963. a short history of the thing i'd do if i won the lottery

when i was in my thirties, if i won the lottery, i always wanted to try marine bootcamp just to see if i could make it.
you know, if i was made of the right stuff.
when i was in my forties, i gave up on that idea and decided if i won the lottery, i'd love to go one round with mike tyson to see if i could survive with no more than a bite on the ear.
it was certainly less crazy than the marine thing because iron mike was really aluminum mike by then.
now that i'm in my fifties, if i win the lottery, i'd like to be a walmart greeter for one week just to smirk at the people smirking at me because little would they know that i could buy aisle 12 if i really felt like it.

960. about loneliness

i am always relieved to discover that i seldom feel lonely when alone but most often when crowded.

959. déjà vu bob style

my son said, dad you forgot that we already had this discussion. you still owe me twenty dollars.
i said, wow! i just had déjà vu!
my son asked, how can you have déjà vu about something you forgot?
i said, let me tell ya rick, it's a gift really!
my son said, ryan.
i said, déjà vu!

958. "life is good" vs. "life is so-so!"

957. the disclaimer

the disclaimer is a beautiful thing.
end with the disclaimer and you can claim anything.
it's the slippery tool of fibomercial guys, scam websites and just about any penis enhancement product ever made.
it's a sibling to the verbal disclaimer, "i mean no disrespect".
you know how that goes.
"i mean no disrespect but your mother sleeps with man goats!"
the disclaimer is similar but the opposite.
whereas the "i mean no disrespect" disclaims something very, very bad about to be announced, the disclaimer trails great claims of fortunes, cures or erections the size of new jersey.
it's a textual version to crossing of the fingers if you will.
and here is the best part.
the bigger the disclaimer, the smaller the font!
unlike the law of nature, "bigger is better", in the world of disclaiming, "smaller is disclaimier".

hell, you don't even have to invent your own disclaimer.
there are disclaimer templates.
hmmm ... now there's a thought.
copyright the disclaimer!
a little payback for all those disclaimers i never read.
might even make enough to rent a warehouse to store all my private part paraphenalia that left me on the wrong end of "results may vary".

956. the best part of being deaf

the best part about being deaf is not hearing my own voice.
i'm not deaf.
i'm just saying, that would be the best part.

955. no ordinary hot plate mat

i was rearranging the work out room in the basement in anticipation of fixing my treadmill later that day.
it was all part of that get-psyched build up to lug my out of shape blob with leg appendages onto the belt and get myself back in some sort of shape.
it's what i do.
anyway, we have shelves filled with unnecessary kitchen necessities that have gotten way out of control.
i wanted to rearrange them next to each other to maximize floor space for the complete exercise experience.
i'm good at that floor space maximizing stuff.
so i pulled one set of shelves a few inches away from the wall when i saw a clump near the floor and against the wall.
i figured a dead mouse of some sort.
but it was dark and i could not tell for sure.
so i retrieved a flashlight, dish rag and plastic bag from the kitchen upstairs and returned.
i flashed the light on the clump.

the flashlight, which was on its last battery legs, was not much help, but it was enough to get a better idea of what i was dealing with here.
"what the f&*k"
it was no mouse carcass i'd ever seen.
too big and it appeared to be weaved in a coil, like a thick hot plate mat.
probably that is what it was.
it had fallen and was wedged up against the wall.
silly me.
so i pulled the shelves out a bit more and reached around to pull it out.

it all happened so fast.
the moment i touched it, i knew.
and when the hot plate mat abruptly uncoiled, i screamed like a teen girl at a jonas brothers concert.

it was a hot plate mat made from a live snake!

i shot into live snake action.
i ran upstairs, grabbed the grill tongs, removed my damp underpants, and returned to the basement.
it was still there.
all curled up.
i grabbed the bag and approached with a steely hunter's stare and the tongs in a lobster's grip.
i dabbed at my sweaty brow.
at the count of fourty three, i grabbed hold of the serpent with my mighty grill tongs, only to discover that most of the snake was inside the wall.
it had to be three feet long!
it shook me off like a gnat and sucked it's hind quarters through a tiny gap between the carpet and the wall board.

and just like that, it was gone, left to lurk inside the walls.
to strike from any room, any time.
when i'm sleeping.

i told keaton.
she's already lined up a few realtors.
we haven't told alix.
probably won't until the last boxes are opened at the rental.

in the meantime, if this becomes my last post, you will know why.
don't send e-flowers.
instead, buy my blook post-humorously.

it's been real.
no.
it's been virtual!

954. so not like a hummingbird

i was strolling out back, surveying the garden and studying the fields and woods beyond for any indication of the inevitable tomato deer assault—no signs so far.
i walked to the edge of the tar moat carved just outside the chicken wire fence to see if i could spy any bones.
again, nothing!
the camouflaged spike pits where untouched as well.
i concluded that the distant perimeter (my first line of defense) of organic coyote urine (so he says anyway) i purchased from johnny juniper's roadside stand down the way apparently was working.
satisfied, i grabbed a chair and sat beside my tomatoes, telling them great yarns of worldly basil, majestic mozzarella and grand balsamic vinegar.
that was when i caught a dart to my left that zigzagged around the flowering branches of a tree of unknown weed origin.
i zoomed in on it like a drone gps.
it was a hummingbird, stone still beside a blossom.
it sprung up and side to side before it zipped off into a thicket.
and i smiled.
there is something about hummingbirds that marvels me.
they look so controlled and at ease while their wings flap frantic to keep them in place.
in his prime, Mohammad ali was a hummingbird.
eric clapton strikes me as one too.
in another way, obama is the ultimate hummingbird.

alas, not i.
i am so not a hummingbird.
i am a hummingsloth.
i hum as i move at lightning sloth speed.
when pushed to flap around frantically, i'm anything but cool and calm.
i become more like chattering teeth on a formica counter top.

oh well, a hummingsloth can always dream.

(from the files) 605. irritable vowel syndrome

it was juust an ordinary day.
nothiiing ouuut of placeeee.
eveeeeeerythiiiing seeeemeed juuuuuuuust fiiiine.
thaaaaaaat iis untiil iii baackeeed up the caaaaaar.

(iiie haaateee wheieeen iiiii geeeeit irriaetaeble vooweeeeel syndrooemeeoee!)

953. the problem with fake viral videos

you've probably seen the video.
the guy on the hill and the giant waterslide and the little swimming pool about a mile away and he flies through the air like a missile and lands smack dab in the middle of the pool.
except it's fake.
a good one, but fake nonetheless.
anyway, billy wipple up the road saw it.
now billy hasn't been right since lightning struck him in the head about a year back.
and seeing something like that fella flying through the air just got him to thinking.
so billy set up the same dumb slide on a hill over at whitherton mountain top farm and aimed himself at the reservoir about two miles away.
needless to say he didn't make it.
landed a mile west in old lady apgar's bed.
shot right through the open window.
she thought her prayers had been answered, until she realized it was just billy wipple.
meanwhile, billy thought he had gone to heaven, until he realized it was just old lady apgar.
it was the subject of much rumoring at the next church picnic.
vicious stuff really.
well, billy doesn't care all that much mind you.
but that poor old lady apgar has taken to pipes again.

and all this trouble because of a fake video to begin with.
seems all could have been avoided with a little honesty, including this post frankly.

(from the files) 636. home alone - episode eight

being home alone for seventeen days without a fiasco is asking way too much of me.
and although i was almost there, on day sixteen the catastrophe occurred.
last time it was a tree limb the size of manhattan that fell across the patio and garden.
this time it was a blown pipe in the basement.

and boy do i hate that, with that god awful "what the f*ck?" sound, followed closely by that "holy sh*t!" discovery.
i went from chillin' to lunaticin' in about 1.53 seconds, knocking .17 off my best time to date.
and let me tell you, when there is water gushing all about in places and ways it shouldn't, well, lunaticin' is about the best made up word i can muster to express what i become.

should i turn on the light?
no! i'll get electricuted!
where's it coming from?!!?
oh please, stop!
please oh please oh f'in please stop!
shut it down!
that's it!
shut it down!
follow the pipes!
just follow the f'in pipes!
oh this isn't good at all!
i believe i'm empting the county reservoir!
that's what i believe is going on here!
source, source, where's the f'in source?
there!
just turn the goddam thingamabob!
will they all know i loved them?
oh i hope i don't bloat up by the time they find me.
that's so not a good look!
are my underpants clean?
oh please turn!
turn goddammit!
there!
yes! yes! yes!
i am legend!

needless to say, once i was able to stop the flood and calm down, all was corrected in short order by our master plumber, ramsey & ramsey (even though i think there is just one ramsey).
in the end, i was fortunate.
you can say what you want about the french but they know how to build drains.
most of the water went directly back to the place from where it came.
the carpet took on some but in a manageable spot.

all should be dry by the time the bosses return from their trip.
and much like the fallen branch, they will not be the wiser.
more importantly, i will have dodged a frozen pork chop—making this just another private chapter in bob's home alone adventures.

952. losing my edge

i had a bit of a run in with the septic cleaner guy.
he and his partner were setting up when i approached them.
i was quite friendly and asked if they were able to find the septic cap i unearthed in the garden for them?
nothing.
silence.
so then i mentioned that i was about to depart and were they planning to bill us or to get a check on the spot?
he said, we's plan to do what we's always done. i've been here plenty times before. i knows what needs to be done.
i waited for more information.
nothing.
so i thought, was it my pink polo shirt?
but i didn't ask.
instead i said, okay then, i guess i'll be going.
nothing.
silence.
then as i approached my car, the boss guy said, ya know what you can do?
i said, no. what?
he barked, cut them there bushes down so we's can see the cars coming. this here is a death trap. always has been.
i said, oh yeah. funny.
but he didn't laugh.
he spit a gooey tar wad into the hedges instead.
i left.

later that night i told keaton what had happened and that these guys had no sense of humor.
she said, well what did you expect, they have a sh%tty job.
that tickled me until i realized that was something i should have come up with first because that's the way it goes around here.
but maybe not anymore.
maybe there is a new sheriff of laughs in town.

or maybe i'm losing my edge.

951. blogging from the emergency room

this is cool.
they have wifi here at the emergency room.
oh, not to worry.
just some tests on the skull to check for drain bamage.
apparently took a few pops to the head.
frozen pork chops i believe, or so i'm told.
the last thing i recall was calling out to keaton, "my little baby dumpling" and then hearing, "baby dumpling!?! i'll baby dumpling you!"
woke up an hour ago and here i am, able to log ablout it.

i guess i should have gone with "whoopsie poopsie".

950. what would keaton do?

i wonder what keaton would do if i called her "poopsie whoopsie".
i've been thinking lately that i need to come up with a new term of endearment because i read somewhere that it's good to do that sort of thing so other things don't get stale.
besides i've pretty much driven "hon" into the ground.
anyway, that was the best i could come up with.
"poopsie whoopsie".
i think it goes back to chubsy whubsy and miss crabtree from the little rascals.

i don't know.
it seems risky.
could launch a frozen pork chop assault unlike any i've ever endured if i'm not careful.

maybe i'll go with "baby dumpling" to be on the safe side.

949. about parades

some prefer to join the parade, while others prefer to watch from the sidelines.
given my druthers, i'd prefer a toasted plain bagel with turkey sausage and cheddar.

948. julie and julia movie review

okay, if anything, julie and julia certifies meryl streep as the best actor alive.
her julia child is uncanny (and that's not a word i throw around carelessly).
i found myself laughing out loud by just her slightest movements.
she was delicious.

now it is not often that i have had the pleasure of reading the adapted book before seeing the movie.
gotta go back to the exorcist for that.
but i did read julie powell's "julie and julia", which really was the catalyst for this nora ephron classic.
(assuming you know about the storyline by now. you know, all those recipes in so little time.)
and what a fun read it was.
a blogger after my own heart she is, especially the food part.
and that humor of hers.
what a talented writer to translate it to the written page.

mostly though, her story is all our stories.
just trying to figure out this thing we call life.
making it purpose driven without all the rick warren.

as for nora ephron's interpretation, it was effectively different.
not sure what she was trying to do with eric (julie's husband and stoic project supporter) though.
julie's eric was simply a better guy.
i liked efron's julie, but i like julie's julie as well.
all in all, it was nora's ear for wit (and she had plenty to work with) that made it such a joy in the end.

let me put it this way.
"julie and julia" is one of those movies that defines a bob moment with such clarity that it will be carried along my journey much like an old trunk of favorite clothes.
occassionally to be reopened, dusted off and tried on before a mirror.
and i will remember where i had been.

947. on keaton's wait list

in the past year, keaton became a certified life coach.
last night while watching seinfeld it occurred to me that maybe i could use a little life coaching.
nothin' for nothin' but being bob 24-7 is no sunday picnic.
i could use a little direction.
so i called her on her cell phone while she was upstairs.
i told her i was in the market for such services, and that i'd like to schedule a free initial consultation with her to see if we had the right chemistry to move forward in a coach/client relationship.
i also insisted that if we did decide to move forward that i would not expect any special breaks on her hourly rate (even though i knew she would).
she appreciated that and asked if it would be all right if she got back to me—she needed to look at her calendar, which was downstairs in her office.
i said no problem and hung up.

a moment later she came through the den and disappeared into her office.
then she went back upstairs with a notebook in tow.
my cell phone rang a minute or two later.
it was her.
she said she was sorry but she's not taking on any new clients right now.
she told me i'm number eight on the wait list.
i asked if there was any way she could move me up the list, given my special stature, but she insisted that would be astucious and could not do so in good coaching conscience.
i said i understood, that's why i loved her, even though i didn't know astucious from adam.
anyway i reminded her that the bobby flay vegetarian burrito smackdown was about to start on the food channel.
she said she'd be right there.

i guess i'll carry on aimlessly, albeit unastuciously, a while longer.

946. miss nancy never said my name

when i was a young pup, i grew up glued to channel five, specifically romper room, in hopes miss nancy might see me through the magic mirror.
she never did.
when i reflect on my life to date, i think that explains everything.

945. on job fairs

here's what a job fair is like.

i waited in line to sign in with other people who i hate to say i saw as my competition and therefore hoped were dumber than me or had some sort of challenge (speech, mental, of that nature).
eventually i registered and got a nice little portfolio and name tag, and then i was pointed to the entrance where dreams of work and health coverage awaited.
there were 26 dream-makers to be exact.

now right off the bat, not all of them were right for me.
"sleepy's bedroom showcase inc." for instance made me yawn and tired.
"new horizons computer learning center" had no jobs, just costly training classes for me to take so that i might be able to land a job which is why i was there to begin with.
"niagara conservation" wanted people who could speak mandarin chinese, which i told them was my second choice of foreign language but took latin instead (that did not seem to impress them though).
"vitamin shoppe industries, inc." seemed way to new agey.
"superior services" sounded like a dumb name for a company.
and the list goes on.

in addition to the chinese joint, i stood on line at three potential employers: avaya, met life, and k-force.
the problem: not a good job karma scene.
there were hundreds of tired, poor and huddled unemployed stalking for a one minute "opportunity" with one tired, poor and unhuddled employed person.
and i have to tell you, the one minute was weird.

as i approached i could see the eyes of these corporate sacrificial souls glazed over and i could smell the staleness of their weary breath.
they were as close to comatose as one could be but still able to speak.
my strategy, be humorous, always my fallback.
so i tried to be witty, which was akin to doing stand-up at a nursing home.
got nowhere fast.

my pseudo step daughter, alix, didn't fare any better.
in fact, she had one numb-skull tell her to work in retail, "something upscale like chico's for a year", then come back.
i had to buy her a lobster roll at a sushi bar to pull her off the ledge.

so there it is.
got another one in a week, and with no interviews in the near future, i'll be doing this blogging a little longer.
might even make it to 1000 after all.

944. the job fair

tomorrow, it's off i go to a job fair.
got my job fair hair cut yesterday.
pretty, pretty ... pretty snazzy.
tried on some old suits today.
not so snazzy, more like snuggy.
so i'm going with a little what i call "euro-flair": black cuffed pants, white oxford shirt, and a really smart sports jacket.
don't ask me why i know the jacket is smart—really smart.
that's what the salesman told me, which makes sense because i really look dumb without it, or so he said.
finally, a snappy job fair tie and my lucky american and mexican flag lapel pins and i'm set.
plan to take about a dozen copies of my resume.
that, a good attitude, and disarming smile should just about take care of it.
oh, and i'll be escorted by my pseudo step daughter, who unlike me is a looker but much like me is desperate for a job.

okay, the truth be told, i need to work on the attitude.
it's less than good.
it's less than so-so actually.
but it's better than piss poor.

the problem is i really want to write or build wind turbines or make peanut butter.
anything to keep me out of the corporate exercise yards.
oh well, we'll see.
i'll probably land something because, among other things like vacuuming and exaggerating, i'm a pretty good fooler (sometimes i wish i wasn't though).

943. the garden is safe for now

i tell ya, i hate crabgrass.
hate it.
hate is a strong word, i know, but it isn't strong enough in this case.
i hater it.
i hatest it.
it's takin' over like some sort of republican socialism fear, if such a thing were green and weedy.
it's starting to choke the chili peppers.
nothing messes with chili peppers.
why just the other day i saw a chipmunk running around spitting fire out its mouth.
haven't seen the rat bastard since.
but this god forsaken crabgrass has no fear.
it's like a freakin' green leafy samurai.

well if it's anything, it's war i tell ya!

first i thought i might use chemical weapons.
i have a cache that i've been storing up for such an occasion.
go ahead, call me the saddam of gardening.
don't really care.
heard a lot worse—some even by so-called friends of cranelegs pond.
anyway, i was all positioned.
everything was in place: mask, gloves, boots, protective overalls, goggles, cup.
and i was pumping the poison dispenser real good.
but noooo ... i was stopped by the dictator that runs this place, who will remain nameless (hint: rhymes with "feet on").
"it might get in the water and turn what few vegetables we're growing into ... well ... into inedible birthers of some sort."
nothin' for nothin', the dictator, well she's a little fiery about certain affiliations.

the bottom line, i had to store the chemicals for another day when inedible birthers might be the only option.
and let me tell ya that stinks because you just can't cut the damn things down or torch them.
they'll grow back thicker, and chokier, and more dug in than ever.
you have to pull them out with their roots attached or you might just as well say goodbye tomatoes.

but they weren't betting on the fierceness that roars in this first time garden keeper's heart.
i pulled them all up ya see.
hundreds of those little pugnacious plugs.
one by one.
inch by inch.
my fingernails torn asunder by dirt and gravel and god knows what really.
and now they are all gone.
and the crabgrass too!

for the time being, there will be no chokage in the cranelegs garden.
the chilies are safe again to deter the little vermin sneaking in under the cloak of darkness.
meanwhile, i await like ulysses in an arugula patch for the inevitable showdown with the deer.
they're gathering like storm clouds in the distant, black horizon.
i feel them.
it's only a matter of time my friends.

oh ... they're coming!
and i will be ready.

942. a movie review - whatever works

ever since take the money and run, i have been a lifelong fan of woody allen, minus a five year break while i tried to justify the soon yi marriage.
i gave up trying.
i couldn't and can't.
but i was able to compartmentalize that from his humor, although his humor has been on hiatus for some time now.
soooo ... i guess i'm not really a lifelong fan in the true sense then.
a lifelong fan of the early years is the best way to put it.

i am a bigger fan of larry david.
often i have quoted both or plain old plagiarized their material.
well, not real often.
anyway, keaton and i just saw woody's latest, whatever works, starring larry david as woody allen's muse.
given the the combo of allen and david (sounds like a west village poodle boutique), it had to be good.
and it was.
old time woody allen was back, filled with the trademark humor that only hypochondria, apocalypse, suicide, doom and yes, old man/young woman marriage can bring to the table.

the only complaint, keaton was annoyed by the staleness of how the dialogue was spoken.
people don't interact like that, she said.
she's right but that has always been the allen style.
it's like a train of one liners just rolling down the track.
clacketty, clacketty, punchline.
i suppose she feels about woody's directing style the same way i feel about sex in the city's—friends just don't naturally speak to each other the way those women two step through their lines.
the difference though is that woody's dialogue is sharp and funny.
i don't know what to make of sex in the city.

the plot is lower manhattan bohemian all the way and essentially aborts every born-again in it's path, and there are a few.
if woody releases this anywhere south of, hmm, let's say atlantic city, new jersey, there are going to be plenty of torched artsy-fartsy movie houses in the name of jesus.
a big part of the fun is the plot twists, so i don't want to say anything more than old, cranky, new york, intellectual nihilist meets and marries young, bubbly, southern, naive, christian blond, and it goes up hill from there.

it is old school woody allen.
and i enjoyed it, finding myself laughing out loud, as did a couple of the other fourteen people in the theater, in anticipation of the upcoming line, something i haven't been able to do at a woody allen film since love and death.

geez, that's like three decades ago.
woody, glad to see you back!

941. the inhumane humane mouse trapper

i really have a thing about killing animals.
so much so that i still toil to get those freakin' flying squirrels out of the attic alive.
so much so that i have been using a humane mouse trap for over three years now with great catch and release success.
in fact, i think i've caught and released the same mouse about fifty times—i can tell because he snickers that little mouse snick every time i release him.
but at least he's alive.

well he ain't snickering anymore let me tell you.

i killed him and i killed him bad.
the lesson learned: check the so-called humane trap, a nice little box with a pleasant air filled holding area, daily, if it's armed, with or without cheese, in position or not.

or be prepared to discover a little house of mouse horrors.

such was the case an hour ago when keaton came in from the living room suggesting that i might want to check the mouse trap because there was "an odor".
i know "the odor".
for anyone owning the conventional, neck snapping mouse trap, you know "the odor" too.
that's how i know "the odor".
i killed many with those primitive tools in my less enlightened years.
bob's dark ages.
but i was done with "the odor" ever since keaton showed me the error of my neanderthal ways and she bought me this little, so-called humane number for christmas.

that is until and hour ago.

i hadn't check the damn thing in a week, but i had plenty of reasons why not to.
first, it's summer and any mouse worth it's salt is suppose to be outdoors and enjoying the earth's bounty.
second, the trap had no cheese in it.
third, it was on it's side, meaning "not in use! no cheese today!".
fourth, i checked it last week after a month or two and found nothing, as any normal human would have expected.

that is until an hour ago.

there was no mistaking i had done something in, as i searched through the dotted air holes, about the size of "o" actually, and noticed a dark shadow that had no business being there.
apprehensively, i took the device outdoors to inspect the damage.
possibly it was still alive, barely, but alive just the same.

oh, this was very bad.
i will not sleep well the next several weeks.
i had trapped two vermin, not one as best i could tell.
one plump and stiff, it's little nose pushed through an air hole as far as it could go.
the other ...
the other ... well ... a furry shell of itself really.
eaten down to it's intestine.
i had captured hannibal mouster and some unsuspecting mousey meal.

if someone were to ask me what would be the most inhumane way to kill a mouse, i would not have thought of this as a possibility.
unwittingly, i would have come up with something quite civil by comparison.

that is until an hour ago.

939. an excerpt from "Sex Ed: The French Playing Cards"

The following is an excerpt from the Sex Ed Chronicles, a featured series of short stories about sex education in the Sixties. You can read the entire story (and others) by clicking on the link: Sex Ed: The French Playing Cards

*****************************

We were still in double sessions but now I had the afternoon shift, and it always started with something called “X Period”, which was a boys only twenty minute homeroom. I guess it was by design. I have a hunch that the “Adults with Children” somehow convinced the “Adults without Children”, who ran the insane asylum, that this was in everyone’s best interest. Anyway, I was assigned to sit in the back of the room. Right in front of me sat Cal. Cal was the only eighth grader I knew who drove his own car to school.

I was keeping a low profile, just trying to get some last minute math homework done, when Cal turned around and nodded his head at me. He got my attention. What else could I do? He was twice my size and ten times more hairy. He pushed something partially hidden by his large matted hand onto my desk and left it there. He signaled with his eyes to take a look. He turned around to continue whatever it was he did: chew wood, tattoo his arm, write poetry, whatever.

I sneaked a peek down. Based on the box, it appeared to be a deck of "Bicycle" brand playing cards. I checked on the teacher in charge of monitoring us. He was completely preoccupied with a crossword puzzle while he mauled an egg salad sandwich. I leaned back, pulled the box underneath the desk and into my lap. I searched around again for any suspicious onlookers.

None.

So I returned to the deck, flipped opened the top and pulled out the cards to have a gander. I thought big deal, a mere deck of cards, Cal must be bored, but if I want to grow up and have a family of my own someday, I must entertain his wishes.

There are times in one’s life, very rare moments, when words like “surprise”, “shock” or “astonishment” don’t quite capture the essence of the event. One second you are minding your own business. The next, you find yourself in the middle of something big, something spectacular, something outrageous. What was about to unfold falls into such a category.

(continue)