The Non-Conformist Curmudgeon

[thenonconformistcurmudgeon]

An Effort Done Carelessly, Incompetently, Or Insufficiently

I love a good phrase or idiom. Slow boat to China, a bone to pick, cats pajamas, bite off more than you can chew, etc. Sometimes I like to look up the origin of these figures of speech as I am a curious fellow. Here is a story of one phrase that you might find surprising.

The statement means an effort done carelessly, incompetently or insufficiently. See if you can come up with it as the origin story is revealed.

Michelangelo was about to start his statue of David and wanted the perfect male specimen as a model. Everyone said use Agostino, he has the best physique but is a bit of a diva. Mickey, as known to is buds, got Agostino to come in for a look but asked to see him naked first. Agostino obliged but Mickey was put off by Agostino’s hairy behind. Mickey said he would pay him top dollar but asked the model to please shave his rear before the sitting, although in this case standing. Agostino was quite offended by being asked to do this as no other sculptors made such a request. After much arguing, he agreed as the pay was quite good, and he was losing gigs due to his prima donna attitude.

Agostino shaved one side of his behind but then stopped as his anger over the request got the best of him. He showed for the standing and Mickey was taken aback by what he saw. Mickey said “why didn’t you shaved the other half?”. Agostino retorted “I like the look”. Mickey said, “It’s certainly a look, a bad look”. After much bickering, they agreed to continue working together as is. Mickey’s assistant, Guiseppe, known as Gus to his friends, spread the news at the baths. This is how the term half-assed originated.

[thenonconformistcurmudgeon]

Big Feet

The other day, I said to myself, you don’t hear much talk about big foot anymore? It seemed to me the excitement kind of died down. The younger generation too involved looking at their phones to peek in the deep woods. However, not surprisingly, I was totally wrong about the lack of talk. Although it’s true that I don’t hear anything, there are plenty of people talking him up.  Innumerable people claim sightings, are investigating, are in clubs, looking for him and clues. There is a devoted following of the hairy, tall, speedy and elusive beast. There are festivals, symposiums, museums and conferences about Sasquatch. Folks do research, tracking, and get educated and informed on how to find him and make those plaster of Paris foot prints.

I missed this last April’s big foot conference in Nebraska, near the big foot museum. They have an impressive list of speakers. One fellow claim 40 big foot sightings, while a married couple declare hundreds of sightings. The couple’s numbers seem just slightly preposterous but perhaps if they both see him at the same time, they claim that as two sightings. Another fellow asserts he can call big foot with his voice but also is the first to successfully use a Shofar to call big foot. He reports that government installations have populations of big foots living there. This fellow also discovered that big foots can generate and use infrasound and ultrasound. Apparently, no end to big foots’ skills.

Although there are tales and myths of the Yeti, Sasquatch, and Big Foot throughout the world, the good ole US of A lead the world in sightings. Over 10,000 sightings. The traditional Pacific Northwest are leaders in sightings but I was shocked to learn that Florida was the number 3 leader of detections. It seems that Florida would lack the dense forest habitat that big foot is known for and be too hot for the hirsute creature. Then, I realized I was thinking about it all wrong. Given the lack of good hiding spots, he is more exposed and easier to spot.  He has to be awfully fast since it is so hard to get a good photo or video.

In a research article that has graphs and charts of big foot’s abilities and speed, it was noted that walking speed is 10 miles an hour.  A cluster of eleven observations while running near a moving vehicle have been clocked between 30-40 miles an hour. These speeds make sense since they prey on deer with about the same speed. There were two observations of 60 plus MPH but those were considered errors or hoaxes. A chart also notes that they can break tree trunk widths between 2 to 8 feet and have strength to lift 3,000 to 4,000 pounds. As I mentioned earlier, no end to his feats.

Big foot festivals invariably have big foot calling contests which certainly makes me ponder what kind of noises do they make? AI indicates vocalizations include guttural growls, whoops, howls as well as mimicking human speech, monkey like chatter, screams resonant to “Bronx Cheer” noises, noises like wet farts, mimicry like car door slamming, wood knocking, silence, and the rare but intense Samurai Chatter. With so many vocalizations, it begs the question how do you judge the event? Obviously, if a big foot shows up, you are a winner. Other than that, with so many possible noises, what is the judging criteria? I guess you try to get insight into the judge’s preferences. If I was a judge, it is obvious I’d prefer the rare but intense Samurai Chatter.

Big foot chasing and conference speaking seems to be a white man’s game. 11% of Americans believe in big foot. Given the high number of sightings in Florida and propensity to be a white man’s hobby, it explains a lot about voting patterns.

[thenonconformistcurmudgeon]

Setting the Story Straight

The governor of South Dakota is being condemned for shooting her smelly goat.  What has not been revealed in the press is that there is a little-known law in S.D. in which goats who are officially declared rancid are mandated to be killed by their owner. License to kill.

I should know, I worked as a goat stench inspector for the Mount Rushmore State. I went to farms with a monitor box that looked like a Geiger counter. On the box was an arrow that pointed to varied aroma categories that measured the bouquet of each goat. They were graded as within acceptable limits, yucky, noxious, putrid, and rancid. If the arrow pointed to noxious or above, the farmer was allowed to exterminate the goat and a rancid level was a mandatory execution. If I didn’t like the looks of the goat, or if it was giving me too much lip, I could hit a button on the box that made the arrow point to rancid.

Now, if you have 2 or more goats to snuff out, you can use your AR-15. The great state of S.D. supports getting practice with your AR so when the liberals, aliens, Chinese, or Mexicans invade from the Canadian border and North Dakota fails to stop them, you will be a proficient slaying machine. “Hey Kristi, you can go for it with goats number 8 and 14”.

S.D. state motto: If the goat stinks, shoot it!

The Dakotas have dueling PR campaigns to attract tourists and business.

N.D.: Colder than S.D.

         Further than you think  

         Sex workers wanted for Western Oil and Gas Fields

         More Isolated Than You Think

S.D.: One Word: Sturgis

         Good Guys with Guns               

     So Embarrassed by McGovern’s presidential results, we never elected another democrat.

     Rancid Goat Shooting!

[thenonconformistcurmudgeon]

Epilogue

“When it comes to the past, we all write fiction.” Stephen King.

A life is made up of a compendium of stories. What is real and what is fantasy can be hard to distinguish and does it really matter?  John became unsure of what was actually true or not. So many stories seemed so distant in the past that it was hard for John to believe he actually lived them.    Most of the sting of past difficulties had been extinguished so he could treat them as if someone else lived them. He was able to tell the stories with poignant depth but he experienced a degree of emotional distance from them, as they were seemingly so long ago. I suppose it is called healing.

Amusing events actually get better with time and likely exaggerated. Memories become warped by the hourglass and we reinterpret and attach emotions to the reminiscence from the person who we have become and less so from who we were when events took place. Rememberances are not photographic.  Recollections and the self are malleable. John loved telling a funny tale, knew the exact spots to emphasize, and enjoyed nothing more than tickling a funny bone.  

John always had an active fantasy life. Fantasy was a diversion from reality, his own life or the sad state of the modern but still primitive human culture. Thousands of years ago, barbaric humans needed some basic rules. Thus, the ten commandments. Don’t kill, steal, lie, covet.  There are also the 7 deadly sins. Lust, greed, gluttony, sloth, wrath, envy, and pride. John didn’t feel humanity had come too far in the passing of mellinneums as basic rules of civility are routinely ignored.

What was real or not in John’s life? Growing up with a mentally ill parent, having an addiction to extra gluten, his attachment to the bongos, pitching a no hitter in little league, slipping without falling, game show producer, time travelling with Pythagoras and Vasco Da Gama, being unable to do a wink and a nod correctly, writing a German circus for information on a head spinning act he saw on Sullivan from the 1960’s, accidently lighting himself on fire, having a small mouth but a proportionally large tongue, throwing the towel in the ring too soon as a cornerman for a boxer, having a bit part in a movie as a mourner with an open casket and his only line being “he looks good”,  an ambivalent fan of Ethel Merman, promoting the return of quicksand scenes in film and television, a period of near total paralysis, having tiny ear canals, an addiction to smoking jackets, his unbridled admiration for the inventor of wheeled luggage, having once grown mutton chops with a pencil thin moustache, his heartbreak for never having visited the pigeon museum in Oklahoma or the museum of barbed wire in Kansas, his failed research for who was the inventor of the term Be Kind-Rewind on VHS rental tapes, or his supposed expertise on using the horizontal and vertical hold knobs on old TVs. Although he would be the first to tell you that a lot of people claimed they were good with the vertical and horizontal hold but that they tended to over rate their abilities.

John’s death occurred quietly at his home in his easy chair, contented after he performed a splashy and rousing plate spinning novelty act routine in a Vegas lounge. Although he talked a good game of existential angst, he was actually in tune with the life he led and had few regrets. Near the end, he accepted that it was OK to be ordinary and a legacy was a silly concept.  Life was simply preposterous.  Like others before and after him, he lived, loved, lied, lauded, lamented, lusted, laughed, learned, lavished, looked, listened, latched on, loafed, luxuriated, and lollygagged as well as numerous other action words beginning with L and other letters of the alphabet.

[thenonconformistcurmudgeon]

Won’t You Be My Neighbor

It takes forever in Maine for Spring to come.  When you can finally take a walk sometime in April on a day when you aren’t bundled up in a down coat, gloves and knit hat, you are incredibly grateful.  Feeling the warmth on your face on a sunny day with the temperature in just the 50’s is glorious.  I was out walking in my over 55 community on such a bright day feeling like the winter was easing and warmth would return, when I saw down the lane a nemesis. He wasn’t really an adversary but more of a nuisance. In fact, he seemed to like me and always wanted to chat me up. Carl was a nice enough guy but he wanted to talk to you or at you incessantly. He was poor at reading boundaries to when to end a conversation. It is hard to give him the brush off as he is either lonely or bored in retirement.

As I see him coming, I’m thinking how I can give him a bit of a cold shoulder without being obvious. I’ll bring up the weather briefly and simply move on. Here we go.  I say, “beautiful day isn’t it”.  Carl says, “yes, very nice, but we can use the rain”.  I can say yes and simply move on but my oppositional nature kicks in.  I know I will regret it but apparently couldn’t help myself. I say, “you know, I can do without the rain. I don’t like the rain.  First of all, it is wet, it is cloudy when raining, unless it is a sun shower and it prevents me from being outside, doing stuff I like, and windshield wipers are annoying.”

I knew this would set him off as he does not understand my humor, and he starts going on and on about all the ways the rain is important like I’m some kind of idiot, educating me on the connection between rain and living organisms. While he’s yapping, I’m thinking why is it always “we need the rain”, as the word “the” is unnecessary. It should simply be “we need rain”. People always put the word “the” in the sentence as if by adding “the” it magnifies the importance of rain as in “the rain”. The word “the” is already the most used word in the English language.  I see no reason to add to this distinction by adding it to rain.  I already can’t figure out why the NYC borough of The Bronx has The in front of it.

I see another of my lost soul neighbors is approaching, neckerchief man. He almost always wears the neckerchief.  I could understand a man wearing it if you have a scar or large oozing pustules but I have seen his neck and it there is nothing unusual about it. The neckerchief seems like an odd accessory for a man to me. It is fine for sailors, cowboys, farmers, and villains but to choose it as an everyday adornment seems curious to me.

As neckerchief approaches, I’m thinking about how I can leave these two together and exit gracefully. Neckerchief plays his role by accident to perfection as he approaches, he says, “what a spectacular day”.  As expected, Carl chimes in with “yes, but we need the rain”.  I then jump in and say, “you know, sometimes we get too much rain”. This has the planned effect as Carl takes over talking about growing up in Johnstown Pa. and the history of the floods which I have been subject to twice before. I then go to make my exit leaving poor neckerchief the subject of Carl’s overtalkativeness by saying, I need to finish my walk before I go out and buy some new dungarees.

This too has its intended consequences as the anachronistic term dungarees is generally no longer used, having been replaced by jeans a long time ago. Their stunned look was typical to what I usually encounter when using the word dungarees instead of jeans and simply walk away. I enjoy using terms such as dungarees or undertaker that no one uses anymore. It is a connection to my own past that I enjoy keeping alive and further legitimizes my self-conception and aggrandizement of non-conformity.

[thenonconformistcurmudgeon]

In A Galaxy, Far, Far Away

I grew up in the 60’s and 70’s.  It was a time of societal tumult, assassinations, Vietnam, protest marches, long hair, bad fashion choices, emerging gay rights, women’s liberation, the civil rights movements, garbage strikes, teacher strikes, violence, racism, graffiti, and no eye contact in the NY subway.  I observed societal turbulence but also lived with maelstrom in the home and in my spirit.     

My mother had a mental illness, now known as a behavior health disorder or brain disease. All of these terms seem so vague and empty. She had hallucinations and delusions. The voices told her things to be wary of, plots against her and her family. She received special messages from the radio from disc jockeys on WNEW AM, a station that played crooners like Sinatra, Martin, Como, Davis.  The rat pack of the sixties became incorporated into her delusions.  Sinatra was supposed to give her a million dollars but she did something wrong and the rat pack would then give the money to her sister instead.  The money appeared to go up with inflation, eventually cresting at 40 million. 

I had to listen to this lunacy near daily when she was ill.  We lived in a small home and until a much older brother moved out, I had to sleep in my parent’s bedroom for many years and would listen in the middle of the night while my father desperately tried to use logic to convince my mother of the fallacy of her ideas.  Sometimes she would be up all night, acting as a bandleader to music she only heard. 

When I would go visit my grandparents, my mother would tell me not to eat anything because it might be poisoned.  I ate anyway, mostly knowing the food was not poisoned but having a bit of lingering doubt.  My mother would check my hairline when I came back, fearing some type of poison was put in the hair to make my hair fall out.  She loved my hair and so did I.

She would write letters to the disc jockeys, William B. Williams and Julius DeRosa, names I will always remember, to assist in her getting her rightful due from the rat pack and asked me to mail the letters.  Sometimes I would, sometimes I ripped them up.  It didn’t seem to matter one way or the other.

I never knew what I would experience when I returned home from school and could not bring friends home when she was ill as she was an embarrassment.  There was an ornamental carving over the front door and I thought it showed the house was cursed.  If I could take it off, perhaps in a way like the story of the blood over the door in the Passover story, God would pass over this house and the curse would be lifted.

There was a period of time when she used alcohol to control the hallucinations and simply knock herself out.  When my mother was falling down drunk, my father would be enraged when he returned home from work and there would be a big scene that would play out the same way in which the bottle of alcohol would have to be found and the remaining contents spilled out.  Sometimes I took it upon myself to find it, spill it out, and tell my father on his return home in order to avoid the loud tumultuous drama.  Sometimes, I would take care of the bottle but also sober my mother up, make dinner for the family, and pull it off so that my father never knew she had been drunk.  Difficult choices made on the spot, a skill that can be useful but also a very lonely one.

There were episodes of high drama.  My mother had to be hospitalized against her will numerously.  The police would be called to literally take her away.  I remember hearing the walkie talkies and the sounds of the cops while I was in bed, and those sounds have reverberated for the rest of my life.  Although extremely disturbed one time, she made an excuse to the cops to see me.  She said she had to lay out my clothes for my day but I was too old for needing that.  It was a way for her to kiss me goodbye as she knew it would be a long time before she would see me again.  I pretended to be asleep while she kissed me and she said her goodbye’s.  She knew I wasn’t really asleep.  I thought if I pretended to be asleep, maybe I’d actually be asleep and then when awoke, none of the events would have happened, but they did.

There was the time she nearly starved to death because she thought the food was poisoned.  My father, a brother and I went to visit her in a state hospital and she still hadn’t eaten.  The state hospital in the 60’s or early 70’s was as frightening as you would expect it to be.  Dark, massive open space with little furniture with Zombie people pacing, some clutching dolls, none of who would converse with each other.  Staff were nowhere to be seen in this massive room.  We were sitting at a table and I started to cry seeing my mother desiccated and shriveled up to nothing.  My father stated, “see he loves you, show him you love him and eat”.  Soon after she did. 

My mother did love me and I her.  When she was well, she was loving and compassionate.  One time in Junior High I was overwhelmed during a Christmas break for failing to work on my homework till close to the end of the vacation and started to cry.  She hugged me and said to simply take it one class at a time.  The advice was good but the hug was what was most effective. 

The times of quiescence varied.  At some point, she would stop taking her medication.  At times, I tried to supervise her taking the medication and would catch her cheeking them.  I also accompanied her as a teen to a storefront clinic and tried to convince the doctor to put her on long-acting injections as I knew she would stop taking the oral medication at some point but my pleas were to no avail.  Although frustrated and angry with my mother for stopping the medication, I also understood her unwillingness.  It often caused weight gain.  Every pill was a reminder to her of a disease she denied having and was a societal stigma.  I also understood that parts of the psychosis may at times have been better than reality, as a world filled with involvement with Hollywood elite was better than her drab existence of a housewife. 

I guess I learned many useful skills through the survival of the madness.  When later in life paralyzed from a neurological illness, I borrowed some courage from my younger self to believe I could survive my medical crisis. Having faced crises alone as a child and teen, I learned to deal with what life dealt me later on oftentimes by myself.   Due to a childhood habit of having to be a lone adult, it is now only somewhat reluctantly that I can let someone inside and that I don’t have to solve all dilemmas by myself. 

One time returning from college on a break, she greeted me at the door and said loudly and with force, “Brian, you are going to lose your hair, your nose is going to grow, and penis is going to shrink.  I simply laughed and said,” It’s good to see you too ma”. 

Despite it all, our bond of mutual love was never broken.  

[thenonconformistcurmudgeon]

Miss Peggy Lee

It does not take much for me to start a new obsession. The latest is Miss Peggy Lee, the old jazz/pop singer from long ago. You know the “Fever” singer. “You give me fever”. “Chicks were born to give you fever, Be it Fahrenheit or centigrade”. 

My preoccupation begins after my wife sends me a video clip of Miss Peggy singing “It’s a good day” from 1946.  She knew I would like it but probably didn’t know to what extent. A very upbeat swinging tune. “and it’s a good day for payin’ your bills, cause it’s a good day for curin’ your ills, so take a deep breath and throw away the pills, ‘Cause it’s a good day from morning ‘till night”.  Youthful with a 40’s curly hairdo and a great outfit and sung with attitude. I was enthralled.

Now I remember Miss Peggy when she was much older, singing on variety shows like Sullivan and my memory was that she was always introduced as Miss Peggy Lee with the Miss having to be there.  I remember when I was a kid finding it odd that she was introduced this way when others were not. Other than that, I had no interest when she performed, feeling she was just an old timer, out of step with the current culture.  I probably just tuned her out, went to the bathroom, or got something to eat unless the vertical or horizontal hold needed fixing.

It's amazing how time can change one’s perspective. I now love her voice and songs and have been playing them over and over. Smoky jazz tunes.  Of course, I had to research her life and music.  She was a singer songwriter which was rare back in the day and wrote 270 songs including the songs in Disney’s Lady and the Tramp and voiced 4 characters in the movie. She basically produced her own stage shows, choreographed every movement, eye brow raise, curling lip, crooked smile, and was in charge of the lighting and even designed some of her performance outfits. She performed for 65 years, at the end while in a wheelchair. Well, it turns out my memory was correct.  She insisted on being introduced as Miss Peggy Lee because she felt it was a sign of respect. I am glad that my memory was accurate but even more satisfied knowing that I noticed peculiarities as a kid.

She grew up in nowheresville North Dakota.  Born in 1920, she was a farm girl. She was abused by a stepmother. She didn’t live where there were movie theatres and likely relied on the radio to dream big for herself.  Benny Goodman discovered her singing on the radio when she was 14. 

The Muppet Miss Piggy was originally called Miss Piggy Lee and the designer was also from North Dakota and modeled her after Peggy.  Miss Piggy is a temperamental diva superstar personality and I guess although our hero came from humble beginnings was a temperamental artist. From a 2002 article in the Observer by Rex Reed: “Miss Peggy Lee, the singing icon who kept her public perking, was often a completely different person in private. Friends and musicians describe her as quirky, obsessive, demanding, stubborn, illogical, eccentric, driven by anger, tortured by a lack of love and strange to the point of madness. Of her four marriages that ended bitterly, she said the one to handsome movie star Dewey Martin was punctuated by so much abusive violence that she took to wearing a football helmet to the dinner table. Robert Richards, the noted artist and illustrator, once entered a disastrous business partnership with “Miss Peg” that required him to live in her home in Beverly Hills for a six-month period that is best described as an exotic season in purgatory. “She rarely left her bedroom, which was as cold as a meat locker. You would attend a business meeting at the foot of her bed. Your teeth would be chattering and she would be covered with feathers under a mountain of blankets. She was up all night, writing notes to herself with an assortment of pens and colored markers. Then she would wake at noon, or mid-afternoon, surrounded by piles of crushed papers on the bed–thoughts, musings, pieces of terrible song lyrics, poems, memos to ‘Send to Frank!’”.

Is that all there is? Is that all there is? If that's all there is my friends, then let's keep dancing Let's break out the booze and have a ball If that's all there is

In Wimbledon ND, population 180, the high school home of Miss Peggy Lee was turned into a  World Renown combination museum of Peggy and a Depot Transportation Museum as the downstairs part of the house was the depot that her father worked at and they lived above. The museum is free but there are no regular hours and you have to call ahead for a tour appointment. I guess they don’t get much foot traffic in Wimbledon, ND. However, on her birthday, May 26th each year, the museum is open for 3 hours and you are invited for cake, coffee and conversation. In town, there is only a singular café which is located in the grocery store, open only 11:30-1:00, Monday through Friday, serving mostly fried food.  Can’t beat the prices, $7.99 for the fish basket with fries, cheeseburger deluxe for $8.50. I’d be sure to time my visit to also hit up the café. This definitely goes on the bucket list with the Pigeon Museum in Oklahoma City and Museum of Barbed Wire in Kansas.

Hey, big spender! Hey, big spender! Hey, big spender Spend a little time with me Spend a little time with me Spend a little time with me.

[thenonconformistcurmudgeon]

Evanescence

A morning ritual of logging on the computer, checking emails, sports scores, social media and reading the local and international news. Part of the ritual is to check out obituaries as I have been involved in many lives over the years professionally and somewhat personally to see who I know that might have died. This morning, there was a hit. A colleague who was a good friend when I worked with her more than 20 years ago.  Although I have not seen her in 10 years and not spent appreciable time with her for over 20, she still was someone I admired, felt a kinship to, and a comrade in which we shared our pains, joys, conundrums, and interiors.

The obit was well written and captured her life as best as one can in 450 words. 450 words. Is that what a life comes down to? She was one of the good ones. A renaissance woman who was well grounded, connected to others through emotional intelligence. A kind and gentle person who lived through a number of tragedies, hard times, and typical emotional and physical pains of living. I was enriched by her essence. Not all of that was captured in the 450 words.  She died on her 75th birthday. Knowing her as I do, she would have found some deep meaning travelling in this full circle.

I immediately felt deep sadness but soon after found myself visiting my usual websites. Some brief moments of reflection followed by moving on. 450 words is more time than I gave it. I know I will circle back to thoughts of her today and probably in the next few days but then it will simply float away from my thoughts. I guess that is a good thing as no one should be stuck with sadness over the ones that have been lost but the sadness and grief seems as fleeting as life itself. Perhaps my reaction makes sense after all. Ephemeral as breath and sentience.

Bangor Daily News publishes obituaries and other memorial notices. Read recent and archived death notices online. <meta property=

[thenonconformistcurmudgeon]

The Long and Short of It

Although he liked to imagine that he was a noteworthy character, in the end he considered himself an ordinary man who lived an ordinary life.  Ordinary in the sense that he lived and died like billions before him, leaving no legacy behind, and soon would be forgotten in a generation or two.  Like others before and after him, he lived, loved, lied, lauded, lamented, lusted, laughed, learned, lavished, looked, listened, latched on, loafed, luxuriated, and lollygagged as well as numerous other action words beginning with L and other letters of the alphabet.

In his later years, as he often thought about mortality, he became obsessed with leaving something in his wake for after he was dead. Something that acknowledged that he lived a life, some sort of remembrance. A legacy of sorts but not in the traditional sense.  He lived his life fairly anonymously and preferred privacy but he found it disturbing that someone could exist for 70-80 years and then vanish from existence as if they were never even alive. In some ways, he wished to be known more when he was dead than alive.

Regarding a legacy, he was not interested in fame, heroism, a public persona, or having moved humanity in a new direction.  If he were to have any type of concrete heritage, it would be more in line with General Ambrose Burnside whose facial hair style led to the term sideburns. He was so taken with the origin of this term, he attempted to develop his own unique facial hair style and thought if it caught on, it may be named after him.  His idea was to combine a pencil thin moustache with mutton chops, a look that you never see. However, he did not have the natural ability for the mutton chops and the bonsai trimming of the pencil thin was tedious. He quickly gave up on the idea of the pencil chops or mutton thin as possible monikers but it didn’t stop him from encouraging other men to give it a try. It seemed the facial hair specialty did a lot for the collective human consciousness for Fu Manchu, Dali, Van Dyke, and Mr. Handlebar.

He enjoyed watching old movies to better understand history, style, language, relationships and prior mores. He would look up the history and background of the players. Some were very famous in the 1920’s and 1930’s but are now largely forgotten.  How would he ever be remembered if even famous people who are on film can be forsaken. He especially enjoyed finding what he could about the bit players. For instance, Dewey Robinson was in 275 films with parts such as bartender, gambler at craps table, drunk, pipe smoking detective, mug, and was even a bouncer at Ricks Café in Casablanca. He wanted to know if Dewey was happy with his career of bit parts, some non-speaking, or did Dewey yearn for more. Was Dewey able to support himself and any family as an actor or did he have to do other work as well. Not likely to ever know. Despite the internet, there remains so many unknowns in a life.

Without a belief in a supreme being, he had great difficulties coming to grips with the lack of purpose and meaning to life. He would have an existential crisis at the drop of a hat. When walking in a mall or in a grocery store, he felt disconnected to most of human history be it hunting, gathering, farming, homesteading and basic hand to mouth survival. For most of history, people didn’t walk around a store with a list, a cart, and trying to decide which of 23 shampoos to choose on a supermarket shelf with differing ingredients, brands, sizes, hair types, and price comparison by ounce. Although never doubting his non-believer ways, if he turned out wrong, he felt this was a sure-fire example that it was a cruel deity.

Tenth grade English class assignment was a Tale of Two Cities. He identified with Sidney Carton but not for “It’s a far, far better thing that I do, then I ever done” heroic sacrifice.  Sidney was a lost soul, without meaning and purpose to his existence, cynical and empty. Certainly, something a teenager could connect to.  Unlike Sydney, who spent much time in a drunken stupor and had to find purpose through a way too close of a shave, he found solace, meaning and purpose through connection, friendship, laughter, and looking at human foibles, conundrums, and conformities with absurdism.

Although he would hate trite expressions throughout his lifetime, he was comfortable with the journey, albeit the destination may also be important. Others had trouble understanding his comfort with melancholy, isolation, and alienation. For they were only temporary states he allowed himself to bathe in, interspersed and balanced by thoughts of preposterous farce. To feel deeply, positive or negative, is when he felt most connected to himself, others, and human existence. Depth of emotion was perhaps his nirvana.

Up to now, we haven’t given him a name. To keep his anonymity, we will simply call him John.  I believe he would like that, like in John Q. Public or John Doe. He felt we all end up dead on arrival, anonymous to the undertaker.

It wasn’t that he wanted to be remembered for some great gift he gave to humanity but wished his thoughts, emotions, way of thinking, and sideways views could live on. He took up writing a blog but he only allowed a few people to have access to it or know of its existence. Soon before his death he changed the settings on the blog from private to public and his left brain and gut emotions could endure.  It gave him a purpose and satisfied his longings for a legacy.  

[thenonconformistcurmudgeon]

Self-Realization

Insight is discomforting when you learn something negative about yourself.  One day you realize you harbor deep unexplained prejudices. Do you accept your human frailty as is, or work to overcome it? Is it the measure of a person their strivings to overcome their boorish shortcomings?

For example, I ran into a neighbor the other day who likes to sport a neckerchief.  I don’t know why, but I have unfavorable associations to a fellow who wears a neckerchief.  Ok, call me a philistine but it seems like a very odd accessory for a man.  It is fine for sailors, cowboys, and farmers but to choose it as an everyday adornment seems curious to me.  I could also understand it if you have a scar or pus seeping out of your neck or if you have a cold with a runny nose. I have not been known as a connoisseur of high fashion, but I don’t think I am alone in the distaste for this fashion choice.

There is a sure-fire litmus test for neckerchief animosity. You’re at a party with mostly strangers.  There is a guy wearing a neckerchief.  Do you approach the guy wearing the neckerchief to start up a conversation or tend to avoid the guy?  I think I know the answer for most of you.  Neckerchief bias is rampant but few are willing to admit or talk about it. Neckerchief discrimination is pervasive in society.

Wow, I feel temporarily much better about myself knowing I am not alone but then realizing I am simply one of the herd is also disconcerting. Who knew that the neckerchief was fraught with such internal befuddlement.  Another reason to despise the neckerchief, nothing but a rabbit hole of inner torment.

[thenonconformistcurmudgeon]

Ramblings

It has been seven and a half years since I started the blog.  What have I accomplished? Have I grown as a person in that time, grown as a writer? Not much is my answer.  I see in my first post, I was searching for a hobby, still not found. I did save my small and ever dwindling readership from viewing my story on the Eunuch Social Club so count yourself lucky. Otherwise, have not edited much from the rantings and ramblings.  I am proud that it didn’t turn out to be a chicken soup for the soul type of stories, full of inspiration and motivation. Not exactly my style.

My philosophical tome on alienation, loneliness, and existential angst has yet to be written. Likely to remain so, as not as deep of a thinker or as good a writer as I wish to be. No Paddy Chayefsky. Certainly, as I age, turn to nostalgia for culture during my own and historical prior lifetimes. Memory is far from photographic, as we reinterpret and attach emotions to the memory from the person who we have become and less so from who we were when events took place. Memories and the self are malleable, thank goodness.

The pandemic and aging have created a life moving in slow motion. Sometimes it is splendid, other times bored to no end. I’m not sure what I am looking for at this moment in time so perhaps won’t know if I find it. For me, humanity exists in a purposeless chaotic universe. Life as absurd. Although it is very hard to stay in a place of internal absurdity and calmness when fighting over the phone with the doctor’s office or health insurer about the errors on the bill.

Like this post, the end has yet to be written. There are no particular dreams or desires for my upcoming years. I have enjoyed travel in the past but there is no particular place I wish to go. Time travel is another matter. Dualities exist everywhere.  It can seem like such a waste of time to go to the toilet but then again, there is nothing like a good ….. 

“To thine own self be true” came from a speech from a Shakespearean character, Polonius. Polonius apparently was a character seen as disreputable, a bore, pompous, and a hypocritical empty vessel. The other characters on the stage are not listening to him and in fact are mocking him behind his back. Hundreds of years later, it is oft quoted. Especially in context, but also out of context, genius.  

I guess I do have one goal.  To approach thought, people, history, in an offbeat way. The title of the blog, the non-conformist curmudgeon retains meaning for me. Although I talk big about the absurdity of life, a part of me aspires to have a legacy of uniqueness. I wish to stick out in some way and being an automaton is a very frightening outcome. The Kinks song, “I’m not like everybody else” has always been a favorite as being like every one else is a repulsive thought. Some degree of eccentricity preferred. Some synonyms for curmudgeon are bellyacher, complainer, growler, grump, and sourpuss. Also, a legacy I aspire to. No one has referred to me as “downright neighborly” and I hope it stays that way. Toxic Positivity not my bailiwick. I suppose my aspirations are internal. I’m good with that?

[thenonconformistcurmudgeon]

You Can Call Me Eddie

I’m thinking about a new hobby. The bongos. Who doesn’t love the bongos? Although I doubt I have any sense of rhythm, musicality, or perhaps the finger dexterity for the bongos, I think it might be fun and cool. A single conga would also be nice, the sit-down kind, not the Ricky Ricardo carrying with a strap type. However, I have no cultural associations to the Conga, whereas the Bongos have the beatnik affiliation.

You don’t see many beatniks anymore.  Rejecting conformity and consumerism of America can use a comeback.  Long hair, goatee, black turtleneck, dark sunglasses, beret, sandals, and a colorful hip language of their own. “Can you dig it? Groovy daddy-o. He hauled ass before stabling the iron. That square with the icck was eye-balling a doll. Cool cat is on the horn.  That cube is sure off the cob. My used to be is working in varicose alley. The gin mill cowboy is dixie fried. Rent is half a yard, lets jungle up elsewhere”.

I imagine being a hep-cat playing the bongos in a low-lit jazz club. Although not a big fan of turtlenecks, I’d make the sacrifice.  As the bongo guy is traditionally a man of few words, I’d give an occasional “dig it man”, or “focus your audio”.

As the bongos can easily be carried around, I can see myself playing for my neighbors, in a park, and on the back patio in the condo complex. Easy to bring joy to all around you.  Or annoy the loudmouthed neighbor who has had an ongoing daily construction project for 4 months running.

Since there is more than a high probability that I will be bad at the bongos, I'm thinking performance art where you don't have to be good.  

Now the bongos and beatniks of the 1950's were non-conformists.  In my performance piece, I'm thinking of going in the opposite direction. Play the bongos looking like a suburban.  Crew cut, bow tie, Kiss the cook apron, white button down, penny loafers, ”I like Ike” button on shirt, and during the piece put on a gas mask and crawl under a desk for the full 1950's authenticity. 

If not successful, the cymbals are definitely entertaining too!

[thenonconformistcurmudgeon]

Going Viral

During the Viet Nam war, a U.S. Major was supposed to have said something to the effect of “We have to destroy the village in order to save it”.  The logic had always escaped me until recently.

On a good day, I have been known to say, 98-99% of the human population has to die so that humanity can start over again. I took the time today and did the calculations and that would actually leave too many people alive.  99.99% perhaps. 

Although I like many individuals, make that at least a few individuals, I despise our species. The historical record is complete with atrocities, slavery, war, tribalism, power, greed and exerting control over one another. Although there has always been music and art, savagery has ruled the day.  Our legacies are destroying the natural world, DDT, reality TV, consumerism, and nuclear capability.

Dystopian and science fiction novels and films are attractive because deep down we know the revealing truths of humanity’s ghastly nature. In fiction, we attack the aliens who mean us no harm or bring us gifts to save our society. We may wipe out the aliens or they leave disgusted with our ways. Post apocalyptic fiction sometimes has a more hopeful ending. A rebirth of sorts, having learned lessons and a promise to be a better species in the future but there is no reason to think humanity would be any better the second time around. It seems to be in our nature for some to exert power and control over others, hearts full of hostility and avarice.  

On a not so good day, I think 100% has to go, human species extinction, and then if in millions of years, an animal species evolves again to be human-like, perhaps it would be better to each other and to nature. Mother nature, bring on that virus to wipe us all out in order to save us.

[thenonconformistcurmudgeon]

The Victory Clasp

I am emotionally bereft and trembling with anxiety.  Distraught and on the verge of panic. A bored sourpuss with an irritable disposition.  A… you get the idea.  How did this happen? Well, I am in the midst of a 48-hour internet outage.  Or is it an outrage?  What is a digital addict to do?  Withdrawal symptoms include picking up the I-Pad every few minutes as if it was an involuntary tic.  What am I to do with my time without checking the hourly weather forecast every hour or two.  I can’t see what checks have been cashed on my bank accounts or the Dow Jones status throughout the day.  I can’t look up the lack of comments on my Facebook posts.  Looking at rabbits, moose, and beavers doing funny beaver things at the Zoo in Japan on Instagram is not available.  My Wordle streak will end.  My research on the Straw Hat Riot of 1922 will be halted.  I will have only seen 8 articles posted on the benefits of wall slides for the elderly this week. What if someone posted a new cultural perspective on the deaths of Ben Cartwright’s 3 wives and I can’t immediately read it and comment?  A video of all of TV Batman’s nemesis’ unavailable.  I can’t check to see if some old celebrity is dead or alive.  What sociopolitical catastrophe occurred in today’s news?  No oddball performances on Ed Sullivan to peruse.  No deleting 25 Spam e-mails every few hours, checking that there aren’t any real ones amongst the ones on the failed UPS delivery, you’ve won a tractor and African manhood.  

I was 24 hours into the outage and beginning to gain some control over the sweating, hot flashes, cold sweats, sleep disturbance, and general unease, when a true internet outage crisis flared up.  Maybe it was the internet withdrawal fever I was running but for some inexplicable reason, I was thinking about the old victory celebration of clasping one’s hands together over the left side of the head and shaking the clasped hands 2 or 3 times and then moving to the right side over the head and shaking on that side.  Never shaking in the middle.  There was so much I wanted to know about this tradition.  Why did it seemingly go out of favor?  You really don’t see anyone do it anymore.  Does the movement have a name?  It seemed like it was always a solo celebration, maybe two people at most.  I don’t recall seeing a group of people or a team doing it. Was it two or three shakes on a side and then did you repeat it one more time left and right again? What was the socially acceptable number of shakes and repeats? So much to know and investigate and no access to find out.

As I am right handed, I assumed you would start the process on the left side but I suppose lefties could start on the right.  I hear the critics out there call me a handest, or is it a handididst, or am I committing handism.  My last post on henchman provoked hate mail as I failed to call them henchpeople.  By the way, not a word.  To all the henchman and minions, I offended, and now southpaws, mea culpa.

Deep breathing, mindfulness, listening to the loons, walking in the woods and repeating to oneself only 24 hours before the internet returns. I can do this.  Saying it is easier than reality. Forced internet detox is not working.  There are no adrenaline rushes in the analog life. I succumb quickly to the need for over-stimulation and put on a 2 hour best of Ethel Merman CD. 

An internet junkie yearning for a fix.  Years of mainlining constant visual stimuli, speedy brain processing, going from one website to another, clicking here, there and everywhere, multi-tasking, constant mind pulsations.  Quiescence no longer a known.  Is there any treatment or rehab or at least a temporary fix to fill the time?  Work the heavy bag, do some road work, jump rope until exhaustion? Not exactly my style. What about a carbohydrate and sugar fix?  Eat as many crullers as humanely possible to distract from the internet cravings?  Possible, but here are some better ideas.  Come up with a system to successfully play the ponies.  Go to public parks, jump on a soapbox and proselytize about the 4 star-4-bomb movie review system.  Practice winking and nodding.  Find an old TV and work on the horizontal and vertical knobs and try to finally tame the contrast.  I know, put on the smoking jacket and indulge in heavy gluten consumption.  Think about all the situations you can appropriately yell, "Baby needs a new pair of shoes". A sure fire pleaser is writing down a list of all the back to school supplies needed in 4th grade.  Imagine the good life with a pencil thin moustache and mutton chops.  Yes, I am feeling much better now. I can do this.  Victory is mine.  Hands over head on the left, 3 shakes, move them to the right of the head, 3 shakes, repeat left and right 10 times.

[thenonconformistcurmudgeon]

The Henchman

Our story takes place in a vocational office with an employment specialist and a client. A lonely man is travelling down a road of desperation trying to find a new direction.

ES: Welcome Joe, I have been reviewing your resume. Are you looking for employment in a similar field?

Joe: Not at all.  I wish to go in a totally new direction. I am tired of the old grind. I want to get out of the business.

ES: I see. To be honest with you Joe, its not going to be easy to switch careers at this point. You seem well entrenched as a Henchman. Although I wouldn’t exactly say you have been successful at it, as there have been frequent short-term employments and there appears to be somewhat of a downward drift in positions over time.

Joe: I started out as a number one henchman but my last position was a number 7 henchman.  That’s why I need a change, I’m going nowhere fast.

ES: Tell me about what happened in some of the jobs?

Joe: Well, I was an assistant to Mr. Freeze but after a few days my limbs became too cold.  Guess I have a touch of Reynaud’s and I had to quit. I got fired by The Joker as I didn’t laugh at one of his wisecracks.  I was a lackey for King Tut but I was embarrassed by the outfit so walked out.  Besides, working in Gotham I got my nose broken by Robin 4 times, talk about embarrassing. You know Pow, Bam, Wham. Holy shnozzola. I was working for Egghead as a Henchman number 7 which is as low as you could possibly get.  The job was mostly looking tough while answering the door.  He fired me after I mistakenly tipped the delivery boy.

ES: Anything good come out of these jobs?

Joe: Well, I got to meet a nice girl at the henchman-minions’ mixers.  She was one of Cat Woman’s hanger-on.  However, it didn’t last long as fluffy went back crawling on all fours to her boss.

ES: Do you think you can get at least one good reference from one of your bosses?

Joe: A reference! You got to be kidding.  There were no benefits.  No PTO time, no 401K, on call 24/7, no dry-cleaning allowance for the uniform, simply cash and carry.  They aren’t in the business of giving out references.

ES: 24/7.  You must have had good punctuality and loyalty to work as a henchman.  The mob is always looking for some new knuckle draggers to put on the payroll.

Joe.  I did work for a mob boss once but instead of breaking knees, I got mine broken.  Boss wanted me to put down a bet with his bookie on a sure thing longshot. Of course, it came in 40 to 1.  I was late placing the bet as an underboss asked me to pick him up some coffee.

ES: Lets see, here is an opening for a mad scientist subordinate.  Job description says looking for an Igor or Renfield type.  What do you think Joe?

Joe: Don’t think that’s for me. I got a bad back and those jobs usually require gravedigging.

ES:  Can you do heavy lifting at all Joe?

Joe:  I can pick up a chair or a broken bottle to crash over a nemesis head.

ES:  How are you getting by now?

Joe: I make a few bucks hanging around downtown and giving information to the coppers.  You know, a stool pigeon but it is dangerous work.

ES:  What ideas do you have Joe?

Joe: As I said, a totally new direction.  I’d like to break out of the old rut and find something a bit more fulfilling. How about a job as a sidekick?

ES: You know Joe, sidekicks need strong verbal skills for witty repartee.  I don’t see anything on your resume that would suggest that is a strength of yours.

Joe:  Yes, verbal skills not essential in henchman profession. Most of what a henchman says is “yes boss” or “ok boss”, “on it boss”.  There is also not a lot of conversation between the henchmen.  It’s a pretty quiet bunch.  Its not like I learned a lot of people skills on the job. I’d still like to give the sidekick a go.

ES: Ok, lets practice. See if you can make the grade. Let’s see if you can come up with some entertaining retorts.  Pretend I’m the hero.

I say “Good grammar is essential”.

Joe: um, um, um. “May the force be with You”.   No that’s no good. How about, “you talking to me?”.  That’s not bad. Or “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn”.  Or “elementary, my dear Watson". Or “Toto, I have a feeling we are not in Kansas anymore”.  Or “You’ve got to ask yourself a question, Do I feel lucky? Well, do you punk?”.  Or “you don’t understand, I coulda had class, I coulda been a contender, I could’ve been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am”, or “Fasten your seatbelts, its going to be a bumpy ride” or “what we’ve got here is a failure to communicate”, or “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers” or “Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship”, or “forget it Jake, its Chinatown”.

ES: Pretty clever quips, you might be able to be a sidekick after all.

Joe: Better yet, I break into song.

Why do birds suddenly appear Every time you are near? Just like me, they long to be Close to you

ES: You may be onto something.

Joe: That is why all the girls in town Follow you all around Just like me, they long to be Close to you

ES: By George, I think you got it. A singing sidekick would be a sensation.

Joe:

Wa, close to you Wa, close to you Ha, close to you La, close to you

Wa, close to you Wa, close to you Ha, close to you

[thenonconformistcurmudgeon]

The Sidekick

Another medical procedure.  They seem to come with some regularity with age. Whether it is you or your partner, one never gets fully used to one of you being wheeled out on a table to be subsequently put under for an operation. Vital signs taken, review of current medications, reviewing the procedure, signing the consent forms, reviewing goals and possible outcomes, awakening from being knocked out and aftercare instructions.

This time it’s my turn. I tried all sorts of alternative therapies to avoid a medical procedure.  There was meditation, exercise, walking, Pilates, no gluten, high gluten, Rolfing, Reiki, massage, sleep deprivation, excessive sleeping, no TV, TV binging, no social media, acupuncture, acupressure, chiropractic, spinal manipulation, biofeedback, and colon hydrotherapy. None were effective.

My symptoms were worsening. Jack was becoming a dull boy.  No matter how hard I tried, the mind remained fuzzy. Ideas would come but dead end. I knew my condition had to be treated when the story on the literary/film sidekick had no legs.  You know, the second banana.  The Ethel Mertz’s of the world, Ed McMahon, Tattoo, Igor and your usual cast of characters such as Watson, the Supremes and Willow from Buffy. So many sidekicks. Robin, Kato, Emily from Devil wears Prada, Jimmy Olsen, Lois Lane, Moses’ brother Aaron, the Apostles.

Of course, some of my favorite sidekicks have fallen in to disfavor or forgotten about.  There was Bernardo from the TV show Zorro.  A great sidekick.  He played a deaf mute who was only actually mute so he could listen in to conversations when no one thought he could hear and then later relay information to Zorro.  There was the Cisco Kid’s sidekick Pancho. Pancho’s malapropisms left Cisco in a state of disbelief. The show ended with a joke and the characters saying, “Oh Cisco! Oh Pancho!” Dialogue that is hard to beat.

The sidekick often provides plucky comic relief, a foil to the hero, with a ceiling to what heroic actions they can perform.  The sidekick often has more personality, funnier, has greater character depth than the lead who is often stiff in his heroic form. The sidekick is usually a loyal best friend but there are a variety of types of sidekicks. The sidekick can be bumbling, a caretaker, a confidant, a conscience, cowardly, a girl Friday, hypercompetent, a butler, a kid sidekick, overly restless, or yes-man.

So here I am, awakening from anesthesia after receiving treatment for Writer’s Block. I think it may have been effective as ideas are coming full throttle.  Stories from the sidekick’s perspective.  Maybe a story of a sidekick convention where sidekicks meet and talk over how to break free from the hero or better yet how to revel in their sidekickism. Sidekicks share techniques on how not to outdo the hero but remain emotionally whole. A subgroup of sidekicks who discuss wearing tights and how to look attractive but not be sexier than the hero. A grief support group for sidekicks when the main character dies or decides to run away to the Caymans as the hero role devoured them. A story about sidekicks going out on strike for better pay and working conditions but the protest line withers as the heroes call for them to immediately appear by their side. Perhaps reality TV shows.  Sidekick survivor, Sidekick big brother or Keeping Up With the Sidekicks. Wisecracking sidekicks, a competition of sidekicks cracking wise. The host throws out typical dull hero dialogue and the sidekicks have to come up with witty retorts.

Perhaps a story about the sidekick’s romantic life and how their devotion to the hero meddles with their love life and spawns anguish. Could also focus on the emotional health of the sidekick’s partner, the sidekick’s sidekick.  Perhaps a story about the bad guy’s sidekicks, better known as henchman or minions. The henchman is notoriously a devout yes-man.  A story about a sidekick who converts to minion or a minion who converts to a sidekick. There is no bigger zealot than a convert. The minion’s emotional life is clearly a literary vacuum that needs to be filled. 

I overhear the medical team conferring. They say treatment was ineffective, we will have to do another procedure.  I say what do you mean?  These story ideas are visionary. They start to inject the knock out drops in my IV line.  Everyone is a critic.  They say count backwards from 100.  99, 98, 97…

[thenonconformistcurmudgeon]

KaffeeKvetch

Five friends of a certain age gather around for their weekly coffee klatch. Sol, Mel, Murray, Nat and Bernie.   Fortunately, or unfortunately, you can listen in.

Murray: Mel, what’s with the 5 O’clock shadow?

Mel: I am on strike from shaving, a silent protest against shaving cream makers.

Nat: and what are you protesting?

Mel: Did you ever notice then when you spritz the shaving cream in your hand, you almost always get too much.  You never get the right amount, very rarely too little.  If you get too little, then when you try to add more, you end up with way too much.

Bernie: Yes, it’s terrible, happens to me all the time, very annoying.  Now, I am having trouble even lifting the can.

Sol: Why is that?

Bernie: My arthritis in my right shoulder prevents me from lifting my arm over my head and now my left elbow hurts so much, I can’t lift a thing with my left arm. The doctor says I have golfer’s elbow. Guy is a quack.  Have you ever heard of such a thing.  I never touched a golf club in my life.

Sol: Not even chip and putt?

Bernie: Not even mini-golf.  Doctor prescribed me heavy dosing of Advil which gave me an ulcer. Now I’m downing Prilosec like candy. A quack I say.

Murray: You know I have a similar problem.  I got bunions on my right foot and gout on my left. 

Nat: You did look a little wobbly walking in. Sorry to hear of it. Anyone know where I can get a new suit? I have my nudnik nephew’s wedding coming up and Gertie says I can’t wear my old suit anymore.  I don’t think there is anything wrong with it myself, still fits like a glove after 40 years, although the last time I had it altered, the tailor said he couldn’t take out the pants anymore.  It has a few stains but they are nostalgic from other times I wore it.  For instance, the kugel stain from my Uncle Sam’s funeral.

Mel: I got a million-dollar idea. You know what they need to invent is a Teflon suit.  Food slide right off, stain proof. Never have to send it to the dry cleaners, wash and wear.

Murray: From your mouth to God’s ear. 

Sol: I think it’s called a suit of armor. 

Mel: They can go to the moon but can’t invent a Teflon suit? Of course, they could.  They just want you to buy a new suit every 40 years. What you would need is one of those instafluencers on Tic Tock Toe or what have you come out and say they want a Teflon suit.  It would be made lickety split.

Sol: Here are the crullers to go with the coffee boys.

Nat: Why do you always get crullers?  Can’t you once get some eclairs, some nice Danish, a strudel, even a scone. And you never even eat the crullers yourself.

Sol: I don’t like them but I like saying the word crullers when I go in the bakery and when I serve them here. It’s a fun word to say. Crullers.

Bernie: Mel, go easy on the crullers, slow down.  Remember we had to call EMS when they got stuck in your throat.  I don’t want to call Sadie again to tell her you are on your way to the hospital. Mel, you hear me?

Mel: I hear fine, although everyone mumbles nowadays, and it is time to get my ear wax flushed at the doctors. I just couldn’t answer with half a cruller in my mouth. You would think with my saggy jowls and with fewer teeth, there would be more room in my mouth for food but it doesn’t seem to work that way.

Murray: Nat, where are you going?

Nat: To relieve myself.

Murray: Make it snappy, there is a line forming.

Sol: Murray, why did you have to say make it snappy?  You know he has poor flow with that prostate the size of a golf ball, now the pressure will be on him.

Murray: Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.  Once in my life I wanted to say make it snappy.  Never had the opportunity before.  You know, in old movies, they say make it snappy to bellhops, counter people in the diner, etc. but now someone would take offense if you said it. I’d like to go into Starbucks just once and say make it snappy.

Bernie: If you did that, you would need one of those Teflon suits for sure and maybe Teflon shoes. You know if it slid off the suit, it would likely get on your shoes.

Mel: Hey Sol, how was that new restaurant your kids took you too. 

Sol: I bit too fancy for me.  What kind of restaurant is named daffodils?  Nothing on the menu was fried and the unhoused get bigger portions at the soup kitchen.  It was too rich for me.  Went through me like a herd of stampeding buffaloes. If they could have hooked me up to a power generating station, I would have made more electricity than Niagara Falls. I’m telling you, if the military could weaponize what was going on in my bowels, no one would ever attack us again. Finally felt better after downing a few bicarbonates.

Murray: Here comes Nat.  My turn. You got a magazine Sol?

Sol: I’ll give you War and Peace. Open a window when you go in there Murray.  Remember what happened the last time. The cat snuck in the bathroom and passed out while you were in there. 

Murray: He had a seizure.

Sol: He never had a seizure before or since.  He didn’t have a seizure, just open a window.

Nat: I saw a PBS documentary once on Cat Seizures.  I’m not sure, maybe it was a History Channel documentary on famous dogs that had seizures or maybe it was famous people who had dogs that had seizures. Or maybe it was about Cat Stevens.

Sol: Myra wanted me to remind you to make sure you took your pills while you were here. She didn’t want you to forget.

Nat: I can hear fine.

Bernie: You know Sol, Murray saves it up for days before coming here just so he can use your toilet paper instead of his.

Sol: Tell me about it.  Last time, I had a full roll on and when he left there was only a few squares. Next time, I think I will put one ply in there.  That will stop him cold.  I went to a fancy NYC hotel recently, $250. a night and they were so cheap they used one ply.  Might as well used sandpaper.

Mel: You know it is so aggravating when you get to the end of a roll and you try to get the last few sheets off but it gets stuck and you end up with a few sheets of shredded paper. What is it good for?

Sol: Absolutely nothing.

Mel: Say it again.

Sol: Absolutely nothing.

Bernie: Say it, say it, say it.

All: It ain’t nothing but a heart-breaker.

         It’s got one friend, that’s The Undertaker. (Courtesy Edwin Starr)

Mel: You have to get the little paper left on the roll off to recycle the roll and you end up with more shreds.  You can’t add the shreds to sheets from a fresh roll.  Simply doesn’t work. You know I got another million-dollar idea.  Invent a roll where the paper comes cleanly off at the end. People would flock to the stores for it.  No one likes those shreds. Can call it A Clean Ending. 

Sol: That’s a pretty good one Mel, a clean ending. I’d buy it.  You know I think I heard Murray flush 5 times already. I left the snake and plunger out in plain sight just in case.

Bernie: I counted six flushes.

Murray: I feel much better. 

Sol: Murray, you look like you lost 5 pounds.  I hope I don’t have to call a plumber.

Nat: You know they should make toilet seats with built in scales so you can see what you weigh before and after. I’d like to know. You know I asked my GI man a question that he was totally baffled about. A simple question you would think they would know the answer to but got nada from him.

Mel: What did you ask?

Nat: Given 2 people of equal weight, height and exact diet, if one person goes significantly more than the other, does it mean he is processing food more efficiently or less efficiently than the other guy?

Bernie: That’s an excellent question. Telling you, these doctors know nothing. You know what is a hard decision. You know right before bed, you have somewhat of an urge to go but are not sure and you think you can make it till morning.  Your kind of tired, don’t want to make the effort, and want to hit the hay and not bother, especially if it is likely to be a low producer.  Then again, you don’t want to wake up in the middle of the night having to go and disrupt your sleep. 

Nat: Or be in bed unable to fall asleep because you are worrying if you fell asleep you would have to wake up to go.

Sol: My kids want to take me on a trip to Japan.  I told them no because I don’t want to use those fancy toilets with the bidets built in.  They don’t use toilet paper. I asked my son, why would I want to get all wet down there and then have my underwear soaked when I put them back up.  He said they have built in blow dryers.  I said you know how well those hand dryers work in bathrooms.  You always have to wipe your hands on your pants to get them dry in the end. Now if you’re in a Japanese home, you can’t just wipe your behind on one of their towels.  Certainly, would be an ugly American. Told him I’m not going halfway across the world to offend my hosts.

Nat: You know Harry asked if he could join our group.  He seems too cheery for us. Always taking about his time at the gym or pickleball success. I gave him a bit of a brush off. 

Murray:  He does have that young wife.  I don’t think she is a day over 66.

Sol: Well boys, I think it was a good group today.  No ambulance calls, no calls needed to the plumber, the cat is conscious, and we came up with some good inventions.  Let’s call it a day so we all can go take a nap.