* I've been looking for something to write about that didn't concern my health and that I could be a wise ass about. Here's what I came up with.
* Cleavage. Yes, you heard me - Cleavage. SInce the invention of the Wonderbra we have lived in the age of in your face cleavage. ("Wonderbra is the tradename for an underwired bra with side padding that is designed to uplift and add cleavage.") I guess I'm not complaining but even a ladies' man like me can feel a bit uncomfortable when you tun around and BAM! there it is right in your face.
Ok, fine. It's not going to change for a while. But I about wet myself when I first saw an ad for the Cammi Secret. This amazing little invention is both the analog of and the opposite of the dickie. You remember that fabulous fake turtleneck that guys wore under a sweater or sport coat. Well the Cammi Secret is a piece of fabric that a woman can wear under her sweater or top to expose as little or as much cleavage as she desires. Of course, it comes in a variety of fabulous colors and is sutiable for any occasion. And guess what. If you order now, they will send you a second Cammi Secret for free - all you do is pay shipping and handling. (Of course shipping and handling is about the same as the cost of the damn thing.)
* Five pet peeves about sports:
--Joe Pa. That's right, Joe Paterno the venerable 83 year old "head coach" of Penn State's football team. Would everybody who says that Joe Pa has "earned the right" to decide when he wants to retire please shut up. He has not earned that right to stay in the job as long as he wants. No one earns the right to keep their job for as long as they want. For one damn thing, employment is a privilege not a right. For another, he man isn't even the damn coach. He's a figure head who hasn't actually coached the team in years. They won't even give him headphones. He is treated like some kind of old school icon. He's just an arrogant old man who can't let go. He is long past the time where he could have retired with some dignity and class. I acknowledge the man's accomplishments which are many; but he's no saint. His cronie Bobby Bowden was unceremoniously booted at Florida Sate last year. Apparently the administration at FSU has a bigger set than those guys at Penn State. Joe Pa, you're not a lovable old curmudgeon; you're a self-absorbed old man who doesn't have the decency to quit.
--Lane Kiffin. How does this arrogant little prick get the head coaching jobs at Tennessee and Southern Cal in consecutive years? What's so compelling about your resume, Lane?
--The Miami Heat. Hard to think of anything that has not been said or written about their off season signing of LeBron, Dwayne and Chris. How about this? (1) The Miami Heat do not have three superstars. Chris Bosch is an All Star but nowhere near the status of his new teammates. (2) By instantly becoming the most hated team in the NBA they will be the biggest road attraction in the league. David Stern must be wetting his pants he's so happy. BTW, don't expect them to beat the Lakers - who have now ceased to be the most hated team in the NBA.
--What's His Name. The guy who plays quarterback for the Vikings has in the course of three short years gone from the personification of youthful exuberance and the consummate football player to pampered prima donna that everybody is sick of. Nice job Brett!
--High School Sports on ESPN. Really? Is there not enough evidence of how the lure of big money in pro sports has messed up enough immature kids that ESPN could not police themselves and just say no. Just because there's an audience for it doesn't mean it has to be covered. ESPN is so ubiquitous that there will be plenty of opportunities for national exposure if these young athletes are in fact any good.
* But seriously folks. Thanks for all the interest, support and concern you have all shown to me during my recent health problems.
See you in church . . .
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Is it Big Jim or Grandpa Jim?
I had no idea! I knew I would be happy when my older daughter gave birth to her first child, but I was not prepared for how unbelievably happy I would be. I met my grandson when he was less than two hours old and he is incredible. Normally I don't use real names in my writings, but Beckett Barcelona Kneisel is such a wonderful name that I must show it off. Besides, he's only been using it for three days -- I'm sure he'd be okay with it. He arrived on July 3, the very date on which is was due. What a beautiful baby! Everyone thinks their baby is beautiful, but Beckett really is.
What a joy to hold a newborn again. I haven't held an infant since my youngest, Anthony (of course that's not his real name) was born almost 21 years ago. I love babies - all babies. But now I know that having a grandchild is just as great an experience as having your own kids. I could just sit and watch an infant for hours on end. They are so fascinating and fascinated. As my son-in-law said to me, it's hard to imagine a baby could be just two days old. How could anyone be so young? Forty-eight hours ago he was floating in a warm wet bath just riding along with his mom and then Bang! He's out in the world. He has to learn to breathe air, see light, stretch his limbs, cry, gurgle and the dozens of other things he has to do for the first time after he comes sliding on out of the womb.
It's hard to express how happy this child makes me. I absolutely feel better physically and mentally since the moment I saw him. What wonderful memories it brought back. Nothing compares to having children and it's immediately clear to me that the love and pride I feel for my four amazing children will be exactly what I'll feel for Beckett.
Now the question arises. What will he call me? What would I like him to call me? Grandfathers do not seem to have a group of idiotic nicknames like grandmothers do. You know: Nana, Gammy (You've got to be shitting me!), Mee Maw (OH MY GOD!!!!), Big Mama, Gommy and so forth. Grandpa Jim would seem to be pretty standard for me; but I like Big Jim because it's what my daughter-in-law calls me. Although I don't think of myself as big, I am pretty huge next to my daughters. Big Jim has a note of authority to it, don't you think? Well maybe it sounds like the patriarch on Dallas but we'll see.
Beckett, you marvelous young man, thank you for coming into this world. I know your parents are delighted and I am so proud of them and of you.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
MARCO . . . POLO, MARCO . . . POLO
Yes, I think I’m playing the kids’ game of blind man’s bluff here in
OK one more "glass half full" thing then I'll get to the optimistic stuff. You know me, always looking at the bright side! What in the name of Danielle Patrick was I thinking of when I decided (repeatedly) to drive down here? Did I think my most wonderful companion, lets call her Romy, would magically make the drive half the time? Did I think Moses was going to part the snow-covered Ohio roads? Did I forget that just 5 1/2 short months ago I drove from Denver to Michigan with my daughter and swore that was the last time ever . . .EVER? Well you can bet your sweet little patootie I remember it now. I'm sixty-two years old and sick. My body is like a used car with 200,000 miles on it -- something breaks every day. This time it's the pinched nerve in my neck. That sucker radiates pain down my shoulder and up my neck and generally makes me feel weak and off balance.
So how am I getting home? I'm driving ALONE! Ain't life grand?
The other upside (besides an occasional burst of sunshine), I totally fell in love with my message therapist. I'll call her Malory. I know I'm an incurable flirt and give my heart away to ofter -- I'm talking about infatuation -- but I actually proposed to this woman twice. -- Time out. For all those who think I'm naive and that you've heard this tune before I have one thing to say. "Shut up." I've been a whining depressed piece of whale shit for six months. Let me enjoy my moment of fantasy. -- And anyway, it's more than that. Malory is an incredibly cool 50+ year-old lady who --look out, here it comes -- had me at hello. No shit. She's smart, sarcastic, great looking, fit, caring, self-reliant, a great masseuse and I'm just warming up. Here's the acid test: I know my kids would like her.
We have exchanged email addresses and she has my blog address, so we'll stay in touch and see if anything comes of it. I'll tell you one thing she literally wrung my neck, in the best possible sense of the word, and as much as it hurt, I could have continued talking with her for hours. Are you asking yourself why I didn't ask her to dinner tonight? Previous engagement with my Home Instead caregiver. It's lame but true.
Tomorrow I hit the road. Thanks for your time.
Malory, Thanks. You were the sunshine in an otherwise overcast vacation.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Bad Food and Dog/Bounty Hunter
People often ask if retirement is as wonderful as it seems. Lots of things come to mind but I think Bad Food and Dog/Bounty Hunter is what my retirement has been reduced to. Oh sure I do hundreds of other thing to occupy my mind, if not my mind, at least my time but at some point there's that big hole of left over time where work used to be. Think about all the time consumed by work that is not time actually "working" - commuting, eating lunch, business trips, company events, not to mention working late. No matter how many hobbies you have, how much volunteering you do or how much time you spend at the senior center fighting off single women, there's still time when you have nothing to do.
In my case filling some of that time means eating out -- because I don't eat in. And in lovely Canton, Michigan your choices of where to dine are numerous but mostly awful. So where to eat? Well, since I am no doubt going to eat dinner out as well -- except when the ladies cook for me -- I don't mind eating lunch on the cheap. That means that at times I frequent places like the Roland's Koney Island (not it's real name, of course.) I found this eatery on the Internet and tried it about a year ago. It was like all the other coney island type restaurants in metro Detroit: Greek food, along with breakfast food, bad hamburgers and soup. They are all loosely connected and all seem to be owned and run by the cook who hails from the Middle East or Eastern Europe. Oh, yes. And they are cheap. Since I like to eat breakfast for lunch I figure that they can manage eatable bacon and eggs. That's debatable, but it's comfortable quick and cheap. There is a similar place where I went for lunch almost every day and, of course, got to know all the waitresses quite well and developed a friendship with an intelligent Eastern European waitress who seemed very out of place. I returned day after day because the waitresses were very nice to me -- as I was to them -- and it was cheap. But in the end I realized that you can make scrambled eggs, bacon and home fries so greasy and disgusting that you just have to stop. So I've never been back.
A couple of times while I was eating there I overheard people say they liked the food -- that's why they came there. What??? The food was awful. The salads were day old lettuce with half a slice of under-ripe tomato. Fresh fruit was unheard of. Everything was fired. So I wondered what the hell have these people been eating that would make them think this shit is good.
Later I returned to Roland's and said "same old shit" and quit going there for about a year. For some reason recently I took my mother there when she was visiting me. Probably because I know my mother is one of "those people" who think gawd-awful food is good. Her cooking ability is a bit short of outstanding. During the holidays I had more guests - my brother and my sister-in-law and my son and my daughter-in-law -- and I took them there to. I don't know why. Maybe because I couldn't stomach another breakfast at Bob Evans (it's real name).
Later I took a friend to Roland's and she ran into a bunch of people she knew, all of whom said they came there all the time. This one dork went on and on about how good the food was! Am I living in a parallel universe? So driven by low prices (10% senior discount!!) , free newspaper and convenience I later returned alone to Roland's. I wanted a waffle. None were on the menu but the waitress, who called everyone Hon, said they had them. OK, a waffle and sausage patties for me. After a long wait my breakfast/lunch arrived. Always a bad sign when you cannot cut the waffle with a knife. It appeared that major ingredient in the waffle paste was cement dust. The sausage was charred black. And . . . you guessed it . . . I ate it. I immediately thought of the example my old boss used to use about restaurants. What three things do you do when you have a bad meal or poor service? (1) You say everything was fine when asked. (2) You never go back. (3) and you tell your friends.
The moment that plate was set in front of me I decided this was my last meal at Roland's. So far, it's been true. I told the old folks at the senior Citizen Center during euchre about the worst meal I ever had. Guess where they all congregate after cards? Roland's of course. "The food is great!"
Punch line: as you prepare for retirement, do not allow your taste buds to forget good food from Bad Food.
That's an obvious segue to Dog/Bounty Hunter. You're familiar with it? It's a reality show about a bounty hunter and his family in Denver. I can only describe the appeal of this show to me this way: It's so hideous I can't look away. The "cast" is a menagerie of family members who look like a combination of leather bar patrons and G.I. Joe's. Those guys have more high tech crap that they never, never use than the set of a Bruce Willis movie.
The premise is to follow the Duane "Dog" Chapman family as they chase bail jumpers. They do a lot of riding around in identical black Escalades and talking on walkie talkies. Dog's wife Beth -- she of the gigantic bosoms -- drives one Escalade and Dog's son Duane or his other son Leland drive the other. Dog always sits behind the driver and says important things into the walkie talkie like "He's pulling into the driveway" or "His girlfriend says he's not home." Whenever they want someone to step into harm's way, it's always Beth. "Beth you go talk with him. He's armed."
The actual time spent apprending the bad is is about three and a half minutes. The rest is scintilating dialogue. This mind-numbing drivel is intoxicating and bewildering to me. And it makes my favorite guilty pleasure, Human Wrecking Balls, seem high brow. Punch line: When you're retired you can't be ashamed of what you watch on TV. You have to watch TV and there is nothing worth a shit on.
Thanks for your time.
In my case filling some of that time means eating out -- because I don't eat in. And in lovely Canton, Michigan your choices of where to dine are numerous but mostly awful. So where to eat? Well, since I am no doubt going to eat dinner out as well -- except when the ladies cook for me -- I don't mind eating lunch on the cheap. That means that at times I frequent places like the Roland's Koney Island (not it's real name, of course.) I found this eatery on the Internet and tried it about a year ago. It was like all the other coney island type restaurants in metro Detroit: Greek food, along with breakfast food, bad hamburgers and soup. They are all loosely connected and all seem to be owned and run by the cook who hails from the Middle East or Eastern Europe. Oh, yes. And they are cheap. Since I like to eat breakfast for lunch I figure that they can manage eatable bacon and eggs. That's debatable, but it's comfortable quick and cheap. There is a similar place where I went for lunch almost every day and, of course, got to know all the waitresses quite well and developed a friendship with an intelligent Eastern European waitress who seemed very out of place. I returned day after day because the waitresses were very nice to me -- as I was to them -- and it was cheap. But in the end I realized that you can make scrambled eggs, bacon and home fries so greasy and disgusting that you just have to stop. So I've never been back.
A couple of times while I was eating there I overheard people say they liked the food -- that's why they came there. What??? The food was awful. The salads were day old lettuce with half a slice of under-ripe tomato. Fresh fruit was unheard of. Everything was fired. So I wondered what the hell have these people been eating that would make them think this shit is good.
Later I returned to Roland's and said "same old shit" and quit going there for about a year. For some reason recently I took my mother there when she was visiting me. Probably because I know my mother is one of "those people" who think gawd-awful food is good. Her cooking ability is a bit short of outstanding. During the holidays I had more guests - my brother and my sister-in-law and my son and my daughter-in-law -- and I took them there to. I don't know why. Maybe because I couldn't stomach another breakfast at Bob Evans (it's real name).
Later I took a friend to Roland's and she ran into a bunch of people she knew, all of whom said they came there all the time. This one dork went on and on about how good the food was! Am I living in a parallel universe? So driven by low prices (10% senior discount!!) , free newspaper and convenience I later returned alone to Roland's. I wanted a waffle. None were on the menu but the waitress, who called everyone Hon, said they had them. OK, a waffle and sausage patties for me. After a long wait my breakfast/lunch arrived. Always a bad sign when you cannot cut the waffle with a knife. It appeared that major ingredient in the waffle paste was cement dust. The sausage was charred black. And . . . you guessed it . . . I ate it. I immediately thought of the example my old boss used to use about restaurants. What three things do you do when you have a bad meal or poor service? (1) You say everything was fine when asked. (2) You never go back. (3) and you tell your friends.
The moment that plate was set in front of me I decided this was my last meal at Roland's. So far, it's been true. I told the old folks at the senior Citizen Center during euchre about the worst meal I ever had. Guess where they all congregate after cards? Roland's of course. "The food is great!"
Punch line: as you prepare for retirement, do not allow your taste buds to forget good food from Bad Food.
That's an obvious segue to Dog/Bounty Hunter. You're familiar with it? It's a reality show about a bounty hunter and his family in Denver. I can only describe the appeal of this show to me this way: It's so hideous I can't look away. The "cast" is a menagerie of family members who look like a combination of leather bar patrons and G.I. Joe's. Those guys have more high tech crap that they never, never use than the set of a Bruce Willis movie.
The premise is to follow the Duane "Dog" Chapman family as they chase bail jumpers. They do a lot of riding around in identical black Escalades and talking on walkie talkies. Dog's wife Beth -- she of the gigantic bosoms -- drives one Escalade and Dog's son Duane or his other son Leland drive the other. Dog always sits behind the driver and says important things into the walkie talkie like "He's pulling into the driveway" or "His girlfriend says he's not home." Whenever they want someone to step into harm's way, it's always Beth. "Beth you go talk with him. He's armed."
The actual time spent apprending the bad is is about three and a half minutes. The rest is scintilating dialogue. This mind-numbing drivel is intoxicating and bewildering to me. And it makes my favorite guilty pleasure, Human Wrecking Balls, seem high brow. Punch line: When you're retired you can't be ashamed of what you watch on TV. You have to watch TV and there is nothing worth a shit on.
Thanks for your time.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Ground Control to Major Tom
I just returned to earth. It's good to be home but the trip was pretty intense. Scary as hell at times but really comforting too. All in all, a fascinating trip. I had to go because it just wasn't working for me here on earth. Too much to shit to handle. So I took off. Luckily for me, I wasn't alone. I had an able crew and my fellow passengers were the most eclectic group I could ever dream up. I admit I had my reservations about traveling with them. When I hopped aboard the ship I thought I was fucked. Not that I don't take to strangers like AL Franken takes to Big Fat Liar Rush Limbaugh, but I thought I was in for seven hours a day of mind-numbing boredom for the entire trip. And I expected the crew to be too busy minding their own little job description to give a shit about me. But I was dead wrong. I was in for the trip of my life.
I had to leave earth because I couldn't figure out how to cope. After thirty years of dealing with panic and anxiety and depression, all the tricks I knew -- therapy, drugs, hiding it, gutting it out, pulling the covers over my head, even new stuff like telling my family I was in over my head, that I was sick and I couldn't figure out how to get well -- it just didn't work anymore. So I went to the ER and said "I'm sorry. I don't know what to do. Tell me." They were skeptical. They said "Boy, is your blood pressure always this high? You sure you're not having a heart attack?" I tried to 'splain them that my blood pressure was all over the fucking map and that my problem was that I was cuckoo. Finally after six or eight hours they believed that I didn't have a heart attack, and let me talk to the the lady that was the head of head cases. She listened to my story and asked how I felt about taking up residence overnight in the lovely facility where I was currently being held. I asked "What else ya got?" She said that there was a space ship leaving in the morning at eight where I could hitch a hide to Planet Sanity. "Sounds good to me."
So I blasted off on the trip I'll call Out Patient Club Med. The trip lasted ten days, 9:00 to 3:00, every day, and last Friday I landed softly back on earth. And feeling much better. All in all, an experience exceeding my every expectation. And the part of the trip I dreaded the most -- the "group" activities -- was in fact the best. We were as diverse a group as you can imagine from every social, economic, educational, career and personal background. People whose paths would almost surely never have crossed but for being passengers on the same trip. But I have never become so attached to and affectionate about any group in my life. I would happily knock the shit out of anyone who spoke disparagingly about any one of them.
I can't talk about them because their lives are no one's business but their own but I can tell you that the bond of common suffering and struggling is a powerful thing. I have never seen such non-judgmental accepting caring people in my life.
And the crew was simply the best. Every one of them was as dedicated to getting me well as they could be. Their patience and professionalism were remarkable.
I have so much more to say about my trip, but it just too fucking personal to those involved. So allow me to drop two pearls of wisdom: (1) Right now, this very second, take charge of your own health -- As they say " You're the CEO of your health -- and (2), ask for help. There are some beautiful people who really know what they are doing out there.
It's good to be home. The trip continues on earth but I feel confident it won't eat me alive next time.
Ok, Ok. I know this hasn't been funny -- so try this. While on this trip to outer space and back I continued to pursue my primary avocation and major purpose in life -- dating every woman who could possible be The One. I met a woman online through one of the sixteenth dating services I'm in. (I'm bullshitting you about the 16 part.) She lives most of the time in a warm place but was in metro Detroit, her home, for a week and we met. We had coffee and talked for 2-3 hours and decided to have dinner. It seemed to silly little me that it went extraordinarily well. Imagine my surprise when I got the brush off the next day via a shitty little email. Well the jokes on you Miss Too Tight Jeans For a Woman Your Age, you had no clue what I was dealing with on my little space trip and you lost out on one of the best guys this planet has to offer.
Happy Landings.
I had to leave earth because I couldn't figure out how to cope. After thirty years of dealing with panic and anxiety and depression, all the tricks I knew -- therapy, drugs, hiding it, gutting it out, pulling the covers over my head, even new stuff like telling my family I was in over my head, that I was sick and I couldn't figure out how to get well -- it just didn't work anymore. So I went to the ER and said "I'm sorry. I don't know what to do. Tell me." They were skeptical. They said "Boy, is your blood pressure always this high? You sure you're not having a heart attack?" I tried to 'splain them that my blood pressure was all over the fucking map and that my problem was that I was cuckoo. Finally after six or eight hours they believed that I didn't have a heart attack, and let me talk to the the lady that was the head of head cases. She listened to my story and asked how I felt about taking up residence overnight in the lovely facility where I was currently being held. I asked "What else ya got?" She said that there was a space ship leaving in the morning at eight where I could hitch a hide to Planet Sanity. "Sounds good to me."
So I blasted off on the trip I'll call Out Patient Club Med. The trip lasted ten days, 9:00 to 3:00, every day, and last Friday I landed softly back on earth. And feeling much better. All in all, an experience exceeding my every expectation. And the part of the trip I dreaded the most -- the "group" activities -- was in fact the best. We were as diverse a group as you can imagine from every social, economic, educational, career and personal background. People whose paths would almost surely never have crossed but for being passengers on the same trip. But I have never become so attached to and affectionate about any group in my life. I would happily knock the shit out of anyone who spoke disparagingly about any one of them.
I can't talk about them because their lives are no one's business but their own but I can tell you that the bond of common suffering and struggling is a powerful thing. I have never seen such non-judgmental accepting caring people in my life.
And the crew was simply the best. Every one of them was as dedicated to getting me well as they could be. Their patience and professionalism were remarkable.
I have so much more to say about my trip, but it just too fucking personal to those involved. So allow me to drop two pearls of wisdom: (1) Right now, this very second, take charge of your own health -- As they say " You're the CEO of your health -- and (2), ask for help. There are some beautiful people who really know what they are doing out there.
It's good to be home. The trip continues on earth but I feel confident it won't eat me alive next time.
Ok, Ok. I know this hasn't been funny -- so try this. While on this trip to outer space and back I continued to pursue my primary avocation and major purpose in life -- dating every woman who could possible be The One. I met a woman online through one of the sixteenth dating services I'm in. (I'm bullshitting you about the 16 part.) She lives most of the time in a warm place but was in metro Detroit, her home, for a week and we met. We had coffee and talked for 2-3 hours and decided to have dinner. It seemed to silly little me that it went extraordinarily well. Imagine my surprise when I got the brush off the next day via a shitty little email. Well the jokes on you Miss Too Tight Jeans For a Woman Your Age, you had no clue what I was dealing with on my little space trip and you lost out on one of the best guys this planet has to offer.
Happy Landings.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
More Writing Class
OK, my next assignment was to write an essay or short story about an influential person in my life. My instructor described this as a "fine, fine essay" "You really brought Tony to life." I thought it was lousy - no false modesty I promise you. What do you think?
Tony's Kids
Tony never finished High School. It seems so odd because he was so smart and articulate. But regardless of how high he rose through the management ranks of his company, it was still there in the back of his head. He really had a chip on his shoulder because of it and he would show anyone who looked cross ways at him that he was just as bright and well read as they were.
I suppose his outspokenness and outgoing personality in some way were his compensating for his lack of education. He was hard to miss. Everyone knew Tony and just about everyone liked him. All this probably had something to do with why Tony loved little kids so much. Not teenagers or ten year olds, little kids, especially babies. Kids were not a threat to him. They certainly didn't have more education than him and they weren't about to tell him what to do.
Tony must have liked kids. He had six of his own – three boys and three girls in thirteen years. He had a new one to play with about every two years. As each of the kids became toddlers, they would be invited into the evening ritual of going to the drug store for coffee and a coke. It was Tony's escape from working around people that he saw as over educated and dumb as rocks.
Tony was a handsome man and always got to know the waitresses by name. He got into the habit of bringing his youngest toddler along for company and to show them off to the waitresses at the drug store. But only the little ones – no teenagers allowed. As each kid grew up he or she dropped out of the group to be replaced by the younger kid.
One night Tony was at the bowling alley having a coffee and killing time. That night there were mixed leagues bowling so there were a lot of young kids because their mothers couldn't or didn't get baby sitters. Most people probably thought these kids were a nuisance but not to Tony. He saw them as little people to talk with. He saw a little 5 or 6 year old boy playing on one of the arcade games. Tony walked over and started talking with the kid. While they were talking he noticed something that looked like a fleck of dirt above the kid's eyelash.
"Come here little man, you've got something on your face" he said.
Tony grabbed the offending fleck and gave it a quick tug. The kid started screaming for his mother. Tony had pulled a stitch out of the boy's face. The kid continued screaming as Tony sheepishly explained to the boy's mother had happened. I can just see the redness of his face when he realized what he had done.
That little embarrassment didn't slow Tony down. After all he had six grandchildren to spoil.
Tony's Kids
Tony never finished High School. It seems so odd because he was so smart and articulate. But regardless of how high he rose through the management ranks of his company, it was still there in the back of his head. He really had a chip on his shoulder because of it and he would show anyone who looked cross ways at him that he was just as bright and well read as they were.
I suppose his outspokenness and outgoing personality in some way were his compensating for his lack of education. He was hard to miss. Everyone knew Tony and just about everyone liked him. All this probably had something to do with why Tony loved little kids so much. Not teenagers or ten year olds, little kids, especially babies. Kids were not a threat to him. They certainly didn't have more education than him and they weren't about to tell him what to do.
Tony must have liked kids. He had six of his own – three boys and three girls in thirteen years. He had a new one to play with about every two years. As each of the kids became toddlers, they would be invited into the evening ritual of going to the drug store for coffee and a coke. It was Tony's escape from working around people that he saw as over educated and dumb as rocks.
Tony was a handsome man and always got to know the waitresses by name. He got into the habit of bringing his youngest toddler along for company and to show them off to the waitresses at the drug store. But only the little ones – no teenagers allowed. As each kid grew up he or she dropped out of the group to be replaced by the younger kid.
One night Tony was at the bowling alley having a coffee and killing time. That night there were mixed leagues bowling so there were a lot of young kids because their mothers couldn't or didn't get baby sitters. Most people probably thought these kids were a nuisance but not to Tony. He saw them as little people to talk with. He saw a little 5 or 6 year old boy playing on one of the arcade games. Tony walked over and started talking with the kid. While they were talking he noticed something that looked like a fleck of dirt above the kid's eyelash.
"Come here little man, you've got something on your face" he said.
Tony grabbed the offending fleck and gave it a quick tug. The kid started screaming for his mother. Tony had pulled a stitch out of the boy's face. The kid continued screaming as Tony sheepishly explained to the boy's mother had happened. I can just see the redness of his face when he realized what he had done.
That little embarrassment didn't slow Tony down. After all he had six grandchildren to spoil.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Writing Class
I'm taking an online course in creative writing. It isn't what I expected. I wanted some professional criticism of my writing and to learn some skills. The instructor is a woman that lives near San Diego and has written dozens of books and thousands of magazine articles. She's knowledgeable for sure, but she believes in only encouraging you - no negative criticism. That's a problem for me. She also wants everything "G rated". That was an immediate obstacle for me, but it has forced me to think and write outside my comfort zone.
A recent assignment was to pick something that you can't throw away from your purse, wallet or junk drawer and write a 1000-1200 word essay about it. Then edit it down to 500 words. In the essay we were told to "arrive at a basic truth." Here's what I wrote:
I carry a plastic card in my wallet that’s never been used. It looks beat up and discolored because it has ridden along with me for so long. It may be used once in my life – maybe never. It’s a Medical Device ID card. It says that I have a Guidant CRT-P pacemaker, Model H/120, Serial No. 103547 that was implanted on August 8, 2006. Pretty mundane stuff.
When I received the card after getting this pacemaker – my second, I glanced at it and quickly put it in my wallet wondering what use it was to me. The answer is that it isn’t much use. It’s of no use getting through airport security. It’s not something you pull out to show friends. I don’t get a discount on my next pacemaker with it. The one thing it may be used for is to verify the identification of my pacemaker when it’s replaced sometime soon. But there is something else far more significant that makes it very useful. It’s a reminder.
A reminder of why I have that thing in my upper chest wall. It reminds me that I’m alive.
That’s pretty big. I didn’t die on October 28, 1997, -- the day I was “mostly dead” as Miracle Max said in The Princess Bride. I’m here right now. That’s something that changes you. You hear a lot about people who’ve had near death experiences. When they talk about it they often use the phrase “stop to smell the roses.” There are a lot of religious awakenings too. But that’s not me.
It’s subtle change. It made me realize how much I love good people. I can’t get enough of good people. I am astonished by how many good people there are. People who are generous, caring, supportive and comforting. Regular people who go to work, take care of their kids, are good to their parents and all the everyday stuff that a person does. People who quietly go about their lives successfully without notoriety.
My kids are good people. They know that there are some nasty lasting consequences of my being “mostly dead” that day. The disease that probably caused the heart episode has also invaded my nervous system and left me with very low blood pressure and other ugly symptoms. My kids know that I struggle with these problems. One reason I know this is because my oldest son once told me that he was worried because he knew that when I had to sit down to avoid passing out, I might self consciously only sit for thirty seconds rather and the three minutes that I really needed. That simple acknowledgement meant everything to me. Not only is he concerned about my well being but he has taken the time and interest to truly understand what I’m dealing with. That’s what a good person does.
You can easily spot a good person. They listen, they remember and they care enough to follow through. When they ask “How are you?” they really want to know. A good person has time for you. They don’t ask “Is there anything I can do?” They jump right in and help without being asked.
But the best thing of all about good people is they make you want to be a good person. They make you want to pay attention to people. They make you want to be there for your family and friends, your co-workers and even strangers. They make you want to be unselfish. Because in the end, doing the right thing – which is what being a good person boils down to – is its own reward. It gives you that private satisfaction that can’t be matched by any award or recognition.
I have literally had a second shot at life. It has made me appreciate how many good people have stepped up and supported me, comforted me and just plain been there for me. It has made me want to be a good person.
You don’t have to have a near death experience to appreciate good people or to be a good person. Just live a decent life and do the right thing. You know what it is. Anyone can do it.
A recent assignment was to pick something that you can't throw away from your purse, wallet or junk drawer and write a 1000-1200 word essay about it. Then edit it down to 500 words. In the essay we were told to "arrive at a basic truth." Here's what I wrote:
I carry a plastic card in my wallet that’s never been used. It looks beat up and discolored because it has ridden along with me for so long. It may be used once in my life – maybe never. It’s a Medical Device ID card. It says that I have a Guidant CRT-P pacemaker, Model H/120, Serial No. 103547 that was implanted on August 8, 2006. Pretty mundane stuff.
When I received the card after getting this pacemaker – my second, I glanced at it and quickly put it in my wallet wondering what use it was to me. The answer is that it isn’t much use. It’s of no use getting through airport security. It’s not something you pull out to show friends. I don’t get a discount on my next pacemaker with it. The one thing it may be used for is to verify the identification of my pacemaker when it’s replaced sometime soon. But there is something else far more significant that makes it very useful. It’s a reminder.
A reminder of why I have that thing in my upper chest wall. It reminds me that I’m alive.
That’s pretty big. I didn’t die on October 28, 1997, -- the day I was “mostly dead” as Miracle Max said in The Princess Bride. I’m here right now. That’s something that changes you. You hear a lot about people who’ve had near death experiences. When they talk about it they often use the phrase “stop to smell the roses.” There are a lot of religious awakenings too. But that’s not me.
It’s subtle change. It made me realize how much I love good people. I can’t get enough of good people. I am astonished by how many good people there are. People who are generous, caring, supportive and comforting. Regular people who go to work, take care of their kids, are good to their parents and all the everyday stuff that a person does. People who quietly go about their lives successfully without notoriety.
My kids are good people. They know that there are some nasty lasting consequences of my being “mostly dead” that day. The disease that probably caused the heart episode has also invaded my nervous system and left me with very low blood pressure and other ugly symptoms. My kids know that I struggle with these problems. One reason I know this is because my oldest son once told me that he was worried because he knew that when I had to sit down to avoid passing out, I might self consciously only sit for thirty seconds rather and the three minutes that I really needed. That simple acknowledgement meant everything to me. Not only is he concerned about my well being but he has taken the time and interest to truly understand what I’m dealing with. That’s what a good person does.
You can easily spot a good person. They listen, they remember and they care enough to follow through. When they ask “How are you?” they really want to know. A good person has time for you. They don’t ask “Is there anything I can do?” They jump right in and help without being asked.
But the best thing of all about good people is they make you want to be a good person. They make you want to pay attention to people. They make you want to be there for your family and friends, your co-workers and even strangers. They make you want to be unselfish. Because in the end, doing the right thing – which is what being a good person boils down to – is its own reward. It gives you that private satisfaction that can’t be matched by any award or recognition.
I have literally had a second shot at life. It has made me appreciate how many good people have stepped up and supported me, comforted me and just plain been there for me. It has made me want to be a good person.
You don’t have to have a near death experience to appreciate good people or to be a good person. Just live a decent life and do the right thing. You know what it is. Anyone can do it.
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