a loophole in the law of gravity that only Oxford lawn keepers seem to know about. They will never reveal their secret for fear that others will learn, and that can only lead to trouble. Soon after there would be students hovering about above the quad playing guitar, or lying on a blanket with their mates enjoying a few minutes of elusive sun, or, heaven forbid, playing a sport. You wouldn’t think that any of this activity carried out just above the grass would do the turf any harm. But the grass would not do well under these conditions. The additional shade cast upon it alone would undoubtedly lead to stress, and stress to brown spots, grubs. Do not pretend to think you know all there is to know here. Consider the detritus normally associated with students: the spit and spilled beer, the crumbs and cigarette butts and fuzzy bits. All of that would work its way downward through the thick verdant mat to the interstices of the soil and poison the delicate roots. Of this the lawn keeper is sure. He would ask you to trust his knowledge and professionalism, his love and respect for the quad – His quad.  “Don’t mess with a thousand years of tradition,” he would tell you. “Please do not walk on or just above the grass.” 11:20:43 AM    comments []

	Tuesday, March 28, 2006

Spaced out   My blog turned 40 recently. Megabytes that is. I wasn’t aware of this. One day it was humming along; the next day it went clunk. Suddenly, I was unable to post. I thought it might be something I did in one of the templates. Something HTML related. I am the same way with HTML as I am with my car. I like to open the hood and stick my hands way down in the engine and wiggle something. I don’t know what that something is or does, but usually I’ll end up greasy in the process. If I wiggle something in my car engine and have to wash my hands with grease remover then I feel like I’ve given it my all. After that, I call and arrange for my car to be fixed by an expert. I like it when there is still a little grease under my fingernails when I arrive at the shop. I'll rest my hands on the service advisor’s desk, tap my fingers (dirty nails facing forward) and say, “yeah, all of that seemed O.K. when I checked it, but you might want to have the mechanic take a look.”   With a blog, though, there really isn’t anybody to call. You can ask some blogging friends or leave a message on a message board pleading for help, but in the end, you go it alone. I spent a couple of long nights loading and reloading software, making changes to templates. Nothing worked. Finally, I figured out that my blog was megabyte challenged. Radio Userland gives you 40 MB of space when you sign on. I figured I also received 40 MB of additional space every year when I renewed my license, but I was wrong. Truth is, I never looked. I finally found the place where such statistics about usage are kept. My blog weighed in at “40.1 MB of 40 MB available space.” No wonder I couldn’t squeeze in even one more story.   I did a little research and discovered that I could buy more storage. Fifty megabytes costs an additional $40 or so. But being the frugal guy that I am (except when it comes to buying overpriced sports equipment for my son), I figured I could create some space first by tightening things up around here. So, the blog went on a diet. Perhaps a better analogy is that the blog underwent liposuction. First, I sucked out all the pictures that I wasn’t using. Quite often when I am putting together a story I’ll place two or three jpeg files in my images directory and then choose only one of them to accompany the story. By rooting out the extraneous images I saved a little under a megabyte of space. And, just as I suspected, I was able to post new stories again. But that space quickly filled up. Then I found out that I could lipo-suck a few other files that didn’t seem to serve any purpose (at least none that I know about yet). That freed up a little more space, which also disappeared in a flash.   Out of options, well, out of “free” options, I was left with one more choice. A Sophie’s Choice. For every new story I created, an old story had to go. I’m talking deleted from the blog. Damn, that’s harsh. Old favorites cast out on the curb in favor of some new flavor of the moment. I tried that a couple of times, dispatching a few stories that were deemed expendable. (In fairness, I have back-ups of everything I’ve ever written, so I can always retrieve these stories should Scribner or Simon & Schuster come a’knocking.)   I couldn’t keep doing the Sophie’s Choice thing with this blog. It was just too painful. So, over the weekend, I broke down and bought the 50 MB upgrade for Peeling Wallpaper. Now, when I click on the status button for my blog I see 50 MB of available space. I feel like that guy who lost a bunch of weight from eating only Subway sandwiches. They always show him wearing his old pants, which are big enough to hold two of him. Only my blog didn’t really lose weight. I just bought it a bigger pair of pants. 6:28:37 PM    comments []

© Copyright 2006 Jack McGeehin. Last update: 12/12/2006; 10:58:57 PM.