(From the Blue Stone Press column “Dear Wally” Oct, 2008)
Dear Wally-
You are a recent father. What do you like most about your baby:
-JR
Dear JR- I like the size of my baby girl’s head. It’s the perfect little cantaloupe. I like the smell of her head, too. It smells like organic almond oil and Burt’s talc-free corn starch. It also smells like my lips. If she goes bald, it’s because I’ve worn down a spot on the top from over-kissing it. I like seeing her nurse and then drift one eye cautiously to me as I hover over and her mother tries to shoo me, a distracting agent, away. She’s inspecting me, this baby, checking me out with tentative approval, yet mostly focused on the immediate task of eating and maternal comfort. I like the way she rocks up on all fours on the bedspread and jerks back and forth to the satellite radio’s Bob Marley station when she’s happy. (We call this dance the “Hootchie Momma”. We will unlearn it before college). I like the way her chunky little feet poke through warm terrycloth leg holes and wiggle at the new day. And the look of complete sensory overload when we lower her into a tepid bath and she doesn’t quite know if today she likes it or not. I like the way she shoves everything into her mouth, maybe because that’s what I do. And the way she grabs the phone and flings it off the desk and across the room with those bionically strong fingers that look like miniature ears of corn from the Chinese restaurant. (Did she learn this from me and a recent encounter with a so called Verizon ‘customer service’ representative? Nope. I felt like doing it but didn’t).
I like how she’s startled by her own actions. Must be a curious thing to be startled by the newness of your actions…Or that she can nap from 4-5. Or any time she damn well pleases. That’s pretty neat. I like how she has a homing device in her hand that guides her to my eyeglasses no matter how dark it is, no matter if she’s even looking my direction. I like how she bops me on the nose and eagerly awaits my verbal ‘honk.’ It’s a game we play and conditioned response for us both now. I especially like how she throws her arms around my neck already before she even knows it’ll get her anything she wants. It’s one of my favorite things ever, ever in this entire world. I like how she can curl up in my arms and drift off to sleep, no matter the noise. And how she gets tired of me typing at my computer and starts demanding attention by smacking the keys. Like this:kjsdhkvhfqhoincvwjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj.
I like the raw ambition she has for movement. And that the energy she expends to stand upright, a goal of the highest consequence, conks her out so thoroughly. What focus! What efficiency! I like the miniaturization of fingernails, which before we clean them have the telltale signs of hard play, not hard work. I like how she squeals with unabashed delight when I lift her above my head and play airplane. The exhilaration of being suspended off the ground is almost too much for her. I also like how a family laugh, which starts off sounding like a cardboard box being dragged on a barn floor by a mule team, skipped 2 generations from my own paternal grandfather and landed in her body. I’ve missed it all these years since his death. If you tickle her just right, you can get two dimples at once. And if you miss, you get a scowl. I like seeing her so happy in her mother’s arms, safe and sound. I like the triangulation she has allowed our family. I even like changing her diaper because it means she’ll feel better when I‘m done and I’ll have done my part to help ruin another landfill. I like that she’s not afraid of our dogs or our horses, and instead considers them as natural as a sunny day.
I like watching her try to eat an apple, gumming it and savoring it for the brand new sharp flavor and curious texture it offers. I like that her favorite ‘toy’ is my guitar which I play for her every day that I can. I like that she tries to eat the books we read her. I can brag and say she’s a voracious consumer of literature and not be lying. I like that she and I look like we’ve just been in the world’s most successful (and fun!) food fight after every meal I feed her. I like that she wails for us when we hand her off to a babysitter. I like that it only lasts a moment until she realizes she’s ok and there’s lots to do and experience. I like that she’s so young and that her sense of wonderment is pure and primal. Same with her sense of exploration and trust.
What I don’t like is that that sneaky bastard time has just left the building with my credit card, car keys and a snicker.
-Wally
(Got a question that needs answering or baby’s head that needs smoochin’? Contact our advice columnist at cwn4@aol.com)
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Walmart of my Dreams
The Walmart of My Dreams
By Wally Nichols
(203) 858 3634
It’s worth wondering if the kind of Walmart that is going to be built might have a positive impact on sales or on the community.
There’s a Walmart coming to Wawarsing, NY. My town. That’s a fact and as a community, we’re ok with it. We’re at the planning board stage, debating the look right now with the developers. They want boxy, bland and economical. Flat roofs. The community members want style, though we might be dreaming. What’s in it for Walmart to even listen to us?
I imagine our Walmart faced with the bluestone that’s indigenous to the area and laid up expertly by Chicky Bell and his kid. (I realize getting Walmart to ante up for a building made entirely from stone might be a stretch, so just facing is fine. Chicky will do a great job either way).
There’d be a fine wood exterior trim detail that follows the dramatic vaulted roofline to its impressive peaks. They’d use local rough cut hemlock from Dave Waruch’s saw mill up the street and we’d all point to it, us shoppers, as we pull in visiting relatives to hold hands in a circle in the parking lot and marvel at the handiwork of Mike Dube, a local union carpenter and all around good guy. Then we’d all go in and buy!
The peaks of the roof , which would profile the majestic Catskills on one side and world famous Gunks on the other, would be picture perfect when the heavy snows come. It’ll have the charm of a European chalet! (Ok maybe not a chalet, but it wont look like the Walmart in South Bend Indiana either!). Eric and George of Valley Roofing will not have forgotten to put on snow cleats. They wont get called back for a leaking flat roof in 5 years. They’d also get to buy a new truck from Lonstein Dodge with the money from the contract.
It wouldn’t just be us towns folks buying goods. A spectacular, locally built structure would attract tourists from far away, I suspect, and boost the store’s bottom line. Why buy T-shirts at just any Walmart when you could buy them in a glorious, hand-crafted Walmart? See what I mean? It’d be worth the extra gas money to get here.
And all the town workers who built the unique building would have money to spend there. It makes sense in my dreams anyway.
I can imagine a stand of tall Norway spruces planted in front like a row of lockstep soldiers, visually protecting our valley, ever -present as deterrents to vandals too. Have you ever tried to graffiti tag a pine tree with spray paint? It’s really not easy.
It might be that the stylistic Walmart of my dreams could make lots of money for the locals and the company too. Maybe even rescue the area from the jobless doldrums as other stores follow and embrace the bold aesthetic. Walmart takes a well deserved pat on the back for breaking the mold and giving the folks what they want other than just low prices.
It might also be that the Walmart of my dreams will stay tucked away in my dreams. Someone pinch me.
By Wally Nichols
(203) 858 3634
It’s worth wondering if the kind of Walmart that is going to be built might have a positive impact on sales or on the community.
There’s a Walmart coming to Wawarsing, NY. My town. That’s a fact and as a community, we’re ok with it. We’re at the planning board stage, debating the look right now with the developers. They want boxy, bland and economical. Flat roofs. The community members want style, though we might be dreaming. What’s in it for Walmart to even listen to us?
I imagine our Walmart faced with the bluestone that’s indigenous to the area and laid up expertly by Chicky Bell and his kid. (I realize getting Walmart to ante up for a building made entirely from stone might be a stretch, so just facing is fine. Chicky will do a great job either way).
There’d be a fine wood exterior trim detail that follows the dramatic vaulted roofline to its impressive peaks. They’d use local rough cut hemlock from Dave Waruch’s saw mill up the street and we’d all point to it, us shoppers, as we pull in visiting relatives to hold hands in a circle in the parking lot and marvel at the handiwork of Mike Dube, a local union carpenter and all around good guy. Then we’d all go in and buy!
The peaks of the roof , which would profile the majestic Catskills on one side and world famous Gunks on the other, would be picture perfect when the heavy snows come. It’ll have the charm of a European chalet! (Ok maybe not a chalet, but it wont look like the Walmart in South Bend Indiana either!). Eric and George of Valley Roofing will not have forgotten to put on snow cleats. They wont get called back for a leaking flat roof in 5 years. They’d also get to buy a new truck from Lonstein Dodge with the money from the contract.
It wouldn’t just be us towns folks buying goods. A spectacular, locally built structure would attract tourists from far away, I suspect, and boost the store’s bottom line. Why buy T-shirts at just any Walmart when you could buy them in a glorious, hand-crafted Walmart? See what I mean? It’d be worth the extra gas money to get here.
And all the town workers who built the unique building would have money to spend there. It makes sense in my dreams anyway.
I can imagine a stand of tall Norway spruces planted in front like a row of lockstep soldiers, visually protecting our valley, ever -present as deterrents to vandals too. Have you ever tried to graffiti tag a pine tree with spray paint? It’s really not easy.
It might be that the stylistic Walmart of my dreams could make lots of money for the locals and the company too. Maybe even rescue the area from the jobless doldrums as other stores follow and embrace the bold aesthetic. Walmart takes a well deserved pat on the back for breaking the mold and giving the folks what they want other than just low prices.
It might also be that the Walmart of my dreams will stay tucked away in my dreams. Someone pinch me.
Hey Shower Guy...
To the guy at the gym…
…who left the bar of soap on the shower floor:
Well, thanks, I guess. I was the next person in and was just wondering at that exact moment we passed in the locker room what I was going to do to get clean (didn’t want to use the soap in the dispenser on the shower wall, a sentiment you obviously feel, too) To my sheer amazement, there was your used bar of mealy soap in the corner on the floor. Now granted it had some hair on it, but hey, isn’t soap, by definition, clean?? Exactly! THANK YOU!
So my heartfelt thanks as I soap up my privates and bring whatever diseases you have picked up over the years of your creepy, promiscuous, glory-holin' back to my precious family.
I’m just kidding, I never even touched it.
Seriously, did you think someone else was going to use the nasty soap after you turned it into your own private ass Chia Pet? I can’t imagine all the dark alleys you sent that poor thing down to get mugged before discarding it for the custodian to pick up in his rubber gloves and hazmat suit.
Proving once again, but for the suit and ties we occasionally wear, it’s a razor thin film between us and the monkey cage…
Next time can you leave some used dental floss for us too?
…who left the bar of soap on the shower floor:
Well, thanks, I guess. I was the next person in and was just wondering at that exact moment we passed in the locker room what I was going to do to get clean (didn’t want to use the soap in the dispenser on the shower wall, a sentiment you obviously feel, too) To my sheer amazement, there was your used bar of mealy soap in the corner on the floor. Now granted it had some hair on it, but hey, isn’t soap, by definition, clean?? Exactly! THANK YOU!
So my heartfelt thanks as I soap up my privates and bring whatever diseases you have picked up over the years of your creepy, promiscuous, glory-holin' back to my precious family.
I’m just kidding, I never even touched it.
Seriously, did you think someone else was going to use the nasty soap after you turned it into your own private ass Chia Pet? I can’t imagine all the dark alleys you sent that poor thing down to get mugged before discarding it for the custodian to pick up in his rubber gloves and hazmat suit.
Proving once again, but for the suit and ties we occasionally wear, it’s a razor thin film between us and the monkey cage…
Next time can you leave some used dental floss for us too?
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Amanda Bader
The last thing I ever said to Amanda Bader was, “have a great ride.” My final memory of her speaks volumes to the delightful, strong woman she was. We were at the Florida Horse Park together in Ocala, Florida, representing, in an unofficial capacity, the NY Mid-Hudson Valley horse riders . She was there to compete, and I was there to support. This particular weekend was one of the largest Horse Trials the park has each year. Hundreds of riders from all over North America come to compete at varying different levels in dressage, stadium jumping, and cross country.
Amanda was easy to spot in the crowd. She looked sharp as ever in her black jacket, distinct blue velvet helmet and white britches. She held a determined NY stride that moved her with purpose towards her destination. At her side was a riding crop and in her wake, trying to keep up while still coping a quick sniff of everything and everyone, her trusty Jack Russell terrier, Lola. I saw Amanda but she didn’t see me. “Hey Lola, get out of the garbage can,” I yelled loud enough to make Amanda and plenty of others turn. She saw me and realizing I was goofing on her, smiled. “Hey Amanda, have a great ride.” I said, not realizing it would be the last time I could tell her that. Earlier we had agreed to have dinner the following Tuesday to discuss among other things, the Trials. She waved goodbye and disappeared into the crowd.
Amanda was preparing for her cross country run where she would take Simira, her 15-3 hand, 8 year old mare over a series of jumps and obstacles spread out on a rolling green course well over a mile long. It was a beautiful day, like so many in Florida. The promise of long sunny days of riding, instructing and learning was enough to motivate Amanda to come down for the winter--To stay on top of her already great game, and let the snows of the North have their way back home.
Cross country is a test of endurance and courage. I have walked many courses. I have marveled at the challenges the jumps present and I have faded in the daunting shadows of those same challenges. But it is in the face of that challenge that Amanda thrived. She rode the course because she was confident, well-trained, excited, eager to test herself and because she was alive. Where others like me might sit on the sidelines and watch this event, she was involved. This is an event that demands steel nerves and talent, both of which she had in spades. It involves a special relationship between horse and rider based on trust and sensitivity. And into the delicate mix goes the wildcard variable, luck. Or sometimes, as the case can be, bad luck.
I remember dinner at her house in Accord, NY with her dear husband Philippe and a few friends. The perfect 30-something evening (though we were all older than that) with nice wine, giggles, a foray into politics, a hasty retreat, excellent food, a few good natured jabs at the French, plenty of barn talk and lounging until the wee hours. Amanda was a perfect host, gracious, engaging, charming. Her orientation was towards quality, kindness and generosity, be it in spending a little extra at Gail’s Stone Ridge tack shop to support the local economy and a friend, or baking outrageously tasty treats to raise money for all things equestrian or her interaction with horses.
And she was a talented writer. A hard worker. Determined. Loving. Smart. Particular (her friends jokingly called her ‘Demanda’ ). She knew what she wanted, and she knew what she liked.
Few are lucky enough to realize early enough what in life makes them truly happy. Indeed some spend their entire life in search of elusive passions. Amanda Bader got there early.
I recently met the volunteer who started Amanda on the last course of her life. Jennifer told me that the event staff rarely speaks to the riders when they are in the starting gate, but when she saw Amanda’s smile and enthusiasm for the upcoming ride, she had to say something to the lady in the blue velvet cap. They chatted briefly and the buzzer sounded beginning the course. As Amanda took off for the first jump and cleared it gracefully , Jennifer told me she turned to a co-worker and said, “You know, that’s what this sport is all about.”
I take some solace in knowing when I said to her that fateful day, “Have a great ride,” that she had actually had 51 years of a great ride and left us all doing what she truly truly loved.
Amanda was easy to spot in the crowd. She looked sharp as ever in her black jacket, distinct blue velvet helmet and white britches. She held a determined NY stride that moved her with purpose towards her destination. At her side was a riding crop and in her wake, trying to keep up while still coping a quick sniff of everything and everyone, her trusty Jack Russell terrier, Lola. I saw Amanda but she didn’t see me. “Hey Lola, get out of the garbage can,” I yelled loud enough to make Amanda and plenty of others turn. She saw me and realizing I was goofing on her, smiled. “Hey Amanda, have a great ride.” I said, not realizing it would be the last time I could tell her that. Earlier we had agreed to have dinner the following Tuesday to discuss among other things, the Trials. She waved goodbye and disappeared into the crowd.
Amanda was preparing for her cross country run where she would take Simira, her 15-3 hand, 8 year old mare over a series of jumps and obstacles spread out on a rolling green course well over a mile long. It was a beautiful day, like so many in Florida. The promise of long sunny days of riding, instructing and learning was enough to motivate Amanda to come down for the winter--To stay on top of her already great game, and let the snows of the North have their way back home.
Cross country is a test of endurance and courage. I have walked many courses. I have marveled at the challenges the jumps present and I have faded in the daunting shadows of those same challenges. But it is in the face of that challenge that Amanda thrived. She rode the course because she was confident, well-trained, excited, eager to test herself and because she was alive. Where others like me might sit on the sidelines and watch this event, she was involved. This is an event that demands steel nerves and talent, both of which she had in spades. It involves a special relationship between horse and rider based on trust and sensitivity. And into the delicate mix goes the wildcard variable, luck. Or sometimes, as the case can be, bad luck.
I remember dinner at her house in Accord, NY with her dear husband Philippe and a few friends. The perfect 30-something evening (though we were all older than that) with nice wine, giggles, a foray into politics, a hasty retreat, excellent food, a few good natured jabs at the French, plenty of barn talk and lounging until the wee hours. Amanda was a perfect host, gracious, engaging, charming. Her orientation was towards quality, kindness and generosity, be it in spending a little extra at Gail’s Stone Ridge tack shop to support the local economy and a friend, or baking outrageously tasty treats to raise money for all things equestrian or her interaction with horses.
And she was a talented writer. A hard worker. Determined. Loving. Smart. Particular (her friends jokingly called her ‘Demanda’ ). She knew what she wanted, and she knew what she liked.
Few are lucky enough to realize early enough what in life makes them truly happy. Indeed some spend their entire life in search of elusive passions. Amanda Bader got there early.
I recently met the volunteer who started Amanda on the last course of her life. Jennifer told me that the event staff rarely speaks to the riders when they are in the starting gate, but when she saw Amanda’s smile and enthusiasm for the upcoming ride, she had to say something to the lady in the blue velvet cap. They chatted briefly and the buzzer sounded beginning the course. As Amanda took off for the first jump and cleared it gracefully , Jennifer told me she turned to a co-worker and said, “You know, that’s what this sport is all about.”
I take some solace in knowing when I said to her that fateful day, “Have a great ride,” that she had actually had 51 years of a great ride and left us all doing what she truly truly loved.
make my hair piece
Making my hair-peace
By Wally Nichols
(203) 858 3634
cwn4@aol.com
Buying my first baseball cap recently seemed like defeat. Neither a big sports fan, nor fan of advertising someone else’s team for free, I was driven into the arms of a ball cap vendor reluctantly, one might even say genetically. What grown man stands in line next to teenagers to buy his first cap? A bald or balding one who finally realized that winter is cold without hair, is who.
I’m asked what team’s cap I want. I am unable to supply an earnest answer. “I guess it has to be a baseball team, right? They are the ones who wear baseball caps?” The store owner chuckles at my logic, though possibly he’s just targeting my ignorance. I would immediately fail a trivia quiz on baseball teams.
“Not necessarily,” he offers. “You’ve got your football teams, hockey teams and even basketball teams.”
I’d fail a trivia quiz on those teams too.
“This cap for your son?” he asks.
“Nope”, I reply and point to the shiny top of my frozen head.
My options for team affiliation are wide open. I’m lower than a fair weather fan. I’m working on logos only.
“Well, what ever you want,” he says fussing with nearby inventory. “Just make your mind up soon—I’ve got customers.” He means real sports fans.
I survey the options like a kid in a candy store, but a kid in a candy store that has been surreptitiously filled in the middle of the night with bitter root vegetables. I read the team names stitched in bright thread on the caps that blanket the stores’ entire wall.
Giants. Not feeling like much of a giant today.
Cowboys. Maybe I should hide under a ten gallon job…
Red Sox. Don’t even like wearing socks let alone red ones.
The Bears. Nope. Bears are hirsute and I’m a little sensitive.
The Heat. I can’t be the poster boy for an inanimate object. Doesn’t a team need horns or hooves or the ability to soar or something sharp to gore with for a logo?
Caps are the last bastion of the folicly challenged, though as I was recently reminded by a kindly old lady as she gleefully twisted my cheek with her Eastern bloc fingers that, ‘grass doesn’t grow on a busy street.’ Caps become the sanctuary of the receding hairline. And yes, caps are a place to casually hide. Knock a baseball cap off of an adult stranger in the street and the chances are , they are bald. Or well on their way. Beneath a baseball cap, fantasy reigns. For all anyone knows, under the cap could lurk a Fabio or a Yule Brenner.
Or a Fabio!
It’s a crapshoot. That is the beauty and power of a cover-up, whether it take the form of a cap, or a baggy jogging suit. What lies beneath is entirely up to the imagination of others. I shouldn’t care but I do…The cap is less a tool for the vain right now than it is a tool for the cold. We lose 85% of our body heat through our heads and New York exacts its convection toll as cruelly as anyplace. So mostly on those legitimate grounds I am at the counter of this sports shop. Keeping my body warm. Self preserving. But there is also the Fabio factor which I can’t shake. I can’t be almost 50. There must be some mistake.
It is a milestone, this middle-age business. One day one wakes up and realizes that no amount of creative combing or camera angles will restore what has been wrongfully taken. And attempts to deny that reality are attempts to deny to passage of time or the strength of body chemistry. But I love my hair and am loathe to think it doesn’t love me back, at least enough to stick around a bit longer. Haven’t I been a good steward? Haven’t I washed, rinsed and repeated enough, if necessary, as necessary?
The line at the counter is not getting any shorter, thought the temper of the shop keeper is. Finally I spot my cap. Way up high. Calling out for me. It is perfect for its stark truthfulness and chronological accuracy. I see my age in it and point at the cap that represents so many of us sooner or later. Or now. Not quite middle age but decidedly past youth…
“This us?” the shop keeper asks, politely lowering himself into my drama as he reaches up and dusts off a cap that no one around here cares about.
“Yup, I say, “That’s us--the 49-ers. I’ll take it!”
By Wally Nichols
(203) 858 3634
cwn4@aol.com
Buying my first baseball cap recently seemed like defeat. Neither a big sports fan, nor fan of advertising someone else’s team for free, I was driven into the arms of a ball cap vendor reluctantly, one might even say genetically. What grown man stands in line next to teenagers to buy his first cap? A bald or balding one who finally realized that winter is cold without hair, is who.
I’m asked what team’s cap I want. I am unable to supply an earnest answer. “I guess it has to be a baseball team, right? They are the ones who wear baseball caps?” The store owner chuckles at my logic, though possibly he’s just targeting my ignorance. I would immediately fail a trivia quiz on baseball teams.
“Not necessarily,” he offers. “You’ve got your football teams, hockey teams and even basketball teams.”
I’d fail a trivia quiz on those teams too.
“This cap for your son?” he asks.
“Nope”, I reply and point to the shiny top of my frozen head.
My options for team affiliation are wide open. I’m lower than a fair weather fan. I’m working on logos only.
“Well, what ever you want,” he says fussing with nearby inventory. “Just make your mind up soon—I’ve got customers.” He means real sports fans.
I survey the options like a kid in a candy store, but a kid in a candy store that has been surreptitiously filled in the middle of the night with bitter root vegetables. I read the team names stitched in bright thread on the caps that blanket the stores’ entire wall.
Giants. Not feeling like much of a giant today.
Cowboys. Maybe I should hide under a ten gallon job…
Red Sox. Don’t even like wearing socks let alone red ones.
The Bears. Nope. Bears are hirsute and I’m a little sensitive.
The Heat. I can’t be the poster boy for an inanimate object. Doesn’t a team need horns or hooves or the ability to soar or something sharp to gore with for a logo?
Caps are the last bastion of the folicly challenged, though as I was recently reminded by a kindly old lady as she gleefully twisted my cheek with her Eastern bloc fingers that, ‘grass doesn’t grow on a busy street.’ Caps become the sanctuary of the receding hairline. And yes, caps are a place to casually hide. Knock a baseball cap off of an adult stranger in the street and the chances are , they are bald. Or well on their way. Beneath a baseball cap, fantasy reigns. For all anyone knows, under the cap could lurk a Fabio or a Yule Brenner.
Or a Fabio!
It’s a crapshoot. That is the beauty and power of a cover-up, whether it take the form of a cap, or a baggy jogging suit. What lies beneath is entirely up to the imagination of others. I shouldn’t care but I do…The cap is less a tool for the vain right now than it is a tool for the cold. We lose 85% of our body heat through our heads and New York exacts its convection toll as cruelly as anyplace. So mostly on those legitimate grounds I am at the counter of this sports shop. Keeping my body warm. Self preserving. But there is also the Fabio factor which I can’t shake. I can’t be almost 50. There must be some mistake.
It is a milestone, this middle-age business. One day one wakes up and realizes that no amount of creative combing or camera angles will restore what has been wrongfully taken. And attempts to deny that reality are attempts to deny to passage of time or the strength of body chemistry. But I love my hair and am loathe to think it doesn’t love me back, at least enough to stick around a bit longer. Haven’t I been a good steward? Haven’t I washed, rinsed and repeated enough, if necessary, as necessary?
The line at the counter is not getting any shorter, thought the temper of the shop keeper is. Finally I spot my cap. Way up high. Calling out for me. It is perfect for its stark truthfulness and chronological accuracy. I see my age in it and point at the cap that represents so many of us sooner or later. Or now. Not quite middle age but decidedly past youth…
“This us?” the shop keeper asks, politely lowering himself into my drama as he reaches up and dusts off a cap that no one around here cares about.
“Yup, I say, “That’s us--the 49-ers. I’ll take it!”
Hattie's Bday announcement
Happy B Day to Me!
So , ummm, I had my zero-ith surprise birthday on Valentine’s Day and, like, OMG! how humiliating-- only mom and dad showed up! (Next year I am in charge of promotion). Here’s how it went because apparently your invitation got lost in the mail too. First, I had NO idea there was going to be a party (and that everyone had been ‘told’ to wear white!?! in the middle of winter!? Icky. And as long I’m exploring parenthetical thoughts for the first time, since when did ‘disposable paper’ become an acceptable textile? I don’t know who’s driving this boat but we’re changing the fashion rules around here starting NOW. And starting with dad’s shorts. Hello??).
So I’m minding my own business at 11:50 pm, sleeping in my increasingly undersized apartment (which has had a number of problems-- the windows don’t open for one. The furnace has been on 24/7 for 9 months so it’s as loud and hot as hell, plus the trash is piling up. I’ve been bashing on the super’s door ever since I realized I had fingers, but nothing. F-that. Next stop is the condo association --soon as I can figure out how to work these chubby little legs). So anyway, I’m quite warm and sleeping and then, suddenly, WHAM! There I am in a freezing cold room with strangers. Being handled like I’m a slippery, honey-glazed, holiday ham. Some party… Everyone (ummm, except me!?) is happy. The lights are bright. Way bright.
Is this an interrogation room? (Whatever has or hasn’t been done, take it down the hall, you all. I emphatically deny any involvement!) Did daddy cheap out and get a good deal on a back room at the US Naval base at Guatanamo Bay? I hear a woman screaming down the hall. Give them the information they want already, lady. So the rest of us can have some quiet around here. Are we even in Cuba? I don’t see any palm trees, people. They want water boarding? I’ll give them the next best thing--Water bedding. Here goes…Urrrggggggggggghhhhhhhh.. Ahhh!
I’m not sure of anything (that’s why they call it a surprise party I guess?). It’s cold and bright and frankly, I’m done with this scene already. But they wont let me back into my room. My key don’t fit no more. I’ve been evicted and kicked to the proverbial sidewalk. The cold sidewalk. I’m completely naked. As naked as they day I was born, as some smart aleck in a paper dress just said. Which, and I’ll only get to say this once in my life, is today.
I wanted a pony for my zero-ith. I got a friggin’ straight jacket instead. Maybe this is an intervention already? Can’t …move…arms…must…get…Kryptonite…
Sales tags are off so I can’t return this huggie suit to the local loony bin gift shop, either. There’s a guy with glasses. Is that my father? Hmmm, we might be in trouble… Wait… Hey NOW, !! I see a woman with big boobs and I steer right for them. That would mean Kraft Service Catering has arrived! Things are looking up! Let’s get this party started!! I latch on. It almost feels right. Whoops, they belong to the nurse! My bad, sorry!! I’m scooped up and redirected to mom who does feel just right!. Ahhh, these work better!
So I’m fillin’ up, working the room-- one suspicious eye on the crowd at all times, and they come at me with a scale! How rude! Don’t they know we ladies prefer to keep some things secret? Apparently I’m 9 lbs. Whatever that means. I ask for some definition. They say I weigh the same as 36 quarter pounders from McDonalds, which they then promptly say my lips will never touch. We’ll see about that!
What-ev.
Then they put me on a stretching rack and stop twisting when the meter gets to 27 inches and springs start shooting out of the contraption as it finally breaks. All’s I know is that this kind of abuse leaves me no choice but to retaliate the only way I know: The good way. This coincides exactly with daddy’s first diaper changing experience in about 32 years. He’ll get better I’m sure. Just as I’ll get better making them! I’m shooting to be promoted to manager of this burrito factory in a year.
This party lasted (15 hours) and frankly, mom and I both agree that might have been 14 hours too many. But the people wouldn’t leave!? So, I wrote my first song to drive them out so we can all go home . It’s called Happy Birthday To Me. It goes like this:
(sotto voce, then WAIL top of the lungs!)
Happy Birthday To Me
Happy Birthday To Me
Happy Birthday Dear Me
Happy Birthday To Me
(repeat ad nauseum)
Daddy told me it’s been done before, but he delivers the news gently-- I know he doesn’t want to discourage my creativity.
So look, it’s been real, but I’m outta here. I’m beat and if I have any hope at all of waking mom up at 4am, I better get some shut eye asap. (Dad, you are off the hook for now but you’ll pay (yes you will) when I start dating and coming home at 4am. I’ll wipe the drool off your chin then.
Love,
- HAN
Ps- Hattie has no affiliation whatsoever with ‘Harriet’, my dad’s first pet goat, and I’ll deny it emphatically. The ‘Anna’ part is a tip of this woolen skullcap to my paternal ‘Grandma Ladybug’ who, when she was a little girl, and when she was in trouble, was sometimes known as Anna.
I’m Out.
Love HAN
pps- Whoever gave mom and dad the Diaper Genie? Thanks. Smooth move.
So , ummm, I had my zero-ith surprise birthday on Valentine’s Day and, like, OMG! how humiliating-- only mom and dad showed up! (Next year I am in charge of promotion). Here’s how it went because apparently your invitation got lost in the mail too. First, I had NO idea there was going to be a party (and that everyone had been ‘told’ to wear white!?! in the middle of winter!? Icky. And as long I’m exploring parenthetical thoughts for the first time, since when did ‘disposable paper’ become an acceptable textile? I don’t know who’s driving this boat but we’re changing the fashion rules around here starting NOW. And starting with dad’s shorts. Hello??).
So I’m minding my own business at 11:50 pm, sleeping in my increasingly undersized apartment (which has had a number of problems-- the windows don’t open for one. The furnace has been on 24/7 for 9 months so it’s as loud and hot as hell, plus the trash is piling up. I’ve been bashing on the super’s door ever since I realized I had fingers, but nothing. F-that. Next stop is the condo association --soon as I can figure out how to work these chubby little legs). So anyway, I’m quite warm and sleeping and then, suddenly, WHAM! There I am in a freezing cold room with strangers. Being handled like I’m a slippery, honey-glazed, holiday ham. Some party… Everyone (ummm, except me!?) is happy. The lights are bright. Way bright.
Is this an interrogation room? (Whatever has or hasn’t been done, take it down the hall, you all. I emphatically deny any involvement!) Did daddy cheap out and get a good deal on a back room at the US Naval base at Guatanamo Bay? I hear a woman screaming down the hall. Give them the information they want already, lady. So the rest of us can have some quiet around here. Are we even in Cuba? I don’t see any palm trees, people. They want water boarding? I’ll give them the next best thing--Water bedding. Here goes…Urrrggggggggggghhhhhhhh.. Ahhh!
I’m not sure of anything (that’s why they call it a surprise party I guess?). It’s cold and bright and frankly, I’m done with this scene already. But they wont let me back into my room. My key don’t fit no more. I’ve been evicted and kicked to the proverbial sidewalk. The cold sidewalk. I’m completely naked. As naked as they day I was born, as some smart aleck in a paper dress just said. Which, and I’ll only get to say this once in my life, is today.
I wanted a pony for my zero-ith. I got a friggin’ straight jacket instead. Maybe this is an intervention already? Can’t …move…arms…must…get…Kryptonite…
Sales tags are off so I can’t return this huggie suit to the local loony bin gift shop, either. There’s a guy with glasses. Is that my father? Hmmm, we might be in trouble… Wait… Hey NOW, !! I see a woman with big boobs and I steer right for them. That would mean Kraft Service Catering has arrived! Things are looking up! Let’s get this party started!! I latch on. It almost feels right. Whoops, they belong to the nurse! My bad, sorry!! I’m scooped up and redirected to mom who does feel just right!. Ahhh, these work better!
So I’m fillin’ up, working the room-- one suspicious eye on the crowd at all times, and they come at me with a scale! How rude! Don’t they know we ladies prefer to keep some things secret? Apparently I’m 9 lbs. Whatever that means. I ask for some definition. They say I weigh the same as 36 quarter pounders from McDonalds, which they then promptly say my lips will never touch. We’ll see about that!
What-ev.
Then they put me on a stretching rack and stop twisting when the meter gets to 27 inches and springs start shooting out of the contraption as it finally breaks. All’s I know is that this kind of abuse leaves me no choice but to retaliate the only way I know: The good way. This coincides exactly with daddy’s first diaper changing experience in about 32 years. He’ll get better I’m sure. Just as I’ll get better making them! I’m shooting to be promoted to manager of this burrito factory in a year.
This party lasted (15 hours) and frankly, mom and I both agree that might have been 14 hours too many. But the people wouldn’t leave!? So, I wrote my first song to drive them out so we can all go home . It’s called Happy Birthday To Me. It goes like this:
(sotto voce, then WAIL top of the lungs!)
Happy Birthday To Me
Happy Birthday To Me
Happy Birthday Dear Me
Happy Birthday To Me
(repeat ad nauseum)
Daddy told me it’s been done before, but he delivers the news gently-- I know he doesn’t want to discourage my creativity.
So look, it’s been real, but I’m outta here. I’m beat and if I have any hope at all of waking mom up at 4am, I better get some shut eye asap. (Dad, you are off the hook for now but you’ll pay (yes you will) when I start dating and coming home at 4am. I’ll wipe the drool off your chin then.
Love,
- HAN
Ps- Hattie has no affiliation whatsoever with ‘Harriet’, my dad’s first pet goat, and I’ll deny it emphatically. The ‘Anna’ part is a tip of this woolen skullcap to my paternal ‘Grandma Ladybug’ who, when she was a little girl, and when she was in trouble, was sometimes known as Anna.
I’m Out.
Love HAN
pps- Whoever gave mom and dad the Diaper Genie? Thanks. Smooth move.
happy 40th Bday
Happy 40th Birthday!
(Now finish your cake and assume the position--it could save your life.)
by Wally Nichols (203) 858-3634 (cwn4@aol.com)
More Americans will die this year from colorectal cancer (56,000) than all the troops we lost in Vietnam and for some, early detection might well have changed the outcome. Plenty of people dread the preventative screening procedure that seems a midlife milestone and I’m no exception. Its very specter has graced past birthday cards… “Congrats on your 25th Birthday, only 25 years more until “the exam.” Yet I’m told it is completely painless and relatively quick. So what gives?
For starters, my family history makes the doc fast track me by ten years. So I created a Top 10 list of things to write on index cards that might or might not be scotch-taped to my backside , by my wife, under the gown, morning of. Index cards that would only be seen after I'm knocked out on Profanol- though I fancy hearing muffled chortles though the haze of anesthesia. "Hey, this guy's funny! Yeah and what an intestine!" The one liners on the cards include; "I'm just in for a hangnail--is this really necessary?"
The prep, of course, is the tough stuff. 24hrs without food and it feels like 93 days on a life raft. I start looking at my toenails like they are prime rib. I was told on my pre-procedure consultation that all sense of pride, along with one's coat, is checked at the medical center's door. It is the same for everyone. There is no social or economic caste that is immune to cancer, and no human without a large intestine. Thus, by this strange calculus, we are all in the same boat.
I've had plenty of time to consider the term Gastroenterologist in the days leading up. I'll confess, I've never given the professional title much thought. But in as much as a bartender calls himself a 'mix-ologist', it stands to reason that this medical specialist can call themselves an 'enter-ologist' For they surely do just that.
One’s intestine must be completely void to not get false readings by the inserted flexible tube-like camera. (I’m relieved to know that this camera is not at all shaped like the digital camera I own). At our initial consultation, the doctor had pushed a 2-pack of laxative across the desk and warned me about the taste. The bottles said ‘lemon-ginger’ flavor and I figured I could cowboy through 1.5 ounces of anything lemon flavored. I have since recalibrated my thinking. It was hideous and almost caused immediate nausea, which, I reminded myself, was still better than undetected cancer. Bottle #1 is to go down the night before. My wise wife discourages me from drinking it in the car before we’re home. We suddenly hit heavy traffic around the next corner and she just smiles. I'm foolish to doubt its efficacy because I consider my GI track to be extraordinarily strong-willed and it doesn’t seem like it’s working. "Maybe I should take that second one right now instead of in the morning?" My wife rolls her eyes. The answer to that question comes upon me like a runaway freight train, and the notion of ever going off doctor's advice is quickly dismissed.
Morning of, I'm up at 6. Giddy like a September schoolgirl except not giving a damn about what I'm gonna wear or who will be in my clique this year. After a long night, the second bottle of laxative that morning seems like overkill to me but I take it anyway and brace myself for another few hours alone. At 9am, I make my way to the Endoscopy Suite (euphemistically termed to create the image that it might just be slightly less accommodating than the Presidential suite , though no less expensive I'm sure).
I’m given a gown and told to wait in a makeshift curtained area. I can’t help but play with the medical gear on the wall. Finally the staff enters. It's like a 3 person pit crew for Dale Earnhardt, Jr. Everyone is there for a purpose, everyone has a job. It even looks like everyone has a wrench. I’m wheeled into the procedure room and told that the tool has a camera for imaging polyps in the large intestine. "Hey is this gonna be available on Netflix?" Not even a chuckle. If polyps are detected en-route, they are removed with small tweezer-like blades.
"Do you have any questions?," the doctor asks.
“Well, ummm, yes,” I say. “Could the machine and I have a few minutes alone, you know, to get to know each other?"
They release the sedative into my left arm’s vein and I'm out.
The procedure, for which I am completely asleep, lasts 15 minutes and is virtually pain free unless you are a sniveling needle-sissy, like me. Assuming no real complications, you simply wake up and thank the doctor and anesthesiologist for having paid such close attention in Medical School. Then there is a half hour ‘recovery’ which for me was quickly used up by playing some more with the stethoscopes on the wall. The doctors wouldn’t let me go home alone or even drive for a day.
I got a diploma congratulating me on a completely clean GI track, some creepy digital photos to prove it, and an invitation to come back in 5 years... Which, I suppose, gives me plenty of time to get my birthday suit dry cleaned!
(Now finish your cake and assume the position--it could save your life.)
by Wally Nichols (203) 858-3634 (cwn4@aol.com)
More Americans will die this year from colorectal cancer (56,000) than all the troops we lost in Vietnam and for some, early detection might well have changed the outcome. Plenty of people dread the preventative screening procedure that seems a midlife milestone and I’m no exception. Its very specter has graced past birthday cards… “Congrats on your 25th Birthday, only 25 years more until “the exam.” Yet I’m told it is completely painless and relatively quick. So what gives?
For starters, my family history makes the doc fast track me by ten years. So I created a Top 10 list of things to write on index cards that might or might not be scotch-taped to my backside , by my wife, under the gown, morning of. Index cards that would only be seen after I'm knocked out on Profanol- though I fancy hearing muffled chortles though the haze of anesthesia. "Hey, this guy's funny! Yeah and what an intestine!" The one liners on the cards include; "I'm just in for a hangnail--is this really necessary?"
The prep, of course, is the tough stuff. 24hrs without food and it feels like 93 days on a life raft. I start looking at my toenails like they are prime rib. I was told on my pre-procedure consultation that all sense of pride, along with one's coat, is checked at the medical center's door. It is the same for everyone. There is no social or economic caste that is immune to cancer, and no human without a large intestine. Thus, by this strange calculus, we are all in the same boat.
I've had plenty of time to consider the term Gastroenterologist in the days leading up. I'll confess, I've never given the professional title much thought. But in as much as a bartender calls himself a 'mix-ologist', it stands to reason that this medical specialist can call themselves an 'enter-ologist' For they surely do just that.
One’s intestine must be completely void to not get false readings by the inserted flexible tube-like camera. (I’m relieved to know that this camera is not at all shaped like the digital camera I own). At our initial consultation, the doctor had pushed a 2-pack of laxative across the desk and warned me about the taste. The bottles said ‘lemon-ginger’ flavor and I figured I could cowboy through 1.5 ounces of anything lemon flavored. I have since recalibrated my thinking. It was hideous and almost caused immediate nausea, which, I reminded myself, was still better than undetected cancer. Bottle #1 is to go down the night before. My wise wife discourages me from drinking it in the car before we’re home. We suddenly hit heavy traffic around the next corner and she just smiles. I'm foolish to doubt its efficacy because I consider my GI track to be extraordinarily strong-willed and it doesn’t seem like it’s working. "Maybe I should take that second one right now instead of in the morning?" My wife rolls her eyes. The answer to that question comes upon me like a runaway freight train, and the notion of ever going off doctor's advice is quickly dismissed.
Morning of, I'm up at 6. Giddy like a September schoolgirl except not giving a damn about what I'm gonna wear or who will be in my clique this year. After a long night, the second bottle of laxative that morning seems like overkill to me but I take it anyway and brace myself for another few hours alone. At 9am, I make my way to the Endoscopy Suite (euphemistically termed to create the image that it might just be slightly less accommodating than the Presidential suite , though no less expensive I'm sure).
I’m given a gown and told to wait in a makeshift curtained area. I can’t help but play with the medical gear on the wall. Finally the staff enters. It's like a 3 person pit crew for Dale Earnhardt, Jr. Everyone is there for a purpose, everyone has a job. It even looks like everyone has a wrench. I’m wheeled into the procedure room and told that the tool has a camera for imaging polyps in the large intestine. "Hey is this gonna be available on Netflix?" Not even a chuckle. If polyps are detected en-route, they are removed with small tweezer-like blades.
"Do you have any questions?," the doctor asks.
“Well, ummm, yes,” I say. “Could the machine and I have a few minutes alone, you know, to get to know each other?"
They release the sedative into my left arm’s vein and I'm out.
The procedure, for which I am completely asleep, lasts 15 minutes and is virtually pain free unless you are a sniveling needle-sissy, like me. Assuming no real complications, you simply wake up and thank the doctor and anesthesiologist for having paid such close attention in Medical School. Then there is a half hour ‘recovery’ which for me was quickly used up by playing some more with the stethoscopes on the wall. The doctors wouldn’t let me go home alone or even drive for a day.
I got a diploma congratulating me on a completely clean GI track, some creepy digital photos to prove it, and an invitation to come back in 5 years... Which, I suppose, gives me plenty of time to get my birthday suit dry cleaned!
Job interview
Dear Mr. Davis.
Thank you for taking the time to meet me yesterday. I am very interested in the position of Business Affairs Administrative Assistant and look forward to the opportunity to help your $3 billion company reach its full potential. My many years of undergraduate work have given me plenty of time to fine tune my workplace and people skills. The two back to back years were especially productive.
I’m glad we can both move beyond that incident in Amsterdam. What a banana republic, right?
I hope I’m not being too presumptuous in delineating these compensation requests before a formal offer of employment has been tendered, but in this day and age, it just makes sense to reach out and grab the brass ring. Frankly, you appeared enchanted and so I assume this love fest will continue and an offer will be imminent. As regards the terms, I hope you appreciate me standing up for what I believe. (You’ll see that I will put this energy to blunt use in a similar, get-things-done way for your company). OK, that out of the way, it’s a short list:
First: I need Fridays off. I know this sounds unusual but I can get a hell of a lot done in 4 days and I need that 5th day to ‘recharge the batteries.’ Trust me, you’ll totally agree. (I also hate dealing with the Friday afternoon riff-raff at Penn Station all gunning for same three open train seats out to the Hamptons).
I know we spoke briefly about the salary and while it pays $24,000, I need to ask that my starting salary be slightly closer to $186,340. (I spent the night at the brewpub screwing down this poverty level amount to the brass tacks. Not sure who else exactly can keep their heads above water in this town! Surely you remember when…!! A $5,000 signing bonus (Google says this is normal and customary) would be excellent and most likely get Murray off my back (We ‘met’ at the Sands in Atlantic City and for some reason he thinks I still owe the casino money. I don’t, but he’s enormous and has been lurking outside my apartment. He keeps eyeballing my kneecaps when he’s not leaving threatening messages on my machine. I’d just sign the signing bonus right over to him and be done with it all.)
Hey, I noticed the corporate helicopter when I as rollerblading on the west side. Can I impose on the Kahunas in Human Resources to ‘flip me the bird’ here and there, now and again? That weekend train to the Hamptons is inhumane. It so feels and smells like a local Bangladeshi milk train only minus the loose chickens and goats. NB: I would gladly defer to the upper management when they need to use the chopper, (I know sharing is part of being in the corporate family!) but seriously, if she’s just sitting there all fueled already, well, no one should really mind, right? I’ll make sure to take my empties with me. I’ll also strictly enforce the ‘no shoes on the seat’ policy with my share-mates so you can maintain its resale/ trade in value
I noticed that an awful lot of employees wear ties. Even the women!? I’ve never been much for dress codes and find that ties seem to choke off my creativity (to say nothing of my oxygen). I’m assuming you’ll indulge me in my free flowing casual-smart outfit of Bermuda Shorts, Crocs, and a golf shirt. (I certainly will keep a jacket handy in the event actual clients walk past my cubicle. As no one will be able to see below my waist, I assume the company doesn’t mind. Rubber soled Crocs have the added benefit of allowing me to move stealthily around the office and not distract that disturbingly large number of employees I saw hard at work playing online Solitaire and fanatically checking their EBAY auctions, fingers on a panic button that automatically pops up a dummy spread sheet if a boss walks by too closely.
Speaking of cubicle, the cubical you indicated would be mine will be excellent for my assistant (I realize we didn’t exactly get to talk about that—we certainly can as I’ll need such a person or two for maximum productivity). As for me, I’m afraid I get claustrophobic in spaces less than 20’x30’--especially ones with no large windows. I noticed a very smart office right down the hall that appeared vacant and appeared to be of those suitable dimensions. It has the added benefit of being on the building’s corner so I can keep an eye on the park. We’ll be a little far apart but with the modern marvels of the telephone, you wont have to shout down the hall for my help. The only catch, as I’m sure you are aware, is that there seems to be no TV or stereo yet. A small detail that Human Resources can no doubt take care of , I’m sure (else why would they be called Human Resources??. Hee hee).
My first order of business would so have to be getting a latte maker installed. A hand hammered Italian copper number with the cobbled dimples? Watch productivity soar, my ma-nizzle! (that’s street, incidentally, for ‘my good friend’). Marx and Engle never let that little nugget of proletariat pacification surface, did they? The world might be a very different place today indeed if there were more workplace latte machines placed next to the workplace water cooler! (Oh, can we get bottled Pelligrino instead of that yuck they pump from the slop sink in the janitor’s closet? Please?).
Look, I can’t start next week. I have a friend getting married in Delaware (?!-I’m not happy about it either). Long ago I booked my room at the Super 8 and I don’t want to eat the deposit. Surely the bottom line folks in accounting can appreciate that! I also decided to stretch the festive weekend by a bit with a trip to Bali. (The surfing is out of this world there right now and by going to Delaware I’m really almost halfway there already.) Assuming no ‘encounters’ with law enforcement, I should be ready to start work with you 6 weeks hence.
I would like to thank you in advance for the opportunity to work for your firm. Together, I’m sure we can do great things.
Sincerely,
Wally
(Mr. Davis replies: Dear Wally, I think we should at least be able to arrange ‘flipping you the bird’).
Thank you for taking the time to meet me yesterday. I am very interested in the position of Business Affairs Administrative Assistant and look forward to the opportunity to help your $3 billion company reach its full potential. My many years of undergraduate work have given me plenty of time to fine tune my workplace and people skills. The two back to back years were especially productive.
I’m glad we can both move beyond that incident in Amsterdam. What a banana republic, right?
I hope I’m not being too presumptuous in delineating these compensation requests before a formal offer of employment has been tendered, but in this day and age, it just makes sense to reach out and grab the brass ring. Frankly, you appeared enchanted and so I assume this love fest will continue and an offer will be imminent. As regards the terms, I hope you appreciate me standing up for what I believe. (You’ll see that I will put this energy to blunt use in a similar, get-things-done way for your company). OK, that out of the way, it’s a short list:
First: I need Fridays off. I know this sounds unusual but I can get a hell of a lot done in 4 days and I need that 5th day to ‘recharge the batteries.’ Trust me, you’ll totally agree. (I also hate dealing with the Friday afternoon riff-raff at Penn Station all gunning for same three open train seats out to the Hamptons).
I know we spoke briefly about the salary and while it pays $24,000, I need to ask that my starting salary be slightly closer to $186,340. (I spent the night at the brewpub screwing down this poverty level amount to the brass tacks. Not sure who else exactly can keep their heads above water in this town! Surely you remember when…!! A $5,000 signing bonus (Google says this is normal and customary) would be excellent and most likely get Murray off my back (We ‘met’ at the Sands in Atlantic City and for some reason he thinks I still owe the casino money. I don’t, but he’s enormous and has been lurking outside my apartment. He keeps eyeballing my kneecaps when he’s not leaving threatening messages on my machine. I’d just sign the signing bonus right over to him and be done with it all.)
Hey, I noticed the corporate helicopter when I as rollerblading on the west side. Can I impose on the Kahunas in Human Resources to ‘flip me the bird’ here and there, now and again? That weekend train to the Hamptons is inhumane. It so feels and smells like a local Bangladeshi milk train only minus the loose chickens and goats. NB: I would gladly defer to the upper management when they need to use the chopper, (I know sharing is part of being in the corporate family!) but seriously, if she’s just sitting there all fueled already, well, no one should really mind, right? I’ll make sure to take my empties with me. I’ll also strictly enforce the ‘no shoes on the seat’ policy with my share-mates so you can maintain its resale/ trade in value
I noticed that an awful lot of employees wear ties. Even the women!? I’ve never been much for dress codes and find that ties seem to choke off my creativity (to say nothing of my oxygen). I’m assuming you’ll indulge me in my free flowing casual-smart outfit of Bermuda Shorts, Crocs, and a golf shirt. (I certainly will keep a jacket handy in the event actual clients walk past my cubicle. As no one will be able to see below my waist, I assume the company doesn’t mind. Rubber soled Crocs have the added benefit of allowing me to move stealthily around the office and not distract that disturbingly large number of employees I saw hard at work playing online Solitaire and fanatically checking their EBAY auctions, fingers on a panic button that automatically pops up a dummy spread sheet if a boss walks by too closely.
Speaking of cubicle, the cubical you indicated would be mine will be excellent for my assistant (I realize we didn’t exactly get to talk about that—we certainly can as I’ll need such a person or two for maximum productivity). As for me, I’m afraid I get claustrophobic in spaces less than 20’x30’--especially ones with no large windows. I noticed a very smart office right down the hall that appeared vacant and appeared to be of those suitable dimensions. It has the added benefit of being on the building’s corner so I can keep an eye on the park. We’ll be a little far apart but with the modern marvels of the telephone, you wont have to shout down the hall for my help. The only catch, as I’m sure you are aware, is that there seems to be no TV or stereo yet. A small detail that Human Resources can no doubt take care of , I’m sure (else why would they be called Human Resources??. Hee hee).
My first order of business would so have to be getting a latte maker installed. A hand hammered Italian copper number with the cobbled dimples? Watch productivity soar, my ma-nizzle! (that’s street, incidentally, for ‘my good friend’). Marx and Engle never let that little nugget of proletariat pacification surface, did they? The world might be a very different place today indeed if there were more workplace latte machines placed next to the workplace water cooler! (Oh, can we get bottled Pelligrino instead of that yuck they pump from the slop sink in the janitor’s closet? Please?).
Look, I can’t start next week. I have a friend getting married in Delaware (?!-I’m not happy about it either). Long ago I booked my room at the Super 8 and I don’t want to eat the deposit. Surely the bottom line folks in accounting can appreciate that! I also decided to stretch the festive weekend by a bit with a trip to Bali. (The surfing is out of this world there right now and by going to Delaware I’m really almost halfway there already.) Assuming no ‘encounters’ with law enforcement, I should be ready to start work with you 6 weeks hence.
I would like to thank you in advance for the opportunity to work for your firm. Together, I’m sure we can do great things.
Sincerely,
Wally
(Mr. Davis replies: Dear Wally, I think we should at least be able to arrange ‘flipping you the bird’).
free to range chickens
Free ( To) Range Chicken
By Wally Nichols
(203) 858 3634
“Hi! My name is Rosie and I’ll be your roaster. You probably picked me up in the frozen food department of finer markets like Wild Oats or Whole Foods. You can see from the post-consumer recycled, bleach-free cardboard ‘personality card’ twist- tied to my leg that I have had a fantastically free , well-nurtured , happy, happy (very happy) life. My family life is (check that, was) solid, all American. White meat and dark meat, all getting along. Very little tension or drama to agitate the adrenal gland.
Family values, as we say here at Happy Daze Organic Farms, are the key to good, wholesome taste. I’ve had 324 sisters (that I know of) who also were free (to) range like me. I have a BA in humanities with a minor in African-based ethnomusicology. The farm where we grew was very forward thinking in this regard. Tuition is guaranteed free up to the graduate level, so long as we complete it in the 7 weeks we have to live. In this short time I’ve known love, dreamt of sunsets, and blogged, so feel good about the quality of life I’ve had. Plus the hormone free, antibiotic free food they serve is yummilicious. It’s like being on a cruise ship here. Only a cruise that never ends! (Or never goes anywhere) Can anyone say ‘race you to the buffet on the Lido Deck’? Ok well, it does eventually end or I wouldn’t be frozen and upside down in your cart.
If you have gone to the trouble and expense of finding me in the high end freezer section towards the back of the store, it means you care. And I care right back. I care that you care. So let me tell you more about me and my complete, wholesome upbringing so that you may consume me with as little Karmic interference or retaliation as possible. My legs and wings, for example, are real and mine. I’m prouder of my appendages than Tina Turner. Some accounts hold that mass produced chickens at other farms are missing limbs due to genetic anomalies, manipulations or gang fighting within the institutional coop and as a result, to appear normal, have had (pre flavored?) prosthetics hot glued on. Not here. At Happy Daze Organic Farms Free Range Poultry, there’s none of that business. We have 24 x 7 security to keep it all on the up and up. And we have webcams everywhere. There’s a strict zero tolerance policy when it comes to tomfoolery (or anything that might encourage striated muscle development). You can see for yourself. Just log on to www.happydaze.com/coopcam/happy/happy/happy . Happiness for each of the 60,000 of us is mandatory and the unhappy are quarantined until they become happy.
We’re all free range, which these days is a must to remain commercially viable. Actually the multi story building in which we live, the Main Auditorium for Nutrition, Undergraduate Studies and Relaxation Exercises (M.A.N.U.R.E.), or “the Big House” as we call it as it’s made of cinderblocks, has a wide open door for any and all to come and go as they please. Including the FDA suits that pay random visits and stamp “Certified Free Range” on our rumps. But frankly, with the AC on and the HDTV that is supplied (and the endless conveyor belt proffering scratch grains for the taking!), watching CSPAN indoors at 11am is quite preferable to poking around in the blistering hot sun. As a result, few of us actually go out. I mean, why bother? Plus there’s danger out there. Disease, plague, famine, wars, roads, PETA. So we don’t go out, though I’m quick to point out we are allowed to. And in the strictest definition of self determination, which is what you are paying for, albeit frozen and minus a head, s ‘free (to) range’ is as over the goal line as ‘free range.’
Now, that said, I’ve included some tips that will make your dining experience even tastier. Enjoy your meal and remember, it’s been a pleasure to have been served to you.
xo,
Rosie
By Wally Nichols
(203) 858 3634
“Hi! My name is Rosie and I’ll be your roaster. You probably picked me up in the frozen food department of finer markets like Wild Oats or Whole Foods. You can see from the post-consumer recycled, bleach-free cardboard ‘personality card’ twist- tied to my leg that I have had a fantastically free , well-nurtured , happy, happy (very happy) life. My family life is (check that, was) solid, all American. White meat and dark meat, all getting along. Very little tension or drama to agitate the adrenal gland.
Family values, as we say here at Happy Daze Organic Farms, are the key to good, wholesome taste. I’ve had 324 sisters (that I know of) who also were free (to) range like me. I have a BA in humanities with a minor in African-based ethnomusicology. The farm where we grew was very forward thinking in this regard. Tuition is guaranteed free up to the graduate level, so long as we complete it in the 7 weeks we have to live. In this short time I’ve known love, dreamt of sunsets, and blogged, so feel good about the quality of life I’ve had. Plus the hormone free, antibiotic free food they serve is yummilicious. It’s like being on a cruise ship here. Only a cruise that never ends! (Or never goes anywhere) Can anyone say ‘race you to the buffet on the Lido Deck’? Ok well, it does eventually end or I wouldn’t be frozen and upside down in your cart.
If you have gone to the trouble and expense of finding me in the high end freezer section towards the back of the store, it means you care. And I care right back. I care that you care. So let me tell you more about me and my complete, wholesome upbringing so that you may consume me with as little Karmic interference or retaliation as possible. My legs and wings, for example, are real and mine. I’m prouder of my appendages than Tina Turner. Some accounts hold that mass produced chickens at other farms are missing limbs due to genetic anomalies, manipulations or gang fighting within the institutional coop and as a result, to appear normal, have had (pre flavored?) prosthetics hot glued on. Not here. At Happy Daze Organic Farms Free Range Poultry, there’s none of that business. We have 24 x 7 security to keep it all on the up and up. And we have webcams everywhere. There’s a strict zero tolerance policy when it comes to tomfoolery (or anything that might encourage striated muscle development). You can see for yourself. Just log on to www.happydaze.com/coopcam/happy/happy/happy . Happiness for each of the 60,000 of us is mandatory and the unhappy are quarantined until they become happy.
We’re all free range, which these days is a must to remain commercially viable. Actually the multi story building in which we live, the Main Auditorium for Nutrition, Undergraduate Studies and Relaxation Exercises (M.A.N.U.R.E.), or “the Big House” as we call it as it’s made of cinderblocks, has a wide open door for any and all to come and go as they please. Including the FDA suits that pay random visits and stamp “Certified Free Range” on our rumps. But frankly, with the AC on and the HDTV that is supplied (and the endless conveyor belt proffering scratch grains for the taking!), watching CSPAN indoors at 11am is quite preferable to poking around in the blistering hot sun. As a result, few of us actually go out. I mean, why bother? Plus there’s danger out there. Disease, plague, famine, wars, roads, PETA. So we don’t go out, though I’m quick to point out we are allowed to. And in the strictest definition of self determination, which is what you are paying for, albeit frozen and minus a head, s ‘free (to) range’ is as over the goal line as ‘free range.’
Now, that said, I’ve included some tips that will make your dining experience even tastier. Enjoy your meal and remember, it’s been a pleasure to have been served to you.
xo,
Rosie
emma maersk
Emma Maersk
By Wally Nichols
(203) 858 3634
Accidentally leave the words “Emma Maersk” in your brower’s search engine these days and suffer the distinct possibility that your beloved spouse drifts towards thoughts of infidelity or erstwhile high school flames or maybe even possibly a high stakes gubernatorial prostitute.
Emma is, as it turns out, too much for any one man. In fact, 13 at minimum, are necessary. She’s taller than most. She travels regularly to Oakland, California bringing with her gifts from the Orient both exotic and banal. By all accounts she’s breathtaking and every woman alive has to at least check jealousy momentarily and gasp as she passes.
She and her bow wave, that is.
She’s the largest shipping vessel in the world and one whose very existence threatens to drop a shoulder into the delicate balance of trade. Here’s how: At 1,302 feet long (a quarter mile) she had to be made in three separate parts that were floated together and then welded at sea. She can carry 15,000 TEU (20 yard containers). (Her spec sheet claims fewer but shipping companies frequently underclaim their capacity. Images of her loaded tell a different story). 15,000 containers is triple the amount a ‘regular’ monster container ship can carry. She has 11 deck cranes for super speedy loading. Her minimum crew of 13 pales compared to an aircraft carrier which, smaller, needs a crew complement of 5,000. She has the world’s largest diesel engine which generates 110,000HP. Each of its 14 cylinders is 36 inches in diameter (a typical car’s cylinder is maybe 3 inches diameter). This energy powerhouse pushes her, fully loaded, at 31 knots. One (or one’s entire home continent) could easily water ski behind that. This stat too trumps because at almost 50% faster than the typical 20 knot speed of other ships, she can traverse the pacific in 4 fewer days.
Which means produce (in addition to just more enormous quantities of non perishable consumer goods) becomes viable cargo. In both directions.
AP Moller- Maersk Group, the shipping behemoth that owns her, has been considered by some to be the Microsoft of the shipping industry. It owns over 40 shipping container ports around the globe and dwarfs its nearest competitor. In designing the Emma Maersk, they didn’t bother making her narrow enough to fit through either the Suez or the Panama canals. At 207 feet wide, she’s strictly designed for the trans pacific milk run. Her hull is painted with silicone which reduces water resistance and saves the company an estimated 317,000 gallons of diesel a year. The latest in technology ensure optimized engine performance and operational safety. Her speed and hauling capacity already make it cheaper to send containers across the entire ocean than to send them 100 miles inland on a truck.
AP Moller- Maersk Group well understands the fundamentals of economies of scale and the potential bonanza transporting perishables brings--10 more sister ships are currently being designed and built each at an estimated cost of $150 million (US) at the Odense Steel Shipyards.
Don't worry about leaving Emma Maersk (or any of her sturdy sisters) in your search engine. She is too big to fit.
By Wally Nichols
(203) 858 3634
Accidentally leave the words “Emma Maersk” in your brower’s search engine these days and suffer the distinct possibility that your beloved spouse drifts towards thoughts of infidelity or erstwhile high school flames or maybe even possibly a high stakes gubernatorial prostitute.
Emma is, as it turns out, too much for any one man. In fact, 13 at minimum, are necessary. She’s taller than most. She travels regularly to Oakland, California bringing with her gifts from the Orient both exotic and banal. By all accounts she’s breathtaking and every woman alive has to at least check jealousy momentarily and gasp as she passes.
She and her bow wave, that is.
She’s the largest shipping vessel in the world and one whose very existence threatens to drop a shoulder into the delicate balance of trade. Here’s how: At 1,302 feet long (a quarter mile) she had to be made in three separate parts that were floated together and then welded at sea. She can carry 15,000 TEU (20 yard containers). (Her spec sheet claims fewer but shipping companies frequently underclaim their capacity. Images of her loaded tell a different story). 15,000 containers is triple the amount a ‘regular’ monster container ship can carry. She has 11 deck cranes for super speedy loading. Her minimum crew of 13 pales compared to an aircraft carrier which, smaller, needs a crew complement of 5,000. She has the world’s largest diesel engine which generates 110,000HP. Each of its 14 cylinders is 36 inches in diameter (a typical car’s cylinder is maybe 3 inches diameter). This energy powerhouse pushes her, fully loaded, at 31 knots. One (or one’s entire home continent) could easily water ski behind that. This stat too trumps because at almost 50% faster than the typical 20 knot speed of other ships, she can traverse the pacific in 4 fewer days.
Which means produce (in addition to just more enormous quantities of non perishable consumer goods) becomes viable cargo. In both directions.
AP Moller- Maersk Group, the shipping behemoth that owns her, has been considered by some to be the Microsoft of the shipping industry. It owns over 40 shipping container ports around the globe and dwarfs its nearest competitor. In designing the Emma Maersk, they didn’t bother making her narrow enough to fit through either the Suez or the Panama canals. At 207 feet wide, she’s strictly designed for the trans pacific milk run. Her hull is painted with silicone which reduces water resistance and saves the company an estimated 317,000 gallons of diesel a year. The latest in technology ensure optimized engine performance and operational safety. Her speed and hauling capacity already make it cheaper to send containers across the entire ocean than to send them 100 miles inland on a truck.
AP Moller- Maersk Group well understands the fundamentals of economies of scale and the potential bonanza transporting perishables brings--10 more sister ships are currently being designed and built each at an estimated cost of $150 million (US) at the Odense Steel Shipyards.
Don't worry about leaving Emma Maersk (or any of her sturdy sisters) in your search engine. She is too big to fit.
a new kind of soldier?
Dear Wally:
Got any ideas about the state, mission and recruitment issues surrounding the military?
A new kind of US global soldier?
Let’s say the United States creates an International Guard military branch (USIG). This military branch will be held to the same elite combat logistics and intel standards as the current armed forces (Army Navy Air Force, Marines). USIG will have active duty troops as well as reservists. The mission will primarily be international peace-keeping, and to guarantee a safe environment for disaster relief, anti-corruption, and international democratic support (safe, fair elections) etc.
USIG soldiers will be able to satisfy their desire to serve their country, serve a focused democratic determination internationally, help alleviate global suffering and serve their conscience. The US Gov. will swiftly and massively deploy these trained troops and support resources where and when it deems necessary (Darfur), but USIG troops will mainly supplement the UN peace keeping forces with US congressional approval.
The USIG will take pressure off the US Military and National Guard leaving them to focus on conflicts of strategic international geo- political significance and domestic issues, respectively.
Tax payers will bear the cost of the new division, and will be given the opportunity to donate on their federal tax returns, knowing that of $20 donated, for example, exactly $20 will be earmarked specifically for this global humanitarian force. Americans will be able to volunteer and receive Federal tax credits as well as stipends for active duty and reservist training.
While primarily a military instrument, with training and equipment commensurate with other branches, the USIG will also draw heavily on quasi-civilian expertise from its reservists, such as doctors, disaster relief experts, construction workers, engineers, architects, planners, lawyers, diplomats, students etc. Corporations (Caterpillar, Home Depot, General Motors, Walmart etc.) will also be able to contribute resources and funding in exchange for tax credit and goodwill. Universities will be able to contribute human resources and technology.
But why bother at all with the USIG?
Because most Americans want to be able to help end suffering in the world and I bet most would be willing to pay for it if they knew it was going to purely humanitarian causes.
Why not just use the US military for peacekeeping missions?
Because the US Military is under resourced and focused more on geo-political objectives. Rwandan genocide (500,000 dead) happened under our noses in the 1990s. Darfur (200,000 dead already) is currently happening. It is clear that administrations (and the UN) have no ability to move swiftly and effectively. They may want to, but they don’t/wont. The US will not intervene because we do not have the troops or resources to spare. The UN is under resourced and uses light arms in self defense only.
The US Military personnel and public are growing weary of a protracted, ill-founded, under-funded, un-winable war in Iraq. Tax payers are upset and see no compelling reason to continue spending money and lives there.
Military recruitment is dwindling. Recruitment standards are being lowered resulting in a downward spiral. (Who wants to get put in harm’s way for no good reason and dubious chances for success?) Future military talent currently looks elsewhere for careers. Talented civilians who want to help have nowhere to turn.
An armed US peace-keeping force will return US to a position of global respect, so long as it never becomes a tool of imperialism or exploitation. Its ranks will swell with volunteers because it will be fighting the good fight. There is no shortage of suffering that could be alleviated by a ready willing and able force if only one such force existed…
- Ben
Dear Ben-
Sounds good, where do I sign up?
Got any ideas about the state, mission and recruitment issues surrounding the military?
A new kind of US global soldier?
Let’s say the United States creates an International Guard military branch (USIG). This military branch will be held to the same elite combat logistics and intel standards as the current armed forces (Army Navy Air Force, Marines). USIG will have active duty troops as well as reservists. The mission will primarily be international peace-keeping, and to guarantee a safe environment for disaster relief, anti-corruption, and international democratic support (safe, fair elections) etc.
USIG soldiers will be able to satisfy their desire to serve their country, serve a focused democratic determination internationally, help alleviate global suffering and serve their conscience. The US Gov. will swiftly and massively deploy these trained troops and support resources where and when it deems necessary (Darfur), but USIG troops will mainly supplement the UN peace keeping forces with US congressional approval.
The USIG will take pressure off the US Military and National Guard leaving them to focus on conflicts of strategic international geo- political significance and domestic issues, respectively.
Tax payers will bear the cost of the new division, and will be given the opportunity to donate on their federal tax returns, knowing that of $20 donated, for example, exactly $20 will be earmarked specifically for this global humanitarian force. Americans will be able to volunteer and receive Federal tax credits as well as stipends for active duty and reservist training.
While primarily a military instrument, with training and equipment commensurate with other branches, the USIG will also draw heavily on quasi-civilian expertise from its reservists, such as doctors, disaster relief experts, construction workers, engineers, architects, planners, lawyers, diplomats, students etc. Corporations (Caterpillar, Home Depot, General Motors, Walmart etc.) will also be able to contribute resources and funding in exchange for tax credit and goodwill. Universities will be able to contribute human resources and technology.
But why bother at all with the USIG?
Because most Americans want to be able to help end suffering in the world and I bet most would be willing to pay for it if they knew it was going to purely humanitarian causes.
Why not just use the US military for peacekeeping missions?
Because the US Military is under resourced and focused more on geo-political objectives. Rwandan genocide (500,000 dead) happened under our noses in the 1990s. Darfur (200,000 dead already) is currently happening. It is clear that administrations (and the UN) have no ability to move swiftly and effectively. They may want to, but they don’t/wont. The US will not intervene because we do not have the troops or resources to spare. The UN is under resourced and uses light arms in self defense only.
The US Military personnel and public are growing weary of a protracted, ill-founded, under-funded, un-winable war in Iraq. Tax payers are upset and see no compelling reason to continue spending money and lives there.
Military recruitment is dwindling. Recruitment standards are being lowered resulting in a downward spiral. (Who wants to get put in harm’s way for no good reason and dubious chances for success?) Future military talent currently looks elsewhere for careers. Talented civilians who want to help have nowhere to turn.
An armed US peace-keeping force will return US to a position of global respect, so long as it never becomes a tool of imperialism or exploitation. Its ranks will swell with volunteers because it will be fighting the good fight. There is no shortage of suffering that could be alleviated by a ready willing and able force if only one such force existed…
- Ben
Dear Ben-
Sounds good, where do I sign up?
rochester road signs
Rochester Road Signs
Dear Wally:
I’ve noticed many angry politically-charged road signs along Rt 209 recently. Are we headed for a revolution? What’s your take?
Signed,
Jeannie, Stone Ridge
________________________________________________________________
Dear Jeannie,
Most people who travel Rt. 209 are doing 70 mph and are staring at the rear bumper of the car 4 feet in front of them. Your keen observations, however, are spot on. I’ve seen the signs too. While I wouldn’t say the war drums of reform are exactly thundering, the tension is growing palpable between those who dislike paying taxes and those who truly enjoy paying taxes. Or between those who enjoy the gentle bleat of half-goats and those who wince at the piercing din of lawnmowers. (Incidentally, full goats make excellent organic lawnmowers, and somewhat organic fertilize-ors). But let’s discuss my favorite sign. Somewhere in Stone Ridge, one truly agitated resident rammed in a lawn sign that says “No Nothing.” I love this. We must be able to freely express our opinions and deepest concerns. The paradox, of course, is that by insisting on ‘no nothing’ this stealthy sign sticker has committed a class-B grammar misdemeanor. This use of the dreaded double negative negates itself and inadvertently sends a message loud and clear to all who have graduated from 7th grade English-- ‘No Nothing’ thus means, in fact, EVERYTHING! While I can only imagine that this tire-kickin’ naysayer actually has something specific that curls his lip, the power and genius of the sign is that it reminds us we are all free to think and speak about all the things in general we don’t want. And we have this brave little sign to thank! Very thought provoking if you happen to look up from that bumper ahead and have nothing much better to do than think about driving.
Much more alarming than the “no nothing” sign, or the politically curried signs that poke obliquely at our notions of an agrarian community, development, taxes, ordinances or local leaders, are the signs that hit such a nerve with drivers that they slam on their brakes with no warning and pull abrupt U turns to get a better look. No fun if you are tailgating on 209. Perhaps you’ve seen these signs that pepper Rt. 209 and which are comprised of just two traffic-stopping, chilling words—“yard sale.”
Dear Wally:
I’ve noticed many angry politically-charged road signs along Rt 209 recently. Are we headed for a revolution? What’s your take?
Signed,
Jeannie, Stone Ridge
________________________________________________________________
Dear Jeannie,
Most people who travel Rt. 209 are doing 70 mph and are staring at the rear bumper of the car 4 feet in front of them. Your keen observations, however, are spot on. I’ve seen the signs too. While I wouldn’t say the war drums of reform are exactly thundering, the tension is growing palpable between those who dislike paying taxes and those who truly enjoy paying taxes. Or between those who enjoy the gentle bleat of half-goats and those who wince at the piercing din of lawnmowers. (Incidentally, full goats make excellent organic lawnmowers, and somewhat organic fertilize-ors). But let’s discuss my favorite sign. Somewhere in Stone Ridge, one truly agitated resident rammed in a lawn sign that says “No Nothing.” I love this. We must be able to freely express our opinions and deepest concerns. The paradox, of course, is that by insisting on ‘no nothing’ this stealthy sign sticker has committed a class-B grammar misdemeanor. This use of the dreaded double negative negates itself and inadvertently sends a message loud and clear to all who have graduated from 7th grade English-- ‘No Nothing’ thus means, in fact, EVERYTHING! While I can only imagine that this tire-kickin’ naysayer actually has something specific that curls his lip, the power and genius of the sign is that it reminds us we are all free to think and speak about all the things in general we don’t want. And we have this brave little sign to thank! Very thought provoking if you happen to look up from that bumper ahead and have nothing much better to do than think about driving.
Much more alarming than the “no nothing” sign, or the politically curried signs that poke obliquely at our notions of an agrarian community, development, taxes, ordinances or local leaders, are the signs that hit such a nerve with drivers that they slam on their brakes with no warning and pull abrupt U turns to get a better look. No fun if you are tailgating on 209. Perhaps you’ve seen these signs that pepper Rt. 209 and which are comprised of just two traffic-stopping, chilling words—“yard sale.”
home sweet home depot
Home-Sweet-Home Depot
Dear Wally:
I get so upset when I hear how much money some CEOs make whether or not their company has performed well. How would you suggest we deal with this as a society?
Alexis in Accord
_____________________________________________________
Dear Alexis:
On a recent trip to Home Depot, I gave this some consideration. Upon his ouster, Home Depot’s ex-CEO Robert Nardelli rewarded himself for dismal stock performance and declining customer satisfaction with the highest executive compensation / severance in the country. Plus, he kept his orange smock, 3 screwdrivers, and the bladeless non-functioning box cutter all employees carry for some reason. Well done, sir! This really smarts, (the compensation part, anyway) and has seemed to touch a nerve in you, me and plenty of other hard working Americans. (I’m assuming you are hard working, but even if you are not, for the sake of ratcheting up the Socialist drama of discrepancy, let’s let it slip). It doesn’t help that every time the press takes a picture of Big Bob, he’s bloated and smiling like he’s just had a big steak dinner on us. Which he probably has.
So, my advice to you, Alexis, which I hope you’ll pass on to the corporate board members who approve these unchecked, grotesque executive compensation / severance packages is as follows: Don’t. (See? That was easy!) In publicly held corporations, let’s not forget, the public (shareholders) own the corporations. Surely we can figure out some way to tag compensation to performance. Maybe let the shareholders grade performance and use that to scale executive payout? Maybe wait 5 years and reassess the company’s stock performance and fundamentals before releasing those outlandish bonuses? I dunno. It seems to me that if the CEO delivers, they should get paid. If they don’t deliver, and/ or they leave prematurely, they shouldn’t automatically get paid the huge sums. Ya know, kinda the way it works out here in the real world…
As an aside, after driving Home Depot’s shareholder earnings into the very toilets it sells in aisle 13, Bob Nardelli has been installed as Chrysler’s new CEO, (excuse me??) which to my thinking means that any day we should expect to see orange cars made from warped lumber rolling down the road on wobbly wheels.
(Got a question that needs answering? email our advice columnist-- advice@bsp.com)
Dear Wally:
I get so upset when I hear how much money some CEOs make whether or not their company has performed well. How would you suggest we deal with this as a society?
Alexis in Accord
_____________________________________________________
Dear Alexis:
On a recent trip to Home Depot, I gave this some consideration. Upon his ouster, Home Depot’s ex-CEO Robert Nardelli rewarded himself for dismal stock performance and declining customer satisfaction with the highest executive compensation / severance in the country. Plus, he kept his orange smock, 3 screwdrivers, and the bladeless non-functioning box cutter all employees carry for some reason. Well done, sir! This really smarts, (the compensation part, anyway) and has seemed to touch a nerve in you, me and plenty of other hard working Americans. (I’m assuming you are hard working, but even if you are not, for the sake of ratcheting up the Socialist drama of discrepancy, let’s let it slip). It doesn’t help that every time the press takes a picture of Big Bob, he’s bloated and smiling like he’s just had a big steak dinner on us. Which he probably has.
So, my advice to you, Alexis, which I hope you’ll pass on to the corporate board members who approve these unchecked, grotesque executive compensation / severance packages is as follows: Don’t. (See? That was easy!) In publicly held corporations, let’s not forget, the public (shareholders) own the corporations. Surely we can figure out some way to tag compensation to performance. Maybe let the shareholders grade performance and use that to scale executive payout? Maybe wait 5 years and reassess the company’s stock performance and fundamentals before releasing those outlandish bonuses? I dunno. It seems to me that if the CEO delivers, they should get paid. If they don’t deliver, and/ or they leave prematurely, they shouldn’t automatically get paid the huge sums. Ya know, kinda the way it works out here in the real world…
As an aside, after driving Home Depot’s shareholder earnings into the very toilets it sells in aisle 13, Bob Nardelli has been installed as Chrysler’s new CEO, (excuse me??) which to my thinking means that any day we should expect to see orange cars made from warped lumber rolling down the road on wobbly wheels.
(Got a question that needs answering? email our advice columnist-- advice@bsp.com)
global warming
Dear Wally,
Global Warming…What’s The Real Deal? You seem scientific, what with those nerdy glasses and all. What’s the big hoo-ha about Global Warming? I mean, really… Should we actually be scared or is this some silly screwball scam concocted to make us conserve energy? Also wondering, do the initials “GW” in GW Bush really stand for “Global Warming?”
Signed,
Anonymous in Accord
Dear Anonymous:
First of all, it doesn’t take a scientist or even someone with ‘nerdy’ glasses to figure out that ‘Anonymous’ is likely not your real name. But though you chose to hide behind a veil of secrecy, I have ideas about this trendy, hot-button issue that require me to get on my soapbox…
So much ado about Global Warming, people...The scientific community is wadded up about the Earth's unstoppably rising temperature. Al Gore is thumping his chest like a silver back gorilla and looping film clips of icebergs falling off the polar caps. It makes us feel like we might actually get crushed by massive breakaway sheets of ice at any moment. (Incidentally, that ice is thousands of miles away from the Hudson Valley and would never fit under the Kingston–Rhinecliff bridge, nor could it go over it because it would never be granted an EZ Pass without a major credit card).
This fear mongering has got to stop. It may be true that the planet is overheating like an '82 Buick on the Long Island Expressway during Labor Day weekend, but we do have options...despite what the drum-beating, ‘fraidy-cats are saying.
America, rest easy. The solution is at our fingertips, and has been for 75 years-- If all of us from sea to shining sea just open our freezer doors for a few hours a day, we can cool this scorching orb right down. (Just put your head in for a minute and feel the cold blast!) Leave that freezer door open and the cool air will escape to do its job. End of crisis.
So easy.
There, now don’t you feel better?
-Wally
Ps—helpful hint: If you want to do more than your part, drive your car with the air conditioning on AND your windows down!
Pps- My glasses have been in style for the last 20 years. Pffffmphhhhhh.
Ppps- Who really knows what the “GW” stands for ?? Not me.
Got a question that needs answering? E-mail our new advice columnist @ bluepress@aol.com, attn: Wally.
Global Warming…What’s The Real Deal? You seem scientific, what with those nerdy glasses and all. What’s the big hoo-ha about Global Warming? I mean, really… Should we actually be scared or is this some silly screwball scam concocted to make us conserve energy? Also wondering, do the initials “GW” in GW Bush really stand for “Global Warming?”
Signed,
Anonymous in Accord
Dear Anonymous:
First of all, it doesn’t take a scientist or even someone with ‘nerdy’ glasses to figure out that ‘Anonymous’ is likely not your real name. But though you chose to hide behind a veil of secrecy, I have ideas about this trendy, hot-button issue that require me to get on my soapbox…
So much ado about Global Warming, people...The scientific community is wadded up about the Earth's unstoppably rising temperature. Al Gore is thumping his chest like a silver back gorilla and looping film clips of icebergs falling off the polar caps. It makes us feel like we might actually get crushed by massive breakaway sheets of ice at any moment. (Incidentally, that ice is thousands of miles away from the Hudson Valley and would never fit under the Kingston–Rhinecliff bridge, nor could it go over it because it would never be granted an EZ Pass without a major credit card).
This fear mongering has got to stop. It may be true that the planet is overheating like an '82 Buick on the Long Island Expressway during Labor Day weekend, but we do have options...despite what the drum-beating, ‘fraidy-cats are saying.
America, rest easy. The solution is at our fingertips, and has been for 75 years-- If all of us from sea to shining sea just open our freezer doors for a few hours a day, we can cool this scorching orb right down. (Just put your head in for a minute and feel the cold blast!) Leave that freezer door open and the cool air will escape to do its job. End of crisis.
So easy.
There, now don’t you feel better?
-Wally
Ps—helpful hint: If you want to do more than your part, drive your car with the air conditioning on AND your windows down!
Pps- My glasses have been in style for the last 20 years. Pffffmphhhhhh.
Ppps- Who really knows what the “GW” stands for ?? Not me.
Got a question that needs answering? E-mail our new advice columnist @ bluepress@aol.com, attn: Wally.
writers strike
Dear Wally:
What can we do to get the Hollywood writers happy and back on board? I’m tired of staring at the snow banks and cleaning my fingernails. I want (I need) my Desperate Housewives back!
-Gil (Kingston)
Dear Gil,
Agreed. And kudos to you for ‘fessing up about Desperate Housewives, if Gil is even your real name. The lack of fresh TV viewing material is accentuating these long cold, winter nights. Thank God we’ve had a presidential election in process for the last 2 years to carry us through these fallow times! I’m beginning to feel like it’s mid Feb, I live alone in a bear scat hut in the Yukon, and I’m opening up my last can of ‘fresh’ lettuce from the pantry. The hairball in the throat, as I see it, is that TV writers are not getting enough greenback respect (read: money) for their material sold on the internet. (I think they are fighting for something miniscule like .04 % but I’m too lazy to look it up. The point is, no one’s getting rich here). In fact, the same goes for musicians’ cds and authors’ books, for the most part. The internet is, of course, paradoxically good and bad in many respects, this compensation aspect being one of them. The same used book can get sold again and again (and then again some more) with no continuing royalty schedule to the rightful author (The work is only officially sold for royalty purposes once, to wit, the first time). A popular song can move digitally, virally, around the world for free, leaving the musicians who wrote it no choice but consider an unglorious life of burger flipping and/ or petty crime—unglorious relative to the booze, hookers, limos and room service they were promised by the records execs. Certainly most non-cheats would agree that’s not fair (though a dexterous guitar player could probably flip 10 burgers at once and still rip a suitably toothy ‘Stairway to Heaven’ solo between grease fires). And certainly some folks would like to compensate the authors, especially when they are paying only $2.99 for that author’s used book (or CD or DVD). Ok, so you get the preachy point already…Here’s a possible solution: EBAY and Amazon (the dominant online sales outlets, for now) could easily add a field/ button in the checkout / shopping cart screen that allows buyers to contribute a small amount of their choosing directly to the authors (who would have set up personal free Paypal accounts or (less purely) to performance (etc.) rights groups like BMI and ASCAP. Logistics aside, this is a low cost, low risk experiment that might just well give those of us who value the writers’ efforts, the opportunity to show our thanks directly. Especially if we know there are not a lot of hands in the pot. Imagine an interactive button that says ‘Want to pay the author a little something directly for their contribution?’ (Then you would have the option to enter a dollar or cent amount and it would be added to your total. Like a tax, but one you are not forced to pay) A very little programming on EBAY and Amazon’s part, a very little accounting, and a little supportive pressure from the public and we may just have a situation that appeases writers in some meaningful, fair way. And then you may get your Housewives back. Harrumph!
-Wally.
Ps: Now if I can just figure out a way to get a interactive authorial donation button at the bottom of this newspaper page…(ahem).
(Got a question that needs answering? email our advice columnist-- advice@bsp.com Attn: Wally)
What can we do to get the Hollywood writers happy and back on board? I’m tired of staring at the snow banks and cleaning my fingernails. I want (I need) my Desperate Housewives back!
-Gil (Kingston)
Dear Gil,
Agreed. And kudos to you for ‘fessing up about Desperate Housewives, if Gil is even your real name. The lack of fresh TV viewing material is accentuating these long cold, winter nights. Thank God we’ve had a presidential election in process for the last 2 years to carry us through these fallow times! I’m beginning to feel like it’s mid Feb, I live alone in a bear scat hut in the Yukon, and I’m opening up my last can of ‘fresh’ lettuce from the pantry. The hairball in the throat, as I see it, is that TV writers are not getting enough greenback respect (read: money) for their material sold on the internet. (I think they are fighting for something miniscule like .04 % but I’m too lazy to look it up. The point is, no one’s getting rich here). In fact, the same goes for musicians’ cds and authors’ books, for the most part. The internet is, of course, paradoxically good and bad in many respects, this compensation aspect being one of them. The same used book can get sold again and again (and then again some more) with no continuing royalty schedule to the rightful author (The work is only officially sold for royalty purposes once, to wit, the first time). A popular song can move digitally, virally, around the world for free, leaving the musicians who wrote it no choice but consider an unglorious life of burger flipping and/ or petty crime—unglorious relative to the booze, hookers, limos and room service they were promised by the records execs. Certainly most non-cheats would agree that’s not fair (though a dexterous guitar player could probably flip 10 burgers at once and still rip a suitably toothy ‘Stairway to Heaven’ solo between grease fires). And certainly some folks would like to compensate the authors, especially when they are paying only $2.99 for that author’s used book (or CD or DVD). Ok, so you get the preachy point already…Here’s a possible solution: EBAY and Amazon (the dominant online sales outlets, for now) could easily add a field/ button in the checkout / shopping cart screen that allows buyers to contribute a small amount of their choosing directly to the authors (who would have set up personal free Paypal accounts or (less purely) to performance (etc.) rights groups like BMI and ASCAP. Logistics aside, this is a low cost, low risk experiment that might just well give those of us who value the writers’ efforts, the opportunity to show our thanks directly. Especially if we know there are not a lot of hands in the pot. Imagine an interactive button that says ‘Want to pay the author a little something directly for their contribution?’ (Then you would have the option to enter a dollar or cent amount and it would be added to your total. Like a tax, but one you are not forced to pay) A very little programming on EBAY and Amazon’s part, a very little accounting, and a little supportive pressure from the public and we may just have a situation that appeases writers in some meaningful, fair way. And then you may get your Housewives back. Harrumph!
-Wally.
Ps: Now if I can just figure out a way to get a interactive authorial donation button at the bottom of this newspaper page…(ahem).
(Got a question that needs answering? email our advice columnist-- advice@bsp.com Attn: Wally)
snowbank
Dear Wally,
I’m a little older and find shoveling snow to be a real pain. Any ideas on how to get someone to shovel my walk for free?
- Sandy in Accord
Dear Sandy,
Here’s what I did: I took out an ad on Craigslist and Ebay whose copy went something like this:
“Snow bank available to good, loving home at deep discount. Bidding starts at $13. You must move it. Please bring a shovel and some energy. It is in perfect shape but I no longer need it and feel I can’t properly care for it. It is located right by the house so from where you park your truck or minivan, you’ll need to clear a path 75 feet long and 2 feet wide pretty much right to the house (and as long as you are here, would you mind casting a little salt or sand on the path you will be creating, for your own safety?) You will be amazed by how loving and peaceful this snow bank is. And smart! And obedient (We asked it to stay a few days ago and it hasn’t budged!) It has other beneficial ‘green’ features like it will save refrigerator energy by cooling your beer and lunch meats for free. Hurry, this offer expires in 2 days (or the first few days the temperature rises above 32 degrees) The first $13 takes it! . Serious inquiries only.”
In so doing, Sandy, you’ll ratchet up perceived value and make folks feel like they are getting a deal in these times of fiscal austerity. Plus you’ll get gone a snow bank for which you have no more need. And there will be at least $13 extra dollars banging around your pocket. Lastly, you’ll get a shoveled walk out of the whole happy transaction.
I’ve also auctioned off used moustache parts on Craigslist for fun (!?!) The questions that come in are rich—“Do these parts come with a manual? (no) Are crumbs included? (yes) Are the moustache parts still growing? (what exactly do you mean?) Have the parts been regularly washed, conditioned and deloused? (yes, yes and no) Can I use them on parts of my body other than my upper lip? (excuse me? Like where? ) Is it a unisex moustache? (?????) Does it work in the winter? (yes down to – minus 20 f) What size batteries does it take? (ummm, double A , I guess. But it’s mostly solar.) Will you consider a trade for a mid 80’s Camero and an engagement ring? (I’m guessing this is why you have an available engagement ring…?) Will you ship overseas? (Don’t they have hair over there??)
As well, I’ve auctioned a 60’ diameter pond 8’ deep (“free to good home, water not included, you must move. No reserve!”) just to see what would happen. 15 calls.
You would be surprised at the power of the internet and the doors it opens to the global market place for products and services, if you can polish the turd so it is juuuuuuuust shiny enough…
I knew that any job could be filled, there existed a buyer for anything, and like Disney Corporate says (and as a result, my Disney-infiltrated nephew repeats robotically), ‘dreams really do come true’ when I saw a few years ago a piece on CNN featuring one fellow who advertised on Ebay (and promptly sold at a bidding war) a diseased, no longer viable, large toe nail that had finally given up the ghost and come off at the gym. He tucked this fungused thing into his sports bag, took some pictures and whammo!, it was up on Ebay. Ewwwwe. It’s probably on some freak’s mantle in the Guam right now. But some happy freak. My bigger point is that you should be able to make someone very content with your snow bank if you present it correctly. And you’ll get that walk shoveled! That’s what you wanted , right?
“But Wally,” you may say. “I don’t have a snow bank to offer in the first place to get my walk plowed! What do I do about that?” And to that I say, “Sandy, you ARE IN LUCK! I happen to have a snow bank you can have. It’s right by the house and it’s really nice! Come get it. And, oh, bring your shovel!”
I’m a little older and find shoveling snow to be a real pain. Any ideas on how to get someone to shovel my walk for free?
- Sandy in Accord
Dear Sandy,
Here’s what I did: I took out an ad on Craigslist and Ebay whose copy went something like this:
“Snow bank available to good, loving home at deep discount. Bidding starts at $13. You must move it. Please bring a shovel and some energy. It is in perfect shape but I no longer need it and feel I can’t properly care for it. It is located right by the house so from where you park your truck or minivan, you’ll need to clear a path 75 feet long and 2 feet wide pretty much right to the house (and as long as you are here, would you mind casting a little salt or sand on the path you will be creating, for your own safety?) You will be amazed by how loving and peaceful this snow bank is. And smart! And obedient (We asked it to stay a few days ago and it hasn’t budged!) It has other beneficial ‘green’ features like it will save refrigerator energy by cooling your beer and lunch meats for free. Hurry, this offer expires in 2 days (or the first few days the temperature rises above 32 degrees) The first $13 takes it! . Serious inquiries only.”
In so doing, Sandy, you’ll ratchet up perceived value and make folks feel like they are getting a deal in these times of fiscal austerity. Plus you’ll get gone a snow bank for which you have no more need. And there will be at least $13 extra dollars banging around your pocket. Lastly, you’ll get a shoveled walk out of the whole happy transaction.
I’ve also auctioned off used moustache parts on Craigslist for fun (!?!) The questions that come in are rich—“Do these parts come with a manual? (no) Are crumbs included? (yes) Are the moustache parts still growing? (what exactly do you mean?) Have the parts been regularly washed, conditioned and deloused? (yes, yes and no) Can I use them on parts of my body other than my upper lip? (excuse me? Like where? ) Is it a unisex moustache? (?????) Does it work in the winter? (yes down to – minus 20 f) What size batteries does it take? (ummm, double A , I guess. But it’s mostly solar.) Will you consider a trade for a mid 80’s Camero and an engagement ring? (I’m guessing this is why you have an available engagement ring…?) Will you ship overseas? (Don’t they have hair over there??)
As well, I’ve auctioned a 60’ diameter pond 8’ deep (“free to good home, water not included, you must move. No reserve!”) just to see what would happen. 15 calls.
You would be surprised at the power of the internet and the doors it opens to the global market place for products and services, if you can polish the turd so it is juuuuuuuust shiny enough…
I knew that any job could be filled, there existed a buyer for anything, and like Disney Corporate says (and as a result, my Disney-infiltrated nephew repeats robotically), ‘dreams really do come true’ when I saw a few years ago a piece on CNN featuring one fellow who advertised on Ebay (and promptly sold at a bidding war) a diseased, no longer viable, large toe nail that had finally given up the ghost and come off at the gym. He tucked this fungused thing into his sports bag, took some pictures and whammo!, it was up on Ebay. Ewwwwe. It’s probably on some freak’s mantle in the Guam right now. But some happy freak. My bigger point is that you should be able to make someone very content with your snow bank if you present it correctly. And you’ll get that walk shoveled! That’s what you wanted , right?
“But Wally,” you may say. “I don’t have a snow bank to offer in the first place to get my walk plowed! What do I do about that?” And to that I say, “Sandy, you ARE IN LUCK! I happen to have a snow bank you can have. It’s right by the house and it’s really nice! Come get it. And, oh, bring your shovel!”
scenic overview
Dear Wally,
Someone left a TV set, 2 bags of garbage and a tire in the dead center of the road at the scenic overlook on Rt. 44/55 by Minnewaska State Park. I noticed it the other day because I almost ran over this heap of trash with my car. Am I right to be offended? What the hell is wrong with people?
Disgusted Kate in Kerhonkson
Dear Kate,
Disgusted? Offended? Oh my. Tsk tsk tsk. Grateful and appreciative should be more like it. I rode by that very spot on my bike and saw this generous donation of which you speak. Some considerate ‘donor’ realized that all this brilliant Hudson Valley foliage can really scorch our leaf-peeping retinas, especially when we can see for 25, unobstructed, eye-aching miles from the Gunks to the Catskills. What better way to cool down the bruised and hurting mountain-gawking eyeballs than by watching a little daytime tube? (Even if the TV set has no cord, the screen is shattered, and the holes where control knobs used to be are now filled with road goo and bear piss. Who cares? It was the thought that counted). I, for one, was pleasantly surprised and relieved to be able to pull over and do some TV watching in comfort. What better place to offer ocular relief than the scenic overlook on one of the country’s prettiest and well traveled roads? You will notice that ‘comfort stations’ are painfully absent on this and many stretches of road. And we need them. Consideration for fellow man is what’s at work here. This anonymous donor went out of their way to bring these creature comforts to us when it would have been much easier and expeditious to take these items to the town dump and pay the crippling sum of $4. No, I’m sorry Kate from Kerhonkson, but I think you missed the true generosity of the gift. And ‘garbage bags’ as you call them? How insulting! Talk about looking a gift horse in the mouth! Let me help you: Try 5 mil. black plastic beanbag chairs so you and your ungrateful friends could sit on your duffs and watch this TV in comfort. Discarded tire? Most certainly not. Reclassify it as a giant, keg-size drink holder, to further pamper you and a maybe few close friends as you all watch the game. Just, I’m sure, as the donor intended. You’ll soon see that generosity in spirit if you just move beyond your current perspective. There’s a lot of good out there, friend. Sometimes it just needs to be placed right in the way of your driver’s side front tire for you to see it! The problem, alas, is entirely yours. Now, get back up there missy and enjoy this complete entertainment center before some no-good thief takes it.
--Wally
Got a question that needs answering? E-mail our new advice columnist @ bluepress@aol.com (Attn Wally)
Someone left a TV set, 2 bags of garbage and a tire in the dead center of the road at the scenic overlook on Rt. 44/55 by Minnewaska State Park. I noticed it the other day because I almost ran over this heap of trash with my car. Am I right to be offended? What the hell is wrong with people?
Disgusted Kate in Kerhonkson
Dear Kate,
Disgusted? Offended? Oh my. Tsk tsk tsk. Grateful and appreciative should be more like it. I rode by that very spot on my bike and saw this generous donation of which you speak. Some considerate ‘donor’ realized that all this brilliant Hudson Valley foliage can really scorch our leaf-peeping retinas, especially when we can see for 25, unobstructed, eye-aching miles from the Gunks to the Catskills. What better way to cool down the bruised and hurting mountain-gawking eyeballs than by watching a little daytime tube? (Even if the TV set has no cord, the screen is shattered, and the holes where control knobs used to be are now filled with road goo and bear piss. Who cares? It was the thought that counted). I, for one, was pleasantly surprised and relieved to be able to pull over and do some TV watching in comfort. What better place to offer ocular relief than the scenic overlook on one of the country’s prettiest and well traveled roads? You will notice that ‘comfort stations’ are painfully absent on this and many stretches of road. And we need them. Consideration for fellow man is what’s at work here. This anonymous donor went out of their way to bring these creature comforts to us when it would have been much easier and expeditious to take these items to the town dump and pay the crippling sum of $4. No, I’m sorry Kate from Kerhonkson, but I think you missed the true generosity of the gift. And ‘garbage bags’ as you call them? How insulting! Talk about looking a gift horse in the mouth! Let me help you: Try 5 mil. black plastic beanbag chairs so you and your ungrateful friends could sit on your duffs and watch this TV in comfort. Discarded tire? Most certainly not. Reclassify it as a giant, keg-size drink holder, to further pamper you and a maybe few close friends as you all watch the game. Just, I’m sure, as the donor intended. You’ll soon see that generosity in spirit if you just move beyond your current perspective. There’s a lot of good out there, friend. Sometimes it just needs to be placed right in the way of your driver’s side front tire for you to see it! The problem, alas, is entirely yours. Now, get back up there missy and enjoy this complete entertainment center before some no-good thief takes it.
--Wally
Got a question that needs answering? E-mail our new advice columnist @ bluepress@aol.com (Attn Wally)
dear John
Not Just Another Dear John Letter…
Dear Wally,
What measures do you recommend I take to keep my family safe in public restrooms?
-High Anxiety in High Falls
Dear High A,
I rarely find myself aligned with the Catholic church, but on this subject I have to embrace the time-honored policy of abstinence. Specifically, one should avoid using public restrooms if possible, a notion that I guess hardly needs stating. That said, I can share a few tips that my slightly neurotic, iron-bladdered mother shared with her brood on the subject, for emergency use only. Perhaps they will be of help to your loved ones?
1) Jiggle the empty Gatorade jar at the kids in the back seat and say, “If you hadn’t drunk it in the first place, you wouldn’t need to refill it, now would you??”
2) ‘Feather the nest’ (as in, drape small ripped off sections of toilet paper (approx 10 inches long) over every conceivable inch of exposed public toilet seat. Make a thick lasagna that is interwoven and tight and flows over the bowl’s edge like the flowering gardens of Babylon. You should be able to lift a bowling ball between any section of the mesh. Only that thickness will keep nasty germs from jumping on board your loved ones for a lifetime free ride. Never mind that you might be the reason for the high deforestation rate. Never mind that you then create a whale-choking bolus that has no chance of ever passing through anything other than an industrial stump grinder. (That problem is SO somebody else’s!) Never mind the wheelchairs that are starting to queue up outside the Handicap stall you have commandeered (You’ll need the elbow room and besides you have your own ‘handicaps’—they just haven’t been diagnosed). Never mind the impolite coughs from the next 10 people waiting. You’ll never see them again! Never mind any of this. A proper nest-feathering may take up to 10 minutes. Remember, ‘bowling ball strong.’ Spend the time.
3) NEVER touch the handle. Ewwwwwww!?!? This is basic stuff, people. Handles were not meant to be handled. Especially by hands. As far as you are concerned, handles are to be kicked indiscriminately with the heel of your shoe. The catch, of course, is that when enough people do this, the entire toilet fixture tends to get jarred off its mounting and can be dangerous for folks with poor balance or weak thigh muscles. This is not your problem. Kick that handle like you are trying out for Manchester United. Kick like your life depends on it. It may just…
4) Germs can travel up to 25 feet when a toilet flushes. (Do the math—with 300 million people in the US alone, there is virtually no safe place on the entire North American continent except for a small cabin in a remote corner of the Yucatan peninsula).
5) Do NOT EVEN THINK about picking up discarded reading material and reading it. Reality check: That newspaper no longer has its virginity. That newspaper was handled by another person’s hands--Hands that were busy before during or after with other tasks, know what I mean? Do you see a Purell station in that stall? I don’t…
By the way, when you asked how to stay safe in public restrooms, I was assuming germ / microbe safe, not Sen. Larry Craig-safe. The rule book on that is still being written…
Look, good luck and keep the Gatorade bottles handy.
- Wally
PS: Ever at a loss for winning cocktail party conversation? Here’s some riveting trivia: The world’s foremost ceramic toilet bowl design work (!?) happens in the sleepy upstate college town of Alfred, NY!! (Well, c’mon, it has to happen somewhere…). Plus, 41% of the people worldwide lack access to a toilet. Don’t ask me how I know.
Got a question that needs answering? Ask Wally for yourself. (advice@bsp.com)
Dear Wally,
What measures do you recommend I take to keep my family safe in public restrooms?
-High Anxiety in High Falls
Dear High A,
I rarely find myself aligned with the Catholic church, but on this subject I have to embrace the time-honored policy of abstinence. Specifically, one should avoid using public restrooms if possible, a notion that I guess hardly needs stating. That said, I can share a few tips that my slightly neurotic, iron-bladdered mother shared with her brood on the subject, for emergency use only. Perhaps they will be of help to your loved ones?
1) Jiggle the empty Gatorade jar at the kids in the back seat and say, “If you hadn’t drunk it in the first place, you wouldn’t need to refill it, now would you??”
2) ‘Feather the nest’ (as in, drape small ripped off sections of toilet paper (approx 10 inches long) over every conceivable inch of exposed public toilet seat. Make a thick lasagna that is interwoven and tight and flows over the bowl’s edge like the flowering gardens of Babylon. You should be able to lift a bowling ball between any section of the mesh. Only that thickness will keep nasty germs from jumping on board your loved ones for a lifetime free ride. Never mind that you might be the reason for the high deforestation rate. Never mind that you then create a whale-choking bolus that has no chance of ever passing through anything other than an industrial stump grinder. (That problem is SO somebody else’s!) Never mind the wheelchairs that are starting to queue up outside the Handicap stall you have commandeered (You’ll need the elbow room and besides you have your own ‘handicaps’—they just haven’t been diagnosed). Never mind the impolite coughs from the next 10 people waiting. You’ll never see them again! Never mind any of this. A proper nest-feathering may take up to 10 minutes. Remember, ‘bowling ball strong.’ Spend the time.
3) NEVER touch the handle. Ewwwwwww!?!? This is basic stuff, people. Handles were not meant to be handled. Especially by hands. As far as you are concerned, handles are to be kicked indiscriminately with the heel of your shoe. The catch, of course, is that when enough people do this, the entire toilet fixture tends to get jarred off its mounting and can be dangerous for folks with poor balance or weak thigh muscles. This is not your problem. Kick that handle like you are trying out for Manchester United. Kick like your life depends on it. It may just…
4) Germs can travel up to 25 feet when a toilet flushes. (Do the math—with 300 million people in the US alone, there is virtually no safe place on the entire North American continent except for a small cabin in a remote corner of the Yucatan peninsula).
5) Do NOT EVEN THINK about picking up discarded reading material and reading it. Reality check: That newspaper no longer has its virginity. That newspaper was handled by another person’s hands--Hands that were busy before during or after with other tasks, know what I mean? Do you see a Purell station in that stall? I don’t…
By the way, when you asked how to stay safe in public restrooms, I was assuming germ / microbe safe, not Sen. Larry Craig-safe. The rule book on that is still being written…
Look, good luck and keep the Gatorade bottles handy.
- Wally
PS: Ever at a loss for winning cocktail party conversation? Here’s some riveting trivia: The world’s foremost ceramic toilet bowl design work (!?) happens in the sleepy upstate college town of Alfred, NY!! (Well, c’mon, it has to happen somewhere…). Plus, 41% of the people worldwide lack access to a toilet. Don’t ask me how I know.
Got a question that needs answering? Ask Wally for yourself. (advice@bsp.com)
Wally you run for president
Dear Wally,
Why don’t you run for President in ‘08?
- Janey Birch
Dear Janey (and fellow Romans and Countrymen):
Is this a grassroots groundswell to draft me (a la Al Gore) into a life of public service? Little old me? Hmmmmm. I haven’t heard such nonsense since my second grade class elected me most likely to get elected President (and most likely to get caught picking my nose). I don’t have a Nobel Peace Prize. Will that hurt? But…now that you mention it, Janey, I could probably get a deal on some used political lawn signs (the 25 still teetering illegally on my Rt. 209 frontage better be free. Grrrr). With a little bit of spray paint to update them and some illegal, undocumented workers to smack them deeper into the dirt for another year, it is almost do-able on a budget (so long as no one gets hurt and alerts the Workman’s Compensation oversight board). It would be difficult, however, to serve the nation at the highest level, pack my cronies into the White House, fart around on Air Force One between extended vacations, and write this column. (There better be unlimited , chilled Fresca on board Air Force One or I’m walking) Something would have to give in such an absurd scenario as me, your President. Not sure I’m even presidential material, 2nd grade classmates’ assessment notwithstanding. But that said, who doesn’t dream just a little now and then…? As a matter of fact, I’ve already picked out the White House drapes and China I’d like, if elected. Plus my dogs are rather presidential in stature and disposition (they only nip at ineligible-to-vote newborns and they are mostly housetrained). I’d also be excellent at the White House Easter Egg lawn toss.
I’ve watched a number of vituperative local political television commercials recently (who hasn’t?) and learned that the way to the top is on the backs of other’s reputations. Preferably leaving claw marks for traction. This is the time-tested winning marketing strategy and who would I be but a moron to buck it? I thus have an idea of how my radio and TV commercials might sound on the national stage, ummm, realizing that my entire platform would have to be based on my opponent’s flaws. (Sometimes you have to break some eggs to make an omelette, right?) Might go like this, for example, (Cue: fife and drum duo circa Revolutionary War. Note to producer: enhance voice EQ with extra low bass frequencies for extra gravitas.) “In Nov 2008, I’m asking you to head to the polls and vote for me as your new President. It’s time for this nation to heal. (Cue: crowd going wild- maybe stolen footage from a Stones concert??). “We were promised unity. We were promised a ‘new’ America where Republicans and Democrats, Liberals and Conservatives would be locked in a bear hug of love and protected in a prophylactic of ideological consistency. Instead we were delivered petty cat-fights, playground posturing and all time low congressional approval ratings. (With all time high congressional pay raises! Nice combo. Way to go, guys!). Well that condom broke… How many times are we gonna fall for the same old lines about reaching across the aisle for a new America? As President, I’m gonna reach across the aisle, alright. And smack ‘em for being putzes. (Cue Marx Brother’s sound effects) “My opponent voted to authorize beating up old ladies and then voted to steal their bus money. All in the same day! (Cut to: Granny being tossed off a city bus head first). “Unbelievable.” (Cut to grainy ‘unauthorized’ footage of my opponent smoking a cigar and swinging a golf club at the country club) “Think you work hard? Try exhausting golfing vacations to Puerto Rico on the backs of the big drug makers. His idea of ‘bipartisan politics’ is having two parties a day: One with his intern and another with his mistress. (Close up of a deep cigar inhale, a contented smile) “My opponent accepted more backroom bribes than all other candidates in US history (and Libya) combined. And he’s on the take. (Cut to armored Brinks Truck going around a corner on two wheels and almost tipping over) “He voted to mandate underage smoking (cigarettes, pot and crack). (Cut to baby with cigarette in her mouth). He’s probably a convicted felon, but I can’t prove it. He has outstanding library books from 3rd grade. He drives an Asian car with an expired registration and bald tires. He voted to outlaw Tuesdays. And he voted to ban lunch. He believes that public schools should be demolished with funds generated by gambling prostitutes and that instead of brick and mortar classrooms, kids should just ‘figure it out.’ And he wants your taxes to quadruple so he can buy an island in the Caribbean. (ok, sorry, that’s me). He wears linen after Labor Day!? I wouldn’t be caught dead in Linen after Labor Day or before Memorial Day. The list goes on and on. So you can see that a vote for him this November, if he hasn’t been arrested yet, is a vote for despotic tyranny, financial ruin and moral bankruptcy. And a vote for me is a for vote a new America! (cue: swelling brass instruments and please feature the fluegel horn). Remember, you only have a year left!
I’m Wally and I approve of this message.
Why don’t you run for President in ‘08?
- Janey Birch
Dear Janey (and fellow Romans and Countrymen):
Is this a grassroots groundswell to draft me (a la Al Gore) into a life of public service? Little old me? Hmmmmm. I haven’t heard such nonsense since my second grade class elected me most likely to get elected President (and most likely to get caught picking my nose). I don’t have a Nobel Peace Prize. Will that hurt? But…now that you mention it, Janey, I could probably get a deal on some used political lawn signs (the 25 still teetering illegally on my Rt. 209 frontage better be free. Grrrr). With a little bit of spray paint to update them and some illegal, undocumented workers to smack them deeper into the dirt for another year, it is almost do-able on a budget (so long as no one gets hurt and alerts the Workman’s Compensation oversight board). It would be difficult, however, to serve the nation at the highest level, pack my cronies into the White House, fart around on Air Force One between extended vacations, and write this column. (There better be unlimited , chilled Fresca on board Air Force One or I’m walking) Something would have to give in such an absurd scenario as me, your President. Not sure I’m even presidential material, 2nd grade classmates’ assessment notwithstanding. But that said, who doesn’t dream just a little now and then…? As a matter of fact, I’ve already picked out the White House drapes and China I’d like, if elected. Plus my dogs are rather presidential in stature and disposition (they only nip at ineligible-to-vote newborns and they are mostly housetrained). I’d also be excellent at the White House Easter Egg lawn toss.
I’ve watched a number of vituperative local political television commercials recently (who hasn’t?) and learned that the way to the top is on the backs of other’s reputations. Preferably leaving claw marks for traction. This is the time-tested winning marketing strategy and who would I be but a moron to buck it? I thus have an idea of how my radio and TV commercials might sound on the national stage, ummm, realizing that my entire platform would have to be based on my opponent’s flaws. (Sometimes you have to break some eggs to make an omelette, right?) Might go like this, for example, (Cue: fife and drum duo circa Revolutionary War. Note to producer: enhance voice EQ with extra low bass frequencies for extra gravitas.) “In Nov 2008, I’m asking you to head to the polls and vote for me as your new President. It’s time for this nation to heal. (Cue: crowd going wild- maybe stolen footage from a Stones concert??). “We were promised unity. We were promised a ‘new’ America where Republicans and Democrats, Liberals and Conservatives would be locked in a bear hug of love and protected in a prophylactic of ideological consistency. Instead we were delivered petty cat-fights, playground posturing and all time low congressional approval ratings. (With all time high congressional pay raises! Nice combo. Way to go, guys!). Well that condom broke… How many times are we gonna fall for the same old lines about reaching across the aisle for a new America? As President, I’m gonna reach across the aisle, alright. And smack ‘em for being putzes. (Cue Marx Brother’s sound effects) “My opponent voted to authorize beating up old ladies and then voted to steal their bus money. All in the same day! (Cut to: Granny being tossed off a city bus head first). “Unbelievable.” (Cut to grainy ‘unauthorized’ footage of my opponent smoking a cigar and swinging a golf club at the country club) “Think you work hard? Try exhausting golfing vacations to Puerto Rico on the backs of the big drug makers. His idea of ‘bipartisan politics’ is having two parties a day: One with his intern and another with his mistress. (Close up of a deep cigar inhale, a contented smile) “My opponent accepted more backroom bribes than all other candidates in US history (and Libya) combined. And he’s on the take. (Cut to armored Brinks Truck going around a corner on two wheels and almost tipping over) “He voted to mandate underage smoking (cigarettes, pot and crack). (Cut to baby with cigarette in her mouth). He’s probably a convicted felon, but I can’t prove it. He has outstanding library books from 3rd grade. He drives an Asian car with an expired registration and bald tires. He voted to outlaw Tuesdays. And he voted to ban lunch. He believes that public schools should be demolished with funds generated by gambling prostitutes and that instead of brick and mortar classrooms, kids should just ‘figure it out.’ And he wants your taxes to quadruple so he can buy an island in the Caribbean. (ok, sorry, that’s me). He wears linen after Labor Day!? I wouldn’t be caught dead in Linen after Labor Day or before Memorial Day. The list goes on and on. So you can see that a vote for him this November, if he hasn’t been arrested yet, is a vote for despotic tyranny, financial ruin and moral bankruptcy. And a vote for me is a for vote a new America! (cue: swelling brass instruments and please feature the fluegel horn). Remember, you only have a year left!
I’m Wally and I approve of this message.
hair dryer
Dear Wally,My wife's birthday is soon. She's been asking for a hairdryer. It seems to me like an underused piece of equipment. It'll take her, what, 15 minutes to dry her hair, then the rest of the time it'll sit in the drawer doing nothing. I know when I get a tool I use it for a lot of jobs. So what I'm wanting to know is what else can we use a hairdryer for? Thanks,Handy Dan in Accord.
Dear Dan,
As you know, the hairdryer has often been considered the Holy Grail of romantic birthday gifts and a favorite for 10-year anniversary presents (perhaps just a notch below the beloved waffle iron or an ESPN subscription ‘for her’). For certain, she’ll love this hairdryer, the gift that never stops giving. And every time she either accidentally cooks her roots or browns-out Central Hudson’s power grid, you’ll enjoy the dividends of a well executed, much appreciated gift. But as you astutely point out, the hairdryer is an under-utilized appliance. Assuming at most she washes and dries her hair twice a day, you’ve got some serious down time on that thing. And that’s just a shame. That will grate against your sense of efficiency and ultimately cause resentment. Like most inanimate objects, hairdryers like to feel needed. A couple of uses leap to mind-- These crisp late summer nights bring with them a lot of pesky morning dew. I hate starting the day with wet toes and bet you do to. So you’ve got a hairdryer and a wet lawn. All you need is a beefy extension cord and you can dry your lawn before the sun does! How great would that be? Hairdryers are also great for discouraging speeders. Sit in your car tucked safely off the road somewhere along route 209 and ‘aim’ it at oncoming traffic. They’ll swear it’s a radar gun and quickly comply with the speed limits. Alternately aim it at the kitchen ceiling and drop in a few hot dogs. Set the hairdryer to ‘Farah Fawcett’ and in no time you’ll have dinner for the entire family. That’ll keep a smile on the birthday girl’s face long after the day. Let’s also not forget leaf season which is around the corner! Don’t want to hurt your back raking soggy leaves? Blow them away with a jet blast of hot air. The multi-task tool for a lot of jobs will soon be in your wife’s hands.
Having spent so much time considering the myriad under-realized uses of the hairdryer, I now send my thanks to YOU, Dan! I do so because now I know what I’m getting my wife (and me) for her birthday!
-Wally
(Got a question that needs answering? email our advice columnist-- advice@bsp.com Attn: Wally)
Dear Dan,
As you know, the hairdryer has often been considered the Holy Grail of romantic birthday gifts and a favorite for 10-year anniversary presents (perhaps just a notch below the beloved waffle iron or an ESPN subscription ‘for her’). For certain, she’ll love this hairdryer, the gift that never stops giving. And every time she either accidentally cooks her roots or browns-out Central Hudson’s power grid, you’ll enjoy the dividends of a well executed, much appreciated gift. But as you astutely point out, the hairdryer is an under-utilized appliance. Assuming at most she washes and dries her hair twice a day, you’ve got some serious down time on that thing. And that’s just a shame. That will grate against your sense of efficiency and ultimately cause resentment. Like most inanimate objects, hairdryers like to feel needed. A couple of uses leap to mind-- These crisp late summer nights bring with them a lot of pesky morning dew. I hate starting the day with wet toes and bet you do to. So you’ve got a hairdryer and a wet lawn. All you need is a beefy extension cord and you can dry your lawn before the sun does! How great would that be? Hairdryers are also great for discouraging speeders. Sit in your car tucked safely off the road somewhere along route 209 and ‘aim’ it at oncoming traffic. They’ll swear it’s a radar gun and quickly comply with the speed limits. Alternately aim it at the kitchen ceiling and drop in a few hot dogs. Set the hairdryer to ‘Farah Fawcett’ and in no time you’ll have dinner for the entire family. That’ll keep a smile on the birthday girl’s face long after the day. Let’s also not forget leaf season which is around the corner! Don’t want to hurt your back raking soggy leaves? Blow them away with a jet blast of hot air. The multi-task tool for a lot of jobs will soon be in your wife’s hands.
Having spent so much time considering the myriad under-realized uses of the hairdryer, I now send my thanks to YOU, Dan! I do so because now I know what I’m getting my wife (and me) for her birthday!
-Wally
(Got a question that needs answering? email our advice columnist-- advice@bsp.com Attn: Wally)
Alt use for eggs
A mixed bag of Egg Tosses, Nasty Neighbors, Green Horses and Logos…
Dear Wally,
I have a passion for growing my own food, so I checked my local zoning and found out I could have 75 chickens on my 3 acres. I've been eating eggs, three meals a day, for months and can't keep up. What should I do?
Signed,
Fowling in Ulster County
Dear Fowling,
Clearly it’s time to unite the county (if not state) (if not country) with an enormous 3-acre egg toss. Republicans on one side, Dems on the other, humiliated, disgraced and ousted politicians in the middle. (I know a few who have time on their hands right now). There’ll be plenty of laughs and all will be forgiven! It could be that easy…
-Wally
Dear Wally,
I've never liked election season campaign signs littering our roadsides, but now my neighbor has put some up at the end of our shared driveway. We have radically different political views and so never talk politics. I feel like saying something, but how?
Signed, Ticked in Port Ewen.
Dear Ticked:
Say it with eggs. (Connect with ‘Fowling’ above. He’s got the ammo, apparently). Look, this is a touchy one because, while we all have the right to our opinions, that right evaporates when it is brazenly manifested on someone else’s property. Obviously, if he disagrees with you, he’s out of his gourd! If you don’t feel like making a runny omelet on his vinyl siding however, what about trying something more sublime like ramming in signs next to each of his that say “Honk loudly at 3am if you support…” (and then point the big arrow to the sign supporting his candidate). Or volunteer to teach your punk kid nephew how to drive stick shift through the handy obstacle course your neighbor’s stupid signs just so happen to make? (Maybe it’s a good thing I’ve never been asked to be an ambassador…)
-Wally
Dear Wally,
I'm concerned about global climate change and have been thinking about trading in my SUV for a horse for my 32 mile round trip commute to work. What do you think?
Signed,
Clodding Commuter
Dear Clodding-
Sounds like you are on your way to ‘green’ employee of the month (make that buckskin) and the multitude of sweet riches that go with it like use of the company mule, the company muck rake and unfettered access to the company manure pile (if you don’t already have access to it…). Good for you. Just don’t let the cops see you talking on your cell phone while trotting (I doubt there’s anything on the books yet…) Keep both hands ‘on the wheel’ and double check that AAA will cover a single horsepower vehicle with no blinkers, brakes, or seatbelts. By the way, what do those things run on? Corn? Oats, Twinkies? Might want to check with the EPA and make sure it passes emissions.
-Wally
Ps: If you try to buy a ‘green’ horse be aware that it is not anything like a ‘green’ car. A ‘green’ horse is completely untrained and likely to dump you on your keester at mile 1 of 32. So if you cheap out and buy one, also bring running shoes.
Dear Wally:
What’s up with that new logo? Looks like you are (foolishly) engaging in the dangerous flatulation combustion experiments I so well remember from college—No doubt you remember, too?— it’s 2am, you are sitting around with your friends, a few onion and sausage pizzas later , there are no exams til next week… Then someone casually reaches for a box of matches. One thing leads to another and suddenly, KABOOOOM!
And you’re off to the Emergency Room with LOTS to explain. (At least that’s what happened to me).
You be careful porch monkey, that business can hurt a lot and I’m not just talking about the singe of public humiliation…We need you around for more sound advice…
-Concerned in Accord.
Dear Concerned:
It’s not what you think. But I’ll be careful nonetheless and relay your interpretation to the editors. Glad you ‘got my back’ so to speak. By the way, I’m assuming you’ve recovered ok and have moved on to safer, more productive hobbies?
-Wally
Got questions that need answering? Email our advice columnist at cwn4@aol.com (attn Dear Wally) or visit his blog at www.wallynichols.com
Dear Wally,
I have a passion for growing my own food, so I checked my local zoning and found out I could have 75 chickens on my 3 acres. I've been eating eggs, three meals a day, for months and can't keep up. What should I do?
Signed,
Fowling in Ulster County
Dear Fowling,
Clearly it’s time to unite the county (if not state) (if not country) with an enormous 3-acre egg toss. Republicans on one side, Dems on the other, humiliated, disgraced and ousted politicians in the middle. (I know a few who have time on their hands right now). There’ll be plenty of laughs and all will be forgiven! It could be that easy…
-Wally
Dear Wally,
I've never liked election season campaign signs littering our roadsides, but now my neighbor has put some up at the end of our shared driveway. We have radically different political views and so never talk politics. I feel like saying something, but how?
Signed, Ticked in Port Ewen.
Dear Ticked:
Say it with eggs. (Connect with ‘Fowling’ above. He’s got the ammo, apparently). Look, this is a touchy one because, while we all have the right to our opinions, that right evaporates when it is brazenly manifested on someone else’s property. Obviously, if he disagrees with you, he’s out of his gourd! If you don’t feel like making a runny omelet on his vinyl siding however, what about trying something more sublime like ramming in signs next to each of his that say “Honk loudly at 3am if you support…” (and then point the big arrow to the sign supporting his candidate). Or volunteer to teach your punk kid nephew how to drive stick shift through the handy obstacle course your neighbor’s stupid signs just so happen to make? (Maybe it’s a good thing I’ve never been asked to be an ambassador…)
-Wally
Dear Wally,
I'm concerned about global climate change and have been thinking about trading in my SUV for a horse for my 32 mile round trip commute to work. What do you think?
Signed,
Clodding Commuter
Dear Clodding-
Sounds like you are on your way to ‘green’ employee of the month (make that buckskin) and the multitude of sweet riches that go with it like use of the company mule, the company muck rake and unfettered access to the company manure pile (if you don’t already have access to it…). Good for you. Just don’t let the cops see you talking on your cell phone while trotting (I doubt there’s anything on the books yet…) Keep both hands ‘on the wheel’ and double check that AAA will cover a single horsepower vehicle with no blinkers, brakes, or seatbelts. By the way, what do those things run on? Corn? Oats, Twinkies? Might want to check with the EPA and make sure it passes emissions.
-Wally
Ps: If you try to buy a ‘green’ horse be aware that it is not anything like a ‘green’ car. A ‘green’ horse is completely untrained and likely to dump you on your keester at mile 1 of 32. So if you cheap out and buy one, also bring running shoes.
Dear Wally:
What’s up with that new logo? Looks like you are (foolishly) engaging in the dangerous flatulation combustion experiments I so well remember from college—No doubt you remember, too?— it’s 2am, you are sitting around with your friends, a few onion and sausage pizzas later , there are no exams til next week… Then someone casually reaches for a box of matches. One thing leads to another and suddenly, KABOOOOM!
And you’re off to the Emergency Room with LOTS to explain. (At least that’s what happened to me).
You be careful porch monkey, that business can hurt a lot and I’m not just talking about the singe of public humiliation…We need you around for more sound advice…
-Concerned in Accord.
Dear Concerned:
It’s not what you think. But I’ll be careful nonetheless and relay your interpretation to the editors. Glad you ‘got my back’ so to speak. By the way, I’m assuming you’ve recovered ok and have moved on to safer, more productive hobbies?
-Wally
Got questions that need answering? Email our advice columnist at cwn4@aol.com (attn Dear Wally) or visit his blog at www.wallynichols.com
2008 presidental canidates?
Dear Wally:
Huckabee? McCain? Barack, Hillary? Nadar? Super Delegates. It’s all so confusing and I’m feeling dirty. Advice please…?
Sincerely,
JD
Dear JD,
First, don’t dismiss Mike Huckabee out of hand. He’s still got a commanding lead in the polls with white fundamentalist Christian Buick-driving women over the age of 125 who live in states that start with the letter ‘A’. And if someone throws McCain under the bus one more time (anyone remember the Keating 5 scandal? Or Karl Rove in a Ninja suit in South Carolina around 2004?), or if some really big anvil falls from the sky and bonks McCain on the head, Huckabee’s patience and tenacity might pay off big. With McCain gone, the conservative GOP brass, already pounding their foreheads in frustration with that pesky ersatz conservative Arizonian and threatening to do the unspeakable (vote for Hillary out of spite, Egads!), would eventually have to hoist Huckabee up on the chair (luckily he lost a lot of weight) as the default candidate because, well, no one is left. Unless you count the guy that works the midnight to 4am shift making cruellers in the shape of Florida at Dunkin Donuts. Or unless they exhume Mitt, who I imagine to be leaning on a broom right now at an empty Romney ’08 headquarters amidst a field of discarded posters and saying to himself, “Well, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I said I was gonna sweep the elections.”
And John McCain seems like damaged goods, ready to explode at any moment with the slightest provocation and spin his block clockwise right off his shoulders. Do we dare give him The Big Red Button? I feel that his little “In Case of Emergency Break Glass” pane has already been shattered (maybe it was crushed by a nearby hottie lobbyist who was trying to cool down a melting reactor?). It’s true he’s had a tough life and served the country honorably. He’s still the front runner in Wisconsin with 62% approval from Middle to Upper Class white and yellow cheddars. But silver hair, patience on the sidelines and longevity in politics simply do not entitle him or anyone to command, else we might just as soon ask Bea Arthur to help out.
How can you not be confused JD? Or feel a little oleaginous. The already Byzantine process for amassing enough delegates through state primaries and Caucasus (I thought this was a rugged mountain range in former Soviet Union??) to cinch a party’s nomination is compounded by a ferociously expensive and manipulative advertising campaign. If they were peddling Pepsi, we’d all be filling our pools with it by now. Never mind the so-called super delegates who threaten to anoint the Democratic nominee despite the democratic will. That can’t be good for store front windows in Denver this August.
I’m guessing you want to feel that after decades of BS-ers trotting out lofty promises of affordable health care sometime just shy of election day, this time maybe someone will actually pull themselves up from the primordial goo and deliver a workable plan. You’d be right to be skeptical, if you , like me, are getting hammered every month when the insurance premium comes. If I sound bitter it’s only a side effect of the lactic acid build up in my check writing hand.
Or maybe JD, you are scratching your head and wondering why it is that more than 51% of the 100 senators wouldn’t easily pass a really aggressive fuel efficiency standard for cars. Every single person in America wants this (except the people who stand to profit from selling more oil). When the states of California and Connecticut et al (this list has since grown) challenged the recent, fairly underwhelming federal standard and demanded HIGHER MPG rates for cars sold within their state borders, they were dressed down and told not to step out of line with the EPA’s lower MPG rates. Lower? Penalized for being greener? Wah-huh?. This fuel standard decision should transcend political affiliation or party ideology and when it doesn’t, we all feel dirty. Which candidate is talking about that? None I’ve seen. Please pass the soap.
Maybe you are confused by the forced congeniality between Barack and Hillary when they debate on national TV and split hairs on the semantics of near identical platforms so intensely that it makes Bill Clinton’s erstwhile burp that he “did not have sexual relations with that woman” seem pretty goddamn cut and dry. For Barack and Hillary, it feels like a viscous bowl of Thanksgiving gruel shared between estranged family members who only show up to gnaw on the exposed ribcage of a departed rich tycoon uncle. They both seem very smart. They both could do the job. They both represent busting the injection mold that has produced white male presidents since day one. So I can’t tell you which one to vote for other than either one will be a monumental accomplishment for minorities and arrive, if it is so fated, not a day too early.
Ralph Nadar’s recent announcement to run for President was met with yawns because , well, who wants to race a car with square wheels, even if it does have safety belts and door locks?
So what do we do JD? I wish I could tell you. This I do know. Supposedly, for the first time in our NY lives, those Wizard of Oz voting machines with their dingy drab curtains and crescent finger levers and two handed handles that dwarf Amtrak’s track switches will be gone and in their stead, new machines. Hopefully these new machines will make us New Yorkers feel at home and rudely tell us with a thick Bronx accent who we need to vote for, that our coffee is no good and our breath not much better. Or maybe if they are ‘electronic’ enough, they will have the courtesy to inform us that our votes have already been cast but 'thank you please try again next time...'
Good luck!
-Wally
(Got a question that needs answering? Email Wally at bsplori@aol.com)
Huckabee? McCain? Barack, Hillary? Nadar? Super Delegates. It’s all so confusing and I’m feeling dirty. Advice please…?
Sincerely,
JD
Dear JD,
First, don’t dismiss Mike Huckabee out of hand. He’s still got a commanding lead in the polls with white fundamentalist Christian Buick-driving women over the age of 125 who live in states that start with the letter ‘A’. And if someone throws McCain under the bus one more time (anyone remember the Keating 5 scandal? Or Karl Rove in a Ninja suit in South Carolina around 2004?), or if some really big anvil falls from the sky and bonks McCain on the head, Huckabee’s patience and tenacity might pay off big. With McCain gone, the conservative GOP brass, already pounding their foreheads in frustration with that pesky ersatz conservative Arizonian and threatening to do the unspeakable (vote for Hillary out of spite, Egads!), would eventually have to hoist Huckabee up on the chair (luckily he lost a lot of weight) as the default candidate because, well, no one is left. Unless you count the guy that works the midnight to 4am shift making cruellers in the shape of Florida at Dunkin Donuts. Or unless they exhume Mitt, who I imagine to be leaning on a broom right now at an empty Romney ’08 headquarters amidst a field of discarded posters and saying to himself, “Well, this isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I said I was gonna sweep the elections.”
And John McCain seems like damaged goods, ready to explode at any moment with the slightest provocation and spin his block clockwise right off his shoulders. Do we dare give him The Big Red Button? I feel that his little “In Case of Emergency Break Glass” pane has already been shattered (maybe it was crushed by a nearby hottie lobbyist who was trying to cool down a melting reactor?). It’s true he’s had a tough life and served the country honorably. He’s still the front runner in Wisconsin with 62% approval from Middle to Upper Class white and yellow cheddars. But silver hair, patience on the sidelines and longevity in politics simply do not entitle him or anyone to command, else we might just as soon ask Bea Arthur to help out.
How can you not be confused JD? Or feel a little oleaginous. The already Byzantine process for amassing enough delegates through state primaries and Caucasus (I thought this was a rugged mountain range in former Soviet Union??) to cinch a party’s nomination is compounded by a ferociously expensive and manipulative advertising campaign. If they were peddling Pepsi, we’d all be filling our pools with it by now. Never mind the so-called super delegates who threaten to anoint the Democratic nominee despite the democratic will. That can’t be good for store front windows in Denver this August.
I’m guessing you want to feel that after decades of BS-ers trotting out lofty promises of affordable health care sometime just shy of election day, this time maybe someone will actually pull themselves up from the primordial goo and deliver a workable plan. You’d be right to be skeptical, if you , like me, are getting hammered every month when the insurance premium comes. If I sound bitter it’s only a side effect of the lactic acid build up in my check writing hand.
Or maybe JD, you are scratching your head and wondering why it is that more than 51% of the 100 senators wouldn’t easily pass a really aggressive fuel efficiency standard for cars. Every single person in America wants this (except the people who stand to profit from selling more oil). When the states of California and Connecticut et al (this list has since grown) challenged the recent, fairly underwhelming federal standard and demanded HIGHER MPG rates for cars sold within their state borders, they were dressed down and told not to step out of line with the EPA’s lower MPG rates. Lower? Penalized for being greener? Wah-huh?. This fuel standard decision should transcend political affiliation or party ideology and when it doesn’t, we all feel dirty. Which candidate is talking about that? None I’ve seen. Please pass the soap.
Maybe you are confused by the forced congeniality between Barack and Hillary when they debate on national TV and split hairs on the semantics of near identical platforms so intensely that it makes Bill Clinton’s erstwhile burp that he “did not have sexual relations with that woman” seem pretty goddamn cut and dry. For Barack and Hillary, it feels like a viscous bowl of Thanksgiving gruel shared between estranged family members who only show up to gnaw on the exposed ribcage of a departed rich tycoon uncle. They both seem very smart. They both could do the job. They both represent busting the injection mold that has produced white male presidents since day one. So I can’t tell you which one to vote for other than either one will be a monumental accomplishment for minorities and arrive, if it is so fated, not a day too early.
Ralph Nadar’s recent announcement to run for President was met with yawns because , well, who wants to race a car with square wheels, even if it does have safety belts and door locks?
So what do we do JD? I wish I could tell you. This I do know. Supposedly, for the first time in our NY lives, those Wizard of Oz voting machines with their dingy drab curtains and crescent finger levers and two handed handles that dwarf Amtrak’s track switches will be gone and in their stead, new machines. Hopefully these new machines will make us New Yorkers feel at home and rudely tell us with a thick Bronx accent who we need to vote for, that our coffee is no good and our breath not much better. Or maybe if they are ‘electronic’ enough, they will have the courtesy to inform us that our votes have already been cast but 'thank you please try again next time...'
Good luck!
-Wally
(Got a question that needs answering? Email Wally at bsplori@aol.com)
Nigeria email scam
Dear Wally:
How would you handle an email from Nigerian Royalty asking you to receive a cashier’s check for $20,000,000 that represents excess proceeds from a quiet little diamond mining operation the royal prince doesn’t want his greedy family to know about? Is this on the up and up? All they want in exchange for their $20 mil is $2,500 from me. That’s a heck of profit…
Signed Hopeful in High Falls
Dear Hopeful:
First, you should be flattered! Very flattered. Obviously they did their homework and realize that you (more than any other of the 280 million in America) have the business acumen and discretion to handle this extremely delicate matter! The Nigerian Prince’s ability to weave through the charlatans and filter out the flakes, to finally arrive at your electronic inbox, should tell you that these guys are serious. By my calculations, you’ll have netted well over $21.9 million in gravy! Not bad for a few hours monkeying around on the internet and just being yourself. As for the transaction itself, tell them you’ll stuff the $2,500 cash in a headless Britney Spears doll which you’ll leave in the front seat of an unlocked, white, mid 80’s Toyota at the Emanual’s parking lot sometime in Sept (after their cashier’s check ‘clears’). Then call me up and let’s go on a spending spree!
-Wally
ps: don’t worry about anyone snatching the BS doll. I think it’s safe these days.
(Got a question that needs answering? email our advice columnist-- advice@bsp.com)
How would you handle an email from Nigerian Royalty asking you to receive a cashier’s check for $20,000,000 that represents excess proceeds from a quiet little diamond mining operation the royal prince doesn’t want his greedy family to know about? Is this on the up and up? All they want in exchange for their $20 mil is $2,500 from me. That’s a heck of profit…
Signed Hopeful in High Falls
Dear Hopeful:
First, you should be flattered! Very flattered. Obviously they did their homework and realize that you (more than any other of the 280 million in America) have the business acumen and discretion to handle this extremely delicate matter! The Nigerian Prince’s ability to weave through the charlatans and filter out the flakes, to finally arrive at your electronic inbox, should tell you that these guys are serious. By my calculations, you’ll have netted well over $21.9 million in gravy! Not bad for a few hours monkeying around on the internet and just being yourself. As for the transaction itself, tell them you’ll stuff the $2,500 cash in a headless Britney Spears doll which you’ll leave in the front seat of an unlocked, white, mid 80’s Toyota at the Emanual’s parking lot sometime in Sept (after their cashier’s check ‘clears’). Then call me up and let’s go on a spending spree!
-Wally
ps: don’t worry about anyone snatching the BS doll. I think it’s safe these days.
(Got a question that needs answering? email our advice columnist-- advice@bsp.com)
Accord vs Kerhonkson
Dear Wally:
Rather than ask for your normally sagacious advise on a particular matter, I want to share an anecdote about country living, one I found charming. I was in a diner in Kerhonkson, my town, some time ago and made the acquaintance of an older fellow, friendly as they come. In all my years I had never seen him around and it’s a pretty small town. Anyway, we were chatting about all kinds of things with the sort of uprooted abandon that complete strangers can sometimes afford--You know, the stakes are low when there’s little chance you’ll ever see the person again. In this respect, many emotional walls can come down and conversations, stripped of consequences, can quickly get very real when lives run parallel for extremely short stretches. We were victims of an unfortunate and untimely kitchen grease fire that, while not tragic in any real way, still slammed the brakes on any notion of a quick diner meal. The drama gave us some time we didn’t think we had. This fellow was every bit of 80 years old, in no particular hurry, and after discussing global issues, politics, the war, religion, Tomkat and Tech City, not to mention other hot- button issues, I finally I asked him if he was ‘from around here.’ He levered a stubborn piece of tuna fish from between his front teeth with a handy toothpick and after some time said in a thoughtful, yet deadpan voice, “nope.”
Fair enough , I thought. Here’s an old timer just running the roads, packing in life’s gritty mortar betwixt the cracks of his wizened face. God knows what corners of the world he’s seen in his day and God knows what strange calculus of circumstances brought him to pass through this skinny sluice of the Hudson Valley, however briefly.
“So if you are not from Kerhonkson, where in the world are you from?” I queried, bracing myself for a lesson in international geography.
“I’m from Accord,” he responded proudly—and I laughed. How could I not?
(note to reader unfamiliar with Rt. 209 geography—Accord and Kerhonkson are neighboring towns).
Signed,
Amused in Accord.
Dear Amused,
Cute story. Glad I could help.
Ps, To set the long standing debate straight, it’s pronounced “Accord”
(Got a question that needs answering? email our advice columnist-- advice@bsp.com Attn: Wally)
Rather than ask for your normally sagacious advise on a particular matter, I want to share an anecdote about country living, one I found charming. I was in a diner in Kerhonkson, my town, some time ago and made the acquaintance of an older fellow, friendly as they come. In all my years I had never seen him around and it’s a pretty small town. Anyway, we were chatting about all kinds of things with the sort of uprooted abandon that complete strangers can sometimes afford--You know, the stakes are low when there’s little chance you’ll ever see the person again. In this respect, many emotional walls can come down and conversations, stripped of consequences, can quickly get very real when lives run parallel for extremely short stretches. We were victims of an unfortunate and untimely kitchen grease fire that, while not tragic in any real way, still slammed the brakes on any notion of a quick diner meal. The drama gave us some time we didn’t think we had. This fellow was every bit of 80 years old, in no particular hurry, and after discussing global issues, politics, the war, religion, Tomkat and Tech City, not to mention other hot- button issues, I finally I asked him if he was ‘from around here.’ He levered a stubborn piece of tuna fish from between his front teeth with a handy toothpick and after some time said in a thoughtful, yet deadpan voice, “nope.”
Fair enough , I thought. Here’s an old timer just running the roads, packing in life’s gritty mortar betwixt the cracks of his wizened face. God knows what corners of the world he’s seen in his day and God knows what strange calculus of circumstances brought him to pass through this skinny sluice of the Hudson Valley, however briefly.
“So if you are not from Kerhonkson, where in the world are you from?” I queried, bracing myself for a lesson in international geography.
“I’m from Accord,” he responded proudly—and I laughed. How could I not?
(note to reader unfamiliar with Rt. 209 geography—Accord and Kerhonkson are neighboring towns).
Signed,
Amused in Accord.
Dear Amused,
Cute story. Glad I could help.
Ps, To set the long standing debate straight, it’s pronounced “Accord”
(Got a question that needs answering? email our advice columnist-- advice@bsp.com Attn: Wally)
Jack Nicholson
Dear Wally,
What’s the grossest thing you’ve ever seen?
-GT
Dear GT,
Ever? Possibly the grossest thing most recently is Jack Nicholson slurping down food on the big screen (‘The Bucket List’) in THX Dolby surround-sound. I’m still traumatized by the partially masticated mush in his maw sloshing around so visibly, so publicly. It wasn’t supposed to be a horror film! My own new and improved ‘Bucket List’ includes having an actual bucket handy when I next pay to watch this Hollywood legend eat. I should think it easier to land an F-16 on a moving aircraft carrier than for Nicholson to get a complete hardboiled egg into his yap hole and keep all of it in there. I’d divulge a state secret if meant I never again had to watch him simultaneously talk and eat. Unless he invited me to lunch, which he wont after reading this…
Well, whaddya want? you asked…
-Wally
(Got a question that needs answering? Email our advice columnist- advice@bsp.com attn Wally)
What’s the grossest thing you’ve ever seen?
-GT
Dear GT,
Ever? Possibly the grossest thing most recently is Jack Nicholson slurping down food on the big screen (‘The Bucket List’) in THX Dolby surround-sound. I’m still traumatized by the partially masticated mush in his maw sloshing around so visibly, so publicly. It wasn’t supposed to be a horror film! My own new and improved ‘Bucket List’ includes having an actual bucket handy when I next pay to watch this Hollywood legend eat. I should think it easier to land an F-16 on a moving aircraft carrier than for Nicholson to get a complete hardboiled egg into his yap hole and keep all of it in there. I’d divulge a state secret if meant I never again had to watch him simultaneously talk and eat. Unless he invited me to lunch, which he wont after reading this…
Well, whaddya want? you asked…
-Wally
(Got a question that needs answering? Email our advice columnist- advice@bsp.com attn Wally)
starbucks
Dear Wally,
Yesterday at Starbucks I ordered a nonfat, triple-venti, half-caff, caramel-laced, Mocha-Frappuccino, Dolce Macchiato with one shot of Costa Rican Organic shade Terrazu, fair-trade, light-roast Americano decaf drip drizzled in the dead center. I then asked for a double shot of Guatemalan Casi Cielo Dark Roast espresso and Ethopian Sidamo poured clockwise and circumferentially around the inside edge of the same cup (a creation I’ve cleverly named ‘the ring of fire’ and have been relentlessly unsuccessful in getting added to the big menu board above my head). I mentioned to the excessively pierced Morning Barista Associate (MBA?) that if possible, my beverage should have dual pumps of processed sugar-free Juju-boo nut syrup, squeezed between the inner thighs of virgin Cuban farmers and if there’s a benevolent God looking down on us wretches at all, He might further bless adding one pump of vanilla syrup (not one shot which is typically three pumps, but one single, sublime, subtle and superlative pump) and while He’s at it, He might as well leave behind a cane sugar swizzle for my benefit. And finally I intimated that this dreamy concoction be presented in a doubled-up, bleach-free, ‘green’ white recycled paper cup ‘system’ to go because the insulated cardboard sleeves that typically sheath the single cup delivery units they try to hand me don’t typically stay on for me and that waxy brown corrugated cardboard is best used for immediately packing fish in ice on the docks (not insulating or sleeving my drink, thank you).
Well, the Barista froze up and looked at me with glazed orbs like she was some doe I had just jacked with the high beams of my gold trimmed H-3 Hummer. No further words nor movement came from this wispy, won thing. The solid brass door knocker she had obviously stolen from the oversized, heavy timbered front door of some Transylvanian castle (and then somehow managed to pierce her nostrils with) didn’t even budge. Did my simple drink request break her in two?
-Cal
Dear Cal-
You sound like a right fine pain in the rump. I don’t think I (or anyone) can help you.
-Wally
(Got a question that needs answering? Email our advice columnist- advice@bsp.com attn Wally)
Yesterday at Starbucks I ordered a nonfat, triple-venti, half-caff, caramel-laced, Mocha-Frappuccino, Dolce Macchiato with one shot of Costa Rican Organic shade Terrazu, fair-trade, light-roast Americano decaf drip drizzled in the dead center. I then asked for a double shot of Guatemalan Casi Cielo Dark Roast espresso and Ethopian Sidamo poured clockwise and circumferentially around the inside edge of the same cup (a creation I’ve cleverly named ‘the ring of fire’ and have been relentlessly unsuccessful in getting added to the big menu board above my head). I mentioned to the excessively pierced Morning Barista Associate (MBA?) that if possible, my beverage should have dual pumps of processed sugar-free Juju-boo nut syrup, squeezed between the inner thighs of virgin Cuban farmers and if there’s a benevolent God looking down on us wretches at all, He might further bless adding one pump of vanilla syrup (not one shot which is typically three pumps, but one single, sublime, subtle and superlative pump) and while He’s at it, He might as well leave behind a cane sugar swizzle for my benefit. And finally I intimated that this dreamy concoction be presented in a doubled-up, bleach-free, ‘green’ white recycled paper cup ‘system’ to go because the insulated cardboard sleeves that typically sheath the single cup delivery units they try to hand me don’t typically stay on for me and that waxy brown corrugated cardboard is best used for immediately packing fish in ice on the docks (not insulating or sleeving my drink, thank you).
Well, the Barista froze up and looked at me with glazed orbs like she was some doe I had just jacked with the high beams of my gold trimmed H-3 Hummer. No further words nor movement came from this wispy, won thing. The solid brass door knocker she had obviously stolen from the oversized, heavy timbered front door of some Transylvanian castle (and then somehow managed to pierce her nostrils with) didn’t even budge. Did my simple drink request break her in two?
-Cal
Dear Cal-
You sound like a right fine pain in the rump. I don’t think I (or anyone) can help you.
-Wally
(Got a question that needs answering? Email our advice columnist- advice@bsp.com attn Wally)
snakes
Dear Wally,
I was told that copperhead snakes, which we have around here, always travel in pairs with one copperhead following behind the first, and that if I see one on the trail, I should not move until the second one passes. What do you think?
--Concerned.
Dear Concerned,
But what if you come across the second one first? Could be a long wait for the next pair to come along, don’t you think? I’d keep moving. Fast.
--Wally
I was told that copperhead snakes, which we have around here, always travel in pairs with one copperhead following behind the first, and that if I see one on the trail, I should not move until the second one passes. What do you think?
--Concerned.
Dear Concerned,
But what if you come across the second one first? Could be a long wait for the next pair to come along, don’t you think? I’d keep moving. Fast.
--Wally
Leaky Oil
Dear Wally:
I really need your advice on what could be a crucial decision. I’ve suspected for some time now that my wife has been cheating on me.
The usual signs…phone rings but if I answer, the caller hangs up. My wife has been going out with the girls a lot recently although when I ask their names, she always says “Just some friends from work, you don’t know them.”
I stay awake to look out for her friend’s car, but she always walks up the drive.
Last night she went out again and I decided to really check on her. I parked my Harley Davidson motorcycle next to the barn and then hid behind it so I could get a good view of the road when she came home.
I was crouching behind my Harley and noticed that the valve covers on my engine seemed to be leaking a little oil. Is this something I can fix myself, or should I take it back to the dealer?
Thanks,
Steve (Stone Ridge)
Dear Steve-
Leaking valve covers (easy to fix yourself with some chewing gum and sawdust, as the fellow who sold me his car did to the valve cover 200 miles before I took ownership) can spell worn piston rings, unseated valves, an exhausted gasket and /or waxing compression loss, which, en masse, often portend the end of the line for the ‘engine’ (The metaphorical ‘engine’, I’m gonna guess, that is your soon to be your former marriage). That’s the bad news. The good news is that it sounds like you will soon have plenty of time to tinker on the motorcycle by yourself in the garage, and maybe even teach yourself a new language like French which you can use to seriously ratchet up your new online dating profile. Now remember, a Harley that spits up or leaks nasty old oil is not the right tool for attracting the next mate (is this even what you want??) unless you fancy a Dept. of Environmental Conservation HazMat Spill Response Officer in a jump suit who may or may not be the coddling, understanding, lovey-dovey type. So, fix that hog and fly on down the road in every possible sense of the phrase..
Bon courage!.
I really need your advice on what could be a crucial decision. I’ve suspected for some time now that my wife has been cheating on me.
The usual signs…phone rings but if I answer, the caller hangs up. My wife has been going out with the girls a lot recently although when I ask their names, she always says “Just some friends from work, you don’t know them.”
I stay awake to look out for her friend’s car, but she always walks up the drive.
Last night she went out again and I decided to really check on her. I parked my Harley Davidson motorcycle next to the barn and then hid behind it so I could get a good view of the road when she came home.
I was crouching behind my Harley and noticed that the valve covers on my engine seemed to be leaking a little oil. Is this something I can fix myself, or should I take it back to the dealer?
Thanks,
Steve (Stone Ridge)
Dear Steve-
Leaking valve covers (easy to fix yourself with some chewing gum and sawdust, as the fellow who sold me his car did to the valve cover 200 miles before I took ownership) can spell worn piston rings, unseated valves, an exhausted gasket and /or waxing compression loss, which, en masse, often portend the end of the line for the ‘engine’ (The metaphorical ‘engine’, I’m gonna guess, that is your soon to be your former marriage). That’s the bad news. The good news is that it sounds like you will soon have plenty of time to tinker on the motorcycle by yourself in the garage, and maybe even teach yourself a new language like French which you can use to seriously ratchet up your new online dating profile. Now remember, a Harley that spits up or leaks nasty old oil is not the right tool for attracting the next mate (is this even what you want??) unless you fancy a Dept. of Environmental Conservation HazMat Spill Response Officer in a jump suit who may or may not be the coddling, understanding, lovey-dovey type. So, fix that hog and fly on down the road in every possible sense of the phrase..
Bon courage!.
Smooshed spiders equal rain?
Dear Wally:
I’ve heard that if you smoosh a spider with your heel, it will rain. True?
-Kathy, Kerhonkson.
Dear Kathy:
Yup. But if you don’t smoosh the spider with your heel, it will rain. Know what I mean?
-Wally
(Got a question that needs answering? Email Wally at cwn4@aol.com)
I’ve heard that if you smoosh a spider with your heel, it will rain. True?
-Kathy, Kerhonkson.
Dear Kathy:
Yup. But if you don’t smoosh the spider with your heel, it will rain. Know what I mean?
-Wally
(Got a question that needs answering? Email Wally at cwn4@aol.com)
red neckin' hard
Red-Neckin’ Hard
Dear Wally,On the weekends my red-neckin’ neighbors get rather liquored up and drive through my property on 4 wheelers, which sends my dogs into fits of hysteria. I have asked them to stay off my property, but they continue cruising around, often with beer in hand and a child on their lap. I have considered calling the police, but am slightly afraid of retribution, as I know the neighbors are avid hunters. What should I do? Riled in Rosendale
Dear Riled,
Most wilderness survival guides suggest avoiding direct confrontation with drunken 4 wheelers, especially when they are with their young. Like Grizzly bears in the springtime, drunken 4 wheelers are highly protective of their cubs and exercise good protective parenting techniques to ensure their offspring’s survival. Like their intellectual rivals, the bears, they can become quite irritable and aggressive, especially before, during or after a long, lean winter. This gets more exasperated when you fold alcohol and internal combustion engines into the mix. You may find yourself with knobby tire marks on your back if you provoke them from too close a distance. You may also find yourself being pelted with empty Coors Light cans, and possibly risk having a section of your buttocks avulsed by an angry swipe of their fingernails.
A box of roofing nails ‘accidentally’ spilled on your property should fix that problem right quick. There’s also a product I’ve read about that shoots liquid skunk stink from a 2” PVC tube you can make yourself that is similar to the aerosol fueled Potato Launcher some real rednecks use. This non-lethal weapon assaults the unwelcome intruders with a fine mist of unrelenting pungency that will surely cause them to reconsider trespassing the next time as they ponder their transgressions from a quiet place of occupational humiliation and ostracism. The stink gun is safe to use because you can sit on your porch, pitch in your rocker like Granny McAdams and wait for them to come to you. The thing shoots the mist a few hundred feet, according to the manual. It will feel like fresh morning dew to them. But it wont smell like it!! (hee hee)
There is one final weapon that you might want to use if diplomacy fails and olfactory assaults do not work. You’ll find it extremely effective but will want to use it judiciously because once you let it out of the cage, so to speak, it is not easy to put back in. Be warned, too--the cost to society is high. Here it is: Place loud speakers just inside your property line and start blasting back to back versions of Ethel Merman’s “There’s No Business Like Show Business” and “Everything’s Coming Up Roses.” Turn up the treble as far as it will go. That’ll pretty much do it. When they are off their 4 wheelers and writhing on the ground in pain, begging for mercy, then call the cops and let the legal system do its job…
Good luck and wear goggles.
Wally.
PS: Avid hunters? Might want to tuck that Halloween deer costume and fake 10-point antler hat back in the closet until this is all sorted out…
(Got a question that needs answering? email our advice columnist-- advice@bsp.com)
Dear Wally,On the weekends my red-neckin’ neighbors get rather liquored up and drive through my property on 4 wheelers, which sends my dogs into fits of hysteria. I have asked them to stay off my property, but they continue cruising around, often with beer in hand and a child on their lap. I have considered calling the police, but am slightly afraid of retribution, as I know the neighbors are avid hunters. What should I do? Riled in Rosendale
Dear Riled,
Most wilderness survival guides suggest avoiding direct confrontation with drunken 4 wheelers, especially when they are with their young. Like Grizzly bears in the springtime, drunken 4 wheelers are highly protective of their cubs and exercise good protective parenting techniques to ensure their offspring’s survival. Like their intellectual rivals, the bears, they can become quite irritable and aggressive, especially before, during or after a long, lean winter. This gets more exasperated when you fold alcohol and internal combustion engines into the mix. You may find yourself with knobby tire marks on your back if you provoke them from too close a distance. You may also find yourself being pelted with empty Coors Light cans, and possibly risk having a section of your buttocks avulsed by an angry swipe of their fingernails.
A box of roofing nails ‘accidentally’ spilled on your property should fix that problem right quick. There’s also a product I’ve read about that shoots liquid skunk stink from a 2” PVC tube you can make yourself that is similar to the aerosol fueled Potato Launcher some real rednecks use. This non-lethal weapon assaults the unwelcome intruders with a fine mist of unrelenting pungency that will surely cause them to reconsider trespassing the next time as they ponder their transgressions from a quiet place of occupational humiliation and ostracism. The stink gun is safe to use because you can sit on your porch, pitch in your rocker like Granny McAdams and wait for them to come to you. The thing shoots the mist a few hundred feet, according to the manual. It will feel like fresh morning dew to them. But it wont smell like it!! (hee hee)
There is one final weapon that you might want to use if diplomacy fails and olfactory assaults do not work. You’ll find it extremely effective but will want to use it judiciously because once you let it out of the cage, so to speak, it is not easy to put back in. Be warned, too--the cost to society is high. Here it is: Place loud speakers just inside your property line and start blasting back to back versions of Ethel Merman’s “There’s No Business Like Show Business” and “Everything’s Coming Up Roses.” Turn up the treble as far as it will go. That’ll pretty much do it. When they are off their 4 wheelers and writhing on the ground in pain, begging for mercy, then call the cops and let the legal system do its job…
Good luck and wear goggles.
Wally.
PS: Avid hunters? Might want to tuck that Halloween deer costume and fake 10-point antler hat back in the closet until this is all sorted out…
(Got a question that needs answering? email our advice columnist-- advice@bsp.com)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
