UNAUTHORIZED INSIGHTS by Alan Williamson

The Dentist Will See You Now

2011-12-30T07:02:00.001-05:00

You know the dream. You’re strapped into the dentist chair. A small gathering of people are on hand to watch your final moments, their eyes brimming with contempt. You scan the room for the sympathetic face of a friend or loved one, but find only icy stares and the sterile implements of the agony to come. “I want my mommy,” you murmur. But mommy didn’t get you into this mess, and mommy wants to remember you as you were in better days. So save your tears, big boy.

A last phone call pleading for clemency goes unanswered. As the clock strikes twelve a signal is given by someone in a ghastly teal jumpsuit. Before you can speak, you’re injected with something that makes you feel numb and anxious at the same time. Room spinning, feeling woozy you think, flattering yourself with a puffed-up comparison to Superman fighting off the effects of a close encounter with kryptonite.

A drill is revved up near your skull and your mouth is forced open by a man who tells you to “sit still, this won’t hurt a bit.” You’re last intelligible word is “bull.” You black out and spiral deliriously through time and space wearing (for some unknown reason) only a lobster bib and flip-flops.

In an instant, you’ve landed on a couch on a stage mid-way through a taping of the Oprah show. The host, as if on cue, points a disapproving finger in your direction and says to a seething, all-female studio audience, “Is this the kind of man you want to have a baby with?” As the deafening chorus of boos slowly dissolves into the sounds of your own screaming, you awake back in the dentist chair with a plastic toothbrush in one hand and a bill for $375 in the other.

It’s a sad truth that even men and women known for their nonchalance under pressure can be routinely rattled by the simple words “The dentist will see you now.” In point of fact, a recent poll revealed that 56 percent of Americans with teeth ranked those six unremarkable words as more unnerving than the ominous “We’re traced the threatening phone calls and they’re coming from inside your house” and the downright disturbing “Hi, I’m your new neighbor, Dennis Rodman.”

The thing that troubles me about dentists is that nagging question of career motivation: why would anyone willingly choose a profession that requires them to spend their workdays putting their hands in other people’s mouths? I see my share of mouths as I go about my life, and I’ve never seen any I’ve wanted to put my hands in.

I suspect that some people are attracted to the profession because it allows them to express their opinions on a wide variety of topics without rebuttal. No sooner does my dentist ask me to open wide so he can insert several fingers into my mouth, then the one-sided conversation begins.

My Dentist: “I don’t know about you, but I think White House wiretapping of American citizens without a warrant is a perfectly acceptable tactic in fighting terrorism.”

Me: “Ummff fum ama wiwo.”

My Dentist: “What’s your take on this Iraq mess? I say we stay the course no matter what the price.”

Me: “Ummff ohana cow foo.”

My Dentist: “If you ask me, what this country really needs is to pour all our resources into manned space expeditions. Sure it’s expensive, but we need to stake our claim to the moon as an off-planet rest stop for voyages to Mars and beyond.”

Me: “Arr ou pooing mi egg?”

In spite of these daily opportunities for scintillating dentist-patient conversation, it’s been widely reported that there’s a shortage of dentists that’s only destined to get worse. Long-range labor projections estimate that between 2000 and 2025, the number of dentists practicing in the U.S. will decline by 25 percent.

My theory is that somewhere along the line many dentists become disillusioned when they discover that spending their day with their hands in other people’s mouths isn’t as glamorous and enjoyable as they expected. When that revelation takes root, practically any alternate job pursuit seems alluring. That toll booth attendant who took your dollar? Probably a former dentist. The parking lot valet with the dazzling smile? Former dentist. The guy dressed up in a giant hot dog costume trying to wave you over to Buzzy’s Hot Dog Heaven? Former dentist.

So if you really want to put your irrational fears of going to the dentist behind you once and for all, take my timely advice and become one yourself. Think about it. You’ll have your pick of jobs that offer outstanding career stability, long-term income growth, and something that no other profession can offer: the chance to savor the look of terror in the eyes of grown men and women when your assistant announces “The dentist will see you now.”

Leaving Tijuana

2011-12-18T21:49:00.000-05:00

I’m not exactly sure how we wound up in Tijuana a second time. Maybe I was drowsy after a big lunch and grunted agreeably when someone said, “Hey, wouldn’t it be fun to go to a heartbreakingly depressing slum that sells cheesy souvenirs to tourists?” Or, maybe I wasn’t even in the room when the nonsensical decision was made. Maybe it was just assumed –- me being the fun-loving guy that I am -- that I would gleefully jump at the chance to wallow in squalor and sleaze again south of the border.

The adventure began, innocently enough, with a trip to San Diego to attend a 50^th wedding anniversary bash for my wife’s Uncle Joe and Aunt Aggie. It doesn’t take long to notice that life is good in San Diego. It’s a sun-splashed coastal city with pristine beaches, charming adobe buildings with red tile roofs, historic Spanish missions, and highway signs that clearly tell you how close you’re getting to the border of Mexico.

“7 MILES TO MEXICAN BORDER CROSSING,” one jumbo sign screamed in chimichanga size letters. And then in slightly smaller letters:

“Have You Thought This Through?”

“4 MILES TO MEXICAN BORDER CROSSING,” a follow-up billboard firmly cautioned, adding the gentle reminder:

“You Can Still Turn Back, You Know. No One Will Tease You.”

“1 MILE TO MEXICAN BORDER CROSSING,” bellowed an ominous eight-lane banner, asking with chilling directness:

“Who Shall We Notify in the Event of Your Disappearance?”

My wife Sherry and I and several members of her family were in a van cheerfully chatting away about discount Kahlua and Mexican pharmaceuticals while these signs whizzed by unnoticed. Her cousin Mary, who was piloting a second vehicle filled with family members, was in charge of leading all of us to a public parking lot on the U.S. side of the border where we would take a shuttle bus into Mexico. At least that was the plan. That strategy quickly disintegrated when Mary left us in her dust and we failed to read any of the billboards warning us to reevaluate our lives and make an emergency u-turn.

“Oh shit,” said Sherry’s Uncle Joe from the back seat. “We’re heading into Mexico.”

“What? But . . . I thought we wanted to take the bus in,” I stammered.

“We lost Mary and passed the exit for the parking lot,” Uncle Joe announced. “There’s no turning back now.”

“Wait,” Sherry protested from behind the wheel. “I’m not driving a rented van out of the country.”

“We don’t have any choice,” Uncle Joe made painfully clear. “And from this point on, I’m just a hitchhiker that you fugitives picked up back in Mission Bay.”

At the border checkpoint, we explained our dilemma to the Mexican crossing guard, asking if we could simply turn around, head back to the U.S. side and take the shuttle in. As he conferred with another crossing guard, both gesturing disdainfully in our direction, we got the idea that “simply turning around” was not in the cards for our hapless band of La Bamba bums.

“You must drive through and follow signs back to border,” he snarled, motioning vaguely in the direction of downtown Tijuana.

“Which way do we go?” Sherry asked anxiously, hoping to buy a clue.

“You drive now!” the crossing guard barked, creating a sense of urgency in the van that got us all on the same page.

“Let’s go!” we all blurted in unison, causing Sherry to thump the gas pedal and send the van lurching forward like a drunk at a Mariachi dance.

As we forged on to find our way along Tijuana’s turbulent streets and alleys, we realized that following signs back to the border was going to require several things we didn’t have going for us: luck, a sense of direction, and the ability to read Spanish.

After enough wrong turns and bad moves to offend a Macarena instructor, I rolled down my window at a stop light and asked a couple of locals how to get to San Diego. I did my best to overcome the communication gap by ingeniously saying the words “San Diego” with a Mexican accent and violently shrugging my shoulders. They smiled and pointed in a direction that seemed promising. How naive we were.

Faster than you can say “La Cucaracha,” we found ourselves in a restricted commuter lane that featured curbs on each side to effectively “lock us in” as we headed back toward the border. The crossing guards viewed this as an act of terrorism.

“Halt!” yelled an enraged guard, as a pack of Mexican federalés converged on the van.

“What? What’s wrong?” Sherry asked, taking care to keep her hands where they could see them.

“You are not authorized to use the Sentri commuter lane. Out of the van, everyone.”

“Officer, we didn’t realize we were in the lane until it was too late,” I ventured apologetically. “We just want to leave Tijuana and take the shuttle bus back in.”

“I’m just a hitchhiker these wackos picked up in Mission Bay,” Uncle Joe chimed in.

“Silence!” our friendly border guard erupted. “You are in violation of 19USC1433(b)(1). Your vehicle is subject to seizure and monetary penalty may be assessed.”

I suddenly pictured being horded off to a Mexican jail where I’d have to dance naked to “Tequila Boom Boom” for the pleasure of a prison guard named Mr. Manny. A commotion snapped my attention back to the crisis at hand: it was long-lost cousin Mary, who had followed our exploits via cellphone since losing us on the highway. She had just hoofed it in from the bus depot.

“This is bullshit,” Mary declared to the crossing guards. “They’re not paying you anything and you’re not seizing the van.”

At this point I adopted Uncle Joe’s alibi, pointing to my chest and mouthing the words “hitchhiker” as the federalés glared in our direction.

And then, something truly miraculous happened. Mary jumped in the driver’s seat of the van, yelled “we’re out of here” and took off. I slumped down in my seat in case there was gunfire and pictured Mr. Manny the prison guard again demanding that I sing “Hot,Hot,Hot” with the sombrero on this time.

“How did you know they would let us go?” someone asked Mary from the backseat.

“I didn’t.”

“What do you mean you didn’t?” I bristled from my spot underneath the glove compartment. “You were just rolling the dice back there?”

“We don’t have all day to see Tijuana,” Mary pointed out. “If you guys want to get something to eat and do some shopping and sightseeing, we need to get moving.”

Gee, and I wanted to see if I could create an international incident at the U.S./Mexican border.

What was left of our day in Tijuana was anticlimactic after our frenzied arrival. All I remember are buckets of Corona, margaritas, corn chips piled high with melted cheese, and an all-round gratefulness to be alive.

Whatever the guiding forces were that got us out of Tijuana unscathed, it was a life-changing experience that made me absolutely sure of three things about my future: 1) It would not include another trip to Tijuana, 2) I would never again risk my life to save 15% on a bottle of Kahlua, and 3) If someone named Mr. Manny ever asks me to “dance like a donkey” during Cinco De Mayo, I’m dancing like my life depends on it.

At least until cousin Mary shows up.

Tonight On PBS

2011-12-13T21:28:00.003-05:00

To anyone who says “there’s nothing worth watching on TV anymore,” I politely but firmly put my hand on their shoulder, look them compassionately in the eye and ask, “Are you getting enough fiber in your diet?”

The question throws them at first (just as I intended), but the cryptic nature of my query also gets them thinking. They wonder who I am. They wonder why I’ve violated their personal space by putting my hand on their shoulder. Perhaps most pressing of all, they wonder whether or not I’m armed.

Sensing their discomfort, I tell them “Yes, I am armed . . . armed with good news about the current state of viewer supported public television.” Now, before you get the wrong idea, I’m not one of those TV snobs who claim to only watch the news and public broadcasting. The truth is, before I downgraded my TV service to basic cable a couple of years ago, my curiosity about “what else is on” was usually limited to random searches for basketball games, Seinfeld reruns, and intellectually stimulating biographical profiles like the E True Hollywood Story entitled “Yasmin Bleeth: The Curse of the Baywatch Bombshells.”

But if television is a vast wasteland, basic cable television is a tiny, repulsive crawlspace where beastly, odious things lie in wait, hoping to jump out and plant their grubby stain on your unguarded consciousness. Marathon city commission meetings on storm drainage and street signage. Pretentious book readings by gasbag authors with bad haircuts. Shopping channel shows hosted by scaly reptilian creatures selling hydrating body lotion. These are the meager provisions that pass for quality programming in basic cable’s desolate domain.

. . . Wow! How about that? Hi, everybody, I’m Jordan Chandler your PBS pledge drive host. We’ve been enjoying a column by Alan Williamson, a humor writer who really gives voice to the human dilemmas of everyday life. His comic musings about basic cable are intensely personal and yet really strike a nerve with so many, many of our viewers. I don’t know about you, but I can’t get enough of Alan’s shameless clowning, warped wisdom and wonderful wordplay. Imagine what the world would be like without the uplifting, comic relief of Alan’s observations about life in all its live-and-learn, give-and-take, yin-and-yang splendor. It would be a dark place indeed, I think you’ll agree.

Unfortunately, without support from viewers like yourself, programs like this will not be there to offer soothing relief at the end of your hectic day. Funding to the arts has seen drastic cuts in recent years and many of our corporate sponsors have suspended their financial contributions. If you like seeing Alan’s column read live on your local PBS station, it’s up to you to get up right now, grab that phone and call in a pledge of support.

With a pledge of $100, we will send you a brand new CD entitled “Alan Williamson at Barnes & Noble: A Live Reading of His Columns.” This CD isn’t available in stores or online, but it’s all yours with a $100 pledge. Call in with a pledge of $200 or more and we’ll send you a special limited release DVD entitled “Alan Williamson at Barnes & Noble: A Live Reading of His Columns With a British Accent.” I’ve seen this DVD and I’ve got to tell you, it’s absolutely hysterical hearing and seeing Alan reading some of his most popular columns while using a British accent. It’s kind of a cross between Masterpiece Theatre and A Night at the Improv.

Joining us live in our PBS studio right now is the man himself, Alan Williamson. Alan, thank you for stopping by to talk with our viewers.

It’s my pleasure, Jordan. Glad to be here.

Alan, what has being on PBS meant to you?

Wow, what hasn’t it meant? It’s the difference between reading my column to a couple dozen people on a Tuesday night at my local Barnes & Noble, to reading it in front of a TV audience of tens of thousands of people across the country.

How has that changed your life?

I’m able to buy premium brands of lunch meats at the deli, mostly Boar’s Head. Also, people come up to me all the time now and say, “Hey, aren’t you that guy who was on PBS last night?” I tell them I am and then they say, “Could you sing at my daughter’s wedding, Mr. Bublé?”

That’s terrific! What’s your favorite PBS show?

Anything that has the words “Live at the Greek” in it. Josh Groban: Live at the Greek, Il Divo: Live at the Greek, Fergie: Live at the Greek. It’s all good.

What would you like to say to our viewers about the importance of supporting public broadcasting?

A couple of years ago, I had hit rock bottom. Basic cable had sucked the soul out of me. Just when my hopes for intelligent life in the TV universe had flickered and faded, I discovered one night that I had not one, not two, but three public broadcasting stations at my command. Suddenly there was wonder in the wilderness – an oasis of art, science, culture and inspiration waiting to enrich my barren mind. Andrea Bocelli: Under The Desert Sky; James Taylor: One Man Band; American Soundtrack: Doo Wop’s Greatest Hits; Carreras, Domingo and Pavarotti in Concert; This Old House; Ken Burns’ History of Baseball; Roy Orbison: A Black & White Night.

Every evening was like an all-you-can eat buffet at a gourmet restaurant of entertainment. Let’s all do our part to make sure that the feast of public broadcasting continues. For me, for you, for your children, and for your children’s children’s children. Thank you. God bless. Night now.

Thank you, Alan, for that heartfelt plea. I know those phones will be ringing shortly. Now, let’s get back to our program already in progress – “Carrie Underwood: Live at the Greek.” See you in three minutes everyone!

A Slot Master's Journey To The Isle

2011-12-10T07:47:00.003-05:00

Monte Carlo. Autumn of ’89. The Casino Royale. She was on a roll at the craps table. I was on my last roll of quarters. Our eyes met across the crowded casino floor. She said, “Come, kiss the lips of lady luck.” I did. Five minutes later I won $50,000 on a slot machine called “Gooses Wild.” I turned and she was gone. I’ve been looking for her ever since.

Atlantic City, Summer of ’96. The Golden Nugget. Down to my last $50, I join my parents on a three-hour bus trip to the new promised land of gambling conquests – the Jersey shore. The mooing sound from a slot machine called “Sacred Cows” captures my attention. I wait patiently for 2 hours and 25 minutes while a plump, chain-smoking grandmother with a sweatshirt that reads “Caution: Stops Frequently” finishes “milking the cow” for all its worth. It takes me only ten minutes to dump my $50 bankroll down the hatch. The mooing sound seems to mock me as I stagger away.

I cap off my day of thrills by watching a bum fight a seagull for a french fry out on the boardwalk with my dad. In a creepy coincidence, he’s also been rendered penniless by a machine called “Buffalo Bills.” “Do you hear a mooing sound?” my dad asks as we wait for my mom to emerge from the casino with tales of daring moves and jumbo jackpots.

Canada

. Winter of 2005. Casino Windsor. After a decade of trying to go “legit” I’m back in the hunt for easy money. Because of my status as a high-rolling, big-time gambler, my means of transportation is once again a bus. This one is bound for Canada from suburban Detroit, crammed to capacity with my wife, my in-laws and other titans of the casino world who are cleverly disguised to look like an assortment of twitchy burnouts, lost souls and cranky seniors.

The favorable exchange rate in Canada translates into more play time for my U.S. currency, an advantage I quickly exploit on a machine called “Yabba-Dabba Dollars.” I shovel in twenty, forty, sixty dollars of Canadian coin, secure in the knowledge that I’m only down $50 in American money. I win a little, lose a little in a seesaw crusade to hit Yabba-Dabba paydirt. Suddenly, I reach deep into my deflated wallet and realize the cold hard truth. I’m Yabba-Dabba done.

While my wife and others count their winnings on the long bus ride back, I take solace in small, less material victories. Had I not, after all, ravaged the casino’s all-you-can-eat buffet, going back for three heaping platefuls of their shrimp cocktail, baked ziti, and banana cream pudding? Why yes, I do believe I did. Because that, my friends, is exactly what a big-time gambler does to even the score on a day when lady luck is nowhere in sight.

Pompano Beach, Florida. Winter of 2011. The Isle Casino and Racing. The odds of hitting a jackpot at a Florida Indian reservation are steep. Last year in fact, $750 million were fed into slot machines on tribal land in Florida with not one single million-dollar baby to show for it. (By way of comparison, a tollbooth attendant named Elliot Hickleburger gave away over a $1 million all by himself that same year by miscounting the change due back to motorists.)

Offering a refreshingly friendly alternative, The Isle Casino in sunny Pompano Beach, Florida wasn’t affiliated with any Indian tribe and offered 1,500 slots that actually were known to pay off with some degree of regularity. I felt an exhilarating confidence as my wife, my in-laws, my parents and I crammed into a rented Chevy Impala and headed to the glittering, welcoming hubbub that is The Isle. A machine called “Triple Diamond” looked promising, so I assumed the squatting position and dropped in some seed money. I hit the “three coins” button and watched the images flicker and twirl, coming to rest on the payline in random patterns of possibility:

ting, ting, ting, ting – a bar, a seven, a blank – you lose

ting, ting, ting, ting – a seven, a double bar, a blank – you lose

ting, ting, ting, ting – a blank, a diamond, a triple bar – you lose

Mustering up my last ounce of self-control, I hit the “cash out” button, grabbed my ticket and headed for the nearest “Blazing Sevens” machine. Within two minutes, the miraculous happened:

ting, ting, ting, ting – blazing seven, blazing seven, blazing seven!

In one fortuitous flick of the finger I had won $234.33! Take that you Hard Rock tight wads! Who needs you shady lady luck! I beat the system on my own terms and nobody, but nobody can take that away from me!!

Nobody except a machine called “Wolf Run” which 20 minutes later claimed $100 of my winnings. A man’s just got to know when to quit.

Oh well, I know there’s another jackpot waiting for me at The Isle. And in the meantime, in the immortal words of big-time gamblers everywhere – “Gangway to the free buffet!"

Let There Be Lights

2011-12-07T07:13:00.003-05:00

When my wife asked me last week to hang Christmas lights on the house, I became dizzy with anticipation. Not Christmas spirit dizzy. More like impending disaster dizzy.

The problem wasn’t a lack of experience with hanging holiday lights, mind you. Through the years, I’ve successfully hung lights on a wide variety of items living and dead, including: Christmas trees, shrubs and hedges, a fake ficus tree, shelving and furniture, and an un-hung screen door that served as a surrogate tree the year my wife and I started dating.

What was so intimidating about this particular holiday project was that I’d never hung lights on the outside of a house before. Along with the risks and challenges of a guy with a fragile sense of balance standing high atop a low-budget ladder, there’s the issue of how to attach the lights to the house in a fashion that will keep them hanging after you let go. Which, when you think about it, is really the most important part of light hanging.

I knew enough about hanging things outdoors to realize that scotch tape wasn’t a viable option. Too bad, considering how strong my qualifications were to operate a tape dispenser as compared to say, a staple gun. Actually, anything gun-like was beyond my capabilities, with the possible exception of a small, child-safe water pistol.

Then, in my hour of need, a solution appeared. While driving through the neighborhood the day before “the hanging,” I spotted a homeowner in the process of putting up icicle lights. The ones he already had up were staying up and the ones he had left he was placing with great precision and ease onto plastic hooks positioned along his fascia trim under the roof.

Needless to say, I viewed this man with the awe one might confer on a great trapeze artist who juggles flaming torches while blindfolded swinging high above the ground. I needed to be him -- a master of airborne electrical stunts. I needed to pay my homage to him and reveal myself as a seeker of the sacred wisdom of the mystic lights. Mostly, I needed to get out of my car and say something before he finished and went inside for the night.

“Excuse me for being nosey,” I said in my best hey neighbor voice. “But I’m hanging my lights tomorrow and I wondered what you’re using to put them up with.”

He looked warily over his shoulder from his roost on the ladder. “I got a bunch of these plastic hooks,” he said.

“Plastic hooks,” I marveled. “No messy scotch tape, no deadly staple gun mishaps.”

“Right,” he responded in the tentative way people agree with you when they’re not sure if you’re all there. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to buy your house, fully decorated for the holidays,” I ventured.

“It’s not for sale,” he countered cunningly.

“In that case, may I ask where you got the hooks?”

“You can have these,” he offered, extending a zip lock bag full of the labor-saving wonders.

“I don’t want to deplete your supply.”

“Don’t worry,” he assured me, pointing to two other bags filled to the brim. “I overestimated how much I’d need.”

Now you would think that with such a pivotal break in the dreaded light hanging project coming my way, I would be home free, a guaranteed success story – “Local Boy Lights Up the Season of Joy.” You obviously don’t know me very well.

The next day, after systematically affixing dozens of plastic hooks to the fascia trim of my home, I proceeded to hang 55 feet of General Electric commercial grade icicle lights. It was hard, methodical, tedious labor, but a couple of hours later, I stood back to admire my handiwork: A veritable festival of lights, perfectly proportioned and evenly distributed for maximum dazzle. I grinned elfishly.

All that was left to do was run the extension cord out the garage and plug it into the last strand of lights hanging near the garage door. My spirits soared as I poised to make the connection that would turn the magic on full-tilt. Unfortunately, the plug end of all the lights was on the other side of the house due to my having put them all up in the opposite sequence of what I needed to be able to connect them to the power source. Which leads me to a heartwarming little holiday riddle.

Question: How many Alan Williamsons does it take to hang icicle lights on a house?

Answer: Two. The cheerful, whistle-while-you-work AW that puts them up and the aggravated, despondent AW that takes them down and starts all over because of a bonehead mistake of colossal idiocy.

On the bright side, at least I didn’t wound myself in a tragic staple gun mishap.

Clean Freaks

2011-12-04T07:44:00.000-05:00

Domestically speaking, I’m a tidy guy. I make the bed.
I hang up clothes. I take out the garbage. I put newspapers in the newspaper rack and books on the bookshelf. I even use an aesthetically pleasing pyramid approach to stacking up mail, with magazines and catalogs on the bottom, postcards and other direct mail pieces in the middle and bills and letters on top. Hey, there’s a right way and there’s a wrong way.

Based on my proclivity for putting things in their place, you might assume that my house would be a pristine environment where visitors take their shoes off at the door and receive a list of do’s and don’ts to follow while inside. Not exactly. If you want to dig up some dirt on me, here’s my dark secret in a silver dust bin: my tidy streak comes to a screeching halt when it’s time to actually clean anything.

Fortunately, others step in to sweep my shortcomings under the rug. In fact, every other Friday a white van pulls into our driveway and two non-English-speaking women come into our house and clean it for us. They dust shelves. They vacuum the carpet. They mop the floors. They even scrub the tub and toilets.

I must admit that this biweekly phenomenon is no small wonder to me. It’s our home. It’s our mess. It’s no one’s concern but our own. Yet every two weeks these women appear out of nowhere and relieve us from facing the four horsemen of the housekeeping apocalypse – dirt, hair, crumbs and mold. The crumbs are mostly mine, the hair is mostly my wife’s, and the dirt and mold are something our house produces to let us know that it’s not just sitting around all day doing nothing. When it all reaches critical mass, in swoop the cleaning ladies to restore hygiene and harmony.

Before you get the wrong idea though, having a cleaning service isn’t all blue toilet water and bliss. Certain things must be understood as “part of the package” when you hire strangers to come into your home and busy themselves wiping away all your unspeakable filth. You need to accept with tolerance and grace the following facts of outsourcing your housecleaning.

1.) They won’t clean your home like you do. No one cares about your home as much as you. The pride, sweat and attention you put into cleaning it is something a stranger could never begin to match. Of course, the fact that you only clean it once a month when you have company coming over gives you a distinct motivational edge.

The thing to remember is, whenever possible, give your cleaning people the benefit of the doubt. But when glaring lapses in service are clearly visible, promptly report them and insist on satisfaction. Such signs of shoddy service include the rotting remains of a quesadilla you had three weeks ago still clinging to the edge of the coffee table. Or a dust ball that knocks over pets and small children.

2.) They will break things. Time is money and house cleaners move fast to keep that profit margin looking spiffy. This creates a situation where innocent bystanders – in this case, the contents of your home – can meet with an untimely demise. Cleaning day casualties at our house have included shower and closet bypass doors, Venetian blinds, glass candle holders, and ceiling fans.

Our ceiling fan damage is a recurring problem that stirs the imagination. Every couple of months my wife and I will return home after a cleaning and find a paddle blade snapped off from the fan’s motor housing and left lying on the floor in the guest bedroom. After this happened the second time, I developed a theory. Picture if you will a cleaning woman climbing up on a bed to feather dust some paddle fan blades. In her zeal to dislodge the disease-causing particles, she loses her balance, instinctively reaching out and grabbing one of the blades to keep from plummeting to the floor some three feet below. The blade snaps, but eases her gently to the carpet, shaken but uninjured. Which brings me to my third and final reality check about hiring a cleaning service.

3.) You will become pitifully dependent on them. To make sure the cleaning people keep coming back, you will pay them good money on a regular basis. This is money you could otherwise spend on things like clothing, entertainment or travel. But, as my wife and I have come to believe, the material rewards of life are nothing compared to the joys of coming home to a perky carpet, a gleaming crapper and the intoxicating smell of lemon scented furniture polish.

Plus, it comforts us to know that with each broken paddle fan blade, a life is saved.

To Soup With Love

2011-12-01T06:23:00.000-05:00

I’m very fond of soup. So fond, in fact, that I sometimes invent new soup to get me through those times when traditional options are unavailable. The other night I answered the call of necessary invention with a good old-fashioned empty-out-the-fridge soup de jour.

I heated up some broth in a big pot on the stove and threw in a happy anarchy of ingredients. Tiger shrimp. Sauerkraut. Bow-tie pasta. Artichoke hearts. I named it “Lizzie’s Leftover Lullaby,” not in honor of anyone I know named Lizzie, but because I liked the way “Lizzie” sounded with “Leftover Lullaby.” LLL, as I now lovingly refer to it, turned out to be a deeply rewarding culinary experience that was good to the last slurp.

The great thing about soup, of course, is its endless and inspirational variety.

Italian Wedding Soup, without the Italians or the wedding, is as festive and time-efficient an invention as we’re likely to encounter in this or any other lifetime. The mini-meatballs are a stroke of genius, as is the spectacle of small pieces of spinach swimming cautiously through the broth to avoid painful confrontations with the larger carrots, pasta and meaty boulders.

Another classic contribution by the Italians to soup’s rich history is Minestrone, which offers an impressive one-two punch of hearty flavor and wholesome nutrition. With its zesty veggies and tender beans in a lush tomato broth seasoned with Italian herbs and Parmesan cheese, Minestrone really delivers that “big soup” experience. Its greatest achievement, however, may well be its success in building a loyal following of fans young and old in spite of an aroma that’s oddly reminiscent of the smelly armpits of an active adult male. (Almost every time someone asks me if I’m “making Minestrone” I realize I’m badly in need of a shower.)

The power of Pea Soup – the soup that made my brother Bob tremble and cry throughout our childhood – still overwhelms me at times with its tangy crudeness and mysterious ability to suck crackers down into its marshy depths.

At the opposite end of the comfort zone is Vegetable Soup, scoring points in its quiet, cozy way with a remarkably accommodating nature. Like carrots, corn and lima beans? Throw them in. Have a taste for green beans and potatoes? Look out below! Feel the need for tomatoes and zucchini? You’re the boss. Vegetable Soup’s “the more the merrier” hospitality even makes room on occasion for all 26 letters of the English alphabet in tiny noodle form. Can you spell “good sport”?

It would be a sin to let any philosophical sizing up of soup pass without a grateful salute to that age-old king of all soups -- Chicken Noodle. Renowned for its therapeutic qualities, Chicken Noodle Soup is now healing the sick in 37 countries and has even been credited with raising the dead in Haiti, the Philippines and Equatorial Guinea. Take that French Onion! Don’t quit your day job Clam Chowder!

Of course not all soups can be winners. Unpopular varieties that fell short of fame and fortune include:

Fisherman’s Bait & Barley

Thai-Style Hair & Ham

Acid Rain & Rice

Jay Lentil

Gypsy Pork & Pickin’s

Iguana Gumbo

Cedar Chip ‘N Chicken

Three Sneeze Pepper Leek

Cream of Muskrat

H&R Bisque

Rusty Broth & Bacon

Yo Yo Matzo Ball

Savory Tsunami

Dead Plant Stems & Pieces

Chunky Irish Tenor

“I could live on soup,” my father periodically points out, as if to put me on notice that he might suddenly withdraw from mainstream society and join some souptarian sect of survivalists on a farm in upstate New York. Fresh, farm-made soup 24/7. Anyone else ready to live the dream?

When I don’t have time to create something fresh from scratch, I like to open a can of store-bought goodness and take the shortest route to soupy utopia. Last night it was Turkey Tomato Rice and Beans with enough sodium to stagger a moose. It was the silliest thing, I suppose, but it was so good going down, my wife and I raised our spoons toward the ceiling and broke into a battle cry worthy of a major sporting event:

SOUP

SOUPITY-SOUP-SOUP-SOUP

SOOOOOOUP!!!!!!

If your life feels shallow and unsatisfying, I suggest a simple plan for stirring up some excitement: open can, heat, enjoy with grill cheese. It doesn’t get much better than that.

I Brake For Gators

2011-11-19T10:01:00.000-05:00

People say that swimming in a lake where there's alligators is dangerous. But I say driving a car is much more dangerous.

Especially if there's an alligator in the backseat.

Monkey Island News

2011-09-01T21:59:00.011-04:00

Please cancel my subscription

to your Monkey Island News.

I’m not a fan of monkeys,

and I don’t embrace their views.

I don’t remember when this started,

but I cannot keep it up.

I will return the monkey tote bag

and the monkey coffee cup.

I am clueless to your purpose,

and perplexed about your niche.

Why a magazine for monkeys?

It’s like a scratch without an itch.

You talk about bananas

and the jungles of Peru.

You even have a column –

“Monkey See and Monkey Do.”

I find your ads offensive

and your articles obtuse.

You show humans kept in cages

with the monkeys running loose.

It’s not about the money,

you can keep the balance due.

Just take me off of Monkey Island –

Very Truly Yours,

Baboo.

Beat Writer's Block Now!

2011-08-30T07:00:00.009-04:00

Hey, get a load of me – I’m writing again! Just seconds ago I wrote the feisty, fear-nothing heading “Beat Writer’s Block Now!”

Riding a wave of fresh momentum, I followed that heading up with the rousing opening sentence “Hey, get a load of me – I’m writing again!” Some bloggers and Tweeters pounced on the line, calling it “self indulgent,” “childish,” and “a desperate cry for attention.” Let them snipe all they want. I wrote it, I’m glad I wrote it, and by writing it, I’ve sent this message to the vile nemesis of writer’s everywhere: “Writer’s Block is a Big Fat Crock!”

Wow. Okay. I have to admit something. A few minutes went by after I wrote “Writer’s Block is a Big Fat Crock!” and before I wrote the words you’re reading now. Okay, 20 minutes. That’s the problem with writer’s block: It can sneak up on you. In fact, it can strike even after you’ve written something as rhythmic and triumphant as “Writer’s Block is a Big Fat Crock!” It can strike especially after you’ve written something as rhythmic and triumphant as “Writer’s Block is a Big Fat Crock!”

Always on alert for a hint of weakness, writer’s block throws itself into your stream of thought and foils the flow of words the moment you pause to appreciate something you’ve written.

“Hmmmm,” that devil writer’s block whispers in your ear. “Nice piece of writing. But now what? You don’t have a clue where you’re going with this and you’ve managed only one graceful paragraph in a 12-page parade of butt-ugly prose.”

Against this sneering, taunting tide of insults, there is only one steadfast response a struggling writer can give to summon the strength to push on: “I return now to my story already in progress. Right after I stare out this window for half an hour.”

To hush the hostile rants of writer’s block and jump-start your creative juices, here are three rock-solid tips I’ve developed in my years as a professional writer and spokesmodel for the National Badminton Association.

Tip # 1: You can relieve the paralyzing pressure of coming up with a great opening by skipping to the middle of your story and just start writing. Example:

By late afternoon the bees were swarming, curious about our presence so close to their nest. We instinctively ran in a zigzag pattern, which tired us out so the bees could more easily sting us repeatedly in the face and neck.

See? This pretty much sucks as a piece of writing, but at least it’s not the beginning of the story and you’re not staring at a blank page.

Tip # 2: By thinking conversationally, you can build your story line by line through the give-and-take of dialogue. Example:

“Wear this windbreaker,” Angie suggested.

“It’s 86 degrees,” Nick protested.

“You’ll be sitting in the shade, it’s cooler there,” Angie explained.

“I don’t need it,” Nick challenged.

“Put it on,” Angie prodded.

“I don’t want to,” Nick persisted.

Once again, a pretty pointless display of writing, but you’re off and running with no writer’s block in sight. (Plus, things are heating up nicely between Angie and Nick.)

Tip # 3: When the right words are hard to come by, go overboard and write with wild abandon. Example:

The hounds of ruin are at my door; my enemies gather to plot the final assault. Even now as I gaze out my window a bloodthirsty throng has toppled the giant statue of me riding my mustang (convertible). It might as well be my heart they have broken into so many tiny pieces. Oh how gleefully they dance among the rubble!

I could go on, but since that piece was intended to be a lighthearted look at hosting a dinner party, I’ll need to scale back on the graphic imagery of political anarchy and write something giddy about honey mustard salmon.

Please understand – I’m not complaining. I like writing. And even though I know there will be times when writer’s block will creep into my head, kidnap my spontaneity and put a freeze on my imagination, I know that my moment of inspiration will come. And then, with full humility and wonder, I will use my God-given gifts to write something true and memorable and alive with meaning. Or, failing that, something rhythmic and triumphant like “Writer’s Block is a Big Fat Crock!”

Hey, get a load of me – I’m writing again!

Ode to Grilled Cheese

2011-08-24T19:01:00.001-04:00

No need to reinvent the wheel,

grilled cheese is the perfect meal.
Take some bread and toast it lightly,
Soon you’ll want to do it nightly.

What’s for dinner? I’m begging, please:

Grilled cheese! Grilled cheese! Grilled cheese!

Making it is no big deal,

eating it makes grown men squeal.
Melt a brick of swiss or cheddar,
soon you’ll feel a whole lot better.

Shout it from the tallest trees:

Grilled Cheese! Grilled Cheese! Grilled Cheese!

Add tomato for some zing,

batta-boom, batta-bing,
A glass of milk, some chicken noodle,
it’s like it was when you were little.

Gush the words out like a sneeze:

Grilled CHEEESE!! Grilled CHEEESE!! Grilled CHEEESE!!

Blow Hard

2011-08-23T18:51:00.001-04:00

The storm’s approach incites foreboding,
major tins of tuna loading,
jugs of water, sheets of wood,
a line where 90 people stood.

Frantic educated guesses,

forecast catastrophic messes.
Landfall could be my backyard;
I tell the fruit trees – “Be on guard.”

Blow by blow conditions worsen,

men of grace and style are cursing.
Women, children join the clamor,
“pass the chips!” no, “find the hammer!”

A blackout tests our wits and candles,

how much hardship can we handle?
Fan me with a paper plate
and disregard that smell you hate.

In the night it’s hard to slumber,

your house could be a pile of lumber.
You wonder why you’ve been forsaken,
fearing death or endless raking.

Then the danger peaks and passes,

you open doors and nothing crashes.
Slowly, you regain your nerve . . .

“Yeah, I knew the hurricane would swerve!”

The Crouching Speed Bump: A Short Play

2011-01-30T08:12:00.001-05:00

The scene is a small claims court where motorist Alan Williamson is bringing legal action against a local speed bump.

JUDGE: Please state your name and complaint before this court.

AW: My name is Alan Williamson and I’m seeking damages for pain and suffering against the speed bump that attacked me and my Ford Mustang on the morning of January 21.

JUDGE: Is the accused speed bump present in this courtroom?

AW: Oh yeah, he’s standing over there in full view, unlike the morning he was playing crouching tiger, hidden dragon in the middle of the road.

JUDGE: Broward County speed bump # 237853-G, please identify yourself.

SPEED BUMP: I’m here your honor, which means the street I’m assigned to protect is currently at the mercy of reckless, whiny, self-absorbed motorists like Mr. Williamson.

AW: Your honor, I object to the name calling. I could have called him “Bump-a-Lula Boy” but I held back.

JUDGE: Objection sustained. I’ll do the name calling in this court room. Okay Whiny Why Me, describe what happened on the day in question.

AW: It was a sunny day, a quiet street – I was driving the speed limit. I had no reason to believe that danger hid in plain sight, smack dab in the middle of the road.

SPEED BUMP: I wasn’t hiding, your honor. I was just doing my job keeping the street safe from the likes of lead-footed lunatics like Whiny Willy over there.

JUDGE: That’s enough, Humpty Bumpty. You’ll get your say. Continue Whiny Willy.

AW: My car suddenly hit something hard and lurched upward. It was a moment of swift and blinding violence so sudden, so jarring, that I heard myself yell “SUCCOTASH.”

JUDGE: You yelled succotash?

AW: It’s a word meant to describe a nauseating lima bean and corn dish, your honor, but in this case it was a knee-jerk expression of my shock and distress.

JUDGE: Wasn’t there a cartoon character that use to say “suffering succotash”?

SPEED BUMP: I believe you’re thinking of Sylvester the Cat, your honor, though Daffy Duck was also known to use the phrase on occasion.

JUDGE: I loved Sylvester the Cat. He really knew how to deliver a catchphrase. “S-s-s-uffering s-s-succotash!”

AW: Your honor, may I continue?

JUDGE: Wait, one more time: “S-s-s-uffering s-s-succotash!” Okay, please go on Mr. Whiny.

AW: The speed bump wasn’t there the last time I came through that street. What’s more, the way the trees cast shadows over the road put the speed bump’s presence on a par with a concealed weapon.

SPEED BUMP: What was I suppose to do – jump up and down and wave at you? I’m a speed bump. I’ve got the mobility of a beached whale!

AW: You’re a snake in the grass is what you are!

JUDGE: Simmer down, Forrest Bump. Mr. Whiny, cut to the chase please.

AW: Your honor, I view this unprovoked act of aggression by Broward County Speed Bump # 237853-G as an outright physical assault on me and my vehicle.

JUDGE: Where is your vehicle now?

AW: It’s been sitting at home in a darkened garage since the incident. It doesn’t perk up when I clean it. It doesn’t go out anymore. It’s completely traumatized.

JUDGE: What are you asking in damages?

AW: I request that the court award me $5,000 for pain and suffering, plus the cost of a front-end alignment and new struts and shock-absorbers, preferably the Monroe Sensa-Trac brand or a product of equal or greater quality.

JUDGE: Mr. Bump-a-Rama, what is your defense.

SPEED BUMP: I know I’m not very popular. Speed bumps don’t get much respect in this fast-paced world. I get that. If someone’s not barreling over us and cursing out their window, they’re badmouthing us to their friends, blaming us for everything from being late for work to having their tailpipe fall off. And your honor, if you’ve ever had your tailpipe fall off, you know just how painful that can be.

JUDGE: Suffering succotash, it hurts like the dickens.

SPEED BUMP: It does indeed. But when all is said and done, I’ve got a job to do. I’m out there laying my life on the line every day and night so people will slow down and drive safe. So kids can frolic freely and dogs and cats can stray from the yard when other dogs and cats make mocking, Ricky Gervais-like comments about them.

AW: Objection your honor. Speed Stick’s laying it on a little thick, don’t you think?

JUDGE: Overruled. But you’re this close to rubbing me the wrong way, Speed Stick.

SPEED BUMP: All I’m saying is, I’m out there so that people like Mr. Williamsburg can live in nice neighborhoods where you don’t risk life and limb crossing the street to borrow a caulking gun, some balsamic vinegar or an unattended flatscreen TV.

AW: That was my house, my caulking gun, my balsamic vinegar, my TV.

SPEED BUMP: I, me, mine. I, me, mine. It’s all about him, isn’t it? I’m not the villain here, your honor . . . just an easy scapegoat in a selfish world where everyone’s going nowhere fast.

AW: I was going to the dentist and I was doing 30.

JUDGE: I’ve heard enough to make a ruling. Please stand.

SPEED BUMP: I am standing.

AW: And you wonder why I didn’t see him?

JUDGE: It is the decision of this court, namely me, that the next time you two cross paths, there be a dash-cam in the car to turn the whole thing into a hilarious YouTube video. Case dismissed!

AW: Wait, that’s it? No money? No restitution? This is a travesty, a sham, a farce and a circus. What kind of ruling is that?

JUDGE: It’s the kind of ruling you get when you don’t have a hilarious YouTube video featuring a sneaky-steep speed bump and a guy yelling “succotash” as his tailpipe snaps off and his head slaps against the roof of his car.

SPEED BUMP: Man has a point.

AW: See you tomorrow morning around 8?

SPEED BUMP: Not if I see you first.

AW: Game on, bump breath.

SPEED BUMP: My crouch is your ouch.

AW: You should be a standup comedian. Oh wait – speed bumps can’t stand up!

SPEED BUMP: You’re going down, clown!

AW: Roll over bump-toven!

SPEED BUMP: Well s-s-suffering s-s-succotash!

AW: Hey that’s my line!

SPEED BUMP: Not anymore!

###

Rubber Band 9-1-1 Call

2010-09-23T16:54:00.000-04:00

In a senseless and tragic accident, I shot a rubberband across the room yesterday. Here's the chilling 9-1-1 call.

Operator: "9-1-1."

Me: "Oh my God! I just shot a rubberband across the room. Aaaaaeeiiii! Oh my God! Oh my God!"

Operator: "Sir, calm down. Where is the rubberband now?"

Me: "I don't know . . . I think it's next to the paper airplane I also shot across the room. Oh my God! Aaaaeeeiii!"

Best Fishes for a Bright Future

2010-07-28T16:17:00.004-04:00

There comes a time in a man's life when he must decide whether to be a big fish in a small pond, a small fish in a big pond, or a fish special on a menu of diverse offerings that may include Seared Peppered Scallops with Orange-Soy Glaze, Moroccan Chicken with Eggplant and Almonds, and Blackened Red Snapper with Creole Sauce. (SPOILER ALERT: After much soul searching, I'm going with "big fish, small pond.")

Woke Up This Morning, LOL

2010-07-23T17:41:00.000-04:00

I'm a guy who will LOL when he finds something LOL funny, which apparently isn't as often as a lot of LOL people who will LOL without any provocation whatsoever.

Example # 1: "Just bought 2 cans of diced tomatoes, lol."

Example # 2: "Thought today was the 24th, not the 23rd, lol."

Example # 3: One of these days I'll get to Wyoming, lol."

Please stop, gratuitous LOL people. LMAO (but not really).

Advice From the Weather Wizards

2010-07-21T08:41:00.003-04:00

It annoys me when TV weather people overstep their bounds and give advice like "good day to hit that street fair downtown."

Gee, thanks for the idea weather wizard, but since you predicted "no rain" I think I'll load up on DVDs and wait for the torrential downpour.

Let's Waltz for a Spell!

2010-06-30T17:34:00.004-04:00

I'm publicly rebuking (yes, rebuking) my online Spell Check for failing to identify the correct spelling for "waltz" after I supplied it with the "w," "a" and "l."

Seriously Spell Check (if that's your real name), I give you w-a-l-s-e in the hopes of a spelling for "waltz" and you come back to me with "whales," "walls" and "wiles" but no "waltz"? I'm disenchanted with you Spell Check. D-I-S-E-N-C-H-A-N-T-E-D.

Arm Yourself to Douse Out Stress

2010-06-24T16:38:00.008-04:00

As we make our way through life's journey, everyone has their way of handling stress. Exercise. Meditation. Playing with a pet. I personally like to pump up my air mattress, lie in front of the TV with The Weather Channel on and squirt myself with a spray bottle every time I hear the words "scattered showers."

The real secret to managing stress is to cultivate a state of mind that prevents bothersome people and situations from rattling your nerves. It all comes down to learning what's in our power to control and what is not. Here's a handy checklist I've devised to sidestep confusion:

1) Things Under Our Control: Ourselves.
2) Things Not In Our Control: The World and All the People In It.

There. I hope this enlightened philosophy helps you adapt to stress more efficiently and find lasting happiness and peace-of-mind in turbulent times. (If not, squirting yourself with water while watching The Weather Channel can do wonders for your frazzled psyche.)

Toolbox, Bloody Toolbox

2010-06-23T16:06:00.000-04:00

My toolbox is a sad symbol of my limitations as a handyman. It contains a hammer, nine different sizes of the same screwdriver, some bent nails left over from hard-knock picture hangings, plus a lifetime supply of miscellaneous scraps of junk such as wire, twine, assorted washers and two-way tape.

Not only am I ill-equipped to put my toolbox items to practical use, I have actually had the shameful bad luck of injuring myself while reaching into the toolbox to get something out. Now, we all have our levels of mechanical aptitude, but I think it fair to say that it takes a special talent to draw blood while rummaging around for something in the bottom of your tool case.

If I've learned anything from my home repair experiences, it's that once you're bleeding, the project tends to go sharply downhill from there.

Leno/McCartney

2010-06-16T22:43:00.001-04:00

I'm working day and night to put together the Leno/McCartney reunion concert.

I just can't shake the feeling that something is off track with the whole concept.

The Lady of the House

2010-06-16T16:57:00.004-04:00

The phone rang the other night and when I picked it up a telemarketer greeted me by asking "Is the lady of the house available?"

The lady of the house?

Me: "Well, she's kind of busy right now making a pot roast, topping off my highball and asking me how my day was at work selling phonographs and toaster ovens."

Him: "When would be a good time to call back?"

Me: "How about 1959?"

Bye, Bye Brenda?

2010-06-09T17:30:00.001-04:00

Whatever happened to all the girls named Brenda? Twenty years ago there were thousands of them around. Now there's almost none. I challenge all the mothers-to-be to do their part. Let's give the world "A Few Brave Brendas" and put an end to the global Brenda shortage.

The End of Pesky Oil Leaks

2010-06-05T18:02:00.004-04:00

As several strategies to stop the catastrophic Gulf oil spill have come up short, a report circulated last week that BP was considering using a nuclear bomb to seal the hole a mile beneath the ocean's surface. Desperate times call for desperate messages I suppose, but a nuclear bomb?

I pictured bringing my car in to the mechanic to fix an oil leak. "Don't you worry, Mr. Williamson. What we're going to do is set off a nuclear bomb in your car. We could tinker around with other repair methods, but that's the quickest way to knock out that leak for you. And it comes with a 90-day warranty."

No Job for Boo

2010-05-04T07:57:00.000-04:00

According to a 2009 study in the Journal of Managerial Psychology, people with common names like Mark, Susan or Steve were more likely to be called in for job interviews than people with unusual names.

Life just isn't fair sometimes, and even though Gunslinger, Moonblood and Boo may be capable, qualified professionals, they're often viewed as high-risk hires by skittish job screeners.

Star Power

2010-04-23T07:46:00.001-04:00

Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket and your pants will be shot to shit faster than you can say Big Bad Voo Doo Daddy.

Just keeping it real.

Can't Stop Laughing About Uranus

2010-04-22T15:33:00.003-04:00

Some things you outgrow as you get older - like acne, idolizing athletes, and giggling when someone mentions Uranus.

Okay, I still snicker when Uranus comes up, but faintly and only for a moment. Hey, in these touchy times of hypersensitive political correctness, if we can't all laugh about Uranus then what can we laugh about?

Door to Door

2010-04-20T16:29:00.002-04:00

When one door closes, another . . .

a) Sneezes

b) Takes a "wait and see attitude"

c) Lets fly with the knock-knock jokes

d) Sings "It Don't Mean a Thing If It Ain't Got That Swing"

e) Opens (then closes, then declares bankruptcy, then re-opens under a new name)

Big on Mangos

2010-03-19T11:23:00.002-04:00

Mango season is coming and my favorite part of it is using "the picker" to pluck high hanging fruit from the upper branches of the tree in my backyard.

The picker is an eight foot long pole with a molded plastic basket on the end that allows normal sized people to pull down mangos like a fruit-loving giant from a children's fairy tale . . . or perhaps a frightening mutation of a man who used to be of average height but was exposed to high levels of radiation and is now 20-feet tall, hairless and clothed only in an enormous diaper.

Either way, the thrill of luring mangos down from their lofty perches is a real adrenaline rush. After I do, I like to take a big, lusty bite, wipe my mouth on my forearm, and bellow triumphantly "Who dares challenge the Mango King!?" But that's just me.

My Rave Reviews on Idol

2010-03-10T18:21:00.006-05:00

My performances this season on American Idol have triggered a wide range of awestruck reaction from the judges. Here's a small sampling of their effusive praise.

Simon: "Alan, if I'm being honest, when you sing, it makes me want to weep. That's not a compliment."

Ellen: "You are so terribly unique. Terribly, terribly unique. I am numb."

Kara: "You know what? You brought it tonight. You brought it and you left it on the stage. And we may not be sure what it was, but we will never forget it . . . no matter how hard we try."

Randy: "Yo, yo, yo, you were a little pitchy at first, but you worked it out. I'm feeling you dawg. I'm feeling you like a bad stomach cramp."

Race Results

2010-03-04T22:23:00.000-05:00

I beat a Kenyan in a short race today so cross that off my bucket list. Booyah!

(Actually, he was pushing a stroller at the time and may not have been aware I was racing him. Also, he may have been Cuban. Whatever. A win's a win.)

Curling Up With a Good TV Show

2010-03-03T19:00:00.001-05:00

I will rekindle my personal pursuit of cultural enrichment by reading more books and watching less television.
First book on my list: "How to Read More Books and Watch Less TV."
Second book: "Paradise Unplugged: The Hidden Perils of Reading Too Many Books and Watching Too Little TV."
Third book: "No Reading Required: "A Guilt-Free Guide to Watching the Shows You Love and Loving the Shows You Watch."

Juice Up Your Life With Jack LaLanne

2010-02-24T16:37:00.006-05:00

Jack LaLanne's "Crazy Old Coot" Anti-Aging Plan:

Feeling old before your time? Try Jack's daily regimen of

900 sit-ups
500 pushups
An ice cold shower (or swim in a frigid lake)
A mango/rotisserie chicken smoothie before bed

(Crazy? Like a fox.)

Walk This Way

2010-02-18T21:13:00.002-05:00

If your walk takes you into wooded areas or any other uneven terrain, take extra care to notice things in your path that might cause you to trip and fall.These obstructions may include such stumbling blocks as rocks, ruts, tree roots, discarded trash, or, on rare occasions, the slumbering, foul-smelling carcass of rocker/outdoorsman Ted Nugent.

New Year's Resolutions: 50 Day Update

2010-02-17T10:34:00.001-05:00

At 50 days into 2010, the New Year's resolutions I made last December now strike me as a to-do list created by someone who doesn't know me very well and has NO RIGHT to tell me how to live my life.

Who's with me on this?

My Social Media Pledge

2010-02-17T08:28:00.002-05:00

I will use the power of social media to unite, enlighten and inspire people in search of greater meaning and purpose in life.

I will also provide timely updates on when I'm getting my car washed, buying yogurt, growing facial hair, or thinking of throwing out old running shoes.

Garage Sale Survival Tip # 38

2010-02-16T07:50:00.001-05:00

Partner With Other People to Diversify Your Inventory. No matter how convinced you are that the bounty of treasures crammed in your closets will add up to garage sale gold, pooling your resources with others is your best strategy for keeping the crowd from becoming surly and demanding access to the rest of the house.

And trust me: The last thing you want to happen is to be sitting in front of a card table an hour into the sale with nothing left except a napkin holder, an autographed picture of Wynona Judd and a jasmine-scented gel candle. That's a tough gig.

Hot, Hot, Hot

2010-02-16T07:34:00.001-05:00

In my experience with spicy food there are five levels of hotness. They are, in ascending order:

5) Zesty

4) Zippy

3) Zingy

2) Hot

1) Aaaaaiiiieeee!!!!

Peace, Love, Suction

2010-02-15T09:25:00.005-05:00

For mankind

to survive,

the human family

must live as one,

and take turns

with the vacuuming.

- Anonymous (ok, me)

Let Us Pray

2010-02-15T09:20:00.002-05:00

Would love to hear this at a church service:

"We must pray not only for our loved ones,

but for the loved ones of those we consider scum."

Trampoline Found Alive!

2010-02-10T20:52:00.001-05:00

During these tense few days, I, along with the rest of America, held my breath as the agonizing disappearance of the Gilbertsville, Pennsylvania trampoline dragged on. The two tireless and courageous young women (my cousins Joi and Pei) who fought the severest of weather to rescue the trampoline from a snowy grave have my profound respect and admiration.

It is young people like them who restore my faith in this country's future - a future where trampolines that have lost their way and have no voice to scream for help in the wilderness may have faith that they will be searched for, found, revived and (when the weather warms up) repeatedly jumped on.

God bless Joi and Pei. God bless the trampoline. God bless us all.

No Love for Lactose

2010-02-08T10:03:00.002-05:00

Confession: I'm not just lactose intolerant - I'm lactose hostile.

Invite lactose and me to the same party and it could get ugly. What's my problem? Believe me, you don't want to hear the gory details. Let's just say that lactose started it . . . unprovoked I might add. The worst part is, my old friend ice cream is now an enemy, too. Thanks a lot, lactose. Happy now?

Watch Where You Point That

2010-01-25T18:28:00.007-05:00

If you're ever with a group of people having their photo taken and you're tempted to make that thumbs-up gesture, don't. It always looks annoyingly stupid.

Air Travel Anti-Terrorism Enhancement

2010-01-11T09:30:00.002-05:00

Currently, before a commerical airliner takes off, flight attendants instruct all passengers in the use of emergency equipment and check to see that seatbelts are fastened and seats are in the upright positions. Let's also have them make the following announcement: "Before we take off, we ask that all passengers please check fellow passangers in your immediate area for any screwballs, weirdos, wackos, misfits, haunted drifters or fidgety religious fanatics."

Restroom Unrest

2010-01-05T12:36:00.006-05:00

The international graphical symbols for "Men" and "Women" on restroom doors are way too subtle for my attention span.

Can we at least give the man a sideways baseball cap and the woman some curves so I don't have to stop and decipher which figure represents the room I'm pre-approved to take a wiz in after downing the 2 for 1 happy hour house wine at Chili's?

Holiday Shopping Reminder

2009-12-10T10:17:00.007-05:00

Sure, the major retail chains give you great selection and savings.

But they can't match the independent Mom and Pop stores for good old-fashioned grumpiness and paranoia.

Happy holidays "and don't touch that unless you're going to buy it."

Barack Lee Obama

2009-12-07T07:15:00.000-05:00

If Barack Obama's middle name were "Lee" he would be Barack Lee (pronounced "Broccoli") Obama. I wonder if his parents considered Lee as a middle name, said it with the first name three times fast ("Broccoli, Broccoli, Broccoli") then decided to go with the much catchier combo of Barack Hussein.

Mickey, Whitey & Me

2009-12-01T14:56:00.003-05:00

Publishing Setback: Sales of my recent sports memoir, Mickey, Whitey & Me, have tapered off after a sizzling strong start.

It seems some sports fans weren't really interested in a chronicle of my high school junior varsity baseball days with teammates Mickey Vander Blatner and Whitey Berkowitz. Mystifying.

The Picture Show

2009-11-25T08:29:00.000-05:00

I'm not a big fan of referring to motion pictures as "movies." Let's get back to calling them "motion pictures," or even better, "the picture show" as in "Good afternoon Henrietta, would you like to go to the picture show with me in my gas-powered motor vehicle?"

The Good Lord Willing

2009-11-21T10:44:00.005-05:00

Give yourself some wiggle room when people ask you to do something by ending your answer with the phrase "the good lord willing." Observe . . .

Q: Will you have that report ready by Friday?

A: I expect to, the good lord willing.

Q: Are you bringing chicken wings to the party?

A: That's my plan, the good lord willing.

Q: When will I get back that $200 I loaned you?

A: Not in this lifetime, the good lord willing.

The Chicken Pot Pie & Low-Fat Fudgesicle Diet

2009-11-12T16:17:00.002-05:00

After only four months on the the Chicken Pot Pie & Low-Fat Fudgesicle Diet I've dropped 30 pounds, taken up kayaking, learned to play the Dideridoo, built my own hot tub, and made the cover of Zesty Guy Magazine. Twice.

Can a diet consisting of chicken pot pie and low-fat fudgesicles really change someone's life for the better you ask? I'm here to tell you: It changed mine. So get that sour taste of defeat out of your mouth and say "yes" to a yummy new way of life. Fueled by chicken pot pie and low-fat fudgesicles, you're sure to find health, happiness and a world of exciting possibilities ahead. Maybe even your very own blog or a seat on the Supreme Court.

We Interrupt Twilight for a Word on Werewolves

2009-11-12T10:01:00.001-05:00

Nothing against Twilight, but I'd be much more excited about a series of books and movies about werewolves. In fact, I'd like to be a werewolf. The thought of not showering or shaving for weeks on end and having everyone too afraid to call me on it appeals to me on some raw, primeval level.

Plus, unlike vampires who go about their business pretty quietly, I'd get to throw my head back whenever I get the urge and go "Aw, Aw - Awwwooooo!!" (I tried it the other day in Costco and an elderly food sample server named "Millie" gave me all her sausage puffs.)

Big Thoughts, Small Pleasures

2009-11-09T07:53:00.000-05:00

To get the most out of life, I will follow a two-prong approach of thinking big thoughts, but relishing small pleasures.

Big Thought: I must build a body of work that will reach across time and space and enrich people's lives long after I'm gone.

Small pleasure: Mmmmm, sweet potato fries.

When the Going Gets Tough

2009-11-02T15:30:00.004-05:00

When the going gets tough . . .

the tough get really, really drunk, get into a brawl or a car crash, then have their mug shot plastered all over the Internet, the newspapers and the 11 o'clock news.

(This isn't as catchy as "when the going gets tough, the tough get going," but I like its gritty, in-your-face realism.)

It's an "L" of a Thing

2009-10-30T15:00:00.001-04:00

Did you ever notice that a disproportionate number of words that represent really good things in life begin with the letter L?

Love

Laughter

Loyalty

Lingerie

Evangeline Lilly

Lakeside Inns

Liverwurst
Latchkey Kids

Locusts

(Okay, losing strength, concept fizzling, must regroup . . . )

Massage This

2009-10-30T14:14:00.002-04:00

Fantasy: You win a two-hour massage at the Sandals Royal Bahamian Spa with a masseuse named Chantelle.

Reality: You win a 50-minute massage at the Leonard S. Zuckerman Chiropractic Center with some guy named Elmer.

The Lost Hitchcock Episodes

2009-10-29T11:54:00.005-04:00

A construction worker opens his lunch pail to find a note from his mother who's been dead for ten years.
A game show contestant sets new records in prize winnings. Pretty good considering he has been dead for ten years.
A woman gets a surprise phone call from her twin sister. The surprise: she's been dead for ten years.
An entertainer - ten years dead - shows up to accept a lifetime achievement award in front of a national audience.

Men's Cologne Ideas

2009-10-27T14:40:00.004-04:00

Move over CK and Hugo Boss. I've got some cologne names that will make the men's fragrance world take a fresh whiff of the sweet, sweaty smell of success.

Tangy Extrovert
Moist Buccaneer
Factory Flirt
Young LBJ
Musky Mahatma
Yabba-Dabba-Dude
Seacrest
Eau De Satchmo

I'm putting my money on Eau De Satchmo. Feel free to throw in your two scents.

Wild About Hiking

2009-10-24T15:56:00.008-04:00

Just got back from a five-day fall hiking trip in northern New Jersey with my dad. The rigors of hiking in dense, mountain terrain in wintery weather took its toll on me, as this excerpt from my hiking journal makes painfully obvious:

It's so easy to lose track of time out here in the wilderness. I could have sworn I hopped on a plane in mid-October, but now here I am, freezing cold, and it feels like mid-December. I love Thanksgiving, but I guess I blew right by it this year walking around for months in the woods. I'd kill for some trail mix, but it's all gone. Every last raisin. I wish I had rationed it better, but mountain men gotta eat, right? Still not sure about the strategy to survive a black bear attack. And what about deer, coyotes, bobcats, wild turkey, low-flying eagles? I heard something about porcupines being out here and being very territorial. I'd hate to piss off a porcupine, but it's really not practical to spend a four-hour hike constantly thinking "watch out for the porcupines," "watch out for the porcupines," "Steer clear of the porcupines . . . "

No New Soup For You!

2009-10-15T14:07:00.007-04:00

Did you know that, on average, 98 out of every 100 new soups introduced to the world market each year fail to make it beyond the trial period or are mistaken by consumers for nonalcoholic beer?

So what are you missing? Ill-fated varieties that fell short of fame and fortune include:

Fisherman's Bait & Barley
Thai-Style Hair & Ham
Acid Rain & Rice
Jay Lentil
Gypsy Port & Pickins'
Iguana Gumbo
Three Sneeze Peeper Leek
Cream of Muskrat
H&R Bisque
Yo Yo Matzo Ball
Savory Tsunami
Dead Plant Stems & Pieces
Chunky Irish Tenor

The good news is, the king of all soups, chicken noodle, is now healing the sick in 37 countries and has even been credited with raising the dead in Haiti, the Philippines and Equatorial Guinea.

Dear Awesome: It's Over

2009-10-15T11:13:00.000-04:00

What's the deal with everyone saying "awesome" all the time?

"This taco is awesome."

"The concert was awesome."

How was your vacation? "It was awesome."

I've got an awesome idea. Let's use some other adjectives to describe our mind-blowing experiences, like "epic" or "chocolicious" or "wickedcrazygood." I've always liked "monkey-riffic" but that's me.

Brotherhood and Baked Beans

2009-10-14T14:39:00.004-04:00

I don't want to sound like I'm badmouthing "Motherhood and Apple Pie," but how about some well-earned equal time for "Charity and Cheddar Cheese," "Loyalty and Leg of Lamb," "Privacy and Pickled Peppers," "Thoughtfulness and Fillet of Flounder," and "Brotherhood and Baked Beans"?

And don't even get me started on "Democracy and Deviled Eggs." Too close to home.

Don't Knock Napping

2009-10-14T08:43:00.029-04:00

My name's Alan, I'm a napper, and I'm not embarrassed to admit it. Okay, maybe a little. Only seniors and small children are allowed to nap and tell in our can-do culture, but whoever said "you snooze, you lose" should be given a blankey and told to go lay down.

For those daring men and women who risk ridicule to work a strategically timed nap into their work hard, play hard schedules, the results can be rejuvenating. Take me for example. At the age of 52, I'm often mistaken for 39 or 40 -- even younger when I remember to stop talking about my boyhood crush on Barbara Eden.

Napping helps keep your immune system strong so you can fight off germs and viruses present in your everyday environment. Take, for instance, that wheezing, gagging guy who touched the door knob right before you. Without a nap, you're a goner on a slow donkey ride to sick-bed city. With a nap, life is good, and gagging guy gags alone.

Those who do make time to "drop out and drop off" tend to resurface with enhanced mental skills. Just to offer a small example, I used to cover up my inability to remember people's names by calling them "Champ" or "Kiddo." With the mental boost I've gained through napping, I now call people real names like "Regina," "Garrett," and "Jamie." My accuracy rate is a respectable 71 percent.

Have you been covering up a napping habit for fear of public ridicule? Stand up, fix your hair, and help me set the record straight about this misunderstood act.

Mr. Smooth's Social Icebreakers

2009-10-13T08:21:00.007-04:00

Walking into a room full of strangers and making small talk used to intimidate me, but not anymore. My big breakthrough came when I discovered that the key to converting social affairs from rituals of torture to opportunities for enrichment is mastering that pivotal moment of first impression: the opening icebreaker.

After conducting a program of comprehensive, field-tested research (I attended a networking cocktail hour one night), I've compiled the following list of surefire icebreakers to smooth the way to meaningful connections.

Hi. I was hit by lightning once. You?
Hi. I know all the words to Freddie "Boom boom" Cannon's 1959 hit "Tallahassee Lassie." Wanna hear?
Hi. I'm lactose intolerant, but I'm making progress. I used to be lactose hostile.
Hi. Excuse me for staring. But you remind me of someone I used to stare at.
Hi. Did you ever have that dream where you jump off a bridge naked and land in the middle of a financial planning class at a community college just as the instructor points to you and says "Tell us why the Roth IRA is the right IRA!"?
Hi. If I knew you were going to undress me with your eyes, I would have worn a better pair of underwear.
Hi. Whaddaya say we storm that fancy-schmancy buffet table like coyotes on trash night?

Go in well-armed with potent conversation-starters like these, and you're a good bet to blow by social jitters and enjoy a pleasurable give-and-take.

Reflex Road Rage

2009-10-12T12:08:00.001-04:00

Have you ever had someone beep at you in traffic and your first reaction is "what's your problem?" but then you see that it's a friend of yours just trying to get your attention, so you smile and wave but you're still a little ticked off because he got you all keyed up by beeping?

No, me neither. That would be crazy.

Burglars Beware

2009-10-12T11:53:00.000-04:00

I spotted a sign under an alarm on the outside of a Bank of America that read "Burglar Alarm." "Burglar?" Really? Are we living in a James Cagney movie from the 1940s?

If you're trying to dissuade certain people from robbing your bank, shouldn't your sign use more contemporary language like "Armed Loser Alarm"?

Vacation? Reserve Your Hammock Now

2009-10-12T11:24:00.001-04:00

I saw a magazine ad for a resort recently that featured a large photo of someone lying in a hammock. Can you imagine how that brainstorming session went?

"What should we show in our ad, Nigel, the infinity pool, Jacuzzi, oceanfront restaurant, championship golf course, the on-site night club, the award-winning European spa?

"Actually, Ethan, I was thinking we could show someone clinging for dear life to some netting attached to a couple of ropes strung up between some trees."

"You mean a hammock?"

"Exactly."

"Genius idea -- let's go with it!"