dear wally 105 coffee addict

Dear Wally:

I think I may be a coffee addict. I literally feel plastered to the bedroom wall in the morning until I have had a few cups. And lately it’s taking more (and stronger) coffee to achieve the same results. Without coffee, there is zero morning productivity, predictable constipation and all around grouchiness. I am afraid to quit and afraid to not quit. I’ve become the ass , as it were, chaffing under Juan Valdez’s poncho covered, coffee bean filled saddle bag. Here’s how bad it’s gotten: Starbucks closes at 10pm. When I drove home late last night I had serious thoughts about hurling a brick through the plate glass window and looting. And I don’t mean the cash register.

-Got a Problem

Dear Got:

Yes you do. First piece of advice: Don’t go busting up a Starbucks. The coffee in prison is weak and cold and you’ll have to join a gang to get any.

It is ironic (no?) that I myself am reviewing your cry for help within the walls of an internationally known coffee empire. Let us call it the Mothership. Let us say it hovers over all humanity and let us say it casts its menacing green and white shadow on us hapless pawns . Finally, let us say that the place is friggin packed.

Let me take you on a trip, not unlike the one the Dickinsian Ghost of Christmases Future did to old man Scrouge. Come with me to this place and consider that there is an empty chair in this madhouse (besmeared with coffee stains) waiting for you if you don’t change your ways.

There’s an elevated amplitude of energy in this frenetic place. I’d say dynamic but that suggests presence across a spectrum of highs and lows. There’s only one speed here, and ma’am, it is hyper. Clanging plates, loudly dropped spoons, nervous giggles, fingers impatiently running through forelocks of hair. Pacing, snorting, huffing. Banal comments about the weather. Wedding rings being twisted at 60 rpm. Wringing hands. Agitation. It’s like an asylum.

And I’m the only one drinking decaf, apparently.

To my left, a young, itchy man mostly sits. He speaks in short, choppy sentences and scans the room like an ex-con. He clutches a venti mocha-chino and slides it around like he’s a goalie in an exciting air hockey game at little Joey’s Bar Mitzvah . His right leg bounces up and down under the table incessantly as if he were pumping the imaginary accelerator of a neglected farm truck to get it to start. It is impossible to not notice (and not eavesdrop) as his flailing arm and full body twitches are borderline spastic. His voice is pitchy and his whine piercing. These are the bite marks of addiction.

If Aliens landed and took him as a specimen, I’d be embarrassed for mankind.

He makes a scrappy, high octane plea to his luckless, well-presented female date that The Empire Strikes Back is the best film EVER. (No, seriously). Based on recoiling body language, and a few of her subtle verbal clues (like “I’m sorry, what’s your name again?” and “Ummm , what time do you have?” ) this prowling coffeehouse advice columnist / sleuth can reasonably deduce that it is a first date. And thanks to the unleashed horsepower of his mega sized coffee, the unfortunate way the conversation has been unilaterally hijacked to Hell, this sleuth can also safely wager this will be a last date. And coffee is to blame. Lots of it.

Sound familiar??

Wait. For Godsake he now looks like he’s playing ‘Whack-a-mole’ at the carnival with his uncontrollably bucking , steel-tipped workboot.

Cut it out, dude. You are making ME nervous.

Over there, at the ‘fixins’ bar, a cross- eyed (bag?) lady leans the full weight of her upper body on the blond maple countertop. She coos to the heavy cream container like it’s a furtive lover as she coaxes cream into her mug. Then she sighs a deep post coital sigh. Rightfully so, people are cutting a wide swath around. This too is the picture of the coffee addict.

In the corner, a large man is holding his belly and groaning. Diagnosis? Coffee guts. This happens when you’ve baldly ignored your limits. The sloshing inside feels like oily bilge in a trawler getting swatted around on the North Atlantic in November.

Is this who you want to be? I can’t imagine the answer is affirmative.

So learn from the Ghost of Coffee Addiction Future and change your course. (insert rattling chain sound HERE).

Towards that end, I have scratched out a self-help empowerment script which I implore you to use in moments of weakness on your journey to liberation.

You: “Coffee, go. I do not need you. You are dead to me. (insert Howard Dean-esque primal presidential scream HERE). Your rich, sensual, roasted aromas repulse me. Your once comforting womb-like warmth is now frigid and unwelcoming. The sweet ritual of being with you for a few precious, calm moments at the start of my day is now tedious and under it I labor.

“Where I once regarded you with the sunken, red-rimmed eyes of a junkie, I now look at you through bright (insert your eye color HERE) eyes with contempt and disgust. Your attempted manipulation of me is child’s play in the face of my newfound resolve. “

“Feeling awake is a trick of the mind, not a trick of body chemistry. “ (Keep telling yourself this particular line) “You are a poison not an elixor.. I don’t need YOU to feel alive any more than I need a finger in the light socket . Coffee, GO . I will pick up with your anemic bastard cousin decaf and we’ll make the best of it, even if it means gimping.”

-Good luck,

Wally

Got a question for our advice columnist or just want invite him out for a cup of coffee to re-iterate that he has no future as a motivational speaker? Email him at cwn4@aol.com

dear wally 104 online dating personal info

Dear Wally:

I’ m a recently divorced female and I was asked on an online dating site profile what the most private thing I’d be willing to share was. I was wondering if you had some advice? What’s too much to share with a strange guy??

Confused.

Dear Confused:

Because you are dating online, you’ll want to be judicious , cautious and tempting, but not misleading. There are a lot of freaks out there-- an observation that is hardly breaking news…. Full disclosure of the complete dog-hoggin’, lilly-livered , buck- toothed truth right now? Maybe not. Hold some info back. Does your potential guy really need to know that you had lice in 3^rd grade? Assuming you got the upper hand on the problem at least a few years ago, you can let that detail slide and still not be guilty of misrepresentation. All new (and maybe even time-grizzled? ) relationships thrive on a little mystery.

Should you share your credit card number, expiration date, and mother’s maiden name? Save that for the 2^nd date! Surely some well-meaning member of an ousted royal Nigerian family looking to pay you a few million for your troubles will ask for this information soon enough (if they haven’t already) and you can decide then if it feels right. (It shouldn’t). Do online guys even need to know your name right away? I think not. Too many creepers. Keep the gates to your private life down for a bit and share some harmless, untraceable factoids, if you even want.

I thought about the question, and the context, and came up with this, which is true for me, but not the whole truth either. Maybe it helps you??

Good luck!

-Wally

My Most Private thing I’m Willing to Share With a potential online suitor:

Dear potential electronic (and then some?) suitor: The real answer will cost you dinner and a bottle of wine after a bunch of unrushed, easy time together... We may or may not get there…

But so you don’t go away empty handed right now as you peruse 2 of my 3 dimensions at midnight, here are a few morsels of personal information. Don’t read too much into them and go to bed soon, OK?

It's a matter of public record, and thus not so private, but I brought a goat to school in 5th grade for show and tell and to impress my 5^th grade crush Amy. I tied her (Harriet the goat, not Amy) up to the playground stairs when I was in class and she ate the flowers (which goats do apparently). Then Grounds and Maintenance sent my parents a bill.

One of my favorite movies of all time is Spinal Tap. A close second is The Graduate. I will watch any James Bond movie any time.

I used to pooh pooh country music and poke at it with a 5’9” stick. I love country music now and am that 5’9” stick.

I have a scar on my knee from running from the police in a nature preserve back in high school. A lot of us underage kids were hanging out that night and yes, probably drinking. We scattered like wharf rats on a sinking barge when we saw the flashing blue lights of authority. I was doing just fine sprinting in the dark until a huge boulder jumped right out in front of me. I was not caught in an authoritative sense, but more in a physics sense. That and flipping a VW bug onto its roof with some college friends is the extent of my running afoul of the law.

I still have to look twice when I write the word ‘bus’. Wait, does it have 2 s’ s? No, I know it doesn’t but it tricks me every time, crafty little word. Perhaps I don’t ride the bus enough to think about it enough…

I prefer dogs to cats.

I threw up on some luckless little dude at the carnival in 8^th grade riding upside down on the salt and pepper shaker and listening to a soundtrack of Led Zeppelin’s Kashmir. When I hear it on the radio now, I feel para-sympathetic rumblings of gastro-intestinal distress. If we get to that stage and you are next to me in the car, and it comes on the radio, you’ll want to pay attention to the ashen complexion and beading sweat on my forehead and give yourself a little space. It’s probably not your fault—I’ve been classically conditioned.

I sing along to Michael Bublee. This is a very private confession because there is no stinkier hunk of cheese than a corn-crusted hunk of Bublee. (Except maybe Limburger?) Get it in your head, Holly wood is dead!! Damn catchy…

Most of my shoes smell at least a little like horse poop.

I like beach hair.

I am no religion’s poster boy.

I make no culinary distinction between canned tuna fish and canned cat food.

I keep a dictionary by my computer. I used to read one under the covers by flashlight at night when I was a kid --until I got hip to The Hardy Boys.

I think we come from monkeys. If you have ever smelled the inside of a guy’s locker room (like I was forced to during High School soccer) and then smelled a monkey cage at the Bronx Zoo, you will agree. There’s hardly any room for debate.

I fully expect to pay for our first date.

I admire the first brave Spring daffodil.

I was scared jumping out of a plane.

I was more scared changing my daughter’s first diaper.

Now off to bed with you…

-name withheld ‘til we know each other better.

Share your innermost personal information with our advice columnist (and entire Blue Stone Press circulation) by emailing: Cwn4@aol.com

dear wally 103 ups

Dear Wally 103 UPS

Dear Wally:

I work for UPS driving all day, humping packages around, being nice to people and rattling around in a big, boxy, brown truck. I love my job but don’t have a lot of surplus energy or time at the end of the day. There is something that really bothers me because it wastes my precious time-- Why is it that when I’m at the laundromat, and I put quarters in the dryer, I then have to push a start button? Isn’t this an extra , completely unnecessary, step? For some reason this really tweaks me. We can put a man on the moon and yet we can’t automate this maneuver? Really?

-Tweaked Out UPS Lady In Brown

Dear Tweaked:

It does seem lame that we have to take this extra step. As an isolated activity, it’s not a big deal, but think of all the little crap that collectively becomes a time hog. (Reading over 100 Dear Wally’s comes to mind). I am reminded of the power of aggregation when I think of childhood car rides sitting next to my sister who would , out of sheer tedium, start the trip by gently poking my nearby thigh with her index finger. I could barely feel it. However, 20 minutes later, I would have an untouchable bruise and my leg would be purple and pretty much unusable. (I think she was recruited at 8 by the CIA for their ‘interrogation’ department). Ask the luckless, strapped down dude in a Chinese prison if the first 3 drops of water that rhythmically land on his forehead are the ones that bother him. Then check back in 13 hrs! The little things add up.

The tip of the aggregation (and frustration) pyramid for you is a dryer that demands you do for it what it should for itself before it does for you what you don’t want to do for yourself.

The logic of consumer choice makes sense on other coin-operated appliances. Put money in a soda machine, and sure, you should be able to get a Coke or a Ginger Ale as it suits you. We do not live in some martial law based dictatorship (uhhh, right?) so we expect choice. All good. But for a single purpose appliance, like a dryer, the illusion of consumer choice is misleading and you are right to feel like someone is gaming you and wasting your time. (Time better spent washing my driveway mud off of your big brown truck or finally bringing the thermal long underwear I ordered 2 weeks ago from LL Bean. By the way, I’m STILL waiting. WTF?).

We all know exactly why we stand in front of a single purpose commercial dryer—It’s not because we expect a cardboard cup to drop down and tepid, horsepiss colored broth with dehydrated ‘chicken’ chunks to be shot into it. It’s not because we want to practice a motivational speech to a captive , baked white enamel audience with one big glass eye. We want our clothes dried. As fast as possible.

They give us buttons to graduate the level of dryer heat we want for our delicates, and that’s right. But having to push a knob to start? Silly, in a word. Just inserting quarters in the first place is proof enough that man and machine are united in the mission..

I suspect the ‘start’ button (a legacy ‘feature’ now), was originally conceived in the 60’s ‘race to the moon’ zeitgeist as a tool of perceived empowerment, in effect saying to the homebound housefrau, “You don’t get to go to turn knobs in a rocket ship, but here, push this button and feel the power. You may not be able to do a lot of things that you might otherwise want to, but damn it, YOU get to say when this dryer will start.”

I hope that this little dialogue of ours reaches the cold hearts of tomorrow’s appliance designers and engineers in a meaningful way. It’s time to let them know that we are not stoopid and that our time is valuable. Think, too, of all the unnecessary calluses and sloughed skin we have had to endure forced, as a people, to jab a start button…

I hope change comes swiftly. For you, for me and for all humanity. This is truly an outrage.

Something to consider- You sport a brown uniform. That sort of means you don’t need to even wash it. And no wash means no dry. Make your (pungent) statement of protest this way?

On a different note, I have some questions for YOU. How friggin’ cold does it get in that truck in the winter? Do you guys have pumping stereos that overpower the sound of fragile packages slamming against each other? How is it possible I got a package last year with tire marks on it? Have you ever gotten that truck of yours up to 60 mph anywhere other than my driveway? Even if you drove it over a 500’ cliff a la Themla and Louise, I doubt it would go that fast. If you want, can you wear those brown shorts all winter or does ‘Corporate’ frown on that? Are you also required to wear brown underwear? If so, does 'Corporate' check?

So many questions, so little time...

Good luck.

Now, I’m hitting the ‘end’ button on this.

-Wally

Got a question for our advice columnist or just want a refresher on how to use an old fashion laundry line and avoid annoying ‘start’ buttons? Write him an email. Don’t forget to hit the ‘send’ button!

dear wally 102 minivan break in

Dear Wally 102

Dear Wally:

I recently had someone break into my 10 year old, filthy minivan at 4am in my otherwise safe neighborhood with really nice cars all around. They shattered a window (the doors were unlocked) , screwed up the child car seat, opened up the glove box and stole my broken GPS. What dingbat does this?

-Pissed off Soccer Mom

Dear Pissed off Soccer Mom:

This is such a personal violation that I , a total stranger, am offended for you. On your behalf, I feel like someone has rifled through my underwear drawer. Ewwwwwwwww.

Also on your behalf, I’ve decided to craft an open letter to said thief on the off chance he reads the Blue Stone Press, or a relative of his does and clips it out for him.

-Good luck, Wally.

Dear guy who broke into my minivan: First, I am assuming you are a guy. Statistically, the chances are good and while I’m making a bold generalization that may offend legitimate female thieves, I will take the Politically Incorrect chance. If I am wrong, and you are a she, my deepest apologies. But whatever your gender, you are a thief, and let’s remember that. Your currency in the law abiding, sometimes civilized world is devalued, regardless.

Sir, my minivan was recently violated and I think you know what I’m talking about. (And don’t you dare try to change the subject by accusing me of ending my sentences with dangling prepositions). You snuck up in the middle of the night and with your grubby raccoon paws, quietly broke the driver’s side window to gain access to the sweet treasure trove you fancied was inside. Well done, because I heard nothing and the car was parked just outside of my house on a street normally immune to such base behavior. Had you tried the car door handle, you would have found it to be unlocked. Unlocked because I know what you now know--there is nothing of value in my car. When you were in school, did they not teach you that the easiest path is often …the easiest path? Not trying to get all Zen on you, but spend some time with this concept before your next criminal act, yes? I have full glass insurance, but still…Why not move through this world with efficiency if we can?

So you get in, crafty, talented one, and what do you find? A child’s car seat bejeweled with pulverized cheerio pixie dust and the greenish, fuzzy remains of a rejected fig newton on the back of the bus to mold town. I know I shouldn’t let my child eat in the car, but sometimes there just isn’t enough time in the day for a proper sit down meal. I know you know how I feel because you are over scheduled too and apparently forced to do your bidding at really unreasonable hours (like 4am). It’s crazy how busy we all get, right?

Fluffy the hamster has gone missing as of last month. Sigh. Last seen in the minivan. Did you find him (or any part of him) by chance? There is a foul odor somewhere back there. Don’t have to worry now that I have non-stop, gale-force, fresh air blowing in my face and beating back the stench. Thanks, errr, I guess.

I’m sure you thought my decade old, dented, filthy minivan was the PERFECT ruse for transporting riches. I like your thinking! And that’s why you probably were not discouraged when you broke through the crusty first layer of kid’s food , socks, books and other assorted trinkets I use to eek out some precious truce on car rides. I know you were thinking, “Clever distraction, Soccer Mom, taking a minivan to a demolition derby , filling it with shit, chucking in a car seat, maybe topping it off with a dead hamster, and then using it to transport valuables. But I’m smarter than you and if I keep digging deeper, I’ll get to the gold bullion in the secret compartment!”

A miscalculation, but honest mistake on your part—my sagging minivan was not actually laden down with heavy precious metals, but in fact, it sits 2” off the ground and scrapes every bump because all 4 struts need to be replaced and I can’t afford that right now. (Especially not that I have a new car window to buy!)

But the whiff of easy gold makes even honest men hallucinate. Maybe that’s why you pulled apart the kid’s car seat fabric (or was it that your fingers became crazy glued to the fabric when you accidentally touched the melted lollipop?)

Anyway, you did finally make it to the glove box. Again well done! It’s about the last place I thought anyone would look for valuables. That’s why I left my 3 year old GPS there, also unlocked. One little thing-- It’s there because I lost the power cord and they no longer make a replacement. So you are in possession of something, dear sir, that will not only not work, but that you will be unable to sell on Ebay. You have done me an inadvertent favor, to wit: Now I do not need to remember to reach into my glove box and throw it out next time I fill up.

I do wonder why you didn’t consider plying your trade on the BMW that was parked in front of me, or the Mercedes parked behind me... I like my neighbors plenty, but were I inclined to steal, basic logic would support hitting their fancy cars. Just me, though…

Well, best of luck to you, and thanks for making me feel safe and loved and special. I hope the next car you break into has a fully functioning moral compass that you can sell for big bucks.

Best (I mean it), Soccer Mom

Ps: please try the door handle first next time. Shhhhhhhh. Nope! Don’t say thanks. That tip is on me!

dear wally 101 the many rt 9s

Dear Wally 101 Rt 9

Dear Wally:

What is up with the naming of roads in upstate NY?
There are so many roads with the number 9 in them, HOW CAN ANYONE KEEP THEM STRAIGHT..?

There is: 9, 9W, 9G, 9H, 9J.... (and there could be more).
Is there any logic to this mish mosh?

What gives? Who came up with this? It is almost like that old skit:

1972–1978 television series, see The Bob Newhart Show. ...
I'm Larry; this is my brother Darryl, and this is my other brother Darryl. ...

signed,
Paul, All 9ed-out in Ulster County

Dear Paul, All 9-ed out:

I totally agree. You’d think that the Hudson Valley got a sweet deal on government surplus road signs that had the number ‘9’ preprinted on them and all we had to do was stencil in a random letter to further differentiate the routes…

Even if they used 9 and then a letter, why not be alphabetically sequential about the letters? Is that so hard? 9A, 9W, 9G, 9H, 9J? Come on!! (Maybe we couldn’t afford any more vowels??). Or why not turn a few upside down and give us some Rt 6’s??

The 9 ‘x’ variable can’t be directionally based , can it? Rt 9W (9 West?) only makes sense if you are headed west. But you can go EAST on 9W (and north and south for that matter) and that must be a real headtrip for that person paying attention to where they are going. Incidentally, this person is not me.

If it IS destination-based, does 9G take you to Greenland if you stay with it long enough? Or if you turn the other direction will you eventually start seeing the Spanish road signs of Guatemala? Does 9H take you from Harare, Zimbabwe to Havana (via Rhinebeck?). Never been lost on these roads long enough to find out, but I wouldn’t be surprised…

We ARE sort of on an international trade route…

I called the Governor’s office in Albany to get some help on this. They immediately hung up on me so I had no choice but to run to the welcoming arms of Numerology. I think you will be shocked by my discoveries.

The ‘9’ part of Route 9 ‘X’, is an important number because its building block, and even divisor, is the very special number ‘3.’

3 is the number of toes the first governor of NY had left on his right foot after an accident in a 9 acre field with a wheat thresher which he was using on Sept 9^th of that year. The hospital records show that he showed up at exactly 3pm to the emergency room, and there were 3 nurses on duty, with a total 9 teeth between them. The unfortunate governor in question was none other than Gov. George Clinton, (no relation to the 70’s funk group Parliament’s ultra-funky founder) whose first name has 6 letters (2x3=6 Ahhh HA!) and whose last name, Clinton, has 7 letters, which is 2 times 3 plus 1 (1 being the chronological rank of his place as first to hold the office).

Hmmmm. It’s all pulling into focus, ehh?

The office of the Governor of NY was established in 1777, which if divided by 3, returns 592.3333333… (ad infinitum) . That’s a lot of 3’s and you need a lot of 3’s to build a lot if 9’s. You still with me?? Good. The original term of office was 3 years, but Clinton served 6 terms for a total of 18 years in office!! 18= 9x2!

MY GOD.

NY, it is worth mentioning, was one of the first 13 colonies and while 13 itself is not evenly divisible by 9 (unless you are dating an easy going math teacher), it DOES have the number 3 in it, further building the correlation between upstate NY and its affinity for route names that include , and are often limited to, the number 9.

Coincidence? I don’t think so…

Trust me, there is method to the seething madness of the extended Route 9 patriarchy and its fecund nest of alphabetical bastard kin. I know you conspiracy theorists out there are sitting up, tossing out your JFK Assassination files and paying attention now. I hear pencils breaking in clutched, frustrated fists .

More? Ok.

In any event, the first year that Ulster and Dutchess counties had paved roads, (1833!?!? Are you GETTING this pattern yet??) 3 sows were run over, which while quite sad as the unfortunate consequence of nature butting up against technology, is helpful in the following explanatory way: Consider that according to very early copies of the Blue Stone Press, which was published by Jebediah Ebaneezer Childers and chiseled out by hand on actual bluestone slabs, each mushed sow had 9 piglets that were not hurt whatsoever (until it became time for them to get bacon-ated, of course).

The area roads are typically 18 feet wide with 3 foot shoulders (except Rt 299 which has no shoulders. Grrrrr). And there are 3 sections of asphalt on either side, and between, the double yellow lines. 18 divided by 3 = 6 (the exact height, in feet, of NY’s 3rd Governor—Yes, Clinton AGAIN!!).

There’s simply too many points to not draw a straight line.

Finally, there are 3 major celebrities who believe in Numerology, as if I needed celebrity endorsements to validate my theories; John Travolta, Tom Cruise and now Tom Cruise’s wife Katie Holmes (who is 9 inches taller than him).

So there you have it!

Crap, I meant Scientology.

Either way…

I don’t think I answered your question…

Oh well.

-Wally

Got a question for our advice columnist, or are you just lost somewhere on a rt 9 in Ulster or Dutchess ? He probably is too. Email him at cwn4@aol.com

dear wally 100 2 kinds of people?

Dear Wally 100

Dear Wally:

Are there really just 2 kinds of people? I keep hearing folks say people either do ‘this’ or ‘that.’ I don’t buy it. Can you shed some light?

-Dan (Kerhonkson)

Dear Dan:

OK, here are my findings which are based on a typical day’s random conversation threads, overheard at the library, gas station, supermarket, post office, gym, workplace, school and everywhere else. These are unscientific at best and this list is far from exclusive.

We’re inclined to make binary, oppositional distinctions in the first place—especially as it relates to us and others we meet along the way. Our very forgivable tendency is to box and package people’s traits because it makes it easier to get a handle on them this way. It becomes easier to stack them up relative to us, and in so doing, place them in a relative context. The true nature of people is, of course, more nuanced and probably lurks in the amorphous shadows of absolute this or that, rather than strictly behind any linear delineation.

But can we be faulted for seeking such distinctions, even if they carry with them the whiff of judgment? So many things ARE just plain black and white- -like the very paper you are reading now. And absolute like the direction you travel on rt 209 at any given moment. And undeniable like the result of 2 plus 2..

Do you like your coffee black, Dan? Are you one of those people, like me?? I’m just wondering if we can get along…

That said, let’s not over think this. You asked for it--There are two kinds of people, to wit:

Those who leave toilet seats up and those who leave toilet seats down.

Those who live in Kerhonkson and those who don’t.

Those who believe the speed limit is meant for them and those who believe it is meant for others.

Those who meditate and those who don’t.

Those who spell their name John and those who spell their name Jon.

Those who are Sues and those who are Suzies.

Those who are Suzies and those who are Susans.

Those who exercise and those who don’t.

Those who lock their front doors and those who don’t.

Those who adore chocolate and those who don’t.

Those who require coffee and those who don’t.

Those who floss and those who don’t.

Those who love olives and those who don’t.

Those who have hairy backs and those who don’t.

Those who get cavities and those who don’t..

Those who will pick up a nickel from the ground and those who won’t. (I think there’s hardly anyone left who will risk back injury for a penny)

Those who iron their sheets and those who don’t.

Those who like cats and those who don’t.

Those who can eat whatever they want and those who can’t.

Those who are good kissers and those who aren’t.

Those who like mowing lawns and those who don’t.

Those who daydream and those who don’t.

Those who dig pickup trucks and those who don’t.

Those who think Michael Jackson is a genius and those who think he was a creep.

Those who will jump out of airplanes and those who need to be pushed.

Those who spot typos and those who dont.

Those who buy organic and those who don’t.

Those who are tall and those who are not.

Those who smoke and those who don’t.

Those who are online and those who are not.

Those who will steal credit card numbers / IDs, and those who will not.

Those who will buy lemonade from a kid’s stand and those who will not.

Those who have gardens and those who do not.

Those who are open to the universe’s offerings and those who are not.

Those who can lay on the beach and not move, and those who can’t.

Those who believe in ghosts and those who don’t.

Those who like spinach and those who don’t.

Those who shave with electric razors and those who don’t.

Those who buy something for good and those who return it.

Those who travel and those who don’t.

Those who know how to swim and those who don’t.

Those who think the BSP is too damn conservative and those who think it is too damn liberal.

Those who swear by arnica and those who don’t.

Those who swear by God, and those who don’t.

Those who buy crap on late night TV and those who don’t.

Those who patronize Starbucks and those who don’t.

Those who like Chevy and those who like Ford.

Those who wear deodorant and those who don’t.

-Wally

Got a question for our advice columnist or just want to stick an opposing dichotomy (or thumb) in his eye? Contact him at cwn4@aol.com

PS- For those of you keeping score at home, you have now either giggled through, or suffered through, 100 Dear Wally columns. Thank you for this unique platform of expression and this fun milestone. I am grateful for, and appreciative of, your attention and letters. Please continue to reach out if you have come across some situation that could use a different perspective. This is, after all, an advice column and I’m not done advising…

dear wally 99 father knows best?

Dear Wally #99

Father knows best?

It’s rare that I respond to a Letter to the Editor, but I couldn’t let last issue’s offering from Pastor Arnold “Gay Marriage Sends Wrong Message” go unchecked. I’m shocked to see such an unsupportive perspective on gay marriage come forth on these BSP editorial pages from a fellow who knows firsthand how much damage repressive societies inflict on their citizens. To suggest, as he does, that what’s happening here in America regarding gay marriage ‘propaganda’ is what happened in the Nazi Germany he narrowly escaped is really outlandish. Just surviving that very dark era should be enough to make him and everyone cherish all humans regardless of sexual orientation. I guess the lesson was forgotten already?? Dang, that didn’t take long.

Pastor Arnold says he fears that the lie of propaganda (presumably that gay marriage is OK) will eventually become accepted as truth if repeated enough. Ummm, too late. Many state legislators, some of whom are God-fearing and most of whom at least nominally represent the will of the citizens, have already accepted it as the truth. It’s not just now in these spiraling days of hedonism, either—There have been gays since the Cavemen days (Gay + cavemen= Gaveman?). Who else would have come up with the Sabertooth tiger skin summer sash and matching ( tar) poolside chiffon wrap??

Meanwhile, the notion that gay marriage is against God’s will has cemented pretty well with some and has been accepted by them as God’s truth because they read it in a book repeatedly and now believe it. Truth through repetition. Right. So why is one propaganda truthier than another, again??

Why wouldn’t God be extraordinarily happy that at least 2 of his flock are not out there killing each other for once? (HE is forever stamping out that brush fire). Moreover, why wouldn’t HE be beside himself with jubilation that 2 of his flock have instead found love and learned to cherish and support each other? It is incidental that both those members of his flock are ewes. Strangely , and slightly off topic, it is ok for rams to fight each other to death but not love each other to death? I’m so confused…

Consider the alternative to gay marriage for those who happen to be gay- a life without socially accepted love or intimate companionship (never mind the legal rights) . Really? Pretty harsh punishment- a deprivation of the human experience, which is, at the end of the day, all we have and it damn well includes the right to love and be loved as well as the obligation to do no harm to others. Wait…Doesn’t institutionally denying that sound a little , errr, repressive? Remind you of anything from your past, Pastor?

Gays love raisins and put them on everything. Plus they make great parents. They can love and support and encourage kids (and small lap dogs) as well as anyone. I’m pretty sure they cry real tears and bleed red blood, too. They also pay taxes and volunteer. And get this, Pastors everywhere: Statistically , gays are already part of your own congregations! Look around see if you can find them. I’ll give you a hint- they probably are the really sharp dressed ones (or the ones in matching Adidas track suits).

Is this rigid stance against gay marriage something members of the community, men and women of the cloth and ambassadors of God’s love, really feel is ok policy to force on people who have not decided to be gay because it’s fun, but instead because it’s just the way they are? Whose god would be that intolerant? What squeaky messenger wouldn’t at least question that message? Is it not time to consider softening an interpretation of the Operator’s Manual that was written such a long time ago? And in so doing exercise a little human compassion? Sadly, intolerance has quite a shelf life-- longer, I’m afraid, than our own journey from ashes to ashes.

Pastor, you are right that prayer for our children is in order. Ask the Catholic church’s lawyers and insurance companies exactly whose behavior is ‘confusing’ the young boys and girls today…

I recently explained to my 3 year old that Dylan has two mommies. You know what she said? “Oh. What’s for lunch?” Confused? Yes, but not as confused as you, apparently.

I saw a great billboard in NYC. It said, “Don’t like gay marriage? Then don’t get gay married.”

Someone pass me a Slurpy. And hold the raisins.

--Wally (cwn4@aol.com)

PS- I am glad you have exercised your right to articulated your perspective. Debate on matters of opinion, however, is pointless, Pastor Arnold. Let’s settle this like real men and wrestle it out naked in a vat of slippery lime Jello!

Oh, one last thing- I am a heterosexual minister too. With great honor and joy, I have married , and will continue to marry, happy loving couples.

dear wally 98 yogurt phobia

Dear Wally #98 Yo-goraphobia

Dear Wally,

I simply cannot tolerate the sound of a spoon scrapping and tapping the bottom and circumference of a yogurt container. Scrape, scrape, scrape, swish - hand to mouth, scrape, scrape, scrape, scrape,swish, swish, hand to mouth. Eek! Ugh! It drives me mad. When I am caught in the moment, I am overcome by hatred for both the yogurt eater and the container. It burns me up quickly. I brace myself from shouting or throwing something in the direction of the sound. Luckily, it only lasts a few moments.

I help myself by avoiding people who are nearing the bottom of a yogurt container.

What’s my problem? My husband thinks I’m nuts.

All best,

Yogurt Doe (aka Becky)

Dear Yogurt Doe:

You are absolutely right to loathe yogurt container scrapping, my hyper-sensitive friend. God damn maddening! The nerve of some people to subject the rest of us to such contumely… Plastic spoon against unlubricated plastic container is as jarring to the nervous system as compound femur fracture.

Or fingernails-on-the-chalk board annoying. And sadly, there’s now an entire generation of school kids who will never know the excruciation of scrapping fingernails on chalkboard because of the pesky emergence of digital ‘chalk’ boards and, less specifically, the better fingernail grooming habits of teachers. But back to Yogurt containers. Blechtttt. Let’s even back it up to the real culprit, yogurt.

Eating yogurt (coagulated cow pus) is like eating milky white, vulcanized, clubbed baby seal blubber. The nefarious Dairy Industry spin masters (an evil lot with some sort of agenda) have peddled the dubious claim that their magic, viscous, lactose-thumping elixir contains billions of helpful digestive enzymes, tastes like yummy fruit and makes people in Russia live to 113.

That’s a load of horse hockey.

I’d like to address those claims one by one and debunk some of these so called pillars of truth upon which a multi-billion dollar industry perilously teeters.

First, I’ve never met a 113 year old, cane leaning, yogurt-guzzling, Soviet woman with or without an enormous black, hairy mole on her chin. I have good reason to doubt she even exists but for on the Dannon yogurt TV commercial. I bet she is really just a saucy young LA actress who is extensively made up to look like a sea hag (well done, Prop Department!) and paid to smile for the advertising agency’s camera. The execs probably trucked in a few rented goats, a head scarf, a fake Caucaus mountain range backdrop and BOOM, we’re all right there in Chechnya believing the promise of toothless longevity as she scraps an empty yogurt container with a snarly wooden stick and congratulates her prosthetic belly ( and prosthetically extruded life) with a pat. Suspect.

So I’m saying until I meet such a wizened Central Asian female Methusela in the flesh, and have a lab test her poop to make sure it has yogurt in it that she in fact ate, I’m skeptical about the authenticity of the industry’s dubious life-extension claims. The Fountain of Youth’s nozzle would quickly clog if it had to pump yogurt…So would the ventricular valves in our hearts.

To further debunk the yogurt hype, I decided to actually start counting the supposed billions of helpful digestive enzymes and I did so right there on the floor of Emannual’s supermarket. Why not? It’s a free country... (They politely cleaned and mopped around me).

I counted 342 enzymes (which, you know, were not ‘helpful’ in the least) in my single serving of peach flavored low fat Lit-N-Lively. I might have been off by a few (they are squirmy little bangers and there were many distractions including the quickly irritated store manager). Look, I’m no mathematician, but there’s a white milky ocean of difference between 347 and billions. More false advertising.

Finally the claim that the fruit flavoring tastes great is suspect. Fruit tastes like fruit. Anything else is a saccharine imposter. Pretty cut and dry. And if it was so tasty then why did my dog puke after getting into a container? See what I mean?

I’m on your side, Yogurt Doe. So I’ve started a Yogurt Scrapping hate group on Facebook for you which I urge all to join. We need more hate groups and this is an easy one to love. In fact, if you could please hit the button that says ‘like this’ to my hate group, I’d appreciate it.

Anyway,

We can’t let yogurt scrappers keep on with their antics and ruin our days with their selfish, loud, public scrapping. How are the rest of us normal folks supposed to think straight?

This is why social media was invented—to topple governments, start bloodless revolutions and stifle annoying uncouth public behavior from the safety of our taupe bedrooms.

If you want change, oh Yo-goraphobic One, then now’s the time to step up. If enough of us call out the industry, policy WILL change. The suits will be forced to invent a container that is shaped exactly like a human tongue so NO plastic utensil (and therefore scraping) is necessary, if yogurt must even be consumed in the first place. And it’ll be a quiet revolution, by god.

I’m just trying to think outside the container.

So a warning to all you Blue Stone Press readers- If you see a person cringing in the corner as you scrape your yogurt container, it’s probably Yogurt Doe and she’s probably pissed. Consider yourself warned!

-Wally

Ps: This is a real letter! And I’m just trying to make her feel better because I actually like yogurt, cows, plastic containers and clubbing baby seals.

Got a question for our advice columnist or just want to agree with his theory that skim milk comes from excessively hydrated cows and yogurt comes from excessively dehydrated cows? It just makes sense…Email him at cwn4@aol.com

dear wally 97 date my daughter application

Dear Wally 97

Application to date my daughter

Dear Wally:

Some punk is poking around trying to date my teenage daughter. I don’t think he’s good enough. I don’t think anyone is. This guy is cagey and he doesn’t appear to bathe often (ever?). He drives a loud, souped-up car and he always looks slippery to me-- like he is lurking. What’s he trying to hide (from)? And he avoids eye contact. The whole thing makes me sick. She’s my little princess-- I want her to have fun and date if she wants. I know she’ll have to kiss a lot of toads, but dang this guy’s a pretty toady toad... Advice? Help!

Concerned dad.

Dear Concerned Dad:

I fear I am only a few quick years behind you. We over-protective Poppa Bears will never get a sound night of sleep as long as there is one horny teenage boy out there. We parents all want our children to date the choicest specimens available, but you know that is largely out of our control (and rightly so-- we got to make our own choices , and suffer or celebrate the consequences). Can’t touch the hot stove top on behalf of your child, or filter out the dregs, much as we might want to.

As palliation for your situation, I found you this already viral Application To Date My Daughter online written by an anonymous source, but still workable for your purposes.

Perhaps an honest response from the young man will prove he isn’t a punk? Maybe he IS just looking for a person to go the library with or pick raspberries with…

And (sigh) maybe monkeys will fly.

Either way, at least it will be a speed bump on his way to your daughter’s bra strap.

Oyy.

Look on the bright side, at least the expression is ‘kiss a lot of toads’, not ‘f’ a lot of toads…’

I’m teaching my kid to pick her nose so the boys stay away for a bit longer. It’s going well. A little too well, actually.

Feel free to copy this and leave it in a weather-proof folder at the bottom of your driveway. Leave a #2 pencil and an a few empty shotgun shells scattered about!

Good luck, dude.

-Wally

Application For Permission To Date My Daughter

Note: this application will be incomplete and rejected unless accompanied by a complete financial statement, job history, lineage and current medical report from your doctor.

Name_____ Date of Birth________Height_________Weight___________IQ_________GPA____Social Security #_______________Driver’s License_________Boy Scout Rank and Badges_____________Home Address_____City/State____Zip_______

Accessories Section:

a) Do you own or have access to a van __Yes __No

b) A truck with oversized tires __Yes __No

c) A waterbed __Yes __No

d) A pickup with a mattress in the back __Yes __N0

e) A tattoo __Yes __No

f) Do you have a nose ring. __Yes __No

g) Do you find it amusing to ignite your own flatulence.* ___Yes __No

h) Do you already have a current girlfriend? ___Yes__No

i) Have you ever read a book?** __Yes___No*

If you answered ‘YES’ to any of the above, discontinue application and leave premises immediately. I suggest running.

*(g)This is not necessarily a deal breaker.

**(i) This was a trick question, dummy. Go back and reread it.

Essay section

In 50 words or less, what does ‘LATE’ mean to you?

In 50 words or less, what does ‘Don’t touch my daughter” mean to you?

In 50 words or less, what does “Abstinence” mean to you?

References section:

Church you attend__________________________________________

How often you attend_______________________________________

When would the best time to interview your:

Mother?_______________

Father?________________

Pastor?________________

Parole Officer?__________

Short Answer Questions

Have you ever been arrested?

Have you repeated the same grade in High School more than 3 times?

Do you own a van? Explain. (please note: Mini Van is not only acceptable but encouraged)

You spent the summer slacking. What did you mean to get to?

A woman’s place is in the:

The one thing I hope this application does not ask me about is:

What do you want to do IF you grow up?

When I meet a girl, the first thing I always notice about her first is:

‘No’ means:

What is the current going rate of a hotel room?

I SWEAR THAT ALL THE INFORMATION ABOVE IS TRUE AND CORRECT TO THE BEST OF MY KNOWLEDGE UNDER PENALTY OF DEATH,DISMEMBEMENT, WATERBOARDING, CRUCIFIXION, ELECTROCUTION, PENETRATION BY RED HOT POKER.

Applicant’s signature (that means sign your name, moron)

Mother’s signature

Father’s signature

Priest, Pastor, Rabbi

State Representative/ Congressman

Thank you for your interest, and it had better be genuine and non-sexual. Please allow for 4-6 years for processing. Please do not try to call or write. If you are rejected, you will be notified by two gentlemen wearing white ties carrying violin cases.

Well, there you have it, Concerned Dad. Straight from the internet.

If you have a question or have a cute, single, adult, non nose-pickin’ daughter, email our advice columnist at cwn4@aol.com .

dear wally 96 road kill eating?

Dear Wally #96:

When is it ok to eat roadkill? It seems a waste to leave perfectly good meat right there on the road. Protein is protein, right?

-Anonymous.

Dear Anonymous: Well, yes I can certainly see why you might chose to obfuscate your identity on this one. Interesting question. Here’s the short answer: Never. It is never ok to eat roadkill. What else rattles around your brain? And are times really that tough? For all the solicited (and unsolicited) advice I’ve deployed hither and yon, this one question has never landed at my feet. Maybe I mean, I’ve never hit this one question with my fender and left it twitching on the yellow lines. I guess it was just a matter of time… This is upstate living after all and a lot of critters are unsuccessful in their quest for the sweet other side, especially the squirrels that do that fake start and then undulate like they are on Dancing With The Stars. That ‘thunk thunk’ always sucks. For us AND them. (In Darwinian terms, all the spazzy, indecisive, equivocating squirrels out there are taken out of the game before they can pass that bad decision making gene down. It’s sad, but you sneak a peek in the rear view mirror, smack the dash, dish out a choice expletive for their squandered life, crank up the Van Halen and keep rocking on! The DOT actually has a truck that drives around picking up carcasses and animal parts. Keep that in mind next time you complain about your job. Anyway, it’s hard not to at least think a little about roadkill up here where fresh and not so fresh meat (and fur, guts, horns and hooves) is abundant. Lot of nature.

I’ve met a couple folks who have no problem picking up a mangled deer, hefting it in their trunks and bringing it straight home to the kitchen to be butchered by something a little less blunt than a Chevy. Sometimes they’ll complete the summer meal by going off road and ‘hitting’ some sweet corn from the local roadside cornfield.

I’m not trying to be judgmental- it’s just that eating roadkill is not anywhere in my own operator’s handbook. But neither, for that matter, is actually eating meat that comes from a supermarket. But like you implied, what’s the difference? Protein is protein.

So here’s my updated answer, in 2 parts. I thought about when I personally might eat roadkill, say versus when you/one might eat it. I would have to have crashed a small Cessna in the remote stretches of Alaska, a few hundred miles from anything. Having finished the emergency Snickers bar that was stashed behind the pilot’s seat, having eaten the goo under my fingernails, having maybe even eaten the pilot, having trudged through the dense coniferous forest and brambly undergrowth, and having just out run Bigfoot (if that’s even possible), I’d have to have gone at least a full week without food (including undigested berries from bear scat). THEN I’d consider eating road kill. But even then, I’d have to be on a really remote logging road and have the one trucker a month cruise by and smack down something right in front of my eyes and then throw out of his window a bottle of Jack Daniels BBQ sauce at the exact instant he passed (What’s the chance of that?). But, if all of those variables convened, and I was blind with hunger, OK, I’d consider eating fresh roadkill. Doubt it would stay down, but I’d try. Never say never, right?

That’s just me.

For you, because from your very question it seems like the criteria for roadkill-eating might be considerably less stringent, I’d offer a few rules of thumb:

Eat nothing that you have driven by (or over) for more than 2 consecutive days. You want your meat tenderized, sure, but not by other people’s tires.

Eat nothing for which you must battle flies, maggots, buzzards or bear.

Eat nothing with quills or gills (beware roadkill fish- your meal will not end well).

Eat nothing that resembles a skunk (unless your Cessna crashes and you haven’t eaten in 3 weeks. In that case, enjoy!).

Eat nothing the collecting of which might put you in the position of becoming roadkill yourself. In other words, this isn’t the meal to linger over.

Don’t EVER try to make an anniversary or birthday dish from this source.

Eat no domestic animals. That’s just too gross and I shouldn’t have to mention it in the first place.

Bear in mind that possums, frustratingly slow movers and about as ugly as they come, tend to get cut down in twos, (how sweet!?) so chances are you can hit one on your way to work, hit its mourning friend on your way home and feed the entire extended family that night.

The social taboo of eating things like squirrel is quite high in these parts so you’ll want to be discrete with your snatching lest you subject yourself to unnecessary public humiliation and become social roadkill yourself. People WILL talk. For most, the modern world is just not so accepting. Yet. You can keep hoping for social reform.

My friend Paul has no problem with roadkill (hey, it’s free!) and what’s more, starts licking his chops at the notion of sautéed squirrel.. (Is there enough BBQ sauce to make that not nasty? I seriously doubt it. I also seriously tend to avoid his BBQ invitations.) So, technically, there are others out there doing it.

Well I hope I’ve given you something to chew on ( that wont make you sick).

Good luck and keep your reflective yellow safety vest handy.

-Wally

Ps: One nice thing about roadkill in the winter months is that is comes pre-salted.

Got a question for our advice columnist or just want to tell him the grossest thing you have run over and then eaten? Email him at cwn4@aol.com