Not here anymore

Moved.

The NEW site which will contain all new material is at:


http://jamesrising.com/


thanks for all the fish.

Anthropomorphism

There is word for assigning animals, objects or even plants human characteristics.
Anthropomorphism.
Egg-headed scientists scoff at this idea. The learned men in the white lab coats will tell you it is foolish to endow a dumb animal with anything like emotion. But anyone who ever owned a doggy or a kitty will tell you the pet had a soul.
I take it a bit further. I am certain that many of the inanimate objects that we deal with on a day-to-day basis also have souls or can feel. I also think they have wicked timing, and a sense of humor.
Explain to me why else the light bulb in the bathroom will pick the first thing in the morning to blow out? Getting moving in the grey dawn is hard enough without the onerous task of changing the bulb in a fixture you can reach only by standing on a chair and stretching like you are doing yoga. Making you do this when half-awake has to give the bulb some sort of perverse pleasure. Doing this in the middle of the day is dangerous. Doing it before morning coffee, prior to brushing your teeth is asking for a trip to the E.R. Or at the very least to the hardware store to buy a replacement fixture for the one you tear from the ceiling in your sleepy clumsiness.
Computers don’t have ears. Why then do we talk to them? Or more properly put in my case at least, why do I swear at them? For me it’s because the evil things refuse to cooperate at the worst possible time. Anyone who doesn’t think computers have a mind of their own has never had an important work or school assignment due when the hard drive crashes. No one when faced with such a crisis has not addressed the machine with various spells and incantations mostly revolving around the chant “not now you worthless piece of feces.”
Cars know when you will be most inconvenienced by refusing to start. Flashlight batteries that work perfectly in broad daylight plot against you on dark and stormy power failure nights. Cell phones know exactly when to drop a call, right before the boss on the other end gives you the crucial instruction and you have to make him repeat himself. Two or three times. Bosses love repeating themselves. I swear I can hear the cellphone chuckle.
The tiny rational part of my mind knows this is silly. The rest of my mind knows it’s true.
Best advice my Dad ever gave me? Never let anything mechanical or electrical know you are in a hurry. They can smell it on you and will punish you.

See you in the funnies

I read newspapers. I love to tell people that. I harrumph, (newspaper readers are big on harrumphing) adjust my glasses and give out my best serious look. “I read several newspapers a day” I tell anyone who will listen, which oddly enough is fewer and fewer each day. “I read real newspapers too,” I tell them. None of this fancy internet stuff for me. I love getting ink on my fingers and elbows. Newspaper readers will understand about the elbows.
I think it makes me look intelligent. Thoughtful. Erudite. The reality is not as glamorous.
I read newspapers every day, but I read the funnies first. Always have, always will. Oh sure, I’ll glance at the front page. But first things first. I have to have my dose of comic art.
Sometimes when the headlines in the other sections of the paper are particularly bleak, that is almost all I read. I stopped watching the nightly TV news for the same reason. It was interfering with my boundless optimism and my rosy world view. Cartoons on TV are great in their own way but can’t compare with the three to four panels inked in color every day.
Newspaper comics are great. I admit I don’t read all of them. The Phantom does little for me. Something about a dog and a guy in a costume. I have read all the Peanuts over the years and I am sometimes amazed to still see Charles Schultz’s (he’s been gone 9 years now) name in print. Our local papers don’t carry Mary Worth and I am fine with that.
But I faithfully read several strips, as we comic lovers call them, on a daily basis. A day without “Dilbert” and his pointy haired boss? It’s unthinkable. “Get Fuzzy” can make me laugh so hard that cereal milk shoots out my nose. And “Crankshaft” is good on so many levels, from amazing art to the uncanny way it nails people as they really are.
My refrigerator’s actual color is difficult to discern. It’s covered with clipped out strips. Sometimes just one panel, but that one small square can be a work of art all by itself. A good example: a “Crankshaft” panel shows the old man and his adult daughter on a porch swing. He says “Somehow, I always thought life took longer than this.” Nailed it, for me at least.
One time the paper forgot to print the funnies. They just plain forgot to run the funnies and printed a full page of car ads instead. I went through the seven stages of grief. I missed a whole day in the life of “Frazz.” You never get over something like that.

Amerika

A possible projection of the future, had calmer (and smarter) heads not prevailed:
FORTY FORT, Pa - September 18, 2020 – To no one’s surprise the northeastern PA. borough of Forty Fort officially seceded from the United States today. Standing by the gate in the 50 foot high fence surrounding the community, the mayor proclaimed the day a proud one for the 100 remaining residents.
“The first thing we did 10 years ago was get rid of all them pesky forms with two languages on them. If you can’t read American you can’t live here so go away.” said the Mayor.
More recently phone service, landline and cellular, was terminated.
“People were dialing out and getting these menus in English and Spanish. It was just wrong.” A Council member said. “We didn’t want our kids to grow up thinking English was a second language.” he continued. Access to the internet has been eliminated as well.
The newly formed Forty Fort culinary police were busy eradicating the ethnic food sections of local grocery stores. Two Chinese takeout restaurants have been shuttered and the fast food restaurant chains have changed the popular potato dish’s name to Fort Fries.
Bourough council was also happy to report that the bonfire burning all foreign language textbooks was a great success.
“They won’t be teaching that Hinky-Dinky, Parlez Vous in our schools” the school board president said. When a reporter pointed out that the remaining families with school age children had moved out of the borough he shrugged and replied “Ah who needs ‘em. Probably a bunch of foreigners anyway. Hey, you look sort of foreign yourself.”
Access to Forty Fort has been restricted to the single gate in the tall fence surrounding the community. Vehicles manufactured in countries other than the United States are denied entry.
“We don’t need any of them foreign crap boxes in our town!” said the Mayor.
When a reporter pointed out that many cars with American marques were manufactured on foreign soil the Mayor replied “What are you, some sort of smart aleck? And what does marque mean anyway? Is that a Jap car you drove here in? You better get going.” The Mayor brandished a weapon.
When a reporter pointed out that the weapon was an AK-47 of Russian origin he was escorted by the Mayor out of the sovereign nation of Forty Fort at rifle point.
“America for Americans.” He said, locking the gate.

9/11 Redux

I was furious.
I drove like a maniac to the radio station, braked hard to a four wheel skid, jumped from my car, straight armed the doors and slammed into the lobby.
I was pissed off.
My anger was directed at the morning duo, just hired, for the radio station I programmed. The pair, Kimberly and Beck, had been doing a bit about a plane crashing into the World Trade center. At least I thought it was a bit.
I didn’t find it at all funny. I raced towards the studio intent on giving the errant DJ’s a piece of my mind.
As I passed by the news room I glanced at the small TV mounted on the wall and skidded to halt, digging my heels in the carpet.
My jaw dropped.
The world slowed down.
I said “Oh. My. God.”
In the news room a small group had gathered, looking at the TV. The cute sales assistant who was always bright and bubbly, looked at me. Her face was ashen.
As I looked from her to the TV the second tower was hit. The cute sales assistant burst into tears.
Bud Brown, the crusty, seasoned news veteran who had covered it all was frozen in place. It was clear he couldn’t handle the images on the TV any better than the rest of us.
I had just seen a documentary on the terrorist threat and I said “that Osama guy did this.” No one said a word.
The news about the Pentagon came.
The broadcaster in us kicked in.
The people, our audiences, had to know.
In times like that necessity is the mother of invention. Only one of the five radio stations under our control that day was news oriented. The others were music intensive and didn’t even have a network affiliation.
The engineers ran wires down the hallways and struggled to make connections so we could get radio network news on the air. DJ’s, used to cracking jokes and introducing records were tongue tied.
It was taking too long.
Each studio had a TV. In desperation I ordered the DJ’s in each station to turn the volume up and hold a microphone to the speakers. The image of those announcers stretching their arms to get the microphones near the TV’s mounted high on the walls stays with me.
I have many memories of the moment and the horrible moments following. Like all Americans the images of those planes slamming into the Two Towers were seared into my mind’s eye. But what I remember most clearly was seeing the second plane hit and then the tears in The cute sales assistant's eyes.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“What’s going to happen?”
To this day I don’t have an answer.

Does a Bear...

I don’t watch a great deal of commercial television. Oh I sit in front of the TV and enjoy movies on DVD and streamed Via Netflix but my viewing of network TV with commercials in between content is not up to statistical norms. According to the A.C. Nielsen Co., the average American watches more than 4 hours of TV each day. I am sure I watch less than half an hour. This has less to do with the content than the commercials. I find reality shows contrived and prefer to watch any shows without commercials. Newton Minow once called TV “A vast wasteland.” He said this back in 1960, when there were the big three networks and no cable networks at all. Newton baby, you had no idea!
So it is I am out of the loop when it comes to the state of the art in TV commercials. I do see enough so that it takes a lot to shock/piss off/anger me. I mean after we have waded through all the ads for feminine hygiene (why do they use BLUE liquid?) and heard for the thousandth time that you should see a doctor if the erection lasts more than four hours what’s to be shocked/pissed off/angered about?
But I must have missed the recent series of ads for Charmin toilet paper or as they call it, “Bath Tissue”. Charmin has been promoting their brand of butt wipe for some reason for the last ten years with bears. Some advertising agency guy must have heard the phrase about a bear pooping in the woods and ran with it. I’ve actually seen a bear do that and let me tell you they don’t use Charmin. But that’s not what caught my eye.
The more recent ads-and they have apparently been running for a year or more- feature a bear cub with a problem. Variously called dingleberries, cling-ons , hangers-on, the bear cub (Billy according to the Charmin website) is shown with white specks of TP clinging to its ass. Momma bear (Molly) chases it around with a broom and dust pan until Charmin “Ultra Strong” comes to rescue to eliminate what the ad calls “leftovers.”
In a word, yuck.
For more than 20 years Charmin promoted the softness of their product with a nice actor named Dick Wilson. Dick played Mr. Whipple who exhorted people not to squeeze the Charmin. I am sure Dick Wilson would have thrown up if he was asked to promote Charmin’s ability to reduce dingleberries. Dick passed on to great grocery store in the sky back in 2007. If there is any justice in life he never got to see the bear’s asses doing his job.

I Still Believe (Great Design)

I am of that age where more and more often someone I knew of passes away. I know, as the “Dead” would say, Death has no mercy but when you start to count the ones who you knew or whose name you knew as those numbered among the angels it is a little bit sad. Sometimes a whole lot sad.
A boss of mine noticed when I was mourning the passing of Dale Earnhardt Sr. years back and made a big deal about it. He thought it stupid. How could I waste any emotion over someone I had never met? Save my tears for family members or pets, but not race car drivers who you had never been close to. For whatever reason this boss didn’t get it.
A close personal friend of mine passed away the other day. A close personal friend that I consider myself lucky to have known very well, even though we only met once. We spent hours together. As an adult American male the code is that you don’t cry or share feelings but boy did we share. He made me laugh and feel great and yes I spilled buckets of tears with him, for him and because of him.
He could make me smile on the worst of days, when I had lost my job, my dog died or the checks all bounced. And he could make me feel hope when deep in the dark corners of my soul I knew there was none. When I only had a spark to light my way, he was that spark. He and I came through some pretty heavy stuff. I made it. He didn’t.
Heart attack is what they speculate. He was 60, after all, and lived a rock star’s life. It takes a toll. At the time of his death he was working for his son in the profession that he loved. He was a musician. No that’s not strong enough. He was an Artist.
His music lives on and I guess that is quite a legacy. 10 albums with songs so strong that they could knock down walls. And the walls did come down when Michael Been played. And sang. Boy could he sing.
The Call were one of those late 80’s 90’s bands that should have been big but weren’t. Record companies are like any other business. Politics, greed and horseshit pile up so fast that it’s a wonder any Artist ever gets their due. Many, like The Call and Michael Been don’t.
I met him in a grip and grin at Lackawanna County Multipurpose stadium when it was called that. Moments before he had been on stage, his arms spread wide and gave me a message I remember clear as a bell to this day.
“I still believe
Through the shame
And through the grief
Through the heartache
Through the tears
Through the waiting
Through the years

For people like us
In places like this
We need all the hope
That we can get
Oh, I still believe
R.I.P. Michael Been. 1950-2010

Inspection? We don't need no Inspection

Did you notice that your Pennsylvania state inspection and emission stickers are peeling off from your car windshield? Did you think it was your fault? Maybe you ran the defroster too much, or possibly the garage guy didn’t scrape all the old one off before putting on the new one? Is that what you thought, bunkie? Well guess what? It was none of the above. While they won’t come right out and say it, Penn Dot found cheaper glue and now the stickers are sliding off the windshields. But you would think that since you are required by law in Pa to display those stickers that if they are falling off due to a change made by Penn Dot or whoever actually takes care of stickers they would man up and fix the problem. I understand it may be the Department of General Services-DGS or DGS, Department of General Screwups. Is that what's troubling ya, friend? Well relax. The state of Pa is no more likely to take credit for the screw-up any more than they will solve the problem of the slippery stickers. If your sticker (or you) come completely unglued you can opt for a replacement. According to published reports (does this column count as a “published report?”) the replacements cost no more than $4 for an inspection sticker and $4.40 for an emissions sticker. Now this is wrong on so many levels that it makes my head spin like Linda Blair on speed. I have to pay for Penn Dots screw up? Instead of forcing the manufacturer of the stickers to pay for the cost of replacement stickers, they want the public to pay for shoddy workmanship and sub standard materials. The horror! The outrage! And why does it cost “no more” than $4? Can I get it cheaper? Can I shop around? And why does the emissions sticker cost 40 cents more? A variety of solutions have been proposed for DYI fix it’s from tape to clear nail polish. I shudder to think how hard it’s gonna be to remove super glue from thousands of windshields in that hard to reach lower left hand corner. Now I am not really a conspiracy theorist but I know that the State Police will stop you if you are missing a sticker or even if the sticker looks suspicious. Could this be a plan to give the State a reason to stop you? I know it’s being unreasonably paranoid to think that Penn Dot and the Law Enforcement agencies are working together to thin the herd. I know this just as sure as I know that…wait. Is that ANOTHER black helicopter circling my house? I could be wrong.

(This place is) FINE FOR LITTER

I don’t understand the mindset that allows you to throw stuff out of your car. Or maybe I do. Maybe it’s that Freud thing. You know, the anal expulsive character. Where it’s ok to poo all over the world. It’s either that or people are just plain creeps. Choose one. Or both. The other day while waiting for the long suffering wife to run wild crazy and free from her workplace so I could take her home I engaged in my usual time killing exercise. Across from her workplace there is an intersection with stop signs. Both directions and both almost universally ignored. So I count the scofflaws. One day in a ten minute period I counted thirty five cars that either just slowed a little or outright blew past the signs. One was a police car! On this day a young man rolled to what I have heard called a “California stop”, lowered his window and ejected a large red plastic cup. The kind you serve beer in at keg parties. I was appalled. But it’s not the strangest thing I have seen thrown out of car windows. Of course it’s normal to see cigarettes butts come flying out but a tampon cylinder? Makes you go hmmmm. A walk along any roadside here in NEPA will show you that the world is some folk’s garbage dump. Fast food bags, half eaten food, used condoms (ugh) and empty soda and beer cans of every brand known to man. I guess it’s tough to enforce but the law is clear. PA Vehicle Code, Title 75, Chapter 37 - litter and waste dropped, thrown or deposited from a vehicle onto a road right-of-way. Penalties: considered a summary offense, imposes a fine of not more than $900, depending on where the dumping occurs, and/or picking up and removing litter from public or private property. I like the sound of that picking up and removing litter from public or private property idea. Seems like a good old “eye for an eye” punishment. Strangest thing I have found? By my mailbox. On my country road. Two hypodermic needles. Right next to them a bag from a fast food joint. My immediate thought was a diabetic. Over dosed on junk food they had to shoot up with insulin. The long suffering wife said junkies. She was probably right. In hospitals and doctors’ offices they have special containers for “Sharps.” I wore gloves and wrapped them in the fast food bags. Dropped them in what the fast food junkies have evidently never seen. My garbage can. So I cleaned up after you. Would you do the same for me? Somehow I doubt it. I could be wrong.

Customer Diservice

Whatever happened to good old customer service? You know, that old fashioned concept of the customer always being right? I guess in today’s marketplace there are so many customers with so much money that it doesn’t matter if you piss off some or most of them, right? Wrong. In today’s marketplace it’s more important than ever before to please the few customers who walk in than ever before. If I was selling something at retail I would make my customer happy in hopes that they might come in again or more importantly tell an acquaintance about the wonderful service they got at my store. Case in point. I walked the corridors of a local mall the other weekday. I realize that mid day, mid week might not be the busiest time to visit a mall. But this place was so empty it was spooky. You could have shot a cannon in any direction and not killed or even wounded a soul. Even the annoying people who try to smear hand cream on you were awol. It was beyond dead. It was in full rigor mortis. So it was with some bemusement that I waited five minutes before being waited on at my destination. My mission? To return a defective DVD. I purchased “Avatar” and halfway through at the part where the blue girl was about to put the moves on the blue guy the picture began to smear and tear and then just froze. Nothing I tried worked. So there I am with my receipt in hand and the guy at the store finally finishes his cell phone call and listens to my story. “No” he said. “We just gotta email about this. You gotta update your firmwear on your player.”
“My player is only a few months old and I just did that update.” I replied.
And here is where the disconnect really begins. He said: “Are you sure?”
I opened my mouth to reply then shut it with an audible snap. This guy was questioning me? My honesty? Over a return/replacement transaction? Like it was money out of HIS pocket? I just stood and looked at him.
Let’s see. I drove ten miles to the store, was going to drive ten miles back to make “sure” I had done the update then lather rinse and repeat? So round trip of forty miles plus the two hours out of life. Why?
I held out the DVD and the receipt and kept my big mouth shut. He apparently got the message albeit with a bit more grumbling. I got my replacement which works fine. Put bamboo slivers under my fingernails and set them on fire and I won’t ever return there.

Flea Markets Redux

I love flea markets. I have mentioned this before in this space. Winter sucks for many reasons but the dearth of flea markets ranks right up there with shoveling and paying the plow guy. So it was with no little sense of elation that we did the rounds of the local flea markets for the first time last weekend. We hit the Garden Drive-in at Hunlock Creek before the birds were up. Flea markets are great for people watching. In fact I enjoy a stroll around the grounds seeing the various examples of Gods handy work almost more than I do bargain priced items. This weekend past was no exception. There was the girl who stooped in front of me to tie her shoe. Honest, I tried not to look but her Technicolor tramp stamp drew my eye like a moth to flame. She was accompanied by a dog slightly larger than a robin. Good thing this little terror was on a leash. It barked a frenzy at a Bull Mastiff the size of a locomotive like it would tear its throat out if it could just get at it. The large dog just eyed the tiny thing. Then there was wardrobe malfunction girl, who had bright red hair streaked with green, an unfortunate choice of glasses that resembled Woody Allen’s to go with her belly shirt that did little to hide her big belly, her jeans that were ripped but not in a fashionable way and her sneakers with the fluorescent orange soles. I am sure her house has no mirrors as they most likely exploded. And the conversations you over hear. Now that we have a large percentage of good folks who speak other than English here in NEPA I have noticed exchanges in those languages are all done at TOP VOLUME. I have no idea what they are saying but I sure can hear it. But back to the bargains. A row of brightly colored banners that were proudly displayed with a large sign claiming they were “Falgs.” Swing and a miss. A stack of cages with roosters, bunnies, peahens and ducks. 3 for $15 dollars, your choice, mix and match. A display of odds and ends that looked like it was moved intact from somebody’s attic. Cardboard boxes full of stuff that defies description. And so we shopped and strolled and bought on a perfect Sunday morning. My purchases? Hot sauce for my eggs, expired in 2009 – A previously viewed CD of the HBO series “Carnivale” asking price $40-paid $20 – Granola bars, also expired in 2009 – and to wash them down with, a bottle of 1985 Dom Perignon (!) $30. Only at the flea market.

Gothic Kittens Redux

The Gothic kittens’ case was disposed of the other day. When this first came to light I was outraged and wrote in this space about what I thought should happen to the person who committed this act on the kitties. It’s the only time I remember the editor of this publication suggesting I tone it down. That what I offered as punishment for this animal mutilator was, well, a bit extreme. We don’t need to go there. It was over the top. But I have followed this case and the surrounding controversies with more than a little interest. People brought up the point that if it’s ok to pierce baby girls ears than why the outrage over doing the same to a dumb animal. My question-who says it’s ok to pierce baby’s ears? I am in contact with many individuals who have all sorts of body decorations. Some so many that it looks as though they got into a fight with a nail gun and lost. I am certain that if we held down these pierce devotees and forced them to be ventilated that we would be swiftly arrested if not worse. My point is that it’s all about choice. The kitties and babies don’t have one when somebody handy with a needle comes at them. That makes it wrong. The woman who stabbed the kitties said at her sentencing hearing “I had no idea what I was doing was a crime. It was wrong, and I’ll never do it again.”
So she says now, while confessing she was only trying to “beautify” the kittens. She just does not get it. She also claims she really really loves animals.
Her sentence? Six months house arrest, some further time on double secret probation and she can’t operate her pet grooming business while being punished.
I wish I was a judge. Not because I want a big boat in Florida and a jet of my own. But because I could come up with a better sentence with one bribe held behind my back.
First thing that popped into my head is that since she really really loves animals that she should never ever be allowed within 100 yards of any. Like a child molester.
But then I had a second thought. This woman who put rings on kitty’s tails to make them drop off should be made to have more contact with animals. I say make her work, for free, in an animal shelter. Cleaning cages. Shoveling poo. Closely supervised of course. And I want her to watch every single instance where a puppy or kitty is euthanized. It might harden her heart you say? I think not. I could be wrong.

Home Unhandyman

Did you ever have one of those perfect days? You get out of bed in a good mood. You shave yourself without opening a vein. The breakfast is made without setting the house on fire or dropping it on the floor. On the way out the door the birds are singing a merry tune, the sun is warm on your face and the car starts on the first try. It’s the perfect day. Yesterday was the anti-day of that for me. 180 degrees reversed, like the creepy episode of Star Trek where everyone had an evil twin. Sometimes you have days where you can do anything. Yesterday was the day that I once and for all decided that I can do almost nothing. It’s another home handyman disaster story, folks. It started last fall where I decided to shut down my studio above the garage for the winter. Too much other work on the other jobs. So I drained the toilet, opened the faucets and shut the water off. Turned the heater off and forgot all about it. Yesterday I decided to turn it back on. I carefully (heh) looked over the plumbing. Then turned the water back on. The shut off is in my basement. Studio is a minutes’ walk away. Took my time. Was greeted at the door of the studio by “Agnes” the remake. Sprinted to the house. Fell partway there and knocked the wind and what little sense I had out of me. I shut off the water and returned to the scene of the crime. Expensive microphones were floating around. A pipe that was perfect when I checked it now was clearly not. So I went to the hardware store and they sold me a plastic fitting to fix it. Would probably have worked if I didn’t snap it in half. Now comes the real bad idea. I got the propane torch out, blew the cobwebs off it. The little bastard would only stay lit if I held the barbeque lighter to it. Awkward. Burned myself. Set the plastic drain pipe for the sink on fire. Threw everything into the trash. I was scared to call the plumber. The last time he charged me the 401 k and a quart of blood. A colleague “knew a guy” and he actually showed up, did the fix and charged less than the travel time of the last bandit. I remarked to him about how inept I was. His comment? “Some people are good at some things, and not others.” I thanked him for his well meant condescension and decided then and there that I would stick to what I know how to do well. Naps. Lunch. Dialing 911.

The Name Game

Back when I was toiling in the gardens of frequency modulation I worked for a General Manager who was a great guy, a fair manager and was totally clueless about the music we played. His favorite group? Dicky Doo and the Don’ts. Google it if you don’t believe me. Hint: They had a Pittston connection. The song was “Click, Clack”. Of course this GM, who we will call “Lumpy” because that was what we called him, also referred to “the kids” playing their “transistor radios” and this was during the 90’s. It got me thinking about group names, specifically groups who play in our local small bars. A quick glance at the publication you hold in your hands provides more than a few. My point here is that all these bands took the time to come up with a name. Only a few came up with a name that you could reasonably infer what sort of music they might offer on a given night out. Just sayin’ that it might help their draw. I make no judgment on the quality of the music. In most cases I would not know the groups in question if I fell over them. Groups I could figure out on my own without any help from description or pictures: Long Strange Trip. Random Rock. (Classic Rock) Runners-up in this category are Iron Cowboy (Country) and Bad Hair Day (80’s), but they had pictures so no fair. Groups that I can sort of guess at but I might be wildly off: Catacomb Creeps. Dirty Vultures. The Dependable Felons. Necessary Noise. Pave the way. (Heavy Metal). Now we veer off into uncharted territory. Johnny Unit. Tribes. Gone Crazy. Faded Fortune. Jerry’s Finger. ( I think it should be Smell Jerry’s Finger, but that’s just me). Ends Of The Earth. Sucker Punch. Dam Shannon. Bare Knuckle. (No clue). Groups with “N” in the middle: Rock N Horse. Skin N Bones. I81 N 151 (As clueless as Lumpy). And the ever popular misspelled names: Hat Tryk. Kartune. Black Orkid. (Really no idea at all). Now I am sure these are all great bands. Hard working bands. Bands with talent and oodles of creativity. After all they came up with these cool names, Right? Or maybe not. Maybe they just put random words together. Long Random Catacomb. Dirty Dependable Noise. Jerry’s Knuckle Sucker. Johnny Gone Faded. Hmmm. I might have something here. Of course I have yet to mention the most popular band of all time, judging from the number of appearances. It seems to me that the group that week in and week out has the most gigs is Penny ‘til U Pee. (Golden Shower Oldies). I could be wrong.

Write Something Stupid

Write something stupid. What a great phrase. You see, if you could hear me say those three words out loud I could give them at least two different meanings. It’s either for me to write something that IS stupid. Or I could be calling MYSELF stupid. In either case that is exactly what we have here today. A stupid writer writing something stupid. Stupid is as stupid does, Forrest. We all know that groups are sometimes named. A murder of crows, a pride of elephants and so on. When I worked for big radio I would refer to a group of salespeople as a stupid of salespeople. This probably explains why I no longer work in radio. And why salespeople don’t send me Christmas cards. I commit stupid on average at least five times a day. But my brother in law took the stupid crown away from me for a while the other day. We will call him Mickey because that is his name. He lives with the long suffering wife’s sister who should be a saint by now. Mickey is the most generous person I know. The guy would literally give you the proverbial shirt off his back. So when his wife, due for immediate canonization upon her passing, mentioned she was about to call a relative, Mickey leaped to the portable phone and quickly dialed the number for her. I told you he was a helpful guy. Except in this case it didn’t work out so well. Recently Mickey bought new cordless phones. In his haste and unfamiliarity with the technology Mickey dialed 911. Then, when they answered Mickey committed his second stupid of the moment. He hung up without saying a word. You have to admire the diligence of 911. They called back immediately. Of course Mickey wanted nothing to do with the phone at this time. His wife (you are now seeing why she is a candidate for sainthood) was left to answer. The dispatcher informed her that the Pennsylvania State police were on the way. She assured them that all was well and explained what her well meaning but technologically challenged husband had done. The dispatcher was not entirely convinced and suggested that it would be best if the Staties came over and had a look see. Using a tool known best to wives the world round she made her case to the dispatcher. “STUPID, STUPID, STUPID” she roared at Mickey. “Now the State Police are coming.” I can envision the 911 dispatcher trying not to wet themselves. The promised visit from the long arm of the law was called off. It’s now been strongly suggested that Mickey refrain from dialing. I could be wrong.

Dead. Your dead?

Having attended many St. Patrick’s day parades in Scranton in my day, I have seen my fair share of the inexplicable behavior that results from the consumption of too much alcohol. Hell I’ve seen that sort of behavior at office Christmas parties and backyard barbeques for that matter. There is nothing like a shot or two of Ye Olde Stumpblower to set the inhibitions aside and get to the real feelings inside.
A songwriter name of James McMurty said it quite nicely in a song called Too long in the wasteland. “Whiskey don’t make liars, it just makes fools.”
Of course history has long chronicled the rich, powerful and successful who had a close and personal association with John Barleycorn. Winston Churchill (his friends called him “Winny.” No wonder he drank) has been chronicled as being pickled from the moment he got up in the morning until he staggered into bed. But he never shamed the British Empire by trying to blow a dead opossum.
There is a school yard insult about having oral sex with a dead dog but in polite society one never does that sort of thing.
Opossum are generally disgusting even while living. I trapped one once in an effort to catch a squirrel that was trying to make his home in our home, something which infuriated the long suffering wife. The havahart® live trap snared the critter instead, which smelled like it was dead, made hissing noises at me with bared teeth when I tried to free it and was not a happy experience overall for either of us.
So knowing how unpleasant contact of any kind with a living opossum while sober is, I have to just admire the level of intoxication that Donald Wolfe displayed when he allegedly tried to resuscitate a dead opossum with the breath of life.
The story, which was widely reported, had Donny being observed giving mouth-to-mouth to a long dead opossum which was road killed on the side of a highway in Punxsutawney Pa. Witnesses including a State Trooper saw him conducting a “séance” with the dead critter and the law enforcement officer is quoted as saying “He did have his mouth in the area of the animal's mouth...I guess." I think it was a noble attempt on the part of the trooper to save a shred of dignity for Don that he “guessed.”
It may be just coincidence that this occurred in the home of the most famous groundhog in the world. Sure. That’s it. Coincidence.
“Phill….is dat youse, buddy. Oh Phillll…what de hell happened to you? Oh my gawd. Phillll! C’mere little buddy. I’ll (hic) save youse. Phil!. Breath for me pal!!”
I could be wrong.

I'm Dickens, He's Fenster

Did you ever have one of those perfect days? You get out of bed in a good mood. You shave yourself without opening a vein. The breakfast is made without setting the house on fire or dropping it on the floor. On the way out the door the birds are singing a merry tune, the sun is warm on your face and the car starts on the first try. It’s the perfect day. Yesterday was the anti-day of that for me. 180 degrees reversed, like the creepy episode of Star Trek where everyone had an evil twin. Sometimes you have days where you can do anything. Yesterday was the day that I once and for all decided that I can do almost nothing. It’s another home handyman disaster story, folks. It started last fall where I decided to shut down my studio above the garage for the winter. Too much other work on the other jobs. So I drained the toilet, opened the faucets and shut the water off. Turned the heater off and forgot all about it. Yesterday I decided to turn it back on. I carefully (heh) looked over the plumbing. Then turned the water back on. The shut off is in my basement. Studio is a minutes’ walk away. Took my time. Was greeted at the door of the studio by “Agnes” the remake. Sprinted to the house. Fell partway there and knocked the wind and what little sense I had out of me. I shut off the water and returned to the scene of the crime. Expensive microphones were floating around. A pipe that was perfect when I checked it now was clearly not. So I went to the hardware store and they sold me a plastic fitting to fix it. Would probably have worked if I didn’t snap it in half. Now comes the real bad idea. I got the propane torch out, blew the cobwebs off it. The little bastard would only stay lit if I held the barbeque lighter to it. Awkward. Burned myself. Set the plastic drain pipe for the sink on fire. Threw everything into the trash. I was scared to call the plumber. The last time he charged me the 401 k and a quart of blood. A colleague “knew a guy” and he actually showed up, did the fix and charged less than the travel time of the last bandit. I remarked to him about how inept I was. His comment? “Some people are good at some things, and not others.” I thanked him for his well meant condescension and decided then and there that I would stick to what I know how to do well. Naps. Lunch. Dialing 911.

Snow Job

Some random thoughts about the recent snow. The weather forecasting business must suck. When they are wrong and they are wrong more than they are right, they get kidded unmercifully about getting paid to be wrong. When they are right they are the messenger you want to shoot. After a couple of swings and misses over the past winter they nailed it last week and we got crushed. It seemed on Thursday that they had missed again but by Friday when it had snowed constantly for 48 hours we were in deep do-do. In fact the do-do was so deep that the U.S. P. S. said “Uncle” instead of "Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these courageous couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.” To be fair that is not even their motto. Some Greek guy coined it. Probably doesn’t even snow in Greece. So schools were called off both Thursday and Friday and cruising the blogosphere I see people hating the “snow school” announcements on the TV and the radio. I was in radio for more years than I choose to mention and trust me, reading school closings is worse than listening to someone read school closings. In this day and age with you kids and your fancy email and texts it does seem as useful as mammary glands on a bull. But the one year we eschewed the tedious reading and asked anxious kids and parents to go to the web site, the ratings went down. And back on the air the closings went. Other rantings on the internet were hating on the plow guys. In some posts that I read violence was suggested after the plow went through and buried the freshly shoveled driveway or sidewalk. I myself wondered at the timing when I unburied my mail box for the third time (a futile effort – see above) to return to the warm and cozy house only to see my work undone by the big yellow truck. Two things to remember here. First: The road must be cleared. The mailman might come! And secondly it’s basic physics. The snow on the road when pushed off the road must go somewhere. Chances are it’s going on the side adjacent from whence it came. Physics don’t know it’s your driveway/sidewalk/mailbox. Physics does what physics does. Get over it. Suggestion: Wait it out. Shovel once – later. Lastly a shot across the bow of the annoying neighbors kid who spent this summer noisily clearing a hillside yards from my at home office to make a snowboarding area. I work from home. I’ve not seen it used. Once. What a waste. I could be wrong.

Change the channel, please

Watching local TV has always been a guilty pleasure of mine. I guess it began when I was a young sprout growing up in the granite fields of Vermont when television was something of a novelty. Our first set was a converted oscilloscope that had a green circular screen the size of a tea cup saucer. I may be exaggerating. I think it was smaller. The first TV newscast I saw originated from Poland Springs Maine. You may have enjoyed the water. Channel 8 WMTW got the “MTW” because at the time they had their transmitter site on top of Mount Washington where one of the highest winds on earth ever was measured. The guys who ran the gear lived on the mountain for most of the winter as the way up or down was pretty much impassable. One of them gave a weather forecast from the mountain. Wore a bow tie, a white shirt with a pocket protector full of pens and pencils. He looked into the one black and white camera and with a strong down east accent talked about the wind and snow on the mountain. Thinking about it today it makes backyard weather forecasting seem pale by comparison. It was crude at best but it was innovative for the time. Now we have Doppler this and weather map that but I miss the geeky engineer from on top of the mountain. He is, I am sure long gone to the engineers home in the sky and a few years ago WMTW’s transmitter site burned to the ground and they moved to a less inhospitable place. Like all media, local TV is being pummeled by the World Wide Web. ABC news recently announced cutbacks of 1,400 and the ones left will not only report the news but will be camera operators (think flip video cams) soundmen, editors and producers. The local TV news operations will no doubt follow suit. When a good percentage of video is being shot by ordinary people (how much skill does it take to point the phone cam at a house fire?) the days of a three person crew doing it are numbered. I hope it doesn’t stop them from showing “local color.” The best thing about a live shot on the news is the people waving and grinning like ninnies at the camera. The stand-up reporter could be talking about a bus wreck that killed 40 and idiots in the background will be waving at Ma. Second best thing: the eyewitless interview. Where do they find these people? With both eyes on one side of their head and occasional teeth they are clearly not of this earth. I could be wrong.

Big Brother is NOT watchting

One of the cheap thrills in my life is checking the police blotter in the newspaper. There is always an interesting story or three like the guy who was asking women to sign his member and I don’t mean jacket but that’s not what I am curious about here.
More than a month ago a big hairy deal was made about the multitude of surveillance cameras installed in and around downtown Wilkes-Barre. $2 million worth of gear. Over 50 cameras and a 24 hour a day, seven day a week staff of people including some law enforcement types are watching them. One of the tools is a huge five foot by five foot monitor that will enable the view of Public Square to be in 3-D, just like the movie Avatar. No doubt there are quite a few blue creatures on the square along with other assorted monsters. That actually sounds like kind of a fun job, spying on people for living. The job description: Voyeurs wanted. Must bring own 3-D glasses.
The system, while only partially complete now, will eventually control 150 cameras. A smug statement said that while some will be extremely visible, some will be hidden so as to not alert the evil doers of their presence. Hidden surveillance cameras, what a concept.
Here’s my question. These 50 snooping cameras and the attendant voyeurs have been on the job for a month and a half. Why hasn’t any crime been stopped? The list of cars being broken into and purse snatchings goes on unabated in the police blotter. Wouldn’t it make sense that at least ONE crime in that time frame may have been seen? One perpetrator brought to justice? None that I have seen and I have been looking at least as hard as the ones who are tasked with the job.
Possibly the “powers that be” do not want the success of the $2 million dollar toy that gobbles up $232,000 a year in staffing charges to be publicized. Yeah, that’s it. Politicians don’t want to blow their own horn. And this breaking news: a dark planet will crash into the sun in 3…2…1..Hmmm. Never gonna happen.
Or maybe (black helicopter theory warning) all the cameras are just decoys, like the state trooper car that used to sit on I-81 near Scranton with a dummy in the driver’s seat. You could buy a lot of decoys for a few thousand bucks, right? Rig up the press demo with the rented big screens . Then what happens to the rest of the dough?
Am I suggesting that Luzerne County Politically connected might do something….what’s the word? WRONG? Perish the thought. Big brother is watching. Maybe.

Sense-us

I haven’t gotten my census form yet. This really worries me for a number of reasons. First of all a lot of people I know (Well one actually) have gotten theirs. Why have I been left out? I don’t mean to go all existential here, but if I am not counted by the U.S. Gumm-mint, do I really exist? If I fall in the woods and no one hears, do I make a sound? So there is that problem. The other thing nagging me is that if I do not get it in the mail which costs the U.S. Gumm-mint 49 cents, then I will no doubt be visited by a census taker which costs $47. So please mail me one soon? Save money and possibly a census taker. You see if you do dispatch a census worker to my neck of the woods you have to beware. Not from me, you understand. Even though the Rising compound is far back in the woods and we no longer get visited by Jehovah’s witnesses after the “Incident” we mean no one any harm. Pay no attention to the killer attacking Red Squirrels, their bite is worse than their bark. Not the case for my demented neighbor. We know that he is stupid and mean but I am also 100% certain he is armed. You will recognize his driveway by the animal skulls (Cue ”Dueling Banjos” from the movie Deliverance) scattered there. That and the “Kill ‘em all, let God sort them out” bumper sticker on his pick-up truck. Good luck.

I peeked at the census form on-line. Most of the 10 questions seem to make sense. Some of them do not. Some seem just downright nosy. And some, like my neighbor, are just plain dumb as rocks stoo-pit.

The Gum-mint needs to know if I own my home or not? Nosy.

They need my name? They are supposed to count heads. Period. Nosy.

Why does the Gumm-mint need my phone number? Nosy

Questions eight and nine have to do with race. Number eight asks if you are “Hispanic, Latino or Spanish.” Question nine wants to know what you are with a long list of possibilities from “White” to “Samoan”. First of all should those questions be combined? And secondly what if I claim to be “American?” (Thanks to Rush Limbaugh). Dumb

But the capper-question seven wants my age on April 1, 2010 and then asks for my birth date including year. Now I am no rocket scientist but…if you know how old I am on 4/1/2010 a quick calculation can give you my birth year. And why does the Gumm-mint what my Birth date? Are they gonna send me a card?

Bet you'll love the wings

I just don’t understand. Now I know that I am not that smart. I am aware that my intellectual acumen resembles that of a four slice toaster. If I didn’t know this I get it pointed out to me. Usually daily. At home the question is often posed, “How can you be so stupid?” On the highways of NEPA I often hear “Get out of the way, you idiot!” So I must come to the conclusion that I am as dumb as a box of rocks. So perhaps some kind soul can explain to me this gambling deal to me. I walk into the grocery store and there is a machine twice the size of my refrigerator dispensing scratch off lottery tickets by the thousands. Some of them cost $20. Over at the pharmacy you can get your prescription filled and buy lottery tickets. Go down the street and the church is running a bingo game. Head “up the line” as they say and you can step into the casino filled with “one armed bandits” which vacuum money from your wallet or purse faster that you can say “Indian tribe.” Google “Gamble” and the return is: Results 1 - 10 of about 8,770,000 for on line gambling. (0.30 seconds). So it’s pretty clear that even though the bible tells us the wages of sin is death that there is plenty of availability to throw our dough down the drain. It would also appear to be legal. So why is it that a local bar and restaurant owner will lose his and his children’s livelihood because of gambling? This entrepreneur evidently set up a web site (one of 8,770,00 it would seem) that allowed bettors to place wagers of sin on sporting events. Then the losers or winners would go to his joint, have a few drinks, eat a nice dinner (I am told the chicken wings are to die for) and pay off or get paid off. This 71 year old man not only faces jail after being caught in a sting by the FBI but the cheerful Wilkes-Barre U.S Attorney’s office wants his Sports Bar. Now I didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. I know that it’s the money, honey. The Sports Bar guy wasn’t playing nice and sharing the dough. But if that’s the case why incarcerate him and take the bar? Why not make him write a check? Because all I know is that if and when the U.S. Attorney’s office gets possession of the Sports Bar, what was once a thriving, taxpaying business will sink faster than the Titanic. Because who wants to eat wings made by the government? I could be wrong.

Diesel fit her

I now know more about diesel fuel than I want to. This began exactly a week before Christmas Eve. Thursday. With the extreme cold weather here in NEPA I check the trusty heating oil tanks often. This year in spite of the human flesh freezing chill the gauge wasn’t moving. Hurrah! Our conservation efforts and triple layers were working. Until I tapped the gauge and it went from half full to mostly empty in a heartbeat. Uh oh. My friendly neighborhood fuel guys deliver on Thursday so I thought I was in luck. No soap. They would be happy to come…Christmas Eve. “But”, I cleverly protested. “I’m going to run out.”

“No problem” said she. “Just fill it up with diesel fuel.”

“That’ll work?” I said incredulously.

“Would I steer you wrong?”

I should have known better right then. As it turns out she was right. Diesel fuel and heating oil are basically the same. The dye color (red here in the US) indicates the difference and has more do with how it’s taxed then how or what it burns in.

Now here is where the stupidity comes in. I did it. Instead of picking up the phone and calling one of the 40 other fuel guys who no doubt would be only too happy to take my money, I fell for it. Hook line and yellow plastic five gallon container which cost me $9.99. Diesel fuel is more expensive than fuel oil. I did manage to find a gas station that had dyed diesel but it was still pricey.

And it was a pain in the ass. The burner in the basement was thirsty. To the tune of five gallons per day. So every stinking day out of some misguided sense of loyalty to the friendly neighborhood fuel guys I went through the process. And I do mean stinky. Diesel smells. Bad. And the fancy specially marked yellow fuel can? Well let’s just say someone improved the spout technology to the point where I never got more of the smelly stuff in the tank then I got on me or on the ground.

But Christmas Eve was coming. The long suffering wife said “You really think they will come?”

“Of course,” I replied. “They promised.”

Of course you know they didn’t. And so it was that on Christmas Day I was back at the gas station whose clerk knew me on sight. And smell. I noticed a bunch of fuel oil trucks parked near this gas station. A phone call the next day produced a same day delivery. I wish I could say my original friendly neighborhood fuel guys got a cheery message from me. I would be wrong.

Who are you?

In all the hoopla surrounding the upset come from behind win for the New Orleans Saints in the Super Bowl there is something that seems to have been over looked. The glaring omission? The horrible tragedy that occurred at half-time. All I can think is that it was SO upsetting that people are just ignoring it, pretending it never happened. Maybe it will just go away. Well I have news for you. It really happened, I saw it with my own eyes and it made me sick. In fact I went to bed with an upset stomach and didn’t even get to see the rest of the game. I refer of course to the alleged performance by 50 percent of what used to be “The Who.”

It wasn’t Who are you? But what are you that was the question as Pete Townshend and Roger Daltry murdered half a dozen of the band’s classics. Out of key, out of time and looking every moment like they were wishing they were elsewhere counting the paycheck - it was embarrassing. I felt like shouting out from my generation to the younger generation, ”Don’t listen. Run. Cover your ears. They were better than this. Loads better.”

Frankly I always thought that “The Who” should have had the same dignity that Led Zeppelin showed when they threw in the towel after John “Bonzo” Bonham passed away. Drummer Keith Moon was such a big part of the sound of the group. But they soldiered on. But to continue after John “The Ox” Entwistle died was just in poor taste. And yet there they were.

Without dissecting everything that went wrong last night two things stood out like Janet Jackson’s mammary glands. Roger Daltry looked like he was being moved by a puppeteer. For a look at what Roger really looks like reference the Woodstock performance of the finale ofTommy. Sunday he looked like he was heavily medicated or had recently undergone shock therapy. Now I know he is 66 but Mick Jagger is 67 and he moves around like a chicken on methamphetamine.

And speaking about Janet Jackson and her famous wardrobe malfunction, what was up with Pete’s shirt? Do we really want to see his lily white belly hanging over his guitar while he tried to do his trademark windmills?

45 years ago (hardly seems possible but it’s true) Roger belted out the lyrics to what would become if not one of The Who’s biggest certainly it’s most recognizable hits. I am glad they did NOT attempt to do a version of “My Generation.” Seeing the feeble Daltry rasp out “I hope I die before I get old” would have been too much to bear.

Busy Signal

We have not one but two land line phone numbers at the Rising ranch. I know that seems positively anachronistic in this age of cell phones and voice over internet protocol but there is a reason. Sort of. The main house phone is used by a family member who prefers it. The second line was installed for my “business” and was also a fax line. Remember faxes? I keep it because it’s in the yellow pages and two or three times a month I get a call from that. I also keep it for a sadistic form of entertainment. I have a vice. I like to torture telemarketers. I know it’s bad. They are just trying to do a job. When I die and go to whatever circle of hell I am doomed for, the guy with the horns and pitchfork will have me making phone calls to complete strangers at dinnertime. It’s only fair.

The house phone is do not call protected. Works like a charm. The business line is not. I get on average five calls a day. So I can do things like repeat every word they say back to them.

Or pretend that I know them.

“Karem, my old friend! You rascal you. How’s the harem?”

Or I can do the old call and response:

Me: Hello - ANNOYING TELEMARKETING COMPANY: Hello, this is ANNOYING TELEMARKETING COMPANY - Me: Is this A. T. C.? - A. T. C.: Yes, this is A. T. C - Me:- This is A. T. C.? -A. T. C.: Yes This is A. T. C -Me: Is this A. T. C.? - A. T. C.: YES! This is A. T. C., may I speak to Mr. Rising please? - Me: May I ask who is calling? - A. T. C. This is A. T. C… (Repeat until they hang up.)

Or I just keep repeating, “I knew you were going to say that…”

But now in the age of computers you can get high tech. There exist “Soundboards” on the interwebs that can give you short sound clips of almost any famous person , categorized by replies, insults, questions, exclamations, sounds. Well you get the drift. With a few of these open and a speaker phone you can really do some psychic damage to a telemarketer. Think Stewie Griffin. “What the deuce?” Or Robert De Niro. “You talkin’ to me?”

Funny as all this is I do try to remember that telemarketers aren't actually the spawn of Satan, that they are real people just doing a job and being cruel to them isn't right. So afterwards I tell them "Please put me on your Do Not Call list.” I could be lying.

A trip to the DMV

It is the great equalizer. Everyone has to submit. Birth, death, taxes and…the visit to the DMV every four years to get your mug shot taken and pasted in a new license. As I sat at the Pa. Department of Motor Vehicles in the Hanover industrial park the other day I wondered a lot of things. First of all I wondered why it was taking so long. I could feel brain cells withering while the minutes passed like molasses on a sub freezing January day. The ticket produced by the grimy machine promised a 17 minute wait. Hemingway, Faulkner and Dickens couldn’t write better fiction. Our elapsed time from doorway to doorway was just under an hour. Oh and about that grimy machine that produces your number in line. It’s the first thing you see as you enter the facility. It has clear instructions. It’s not brain science. And yet as we waited a human gestation period I observed many who followed us just did not quite get how to or what to do. My thought? If you can’t figure that part out then how do you operate a motor vehicle? Of course having also observed the so called driving skills of NEPA my question is answered. Another wondering in my dwindling brain cells was how the hell you could get out of this. I peeked at the statutes and found that indeed you could get a license with no photo if A: you were going to be absent from PA for up to 90 days around your license renewal time (a temporary reprieve to be sure) or B: if your religious beliefs (think Amish or Mennonites) prohibit having your photo taken. It raises the question why would the Amish who drive horse and buggy vehicles would need a license in the first place but that’s another line of inquiry. So basically everyone has to do the long wait at the DMV. Which would explain why the uncomfortable chairs were filled with an assortment of humanity that more resembled the Cantina scene in the “Star Wars” movie. A bald guy sporting a Z.Z. Top style beard. A woman with nearly as much facial hair. A guy with a large gold medallion on a long chain swinging near his belt. A guy wearing a turban. Would they make him take it off? I had plenty of time to observe and think about such things in my wait. I wondered if the governor has to do this. The president? What about movie stars or other famous people? I have trouble picturing Donald Trump or Steve Jobs at the DMV. Of course they probably don’t drive anyway, right? I could be wrong.

Christmas and Diesel Fuel

I now know more about diesel fuel than I want to. This began exactly a week before Christmas Eve. Thursday. With the extreme cold weather here in NEPA I check the trusty heating oil tanks often. This year in spite of the human flesh freezing chill the gauge wasn’t moving. Hurrah! Our conservation efforts and triple layers were working. Until I tapped the gauge and it went from half full to mostly empty in a heartbeat. Uh oh. My friendly neighborhood fuel guys deliver on Thursday so I thought I was in luck. No soap. They would be happy to come…Christmas Eve. “But”, I cleverly protested. “I’m going to run out.”
“No problem” said she. “Just fill it up with diesel fuel.”
“That’ll work?” I said incredulously.
“Would I steer you wrong?”
I should have known better right then. As it turns out she was right. Diesel fuel and heating oil are basically the same. The dye color (red here in the US) indicates the difference and has more do with how it’s taxed then how or what it burns in.
Now here is where the stupidity comes in. I did it. Instead of picking up the phone and calling one of the 40 other fuel guys who no doubt would be only too happy to take my money, I fell for it. Hook line and yellow plastic five gallon container which cost me $9.99. Diesel fuel is more expensive than fuel oil. I did manage to find a gas station that had dyed diesel but it was still pricey.
And it was a pain in the ass. The burner in the basement was thirsty. To the tune of five gallons per day. So every stinking day out of some misguided sense of loyalty to the friendly neighborhood fuel guys I went through the process. And I do mean stinky. Diesel smells. Bad. And the fancy specially marked yellow fuel can? Well let’s just say someone improved the spout technology to the point where I never got more of the smelly stuff in the tank then I got on me or on the ground.
But Christmas Eve was coming. The long suffering wife said “You really think they will come?”
“Of course,” I replied. “They promised.”
Of course you know they didn’t. And so it was that on Christmas Day I was back at the gas station whose clerk knew me on sight. And smell. I noticed a bunch of fuel oil trucks parked near this gas station. A phone call the next day produced a same day delivery. I wish I could say my original friendly neighborhood fuel guys got a cheery message from me. I would be wrong.

Cold Enough For You?

Think about the phrase “dead of winter.” There is no phrase like that for summer, fall or spring that I know of. That’s because winter can kill you dead, while those other sissy seasons can’t even maim you. Oh I know what you are probably saying. Heat can kill too, right. Well maybe in some places but not here in NEPA. We get, what, maybe a week of really HOT weather in the summer? A few days of 90 degrees? But here is the difference between hot times in the city in NEPA and cold times. You are trapped outside in the heat. You find shade. You drink a refreshing cold drink. You fan yourself. You live. Trapped outside when it’s below freezing? You die. There you have it. My thoughts stray this way because as I write this the thermometer is displaying “1” degree. 1 is not a number for a temperature. 1 is a number for a combo meal, or, 1 is the loneliest number that you’ll ever do. But there it is in all its liquid crystal display glory. 1 single stinking solitary degree. Everything is hard in weather like this, no pun intended. Car doors refuse to open. Once you get them open cars doors refuse to stay shut. Cars refuse to start. Once you get them started and moving they refuse to stop. If they were horses the landscape would be littered with dead ones. Things break in the cold. I have a collection of ice scrapers that have shattered rather than make a windshield see through. Your flesh sticks to anything metal (See: “A Christmas Story”) and anything that hurts in normal temperatures is agony in 1 degree. Scrape your knuckles attaching jumper cables in the summer and it hurts. Same thing in 1 degree and it feels like your knuckles have been dipped in sulfuric acid. And just to make things fun when it’s this cold we also get the thrilling prospect of snow. It’s like a double whammy. It’s so cold that the milk of human kindness freezes solid upon exposure and you have to go out into the world with a snow shovel and work. The other day someone asked me (this was a person whose thermometer has never heard of 1 degree) why we live here. I had no answer. No one ever asks you “Cold enough for you?” on a 1 degree day. And I haven’t even mentioned the wind chill. In summer we have something called the heat index. I see it and think, “yeah it’s hot.” When I see the wind chill temperature I want to move to any place on the equator. I could be wrong.

Let's all go to the movies

I am not pretending to be a film critic although I have seen one or two on TV. I don’t have the background in film to be able to give thumbs up or down but I know what I like.
I saw a film recently that I liked. More on that later. First let me say that I hate going to the theater to see a movie. Almost every thing about the experience grates on my few remaining nerves. Just the fact that I have no control over when it starts and there is no pause button is enough to put me in a bad mood. Ticket prices? A $7.75 EARLY BIRD special? It’s to laugh. Small popcorn and drink $10? Wowser. But the biggest drawback is the other people. Now I know I am sounding like a misanthrope but people in general are a pain in the ass. In a movie theater they are even worse. Coughing, farting blowing their noses and talking talking talking. If I had a rocket launcher. But this week the long suffering wife and I chose the early show and there were, count them, twelve others in the theater. So we settled in and snacked on our solid gold popcorn and drank our more expensive than Dom Pérignon soda and waited out the ads and previews. As you may have guessed the entertainment today was “Avatar” presented in what the newspaper ad called “READ D 3-D” (It’s actually “Real D” but let them go). It was, in word, epic. (WARNING: Semi Spoiler alert. Don’t read on if you haven’t seen it.) Now I can certainly agree with all the bashers of this film about some things. It’s a recycled “Pocahontas.” Yup, sort of. It’s anti-military and pro science. Ok. It’s really just boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl back. It’s a horse opera with blue skinned creatures with bows and arrows playing the Indians. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I don’t care. I laughed, I cried and when the hero walks I got a lump in my throat the size of Plymouth.
And the REAL D 3-D was nothing short of breathtaking. We also saw the Disney “A Christmas Carol” in 3-D and it too was great. The difference between Disney’s and James Cameron’s use of the technology is this: Disney pokes you in the eye with an icicle. “Avatar” used 3-D to immerse you in the story and then make you feel like you are in the movie. It’s really quite spectacular. The Real D website says: “In the future, 3D will expand to…the home.” Fantastic! No Annoying Humans! Till then I suggest the early show. Oh, and bring lots of money.

Was it my Best Buy? IDK

I betray my advanced years here. When I was first in a position to start buying stereo and video stuff (in other words as soon as I had a paying job) I studied my options carefully and thoroughly educated myself before I dared to step into the “Hi-Fi” shop. A few words about “Hi-Fi” shop. Back in those days, when dinosaurs roamed the earth and birds had big leather wings and could carry collies away for dinner there were indeed stand alone stores which specialized in stereo equipment. It seems quaint but it’s true. Loving music and wanting the best I could afford I subscribed to magazines like Stereo Review and High Fidelity so I could make intelligent choices. The salesmen at these “Hi-Fi” shops were scholars of the art. Often wearing tweed jackets with leather elbow patches and smoking pipes they would pontificate at length and really help you make a purchase. Compare and contrast my recent experience at a store which we will call “Next Guy.” First of all a visit to this type of store raises my blood pressure and gives me a headache. It’s loud. And bright. And busy. I was wanting to buy a Blu-Ray DVD player that connects to the Wi-Fi in my house so I could watch on-line movies. I was educated and knew what I wanted. The first person I talked to wearing the store shirt was “from another department” and couldn’t help me. Judging by the fact that he looked like he had been kissing a nail gun with piercings covering most of his epidermis I think he may have been from another dimension. The next two guys gave me a brush off with “IDK” (I don’t know) like I was speaking Martian. The fourth guy wanted to help. I could tell. But when he tried to sell me a $70 dollar accessory which was already included in the unit I was considering I hardly knew what to say. In the middle of this discussion “Next Guy” number five joined us. This guy was sporting a soul patch that dangled several inches below his chin and had been braided with colorful beads. I found it hard to not look at it. But he chased the guy away who was trying to sell me the unnecessary stuff. Then he proceeded to diss every player in the store except the ones that exceeded my budget by several hundred bucks. He lost interest in me as a customer when I told him what I was willing to spend. On my own I found what I wanted and vowed next time to buy on-line. I wonder why retail stores go out of business?