Bearded Man

I was at dinner last night with Danny and I relayed a story to him that I think is short enough and funny enough to humor some of you.
Keith and I drove to OHare to pick up Sheila and Judy one Christmas. Sheila stared out of the car window and started giggling. She told us that she was used to Judy's tinted car windows at home, which allowed her to stare at people without them realizing her presence and general curiosity. Keith's car had no such windows. She was giggling because, "I was staring at this woman and I noticed that her husband has a beard. I was just wondering if she's happy."



Weird. That was the end of her story, and the end of mine as well. Carry on, people.

P.S. Another funny portion of this blog may just be that Sheila's probably the only one to recognize this particular bearded man. Funny weird, not funny ha-ha. Okay maybe a little bit funny ha-ha, but only that polite ha-ha that you laugh when you think something's not really that funny but you don't wanna hurt someone's feelings.

things to sing in ste agathe ...

When certain people are around....

Avoid talking about cars, especially American ones.

Avoid playing all music except for the occasional Gypsy Kings cd.

Do not hum too too much.

Burn only logs with treated chemicals so that the flames burn evenly.

Spray mango dog deodorant all over the dog no more than 1 hour prior to certain arrivals.

Make sure that all food served in a certain house comes from a package, with the exception of lettuce.

Take any existing children away from the house for long, pleasurable walks in the woods. Make sure to include looking at and talking about fresh animal tracks in the snow, and allowing peeing behind uncreaking trees. Do not feel bad about saying No to requests to play another round of video games.

Dance with others including children when an unmentionable, non-Gypsy Kings cd accidentally gets played.

Revel in the fact that cleaning burnt stains off of the stove top *is* sometimes better than going skiing with certain people.

Lace certain visitors' coffees with more sugar than requested. Hope and fear that it might eventually damage a liver or spleen.

Try to understand the plight of a person, different than yourself, who talks 90% of the time about buying pretty items.

Express sympathy for the person who suggests that living with large furry animals might hamper one's career.

Refrain from gloating about having a summer that wore you out because you were having too much fun. Realize that this person would not know what you were talking about.

Mentioning a nearby town that has 85 lakes in it does not mean that those lakes are better than someone's single (large) lake.

Wait for the shoe to drop on your cheap wine.

Expect for the sun to shine.

Ask for a valentine.

Receive instead a porcupine.

For the Abba-philes in the family

While on lunchbreak I found news on a US production of the musical Chess. Where's it to be shown? America's cheeseland or hotdog land, depending on whom you ask.


LOCAL CHESS PRODUCTION IN U.S. -
Posted at 9:15 AM

A website/blog for Madison, Wisconsin, has news about a local production of Chess.

MATC Performing Arts is presenting Chess at the Mitby Theatre March 10, 11 and 12, 7:30 p.m. on Friday and Saturday, 2 p.m. on Sunday.

Excerpt:

"The most satisfying aspect of the production for me was the talent shown by the individual performers, who are accompanied by a live orchestra. Melissa Simonson, whom I had quite pleasant memories of in Aspects of Love, demonstrated impressive vocal and dramatic abilities in the demanding role of Florence Vassy, who falls in love with a Russian chess champion and must deal with the severe complications that occur when he defects."

Full story at:

http://www.dane101.com/arts/2006/03/06/chess_players

Dane101 is an online magazine for and about the Madison, Wisconsin metro area, covering local music, arts, politics, media, recreation, and more.

DogSpell

They ran and barked and barked and feigned disinterest and then put their muzzles all over one another. It was a beautiful sight. A wondrous in the woods sight. One was black, the other white and black with pockets of soft beige. If you looked from a distance at the non-black dog you would think his colors were blurry, a bit touched up on computer, Photoshopped in. A good combine, as Maria would say. She would take them out, rather, she would take the Photoshopped dog out and would hope to meet the black one along the way. The black one belonged to another family and yet when he saw his dog friend and Maria, his owner confessed to me recently, “he nearly jumped through the front glass.” It is better than any dog park, by way of trailage and sniffage.

I do not know how black dog would fare in a park with many other dogs. Blurry color dog would do well. He would show off in front of the other owners, first by going to the people first and forcing them to pet him and coo, and then second hanging over the very small dogs with a wicked grin. Some would be intimidated. No, make that most of the v small dogs would be intimidated, but he would charm them too. And win them over 87% of the time. There were dogs of the very small size that would never allow themselves to feel the love of the giant dog hovering over them. Photoshop dog would pretend to be cool and not interested, and then at the very last minute would shower them with great attention, and then would cow down to their height and move his front paw in the air as if it were a chalkboard and he were quickly making a mark on it for them to see. A pawprint. As if that were the magic key. And if successful the two dogs, or more, would run and bark and pounce and hop and lift and separate. And the owners of all of the other dogs would make note of this frolicking. Some would even comment in favorable tones. The tones one emits when admiring a Thanksgiving turkey, say, or a birthday cake. Yes, you could rightly claim that the Photoshopped dog was like a birthday cake.

But there was one dog in the world that Photoshop dog would not ever get along with. This rival dog was genetically mutated dog, whose parts came deliberately from the chromosomes of other dogs for maximum benefit. Say you take a dog that prefers to eat brie without the moldy covering. And you take another dog that can tell time. You are a person who can’t wear watches and you prefer that part of the brie so much so that it’s a struggle for you to actually eat the cheese. You have room for only one animal. What do you do? You go to a Frankenstein lab, a kennel. You talk with these animalistic scientists who have fur on their couches, metal cages in their dining rooms, a microscope in the bathroom, and lots of bowls of water strangely on the floor in different rooms in the house. You tell them your situation. Dog, mold, clock, space. The designer boutique scientist offers you a plethora of options. A dog with really short front legs and tall, tall back ones. A dragster is the proper term. A dog with a red muzzle but chocolate brown coat and white paws. The Coach Luggage dog. You name it, they can cross hatch it. They can systematically file it and splice and mutate and coax it to whatever you want. Soon, they joke, there will be a dog that can get better mileage than the current version. Sure, that’s fine, you offer, but what I want is something a bit more refined. Can you do subtle? Can they ever! A few months later you’ve got your perfect dog that fits in well with the size of your house. He eats the cheese, you the skin. And you always know without having to dial up the Tell-A-Time number on the phone to find out where you are in the day, because the dog comes to you, leash in mouth to announce mid-day walking, or early evening walking. Somehow you just know about the morning walk without having to be told. You can tell which is which without ever looking out the window because the dog does a special kind of dance for lunchtime and another special dance for after dinner. It’s a subtle way with the tail, you can’t describe it, but you can tell by seeing it. You find that you love love love this dog. He is exactly what you’ve been looking for all of your life, so you bring him to the pet shop and let him pick out toy after toy. You two have made so many trips and have gotten so many toys that the ones he does not play with could entertain an orphanage. But that wouldn’t do, really, since there are teeth marks on all but two of the rubber toys. You look and think about this and put it in the back of your mind until one day your friend also gets a dog. Your friend lives far away but comes to town often to do banking and other such things. You start to give her the toys her genetically modified dog doesn’t play with anymore for her dog. Her dog, the Photoshopped dog, takes them. Of course he was meant to get all kinds of toys. He doesn’t question the bites on them nor the weird smells. For him it’s a given. Photoshopped dog chews and plays and smells them and soon the toys are almost as if they are part of him. He is that purple ball with the huge rope. He is that tennis ball color ring that bounces and feels like a baby chicken in his mouth. He is one with his universe.

Months later the owner who doesn’t like brie comes for a visit. She has not brought her own dog with because there are travel complications. Her dog is better off at home. She sees Photoshopped dog, pets him on the head. Photoshopped dog and she hit it off immediately. Maybe it’s the eye contact she makes with him. When people first meet him they are usually drawn to his fur and his height. They don’t see his inner dog right away. But your friend does, and because of this, Photoshopped dog exists only for your friend. He does strange things only for her. He goes upstairs on rickety-about-to-fall-down stairs that you yourself could not bribe him with a side of beef to go on. For her, he prances right up and is on the second floor of a house that he had previously only heard about. So the rumors are true, your dog realizes for a flash, looking around, before putting his focus back on your friend. There is a thing called the upstairs. The two of them spend the weekend together drinking soda and fetching balls. Laughing and sharing. He realizes that the smells from his toys are similar to the friend. And since the toys are part of him, the friend is part of him too.

The friend goes back home the following Monday and Photoshopped dog is bereft. The trails with the black dog don’t quite cut it anymore. The sniffage is fresh, for sure, but uninteresting. All these ferns, evergreens, maples, poison ivy: they don’t carry wafts of Chanel No. 5. They don’t hint at mango conditioner. Black dog goes nose to nose with Photoshopped dog. He stands there smelling what’s inside of Photoshopped dog and realizes that something’s not right with his friend. He turns around three times, lifts his leg, and pees on the stop sign they are both standing near. Black dog goes back to his house and cries to be let in. Photoshopped dog slumps home and gradually, eventually, painfully slowly, he gets his appetite back.

To be continued...

a nose for news

The place was Shakey's Pizza in Westmont, on or near Ogden Ave. Maybe. The time, way long ago. When Joe was the size of a toenail. When he was still biting strangers on the ankles. We, kids and Dad, went out for pizza and Mom stayed behind. Prior to leaving the house, I had seen a television show that involved some bad comedians: one guy with a bag on his head and one guy who stuck nickles up his nose. I liked the way that sounded, the 2 n's, so I made sure to remember it so I could use it at a moment's notice around other like-minded individuals such as myself.

We walk through the door, past the plastic partition where you can actually see the pizza makers make what you're about to eat. Most of the time, they are boring and frustrating to me for not living up to their entertainment potential. We head back to the picnic tables covered with red and white checked oil cloth, near all of the games, the race car game, the pinball machines, some kind of shooting game, and a dumb crane that allows you to pick out a plastic doll or a sub-quality stuffed animal. Wow. We order and wait for our pizza. The wait feels like a long time. Dad gets to talking to some guy who's also waiting to eat. What they talk about is unimaginably dull, dull, dull. So dull that we cannot bear to sit nearby and listen. We beg some coins from him to occupy ourselves with the games. And that's when I say to Mike, using reverse psychology, "Whatever you do, don't stick a nickel up your nose."

He shoves one, two, maybe three or four up his nose. Ha ha ha we're laughing. We look around. No one notices us. Dad is relentless with his talk with the guy. He's a goner. Mike pulls nickel one out without many problems. Eventually pulls out the second. But the third is jammed up there. I think we eat our pizza then, Mike included, though fully aware of the coin stuck in his nasal cavity. We say throughout dinner, "Dad, Mike's got a nickel stuck in his nose." He's oblivious still. The man and he are talking about cars. Nothing left to eat or do, we go wander around the game room since we used up all of the money before dinner. Mike is sneezing at this time, hawking up everything but the nickel. He works his way past the driving game to the crane, leaving snot all over each screen. I recall someone trying to play one of the games but too grossed out once he sees Mike's contributions. Mike is hawking, sneezing, snorting, snorking. We're pulling at Dad's sleeve. We're stomping on his big black clown shoes but his toes are numb. Dad, Mike's got snot everywhere. Nothing.

Finally, the strange man leaves. Dad is out of things to do. He recognizes that we are his children and that he should probably gather us up and bundle us back home. Wait, what's this? He learns that his son Mike has a, what?, a nickel stuck inside of his nose. He grabs napkin after napkin and wipes Mike's nose. He makes Mike look up into the light to sugically remove said coin, but realizes that all of his keys and tools that he carries in his pockets don't fit up his nose or are able to do the job.

We head out to the car. We kids are strangely quiet. The car takes forever to warm up. We drive in the dark down Ogden, when Dad pulls into a Jewel food store. There are five cars in the huge lot, and the lights inside of the store are dimmed. "They're closed," I forewarn. "You won't be able to get in." Dad pulls up to the front, gets out, raps his keys against the glass window until someone inside the Jewel huffily explains that They Are Closed. At this point, I'm feeling pretty smug and powerful. And then Dad talks the guy into letting him in the store to buy something. What is he getting? He walks out with a small package, opens it and yoinks Mike out of the car. They're standing underneath a huge street light. Mike is looking up and Dad pulls out a new pair of tweezers. I notice that there are about 5 workers inside of the Jewel who are cupping their eyes against the window to see Dad pulling a wet nickel out of Mike's nose. The workers make clapping motions. We clap inside of the car, though I am also totally embarrassed.

The moral of the story? I have great psychological powers over people, as long as I know how to use them. So Mike? Have a really crappy birthday.

warning, beep beep, viewer discretion

Hey, my friend Will emailed me his memories of the oil crisis times in the 1970's. Thank you Will! Now c'mon the rest of yuz.

"Gas was 31 cents a gallon when I started driving. My wife hadn't been born. Dope was $15 an ounce. Heiniken was making inroads in the Bud market.People were having sex for the fun of it (although I'll admit some still are). Really bad Black music was in full swing (Spinners, Oj's, Me and Mrs. Jones) and I loved it. Arabs were still riding camels and there was a thing called the middle class in America. Hippies hitchhiking at every exit on the interstate. I had a 3/4 ton chevy. Then the "Big Dunce out" as Lester bangs called it was rocked by Inflation, something the Keynesian economists couldn't handle. Internally it was the result of Lyndon Johnson printing money to pay for Viet Nam. Exogeonously(sp?) it was the oil cartels learning how to challenge the market."

Anyone else?

gas crisis of the 1970's

Does anyone remember actual personal details about the gas crunch in the 1970's? When gas prices went to the hemisphere, and things like coffee and peanut butter cost much more what they'd cost the day before? I recall it all happening really quickly, especially at the Jewel store in Glendale Heights, and not being able to afford to buy mom's coffee because the price had jumped from something like $3 to $10. Do you recall what other stuff cost much more as a result ? I am working on a story (fiction) that touches on that time, but I'd like to get more personal details, more than what I've been able to find on the web. Anyone have any memory of it? Inquiring minds really want to know. Thanks.

speedometer alert

Gretchen Pugliese, my Toyota, has reached 272,031 miles this trip.

Every time Maria sees the commercial on TV for Toyota, with the people spilling out private details of their own Toyotas, Maria starts chanting, "Sheila, Sheila, Sheila." Do you think if I talk enough about how fantastic my car is on this blog that I can get Toyota to give me another Toyota (maybe one with four wheel drive?) just in case my fantastic Toyota stops being likeso?

what's the score?

In case any of you were wondering why I would participate in such a spit-fire event as a poetry contest about Dick Cheney can look here.

I have tried to ignore, understand, deny, wonder aloud, ignore, think about for a minute, on the goings on in the Republican party because, basically, there's nothing else to do on that end. I guess it's always evolving, because people are involved in politics, and people are always changing, even to change back before changing back back. But I really do not understand the Republicans' appeal.

Which then makes me think about being an American in the US. And an American in Canada. Which then means being a North American. I have found Anglophone Canadians always talk about Canada as North America. Or maybe they refer to North America a lot lately because of the Olympics in Turin.

Maria spent a few HOURS on the phone this morning trying to understand what we're paying to Bell Telephone. No one could answer more than one answer before passing her on to some other expert for what I thought were business as usual-type questions. Which is typical here in Quebec/Canada. I have dealt with phone companies and utilities and businesses in the US, and had my share of trouble with customer service. But never for so long for so small a request as "please tell me what is on my bill." If you want to open a bank account in Canada, you have to make an appt. I've opened many a bank accounts in the US as a walk-in. I've grumbled this way in public while in Canada. Which then made me feel like ... a Republican.

Why is it that good business practices and good service are linked in this non-Repub mind to Republicans?

Dear Mom. Sorry. I know I'm not supposed to talk about politics or religion. But it's not Christmas.

Club 852: Not just for Lisle anymore

Club 852: Not just for Lisle anymore Oh the elusive sleep that comes with voluntary motherhood.

Better than tuna

Every once in a while I catch myself with compromising thoughts. For instance, I was watching the movie with Harrison Ford playing a cop who went to an Amish community ..and had something to do like hide from his fellow officers. I know there were beards without mustaches. Plain was the theme. And barn building only took a day. As I watched this delightful film I became more and more Amish in my desire to be Amish. I did not realize this at the time, of course. I was just enjoying a film. But at some point toward the end I came back to the living room where I sat, noticed the empty Milky Way wrapper and cold cup of tea next to me and recognized that I was in the living room with my accoutrements. I was not actually pulling flour out of wooden drawers to make the infamous Amish treat kerspliegendoilen. The shock probably lasted longer than a breath, but long enough for me to acknowledge it.

Years later, along comes along my computer. It has all kinds of nifty features that let me watch TV shows downloaded from iTunes. Say I get holed up at work. Say I have to spend a dull weekend reading font requirements, looking over forms asking if research will involve Agnatha (Hagfish! Lamprey! The form explains to me, not the blonde singer in ABBA). I know every page has to be numbered. I know that 12 people have not given me all of their forms. I think to myself, paper shuffle? Or music shuffle?

I go to iTunes and download a delightful terrorist network show called Sleeper Cell, and watch it on my computer, on my lunch break. It is actually muuuch better than the 24, a show critics have apparently compared to Sleeper Cell. Yes, they had barns in this show too, but they also had dogs. And Muslim terrorists in LA. The head leader, who I think was a friend of Osama bin Laden (in the show. I cannot claim to know this man’s life outside of work), tells this Mexican drug lord guy who owns a dog race track, something to this effect: “The prophet, may his name be blessed, says there are no dogs in Heaven.” Don’t quote me on that because it was probably something like, blah blah blah Heaven blah blah NO DOGS blah. This startled me. For half of that breath I shook my head and realized that there was, therefore, no way I was going to become a Muslim. Which startled me all over again. I have no interest in becoming Muslim just like I had no intention of becoming both Harrison Ford and an Amish barn builder, but I keep finding myself pretending these far out scenarios.



Better not start watching Flipper, I guess.

A Public Service

OK time to get that dancing cat out of your system.

I've just gotten through a grant proposal that I'd been working on at MIT for one full month including all of last weekend and we submitted it last night at 4:59pm. I awoke this morning at 5am because I realized that I'd forgotten to add a section to the proposal. I am cooked.

But I cannot do anything until 9am when I start begging various people to help me out, and Martin Polz, the professor whose proposal went out, starts begging people at the National Science Foundation for mercy.

So what catches my eye? This poetry contest on the latest events of the past few days that I'd missed. Two that made me laugh out loud:

Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
Dick Cheney shot a man in the face. (27)

Guns Don't Shoot 78-year old Men in the Face,
Dick Cheney does. (28)

I think it's horrible that Dick Cheney shot that guy. I hope the guy recovers fully. And I was at first surprised at how quickly and ferociously this issue has hung on. But then I thought back to when Howard Dean gave some pep speech after losing Iowa and gave that yell at the end. The reporters at the event thought nothing of it. But their editors took it and then gave it that special overkill touch, and wa la, Howard Dean is now a frothing maniac. When he governed in Vermont he did so as a moderate Democrat.

So now I'm thinking that what's good for the goose is... good for the quail hunter.

I can't decide which of the two to vote for, though.

Dancing Queen

I swear I'm done for today...

It really is time for me to go to bed, but not without posting this quite hilarious little comic. Oh, the things they have out there on the internet!!!

Oops

I forgot to include the thing...one of these days I'll get it right...

Your Hillbilly Name Is...

Goober Walker

Hillbilly Name Generator

Too Much Time...

What's your hillbilly name? I mean, besides Suzy Judy Gloria and Eunice...

Check it out

I forgot to say...
What's your muppet personality? Take this quiz!

Muppet Personality

You Are Fozzie Bear

"Wocka! Wocka!" You're the life of the party, and you love making people crack up. If only your routine didn't always bomb! You may find more groans than laughs, but always keep the jokes coming.

The Muppet Personality Test

Valentine's in Sunny Santa Barbara

This picture is from last month, a friend's (Steven's57th) birthday, at a winery in Santa Ynez Valley. This are 2 golfing buddies, Evelyn on left and Norma on right.

Had a hard time getting to my keyboard today, with all the chocolate wrappers lying all over my desk. It was the only place I could leave those little pieces of paper that protect my Leonidas treats. I couldn't see the trash can because of all the wrapping paper that the dozens of roses came in.!!! It has been a while since I sent back flowers (to the scum that 'retired' me from my job here) and I am off the 'watch' list posted at every florist in Santa Barbara!

A little too warm to play golf today, don't want to get too sweaty before I go to friends (Carol and Steven) for dinner. ( I would have to take my Saturday bath so early.....holy cow).

Adios por ahora.

Ain't"B"

Which one?

Which one is a little brother, worthy, NAY I say, deserving of teasing?