This and That

This concerns Ted Williams the anointed "Golden Voice Homeless Guy." Is it just me, or did no one else see this coming?

He was homeless for a reason. No matter much I people bleeding hearts tell me "If only someone had given him an opportunity..." when referring to some homeless person; I still know there is a segment of the homeless who've down more than fallen on hard times or couldn't catch a break. Ol' Ted fell on some hard times. He never seemed to have caught a break. Now he's caught a whole shitload of breaks, and what does he do? He blows them. Ted has a myriad of issues the least of which is being homeless. That didn't occur overnight, it took many months, and by the look of him, years of fucking up to get to where he did.

The bigger issue here is his drinking and drug problem. As far as all of the companies that came out of the woodwork to jump on this exploitative marketing and publicity gravy train, did they not see the forest for the trees? How many people looked for employment at these firms only to be turned away because they couldn't pass a pee test or a background check? How many current employees has human resources had to put into rehab, or worse yet fire due to addiction problems. Yet resume-less, inexperienced, and untrained Ted Williams gets more job offers without as much as a query.

Shame on Kraft and the Cleveland Cavaliers. Why don't you consider the people who've toiled for years in the background working toward the kind of breaks you threw at Ted Williams just to get some PR. Why not interview any number of experienced, college graduates that would kill for the opportunities companies waved in front of Ted Williams like so many dollar bills. And in this economy, with this many talented people out of work. Again I say shame on them.

I hope Ted can overcome his demons for the sake of Ted, not because of his possible future employment status, that has been precarious at best. The other shit if he doesn't get a handle on it can send him back to jail, or worse kill him. The story of "The Golden Voiced Homeless Guy" be just that, a human interest story. That was why it was filmed. Just a homeless man doing some radio schtick, nothing more.

That nut case that decided things weren't going according to the order of the universe he perceived shot some people. Which from what I've studied, always brings clarity to those who may be confused as to the purpose of it all. Are you fucking kidding me!? The idea that no one suspected things were taking a drastic turn on the loony front is what confuses me. It makes about as much sense as offering a homeless alcoholic, drug addict, and petty criminal gigs worth six figures.

This past Sunday I watched the 60 Minutes expose on the Arizona shooter (I refuse to denigrate this piece with his name which already has made its infamous imprint on history). The people interviewed all concurred that he had gone around the bend, yet no one brought this to the attention of his parents, police, anybody that could have acted as a stopgap before it culminated in the tragedy that played out in front of a Safeway supermarket. One of the shooters classmates even said that she took the seat nearest the door just in case this mentally unstable individual decided one bright sunny day that it would be a good time to take out some fellow students.

Is our collective memory really that short? Did the persons responsible for his dismissal from Pima Community College not recall the horror of Virginia Tech no so long ago? Was someone afraid of violating this asshole's civil rights? And now folks are making all kinds of bizarre reactionary suggestions about what sort of legislation can be passed to prevent this sort of thing from happening again. Are the people we elect really that stupid?

I'm not a big fan of guns. However, I do believe in the second amendment as it was written and the purpose for which it was written; to arm Americans against hostile invaders of our shores. I'm sure had the Founding Fathers foresaw what that amendment would one day wrought, perhaps it would have been worded a little differently. But the idea of outlawing the sale of Glock handguns, and making a law that limits the amount of bullets a clip can hold is not only superficial, but asinine. Do these people really think that's going to stop someone from shooting another? Do these type of laws address the real issue here, which is mental illness?

Our society has been reactive as opposed to pro-active since the first settlements. These groups finally realized they should prepare themselves for harsh conditions, and even harsher winters. No one figured that out from the correspondence from the first early settlers?

Christ, we were the last nation to do away with slavery. What were we waiting on then?

9/11 is a perfect example. Other capitalist nations had already endured multiple terrorist activities. What made us think it wasn't going to happen to us? Information became known that something was brewing even before it happened. Why do we think we're exempt?

And now, with government funding for studying and treating the mentally ill who may be prone to violence abysmally lacking, legislators are looking to pass more laws that infringe on the rights of those who aren't several fries short of a Happy Meal. That makes sense...not.

Since I'm still mid-rant; you know what else doesn't make sense? The way the NFL playoffs are turning out. Before they started, it looked as if New England was going to make another Super Bowl appearance. No one else in the AFC was playing remotely close to their level. Each team in the NFC looked as if they were playing not to lose. Suddenly, Green Bay seems to be peaking at just the right time. Chicago is playing opportunistic football. It looked like one of the two of them was going to give New England a run for their money...until the Jets beat them. So much for that. Jet versus Steelers is anybody's guess, and don't give me that shit about home field advantage, even for the kicker, who also has to kick off that cow pasture.

Green Bay at Chicago is just as perplexing. They play in the same division. They're two of professional football's oldest franchises. They both play similar styles. They both frequently play in shitty weather. I'm not making any predictions, but I think for the pure randomness of what has already transpired has made me me much more interested in watching than I thought I'd be. Oh yeah, by the way, for those of you who are regular readers, fuck Pittsburgh

A Weighty Issue, or A "Wadie" Issue

By the title, you may think I'm about to get on my soapbox and get into some long winded diatribe about the obesity problem in America. Not so. The only weight problem I'm here to tell you about is my own. Though I do think we are becoming a society of fat fucks.

I was once a fat kid. I was never the fat kid by the time I went to grade school, nonetheless, I may have been considered "heavy" periodically. As an infant, well that's a whole other matter.

When my son Cory and I were out visiting my father a couple of years ago, an old Jonathan Dayton Regional High School yearbook of my father's was unearthed. As Cory thumbed through it, an old photo of me and my sister fell from it's pages. My sister was holding my hand. I was no more than eighteen months old. I know this because I couldn't walk until I was eighteen months old. My sister would have never magnanimous enough to held my hand under any circumstances without some sort of dire threat from my parents. I obvious needed assistance. I would have tipped over. Hence, no picture could have been taken, leading to my father's wrath. So my sister got stuck holding my hand.

I was fat. No two ways about it. My head was as big as a basketball. Better legs had been seen on grand pianos. If a stranger had seen me at this stage of my life, they were liable to utter under their breath "look at that poor child with hydrocephalus." (Note: When looking up "hydrocephalus" I noticed Hubert Humphrey's picture next to the definition for "Humpty Dumpty).

Fortunately, my fat stage didn't last long even though I ate copious amounts of junk food. Ring-Dings, Twinkies, Sno-balls, a never ending supply of Charles Chips. There Fritos with Lipton onion dip, all washed down with enough Coca-Cola or every imaginable flavor of Yukon Club soda that I should still have a horrendous case of acne to this day. But somehow I was fortunate enough to avoid every teenager's nightmare. My weight was nothing playing outside everyday and a little hyperactivity couldn't take care of.

My mother would often threaten that all this shit I was eating would spoil my dinner. I still have trouble grasping the concept of anything spoiling what has just been freshly prepared. Not only did it not spoil my dinner, my ingestion of all that junk just seemed to grease the skids so to speak. At dinner I was often reprimanded for the amount I was consuming. That I "couldn't possibly still be hungry." I wish my parents could make up their minds. Do you want me to eat or don't you?

My eating habits accelerated just before I hit high school. Ed and Fred Kane was unfortunate enough to invite me to dinner one evening when I was in the seventh grade. A family outing to "The Pit Stop" a local burger joint. The events of that evening have so scarred the Kane brothers (god only knows how it effected Mrs. Kane) that when they "friended" me on Facebook a couple of years ago, the memory of that eating rampage was the first communication that came to mind nearly forty years later. I made reference to this fact, and they promptly "un-friended" me.

By the end of my sophomore year, I could eat a whole large pizza myself. I ate five Whoppers at a sitting. An innocent trip to McDonald's cost my mother a month's car payment. Two Big Macs, two Quarter-Pounders (no cheese), a large fry, an apple pie or two, and a large whatever shake. After eating that I found it necessary to go to Dairy Queen to have a little dessert. In June I was 5'10" and weighed 175 pounds. Come September when Junior year started I was 6'3" and weighed 215 pounds. You do the math.

After high school my weight fluctuated. I went through my cocaine induced "Redi-Kilowatt" phase where I was now shade taller than 6'4" and weighed 150 pounds. A brush with the law altered my diet dramatically. When I started acting school back in 1981, I weighed in at 180. I stayed around that until my first wife and I moved in together. I was laboring for a mason at the time and went to the gym frequently. I was tipping the scales at about 215 again, but arranged completely different than the high school 215. And then I had my motorcycle accident.

In the short space of 27 days, I lost 83 pounds. They cut off around 15 or so I was told. I was 132 and looked like a reject from some third world impoverished nation. So I went back to the gym, went back to eating everything that didn't eat me first, and got my weight back up to 215 where it staying until drinking replaced eating.

From 1993 to 2000 my weight hovered between 170 and 180. By 2001 I had quit drinking and decided to return to school; where, after six years of being pretty much sedentary, my weight ballooned to 257; it had finally caught up to the size of my head. My body was now proportionate except I needed to look into a full length mirror to see my nuts. On my wife Helen's suggestion, I returned to the gym for a third go around, and the trips there have been a regular part of my weekly regimen for the last three and half years.

My adult weight was finally stable. For 22 consecutive months I remained at 230 give or take a pound...until three months ago. My prosthesis started to give me grief. After twenty-six years as an amputee I've developed a symbiotic relationship with my what's left of my left leg. The first troubleshooting I did was step on the scale, I had been lulled into a false sense of security after so long at the same weight. When my weight fluctuates, my leg acts up. Lo and behold, much to my amazement I had lost six pounds. I still ate as if I was going to the electric chair. Yet, the stayed off.

I am not an alarmist but I was alarmed. Cancer. That was my first thought. I've smoked for over thirty years, but that wasn't it. My blood work is that of someone in their late twenties, so says my doctor. But I was feeling a bit weaker. A tapeworm, yeah, that's it! What am I, fucking loony, I don't live in a third world country. And then yesterday I got on the scale at the gym. A sense of dread washed over me. Here I am, in a predicament many overweight people would die for -ugh, bad choice of words- and I was concerned. The scale didn't lie, 229. Whew! What a load off, no pun intended. Maybe I'll watch what I eat from now on. Only kidding.

"Is It Safe?"

For anyone that's seen the movie Marathon Man, you'll never forget that line. Sir Lawrence Olivier is playing a character that was at one time a dentist for the Nazi regime. Olivier has Dustin Hoffman strapped to a crude facsimile of a dentist's chair when in an attempt to extract the information he believes Hoffman character is privy to, he says, "Is it safe?" Hoffman doesn't have a fucking clue as to what Olivier is talking about, referring to, etc. Nevertheless, while Olivier hums "Edelweiss" or some fucking inane ditty as he preps the instruments used by an oral surgeon, he continues to query Hoffman over and over, "Is it safe?" Finally, when Olivier doesn't get the answer he's looking for, he proceeds to drill into a live tooth of Hoffman's without the aid of any anesthetic. Oh joy, oh rapture.

Like the movie Jaws and its alarming effect on ocean swimmers the summer it was released, dental practices around the country saw a downturn in business. Normally regular customer appointments went wanting. I'm not quite sure if I became paranoid about going to the dentist after seeing Marathon Man, but perhaps somewhere buried between Dracula and local Long Valley urban legend "The Hooker Man," is the specter of dentists everywhere congregating, drinking beer, and thumbing their collective noses at the part of The Hypocratic Oath that states "to do no harm."

Needless to say, I dislike going to the dentist immensely. An already unappealing prospect to begin with, made infinitely worse first, by my move to Florida seventeen years ago, and compounded by the nature of a health care beast so disruptive, by the time I finally muster the nerve to go to the dentist, the fucker no longer takes whatever dental insurance I happen to have at that time.

My angst knows no bounds. It wasn't always that way. As a child, I adored Dr. Gould. He was my first dentist, and I continued to go to him right up until I got married...the first time. I was twenty-six years old. Dr. Gould did me no harm. Even though like Howard Stern's mother, my mother insisted Novocaine wasn't to be used under any circumstances, even when filling a cavity. I didn't know any different. My mother was obviously mentally unstable.

Then, urged on by my wife, her benefits package, and the knowledge that driving forty-five minutes to the dentist was incredibly stupid, I made a switch. The new dentist, Dr. Levy, was wonderful. He was in the same building where I got my haircut. That was all the information I needed. Frank and Tony wouldn't have a quack for a tenant. Dr. Levy took my insurance when my wife became my ex-wife. All remained calm in my dental universe. And then I moved to Florida.

I had to select a new set of professionals to attend to my bodily needs. A new doctor, now referred to as a "primary care physician." I needed to find a prosthetist I was comfortable with, I had only dealt with Richie Guizzone since my amputation. He understood me. He knew what I needed. He listened to me. Christ, he was an amputee himself, so he even knew what I was going through. I needed a new person to cut my hair. Tony Gentile had been cutting my hair for over twenty years. I needed a new dentist. Yuck. I had to find a pediatrician for Cory. A dentist for Cory. His selections turned out much better for him than mine for me. Or, maybe he just adapted better.

I have lived in Florida for seventeen years now and I am now on my seventh dentist. And I don't go to the dentist all that frequently due to the frequency I am forced to change them. It's not like deciding on which supermarket to shop at. Most of the dentist's in Florida I've had the pleasure of doing business with have been ...how shall I say this delicately?...butchers. I could do just as good a job with an awl, a Dremil, and a mirror, and it would be half as painful.

Why the fuck do they ask if you can feel -whatever it is they jamming into your jaw seeming at any moment it's going to come out the top of your head- when you respond you can, they tell you "Oh, that can't be possible!" while they chortle lightly. "Hey Doc, while you're at it, can't you shove a catheter up my penis so that pain will take my mind off the pain you're causing in my mouth?" The only redeeming feature of one of my Steve Martin Little Shop of Horrors impersonator was, Marilyn Manson also went to the same guy. Occasionally we'd bump into each other. That was a plus, I'm a big Manson fan.

This time there was no more putting it off. I already broke one tooth and let it run it's course several months ago, now another had broken due to lack of proper attention and care. I had to go to the dentist. Number seven it is. Mr. Berstler do you have any last requests?

I based this selection on the fact they had Saturday hours, and both husband and wife graduated from the University of Florida, my son's alma mater. She was nice, efficient, and sympathetic. I was just pathetic. My palms were so sweaty it looked like I peed on my shirt when the hygienist took my apron off. The sad news was, my dentist had to refer me to an oral surgeon. Shit, more uncharted waters.

I decided to take the bull by the horns. Upon arriving home, I immediately made an appointment to have two teeth extracted. The kind, nice, sympathetic lady on the other end of the phone said "You can come in tomorrow if you want. We have an opening at 11:00." Before my brain had a chance to survey the mental landscape of such a devil may care decision, I said "Ok." I hung up the phone and stared at it as if I was hoping she'd call back to say someone had booked that time slot without her knowledge. No such luck.

I arrived on time. I waited nearly an hour before I saw the oral surgeon. And when I did, he said he was sorry for the wait so many times I thought he may very well have been some sort of android with a faulty communication chip. I will save you the Bill Cosby-like analysis, but I'm here to tell you, while it was not painless, it certainly was fast and efficient. Two teeth in and out in less than ten minutes (once the Novocaine took hold). After listening to the speed reading version of aftercare recited by the dental assistant, I was on my way. I told him I didn't need any painkillers for when the Novocaine wore off. I must have been delirious.

Yesterday, I did not blog due to my state of discomfort. I find it hard to focus while St. Vitus is River Dancing inside my mouth. The next time I go to the dentist -there will be many more appointments in my future- and they sit me down, I'm going to ask her "Is it safe?" If she gets it and laughs, number eight won't be very far off.

Icing on my Cake

I'll make this short. I just lied. How about I'll try to make this short. I had this long diatribe concocted about what bullshit the media has deemed worthy of review as "news" of the past year. "News" is a very subjective term of late, much of which I find to be useless supermarket tabloid crap. With that said, why look back at all? Aren't we supposed to be looking ahead, our past is just that; past. Why dwell on it. Particularly if it wasn't all that great. And if it was all that great, we shouldn't rest on our laurels.

Some of you have been following the saga of my father's futile battle with with Alzheimer's. I don't want the last blog of the year to be a downer, and thanks to two rather odd occurrences, I'm able to ring out the old year on a positive note.

For the second consecutive year I was part of a Fantasy Football League. Fantasy Football has been around for some time, I just never got into it. I know, how does a sports psychotic like me not get involved into everything that has anything to do with sports. Well, I did make a couple of pleas to my son to become part of his league, but each time the spots were always spoken for. So when I was approached about joining a league last year, I figured why the hell not. This year it was a given I'd be part of the same league again.

My team name this year was "Alpha Omega," and a more apt moniker was never uttered. Week after week I either won big or lost big. Only two weeks were the scores close. My team finished the season 7-6, hardly distinguished myself. Last year, I painstakingly studied magazine player evaluations. I developed various draft scenarios so I knew which player to pick for eight rounds regardless of who anyone else selected. I took Fantasy Football very seriously last year. Probably because of the ultra-competitive asshole I am. Hey, losing sucks...at anything.

This year when draft day came around, the only player I had preordained was my first round pick. After that, I flew by the seat of my pants. No pressure I said, no big deal I said, don't take this so seriously I said. I approached each week of the season pretty much with the same attitude. If one of my players got hurt, I picked up another. If one of my players shit the bed on a consistent basis, I dumped him and picked up another. They all look the same with helmets on. I'd give my lineup a cursory glance, spend twenty minutes or so making the moves I had to -frequently way before the Sunday 1:00 deadline- and let the chips fall where they may. If I forgot to put in a defense, oh well. If I didn't have a kicker, fuck it. My Fantasy Football team was not high on my priority list.

Funny, it mattered little in the standings as well. I was a mediocre team in a mediocre division. My one ignominious claim to fame was I beat a team that had only one other loss all season. My least seemed to be enough to reach the playoffs, but I felt I would go no further than the first round game, then it would be on to bigger and better things. But I didn't lose.

My trip to Ohio coincided with the weekend of the second playoff game against the very same team who lost only twice. Thanks for playing, we have some lovely parting gifts. I didn't check the scores when I was in Ohio. The first I knew of the situation was when we got home and I checked my e-mail. That night, I held a lead by the slimmest of margins. My opponent still had one player left who could accumulate points that evening in the Monday Night Football game. However, in the second half his receiver achieved the status of persona non grata and I won by 1.5 points, enough to advance to the Stupid Bowl.

Just to get this far was nothing short of a miracle. It didn't matter that I lost, I still won $210.00. It's not the $400.00 that the winner got, but it was more than I ever imagined back in August when we started this nonsense. And then things got better.

You die-hard regular readers may recall my angst about entering my author friend's Micro-Fiction contest. You may even recollect the source of my angst was this year's theme; romance. If anyone were to ask me what I write, I might answer depending on my mood, "whatever the opposite of romance is." Needless to say I was not brimming with confidence. Other submissions would come from creative writing students, published authors, published writers, I am none of the above save for this blog. Well today I found out I won. When I first found out, I was quite surprised, using "quite" for lack of a better word. Other words used to describe how I felt were delighted, tickled, humbled, thrilled,you get the idea.The money from Fantasy Football now seems insignificant even though I don't have a pot to wee-wee in.

In my wildest dreams I never gave a thought that I may win. I was sure my skills as a writer paled to those of the other entrants. I guess not. Today I've been validated by people who know what they're doing when it comes to creative writing. Winning that contest reaffirms my conviction to get not one finished book published, but now two. I'll keep cranking out this stuff for as many Wednesdays as I'm able, in my mind, my writing can no longer be ignored. Today someone noticed. I'm really grateful and happy for that. Bring on 2011.

My Reason(s) for THIS Season

For those of you who read this every week, all three of you; you may have noticed I did not post a blog last week. I missed a week back in August as well, for a the pretty much the same reason; a visit to Ohio to see my Alzheimer's ridden father. But this time there was so much more.

I am well aware that the primary reason for this holiday season revolves around the majority of Americans acknowledgment of the birth of Jesus Christ, a small disputable fact as to the exact date notwithstanding. However, because of the tidings of joy we feel, obviously there are other important reasons this time of year brings certain emotions and feelings a little closer to the surface and we seem freer to pay them heed. In the last decade or so I certainly do.

I was able to make this trip with the two people I love most in this world; my son Cory and my wife Helen. That alone is enough to make the journey bearable regardless of its purpose. When you compound that with the wonderful people we were going to see, it softened the circumstance considerably.

Upon landing in Ohio, we were greeted with a minor snowstorm. I thought I had shrewdly stolen my rental car rate only to learn that the full size vehicle I had reserved was kindly upgraded to an Grand Cherokee for a mere fifteen dollars a day the Enterprise counterperson informed me. When she proposed the idea ("with the snow and all") I hardly balked, not realizing that fifteen dollars a day was almost double what I would have paid for the Toyota Camry. I was so glad I pulled the trigger so readily.

After a must pit stop at White Castle for a "Crave Case (30 burgers, half with cheese, half without)," we made our way to my Mom's; formerly my Step-Mother. When we arrived we found her shoveling the driveway so we wouldn't have to step in the five inches that had already fallen. She was delighted to see us, and we her. When the snow stopped later that afternoon, Cory finished shoveling the driveway and I did the front walk.

If I didn't make myself perfectly clear in the last Ohio trip blog, let me try now. My Mom is one of the nicest, kindest, fairest, and most giving individuals you'll ever meet. Ever. It hurt my heart to know what she has had to endure with my father and his illness these last years. If one person on this planet doesn't deserve it, it's her. After a wonderful evening with other family members, I prepared myself mentally the best I could for what awaited the next morning, which what I thought was the intention of this trip. Now I know taking Cory and Helen to see my father was only part of it.

We awoke to cloudy skies that matched my sense of melancholy, and the temperature in the teens. My father was now a resident of the Columbus Alzheimer's Center after a traditional nursing home proved inadequate to the task of housing him. My Mom was babysitting, but would meet us there, or so I thought. I was hoping maybe she'd be able to run interference for me since I didn't really know what awaited us upon our arrival. Alas, she was held up, but now as I play the scene over in my head, perhaps it was fate that had a hand in us going it alone.

I thought I had prepared, that's what I get for thinking. My father had deteriorated so dramatically in the last four months -though my Mom had tried her best over the phone to keep me abreast- I was shocked/devastated/saddened, all of the above. Nevertheless, the emotion that I felt most strongly was the love I had for my father, my son, and my wife...and then I felt it for every family member that has had to confront/deal with what has morphed my father from a vibrant man to literally a shadow of his former self.

I did my best to be a good soldier for Helen and Cory, but I'm here to tell you it's one of the hardest things I've ever done. Talking about holding on by your fingernails...Christ. Outside it started to snow and I thought of the song "The Sky is Crying;" (George Thorogood's version).

I was requested by my dear friend Tom Rowlands, to call him when we had finished our visit. I did, and promptly fell apart. Tom was compassionate and understanding, and I was grateful for that. Hell, I was grateful that he was on the other end of the phone at that precise moment. He inquired when would we be heading over to his house about thirty minutes away. I said I'd give him a holler when we were on our way. We needed time to gather ourselves but I didn't tell Tom that.

We made our way into Columbus proper. I thought maybe everyone, my wife in particular since she was born in Germany, would enjoy a trip to the German Village section of the city. Tom had taken me there back in August. I vaguely remembered how to get there, much less the restaurant we patronized; Schmidt's. But find it I did. Schmidt's, an authentic German restaurant was established in 1880. I thought Cory and Helen would get a kick out of it. Little did I know that the items Helen ordered would stir fond emotional remembrances of her Mom's cooking. After what we had just been through, everybody's emotions were close to the surface. I was grateful that I made the right choice, though it felt like I had little to do with the decision to go there. After sating ourselves, we made our way to Tom's in a much better frame of mind.

What a wonderful visit with wonderful people. Tom's wife Cindi greeted us with open arms. Talk about someone making others feel comfortable. Annie, Tom's youngest, was home from the University of Kentucky, and she was just as nice and pleasant and congenial as Tom and Cindi's other three children. How the fuck did they do that I wondered. Each kid nicer and as talented as the next. Geez! After a terrific visit, a wonderful meal. It's good to have good friends. That night on the ride back to my Mom's, the Christmas lights reflecting off the new fallen snow made me grateful it had snowed, and perhaps this was what we all needed to get us in the holiday spirit.

Saturday brought a visit to my brother Craig's house. Before we all went, we exchanged Christmas gifts with my Mom. She had found a box of my father's that contained Eastern Airlines promotion stuff. Cory and I got little planes, a Eastern bag tag, and a couple of Eastern bottle stoppers (remember those?). There were other gifts that may have cost more, but none of greater value. After some shopping with Cory, it was off to my brother's. It was so great to see him, his wife Tara, and the kids, Drew and Gabe. We had a delightful dinner that Craig had spent the entire day babysitting in the smoker. Afterward, we exchanged Christmas gifts. Friday morning seemed surreal and long ago.

That night Helen and Charlene went back to my mom's house, while Cory and I spent the night at Craig and Tara's. You see, Sunday Craig, Cory and I were going to Cincinnati to see my beloved Bengals take on the Cleveland Browns in the 75th Battle of Ohio.

It was ten degrees when I got up Sunday morning and made my way out to the garage to have a cigarette. It felt like ten below when I locked myself out of the house for about a half hour, not wanting to roust anyone from their slumber prematurely. It was seventeen degrees when we got to Cincinnati and I didn't give a shit. I was getting to see my Bengals on their home turf with my son and my brother. Fucking awesome doesn't begin to describe the way I felt. And after nearly three months without a win, the Bengals triumphed. Does anyone reading this sense a pattern here, or is it just me?

Monday we returned to Florida. I was sad, but yet felt a sense of inner euphoria that's hard to explain. My mind is already planning when we're all visiting again. We know we may have to, but that doesn't stop my feelings of how much I want to.


As most of you know I'm mighty glad to awaken each day on this side of the grass. This holiday, that awareness has been heightened due to the love of family, friends, and the gratitude that comes in knowing how precious each day we have is, and how fleeting those days truly are. My Dad will be okay, and so will my Mom. For that matter we all will be, we know the inevitable outcome. If you need me to explain my reason's for this season, read this again.

"A Writer Writes; Always"

The title to this weeks bolg comes from the mantra Billy Chrystal's character ingrained in the minds of his nontraditional creative writing students the in Throw Momma From the Train. I try to write something everyday. I futz with my book. I dabble with the screenplay I'm working on for a friend of mine. I'm constantly revising the movie's outline that's due in March. And then there are the homework assignments. Oh yeah, and every Wednesday there's this blog. And now I must do this ditty for another friend."Must" is in italics because I could blow it off, but I kinda sorta like the challenge.

This time of year is loaded with things that I longingly look forward to doing. I just received my invite from a friend of my son's to enter, for the fourth year, his Bowl Game Challenge. I love it. You assign each bowl a number of importance based on how confident you are of one team defeating the other. The values go from one through however many bowl games there are. I've never won, but the thrill is in the chase as they say.

My Fantasy Football season is coming to a close. For me, it may close a little faster than a couple of other people because I don't see my "team" going very far in the playoffs. Nonetheless it's great fun.

I will do my Christmas cards shortly. I will bake Christmas cookies over the next couple of weeks. And now for the second consecutive year I will enter my friend's Micro-Fiction contest.

Cynn is a published author of five or six books, I can't keep count, she's been rather prolific since I signed up for Facebook. Cynn is also an accomplished carpenter, but decided instead to become a professor at the University of North Carolina-Asheville. In her spare time she paints, mows the North Forty, and is also redoing her basement. Christ, I write "brush my teeth" on my things to do list so I get to cross it off to give me the sense I've accomplished something that day.

Cynn has a rather elaborate Christmas village she's named "Little Bliss." This was the setting for last year's contest as it is for this years. The rules for Cynn's Micro-Fiction contest are simple. Write 250 words in the genre she designates. She even used only 250 words to describe "Little Bliss." Last year the genre was mystery, as in it was a mystery why I ever thought I could write a mystery no matter how many words were involved. This year the genus is romance, as in if writing a mystery was a mystery, it is truly a mystery to think I can write a romance, much less in 250 words. Nevertheless, I will attempt this no matter how futile it seems.

Cynn was even kind enough to include me in a Facebook note to her "writerly friends." Though I remain unpublished, I do fancy myself a writer...just not of mystery or romance.

I have no delusions of grander about winning, it's the challenge. Do I have it in me. If last year's effort is any indication, then no, I don't have it in me. I wrote Cynn that I could be the "comedy" portion of the contest. I think she misunderstood. I'm guessing she's thinking "Oh, a romantic comedy!" What I meant was the writing itself would be comical, screw the theme.

My entry last year was feeble at best. It was formulaic, contrived, and predictable, and I spent a couple of days thinking about what I was going to write. I can't get that time back can I? After I made my submission I read my entry again. I said to myself, "Oh, my god! it's Sergio Leone (the famed director of the Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns) meets Stephen King on a really off day. After Cynn announced the first and second place winners decided upon by a panel of distinguished judges, I thought I'd read how real mystery writers, or writers that are adaptable, write. I don't know if they really are as deep as the writing seemed, or just artsy-fartsy. Well no matter, their's was good, and mine not so much. But it was fun being challenged like that.

I write creative non-fiction. The stories I tell are true with my spin on it. I can't fabricate much except for maybe a lie, and I haven't told one of those in quite some time. I've probably lost my touch. If I was to tell a lie now it would probably be as transparent as that piece I wrote for last year's Micro-Fiction contest.

The deadline for entries is December 10th. I thought we had more time last year from announcement to deadline, but maybe I just thought there was more time because I was unemployed. Time moves p-r-e-t-t-y slow when you have a lot of nothing happening career wise. This year I'm very busy. As a matter of fact, when I'm done here I'm taking a final exam. The last piece of classwork concluding my first semester as a doctoral candidate. That will give me tomorrow and Friday to come up with 250 scintillating quixotic words. I think I'd rather take another final in something I know more about than romance, like genetic micro-biology.

Time is of the essence, I must get to work. That's why I'm cutting this short. I need to think of something... but by the time I do the contest will be over.

Food for Thought

Ever since I was a little kid I've enjoyed grocery shopping. Granted, after I became a teenager the experience no longer held the fascination it once did, my parents being so dorky and all.

As a small child a trip to the grocery with my mother -this was back when it was still considered "woman's work" -was an event not be be missed in my world. My father was assigned to the specialty stores, deli, butcher, baker, candlestick maker. Only kidding about the last one. My mother did the bulk shopping. Not the Sam's Club, Costco, BJ's buy shit by the pallet full bulk, just the fill the shopping cart...or two bulk. I was captivated by my mother's choices of brand names.

Pride of the Farm Ketchup, when all my friends used Hunt's or Heinz.Miracle Whip faux mayonnaise, when all my friends used Hellman's. Mueller's spaghetti, when all my friend's used Ronzoni. Yukon Club (A&P house brand)soda instead of Coke. I had to go to my grandparents house to get Coca-Cola. Maybe this is the first manifestation of my parent's dorkiness that would one day keep me from ever escorting my mother to the super market again.

Just the term Super Market made going there special. Why maybe, something ultra-spectacular and stupendously wondiferous could be purchased there? I had to be there if my mother was going to buy it after saving for years.

My mother and both grandmothers were coupon clippers. I became a coupon clipper. My maternal grandmother made sure she hit whichever store had the best "deal" on whatever it was she needed.

My grandmother made my grandfather stop (if you recall from an earlier blog, Nana didn't drive) at A&P, Foodtown, Finest, Acme, and Grand Union. Not all of these establishments were located in the same town. My grandfather was a fucking saint; I swear.

My mother on the other hand was an A&P woman. Whatever needed to be had could be had at A&P. If A&P didn't have it, it wasn't worth having, or she'd ask for whatever it was to be ordered.

If I behaved, and contrary to what you might suspect I was very well behaved, I could work my mother for the junk food I adored. Twinkies, Snowballs, Ring Dings, and maybe a Clark bar at checkout.

Checkout was almost as time consuming as the shopping itself. My mother shopped for two weeks. There was no need to stop any day in between since she bought a back-up of everything. Milk was delivered by the Alderney Dairy, and Charles Chips came by once a week as well. The Dugen bread guy rounded out the staples of basic sustenance.

When we moved to Chester, A&P was the only game in town until a Shop-Rite opened several years later on the spot where I wiled away lazy summer afternoons at Grogan's swimming "thing." It wasn't a pool, nor was it a pond, it was something we swam in.

My mother switched loyalties to Shop-Rite based on square footage and selection. My grandmother continued to do her store to store routine well into her seventies. Except now she only bought six or seven items at each store. Which brings me to what inspired this drivel.

I have always done my "big" shopping on Sundays. When it was just Cory and I, I shopped on Sundays. Unless Cory was visiting his mother then there was no need to shop since most of my meals were liquid. When I remarried I continued the ritual of Sunday shopping. That way everything needed for school and work lunches would still be realatively fresh on Friday. But since school for me has recommenced, food shopping has taken a drastic turn.

My wife loathes going to the food store. That has always been my job since I so enjoyed it. She now has the responsibility occasionally. She avoids it as if all the food sold at Publix (not Winn-Dixie) was laced with arsenic so why bother going at all. However, we need to eat according to Maslow.

What winds up happening is she or I will stop if we have the time, if we happen to be driving by, if we happen to be dying of starvation, to "pick up a couple of things." I literally can't remember the last time I spent over one hundred dollars at the food store. This used to be a regular occurrence, but no more.

Last night I stopped by the grocery to "pick up a couple of items" and amidst the cooking oil and ethic foods, I had an epiphany. And it wasn't a good one. I gazed into my cart trying desperately to remember what we were out of completely at the homestead. I noticed there were only eleven or twelve items in the cart. I wanted to buy something else, anything else, just to make the cart look...I don't know...fuller. I couldn't think of a thing. Oh, there were a hundred items we needed as well as stock up on, but tonight wasn't the night for that. That was for Sunday. But I'm sure several more Sundays will come and go before those items find the cart.

So there I was, Bertolli to the left of me and LaChoy to the right, and I thought "OH MY GOD I"M SHOPPING LIKE AN OLD PERSON!!!!"

You know who I'm talking about. Those people who go to the food store every day to pick up only what they need for that day only to return the following day to repeat the process. Maybe they do it out of loneliness, or lack of something to do which is hard to believe because it seems every old person's calendar is full with doctor's appointments and they all go to my doctor. They use coupons just like I do except I never have them with me when I make an unscheduled stop to "pick up a couple of things."

I was devastated at this revelation. I swore to myself to only stop at the grocery if I'm picking up four items, or forty, but never stop for any amount in between. I'd rather go without. I'm never going to shop meal to meal. I can see it now, "Gotta stop tonight to get milk for my coffee in the morning. Don't forget to pick up a head of lettuce tomorrow afternoon for dinner that night. Christ, I think I'd rather cut my own throat with a rusty potato peeler. Maybe we need a new one. I'll pick one up the next time I stop at the store for "a couple of things."