DearWally

dear wally 105 coffee addict

2011-10-31T10:16:00.000-07:00

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

2011-10-31T10:08:00.000-07:00

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

2011-10-31T09:53:00.001-07:00

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

2011-10-31T09:52:00.000-07:00

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

2011-10-31T09:51:00.000-07:00

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?

2011-10-31T09:50:00.000-07:00

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?

2011-10-31T09:49:00.000-07:00

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

2011-10-31T09:48:00.000-07:00

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

2011-10-31T09:47:00.000-07:00

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?

2011-10-31T09:46:00.000-07:00

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

conversation with a house fly

2010-07-20T04:06:00.000-07:00

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.

Dear Wally 74

2010-07-20T04:05:00.000-07:00

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.

Dear Wally 73 Ringo Starr first concert for Hattie

2010-07-20T04:03:00.000-07:00

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.”

Dear Wally 72

2010-07-20T04:02:00.000-07:00

(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 71 Cat Lady

2010-06-05T12:37:00.001-07:00

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 70 Post Office Ira

2010-06-05T12:35:00.000-07:00

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!

Dear Wally 68 Earth Day

2010-06-05T12:34:00.000-07:00

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

Dear Wally 69 rude public behavior

2010-06-05T12:32:00.000-07:00

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

dear wally 67 dating cord wood

2010-03-26T12:43:00.002-07:00

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

dear Wally 66 here me out

2010-03-26T12:43:00.001-07:00

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!!

dear wally 65 inheritence

2010-03-26T12:42:00.000-07:00

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

dear wally 64 skiing

2010-03-26T12:41:00.002-07:00

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

dear Wally 63 february

2010-03-26T12:41:00.001-07:00

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.

dear wally 62 car selling

2010-03-26T12:40:00.001-07:00

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 61 nuggets

2010-03-26T12:39:00.000-07:00

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

update from guatemala

2010-03-26T12:36:00.000-07:00

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??

xmas letter 2009

2010-01-05T04:13:00.000-08:00

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)

xmas letter 2005

2010-01-05T04:10:00.000-08:00

Dear friends and family-- Happy holidays to you all. We’ve decided to cobble together an annual report, especially for the benefit of you who haven’t heard the details directly from me on my cell phone while driving which I seem to do a lot of these days somehow. (I’ve developed the vengeful habit of riding my Verizon minutes’ limit to the razor’s edge in a small man’s attempt to kick the Big Man in the shins with my crippling singular usage of his network and thus get my money’s worth. It feels good.)
Life is great at Norwegian Woods Farm (and B&B if you don’t sound too weird to us on the phone). If you are a small white dog, you will be adored, watched like a hawk, hugged and damn-near smothered with affection. In return, you will only occasionally crap inside. We’re batting 800 on that front!! (800 being the aggregate number of times we’ve had to reach down with a paper towel).
If you are a horse, your every need is tended to lovingly and dutifully by the sexy lady of the house. In a week or two, there will be no more available stalls. This means a few things: 1) we are now firing our commercial horse boarding business on all cylinders 2) I no longer see cute snorting mounts waiting for a ride and attention. As we are eligible for the NY State Agricultural Exemption, I see proud , well-trained 1400 lb tax deductions! 3) There’s a good chance that in my stocking this year I’ll get a hammer, some 2x4s and a smile from my wife.
If you are a guinea hen, your gorge on tiny deer ticks has come to a merciful end with the snow. (We got the ugly bastards b/c they eat 1000/ day each. One day I stayed home and counted) If you are a chicken, you are in a quaint, barely windproof piece of Section 8 housing that I (and a few college friend onlookers) slapped up one day. You will spend the winter huddling under a heat lamp put in for warmth. Warmth? I think it is part of a larger conspiracy propagated by Cori to slow-cook, oven-roast these suckers over the winter. Nonetheless, they do lay eggs and Cori has become ‘The Egg Lady” selling fresh eggs to neighbors from a self serve cooler at the bottom of the driveway. Somehow this easy gift to the local high school pranksters has been over looked by their blind lust for our mailbox which was finally bashed to smithereens a few months ago. (In my high school days, our family’s mailbox was always the only one spared which made me Suspect #1 in the neighbor’s eyes. But I had nothing to do with it and told the accusers as much- I wasn’t so stupid that I would leave only my mailbox in tact, thank you. Errrrrgghh.) Our neighbors love the eggs and Cori is the Queen of Old Queens Highway. The $3 / dozen fee covers the cost of armor she needs to get past the rooster. He’s a mean SOB and especially hates me (I’m vegetarian. What gives?!)
If you are a cat at Norwegian Wood farm, you apparently didn’t get the memo that we don’t ‘do’ house cats. Period. Despite our continual lower leg blocks at the front door, they think they will wear us down and finally invite them in. And they are mistaken. “You are barn cats,” I yell daily. “What don’t you understand about this?” The sorry answer is , None of it. None. When either of us leaves the house, we are trailed by a proud parade of 6 cats each trying its damndest to get under our feet and trip us up.
This fall we finished off Furry Phones International Head Quarters and Industrial Park, so now the workshop has heat, lights and a parking space for the ‘Employee of the Month’. That means production can continue without interruption. Listen carefully and you can hear the sound of whips cracking! Business has tapered to a reasonable flow, (has the global market been saturated already? Yikes!) which has allowed a little more time for Cori’s second and third love-- to ride and instruct. (I’m still safely at Love Number 1 for the moment.)
Cori has also been awarded the title of “Ms Kerhonkson Landfill 2005” by the ogling gents who run our town dump. She has swept the contest for the 5th year in a row, not surprisingly. Her prize is that the guys fall over themselves to unload her filled pickup truck for free while charging me $10 to throw out my recyclable soda can.
I’ve been swinging hammers on a nearby building project that seems to rival the Taj Mahal in terms of time (and cost) needed to complete. Someday it will be the home to a fabulously wealthy Wall Streeter, and they will double my asking price because of the love and extra attention put into the house. That’s my mantra anyway as I slip on my keester with 50 lbs of supplies on the icy, inaccessible driveway.
With an unexpected revisit from a musical muse, I have gathered up my very talented high school friends and packed back into a small, aromatic, recording studio to record another CD. This new year we will be attempting to get some more radio airplay and then record another CD. It’s really great to be writing music again. And on the subject of writing, I plan to finish my novel this winter, though I certainly realize this refrain is beginning to sound familiar.
The LadleCradle was picked up by a very large catalogue (www.wdrake.com) so come January 2006, I’m curious to know who out there falls prey to the stern warning that no kitchen is complete without one, no home is safe. In any event it is exciting and I appreciate the validation, even if it is from an outfit that also sells miniature garden gnomes and plastic corn on the cob holders in the shape of corn on the cob.
Many of you have asked about our parents. My dad died three times this summer in one scary day and lives to tell about it largely as a result of a regular person’s CPR skill. With gratitude, this spring I am re-certifying as a NY State EMT. (editorial note: CPR classes in your area are fun fun fun and only take a few hours.) Cori’s pop had some health scares too including the black and blue results of accidentally using a log splitting maul to trim his toenails but is doing great now and looks smashing in his padded flat shoe. Fraus Heidi and Helga are well and are keeping their convalescing husbands (somewhat) out of trouble. Nephews and nieces number in the hundreds now and are growing like weeds.
We’ve been fortunate to have dear friends and even some family choose to spend time with us on our farm and elsewhere. Despite our many interests, hanging out with each other and friends continues to really be what we cherish the most – Christmas (Am I still allowed to use this word?) is the time when we get the cards of your cute kids, your updates, your warm wishes. And we are reminded of how lucky we are.
With tons of love and the wish to see even more of you in 2006…

Stay well and have a happy new year.

Wally and Cori
PO Box 96
Kerhonkson, NY 12446
845 626 5125
cwn4@aol.com Farm picts are at: www.eventponies.com

xmas letter 2006 finka de la stinka

2010-01-05T04:08:00.000-08:00

‘2006’
(El Finca del Stinka)

(translated: A farm of great aromas)

(A screenplay with few lines)

(Starring)
Cori Nichols

(And featuring)
Wally Nichols

(with)
Dr. Funk and Nurse Diesel
(And a cast of thousands if you include horses, guinea hens, bales of hay, tractors, ticks, yellow jackets, parasites, amoebas, lawn clippings, a mortgage and ladybugs)

In their collective screen debut…
Act 1: Scene 1:

INT. Bedroom. 4am some dark wintry Dec. morning. Cori, a 30 year old (if you round down to the nearest 30) beautiful blond number, tosses and turns. She surveys the unlit bedroom and watches her breath crystalize into frost . There is no heat and Upstate New York again promises to shake the weaklings to the hard ground this winter. The three males in her life (1 human , 2 canine) crowd the undersized king mattress and shamelessly grope the duvet, sheets and pillows leaving her with only the mattress warning tag to stay warm (which , it says clear as day, she’s not allowed to remove under penalty of law) . All three males are on their backs, interwoven, with their legs and arms extending straight up in the air. The din of snoring is almost unbearable. The air is pungent. There is fogged condensation on the inside of the window and she remembers a different sort of luxury in the courtin’ years. Her lips are blue and it ain’t the lipstick…Indeed, it is probably warmer outside.

Able to neither sleep nor breath fresh air (CLOSE UP: Wally’s mid section, posterior), Cori sits up in bed, grabs a wad of blanket and sturdily yanks. (Imagine a tablecloth under wine glasses and a full royal buffet) The 56 thread count ‘bargains’ Wally found at the Dollar Store back in April hastily return to their rightful owner in the form of a bullwhip. The sheets are coarse enough to grind foot bunions back into compliance and make canvas Home Depot drop-cloths seem an unattainable luxury for their caste. Instinctually Wally swats for them, and unsuccessful, pulls an unwitting, yet warm, bichon by its front legs a little closer.
CORI
(sotto voce)
Hey Blanket Bandito…Are you awake?

Wally lays frozen in fear that any movement might betray his real state of consciousness resulting in his having to get up and feed the wood stove that, despite manufacturer’s guaranty of a 10 hour overnight burn time, self-extinguishes every night in fewer than 3 hours. He knows that if he feigns sleep, he’ll out-stubborn her, which is no easy feat. He thanks his parents for making him a Scorpio. He flatulates to complete and authenticate the Oscar-winner sleep performance . The Bichons (resigned to this nightly occurrence) shift uncomfortably and fall back asleep slightly anesthetized.

CORI
Got to get up and pack. We’re leaving today.

Wally snaps out of bed. It’s true. The couple has decided to shut down the farm, drain the pipes and leave for the warmer climes of Florida until Spring returns to Kerhonkson and melts the 300 feet of snow they will likely get and thus will likely have to plow with a single undersized (yet fun to drive) ATV). At least 10 weeks.

(Director’s note: Many consider Florida to be nothing more than the sanctuary of white-belted retirees, myopic golfers and tight, mesh-shirt wearing, muscle-clad goombas steering their white, flame-licked Trans-Ams towards drive-through Beverage Barns with cans of open beer not so discreetly wedged between their legs. And while it seems true that if you want to be on an episode of Cops here, all you need do is open your front door and sit on the steps, Florida also has art beyond the limitations of television. Look no further than the reception area of any Hooters or Cracker Barrel and you’ll see for yourself. But this couple knows better and will not indulge in mockery at Florida’s expense-- In Florida, simply put, it is warmer. (Even though global warming is doing its best to level the playing field). While also true that the shoes are whiter, the pants ride higher, the politics are keener (Wally still finds occasion to refer to the state as “Flor-a- DUH” after each election cycle, deserving or not), the bottom line is that after a year of hard manual labor, the likes of which one might find at a prison labor camp, the two farmers could use a break. Checking all notions of self-esteem and accomplishment at the door, they are booked to live in a plastic motor home (de rigeur in Florida) on an equine resort (‘resort’ might be a slightly misleading term) and train horses. (CUT AWAY: Wally trying to fit a bridle over a horse’s ass).
Cori’s horse boarding and riding lesson business has been a smashing success (only 3 miles of fencing were smashed this year!) —They have upwards of 14 horses and many concerned friends and family ask after the health and well being of Antonio Blanco Del ‘Piccolito’ Osama Bin ‘Drama’ Llama, the farm’s only camelid, who remains as smug and proud (and alive) as ever.
Wally’s efforts as a home developer (ummmm, the good kind so hold your rotten egg bombs and protest marches) have resulted in 1 almost finished house (of 4 ) and a dark look up the pleated skirt of throttling regulation, bureaucracy, fines, overcharges and damn near imprisonment. Other than that, it’s really going well!
In Florida, it is worth noting, Cori wont have any one of a dozen youngster students shadowing her as they do here on the farm. They all want to grow up and be like her minus the husband. Nor will she have the benefit of her father’s worldy advice and love as he passed this spring at 89. If there is a place ‘beyond’ for in-laws, Wally’s mother is now grilling Roger with questions on gardening while he is too polite to mention that he’d really prefer a few minutes with Abe Lincoln and Socrates before heavenly Bingo.
This past year Wally turned 40. The very act was as much a surprise to him as the party Cori threw. More like a roast. From far below the stack of bales upon which he lorded, in a friggin’ frigid barn with no indoor plumbing, dear (??) friends and family articulated the roastee’s foibles, frailties, connivery and shortcomings in a loving (and beautifully catered) way. One of the cheap’n’ easy targets was music, which some noted (ahem, pardon), has taken Wally in a new and exciting direction, to wit, the genre of Country. Yep. Living in the country has a way making one live for the country, if you get the drift. Country living has a way of breaking down the human innate survivalist aversion to country music with which we’re all mercifully born. But it grew on him like it’ll grow on you. So new music hot off the hard drive has been birthed in 2006 and the process promises to continue into 2007 and beyond (and then beyond that) until he is backed into the single remaining refuge of musical opportunity: Evangelical Christian Rock (which he threatens to learn about, and master, if forced). If you want to hear stuff before that however, send up a smoke signal and your i-stocking will be electronically stuffed.

WIDE SHOT: on idling pick-up truck/ trailer combo, loaded with 3 horses, 2 bikes, 2 bichons, rollerblades, computers, clothes, food, rent money, a AAA membership, dental floss, a frayed (and ultimately ignored) bumper sticker peddling a sun-bleached, discontinued Kerry/ Edwards promise, a CB radio, Rolaids, an outdated map of Tuscany (you never know!) and a used banner they picked up from someone in the DC area for $2 on Ebay saying “Mission Accomplished.”

The rig starts down the long rutted driveway slowly, squatting low on its burdened suspension like a pregnant Sumo wrestler and pitching dangerously in the gullies that shred the unsuspecting undercarriages of Mormon Church missionaries. The driveway has a perfectly ignored feel to it, one we do not want the people in Set Design to fix with their shovels, no matter how much they beg.

CLOSE UP: On Cori (driving) and Wally in a slap fight with the bichons for control of the front seat. There are big pre-trip smiles all around until Cori suddenly scrunches her nose, scowls, swats Wally and cracks the driver’s side window. Wally shrugs his shoulders defensively and points at the closest small dog.

CAMERA: follows the rig down the driveway, framed symmetrically under the majestic ‘Gunks’ mountain range towards which they drive, through the farm gates. It’s 4 am- the witching hour for diesel dogs and asphalt cowboys. 2006 and a patient farm loom large in the rear view mirror.

CUE: philharmonic-style string orchestration. If you’re gonna get misty this is the time, folks. Roll credits

BUT WAIT!!!

No sooner are they through the symbolic gates than they are pulled over by a state trooper and ticketed for being grossly overloaded.

The End

(If you would like to be an extra in this film, we’re reviewing resumes. Please mail headshots to : cwn4@aol.com and enclose $25 for processing. To get a tour of the set, and meet the stars, please consider a visit any time during what we hope is a very fine and healthy 2007).

Love,

the entire cast(e)

Dear Wally #43 Boyfriend

2010-01-05T04:07:00.002-08:00

Help I need a boyfriend!

Dear Wally-

I need a boyfriend and I need one now. Someone handy would be nice because halfway through an addition to my house my ex (a carpenter) and I broke up. Damn it. It has been a long, cold winter with nothing but Tyvek sheathing to keep out the cold (and the wolves?). My fingers have yet to thaw. My ideal mate will need to know his way around a nail gun and also not be scared of ladders (I have a pesky clogging gutter situation that needs addressing three times a year). I’m not too particular about height—Somebody 5’10” would be ideal but anywhere between 4’ and 8’ is between the uprights, as far as I’m concerned. Speaking of sports metaphors, this guy CAN NOT be one of those self-scratching sofa slugs who watches ‘the game’ every day of the week. A little sports is ok (an hour a month?) but that’s it.
Oh, and can you make the fellow a good looking artist, too. (With no moustache??)
Thanks,
PP
(ps- Sorry to be pushy but can you make this a priority? My roof is starting to heave.)

Dear PP-
A long cold winter with nothing but Tyvek to keep out the cold? Let me get this straight: Your hands don’t work. Your roof is about to break. You need regular gutter and ladder work. There’s only a thin membrane between you and wolves.
And you wonder why guys aren’t busting down your door? (Do you even have a door or does your new boyfriend need to put that in too?) Let’s back it up and start with the basics: I offer advice on things I mostly know nothing about: From soapbox rants to rodent control to lottery fantasy fulfillment to politics and most everything in between. The ‘Dear Wally’ forum is not exactly a dating service, not even obliquely, but I’ll try to help you where I can because I think everyone should experience love (and clean gutters). And because I know nothing about seeking a male mate, I’ll offer some advice.
How about we ease away from the one-stop-shopping model of mate-seeking. It’s outdated. There was a time when one could drive through a country town and see a quaint corner store selling mismatched shelf-mates. Two in particular stand out in my memory: One store sold ‘cold beer and clothes.’ The other sold hardware and Chinese food. But those days of convenience shopping at the same place for hardware and Chinese food might be behind us. Those places are all out of business now and it’s no wonder. It’s a complicated, specialized world out there now and the same hold true for mates. Ask for too much in one package and you might get left holding useless sweet and sour nuts (and bolts). Nobody wins. It’s also a lot of pressure on any one human to hit all the things on someone else’s wish list. I respectfully submit that your wish list for handyman skills alone sounds decently extensive. I got shivers just reading your letter.
I think you might do well to consider first seeking a carpenter or handyman in the classifieds to finish your house before the snows return and not think of him (or her) from the get go as a sexual object or someone with whom you might want to dash off into the sunset. If, after a decent amount of work has happened and has been paid for, the wolves haven’t devoured you both, and everyone is happy, and you both start seeing sky rockets, then ok, fine. But keep the boyfriend part out of it for now. It’s too complicated, especially where power tools are involved.
You might simultaneously take an ad out in the personals (different from the classifieds, right?) seeking a man with the qualities you mention (minimum height, no moustache, etc).
Alas, your ideal of the uber-renaissance mench might also be antiquated. Da Vinci was the last known such jerk and since he walked the earth, he’s made the rest of us guys look like under achieving schmucks and fools.
I’m sure you will find plenty of folks to help out with the various projects and I’m excited to hear how things work out. You might also ask the question, ‘what am I bringing to the table’ (Yes, I know you need one of those made too, right after the roof is fixed). Are you witty? pretty? loving? hard working? appreciative? I’m sure all of the above, PP. Break it down for the guys out there and good luck.
-W

Got a question that needs answering or a roof you want someone to look at but not fix? Contact our advice columnist at cwn4@aol.com

Dear Wally #44 Good Book? Baby's Bellybutton

2010-01-05T04:07:00.001-08:00

Dear Wally-
Read any good books lately?
-Marcy (Stone Ridge)
Dear Marcy:
Like many caught up in the hurly-burly of life, I long to have the quiet time to drop into a red velvet smoking jacket and revisit the classics. That said, and being the parent of a toddler, my ‘A’ list is topped with an efficient, portable stand-out. An inflatable life donut in a sea of sinking mediocrity, this book works for all ages. Let’s meet the soon-to-be-classic, intensely popular, “Where’s Baby’s Belly Button?” by Karen Katz.
This future member of the literary canon’s title is more a rhetorical question than a literal one. In this gripping, intensely short work, a solitary child (our most innocent, fragile member of society and the one the author suggests needs the most protection and nurturing from proverbial village it takes to raise him/ her/ errrr, mankind?) endures the frustration of ignorance, the heartbreak of adult betrayal, the exhaustion of exploration, the sweet nectar of self-discovery and finally the elation of vindication. The narrative turns on themes of redemption, awareness, modesty and perseverance that are as delicately intonated and intricate as a honeybee’s waxy knees.
It’s quite a ride, this tale- one your child may seem to never tire of hearing. And understandably…Big questions get answered and we as readers are able to leave the experience with a sense of fulfillment, satisfaction and un-slakable thirst to reread (and reread again) for deeper meaning. (It’s like peeling an onion, though every layer still tastes like onion). Dickens himself chronicled the human condition as deftly in but two of his works (I can’t remember which two) and comparatively, his attempts mostly leave one feeling like they have just eaten a dirt sandwich. Nutritional maybe at some elemental level, but hardly worth the prodigious effort. Yet Dickens and Katz will be shelf-mates on the great mantle of posterity, mark my words.
In the book’s ostensible plot, ‘baby’ (yours?) can’t find her belly button. Upon lifting a small flap of interactive cardboard masquerading as a shirt, the belly button is revealed. The ‘Ah Ha’ moment you don’t expect pays off every time. Your baby laughs, you laugh and all feels right in the universe.
But grab a hankie and a headlamp. Venture beneath that cardboard flap and you get to the kernel of what this author is really saying. To wit, things in this life are not always so obvious. If one wants to know where a belly button is, one has to put in the work. One needs to feel the burn of curiosity, the hobble of despair, else nothing in life will have genuine meaning or value. Life is a zero-sum game, she suggests. To use a tired cliché, you can’t know good unless you have known bad. What is the elective exhilaration of ice cream without the sour gum rub of mandated Brussel Sprouts? Etc etc.
For Katz, this is a lesson that can’t be taught soon enough. (For ages 1 and up!) The author , rightly so, hammers the point home early by posing the question other ways. Where’s baby’s nose? Where’s baby’s feet, where is baby’s head? and so on. (and so on) (and so on).
If you fall for the clever trap that this is just about a banal belly button romp, you need to get back to your literary analysis basics. The revered Algerian semiotic deconstructionist philosopher Derrida, for one, has produced much fontanel-bulging information on symbols (like belly buttons) if you dare to go there. But beware, take on this literary avoirdupois and it might be a long trip back to the surface!
‘Button’ serves it up fresh in 7 compact pages. Each page is made of water (and puke) resistant cardboard, brightly illustrated and replete with a tenacious, anti-rip hinge mechanism. I personally have read it at least 4,000 times and there’s been no hint of degradation (nor, alas, binder rot). I tried to toss it in the fire (when my baby wasn’t looking) and lo, it’s fireproof! I ran it over with my tractor and my baby wiped the tire marks right off with a tear-soaked diaper. I’ve tried drilling holes in it with the post hole digger and have broken as many drill bits. Even 'accidentally' flinging it out the window at 65 mph didn’t dispatch it. So you can feel good about your investment. Make a little space next to ‘The Devil Wears Prada’ and get this in your summer beach bag!
-Wally
Ps- It also makes a nice sand scoop or sandcastle drawbridge!

Got a question for our columnist Wally Nichols or just want to buy his copy of ‘Where’s Baby’s Belly Button?’ without putting your credit card info online at Amazon.com? Contact him at cwn4@aol.com

Got a question for our columnist or just want to buy his copy of ‘Where’s Baby’s Belly Button?’ without putting your credit card info on Amazon.com? Contact our columnist at cwn4@aol.com

Dear wally #45 To Meat Or Not

2010-01-05T04:06:00.001-08:00

Dear Wally
Is it better to be a vegetarian or is it better to be a meat eater? I’m a hardcore vegetarian but am beginning to wonder…
-Anonymous
Dear A:
If you love your Uncle Leo, and want him not to die, you’ll kick your selfish vegetarian habit to the curb and grab a juicy burger. Here’s why: When cows fart (sorry there’s no delicate way to state this stark bodily functioning) they release the greenhouse gas methane (CH4). And lots of it. (I grew up on a farm and followed one such cow around with a Ziplock bag for a week long science project in 6th grade, so trust me, I know). A typical 2,000 lb cow makes a 7,000lb GM Hummer H3 look like a 1,000 lb Prius, even though the 1,000 lb Prius kinda looks like a 2,000 lb cow. (And, as an aside, my 4,000 lb Honda Element looks like a 5,000 lb pot belly pig).
Methane is over 20 times more effective in trapping heat in the atmosphere than carbon dioxide (CO2) over a 100-year period and is emitted from a variety of natural and human-influenced sources.
Thus, if you eat a cow, you will be doing your part to reduce the methane emissions because if the cow is sideways on your plate with a order of fries, it won’t be walking around flatulating (and looking cute) (and ruining our earth). Conversely, if you don’t eat meat, uncontrollable amounts of methane will take over the atmosphere and cook all humanity.
But not before we drown.
The polar caps will continue to melt. As they do, the ocean sea level will increase to levels incompatible with human life. Never mind all the money we’ll have to spend to replace the signs along the road that say, for example, “elevation 300’ above sea level.” Never mind all the hip waders we’ll have to buy from Orvis. Never mind all of humanity clinging to the lonely windswept top of Mt Everest (which will probably be a beachy Club Med at that point).
Uncle Leo’s condo in Miami Beach will be under water and he doesn’t know how to swim. You are, in effect, sentencing Leo to death-by-drowning by not eating meat. (However on the bright side, with water covering 98% of the earth, I’ll probably be able to finally sell my 13’ boat).
To add insult to injury, by eating all those fresh leafy greens that you pick up at Davenport’s Farm market, you are effectively wiping out nature’s cleanest carbon scrubbin’ system as plants absorb atmospheric carbon through photosynthesis. So being a vegetarian is a double eye-poke whammy, environmentally speaking. More unrestricted methane from the cows and less plant ability to bind it in an inert, harmless state (because YOU ate all the broccoli). It’s a bad formula for humanity and recklessly selfish. And I’m not even talking about home-wrecking methane levels present after you eat the broccoli…
I’m sorry if this sounds strident. Global warming is too serious to not take seriously. And Uncle Leo still has a few good years in him despite his constant nagging.
Vegetarians will try to talk up the humane angle. They will tell you how ‘meat is murder’. Their scope is small, however. They are focused on one animal at a time which, while noble, is still myopic. You are focused on the entire universe and you may well politely remind them that in addition to Uncle Leo not knowing how to swim, the cows they purport to care about, ( the very same ones they are trying to ‘save’) are equally bad at swimming. So by hamburgering, you are just doing what has to be done to save them as well. Jees…
Look, it’s not always easy doing the right thing. And as the old expression goes, it’s the frontiersmen who get shot in the back with arrows. Try thinking of those ‘arrows’ as kabob-style grill skewers instead, and sally forth with a big bottle of BBQ sauce in hand (and juicy burger in the other). Feel good about it, too!
If you are having trouble making the switch back from, ummm, raw cabbage to meat, consider the taunting olfactorial effects of bacon. I have found that bacon is a gateway drug. Even the most formidable vegetarian can not, in the late night sanctuary of peerless solitude, resist the narcotic lure of wafting bacon. Start with the Facon’ Bacon (available in most stores’ embarrassingly tiny organic section) then ease on over to the real bacon aisle and from there it’s an easy step to the burger department and by extension, mankind’s salvation.
Good eating! (and thank you from me, the world and Uncle Leo)

- Wally
(Admission: I myself am one of those selfish, mostly-vegetarians. N.B. --The guy who looks just like me and who occasionally shows up at Red Lobster when his wife isn’t looking is a hypocritical imposter who should know butter.)

Got a food-based ethical crisis and need some expert columnar advice? Contact our hotline at cwn4@aol.com between 8-5 on weekdays.

Dear Wally #46 Dandelion

2010-01-05T04:05:00.000-08:00

Dear Wally:
How is it that in this day and age of environmental awareness, we still have dandelion (or any) weed killer on the shelves? Don’t we know better?
-AB, New Paltz

Dear A- The national obsession with dandelion eradication is, of course, a curious, forceful one. By listening to the ads on the radio and TV this time of year, one would think that dandelions are no less a threat to homeland security than the Bubonic Plague. The typical commercial says it all: Frustrated dad (usually) in the opening seconds tearing his hair out because the unwelcome yellow f#@kers are everywhere and propagating on the lawn like horny bunnies. A snarky neighbor in a Porky Pig BBQ apron leans over the fence and gloats. (He has time to enjoy his lawn because, presumably, his time is not spent fighting dandelions). The infuriated, victimized dad shakes his fist at a cruel, mocking god above (Ugggggh-- Why Meeeeee?) until a suspiciously sterile, white 1 gallon container is handed over the fence (label showing!) by the knowing neighbor who is tired of watching this suburban chump twist in the wind. The receiving dad beams widely in thanks, applies the chemical to the lawn (not wearing the HEPA mask or hazmat suit he probably should be wearing) and the shot dissolves to HIS family FINALLY able to have a friggin’ backyard BBQ and enjoy their lawn because the dandelions have been dispatched to dandelion heaven. His OCD is in remission (for now) as there is uninterrupted, rich, green grass as far as the eye can see. The way it should be…
I remember playing with dandelions (we had them everywhere) and making necklaces and popping their heads off at friends. Even did that while we were BBQ ing. Someone once made a tasty summer salad out of them to my simultaneous horror and delight.
Before we even get to the toxicity of the product that kills them, let’s consider that there is no kid out there that gives a crap whether or not their parent’s lawn has dandelions. They do not hurt to walk on barefoot, they contrast nicely with the green grass, they grow measurably on a spring day between the time a child gets on the school bus and the time the child returns in the afternoon. So the poisoning that’s happening, if you will, that is a secondary product of some chemical company’s efforts, is of the younger generation’s tolerance of these cute little weeds. The companies are breeding hate in the name of purity. And as history shows, we humans are pretty decent at doing this…
The much bigger problem is the nature of the chemical that is used to eradicate this and other weeds. It’s bad enough that chemicals have to be used on our produce in order for the yields to be high enough to keep farmers in business. We need to eat so until better, safer methods are developed, and agricultural financial incentives are initiated to offset ‘losses’ for not using weed killers and pesticides, that argument is off the table. But killing dandelions is hardly the noble mission the advertisers, garden centers and some others who stand to profit make it out to be. We have serious watershed run off issues with toxic elements everywhere we turn. Pretty much everything dumps into tributaries that ultimately dump into much larger waterways that we all share.
I hate fish served any which way but especially when its flesh is permeated by a broadleaf weed killer made by MROChem called ‘Triple Threat’ which indiscriminately and proudly kills many things including dandelions. (They whitewash all those unpronounceable ingredients with one sinister, problem-eradicating name which suggests pinpoint accuracy and intimidation).
Nor do humans benefit from drinking and using water that has ‘Triple Threat’ in it. I don’t think the ultimate cost benefit analysis works in our favor on this one folks, despite the claims of inertness that may or may not be peddled at the corporate PR level. (I fully expect to hear from their lawyers, btw).
My father was obsessed with squirrels thieving from the bird feeders. His budget on squirrel-proof bird feeders would make small island nations jealous. Not one of these expensive gizmos proved efficacious and we kids would routinely hears expletives from the kitchen window as these fearless interlopers would perform stunning acrobatics to get some ‘bird’ food. The question we kids dared not ask aloud, but the one that dad finally resigned himself to is, “What’s so bad about squirrels getting the food in the first place?” Why birds and not them? It’s pretty arbitrary, actually. Frankly, the squirrels were more fun to watch and that brought in more entertainment for the dollar. But even still, the birds and the squirrels figured out how to share. And life kept on happening.
I doubt the world will stop turning if lawns are infiltrated by dandelions. It’s a good thing I’m not Governor of NY or the head of the DEC because those shelves of pointless chemicals at the garden centers would be empty…
Found this grassroots organization if you are interested in going green AND going yellow: http://www.myspace.com/banpesticides
-Wally
Got a question for our columnist? Email him at cwn4@aol.com or just pelt him in person with dandelions when he plays guitar at The Rosendale Café Tues 8:30 pm June 12.

Dear Wally #47 lawn mower blues

2010-01-05T04:04:00.000-08:00

Lawn Mower Blues

Dear Wally:
It’s lawn cutting time again and we’re trying to squeeze another season out of our aging ride–on lawn tractor. It’s actually only 4 years old and we got it at Home Depot. When you first start it, it seems so co-operative and willing. It initially mows well and goes up pretty decent inclines. But after about 20 minutes it starts smoking a lot and begins to smell like delicious frying bacon. It also then refuses to go up any incline and groans/ lurches slowly as you head up a hill. If we don’t return it to the garage before 20 minutes, it stops right there and we’re walking home until at least a day later. We can’t afford a new tractor now plus we feel like we owe it to this tractor (part of the family after 3 years after all ) to try and fix her up. What should we do?
Strapped in Stone Ridge.

Dear Strapped:
I have that same mower! (or at least my mower has those same problems) Seriously, that John Deere looked so fine on the showroom floor. So proud. It looked like it would never let me down- like I could hop on it and cut a 48” path from the Hudson Valley to the Napa valley without so much as a backfire. I even dreamt of entering it in mini-class tractor pulls and letting my daughter take it to the prom in 18 years.
When on a tractor, even if a lawn tractor, I feel a swelling sense of camaraderie with my Midwestern farmer-brethren who are out there day in, day out hauling heavy disc harrows with their 140hp Green Deere machines and tilling the soil so the rest of America can eat. I take this tractor business seriously, you know.
My machine gave me 3 good years before the wheels started coming off (literally and figuratively). It’s not clear that the disintegration of my mower is a design flaw, a function of lightweight, JV parts, or simply an application over-abuse. (Shouldn’t have tried to jump 3 Greyhound busses with it last year!) I’m sure cunning legal minds could easily argue all the angles. I just know this: 4 years in lawn tractor years in the care custody and comfort of a typical weekend warrior homeowner is equivalent to 100 years in human years (the last 50 of which are spend on a prison labor chain gang busting rocks in the hot sun). So you are essentially sitting on a felonious grandma’s back, pulling on her ponytail and expecting her to haul your rear end up and down a hill (which might just have happened everyday in the joint anyway). I don’t care how much yogurt she eats, or how many squat thrusts she does each morning. She (or anyone) is gonna start smelling like cooking bacon after that kind of exertion. It’s because we bought low end models, I’m both proud and embarrassed to admit. And there are a lot of us out there, evidently.
The billowing white smoke after 20 minutes (you didn’t use those adjectives but may I take that liberty because this has been my observation) is cause for real concern. Is this insulting that I suggest you check the oil before each use? I hope not and hope you accept my apologies if this sounds patronizing. Running an engine with no oil seems to present in a similar fashion- smoky puffs of protest as unlubricated metal grinds against more unlubricated metal in a molten fire chamber. I know dealing with engine oil seems like such an annoyance sometimes. I hear you. But they have a dipstick for a reason and it would behoove you to check the level every so often. If you pull out the dipstick and there is no oil, which I suspect, much will be explained. Just add some and deny having never checked it before.
So she only creeps up a hill after a while? This might be related to the oil, which I will safely assume is non-existent. Whatever residue of oil stubbornly lingers in the crankcase when you start out the day might just be leaking onto the drive belt below. This would certainly cause the belt to slip as it gets warm and expands by causing the rear axel pulley to slip.
The bacon you are smelling? That’s the sound of money cooking, my friend Your money. Start saving for a new riding mower and meanwhile, just cut the lawn in 20 minute units. Or mortgage the house, buy a big John Deere , turn that lawn into a big old corn field .
Like they say on Car Talk after 45 minutes of jokes at your expense, you probably should take it to a mechanic.
--Good luck and wear goggles.
Wally
Got a question for our columnist or have spare tractor parts he can use for his barely functioning junker? Email him at cwn4@aol.com

Dear Wally #48 Toddler Travel

2010-01-05T04:03:00.000-08:00

Dear Wally #48 (Inflight Mover and Shaker)
Dear Wally: Any advice for flying across the country first time with a toddler? I’ve heard (and seen) other parent’s horror stories. Now it’s my turn. Help!
-Beth
Dear Beth:
Ok ok. Stay calm. I have recently crossed the country with my infant and the good news is we all survived. Got to figure that 7 hours of anything, good or bad, will be over in 7 hours and 1 minute.
We started out OK. We timed the flight so we’d be flying at night and thus our cherubic 16 month old would be sleeping. But once we got to the airport, plans tore asunder- she was on fire. Never mind the second wind. She was well into her 4th or 5th wind and racing around by the time we cleared security (annoyed maybe that she had to take off her squeaky shoes?). So many strange smelling people and a palpable pulse of stewing international excitement only fed her energy level. It was pretty cute actually.
She quickly learned that rubbing her hands on the terminal’s water fountain resulted in a panicked, 5-alarm, bio-hazmat decontamination by both parents. That happened about 20 times with her and our respective joys being inversely proportional. I’m not especially germ phobic but the Newark Airport Concourse water fountain is pretty much ground zero for the nastiest of the nasty, second only to its restroom. (This airport is one place I’d happily consider wearing an adult diaper). Back-up wipes were already checked in the mutha-ship supply bag so we did a silent and reverent (and ultimately futile) prayer to the diaper gods to leave us be for a few hours, but that’s always a gamble and the house usually wins.
At this age, exploration is everything and these little 16 month old peckers move fast. Especially in public places. Short of putting her in a straight jacket, we had to just intercept and do damage control. Oh, and apologize for the newspapers and M&M’s whipped to the floor. (This jerky, uncontrolled ambulatory phase, we’re told, is temporary. I’m pretty sure the next phase will include all out sprinting and I’m not certain this 40 year old in decent shape will be able to keep up without a dart tip dipped in elephant tranquilizer and a bamboo blowgun). Meanwhile, the thought bubbles above the passengers heads in Alaska Airline’s flt 7 waiting area read something like this:
Holy Crap.
Control your kid, damn it.
How were they allowed to have children?
Maybe Earth will be hit by an asteroid and we wont have to sit next to them.
Honey, did you pack the injectable Kava Kava?
Is that kid a bomb sniffing dog in disguise?
She may be all over the place but she sure is one cute kid.

They finally called the flight and we had the good sense to board very last (the idea being to minimize the passenger exposure ratio.) Our plane mates avoided eye contact. We heard the exhales of relief and caught discreet ‘high fives’ as we moved past them and inched towards the rear, which felt surprisingly like the banishment it was.
A small child has no idea that sitting in a bouncy seat for 1/3 of a day will have any payoff. One can easily imagine their frustration when forced to sit in a lap beyond their allotted patience. To compound things, our snuggly ‘frontpack’ had to be unbuckled and shoved below the seat for take off and landing. The reasoning, from the mouth of an equally dumbstruck flight attendant, was that the device hadn’t yet been tested by the FAA for crash integrity and thus the child had to be held in our skinny, weak arms.
I suppose that slamming into the earth at 550 mph in the event of a crash might be marginally better in a parent’s arms, but who cares at that point? Besides, don’t we need free arms to grab our ankles so we can more easily access our rears for the famed goodbye kiss? Common (not corporate) sense says if you make babies sit on a parent’s lap in the first place, then let the baby be strapped in to whatever device the parent wants.
The unfortunate soul in 25F tried to melt into the window when he saw us coming. Didn’t even fake a smile. His number was up and he knew it. He must have run over a nun with his car in a past life. I tried sometimes successfully to block the Cheerios our daughter chucked at his head with great amusement. This was now all about triage and a battery of small oats to the head, I figured, would leave no permanent scars on this guy so I focused on bigger problems like trying to not get us three thrown out at 35,000 feet.
Halfway through the flight, I caved and spent an hour locked in the bathroom with our daughter letting her ‘work it out’ (read: caterwaul) until she finally fell asleep. My ears have rung less after rock concerts.
A brief quantitative summary:
Number of wipes used: 230
Number of friends made on flight: 2
Number of potential friends lost on flight: all but 2
Number of people onboard we will never see again: 158
Amount I care, on a scale of 1-10: 0

Advice? Pack a bottle so your kid can swallow during altitude changes. Bring an extra pack of wipes. Sit near the back. Get an aisle seat. Tie a string to the Cheerio(s). The new age cliché be damned: When it comes to air travel with an infant, it IS the destination, not the journey. Remember, 7hrs and 1 minute and it’s over! And take the hit upfront- think of the fun you’ll have when you get there! Seriously, don’t worry about it too much- every parent has gone through the same thing.
-Wally
(got a question for our advice columnist or just want to know what flight he will next be on so you can change your ticket? Email him at cwn4@aol.com)

Dear Wally #49 Summer Camp

2010-01-05T04:02:00.000-08:00

Summer Camp

Dear Wally:
My 13 year old nephew Gardiner is going off to summer camp (Camp Flying Cloud) for first time. It’s a ‘wilderness camp’ in Vermont and he’s never really spent much time outside. He’s more of a gameboy-and-ice cream kind of kid. (No matches allowed, the mail comes in once a day in a garbage can and they have to forage for food and non-poisonous berries, miles from the nearest road, etc.). Any advice on how I might write a letter to console him? I’m really fond of the kid. I don’t want him to get jungle rot, or dysentery, or malaria or get mauled by a wild animal. Help!
-Uncle Charlie

Dear Uncle Charlie:
This camp business sounds like the classic bait and switch-- they sell the underage kid on a ‘wilderness retreat,’ then make him and his friends hunt and trap on their Vermont woods so THEY can survive the winter. And then charge the parents for the experience! They avoid providing food or shelter or wifi by spinning it as ‘green.’ Wow. What a scam! It’s called an underage labor camp and the International Labor Organization has strict regulations on such things. There should be laws against summer sleep away camp.
But seriously, rest easy. This will be an experience he will remember for the rest of his life. He will draw on this well of resourcefulness for many years and bond with the other inmates, creating lasting friendships (Bloods? Cripts?). You are the only one worried here. Let it go. Fire off a volley of support that touches on the things 13 year old boys care about, to wit: Bathroom humor, fear, and your own experiences at summer camp on the way to manhood.
Anyhoo, here’s a letter template for you! Change it as you see fit.
--Wally
July 10, 2009
Dear Gardner:
Welcome to summer camp . I was going to send you a jack knife so you could kill something wild but your mom said no knives were allowed. Are you supposed to use your fingernails to scratch out the eyes of a charging grizzly bear? Ummm, good luck with that. I suggest screaming like a girl and shoving the kid next to you, the chubby foreign kid who doesn’t speak English too good, in its path. So if you get mauled, don’t blame me, blame your mom who wouldn’t let me help you defend yourself.
She also said you don’t have any matches to start the fires you need to cook.
What the…?
How much is this camp, anyway? Do you get a hot pot and a generator or are you rubbing two sticks together like a hobo under the interstate bridge? Fire by stick, as a business model, didn’t work for the Neanderthals—look what happened to them—they went extinct and their women were extremely hairy. Lesson learned (finally). I’ve enclosed a lighter. Don’t let the guard see it.
You are welcome.
Do you get water, or do you have to make that too? If so, remember the formula: 2 parts hydrogen, 1 part oxygen. Don't screw this up or you will burn off your eyebrows.
What about a solar powered soft-serve ice cream machine? Should I try to mail you one of those or wont it fit in the daily mail garbage can?
Do they put mints on the rock you use for a pillow when room service turns down your bed of moose urine soaked twigs at night?
Your little sister Whitney says she misses you.
NOT.
I bet the feeling is mutual. She has taken your room and is living in it. I heard she painted it pink and put your Gameboys on Ebay. Don’t tell the other campers you will return to a pink bedroom with a Jonas’ Brothers poster on the wall or you may well be hung up by your underwear on a branch in the pine forest and left to rot (at least that’s what happened to me).
Look out for wolverines. They are rare in Vermont but if one escaped from a Russian zoo, it would probably head straight for camp Flying Cloud. It’s only 6,000 miles—an easy trot. (I understand you are 1 mile or more from the nearest road. That’s a long way to have your shrieks heard but maybe if the wind is right, some passerby by might hear you. Maybe. If not, and a wolverine gets you, can I have your bike?) I hear wolverines seek out small boys sleeping in tents and eat them from the inside out. Sweet dreams.
When I was a kid I went to Camp Itchybutt. It was fun. Until I got kicked out for mooning the girl’s camp. (And stealing the motorboat) (And sneaking into the kitchen and eating the Captain Crunch) (And lighting my farts) (And lighting my councilor’s farts when they slept).
I’m sure your experience will be much richer. Plus you probably wont get dragged down to the lake and beaten with the oars by the older campers. That part of my camp experience wasn’t in the brochure...
This will be a unique , life forming experience. At the end of your 3 weeks you will probably realize that a desk job after college maybe isn’t all that bad. Versus being out in the wild eating poisonous berries and getting crippling diarrhea.
Well, I hope you make it out alive. I’m rather fond of you.
Hey--if you scout a good place out there in the wilderness to slam up a Walmart, let me know so I can buy the property and clear cut it!
Like I always say, “What good is nature if there isn’t a nearby parking lot to view it from?
Love,
Uncle Charlie.

Got a question for our advice columnist or just want a pep talk for your camp-bound kid? Contact him at cwn4@aol.com

Dear Wally #50 Men fixing things

2010-01-05T04:01:00.002-08:00

Dear Wally:
Last week’s column about summer camp was extremely funny but I found the use of such immature bathroom talk, which I won’t dignify here by mentioning, childish.
-Anonymous
(Wally replies: Dear Anonymous: Childish? I know you are but what am I?)

Dear Wally:
Whenever my husband tries to fix something, he ends up swearing at it. I regularly hear curses coming from the garage. My friends say their husbands do the same thing. Why do guys do this? It makes no sense. Neither does leaving empty containers in the freezer, which he and my friends’ husbands also do. Ugggh.
-Jody

Dear Jody-
You and only 50 million other American women!
I too am one of those swearing, container-leaving (and worse) thugs. I hope to shed some light on the ‘why’ of this behavior so you might better understand the hairy, upright thing you married .
My thoughts: First, swearing at inanimate objects gives us silverbacks a sense of control when the situation is anything but in control. Granted it may be illusory, but to berate and damn a stubbornly broken whatchamacallit to the deepest tarry pits of Hell generates an adrenal surge of primal power one can feel right above the kidneys--a feeling that is reminiscent of our loincloth-wearing ancestors as they stared up at the scaly shins of the T Rex (or whatever was big and threatening at the time) and realized they were about to be gobbled up. (Insert your favorite swear here). It’s kind of the last thing left to do when the situation (or machine) has you check-mated. And it feels good.
Cursing broken objects is an outlet for the frustration one may feel when one is staring down the barrel of a humiliating situation in which they are over their head technically or financially. That usually translates to spending money for someone else to fix it (or to fix one’s broken / lacerated body part). And we guys don’t like spending money on broken things like our BBQs or our pride (Right guys? Right. F-that! ) Sometimes, by first swearing, and then walking away for a cool down period, a guy can return later to find the stupid object has come to its senses and decided to become co-operative. This rarely happens.
Swearing at objects occasionally signifies victory. After something like a rusted bolt puts up a serious fight, and I fix it, it feels exceptionally satisfying to shake my bloodied knuckle at it, drop the F bomb on it and tell it what it can do with itself.
Sometimes you will hear foulage from the mouth of a guy who has been hurt by an inanimate object, such as the coffee table leg that jumps out and stubs his toe. The only real option at that point is to swear at it. This makes sense to you, right? Got to keep those damn, free thinking objects in their place…
Of course swearing at inanimate objects has a time and place. If you find yourself walking down the street indiscriminately swearing without provocation, you might want to get that condition checked out by a professional. But now and then? In the garage, or at a tailgater (the person not the football party)? I should think this normal and not cause for excessive concern.
As for the empty container left in the fridge- Don’t think of it as carelessness or laziness. Instead understand what your guy is really saying: “Honey I love you and didn’t think you wanted me to prove it with roses that brown and bend over on the shy side of a week. This empty container of what used to be strawberry ice cream will endure longer than our love (so long as it stays in the freezer and we don’t lose power). Let it be a frozen cardboard monument to all that we have together. Be reminded of it every time you open the freezer to root around for a bon bon. Let it also serve as a reminder of my sacrifice: I’ll eat this sugary poison down so that you don’t have to. If one of us has to get a huge can, let it be me. I’ll take the hit to my rear. That will be my present to you. You’ll have the gift of mobility and I’ll be stuck here on the sofa with my oversized caboose, unable to get up. Go out- be nimble, be mobile. Have fun. (And oh, please pass me the remote) (errr, and the chips).”
On the bright side, scientists are only a few years away from doing a genetic end run around us guys. When our DNA is no longer needed to propagate the human race, we will all wind up in a heap somewhere in the Arizona desert next to broken Boeing 727 fuselages, swearing at the obsolete, toilets with liftable seats scattered about and mumbling at the empty ice cream containers that surround us. And at that point, while your tractor may still be broken, at least your garage will finally be quiet!
-Wally

(Have a question or just need someone to say “I love you” by coming to your house and eating your ice cream? Email our advice columnist @ cwn4@aol.com)

Dear Wally #51 Barry

2010-01-05T04:01:00.001-08:00

Dear Wally:

We’re having a baby and my wife and I are in disagreement about what to name the kid. I like the name Barry. She doesn’t. What do you think? If you agree with me publicly, you might help me win this one.
-Darren
Dear Darren:
Well, first, congratulations on the baby. That is really great news. I am flattered that I have been invited to the inner sanctum of such an important family decision as baby naming- especially considering that save for the fact you read my column, we are complete strangers. (Does your wife know you have reached out to me for naming help?? I seriously doubt it and don’t envy you when she finds out). Look Darren, ‘Barry’ might be a tough sell to the wifey because a few selfish celebrity Barrys (Barries?) have damn near ruined it for all the rest of the would-be Barrys out there. I don’t really mean ruined it. Maybe I mean that because of their high-profile careers, they became larger than life, cheese caricatures of themselves. I’m a little nervous for you because these dominating Barrys from the 70’s have created a vortex that all other regular, modern-day Barrys must now struggle to escape from while simply trying to enjoy their own Barrydom in peace and without association or undue limelight. But before nixing it all together, consider that this very challenge might be your boy’s constitutional fortifier in the long run. He might be the Barry that breaks the mold.
Let’s start with the major players who are making me feel this way: (see if you can guess the Barry)
1)Flashy gold medallion (it was a medallion way before bling was coined) nestled in a thicket of matted chest hair tuffs. Locks flowing all the way from Fabio to Farrah. Frill white shirt unbuttoned to the navel. Skin tight pants and the ability to undulate slickly on the disco floor. Bright white chompers upstaging the mirror ball.
While it’s true that the 70’s had many fashion victims, no one held a gun to this Barry’s head and made him make these choices. This Barry sings in a delightful castrated falsetto. Figure it out yet? Of course, I speak of Barry Gibb of the Bee Gees. This is who we have to thank for this tarring. These days he can be found doing such things as creating the soundtrack to Good Will Hunting. He has been to a barber since his glory days and now looks like freshly shorn mutton ready for the Sheep and Wool Festival in Rhinebeck this fall. As a point of historical interest, maybe, take the ‘B’ from Barry and the ‘G’ from Gibb and you get ‘BG.’ Pluralize this by adding a few more brothers and you get Bee Gees. (There’s your ‘a-ha!!’ moment).
2) Continuing on the Barry spectrum, there’s the Walrus of Love, Barry White. Nothing more to say, except, “I’ve always loved you baby…”
3) Barry Williams, the last of the singing/ dancing 70’s Barrys I’ll cite, played the indelible role of Greg Brady in the Brady Bunch. Dashing, and charming on screen, he was our go to guy for beads, headbands, girl tips, and all things cool.
Only…we find out the back story years later in a rent-paying, tell-all book scheme-- Off camera he was making out with his TV sister Marcia (ewwwwww!?!) in the onset doghouse. (Isn’t that illegal in California??)
If I haven’t scared you away from the name, let me take this opportunity to reflect on some of the lesser known Barrys I and many others know who have done nothing but bump up the stature of the name. They are to be commended. These Barrys are professors, engineers, bartenders, fathers, brothers, sons. All outstandingly nice and accomplished in their fields. They have the respect of their peers and the love of their families. They have escaped the Barry Vortex and to this day thrive. One can’t hope for much more for one’s progeny.
I think my best move here is to recuse myself on this family matter. I’m sure your little Barry will be a cool kid. I never asked, but I assume it to be the case that your child is a male?? Not that it matters… Try it out for a few days before the ink on the birth certificate dries. See if he (or she) feels like a Barry. If he does, stick with it. If he doesn’t, leverage your stubbornness for a new car and agree to move on.
Why Barry? I forgot to ask- what’s in it for you?
Whatever you do, don’t name him Wally unless you want him to swing from a hook in the 8th grade locker room by his underwear…
Good luck and wear goggles.

-Wally

Have a question for our advice columnist or want validation for the name you chose for your child? Email him at cwn4@aol.com and he’ll try to make you feel better.
Ps: just kidding- I never spent time on the hook. I just worried I would.

Dear Wally #52 This Little Piggie

2010-01-05T04:00:00.002-08:00

This Little Piggie…

Dear Wally:
I was playing ‘This little Piggie’ on my toddler’s toes recently. It felt irrelevant, stale and unfair. Can you please help me understand it or maybe even update it to reflect the current human condition?
-Gilian (mother of 2 toddlers) Stone Ridge, NY

Dear Gilian:
If you are feeling the ‘en-wee’ (wee wee!), let’s dig in a bit. Good stories need conflict and resolution- that’s what endears them to folks and what, in this turbid sea of life experiences, makes people feel buoyed to something other than a broken-off piece of beer cooler they happen to grab as it floats by. A good story shouldn’t go stale, especially one as interactive and sing-songy as this.
The original lyrics, of course, are :
This little piggy went to market,This little piggy stayed at home,This little piggy had roast beef,This little piggy had none.And this little piggy went... "Wee wee wee" all the way home...
Despite the billions of little toes that have been inspected and tickled by parents over the years, many today might feel that ‘piggy’ is an inappropriate, misdirected term—a pejorative surrogate for a human body part. We humans disparagingly refer to each other as ‘pigs’ when we do such uncouth things as pilfer company 401K funds, leave our dirty jock straps on the kitchen table, or heap yet another layer of marbled meat on top of the towering, free, midnight buffet platter the tilting cruise ship has already supplied. (No self-respecting pig has ever worn, or been caught wearing, a jock as far as I know). And yet all pigs are unwittingly dragged into our human drama, their images sullied and their tender loins crisped to perfection and served with delicious apple sauce. But as I reread this nursery tale that dates back to the 1800’s with more critical eyes, my brow furrows at the injustice and vagueness.
It’s not fair that the first of the aforementioned piggies has to go to the market day in and day out. Who died and made him the errand boy? Just because he is the biggest? That hardly seems fair. He never gets a break that doesn’t require a splint. He doesn’t even get any choice as to which market. And what if he also needs some lumber or hardware? He’s screwed. That means a separate trip and subsequently an enormous carbon footprint—even if he goes to the market in a Prius.
Unless…
unless they mean that when he ‘goes to market’ , ummm, it’s…a…one way ticket…ugggggh!!!!! They couldn’t! Could they? Gulp.
The next piggy stays at home because why? Because he’s grounded? The details of the house arrest seem conveniently murky. This particular little piggy is not being adequately socialized and it is recklessly irresponsible (if not unconstitutional) to make him stay home without due cause or process. Especially when piggy number 1 spends every living moment either at the damn market or getting to it. Piggy 2 clearly has Middle Piggy Syndrome and is acting out as such. This little piggy will likely land on skid row with an empty scotch bottle for a blanket but not before costing society dearly in expensive, uninsured trips to the ER that we’ll all have to pay for. This is a great example of bad parenting.
The third piggy eats roast beef?! Roast beef is pricy and the entire piggy family, except for at the holidays, can ill afford premium cold cuts in these fiscally austere times. Plus, all this daily red meat will wreck havoc on a GI track.
The fourth piggy ‘had none.’ None what? None roast beef? The ‘none’ that he has or doesn’t have is completely unqualified. No wonder some kids today are confused and overwhelmed... Whatever the others have that he doesn’t represents a grave injustice that needs revisiting in substance and sentence structure alike.
The last piggy went ‘wee wee wee’ all the way home. Well, tell piggy number 1 he needs to turn around and go back to the market to pick up some more diapers and wipes. Overindulge the runt of the litter and it’s a sure bet that incontinence and a smart aleck, potty mouth will follow. (Look what happened to me).
Well, we let the air out of that business and now there’s a void. So here’s a new rhyme for you. I find it lacks the character, meter and foot (ahem) of the original, but you may like its relevance. Grab your kid’s toes and give it a whirl!
Good luck
- Wally
This little piggy goes to New Paltz, NY to patronize the big box stores. He rides a bike and thus uses no fossil fuel. His family work ‘contract’ (which he was forced to sign at 5 years old) says only 1 trip per week. It has been reviewed and approved by PETA.
This 2nd little piggy stays home and cleans up with Clorox Green Solutions. Then after his homework is finished, he is allowed to go to Skatetime 209 for ½ hour before his French tutor shows up.
This 3rd little piggy has tofu sticks (not roast beef) because he doesn’t want to support the industrial agribusiness complex and their unfair feed lot, antibiotic and GMO grain practices. Plus he heard soy reduces blood pressure.
Turns out the 4th little piggy won the scratch off lottery from the Quickie Mart and is now the richest piggy in town. He drives a Hummer with vanity plates that read :USED 2 HV NUN. (The Catholic church is not happy with this).
This 5th little piggy legally changed his name to Smart Bacon (despite trademark violations) and says ‘me me me’ because saying ‘we we we’ is too 60’s.
Got a question for our advice columnist or just need him to stomp all over a perfectly good nursery rhyme? Email him at cwn4@aol.com

Dear Wally #53 Toddler Travel

2010-01-05T04:00:00.001-08:00

Dear Wally:

My wife and I are looking for clues as to what our toddler might be when she grows up. We see her take great interest in some particular activities and want to know if there’s a connection or tendency or whatever. Any insight? Are there things we can do to help steer her in one direction or another?
-Myron

Dear Myron:
Wow. This is a serious question. Well, as my driver’s ed teacher used to say to me in particular, “Keep your hands off that wheel.” I doubt we can extrapolate and predict with any accuracy what kids’ actions today might bring for them tomorrow. (Although recently I saw some home movies of me when I was a toddler. Some of the more graphic footage was of me flinging the contents of my diaper against the bedroom wall. Which, I guess, accurately predicted I would be a writer). I think if we went there, so to speak, there would be a lot more pressure on kids, and mostly disappointment in the end, if they felt their parents had a 20 year notion of occupational prearrangement, such as might unfold in the following hypothetical dialogue:
“Junior, your mother and I are a little concerned with this sudden interest in medical school. We saw you spend a lot of time dumping the dog food bowl upside down as a kid and were pretty sure that we all agreed that kibble tossing was the right career path to pursue.”
“But mom and dad, that was when I was 2. I’ve sort of changed my mind. I want to help people.”
“Nonsense, you never once played doctor. And besides, there are very few professional kibble tossers. The market prospects are thus extremely good for you to make a solid, respectable living.”
And so on.
If your theory were true, Myron, that toddler actions today were toddler careers tomorrow, there would be a glut of executioners. Have you ever not seen a little boy running around with a huge stick trying to beat something’s head off like it was a piñata? Happily, most grow out of that.
We would also have a flood of qualified applicants for the many dog and cat tail pulling positions we, as a society, would then have to create.
There would be whole fields devoted to adult frog catching, puddle stomping and doll hugging, if kids actions were any indication of future occupations.
Toddlers are just experimenting with touch, feel, smell, action etc. And things change quickly. Up until 3 days ago, for instance, my own daughter adored taking baths. She’d splash for almost hours at a time giggling and chucking water. And then suddenly, BAM, no more tub. No way. No how. I’m told that might change back at any moment, too. I think my point is that extrapolating from today’s interest is, at best, a waste of time. You’ll want to encourage exploration and commitment when the time or activity is right (I trust this will be instinctually evident to you and me) and above all not railroad anyone into anything, unless your kid is clearly going to be a major league baseball player and bankroll your golden years. In that case, go for it.
What we can hope for is that when our kids rock back on their haunches and play with pebbles in the driveway for hours, or grabs at the cat’s tail all over the front lawn, that they’ll bring with them curiosity and glee into adulthood (hopefully without Cat Scratch Fever or rabies). If you are lucky and do it right, and don’t rush the process even a little, your girl will curl up around noon as an adult and take nap so she’s refreshed and on the top of her game for the rest of the afternoon. (I tried this at my former job and, unfortunately, that’s why it is my former job). She’ll sniff flowers and laugh and define herself by her happiness and friends, not by the title on her business card.
Remember, hands sort of off the wheel!

-Wally

Got a question or need a business manager for your pro sport bound toddler? Email our advice columnist at cwn4@aol.com

Dear Wally #55 Calander of Love

2010-01-05T03:59:00.001-08:00

The Calendar of Love

Dear Wally,What do you think it means when a gentleman I am interested in is only available to go out on Monday nights? This guy I have been seeing for a couple of months is "busy" a LOT. He has a normal day job (including having to be at work Tues am) so that whole school night thing isn't it or Monday would be out too. I can not figure it out. A wife? A girlfriend? A boyfriend? What do you think?-call me confused
ps: plus he’s a little kinky. I’m a little prude.

Dear Confused (and not so kinky) ( but a little prude):
It’s been some time since I was in the dating game and reading the relevant romance tea leaves, but as memory serves me, something is fishy. And certainly not knowing enough details about something has never stopped me from mouthing off before, so here’s the deal: This guy definitely has a wife and a husband and a boyfriend he’s not telling you about, plus who knows what else? Here’s why by way of the calendar of love:
Tues: There is no such thing as a Tues pm date. The love shop, as they say, is closed on Tuesday. Your man is at home with his other wives doing the dishes and being Tuesdayish..
Wed: Wednesday night dates are the bastion of the optimistic. Lust springs forth like a coiled up greyhound at the starting gate. Those so eager to reach over the midweek line and goose the weekend right in the keester tend to make dates on Wednesday --and you have to love that enthusiasm, even if the Wed pm-ers tend to wear pocket protectors--only that’s not even your guy. The pros of Wed dates are that there’s rarely trouble getting a table out. The cons are that most of the restaurants (other than Olive Garden) are closed on Wednesdays. If he offers to take you to Olive Garden on a Wednesday, go and get the bottomless salad bowl, but make it clear afterwards that it was your last date with him if he thinks you are a Wed pm Olive Garden type of girl. Also tell him to lose the pocket protector.
Thursdays are a set up- a test for the weekend big commitment date- a walk on concrete 5 hours after it is poured, a cautious fingering of the freshly painted hand rail at the department store when you think no one is looking. (Are there still any department stores?). A date on Thursday has the whiff of promise (err, I think I like you, maybe) and were your 9-5 er willing to offer his hand to you on this night for a good time, Confused, I’d say take it and run. But I’m understanding that a Thursday pm date offer has yet to be tendered. That’s because he probably has a wife and a husband and a boyfriend.
A date on a Fri or Saturday night is the brass ring nervous daters of either gender strive for- the ultimate statement of keen interest. One need not read deeply into this availability to know that this thing, whatever you crazy kids call it, has legs. No married man would be brazen enough to ask out someone other than his wife on a Fri night date, unless she was an insurance agent and they were strictly discussing a policy of some sort before a rousing game of handball.
A Sunday date, by itself, means you’ve got a friend on your hands (and in the words of Porky Pig, ‘that’s all, folks…’) The Sunday night date is about eating guacamole and watching 60 Minutes with a long time mate or member of your bible study group. Keep the expectations for fireworks low, (unless you are reading the book of Revelations) if this is the day he suggests you meet, and you wont be disappointed. The exception to this is if you have Sunday night date immediately after a Sunday morning date, if you know what I mean… in that case Sunday evening dates are niiiiiiiiiicccceeeeee and you can skip the 60 Minutes. But he hasn’t even asked you out on this typical, “I just want to be friends’ date. And that leaves us at…
Monday ( your day). A Monday night date is a cautious thing. It creeps out from behind the blinds of truth to either question the validity or hedge the bet. A Monday night date, as you suspect, is the number 1 date of married men (or women) who are doing so on the sly. Why? Because it is the day they are least likely to get caught and the day they are least likely to be expected to go out on a surreptitious date. So the oleaginous (and kinky) use this day to do their bidding.
Put it to him straight and grill him on why a Monday night is the only time he’ll do anything with you. Is he on Parole? Let him know you are a prude and that if he plans to be with you, he needs to gingerly escort you to another day of the week- He has 6 others to chose from.
Then tell him you want to meet his wife his husband and his boyfriend (all at the same time) and see how he reacts.
I hope this has helped.
-Wally
Got a question about your love life or just want someone to butt into your affairs? Email our advice columnist at cwn4@aol.com

Dear Wally #55 Teaser

2010-01-05T03:58:00.002-08:00

Dear Wally- Are you a cat person or a dog person?
-Laurel

Dear Laurel- You guess. Here’s a letter I once wrote to our enormous black cat, Teaser.

Cat,
I don’t like you rubbing up against my leg. I never have and I never will. We go through this every day. This is not new material. You should be chasing mice not fishing for compliments by parading your oversized, puckering exhaust pipe back and forth at us and our guests every living moment of every living day. Put that tail down! It’s almost like you are giving my steel-tipped work boot a huge, pulsing neon bulls-eye.

I trip on you because you are constantly underfoot. Constantly. Why don’t you read the memo I posted clearly stating ‘No cats allowed underfoot.” What don’t you understand about this? You seem to be missing the social cues and body language perception skills that other lesser species have. Yet I hear cats are very perceptive. And barn cats wily. So what is your problem?? The more I recoil, the more persistent you are. Plus you leave cat hair everywhere. That is the primary reason you are an OUTSIDE cat. (That, and I find you pushy) (and the word ‘barn’ is right there in your title). I put that word ‘outside’ in capitals as a courtesy in case your eyesight is going (I have reason to believe that your eyesight is going because there are STILL mice around and it looks like they are having a holiday on your watch. Are they? Are you on the take or something? What are they paying you to leave them alone and pester me? Whatever it is, I’ll double it.)

Cat,
Even if I shaved you bald, there would still be black cat hair everywhere. How can anything lose as much hair as you and not be completely bald? I think you grow it just to leave a trail of it everywhere you go in case you get lost. Yet you never stray far from the front door. I bet you say, “If I can’t be inside, at least my hair can.” There’s a path of snarly black cat hair from the front steps of the house to the hood of my car. There are muddy cat paw prints (Don’t try to blame it on a raccoon, I’ve got your number) on the hood of my car crisscrossing left and right, up and down. Are you practicing Salsa y Merenge on my car or something? Shouldn’t you be CHASING MICE? You fight the other cats when we put breakfast food down. So I know you have the fight in you. Why don’t you turn that hostility towards a good cause? (ummm, like getting field mice?)Would it kill you to think about your work a bit more instead of bickering with your fellow barn cats? The only catfight I want to see is between Britney Spears, Lindsey Lohan and Hanna Montana and it involves jello. (Are you listening God?)

Cat,
I know you hate my dogs and want to see them garroted. Unfortunately the feeling with them is mutual. We fell on the dog side of the cat/dog lover’s fence long before we met you. Don’t take it personally. There’s a reason for the expression ‘fighting like cats and dogs’ (There’s also a reason for the expression ‘raining like cats and dogs’ but I have no idea what it means.) I’m sorry, but we’re too old to change. The inside is for the dogs, the outside is for the cats. Just as the memo states. I know winter is coming and you think you will be cold. You wont. Trust me. Try to keep some of that hair on your body. It will help. We made you an insulated cathouse (in the barn- do you remember where that is?? If you get lost, follow the mice) but you refuse to stay in it. Are you upset there is no room service or something? Instead you park your keester smackdab on the stoop of our front door, where each morning I trip. We haven’t changed the policy. We wont.

Cat,
I know you have self-esteem and co-dependency issues to work out. Never mind the abandonment issues you have with your father. But strutting like a cheap $3 whore on my front porch, I assure you, is not the answer. It is pathetic and I hope you can get the professional help you need.

Remember this final thought. I’d like you 215 times more if you pulled your own weight around here. (And if you didn’t leap up and pull the heads off of birds in mid-flight). And I’m sorry I inadvertently ran you over last year with my car. I felt horrible. I’m glad you are feeling better. I feel like we’ve gotten a little closer as a result of that incident. Not much, but a little bit. Under my car is not a great place to nap, you know…

Cat,
My appreciation of you is fickle and foxy like the wind and, at times, downright questionable.

-Wally

Got a letter for our advice columnist or are you a crazy old cat lady who is wants to letter-bomb him? Here’s his email address: cwn4@aol.com

(ps- Simmer down cat lady- this is a bit of a goof- Teaser is pretty cool actually)

Dear Wally #57 Sleepless in Seattle

2010-01-05T03:58:00.001-08:00

Dear Wally- I don’t have a question for you. Just wanted to say hi from the West Coast been up most of the night.

-Cousin Bubba

Hey Sleepless in Seattle Bubba! - Been thinking of you constantly this last week as I hump enormo 2x12x20’ notched Doug fir roof rafters up to their glorious (and final!!) 18' height on my construction project. It’s been a long journey for these rafters from the Pacific Northwest (your home) to my home (The Hudson Valley). If they could emote, I wonder if some of these reddish hued thugs would feel happy to be here on the east coast. Soon they will sag under the constant load of snow—an unrelenting force to which they are not accustomed. I never noticed how sweet they smell when they are cut. You are a fine home builder so you know the fresh cut, gummy, sweetness of which I speak. Normally I just catch a whiff around Christmas time.

You also know the joy of right angles and plumb walls, contrary conditions we humans force on nature—nature which then mocks our demands with no consistent offerings of such irrelevant things as 90 degree angles or perfectly straight lines. Even our horizons are not what they seem—just try to get to the horizon and set your level on it!

I wish you were here pooh poohing me for pooh poohing the 6' level (and all it stands for). Jeff , the crew leader, however, is more of your ‘quality and precision’ school and won't give me an inch (or even an 1/8th of an inch over a 16' span). Bastard. So together we make a good team. Well actually, by himself he makes a perfectly good team. I’m just along for the ride and trying to stay out of his way. Tomorrow we sheath the roof. Keeping mother nature out, despite our attempts with windows and skylights to let her back in. I wouldn’t fault her if she felt she was getting mixed messages.
Been using Jeff's pneumatic framing gun and the beer-soaked, gruff, conclusions of Rusty (my other cousin, the ER doctor) ring loudly in my ear- "Anyone who owns a nail gun will eventually be my bitch.”
The first time I pulled the trigger the damn thing took off spraying 4” spikes in all directions. With me attached. I think there was a safety latch missing. Jeff ran for cover and rightly so. I think all the hunters around though I had jumped the gun, so to speak, on deer season. I might have even gotten a deer for all I know. I felt like a prohibition era gangsta coping a squat with a Tommy gun and trying to take out another pinstriped gangsta. Rat-a-tat-a-tat! This nail gun is not a tool for weekend warriors, especially ones with itchy fingers. I know you are laughing from your bed at this image of me only partially in control and I hope this expenditure of energy doesn’t set you back.I still have my kneecaps (where the nail gun hangs from my belt) so that's good. I love my kneecaps and use them every day. But crap, a couple of perpendicular 2x4s over my shoulder combined with an accidental trigger touch and it could be an unwitting, modern day crucifixion inside of 4 seconds. Well, we all have our crosses to bear. I guess mine are 2x4s right now. I know you wish yours were, too.I wish you were here scampering around on fresh lumber, yelling at me to do this or not do that, not showing your skinny backside to the hospital staff through that rear entry gown I’m sure you refuse on principle to cinch up. Are you making the sick people on your hall laugh? I bet they love you.

Save me some of that anti nausea medication- I just got my tax bill and am feeling a little woozy. I also wish I could turn this nail gun on your cancer, one cell at a time if necessary. This thing fires 280 rounds a minute. How long could it take?

Well, tell those transplanted stem cells to do what they have to do to get you better and back to your 4 kids Jess, Zach, Sarah, and Sammy (and wife Kate) who miss you and wish, as I do, that you were prancing around your garden with them instead of fighting Lymphoma for your life at 43 in an airtight room with right angles and plumb walls (and maybe doug fir rafters).

-Love,

Cousin Wally

Ps- get some sleep.

Got a question for our advice columnist or just want a picture of his cousin’s hospital gown? Email him at cwn4@aol.com.

Dear Wally #57 Late Great Phillip Cornell esq

2010-01-05T03:57:00.000-08:00

Dear Wally #57 Wally (almost) Gets Filthy Rich Via The Internet!

Dear Mr. Wally-
God has blessed me with an honest and intelligent partner in you, my brother. Will need your legal name and credit card number and you security social number (9 digits if you are US citizen). As I am the deceased lawyer for the wealthy from oil, royal Phillip Cornell of Lome , Togo, Africa we can now start the process of getting you large inhertiance ($10.5 million US) of which I take 65% and you take 45%. I urgently await your reply and also need place of birth and mother’s maiden name for to send you a condolence card in case she is dead.

Sincerely,
Tobea Masku, Esq
Dear Tobea: (May I call you Tobea? I feel like we can trust each other like brothers). I respectfully must decline your generous offer for 45% of the $10.5 million. By the way, 45% plus 65% = 110% which is even better than 100%! Thank you, good sir! You are indeed generous!
I am afraid I have no place to park all the Porsches I would buy. Nor would I be able to keep a 200’ yacht in my small Kerhonkson farm house.
I also am concerned about what an unfathomable amount of wealth might do to my head. I thus wish to avoid the temptations of such largess and only hope it doesn’t disrespect the honor of my dear, late uncle (?) Phillip Cornell. I would like to offer my services, however, for your noble cause.
I believe that you might more efficiently find the late Phillip Cornell’s next next–of-kin via bulk email if your future written correspondence is grammatically correct.
So, I offer this proposal with the utmost respect and humility: I will proofread your correspondence at the ‘friends and family’ rate of $100/ hr for a minimum of 5 hours, my brother. This would be a fine and solid investment of time and money on your part. In exchange, you will end up with a letter that you can know will not make anyone question your otherwise sterling legal credentials and bona fides (and literacy). I can start immediately.
Sincerely,
Wally (ummm, that’s Mr. Wally, I guess)
Ps: You write extremely well for a deceased lawyer!
June 3
Dear Mr. Wally:
As brothers, we should be able to open honestly against one each. I feel you are having my best interest in mind and I would be willing to increase your percentage from 45% to 40% of $10.5 million US dollars in exchange for said proofread correction. I writes Englihs better then I speak it. Dutch to. 40% much better then $500, yes?
Can we make a deal? I will need your security social number as well as bank routing number to receive funds from your account.
Sincerely,
Tobea Masku, Esq
June 3
My dear Tobea-
Hmmmmm. I do not seek any percentage of your $10.5 million (USD), even if it is an increase from 45% to 40% (!?!) I would prefer to simply take my humble fee and leave my generous share of the inheritance to you so that YOU may purchase lovely things for your family.
If you just send $500 to my Paypal account, listed below, I will happily and thoroughly start in on the 5 hr project of giving you the tools you need to do your difficult job.
-Mr Wally
(ps ‘Englihs’ is spelled ‘English’ --This is a freebee, no-charge tip just to show you that you are in good hands!)
June 4
Mr. Wally-
We play a game of cat and mouse. I am trying to offer you large monkeys. Let us not eat small raw crayfish anymore. Take my sincere offer. I am a respectable businessman and wish only the best for you and lots of ingheritence from your loving Uncle Phillip Cornell, deceased, from the diamond money.
Tobea Maskuku, Esq.
June 4
Dear Tobea:
Wait, now diamonds? I thought we were rich on oil?!?
Crayfish are best cooked, I agree. (I think). Please let me help you help yourself. I offer a very fair and legitimate service. You will not be sorry!
Sincerely,
Mr. Wally.
June 5
Dear Mr. Wally- You are tire me out with your many letters. I need to make this transaction happen now for the corrupt government claims the money back and soon none is left! Please, as my brother, give the information I request so we can get you your money in certified cheque.
Sincerely,
Tobea Masku, Esq
June 5
Dear Tobias-
With heavy heart, I must end this email relationship. (Plus I have to get back to work). Sometimes it takes a sharp hook to catch a crayfish. You will have trouble catching anything but discarded tires with your mistake-filled letter.
Good day sir,
Mr. Wally
(ps- as my brother, you should already know my (our!) mother’s maiden name. No condolence card necessary as she passed away 13 years ago. Remember?)

Got a question for our advice columnist or just need someone to grind down an email scammer? Contact him at cwn4@aol.com and remember, 45% plus 65% = 110% which is 10% more than the most possible! (This was a real email exchange by the way).

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Dear Wally #58 A Raise?

2010-01-05T03:56:00.002-08:00

Dear Wally-
We’re trying to decide whether or not to get an aluminum Christmas tree this year. I say yes. It’s a big family debate. Some of us want the ease of a no-hassle, prefab tree. Some of us think that cutting down a real tree is more in keeping with the holiday spirit. Surely you have some sagacious advice that can help avert a family fight? If you help me convince my family that I am right, they are wrong and that aluminum is the way, there’s $20 in it for you.
-Aluminum Anne in Hurley

Dear Anne:
Wow! $20? Merry Christmas indeed. There’s gonna be a big party around here on that!! Let’s innocently enough lay out the pros and cons and see if your obstinate, insensitive family can’t put aside their unslakable lust for holiday bickering and come to the right conclusion—your conclusion. And for a whole Jackson, I think I can only think of pros, if you know what I mean.
Pros: Aluminum trees are 100% symmetrical. If conical symmetry is what you need, (and who doesn’t need a little of that these days??) the choice for steel trees is a no-brainer. In our house we currently have a jagged, natural Charlie Brown tree that we cut down and stuffed into our living room. I neglected to bring a tape measure out to the snowy field, and ‘eyeballing it’ in the open, well, let’s just say my perspective was a bit off. As a result, the top foot of the tree bends and runs parallel with the ceiling. This Dr Suessian kink gives us and our guests sore necks just looking at it. The money we saved by cutting our own tree has been spent on professional chiropractic adjustments and painters. In this case, chopping our own tree down was a literal pain in the neck. Remind your family that with an aluminum tree, you just get out the Sawzall and have at it. Once you hack it to fit properly the first year, you can be sure it wont keep growing on you. That’s the beauty of aluminum. Plus, if you don’t have satellite or cable, you can just budge your TV near it, drape the power cord over it and it acts as a sort of antennae.
Aluminum trees also are green. “Green, Wally,” you say? “Oh really?” Yes, here’s how: All those cans you bring to the recycle center get collected and smelted back into useful household items like crutches, iceboxes, toaster ovens and xmas trees. Take a sniff of any Walmart tree and chances are you’ll catch a faint whiff of Coors Light. So by using up discarded aluminum cans, you are actually reclaiming a natural product and thus doing your part to help keep landfills empty. And that’s a gift that you can feel good about. That’s the kind of gift that never stops giving. Speaking of never stops giving, an aluminum tree (if primed and painted correctly) will never rust or decay- what better way to keep the Christmas spirit alive year after year after year then to imbue it into a rustproof aluminum chassis? (Try that around March 15th you brittle, dry, brown, shriveled, crooked, real wood evergreen sticking out of a snow bank!)
You may think that an aluminum tree lacks authenticity, but think again. Many higher end models come with plug-in Glade ‘evergreen’ liquid scents packs that can recreate a Saskatchewan pine forest well enough to fool the keenest of noses.
Aluminum trees easily fold into a shoebox when the holidays are over. There are no needles to clog your vacuum cleaner. No trying to fit it back out through the front door and getting stabbed in the hand or eye with angry needles. You can paint them pink and use them for Easter. Or Orange and use them for Halloween.
Fresh cut Christmas trees get back at you for killing them by oozing sap. They also need a little sugar water in their base to keep green longer and that’s an open invitation for household dogs to drink up the pitchy water. Drinking water with sap in it results in clogged canine urethras* This can be painful and costly (and embarrassing).
Some also say aluminum (frequently found in deodorants) causes Alzheimer’s disease. If your objecting family raises this thin scare tactic, reply by saying you have no intention of rubbing this tree under your armpits. That should quiet them down.
Well, that should about do it. I wish you and your family a joyous holiday holding hands around the aluminum tree (careful you don’t get cut on a sharp edge).
-Wally
*This has not actually been verified by science. But neither has it been denied…

Got a question for our advice columnist? Email him at cwn4@aol.com. Fan of natural Christmas trees? So is he and he’ll say so for $30!

Dear Wally #59 aluminum xmas tree?

2010-01-05T03:56:00.001-08:00

Dear Wally # 60 Saab for Sale

2010-01-05T03:54:00.002-08:00

Dear Wally- Having trouble selling my 1989 white Saab. 3 unsuccessful listings on Ebay. I even lowered the reserve to $4 and no one’s biting!?! How might I word an ad to make it move?
-Saab lover.
Dear (last living) Saab Lover:
Look, someone listed his diseased large toenail on Ebay, and after a 3 day bidding war (!?!) some other someone walked away with it for $130. Why the very reasonable reserve of $4 hasn’t been met for this one time luxury motor vehicle is beyond me. (That’s over 32 toenails if you are counting at home). Try the personal, full confession ad, maybe something like this:
1989 Saab for sale! We named her Tess. Her Regan-era lines remain bold and classic. She’ll look great under a tarp on YOUR lawn while you figure out how to get rid of her.
We think Tess is a ‘she’ but honestly have never looked under the hood- not even to check the oil! We also think she might be a Republican.
She starts right up if you first hit her rear bumper hard with a piece of fire wood. The key broke off in the ignition (which was poorly designed to be between the seats on the floor and thus get packed with food crumbs by Americans). As a result now you have to use needle nose pliers to get her going. Not a big deal- just set down the morning coffee and have at it! Make sure you are wearing insulated gloves and remove wedding rings and other conductive jewelry so they don’t accidentally arc and melt your fingers together. Also if you have a pacemaker, you might want to let a friend start it for you. Park on a hill for trouble-free, pop-clutch starts.
Plan on short trips until your nose gets used to the very bad stench—It’s like a forgotten quart of heavy whipping cream or some squirrel rotting or burning or both. Come to think of it, this punky effluvium gets right up in your face with the unbridled, manic, pushiness of a just-rescued castaway.
One huge feature: She’s a convertible! So you CAN outrun the stench—and that’s where the turbo really helps! One drawback: the roof (recently replaced) is frozen in the open position. As a result, I’d rate the tan interior as crappy. (I do mean ‘crappy’ as a flock of Canada geese seem to have used it as a high altitude drop zone on their way south). Quite a bit of inclement weather has toughened up the old girl, including the 4 feet of snow that fell into it this winter and then melted (had no intention of shoveling the inside of my car as well as the walkway, thank you!)
The barn cat has been sharpening its claws on the recently replaced canvass roof (damn cat) and as a result, Tess now has some classic ‘laugh lines.’ (In the interest of full disclosure, the leather seats have been julienned by this berserk feline and her razor sharp claws. The damn cat has also taken up residence in aforementioned roof fabric, but I think a spirited shakedown cruise with the top down (like you have a choice) will dislodge most of the embedded hairs.
There’s a small leak. Not sure if it is serious because not long ago, the puddle underneath disappeared. Maybe it is self-healing? I hear Saabs are good like this.
There’s a sizeable dent in the passenger side door because we took it out into a cow field and were T boned by an irate bull (how’s that for irony? We had just been out for steak dinner).
She used to be a great car- we’d go out for a drive and have the wind rush through our hair as we sped to the ice cream parlor on a typical summer night. Now we just want it gone (just like GM). We’re done. And I’m bald. Plus the ice cream store closed.
Buy this car as a parts car for your other working Saab or drive it up on cinder blocks, shove a flag in it and call it art. Or simply gather some marsh mellow-wielding friends, and torch it!
Oh, the friggin cat gnawed on the steering wheel. Couple pulls of duct tape and she’ll be fine.
Good luck and I hope that you or someone wins this auction.
Please, if you are bidding from Monrovia, or some such, don’t waste my time. Shipping is over $10k. And on a $4 car, well, you do the math. Take your scam elsewhere!
Also- not looking to trade for an unused wedding dress and engagement ring (we’ve been asked). Not willing to barter for Slavic tutoring. And definitely not interested in lowering the reserve to $3.
Free delivery available if you live downhill and there are no turns.
Oh, almost forgot- this car comes with a cat thrown in. (literally)
Will sweeten the deal with a toenail if I have to.
Good luck and happy bidding!
-Wally
Got a question for our advice columnist or just need him to sell something for you on Ebay? Contact him at cwn4@aol.com

NPR Walmart

2010-01-05T03:54:00.001-08:00

The Walmart of My Dreams
By Wally Nichols
(203) 858 3634

It’s worth wondering if the kind of Walmart that is going to be built might have a positive impact on sales or on the community.
There’s a Walmart coming to Wawarsing, NY. My town. That’s a fact and as a community, we’re ok with it. We’re at the planning board stage, debating the look right now with the developers. They want boxy, bland and economical. Flat roofs. The community members want style, though we might be dreaming. What’s in it for Walmart to even listen to us?
I imagine our Walmart faced with the bluestone that’s indigenous to the area and laid up expertly by Chicky Bell and his kid. (I realize getting Walmart to ante up for a building made entirely from stone might be a stretch, so just facing is fine. Chicky will do a great job either way).
There’d be a fine wood exterior trim detail that follows the dramatic vaulted roofline to its impressive peaks. They’d use local rough cut hemlock from Dave Waruch’s saw mill up the street and we’d all point to it as we pull in visiting relatives to hold hands in a circle in the parking lot and marvel at the handiwork of Mike Dube, a local union carpenter and all around good guy. Then we’d all go in and buy!
The peaks of the roof, which would profile the majestic Catskills on one side and world famous Gunks on the other, would be picture perfect when the heavy snows come. It’ll have the charm of a European chalet! (Ok maybe not a chalet, but it wont look like the Walmart in South Bend Indiana either!). Eric and George of Valley Roofing will not have forgotten to put on snow cleats. They wont get called back for a leaking flat roof in 5 years. They’d also get to buy a new truck from Lonstein Dodge with the money from the contract.
It wouldn’t just be us towns folks buying goods. A spectacular, locally built structure would attract tourists from far away, I suspect, and boost the store’s bottom line. Why buy T-shirts at just any Walmart when you could buy them in a glorious, hand-crafted Walmart? See what I mean? It’d be worth the extra gas money to get here.
And all the town workers who built the unique building would have money to spend there. It makes sense in my dreams anyway.
I can imagine a stand of tall Norway spruces planted in front like a row of lockstep soldiers, visually protecting our valley, ever -present as deterrents to vandals too. Have you ever tried to graffiti tag a pine tree with spray paint? It’s really not easy.
It might be that the stylistic Walmart of my dreams could make lots of money for the locals and the company too. Maybe even rescue the area from the jobless doldrums as other stores follow and embrace the bold aesthetic. Walmart takes a well deserved pat on the back for breaking the mold and giving the folks what they want other than just low prices.
It might also be that the Walmart of my dreams will stay tucked away in my dreams. Someone pinch me.

Llama For Sale (6 million Dollars)

2010-01-05T03:52:00.000-08:00

Llama For Sale.

(by Wally Nichols)

A little background first:

It would have cost us more to make a decoy ‘companion’ horse out of plywood than it would have to buy Tono De Blanco, our white-wooled Peruvian llama. His one cerulean blue eye (the other eye is ‘meadow muffin’ brown) rendered him virtually valueless. But as long as the eye worked, and even if it didn’t, we didn’t care.

He has a long, distinguished nose down which condescension rolls unchecked towards all. His arrogance, for some reason, is both superb and irrepressible. His gait is careful and cautious. Except at dinner time when he gambols in a fleeting moment of reckless abandon, he moves around the pasture with extreme disapproval, inspecting each part of the grass carefully before deigning to place his fair hoof on it.

Watching him fuss, I’m reminded of the time I got lost and my prom date was forced to walk with me over a stream and then mount a fence in high heels to get to the dance. (It was only a very small stream and the barb wire dull. And she promised me she had had her tetanus shot. But that look of contempt feels prickly and familiar 25 years later).

Though Tono can not speak to prove it, one can not help feel grossly inferior in the presence of his always judgmental, sideways smirk. However, he is exceptionally well heeled and his barn etiquette downright WASPY despite the fact he paces the fence line with the righteous indignation of the wrongly incarcerated.

We’ve spent time trying to figure him out. We’ve even considered the Eastern notion that llamas are spiritually evolved, perhaps having cycled through reincarnation orbits.. In his own estimation, he’s smarter than we are by a lot. But at the end of the day, we still know how to open the feedbag and he doesn’t.

For the first two weeks, Tono was a model pasture companion as he grazed lightly and offered palliation to the quivering equine nerves. $400 well spent.

Then he got sick..

Tono came with no manual, but I didn’t need documentation to know a prostrate llama with ½ gallon of saliva pouring out of his mouth was not good.

Tono was not going to survive, it seemed, unless we went to Cornell, many (many) hours away in a truck I was pretty sure wasn’t going to survive the short return trip to the farm. I scrounged together a repair kit consisting of a few wire hangers, some duct tape, a scrap of wood , a hammer and a can of ether and my AAA card. (The words of my cousin ring in my head, “If you can’t fix it with duct tape, you aren’t using enough duct tape”)

From Ithaca, and somehow without mechanical incident, I alerted the animal hospital staff that our 1 am arrival was imminent. The 4th year residents mustered. Moving Tono was like moving a 300 lb waterbed. “We’re taking him to the Llama ICU,” they screamed at me whisking him through huge steel doors..

Two thoughts came to mind almost simultaneously. 1) Do they really have a llama Intensive Care Unit? And 2) This is gonna cost some serious cake.

I received 14 daily reports that Tono was doing well, then not so well, then well again. Finally they summonsed me to retrieve him and cautioned me that stuffing the empty trailer with $20 bills would only start to address the enormous medical bills my llama had incurred.

2 weeks in a hotel room in Ithaca, NY during peak foliage season… Then there was the room service bill he ran up. And the in stall movies. And the massages. And all the presents he gave to the staff but charged to his (my!) account.

The 5 star service suited Tono just fine, and being doted on up there left him almost unmanageable down here.

So, For Sale: (1) $6 million dollar llama. Because if you afford that, you can afford to keep Tono in the lifestyle to which he is accustomed. And after our initial outlay of $400, plus medical expenses, we will make a handy profit of $23.

Dear Amber and Britney re your dad Steve Ellis

2010-01-05T03:51:00.000-08:00

9/10/08
Dear Amber and Britney- This is a bit out of left field but just recently I was thinking of your dad, (as I do often) and then by extension, of you two. When last I saw you both, and I’m sure you don’t remember me, you were just a few years old.
My name is Wally Nichols and years ago, starting in 1991, when I was just out of college, I worked with your dad at Atlantic Records. I have some very fond memories of him, some that I’d like to share with you. I pick now because I myself have just become a father and I have a much more keen appreciation of the father-daughter bond than I did before. So when he was always talking about you both and how cute you were and how much he loved you, well now I get it even more! I also picked now because you both are probably about 18 and old enough to be curious to know what a neat guy your dad was from a different perspective.
Let me just say up front that I have rarely met such a playful, spirited, competent fellow. Yet there was a lot of seriousness as well. He was one of the only people to show up to work always wearing a suit. And not just some number off the rack—He wore the finest tailored suits he could get his hands on (even on the hottest most insufferable days)! Always impeccably dressed. He chose to professionalize an industry not necessarily known for its professionalism, and he held the line in a very classy way. His efforts paid off consistently. His rise in the ranks of the music biz was meteoric. Some took 20 years to achieve what he did in just a few. He came in as the new guy from a successful career in radio and took the record industry by storm. He wasn’t intimated by ANYTHING! Some part of this was a natural talent for knowing what to do with the songs he was given to work. Some of this was his natural ability to connect with the folks at radio, the folks whose job he knew quite well. Some part was that he just ‘got it.’ But besides all that, he was a very social and confident guy- a delight to be around almost all of the time! (I’m allowed to say ‘almost’ because he was human!)
He was a prankster and loved playing jokes on people. Never mean spirited but always with a good natured jab. This endeared him to many. He always had a great comeback, he was quick on his feet with a smart (and smart ass!) comment. He was a sharp fellow and a true lover of life. I’d say Bon Vivant except he worked too hard.
He loved Chinese food more than anything (except hockey maybe). He ordered in way too much of it (the Maitre D would actually give him a hug when we went in person!) and when he started feeling chunky, he insisted that he and I go out and buy rollerblades so we could skate/ play hockey in Central park during our lunch break. (He only went out a few times but the skates were there in his office for years! As a result of his prodding, I became a huge fan of blading and did so everywhere in NYC!). Everyone loved being around him, from co-workers to the huge rock stars he’d take around town. We all loved him because he was so much fun. He really lit up a room when he walked in.
One time we were with INXS at the Rigah Royal hotel. Steve and I had had a long day (beating off the screaming teenage fans at radio- think Hanson and Jonas Brothers!) and he really wanted to get home to you guys. The band insisted on doing Jaggermeister shots and if you didn’t know any better, you’d think Steve was absolutely hammered. I however, knew enough to watch your dad out of the corner of my eye. What he was doing was genius- The bartender would pour shots, the boisterous band members would rowdily insist that we participate, and your dad, who had to drive home but also had to be cool with the band, carefully threw the shots back over his shoulder onto the bar surface, (and once accidentally on the bartender) roaring with the guys in the bar and carrying on. I loved that. He was very good! Played the situation perfectly. Then when the band couldn’t get off the floor, he got in that crappy old white Trans Am (or Firebird??) that he loved so much, and drove home safely to his wife and kids. (Who knows, maybe you’ll use that trick in college!)
One of the things I remember so vividly was his ability to brush off things that were not really all that important in the big picture. For instance- we had a weekly conference call that some 40 folks would be on. It was conducted by a hard ass guy who had precious little patience for anyone not knowing exactly what was going on in their market. He would berate those on the line who hadn’t done their homework or closed the deal with radio fast enough. His reputation was legendary in the biz for making grown adults cry. This was a high pressure , potentially humiliating situation to say the least that stressed folks out 6 days before the call. Even those who had been taking the call for years were always nervous Tues evenings. Steve’s first week on the job was classic: He kicks back at his desk, and calls me in (I was his assistant- he hadn’t hired me but had inherited me from the person before and we got along quite well). He hits the mute button on the speaker phone and says, “This is bullshit. I’m taking a nap. Wake me up if Lou calls my name.” I couldn’t believe his moxie. I thought he was NUTS! But he’s snoring in seconds and I’m scribbling notes furiously waiting for the ax to fall. (I really didn’t want to see this new guy get fired his first week. Lou (the guy) calls out a question for the NY rep (Steve). I panic and slap his feet (which were out of his wingtips and thus stinking up the office!). Steve tumbles out of a deep sleep, pulls the answer out of thin air, gets Lou off his back and is back asleep in seconds. One cool customer. He knew the material cold.
He was always up on his information. That gave him the confidence to go as far as he did in the business. I can only imagine the heights he would have achieved if he had not gotten sick.
He was generous to others, yet also could be strident and impatient. It was part of his character. I don’t think I’ve met anyone who insisted on having fun in life more emphatically, and more consistently, than Steve. And as I say, it didn’t come at the expense of success .
He took me and some others to Giant Stadium and got us into a very fancy VIP booth to see U2. First class the entire way. He was with his great friends from out of town (I’ll let them identify themselves if they chose!) and they were having the time of their life. Before I knew it, they were having a first class food fight and laughing so hard they were almost crying. It was beautiful (and cost about 2k in damages!). Classic Ellis. And the laugh… It was sort of a high pitched cackle. You could hear him laughing (as he frequently did) a few offices (and city blocks) away. Great stuff.
I remember discussing a business trip he was prepping to go on. For some reason we were talking about plane crashes. I thought it was interesting-- He said, “Hey, Wally, if I die, I’ll really miss my kids but I’ll get to see my dad sooner.”
My point in telling you all this is that your dad was a very special guy and I wanted to share my memories with you. And I’m just one of a lot of folks whose lives he deeply touched. I’m sorry you didn’t get more time with him but hope you both got some of the playfulness and joi de vivre he had so much of. He spent much time talking about you both and telling us all how much he loved you . We also heard about all the little things that you guys were doing on a daily basis.
I hope this finds you happy, curious, smart and playful young women. I know Steve would be very excited to see how you have grown and what your lives are like.
One of his favorite expressions, which he yelled loudly in the halls, was: “Who Lovvvvvvves Ya????” I’m sure you both know the serious answer to that!
Take care and tell mom (Mary Ann) I said hello. I wonder if she remembers me!?? And if you can, drop me a line and let me know how things are going!

Cheers,

Wally Nichols
Cwn4@aol.com

emma maersk

2010-01-05T03:50:00.002-08:00

Emma Maersk
By Wally Nichols
(203) 858 3634
Accidentally leave the words “Emma Maersk” in your brower’s search engine these days and suffer the distinct possibility that your beloved spouse drifts towards thoughts of infidelity or erstwhile high school flames or maybe even possibly a high stakes gubernatorial prostitute.
Emma is, as it turns out, too much for any one man. In fact, 13 at minimum, are necessary. She’s taller than most. She travels regularly to Oakland, California bringing with her gifts from the Orient both exotic and banal. By all accounts she’s breathtaking and every woman alive has to at least check jealousy momentarily and gasp as she passes.
She and her bow wave, that is.
She’s the largest shipping vessel in the world and one whose very existence threatens to drop a shoulder into the delicate balance of trade. Here’s how: At 1,302 feet long (a quarter mile) she had to be made in three separate parts that were floated together and then welded at sea. She can carry 15,000 TEU (20 yard containers). (Her spec sheet claims fewer but shipping companies frequently underclaim their capacity. Images of her loaded tell a different story). 15,000 containers is triple the amount a ‘regular’ monster container ship can carry. She has 11 deck cranes for super speedy loading. Her minimum crew of 13 pales compared to an aircraft carrier which, smaller, needs a crew complement of 5,000. She has the world’s largest diesel engine which generates 110,000HP. Each of its 14 cylinders is 36 inches in diameter (a typical car’s cylinder is maybe 3 inches diameter). This energy powerhouse pushes her, fully loaded, at 31 knots. One (or one’s entire home continent) could easily water ski behind that. This stat too trumps because at almost 50% faster than the typical 20 knot speed of other ships, she can traverse the pacific in 4 fewer days.
Which means produce (in addition to just more enormous quantities of non perishable consumer goods) becomes viable cargo. In both directions.
AP Moller- Maersk Group, the shipping behemoth that owns her, has been considered by some to be the Microsoft of the shipping industry. It owns over 40 shipping container ports around the globe and dwarfs its nearest competitor. In designing the Emma Maersk, they didn’t bother making her narrow enough to fit through either the Suez or the Panama canals. At 207 feet wide, she’s strictly designed for the trans pacific milk run. Her hull is painted with silicone which reduces water resistance and saves the company an estimated 317,000 gallons of diesel a year. The latest in technology ensure optimized engine performance and operational safety. Her speed and hauling capacity already make it cheaper to send containers across the entire ocean than to send them 100 miles inland on a truck.
AP Moller- Maersk Group well understands the fundamentals of economies of scale and the potential bonanza transporting perishables brings--10 more sister ships are currently being designed and built each at an estimated cost of $150 million (US) at the Odense Steel Shipyards.
Don't worry about leaving Emma Maersk (or any of her sturdy sisters) in your search engine. She is too big to fit.

Amanda Bader

2010-01-05T03:50:00.001-08:00

The last thing I ever said to Amanda Bader was, “have a great ride.” My final memory of her speaks volumes to the delightful, strong woman she was. We were at the Florida Horse Park together in Ocala, Florida, representing, in an unofficial capacity, the NY Mid-Hudson Valley horse riders . She was there to compete, and I was there to support. This particular weekend was one of the largest Horse Trials the park has each year. Hundreds of riders from all over North America come to compete at varying different levels in dressage, stadium jumping, and cross country.

Amanda was easy to spot in the crowd. She looked sharp as ever in her black jacket, distinct blue velvet helmet and white britches. She held a determined NY stride that moved her with purpose towards her destination. At her side was a riding crop and in her wake, trying to keep up while still coping a quick sniff of everything and everyone, her trusty Jack Russell terrier, Lola. I saw Amanda but she didn’t see me. “Hey Lola, get out of the garbage can,” I yelled loud enough to make Amanda and plenty of others turn. She saw me and realizing I was goofing on her, smiled. “Hey Amanda, have a great ride.” I said, not realizing it would be the last time I could tell her that. Earlier we had agreed to have dinner the following Tuesday to discuss among other things, the Trials. She waved goodbye and disappeared into the crowd.

Amanda was preparing for her cross country run where she would take Simira, her 15-3 hand, 8 year old mare over a series of jumps and obstacles spread out on a rolling green course well over a mile long. It was a beautiful day, like so many in Florida. The promise of long sunny days of riding, instructing and learning was enough to motivate Amanda to come down for the winter--To stay on top of her already great game, and let the snows of the North have their way back home.

Cross country is a test of endurance and courage. I have walked many courses. I have marveled at the challenges the jumps present and I have faded in the daunting shadows of those same challenges. But it is in the face of that challenge that Amanda thrived. She rode the course because she was confident, well-trained, excited, eager to test herself and because she was alive. Where others like me might sit on the sidelines and watch this event, she was involved. This is an event that demands steel nerves and talent, both of which she had in spades. It involves a special relationship between horse and rider based on trust and sensitivity. And into the delicate mix goes the wildcard variable, luck. Or sometimes, as the case can be, bad luck.

I remember dinner at her house in Accord, NY with her dear husband Philippe and a few friends. The perfect 30-something evening (though we were all older than that) with nice wine, giggles, a foray into politics, a hasty retreat, excellent food, a few good natured jabs at the French, plenty of barn talk and lounging until the wee hours. Amanda was a perfect host, gracious, engaging, charming. Her orientation was towards quality, kindness and generosity, be it in spending a little extra at Gail’s Stone Ridge tack shop to support the local economy and a friend, or baking outrageously tasty treats to raise money for all things equestrian or her interaction with horses.

And she was a talented writer. A hard worker. Determined. Loving. Smart. Particular (her friends jokingly called her ‘Demanda’ ). She knew what she wanted, and she knew what she liked.
Few are lucky enough to realize early enough what in life makes them truly happy. Indeed some spend their entire life in search of elusive passions. Amanda Bader got there early.

I recently met the volunteer who started Amanda on the last course of her life. Jennifer told me that the event staff rarely speaks to the riders when they are in the starting gate, but when she saw Amanda’s smile and enthusiasm for the upcoming ride, she had to say something to the lady in the blue velvet cap. They chatted briefly and the buzzer sounded beginning the course. As Amanda took off for the first jump and cleared it gracefully , Jennifer told me she turned to a co-worker and said, “You know, that’s what this sport is all about.”

I take some solace in knowing when I said to her that fateful day, “Have a great ride,” that she had actually had 51 years of a great ride and left us all doing what she truly truly loved.

xmas letter 08

2010-01-05T03:49:00.000-08:00

Farm life ’08
Dear friends, family and collection agencies:

This time last year we were VERY pregnant. Hattie (now 10 months old ) was cookin’ up in a pot and only needed some additional Christmas cookies and the entire month of January to be done. The doula (whom we nicknamed Paula Abdoula behind her back) was one cool customer—a sturdy Irish woman with 25 years of doulage(?) under her belt. Her sagacious prebirth advice, tendered one night at birthing class was, “pack yourself a snack for the birth, dads! Don’t forget that you are in there too and need to take care of and treat yourself.” I took a quick shine to this Mary O’Riley lady!
On hearing this important command, I immediately went out and bought a container of Cheddar Goldfish out of deference to her vast experience. The goldfish ,however, didn’t make it to the exit of the Stop and Shop. That was two months before Hattie was actually born yet, curiously, it happened repeatedly each and every time I tried to think ahead to the burdens of being next to someone actually giving birth and get myself a replacement snack. Finally, I gave up thinking about myself. Mary’s advice for mom? When labor starts, drink a beer. Serious. Now Cori really liked this lady too!
Labor started Feb 13. The nurse called the farm and asked where Cori was. “She’s mucking stalls,” I admitted. “I can’t stop her.” I couldn’t lie. It was true. “She’s of German descent,” I offered meekly. “It’s what they do.”
Wishing to avoid a scene similar to that in Monty Python where the overworked farm woman gives birth while sweeping a dirt floor and doesn’t even know it until she looks down, we headed to the hospital. Cori took the doula’s advice to heart and popped a beer for the 30 minute (now extremely and regularly painful) drive out of The Honky (errr, what we call Kerhonkson behind its back). There was only one ‘position of comfort’ for Cori in that pickup truck and that was facing backwards, cold Budweiser in hand, no seatbelt (I know this sounds like a line from a country song…). We were a sight. Dee Lite’s ‘Groove is in the Heart’ pumping on the stereo, Cori telling me to step on it, me trying to not hit any deer on the way and unsuccessfully looking for a last minute snack shop (but alas, to no avail).
We pulled into the hospital parking lot after a stop to the doctor, then Home Depot and then a brief stop to check out our friend Kate’s new kitchen remodel (just kidding), opened the passenger door and an empty beer bottle rolled out onto the birthing center’s parking lot!
Nice.
So much for first impressions…
“Don’t prejudge us!” I yelled to the horrified nurses and their security cameras. I seriously thought we were going to get arrested for endangering a minor before we even officially had one. “What??? Mary said it was ok,” I scolded them back.
Hattie was born on Feb 14th (without a single snack!) and has stolen our hearts every day since. She’s been the lead story of ’08. I do not mean to downplay the actual birth- Cori was a champ and in serious pain. We’ll focus instead, at her request, on the glorious aftermath!
Life on the farm has changed in the expected ways with a baby- which is to say, not that much for the decently prepared farmers. There’s been the scheduling particulars, naps, feeding and exploring. She a curious little kid and she laughs all the time--except when she’s crying . (Or sleeping or just babbling). She’s recently taken to putting the back of her fist against her open mouth and making a whooping Indian sound in public, which she learned in utero, I think, from her mother on that hurried Feb 14th trip to birthing center. She whoops it up in public with such gusto and cause that we are forced to choke back our own guffaws. Her first words were (and I’m very proud of this because we’ve been practicing the phrase for some time now), “No dad, I want mom to change my diaper at 3am.”
Ok, I’ll stop that annoying parental gush that OTHER people do! I know you’d rather eat cooked carrots and mop your floor than hear about how cute our baby’s actions are!
The horses are intrigued with this little bundle that one of us carries around. Hattie’s favorite is Taz- an oafish young pony (think teenage boy in human years) who allows her to scratch his muzzle. It’s very cute but makes me think it’s never too early to start working on the “Application To Date My Daughter” which requires 18 years for processing…
Cori’s lesson business has grown in a nicely managed way with some fun clients who are learning a lot and growing under her careful care. The kids love her, too. We’ve been able to avail ourselves of a few working students—kids work around the farm and in exchange get riding lessons. As part of the deal, they tip us off to the cool new slang like (“like OMG that is mad OD!) ( ‘like’ : superfluous waste of breath and/or ink). ‘OMG’ (expletive) abbreviation meaning ‘Shit’ by way of ‘Oh My God!’ ‘mad’ (adverb, incredibly) meaning ‘incredibly.’ Typically used to qualify any word anywhere. Origins, young white kids trying to sound more ‘gangsta-bitch.’ Application is extremely unenforced. Note: has nothing to do with anger. OD –(Adj) ‘incredible’. Archaic -From ye olde American slang, circa 1990, ‘Overdose’ --typically referring to an enjoyable excess of something that shouldn’t be enjoyed to excess.) In short, we can’t really understand a word these kids today say…making us, well, parents.
This year we started haying our neighbor’s fields, taking me back to the Katonah farm days of using rusty old fickle machinery, some of which I actually salvaged from the family farm. The manuals got lost somewhere unfortunately. It took some creative problem solving and more than a few well placed whacks with a hammer but that equipment became compliant (damn it) and we got a lot of hay up (the preferred dangling preposition in the farm biz around these parts).
We had on average 17 horses this year. That’s a lot of hay, as they say on Wallstreet. That’s also a lot of crap, as they say on Wallstreet.
Despite the stern family warnings to the contrary, we’re going back to Florida this winter with the horses. Only this time we’re driving a 38’ RV down there, which means if, like last time, we are chased by a killer tornado, at least we can try to drive away, versus having to grab our underwear and run across a field in the dark for our lives. Some of you are rolling your eyes, I know. (“Wait, they’re going BACK?!??!) The resort (ok not actually a resort, per se, but neither is it a trailer park as my sisters insist) has slipped a line into the contract this year, we noticed. In a long delineation of do’s and don’ts, they have now insisted that people (read: Wally) wear shirts at all times when on the property. This, I assure you, has never been a concern of management before we showed up 2 years ago and classed up the joint.
The bichons are coming. Because many have cautiously and politely asked how they are doing playing second fiddle to Hattie, I’ll answer honestly. They dig her. They have been very respectful of her space and now that she’s eating food, they have been loyally standing guard, like a Presidential security detail I’m guessing, waiting for the mush she either drops or projectile pukes on the floor. It’s hard to tell if they are being protective or whether they are considering her to be the ultimate squeaky toy with special General Tsao’s flavored diaper. That window is closing because she is now bigger than they are and she can crawl as fast as they move. She can run them down with her white, plastic, wheelie, flying-saucer-car thingy, which bears more than a passing resemblance to our downstairs guest toilet, but with wheels and a seatbelt (hmmm, there might be invention in there somewhere…).
Our friend Cal Patch will be watching the farm, right after she watches the popular Netflix films “So you’ve suckered into leaving Brooklyn and farm-sitting for 3 months in a house with no heat, now what??” (rated pg) and “The bridal goes on the other end of the horse, and other useful horsemanship tips to avoid lawsuits.” (Actually, Cal knows what’s she’s doing).
Happy to say that siblings and parents are all well on both sides. We’ve had many nice overlaps with grandparents PU Helga and Heidi, great grandma Nichols, cousins and uncles , aunts Blair, Sandy and Hopie. Nephews and nieces are growing likes weeds, stepping past us to fawn over Hattie. That the oldest, Levi, is now a teenager still leaves me scratching my head wondering where the time went. I’ve given him my private line in case he gets in trouble…
My ‘Dear Wally’ advice column in the local paper continues to greatly amuse at least one reader, me. I actually received one piece of hate mail that came over unibomber style from some twisted fruitcake- a single-spaced manifesto of boiling-over contempt, contesting my liberal political leanings and tearing down my character point by point. Well, I fought my primal, vengeful (Scorpio?) urge to ‘shock and awe’ him back with a good written scorching and instead defused the situation the mature way--with a polite request to not take anything I write too seriously, because I myself don’t. That seemed to do the trick and we’re now great friends. (ok not exactly great friends but at least I don’t have to grope under my car seat for a pipe bomb every time I get in).
We still have the boat (many continue to wonder). It is rented out as we try to convince someone that, au contraire, this economy is the PERFECT time to acquire an outdated gas slurping luxury item. And ‘luxury’ it will be with just a can or two of Pledge and some elbow grease! (or a paid up insurance policy and a shoulder-held rocket launcher.)
This year I’ve been doing a lot of work for NPR in the form of interviews. This includes everyone from saw mill workers to crop dusters to the head New Yorker cartoonist. As it’s carried on radio stations across the country, if you hear the authorial tagline, scratch your head and wonder, yes it is me.
So that’s about it friends, family and collection agencies. If you are in the first two groups and want to drop us a line, or visit us in Florida near Orlando, you know where to find us. If you are in the last group, apparently you already know where to find us!
Happy ’09- Love, Cori, Wally, Hattie, Dr Funk, Diesel and the RV that gets 5 miles to the gallon. Gulp. So much for that carbon footprint!! Look , the more gas we use, the quicker it will be gone and the quicker we’ll have to all be green. So we’re doing our part!

Abe chapter 1

2010-01-05T03:48:00.000-08:00

The Exchange
By: Wally Nichols (203) 858 3634

Chapter 1
“You wont not get this tractor running. Won’t nobody,” he said proudly, “…Like a dried up old snatch. No gas in there a-tall.”
Behind them a coop glazed with tenacious lead paint chips incarcerated two dozen spent hens.
“Look, not a Goddamn drop making it through. See that, son?” His cackle was chalky.
He held out the miniature engine part in question for approval, a cubish thing with no character that Tim presumed to be a carburetor by function and circumstance, but not necessarily by looks.
“Good spark, though. Must be a clog,” the old man declared vindictively.
He lowered his nose to the device and inspected it closely. Bloodhound on a fugitive’s tube sock.
“The crap gas them A-Rab sand-niggers sell us is filled with twigs. Probably an Iraqi bird nestin’ in that fuel line by nows...”
He jammed the carburetor out chest height, then yanked it back to wipe the sweat from his brow with the tattered shirtsleeve on his cocked, sinewy forearm.
“They don’t teach you that in fancy medical school do they? Die-ag-nose-ing.”
His lips savored the word .
“You start with the problem, like she won’t run, then you work backwards. Check the fuel, check the spark. Not much else to it. Don’t waste your time with the other stuff on account of there ain’t much else. Start with the obvious.”
Tim recognized lecture mode.
“All you doctors do is bend someone over the pickle barrel, shove a finger or somethin’ up where it don’t belong and tell them bad news. Even if they just have a cough. Is why I don’t go... Don’t know why you wasted your money, Timmy boy. I ain’t even sure you are a good doctor, truth be told.”
The old man left a predictable canyon of silence for Tim to either tumble into or climb out of.
“Didn’t I teach you better? I thought you had a head for this stuff,” he said gripping the steering wheel. “My mistake at the end of the day, I guess. You used to be good at engines,” he lamented. “Don’t know what happened…”
“Abe, how ya feeling?”
“I reckon just about how anyone 300 years old feels. Sometimes like shit, sometimes like more shit.”
“Did you call the clinic back?” Tim steadied himself against the tractor as he often had and studied the man who busied himself with the distraction of a fractious engine part. “I’ve been away for a week. On business in Atlanta.”
With its hood up, the tractor looked sickly, anemic.
“I know you have. Haven’t been around pesterin’ me. It’s been quiet here without you dry humping my leg like a junkyard dog. Nice and quiet.”
“Abe?”
“You got somethin’ you want me to fix? Is that why you’re here all up in my face?”
The old man scrunched his brow towards the noon sun and then refocused on his visitor. “I ain’t got lots of time.”
Tim cleared his throat, a nervous habit he’d had since childhood—one that Abe was always teasing him about. He fought the urge to say anything and waited for the old man to speak. He tugged at the knot of his necktie to let some of the tin breeze in around his collarbone.
The old man confessed to the 5/8th inch box end chrome Sears wrench like it was a cherished doll and no one else was around.
“You know I didn’t call. So why you bother askin’?”
“Abe, I spoke to the clinic.”
“Well, there you go all tricky. You ain’t allowed to go snoopin’ around my files. Against the law. You ain’t family.”
“That’s really not fair, Abe. Nor is it very nice.”
“ And plus they don’t know shit.” The old man steamrolled over Tim.
“You don’t even know what I’m about to say. How can you say that?”
“Because I know that’s how you sheisters make your money: You tell people they got the cancer or somethin’, then squeeze ‘em dry like this fuel hose until they’re cracked, or got no soul or got no money left. Probably sell your mother the stuff if she was around.
“Don’t need something fixed? Then leave me alone. I’m killing chickens today.”
A free ranging rooster crowed and Abe flinched involuntarily, thumping his fingers on the tractor’s hood impatiently.
“It’s like I always say. When my time is up, my time is up. Don’t do nobody no earthly good trying to fake the Maker out. We ain’t carburators. We just ain’t.”
“Well your time doesn’t need to be up, necessarily.”
“You God? You making promises? Promises you can’t keep, son? Always good at talking, Timmy, always.”
“Lots of people do very well with Chemotherapy.”
“And lots of people die dead too.”
“Isn’t it worth trying? What do you have to lose?”
“My hair. And my good looks.”
They both laughed out loud. Abe’s bald head shone with a film of sweat.
“And the good time I have left.”
“You don’t have that much time, Abe.” The words sounded acidic to Tim and he immediately regretted saying them.
“And there’s all that throwing up and people coming over with shitpies and such to see what you look like bald and how fast you dying. Wondering if that’s what they gonna look like when you doctors tell them they have the cancer.”
“How do you know that? You don’t even have a TV!”
“Well I hear things.”
Tim chuckled, happy to be allowed to smile.
“ You’re really something, you know. I wish I could take you around in a cage to the circuses as a freak show and display you to the world. No one would believe such a grumpy old fuck ever existed.”
“And you’d charge a nickel a peek, on my back.”
“To see you, I’d charge them all a dime. Nickel’s not worth my time.”
Tim tugged the knot looser and pressed his palms flat on his shirt front. The humidity was undoing his morning ironing job.
The old man grinned. “Feels like the rice paddies of fucking Coo Chi out today, don’t it? You don’t impress me with an ironed shirt. I know you from when you were just a wink in your daddy’s eye. I've knowed you before you even wored a shirt. Pressed shirt don’t impress me a-tall. Might as well stop unless yer wiping your hands.”
“Well, anyway people comin’ over with a shitpie is better than people comin’ over to look down in your casket, ain’t it?” Tim straightened up to his full 6 feet. “Damn it, listen to me talk. You’re making me forget I know how to speak English, old man.”
“I dunno.”
“Yes you do. Might be hard, but you got some fight in you yet , right?”
“Punk. I got more fight in my left nut than you got in your entire body. And then some,” Abe growled.
“I guess you answered my question just fine.”
Tim took they wrench from Abe’s strangely willing hand and set it down gently on the tractor’s fender.
“They told me because I am family.”
“They told you because you sweet talked it out if them. Like you always do with everything you’ve ever wanted.”
“So.”
“So back at you.”
“So. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at 9, after chores, ok?”
“You can go to hell, young Timmy.”
“Hell starts at 9, and I’m not going alone. I’ll be here to get you after your chores.”
“Who’s gonna pay? I’m not paying to throw up.”
“It’s all settled.”
“Well if you’re done imposin’, I got me chickens to kill today.”
“Ok, I’ll see ya at 9.”
“Maybe. Maybe my maker sees me at 8. Beats you by an hour.”
“Wanna make it 7? I’ll get up. For you pops, I’ll get up.”
“Get the hell outta here.”
“Have a good day Abe. Enjoy this sunshine.”
“Blah Blah Blah.”
“You gonna need my help blowing that carburetor out too, old man?”
“You can blow it out your asshole, son.”
Tim smiled and slipped back into his car.

bpr pete seeger essay

2010-01-05T03:47:00.000-08:00

Years ago, when my grandfather abruptly died, I set out to get a new mate for my grieving, and incredibly deserving, grandmother. I wanted no less than a smart, kind, loving and funny man for her. Didn’t know of a lot of eligible ‘elderly’ gentlemen back then except for two who were very much in the public eye.
Marlin Perkins from Mutual of Omaha’s ‘Wild Kingdom’ seemed roughly grandma’s age and thus a contender. Plus they even kinda looked alike. Each Sun at 7 pm we’d turn on the TV and watch him ride around over Africa in a helicopter as someone else was on the ground handling the lions. I tried to contact him (never telling Grandma of course about my scheme). Well, if he wasn’t brave enough to ever come out of that helicopter, or answer my letter, he wasn’t good enough for Grandma anyway I rationalized.
I moved down my list to the next guy, Pete Seeger who had an edge that intrigued me. Their feistiness might be a good match. I was pretty sure that if he was in charge of ‘Wild Kingdom,’ Pete would insist that helicopter be set right down and shut off so as not to frighten the animals or waste the fuel. Then the helicopter would be flipped upside down and turned into a sailing vessel that would be used to raise awareness for the sub-Saharan ecosystem. Then I figured he’d write a pretty cool song about lions and I’d hear it on the radio.
I started making a Pete Seeger Pro / Con list that I could use to sell Grandma on my matchmaking idea. The Pros were easy. He was more or less Grandma’s age. He went to Harvard and he had a big boat. He played the guitar and banjo. He was a rock star in the 40s and 50s before there were even rock stars (or even rock!). When his popular group played on the radio, Americans like grandma would gather around and listen. And then when the band agreed to sing a jingle for a cigarette company, Pete quit the band. Like I said, feisty!
As a prospective replacement grandfather, he was looking better and better. I never actually bother to think that Pete himself might already have a mate and his own proper family.
Pete Seeger as a songwriter initially crept into my awareness when I was old enough to start working on the family farm in Katonah, NY. Grandma would put me to work sometimes doing such loathsome chores as gardening and flowerbed weeding. I’d find solace in humming that song I’d heard on the radio, thinking he wrote it (and Peter Paul and Mary played it) just for me. ‘Where have all the flowers gone?’ Nowhere- they are right here behind all these damn weeds that I have to pull.
Similarly, I’d find myself singing variations of ‘If I Had a Hammer.’ “If I had a hammer,” I’d start out singing, “ I’d build another chicken coop, I’d build more chicken coops, all over the world…!” Further I thought, if Pete Seeger’s dream came true and he actually got a hammer, maybe he’d come help me finish fixing the porch instead of just singing about wanting a hammer. Because I could have used a hand…
I had been warned about the evils of communism as a child. That Pete Seeger was briefly a member of the communist party at some point I thought might be a hard sell for Grandma. She might not see that at issue here was really a man’s self determination, insistence on self expression, and at the end of the day, doing what’s right for everyone. At the end of the day, she knew that people like Pete were critically important to demand accountability and demand awareness. We needed people to speak their minds and hearts to make us better.
It’s hard to say agitator or irritant without negative connotations because it suggests something that impedes what is assumed to be the established just and fair way. But if what is being impeded needs to be changed, that change must start somewhere. It must start with someone. That someone needs courage, conviction and a voice. They can’t watch from the safety of the helicopter.
There are so few who have the combination of conviction and voice. And of those, so few who use it for so long.
Pete Seeger is again at the top of the list for me.
‘Doing what’s right’ has marked Pete Seeger’s selfless 90 year (and counting!) life. And there’s no indication that he’s lost any of the fire in the belly. I hate to think what the human experience would be without people like Pete creating, agitating and fighting tirelessly. We owe him the gratitude and respect I think he must feel.
I’m sorry to say that the window to become my replacement grandfather has shut. My grandmother passed away 10 years ago and I never did tell her of my scheme to set her up with America’s coolest grandfather. But Pete Seeger has made himself an honorary family member to me and everyone else who cares about the world and the people who inhabit it. Happy birthday Pete. Nice work and thank you.

Friends and Family rest review

2010-01-05T03:46:00.000-08:00

Put A Fork In It
“Friends and Family”
By Wally Nichols
Jan 6, 2010
Friends and Family Restaurant’s well chosen name immediately makes sense when you walk in and see the warm, homey stylings. It is cozy, yet the lofty ceilings create an uncrowded feel in the ample dining areas. I love places that are able to do this so well. Part of the familiar intimacy of the restaurant (besides the Christmas tree with presents under it for MEEEEEEE!?) is the rich, dark wood detail which feels nicely elite and mountain-lodgey. While many hauling around the big rt 209 speedway bend entering Accord are familiar with the location’s longtime existence as a restaurant, it’s only in the last six years that the cuisine has been kicked up to what I am comfortable classifying as truly elegant in a clean, multi-continental way.
Well you can’t put catsup on a description like that so what then does this mean? I’ll explain by way of the chef’s story, which always is a critical, if not fascinating component of an establishment’s success: Salah Alygad (who is also a part owner along with house front tender and co-owners Denise McCarroll and daughter Brianne) started his culinary journey in Egypt clinging to grandma’s skirt and fetching cocoa for her from the coffee shop as the secret, unlikely, ingredient for her oxtail soup. Later, in America, he worked up the ranks to cook for the United Nations. This has to be one of the most educational experiences for any chef anywhere. The obviously culinary cultural experiences aside, imagine the tips, tricks and techniques that are gathered and shared and perfected and reassembled by everyone fortunate enough to be in such a renowned international kitchen, so to speak.
So fast forward to now when Salah opens his third restaurant and finds in the town of Accord, kind, curious people who welcome the business with open arms. Denise and Salah almost burst with pride when they tell me that now 90% of their customers are weekly regulars-- locals and city folk alike. So regular in fact that they frequently come in through the kitchen door just to make sure they can say hi to the small team working so hard. Like it says, friends and family.
Salah plates a seafood bouillabaisse ($29) and sets the dish down on the bar for me. He stands back and smiles and it’s clear this is a passionate man. It is a masterful creation of mussels, shrimp , lobster and scallops steeped in a garlic, saffron broth that just screams of old world authenticity. You can almost hear the fishing punts creaking in the surf. It’s one of his favorites and it seems a shame to deconstruct it with my fork. Denise warns me, “He cooks with a lot of wine…a lot!” The dish is superb and he tells me that he must travel far to get the kind of seafood he demands for his restaurant. He leans in and tells me that the food vendors know he’s a real pain in the you-know-where. But that’s what we want in a chef, right?
The selected produce is all local and seasonal. Gill’s farm stand, right up the road, is a regular summer destination as they sift through the bins and winnow down the choices to the truly pristine farm offerings.
The handwritten specials are where Salah’s international gravitas shines. There are usually four and they change every week as he draws inspiration and daring from the depths of his life experience as well as welcome suggestions from customers. Macadamia nut encrusted goat cheese with port wine poached figs ($8). Chicken Schnitzel with Spatzel ($21)
The printed menu stays mostly the same because so many of the options are best sellers on their way to becoming area classics. I’m routinely smitten with the penne pasta in a light vodka sauce ($13) and French onion soup ($5). My wife likes the grilled salmon fillet with citrus tarragon butter sauce ($19). Even the kid’s sesame chicken fingers and steamed broccoli ($9) is innovative.
I take aside one of the wait staff and quietly ask her what’s best. She tells me the lamb is not to be missed- her favorite hands down. “He cooks red meat so perfectly,” she confesses dreamily. (A note on the wait staff- they are exceptionally tuned in, professional and attentive- like best around-- is it the lamb they feed them? Hmmmmm.)
“What did your grandma teach you as a kid, besides how to pinch cocoa and skirts?” I ask Salah.
“She said ‘the eye eats before the stomach,” he answers solidly. Now, one thing I notice every time is that the presentation here is consistently artful. Even the steak fries that come with the grilled vegetable sandwich are stacked like a Japanese steam house. (The open-faced veggie sandwich has a delicate veneer of cheese that coats perfectly grilled portabellas, asparagus, red peppers, eggplant all coquettishly laid upon a willing mattress of wholegrain bread. ($10).
I’ve got a lot more to say about this excellent place but I’m running out of space. As if running a top notch restaurant 6 nights a week wasn’t hard enough for just 3 folks, they try to blunt our dreary, extruded winters by having special theme nights once a month. Coming up on Jan 21 at 7pm is French ethnic buffet (about $35). Holy Jumping Frog Legs! (In butter and garlic!).
They will only do one sitting and will only serve a limited number of people on this night. Again I feel the excitement and passion stir deep in Salah and Denise as they describe the treats that await the select few: The centerpiece will be a steamship leg of veal roasted and presented at a carving table. The bouillabaisse will make a showing in a mammoth vessel and there will be lobster soufflé to name a few dishes.
Then in February there will be an Italian buffet. In March, an expansive, Moroccan-flared banquet will be fleshed out with live belly dancer.
It’s passion for food and for the dining experience that drives Friends and Family to work so hard and produce so well. Swing by and see for yourself. The kitchen entrance is in the back!

(845) 626-7777
4809 Rt 209
Accord NY
http://www.friendsandfamily2.com

BPR Christmas raise?

2010-01-05T03:45:00.000-08:00

A Christmas Raise??
I am thinking about asking for a raise this holiday season. Problem is, I am self employed.
I’m impaled on the horns of dilemma, --Should I ask me for a raise? Well, I know I should, but if I do so, I stand the risk of alienating my boss (me) by being too pushy. I don’t want me to think I’m overly ambitious and gunning for my job. But if I don’t ask, I fear I will keep taking advantage of myself and will slowly grow to resent me.
Are you thinking of asking for a raise this year? If so, this is how I imagine me asking me for a raise. Perhaps it will help you ask your boss for a raise.
Dear me:
I’ve been working for you for a long time now and have diligently shown up every day. I rarely under-perform and haven’t humiliated you in public for at least 3 months. I have given my all to this operation and feel my compensation should reflect my commitment. It currently does not.
We seem to get along well, you the boss and me your employee, and my efforts have paid off in your favor, don’t you think?. I shove you high upon the hog and ask only for the scraps and crumbs that happen to fall to the floor. As further strength to the argument for a raise, I’m a trustworthy, cost-effective employee--I haven’t broken the fax machine or photocopied my rear end (at least on company time). I show up to the lame Christmas party you throw every year and put on a smiley face even though it is a cash bar (you cheapskate).
I am thus appealing to your sense of holiday compassion and asking for a 5% Christmas raise to help with the cost of living increase that you seem to have forgotten has happened each of the 43 years we’ve known each other, never mind the 4 or 5 Hindu life wheels of Samsara it feels like you’ve dragged me through. No one likes you more, no one likes you less. In short, you are stuck with me so fork over a raise, Ebeneezer, before I unionize.
Merry Christmas, Boss,
Your employee, Me.

And here’s how I imagine a response might go:
Dear me, You want a WHAT? Are you joking? You are lucky to have a job, sonny. Let’s be real- Who else would hire you? I can get retired skittish greyhounds from the track that have a better attention span than you, with a lot less attitude too. The last time you put in a 40 hour week without one of your frequent ‘breaks’ was when you were put in a medically induced coma after your little motorcycle stunt which cost the company health plan a half a mil. I haven’t forgotten that.
And shouldn’t you be working instead of filching the company computer to generate a failed extortion attempt? Oh and I haven’t been charging you for the company air you’ve been breathing.
Not happy? Go back to your 1973 Chevy van down by the river. Get your raise there, pal.
Now get back to work while you still have a job.
(And bring me a venti half caf latte)
Your boss,
Me.
PS Christmas has nothing to do with it. Christ was not born in December. Look it up and don’t play that card again.

Hey other bosses out there: Here’s a hint: Don’t tell your employees the company is doing well without having huge hunks of raw meat to throw to the growling ingrates.
In short, if you are thinking of asking for a raise you should. It may not go well (it didn’t for me) but no one expects you or your boss to leave money on the table, so to speak, except your waiter.
If you are hesitant, maybe try a passive/ aggressive approach like taping this essay and handing it to your boss (along with their half caf latte). You can hide behind it and say, “can you believe the nerve of this Wally guy? Asking for a raise…”

--Wally Nichols

paul and madelin wedding vows

2010-01-05T03:43:00.000-08:00

Paul and Madelin
Oct 9, 2009
Paul and Madeline, you have asked us here today to bear witness to your sacred vow to love one another for the rest of your lives. Many moments and memories have added up and brought you to this spot where you will affirm before your family and friends (and any bounty hunters that may have tracked you down) that you believe there is no one in the world more suited for you than the other.
It is a bold commitment, but one that you both arrive at with wisdom and grace. Out of all the world, you have found the person who makes you complete. And we who have gathered offer to you our love and support as you make these sacred vows.
Giving Away
Paul and Madeline have been shaped and formed by many people. Your support, your blessing, and your love have helped them become who they are. Their union brings together two distinct families, each with their own strengths and traditions. From separate roots comes the hope that this new family will become strong and fruitful. Though Paul and Madeline will be henceforth joined as husband and wife, they are still part of something larger. As you take each others’ hand, know that the deepest desire from all of us is that your life together be lived as part of this larger circle of community. In all that you do, in all that you will become, know that you are loved and supported, not only as individuals, but now as a couple.
I ask the parents of Paul and Madeline to be the voice of all who have gathered, do you welcome one another into your families? If so, please say, we do.
Parents: We do.

DECLARATION OF INTENTION
And so I ask you, Madeline, do you come of your own free will to unite with Paul in marriage?
And do you, Paul, come of your own free will to unite with Madeline in marriage?

HOMILY
One of the great parts about being a wedding officiant is that I have the opportunity to hear great stories of how couples meet. More often than not, couples know immediately when they have found the person with whom they are going to share their lives.
Paul and Madeline met when Paul was a Chippendale model (oh sorry- this is the wrong script). Here’s how the legend goes:
Paul was making a grain delivery to a working horse farm. He pulled up and asked the attractive farm hand where she wanted the grain. She ignored him.
Not being one to let that go, he promptly asked for her hand in marriage. And rightly so, she walked away to tend to other chores.
The next day, unable to get her off his mind, he began down the long, und ultimately fruitful path of courting. Flowers, chocolates, handguns, ATV rides, deer skinning- you know all those romantic things.
Paul confessed that he knew he would propose pretty much after that grain delivery.
And so, years later, here we are witnessing their union.
And, to use one of their favorite expressions, Not for Nuttin’, it’s a beautiful thing.
Paul and Madeline are a perfect team- in love in friendship and even in business. We wish them joy in the fun times life has to offer. We wish them strength in the hard times life has to offer. We want them to know that each person here loves them and supports them, and while they are usually here for all of us, at least on this front, we will be there for them. And Paul and Madeline, may this knowledge come as support in those trying times.

The symbols they have chosen to signify their marriage are not uncommon. They are rings. To the outside world, the rings will symbolize that these two persons have made a commitment to one another. But to them, these rings symbolize more. They symbolize the continuity of life—that there is no ending without a new beginning. These rings symbolize the circular nature of life—that which has past--- will come around again, whether day goes into night, summer into fall, winter into spring. And these rings symbolize their vow to one another to take each cycle of life, each beginning and ending with one another.
As they say their vows to one another, let those of us who are gathered as witnesses, send them goodwill and blessing from our hearts. And Paul and Madeline, as you say them to one another, know that these are words which express the depth of your commitment. Remember them often for they are not just words to be said in this moment, these words are meant to guide your relationship for a lifetime.
EXCHANGE OF VOWS
Before our family and friends
I ________ take you___________
To be my husband/wife
I promise to love you now and forever
I Promise To be faithful to you and to respect you
To love you when life is simple
And to love you when it is not.
I promise to honor your individual spirit, and
Support your goals and dreams.
Above all
I promise to be open and honest with you
For all the days of my life.
Exchange of Rings
_________take and wear this ring as symbol of our marriage and my faithful love for you.

BLESSINGMay the road rise to meet you,May the wind be always at your back.May the sun shine warm upon your face,The rains fall soft upon your fields.May you see your children's children.May you be poor in misfortune,Rich in blessings,May you know nothing but happinessFrom this day forward.
May the road rise to meet youMay the wind be always at your backMay the warm rays of sun fall upon your homeAnd may the hand of a friend always be near.
May green be the grass you walk on,May blue be the skies above you,May pure be the joys that surround you,May true be the hearts that love you.

READING by Leslie

PRONOUNCEMENT
Maddy and Paul have decided to memorialize this ceremony with a tradition that comes from the religious faith- They will take this glass, wrap it in a cloth and together, step on it to remember that love and marriage are fragile and thus must be protected and not taken for granted. A broken glass, like a couple in a marriage, is forever changed and must take on a new form. And finally, may your happiness be as plentiful as the shards of glass!

Now that Paul and Madeline have given themselves to each other by solemn vows, with the joining of hands, and the giving and receiving of rings, I announce to you that they are husband and wife.

You may kiss!

OK, Let’s eat!

Take a crap already...

2009-02-04T07:14:00.001-08:00

I’m outside walking diesel (18 lb bichon #1) and he’s taking his sweet time to find a spot to shit. Normally, he’s got no problem backing up to the living room rug and releasing his meatball. Anywhere, anytime. And that’s when he’s inside and no one’s looking.
When he’s outside and it’s ass cold, and I’m holding his leash, he has to be more discriminating. He paces and stops and turns and inspects, and sniffs the ground like he works for homeland security.
“Just take a shit already, you little turd,” I say.
I’ve almost lost feeling in my extremities due to the cold.
Nope. Got to find the perfect spot. Anything less will simply not do. Not exactly sure why, but there is something in the fickle nature of canine bowels that mandates a militarily precise landing zone when the dog is on leash. Must be a control thing.
Whatever it is, it’s more than a little annoying.
As cold as I am, I can’t just slam shut the window of opportunity. Here’s why: Earlier in the day we were walking past the event hall. They were having a BBQ and I started flapping my jaw with the cook. We got so into it that she burned the sausage beyond legal human consumption.
Diesel, as if on queue, opened his puppy dog eyes wide and it was a short trip to a plate of blackened sausage. He ate 6 inches of sausage and that’s got to hurt folks.
So I knew that it wouldn’t be long before we saw that mass one way or another. Meanwhile, what can I do but yell at him to hurry up.

Because I’m cold…

I thought old people were nice...

2009-02-04T06:33:00.000-08:00

I thought old people were nice??
Today at Panera in The Villages (Disney World for golfcart driving retirees) , I was working on my laptop. For the record, I ordered a breakfast sandwich, decaf and a muffin. By old people’s standards, that’s a friggin voluminous meal. Anyway, when my computer battery started to die a few hours later, I looked under all the old people’s legs for an outlet (ok I’ll admit it was a bit creepy) and spying one, relocated to within 6 feet of it. Couple empty tables here and there. The place was starting to thin out. The time was 11:15. Wasn’t long before I figured out that the outlet was dead and that my writing session was coming to a mandatory end. The national chain offers free wifi but no way to recharge you battery. Brilliant tactic to discourage non paying barnacles like me…(except I am a pig and eat almost my entire body weight in any given 8 hour session).
As I’m packing up, an old turtle of a man wags his bony finger at me and without saying a word, calls me over. I though he needed help getting up or was choking on a tooth or something. Instead of being grateful that I’ve come to help (I am also a licensed EMT in NY state), he barks at me, “Sign says you can’t use them things in here from 11-3. People can’t get a seat.” His wife shrinks a little lower. He’s got the fire in his eyes. Looking for a fight. I remember the look from my bar crawling days.
I was a little taken aback. For starters, there was no sign.
“Am I not a person? Do I not deserve a seat?”
“Not allowed to use those things in here. Read the sign.”
“But there’s no sign.”
“Well, there was one yesterday. Must be fixing it.”
“Do you work here sir?
“No but I read signs and obey the law. And you should too.”
Ouch.
Well I wasn’t going to scrap with grandpa in Paneras. He had lots of people on his side and though they may be arthritic, en masse they could put some hurt on me. I took the high road and ambled outside mumbling something about mandatory institutionalization for those suffering from senile dementia. Outside it was fresh and thus completely uncrowded. I plugged into a working outlet and started recharging. A fellow with a collared shirt on was pushing tables around, arranging things and muttering to himself . He looked to have some authority.
I asked if he was a manager, or at least employee. He was. I asked for clarification on the corporate policy that some twisted old maverick fruitcake felt empowered to enforce. “Was I not allowed to use my computer in Panera from 11-3?”
The manager chuckled and reassured me that the only thing that was changing nationwide was that Panera as a chain was cutting off the free wifi for those busy hours to discourage non consumers to make it their office. I was most certainly allowed to have my laptop and use it anytime I wanted, for as long as I wanted.
Well I went back in to find grandpa and give him a piece of my mind but he’d moved on.
Chicken.

Geek Squad

2009-01-23T07:17:00.001-08:00

Dear Wally:

My computer just died. Help!
-Distraught

Dear Distraught:
Let me share a recent personal diary entry that might help:
Dear Geek Squad: I’ll never make fun of you again if you can get my computer to turn on. Last night while I was working, it died on me. Bam. Gone. Black screen. No warnings, no apologies. I tried smacking, rebooting, yelling, and then I tried beer. I went through Kubler-Ross’s five stages of death and now I’m at acceptance. Except I’m not really because I cling to a sliver of hope: You.
Today I’m at your formica counter, hat in hand. I am biting my tongue for all the snotty, mean things I could easily say about your skinny black tie and greasy hair (and thick glasses held together by electrical tape, tucked in shirt, shiny shoes, Sears ‘toughskin’ black slacks and knowing smug smile) --the way you ride the back of the consumer electronics giant BestBuy like a sycophantic, scrap-nibbling remora—things I usually say behind your back.
I will say none of these things because right now, I am your bee-atch. But I’ll go one further: If you retrieve my data (some of which includes an essay making fun of you), I’ll never ever again make fun of ANYONE in the tech customer support business, no matter how homely they are, no matter how much they look like they are guiding Apollo 13 to the moon from Houston 50 years too late.
Make this deal with me now, and your cousins at Verizon who delight in flummoxing me and your cable TV brethren who revel in tardiness (and who never have the right part in their truck) will all be safe from my invective from hereon in. So long as you hook up your gizmo and breath life back into my computer, I’ll do you that solid and you will know that at least one voice in a mocking sea of gazillions has been silenced. OK? Be a hero to your people.
Take my computer and caress it with your magic hands on that static-proof bench over there while I fidget nervously. Admire its ram or gigs. Have your way with it. My life is in your hands. My entire past and my entire future.
You behind that counter. Me at your mercy. It’s a dynamic I do not enjoy. I damn everyone in your profession under my breath. I nervously look at the clock and then the rate card ($95/hr) and then the clock again. You decide that it’s sloth time and that revenge, while best served cold, is also a dish best served slowly (at $95/ hr). On the clock, you admire the bag I brought the laptop in- the same bag the BestBuy ‘hostess’ thinks I’m gonna use to steal small consumer electronics. I shift my weight uneasily , trying to tell you with body language that the ‘fix,’ if there is one, is not with my leather bag.
I feel my life savings run through the sieve of your skinny, Darwinian-advanced, capacitor-gripping fingers. There goes this month’s rent! We sail past the unspoken initial, free 10 minute rule, wherein, if you Geek Squaders can fix it, there’s no charge. No sir, that won’t be my fate.
I’m doomed.
Soon I’ll own a useless $450 laptop that cost me $5000 to not fix.
“No boot device, you say?” My words sound hollow. “What’s that mean? Is that good or bad?”
“Wait… either very good or very bad? I think I need to throw up.”
You point over your shoulder at the black curtain that shields the secret room and tell me you are going to have to ‘take it in the back.’
“Well that makes two of us,” I joke.
No Smiles.
You, wizard, step slowly ($95/hr) backwards and disappear, mumbling the words “I’ll be right back.” The black curtain swallows you up. A loved one off to the operating room. I pace the cold tiles.
I have time.
I find myself drifting towards the beeping, clanging lure of new equipment that flanks me in the enormous store. Somehow I arrive, unawares, at the new laptop section. Is this chance? Infidelity? I doubt I’m anything other than pawn in this heady game. I’ve follow the carpeted path that the plump statisticians and marketing cerebrums have conjured.
And then I hear your voice float over the store. You hold my laptop open, splayed casually yet firmly (like the unfortunate frog that we dissected in 6th grade that was pinned to a wax bed) in one arm. I see the familiar cerulean blue desktop. My palm tree, escapism screensaver sways. I see my past, my future. It’s so beautiful I could cry.
Come to poppa!
“How much am I in for?” I ask, garishly trolling the commercial. I need to immediately buoy the bad with the good.
“No charge.”
“What? No charge? Mock me not SuperGeek or I’ll set a Level 7 Gorgon on you…”
“It was an easy fix. Just needed to relocate the hard drive. You got lucky, pal.”
“I …I love you. No, I’m serious. I LOVE YOU. And I will never make fun of Geek Squaders again. Never!
So he says, “Well, make sure next time you remember to back up.”
And I get one last one in, because I can’t help it: “You mean back up in my dorky little black and white VW bug mobile-service-pod?” (Hee hee).

So Distraught—Get to Bestbuy and find the Geek Squad in the back. (They have the skinny black ties and thick glasses). And keep your fingers crossed!
-AllyWa (PigLatin code for me, in case I ever need to use GeekSquad again!)
(Need a question answered or someone to take your laptop to Geek Squad? Email our advice columnist at cwn4@aol.com or visit his blog at blogger.com)

Bush and Cheney in Stripes?

2009-01-16T07:08:00.001-08:00

Bush and Cheney in Stripes?

Dear Cori:

I wonder why Bush and Cheney are not in jail for their lies and illegal acts. With the 10 year anniversary of Clinton's impeachment, I would like to know when these criminals will be punished…
-Vexed in the Valley

Dear Vexed-

You sound like one of those pain-in-the-arse liberal agitators--maybe a bloodthirsty, vengeful Scorpio to boot? (Wait, that’s me!). Ever since Pres. Clinton’s starring role in ‘Crouching Intern, Hidden Cigar’, and his subsequent congressional ka-bobbing, you folks have been gunning for a retaliatory hairline fracture in the Bush Administration to exploit. This 3 trillion dollar Iraq war is the one , if I’m reading you right, you believe to have a whiff of illegality about it?

Here’s the feel-good answer: No one is above the law. Thus, gross manipulation, distortion and indeed cold-forged fabrication of ‘facts’ (think Nigerian yellow cake) and threats (WMD) used to justify war WILL ALWAYS result in a legitimate trial, conviction and subsequent impeachment of our country’s highest executives. (It’s not illegal to be stupid, but it is illegal to lie. At least I think it is). And Americans who don’t enjoy being lied to, or having their intelligence insulted, will wipe their hands on their pant legs at this trial of leadership and say, “OK. Let’s now wish the Iraqis good luck with the civil war we left them, cut our losses and re-calibrate our national objectives to once again focus on the needs of all Americans.” This trial will happen on Nov 23, 2008. (I’m making this date up only so you will feel happy about the imminent meting out of justice).

On Nov 24th, however, you will hunt me down for my lies. And that, alas, takes us to the other answer. In reality there will be no Presidential perp walk, no trial, no conviction, no contrition, no humility, and no introspection at the executive level by those who may or may not have acted illegally. There will be no public regret, nor will there be any punishment for squandering the once overflowing good will of a powerful, unified global community horrified with a dastardly, soulless attack on innocent Americans. There will also be no collective apology by the State Dept for strong arming reluctant ‘allies’ into bucking the UN’s will and joining the US-led fighting ‘coalition’, with their 23 troops and 2 jeeps or else suffer the crippling hammer blow of US economic sanctions and tariffs. (This little power play has just surfaced, to the embarrassment of the Administration).

There will, instead, be trumpeted declarations that this country is safer than it was before 9/11. But to think all the vast resources spent overseas in the name of (revenge? rooting out terrorism? Securing oil? Handing democracy to the undemocratic on a platter? Catching and hanging one tyrant by his skinny neck, chasing another through the Afghan caves, etc) has yielded a commensurate payoff of any sort is folly, excepting for pinching the Taliban in Afghanistan and moving them down the road. (Ironically, Afghan opium production is up 45% this year alone! Oil is over $100 a barrel, almost 1 million Iraqis have died so far, there’s a new generation of Middle Eastern American haters, thank you, it turns out Sadam had no WMD nor anything to do with Al Queda other than Iraq, Sadam and Al Queda all share the letter “A” in their spelling and the poor sots at TSA have to suffer the indignity of sniffing my shoes when I travel, which at least by air is admittedly is safer now unless you are the one sniffing the shoes). Iraq under Sadam was a deep fried basket of hell. With him gone, the basket has exploded and now there’s hell everywhere, stuck to the walls and dripping from the chandeliers.

But what of the 4,000 brave folks who have died in uniform and the countless others who will live these last 5 years over and over again in their heads? (They will get 1 free 45 minute PTSD session at the VA hospital—which should help) These heroes--the moms, dads, sons, daughters (and their limbs) (and their serenity) can’t be replaced…And if it turns out this war was based on unprosecuted lies and shouldn’t have been…What do we then tell their families?

This administration will slip into the cold night late January 2009 rubbing their palms on their pant legs and congratulating themselves for a job well done and a mission accomplished.

Wish I had better news for you…

Look, it’s not all bad. We just discovered that Alaska’s coastline is 100 feet further out in the sea than we thought. If we start feeling depressed we can always just pave it and slam up a Wendy’s or something. Get some comfort food in us…

But here’s my final thought: It’s easy to be a presidential or policy critic. All we have to do is sit on the sidelines and take pot shots at leaders who have incredibly tough decisions to make, who have access to far greater info than we have and who, at the end of the day, are only human. I’m as guilty of that as anyone (and everyone). Maybe in time, we’ll see that the best course has been taken. Maybe not. But no one should misconstrue shades of criticism for anything other than shades of frustration for things not going better, cheaper, less deadly and more democratically than they are (starting with our own darn outdated and questionable election process). Bush in jail? Cheney in stripes? What’s the point, Vexed? Let’s just elect officials who will never make us haul them off to trial in the first place…

-Cori
PS Cheney in stripes would be a fashion DISASTER!

Father's perspective on Doula-ing

2009-01-16T07:07:00.001-08:00

A Father’s Perspective on 'The Doula'…

By Wally Nichols
(cwn4@aol.com)
The birthing experience can assume an entirely different hue from the father’s perspective than it can from the mother’s. We guys rarely dare to openly own the pain or suffering, or confusion or fear or other identifiable (and unidentifiable) emotions that women lay legitimate claim to on the big day, or even during the 9 months prior. Some things are best left unsaid, correct? Which isn’t to say we don’t feel all these things, but we feel them in a thinly comparative way to our partners who are about to push 8 pounds through an orifice.
Modern times have given us many resources to combat the variables of childbirth; birthing classes, drugs, monitors, doctors and technicians, even ‘birthing centers’ which are designed to handle soon to be parents’ every need (and want). If you chose to avail yourself of it, as we did, there’s a dizzying array of compositional resources and people on the team…
Still, we fathers are usually lowest on the totem pole, wandering around in a confused haze before, during and after the birth, which is fine. Above us, and below the doctor, on this totem pole, can sometimes be found a doula. If we squint hard enough and think about definition long enough, those of us with business orientations can rightly consider the doula a consultant to, or advocate for, the laboring mother. And a godsend for the panicky father. She knows the drill and speaks the language. She’s seen it all before. There’s huge relief in that.
But the doula is much more than just a knowledgeable birthing facilitator. At least ours was. A doula can massage the parents’ bodies and minds back into compliance and agreement with the natural order in the weeks before birth as well as at the actual moment. She can translate the kinetics of childbirth back into English. She can arrange a birth plan that dovetails with the couple’s beliefs on pain management, transportation logistics, birth location, post birth responsibilities, etc.
She can also hold the hands of the mother while she’s holding the hands of the father. She can work with the doctors and or the midwives and compliment the team very nicely. Get one who is experienced and calm, and one with long arms, and it’s a beautiful thing…
Gentlemen, get out your wallets for this to the tune of $500-$1000. She’s your ace-in-the-hole and you wont soon regret treating yourself to this peace of mind luxury. Oh, and treating your partner who is actually doing all the work.
Our doula (whom we nicknamed Paula Abdoula behind her back) was one cool customer. We met at the birthing class she led. She is a sturdy Irish woman with 25 years of doulage(?) under her belt. Her sagacious prebirth advice, tendered early on one night at class was, “pack yourself a snack for the birth, dads! Don’t forget that you are in there too and need to take care of and treat yourself.” I took a quick shine to this Mary O’Riley lady!
On hearing this important command, I immediately went out and bought a container of Cheddar Goldfish out of deference to her vast experience. The snacks , however, didn’t make it to the exit of the Stop and Shop Supermarket parking lot. (That was two months before Hattie was actually born yet, curiously, it happened repeatedly each and every time I tried to think ahead to the burdens of being next to someone actually giving birth and get myself a replacement snack. Finally, I gave up thinking about myself).
Mary’s advice for mom? When labor starts, drink a beer. Preferably Guinness, which as hill lore has it, simultaneously activates the calming reflex while poking the milk production button.
A beer?
Seriously?
Now my wife Cori really liked this lady too!
Labor started in the night on Feb 13. The car was packed and ready to go. (It had been packed and ready to go for every bit of the preceding 4 weeks.) I went out in the subzero temperature to get the heat on, literally the only thing this double left footed monkey could do between the fits of labor that appeared to be ripping my wife apart. Then we called Mary and told her the news. I rattled off all the hard stats I had gathered about duration and frequency and amplitude of pain.
“Stay in bed. Get a few more hours of sleep,” advised a calm doula over the phone lines. “You’re not ready yet.”
“But…?”
“Call me in the morning. Trust me. She needs to get her rest. Now back to bed with you both.”
I felt like a scolded kid being sent back up the stairs Christmas morning after having awoken too early. But sure enough, Mary was right. The contractions subsided and a relatively normal day unfolded before us. We avoided a long trip to the birthing center that would have resulted in being sent home anyway.
I knew there was more to the picture, so I was on the phone with Mary throughout the day giving regular updates while my wife insisted on attending to her mares in the barn and getting them a hot bran mash—perhaps a harbinger of good mothering habits to come.
Around noon, I called the doctor’s office to give them a courtesy call about our imminent parenthood (alert the press!!) and left a message with the receptionist describing the landscape.
The flabbergasted nurse from the practice called the farm back and asked where Cori was. “She’s mucking stalls,” I admitted. “I can’t stop her.” I couldn’t lie. It was true. “She’s of German descent,” I offered meekly. “It’s what they do.”
We live on a 20 horse boarding/ lesson facility in New York’s Hudson Valley and the work clock stops for no one or anything we’ve come to learn…
“Get her up here right now,” the nurse demanded.
“You try,” I said and handed the phone to Cori who had come up for some breakfast. She had a big smile on her face and but for the gait-impeding belly, betrayed no signs of distress or discomfort or even pregnancy.
Wishing to avoid a scene similar to that in Monty Python where the overworked farm woman gives birth while sweeping a dirt floor and doesn’t even know it until she looks down, we consulted with Mary and compromised by heading to the hospital in the late afternoon.
The contractions were now regular and intense at this point. Cori took the doula’s advice to heart and popped a beer for the 30 minute (now extremely and regularly painful) drive. There was only one ‘position of comfort’ for Cori in that pickup truck and that was facing backwards, cold Budweiser in hand, rear end against the windshield, no seatbelt (I know this sounds like a line from a country song, but it was our reality at the moment…).
We were a sight. Dee Lite’s ‘Groove is in the Heart’ pumping on the stereo, Cori telling me to step on it, me trying to not hit any deer on the way and unsuccessfully looking for a last minute snack shop because my reserves, alas, were all gone.
We pulled into the hospital parking lot after a stop to the doctor, where her water broke, then Home Depot to pick up some lumber I needed, and then a brief stop to check out our friend Kate’s new kitchen remodel (just kidding on those last two). I opened the passenger door and an empty beer bottle rolled out onto the birthing center’s parking lot!
Nice.
So much for first impressions…
“Don’t prejudge us!” I yelled to the horrified nurses who had gathered at the center's entrance Nosy security cameras tracked us from every angle. I seriously thought we were going to get arrested for endangering a minor before we even officially had one. “What??? Mary said it was ok,” I scolded them back.
The birth turned out to be a bit complicated. The fetal monitor indicated severely reduced cardiac output during contractions.
"Mary," I whispered urgently, "What's that mean???"
Many repositioning attempts were made to reduce the stress but finally we were left with no choice but to do a C section. The doctor was quite jovial and had a long history of working with Mary. He offered us a choice. “Option 1,” he whistled while scrubbing down, “You can have a C section in 15 minutes.”
“What’s option 2?” I cautiously asked.
“Option 2,” he said, “Is you can have a C section in 10 minutes. But hey, your choice!”
Mary chucked a pair of hospital scrubs at me and said, “Get dressed, pal.”
“But…”
With a knowing wink from an experienced doula, off we went, all three of us, hand in hand.
Hattie was born on Feb 14th (without a single snack!) and has stolen our hearts every day since.
We can’t wait to have another baby just so we get to hang out with our doula again!

To The guy at the GYM

2009-01-16T07:06:00.000-08:00

To the guy at the gym…
…who left the bar of soap on the shower floor:
Well, thanks, I guess. I was the next person in and was just wondering at that exact moment we passed in the locker room what I was going to do for soap (didn’t want to use the soap in the dispenser on the shower wall, a sentiment you obviously feel, too) To my sheer amazement, there was your used bar of mealy soap in the corner on the floor. Now granted it had some hair on it, but hey, isn’t soap, by definition, clean?? Exactly! THANK YOU!
So my heartfelt thanks as I soap up my privates and bring whatever diseases you have picked up over the years of your creepy, promiscuous, glory-holin' back to my precious family.
I’m just kidding, I never even touched it.
Seriously, did you think someone else was going to use the nasty soap after you turned it into your own private Ass Chia Pet? I can’t imagine all the dark alleys you sent that poor thing down to get mugged before discarding it for the custodian to pick up in his rubber gloves and hazmat suit.
Proving once again, but for the suit and ties we occasionally wear, it’s a razor thin film between us and the monkey cage…
Next time can you leave some used dental floss for us too?
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