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Saturday, April 7, 2007

SPIKE AND I GO TO A YARD SALE

I have a brain tumor, and until I get accepted by Medicaid, the tumor will have to stay where it is; and since I’m going to be stuck with this morbid mother for the foreseeable future, I’ve decided to name it. So meet Spike.

Spike and I hit the yard sales this morning. It was a weird ride. Thirty-seven degrees outside and we’re looking for hot deals. The plan was to start on Easy Street, across from the Fish Trap Restaurant. They had advertised books, and I’m always looking for a rare first edition, so I pointed the truck north and off we went. Now, I’ve been on Easy Street. And I’ve taken a few meals at the Fish Trap, but I couldn’t find the joint this morning. I don’t know if it was because of the cold, or because of Spike. He was pitching a hissy-fit, like it was my fault I couldn’t find the damn place. Twenty minutes later I stopped at a convenience store, bought a pack of Marlboros, and asked for directions.

Turns out, Spike and I were in the wrong town.

Ten minutes later we make the turn across from The Fish Trap. No yard sale signs anywhere, and the road dead-ended, which just pissed off Spike. I wasn’t too happy myself. I whipped the car around and headed back home. On the way, Spike spotted a sign for another sale so we checked it out. Three signs outside the house, nothing set up in the yard, and no one in sight. The garage bay doors were down. I wanted to leave but Spike dared me to knock on the door. Bastard wouldn’t let up, so I knocked. I was told the sale was in the garage. We checked it out and found a side entrance with a post-it-note yard sale sign. I let us in. Three guys were hunched over a camp style gas heater. I’m hearing Dueling Banjos, and that got Spike to giggling something fierce.

The sale was a bust, but I asked if anyone knew where Easy Street was.

The guy with the most teeth says, “Sure, you turn across from the Fish Trap. Go down two streets, turn right, take the next left, and the next, and then two more rights. Can’t miss it.” I didn’t tell him he was wrong.

We found the place. I bought three Dark Tower books by Stephen King. Not exactly Blackbeard’s treasure, but I made out better than Spike. He broke a grime covered plate and had to pay the lady a quarter. He bitched the whole way home.

Thursday, April 5, 2007

I'VE BEEN SPAZZED

Spaz added a pet door to my shower curtain.


She's also stealing my clothes. This morning, after showering, I couldn't find my socks, shirt, or underwear. I'd laid them on the bed with a clean pair of pants. The dockers were still there, but the rest had vanished. My first thought was aliens. Interstellar not illegal. Maybe they tried to beam me up, missed, and got my duds instead. Then Spaz strutted into the room and I knew she'd stolen them. You see, she's a thief. A regular cat burglar.

It took five minutes to find the first sock. It was under the sink. Twenty minutes later I had the other one, it was in the closet, behind a box of old photographs. I'm still looking for my underwear.

A NEW KIND OF WAR

The war on Terror is a new animal for the United States. Like the Giant Toad, it too, is non- indigenous. Both slipped into this country unexpectedly, both prey on native species, and both are highly toxic to predators.
We should remember that as we hunt down terrorists in Iraq and Afghanistan.



President Bush has announced that the war on terror is a "new kind of war". The phrase falls nightly from the lips of newscasters. So often, in fact, it has lost its lustre.


My question is: if it's a new kind of war, why are we fighting the same old battle?
Past wars-animals we were familiar with-dictated invasions, large battles, the dismantling of enemy forces, toppling governments, and occupation. After the war was won, we would begin restoration.

We are doing just that now.

If the war on terror truly is a new kind of war, let us fight it as such.

If a foreign country plans, or launches, an attack against us; or should they turn a blind eye as terrorists plan attacks from camps on their soil, or should those self-same governments fund any such terror organizations, then we should respond as quickly and as efficiently as we did when we invaded Iraq. The parallels stop there. Once we disband the army, overthrow the government, and destroy their infrastructure, we head home and let the citizens choose how to govern themselves. Had we done that in Iraq, our casualties would have been limited to a few hundred and not several thousand. We would have saved billions of dollars. And we would have impacted our enemies ability to strike us again.

And when they attack again, and they will, we go back.

Eventually, foreign leaders will realize the cost of terrorism; that their futures' will be decided, either by an American attack, or by their own angry citizens, unwilling to suffer needlessly for their leaders sins.

OLD PHOTOGRAPH COLLECTION

Recently I started collecting old photographic negatives. I find them at yard sales, usually in small envelopes, and occasionally I'll stumble across a larger box lot. I choose the more interesting negatives and have them processed. This gives me a fresh, vintage photograph, without the wear and yellowing associated with vintage photos.


The negatives are harder to find than prints but they are worth the hunt.

Here are a few of my favorites.



OUT OF THE CORN

HOW MUCH WOOD CAN A WOOD CHUCK CHUCK


MAW AND PAW KETTLE

WHAT'S WITH THE NIGHTLY NEWS?

I wonder what the crime rate is for my state. Have the number of violent crimes decreased? Have they increased?


How's the war on Terror going? Did the troop surge stabilize the region? How many American soldiers died last week?


How's the Presidential campaign shaping up? How many candidates are in the running? How many have a chance. What are their stands on the important issues facing this country. I'm just curious.


Will taxes increase.

How much is a gallon of gas going to set me back this summer?




I can tell you this, this week we will---

  1. know the identity of Anna Nichole Smiths baby's daddy.
  2. know the cause of her death.
  3. know if Britney Spear's hair will grow back.
  4. see three or four slow-car, cop chases
  5. see an interview with American Idol and Trump losers.
  6. listen to movie star-political commentators and strategists.
  7. see another celebrity named to Rosie's "hit-list."
  8. be shocked to discover college kids are getting stoned and having sex during spring break.

What we won't get, is the news.

"Goodnight Mr. Brinkley, wherever you are!"

YARD SALE TICKLERS

With the possible exception of bondage freaks with feather dusters, no one says, "I got tickled," anymore. But when I was a kid, before cable and MTV cooked a big pot of English stew, people spoke in the vernacular. Down South, if you got tickled, it meant something amused you. I hope you will "be tickled," by the following recounting of my more humorous yard sale adventures. I'll continue to add as the season progresses. If you're not give me a call. I got a deal on a feather duster at a sale last Saturday.





My dad and I often spend Saturdays at yard sales. The man has a mischievous smile and the soul of a leprechaun. At one sale he picked up a shot glass. The price was a nickle. He nudged me, and with a conspiratorial tone said, "Watch this." He held the glass up and asked the owner,"How much?" She told him it was five cents. He examined it closer and asked, "Will you take four cents for it?"



At another sale we bought a few items. We paid the woman and she said, "Thanks. Come back and see us." My dad, using his best robot voice, told her,"We will, the next time we are on this planet." He walked back to the car with a mechanical gait, swinging his arms while uttering,"Beep. Beep beep. Beep beep beep."



Funny yard sale sign--Big Ass Yerd Sale



I'm always looking for books at yard sales. At a recent sale, I asked the seller if he had any more books. He went in his house, and when he returned, he handed me three volumes.

"You'll want these," he said.

I thumbed through them. All three were written in Swedish. I handed the books back. "I can't use these."


The guy seemed shocked. "Why not?"


"I can't read Swedish," I said.



Seemingly stunned, the guy exclaimed, "You can't!" He took the books, shook his head in amazement, and walked away.

At a recent friends of the library sale, I meet a guy who told me he phoned in ISBN numbers to his wife. She would check Amazon, from her computer at home, and let him know whether the book was worth buying. I, on the other hand, write down the numbers of books I'm interested in, look them up at my leisure, and return to the sale should I find something of value. During the sale, the volunteer, (a woman I know) noticed he was relaying numbers via a headset phone. She politely inquired as to what he was doing. After he explained himself, she turned to me and said, "You should do that." My reply was, "I can't afford to."

She gave me a quizzical look and asked, "You can't afford a phone," to which I replied, "No. I can't afford a wife."

SPAZ





This is my cat Spaz. If the eyes are windows to the soul then I'm in trouble. She's resting peacefully now, wrapped around her favorite plant, the one with the baby's breath. An hour ago she had a cat fit. Tomorrow I'll have to re-hang the drapes, comb cat fur off the cactus, and sift garlic bulbs from her litter box. Spaz buries garlic in her Fresh Step. I think She's trying to tell me something.



Spaz is an incorrigible thief. A year or so after she moved in I noticed things were disappearing. Small things. Mundane items you don't notice at first, like cellophane from cigarette packs, soda caps, used napkins. Then one day I couldn't find the salt shaker. I was worried. I have a brain tumor and I thought I might be suffering from blackouts. Then I couldn't find a pack of Trojans. I was terrified. Not because of the tumor. I had a friend coming over. A special friend. But I digress.


Spaz followed me as I tore through the house. I searched under couch cushions. I rifled dresser drawers. I checked the freezer and found three cans of Lima beans and a bar of Ivory soap. Brain tumor. When I looked under the bed I discovered two paper towels draped over a small hillock. I pulled back the towels and found cellophane, match books, dryer lint, ink pens, soda caps, a salt shaker, and a tattered pack of Trojans.

When I looked up, Spaz was gone.


Does anyone speak English anymore?

I bought a new computer last week. The setup instructions were not included so I had to call tech-support. I was connected to an automated system and the instructions were in spanish. I waited, and the second message was in english. I followed the prompt and finally reached a live operator. She spoke english, but her accent was thicker than the callouses on a politician's tongue. We stumbled through a lengthily conversation before she transferred me to the appropriate tech advisor. Her accent was even harder to decipher.

This "failure to communicate" resulted in my connecting the printer cable to a potted plant instead of the parallel port. The goods news is I now have some nice print-outs of a Boston fern.


Now, I am used to accents and dialects. My dads side of the family are born-again rednecks and my moms side hail from the Bronx by way of Germany. Thurty-thurd street to be exact. My fifth grade french teacher was from France and I have two Uncles whose parents came to this country from Italy. So I have a pretty good ear.

A couple of months ago I had to place a call to a Federal Governmental agency. The woman I spoke to was Korean. Not only was her accent difficult to understand, but her command of the english language was limited at best. You would think that people hired to man telephones, especially folks who either work for the government or who are in technology services would be required to have a certain "phone" presence.

Despite the frustration, I did learn something. The next time a telemarketer calls I'm going to tell them, "I no speekatee engleesh!"

MARCH MADNESS


What a weird month.


I had to take my computer to the chiropractor. It slipped a disk.

My cat was sick as a dog.

I slipped on my slippers and caught a chill in my sweats.


I come from a mixed marriage. My mom's a woman and my dad's a guy.

Last night at dinner, I had a Highball with my Lo Mein. I ended up somewhere in the middle.




I accidentally mixed Rogaine with Viagra. My hair's been stiff all day.

MY UNCLE SAM

Paydays use to make me feel, well, patriotic.
Uncle Sam would get his cut and I got to keep
the rest. I was feeding the beast.

Freedom has a voracious appetite. But it keeps
the wolf from the door. And the Commies, the
fascists, and the Islamic fanatics.

And I was helping the less fortunate, the folks
wedged tight between a rock and some other
hard mother they were caught up against. I was
chipping in for food, and medical care, and job
training.

And my money was protecting the environment. I was
keeping snail darters from going the way of
the dodos. Damn snail darters. Where are they now when I need help.

I no longer get a paycheck. I'm on the other side now.
A bad back saw to that. And my uncle, that grand old fellow
in his star spangled top hat has turned his back on his aging
nephew. Bastard. I'd like to rip his stupid beard off.

I told him I'm disabled and showed him my doctors note.
He said he could not help me.
I told him I was hungry, and he gave me $2.97 a day to
feed myself. Six months later, he took away my allowance.

And I'm family.

But he has no qualms about feeding the neighbors kids. They sneak
over the fence and my Uncle Sam treats them to doctors,
and feeds them, and helps them buy low-cost homes.

My Uncle Sam even gave some of the bad kids Viagra after
they got out of jail for hurting my sisters and my little niece.

The old boy must be senile.
I may have to disown him.

50

Last Wednesday I turned fifty. I woke up, stood in front of the toilet, peed on my feet, and then spent twenty minutes looking for my car keys.

I generally do not celebrate my birthday. I mean, I didn't do anything. I'm here today because my folks didn't watch Johnny Carson 50 years and 9 months ago. Had Don Rickles been a guest that night I would not be typing this.