Dave Barry is really funny

Dave Barry is a really funny guy. A clever and smart-alecky writer who is one of the inspirations for me and the semi-smart-alecky blog you are reading. Or are pretending to read. And not commenting on. Apparently. Which I wish would stop. Not the "reading" part, the "not commenting" part.

I have had a couple of conversations today, oddly enough, concerning words and their proper and popular uses. Sometimes not the same thing. I have spoken/written of this before.

Read Dave Barry's column about "Mr. Language Person". You'll laugh, you'll cry, it's better than Cats.

...Now Internationally Recognized!

I can only say this because a Swedish friend in London took a night-shift job and has done some catching up on the GeezerChron in between studying and working.

SO, in addition to the four people who read this in Brazoria, Galveston and Harris counties, there is a Swede in London who pretends to enjoy my rants.

Thanks Mikael, you made me an international author. Sort of.

I win!

Slow Ride in Tyler Texas

Whenever you hear a song from your past, the memories flood back in an instant. You may be transported back immediately to the beach, or in the student center of the high school or the parking lot of the Weingarten’s grocery store. It may be an idyllic vacation spot in the Hill Country, or some East Texas lake. Almost any Chicago song takes me back to a certain ’64 Ford Falcon in Texas City.

But the song “Slow Ride” by Foghat whisks me away to Tyler Texas on a rainy weekend thirty-something years ago. An odd journey, you might say, but the story is tattooed on my brain. And the brains of three others in the geezer demographic.

Our families were always together, at church, after church and many times in between. The Dickson and the Soderberg adults got along famously, completely compatible in every sense. The kids always had a great time together, too. I think WE had more fun than the parents, but that’s just from our perspective. We played 8-track tapes and laughed a lot.

This particular time, we had all made a pilgrimage to the East Texas town of Van, the old homestead of our friends’. The town was so small, there was no lodging any closer than the pulsating metropolis of Tyler. There were numerous stop lights and even a motel, where we stayed Friday and Saturday nights. We roamed around the back roads of Van on Saturday, everybody piled into our truck (an early SUV; camper shell decked out with long bench seats and a vinyl “boot” connecting the cab and the camper) looking out the windows while stories about long ago ran around the space, with everyone laughing and imagining the old days.

My Dad and Mr. Dickson went and tromped around in the rain on some stickerburr-infested property that was owned by Mrs. Dickson’s family. Everybody else sat in the truck and waited for them.

So where does “Slow Ride” come in?

On Sunday morning, the day we were to leave, we were having breakfast in the diner associated with the motel. As usual, the adults were in one booth, and us kids were at another. The place was quiet at 7 a.m. on that morning, with older couples eating their waffles and eggs along with cups of coffee, their spoons quietly tinkling in the thick ceramic cups. Mostly rural types; farmers and retired oil field workers, ready for a quiet life in a quiet town.

That was all about to change, because we had decided that it was a little TOO quiet. Donna, being the youngest, was instantly and wordlessly chosen to take the magic quarter and feed it to the jukebox we spied up by the kitchen door. I don’t recall much convincing going on, so she innocently strolled up to the jukebox, coin in hand. We also didn’t make any specific requests for a particular song or kind of song, as far as I can remember. Just that the stirring of coffee and soft murmurs in the background perhaps needed a soundtrack.

We watched as she made her way to the jukebox, perused the offerings and made her choice. She spun on her heel and quickly retreated back to our booth by the window, but not before the strains blasted out of the speakers...NAA NUHNT- DA NAA NUNT- DA NAA NUHNT-- NER NEER NAAR - NA NUHNT-DA NAA NUHNT ...ReeeeReeeREEEEEee “SLOW RIDE...TAKE IT EASY...”

It sounded like they had been holding a dance the night before because the decibel level was absolutely off the chart! As Donna flinched and slunk down the aisle to our booth, leading EVERY EYE IN THE DINER right to the small group of stunned and laughing teenagers, the coffee cups rattled on their saucers as forks and knives were dropped next to the fried eggs. As the gravy congealed in the cold stares lowered at us, the manager exploded out of the kitchen scowling at us, and without looking, yanked the jukebox’s power cord out of the wall. He never took his eyes off of us.

I am wondering if the reaction would have been so swift and severe if the choice had been Willie Nelson warbling “Blue Eyes Cryin’ in the Rain”. Most likely not, though we can never actually know. I do know that I will likely never venture into Tyler again. Even with the radio off.



*UPDATE*
My lone commentor, so far, has corrected the date of the aforementioned Ford Falcon's model year. I said '64, the former owner says '66. Believe him about that. Believe ME about EVERYTHING ELSE!
Thanx, Falcon!

The Great Race

At our house, we don’t seem to get a lot of special snacks. Only rarely do we buy Cokes (mostly Dr Pepper, Sprite and root beer). Any time we get cherry pies, a special box of cookies or any other sort of extravagance, the chances for survival of the treat immediately plummet.

I made the comment once that my girls consume the orange, apple or grape juice at a rate that would suggest that there is a contest going on in which the object is to eat/drink or otherwise consume the delicacy in a crude and barbaric manner. Heck, I don’t even know how they TASTE the food, much less how they slam it down their throats so quickly! They pour giant tumblers of milk and orange juice, and root beer and Dr Pepper; they heap bowls full of ice cream and pudding and whatever else happens to land on the counter next to the refrigerator. Ice cream seldom even gets a chance to go soft around here.

One evening during the feeding frenzy associated with a jug of white grape peach juice or some other delight, my wife and I were relaxing, watching the news or King of the Hill, you know, something informative. The middle girl dashed through the living room into the kitchen, and in one swift move, grabbed a glass and the last of the juice, and poured the rest of it for herself. She then exclaimed, with glee, “I WIN!”

When we asked what she was talking about, she reminded us of my pronouncement that they acted like the consumption of juice was a contest. She had won, she’d gotten the final drop.

This remains a staple now, whenever someone plays the finale for the milk, juice, pie, ice cream, etc., they exclaim “I WIN!” At least here, I can have the last word.

I win.

What Color is Your Toothbrush?

When you get a call at work like this, you know you just need to buy another one on the way home...

...to be continued...

Ink Buying

So we were out of printer ink. The cheap printer is an ink hog. The black goes out quicker than…than a very quick thing.

My middle daughter calls me while I’m teaching my night class, “Daddy, did you get printer ink today? I need to print out my speech tonight.”

“Oh, yeah, (dang, shoot!) I’ll call Fry’s to see if they have any…”

While my students are finishing up their projects in the lab, I look the store up on the internet, and then I phone them to check if they have the necessary supplies. I am suspicious because in the past, it seems that they had truckloads of all the other ink cartridges, but MY model was completely out.

Not wanting a repeat, and being near desperate, I held while the boy looked up and down the ink aisle, searching for my cartridge. What is the picture on the front, what number was that, have you seen it here before…

My frustration was beginning to mount when he said “Here it its…T013, black!”

“Great,” I said, “how many do you have?”

“Oh, we have a lot of them.”

“How many is a lot, because I can feel it, there’s going to be a run on them just before I get there…what’s your name?”

“….uh, Jonathan…?”

“Well Jonathan, don’t let anybody buy them that’s not me…” I said. My students were listening to me. The ones that were left, since there were about 12 minutes left in the class time. “you’ll know me when I get there; I’m 6 foot 3, 245 pounds with a crooked nose. You WILL have one for me when I get there, won’t you Jonathan?”

“Y-y-es, uh how many do you want…we have a lot…”

“I just need one, but can you promise me there will be at least one when I get there, Jonathan?”

“Uh, yes sir.”

“OK, I’ll see you in about 20 minutes.”

When I got to Fry‘s Electronics, I asked to see Jonathan to thank him. They said they didn’t know who I was talking about.

Back on the Grid

You can once again get me on my cell. I was under the radar, off the grid, incommunicado.

At first, when my cell phone broke last Wednesday, I felt a little panic. That gave way to relief. A sense of freedom that I hadn't felt in quite a while. Imagine, after having an electronic leash for over a year, then suddenly the cord is cut and you can run free all over the yard!

I could go to Walmart by myself and not get called to pick up something extra. Wait, I could also go to Walmart and be totally isolated and cut off from the Mother Ship, and when I was looking at two nearly identical items, I'd have to make a choice on my own. Which isn't the end of the world...unless I get home with the wrong one.

So I got my new phone yesterday, and went home and played with it. It has nice big numbers for fat fingers, a big, bright LCD screen for a geezer to easily see. It also has a camera. Not that a camera on a phone is a "must have" for me, but I can play a little and customize my screen.

So call me, but only after 9 p.m., on the weekend or if you have Cingular. I don't want to pay for small talk.

Remember, first and foremost, I AM a geezer.

Eulogy for a Razor

Today, after the eighth day of service, I retired my uber razor, the Fusion. After a slow, smooth shave, numerous rinsings and final "shake dry", I laid the razor to rest. Never more will the inordinate number of blades glide across the skin of my face, nipping tiny hairs as it traverses the path to good grooming.

I'm thinking that I may encase this, my favorite razor, in glass as it lays in state on our bathroom counter. Like Lenin and Mao, mummified in vacuum pack for the world to trek by and view on a pilgrimage.

One day, when the normal number of blades exceeds the number of fingers on a hand, a grandson will turn to his grandfather as they pass my shrine to the Fusion and ask, "Gramps, did people really used to shave with only two blades per razor? Did it take them, like, all day?"

On second thought, I'll likely toss the dangerous part and keep the handle in a drawer until the price of a six-bladed razor refill drops to the price of a barrel of crude oil.

Goodbye, fair Fusion. It was nice while it lasted.

GeezerChronicles: Razor Update

GeezerChronicles: Uber-Razor, Day 7

GeezerChronicles: Battle of the Blades

GeezerChronicles: Battle of the Blades

Uber-Razor, Day 7

Yesterday was a little hasty, in retrospect. I must have hurried or pressed too hard to get cut, because today was not as bad. There is but one small spot of my lifeblood on my neck.

I took it easy today, and the shave was smoother. But after talking to Mr.V, (he got a Fusion in the mail, too) we concluded that the phenomenal number of blades necessitated a constant "rinse" action that was heretofore unprecedented in the annals of shaving. He noted that the act of plowing through all that lather only clogged it up, calling for the need for the seemingly obsessive/compulsive act.

But, I fear, the end is near. Any nick, slight as it is, indicates that the razor is beginning the inevitable breakdown. Second Law of Thermodynamics. Entropy. The Razor Blade Corollary; no matter how much you like a particular blade (or blades), when used, it (they) will dull, and eventually cut your face to ribbons.

More tomorrow.

Razor Update

Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday were perhaps the best shaving days I have experienced in my long and checkered shaving career. I thought that the free, overpriced uber-razor would be so much fluff. Big package, lots of blades, marketing push that rivals Microsoft.

But I absolutely love this razor. The difference between this weapon and the cheap dual-bladers I normally buy is comparable to the Toyota Corolla and the Lexus-whatever-top-of-the-line model. The normal Gillette twin blades are functional and inexpensive. They cut the hairs that grow out of my face. The Fusion King-of-all-razors cuts the hairs, too. But in such a smooth, even, non-nicking way that I dread the day when it no longer performs the function to the high standards that were exhibited on the first couple of days.

Like this morning, for example. I have two small spots of blood on either side of my neck, shouting to me that the Fusion honeymoon is all but over. The slight razor burn rash on the right side of my neck is further evidence that we shall soon part ways.

Not that I don't think it's the best thing since bacon, but there is only so long you can shave with a free five blade razor. Oh, six blades (remember the superfluous blade for those "tricky places"). But at $25 for an eight-pack of refills, I think the five dollar ten-pack of blue disposable twins will suffice. Even though there are a total of 48 actual blades in the Fusion pack, there are 50 actual blades in the pack of blues.

And in a geezer's book, 50 divided by five dollars beats the heck out of 48 divided by 25 dollars any day. Who said I wasn't good at math?

Happy Birthday, Martha

It’s my sister’s birthday today, February 22. And her name is not Martha. That’s the name that Uncle Curtis called her when she was young. George Washington’s birthday; February 22; can’t call a girl George; Martha was George’s wife’s name…MARTHA.

Growing up, her role was the “Picker” and mine was that of the “Whiner”. She was so good at finding a nerve that she should have been a neurologist. She gave me a karate chop across the nose which elicted the now classic response “YOU COULDA KILLED ME!”, and it was her that picked up on the "I can see the truck from here" phrase, immortalized in our family.

As we grew, she also found the treasures where I failed to see them. After college, I would be in my room drawing, flinging unsuitable sketches to the garbage. She rescued several of them, picked nice frames for them, and hung them in her house. On seeing the picture framed and hung, I was amazed at how little it looked like a reject and how closely it resembled real art. She has framed a number of my pieces and they look pretty good.

Her eye is artistic and she has the potential to create some really nice watercolors, and I hope this is the year she slows down to pursue that pursuit. She recently refinished her original wood floors, so she's mighty handy, too.

My sister has always been a tireless supporter of mine, and she has supported me even when she did have tires. I appreciate that so much.

Happy birthday, Martha!

Battle of the Blades

I got a razor in the mail from the good people at Gillette yesterday. It’s one of those razors with more blades than a ninja movie. Five blades in one row and another on the back for “those tricky places” (their words), whatever that means. I think they are referring to the tight spots next to your beard or moustache or sideburns or eyebrows or ear hairs.

This morning, the magnificent Fusion Razor made its maiden voyage across my face. At first I was torn between fear of the stack of razor sharp steel I was about to drag around on my skin, and disbelief at any benefit the extra three blades could possibly afford in the simple job of cutting tiny hairs.

Intrepidly, I crashed on, lathered up and grasped the new gadget. The first few swipes were smooth and uneventful, careful as I was not to slice my throat or jawline. I noticed that it was indeed very smooth, and the built-in suspension system (thus the $12.00 price tag) kept me from pushing too hard. That prevents razor burn, which is always a plus. As I continued to shave I noticed that I nearly enjoyed the act. I was ever aware, however, that the sheer number of blades, should they decide to rebel, would make for a very dramatic morning, indeed.

My review of the New Multi-Bladed wonder called the Gillette Fusion Razor is favorable indeed. While I still had to go over my face two or three times, the shave was smooth and uneventful, thank God! The last thing you want at 0645 is an eventful shave.

But it’s nearly noon and I suspect that I’ll have to repeat the procedure tomorrow, same time, same place. For the price of the razor and refill blades (8 blades, $25+!) I feel one should have to shave no more than twice a week.

But that’s just one uninformed goober’s opinion.

SAINT Valentine's Day?

SAINT Valentine’s Day?
I don’t know why the Valentine’s day mania has gotten
so out of hand, but it is clear that there are a bunch
of sick people out there.

It all started Monday, when I took my eleven-year-old
to Wally World to catch the latest Valentine fashions.
She had to pick up something for her friend down the
street and then a couple of boxes for the yahoos in
her class. Thirty-two kids in the class, seems like
rather a lot of kids for one class to me, but
whatever. That meant that there were two boxes of
valentines to cover every last one of them. She
informed me that her sixteen-year-old sister needed a
package of kid valentines, too. I didn’t ask.

So we found the inexpensive stuffed animal without
“love” connotations, grabbed a little wire basket,
some candy and the obligatory tissue paper to line the
basket with.

“Do we need any candy?”, I asked her.

“No, we’re not passing out candy this year...”

Wonderful, we’re nearly done. While on the card aisle,
she couldn’t decide on which box of valentines to get
for her sister.

“Get ‘em both”, I wheezed, “and let’s go”.

So she threw them both in the basket and we sprinted
to the checkout. And we escaped without any major
injuries and the only damage was a bill of $27. Not
bad. I guess. For Valentines. Thinking I was all done
with hooligan duty, I thought it a small price to pay.

Tuesday night while teaching my class, I was interrupted
by the clucking of my cell phone. Knowing that my family usually only
disrupts my class in a dire or near-dire situation that
requires my immediate intervention/knowledge, I
tentatively answered the phone, only to find out that
I was required to stop by the store on the way home to
retrieve a couple of bags of suckers.

On the way home, I stopped into a different (but
exactly the same) gigantic discount warehouse store to
pick up the requested items. I headed back to the
special revolving holiday section where all the
chocolate and stuffed animal treasures reside.

As I hurriedly peered down the aisles to try to find
those suckers, I marveled at the utter chaos that was
evident in those canyons of desperation. As the
vacant-eyed souls clawed through the picked over items
that were originally intended to bring joy to lucky
lovers, I realized that at 9:45 p.m. on the night
before the single biggest forced holiday on the planet
that nobody really wanted to be there. If they had
wanted to be there, they would have been there the day
before. Right? They were there because they had either
forgotten someone or were guilted into getting a gift.

On not finding any suckers in the melee, I passed a
bewildered-looking employee who stood staring at the sad
collection of stuffed bears who were in turn staring at the ceiling with vacant eyes, cute monkeys with footprints on their faces, and broken-stemmed chocolate roses. I commented that the place looked
absolutely molested. He smiled sadly and knowingly.
While I had his attention, I inquired if there were
any packages of suckers anywhere to be found in the
entire hangar. He indicated that the grocery end of
the cavern may hold some.

Well, he was right, and not a moment too soon. The Dum Dum pops were broken into, and the Snoopy Suckers only contained 12 pieces. That was when I spied the Garfield Fruit Pops, 30 to a bag, for $1.26 per.

So, with all the tearing and stomping and clawing and eye-rolling going on, who was this "Saint Valentine", and what was he REALLY known for?

It's A CURSE I Tell Ya!

I had no reason to be “up” or “on” this morning. Dreary, rainy weather, I had a hard time getting out of the house on time, there’s a sick kid at home, traffic turned out horrible (what is usually a 5 minute leg of my commute turned out to be a 20 minute “sit-in” due to a blinking red light).

So when I rolled in to the office at 8:04, there was no indication of the golden moment that would ensue in mere seconds.

Our office manager told me that she left some cat food on my desk, knowing there are a couple of cats at our house. She added, “I have an electric cat feeder if you want it…”

My immediate reply: “I don’t have an electric cat...” drew a scream of approval from the other administrative assistant. One of our clever wordsmiths was coming up the aisle between the cubicles was seen laughing and shaking his head. The victim knew immediately what had happened. Fortunately, she embraced her role as “straight man” and enjoyed the coup along with everyone else.

I am just so glad to have been there to be able to use that corny old smart alecky line on such an appreciative audience. This is like a solar eclipse; the perfect straight line fed, and the punch line comes without even thinking. Heck, I don’t think I could have stopped it had I known it was coming.

Imagine living your life like this; an unending parade of potential set-ups and pay-offs running around in your head all day. Now you know what it’s like to be me.

Thank God you are you!

Caution Yellow

Yesterday I wore a yellow shirt. Apparently not an ordinary yellow shirt, though. This shirt was so yellow, people commented that it seemed to cause a cooking effect on the cornea. And possibly their retinas.

A few also seemed to notice a low frequency hum when I was near, which they attributed to my shirt. Even the cell phone reception was spotty (yes, even spottier than it normally is, thanks Cingular), but I just thought all this was coincidental.

Then the guys from IT came to my cube and asked me to stay away from the East end of the building. I asked why, and they reluctantly told me that my shirt was interfering with the wireless network, and the East end is where the signal broadcasts from.
Pictured is AJ telling me nicely to change clothes or stay away from the East end...

Which is a shame, because I really like that shirt. I had figured we needed a little sunshine on these gray and drizzly days.

Maybe I should test my clothes first at Best Buy in the electronics department.

Young Knuckleheads

Now THIS is a geezer rant, even more so than any others so far posted. It has been building a long time, and if I don't vent now, I may run over a teenager.

It seems that many of the nation's young people have not been taught either (a) the physics of moving automobiles, or (b) common courtesy and rules of the road.

I take one of my daughters to the high school every morning, and every morning I fume at the majority of the pedestrians who walk as slowly as they please (which is fine, really) in the middle of the parking lot thoroughfares (which is the main problem. Most walk in little klatches yakking with their little friends, yakking on their cell phones, or just trudging sullenly (but cooly) to class. The only problem is that the little klatches of yakkers are walking three or four across when there are cars approaching from each direction trying to get other students to class on time. Not only do they walk slowly, four abreast, but the line they choose to cross the lane is usually a very shallow diagonal line, covering as much of the drivable space as they can for as long as they can. And they'll look you right in the eye with an indignant deadpan and take a pace that would leave them in the dust at a retirement home.

Sometimes, I confess, I get as close to them as possible as I squeak past them. I have threatened to honk (well, I actually HAVE honked, but not lately) to the mortification of my girl.

So, fair reader, if you haven't instilled in your teenage son or daughter the importance of proper parking lot ettiquitte, or the fact that a geezer just might run up their back if they don't move out of the way, please do so. Soon.

There, I feel a little better, but being rushed, I haven't raved enough on this subject. If we happen to run into each other in Walmart, don't bring up this subject if you have somewhere to go; I have a whole routine churning within.

Mommie Dearest

My sister emailed me this story of a tigress who lost her preemie cubs and was pining (apparently). The zookeepers were trying to find surrogate tiger-style cubs but were unsuccessful. Someone hit upon the notion that they could make pigs in a blanket and satisfy the tigress’ maternal longing. So they literally put some piglets in little tiger print blankets and the mother took them in instantly. She is apparently happy with the arrangement.

Thus far.

I am not advocating something callous or crass here, but I wonder if someone were to perhaps slip some pork in to the feed mix for Mommie Dearest, would she, upon tasting it say, “Hmm, this tastes familiar, what is it…I just can’t quite place it…”. The next time she gave her cub-lets a lick-bath, would she have the same reaction? Or would it be an epiphany? “My babies are made of…..pork!”

I can only imagine her joy when she finds that her cubs are actually edible and of a flavor that is preferred by tigers four to one!

Why do I think of these things? I don’t know. Maybe I’m a little mean. Maybe I’m a tad twisted, perhaps I’m desperate for a posting on my blog. Or maybe just a little hungry. For bacon.

I will want to follow this story into the future, to see sow it turns out. But I most likely won’t boar you with the details.

Drought Broken

Yes, the long post-holiday drought is broken with this small drop of rain.
It's really just a token post to let my fan know that I am still in the game.

There's one cooking, though, and it won't be too long till i post it. Really.