Conversation with a summer house fly
By Wally Nichols
203 858 3634
(insert fly buzzing sound)
Hey house fly buzzing about my head: You are wily, unlike your plump, lethargic, green-bottle brethren that like to hang out by the kitchen sink. They are easy to dismantle with my swatter. Whap! Gone.
Not you. You are elusive.
Not so readily distracted as they by the accidental, sweet , summer melon juice on the counter. Even as the dark waffled shadow of the orange plastic swatter gets larger, little fly smiles remain on their content little fly faces. That is, until they are rendered pulp.
Not you. You chose not to live and die in my kitchen. Is that too obvious a spot? Have you ambition? Some other plan? Am I doing your genus and species the disservice of generalization by considering you all to be obsessed only with eating (and laying larvae) for the 4 days you get to live?
I say you are unique. Educated? Focused in your game of torment? You have been buzzing my head in my office. Are you looking for something? Treasure? A lost relative?
Hopping from my knuckle to the unpaid Sprint bill on my desk. Why? Then the arm, then the toe, then the neck. Repeat. Subtle, surreptitious, stealthy.
(insert buzzing sound)
Why can’t you just be a fly on the wall, the wish of so many?
I have a swatter nearby yet you never sit still long enough to let me get a lock on you. I’ve learned to use it with the deadly speed and accuracy required of a still standing six shooter at the OK Corral. But I’ve been flummoxed by your cunning. Again and again.
You go to my right ear. Bzzzzzzzz. I flick you off (no I won’t swat myself if that’s your game, but nice try). I write a few more words and you are back. Refreshed. Regrouped. Ready to pester. You buzz around so quickly that I can hardly see you. Just a slight irritation on my skin and I see you have landed again on some other part of my body-- a passing spec in my visual periphery- a baker’s dozen jagged fingernails on the chalkboard of my nerves.
It seems like a design flaw of nature. You are obsessed with landing on me like I’m some sort of foreign planet that has food , shelter, entertainment and a mate for you. Yet for your needs, I am fallow. You have no tools to penetrate my skin and get my blood to feed your young like your annoying cousins the summer mosquitoes. And even if you acquired some discarded BP mining tool for that job, time is not a luxury you have.
Yet, surely the great designer who made us both knew that by giving me a nervous system that carries a message to my brain saying “There is something irritating on your arm,” and a brain that then says to the hand muscles, “neutralize the irritation by lifting up the orange swatter you bought for a dollar at Shoprite last night and pulverize it,” surely that great creator knew you would be smote by me, and I victorious over you.
(insert buzzing sound)
Yet even with no reason to land on this dead, hostile planet, you try. Repeatedly. At the risk of sounding paranoid (and frustrated that I have trouble finishing one single sentence because of your pesky interruptions), I am left no choice but to conclude your raison d’etre is to annoy me.
If that’s the case, so be it. Game on. Let us do what comes to us naturally so I may mush you and this folly be over once and for all. I will temporarily suspend my life goals of happiness, love, compassion and productivity. I will instead focus on your demise, as you, and nature herself, have so forced me.
(insert buzzing sound)
I’ve picked up the swatter with my best hand- the one that can deliver a sizzling first serve on the tennis court every now and then. Hold on- this part is going to be shaky as I’m not good at typing lefty while scanning the skies for a tiny buzzing something that is, admittedly, and with all due respect, quick and cagey in flight.
It’s hard to concentrate on writing when… Whap. Damn I missed. You little F-er… Ok, Ok… There you are, camouflaged on the thin edge of my black computer screen. Finally you stop moving for a nanosecond. Enjoy your last second on Ear…Whap. Damn.
(insert buzzing sound)
Whap Whap Whap.
Damn Damn Damn.
My wife pokes her head in my office. “Is everything OK?”
“Yes,” I growl. But it’s not.
(insert buzzing sound)
Ok Ok Ok, I reassure myself in a lunatic’s whisper. Now I’ve got you... You have moved to my LED backlit screen which betrays your position. You show up like a broken femur on a bright X-ray. A fly on a wedding cake.
Checkmate, fucker.
(Insert buzzing sound)
(Insert swatting sound – buzzing sound stops abruptly)
(A beat then...throat clear)
For the record, let it not be said Wally Nichols wouldn’t hurt a fly.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Dear Wally 74
Dear Wally #74 (Why don’t we do it in the road?)
Oh Wally:
Who do I call about an appliance (something white and ugly) that was dumped on the side of the road? It’s an eyesore against the lush, knee-high, sweet corn and I don’t want to have to pick up (and pay for) someone else’s crap.
Signed, Frustrated.
Dear Frustrated:
I know I know! I feel like I’ve received quite a few angry letters over the years on this subject. Obviously they are not BSP readers or they would have heeded my patronizing lecture series on littering.
We recently had someone ‘deliver’ a mattress to the corner of our road and rt 209- not exactly a discreet location. There is virtually no time to intentionally (or accidentally) heave junk off of the back of your truck and not be seen, reported, arrested or rear-ended.
I did a little research on this from the guys at the town dump. There is a $4 fee to dispose of a used mattress. It doesn’t matter if it’s yours or someone else’s. (I’m not sure if they only take used mattresses -- do they have a test to verify it’s used? Do they dust for lice or bedbugs? Use that ultraviolet light to look for bodily fluids like they do on CSI?
Some mattress age investigations are probably pretty much open and shut cases, but how about those questionably new looking mattresses? Or the ones still in the wrapper? (My wife insists people throw away perfectly good stuff). I don’t know. It actually probably doesn’t matter).
The mattress on the side of my road is definitely used and given the lack of attention it gets from passers by, there could well be someone living in it, on it, or under it. Or worse. I don’t think this is what Paul McCartney had in mind when he penned, “Why don’t we do it in the road,” though I bet no one driving by would even notice if elephants were fornicating on it. Too busy texting or whatever.
Anyway, my dump guy gave me three numbers to call to have the problem solved, none of which, incidentally, was the number of the dump itself. He suggested I first call the town supervisor, a man whose day I’m sure will pick right up when he fields this call. I can only imagine that amidst the throttled tangle of paperwork that bulges over his desk, this exciting project must rocket to the top of the heap and make him wonder if he might just be better off flushing himself down the urinal in the men’s room. (“Is this why I got into public service??”)
The dump guy suggested I might also call the highway department superintendant. These are the folks who fix potholes and chisel the splayed, stiffened raccoon carcasses off the road. This mattress is definitely dead. And God knows what yecht is feasting on it now after countless thunderstorms and crippling humidity. Maybe I’ll call. Maybe I wont. There are a lot of mushed critters out there these days. They might be busy.
Dump Guy’s third option was more of a political statement –one of obvious frustration and disapproval. He told me to kick this matter way upstairs and call Obama directly.
How will this play out? I’ve spent enough time on the phone with customer service over the years to answer this by way of natural logic: A bear in the woods needs 5,000 calories per day, let’s say. Let’s say it sees a mouse (1,000 calories) and gives chase. At some point, the bear realizes that the energy expended lumbering after that mouse (3,000 calories) will not offset the caloric gain. Instead, the bear gives up, eats some low hanging, unripe berries, gives himself a bad case of backwoods diarrhea and then takes a nap.
I will be that bear after making my futile phone calls to options 1, 2 (and 3). I then will be out there with my trailer and a hazmat suit and poker. I will struggle with a soggy, boneless, moldy mattress that doesn’t want to leave its ‘happy place’ in the weeds on the side of the road. I will prevail, however, and after much yuckiness, I will wrestle it to the trailer floor and drive the 3 miles to the dump where I will unload it single handedly while the dump boys scratch themselves and look on with great amusement as they pass around my 4 dollar bills and hold them to the sun to make sure they aren’t counterfeit.
Or I’ll send my hottie wife to the dump and watch them fall over themselves to help her unload it. But on second thought, maybe not. She usually goes to the dump with 2 bags and comes back with a pick up truck of stuff like broken treadmills and other forgotten exercise equipment that has had a truncated and disappointing life with another well-intentioned family .
But you. You have an appliance on the side of the road to deal with. White and ugly. I know a little bit about white and ugly. I’m guessing it is valueless or someone would have filched it already.
I’ve got 3 numbers for you to call-Town supervisor, Highway Superintendent, and finally, former President GW Bush (who is obviously responsible and who, I presume, has ample time to deal with just exactly this sort of matter).
Good luck and wear goggles (and gloves)!
Wally
Ps-if you come across a working micro brewery that has been left on the side of the road, make ME your FIRST of 3 calls!
Got a question for our columnist or just don’t like his politics? Write him a feisty, anonymous letter at cwn4@aol.com.
Oh Wally:
Who do I call about an appliance (something white and ugly) that was dumped on the side of the road? It’s an eyesore against the lush, knee-high, sweet corn and I don’t want to have to pick up (and pay for) someone else’s crap.
Signed, Frustrated.
Dear Frustrated:
I know I know! I feel like I’ve received quite a few angry letters over the years on this subject. Obviously they are not BSP readers or they would have heeded my patronizing lecture series on littering.
We recently had someone ‘deliver’ a mattress to the corner of our road and rt 209- not exactly a discreet location. There is virtually no time to intentionally (or accidentally) heave junk off of the back of your truck and not be seen, reported, arrested or rear-ended.
I did a little research on this from the guys at the town dump. There is a $4 fee to dispose of a used mattress. It doesn’t matter if it’s yours or someone else’s. (I’m not sure if they only take used mattresses -- do they have a test to verify it’s used? Do they dust for lice or bedbugs? Use that ultraviolet light to look for bodily fluids like they do on CSI?
Some mattress age investigations are probably pretty much open and shut cases, but how about those questionably new looking mattresses? Or the ones still in the wrapper? (My wife insists people throw away perfectly good stuff). I don’t know. It actually probably doesn’t matter).
The mattress on the side of my road is definitely used and given the lack of attention it gets from passers by, there could well be someone living in it, on it, or under it. Or worse. I don’t think this is what Paul McCartney had in mind when he penned, “Why don’t we do it in the road,” though I bet no one driving by would even notice if elephants were fornicating on it. Too busy texting or whatever.
Anyway, my dump guy gave me three numbers to call to have the problem solved, none of which, incidentally, was the number of the dump itself. He suggested I first call the town supervisor, a man whose day I’m sure will pick right up when he fields this call. I can only imagine that amidst the throttled tangle of paperwork that bulges over his desk, this exciting project must rocket to the top of the heap and make him wonder if he might just be better off flushing himself down the urinal in the men’s room. (“Is this why I got into public service??”)
The dump guy suggested I might also call the highway department superintendant. These are the folks who fix potholes and chisel the splayed, stiffened raccoon carcasses off the road. This mattress is definitely dead. And God knows what yecht is feasting on it now after countless thunderstorms and crippling humidity. Maybe I’ll call. Maybe I wont. There are a lot of mushed critters out there these days. They might be busy.
Dump Guy’s third option was more of a political statement –one of obvious frustration and disapproval. He told me to kick this matter way upstairs and call Obama directly.
How will this play out? I’ve spent enough time on the phone with customer service over the years to answer this by way of natural logic: A bear in the woods needs 5,000 calories per day, let’s say. Let’s say it sees a mouse (1,000 calories) and gives chase. At some point, the bear realizes that the energy expended lumbering after that mouse (3,000 calories) will not offset the caloric gain. Instead, the bear gives up, eats some low hanging, unripe berries, gives himself a bad case of backwoods diarrhea and then takes a nap.
I will be that bear after making my futile phone calls to options 1, 2 (and 3). I then will be out there with my trailer and a hazmat suit and poker. I will struggle with a soggy, boneless, moldy mattress that doesn’t want to leave its ‘happy place’ in the weeds on the side of the road. I will prevail, however, and after much yuckiness, I will wrestle it to the trailer floor and drive the 3 miles to the dump where I will unload it single handedly while the dump boys scratch themselves and look on with great amusement as they pass around my 4 dollar bills and hold them to the sun to make sure they aren’t counterfeit.
Or I’ll send my hottie wife to the dump and watch them fall over themselves to help her unload it. But on second thought, maybe not. She usually goes to the dump with 2 bags and comes back with a pick up truck of stuff like broken treadmills and other forgotten exercise equipment that has had a truncated and disappointing life with another well-intentioned family .
But you. You have an appliance on the side of the road to deal with. White and ugly. I know a little bit about white and ugly. I’m guessing it is valueless or someone would have filched it already.
I’ve got 3 numbers for you to call-Town supervisor, Highway Superintendent, and finally, former President GW Bush (who is obviously responsible and who, I presume, has ample time to deal with just exactly this sort of matter).
Good luck and wear goggles (and gloves)!
Wally
Ps-if you come across a working micro brewery that has been left on the side of the road, make ME your FIRST of 3 calls!
Got a question for our columnist or just don’t like his politics? Write him a feisty, anonymous letter at cwn4@aol.com.
Dear Wally 73 Ringo Starr first concert for Hattie
My two and a half year old daughter and I went to see her first rock concert. I felt it was an important rite of passage and I wanted it to be special as it might define her later when she is inevitably sitting around a bonfire with friends and the subject of first concerts comes up. I didn’t want it to be something shameful and fleeting like Miley Cyrus or the Jonas Brothers (or whoever replaces them in 9 years).
We saw Ringo Starr and his all star band at Bethel Woods- the hollowed site of the Woodstock concert in 1969, which is cool in its own right if you ask this wanna-be Hippie. And you saw us apparently. I was the guy in shorts.
I wanted her to see the Beatles, my all time favorite band. If I could deliver to her or anyone the entire intact Beatles, daddy wouldn’t be driving a Subaru.
Some parenting can unfairly boil down to imposing ones values and perspective (and wishes) on one’s child. That, of course, is not necessarily a good thing. I’m aware of this temptation, but decided to take a gamble, selling her on the promise of a blanket and picnic.
At almost 3, she’s frequently a contrarian in language, though not necessarily in sentiment. Plenty of times she defines things and people with a binary declaration of appreciation, as in “I love….” Or “I don’t like…” And those can flip flop inside of seconds.
On the car ride over, she queried me from the back. “Who is Ringo?”
I tried to explain that he was a Beatle and immediately realized the error from her confused look. I chucked it back from insect into terms she can relate to these days: “He’s a very nice man,” I said. “He plays the guitar” (Which is a stretch of the truth, I know, but explaining the drums would require more concentration than I could spare while driving.)
“He plays guitar like you?” She asked. I might be doing him a disservice but I think Ringo plays guitar as poorly as I do so I said yes. The association felt grand.
“I don’t like Ringo,” she declared stubbornly.
“I know,” I sighed. “I don’t really either.”
Now If Paul McCartney was within 500 miles, I’d consider getting a large box of diapers a bigger picnic basket and making a weekend of it. Paul, you see is my favorite Beatle. Then George. Then John. Then Ringo.
I think your Beatle preference reveals a lot. It’s possibly an entire other essay.
But, seeing ANY Beatle felt incredibly important to me. It was high on my bucket list. On Dec 8, 1981, after years and years of singing along to them in the shower and car, I closed my bedroom door and played all my Beatles records in tribute to John Lennon. And I cried. I was 15.
Taking my daughter to see a member of the phenomenon I listened to at her tender age seemed like the very most important thing to do. I literally got so excited that I started worrying Ringo might have a heart attack and not make it to the show.
But Ringo was there in fine form. The guard at the entrance gate was so happy to see my smiling young baby girl on my shoulders that he let us in for free.
The music was spot on and just hearing Ringo sing felt as comforting as listening to an old friend on the phone. I’d heard his voice so many times on records, 8 track tapes, CDs and the radio over the years that the familiarity was precious.
Hattie had a great time. Shoes came off, she was running and dancing on the grass chasing other small kids whose parents, like me, had one eye on the stage and one eye on our kids.
The unspoken bonding that happens at any concerts is always special. You go because you love the music. Music crosses socio-economic racial borders gracefully. But at this show, the depth of connection felt tectonic. For the Beatles have a well-deserved place in the musical canon. Their music a gift to all walks of life, all sizes, shapes, colors and ages. Indeed, by the folks represented that night, all generations, shapes sizes and ages. Ringo was an integral part of that experience no matter where on your ‘Beatles List” he is.
He tried out cuts from his new, forthcoming CD. We were all polite. But we were not there for that. When he played Beatles tunes, people went berserk. I felt like I might need to hand a few of Hattie’s diapers out to fully grown women there was that much excitement.
Hattie said to me as we left, “I love Ringo.” To which I replied, irresponsibly imposing my values on another, “Like Ringo. Love Paul.”
We saw Ringo Starr and his all star band at Bethel Woods- the hollowed site of the Woodstock concert in 1969, which is cool in its own right if you ask this wanna-be Hippie. And you saw us apparently. I was the guy in shorts.
I wanted her to see the Beatles, my all time favorite band. If I could deliver to her or anyone the entire intact Beatles, daddy wouldn’t be driving a Subaru.
Some parenting can unfairly boil down to imposing ones values and perspective (and wishes) on one’s child. That, of course, is not necessarily a good thing. I’m aware of this temptation, but decided to take a gamble, selling her on the promise of a blanket and picnic.
At almost 3, she’s frequently a contrarian in language, though not necessarily in sentiment. Plenty of times she defines things and people with a binary declaration of appreciation, as in “I love….” Or “I don’t like…” And those can flip flop inside of seconds.
On the car ride over, she queried me from the back. “Who is Ringo?”
I tried to explain that he was a Beatle and immediately realized the error from her confused look. I chucked it back from insect into terms she can relate to these days: “He’s a very nice man,” I said. “He plays the guitar” (Which is a stretch of the truth, I know, but explaining the drums would require more concentration than I could spare while driving.)
“He plays guitar like you?” She asked. I might be doing him a disservice but I think Ringo plays guitar as poorly as I do so I said yes. The association felt grand.
“I don’t like Ringo,” she declared stubbornly.
“I know,” I sighed. “I don’t really either.”
Now If Paul McCartney was within 500 miles, I’d consider getting a large box of diapers a bigger picnic basket and making a weekend of it. Paul, you see is my favorite Beatle. Then George. Then John. Then Ringo.
I think your Beatle preference reveals a lot. It’s possibly an entire other essay.
But, seeing ANY Beatle felt incredibly important to me. It was high on my bucket list. On Dec 8, 1981, after years and years of singing along to them in the shower and car, I closed my bedroom door and played all my Beatles records in tribute to John Lennon. And I cried. I was 15.
Taking my daughter to see a member of the phenomenon I listened to at her tender age seemed like the very most important thing to do. I literally got so excited that I started worrying Ringo might have a heart attack and not make it to the show.
But Ringo was there in fine form. The guard at the entrance gate was so happy to see my smiling young baby girl on my shoulders that he let us in for free.
The music was spot on and just hearing Ringo sing felt as comforting as listening to an old friend on the phone. I’d heard his voice so many times on records, 8 track tapes, CDs and the radio over the years that the familiarity was precious.
Hattie had a great time. Shoes came off, she was running and dancing on the grass chasing other small kids whose parents, like me, had one eye on the stage and one eye on our kids.
The unspoken bonding that happens at any concerts is always special. You go because you love the music. Music crosses socio-economic racial borders gracefully. But at this show, the depth of connection felt tectonic. For the Beatles have a well-deserved place in the musical canon. Their music a gift to all walks of life, all sizes, shapes, colors and ages. Indeed, by the folks represented that night, all generations, shapes sizes and ages. Ringo was an integral part of that experience no matter where on your ‘Beatles List” he is.
He tried out cuts from his new, forthcoming CD. We were all polite. But we were not there for that. When he played Beatles tunes, people went berserk. I felt like I might need to hand a few of Hattie’s diapers out to fully grown women there was that much excitement.
Hattie said to me as we left, “I love Ringo.” To which I replied, irresponsibly imposing my values on another, “Like Ringo. Love Paul.”
Dear Wally 72
(Old) Men Troubles
Dear Wally,
I am a woman of a certain age who has never gone for much older or younger men. That is still true. My preference is someone within three or four years of my own certain age, which is none of your business. My problem is I never go for anyone anymore because men my own age have started looking and acting really decrepit. In fact they often look like my grandfather. I don’t want to date someone whose diaper I need to change or who will set their chattering dentures on my night table before bed or whom I’ll need to stuff with Viagra every 15 minutes like he’s a NYC parking meter or someone who grunts or smacks their lips when they sleep. That’s not my idea of fun.
Please don't come up with an easy answer such as change my preferred age.
Hoping you will have a solution. I’m artistic and attractive by the way.
-Randy (not my real name, but close)
Dear Randy:
Diapers? Decrepit? Agonal breathing? Just how old are you anyway that within 3-4 years of your age you are winding up with Methuselahs like this? Are you trying to pick up guys at a nursing home or the ICU? Are you speed dating stiffs at the morgue?
There’s a fellow at my gym who must have been alive when Lincoln was president and he’s in fine fettle. Doesn’t even grunt when he’s lifting weights, unlike the gentlemen it seems you tend to couch. You might just be a looky loo and show up.
When my grandfather died 37 years ago, I thought my beloved grandmother might be lost. So as a kid I wrote a letter to bachelor Marlin Perkins who was then the already very old host of Mutual of Ohmaha’s ‘Wild Kingdom’ --the tv show ostensibly about shooting zebras in the rump with dart guns as they ran willy-nilly and petrified across the African grasslands. (In fact the show was a shill somehow for life insurance but that was lost on this whippersnapper at the time). Anyway, he was the oldest looking person I knew of other than my dead grandfather and he actually looked a little like my grandmother (matching age spots) when he was leaning out the chopper door hooting and hollering. My letter was never answered but even to this then 6 year old, it was clear there were options out there for the willing and patient. So ‘Randy’ rest assured.
Do you go to a car dealer and ask for the oldest piece of crap they have? The one that won’t even make it off the lot without breaking? The one with bald tires that backfires? The one with a large suspicious puddle of some brightly colored lubricant under it? No one likes getting stuck on the side of the highway because their fuel pump or timing chain went out. Fuel pumps and timing chains break on old, used cars. You, my friend, have been hanging out on the old used car lot. And if you buy an old, used car, beware--you will also need to buy AAA with unlimited towing, do you hear what I say?
Anyway, where I’m going with this is maybe you can do some internal work to revisit the whole objection to younger men thing, and thus your objection to my ‘easy answer’ of lowering your age requirements. (Why wouldn’t anyone want an easy answer? Hmmmm. You stumped me).
I’m sure you have much to offer a young buck beyond carnal satisfaction --experience, appreciation for chamber music, the ability to cook without a microwave, actually remembering the 60’s (and the 50’s?) (Egads, the 40’s??).
And the spoils of such a relationship would be myriad, including only getting told stories once and not having your date pitch forward in his oatmeal if it is after 6pm.
I’m not saying to go pace the chain link fence at the local college, but how about splitting the difference between 18 and 108?
The worst that is going to happen if you start trolling the waters for young men is that you will be accused of being a cougar (so what?) by jealous friends, mocking members of the public and readers of this column, if there even are any left. Technically a woman one single day older than her target is a cougar, so don’t get hung up on the definition no matter where between the goal uprights (i.e 18-108) you are.
Of course if you do still object to being with a guy too much younger, yet want all the sparks flying (ahem) except stimulating conversations and bad morning breath, then there is another option-- Get the other kind of boyfriend. (I’d put the term boyfriend in quotes but it’s too salty).
Hope this helped. By the way, if you find you like this last option, please, save some batteries for the rest of us and our flashlights-- hurricane season is coming.
-Wally
Got a question that needs answering or just want to learn how to tweak your match.com profile so the old geezers with no money stay away? Email him at cwn4@aol.com This is also a good address for your irate letters.
Dear Wally,
I am a woman of a certain age who has never gone for much older or younger men. That is still true. My preference is someone within three or four years of my own certain age, which is none of your business. My problem is I never go for anyone anymore because men my own age have started looking and acting really decrepit. In fact they often look like my grandfather. I don’t want to date someone whose diaper I need to change or who will set their chattering dentures on my night table before bed or whom I’ll need to stuff with Viagra every 15 minutes like he’s a NYC parking meter or someone who grunts or smacks their lips when they sleep. That’s not my idea of fun.
Please don't come up with an easy answer such as change my preferred age.
Hoping you will have a solution. I’m artistic and attractive by the way.
-Randy (not my real name, but close)
Dear Randy:
Diapers? Decrepit? Agonal breathing? Just how old are you anyway that within 3-4 years of your age you are winding up with Methuselahs like this? Are you trying to pick up guys at a nursing home or the ICU? Are you speed dating stiffs at the morgue?
There’s a fellow at my gym who must have been alive when Lincoln was president and he’s in fine fettle. Doesn’t even grunt when he’s lifting weights, unlike the gentlemen it seems you tend to couch. You might just be a looky loo and show up.
When my grandfather died 37 years ago, I thought my beloved grandmother might be lost. So as a kid I wrote a letter to bachelor Marlin Perkins who was then the already very old host of Mutual of Ohmaha’s ‘Wild Kingdom’ --the tv show ostensibly about shooting zebras in the rump with dart guns as they ran willy-nilly and petrified across the African grasslands. (In fact the show was a shill somehow for life insurance but that was lost on this whippersnapper at the time). Anyway, he was the oldest looking person I knew of other than my dead grandfather and he actually looked a little like my grandmother (matching age spots) when he was leaning out the chopper door hooting and hollering. My letter was never answered but even to this then 6 year old, it was clear there were options out there for the willing and patient. So ‘Randy’ rest assured.
Do you go to a car dealer and ask for the oldest piece of crap they have? The one that won’t even make it off the lot without breaking? The one with bald tires that backfires? The one with a large suspicious puddle of some brightly colored lubricant under it? No one likes getting stuck on the side of the highway because their fuel pump or timing chain went out. Fuel pumps and timing chains break on old, used cars. You, my friend, have been hanging out on the old used car lot. And if you buy an old, used car, beware--you will also need to buy AAA with unlimited towing, do you hear what I say?
Anyway, where I’m going with this is maybe you can do some internal work to revisit the whole objection to younger men thing, and thus your objection to my ‘easy answer’ of lowering your age requirements. (Why wouldn’t anyone want an easy answer? Hmmmm. You stumped me).
I’m sure you have much to offer a young buck beyond carnal satisfaction --experience, appreciation for chamber music, the ability to cook without a microwave, actually remembering the 60’s (and the 50’s?) (Egads, the 40’s??).
And the spoils of such a relationship would be myriad, including only getting told stories once and not having your date pitch forward in his oatmeal if it is after 6pm.
I’m not saying to go pace the chain link fence at the local college, but how about splitting the difference between 18 and 108?
The worst that is going to happen if you start trolling the waters for young men is that you will be accused of being a cougar (so what?) by jealous friends, mocking members of the public and readers of this column, if there even are any left. Technically a woman one single day older than her target is a cougar, so don’t get hung up on the definition no matter where between the goal uprights (i.e 18-108) you are.
Of course if you do still object to being with a guy too much younger, yet want all the sparks flying (ahem) except stimulating conversations and bad morning breath, then there is another option-- Get the other kind of boyfriend. (I’d put the term boyfriend in quotes but it’s too salty).
Hope this helped. By the way, if you find you like this last option, please, save some batteries for the rest of us and our flashlights-- hurricane season is coming.
-Wally
Got a question that needs answering or just want to learn how to tweak your match.com profile so the old geezers with no money stay away? Email him at cwn4@aol.com This is also a good address for your irate letters.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Dear Wally 71 Cat Lady
Hotel Hair Ball
Dear Wally:
I have just been given two cats to take care of for an extended, undefined period of time. They belong to my new daughter in law (our relationship is still fragile) and they are normally NYC apartment dwellers. She and my son are off to Africa and need us to care for them. Does this make me a ‘cat lady’?
-Anonymous
Dear soon to be ‘cat lady’:
People give other people cats to ‘care for’ when they don’t like those people. Let’s discuss your legitimate concern about becoming a cat lady. The ‘cat lady’ is a noble, selfless lover of all things feline who has made what some might say is the ultimate sacrifice: She has exchanged a traditional life of interactive human relationships, hygiene and even sometimes the proper use of the English language itself for a house full of hairballs and decapitated mice. But cat ladies are now part of our cultural fabric, albeit the fabric we prefer to keep under the outerwear, and though often mocked, we must respect their sacrifice in the name of animal welfare. The question is, do you have what it takes to do this hard job? Let’s start with the end.
Usually when cat ladies pass away, the cats turn on them and devour them. When all’s said and done, as thanks for their life time of giving, they are consumed, ‘processed’ and then buried like O’Henry candy bars in the same kitty litter they used to change (or not change).
It’s a slippery slope to Cat Lady status, but that slope has to start somewhere. And it sounds like 2 cats on your doorstep is the ticket. I’m not trying to scare you but just to let you know how greasy and slick this path can be. Hypothetical scenario: A couple of cats are ‘left’ with you by a relative. That relative ‘moves’ to someplace like Africa (a likely story by the way) and promises to fetch Snowball and Mittens as soon as they return. (Look on your calendar for the 15th of Never, pal, and mark it). Let’s also say they sweeten the deal by saying they’ll cover the vet costs and food. Then they conveniently get caught up in packing and rushing for the flight and conveniently forget to hook you up with the few thousand dollars behind the promises. (I see this happen everyday!) Yet another unfunded mandate.
(By the way, telling the city cats they are either going on a ‘drive to the country’ or ‘going to spend some time on a relative’s farm upstate’ is mafia-speak for getting whacked. Don’t be surprised if Mittens jumps if you slam the door too hard.)
Anyway, the relative neglects to mention that Mittens and Snowballs (‘balls’? Plural? Oh boy…) screw like jackrabbits every night and haven’t had their plumbing ‘fixed.’ Before you know it, Mittens is in a family way. Reality check: You are now a cat lady. Not just a cat lady but soon to be a cat grandmother which is a whole other magnitude of cat lady. Sure the kittens will be cute and tug at your blinds. You will scratch their bellies and laughing, hold them up to the ceiling. They will claw playfully at the telephone cord attached to the phone you keep using to reach the full voice mail of relative who rightfully owns them.
Soon you are the night manager at the Hotel Hairball.
Before you know it, you have converted the 3rd floor of your house to a makeshift kitty play pen. You will have maxed out the good will of your husband by asking him to move his office downstairs (Him: what the F%#@??) and then make a jungle gym out of 2x4s for them (You: But honey, they’re soooo cute!)
One fateful day, one of the 15 cats misses the litter box and soon it’s chaos. The next day no one of the 60 cats is using it any longer and you pretty much have to staple up greenhouse grade plastic to keep the stench in. After 2 years (your husband has long since moved out and your friends are scarce) you decide to open up the 2nd floor. “Grand opening everyone! Come on down! Great Grandpa Snowballs who has sired you all will be wearing a tux and tap dancing!” After all, 200 incestuous cats need to stretch their 800 legs!
You still have the downstairs to yourself, except for the 15 or so cats who have brazenly figured out how to julienne the plastic with their razor sharp claws and get in. And so long as they don’t actually step in the lasagna pan (at least too much), it’s still ok by you.
You are not sure if you have early onset tinnitus or if it is just the incessant, maddening din of meow. The stereo can’t play Tom Jones loud enough! Life is good!
Or is it?
You can see where this is heading. You will be the grand matron of an appreciative feline dynasty (that is, before they turn on you). You will enjoy the spoils of a heavenly return on investment for your earthly sense of animal welfare once at Saint Peter’s great gates (which will have angelic purring cats coiling around them and sharpening their claws on the harp strings, no doubt). But it will cost you in the here and now.
So proceed cautiously with any more than 1 cat with reproductive capacity right now. And verify that your daughter in law has a legitimate (roundtrip) ticket to Timbuktu or wherever she claims to be going or you will become the cat lady you fear.
Hope this helped.
Got a question for our advice columnist or a spade, outdoor, female proven mouser who can sing and dance AND act for his new Off Broadway (by 100 miles) production about farm life? Contact him at cwn4@aol.com
Dear Wally:
I have just been given two cats to take care of for an extended, undefined period of time. They belong to my new daughter in law (our relationship is still fragile) and they are normally NYC apartment dwellers. She and my son are off to Africa and need us to care for them. Does this make me a ‘cat lady’?
-Anonymous
Dear soon to be ‘cat lady’:
People give other people cats to ‘care for’ when they don’t like those people. Let’s discuss your legitimate concern about becoming a cat lady. The ‘cat lady’ is a noble, selfless lover of all things feline who has made what some might say is the ultimate sacrifice: She has exchanged a traditional life of interactive human relationships, hygiene and even sometimes the proper use of the English language itself for a house full of hairballs and decapitated mice. But cat ladies are now part of our cultural fabric, albeit the fabric we prefer to keep under the outerwear, and though often mocked, we must respect their sacrifice in the name of animal welfare. The question is, do you have what it takes to do this hard job? Let’s start with the end.
Usually when cat ladies pass away, the cats turn on them and devour them. When all’s said and done, as thanks for their life time of giving, they are consumed, ‘processed’ and then buried like O’Henry candy bars in the same kitty litter they used to change (or not change).
It’s a slippery slope to Cat Lady status, but that slope has to start somewhere. And it sounds like 2 cats on your doorstep is the ticket. I’m not trying to scare you but just to let you know how greasy and slick this path can be. Hypothetical scenario: A couple of cats are ‘left’ with you by a relative. That relative ‘moves’ to someplace like Africa (a likely story by the way) and promises to fetch Snowball and Mittens as soon as they return. (Look on your calendar for the 15th of Never, pal, and mark it). Let’s also say they sweeten the deal by saying they’ll cover the vet costs and food. Then they conveniently get caught up in packing and rushing for the flight and conveniently forget to hook you up with the few thousand dollars behind the promises. (I see this happen everyday!) Yet another unfunded mandate.
(By the way, telling the city cats they are either going on a ‘drive to the country’ or ‘going to spend some time on a relative’s farm upstate’ is mafia-speak for getting whacked. Don’t be surprised if Mittens jumps if you slam the door too hard.)
Anyway, the relative neglects to mention that Mittens and Snowballs (‘balls’? Plural? Oh boy…) screw like jackrabbits every night and haven’t had their plumbing ‘fixed.’ Before you know it, Mittens is in a family way. Reality check: You are now a cat lady. Not just a cat lady but soon to be a cat grandmother which is a whole other magnitude of cat lady. Sure the kittens will be cute and tug at your blinds. You will scratch their bellies and laughing, hold them up to the ceiling. They will claw playfully at the telephone cord attached to the phone you keep using to reach the full voice mail of relative who rightfully owns them.
Soon you are the night manager at the Hotel Hairball.
Before you know it, you have converted the 3rd floor of your house to a makeshift kitty play pen. You will have maxed out the good will of your husband by asking him to move his office downstairs (Him: what the F%#@??) and then make a jungle gym out of 2x4s for them (You: But honey, they’re soooo cute!)
One fateful day, one of the 15 cats misses the litter box and soon it’s chaos. The next day no one of the 60 cats is using it any longer and you pretty much have to staple up greenhouse grade plastic to keep the stench in. After 2 years (your husband has long since moved out and your friends are scarce) you decide to open up the 2nd floor. “Grand opening everyone! Come on down! Great Grandpa Snowballs who has sired you all will be wearing a tux and tap dancing!” After all, 200 incestuous cats need to stretch their 800 legs!
You still have the downstairs to yourself, except for the 15 or so cats who have brazenly figured out how to julienne the plastic with their razor sharp claws and get in. And so long as they don’t actually step in the lasagna pan (at least too much), it’s still ok by you.
You are not sure if you have early onset tinnitus or if it is just the incessant, maddening din of meow. The stereo can’t play Tom Jones loud enough! Life is good!
Or is it?
You can see where this is heading. You will be the grand matron of an appreciative feline dynasty (that is, before they turn on you). You will enjoy the spoils of a heavenly return on investment for your earthly sense of animal welfare once at Saint Peter’s great gates (which will have angelic purring cats coiling around them and sharpening their claws on the harp strings, no doubt). But it will cost you in the here and now.
So proceed cautiously with any more than 1 cat with reproductive capacity right now. And verify that your daughter in law has a legitimate (roundtrip) ticket to Timbuktu or wherever she claims to be going or you will become the cat lady you fear.
Hope this helped.
Got a question for our advice columnist or a spade, outdoor, female proven mouser who can sing and dance AND act for his new Off Broadway (by 100 miles) production about farm life? Contact him at cwn4@aol.com
Dear Wally 70 Post Office Ira
Dear Wally,I really enjoy your column. I am currently a postal employee and have been for many years.
Why do so many people buy 1 or 2 stamps at a time instead of buying 10 or 20? I realize that money is tight these days, but it amazes me that people will make a special trip to the post office for one simple purchase and then complain about the price of a stamp. Do I need to point out that driving to the post office uses gas, wear and tear on your vehicle and time? It’s more costly to make one special trip than to stock up. Like so many things, this makes no sense to me.
The other thing that boggles my mind is how rude people can be. They come in telling us how sick they are and in the next breath cough and spread their germs all over. YUK!! Dealing with the public can be interesting, rewarding, challenging and frustrating. Wally, do you think I’m losing my zip or just being anal?
Also, do you have an Ask Wally fan club? If so, I would like to join.
IMP, A fan and admirer from Kerhonkson, NY
Dear IMP:
First, let’s establish props--You are the collateral damage in the domestic war on germs and for that you have my deep condolences and sympathy. I often wonder how it is you postal employees are not laid low with disease each of the 365 days a year. You have nowhere to hide from the hacking public behind that faux-mica counter, do you?
(I also wonder if you were blindfolded, could you match the body odor or foot shuffle or throat clear to the customer? Do you postal guys have secret names for us like ‘Captain B.O.’, ‘Buzzard Breath’, ‘Nice Hair Piece’ and ‘Don’t You Have a Job?’)
Anyway, for those intent on rudely sharing their communicable airborne diseases with innocent government employees who have been further victimized by being forced to wear robin’s egg blue uniforms, it’s like shooting fish in a barrel. IMP, you are an easy target. If you chose to wear a HEPA-95 respirator to work, or just not show up to work at all, I wouldn’t blame you one little bit.
Because you can’t conduct business behind a sheet of booger-proof glass, which would be a job requirement for me by the way, and because it’s every (post)man for himself, I think the solution is to make yourself repulsive.
How about going to a novelty shop and getting one of those giant, stick-on moles with a 3 inch curly black hair coming out of it. Slap it on your nose or something. Or get some imitation drool that you can smear on the side of your mouth. Some fake blood on your hand will do wonders in keeping people (both sick and healthy) nice and far away.
Remember, you personally just need to make yourself look less attractive than your hottie co-workers and let gravitational human nature take care of the rest. (This principle is used with roach management in NYC all the time- make your apartment less inviting than your neighbor’s and the problem necessarily goes down the hall).
You complain about the frequency and inefficiency of visits by the public-- i.e. driving the gas guzzling cars to the post office for just a stamp or two when they could easily buy a book and not have to mug through their purses every day for 44 dirty pennies. The postal office muthaship must be hip to this because they began peddling the Forever stamps- which, like grenades of SPAM, have no shelf life. Obviously our collective fear of commitment has been tickled and the once great idea of postage-purchase efficiency has worked like a potato in the tailpipe.
I think there may be more going on here. It may be that the public can’t get enough of your predictably sunny dispositions. I know from experience that I have never been treated rudely at a post office (except the 53 times when I was in NYC). Quite the opposite, it’s usually a pleasant enough conversation about the weather, which is a perennially safe and mostly enjoyable topic. A typical exchange might go:
Me: “Nice weather we’re having today.”
Postguy: “Oh yes!”
Me: “They say rain tomorrow.”
Postguy: “Yes they do.”
Now why wouldn’t I keep coming back for that? How tenderly rare and special is it to go somewhere public and not be given the finger? So thank you IMP and the rest of your colleagues.
Consider that in these days of economic uncertainty and political/ social divisiveness, we all know that your countertop acts as an ideologically inert watering hole of pleasantness as well as being a safe house for at least one non-combative commercial transaction during the day, if I may mix a few metaphors to make some roundabout point.
Get a bottle of Clorox, a bandana and stand your ground. It’ll all work out! Remember your motto: Neither rain, nor sleet, nor communicable disease, nor hammered 401k, nor loitering, nor unbathed, lingering customers shall keep you from delivering the mail. In fact, the only thing that might keep you from delivering the mail is that little 1960’s Iron Curtain crapbox on wheels they make you guys deliver the mail in because it is broken down on the side of the road and they stopped making parts when the Berlin Wall was constructed.
-Wally
Got a question for our advice columnist or just want to join his fan club? (Believe me, there’s still A LOT of room). There is a non-refundable initiation fee of $1,000 (please get a postal money order from the guy with the hairy nose mole!
Why do so many people buy 1 or 2 stamps at a time instead of buying 10 or 20? I realize that money is tight these days, but it amazes me that people will make a special trip to the post office for one simple purchase and then complain about the price of a stamp. Do I need to point out that driving to the post office uses gas, wear and tear on your vehicle and time? It’s more costly to make one special trip than to stock up. Like so many things, this makes no sense to me.
The other thing that boggles my mind is how rude people can be. They come in telling us how sick they are and in the next breath cough and spread their germs all over. YUK!! Dealing with the public can be interesting, rewarding, challenging and frustrating. Wally, do you think I’m losing my zip or just being anal?
Also, do you have an Ask Wally fan club? If so, I would like to join.
IMP, A fan and admirer from Kerhonkson, NY
Dear IMP:
First, let’s establish props--You are the collateral damage in the domestic war on germs and for that you have my deep condolences and sympathy. I often wonder how it is you postal employees are not laid low with disease each of the 365 days a year. You have nowhere to hide from the hacking public behind that faux-mica counter, do you?
(I also wonder if you were blindfolded, could you match the body odor or foot shuffle or throat clear to the customer? Do you postal guys have secret names for us like ‘Captain B.O.’, ‘Buzzard Breath’, ‘Nice Hair Piece’ and ‘Don’t You Have a Job?’)
Anyway, for those intent on rudely sharing their communicable airborne diseases with innocent government employees who have been further victimized by being forced to wear robin’s egg blue uniforms, it’s like shooting fish in a barrel. IMP, you are an easy target. If you chose to wear a HEPA-95 respirator to work, or just not show up to work at all, I wouldn’t blame you one little bit.
Because you can’t conduct business behind a sheet of booger-proof glass, which would be a job requirement for me by the way, and because it’s every (post)man for himself, I think the solution is to make yourself repulsive.
How about going to a novelty shop and getting one of those giant, stick-on moles with a 3 inch curly black hair coming out of it. Slap it on your nose or something. Or get some imitation drool that you can smear on the side of your mouth. Some fake blood on your hand will do wonders in keeping people (both sick and healthy) nice and far away.
Remember, you personally just need to make yourself look less attractive than your hottie co-workers and let gravitational human nature take care of the rest. (This principle is used with roach management in NYC all the time- make your apartment less inviting than your neighbor’s and the problem necessarily goes down the hall).
You complain about the frequency and inefficiency of visits by the public-- i.e. driving the gas guzzling cars to the post office for just a stamp or two when they could easily buy a book and not have to mug through their purses every day for 44 dirty pennies. The postal office muthaship must be hip to this because they began peddling the Forever stamps- which, like grenades of SPAM, have no shelf life. Obviously our collective fear of commitment has been tickled and the once great idea of postage-purchase efficiency has worked like a potato in the tailpipe.
I think there may be more going on here. It may be that the public can’t get enough of your predictably sunny dispositions. I know from experience that I have never been treated rudely at a post office (except the 53 times when I was in NYC). Quite the opposite, it’s usually a pleasant enough conversation about the weather, which is a perennially safe and mostly enjoyable topic. A typical exchange might go:
Me: “Nice weather we’re having today.”
Postguy: “Oh yes!”
Me: “They say rain tomorrow.”
Postguy: “Yes they do.”
Now why wouldn’t I keep coming back for that? How tenderly rare and special is it to go somewhere public and not be given the finger? So thank you IMP and the rest of your colleagues.
Consider that in these days of economic uncertainty and political/ social divisiveness, we all know that your countertop acts as an ideologically inert watering hole of pleasantness as well as being a safe house for at least one non-combative commercial transaction during the day, if I may mix a few metaphors to make some roundabout point.
Get a bottle of Clorox, a bandana and stand your ground. It’ll all work out! Remember your motto: Neither rain, nor sleet, nor communicable disease, nor hammered 401k, nor loitering, nor unbathed, lingering customers shall keep you from delivering the mail. In fact, the only thing that might keep you from delivering the mail is that little 1960’s Iron Curtain crapbox on wheels they make you guys deliver the mail in because it is broken down on the side of the road and they stopped making parts when the Berlin Wall was constructed.
-Wally
Got a question for our advice columnist or just want to join his fan club? (Believe me, there’s still A LOT of room). There is a non-refundable initiation fee of $1,000 (please get a postal money order from the guy with the hairy nose mole!
Dear Wally 68 Earth Day
Dear Wally:
Earth Day is coming up. I know that we all have much to be thankful for and there’s much to be gained by sharing and celebrating our commonality, though it seems a hard sell these days to culturally weave that encompassing reality into something that doesn’t resemble a very flimsy g string. Statistics and warnings and film clips of melting icebergs and polar bears clutching life rafts are losing their punch as we numb to their repetitious exposure. What do you think? I feel the world’s people scratching their paunches, ho-humming and going back to life as they know it in their corners of a flat world. Tell me we are all connected, please?
-An earth lover feeling alone.
Dear Earth lover:
With a little bit of eavesdropping, a few questions, Google and some speculation, I’m ready to prove, once again, to those who still don’t believe it, that the earth is round, and we are connected. And as my friend who knows I get lost all the time says, don’t worry, you’ll eventually get back where you started because the world is round. You’ll meet a lot of folks on the way, but you’ll get back. The earth’s roundness is our connectivity, our complexity and our commonality, illustrated in part through the seemingly simplest of actions- drinking a cup coffee.
I am in a NY coffee shop-- In my hands, a hot cup of coffee. I consider the roundish shape and global implications of the bean we worship.
OK, I worship.
In the corner of this small shop, which is owned by a Spaniard, are rough burlap bags of coffee beans grown in Guatemala and picked in part by Hondurans.
The 100 pound sacks are loaded onto a Japanese-designed truck which runs on diesel. This fuel comes from Venezuela and is refined in the Caribbean. The truck travels to the seaport where the beans are offloaded into a container made of Indian steel. The container is loaded onto a cargo ship which was financed by the Austrians, made in the Netherlands, captained by an Australian, crewed by Indonesians, fueled by the Saudis and registered in Panama. The ship has just arrived from Singapore by way of the Portuguese Azores and all on board are relieved to have successfully avoided Somali pirates.
The captain wears a ring that is made from the gold and diamonds of two African countries. The setting was handled by an Israeli jeweler in Istanbul. It reminds the captain of his New Zealand wife whom he misses and so calls on a Korean cell phone (which was made in China) to say he is alive and well.
The shipping manifest for the coffee bean that makes up my coffee is written on a laptop designed in the US and manufactured in Taiwan with finally assembly in Mexico. A satellite with Czech avionics tracks the cargo as it makes its way north.
In America it is offloaded by enormous Norwegian cranes operated by an American born Kenyan who smokes an illegal Cuban cigar. A heavy duty Swedish truck with tires from Brazilian rubber takes the container to a distribution center, and it makes its way to a Vermont operation that uses natural gas from Canada to run the bean roaster.
Then it’s back on a truck driven by a UPS man in a brown uniform made in Thailand and brown boots from Senegal . He drops the roasted beans off with the coffee shop’s nice English manager (of Lebanese and Asian heritage) who signs for them with a pen made in Bangladesh while she serves A Russian man Irish coffee with a hint of Madagascarian vanilla. He hopes he doesn’t spill it on his Egyptian cotton shirt.
If the wood from the coffee shop’s frame could talk, I’d have proof from the way it says, Ehhh, that it was milled in Quebec, even though the logs are from New Jersey.
The manager takes the beans and drops them in a French made grinder before putting them into an Italian latte machine. She rings a small bell made in Tibet which signals that my order is up.
I take the coffee cup to my table, cup it in my hands and happen to look in the corner—Whaddya know! a few burlap bags of coffee beans from Guatemala!
As the caffeine works its way into my body, I become even more aware of a reason to celebrate.
Happy Earth day, indeed you round world!
-Wally
Got a question for our advice columnist ? Just want to argue that the Earth is flat? Or yell at him because he forgot to mention Greece? Email him at cwn4@aol.com
Earth Day is coming up. I know that we all have much to be thankful for and there’s much to be gained by sharing and celebrating our commonality, though it seems a hard sell these days to culturally weave that encompassing reality into something that doesn’t resemble a very flimsy g string. Statistics and warnings and film clips of melting icebergs and polar bears clutching life rafts are losing their punch as we numb to their repetitious exposure. What do you think? I feel the world’s people scratching their paunches, ho-humming and going back to life as they know it in their corners of a flat world. Tell me we are all connected, please?
-An earth lover feeling alone.
Dear Earth lover:
With a little bit of eavesdropping, a few questions, Google and some speculation, I’m ready to prove, once again, to those who still don’t believe it, that the earth is round, and we are connected. And as my friend who knows I get lost all the time says, don’t worry, you’ll eventually get back where you started because the world is round. You’ll meet a lot of folks on the way, but you’ll get back. The earth’s roundness is our connectivity, our complexity and our commonality, illustrated in part through the seemingly simplest of actions- drinking a cup coffee.
I am in a NY coffee shop-- In my hands, a hot cup of coffee. I consider the roundish shape and global implications of the bean we worship.
OK, I worship.
In the corner of this small shop, which is owned by a Spaniard, are rough burlap bags of coffee beans grown in Guatemala and picked in part by Hondurans.
The 100 pound sacks are loaded onto a Japanese-designed truck which runs on diesel. This fuel comes from Venezuela and is refined in the Caribbean. The truck travels to the seaport where the beans are offloaded into a container made of Indian steel. The container is loaded onto a cargo ship which was financed by the Austrians, made in the Netherlands, captained by an Australian, crewed by Indonesians, fueled by the Saudis and registered in Panama. The ship has just arrived from Singapore by way of the Portuguese Azores and all on board are relieved to have successfully avoided Somali pirates.
The captain wears a ring that is made from the gold and diamonds of two African countries. The setting was handled by an Israeli jeweler in Istanbul. It reminds the captain of his New Zealand wife whom he misses and so calls on a Korean cell phone (which was made in China) to say he is alive and well.
The shipping manifest for the coffee bean that makes up my coffee is written on a laptop designed in the US and manufactured in Taiwan with finally assembly in Mexico. A satellite with Czech avionics tracks the cargo as it makes its way north.
In America it is offloaded by enormous Norwegian cranes operated by an American born Kenyan who smokes an illegal Cuban cigar. A heavy duty Swedish truck with tires from Brazilian rubber takes the container to a distribution center, and it makes its way to a Vermont operation that uses natural gas from Canada to run the bean roaster.
Then it’s back on a truck driven by a UPS man in a brown uniform made in Thailand and brown boots from Senegal . He drops the roasted beans off with the coffee shop’s nice English manager (of Lebanese and Asian heritage) who signs for them with a pen made in Bangladesh while she serves A Russian man Irish coffee with a hint of Madagascarian vanilla. He hopes he doesn’t spill it on his Egyptian cotton shirt.
If the wood from the coffee shop’s frame could talk, I’d have proof from the way it says, Ehhh, that it was milled in Quebec, even though the logs are from New Jersey.
The manager takes the beans and drops them in a French made grinder before putting them into an Italian latte machine. She rings a small bell made in Tibet which signals that my order is up.
I take the coffee cup to my table, cup it in my hands and happen to look in the corner—Whaddya know! a few burlap bags of coffee beans from Guatemala!
As the caffeine works its way into my body, I become even more aware of a reason to celebrate.
Happy Earth day, indeed you round world!
-Wally
Got a question for our advice columnist ? Just want to argue that the Earth is flat? Or yell at him because he forgot to mention Greece? Email him at cwn4@aol.com
Dear Wally 69 rude public behavior
Dear Wally,Last night I attended a very nice live performance at the Rosendale Theater. Wally, I was
appalled at the conduct of some of my fellow audience members. The family owned theater sells small bags of popcorn. It is an understandable custom at a movie house, but Wally,there was a live thespian upon the stage and the play's author was inattendance. This was not an over amplified cinamatronic offering. Itwas a small and intimate live performance and the sound of cracklingpaper popcorn bags was enough to drive one to go postal. One womanbehind me was folding hers into an elaborate origami construct whileblissfully unaware of the distainful looks I was sending her way. Andthen there was the late-coming soup-slurper. Why couldn't she haveeaten her dinner in the lobby or awaited the intermission? Surely amember of our overfed society could have postponed her oralgratification for a more appropriate time?I was sincerely hoping for a post performance discussion period so Icould arise from my seat and excoriate these people but alas it wasnot to be. In my brief discussion with the playwright I did refrainfrom apologizing for their actions but should I have approached themindividually to chastise them?Just sign me,Outraged
Dear Outraged:
No better way to curdle an otherwise buttery theater experience than to have the folks on our flanks, the very ones we are haphazardly plopped next to in theaters by the gods of bad parking spaces who make us late, dive headlong into their Happy Meals until the din they create from munching and folding resembles a cicada-infested meadow on a July night.
Big slurping cow tongues, smacking lips, relentlessly grinding molars, crinkling wrappers. Uggggghhhhhhhh! Talk about a horror movie in Surround Sound!
I recently went to a big ‘multi-plex’ where the theater sells bulging tankers of popcorn larger than the water troughs we fill for the horses. No human should be allowed to eat this much in a sitting, even if it is a so-called bargain. In its thin defense, however, when the jumbo-tub is finished, or at least when the comatose consumer has reached his explosion bending moment, all that the rest of us hear is the single dull thud of empty container being released to the floor by an unclenched hand, unlike the irritating paper bag folders who seem unable to litter politely or discretely.
As for the live performers, they too must not like these crackling, munching, slurping audience offerings much. Or anything else that distracts. ( I’ve been pelted with my fair share of vitamin C-rich citrus and leafy vegetables while onstage. I’m only appreciative in that I have yet to get Scurvy. But who’s laughing last when I clean up after the show and get to take home an entire free salad bar?! HA!)
I guess annexing the theater as one’s own personal dining room is a logical extension of the immediacy and intimacy we’ve come to expect. Doesn’t make it right though. Plus there’s something repulsively glutinous and passively indulgent about the smoking, bucking conveyer belt of chow that publically terminates in America’s collective mouth. So we’re hogs AND we’re rude about it. Bad combo. Not all of us, but enough of us that someone like you has to write someone like me and grouse.
The problem with chastising the noise makers directly, as you wondered, is that if you aggravate the wrong person whose blood sugar is tweakin’ from the Twinkies, Mr. Vigilante Man, you might find confrontation beyond your ability to control it. And frankly, you sound like a skinny guy. You corner the wrong theater piggy and call them out, and they might just put you in their popcorn tub upside down, add salt and eat YOU! I’m just saying be careful.
Here’s a short, non-exhaustive list of public ‘don’ts’ on which I’m sure we all can agree: If you go to a theater, and you have to eat, eat discretely. No soups, baby back ribs, no bouillabaisse. As a rule of thumb, nothing that requires a hibachi to prepare it.
Now, especially if the show is live, please pay attention: there is no eating at all, capezio? The exception being the dinner theater. And one’s ample punishment is having to eat the institutional breaded chicken and watch Oklahoma! (their exclamation point not mine).
If folks somehow missed this public behavior nugget growing up and don’t find it rude to eat at a live show, then read on for some more helpful hints: It is rude to clip one’s toenails in public (I almost had my left eye put out by a rogue clipping that shot out like shrapnel from someone’s poorly controlled nail clipper as I walked by them on a park bench). It is rude to scratch one’s privates in public. I’d personally like to say to the guy at the gym that it is rude to flatulate in public places, especially when you then walk out with feigned disgust and righteous indignation and leave others to wallow in your business and falsely conclude that it was my doing. ( Oh, you KNOW who you are).
It is also rude to kick the seatback in front of you on the plane, especially when the thing in front of you looks a lot like the back of my head.
My list of unacceptable public behavior far exceeds the spatial allowance of this column (or even this entire paper) but the above represent a choice select few. Hopefully this helps reign in some improper public behavior and your theater experience henceforth starts to improve. If not, consider buying the theater yourself. I’m not being flip--it’s for sale—Own it yourself and you’ll get to make the rules!
-Wally
Got a question for our advice columnist or want to find out how you can help buy (and preserve) the beautiful, historic Rosendale Theater? Email him at cwn4@aol.com
appalled at the conduct of some of my fellow audience members. The family owned theater sells small bags of popcorn. It is an understandable custom at a movie house, but Wally,there was a live thespian upon the stage and the play's author was inattendance. This was not an over amplified cinamatronic offering. Itwas a small and intimate live performance and the sound of cracklingpaper popcorn bags was enough to drive one to go postal. One womanbehind me was folding hers into an elaborate origami construct whileblissfully unaware of the distainful looks I was sending her way. Andthen there was the late-coming soup-slurper. Why couldn't she haveeaten her dinner in the lobby or awaited the intermission? Surely amember of our overfed society could have postponed her oralgratification for a more appropriate time?I was sincerely hoping for a post performance discussion period so Icould arise from my seat and excoriate these people but alas it wasnot to be. In my brief discussion with the playwright I did refrainfrom apologizing for their actions but should I have approached themindividually to chastise them?Just sign me,Outraged
Dear Outraged:
No better way to curdle an otherwise buttery theater experience than to have the folks on our flanks, the very ones we are haphazardly plopped next to in theaters by the gods of bad parking spaces who make us late, dive headlong into their Happy Meals until the din they create from munching and folding resembles a cicada-infested meadow on a July night.
Big slurping cow tongues, smacking lips, relentlessly grinding molars, crinkling wrappers. Uggggghhhhhhhh! Talk about a horror movie in Surround Sound!
I recently went to a big ‘multi-plex’ where the theater sells bulging tankers of popcorn larger than the water troughs we fill for the horses. No human should be allowed to eat this much in a sitting, even if it is a so-called bargain. In its thin defense, however, when the jumbo-tub is finished, or at least when the comatose consumer has reached his explosion bending moment, all that the rest of us hear is the single dull thud of empty container being released to the floor by an unclenched hand, unlike the irritating paper bag folders who seem unable to litter politely or discretely.
As for the live performers, they too must not like these crackling, munching, slurping audience offerings much. Or anything else that distracts. ( I’ve been pelted with my fair share of vitamin C-rich citrus and leafy vegetables while onstage. I’m only appreciative in that I have yet to get Scurvy. But who’s laughing last when I clean up after the show and get to take home an entire free salad bar?! HA!)
I guess annexing the theater as one’s own personal dining room is a logical extension of the immediacy and intimacy we’ve come to expect. Doesn’t make it right though. Plus there’s something repulsively glutinous and passively indulgent about the smoking, bucking conveyer belt of chow that publically terminates in America’s collective mouth. So we’re hogs AND we’re rude about it. Bad combo. Not all of us, but enough of us that someone like you has to write someone like me and grouse.
The problem with chastising the noise makers directly, as you wondered, is that if you aggravate the wrong person whose blood sugar is tweakin’ from the Twinkies, Mr. Vigilante Man, you might find confrontation beyond your ability to control it. And frankly, you sound like a skinny guy. You corner the wrong theater piggy and call them out, and they might just put you in their popcorn tub upside down, add salt and eat YOU! I’m just saying be careful.
Here’s a short, non-exhaustive list of public ‘don’ts’ on which I’m sure we all can agree: If you go to a theater, and you have to eat, eat discretely. No soups, baby back ribs, no bouillabaisse. As a rule of thumb, nothing that requires a hibachi to prepare it.
Now, especially if the show is live, please pay attention: there is no eating at all, capezio? The exception being the dinner theater. And one’s ample punishment is having to eat the institutional breaded chicken and watch Oklahoma! (their exclamation point not mine).
If folks somehow missed this public behavior nugget growing up and don’t find it rude to eat at a live show, then read on for some more helpful hints: It is rude to clip one’s toenails in public (I almost had my left eye put out by a rogue clipping that shot out like shrapnel from someone’s poorly controlled nail clipper as I walked by them on a park bench). It is rude to scratch one’s privates in public. I’d personally like to say to the guy at the gym that it is rude to flatulate in public places, especially when you then walk out with feigned disgust and righteous indignation and leave others to wallow in your business and falsely conclude that it was my doing. ( Oh, you KNOW who you are).
It is also rude to kick the seatback in front of you on the plane, especially when the thing in front of you looks a lot like the back of my head.
My list of unacceptable public behavior far exceeds the spatial allowance of this column (or even this entire paper) but the above represent a choice select few. Hopefully this helps reign in some improper public behavior and your theater experience henceforth starts to improve. If not, consider buying the theater yourself. I’m not being flip--it’s for sale—Own it yourself and you’ll get to make the rules!
-Wally
Got a question for our advice columnist or want to find out how you can help buy (and preserve) the beautiful, historic Rosendale Theater? Email him at cwn4@aol.com
Friday, March 26, 2010
dear wally 67 dating cord wood
Dear Wally-
I have lots of questions. How long do you think you should date someone before the TALK (Where are we going? What do you want in life? children? blah blah blah). I find that men are the ones asking way too soon. What is wrong with spending time together and finding out if you actually enjoy each other's company before picking out china patterns? Does cooking for someone that you have been dating imply a sleepover or can it just be dinner? How can I politely tell someone I have been seeing that it is none of his business what I do when we are not together? We're not there yet - and may never be. Is it okay to invite my ex-boyfriend to a dinner that my current boyfriend will be attending? What exactly is a cord of wood? Have heard so many different answers and am completely confused.
-R.O.
Dear R.O:
Boy, you are making me work for my money on this week’s battery of relationship questions! So, let’s get to it- I have only just so much ink before they shut me off around here. To answer your first question, you should date someone precisely 3 days before the dreaded directional talk. Set your stop watch. Go! 3 days is sufficient time to go from ‘first date to procreate!’* 72 hours. I mean, why dilly dally?
(*This kind of advice is possibly one reason I’m not a nationally syndicated advice columnist)
Frankly, you already know if this is Mr. Right. Based on the defensive stance of your other questions (the size of cord of wood not withstanding) I’m guessing you aren’t hauling him off to meet momma anytime soon.
That doesn’t mean you can’t have fun. And if I’m wrong, I’ll just be another misinformed, loser guy in your rear view mirror! At the moment, however, I’m feeling crowded for you and I’ve never met the fellow. (I’ve probably never met you for that matter, though who knows?). I presume this relationship, while young and fresh, still has that new car smell. Imagine how he’ll tweak you after 10 years, 2 kids and possibly a horribly inappropriate China pattern)! Head for the hills missy, but not before you have a fun time with him on your own terms. Make sure he doesn’t know your real name, if it isn’t too late. Use your anti-stalker ‘stripper name’ which is distilled from the name of your first pet and the pluralized name of the street you grew up on. (My stripper name, if I ever needed one, would be Fluffy Mangoes. And based on my name alone, I’d probably make a lot of money as a stripper).
What you cook for your man says everything about where the night will go. You have the ultimate say, so decide what you want in advance. Just want dinner with no awkward pussyfooting around the stay-over issue? Leave the deviled eggs out in the sun for a few hours before the meal. Or slip some Ex Lax into the flourless chocolate tart, throw it in the oven and set the ol’ egg timer for ‘soft boil.’ Believe me, there will be skid marks in your driveway (hmmm, maybe I should rephrase that?).*
It is none of his business what you do in his absence. He should know this. But…But…If you play this card, then it also is none of your business what he does in his time away from you. (Good luck reconciling that. It must burn you to think he’s out with his ex!!). But be strong and mature in the face of certain infidelity and potentially crippling public humiliation. Unfortunately, this is the way that cookie has to crumble. Want to know what he’s doing at all times? It’ll cost you much more than the price of an electronic ankle monitor.
And now you say you want to steer this relationship right up on the rocks by going to dinner with your guy and your ex? Are you nuts?? You are about to have 2 ex boyfriends! This is the same guy who wants to know where you are all the time, remember? That doesn’t say “I’m cool with a parade of your exes,” to me. This is a fragile relationship that needs gentle nurturing and careful definition, not a full broadside hit to the ribs. Ummmm, bad idea unless you know they are serving deviled eggs and ex-lax. Remember, you have started using your porn (fake) name for a reason!
I know your head is spinning from this barrage of dubious relationship advice. But let me introduce some cold hard facts to sober you up: Size matters--A cord of fire wood is wood cut 22” and stacked in a pile that is 8’ long, 4’ high and 4’ wide. Not a heap of wood in a beaten up pickup truck. It should cost a little less than $200 delivered (not stacked). It should be hardwood, aged at least a season. If you are not sure, have them drop it off at my place. I’ll burn it and let you know if it is (was) the real deal.
-Hope all this helped,
Wally (aka: Fluffy Mangoes)
Got a question for our advice columnist or just want to drop off a cord of wood so he can test it in his woodstove? Email him at cwn4@aol.com
I have lots of questions. How long do you think you should date someone before the TALK (Where are we going? What do you want in life? children? blah blah blah). I find that men are the ones asking way too soon. What is wrong with spending time together and finding out if you actually enjoy each other's company before picking out china patterns? Does cooking for someone that you have been dating imply a sleepover or can it just be dinner? How can I politely tell someone I have been seeing that it is none of his business what I do when we are not together? We're not there yet - and may never be. Is it okay to invite my ex-boyfriend to a dinner that my current boyfriend will be attending? What exactly is a cord of wood? Have heard so many different answers and am completely confused.
-R.O.
Dear R.O:
Boy, you are making me work for my money on this week’s battery of relationship questions! So, let’s get to it- I have only just so much ink before they shut me off around here. To answer your first question, you should date someone precisely 3 days before the dreaded directional talk. Set your stop watch. Go! 3 days is sufficient time to go from ‘first date to procreate!’* 72 hours. I mean, why dilly dally?
(*This kind of advice is possibly one reason I’m not a nationally syndicated advice columnist)
Frankly, you already know if this is Mr. Right. Based on the defensive stance of your other questions (the size of cord of wood not withstanding) I’m guessing you aren’t hauling him off to meet momma anytime soon.
That doesn’t mean you can’t have fun. And if I’m wrong, I’ll just be another misinformed, loser guy in your rear view mirror! At the moment, however, I’m feeling crowded for you and I’ve never met the fellow. (I’ve probably never met you for that matter, though who knows?). I presume this relationship, while young and fresh, still has that new car smell. Imagine how he’ll tweak you after 10 years, 2 kids and possibly a horribly inappropriate China pattern)! Head for the hills missy, but not before you have a fun time with him on your own terms. Make sure he doesn’t know your real name, if it isn’t too late. Use your anti-stalker ‘stripper name’ which is distilled from the name of your first pet and the pluralized name of the street you grew up on. (My stripper name, if I ever needed one, would be Fluffy Mangoes. And based on my name alone, I’d probably make a lot of money as a stripper).
What you cook for your man says everything about where the night will go. You have the ultimate say, so decide what you want in advance. Just want dinner with no awkward pussyfooting around the stay-over issue? Leave the deviled eggs out in the sun for a few hours before the meal. Or slip some Ex Lax into the flourless chocolate tart, throw it in the oven and set the ol’ egg timer for ‘soft boil.’ Believe me, there will be skid marks in your driveway (hmmm, maybe I should rephrase that?).*
It is none of his business what you do in his absence. He should know this. But…But…If you play this card, then it also is none of your business what he does in his time away from you. (Good luck reconciling that. It must burn you to think he’s out with his ex!!). But be strong and mature in the face of certain infidelity and potentially crippling public humiliation. Unfortunately, this is the way that cookie has to crumble. Want to know what he’s doing at all times? It’ll cost you much more than the price of an electronic ankle monitor.
And now you say you want to steer this relationship right up on the rocks by going to dinner with your guy and your ex? Are you nuts?? You are about to have 2 ex boyfriends! This is the same guy who wants to know where you are all the time, remember? That doesn’t say “I’m cool with a parade of your exes,” to me. This is a fragile relationship that needs gentle nurturing and careful definition, not a full broadside hit to the ribs. Ummmm, bad idea unless you know they are serving deviled eggs and ex-lax. Remember, you have started using your porn (fake) name for a reason!
I know your head is spinning from this barrage of dubious relationship advice. But let me introduce some cold hard facts to sober you up: Size matters--A cord of fire wood is wood cut 22” and stacked in a pile that is 8’ long, 4’ high and 4’ wide. Not a heap of wood in a beaten up pickup truck. It should cost a little less than $200 delivered (not stacked). It should be hardwood, aged at least a season. If you are not sure, have them drop it off at my place. I’ll burn it and let you know if it is (was) the real deal.
-Hope all this helped,
Wally (aka: Fluffy Mangoes)
Got a question for our advice columnist or just want to drop off a cord of wood so he can test it in his woodstove? Email him at cwn4@aol.com
dear Wally 66 here me out
Dear Wally-
You recently wrote a Dear Wally column about getting rid of February. Interesting idea and I liked it except for one big thing. Did you notice the grammatical mistake you made? (‘Here me out…’). It should have been ‘hear me out,’ as I’m sure you know.
-An anonymous 4th grade teacher.
Dear Teach-
Ugggggg. I noticed the mistake only after it was printed. I’ve decided to come clean and publicly ‘own’ this error, to use the current parlance. I will place the error prominently in my bulging portfolio of shortcomings.
But do hear me out before you trot forth the wooden ruler of discipline in search of my knuckles. The expeditious thing to do would be to lay the blame at the paper’s editor’s feet. Would that it were that easy . For better or worse, the Blue Stone Press has a hands-off approach with respect to the content of my column, which is damn near priceless for a writer, and I love them for it. That means, however, they give me enough rope to hang myself. And in this grammatical matter their hands are completely clean. Mine, alas, are not. The time is neigh for me to ‘man up’ (This bizarre ‘man up’ phrase was nowhere in our vernacular even a year ago. Now it’s almost on the Starbucks drive-though menu).
As is said in Washington, using the blame-shifting, sanctimonious passive voice, mistakes were made.
And in this case, I made them.
And as is also said in Washington, ‘I did not have sexual relations with that woman, Ms. Lewinsky.”
This is also true.
A mistake like ‘hear vs here’ is the stuff that stops kids from getting out of 4th grade—IF the author doesn’t know the difference.
I do. The public school system hasn’t failed me. Fear not.
Sometimes when I type, I get caught up in what I’m thinking and gets sloppy. (see? Just like that!) I know what I mean to write and it’s just close enough to fake the brain out when my eye goes back to proofread. Plus my pudgy fingers just squash around the keyboard- you try typing with a watermelon…)
Once it is written down, there’s a certain gooey myopticism that sets in and, in grammatical ways, it becomes impossible to see the forest for the trees. Mistakes are easily camouflaged in an onscreen thicket of pixilation. It’s hard to explain this to the red pen wielding 4th grade teacher without sounding evasive or oleaginous.
I’d like to offer this 3 minute exercise to reinforce my point before you make me see you after class.
Take a piece of paper and a pen. Have a friend in the teacher’s lounge note the time. Write each of the 50 states by name or abbreviation down in a list. When the three minutes are up, count your list. It wont be 50. Guaranteed. Need more time? Fine, give yourself another 3 minutes. It wont help. You will be unable to think of the missing states. Not because you don’t know them, of course, but because of the very congestive cognitive process that is conspiring to make me look like an idiot with basic English usage like here vs hear. It’s a sort of tunnel vision. I blame the medulla oblongatta deep in the cerebral cortex. I blame Monica Lewinsky.
My harsh punishment for this transgression is that my sloppiness has been indelibly recorded in black and white newsprint to the snickering amusement of my peers and critics, ad infinitum… Future generations of Wallys, in whatever form they take, (short? hairless? quadrapeds?) will walk (or jet pack or scurry) the world knowing their primogenitor was a bit sloppy, among other things. It will be a trudge of humiliation, for sure, but hopefully they will neither be irreparably shunned by the rest of society nor ostracized by their peers (nor eaten by giant cockroaches).
Meanwhile back in the here and now, as I munch on a lemon rind, I wince and repent. I will try to be more careful in my editing process, teach, but fundamentally, I’m a little lazy about these kinds of details. There. I said it.
Now, get off my back and I’ll send over an apple for this mistake and then a case of apples for the mistakes I promise are coming in future Dear Wally installments.
And hey, thanks for reading the column so carefully.
Just for fun, right here, I’m gonna dangle a preposition for you to gnaw on!
-No Wally Left Behind
Got a question or correction for our advice columnist or just need him to carefully support your dangling prepositions? Email him at cwn4@aol.com
Ps: I love an America where I can write an entire column on the subject of one poorly chosen word from an earlier column. Now on your list of states don’t forget Delaware!!
You recently wrote a Dear Wally column about getting rid of February. Interesting idea and I liked it except for one big thing. Did you notice the grammatical mistake you made? (‘Here me out…’). It should have been ‘hear me out,’ as I’m sure you know.
-An anonymous 4th grade teacher.
Dear Teach-
Ugggggg. I noticed the mistake only after it was printed. I’ve decided to come clean and publicly ‘own’ this error, to use the current parlance. I will place the error prominently in my bulging portfolio of shortcomings.
But do hear me out before you trot forth the wooden ruler of discipline in search of my knuckles. The expeditious thing to do would be to lay the blame at the paper’s editor’s feet. Would that it were that easy . For better or worse, the Blue Stone Press has a hands-off approach with respect to the content of my column, which is damn near priceless for a writer, and I love them for it. That means, however, they give me enough rope to hang myself. And in this grammatical matter their hands are completely clean. Mine, alas, are not. The time is neigh for me to ‘man up’ (This bizarre ‘man up’ phrase was nowhere in our vernacular even a year ago. Now it’s almost on the Starbucks drive-though menu).
As is said in Washington, using the blame-shifting, sanctimonious passive voice, mistakes were made.
And in this case, I made them.
And as is also said in Washington, ‘I did not have sexual relations with that woman, Ms. Lewinsky.”
This is also true.
A mistake like ‘hear vs here’ is the stuff that stops kids from getting out of 4th grade—IF the author doesn’t know the difference.
I do. The public school system hasn’t failed me. Fear not.
Sometimes when I type, I get caught up in what I’m thinking and gets sloppy. (see? Just like that!) I know what I mean to write and it’s just close enough to fake the brain out when my eye goes back to proofread. Plus my pudgy fingers just squash around the keyboard- you try typing with a watermelon…)
Once it is written down, there’s a certain gooey myopticism that sets in and, in grammatical ways, it becomes impossible to see the forest for the trees. Mistakes are easily camouflaged in an onscreen thicket of pixilation. It’s hard to explain this to the red pen wielding 4th grade teacher without sounding evasive or oleaginous.
I’d like to offer this 3 minute exercise to reinforce my point before you make me see you after class.
Take a piece of paper and a pen. Have a friend in the teacher’s lounge note the time. Write each of the 50 states by name or abbreviation down in a list. When the three minutes are up, count your list. It wont be 50. Guaranteed. Need more time? Fine, give yourself another 3 minutes. It wont help. You will be unable to think of the missing states. Not because you don’t know them, of course, but because of the very congestive cognitive process that is conspiring to make me look like an idiot with basic English usage like here vs hear. It’s a sort of tunnel vision. I blame the medulla oblongatta deep in the cerebral cortex. I blame Monica Lewinsky.
My harsh punishment for this transgression is that my sloppiness has been indelibly recorded in black and white newsprint to the snickering amusement of my peers and critics, ad infinitum… Future generations of Wallys, in whatever form they take, (short? hairless? quadrapeds?) will walk (or jet pack or scurry) the world knowing their primogenitor was a bit sloppy, among other things. It will be a trudge of humiliation, for sure, but hopefully they will neither be irreparably shunned by the rest of society nor ostracized by their peers (nor eaten by giant cockroaches).
Meanwhile back in the here and now, as I munch on a lemon rind, I wince and repent. I will try to be more careful in my editing process, teach, but fundamentally, I’m a little lazy about these kinds of details. There. I said it.
Now, get off my back and I’ll send over an apple for this mistake and then a case of apples for the mistakes I promise are coming in future Dear Wally installments.
And hey, thanks for reading the column so carefully.
Just for fun, right here, I’m gonna dangle a preposition for you to gnaw on!
-No Wally Left Behind
Got a question or correction for our advice columnist or just need him to carefully support your dangling prepositions? Email him at cwn4@aol.com
Ps: I love an America where I can write an entire column on the subject of one poorly chosen word from an earlier column. Now on your list of states don’t forget Delaware!!
dear wally 65 inheritence
Dear Wally
My grown daughter recently asked me what my plan was for taking care of myself in my older years. She wants to know how much I am worth, my bank account numbers, and how I plan to distribute my assets when I die. I am 65 now and single (and not bad looking if you know anyone). I am pretty free spirited -I spend the winters in the south and the summers up north. I find the questions a little nosy and insulting, to be honest. I’ve a perfectly valid will in effect which spells out my wishes and spreads my assets equitably between my two children. I drew this will up with an attorney who is also a friend, so it’s not like I scratched it out on a cocktail napkin and sealed it with lipstick and a giggle. Now here comes little miss busy body. How should I deal with this?
-Barb
Dear Barb:
Nothing says “I love you” from a daughter to a mother like “Let me take a peek at your will to make sure I’m still in it.” Well, I stand corrected. The only thing that is more rankling is if your fiduciary soundness is outright challenged to your face, as in “Let me take a peek at your will to make sure I’m still in it and you are not being a reckless moron by spending my money now.”
I’m not surprised you are a little insulted. What your daughter has failed to consider is that you had the wherewithal to have and raise her and her brother and still manage to live your own life without nose-diving into bankruptcy and the welcoming sanctuary of an empty refrigerator box as your home. And now it sounds like you are actually having fun with your life. Maybe she’s jealous? We probably shouldn’t even go there lest I get swamped with more hate mail than usual.
If you had neglected to prepare a will, she might be right to call you out. But I’m guessing she doesn’t even know that you have a will. You might let some time pass , let cooler heads prevail, and let her know that you appreciate her concern for your well being, but that you have prepared a will with an attorney and you hope that it will be a very long time before anyone has to read it. But when they do, it will accurately and fairly reflect your wishes as Mauricio the hot young Dominican lap dancer you ‘Cougared’ deals with the remains (pardon the expression) of your estate.
I think what your daughter might be nervous about, if I may read between the lines, is the dreaded scenario where you become incapacitated , move in with her, and she has to change your diapers indefinitely. (Dear readers, I know you thought this was going to be the one Dear Wally letter that was serious and didn’t invoke something crass or scatological. I’m sorry …).
That scenario might be worth considering, but not to the point that it gets you too worked up. Why? Because there are an unlimited number of scenarios that could be conjured that are equally viable and absurd. You could spend the rest of your days sketching them out and never get out of the house. (For example any number of asteroids might collide with the Earth and destroy half the human race. Then what? Who’s changing your diapers then? Somebody in Australia you have yet to meet? Your daughter might get sick or die before you. She might get her hand caught in a bear trap and not be able to change anyone’s diapers including her own. Then what? Do you see the point?).
You might consider asking her to focus on the things we have control over (which are precious few including what time to set the alarm clock and whether or not to have fish sticks for dinner). Suggest she not project too far ahead, for everyone’s sake (but, secretly, hers the most). Creative, resourceful folks will come up with creative resourceful solutions, as need be. That’s just the way the universe works (assuming it hasn’t been hit by an asteroid). She’ll get the idea that, for the moment, while you still have your faculties, the matter is largely none of her business and that you find the mere question slightly invasive.
Now for the hostile lawyer letters, I’m sure. So I’ll address them pre-emptively. In her defense, many financial and estate planners recommend discussing the nuts and bolts of a parent’s financial death action plan before it gets put into action. On paper this is sound advice. However, it presupposes an incredible, sometimes unrealistically open, personal relationship between the generations. It’s good advice poorly executed in sometimes impossible scenarios. That’s the part they leave out in law school. And it’s a mighty big part. But at the end of the day, they are probably right to so advise.
Some small percentage of parents and children have a relationship open enough to have this frank a discussion, this author excluded, but on the other hand, if things are that open, they probably don’t require the discussion in the first place. Which brings me back to a delicate point. Don’t be too mad at your daughter, or yourself, if the relationship isn’t perfect enough to weather this type of question. That’s asking a lot- a lot more than most of us can deliver.
Consider telling her you love her and that you hope she can trust you and respect your generation’s wish for discretion and autonomy. Then, as a joke, get her one of those T shirts that says, “My mother died and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.”
Hope this helped.
-Wally
Ps Am I in your will? Damn you.
Got a question for our advice columnist or just want him to ask your momma what gives? Email him at cwn4@aol.com
My grown daughter recently asked me what my plan was for taking care of myself in my older years. She wants to know how much I am worth, my bank account numbers, and how I plan to distribute my assets when I die. I am 65 now and single (and not bad looking if you know anyone). I am pretty free spirited -I spend the winters in the south and the summers up north. I find the questions a little nosy and insulting, to be honest. I’ve a perfectly valid will in effect which spells out my wishes and spreads my assets equitably between my two children. I drew this will up with an attorney who is also a friend, so it’s not like I scratched it out on a cocktail napkin and sealed it with lipstick and a giggle. Now here comes little miss busy body. How should I deal with this?
-Barb
Dear Barb:
Nothing says “I love you” from a daughter to a mother like “Let me take a peek at your will to make sure I’m still in it.” Well, I stand corrected. The only thing that is more rankling is if your fiduciary soundness is outright challenged to your face, as in “Let me take a peek at your will to make sure I’m still in it and you are not being a reckless moron by spending my money now.”
I’m not surprised you are a little insulted. What your daughter has failed to consider is that you had the wherewithal to have and raise her and her brother and still manage to live your own life without nose-diving into bankruptcy and the welcoming sanctuary of an empty refrigerator box as your home. And now it sounds like you are actually having fun with your life. Maybe she’s jealous? We probably shouldn’t even go there lest I get swamped with more hate mail than usual.
If you had neglected to prepare a will, she might be right to call you out. But I’m guessing she doesn’t even know that you have a will. You might let some time pass , let cooler heads prevail, and let her know that you appreciate her concern for your well being, but that you have prepared a will with an attorney and you hope that it will be a very long time before anyone has to read it. But when they do, it will accurately and fairly reflect your wishes as Mauricio the hot young Dominican lap dancer you ‘Cougared’ deals with the remains (pardon the expression) of your estate.
I think what your daughter might be nervous about, if I may read between the lines, is the dreaded scenario where you become incapacitated , move in with her, and she has to change your diapers indefinitely. (Dear readers, I know you thought this was going to be the one Dear Wally letter that was serious and didn’t invoke something crass or scatological. I’m sorry …).
That scenario might be worth considering, but not to the point that it gets you too worked up. Why? Because there are an unlimited number of scenarios that could be conjured that are equally viable and absurd. You could spend the rest of your days sketching them out and never get out of the house. (For example any number of asteroids might collide with the Earth and destroy half the human race. Then what? Who’s changing your diapers then? Somebody in Australia you have yet to meet? Your daughter might get sick or die before you. She might get her hand caught in a bear trap and not be able to change anyone’s diapers including her own. Then what? Do you see the point?).
You might consider asking her to focus on the things we have control over (which are precious few including what time to set the alarm clock and whether or not to have fish sticks for dinner). Suggest she not project too far ahead, for everyone’s sake (but, secretly, hers the most). Creative, resourceful folks will come up with creative resourceful solutions, as need be. That’s just the way the universe works (assuming it hasn’t been hit by an asteroid). She’ll get the idea that, for the moment, while you still have your faculties, the matter is largely none of her business and that you find the mere question slightly invasive.
Now for the hostile lawyer letters, I’m sure. So I’ll address them pre-emptively. In her defense, many financial and estate planners recommend discussing the nuts and bolts of a parent’s financial death action plan before it gets put into action. On paper this is sound advice. However, it presupposes an incredible, sometimes unrealistically open, personal relationship between the generations. It’s good advice poorly executed in sometimes impossible scenarios. That’s the part they leave out in law school. And it’s a mighty big part. But at the end of the day, they are probably right to so advise.
Some small percentage of parents and children have a relationship open enough to have this frank a discussion, this author excluded, but on the other hand, if things are that open, they probably don’t require the discussion in the first place. Which brings me back to a delicate point. Don’t be too mad at your daughter, or yourself, if the relationship isn’t perfect enough to weather this type of question. That’s asking a lot- a lot more than most of us can deliver.
Consider telling her you love her and that you hope she can trust you and respect your generation’s wish for discretion and autonomy. Then, as a joke, get her one of those T shirts that says, “My mother died and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.”
Hope this helped.
-Wally
Ps Am I in your will? Damn you.
Got a question for our advice columnist or just want him to ask your momma what gives? Email him at cwn4@aol.com
dear wally 64 skiing
Dear Wally-
The New York Times just ran an article talking in part about the current state of pampering afforded to modern day alpine skiers. How come we have become so soft? It’s ridiculous. What happened? Please, speak to the grace of the old days.
-Outraged
Dear Outraged:
Agreed. I know I sound like Grandpa Geezer Wally but I remember a time when the sport of downhill skiing involved some risk. The fact that you could freeze to death at any moment, or sustain a crushing head injury, or slip through the chairlift’s generous safety gaps to your death made the sport that much more exhilarating and made it dance with the thrill. The thrill that frankly, is gone.
There was once a direct connection to nature and survivalism* that has now been lacquered over with safety features like helmets, parkas and, get this, heated gondolas. What the f&#%…
*This is not a word but it should be.
In my day we skied with no gloves. Sometimes naked. You went home when you lost a finger or nose tip (or worse, your pecker) to frostbite. Those were the steely days…
You kept rhythm to the sound of your chattering teeth, not an Ipod.
You warmed your hands on your privates or in your girlfriend's armpits, not on a chemical pack cowardly hidden in your little mitten.
You didn’t ski on something shaped like an Italian ice spoon and whatever it was you skied on, there were two of them, not one deformed, obese ‘ski’ like all these snowboarding punks use today.
You skied on old fashioned lumber (preferably 2x4s) that was lashed to your leather boots (or bare feet) with dried out cat gut and you worked damn hard to turn those boards. Those who succeeded enjoyed a beer in the lodge afterwards. Those who didn't ate tree bark or the paint on the snow cat’s fender and didn't reproduce.
(That said I wish I had paid attention in high school geometry when they were teaching us about parabolas. (x=2y?? Crap, I can’t remember**). That would have led to me inventing the parabolic ski that made one person rich and everyone else able to get out their wallets and ski black diamonds with no fear).
In my day, you walked up the mountain with your skis on your back like a man (or ran up it if you wanted two rides in a day). There were no lodge bunnies in matching snowsuits. And NO fluffy white 'Apres Ski' boots. There was no Cherry flavored Chapstick hanging from a cord around your neck. Cracked lips were treated with good old fashioned, rendered horse lard from a tub.
Before heated gondolas, you held onto a rope tow driven by an unforgiving, creatively jigged Ford tractor motor. If you got your hand caught, well, off it went and you didn’t make that mistake again, by god! Leather gloves gripped whizzing rope until you smelled burning cow skin. Now that was a tow lift!! Some spazo fall down in front of you on the rope tow? You skied right over them and left your mark (Rossignol, Vokle ‘Tiger’ or Olin Mark III trick skis, or what have you) right on their backside.
When the chairlift was invented, we marveled at the suspiciously thin wire above from the 1/2" poorly welded tube framed 'chair' that would (sometimes and sometimes not) suspend us over a 200’ ravine. Didn’t like it? You were free to jump.
And we bounced those mothers, too. Tried to get them to jump the tracks of those little wheels and make all 300 people perish. Now that was good clean fun! In a post 9-11 world you just can’t do that anymore.
Then came gondolas and high speed quads and with them the fair weather fans with Gucci snow suits, Versace luggage and matching Volvos in the valet serviced parking lot. And that was the beginning of the end because someone had to pay for those gondola seat heaters. That someone was you (and me) to the tune of $80/day.
You could buy a ski mountain for $80 when I learned how to ski.
Heated Gondolas? For real? What happened to eating chili and good old fashioned flatulence in the gondola to keep warm. Or smoking a fatty ** and giggling straight through the hypothermia? Those were the days...
Today belongs to the wimp and I’m afraid that’s what this is all about, as the NYT seems to imply. I wish I could help you, or change this course, but I can’t. That first class train with its leather back captain seats and its plush, heated, bar car has left the station.
But we still can discuss with disgust like grumpy old men. Meet me in the lodge. I’ll be in the white fluffy boots and hanging out by the fireplace.
-Wally
Got a question for our advice columnist or just want to hear him spout off about the absurdity of Olympic ice curling? Email him at cwn4@aol.com
The New York Times just ran an article talking in part about the current state of pampering afforded to modern day alpine skiers. How come we have become so soft? It’s ridiculous. What happened? Please, speak to the grace of the old days.
-Outraged
Dear Outraged:
Agreed. I know I sound like Grandpa Geezer Wally but I remember a time when the sport of downhill skiing involved some risk. The fact that you could freeze to death at any moment, or sustain a crushing head injury, or slip through the chairlift’s generous safety gaps to your death made the sport that much more exhilarating and made it dance with the thrill. The thrill that frankly, is gone.
There was once a direct connection to nature and survivalism* that has now been lacquered over with safety features like helmets, parkas and, get this, heated gondolas. What the f&#%…
*This is not a word but it should be.
In my day we skied with no gloves. Sometimes naked. You went home when you lost a finger or nose tip (or worse, your pecker) to frostbite. Those were the steely days…
You kept rhythm to the sound of your chattering teeth, not an Ipod.
You warmed your hands on your privates or in your girlfriend's armpits, not on a chemical pack cowardly hidden in your little mitten.
You didn’t ski on something shaped like an Italian ice spoon and whatever it was you skied on, there were two of them, not one deformed, obese ‘ski’ like all these snowboarding punks use today.
You skied on old fashioned lumber (preferably 2x4s) that was lashed to your leather boots (or bare feet) with dried out cat gut and you worked damn hard to turn those boards. Those who succeeded enjoyed a beer in the lodge afterwards. Those who didn't ate tree bark or the paint on the snow cat’s fender and didn't reproduce.
(That said I wish I had paid attention in high school geometry when they were teaching us about parabolas. (x=2y?? Crap, I can’t remember**). That would have led to me inventing the parabolic ski that made one person rich and everyone else able to get out their wallets and ski black diamonds with no fear).
In my day, you walked up the mountain with your skis on your back like a man (or ran up it if you wanted two rides in a day). There were no lodge bunnies in matching snowsuits. And NO fluffy white 'Apres Ski' boots. There was no Cherry flavored Chapstick hanging from a cord around your neck. Cracked lips were treated with good old fashioned, rendered horse lard from a tub.
Before heated gondolas, you held onto a rope tow driven by an unforgiving, creatively jigged Ford tractor motor. If you got your hand caught, well, off it went and you didn’t make that mistake again, by god! Leather gloves gripped whizzing rope until you smelled burning cow skin. Now that was a tow lift!! Some spazo fall down in front of you on the rope tow? You skied right over them and left your mark (Rossignol, Vokle ‘Tiger’ or Olin Mark III trick skis, or what have you) right on their backside.
When the chairlift was invented, we marveled at the suspiciously thin wire above from the 1/2" poorly welded tube framed 'chair' that would (sometimes and sometimes not) suspend us over a 200’ ravine. Didn’t like it? You were free to jump.
And we bounced those mothers, too. Tried to get them to jump the tracks of those little wheels and make all 300 people perish. Now that was good clean fun! In a post 9-11 world you just can’t do that anymore.
Then came gondolas and high speed quads and with them the fair weather fans with Gucci snow suits, Versace luggage and matching Volvos in the valet serviced parking lot. And that was the beginning of the end because someone had to pay for those gondola seat heaters. That someone was you (and me) to the tune of $80/day.
You could buy a ski mountain for $80 when I learned how to ski.
Heated Gondolas? For real? What happened to eating chili and good old fashioned flatulence in the gondola to keep warm. Or smoking a fatty ** and giggling straight through the hypothermia? Those were the days...
Today belongs to the wimp and I’m afraid that’s what this is all about, as the NYT seems to imply. I wish I could help you, or change this course, but I can’t. That first class train with its leather back captain seats and its plush, heated, bar car has left the station.
But we still can discuss with disgust like grumpy old men. Meet me in the lodge. I’ll be in the white fluffy boots and hanging out by the fireplace.
-Wally
Got a question for our advice columnist or just want to hear him spout off about the absurdity of Olympic ice curling? Email him at cwn4@aol.com
dear Wally 63 february
Dear Wally-
I don’t like February. It’s dark and cold. About the only good thing I can say about it is that it is shorter than the other months. But still, it isn’t short enough. Can you give me some perspective to help me get through it?
-T in Accord
Dear T:
I think I can do you one better than a new perspective. How about I actually get rid of February for you? I’ve been thinking about running for high office, like Governor, and I’d need a unique, hot-button campaign platform issue that hasn’t been co-opted and regurgitated by the big boys on the right or the left thousands of times over like health care reform, balanced budget, bank bailouts, etc.
Removing February. Hmmmmm. It’s never been promised before. This might work. I think New Yorkers might get behind me on this. Let’s see how it sounds from atop a soapbox:
Fellow New Yorkers, thank you for coming out today. I want to be your governor. If you vote for me, I’ll remove February. It’s dark and cold. It’s also short. I realize this may cost me the short vote, but to hell with them- there are a lot of tall people out there (and long months) to compensate. (By the way, to minimize the hemorrage of short voters, I’m hereby defining ‘short’ as under 1’ tall or fewer than 29 days).
February is also costly. Here me out. I know it’s cold and you are tired. With only 28 days, mortgages, rents, utilities and pretty much any monthly expenses are shoehorned into 3 fewer days and thus proportionally more expensive per day than in other longer months. Further, municipalities blow most of their budget in February on plowing and salting roads. What a waste. We have nothing to show for it in June. In these days of fiscal austerity, every New Yorker could use a break. I think educated voters and burdened townships will see my logic and be supportive of removing February as a necessary cost savings measure. People arn’t stupid, people. Between the icicles hanging from my frozen beard, I smell votes.
Presidents Washington and Lincoln have February birthdays and thus will be upset. But since leaving office, their daily influence has been greatly marginalized. In short, I’m not worried about them or their attack dogs on the Sunday morning talk shows.
The Valentines Day lobby might take it hard on the chin as they’ve spent a lot of money marketing mid February. The letterhead and business cards are already printed. But everyone I know always runs out of time getting bon-bons and flowers for their sweethearts, so most of New York probably wont mind shoving the holiday back into March or April.
The average daily temperature is 34.3 degrees. As you New Yorkers know, it is extremely difficult to make ice at this temperature. Getting rid of February means getting rid of problems for this important (voting) segment of the economy. We need solutions right now, not more problems. (Insert applause here). I know I can count on the ice makers’ vote to help me.
The horoscope writers should love this proposal—It’s less work for them. That means more time to spend in the markets buying things and stimulating the economy. Or more time with their families. Shorter horoscopes also mean less wasted ink and paper. That should keep the tree huggin’ environmentalists happy.
Febuary is also extremely hard to spell (see?). Getting rid of it will make 4th graders around the state happier and smarter. While it is true they don’t vote, happy 4th graders make for happy parents. Happy parents make for happy votes.
Procedurally, getting rid of February will be like a calendar facelift . We make a few small incisions after Christmas and before Easter, remove February, and stretch the other months taut. We’ll then suture January to March and, voila!-- all the year’s wrinkles are gone. We’ll look 30 years younger too!
Speaking of wrinkles, I can only think of one. My daughter’s birthday is in February.
And as I think on this a bit more, my dear constituency, I’m coming to the career stopping reality that she won’t like this move at all. She’ll be 2 this year and is fully expecting a party. And what is a politician if not a family guy?
It is for this reason, and after great deliberation, that I’m sorry to announce that I will not seek the office of Governor in the interest of spending more time with my family. February will have to stay and because my hands are cold this stump speech will have to end.
Sorry, T but you’ll have to look on the bright side of having February- the days are getting longer and warmer.
Wish I could have helped a bit more.
-Wally
Got a question for our advice columnist or just want to lobby him about making summer longer? Email him at cwn4@aol.com.
I don’t like February. It’s dark and cold. About the only good thing I can say about it is that it is shorter than the other months. But still, it isn’t short enough. Can you give me some perspective to help me get through it?
-T in Accord
Dear T:
I think I can do you one better than a new perspective. How about I actually get rid of February for you? I’ve been thinking about running for high office, like Governor, and I’d need a unique, hot-button campaign platform issue that hasn’t been co-opted and regurgitated by the big boys on the right or the left thousands of times over like health care reform, balanced budget, bank bailouts, etc.
Removing February. Hmmmmm. It’s never been promised before. This might work. I think New Yorkers might get behind me on this. Let’s see how it sounds from atop a soapbox:
Fellow New Yorkers, thank you for coming out today. I want to be your governor. If you vote for me, I’ll remove February. It’s dark and cold. It’s also short. I realize this may cost me the short vote, but to hell with them- there are a lot of tall people out there (and long months) to compensate. (By the way, to minimize the hemorrage of short voters, I’m hereby defining ‘short’ as under 1’ tall or fewer than 29 days).
February is also costly. Here me out. I know it’s cold and you are tired. With only 28 days, mortgages, rents, utilities and pretty much any monthly expenses are shoehorned into 3 fewer days and thus proportionally more expensive per day than in other longer months. Further, municipalities blow most of their budget in February on plowing and salting roads. What a waste. We have nothing to show for it in June. In these days of fiscal austerity, every New Yorker could use a break. I think educated voters and burdened townships will see my logic and be supportive of removing February as a necessary cost savings measure. People arn’t stupid, people. Between the icicles hanging from my frozen beard, I smell votes.
Presidents Washington and Lincoln have February birthdays and thus will be upset. But since leaving office, their daily influence has been greatly marginalized. In short, I’m not worried about them or their attack dogs on the Sunday morning talk shows.
The Valentines Day lobby might take it hard on the chin as they’ve spent a lot of money marketing mid February. The letterhead and business cards are already printed. But everyone I know always runs out of time getting bon-bons and flowers for their sweethearts, so most of New York probably wont mind shoving the holiday back into March or April.
The average daily temperature is 34.3 degrees. As you New Yorkers know, it is extremely difficult to make ice at this temperature. Getting rid of February means getting rid of problems for this important (voting) segment of the economy. We need solutions right now, not more problems. (Insert applause here). I know I can count on the ice makers’ vote to help me.
The horoscope writers should love this proposal—It’s less work for them. That means more time to spend in the markets buying things and stimulating the economy. Or more time with their families. Shorter horoscopes also mean less wasted ink and paper. That should keep the tree huggin’ environmentalists happy.
Febuary is also extremely hard to spell (see?). Getting rid of it will make 4th graders around the state happier and smarter. While it is true they don’t vote, happy 4th graders make for happy parents. Happy parents make for happy votes.
Procedurally, getting rid of February will be like a calendar facelift . We make a few small incisions after Christmas and before Easter, remove February, and stretch the other months taut. We’ll then suture January to March and, voila!-- all the year’s wrinkles are gone. We’ll look 30 years younger too!
Speaking of wrinkles, I can only think of one. My daughter’s birthday is in February.
And as I think on this a bit more, my dear constituency, I’m coming to the career stopping reality that she won’t like this move at all. She’ll be 2 this year and is fully expecting a party. And what is a politician if not a family guy?
It is for this reason, and after great deliberation, that I’m sorry to announce that I will not seek the office of Governor in the interest of spending more time with my family. February will have to stay and because my hands are cold this stump speech will have to end.
Sorry, T but you’ll have to look on the bright side of having February- the days are getting longer and warmer.
Wish I could have helped a bit more.
-Wally
Got a question for our advice columnist or just want to lobby him about making summer longer? Email him at cwn4@aol.com.
dear wally 62 car selling
Dear Wally #62 Getting Rid of an Old Friend
Dear Wally: I am getting rid of my car and I’m starting to get a little emotional about it. It has been a loyal member of the family. Yet here I am just kicking it to the curb. Should I feel bad? (I do). Or should I just get over it and if so, how.
-Confused and emotionally vulnerable in Olivebridge
Dear Confused-
I think you are right to be conflicted. I do not specialize in auto attachment grief counseling, but I know how you feel. We make deep bonds to inanimate objects in our life and that’s part of the human condition. I’d say it’s what separates us from the monkeys, but I think if they had cars that they lived in (and flung poop at), they’d be equally remorseful when they surrendered them to the viney jungle growth. These feelings you are having mean you have compassion and empathy—and that’s a good thing. If you can fall in love with a steel fender then trust me, the world would be a better place with more people like you.
My own mother, for example, used to put aspirin in the gas tank when her car backfired. She’d also smear Neosporin on the hood’s rust spots. That’s love. (I think). If you actually end up giving your car a name, assigning a gender and such, the relationship will always end in heartbreak. Except for those freaks who drive their VW bugs 1.2 million miles, we tend to outlive our cars, as we do our parents once and our pets many times over. In this way, it’s a lifetime of set ups for loss, but, happily, only after a fecund run of big love.
I recently sold my once new car (aren’t they all…) because it had 170k miles and the heater wasn’t working (to list just one of several multi thousand dollar fixes that wouldn’t be happening on my shift). I sold it to a used car dealer in Florida where they don’t care about the heaters. I felt a pang of seller’s remorse—This car had been reliable and safe- it carried my newborn daughter for the first time and countless tons of lumber. It then carried itself on the 1500 mile Bataan death march (AKA Rt 95 south) to its own grave, as far as I was concerned. Like Moose, my once bounding, then aged, rabbit-chasing, loyal, yellow lab who has no idea that he is being taken on a one way trip to the vet. (Don’t worry Moose, they got lots of rabbits in Heaven…).
I stripped the car of every last personal artifact that final day in the sunny, dealer parking lot and it felt like a cheap, rushed exit for parting, 8 year long friends. It was sad like the Giving Tree and Cats and the Cradle is sad. As my buddy said earlier, those car seats have a lot of you in them, and not just the smell. Lots of good times.
Cars are not just vehicles for people, they are vehicles for memories and dreams, which if you care to allow them, can be precious things. Just as they can be, if you are neither careful nor lucky, fragile and fleeting. They mark the quick passage of time, which for the sensitive, is never reconciled without a few tears.
I’ll confess I was a little misty as I looked at it proudly waiting for me to change my mind, get back in, drive away and write the scary experience off as a one-time moment of weak indiscretion-- A regretful Michael Jacksonian balcony dangle. That transactional retreat didn’t happen, of course. And to the yawning, unamused used car dealer with work to do, a heavy gold neck medallion and waning patience for the likes of me, dozens of deals like this happen each day. There simply is no room for sentimental poofs in the car business.
We tend to get attached to things (and people) that help define us, just as we get attached to ourselves and our mannerisms. I don’t mean in a narcissistic way, but in a grounding, channel-marking kind of way. This connection happens most prominently with family members and school friends and summer camp friends etc. They are a prism into our own being and they tag clicks in ink along our personal, spiritual timelines and keep it real. Because they know so much about us, we tend to want to hold them close, lest we forget or lose track or feel alone. Cars, it seems, are no exception, especially if they are bequeathed.
I left my buggy with a full tank of gas. I doubt that often happens just as I doubt folks return rental cars filled with super unleaded. It felt dignified in the face of an otherwise utilitarian decision.
My consolation was that the dealer told me (while he was cooly cleaning the underside of his nails) that my car was going to be immediately auctioned off and shipped to a Caribbean island to live out its salad days.
“Really?” I perked up. “No more cold New England winters? No more road salt where the sun don’t shine?”
“Nope.”
“So I’m kinda sending it off to easy street to enjoy its golden years?”
“Yup.”
“Like Moose chasing rabbits in Heaven?”
“Huh? Whatever, son.”
So, Confused, give the old girl a final pat on the fender and thanks for a job well done. Then celebrate the relationship, tell yourself the car is retiring to the tropics (we all should be so lucky!!) and move on to the sweet sassafras smell of neeeeeeeewwwwwwwww carrrrrrrrrrr! (And say it like you just won it on a game show!).
Hope this helped.
-Wally
Got a question for our advice columnist or trying to get rid of an excellent 4wd used car for free? Contact him at cwn4@aol.com
Dear Wally: I am getting rid of my car and I’m starting to get a little emotional about it. It has been a loyal member of the family. Yet here I am just kicking it to the curb. Should I feel bad? (I do). Or should I just get over it and if so, how.
-Confused and emotionally vulnerable in Olivebridge
Dear Confused-
I think you are right to be conflicted. I do not specialize in auto attachment grief counseling, but I know how you feel. We make deep bonds to inanimate objects in our life and that’s part of the human condition. I’d say it’s what separates us from the monkeys, but I think if they had cars that they lived in (and flung poop at), they’d be equally remorseful when they surrendered them to the viney jungle growth. These feelings you are having mean you have compassion and empathy—and that’s a good thing. If you can fall in love with a steel fender then trust me, the world would be a better place with more people like you.
My own mother, for example, used to put aspirin in the gas tank when her car backfired. She’d also smear Neosporin on the hood’s rust spots. That’s love. (I think). If you actually end up giving your car a name, assigning a gender and such, the relationship will always end in heartbreak. Except for those freaks who drive their VW bugs 1.2 million miles, we tend to outlive our cars, as we do our parents once and our pets many times over. In this way, it’s a lifetime of set ups for loss, but, happily, only after a fecund run of big love.
I recently sold my once new car (aren’t they all…) because it had 170k miles and the heater wasn’t working (to list just one of several multi thousand dollar fixes that wouldn’t be happening on my shift). I sold it to a used car dealer in Florida where they don’t care about the heaters. I felt a pang of seller’s remorse—This car had been reliable and safe- it carried my newborn daughter for the first time and countless tons of lumber. It then carried itself on the 1500 mile Bataan death march (AKA Rt 95 south) to its own grave, as far as I was concerned. Like Moose, my once bounding, then aged, rabbit-chasing, loyal, yellow lab who has no idea that he is being taken on a one way trip to the vet. (Don’t worry Moose, they got lots of rabbits in Heaven…).
I stripped the car of every last personal artifact that final day in the sunny, dealer parking lot and it felt like a cheap, rushed exit for parting, 8 year long friends. It was sad like the Giving Tree and Cats and the Cradle is sad. As my buddy said earlier, those car seats have a lot of you in them, and not just the smell. Lots of good times.
Cars are not just vehicles for people, they are vehicles for memories and dreams, which if you care to allow them, can be precious things. Just as they can be, if you are neither careful nor lucky, fragile and fleeting. They mark the quick passage of time, which for the sensitive, is never reconciled without a few tears.
I’ll confess I was a little misty as I looked at it proudly waiting for me to change my mind, get back in, drive away and write the scary experience off as a one-time moment of weak indiscretion-- A regretful Michael Jacksonian balcony dangle. That transactional retreat didn’t happen, of course. And to the yawning, unamused used car dealer with work to do, a heavy gold neck medallion and waning patience for the likes of me, dozens of deals like this happen each day. There simply is no room for sentimental poofs in the car business.
We tend to get attached to things (and people) that help define us, just as we get attached to ourselves and our mannerisms. I don’t mean in a narcissistic way, but in a grounding, channel-marking kind of way. This connection happens most prominently with family members and school friends and summer camp friends etc. They are a prism into our own being and they tag clicks in ink along our personal, spiritual timelines and keep it real. Because they know so much about us, we tend to want to hold them close, lest we forget or lose track or feel alone. Cars, it seems, are no exception, especially if they are bequeathed.
I left my buggy with a full tank of gas. I doubt that often happens just as I doubt folks return rental cars filled with super unleaded. It felt dignified in the face of an otherwise utilitarian decision.
My consolation was that the dealer told me (while he was cooly cleaning the underside of his nails) that my car was going to be immediately auctioned off and shipped to a Caribbean island to live out its salad days.
“Really?” I perked up. “No more cold New England winters? No more road salt where the sun don’t shine?”
“Nope.”
“So I’m kinda sending it off to easy street to enjoy its golden years?”
“Yup.”
“Like Moose chasing rabbits in Heaven?”
“Huh? Whatever, son.”
So, Confused, give the old girl a final pat on the fender and thanks for a job well done. Then celebrate the relationship, tell yourself the car is retiring to the tropics (we all should be so lucky!!) and move on to the sweet sassafras smell of neeeeeeeewwwwwwwww carrrrrrrrrrr! (And say it like you just won it on a game show!).
Hope this helped.
-Wally
Got a question for our advice columnist or trying to get rid of an excellent 4wd used car for free? Contact him at cwn4@aol.com
dear wally 61 nuggets
Dear Wally-
I can’t get my 4 year old to eat anything but nuggets. It’s getting out of hand. I need some help before he gets scurvy from lack of fruit.
-Frustrated.
Dear Frustrated:
I’m hearing a lot of this from folks these days. Not sure what we really did before the now ubiquitous nugget. I cringe to think how many kids withered away to nothing in those dark, culinarily prehistoric days. We have McDonalds (I think) to thank and blame for nuggetization, and with childhood obesity issues plaguing the entire country, our kids are actually starting to look like nuggets! But while the fast food giant has opened a Pandora’s box of food and health-related problems, they are now nowhere to be found when it comes to fixing the problem. Assuming it is a problem…
There’s nothing inherently wrong with nutrition coming in a playful, unnatural form. The complete absence of nutrition notwithstanding, we’ve all been eating animal crackers for generations and we’re ok. So no marks against corporate for putting food in a novel package, especially if it helps kids eat. The bigger problem is that the nugget ends up being a suspiciously opaque vessel for the very kinds of things we do not directly want going into our loved little ones. There’s no accountability because science can’t even reverse engineer these things to ID the yuck and point a finger. (Point a fish finger, that is).
McDonalds is the single largest buyer of cow lips in the world. This is a horrific, urban legend ‘fact’ known to all kids on the playgrounds of all schools (along with unprintable things about Richard Gere and gerbils) and thus it must be true.
Cow lips.
Remember what Grandma said, “Don’t eat anything that can taste you back.” Once again she makes a lot of sense. There are a lot of cow parts that need to go somewhere and, when industrially homogenized into nugget form, well, the horns and hoofs and ears and tails finally have a handy, cheap place to go. Same for undesirable fish parts like tails and gills. In this (and only this) respect, the nugget is quite efficient- an engineering marvel, even.
If you work in a lumberyard and sell OSB or particle board, you know that sometimes a product is greater than the sum of its parts. Sometimes, however, it is not and no amount of catsup can change that fact for the nugget.
We’re also doing children an anatomical disservice by letting them think chickens and fish have fingers. This very notion of chicken and fish fingers gets right up in the face of anti-Darwinist creationalists. While I personally think that fish will eventually evolve to walk on land and legitimately have fingers such that they can sit in a boat, drink beer, drop a hook in the water and ‘man,’ now is not the time for that discussion. Nor is it the time to speculate that over the next 30,000 years chickens will grow fingers and learn to raise their middle ones at us for our past transgressions against their kin like dipping their ancestoral body parts in jerk sauce.
I suspect parents, myself included, would be quite happy feeding a nugget of some known healthy material to their kids. It is for that reason that I have been working on an invention prototype—a wall mounted ‘nuggetizer’ which, with your financial help, I would like to sell on late night TV. My invention would bolt onto the kitchen wall and have a generous steel hopper with a long telescoping handle for leverage. Here’s how it works: You simply dump in broccoli, liver, peas, carrots, grapefruit and whatever else you find healthy and have laying around but your child finds repulsive as a standalone item. Then close the hopper lid and pull down the lever! The lever moves a plunger which shoves the stuff into a chamber under great force and out the other end --kinda like the human GI track. (hee hee).
It can be fun and educational for the whole family as they make their own appealing food and learn about physics at the same time. By screwing on one of the available mold shapes, your nutritious mush mix would be forced by 10 tons of compressive pressure into the shape of your choosing and voila! --out comes a ‘finger’ or a ‘nugget’ or a heart shape, or a 3d bust of Beethoven, Luke Skywalker or even (if I get enough seed money for a 3d AutoCAD modelleling tool) a full body recreation of a beloved departed family member like grandma made out of broccoli! 3 weeks of roughage in one little grandma-shaped nugget!
I’ve tested extensively and found that the perfect binder for the raw ingredients in the nuggetizer is the Dear Wally column (after it has been read of course). Just rip it out of the BSP, crumple it up and toss it in! It adds a nice crunch and will help your loved ones stay regular while giving them a shiny coat.
This could be an all around win/win and more importantly, deal a crippling proletariat blow to ‘big food’ by arming the masses with the micro-industrial food processing capacity heretofore only dreamt of.
(You have been dreaming of this, right??)
The nuggetizer might be the solution. But if you are worried about scurvy now, before I can get to market, sign your 4 year old up for a few month tour on a British warship- they figured the scurvy thing out years ago.
-Wally
Got a question for our advice columnist or just want to invest in his hair-brained schemes? Contact him at cwn4@aol.com
I can’t get my 4 year old to eat anything but nuggets. It’s getting out of hand. I need some help before he gets scurvy from lack of fruit.
-Frustrated.
Dear Frustrated:
I’m hearing a lot of this from folks these days. Not sure what we really did before the now ubiquitous nugget. I cringe to think how many kids withered away to nothing in those dark, culinarily prehistoric days. We have McDonalds (I think) to thank and blame for nuggetization, and with childhood obesity issues plaguing the entire country, our kids are actually starting to look like nuggets! But while the fast food giant has opened a Pandora’s box of food and health-related problems, they are now nowhere to be found when it comes to fixing the problem. Assuming it is a problem…
There’s nothing inherently wrong with nutrition coming in a playful, unnatural form. The complete absence of nutrition notwithstanding, we’ve all been eating animal crackers for generations and we’re ok. So no marks against corporate for putting food in a novel package, especially if it helps kids eat. The bigger problem is that the nugget ends up being a suspiciously opaque vessel for the very kinds of things we do not directly want going into our loved little ones. There’s no accountability because science can’t even reverse engineer these things to ID the yuck and point a finger. (Point a fish finger, that is).
McDonalds is the single largest buyer of cow lips in the world. This is a horrific, urban legend ‘fact’ known to all kids on the playgrounds of all schools (along with unprintable things about Richard Gere and gerbils) and thus it must be true.
Cow lips.
Remember what Grandma said, “Don’t eat anything that can taste you back.” Once again she makes a lot of sense. There are a lot of cow parts that need to go somewhere and, when industrially homogenized into nugget form, well, the horns and hoofs and ears and tails finally have a handy, cheap place to go. Same for undesirable fish parts like tails and gills. In this (and only this) respect, the nugget is quite efficient- an engineering marvel, even.
If you work in a lumberyard and sell OSB or particle board, you know that sometimes a product is greater than the sum of its parts. Sometimes, however, it is not and no amount of catsup can change that fact for the nugget.
We’re also doing children an anatomical disservice by letting them think chickens and fish have fingers. This very notion of chicken and fish fingers gets right up in the face of anti-Darwinist creationalists. While I personally think that fish will eventually evolve to walk on land and legitimately have fingers such that they can sit in a boat, drink beer, drop a hook in the water and ‘man,’ now is not the time for that discussion. Nor is it the time to speculate that over the next 30,000 years chickens will grow fingers and learn to raise their middle ones at us for our past transgressions against their kin like dipping their ancestoral body parts in jerk sauce.
I suspect parents, myself included, would be quite happy feeding a nugget of some known healthy material to their kids. It is for that reason that I have been working on an invention prototype—a wall mounted ‘nuggetizer’ which, with your financial help, I would like to sell on late night TV. My invention would bolt onto the kitchen wall and have a generous steel hopper with a long telescoping handle for leverage. Here’s how it works: You simply dump in broccoli, liver, peas, carrots, grapefruit and whatever else you find healthy and have laying around but your child finds repulsive as a standalone item. Then close the hopper lid and pull down the lever! The lever moves a plunger which shoves the stuff into a chamber under great force and out the other end --kinda like the human GI track. (hee hee).
It can be fun and educational for the whole family as they make their own appealing food and learn about physics at the same time. By screwing on one of the available mold shapes, your nutritious mush mix would be forced by 10 tons of compressive pressure into the shape of your choosing and voila! --out comes a ‘finger’ or a ‘nugget’ or a heart shape, or a 3d bust of Beethoven, Luke Skywalker or even (if I get enough seed money for a 3d AutoCAD modelleling tool) a full body recreation of a beloved departed family member like grandma made out of broccoli! 3 weeks of roughage in one little grandma-shaped nugget!
I’ve tested extensively and found that the perfect binder for the raw ingredients in the nuggetizer is the Dear Wally column (after it has been read of course). Just rip it out of the BSP, crumple it up and toss it in! It adds a nice crunch and will help your loved ones stay regular while giving them a shiny coat.
This could be an all around win/win and more importantly, deal a crippling proletariat blow to ‘big food’ by arming the masses with the micro-industrial food processing capacity heretofore only dreamt of.
(You have been dreaming of this, right??)
The nuggetizer might be the solution. But if you are worried about scurvy now, before I can get to market, sign your 4 year old up for a few month tour on a British warship- they figured the scurvy thing out years ago.
-Wally
Got a question for our advice columnist or just want to invest in his hair-brained schemes? Contact him at cwn4@aol.com
update from guatemala
An update from the Guatemala Desk:
I wanted to briefly review my recent trip to the Guatemala Nashes ( formerly the Nantucket Nashes of Carslisle, Mass and possibly the future Concord Nash-Outerbridges of Guatemala, Nantucket and Bermuda if the families can finally agree on a dowry).
My visit happened in the country’s erstwhile upscale capital, Antigua—referred to me analogously as the Darien, CT of Central America but with just a little more dog shit on the streets.
In this ‘Darien’ there are also rickety, overstuffed pickup trucks of Guatemalans with rakes and shovels and other lawn care implements, but somehow it seems less, well, illegal.
I was instructed no fewer than 6 times in advance, via email, that the family driver Mario was not, repeat not, to receive one red cent more than $30 US (tip included!!) for his chauffeuring services on the one hour trip from the airport to Antigua, lest I set precedent and ruin it for all the future arriving gringos. The idea being, apparently, that Mario, a fully grown and completely literate adult, wouldn’t think to query the taxi service with which he competes daily and figure out how much below the going rate his rate is. I was told they have a good thing going and not to blow it with my Imperialist Yankee largesse.
The reality is that no one has to ask me more than once not to tip. In fact many might not be surprised to know that I once had a fistful of coins thrown at my head by the NYC cabbie I was trying to tip. The projectiles were lubricated with the following words that flowed frothily from his yap: “I’m gonna have a fucking party with all my fucking friends you fucking cheap fuck.” (or something like that).
Mario at the airport had a big sign on which was written in fat marker “Wally Nichols” and I felt like the rock star I deserve to be (and am in small circles). That is, until we climbed up into a diesel belching minivan like the rest of the country’s riff raff. Had to sit in the front in order to keep nausea at bay. (I tried this line on the American Airlines first class upgrade check in lady and she said, “And how will you be paying for the upgrade to first class, Mr. Nichols?” I replied, “Ummm, with my smile?”
I had a perfectly fine flight back in coach.
Mario swept the rarely used front seat clean of papers and lunch with his arm and we were off to break through the city’s traffic-throttled streets and chew our way up into the mountainous switchbacks.
There are only so many ways to keep a conversation going with a working vocabulary of 2 words. So after I identified his car for him as a car (El Coche!) and held my thumb up to my mouth with a goofy grin saying ‘mey gusta Cerveca’ (both of which earned me the same polite smile one might awkwardly offer a severely retarded midget who was touching your kneecap at the train station), we pretty much gave up on small talk and remained stone silent for the duration of the trip which, on the plus side, allowed me to take in some the sights of the vegetative, volcano-pocked land.
First observation: there is an economy of movement here, especially as it relates to the building of simple shack homes and the parking of very small vehicles into even smaller spaces, both of which they do impressively. We passed plenty of tin roof shanties that were tacked into the soil with nail files just feet from a 100 foot sheer cliff. In a land prone to earthquakes and mudslides, this placement seemed like the option-less option of the desperately poor. Seriously, one false step in the middle of the night on the way to the outhouse and you could well tumble your way into a different country.
And the way they bend long vehicles like the repurposed US school buses (aka chicken buses) around tight corners is impressive, to say the least. (On the subject of ‘chicken buses,’ enterprising gringos buy our discarded school buses at auction and drive them down the Pan American Highway to the destination country. Then they are stripped down, worked over, goosed up, painted on, chromed out and finally they emerge as iridescent and proud as 40’ resplendent diesel peacocks in mating season).
Guatemala and other Central American countries are where our cars come to die when they can no longer meet US safety standards. I’m not entirely sure how they eek out more life from these old dogs but I imagine it to be analogous to squeezing a lemon hard by hand, declaring it officially dry, and then being shown up by someone with a 10 ton hydraulic press who gets out a few more drops and proves you wrong.
I did a number of double takes from the airport to Antigua as I swore I saw all the cars of my youth race past me on the skinny asphalt arteries that connect the country. A Chevy Chevette here (minus the corn and onion kabob I made out of the antennae and left on for years), a Ford Bronco there. It felt like an automotive version of “this is your life.” So it appears true that there was a little life left in some of those high school automotive experiments after all.
Once in cobblestoned, downtown Antigua, I was greeted with open arms by nephew Gardner in his proper robbin’s egg blue school sweater vest- a tough outfit for a Mass pre- teenager, especially when it is 80 and sunny out, but he was in good spirits nonetheless and awkwardly returned my iron ‘man’ hug.
Be cool Uncle Charlie. Be cool.
The way the real estate is laid out, there are heavy cement wall s that lines the narrow streets and visually protect what’s on the other side. Every so often there’s a thick mahogany door with some serious hand wrought iron hardware, or as I became fond of muttering finally without getting slapped, “nice knockers!”
You have no idea what’s behind a given door until you open it. It’s kinda like the game show, ‘let’s make a deal’. You could open curtain #1 and find a palatial spread or open Curtain #2 and find a few goats. That’s part of the excitement and mystery of Guatemala, or at least Antigua.
Gardener slipped us back into just such a door-the entrance to their apt. Would-be criminals take note that judging a book by its cover (or house by its door) has never been, and still is not, a good idea. Would be criminals also take note that even the ‘rent a cops’ hired to do curbside security pack intimidating chrome, blunt barrel, 12 gauge shotguns with plenty of ammo in their bandoliers. One step up from them, and equally pervasive, are the federal / army troops dressed in black or fatigues who sport no bullshit automatic assault weapons. This makes for a generally safe living environment for tourists, and I can’t help but think we still have Oliver North to inadvertently thank for this.
The Nash’s apt was excellent and spacious with generous foliage growing in their living space and plenty of open, gardeny spaces. Lot’s of terra cotta and a lazy hammock for contemplating just how little can get done in a day if one tries.
You don’t leave front doors open longer than absolutely necessary here and Gardner was quick to close ours behind me making me feel like I was consummating some shady back room drug deal. (All I had muled past customs was some tampons and a box of business cards).
We were only inside (which is not even really inside, more, behind the wall) briefly- enough to grab a drink of water from their baked clay water filtration system their friend mass produces and admire the family’s impressive fruit collection. Then , after a well deserved warning about the incompatibility of toilet paper and the john, (honestly I was expecting a hole in the ground and a couple of guiding foot prints so I was pleasantly surprised) it was outside to hob knob with the locals, which is to say, watch Sandy run for mayor.
Sandy was pleased as punch to let every single vendor and friend (and probably some enemies) know that I was her brother and that I was in town (woooo hooooooo!) Mi Amano! Mi Amano! (and sometimes some pretty creative, yet well meaning tongue-twisted variations of that). The locals were taken with her enthusiasm and, in as much as we have the jiggly latin American TV sensation Charro (!!) in her bouncing bikini to goof on here in the states, the score is settled as they now have their Sandy in her tan, knee high, canvas rat catcher skirt, espadrils and fish belly white facial smear of spf 2500 sundope!
In the distance, as a continual reminder, lurks Fuego, a 13,000 foot volcano that is still actively groaning. With so much recent geo-technic activity, many are convinced she’s about to blow, the historically and unsettlingly accurate Mayans among them, no less. With 15 volcanoes alone in the country, it is no small wonder that there are also chapels and impromptu praying stations (Catholic) everywhere one turns (not to mention places to buy sweets and tortillas).
You can say they love Christ more than most, but you can’t say it and not be in the shadow of an enormous lava producer that could blow at any minute and mortar thousands of people right tight in their tracks into the country’s low spots. I’m sure the Catholic church doesn’t care how it is that folks come into their buildings, so long as they come. The looming volcanoes just seal the deal in the same way that an enormous bouncer with folded arms at the door might tend to discourage superfluous fisticuffs within the nightclub.
We decided to scale one of these volcanic monsters and see the lava up close. This trip up Picaya required a guide (well spent money) and an alarm clock so that we could start the journey early enough to watch the sunrise. 3:45am. We piled into a van and drove that thing far past where any road should have ended. Strapping on headlamps and loading an unamused brother in law (Lambchops) down with extra water bottles, we began our single file trek up, burro- like, placing one foot in the dusty print of the person in front. Couple of fart jokes here and there until oxygen at 6,000 feet was too valuable to waste on scatology.
We punched through the tree line (finally) to find a carpet of recent green mossy growth on which lava-dodging wild horses and cows were munching- at least the living ones smart enough to get out of the way. This vegetation sprouted up between the long fingers of hardened lava that had quite recently pushed this far down (like last week) before firming up. Each morning over coffee the guides discuss where the lava is flowing and aim their gringos there. Each day the topography changes.
We were advised to wear thick shoes because as soon as we started up the new lava fields, it was clear from the pre sunrise glow that there was orange molten lava only inches below our feet and that the level of infernal heat was sure to delaminate the sole’s bonding agent.
We crested a final ridge some 20 minutes past the horses, walking carefully b/c the hardened lava is almost razor sharp, and felt the blast of heat from the 4’ wide river of lava oozing down the face. Really unbelievable. This was the absolute end of the line unless you were wearing asbestos underwear and scuba gear. Nowhere in America would we be allowed to get so close to this type of danger. Even the lawyer’s liability waivers (and their dark suits) would have burst into flames, it was so hot.
I decided it was time to put this menacing volcano thing out once for all and bring some peace of mind to the nervous locals. This was going to be my gift. So I dropped trou and let fly the whiz I had been storing up since the night before’s ample beer fest. The spray of urine instantly evaporated and the mist pumped right back into my face. Yecht. (note to self: in addition to not pissing in the wind, remember to not piss on molten lava).
In a different (cleaner?) area, the guides unfolded a blanket and produced a series of interesting lunch items that were perfectly suitable for breakfast (yes it was still only 6:30 am). We cooked (yes cooked) breakfast sandwiches on the lava and as it was still sunrise, could see the orange glow of earth’s innards’ fuel against the black-blue sky.
Regularly we could hear what sounded like either a sheet of tin being flapped or a huge whale bumping its head against a plastic hull. This was the 300foot expectoration of rocks, tephra, fire and whatever other junk this beast had in its gullet that morning. That these airborne projectiles weren’t landing on us was only part of the reason no one felt bad about paying the guides the pittance for which they asked.
I was able to understand from the guides that if there was an earthquake at the precise moment (or hour) we were on the rock, we’d pretty much be toast. Unfortunately my timing was such that I only thought about posing the question far after there was time to do anything about it. Once that lava hardens, it’s pretty brittle (and very sharp). Gravity and inertia had taken it to where we walked, but a good 6.5 tremor shaking would send it (with us) to a considerably lower state of potential energy, namely the parking lot 3,000 feet below.
So that makes you want to not lollygag over breakfast too much.
We survived and the trip down was a spritely affair. Even Lambchops, this time befriended by gravity, didn’t mind carry the backpack now. We were nudged along on our way by some perturbed cows that may have been there in the dark- we just didn’t see them on the way up. Or more likely, they weren’t awake yet.
Sandy was keen to drag me by my ears to the thronged Saturday market to show me how much more gross the upside down slaughtered chickens and such were here than in America. This exercise did little to budge me from the vegetarian camp. We bought much fruit in the hurly burly market and for an unknown fistful of the local currency, I walked away with some decent quantity of ripe strawberries and a machete hacked coconut which Gardner refused to taste. I thought it was excellent and let my front teeth spend time following the contour in a blind attempt to scrape the white ‘meat’ from its concave, hairy form. Reminded me of a line from a country song about a bucktoothed beauty-“She could eat corn on the cob through a picket fence” Not a pretty sight in a public market but then again, neither is an eviscerated, skinned goat hanging from a hook.
Sandy relentlessly worked the local vendors down in price until they were practically paying her to take their produce away! You think I’m kidding. The bloodsport of hondling, while maybe not professional, certainly has a 3rd world application that Sandy has mastered and leveraged to the extent that she has beaten them at their own sorry game, if that’s possible.
Be forewarned, North American and Central American relations may be strained for a few years.
There’s a pocket of ExPats that seem to have taken up residence. If they weren’t up to such good (volunteering at food banks and building homes) I’d say they were up to no good. It looks like a country that’s easy to get lost in and just a little US currency can catapult you to the next socio-economic class pretty quickly. With extreme wealth and extreme poverty shoulder to shoulder, which is not atypical in Central America, there’s little middle class to be seen, with maybe Mario being the exception.
But the Americans and Germans (there are a lot of them for various historical post war reasons) and other non-natives here treat the country as a prized gem. Plenty are here just to help. In fact, on day 2 of my stay here we hiked up the road a spell to an outfit called God’s Love which is a multi-headed, progressive social / educational experiment for the indigent. Within the walls of this compound is much well meaning and well executed symbiosis. Children are encouraged to attend the classes that are conducted. Their parents are incentivized with a stipend that grows as a function of the child’s performance and attendance. There is an onsite clinic for general health and dentistry. The kids get educated, the parents are not fiscally punished for having their children not working the land, and, on Fridays, the surplus vegetables from the local market are dolled out to the needy (100% women) on long flat tables. Picture volunteers such as Sandy and me and others scooping broccoli and carrots into the open sacks of the poorest of the poor. Sandy’s one really well delivered word in their native tongue, “hola,” is well received by everyone in the line, whether or not they are on their first , second or final pass before the donor baskets we man are empty.
No shortage of smiles and mutual appreciation before the ladies heave the loads onto their heads and begin their 6 mile trek uphill back to their homes. It’s a satisfying affair, and one well documented by the likes of Peter Sr’s camera, with the promise (threat?) that it might make its way to the Curran catalogue or Brown Alumni Magazine.
One little cutie is 4 year old with dirty knees and a free flowing river of boogers running down her left nostril. She darts between the knees of the older ladies in line. We strike up a muted game of hide and seek which quickly results in favoritism. (So sue me). For her cuteness, playfulness, and her lot in life, I’m forced to doll out a few extra carrots, which, dirt covered, she munches on happily and without reservation. Big simple smiles are my abundant reward, and really, this is where the carrots need to be anyhow.
When the volunteering is over, the hands are washed, and the school to our backs, we head down to town for lunch and a regrouping. The afternoon’s mountain bike trek, promised to surely decimate me, has been cancelled because the guide himself is in the hospital from a fall. Hmmm. Plan B, with which we are cool, is to ascend the new jungle boardwalk in the preserve on the edge of town. This ‘boardwalk’ is a far cry from Atlantic City or Venice beach, starting with the fact it is almost completely straight uphill.
We feign outrage, international exploitation and highway robbery at the gate but finally part with the $5 entry fee we each must pay ( A king’s ransom in local terms, by the way). The park ranger is annoyingly unbribable, pretty much shooting down my romantic notions of pervasively corrupt Central America.
It’s a good thing we pay because there is another guide halfway up the trek and he stops us cold looking for our receipt. “El Coche” I arbitrarily say. I get a curious look. Sandy lets him know that I am her brother (uhh, that should work) and finally I scratch out in the dirt the amount of Quetzels (their currency) that we were beaten up for by his boyfriend at the gate. He seems to have a purpose other than simply being a troll under the proverbial bridge. He carries a 30 lb field book(in English which he doesn’t speak) on exotic birds that we might (but didn’t) see. Sandy , of course, has spooked herself silly with the specter of rabid jungle bats all looking for her alabaster neck flesh beneath her Barbara Bush pearls.
I’m impressed with the walkway’s building material. No ACQ treated lumber here. This is all jungle mahogany. There may be a few fewer hectacres of rainforest somewhere but this staircase board walk isn’t going anywhere for a hundred years. I try to spook Sandy out with tails of Central American pumas leaping from trees and attacking humans (especially humans from the Boston Suburbs- yumm!! extra tasty) but she’s still worked up about the bats. The only thing that takes her mind off the bats is the ever present drone of bees (killer bees?!) in their nests 300 feet above. Amazing to think one B grade movie made in the 70s about African Killer bees coming over our borders could do such damage, but then again, look at what ‘Jaws’ did for the shark industry.
Lambchops stopped me at the trailhead because he wanted to point out the coffee bean we Americans drop to our knees for and worship. When ripe, they are reddish. The average coffee picker fills a sack in a day and schleps (this is the true proper usage of this overused word) the 100lb bag down to the market. Never complain about your job again, no matter how tedious. Day in day out, 100 lbs of coffee beans , plucked one at a time. No such thing as a coffee break because the coffee hasn’t been picked yet.
The good stuff goes to Germany (Scheiss!) The crappy beans go to Starbucks. For real. Pinch a red coffee bean and out will slide 2 smaller beans in a mucosy, sweet covering. This is a real treat for the orally fixated like me.
The process from plantation to Starbucks cup is a intricate one and Lambchops knows enough about it to snow me as an expert.
I’d never seen a real coffee plantation and it felt like a sanctuary of richness and nature. I was expecting Juan Valdez (The Folger’s Coffee guy) to emerge from the thicket with a burro and a burlap cape. Didn’t happen but that doesn’t mean it couldn’t have or hadn’t earlier.
Before I knew it it was time to head back to the airport and leave. At 5am I was on my own. Nothing but Fuego rumbling in the distance, or was it Lambchops snoring??
I wanted to briefly review my recent trip to the Guatemala Nashes ( formerly the Nantucket Nashes of Carslisle, Mass and possibly the future Concord Nash-Outerbridges of Guatemala, Nantucket and Bermuda if the families can finally agree on a dowry).
My visit happened in the country’s erstwhile upscale capital, Antigua—referred to me analogously as the Darien, CT of Central America but with just a little more dog shit on the streets.
In this ‘Darien’ there are also rickety, overstuffed pickup trucks of Guatemalans with rakes and shovels and other lawn care implements, but somehow it seems less, well, illegal.
I was instructed no fewer than 6 times in advance, via email, that the family driver Mario was not, repeat not, to receive one red cent more than $30 US (tip included!!) for his chauffeuring services on the one hour trip from the airport to Antigua, lest I set precedent and ruin it for all the future arriving gringos. The idea being, apparently, that Mario, a fully grown and completely literate adult, wouldn’t think to query the taxi service with which he competes daily and figure out how much below the going rate his rate is. I was told they have a good thing going and not to blow it with my Imperialist Yankee largesse.
The reality is that no one has to ask me more than once not to tip. In fact many might not be surprised to know that I once had a fistful of coins thrown at my head by the NYC cabbie I was trying to tip. The projectiles were lubricated with the following words that flowed frothily from his yap: “I’m gonna have a fucking party with all my fucking friends you fucking cheap fuck.” (or something like that).
Mario at the airport had a big sign on which was written in fat marker “Wally Nichols” and I felt like the rock star I deserve to be (and am in small circles). That is, until we climbed up into a diesel belching minivan like the rest of the country’s riff raff. Had to sit in the front in order to keep nausea at bay. (I tried this line on the American Airlines first class upgrade check in lady and she said, “And how will you be paying for the upgrade to first class, Mr. Nichols?” I replied, “Ummm, with my smile?”
I had a perfectly fine flight back in coach.
Mario swept the rarely used front seat clean of papers and lunch with his arm and we were off to break through the city’s traffic-throttled streets and chew our way up into the mountainous switchbacks.
There are only so many ways to keep a conversation going with a working vocabulary of 2 words. So after I identified his car for him as a car (El Coche!) and held my thumb up to my mouth with a goofy grin saying ‘mey gusta Cerveca’ (both of which earned me the same polite smile one might awkwardly offer a severely retarded midget who was touching your kneecap at the train station), we pretty much gave up on small talk and remained stone silent for the duration of the trip which, on the plus side, allowed me to take in some the sights of the vegetative, volcano-pocked land.
First observation: there is an economy of movement here, especially as it relates to the building of simple shack homes and the parking of very small vehicles into even smaller spaces, both of which they do impressively. We passed plenty of tin roof shanties that were tacked into the soil with nail files just feet from a 100 foot sheer cliff. In a land prone to earthquakes and mudslides, this placement seemed like the option-less option of the desperately poor. Seriously, one false step in the middle of the night on the way to the outhouse and you could well tumble your way into a different country.
And the way they bend long vehicles like the repurposed US school buses (aka chicken buses) around tight corners is impressive, to say the least. (On the subject of ‘chicken buses,’ enterprising gringos buy our discarded school buses at auction and drive them down the Pan American Highway to the destination country. Then they are stripped down, worked over, goosed up, painted on, chromed out and finally they emerge as iridescent and proud as 40’ resplendent diesel peacocks in mating season).
Guatemala and other Central American countries are where our cars come to die when they can no longer meet US safety standards. I’m not entirely sure how they eek out more life from these old dogs but I imagine it to be analogous to squeezing a lemon hard by hand, declaring it officially dry, and then being shown up by someone with a 10 ton hydraulic press who gets out a few more drops and proves you wrong.
I did a number of double takes from the airport to Antigua as I swore I saw all the cars of my youth race past me on the skinny asphalt arteries that connect the country. A Chevy Chevette here (minus the corn and onion kabob I made out of the antennae and left on for years), a Ford Bronco there. It felt like an automotive version of “this is your life.” So it appears true that there was a little life left in some of those high school automotive experiments after all.
Once in cobblestoned, downtown Antigua, I was greeted with open arms by nephew Gardner in his proper robbin’s egg blue school sweater vest- a tough outfit for a Mass pre- teenager, especially when it is 80 and sunny out, but he was in good spirits nonetheless and awkwardly returned my iron ‘man’ hug.
Be cool Uncle Charlie. Be cool.
The way the real estate is laid out, there are heavy cement wall s that lines the narrow streets and visually protect what’s on the other side. Every so often there’s a thick mahogany door with some serious hand wrought iron hardware, or as I became fond of muttering finally without getting slapped, “nice knockers!”
You have no idea what’s behind a given door until you open it. It’s kinda like the game show, ‘let’s make a deal’. You could open curtain #1 and find a palatial spread or open Curtain #2 and find a few goats. That’s part of the excitement and mystery of Guatemala, or at least Antigua.
Gardener slipped us back into just such a door-the entrance to their apt. Would-be criminals take note that judging a book by its cover (or house by its door) has never been, and still is not, a good idea. Would be criminals also take note that even the ‘rent a cops’ hired to do curbside security pack intimidating chrome, blunt barrel, 12 gauge shotguns with plenty of ammo in their bandoliers. One step up from them, and equally pervasive, are the federal / army troops dressed in black or fatigues who sport no bullshit automatic assault weapons. This makes for a generally safe living environment for tourists, and I can’t help but think we still have Oliver North to inadvertently thank for this.
The Nash’s apt was excellent and spacious with generous foliage growing in their living space and plenty of open, gardeny spaces. Lot’s of terra cotta and a lazy hammock for contemplating just how little can get done in a day if one tries.
You don’t leave front doors open longer than absolutely necessary here and Gardner was quick to close ours behind me making me feel like I was consummating some shady back room drug deal. (All I had muled past customs was some tampons and a box of business cards).
We were only inside (which is not even really inside, more, behind the wall) briefly- enough to grab a drink of water from their baked clay water filtration system their friend mass produces and admire the family’s impressive fruit collection. Then , after a well deserved warning about the incompatibility of toilet paper and the john, (honestly I was expecting a hole in the ground and a couple of guiding foot prints so I was pleasantly surprised) it was outside to hob knob with the locals, which is to say, watch Sandy run for mayor.
Sandy was pleased as punch to let every single vendor and friend (and probably some enemies) know that I was her brother and that I was in town (woooo hooooooo!) Mi Amano! Mi Amano! (and sometimes some pretty creative, yet well meaning tongue-twisted variations of that). The locals were taken with her enthusiasm and, in as much as we have the jiggly latin American TV sensation Charro (!!) in her bouncing bikini to goof on here in the states, the score is settled as they now have their Sandy in her tan, knee high, canvas rat catcher skirt, espadrils and fish belly white facial smear of spf 2500 sundope!
In the distance, as a continual reminder, lurks Fuego, a 13,000 foot volcano that is still actively groaning. With so much recent geo-technic activity, many are convinced she’s about to blow, the historically and unsettlingly accurate Mayans among them, no less. With 15 volcanoes alone in the country, it is no small wonder that there are also chapels and impromptu praying stations (Catholic) everywhere one turns (not to mention places to buy sweets and tortillas).
You can say they love Christ more than most, but you can’t say it and not be in the shadow of an enormous lava producer that could blow at any minute and mortar thousands of people right tight in their tracks into the country’s low spots. I’m sure the Catholic church doesn’t care how it is that folks come into their buildings, so long as they come. The looming volcanoes just seal the deal in the same way that an enormous bouncer with folded arms at the door might tend to discourage superfluous fisticuffs within the nightclub.
We decided to scale one of these volcanic monsters and see the lava up close. This trip up Picaya required a guide (well spent money) and an alarm clock so that we could start the journey early enough to watch the sunrise. 3:45am. We piled into a van and drove that thing far past where any road should have ended. Strapping on headlamps and loading an unamused brother in law (Lambchops) down with extra water bottles, we began our single file trek up, burro- like, placing one foot in the dusty print of the person in front. Couple of fart jokes here and there until oxygen at 6,000 feet was too valuable to waste on scatology.
We punched through the tree line (finally) to find a carpet of recent green mossy growth on which lava-dodging wild horses and cows were munching- at least the living ones smart enough to get out of the way. This vegetation sprouted up between the long fingers of hardened lava that had quite recently pushed this far down (like last week) before firming up. Each morning over coffee the guides discuss where the lava is flowing and aim their gringos there. Each day the topography changes.
We were advised to wear thick shoes because as soon as we started up the new lava fields, it was clear from the pre sunrise glow that there was orange molten lava only inches below our feet and that the level of infernal heat was sure to delaminate the sole’s bonding agent.
We crested a final ridge some 20 minutes past the horses, walking carefully b/c the hardened lava is almost razor sharp, and felt the blast of heat from the 4’ wide river of lava oozing down the face. Really unbelievable. This was the absolute end of the line unless you were wearing asbestos underwear and scuba gear. Nowhere in America would we be allowed to get so close to this type of danger. Even the lawyer’s liability waivers (and their dark suits) would have burst into flames, it was so hot.
I decided it was time to put this menacing volcano thing out once for all and bring some peace of mind to the nervous locals. This was going to be my gift. So I dropped trou and let fly the whiz I had been storing up since the night before’s ample beer fest. The spray of urine instantly evaporated and the mist pumped right back into my face. Yecht. (note to self: in addition to not pissing in the wind, remember to not piss on molten lava).
In a different (cleaner?) area, the guides unfolded a blanket and produced a series of interesting lunch items that were perfectly suitable for breakfast (yes it was still only 6:30 am). We cooked (yes cooked) breakfast sandwiches on the lava and as it was still sunrise, could see the orange glow of earth’s innards’ fuel against the black-blue sky.
Regularly we could hear what sounded like either a sheet of tin being flapped or a huge whale bumping its head against a plastic hull. This was the 300foot expectoration of rocks, tephra, fire and whatever other junk this beast had in its gullet that morning. That these airborne projectiles weren’t landing on us was only part of the reason no one felt bad about paying the guides the pittance for which they asked.
I was able to understand from the guides that if there was an earthquake at the precise moment (or hour) we were on the rock, we’d pretty much be toast. Unfortunately my timing was such that I only thought about posing the question far after there was time to do anything about it. Once that lava hardens, it’s pretty brittle (and very sharp). Gravity and inertia had taken it to where we walked, but a good 6.5 tremor shaking would send it (with us) to a considerably lower state of potential energy, namely the parking lot 3,000 feet below.
So that makes you want to not lollygag over breakfast too much.
We survived and the trip down was a spritely affair. Even Lambchops, this time befriended by gravity, didn’t mind carry the backpack now. We were nudged along on our way by some perturbed cows that may have been there in the dark- we just didn’t see them on the way up. Or more likely, they weren’t awake yet.
Sandy was keen to drag me by my ears to the thronged Saturday market to show me how much more gross the upside down slaughtered chickens and such were here than in America. This exercise did little to budge me from the vegetarian camp. We bought much fruit in the hurly burly market and for an unknown fistful of the local currency, I walked away with some decent quantity of ripe strawberries and a machete hacked coconut which Gardner refused to taste. I thought it was excellent and let my front teeth spend time following the contour in a blind attempt to scrape the white ‘meat’ from its concave, hairy form. Reminded me of a line from a country song about a bucktoothed beauty-“She could eat corn on the cob through a picket fence” Not a pretty sight in a public market but then again, neither is an eviscerated, skinned goat hanging from a hook.
Sandy relentlessly worked the local vendors down in price until they were practically paying her to take their produce away! You think I’m kidding. The bloodsport of hondling, while maybe not professional, certainly has a 3rd world application that Sandy has mastered and leveraged to the extent that she has beaten them at their own sorry game, if that’s possible.
Be forewarned, North American and Central American relations may be strained for a few years.
There’s a pocket of ExPats that seem to have taken up residence. If they weren’t up to such good (volunteering at food banks and building homes) I’d say they were up to no good. It looks like a country that’s easy to get lost in and just a little US currency can catapult you to the next socio-economic class pretty quickly. With extreme wealth and extreme poverty shoulder to shoulder, which is not atypical in Central America, there’s little middle class to be seen, with maybe Mario being the exception.
But the Americans and Germans (there are a lot of them for various historical post war reasons) and other non-natives here treat the country as a prized gem. Plenty are here just to help. In fact, on day 2 of my stay here we hiked up the road a spell to an outfit called God’s Love which is a multi-headed, progressive social / educational experiment for the indigent. Within the walls of this compound is much well meaning and well executed symbiosis. Children are encouraged to attend the classes that are conducted. Their parents are incentivized with a stipend that grows as a function of the child’s performance and attendance. There is an onsite clinic for general health and dentistry. The kids get educated, the parents are not fiscally punished for having their children not working the land, and, on Fridays, the surplus vegetables from the local market are dolled out to the needy (100% women) on long flat tables. Picture volunteers such as Sandy and me and others scooping broccoli and carrots into the open sacks of the poorest of the poor. Sandy’s one really well delivered word in their native tongue, “hola,” is well received by everyone in the line, whether or not they are on their first , second or final pass before the donor baskets we man are empty.
No shortage of smiles and mutual appreciation before the ladies heave the loads onto their heads and begin their 6 mile trek uphill back to their homes. It’s a satisfying affair, and one well documented by the likes of Peter Sr’s camera, with the promise (threat?) that it might make its way to the Curran catalogue or Brown Alumni Magazine.
One little cutie is 4 year old with dirty knees and a free flowing river of boogers running down her left nostril. She darts between the knees of the older ladies in line. We strike up a muted game of hide and seek which quickly results in favoritism. (So sue me). For her cuteness, playfulness, and her lot in life, I’m forced to doll out a few extra carrots, which, dirt covered, she munches on happily and without reservation. Big simple smiles are my abundant reward, and really, this is where the carrots need to be anyhow.
When the volunteering is over, the hands are washed, and the school to our backs, we head down to town for lunch and a regrouping. The afternoon’s mountain bike trek, promised to surely decimate me, has been cancelled because the guide himself is in the hospital from a fall. Hmmm. Plan B, with which we are cool, is to ascend the new jungle boardwalk in the preserve on the edge of town. This ‘boardwalk’ is a far cry from Atlantic City or Venice beach, starting with the fact it is almost completely straight uphill.
We feign outrage, international exploitation and highway robbery at the gate but finally part with the $5 entry fee we each must pay ( A king’s ransom in local terms, by the way). The park ranger is annoyingly unbribable, pretty much shooting down my romantic notions of pervasively corrupt Central America.
It’s a good thing we pay because there is another guide halfway up the trek and he stops us cold looking for our receipt. “El Coche” I arbitrarily say. I get a curious look. Sandy lets him know that I am her brother (uhh, that should work) and finally I scratch out in the dirt the amount of Quetzels (their currency) that we were beaten up for by his boyfriend at the gate. He seems to have a purpose other than simply being a troll under the proverbial bridge. He carries a 30 lb field book(in English which he doesn’t speak) on exotic birds that we might (but didn’t) see. Sandy , of course, has spooked herself silly with the specter of rabid jungle bats all looking for her alabaster neck flesh beneath her Barbara Bush pearls.
I’m impressed with the walkway’s building material. No ACQ treated lumber here. This is all jungle mahogany. There may be a few fewer hectacres of rainforest somewhere but this staircase board walk isn’t going anywhere for a hundred years. I try to spook Sandy out with tails of Central American pumas leaping from trees and attacking humans (especially humans from the Boston Suburbs- yumm!! extra tasty) but she’s still worked up about the bats. The only thing that takes her mind off the bats is the ever present drone of bees (killer bees?!) in their nests 300 feet above. Amazing to think one B grade movie made in the 70s about African Killer bees coming over our borders could do such damage, but then again, look at what ‘Jaws’ did for the shark industry.
Lambchops stopped me at the trailhead because he wanted to point out the coffee bean we Americans drop to our knees for and worship. When ripe, they are reddish. The average coffee picker fills a sack in a day and schleps (this is the true proper usage of this overused word) the 100lb bag down to the market. Never complain about your job again, no matter how tedious. Day in day out, 100 lbs of coffee beans , plucked one at a time. No such thing as a coffee break because the coffee hasn’t been picked yet.
The good stuff goes to Germany (Scheiss!) The crappy beans go to Starbucks. For real. Pinch a red coffee bean and out will slide 2 smaller beans in a mucosy, sweet covering. This is a real treat for the orally fixated like me.
The process from plantation to Starbucks cup is a intricate one and Lambchops knows enough about it to snow me as an expert.
I’d never seen a real coffee plantation and it felt like a sanctuary of richness and nature. I was expecting Juan Valdez (The Folger’s Coffee guy) to emerge from the thicket with a burro and a burlap cape. Didn’t happen but that doesn’t mean it couldn’t have or hadn’t earlier.
Before I knew it it was time to head back to the airport and leave. At 5am I was on my own. Nothing but Fuego rumbling in the distance, or was it Lambchops snoring??
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
xmas letter 2009
This year has been action packed and we’ll try to delineate the highlights for those who couldn’t (or wouldn’t) come visit us, or those who locked their door, shut the lights and pretended to not be home when we came to visit them.
Hattie is a sturdy little 22 month old tyke. She swaggers like a sun-drenched whaler whose rum filled leg has fallen asleep after being stuck in a cramped, drifting life boat for 10 months.
She’s climbing and tossing and smiling and giggling and babbling and singing. And that’s just when she’s in her crib. We took her across the country to meet cousin Bubba (Andy) this spring . She pulled out the hair, it wasn't the chemo.
Her favorite place these days is the Kerhonkson town park. We try to limit her time there as it is a reclaimed landfill, suspiciously lush even in November!?! And after 25 minutes there, one's own cheeks start to flush (even in June!?!). We try to keep her away from Superfund sites, as per the General Parenting Handbook, page 3, paragraph 4. (Note to self: Is that why our taxes are so low?)
In anticipation of the day when the snot-nose boys' intentions are other than innocently shoving her out of the way for a ride on the slide, I have been working on a new utility patent. My alternative use for the common swing is as a chastity belt for overprotective fathers (ummmm, like me). Whaddya think? Next stop Walmart shelves? I know, I know, the snow plow and Ladle Cradle are all well and good, but this has REAL potential!! (prospective investors please hit 'reply') Right now it's a little unwieldy, but I plan to fine tune it and maybe offer a few color choices! In a few years I will adjust the stamped Warning notice accordingly to caution teenage boys about teenage girls who have fathers who have excavators. But for now, we're in Beta testing!
At 22 months Hattie has an impressive command of scatological farm life language. Luckily for her, there actually is poop everywhere which she loves pointing out (in case we have forgotten). In her defense, linguistically, ‘poopoo’, ‘poppa’ and ‘puppy’ and 'pupae' are rather similar sounding and frequently used and thus difficult to enunciate or differentiate for such brand new lips.
We are going with the European ‘ momma and poppa’ for the time being because it feels different and cute. We know that soon she’ll buckle to American convention and resort to rolling her eyes, slamming her hands on her hips and saying, ‘dad.’ (As in, "What evvvvvvvver, dad..." add cluck of disgust and embarassment here).
She has taken to saying 'poppa' in public places (shopping markets, banks etc) as pa- PAHHHHHHHHHHH. The 'PAHHHHHHH' part is screamed at the top of her lungs as she cracks herself up and concerned shoppers look over to see me unable to convince this little trickster to use her 'inside voice' through my tears of laughter. She knows how to play us already.
My pursuits of country music fame have stalled a bit as I can’t seem to commit to which color cowboy hat will define me, black or white. It’s an indelible and important decision, one that impales me on its horns as I don’t want to get halfway through a potentially prosperous career and then realize I made a humiliating mistake at the beginning by choosing the wrong color hat. Frankly I don’t know how anyone figures this out. So the guitar has been on the wall waiting. And waiting. Luckily there are only 2 choices. Black or White. Everyone else in the family has figured out how to look like country stars...
The best I could whip up was this at Tractor Supply with Hattie...
And as a result, I'm thinking White Hat... A careful read of Hattie's lips says: "Umm, pa PAHHHHHHHHHH can you please put me back in the car alone? NOW?? I'll pay the fine the cop issues for endangering a child out of my eventual allowance... right now, and I mean RIGHT now, I just want to be, errrr, alone."
Yes, I have brought shame to my family with my in-store antics.
I've graduated to somewhat regular essayist on the NPR network here in the Northeast. Great to be able to get these things out, and fun to hear folks say, "Hey, I heard you on NPR while I was having anonymous sex with a prostitute at a truckstop on rt 95- Hey do you have a cold or something??"
On the farm, Hattie likes to survey the views from the comfort of her clothing-optional adirondack chair.
This year she was even elected Miss John Deere 2009
What she doesn't realize is that merely looking at this junker tractor the wrong way breaks it.
But it's hard to stay mad...
This one was in last year's xmas letter but it's too cute not to reuse.
Like any good Nichols, Hattie has a strong genetic propensity for the telephone. Combine this with a strong genetic propensity for ordering up room service and there's trouble aplenty when it comes time to settle up with the front desk.
"Let's get some more breast milk up here already. I called 40 minutes ago. You call this 5 star?"
Again this year we're off to Florida, but in the words of George Jefferson, we're movin' on up! (Ha! You thought I was going to quote Kierkegaard!! Fooled ya!) Movin' on up and not into a larger, more fuel efficient RV, either. This year we are getting one of the apartments on Continental Acres Horse Park at the discounted, sympathy rate. (Come to think of it, 'Continental Acres Horse Park' does sound like one of those suspiciously euphemistic, assisted-living outfits they park you at in Florida when you turn 97 and can no longer find your teeth).
Hattie learned to walk in Florida last winter, and we attribute her confidence afoot to the fact that we were unable to level the RV. She learned to walk on a pitched surface and we slept each night with the blood rushing to our heads. This resulted in some strange dreams indeed. And even stranger morning breath.
We'll take our 2 superstar ponies down this winter and Cori will spend lots of time getting them into even better shape. She had a great season of riding and (surprise!) we've discovered that Hattie is simply nuts about riding! So it's extremely cute to see the two of them doing chores, for example, and Hattie tossing a fist of hay at the horses for dinner while mom take a slightly more thorough approach.
Cori is working on a certification that will put her into a fairly elite grouping of instructors. Again this year her students worship the ground she walks on, even if the economy has affected the luxury activities like horseback riding and yachting. Speaking of yachting, we sold the Bada Bing. It was bittersweet because it finally closed that excellent chapter of our lives. But, you know, more sweet than bitter.
Somehow we managed to bale and pick up 700 bales of hay (I'm using the term 'we' generously here) and that cacophonous symphony of backfiring old equipment always takes me back to the Katonah, NY farm where I cut my teeth cutting baling twine with my teeth (!?!). Here's a view from the 1936 Farm All tractor I learned to drive at 7 years old.
We had a few weddings/ events on the farm this year and they were great fun. I also got to officiate a wedding of a few dear friends up here at a location other than the farm. It was on a golf course. The septic system had backed up and was, as Dylan once indelibly said, 'blowing in the wind.' I tried to be mature and not turn their wedding into a Comedy Central roast, but damn...There's a picture of me in a suit out there on facebook if you need a good belly laugh.
We got to spend some time with the family this year. Cori's mom came to stay in Florida and get some Oma time in. We visited PU, Helga and Hattie's favorite, Herr, Doktor, Professor P. Pumpkin Pie, Esq. in Westport, Mass
Nice puppy. This is PU trying to kick sand on top of what will otherwise be a $25 fine. Nice puppy.
Hattie's favo view of horse shows is from the small of her favorite ride's back. The feeling is mutual.
So that's our picture story of 2009. We wish you all much love, and as we look down on the bracelets that Bubba gave to us, we can't help read, and reuse with respect, his sagacious, genuine Team Sharp words:
Be well and in peace.
love Cori Wally and Hattie (and the Bichons)
Hattie is a sturdy little 22 month old tyke. She swaggers like a sun-drenched whaler whose rum filled leg has fallen asleep after being stuck in a cramped, drifting life boat for 10 months.
She’s climbing and tossing and smiling and giggling and babbling and singing. And that’s just when she’s in her crib. We took her across the country to meet cousin Bubba (Andy) this spring . She pulled out the hair, it wasn't the chemo.
Her favorite place these days is the Kerhonkson town park. We try to limit her time there as it is a reclaimed landfill, suspiciously lush even in November!?! And after 25 minutes there, one's own cheeks start to flush (even in June!?!). We try to keep her away from Superfund sites, as per the General Parenting Handbook, page 3, paragraph 4. (Note to self: Is that why our taxes are so low?)
In anticipation of the day when the snot-nose boys' intentions are other than innocently shoving her out of the way for a ride on the slide, I have been working on a new utility patent. My alternative use for the common swing is as a chastity belt for overprotective fathers (ummmm, like me). Whaddya think? Next stop Walmart shelves? I know, I know, the snow plow and Ladle Cradle are all well and good, but this has REAL potential!! (prospective investors please hit 'reply') Right now it's a little unwieldy, but I plan to fine tune it and maybe offer a few color choices! In a few years I will adjust the stamped Warning notice accordingly to caution teenage boys about teenage girls who have fathers who have excavators. But for now, we're in Beta testing!
At 22 months Hattie has an impressive command of scatological farm life language. Luckily for her, there actually is poop everywhere which she loves pointing out (in case we have forgotten). In her defense, linguistically, ‘poopoo’, ‘poppa’ and ‘puppy’ and 'pupae' are rather similar sounding and frequently used and thus difficult to enunciate or differentiate for such brand new lips.
We are going with the European ‘ momma and poppa’ for the time being because it feels different and cute. We know that soon she’ll buckle to American convention and resort to rolling her eyes, slamming her hands on her hips and saying, ‘dad.’ (As in, "What evvvvvvvver, dad..." add cluck of disgust and embarassment here).
She has taken to saying 'poppa' in public places (shopping markets, banks etc) as pa- PAHHHHHHHHHHH. The 'PAHHHHHHH' part is screamed at the top of her lungs as she cracks herself up and concerned shoppers look over to see me unable to convince this little trickster to use her 'inside voice' through my tears of laughter. She knows how to play us already.
My pursuits of country music fame have stalled a bit as I can’t seem to commit to which color cowboy hat will define me, black or white. It’s an indelible and important decision, one that impales me on its horns as I don’t want to get halfway through a potentially prosperous career and then realize I made a humiliating mistake at the beginning by choosing the wrong color hat. Frankly I don’t know how anyone figures this out. So the guitar has been on the wall waiting. And waiting. Luckily there are only 2 choices. Black or White. Everyone else in the family has figured out how to look like country stars...
The best I could whip up was this at Tractor Supply with Hattie...
And as a result, I'm thinking White Hat... A careful read of Hattie's lips says: "Umm, pa PAHHHHHHHHHH can you please put me back in the car alone? NOW?? I'll pay the fine the cop issues for endangering a child out of my eventual allowance... right now, and I mean RIGHT now, I just want to be, errrr, alone."
Yes, I have brought shame to my family with my in-store antics.
I've graduated to somewhat regular essayist on the NPR network here in the Northeast. Great to be able to get these things out, and fun to hear folks say, "Hey, I heard you on NPR while I was having anonymous sex with a prostitute at a truckstop on rt 95- Hey do you have a cold or something??"
On the farm, Hattie likes to survey the views from the comfort of her clothing-optional adirondack chair.
This year she was even elected Miss John Deere 2009
What she doesn't realize is that merely looking at this junker tractor the wrong way breaks it.
But it's hard to stay mad...
This one was in last year's xmas letter but it's too cute not to reuse.
Like any good Nichols, Hattie has a strong genetic propensity for the telephone. Combine this with a strong genetic propensity for ordering up room service and there's trouble aplenty when it comes time to settle up with the front desk.
"Let's get some more breast milk up here already. I called 40 minutes ago. You call this 5 star?"
Again this year we're off to Florida, but in the words of George Jefferson, we're movin' on up! (Ha! You thought I was going to quote Kierkegaard!! Fooled ya!) Movin' on up and not into a larger, more fuel efficient RV, either. This year we are getting one of the apartments on Continental Acres Horse Park at the discounted, sympathy rate. (Come to think of it, 'Continental Acres Horse Park' does sound like one of those suspiciously euphemistic, assisted-living outfits they park you at in Florida when you turn 97 and can no longer find your teeth).
Hattie learned to walk in Florida last winter, and we attribute her confidence afoot to the fact that we were unable to level the RV. She learned to walk on a pitched surface and we slept each night with the blood rushing to our heads. This resulted in some strange dreams indeed. And even stranger morning breath.
We'll take our 2 superstar ponies down this winter and Cori will spend lots of time getting them into even better shape. She had a great season of riding and (surprise!) we've discovered that Hattie is simply nuts about riding! So it's extremely cute to see the two of them doing chores, for example, and Hattie tossing a fist of hay at the horses for dinner while mom take a slightly more thorough approach.
Cori is working on a certification that will put her into a fairly elite grouping of instructors. Again this year her students worship the ground she walks on, even if the economy has affected the luxury activities like horseback riding and yachting. Speaking of yachting, we sold the Bada Bing. It was bittersweet because it finally closed that excellent chapter of our lives. But, you know, more sweet than bitter.
Somehow we managed to bale and pick up 700 bales of hay (I'm using the term 'we' generously here) and that cacophonous symphony of backfiring old equipment always takes me back to the Katonah, NY farm where I cut my teeth cutting baling twine with my teeth (!?!). Here's a view from the 1936 Farm All tractor I learned to drive at 7 years old.
We had a few weddings/ events on the farm this year and they were great fun. I also got to officiate a wedding of a few dear friends up here at a location other than the farm. It was on a golf course. The septic system had backed up and was, as Dylan once indelibly said, 'blowing in the wind.' I tried to be mature and not turn their wedding into a Comedy Central roast, but damn...There's a picture of me in a suit out there on facebook if you need a good belly laugh.
We got to spend some time with the family this year. Cori's mom came to stay in Florida and get some Oma time in. We visited PU, Helga and Hattie's favorite, Herr, Doktor, Professor P. Pumpkin Pie, Esq. in Westport, Mass
Nice puppy. This is PU trying to kick sand on top of what will otherwise be a $25 fine. Nice puppy.
Hattie's favo view of horse shows is from the small of her favorite ride's back. The feeling is mutual.
So that's our picture story of 2009. We wish you all much love, and as we look down on the bracelets that Bubba gave to us, we can't help read, and reuse with respect, his sagacious, genuine Team Sharp words:
Be well and in peace.
love Cori Wally and Hattie (and the Bichons)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
