a deleted thought from holden caulfield

"nothing gets me more mad than when someone tries to tell me a fat girl has a terrific face for chrissakes. usually the person telling me is always a girl, like they're the ones who have to kiss it. i'm serious. i really am."

time for reflection

as the year comes to a close and it's time for reflection, here's what i'm thinking: who invented the oyster because i'm not sure what they were shooting for.

a slight silent bone of contention

yesterday i schlepped keaton into manhattan to see the off broadway show, "avenue q", and indulge in a post show vegetarian dinner.
it was one of her christmas presents.
(i know, i really know how to show a dame a good time)
the show was great—sorta sesame street meets in living color but with more potty mouth.
and the dinner!
fantastic!
we ate at a restaurant called, gobo.
never knew organic root pulp could be served so nicely seered and medium rare.
the closest thing to meat was a gyro vendor up the block and even then i'm not so sure.
anyway, other than the fact that our feet froze numb from navigating 40 blocks of street slush as only manhattan can produce after two feet of snow congeals, it was one of those connecting moments only the most dedicated of human pairs can appreciate.
and we did.

well, accept for this one thing.
you see, keaton likes to dance to the pop music piped onto the secaucus station train platform.
she gyrates in kind of a go-go affair.
a real throw back to hullabaloo.
as for me, i like to stand still, like a brick, accept like one that's smartly attired.

now look, i know i need to lighten up more and shed that brick, smartly attired or not, but some times ... some places ... it's just not possible.
and i have concluded waiting for the 12:37 on the secaucus station train platform is just such a time and place.
it's the kind of attention i just haven't acquired a taste for yet.
don't get me wrong, when keaton curls those lips and starts popping her legs up and down and swinging those arms all about ... well ... it's enough to put a big old smile on my face.
but i also see the children pointing and the heads turning, and i just know they've figured out i'm with her when she closes in and twists herself into a frenzy around my torso as i stand there like a week old ham hock in a parka.
i know, i know, i know.
it's me not her.
me and all my big talk about brick shedding.
i'm working on it!
just not there!

anyway, as you can tell, it's just a slight silent bone of contention, and i plan to keep it that way until i can figure something out that doesn't include jumping into the path of the oncoming 12:37.

book project now initiated

how the hell do you begin to write a real book?
well, for starters i got a haircut, but i think that was just to buy some more time.
god, this is tough, especially when i'd never read a book that would have me as a character.
kinda puts a little perspiration in the inspiration.

oh well, it is what it is.
so i need a good ending to start with because everyone knows you need one of those or what's the point really.
and my story's ending began with the response i got to an email query that started out normal enough but soon unravelled into the following pitiful plea:

"...you know, desperate writers in the throes of opportunity can get ... well ... pathetic. I'm afraid this qualifies. But I really can't believe this. God, I know I have this one shot. Do you need a first born? Mine is 25 years old and nicely employed. He's yours if you give me a chance (he may have other plans but I'll see what I can do). Okay, that's it. That's my plea. Some of my best stuff. Did I mention that I'm a hard worker? That I do laundry? Vacuum? Anything else you want me to do? Did I mention those things..."
 
that was it!
i was serious.
they were humored, saying it put smiles on all their faces.
and that's where my story ends.
and that's my first chapter, starting right with the end so i don't lose readers like myself with short attention spans.
now how i got to the end is a whole other matter and i suppose the story.
i don't know.
maybe i should leave well enough alone.
we'll see.
stay tuned.

(debut) put on your big girl pants and ...

please take a moment to visit put on your big girl psnts and ...
this blog is written by MaryJo of Virginia and chronicles her daily doings as she battles cancer.
she's one tough customer whom i've had the pleasure of speaking to a few times.
welcome her into the cranelegs pond fold.

dumb germaphobe logic

i was entering the mall yesterday when a mom ahead of me yelled at her ten year old son, "press the auto open button! press the auto open button! God knows who's touched that door!"
and i looked at that tiny auto button compared to the big old glass door and thought, oh yeah like that auto open button shouldn't really be labeled "place-your-snotty-ten-year-old-paws-right-here-so-we-can-pass-some-of-that-germ-farm-around button", except that is way too many words for such a tiny thing.

471. boss don - two witty sayings

boss don has two things he says about some of my suggestions.
one is, you might just as well try to empty the ocean with a dixie cup.
i think that means my idea is an ineffective waste of time.
the other one is, you might just as well open a can of paint with a chainsaw.
i think that means my idea is overkill.

as for my suggestions that are in between ineffective and overkill, i guess they are good ones because those become his solutions somehow.
but i'm not complaining.
in fact i am grateful that he is so witty when he is disagreeable.
it makes the boss-subordinate relationship so special.

bigger isn't better smugness

keaton said, you know bigger isn't necessarily better.
i said, sure, i bet you've said that to all the men in your life.
she thought a moment, then said all smugly, no, just one.

hmm, i've never been a big fan of smugness.

my beloved 1999 acura tl

i am wrestling with the thought that my beloved 1999 acura tl, all +210k miles of it, is on its last wheels.
the heater no longer works and it's drinking way too much gas for the few miles it travels.
alas, so many fond memories shared with my dear friend, as it sputters and coughs to start these cold winter days.
so many stories in fact, that i have been thinking about writing a book about its life.
a biography of sorts.
no.
wait.
yes, an autobiography.
a real autobiography.

(boy! that was a lot of work to get to a dumb punchline i came up with at 3am this morning. i shoulda just gone back to sleep if i had any brains at all.)

boss don the communicator

boss don said, the reason i called you into my office crane is to find out why i'm getting a 200 dollar dinner expense report from you to approve.
i said, don't you remember? you told me to take the gang out for christmas.
he said, i meant outside. to get some f'in fresh air. i don't know. look at the company tree all lit up. but not dinner for chrissakes!
i said, well you weren't very clear. "out" usually means for a meal of some sort, and you know what you told me about communication. it's always the responsibility of the sender to make sure the communication is understood by the receiver.
boss don said, yeah! that's right. when the receiver is the boss but not the other way around.
so i said, well how was i suppose to know that?
boss don said, that's exactly why it's your responsibility as receiver of a boss's message to make sure you understand what the hell i'm saying. what do you think? bosses are responsible for everything? you make me sick crane. now get outta here.
so i said, what i heard you say is that i should get out of the office because you got some sort of illness from me and I should go home for the day before i give it to someone else.
and he said, i just meant get out of my office. don't be an a-hole.

i thought, he must be talking about himself, but i pretty much had had my fill of  communication responsibility for one day and didn't feel up to confirming my thought.
so i left his office all communicated up.

a cardinal with an attitude!

there is a female cardinal that for the past two months at all hours of the day insists on circling the house and flying into the glass windows and doors ... repeatedly.
so yesterday, i had finally had enough and confronted her.
i jumped out from behind the glass door.

"jesus christ! you scared the crap out of me!"
"and you call yourself a cardinal using the lord's name like that!"
"who the hell are you? the pope!"
"forget that. what gives cardinal?"
"get outta the way! you're in my reflection bub!"
" i see. and you're a wiseguy cardinal at that. a regular maureen dowd."
"yeah, whatever. now step aside. you're crampin' my style."
"but what are you doin' with the flying into the glass all day long? are you mental or something?"
"geez ... you're a nosy son of a bitch too!"

i could see this was getting me nowhere fast.
so i stepped aside none the wiser and she started flying into the window again.

anyway, has this ever happened to you?
not so much the flying into the window, but the whole attitude thing because it's got me totally bugged man.

marriage v. civil union

since most marriages end in uncivil secession, i'm inclined to try a civil union next time around because it kind of gives me the gist right from the get-go.
and believe you me, i'm gist-needy these days.

(from the files) monkey business appropriate

keaton rounded the bend wearing a short-on-coverage-big-on-cleavage outfit.
then she asked with just a hint of a self-assured smile, well, what do you think big boy? business appropriate?

that's what happens when she tries on stuff she has squirreled away for thirty years.
i think she occasionally does this as a rather innocuous way to check in on the toll her womanly contours continue to endure at the horrible hands of aging degradation.
of course, she leaves the assessment up to me knowing full well i might be as dumb as a couch but smart enough not to die prematurely.
in large part, i chalk this one act play up to her female dna.

anyway, as i looked at her, i was thinking this particular outfit is a throw back to the seventies when go-go was bigger than ga-ga.
i collected my thoughts and replied, ah ... yeah ... um ... monkey business. it's appropriate for monkey business because you look hot. come here my little saucy hullabaloo hoochie momma.
but then again, that's what i always think of when she is wearing something short-on-coverage-big-on-cleavage wear, which i chalk up to being part of my neanderthal survival instinct.

poor jobs number impacts 2011 westminster dog show

due to the lousey jobs situation, the westminster kennel club has decided for its upcoming 2011 dog show to divide the working group into two classes: employed and unemployed.

a really weird superpower

i have a really weird superpower.
i know when someone misspells "weird"—but only when they're talking, really.
i say this because it just occurred yesterday.
how it all went down.

little billy said, i can't go to the movies with you bob because mommy says you're weard.
i said, weird is spelled w-e-i-r-d little billy, not like beard.
little billy said, wow bob! that's weird.
and i said, that's better little billy.
then little billy said, i know! i tell mommy all about this and maybe she'll let me got to the movies with you.
and i said, you do that little billy. but right now i must go and correct the others before it's too late.

small potatoes

benny said, you know i live today like i might die tomorrow.
i said, i live today like i already died yesterday.
benny said, that's terrible! ya see that's the difference between you and me.
and i said, what? dyin' two days earlier? seems like small potatoes.

high school all over again

my son asked me, if i could relive high school knowing what i know now, would i do it, and i said, sure as long as i wasn't me.
so he asked me who then would i want to be, and i told him that part didn't matter at all.

eat, drink and be merry

if i didn't know any better thirty years ago and still don't know any better today, the chances that i'll know any better going forward are pretty slim at best.
i figure i might just as well eat, drink and be merry in the meantime, albeit blissfully stupid.

sh*t my dad says

i just read this little book, took about three hours, to get a feel for how i might approach my own book.
holy smokes, forget that approach stuff.
author justin halperin's dad was/is one funny guy.
for all the wrong reasons.
i mean, we are talking child rearin' by lewis black wrong.

for instance, his take on toilet training; "you are four years old. you have to shit in the toilet. this is not one of those negotiations where we'll go back and forth and find a middle ground. this ends with you shitting on the toilet."
or this little sensitive assessment of young justin's legos creation: "listen, i don't want to stifle your creativity, but that thing you built there, it looks like a pile of shit".

to be honest, i kept wondering where the chapter was about all the funny beatings.
but i get the feeling either that's where his dad drew the line or that's where justin drew the line.

in any case, i highly recommend the book.
it is a laugh out loud swear fest.
and i thought mud finnegan was the shakespeare of the f-bomb.

brilliant stuff, even if it is for all the wrong reasons.

annabel's christmas request

annabel and i stood at the edge of cranelegs pond.
she placed her front yellow paws forward until they barely touched the still, murky water.
meanwhile, i was looking for signs of that renegade giant bass i've seen terrorizing the pond.
i'm still not sure how it got there.
i suspect it was dropped off at the wrong pond by aliens after doing experiments on it, but that's a whole other story.
anyway, annabel slowly sat back, pushing her head down below her shoulders and nose out.
something had her attention.
i was wondering if it might be the scent of the two bears spotted further up haytown road just a few days prior.
that would be something, i mean, this is new jersey.

"i'd like doggy stairs for christmas. i've seen them on tv. they're carpeted."
i was a little startled, because when she usually talks to me, it's not so sudden like.
"you mean you don't want a stuffed woodchuck with a squeaker inside?"
"not really. don't get me wrong. i like those. that squirrel you got me last year took forever to destroy."
"yeah, it did."
"well don't get all proud of yourself. it took longer because my teeth are sore. they really hurt sometimes."
"geeh, i'll have the vet take a look at them next time."
"don't waste the trip on that. find out what's goin' on with my back legs, if you're gonna do anything."
"why? what's wrong with them?"
she craned her head to look at me and said, "they're stiff as boards. i'm always in pain. use to wear off as the day went on but now. now they always hurt. that's why the stairs. so i can climb into bed with you guys."
"that's why!"
"why what?" she asked.
i said, "that's why you don't climb into bed with us any more. we just figured you were mad at us for some reason or maybe you needed your own space or something."
"well now you know dr. phil."
i asked, "well why didn't you say something sooner?
"too embarrassed, besides, complaining is not what i've been put on this planet to do."
i said, "yeah, that's for sure. you never complain. well ... except that one time."
"and what time was that?"
"the time we had comet come stay with us for a week."
she turned to stare out over the pond. "he is a terrier, cairn at that. and he was a pain in my butt, literally and figuratively. a week was asking way too much of me. don't get me wrong. he's a nice enough fella for a few hours but after a day or two? a real noodge!"
"he was a nice enough fella. he's dead now. old age. come to think of it, his back le—" i stopped myself from saying any more.
"his back legs what? got stiff too?"
suddenly i pointed to a swell of water along the surface, "hey! there he goes! the giant bass!"
she wasn't having any of it, "look. i'm eleven years old. i'm a lab. i'm gettin' on in years. what are you 58 or something? well that's like 8 in dog years to give you an idea of where i am in life."
she sniffed at the air again.
"the truth is i'm slowin' down bob."
"get outta here! what do ya say we get the old tennis ball out and play fetch?"
she turned her head towards me and tilted it like i was speaking in tongues.
"can we head back? my lower back is killing me, besides i smell bear and i'm in no mood to protect you right now."
i said, "wow! bear! gotta love nature."
she said, "yeah, what's the big deal? you humans break me up. "nature". "gotta love nature". everything is "nature" to you except yourselves. it's like you've forgotten that you are as much a part of this as we are. like you are something special. like god really created you in his image. what a crock. we laugh at you. every one knows god is a border collie. don't get me started."
she stopped, licked her butt a little, and then said, "look, i'm sorry. i'm just sore and need to get off my legs. so it's stairs for christmas okay? no friggin squeaky woodchuck."
i reached down and rubbed the inside of her ears.
she said, "awwww ... i love that. you guys are good for something."
and she smiled.
i said, "okay, stairs for christmas."
and we wandered back home before the bears could create a situation.

later that night, before we went to bed, i made some stairs at the foot of the bed using a small crate and big laundry basket.
i could tell that she was happy to join us again even though she didn't say so.
the feeling was mutual.
i slept real well too.

nothing more tingly than a stack of firewood

nothing sends me into nirvana quite as quickly as the sight of a nice stack of seasoned firewood.
tell me it's a cord (whatever that is), and my knees get all quivery.
and if that stack is on my property, well then i'm pretty much living large.

ya see, i love fireplaces and all the goin's on inside them.
and that is the root of the challenge before me.

stanton murray across the street just had a half dozen oak trees (in firewood circles, wood to die for) chopped down and converted into stacks and stacks and more stacks of perfectly split wood.
i know this because i've been spying on the whole operation through a little used second floor window for four days now.
normally this wouldn't be so riveting but stanny already has a couple of cords remaining from a similar operation three years ago.
so tell me, what's that all about?
it almost smacks of manhood mockery.
i mean, all i have is a measly firewood ring, nearly empty no less.
and he has his little freakin' firewood farm for all the world to see!

so the problem is i'm tempted.
real tempted.
i'm tempted to try a little firewood reconnaissance operation under the cloak of darkness tonight.
after all, he has those big random piles all over his front yard just stickin' their dry splintered tongues out at me.
yeah, a little firewood heist is just what is called for.
and i'm home alone to boot.
no keaton to keep me on the straight and narrow.

yup, it's all lining up for a little haytown road high jinks.
old stanny won't know what hit him.
that is, until he smells the smoke of is own toil billowing out from my chimney, as i laugh and cavort about the fireplace inside, drinking purple wine from a jug and singing ribald songs of downing trees, and carrying on with scantily clad forest nymphs, and other lumberjack shenanigans.
just a little payback for his flashy wood pile ways.

yeah, that's what's brewing.
real trouble.
a hotdog and beans night if ever there was!

i'm outta touch

boy am i ever outta touch.
i use yahoo for my home page.
they feature a top ten most popular search list.
i didn't know or understand one entry on the list, leaving me to conclude i am a social misfit, a mainstream moron, a pop culture anomaly.
a bona fide baby boomer bust.
an embarrassment to the "in crowd".
(is "in crowd" even cool to say anymore? is cool even cool?)

what a loser.

four things i don't understand

1. the female shopping experience.
2. what keeps planes up?
3. that stuff atop donald trump's head
4. why i claim to have four things i don't understand when i only have three?