Month: January 2023

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1/31/23

It’s been about nine months since I retired, so I thought I’d perform an accountability check to make sure my retirement is still on track. It’s harder than it looks, and it requires a lot of patience, similar to when you’re assembling furniture from IKEA. I wouldn’t want my retirement to turn out wobbly. That would be annoying to assume that I’d been doing it correctly, discover that I hadn’t followed any of the instructions, and then have to retire all over again.  

Five Stages of Grief

Retirement is supposed to be like suffering a loss. You’re supposed to go through all those stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. On my last day of work, I remember staring really hard at my desk thinking, “Who’s going to fill my shoes? Who’s going to receive the love and comradery I used to receive? Who’s going to wipe all that dust off my keyboard?” Yikes, so much dust. And then someone said it was time to cut the cake and I got through the five stages. Check.

Keep Yourself Busy

I won’t deny that I miss the routine. But I’d be lying if I said I miss the work. And I definitely don’t miss the commute. In fact, I can’t even grasp the idea of sitting in traffic anymore. Why not just go home, put your feet up, and try again later when the roads are less busy? Better yet, just stay home. Those TV shows aren’t going to watch themselves. And who’s going to procrastinate about all those chores you’re supposed to do around the house? It is time to take a break yet? Check.

Make Time to Have Fun

This one’s easy. Every day is fun now. I don’t mean in any mind-blowing way, just the regular way. When Donna isn’t working (and she works all the time), we take long walks, or do long lunches, or take long naps after all that walking and lunching. Life’s proceeding at a slow, sweet pace. We cherish every minute we have with the dogs and challenge each other to see who’s been keeping up with the news. “Hey, hon. Did you hear New York has this new congressperson? Yeah, apparently, he’s some kind a liar. Heh-heh. I can’t believe how everything just fell apart as soon as I retired.” Check.

Keep Mentally and Physically Sharp

On this front, not much has changed since I retired. On most evenings you can still find me on my treadmill reading an enjoyable book. When I’m not, I’m at my computer creating elaborate doodles or writing fantastical nonsense. Hmm. I guess nothing’s changed since I used to do that on my computer at work.  Thank God for Funny Travel Tales. It’s really kept me grounded and served as a sounding board to talk about so many topics. My mind travels here, and my mind travels there. And you, dear audience, have a front-row, seat into the operating room that is my brain. I know, I felt that chill of excitement run up my spine too. I think I feel another story coming on. But first I have to figure out what day it is. No kidding. The days of the week mean nothing now. You know how you get psyched when Friday’s coming and down in the dumps when Monday’s here? Well, say goodbye to that. Good riddance. That emotional rollercoaster ride was exhausting. Check.

Watch Those Finances

We keep watching. No changes. Check.

Make Time for Travel

I don’t know why everyone thinks we cruise too much. Since when is doing anything six times a year too much? It’s not like we neglect to visit our family and friends in New York and Arizona. I can’t imagine travel will ever get stale for us. In fact, we’ve already got trips to New Orleans, and the Everglades, and Hilton Head, and DC sketched out. And that’s before lunch today. The challenge is to get more people to come with us on our trips. Donna and I love our alone time, but we also love traveling in larger groups so we can share the experience. So, if we ever reach out and ask you to travel with us, know that we’d really love to have you. Check.

Progress Report Summary

I’m on track and raring to go wherever life leads. As long as I’ve still got a head on my shoulder, working arms and legs (thank God), and Donna, you can count on me to keep making progress. As they say, it’s time to get busy living. You know the alternative.

#everydayistheweekendwhenyouretire

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1/30/23

For today’s tale we travel all the way out to Kansas City, Missouri. Kinda’.

In case you missed last night’s NFL AFC Championship Game, the post-game comments by the winning Kansas City Chiefs were as entertaining as the game. Leading up to the contest, the Chiefs had been at the receiving end of some unwise barbs from Cincinnati Mayor Aftab Pureval. I guess he’d never heard one of the oldest sports adages, that you don’t ruffle the feathers of your rival on the eve of a big game. Politicians in particular should stay out of the fray. Unnecessary trash talk will only give your rival more incentive to beat your brains in. From last night’s post-game comments, it was clear that the Kansas City Chiefs had logged every single insult and were enjoying having the last word. See YouTube video below.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vcA9nkpxqck

It just so happens that that last word was “jabroni.” It’s not a word you hear too often, or at all, in victory speeches, so my ears perked up when Kansas City player Travis Kelce shouted his anger at Cincinnati’s mayor by calling him a jabroni. If you’re not familiar with the word, you can be forgiven for your ignorance. The word was only recently added to Dictionary.com (in September 2020). Merriam-Webster’s still doesn’t recognize it. Jabroni is defined as a stupid, foolish, or contemptible person; a loser.

The word purportedly originated with the wrestler, the Iron Sheik and was made famous by Duane “The Rock” Johnson. But no matter where it came from, or how far back similar words go, it’s here to stay and Cincinnati’s mayor is now officially a jabroni.

For the record, the mayor did apologize for his comments before the game, stating: “My competitive juices and love for Cincy got the best of me. My bad.”

Unfortunately, that’s exactly what a jabroni would say, so he doesn’t get any credit. But I’ll tell you exactly where he made his mistake. If he felt compelled to make disparaging comments about the Kansas City Chiefs, he probably should’ve coded his words.

I’ll give you an example. My high school science teacher was a master at disguising his insults. He’d say things like, “Is that the best “machagacha” answer you got?” Or “You’re a real “machagacha, you know that?”

Sometimes he wouldn’t even use it in a sentence, he would just shake his head as he walked up and down the rows, mumbling it each time a student gave the wrong answer. How can you sue someone for slander when they’re not even using real words?

Once in a while we tried saying it back to him because we thought what was good for the goose was good for the gander. But he would just tell us to spit out our gum and stop mumbling. He was an evil genius, way ahead of his time. How else could he have made us all feel like a bunch of jabronis before the word was even invented?

#footbullismywordforabadcall

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1/29/23

Flybe isn’t a good name for an airlines. It sounds too much like “maybe,” if you say it with a British accent. I imagine the name has created some awkward conversations for passengers who’ve gotten rides to the airport.

“Well, have a nice trip, mate. What airline you flying?”

“Flybe.”

“What do you mean ‘maybe’? I just gave up me Saturday to drive you to the airport, you dumb wanker.”

But no one has to worry about those miscommunications anymore. For the second time in two years, Flybe has ceased operation. Before going out of business, they had been operating regional flights in the UK, as well as a few European destinations, including France and the Netherlands.

Some passengers, however, weren’t notified until the day of their flights that they’d have to make alternate transportation arrangements. That sounds like pretty shabby treatment, but we’ve got that story beat. A few years ago, a certain airline, which I won’t name, but which rhymes with Shlamerican Airlines, advised us that, although our flight would be leaving on time, we wouldn’t be on it.

The plane had just arrived and was starting to board passengers, so we demanded to know what the problem was. But the dilemma immediately became clear when some of the passengers who’d entered the plane promptly exited with puzzled looks on their faces.

“Excuse me,” one passenger said. “My seat is missing.”

I tried to imagine how even the most clever thief could walk off with an airline seat. Had they pretended it was their child’s car seat? But as more passengers voiced the same complaint, the problem became clear. The airline had sold us tickets for rows that didn’t exist on the plane they’d selected to fly us to our destination. In other words, they’d sent us the short bus.

The pandemonium was like a scene out of the movie “World War Z,” as passengers clawed to get up to the airline counter and plead their cases about why they should be allowed on the last flight away from the zombies. A few passengers were accommodated, but the rest of us had to be rebooked on other flights leaving that day.

But it wasn’t just a matter of rebooking us. The bloodthirsty crowd wanted compensation for the mix-up. How could they take our money for a seat they were supposed to have reserved for us? It reminded me of that Seinfeld episode when Jerry’s car rental reservation isn’t honored. In the transcript below I’ve substituted “car” for “seat.”

Jerry: I don’t understand, I made a reservation, do you have my reservation?

Agent: Yes, we do, unfortunately we ran out of seats.

Jerry: But the reservation keeps the seat here. That’s why you have the reservation.

Agent: I know why we have reservations.

Jerry: I don’t think you do. If you did, I’d have a seat. See, you know how to take the reservation, you just don’t know how to HOLD the reservation and that’s really the most important part of the reservation, the holding. Anybody can just take them.

The woman on the line in front of us did an excellent job negotiating her compensation. In fact, it was so excellent that the airline staffer cut her a check for $1,000 as we looked on. We heard her say, “There’s my rent money,” as she gleefully walked away.

I don’t even think she bothered to rebook. But Donna and I weren’t leaving until we had new boarding passes in our hands. “You can keep your filthy money!” I said to no one but myself.

Each passenger seemed to receive a different compensation package for their short-bus experience. We settled for airline credit. It didn’t make up for the time we’d lost, but we felt better once we reached our destination, even if it was a ghastly seven hours later than scheduled.

The bottom line is you have to stand up for yourself when you’ve received unfair treatment. You can’t let yourself be pushed around. You can’t be afraid to pound your fist and raise your voice. You’ve got to…. Sorry, the wife says I have to stop writing now.

#IwishIwerekidding

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1/28/23

In yesterday’s blog post, I had some fun at Donna’s expense. But in all fairness, she makes some questionable decisions that take her to some curious places, case in point, the subject of today’s Funny Travel Tale. By the way, if you haven’t already figured it out, not all my stories are funny or involve physical travel. Sometimes they’re just odd and all the traveling takes place in my mind. But the domain name Odd Stories That Take Place in My Mind was taken, so I went with the next best thing.

Our story takes place at the Blue Wash Trailhead in Cave Creek, Arizona, north of Phoenix. We stopped there one cloudy December day a few years ago. Think desert. Think inhospitable terrain. Think fun for kids of all ages. But wild places are wild for a reason. One of the first things we saw on our hike through the trailhead was the carcass of a car. At one point maybe it had been somebody’s family sedan. Maybe a dad had taken his kids out for a fun time, and they had just annoyed him so badly from the back seat that he’s sad, “I swear if you kids don’t behave this instant, I’m going to drive down into that gulley and turn the car off. See if I won’t.”

I’m not sure the kids should’ve called his bluff. Kudos to dad for sticking to his guns, but some words you can’t take back. When Donna suggested we go for a hike, she might’ve felt the same way. “Why’d I say that for?” was written all over her face as we stepped out of the car and looked down the narrow path that started the trail. The Blue Wash Trailhead is part of the Tonto National Forest, which features some of the most rugged and inherently beautiful land in the country. But we didn’t see many trees. Instead, we saw lots of rocks and cacti. I guess the name Lots of Rocks and Cacti National Park was taken.

Donna immediately told the rest of our group (Leah, Paul, Colette, and Brad) to go on ahead of us. We wanted to take our time, she said, which is code for “If we let them go ahead of us, they’ll never know when we turned around and went back to the car.” Donna is a shrewd outdoors person.

As we followed a descending path that was only wide enough for one person, Donna didn’t even pretend to be as cool as the other hikers we passed. She stopped a few of them.

“Excuse me, sir. At what point can you turn around? Is there anything to see down there besides all this sand and rock. Someone told us there was a waterfall, but we’re pretty sure they were lying.”

The sharp rocks dug into our thin-souled sneakers as we reached the bottom of the gully and looked up at the rockface. Donna looked like she wanted to stop. The Blue Wash Trailhead is 2.8 miles long and we hadn’t even gone a mile. The kids were nowhere in sight.

The gully seemed to curve forever before finally leading to a wide, open patch of ground, which was flatter and easier to walk. People hiking in the other direction said they’d reached the waterfall. It was beautiful. Donna looked at them like they were hoaxers, but she agreed to go a little further. A large American flag planted on a rocky crag pointed the way we should go.

We held each other’s hands when the terrain turned rocky again. It was almost romantic, if not for all the aches and pains. Just when I thought Donna would give up, she insisted on going forward. The kids were like a carrot dangling in front of her face. She wasn’t delusional enough to entertain thoughts of catching up with them. But I think she wanted to see their faces, if at least one more time before the gully swallowed her up.

When we stepped over trickles of water, our spirits were buoyed. We descended further and the trickles became a shallow stream. We looked at each other. Could there really be a waterfall at the end of this? The thought was enough to give us a second wind. We plowed ahead.

But ahead of us, we could see that the rockface blocking the path. We speculated that the trail ended ahead. People were walking back. But where we the kids? Had they found a shortcut back to the parking lot? Were they already in the car drinking Gatorade and munching on Cheetos? But as we rounded the bend, still cursing about those mischievous kids, we saw them standing near a thin waterfall. (It was really more of a “watertrip.”) But, more importantly, the kids saw us. They swarmed Donna like she was was some 1800’s prospector that had wandered out into the desert and had never returned. None of them had expected her to complete the hike, and a few had even taken to placing bets against her.

It was a moment fit for a Wheaties cereal box. I think someone should frame it.

So, the next time I poke fun at Donna’s physical prowess, remind me about the story of “The Little Engine That Could.” I’m sure it won’t be long before we find ourselves in a similar situation.

#Donnaistheenginethatdrivesmylife

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1/27/23

Earlier this week at the Miami International Airport, two women were arrested when they attacked a Frontier Airlines employee who refused them entry onto a flight they were 45 minutes late for. The employee was injured when one of the women threw a plastic sign at her.

That’s a drastic reaction to being turned away from a flight, and you can understand the women’s frustration, if not their actions, with being barred from a plane still sitting at the gate. But most airlines follow an unwritten final-boarding rule that calls for the gate agent to close the door to the plane 10 minutes before scheduled departure. But the 10-minute rule isn’t consistently adhered to. Gates may remain open to accommodate connecting flights, but not all the time. And departure boards may not be updated with the latest flight times. So how’s a person to know when to start rushing?

We tend to rush all the time. We also tend to be late all the time, so the two go naturally together. But we’ve never given serious thought to fighting our way aboard a plane, as the two women in Miami seemed prepared to do. The closest call we ever had was on a flight to Alaska. On that occasion Donna, Leah, and I had flown from Orlando to Phoenix where we were scheduled to meet Bradley for our connecting flight to Anchorage. We got to the gate just fine, but Bradley’s flight had been delayed leaving DC, which immediately sent Donna into panic mode.

“Excuse me,” she said to the gate agent, “Will you be holding this flight for my son’s connecting flight?”

The response was bright and cheery and positive and professional and included assurances that all measures would be taken to ensure that all ticketed passengers would have the opportunity to continue onto their final destination. In other words: Maybe.

Bradley’s flight was scheduled to arrive within minutes of our departure time, but at a gate on the other side of the airport. Sky Harbor Airport is 3,400 acres long. Donna ran the math in her head and made an executive decision.

“Okay, since I’m the least physically fit of the three of us, I’m going to run to Bradley’s gate and direct him to where we are, that way he won’t waste time trying to find us. In the meantime, you guys stay here and make sure this plane doesn’t leave without us. Michael, put on a pitiful face. That’s good. And Leah, cry if you have to.”

And then Donna took off like she’d been shot out of a cannon, or maybe more like a marathon runner shot by the starting pistol. Either way, Leah and I could only imagine her journey. I hoped people would let her pass and that her legs wouldn’t give out. But mostly I hoped that I’d see her again.

We watched passengers start to board and counted the minutes.

“How long has she been gone?”

“Not long.”

“Do you think she’s made it very far?”

“No.”

We had to be brutally honest with each other. Finally, we couldn’t take the suspense. We broke down and called her when it looked like everyone around us had boarded.

Donna’s breath was ragged and she spoke in a high-pitched voice.

“I found him. I…I told him where to go. But now I’m having trouble making it back. I don’t know if I can make it. Have a good life.”

Within minutes Bradley jogged into view. But our celebration was cut short. The three of us craned our necks down the long corridor where Donna had disappeared. But there was no sign of our short-legged girl. We told the gate agent we were waiting on one more.

“Whose plan was this?” Bradley asked in a very lawyerly voice, like he was in court and his team had just entered an insanity plea without consulting him.

We shuffled our feet embarrassingly. He knew.

“But you definitely saw her, right?”

“Oh, yeah. She told me to go ahead of her, but now I’m not sure if that was the right thing.”

Our trip to Alaska was off to a rocky start. But, then, like a scene out of “Rocky,” where you see the top of his head appear as he’s running up those steps, and he’s getting closer and closer, and the crowd’s going wild, Donna made it back to us. It happened just like the YouTube video below, if you subtract the last few seconds.

I don’t remember any dramatic music, but the most important thing is that we caught our plane. The flight was about six hours long, but I’m sure Donna slept threw most of it. She really needed the rest.

#runwaysareoutsidetheterminalDonna

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1/26/23

Human beings do strange things. I won’t play innocent and claim I’ve never done anything strange. But I’ll segue into that in a minute.

Donna and I were mattress shopping recently, and the topic of mattress firmness came up. During our travels we’ve slept in dozens of beds, no two alike. Every stay in a new hotel or rental home or cruise ship has exposed us to new experiences. Inevitably, I usually come home from a trip like a starry-eyed child and say, “Ooh, I liked that thing in the bedroom. What’s it called?”

Then Donna would explain to me what a mattress topper is and buy one for us. And so on and so on. My innocent comments have spawned so many additions to our bedroom in the past year, from new bedspreads to new bed sheets to new pillows to new headboards to new mattress pads to new mattresses (which will arrive sometime this week). I’m an expensive guy to live with.

But I never used to be so high maintenance. I never cared about accessories or…what’s that other word associated with sleeping? Oh, yeah. Comfort. I never cared about any of it. Maybe I never felt I deserved comfort. But now isn’t the time for self-analysis. We’ve all done some strange things.

Cue the flashback segue.

Between my first and second marriage, I lived in a small one-bedroom apartment for a while. I set up twin beds in the bedroom for when my kids slept over. The couch in the living room (slash kitchen) was where I rested my head. The kids had a small TV in their room. I had a big TV in my area. So, everything worked out—as long as you ignored the fact that the couch was uncomfortable. But many a night I couldn’t ignore it. I’d get a horrible night’s sleep, get the kids up late for school, and then end up late for work.

Something had to give. On rare occasion, when the kids weren’t there, I’d sleep in their room. But over time I just stopped sleeping on the couch and started sleeping on the floor. The floor was carpeted, so it probably wasn’t much different from sleeping on a firm mattress. I’d wrap myself in a comforter, rest my head on one of the big, fluffy cushions from the couch, grab the remote, and I was set for the night. I don’t know how long I maintained that routine. I was perfectly content with it. But not everyone in the house felt the same way.

Okay, if you don’t believe in ghosts or spirits, you can turn away from this post now. Go read some of my cartoons. Listen to one of my soothing blogcasts. I’m not trying to tell you that I had an encounter with a ghost, but something definitely didn’t like me sleeping on the floor.

My apartment was too small for a dining room table or a dinette set, so most of the time we just ate on tray tables. But I was particularly fond of keeping this one piece of furniture by the couch: a heavy, wooden stool. It had a drawer and four angled legs, so it was very sturdy. “Solid” would be the way I’d describe it—a sturdy, solid, piece of furniture that you’d never want to collide with. This particular piece of furniture, however, went out of its way to collide with me.

The night it crashed into my face, I woke up in such a state of fright that I wouldn’t have been surprised if the shock had triggered a heart attack. Adjacent to me, the stool had toppled over onto my face, striking me somewhere around the bridge of my nose and forehead. Stupid me, I thought. I’d left the stool too close to me when I’d curled up on the floor. I must’ve accidentally pushed it in a way that it fell on me.

While my wounds healed, I completely forgot about the incident. I wasn’t sure I’d broken any bones, but in retrospect, I wonder if the incident had done damage to my nose. I lost my ability to smell somewhere during that period, so I haven’t ruled anything out.

Time went on without incident, as it usually does in tales like these. I stayed clear of sleeping on the floor for a few days, but gradually I went back to my routine, making sure the stool was out of reach.

When it smashed into my face again, I had some serious thinking to do. I’d moved the stool further away, but I calculated that if I’d thrashed about in my sleep and extended an arm, I could’ve pushed the stool against the couch and forced it to topple over. The second injury hurt worse than the first. If I had a ghost in the house, the message they were sending me was, “You can’t win. Get up off the floor.”

The ghost was adamant about that. Maybe the previous apartment renter had suffered some horrible fate on the floor where I was sleeping, and the ghost took offense to me sleeping on consecrated ground. As a writer, those are the kinds of theories that automatically come to mind. But I was really hoping that I didn’t have an unearthly visitor.

More time passed. I kept my end of the bargain and stayed off the floor. Eventually months passed, and I started feeling confident again. Human beings are so slow to learn sometimes. I snuggled back down on the floor, turned on the TV, and looked over my shoulder to where I’d moved the stool, at a 12 o’clock position four feet away. My arms aren’t four feet long. I would have to crawl toward the stool and pull it toward me for it to do any damage.

To say I was shocked when it happened again would be a drastic understatement. I remember howling. I remember the pain to my head. I remember thinking, “How is this possible?”

I didn’t challenge the ghost again after that. I’m a big baseball fan. I know the rules. Three strikes you’re out. I stayed off the floor, and I’ve never done anything like that again. A short time later I moved. I didn’t take the stool with me when I left.

Like I said, I’m a high-maintenance kind of guy now. Give me satin sheets and fluffy pillows. You couldn’t pay me to sleep on the floor again.

#UnsolvedMysterieswasmyfavoriteshowtosleepwith

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1/25/23

I case you missed it, during the Giants-Eagles game this past weekend, after a hard tackle in which his head is slammed into the turf, Giants quarterback Daniel Jones gets up from the ground and, after checking to make sure his head is still attached, reaches toward his face mask to retrieve a contact lens that has popped out. The announcer immediately seizes on the opportunity to say, “Well, it is a contact sport.”

Watch the 15-second YouTube video below to see if I’m kidding.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eha4CpFd5zU

When he reaches the sideline, Daniel Jones shoves the dirty, disgusting contact back into his eye—and before you know it, he’s back in the game. What a perfect spot that would’ve been to run a commercial for pink-eye medication. Of course, Daniel Jones and the Giants may as well have played with their eyes closed, for all the good their efforts made in the 38-7 shellacking the Eagles gave them. But this is not a football story. That’s right, you can wake up now.

Contact lens wearers everywhere cringed when they saw Daniel Jones run off in a panic. We’ve all been there. The miracle is that Daniel Jones found the lens at all. Most of the time that doesn’t happen. Months later I used to find hardened lenses stuck to the shirts I wore when my lenses popped out. As a former contact lens wearer, I have stories as comical as Daniel Jones’. I have stories of driving with one eye or going on job interviews and saying, “Darn it. I think I just lost a lens, in case you’re wondering why I’m winking at you.”

The things we do for vanity’s sake, such fun things like sticking germ-ridden fingers in your eyes, or having to peel lenses with the consistency of barnacles off your corneas when you’ve fallen asleep in your lenses. Never mind all the bottles of lens solution you have to buy and the solution you borrow when you have an emergency—after you’ve already spit on your lenses to keep them from drying.   

Fun times. But wearers of eyeglasses have their stories too, stories of broken lenses, and bent frames, and nose pads from hell. I wore eyeglasses all throughout junior high and high school, when I wasn’t whipping them off my face every time a cute girl walked by. But it’s hard to flirt when you can’t see who you’re flirting with. Sorry about that comment I made Principal Mendoza. I thought you were someone else.

But the biggest mistake I made in not wearing my glasses came on the playing field, during tryouts for my high school baseball team. I remember having practiced all week. My defense was impeccable. I was throwing the ball with amazing accuracy, making one-handed catches, and even a few sliding catches. I wasn’t much of a hitter, but I knew I could play defense. I even fantasized about a career in Major League Baseball. Come on, coach. Put me in.

But on the day of the tryouts, I had prepared for every contingency except one. The coach had confided in me that the team was set for the upcoming season. The only opening they had was at the catcher’s position. I figured how hard could that be? I could catch everywhere else on the field. Why not behind the plate? But when it was my turn to show the coach what I could do, I couldn’t fit the catcher’s mask over my glasses. It mashed them painfully against my face. Screw that, I said, as I shoved my glasses in my pocket. I can do this with my eyes closed.

Lesson to those who’ve never played baseball, or most any other sport. You cannot compete without being able to see what you’re competing at. But I’d practiced the catcher’s stance for hours, so I looked like I knew what I was doing.

From behind the plate, I squinted at the coach and saw him nodding approvingly as I handled some warmup pitches. I signaled from an inside pitch, I signaled for an outside pitch, I dug balls out of the dirt. Then the batter stepped up to the plate, a big lefthanded batter, who cast a big shadow over me. He waggled his bat in front of my face, obstructing my view of the pitcher. But before the first pitch could be delivered, the coach signaled for a pitching change. The guy who’d been pitching to me was already on the team. The coach wanted to see what one of the kids trying out for pitcher could do.

I knew the guy on the mound. He was a friend who’d confessed to me the day before how nervous he was to be trying out. His first pitch skipped in the dirt and bounced off my chest protector. Okay, okay. I’d stopped the ball, but boy that had looked ugly. The next pitch was high and wide off to my left. I’d barely seen it, even with my best squint. The ball clanged off the batting cage, and I scrambled to retrieve it. The next three pitches were also wide or in the dirt. It was an embarrassment for the pitcher and me. I just couldn’t see the balls well enough to stop them. If I’d been a goalie, I would’ve been yanked from the game. The batter looked bored.

Finally, the coach announced that he wanted to see me throw to first on the next pitch. I was excited about the opportunity to give the coach a glimpse of my Herculean strength. I could see the first baseman well enough. But, again, the pitcher delivered another wild pitch. I blocked it and threw from my knees with everything I could muster. The ball sailed high over the first baseman’s head. I think it might still be rolling today. When the coach blew his whistle and called everyone back into the dugout, I knew I was done. I could’ve stayed on the field on my knees, begging for a miracle. But it wouldn’t have helped.

I put my glasses back on and pondered a new career.

“Maybe I could be a mild-mannered reporter like Clark Kent.”

Hmm. A journalist. That just might be the ticket. Now where are my glasses?

#withoutmyglassedI’dmadeaspectacleofmyself

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1/24/23

We watched as the bumbling drunk tried to make his way inside the building and might have laughed if Leah wasn’t inside. But she was, so we didn’t. Leah had just passed through the doors of the office building where she was scheduled to participate in a market research focus group. It was evening, and we were lingering after having dropped Leah off, waiting for her to confirm if she would indeed be participating in the group.

From our parked car we could see Leah and about a dozen other perspective group participants (all women) through the ground-floor windows of the office she’d entered. But we weren’t the only ones interested in the group. From behind a hedgerow, a man with a scraggly beard and a red shirt watched them too. Then he attempted to enter the building, through the same doors that Leah and the other women had just passed. He staggered drunkenly.

Donna and I didn’t need to be graduates of the Sherlock Holmes Detective School to figure out that this man wasn’t part of the women’s focus group, nor did he appear to be very bright. He couldn’t figure out how to open the door. A toddler wearing a matching blue cap and vest approached the man.

Wait, I thought. That’s no toddler. That’s a pint-size building security officer. The man was only about five feet tall, if that. But at least the officer was doing his job. We watched as he intercepted the drunk and then tried to explain something to him with a myriad of hand gestures. I imagined he said something like, “Now run along, Mr. Drunky. The only group allowed in the building right now are the women doing a research study. You don’t belong.”

But the drunk kept pawing at the front door until, for some inexplicable reason, the security officer opened it and allowed the man to enter. Although the security officer stayed by his side, Donna and I weren’t comforted in the least. We exchanged glances trying to figure out at what point we should step in. The drunk was at least a foot taller than the toddler cop. But we didn’t want to be too quick to dismiss the officer’s ability to handle the situation. So, we let the drama play out.

Through the lobby’s glass windows, we watched the drunk continue his advance, until he reached the door of the office where Leah was and began knocking on it. The man who opened the door, presumably the focus group administrator, gave the drunk an annoyed look, then gestured toward the front door. When the security cop held it open for the drunk, we breathed a sigh of relief.

Whew. Crisis averted. Chalk one up for the good guys. But the drunk staggered away only a few steps before turning around and crooning a woman’s name. I assumed he was looking for someone. He threw his arms wide and tossed his head back, like Rocky calling up to Adrian.

“Hey, yo, Adrian!”

But he gave up quickly, as if he was used to being rebuffed, before staggering toward where we were parked, almost directly in front of the building. He gave us a, “What are you looking at?” kind of a stare. But I willed him to keep walking, and he did. He walked to the right of us. Then he walked behind us. Then he wobbled his way across the parking lot and into the darkness, forcing me to reconsider whether he or the security cop was really more the toddler. Donna and I shuddered to think what might happen if the drunk got into a car.

Leaving Leah in such an uncertain situation wasn’t an appealing prospect. I pulled the car out of the parking spot and called the security officer over for some clarification.

“Is that guy drunk?”

“Yes, he is over drunk,” the diminutive cop said with a heavy Asian accent. “He said he wanted to go inside to pee-pee. That is the only reason I let him into the building. But the professor would not let him into the office.”

Thank God for “the Professor” I thought. But where’s the Skipper and Gilligan when you need ’em. I suggested to the security officer that he should call the cops, not caring if calling in the real cops was against some security officer creed.

“I already call,” he said. “They say if you can get him to leave peacefully, then we do not have to come.”

He laughed nervously and stared out at a white SUV parked in the middle of the parking lot.

“He invite me to come back to his car with him. But I say no. Then he ask if I have gun.”

I drove the car back into the spot and shifted it into park.

“He said what? He asked if you had a gun? Why would he ask if you had a gun? Did he say he had a gun?”

The security officer patted his vest.

“No, he did not say. But I have a secret.”

Then he patted his vest again. Alright, this was getting nuts. It was like we were suddenly in Nakatomi Plaza waiting for the rest of the “Die Hard” movie to unfold. I asked the security guard if he was going to remain there for the rest of the night, or at least until all the focus group participants had exited the building. He said he was, that was his job, to guard the building.

Then, as if to demonstrate his dedication to never leaving his post, he passed to the right of us and urinated in the bushes. Well, I can’t say I didn’t ask for that. It was as if he’d anticipated my next question.

“So, how do you watch the building when you have to go to the bathroom?”

A few minutes later, the sprinklers came to life and washed away all evidence of the cop’s dedication to his job. It was a serendipitous moment. I’d previously underestimated the security guard based on his physical appearance. With an empty bladder, I wasn’t sure if the man was any more competent.

We immediately placed a call to Paul and explained the situation to him.

“Let me get this straight,” he said. There’s a guy with a beard and a red shirt. Uh-huh, uh-huh. Does he look anything like Santa Claus? No? Okay. And there’s this other small Asian cop who keeps peeing in the bushes? Uh-huh, uh-huh. No, I think I’ve heard enough. I’m on my way. Don’t worry. I’ll pick Leah up. You guys should definitely go home and take a nap. Thank you for watching out for her, Top Flight Security.”

Long story short, everybody got home safe last night, and I haven’t seen any news headlines about shots fired at Nakotomi Plaza. So, I guess everything turned out okay. But the bottom line is, if you’ve got a bad feeling about something, don’t ignore it. Do what the cops do and call for backup.

#Yippee-ki-yay

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1/23/23

I’ve lost track of the number of security cameras we have. At this point, I think we’ve got cameras watching other cameras. That’s how many we have. Which means that when the robots take over, they won’t have any trouble locating us. I can see those cameras turning inward right now, as we crawl on all fours and beg the Rumba to go easy on us. From now on we’ll do all our cleaning. We promise.

In 2021, there were approximately 336 million households with smart security cameras worldwide. By 2027, this figure is expected to increase to over one trillion. That’s a lot of people getting alerts that something is stirring around the house while they’re at work, or while they’re shopping, or in the middle of one of their favorite TV shows. According to a 2022 U.S. News & World Report Home Security System Beliefs and Practices Survey, nearly half of all users (48%) report checking their camera footage at least once per day, while 38% check the footage weekly. When they’re out of town, 52% check their footage multiple times throughout the day.

Most use their security cameras to monitor the front of the house – 71% said they have their security cameras set up to catch anything that happens in their front yard. Only 58% said they monitor their backyards. The most common use for outdoor cameras is to watch neighborhood activities and package deliveries.

What do WE use our cameras for? Honestly, we mostly use it to keep up with the nightly jamboree that takes place outside our house. Oh, there’s a frolicking party going on most nights, mostly attended by cats, rabbits, possums, more cats, armadillos, spiders (who love to dangle themselves in front of the camera and write obscene web messages for us), and, of course, raccoons. (No bears allowed!) Last week our camera picked up our favorite raccoon swan diving from a branch 20 feet above our lawn like he was Michael Phelps. The crash was stupendous. (I guess we should’ve told him we moved the pool.) I didn’t know raccoons could bounce.

So, at the very least we’re grateful for the entertainment value that the cameras have provided. Without them I don’t think we’d be as educated as we are now on the subject of the nocturnal habits of our local wildlife. (Who needs to watch the nature channel?)

But, seriously, that’s not why we got the cameras. We just wanted to keep up with the Joneses. In one survey of the top 10 states most- and least-worried about safety, Florida ranked number 6 among the worry warts. I’m not saying we’re especially worried, but we’d rather be safe than sorry. According to the same survey, security cameras are the most common form of home security used, followed by dogs, firearms, and security systems.

I laughed when I saw dogs mentioned on the list. For us, our dogs would be at the top of any security systems list. They announce every single event that goes on outside our house. We only bought the cameras to confirm their accuracy rate. Before we had the cameras, we relied on ADT signs on our lawn to deter burglars. I won’t say if we did or didn’t have the systems that go with those signs. But I will say that security system signs are supposed to be effective. One study that surveyed over 400 incarcerated burglars found that security system signage was one of the top 10 deterrents when selecting a home to break into.

But I was a bit disappointed that that survey didn’t report more pertinent data. For example, I would’ve been curious to know how those incarcerated burglars felt about the “Home Alone” movies. Did they learn any lessons from them? As a deterrent to crime, were they at all effective? And did Kevin employ any strategies that we should be using as a best practice?

Eh. The world may never know. But we’ve got bigger fish to fry. We’ve got a particularly worrisome set of neighbors we’re keeping an eye on. For whatever reason, they dislike us. I know, I know. It’s hard to believe that Donna and I aren’t at the top of everyone’s Christmas list. But we can get a little edgy, especially when someone dumps 300 pounds of yard waste on our lawn.

So, the next time you come to our house, make sure you look your best. And don’t forget to smile because you’re on Candid Camera.

FYI: If you’re shopping for a wireless home security camera, please consult the 2023 buying advice of my friends at Consumer Reports:

https://www.consumerreports.org/wireless-security-cameras/best-wireless-home-security-cameras-of-the-year-a1535263710/

#CandidCamerawasoneofmyfavoriteTVshows

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1/22/23

A news headline jumped out at me yesterday. It read, “Florida Woman Shoots Her Terminally Ill Husband In Hospital.” It’s a tragic story, to be sure. But when the couple came up with the murder-suicide plot three weeks ago, I’m not sure either envisioned how bungled the plan would turn out. Murder/suicides work best when both participants do their part. In this case, the wife refused to turn the gun on herself after killing her husband.

What followed was a three-hour standoff in which the wife barricaded herself in the hospital room. The police were then forced to deploy a flashbang grenade and a bean bag, which isn’t as fun as it sounds. A bean bag is a pellet usually fired from a shotgun. When fired at close range, it can cause serious damage to its target. One report even mentioned that a taser was discharged. The wife faces charges of murder and aggravated assault. The couple’s simple plot also proved calamitous to the other critically ill patients on the hospital ward who had to be evacuated. After all is said and done, the wife may wish she’d pulled the trigger.

I’m not unsympathetic to the horrific choice faced by this couple, or its outcome, but the story fits a trend that journalists have been exploiting for the past 20 years, namely the proliferation of sensationalistic Florida Man/Florida Woman headlines that portray Floridians as a bunch of inept wackos. And I for one would like to defend my beloved state. I said I’d “like” to defend, but I’m not sure that I can. Most of the time, those crazy memes seem all too accurate.

Here are some of my favorite Florida Man/Florida Woman stories (if you don’t get the headlines, you may be a Florida Man/Florida Woman):

Florida Man Crashes Walmart Scooter into Shelves, Arrested for Drunk Driving After Vodka Found in Basket. The fact that Walmart is ground zero for so many of these stories should not deter you from shopping there.

Police Use Stun Guns To Extract Florida Man From Walmart Ceiling. It’s uncertain what he was doing up there. I suspect he was looking for the escalator up to the Hosiery and Socks department.

Florida Man Caught With Cocaine in Car, Says It Was Blown There by the Wind. It was an improvement on his initial explanation, a severe case of dandruff.

Florida Woman Texts 911 Multiple Times to Find Out How to File for Divorce. To be fair, she probably got the advice from LegalZoom.com.

Florida Man Woken Up By Man Who Broke Into House and Began Sucking His Toes. I suspect this story may have been planted by an OnlyFans foot model seeking to plug her site.

Florida Man Handed Out Free Weed ‘Because It Was Christmas,’ Say Police. The real question isn’t why he did it but what does he hand out on other holidays.

Florida Man Arrested After ‘Throwing Pop Tart’ at Wife’s Head, Police Say. The story neglects to point out that she threw Ring Dings at him first.

Florida Man Caught on Camera Crashing Pickup Truck Into Chuck E. Cheese. If you’ve ever suffered a rodent infestation, the choice to go after their leader seems like a perfectly reasonable one.

Florida Man Arrested With Meth Bag Wedged in ‘Belly Button Cavity’. What else is a belly button supposed to be used for?

Florida Man Caught After Attempting to Outrun Police on Lawnmower. The story failed to say that he had a turbo charged mower and would’ve gotten away if not for the spike strips that were deployed.

Florida Man Asks Police to Test His Meth to Ensure Its Authenticity. He was supposedly trying to get police to arrest his dealer for selling knock-off merchandise.

Florida Man Steals Forklift, Four-Wheeler, and Shoes in ‘Crime Spree’. He says the forklift and the four-wheeler were really decoys to throw cops of the trail. It was the shoes he was really after.

Florida Boy Mistakes Pepper Spray for Body Spray, Sends 41 to Hospital. I think this Florida boy has got the stuff to one day be featured in a Florida Man meme.

#FloridaManmemeswerestartedbystatesjealousofFlorida