You know, I'm getting a little tired of people asking why a grown man would own a hand puppet. Can't folks use their time more productively? If you think about it for five seconds it makes a lot of sense. Companionship is at a premium. Hordes are working long hours at two jobs. Depression and isolation cloud our cities. No one calls or writes and social networking with all those smiling strangers makes us feel even more alone.
For a modest price, one can find a buddy that will always listen, never interrupt and continually display affection. You don't have to feed it a or give it shots or have its teeth checked as so often happens with elderly relatives. Roscoe and I complete each other. When I go to a cafe I just sit him opposite me while I order. Sometimes I'll read for awhile, but inevitably I feel the need to converse and he is always right there to absorb my insights. I'll slide my arm into his essence, turn my wrist and point his little charming snout--he's a lizard--at my face and our discussion will take off. Don't think others don't notice. All eyes are upon us as we debate a range of topics.
In retrospect, I have to admit Roscoe was right about Colin Powell. I had high hopes for that man and he disappeared into private life. However, I was right about Greece and the European mess, countries trying to bail them out. Roscoe stated it was all a misunderstanding. Foreign affairs are not his strength.
At the risk of sounding immodest, quite a few attractive woman have shown a marked interest in eavesdropping on our conversations. The fact that they seem to find Roscoe fascinating doesn't bother me. Without my right hand that fellow is just a pile of felt and fabric. I always have things in perspective.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Garage Monster
I have to write this fast because I bought low carb chocolate ice cream and I can't wait to vacuum it up.
I'm proud of myself. While cleaning up my garage I threw out nine separate items. These included a dust covered portable radio/tape player from the early eighties, an electric typewriter, a VCR, and six other items I've already wiped from memory. Actually my super came and took my ancient wood coffee table because I had replaced it with a glass top number that looks intensely modern. I sensed he thought he got a bargain.
I have dozens of paintings lined up, bursts of colorful brilliance that for incomprehensible reasons I can't seem to sell. There are quilts and blankets and coats and jackets and ten scarves. My old desktop, which died in 2009, is still against the wall, along with monitor and keyboard. Roscoe, my hand puppet peeks up at me from a box, waiting impatiently for return to my home.
My clay sculptures, resembling diseased rocks, lay amidst flotsam from Marshals Home Goods, Pier I, Target, Wal-Mart, various flea markets and garage sales. I just kept stacking, moving, tweaking, folding, and squeezing in stuff that might be embarrassing to anyone else. I am a gifted hoarder, as opposed to those who can't differentiate. The bottom line is after two hours of reorganizing I now have room for three more hand puppets. Roscoe needs to hang with someone.
I think I'm going to reward myself. Whisper it. Cho-co-late.
I'm proud of myself. While cleaning up my garage I threw out nine separate items. These included a dust covered portable radio/tape player from the early eighties, an electric typewriter, a VCR, and six other items I've already wiped from memory. Actually my super came and took my ancient wood coffee table because I had replaced it with a glass top number that looks intensely modern. I sensed he thought he got a bargain.
I have dozens of paintings lined up, bursts of colorful brilliance that for incomprehensible reasons I can't seem to sell. There are quilts and blankets and coats and jackets and ten scarves. My old desktop, which died in 2009, is still against the wall, along with monitor and keyboard. Roscoe, my hand puppet peeks up at me from a box, waiting impatiently for return to my home.
My clay sculptures, resembling diseased rocks, lay amidst flotsam from Marshals Home Goods, Pier I, Target, Wal-Mart, various flea markets and garage sales. I just kept stacking, moving, tweaking, folding, and squeezing in stuff that might be embarrassing to anyone else. I am a gifted hoarder, as opposed to those who can't differentiate. The bottom line is after two hours of reorganizing I now have room for three more hand puppets. Roscoe needs to hang with someone.
I think I'm going to reward myself. Whisper it. Cho-co-late.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Half Price
My high beams wouldn't stay on, so I called my service rep to make an appointment. It was right at the end of my five year warranty. The voice mail informed me they were running a half price oil change and it sounded good to me. So I made the appointment for the next day. Showed up an hour early and they still took me. Sat in the waiting area, read a book. Inside of an hour I was led to my car and asked to show the mechanic how I turned on my beams. I showed him and he shook his head. I was pulling the lever toward me instead of away. It never occurred to me to try the other direction.
I felt foolish, but relieved. A phantom problem solved. Then it got interesting. Never let them do a full 88 point checkup because I guarantee they will find things wrong you never imagined. Besides my oil change I needed a complete flushing of my anti-freeze along with a new thermostat and gasket. Plus my rear brakes were shot right down to the shoes. Plus I was due for a timing belt replacement at 60000 miles.
Even with a discount, the estimate could have paid for a weekend in Cabo. I am trying to squeeze two more years out of this beast of a car. My Hyundai hates me. It was never a good fit right from the test drive. I could tell by the acrid smell. No new car aroma. It got itself stolen last year and stayed in a Wal-Mart lot all December covered with snow. It thinks I purposely arranged for its theft, that much is clear. Since I got it back, nothing but trouble.
Later, the service rep informed me bubbles came from my old anti-freeze. He asked if I added something to it, which I didn't. Those bubbles were my car's fury venting itself. Why didn't I keep my 13 year old Corolla? I could have cleaned up the rust. I'm not even certain timing belts exist. That, along with angels.
I felt foolish, but relieved. A phantom problem solved. Then it got interesting. Never let them do a full 88 point checkup because I guarantee they will find things wrong you never imagined. Besides my oil change I needed a complete flushing of my anti-freeze along with a new thermostat and gasket. Plus my rear brakes were shot right down to the shoes. Plus I was due for a timing belt replacement at 60000 miles.
Even with a discount, the estimate could have paid for a weekend in Cabo. I am trying to squeeze two more years out of this beast of a car. My Hyundai hates me. It was never a good fit right from the test drive. I could tell by the acrid smell. No new car aroma. It got itself stolen last year and stayed in a Wal-Mart lot all December covered with snow. It thinks I purposely arranged for its theft, that much is clear. Since I got it back, nothing but trouble.
Later, the service rep informed me bubbles came from my old anti-freeze. He asked if I added something to it, which I didn't. Those bubbles were my car's fury venting itself. Why didn't I keep my 13 year old Corolla? I could have cleaned up the rust. I'm not even certain timing belts exist. That, along with angels.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Bad Reception
"My arms are getting tired," Bill called out.
"Another two hours and our shift will be over. Hang in there." I'm tired of yelling encouragement to this crybaby.
I wasn't sure of the two hour estimate. It could be longer. Each homeowner makes his own rules. My guy, Wally, is a compassionate sort. Limits me to six hour shifts. Then Eunice climbs up and takes the second shift. I don't know who comes on after her, but Angelo has the fourth segment. He's usually half asleep when he greets me at 6AM., which is dangerous since we're perched on this slanted roof thirty feet above ground.
Bill is sobbing. Third day in a row. "Why me?" he keeps asking. I've given up trying to offer him solace. At least he's single. I've got a wife and three kids waiting for me to take them to games and shopping, all sorts of trips. My legs are killing me, but I have my responsibilities. Forty-two years old, an MBA, and look at me. Hours standing on this stupid roof holding an aerial so the lucky employed fellow below can get good reception. Praying we don't get a lightning storm. Damn recession, damn layoffs. I had my own office and a secretary, a six figure salary and stock options. Now I get two ten minute breaks and complaints from Wally that I'm not tilting this thing at the correct angle and his picture is flipping.
I scan the area, see the others, maybe twenty, all pointing their aerials at different angles, looking ridiculous. You can't keep saying you have to put food on the table. Nine-fifty an hour doesn't get you fillet of anything. At some point you have to stand up and be a man, display some pride, tell them where to stick their aerial. Maybe tomorrow. Oh boy. Bill just slid off and landed in some bushes. You break it, you pay for it. There goes a week's salary.
"Another two hours and our shift will be over. Hang in there." I'm tired of yelling encouragement to this crybaby.
I wasn't sure of the two hour estimate. It could be longer. Each homeowner makes his own rules. My guy, Wally, is a compassionate sort. Limits me to six hour shifts. Then Eunice climbs up and takes the second shift. I don't know who comes on after her, but Angelo has the fourth segment. He's usually half asleep when he greets me at 6AM., which is dangerous since we're perched on this slanted roof thirty feet above ground.
Bill is sobbing. Third day in a row. "Why me?" he keeps asking. I've given up trying to offer him solace. At least he's single. I've got a wife and three kids waiting for me to take them to games and shopping, all sorts of trips. My legs are killing me, but I have my responsibilities. Forty-two years old, an MBA, and look at me. Hours standing on this stupid roof holding an aerial so the lucky employed fellow below can get good reception. Praying we don't get a lightning storm. Damn recession, damn layoffs. I had my own office and a secretary, a six figure salary and stock options. Now I get two ten minute breaks and complaints from Wally that I'm not tilting this thing at the correct angle and his picture is flipping.
I scan the area, see the others, maybe twenty, all pointing their aerials at different angles, looking ridiculous. You can't keep saying you have to put food on the table. Nine-fifty an hour doesn't get you fillet of anything. At some point you have to stand up and be a man, display some pride, tell them where to stick their aerial. Maybe tomorrow. Oh boy. Bill just slid off and landed in some bushes. You break it, you pay for it. There goes a week's salary.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Ninety Five
I visited my uncle this past Saturday. He turned 95 in August. He wrote a 40 page memoir, centering on his WWII experiences. His hand printing is clearer than mine. My niece will type it up after I proof read it. Some pretty strong stuff in there about D-Day.
My uncle still lives on his own, close to his granddaughter and her five kids. He drives only during the day, stopped taking his blood pressure medicine and exercises his upper body, stretching two rubber pulleys attached to a door and wrist grips. Up until he was 88, he golfed regularly. Sometimes his old company will send a driver to pick him up and bring him there for some accounting work.
He was an engineer in the Army, building a number of bridges. Back home, he became a supervisor at some plant, went to Rutgers at night and eventually got his degree. I still ask him for financial advice. The hearing is not all there and I have to speak up, but he's still pretty sharp.
His apartment is filled with family photos, including his eight great grand children. In addition, there are many cards and photos of friends and their kids dating back many years. I guess he outlived them all. His wife died in 2007 at 87.
He has his 'war room'-- one wall covered with maps of the various troop movements and attack plans, and a computer filled with blown up photos of his parents and grand parents, dating back over 100 years.
What does he think about at night, lying in bed? Are there so many memories he has trouble choosing? Or have too many vanished, leaving holes he tries to fill, piecing together gaps in time? He was a success at everything he did and now he's elegantly handling extreme age. We should all be so fortunate.
My uncle still lives on his own, close to his granddaughter and her five kids. He drives only during the day, stopped taking his blood pressure medicine and exercises his upper body, stretching two rubber pulleys attached to a door and wrist grips. Up until he was 88, he golfed regularly. Sometimes his old company will send a driver to pick him up and bring him there for some accounting work.
He was an engineer in the Army, building a number of bridges. Back home, he became a supervisor at some plant, went to Rutgers at night and eventually got his degree. I still ask him for financial advice. The hearing is not all there and I have to speak up, but he's still pretty sharp.
His apartment is filled with family photos, including his eight great grand children. In addition, there are many cards and photos of friends and their kids dating back many years. I guess he outlived them all. His wife died in 2007 at 87.
He has his 'war room'-- one wall covered with maps of the various troop movements and attack plans, and a computer filled with blown up photos of his parents and grand parents, dating back over 100 years.
What does he think about at night, lying in bed? Are there so many memories he has trouble choosing? Or have too many vanished, leaving holes he tries to fill, piecing together gaps in time? He was a success at everything he did and now he's elegantly handling extreme age. We should all be so fortunate.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
My Andy Problem
Andy Rooney is sitting in my living room cursing under his breath.
"What am I supposed to do now?"
I had spotted him wandering around my neighborhood and invited him inside, afraid he might get arrested. I gave him a cold beer and tried to be a good listener. He just kept moaning and holding his 92 year old head.
"They practically threw me out. You watch. Some 28 year old pretty boy will take my spot. They'll put Erin Burnette in there. Airheads. None of them have my insights, my experience, my dry wit. Don't you just savor my wit?"
I nodded, although to be truthful, last few years I've been watching Sunday night football previews. I didn't tell him that. After about a half hour of whining, he lay back and dozed off. Then it hit me. What if he never woke up? What if he croaks on my couch and there's an investigation? He's the beloved Andy Rooney; of course they'll be an investigation. What if they do an autopsy and discover I served him tainted beer? Will I be prosecuted? I can't do time. My sinuses will clog up. Why didn't I just leave him out there wandering like I did William Shatner before his comeback?
I watched him snoring like a chain saw, holding my breath. Should I call Larry King and ask for advice? I hate to admit it, but after all those decades I was getting kind of tired of Andy's raspy voice. And Erin Burnette is pretty hot.
Another problem: if he wakes up, is it time for his medication? If he doesn't have any with him, do I offer him mine? I'm guessing his nose gets stuffed up too.
"What am I supposed to do now?"
I had spotted him wandering around my neighborhood and invited him inside, afraid he might get arrested. I gave him a cold beer and tried to be a good listener. He just kept moaning and holding his 92 year old head.
"They practically threw me out. You watch. Some 28 year old pretty boy will take my spot. They'll put Erin Burnette in there. Airheads. None of them have my insights, my experience, my dry wit. Don't you just savor my wit?"
I nodded, although to be truthful, last few years I've been watching Sunday night football previews. I didn't tell him that. After about a half hour of whining, he lay back and dozed off. Then it hit me. What if he never woke up? What if he croaks on my couch and there's an investigation? He's the beloved Andy Rooney; of course they'll be an investigation. What if they do an autopsy and discover I served him tainted beer? Will I be prosecuted? I can't do time. My sinuses will clog up. Why didn't I just leave him out there wandering like I did William Shatner before his comeback?
I watched him snoring like a chain saw, holding my breath. Should I call Larry King and ask for advice? I hate to admit it, but after all those decades I was getting kind of tired of Andy's raspy voice. And Erin Burnette is pretty hot.
Another problem: if he wakes up, is it time for his medication? If he doesn't have any with him, do I offer him mine? I'm guessing his nose gets stuffed up too.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Beauty and the Beast
Annette Benning has made 23 films in 23 years. From that output, she has garnered an amazing 68 nominations and wins in various awards categories. Conclusion: this woman should not be allowed to take any time off ever. We as a society need to work Annette Benning until she drops from exhaustion. Let her hire a nanny. She was put here to make movies, not children.
Which brings me to Ted Danson. I loved him in Cheers. So did everyone. Then he starred in Becker and that had a good run. Before you could blink, he popped up in Curb Your Enthusiasm. Then it was Damages opposite Glen Close. Was this enough to sate his voracious thespian appetite? Guess again. He jumped right into Bored to Death. Now I turn on the TV and who has taken Laurence Fishbourne's place on CSI? The inexhaustible Ted Danson. The only reason he was chosen is they have the exact same chin.
Ted Danson has become an acting monster, swallowing parts in one series after another. Gary Busey cannot get work because of this man. Lee Majors is hawking dental floss on The Tooth Channel because of Danson. Erik Estrada is playing fifth lead in Steven Segal films as a result of the greed blatantly displayed by 'Sam Malone'.
Forget demonstrating against Wall Street; that's a lost cause. What about an anti-Danson flash mob in front of the Emmy building? Danson has 15 Emmy nominations and two wins, 10 Golden Globe nominations and 3 wins, a Screen Actors Guild nomination and no wins. That's 26 nominations and only 5 wins. If you're playing first base for the Dodgers and are 5 for 26, you lose your job. He won an American Comedy Award, which I'm certain was given to him by his family. He is active in ocean conservation and wrote a book about saving our endangered oceans. Huh? Every time you turn on the TV oceans are beating the crap out of us. I say boycott Ted Danson and Save Bob Newhart, who, I'm guessing, doesn't give a crap about deep sea sting rays.
Which brings me to Ted Danson. I loved him in Cheers. So did everyone. Then he starred in Becker and that had a good run. Before you could blink, he popped up in Curb Your Enthusiasm. Then it was Damages opposite Glen Close. Was this enough to sate his voracious thespian appetite? Guess again. He jumped right into Bored to Death. Now I turn on the TV and who has taken Laurence Fishbourne's place on CSI? The inexhaustible Ted Danson. The only reason he was chosen is they have the exact same chin.
Ted Danson has become an acting monster, swallowing parts in one series after another. Gary Busey cannot get work because of this man. Lee Majors is hawking dental floss on The Tooth Channel because of Danson. Erik Estrada is playing fifth lead in Steven Segal films as a result of the greed blatantly displayed by 'Sam Malone'.
Forget demonstrating against Wall Street; that's a lost cause. What about an anti-Danson flash mob in front of the Emmy building? Danson has 15 Emmy nominations and two wins, 10 Golden Globe nominations and 3 wins, a Screen Actors Guild nomination and no wins. That's 26 nominations and only 5 wins. If you're playing first base for the Dodgers and are 5 for 26, you lose your job. He won an American Comedy Award, which I'm certain was given to him by his family. He is active in ocean conservation and wrote a book about saving our endangered oceans. Huh? Every time you turn on the TV oceans are beating the crap out of us. I say boycott Ted Danson and Save Bob Newhart, who, I'm guessing, doesn't give a crap about deep sea sting rays.
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