tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-102144582024-03-19T05:32:40.384-07:00The Luna Park GazetteRob Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741955202727936194noreply@blogger.comBlogger1155125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214458.post-78825078844767537852024-03-17T18:49:00.000-07:002024-03-17T18:49:36.409-07:00Morning Gkory<i>“Good morning, my name is Melinda.”</i><p>
I nodded and returned the greeting, or at least I think I did.<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin_yGkyWUHGzjtYkFpO5N8cU4qvSCnRiRFJ4n7KNgcwIlARhnIMCuX35oXBH88HKKcebqhSbOxERegjDYzXuui6hx_BGL11uPvxHqaxxz3d3d09ZtrJAl2hfjP9xKcN_Op4M24qXaZFh9EJ6KlmBjgMKD18rlbZgmuJZvq_KZa-DZ-FojwNmCv/s750/GCJkIcYXoAALr1T.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="725" data-original-width="750" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin_yGkyWUHGzjtYkFpO5N8cU4qvSCnRiRFJ4n7KNgcwIlARhnIMCuX35oXBH88HKKcebqhSbOxERegjDYzXuui6hx_BGL11uPvxHqaxxz3d3d09ZtrJAl2hfjP9xKcN_Op4M24qXaZFh9EJ6KlmBjgMKD18rlbZgmuJZvq_KZa-DZ-FojwNmCv/s320/GCJkIcYXoAALr1T.jpg"/></a></div>
I was still kind of bleary-eyed, having hauled my keester out of bed at 5AM on Saturday, made a predawn, five-block walk through the nearly empty streets, so I could get a transthoracic echocardiogram, yet another one of my cardiologist’s recommended tests.<p>
What made it even funkier was that, upon my arrival, the facility at Fourth Avenue and Senator Street, a century-old structure that once housed a city welfare department office, was completely empty.<p>
There was no security guard in the lobby, no receptionists on the second floor, no other patients sitting in the waiting area—the damn lights weren’t even switched on.<p>
I had full run of the place, as I walked up and down the hallways, shouitng “is anybody here?” while the lights in various rooms automatically lit up as I passed by.<p>
I heard voices and for a moment I thought I’d found a fellow human, but it turned out to be coming from a TV playing to an empty waiting room.<p>
This was getting eerie. I wrote a post a few years ago about how “The Walking Dead”, “28 Days Later” and “The Day of the Triffids” all begin with a guy waking up and wandering around an empty hospital.<p>
I had agreed to the appointment to avoid the crowd, but now I thought I was being pranked.<p>
I was just dialing the main office when the elevators doors opened up and humans started filing in—including Melinda, the technician—a sonographer, according to the Cleveland Clinic--who would be giving me the echocardiogram and who turned out to be an absolutely wonderful human being.<p>
She took to an empty room, wired me up and had me stretch out on my left side, while she probed my chest with this device that send high-frequency sound waves through my body. <p>
I told her that I was nervous about the test, and my heart, in general, and she assured me that the point of the tests was to make sure that I was okay.<p>
And then…we just started talking.<p>
<i><b>Talk therapy<p></b></i>
I noticed she had an Eastern European accent, and it turned out she was born in Albania, where my grandparents’ families had come from before they settled in Calabria.<p>
She told me many Albanian people had moved to Calabria and Sicily centuries ago when Skanderbeg, Albania’s leader, died and the Turks rolled in.<p>
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“I’m talking too much,” she said at one point.<p>
“No, no,” I said, “I’m happy to listen.”<p>
She told me about her husband, whom she had known since she was 14 years old, how they had dated for a while, then separated for five years, before reuniting and tying the knot.<p>
The poor man, who is 10 years younger than I am, had to have a double lung transplant a few years ago and Melinda said that her new work schedule—four 10-hour days—gives her more time to spend with him.<p>
“He’s a very lucky man to have you,” I said.<p>
They have one son in high school and Melinda is making him take Spanish in school and teaching him Albanian at home.<p>
“I’m taking him over there,” she said, “because I don’t want him to forget his roots.”<p>
She was so kind and thoughtful that I stopped worrying about my health—at least for a little while.<p>
“I’m so glad I met you,” I told her.<p>
I told her straight up, no wise cracks, no backhand compliments. Now that I’m older, I realize how important it is to tell people that they’re appreciated.<p>
Melinda told me that she wants to go back to Albania. We could use more like her in this country, but I understand how she feels.<p>
The test took about 40 minutes, I told Melinda that the next scheduled test is a cardiac catheterization procedure, which is set for Thursday.<p>
“If there any problems,” she said, “they’ll put in a stent and your life will better.”<p>
Obviously, I’m hoping it doesn’t get that serious. And having met Melinda, I can safely say my life is much better already.<p>
Rob Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741955202727936194noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214458.post-19523304443696774142024-03-10T19:03:00.000-07:002024-03-10T19:03:22.947-07:00The Strawberry Statement<i>“Ahh, but the strawberries! That's - that's where I had them.” – Captain Queeg, The Caine Mutiny Court Martial</i><p>
I walked 30 blocks on Friday morning just to prove a point.<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqaL4OSxkPmryDIHdrDWx1JgalJzzTA30fozZZ9qzgaORSb1hcuk1oAmE-LdiM7RNnDMwKXup5FOm8d9GG6Pj3LqZmxfDTsU_6p8BhJDYfLU-KNbnaxJwXQUbNwNKQyyyvQyfMKSh055MrR2m6SklAwQ6au4y1mTp7jUMuubJLDMG-mEOelmyV/s498/Humphrey-Bogart-Captain-Queeg-The-Caine-Mutiny.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="313" data-original-width="498" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqaL4OSxkPmryDIHdrDWx1JgalJzzTA30fozZZ9qzgaORSb1hcuk1oAmE-LdiM7RNnDMwKXup5FOm8d9GG6Pj3LqZmxfDTsU_6p8BhJDYfLU-KNbnaxJwXQUbNwNKQyyyvQyfMKSh055MrR2m6SklAwQ6au4y1mTp7jUMuubJLDMG-mEOelmyV/s320/Humphrey-Bogart-Captain-Queeg-The-Caine-Mutiny.jpg"/></a></div>
I’m not exactly sure what the point was, but I’m glad I made the effort.<p>
This was the culmination of a rather strange week with some very happy events and a couple of senior moments I sincerely could’ve done without.<p>
And along the way I confronted some character flaws that I would like very much to correct.<p>
It started on Tuesday. I was at the gym, all set to begin my heavy bag workout, where I put in a pair of earbuds and listen to boxing combinations as they’re called out on the Precision Striking app.<p>
But on this morning, I opened up the earbud case and saw one my buds was AWOL.<p>
At first, I couldn’t imagine what had happened and then I remember that the carrying case had fallen out of my gym bag a few days earlier. I quickly retrieved it, but apparently one of the buds had shaken loose and I didn’t see it.<p>
Phooey.<p>
I kept the earbuds in a side pocket of my gym bag, which is supposed to zip close, but the pull tab on the zipper had broken a while ago, making it difficult—nearly impossible—to close things up.<p>
<i><b>Best Buds</b></i><p>
I kept thinking that the earbuds might fall out, but did I do anything about it—like move them to the main compartment of my gym bag or carry them in my pocket?<p>
No, of course not. I just went along with the status quo hoping they would stay put—until they didn’t.<p>
Mental note: magical thinking can be expensive.<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYrr8U66M0E-1tNS-KUpnd_aLKCjJWZsh785Ye0vH8MoWy7zYCtR_W-DWshH5OXA1eRdU50dupVZrTrMCYq4Xmgh4YcKNMYaCqw5cFOW8nT_pM_sc6nH-ewVE9KILZAbQdcNKpG9zcMt-gogrNLmJpqn6Z66YxBDukkUJMHIcSunpRUGivegy3/s1393/1975-Sears-Wishbook2017-11-25-20_45_53.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: left; float: left;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="834" data-original-width="1393" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYrr8U66M0E-1tNS-KUpnd_aLKCjJWZsh785Ye0vH8MoWy7zYCtR_W-DWshH5OXA1eRdU50dupVZrTrMCYq4Xmgh4YcKNMYaCqw5cFOW8nT_pM_sc6nH-ewVE9KILZAbQdcNKpG9zcMt-gogrNLmJpqn6Z66YxBDukkUJMHIcSunpRUGivegy3/s320/1975-Sears-Wishbook2017-11-25-20_45_53.jpg"/></a></div>
I was still brooding about this blunder in the locker room when this young man with whom I had a nodding acquaintance, suddenly began talking to me like we were best friends.<p>
I’m not sure what brought this on, but I got such an emotional charge out of this conversation, I thought to myself, “well, this makes up for the lost earbud.”<p>
Human connection is more important than a cheap item that I replaced with a couple of clicks on Amazon. Yes, it was annoying, wasteful, and unnecessary, but it was time to move on.<p>
I was back at the gym on Thursday for another life lesson.<p>
After my workout, I bounced over to a local fruit store where I picked up some blueberries to go with my morning oatmeal and then I thought, oh, what the hell, I’ll treat myself to some strawberries as well.<p>
The store was crowded, I was running late, and there was this annoying woman standing so closely behind me that I thought she was an aspiring proctologist.<p>
I got so angry and distracted—no, wait, I let me rephrase that: I <i>chose</i> to get angry and distracted—that I gathered all my purchases and stormed out of the door.<p>
<i><b>Getting Fuzzy<p></b></i>
I got home, looked in my shopping bag and saw…no strawberries.<p>
Did I buy them, or did I put them back on the shelf? I couldn’t remember and I started to wonder if my gray matter might be fading to black. And I was forced to admit that my short fuse was the root of the situation.<p>
I did the math -- geometric logic, you might say--and I’m almost certain that I had indeed paid for them and left them at the store. That damn proctologist. I was getting in touch with my inner Captain Queeg and I didn’t like it.<p>
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I’ve forgotten food at my local supermarket and in addition to being costly, it’s also a little spooky.<p>
That night I had another great session with my beloved writing class, and I realized that working with these wonderful, talented people was infinitely more important than two bucks worth of strawberries.<p>
Celebrate one and forget the other.<p>
Still, I decided to go back to the store on Friday morning and ask the cashier if he remembered me.<p>
Normally, I would be too embarrassed to ask and just fume and whine to myself. But I’ve been going there for a while and they know me, so I didn’t think it would hurt to ask.<p>
Well, it didn't, but the cashier couldn't recall my order, which is not surprising given the number of people he serves in a day. But I’m still strangely pleased that had I asked.<p>
I bought another box of strawberries and went home to reflect on what had happened. I had taken a nice walk on a beautiful, sunny morning, I asserted myself, and much to my iPhone’s delight, I had racked up a whole bunch of steps.<p>
Let’s see Captain Queeg top that.<p>
Rob Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741955202727936194noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214458.post-81354513853333656282024-03-03T14:02:00.000-08:002024-03-03T14:02:27.043-08:00Drop the Beat<i>“You may breathe now.”</i><p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9WvpuAWXYWroCO8CQj5fVAl6jx1I3AbygiqSwm94kaLGPatvO4oAQkB5M8SMKS1yegYbp2f9LGlGVZPEgJ4munt5vZ-Dva96nAckuEIYbpjdOL6NX2Sj7SL6YMmWnYDXY4C79KHgXCXrMbUsaBHZ2kZzK-tRmd3JiLOam6xEU2XNcXSGm2dV-/s370/3cfa6dfda3e8f0d348383d267cdd75da.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="370" data-original-width="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9WvpuAWXYWroCO8CQj5fVAl6jx1I3AbygiqSwm94kaLGPatvO4oAQkB5M8SMKS1yegYbp2f9LGlGVZPEgJ4munt5vZ-Dva96nAckuEIYbpjdOL6NX2Sj7SL6YMmWnYDXY4C79KHgXCXrMbUsaBHZ2kZzK-tRmd3JiLOam6xEU2XNcXSGm2dV-/s320/3cfa6dfda3e8f0d348383d267cdd75da.jpg"/></a></div>
I came sliding out of the CT scanner like an overcooked pizza and resumed taking in oxygen just as the android voice commanded.<p>
My cardiologist has suggested that I get this test—a CT coronary angiogram—and I happily complied, though I wish they’d find a way to take the word “coronary” out of the title.<p>
I hadn’t eaten all day, as per doctor’s orders, but I wasn’t even remotely hungry, due to a particularly vicious stomach bug that had invaded my innards the night before and played merry hell with my digestive system.<p>
This old heart of mine got quite a workout as I staggered through a crappy week marked by frustration on so many levels, personally and professionally and even on the national level thanks to the Supreme Court and a certain orange-hued scumbag who shall remain nameless.<p>
The hospital emailed the test results to me within hours and while it was packed with medical terms that I didn’t begin to understand, I couldn’t help noticing one line that read “Important findings have been revealed and will be addressed accordingly.”<p>
Important findings? Addressed accordingly? Is there a medical term for WTF?<p>
I took this news in my usual manner, which, of course, was to freak out, call my doctor’s office and whine hysterically.<p>
He assured me that it wasn’t as horrible as it sounded and suggested I take a nuclear stress test to give him a better view of my ticker.<p>
<i><b>Nuke Machine</b></i><p>
A nuclear stress test, I googled, is an imaging test that shows how blood goes to the heart at rest and during exercise, although it could be the title of a Fifties science fiction movie or the name of an Eighties punk band.<p>
And when they say “nuclear” that’s just what they mean. The attendant who injected me recommended I stay clear of little children and pregnant women for the next 24 hours.<p>
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“I feel like Godzilla,” I said. “Only I think I’m better looking.”<p>
They made me wait 45 minutes and then hooked me up to a treadmill, which kept moving faster and tilting higher.<p>
I later learned that this was the Bruce Protocol treadmill test, which was designed by cardiologist Robert A. Bruce in 1963 as a non-invasive test to assess heart health.<p>
“You’re doing so well,” the attendant told me at one point. “We’re going to put up your picture to inspire other people.”<p>
"I feel like Steve Austin from 'The Six Million Dollar Man,'" I wheezed, only the joke tanked and reminded me of just what a fossil I am.<p>
I finally got my heart rate up to the necessary beats, got another body scan, and got the hell out of there.<p>
My doctor said he didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but he suggested yet another procedure to get an even better picture of my heart.<p>
We’re supposed to speak on Monday and I’ve decided that I'm going to do it.
I just like to take a few breaths first.<p>
Rob Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741955202727936194noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214458.post-81627287549654645362024-02-25T13:44:00.000-08:002024-02-25T17:14:10.639-08:00Music Man<i>“Music is the soundtrack of your life.”--Dick Clark.</i><p>
In 1983, German musician Peter Schilling had a hit single with the song “Major Tom (Coming Home).”<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR__OXV3Y2J8zc79eGLX2PV2H64oHCHUmiQmSO22-1aucGZ5HllwiO7iH_Ub1jyXDD2KfF_JO4_olU1wK-Hr50hPmsC2i6ASNC-2eP33Wz-6q2RYZVZl3kYroib6Vd__B9R7ymMJ8xvmB3tRM06cuZc0YINzFWN-O0cgSIfGJpFhQgRfQB0m_6/s300/images-1.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR__OXV3Y2J8zc79eGLX2PV2H64oHCHUmiQmSO22-1aucGZ5HllwiO7iH_Ub1jyXDD2KfF_JO4_olU1wK-Hr50hPmsC2i6ASNC-2eP33Wz-6q2RYZVZl3kYroib6Vd__B9R7ymMJ8xvmB3tRM06cuZc0YINzFWN-O0cgSIfGJpFhQgRfQB0m_6/s320/images-1.jpg"/></a></div>
The song, which features a character unofficially related to Major Tom from David Bowie’s 1969 song “Space Oddity”, peaked at No. 14 in the U.S. on Billboard’s Hot 100 singles chart during the final week of the year.<p>
I remember hearing “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wO0A0XcWy88">Major Tom (Coming Home)</a>” while working out at a neighborhood gym and one of my buddies starting whistling along with the chorus.<p>
“<i>Earth below us, Drifting, falling, Floating weightless, Calling, calling home...</i>”<p>
The song faded from my memory for the longest time, but it made a surprise comeback a few days ago when I decided to enlist Major Tom in my Mental Health Hit parade.<p>
Let me explain. I struggle with depression, anxiety, hostility, and a slew of other issues that circle my brain like a colony of vampire bats swarming around a 20-story blood bank.<p>
But I’m on a journey to become my greatest version and so I’m always on the lookout for new techniques and approaches to psych up my psyche.<p>
I already have a series of routines and methods to keep my lid intact, including prayer, meditation, journaling, EFT, or emotional freedom tapping, to name a few.<p>
Music also plays a part in this effort as I look for songs that can get me out of whatever slump I’m roiling through.<p>
I’ve mentioned a few in the past, including Frank Sinatra’s “Nothing but the Best,” the Beach Boys’ “Good Vibrations.”<p>
I also like Taylor Swift’s “Shake it off” and “All You Need is Love,” from the Beatles and Peter Townsend’s “Let My Love Open the Door,” which fits into my new year theme of “Open the door in ’24.”<p>
<i><b>'They're Playing My Song'<p></b></i>
Fans of <i>Modern Family</i>, like yours truly, may remember the episode where Jay sings a few bars of Seals & Crofts’ easy listening lobotomy “Summer Breeze” to keep his blood pressure down.<p>
“Major Tom/Calling Home” has a pre-chorus countdown from four to simulate a rocket launch and I’ve melded that sound-off with a variant of self-help speaker Mel Robbins’ Five Second Rule, which is used to combat procrastination.<p>
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I’ve tried the Five Second Rule and not only has it helped me get my rear in gear, it’s also been good for stomping on the ANTS--automatic negative thoughts.<p>
There’s something about counting down to zero just seems so official. I mean, who wants to disrupt a trip to outer space?<p>
My routine, which I’ve dubbed "The Process," is a grouping of several items from my emotional toolbox.<p>
Ideally, whenever I find myself getting twisted about something—an all-too-often occurrence--I start with the chorus of “Major Tom”--including the countdown—snap a rubber band on my wrist that I wear at all times.<p>
I then grab my middle finger, which, according to the practitioners of the energy exercise JinShin Jyutsu, soothes anger and irritability, while reciting the Lord’s Prayer, something a priest in Honolulu advised me to do years ago when I was confessing my sins during a Hawaiian vacation.<p>
Yes, it’s bit elaborate, but like the man said, “music hath charms to soothe the savage breast” and this routine can work like a charm—as long as I choose to apply it.<p>
I’m addicted to anger and so, if I’m not vigilant, I’ll subconsciously choose to reject my anger management techniques and get all righteously riled up.<p>
In those situations, I decide to feed the bad wolf from the Native American parable, which represents things like greed, hatred, and fear—another concept I like to keep handy. The soundtrack to these awful episodes is Bowie's "Putting out Fire" from "Cat People."<p>
Sometimes when I look at my toolbox, I think of the “Pins and Needles” routine from <i>The Honeymooners</i>, or “Serenity now!” from <i>Seinfeld</i>, which failed in their stated purpose to calm people down, but they make me laugh and that’s better than exploding on the launchpad.<p>
“Major Tom (Coming Home)” ends with the world mourning the lost astronaut, but the lyrics tell us that “now the light commands, this is my home, I’m coming home.”<p>
Sounds good to me.<p>
Rob Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741955202727936194noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214458.post-4218128983784637872024-02-18T12:39:00.000-08:002024-02-18T12:39:49.634-08:00Dead Man’s HandThe minute I saw the guy I knew it was time to end this thing.<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-6y8yn_4Cxg3g0SEEBK68uSq8clVL8tAGf4YbQSVVu93p7iuFLnmkMTvyES_gw6SgQjwhQ-ogyJCH9UG4rMElJQTKnb4-Rm2lFH2x_umDkLWf42inBqIigRE-Oyfm8Mz9ptel5RFCgxFPuHhyphenhyphenM9NsNq3s6CsVa4Urj3uUQObkj3mTprwIf74h/s659/apiofyzis__79427.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="659" data-original-width="453" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-6y8yn_4Cxg3g0SEEBK68uSq8clVL8tAGf4YbQSVVu93p7iuFLnmkMTvyES_gw6SgQjwhQ-ogyJCH9UG4rMElJQTKnb4-Rm2lFH2x_umDkLWf42inBqIigRE-Oyfm8Mz9ptel5RFCgxFPuHhyphenhyphenM9NsNq3s6CsVa4Urj3uUQObkj3mTprwIf74h/s320/apiofyzis__79427.jpg"/></a></div>
The guy in question was a former friend and fellow blogger whom I had not communicated with in three years.<p>
But then here he comes walking back into my life and I say to myself, enough already, just go over and talk to him. Life is too short for this nonsense.<p>
So, I approached my friend, stuck out my hand, and said I was sorry that we had disagreed.<p>
He returned my handshake, and for a few seconds, I was feeling pretty good.<p>
Until I realized he was dead.<p>
Well, all right, the guy isn’t dead in real life. This was a dream, so none of what I just described actually happened.<p>
I had met this man through blogging several years ago. He was so supportive and friendly and he always left these wonderful comments on my posts.<p>
I’ve been blogging for nearly 20 years now—oh, God, is that possible?—and, to be honest, there were times along the way when I felt like calling it quits.<p>
But then I’d read one of his glowing comments and I’d get my passion back.<p>
I've connected with other bloggers through him, and I even met him a few times in person a few times when he visited New York. I felt lucky to have such a good friend.<p>
Then a few years ago, I noticed that he had stopped commenting on my posts. At first, I thought he was taking a brief hiatus, or that perhaps he was just too busy to read my blog, and he'd back sooner or later. <p>
But he didn’t return--and this was a guy who had commented on nearly every single one of my posts for years.<p>
<i><b>Keep me posted</b></i><p>
I was concerned that I might have said something to offend him. I had left a comment on one of his posts about wearing masks that was meant to be funny, but maybe I had overstepped my bounds?<p>
Several years ago, I had a good friend ghost me. I couldn’t bring myself to contact him to find out what the problem was, and I regretted it. Perhaps if I had spoken to him, we'd still be friends.<p>
That seems unlikely, but I just wish I had that effort.<p>
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This time I decided to do things differently. I emailed my fellow blogger telling him that I valued his friendship, that I missed him, and that I was terribly sorry if I had hurt his feelings in any way.<p>
He wrote to back say that, no, he was not offended by my comment. Rather, he’d stopped commenting on my blog because he’d found my posts to be too angry.<p>
Seriously? After all these years, all the laughs we had, all the good times, he was ditching me over something like this?<p>
I checked my blog going back at least three months prior to his response and the only posts I could find that exhibited any kind of anger were two columns I had written about a pair of mass shootings.<p>
What can I say? There’s something about innocent people being gunned down in schools, churches, nightclubs and just about anywhere else in this country that makes me upset.<p>
Hey, look, I know I’m angry guy. Every single day I battle with my rage the way an alcoholic fights the craving for booze.<p>
I guess it’s not surprising that some of that anger might show up in my posts, but the whole point of blogging is to reflect who I am.<p>
I enjoy reading my friends’ blogs because they’re my friends and I want to support them. That’s what makes the blogosphere such a cool place to be.<p>
I never responded to my former friend’s email. What’s to say? I’m not going to change my blog in hopes that he might come back. Then it’s not my blog anymore.<p>
I’ve learned the hard way that trying to please people to keep them around is opening the door to disrespect. If people are not meeting each other in the middle, it’s not a friendship.<p>
I never had any further contact with my friend after that--at least until the other night when he popped up in my dream.<p>
I had been thinking about him earlier in the day and how hurt and angry I was after he cut me out of his life--even after all this time.<p>
Now in this dream, he was walking and talking, but I knew he was dead. But not like a zombie horror flick, but more like someone who had died in another time zone but was still alive in mine. <p>
It was if the Grim Reaper hadn’t caught up to him yet.<p>
<i><b>The Investigation</b></i><p>
The scene shifted and there was a crowd of people gathered outdoors, presumably for the funeral, now that my friend was properly expired.<p>
I thought how bizarre it was to be speaking with a dead man and what a great story that would make—when I saw another mourner scribbling in a notebook.<p>
When I asked him what he was writing, he told me he’d had a similar experience with the departed and was writing it up.<p>
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I ashamed to say that I was really upset about this--more upset than over than my ex-friend's dream demise.<p>
Okay, so what do we have here?<p>
The handshake seems to be a desire to let go of the pain and anger associated with losing the friendship.<p>
The fact that this man was dead is disturbing. I’m half-Italian and we don’t even mention death for fear it will be taken as an invitation for the guy with the scythe.<p>
Clearly some part of me is still resentful about being rejected and I conjured up this hostile scenario.<p>
But death in a dream doesn’t automatically mean you want someone to croak. Perhaps it means I want to end the pain associated with losing his friendship.<p>
One website says death in a dream can reflect stress or anxiety, dealing with grief, or—<i>aha!</i>--unprocessed emotions.<p>
Since it is widely believed that you are every figure in a dream, maybe I was bidding farewell to some part of myself.<p>
As for the writing competitor, that might speak to how I am constantly worried about losing story ideas.<p>
This dream is also a warning about holding on to anger and living in the past, something I've been trying to address.<p>
I don't see me and former friend ever getting back together, which is a damn shame. But if I ever do run into him, I won’t hesitate to put out my hand and say, “put it there.”<p>
Rob Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741955202727936194noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214458.post-26177819505985223992024-02-11T18:28:00.000-08:002024-02-11T18:28:46.923-08:00Back to San Antone Hey, what’s the deal with San Antonio?<p>
That may sound like an opening line from a cut rate comedian, but seriously, people, why does this Texas city that I’ve never visited keep popping up in my life?<p>
San Antonio is the second-most populous city in Texas after Houston, as well as the site of the Alamo Mission, where Davy Crockett, Jim Bowie, and many others died in 1836 in the infamous battle with Mexican troops.<p>
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The city of 1.4 million people is also known for Paseo del Rio, a 15-mile-long river walk, the McNay Art Museum and the Natural Bridge Caverns.<p>
I once had a five-minute crush on a woman from San Antonio many years ago. She was an operator for a credit card company, or some other outfit and I was just so pleasantly surprised by her kindness.<p>
We chatted for quite some time, long after she had helped me solve whatever problem I had called about. The conversation was flowing so naturally that I dropped a hint that, hmm, maybe we should stay in touch?<p>
I know this sounds weird, but I’m sure stranger things have happened. And it would’ve made for a great story had we actually met and fallen in love.<p>
Brooklyn guy meets flies to Texas to meet the love of his life? C’mon, man, that’s a romcom just begging to be filmed. But it didn’t happen, so that movie won’t be coming to a theater near you.<p>
The city popped up again my life last year when I wrote a story about a man in San Antonio who had used an Apple AirTag to track down his stolen truck and wound up shooting the suspect to death.<p>
“If you are to get your vehicle stolen, I know it's frustrating, but please do not take matters in your own hands like this,” a police department spokesman said at the time.<p>
Another suspected car thief was shot to death in San Antonio a few months later by, only this time there were no AirTags involved.<p>
And then last week, I sat down to watch <i>Rolling Thunder</i>, a 1977 film starring William Devane and a very young Tommy Lee Jones that takes place in San Antonio.<p>
<i><b>Winding Rivers</b><p></i>
The film is credited to Paul Schrader, who wrote the scripts for <i>Taxi Driver and Raging Bull</i>, to name a few, and tells the story of a recently-returned Vietnam POW who loses his family—as well as his right hand—during a violent home invasion.<p>
Schrader later said that the main character in his original script was a racist psycho, not unlike <i>Taxi Driver’s</i> Travis Bickle, who winds up murdering innocent Mexicans. In fact, the Bickle character made a brief appearance in Schrader’s original screenplay, according to IMDB.<p>
The script, which was intended to be a metaphor for Vietnam, never got made, but the storyline is disturbingly reminiscent of a real mass shooting in 2019, when a yet another gun-toting psycho murdered 22 people at an El Paso Walmart store.<p>
The shooter, who had driven more than 10 hours from Dallas, posted a racist screed online that railed against an influx of Hispanics in the U.S.<p>
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<i>Rolling Thunder</i> comes off as a rather standard revenge story—"a fascist film,” as Schrader called it—but it opens and ends with a song called “San Antone” by Denny Brooks, a singer and voice over artist who was a background singer and guitarist for John Denver.<p>
I am so not a fan of country music fan, but I have to say I really enjoyed this song, which has a slow, almost mournful feeling to it.<p>
“San Antonio, it’s really good to see you, it's been a while, but you've been on my mind,” the song begins. “I've seen your rolling hills and winding rivers so clear that I can almost make them mine.”<p>
The song describes “the old Bandero highway, stretching out towards old Mexico” and how “I might be coming back to only memories.”<p>
After a disastrous sneak preview—where audience members reportedly tried to attack studio personnel--Rolling Thunder was a box office dud, which probably explains why “San Antone” didn’t catch on.<p>
I googled “songs about San Antonio” and learned that the city has been the subject of roughly 30 or more songs by such artists as Willie Nelson, Charley Pride, Emmylou Harris, and Marty Robbins. But I didn’t see any mention of Denny Brooks.<p>
However, I learned that it was the A side of a Japanese 45 RPM, which someone, thankfully, posted on <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l-wAKObNtwg">YouTube</a>. The song, which was written by Barry De Vorzon, also appears in the 1980 film <i>The Ninth Configuration</i>.<p>
Give it a listen and let me know if I’m crazy.<p>
I’m wondering if I should take a trip San Antonio and see the place for myself. Heck, maybe I’ll look up my operator buddy and make that romcom come true.<p>
I’m sure stranger things have happened.<p>
Rob Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741955202727936194noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214458.post-8122677861569031632024-02-04T18:11:00.000-08:002024-02-04T18:11:00.928-08:00Trolley DodgerIn 1957, a year that will live in infamy for many baseball fans, the Brooklyn Dodgers packed up all their cares and woe and headed west to Los Angeles.<p>
Brooklyn fans were devasted by the news and they directed all their hatred toward Walter O’Malley, the real estate businessman who acquired majority ownership of the team in 1950.<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj27WJLkNO6mRnzr54yDdtjQnnF7a1XxxNyaQYf68POyA07WLITJM9ZM8OFC2G7lNc6Nk7rvDCsT6a_kuTXmMvqBNzslAiFjc1n0AB_BX1EzpnHWFr9egSwQdWrr8N-PqtgdJ1ELfD4o3gkPSFc_LsRnTY6SMOJV6GJA7p1UOnsAe8t_Nw2Niwl/s4032/IMG_6463.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj27WJLkNO6mRnzr54yDdtjQnnF7a1XxxNyaQYf68POyA07WLITJM9ZM8OFC2G7lNc6Nk7rvDCsT6a_kuTXmMvqBNzslAiFjc1n0AB_BX1EzpnHWFr9egSwQdWrr8N-PqtgdJ1ELfD4o3gkPSFc_LsRnTY6SMOJV6GJA7p1UOnsAe8t_Nw2Niwl/s320/IMG_6463.jpeg"/></a></div>
The 2007 HBO documentary, “Brooklyn Dodgers: The Ghosts of Flatbush,” noted that if you asked a Brooklyn Dodger fan whom they shoot if they had a gun with only two bullets and were facing Hitler, Stalin, and O'Malley, the answer would be “O'Malley, twice!"<p>
Now, all you of old time Dodger fans, please put down your weapons, because, as I note in my blog’s bio, I was “born in Brooklyn in the same year the Dodgers moved out”-- and I had absolutely nothing to do with it.<p>
The team was once known as the Brooklyn Trolley Dodgers, which was reportedly coined by Manhattanites to mock the Borough of Church’s extensive surface transit system.<p>
Trolleys switched from the horse-drawn variety to electricity in 1892, making them faster and potentially more dangerous, so you have to be light on your feet.<p>
<i><b>No Man is an Island</b></i><p>
There were 1,344 miles of track in New York by 1920—roughly the distance between the city and Nebraska-- but ridership was already beginning to taper off.<p>
My mother used to tell me how much she like the trolley that ran through our neighborhood in Bay Ridge because she always got a seat—unlike the damn bus, which replaced the trolley.<p>
The last trolley line to run in New York crossed over the Queensboro Bridge and connected passengers to Roosevelt Island.<p>
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And when did this final run occur? April 6…<i>1957</i>.<p>
I learned this little bit of history during a visit yesterday to the <a href="https://www.nytransitmuseum.org/">New York Transit Museum</a>, a fabulous facility located in the old Court Street subway station. <p>
The place has tons of New York City transportation memorabilia, including several vintage subway cars—even the ancient ones with the wicker seats and overhead fans—that were decorated with the old ad posters.<p>
I have been threatening to visit this museum for the longest time, partially because I thought it would be cool (which it was), but also because I’m doing research for a novel.<p>
Naturally on Saturday morning I started running through the list of excuses for not going and for sitting home on my butt, eating Chinese food and watching TV.<p>
<i><b>Step lively</b></i><p>
But as my shrink Henry used to say—by way of Hillel the Elder—"if not now, when?" So, I got on the subway to go look at more subways.<p>
Now I must confess that I really hate riding the subways. They’re loud, slow, potentially dangerous, and too goddamn far from my house.<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSpQxhSMJXWp_TBRcW_t2upu3jQ64c23g4psQJ-RcYzGFHiG8ccEKNqBVr2bXVsMKnJ-aQiK64fdsqAKUer1OlB0KZ_PUlNuFda6MrOJ9ywYpYSXzF5hk8tZzpNdvuQX_nfwlhDdpwLbNSepbtX14VbT3HbncDmogRiqk0seOiFQlkP3RTlcA6/s4032/IMG_6474.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSpQxhSMJXWp_TBRcW_t2upu3jQ64c23g4psQJ-RcYzGFHiG8ccEKNqBVr2bXVsMKnJ-aQiK64fdsqAKUer1OlB0KZ_PUlNuFda6MrOJ9ywYpYSXzF5hk8tZzpNdvuQX_nfwlhDdpwLbNSepbtX14VbT3HbncDmogRiqk0seOiFQlkP3RTlcA6/s320/IMG_6474.jpeg"/></a></div>
I only like subways when they become history—sort of like sports. I don’t know anything about New York’s current baseball teams, but I’m fascinated by the Brooklyn Dodgers.<p>
The transit museum has an excellent staff who were so helpful and courteous when I told them about my project. They even emailed me a map of bus and trolley routes from the 1940s.<p>
Walking around the museum was like going back in time, when women wore hooped skirts, men were straw hats, and trolleys were the way to go.<p>
The only letdown was that tidbit about the final trolley ride to Roosevelt Island, but it was a small price to pay. And I don’t think trolley lovers are as violent as Dodger fans.<p>
As I rode home on the R train, I listed all the good things that had happened.<p>
I went to some place new; I scratched an item off my lengthy to-do list, I worked on my book, and I met some wonderful people.<p>
It was time to celebrate with an order of Chicken Lo Mein and my widescreen TV.<p>Rob Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741955202727936194noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214458.post-4669735514568411452024-01-28T18:09:00.000-08:002024-01-28T18:09:15.009-08:00Beat the BandI knew I saved that fortune for a reason.<p>
Whenever I do one of my wonton-soup-and-movie nights, I like to get a stack of fortune cookies to munch on whilst I enjoy my flick.<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjhyphenhyphenOiliWhPxwXeuJaIaz2dRGxBwOKRtja1nbOhQ_WP4FjXhCX0OfCmwhyphenhyphenIjB591RPTGbEMJ1lOm1VFS345c9TS2vm_HkD5pECd0w92gIJPslq9rE3VtgxdxH__Ewjf5ZRRewE3YhVy0BrJdMuOhiv2ge1cSEMp3_qt9GylHlVWZgFpztOwo7x/s1000/51XLeTiETjL._AC_UF1000,1000_QL80_.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="796" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjhyphenhyphenOiliWhPxwXeuJaIaz2dRGxBwOKRtja1nbOhQ_WP4FjXhCX0OfCmwhyphenhyphenIjB591RPTGbEMJ1lOm1VFS345c9TS2vm_HkD5pECd0w92gIJPslq9rE3VtgxdxH__Ewjf5ZRRewE3YhVy0BrJdMuOhiv2ge1cSEMp3_qt9GylHlVWZgFpztOwo7x/s320/51XLeTiETjL._AC_UF1000,1000_QL80_.jpg"/></a></div>
I’ll readily admit that soup and fortune cookies don’t make for the healthiest meal plan, but I like to give myself a pass on the weekends.<p>
And I make sure to read every single fortune in the pile—both for entertainment as well as instruction because good advice can come from anywhere.<p>
The other day I found an old fortune on my kitchen table that read “we are taught by every person we meet.”<p>
The concept is not new, of course. I’ve seen a couple of variants on Instagram, including one attributed to John C. Maxwell that says, “each person we meet has the potential to teach us something.”<p>
The important word here is “potential” because we can’t learn a lesson unless we are willing to receive it.<p>
This can be quite challenging when we run across the seemingly endless supply of dopes, dickheads, liars and losers that pollute our planet.<p>
I’ve taken an interest in stoicism recently and there’s a quote from Marcus Aurelius that addresses this very issue.<p>
“When you wake up in the morning,” he said, “tell yourself: the people I deal with today will be meddling, ungrateful, arrogant, dishonest, jealous, and surly.”<p>
He goes on to say that “no one can implicate me in ugliness,” and that to feel anger at someone “is to turn you back on him.”<p>
Marcus Aurelius explores some noble ideas, although I think there comes a point when people will use you for a doormat if you let them.<p>
I don’t know who said, “do no harm, but take no shit,” but it’s got a nice ring to it.<p>
And this leads me in a roundabout way to the concept of bandwidth—not the internet connection kind, but the emotional variety.<p>
The stoics like to say “<i>Memento mori</i>”—"Remember you will die,” which may sound morbid, but it forces you to think about how much of your precious time and energy do you want to devote to bad times and bad people.<p>
<b><i>The Broken Clock</i></b><p>
It pains me to say this, but one of the greatest descriptions I’ve heard on bandwidth comes from Joe Rogan, the UFC commentator and podcaster who traffics in conspiracy theories and rightwing propaganda--which are pretty the same thing, come to think of it.<p>
Last month he was corrected on air after mocking Joe Biden for saying America lost the Revolutionary War because “we didn’t have enough airports.”<p>
One problem: Biden was quoting Donald Trump, and after being alerted to his outrageous mistake, Rogan responded by saying “oh, ok, so he fucked up.”<p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFvtH7va7NN0pJPwZxjjJqlPD-NZlXVU37ukuA1l9WzUN0Wr9sPDvX43JUwkwIo8zHbokYa4dBpe_r50IAp4DGGNnwugeaXctRtrBdAWl0hfAggGBr6haqlsUU1JEYTPliXFo65kcw9l3i-Ije8XimJZFRrnO1FVKyACqF8QNm-vNbgisJeX_N/s598/Brain-598x342.png" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: left; float: left;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="342" data-original-width="598" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFvtH7va7NN0pJPwZxjjJqlPD-NZlXVU37ukuA1l9WzUN0Wr9sPDvX43JUwkwIo8zHbokYa4dBpe_r50IAp4DGGNnwugeaXctRtrBdAWl0hfAggGBr6haqlsUU1JEYTPliXFo65kcw9l3i-Ije8XimJZFRrnO1FVKyACqF8QNm-vNbgisJeX_N/s320/Brain-598x342.png"/></a></div>
So, Biden is a braindead fossil, but Trump is merely confused. Of course<p>
And yet this same bloviating yin-yang had an incredibly insightful comment about emotional bandwidth.<p>
“I don't spend time wondering why I hate things or hating things or hating on someone or being jealous,” he <a href="https://www.youtube.com/shorts/G-iPQSLKTlc">said</a>. “You...have 100 units of bandwidth in your mind, so that means there's 100 units that you can spend on things you care about, or you could let your mind be occupied with some stupid fucking Twitter feud that you're in with some idiot you don't even know.”<p>
You can spend 30% of your mind bandwidth on this, Rogan said, “then you only have 70% for the things you love.”<p>
“Then maybe you're involved in some fucking relationship with someone who's an idiot,” he continued, “and you're arguing back and forth with them, well, there's another 30% that's gone now you got you have 40% left. You have 40% for the things you love instead of 100%.”<p>
Yes, indeed, so when I worry about the future or fume over the latest ass-clown to invade my personal space, I’m diverting my mind from the things that are really important.<p>
And I confess that every other week I come to this blog and talk about the latest concept, quote or technique I’ve discovered and how it’s going to completely change my life.<p>
I’m writing this at a rather difficult time. I’m allowing my shadow self to run wild with all sorts of anger and resentment. It seems that, once again, my subconscious mind heard all my lofty New Year’s resolutions and roared, “oh, hell, no!”<p>
I’m hoping this rage-fest is just a detour on my journey to be a better human being. And I’m going to add the bandwidth concept to my ever-growing list of mental health techniques.<p>
I never met Joe Rogan and I’d very much like to keep it that way, but I am grateful for this lesson he taught me about preserving my happiness.<p>
And now I’ve got this sudden urge for wonton soup.<p>
Rob Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741955202727936194noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214458.post-14615888885374335912024-01-21T12:47:00.000-08:002024-01-21T12:47:42.459-08:00Nuts to YouI had to ask.<p>
It’s cold in New York right now, cold as a bastard, to be honest, and car owners of a certain generation might be familiar with the expression “dead as Kelsey’s nuts.”<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV2wCq0daYofIOtsFZoh_wycp8Jv2-1OBobW3Ly_Y9zo9B81hCpXrD6j3Tm01mrBcpxbUrI-G640-OONbRuINLN8jtUED8QpxzMOxE0txFmAuerMsVZeHkEsvkRd1YrHFGaq6K25vnvY3JIENK617HBgPFljOzSsBtVwWeVQUmoUQ1c20-xCVZ/s450/846-09181916en_Masterfile.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV2wCq0daYofIOtsFZoh_wycp8Jv2-1OBobW3Ly_Y9zo9B81hCpXrD6j3Tm01mrBcpxbUrI-G640-OONbRuINLN8jtUED8QpxzMOxE0txFmAuerMsVZeHkEsvkRd1YrHFGaq6K25vnvY3JIENK617HBgPFljOzSsBtVwWeVQUmoUQ1c20-xCVZ/s320/846-09181916en_Masterfile.jpg"/></a></div>
I was speaking with my brother Saturday morning while walking face-first into a freezing wind and he reminded me how our father loved to use that colorful phrase, which means something is done for, kaput and out of commission.<p>
After speaking with my brother, I recalled how Dad had dropped that line on me one time in the Eighties after he’d gone out to start up my old Toyota Corolla, which had given up the ghost in our garage.<p>
“It’s as dead as Kelsey’s nuts,” he said upon walking into the kitchen.<p>
I was too angry and upset about my lifeless car to ask him where the hell he had gotten such a weird expression.<p>
This was one of many phrases my parents used to say that hark back to an earlier time, such as “another job well done by your Treasury men in action,” which my father liked to say, and which apparently came from an old TV show.<p>
And then there was “hotter than a two-dollar toaster,” a reference to old timey toasters that were dangerously hot because they were so cheap.<p>
If I recall correctly, the toaster line meant something was hot in a good way, like being on a hot streak.<p>
But what about Kelsey’s nuts? Who was this Kelsey guy? What happened to his nuts? And what does Mrs. Kelsey have to say about all this?<p>
To find out the answers to those first two burning questions, I googled on over to the internets and found that John Kelsey was indeed a real person who was big in the early days of the auto industry.<p>
<i><b>Tight, mean and hot<p></b></i>
Encouraged by car legend Henry Ford, he opened the Kelsey Wheel Company in 1910. He started off with wooden wheels and then moved into the wire-spoke and steel varieties.<p>
Although references to Kelsey’s nuts appeared in the 1930s, the line seemed to pick up steam in the 1950s, when people said “tighter than Kelsey’s nuts” to accuse someone of being stingy or mean.<p>
Another version was “as safe as Kelsey’s nuts,” meaning you had nothing to worry about.<p>
But it didn't end there.<p>
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One chat room contributor claimed the line was actually “deader than <i>Kelso’s</i> nuts,” referring to the champion racehorse.<p>
Most observers disagree with this version, though one commentator noted that Kelso had been gelded, which would certainly address the dead nuts issue rather succinctly.<p>
Then I came across a 2011 post from a blog called “<a href="https://onepocket.org/forum/index.php?threads/deader-than-kelsos-nuts.5860/">Still a Brooklyn Kid</a>”, which also investigated this issue, proving I'm not the only one obsessed with Kelsey.<p>
The post added another possibility to the mix in the form of song called “Hot Nuts,” which was recorded in 1933 by the Williams Washboard Band with Ted Tinsley.<p>
“<i>Kelsey's Nuts are sweetest, sweetest nuts in town</i>,” the chorus says. “<i>Kelsey's Nuts are neatest when toasted crisp and brown; some say they're best when cold, but I'll say they're not, so try a couple of Kelsey's Nuts and try 'em when they're hot!</i>"<p>
Apparently, the singer likes his nuts hotter than a $2 toaster.<p>
So, after all this I’m still not sure where “dead as Kelsey’s nuts” comes from, but I like it and I’m going to keep on using it because I want to keep my parents’ old-time lingo alive.<p>
And that’s another job well done by your Treasury men in action.<p>
Rob Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741955202727936194noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214458.post-26378812064534425492024-01-14T14:00:00.000-08:002024-01-14T14:00:50.755-08:00Community GuidelinesMy father had a virtual arsenal of biting one-liners he liked to employ when anyone got on his nerves.<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5QLABwpNFChNKrZFdFaRSO7Dq9QLL7D8p4mTdsH_XB8atphyphenhyphenVrAhzxej2-VyvRTcjMj018epdZEoSvOLmCbRtGiL5PCQOOUhXTbRNWZ_cJ91gqq6c3pzMtoCLh1uGnF8BFx4mcY3oWjv8e1gU1P83G1P6Jn61MTd-ejlHk3YMqVsSuEXm76iL/s400/127864a_t715.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="367" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5QLABwpNFChNKrZFdFaRSO7Dq9QLL7D8p4mTdsH_XB8atphyphenhyphenVrAhzxej2-VyvRTcjMj018epdZEoSvOLmCbRtGiL5PCQOOUhXTbRNWZ_cJ91gqq6c3pzMtoCLh1uGnF8BFx4mcY3oWjv8e1gU1P83G1P6Jn61MTd-ejlHk3YMqVsSuEXm76iL/s320/127864a_t715.jpg"/></a></div>
One of my favorites was “don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out,” which was his spirited way of ending a conversation.<p>
Yeah, it’s an old one that probably goes back to ancient times when humans emerged from caves and started living in houses that actually had doors.<p>
But I first heard it from my dad, so he’ll always be the originator as far as I’m concerned.<p>
And how appropriate it seems to invoke that little ditty now toward Blogger.com, the online content management system that hosts my blog, and some nameless dickwad who had a problem with one of my posts.<p>
I stumbled across the issue while writing up last week’s post, which was a tribute to my father on the anniversary of his death.<p>
That post refers to an earlier essay I wrote on January 7, 2007, the day my father died.<p>
I wanted to link to that earlier piece, only when I tried to click onto it, I got the following message:<p>
“This post may contain sensitive content,” it read. “In general, Google does not review, nor do we endorse the content of this or any blog. For more information about our content policies, please visit the Blogger Community Guidelines.”<p>
Readers—or potential readers—are then given a choice of either continuing on to the post or bailing.<p>
<i><b>Flagged for Review<p></b></i>
A short time later I received a robo-message from Blogger.com.<p>
“Your post titled ‘The Man in the Rearview Mirror’ was flagged to us for review,” the email said. “This post was put behind a warning for readers because it contains sensitive content.”<p>
Sensitive content? A tribute to my late father? Next year will mark the 20th anniversary of my blog and I’ve never encountered this problem before.<p>
I looked over original post to see how it could’ve possibly gotten someone’s knickers in a twist.<p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvIqvSdrdiCo5hRIshNEYEv-dVUZVg2Y4PUYqNz8BsTD9rzqkWg6B-e-t5IcJrvwRf9au-TT0EULboP3Kl_WsyyFlMK8Gr18o9L0ArkJ8IcVXW_K1-5sI-AZaJj4ivF0DvktliJ2GGMB3HvGedhABPIoOR_bBY7zLfsxKyc0rJSg8yMdVxY6O5/s527/1101031006_400.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: left; float: left;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="527" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvIqvSdrdiCo5hRIshNEYEv-dVUZVg2Y4PUYqNz8BsTD9rzqkWg6B-e-t5IcJrvwRf9au-TT0EULboP3Kl_WsyyFlMK8Gr18o9L0ArkJ8IcVXW_K1-5sI-AZaJj4ivF0DvktliJ2GGMB3HvGedhABPIoOR_bBY7zLfsxKyc0rJSg8yMdVxY6O5/s320/1101031006_400.jpg"/></a></div>
I had written about how my sister and I went to the hospital after learning of our father’s death.<p>
As I mentioned in last week’s post, this was during George Bush’s war in Iraq, an unqualified disaster that my father, a World War II veteran, vehemently opposed.<p>
And as I looked down on my father’s body, I felt this urge to salute.<p>
"He fought for his country," I said, "which is more than that cocksucker in the White House ever did!"<p>
So, is this the allegedly sensitive content—calling George Bush a cocksucker? One word from a 17-year-old post? And why is the Bogger bot writing to me now after all this time?<p>
Yeah, it’s an ugly word and some part of me wishes I hadn’t said it, but not because I might offend somebody, but because it doesn’t reflect well on me.<p>
Nevertheless, this was a very emotional time for my family and for the record, I stand by my use of the word. That’s what I said at that particular moment.<p>
<i><b>Under Fire<p></b></i>
My father risked his life for this country, while George Bush crashed planes for the Air National Guard and went nowhere near the Vietnam War.<p>
As president he exploited this country’s grief over the 9/11 attacks—and Americans’ ignorance--to lie us into the Iraq debacle and then pranced on the deck of an aircraft carrier in a uniform he had no business wearing to proclaim, “mission accomplished.”<p>
I think my colorful terminology was entirely justified.<p>
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And if you don’t believe me, just ask the families of the thousands of soldiers who were killed or crippled in that fiasco, or the thousands more of innocent Iraqis who lost their loved ones.<p>
I’m sure they’ll give you a load of sensitive content to chew on.<p>
There were no weapons of mass destruction, no correction to 9/11, and absolutely no accountability for Bush, Fox News and the rest of the lying scumbags who rammed that war down our throats.<p>
Today George Bush enjoys an elder statesman’s status—in some circles--and was touted as a saint for his wounded warrior paintings—even though he was the reason they were wounded in the first place.<p>
Perhaps some rightwing asshat complained about my post to Blogger.com in their never-ending quest to hijack history and suppress all opposition.<p>
The Blogger.com bot told me that if I’m interested in having the status of my post reviewed, “please update the content to adhere to Blogger's Community Guidelines.”<p>
“Update” obviously means changing what I wrote, which I categorially refuse to do, and I may have to find a new platform for my blog. So be it.<p>
In the meantime, people who want to read my old post will have to click through Blogger.com’s barrier to do it. You might have to do the same thing with this post, come to think of it.<p>
And if you have a problem with my description of George Bush, well, don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.<p>
Rob Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741955202727936194noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214458.post-22126384579429362212024-01-07T18:02:00.000-08:002024-01-07T18:02:06.411-08:00 The Seventh DayI’ve been looking all over my house today for my father’s prayer card.<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK4PURRZz11cjrPfrI0e6PDZ7n_Mz1y_wNKi9mRKvnS0fzHcnSVUXD_Tpxz1sj06hxhsRhDGFPlrcqy61WF3XU6C_5iYIbjRuSC_vQOjWtnxUrqP47OHdqPsNORr7s3m0HWaAUasW-k0PnXHUYcFblfQcTu6LMESMKBZcZuCJ-YaDFaJRJRp5H/s512/sos55bbq.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK4PURRZz11cjrPfrI0e6PDZ7n_Mz1y_wNKi9mRKvnS0fzHcnSVUXD_Tpxz1sj06hxhsRhDGFPlrcqy61WF3XU6C_5iYIbjRuSC_vQOjWtnxUrqP47OHdqPsNORr7s3m0HWaAUasW-k0PnXHUYcFblfQcTu6LMESMKBZcZuCJ-YaDFaJRJRp5H/s320/sos55bbq.jpg"/></a></div>
The card, which was given out at his wake, featured an image of St. Patrick on one side and a poem on the other.<p>
My mother’s prayer card had a portrait of St. Martin de Porres and for years I used to carry them both with me everywhere I went.<p>
It felt good to have them close to me, but I realized now that I haven’t seen St. Patrick in a while.<p>
Today is the 17th anniversary of my father’s death and I feel like reconnecting with him in some small way.<p>
My father had been hospitalized after falling and hitting his head a few weeks earlier. My sister and I saw him briefly in the intensive care unit and we were told that his condition was critical but stable.<p>
Early the next morning, my sister called me to say that he had died. It was five years after we’d lost our mother.<p>
“The new year is one week old and with the passing of Little Christmas on Saturday, he died right after the holidays officially ended,” I wrote in a <a href="https://thickblog.blogspot.com/2007/01/man-in-rearview-mirror.html">blog post</a> that day.<p>
<i><b>Army Life</b></i><p>
I look back at my posts from that time, recalling how my father used to call me “Boo-Boo” when I was a kid, and how he, an army veteran, had been buried next to our mother with full military honors.<p>
There were bad times, of course, every family has them. My father used to tell me that I have a short fuse—and he was quite right. But he was also one of the angriest people I ever met in my life.<p>
His temper could explode at any time and there were occasions when I had absolutely no idea why he was so furious.<p> <div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTLjnV7WupTmnjvtQ67kOye3_gz30JgV072Iwjj4TYmIzlGb0FYSZ8cNWnD4q3LbNaq949h0iVsD6RJq2rJhWgtV-jqjUCb-x2GSa_loqT1GwAoh8XSNYyNq-KrwnMP56kcuwAOqNCpBOBpSbLVnbuvp_7gxWOg1C2ZCpwvUVbj2p5inPTDY-S/s500/2015510_500_2023-10-03T13_54_02Z__28824.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: left; float: left;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTLjnV7WupTmnjvtQ67kOye3_gz30JgV072Iwjj4TYmIzlGb0FYSZ8cNWnD4q3LbNaq949h0iVsD6RJq2rJhWgtV-jqjUCb-x2GSa_loqT1GwAoh8XSNYyNq-KrwnMP56kcuwAOqNCpBOBpSbLVnbuvp_7gxWOg1C2ZCpwvUVbj2p5inPTDY-S/s320/2015510_500_2023-10-03T13_54_02Z__28824.jpg"/></a></div>
But then he had grown up during the Great Depression and fought in the Second World War, two of the most hideous events of the 20th Century.<p>
I used to wonder if my father had been traumatized by his time in the army, but honestly, how could anyone not be affected by the constant threat of death and the loss of so many close friends? War is trauma.<p>
And yet I loved to hear his war stories, even though he told me many times about the battles he'd fought in and the people he'd met.<p>
There was never any bravado or phony heroism. He freely admitted that he was afraid when the shooting started and artillery shells began blowing up around him.<p>
One of my earliest memories of my father is sitting on his shoulders at a rally for John F. Kennedy in Coney Island. The recollection so vague, so fragile, but the image of that seemingly endless crowd still has a place in my mind.<p>
As an adult, the old man and I got closer when I was miles away, first in Pennsylvania and then in Connecticut. He was supportive and encouraging, which wasn’t always the case when we were under the same roof.<p>
<i><b>A Different World<p></b></i><p>
So much has changed since that day in 2007. Back then we were in the middle of the Iraq War, an unqualified disaster foisted upon this country by the draft-dodging imbecile George W Bush.<p>
My father, who knew the horrors of combat all too well, was sickened by the obvious lies the administration was peddling.<p>
“I can’t believe my country is going to war,” he said.<p>
There were seven mass shootings in America in 2007, which is horrifying, of course, but it pales in comparison to last year, when we had a record 39 mass shootings in this country and five—yes, <i>five</i>—massing shootings in the U.S. in the first four fucking days of 2024.<p>
My father went to Europe to fight a dictator, and now we have Donald Trump, the indicted presidential candidate—and former president—who sparked an insurrection on January 6 and has promised that he will be “a dictator for a day” while threatening to arrest his political opponents and shutdown news organizations.<p>
Trump, who has said he is second only to Jesus, said the victims of a school shooting in Iowa “have to get over it.”<p>
The old man would be horrified at what has happened to America, where far too many people are eager to give up the freedom that he and so many others fought to protect.<p>
There is so much more I can say about my father, but I’ll keep wrap things up to say thanks, Dad, for all you did for us, I’m sorry we fought, and please say to Hi to Mom.<p>
Now I have to go find St. Patrick.<p>
Rob Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741955202727936194noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214458.post-72115705841287275572023-12-31T17:42:00.000-08:002023-12-31T17:42:11.850-08:00Renew YearIn retail, they call it “a soft opening.”<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUcL2FXV53DsrE_RglxBjhfC0mNP_kd0_Lpn9KwqyAKmBgLLVfF69NOj21JO5yq01_P4ekZLBtbbDCAHlVVRmZwN81eIXri4uricP477_eNnzg86AHjqI_qOzGJM0iZLiKEYbhMZvGKDbOy4cU5ugvgnBjIG-ZZV5eQFo9kG0_imQtwZYzC46t/s500/2-ad.webp" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="319" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUcL2FXV53DsrE_RglxBjhfC0mNP_kd0_Lpn9KwqyAKmBgLLVfF69NOj21JO5yq01_P4ekZLBtbbDCAHlVVRmZwN81eIXri4uricP477_eNnzg86AHjqI_qOzGJM0iZLiKEYbhMZvGKDbOy4cU5ugvgnBjIG-ZZV5eQFo9kG0_imQtwZYzC46t/s320/2-ad.webp"/></a></div>
New restaurants usually debut with a grand opening, as they announce their presence with all kinds of fanfare and hoopla.<p>
On the other hand, a soft opening involves working with a limited number of customers, so the owners have a chance to try out their menu on real people.<p>
I’ve taking that second approach for the New Year.<p>
Rather than waiting for the ball to come down in Times Square at midnight, I’ve been implementing—or trying to—some of my resolutions ahead of all the noise and confetti.<p>
I like this plan, but inner saboteur, as usual, is getting in the way of things.<p>
This morning I woke up with a bad case of the New Year’s heebie-jeebies, where I’m convinced that I’m not changing fast enough, and I go into emotional vapor lock.<p>
This usually starts in the first week of the year, but I guess my shadow self doesn’t feel like waiting.<p>
So, I’ve decided I’m going to ease into 2024. I’ll work on the stuff that needs fixing, but I’m not going to demand they happen all at once.<p>
Now that I’m officially a senior citizen, it does feel a bit foolish to vow that I will totally change and overhaul my life as soon as we cross over into January 1.<p>
But I’m not giving up. There are still many areas in my life that need improvement and New Year’s Day is as good a jumping off point as any.<p>
I already know what I have to do—emotionally, professionally and spiritually. I’ve made most of these vows in prior years with, oh, I don’t know…somewhat limited success?<p>
I’m renewing my earlier promises, rather inventing new ones. It’s like taking my car into the shop for an overhaul.<p>
<i><b>Hand to Hand<p></b></i>
In an effort to keep on the right path, I’ve taken to using my less-dominant hand—the left one—more often for such tasks as brushing my teeth, cutting up my food, pouring drinks and using the remote.<p>
I read somewhere that this kind of switch-hitting is good for your brain. This sounded pretty cool, but apparently that’s just chatter with no scientific evidence to back it up.<p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVvNyybX_azFAfXqlXA3xLSU4ICcHRqoumWrmlW6F4AERCxSTvOmTzfwENUaAFr82NqvLyNyNFO1rTJVA77WFY0Vgz8XQzD_ghlH2xB_UMtvy0D58UM7CxqZnxSvimwFTIkzXTiqza6NsG1c2ANrIbf9vXwF0In8KBO4INDYwkgjCgfgqc29lh/s720/MV5BYzY1NjE1MmEtZWZiNi00MDFjLWE2ZWEtZWJmOWE1Y2VlYmUwXkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyMjM2ODYwMQ@@._V1_.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: left; float: left;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="528" data-original-width="720" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVvNyybX_azFAfXqlXA3xLSU4ICcHRqoumWrmlW6F4AERCxSTvOmTzfwENUaAFr82NqvLyNyNFO1rTJVA77WFY0Vgz8XQzD_ghlH2xB_UMtvy0D58UM7CxqZnxSvimwFTIkzXTiqza6NsG1c2ANrIbf9vXwF0In8KBO4INDYwkgjCgfgqc29lh/s320/MV5BYzY1NjE1MmEtZWZiNi00MDFjLWE2ZWEtZWJmOWE1Y2VlYmUwXkEyXkFqcGdeQXVyMjM2ODYwMQ@@._V1_.jpg"/></a></div>
No matter. I like the idea of strengthening my weaker hand and this activity serves as physical reminder that my mind is under new management.<p>
If nothing else, this practice makes me focus on the task at hand, instead of bouncing my attention all over the place like a ping-pong ball.<p>
As far as a theme for the new year, I’m reaching back to my old shrink Henry, who would reach even further back during our sessions and quote Hillel the Elder.<p>
<i>“If I am not for myself, who is for me? And being for my own self, what am I? And if not now, when?”</i><p>
That last question is the big one.<p>
It has the urgency I need to make change happen, but without the insanity that I heap upon myself at every opportunity—which only guarantees failure. <p>
God knows how many times Henry dropped this line on me, but only now do I understand it’s importance.<p>
I was most likely subconsciously resisting Henry’s advice so I could stay in my precious comfort zone of despair. I’ve had a similar experience with my father’s words of wisdom, which I am only beginning to accept now.<p>
When will I finish my book, clean up my home, shoot my short film, get more friends and finally free myself of past injuries, insults and setbacks?<p>
I can’t give you am exact date, but I will raise my left hand and swear that I am going to really work on these projects and attitudes like I’ve never worked on them before.<p>
And then I’ll be ready for my grand opening.<p>
Rob Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741955202727936194noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214458.post-32944516963417537382023-12-24T17:21:00.000-08:002023-12-24T17:21:31.119-08:00A Moment of WonderSo, let’s talk about last Christmas.<p>
It’s the holidays once again and I’m thinking about a song and my state of mind from Christmases of long, long ago—or at least 12 months ago.<p>
Okay, first the tune.<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglqrFEAk6k7BpL2mYwQdkUWMguvyzpyq-9px40-fgjBefOnCDj2xQxpvhyJecHoARnZcoF3sXjBD6fhxeExc5SVA6XDxhI2jqAeTkkFLN_zRMikbNJziby-wPwPNwiXYC54z8DozRb7xeMzHfx-iGbbvzzcYJbFUBfb9Y5Ssg76gSVwpvOue0i/s317/Last_Christmas_by_Wham_original_1984_artwork_UK_variant.png" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglqrFEAk6k7BpL2mYwQdkUWMguvyzpyq-9px40-fgjBefOnCDj2xQxpvhyJecHoARnZcoF3sXjBD6fhxeExc5SVA6XDxhI2jqAeTkkFLN_zRMikbNJziby-wPwPNwiXYC54z8DozRb7xeMzHfx-iGbbvzzcYJbFUBfb9Y5Ssg76gSVwpvOue0i/s320/Last_Christmas_by_Wham_original_1984_artwork_UK_variant.png"/></a></div>
“<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E8gmARGvPlI">Last Christmas</a>” is a song by Wham! that was released on Dec. 3, 1984, back when Ronald Reagan was president, the average cost of a home was $148,000 and <i>Beverly Hills Cop</i> was the No .1 movie in America.<p>
The song spent five consecutive weeks at number two in the UK Singles Chart and it was held off from the top spot by Band Air’s “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” on which Wham!’s George Michael performed.<p>
Michael wrote “Last Christmas” a year earlier in his childhood bedroom while he and instrumentalist Andrew Ridgeley were visiting George's parents.<p>
He played Ridgeley the song’s introduction and chorus melody, which Ridgeley later called "a moment of wonder".<p>
It was releases as a double A-side via Epic Records with "Everything She Wants" in several European countries. Wham! donated all their royalties to relief efforts for the Ethiopian famine.<p>
“Last Christmas” topped the charts in Denmark, Germany, Ireland, Slovenia, and Sweden and peaked within the top ten of the charts in several countries including the U.S., Australia, and Canada.<p>
<b><i>Oh, By Golly!</i></b><p>
The song has been covered by many artists since its original release, including Whigfield, Crazy Frog, Billie Piper, Taylor Swift and Ariana Grande. I heard some version of the song last night while having dinner with my sister.<p>
But as I think about the song, I recall my last Christmas and how my spirits weren’t bright. In fact, they were non-existent. Even <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S6rZtIipew8">Crazy Frog</a> couldn't have cheered me up.<p>
“I just don’t have the usual enthusiasm, which is no way to feel about the most wonderful time of the year,” I <a href="https://thickblog.blogspot.com/2022/12/hats-off-to-christmas.html">wrote</a> last Dec. 25.<p>
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I never did figure out what was bugging me, why I had a soul of ice while the rest of the world was making merry. This most special day felt like any other and it bummed me out something fierce.<p>
Well, I am happy to report that I have reclaimed my Christmas spirit, or as much as geezer of my age and condition can have in this magical season.<p>
Yes, Virginia, there may not be a Santa Claus, but there are plenty of good times to be had with the people we love.<p>
We’ve got all the beautiful music, twinkling lights, decorated trees, and so many holiday movies that even the truly atrocious ones are entertaining in their own revolting way. (Though admittedly I’ve never seen <i>Santa Claus Conquers the Martians</i>.)<p>
Tonight, I will once again conduct my self-invented Christmas Eve tradition of lighting a candle in my window to guide the spirits of my parents and other family members to my home.<p>
I will give thanks for being here spend another Christmas with my loved ones and tomorrow I’ll head over to my sister’s house for a fabulous dinner.<p>
Of course, we all know that real life with all its misery, meanness and mayhem is just waiting to resume tormenting us the very minute the ho-ho-ho-ing comes to a halt.<p>
But until that time, let us enjoy our moments of wonder.<p>
Merry Christmas.<p>
Rob Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741955202727936194noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214458.post-44430729614607155482023-12-17T18:41:00.000-08:002023-12-17T18:41:50.477-08:00The Kitchen SinkTwo guys walk into a bar and one of them looks down to see he’s not wearing any pants.<p><p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDNUoJVfwjBXl9i-lqsAHy1_1x46Z8B4vYAdY-xnZcPYKh96tlRMZEaXpDCJ3_TxF9L0p-QIp-pY4-EyxKaYJiU4Y7FxCTE7KkjI4x99xs66REW4oPu9Aiy5FPNwBFCrnoQUuiuEvFyAYuiaZwk9gKE6yOHKH-w5HljtagU4B4qQ1V3J4_QsCk/s259/Plumbing+Stooge.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDNUoJVfwjBXl9i-lqsAHy1_1x46Z8B4vYAdY-xnZcPYKh96tlRMZEaXpDCJ3_TxF9L0p-QIp-pY4-EyxKaYJiU4Y7FxCTE7KkjI4x99xs66REW4oPu9Aiy5FPNwBFCrnoQUuiuEvFyAYuiaZwk9gKE6yOHKH-w5HljtagU4B4qQ1V3J4_QsCk/s320/Plumbing+Stooge.jpg"/></a></div>
This isn’t the start of joke, or a reminder that No Pants Day is observed on the first Friday in May--I'm sure you already knew that--but rather a scene from a nightmare that came hopping out of my hippocampus late last week.<p>
This is a story of fear, confusion, a runaway faucet, and the crankiest plumber in creation.<p>
The dream starts off with me riding around in a car with a guy I hadn’t seen in over a year through the streets of some cartoon version of New York.<p>
Somewhere along the way I spot an old-time police car with a bubble light and fins, prowling through the streets. But the vehicle was heavily armored in a strange way that defied reality—which dreams tend to do.<p>
We get to the bar and I’m wearing this bulky turtleneck sweater that’s weighing me down like a bearskin rug.<p>
Everything seemed to be okay until I happened to look south of the border and then—ay, caramba!---I was wearing only boxer shorts<p>
I know it’s pointless to look for logic in a dream, but nevertheless it irks me that I hadn’t noticed my lack of trousers during the ride over to the bar.<p>
I was mortified beyond description, of course, and I ran into the bathroom at one point to hide.<p>
When I finally emerged from the loo, I found my friend cheerfully chatting up other patrons while I stood isolated in the middle of crowd—and nobody seemed to notice my pants-less predicament.<p>
And that’s all I remember.<p>
I believe the genesis of this desperate delusion stems from an incident earlier in the day in the real world when I noticed my kitchen faucet sink was steadily leaking.<p>
I tried to tighten the handle, and then the floodgates were quite literally opened as an unstoppable stream of liquid hell came of surging out of the nozzle.<p>
I dove beneath the sink and discovered that the knob that's supposed to shut of the water was inoperable.<p>
<i><b>Water Torture<p></b></i>
Now I was really freaking. I asked my landlady to call a plumber, but her regular guy was out of town, so she called Roto-Rooter, which couldn’t get someone over until 2 pm.<p>
It’s amazing how loud a stream of water can become if it goes on for enough time. The endless droning echoed throughout my apartment and probably the whole building.<p>
Believe me when I tell you that it wasn’t easy to work under these conditions.<p>
When the plumber finally did show up, he looked at me like I was the village idiot for not turning the water off below the sink. Until he tried to do it himself.<p>
“You got a wrench?” he asked.<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGSX0iNaZ2t5Kgq7OkR3vhbBazL-GWJTioZkqBefU8dA6-xqHvYNHmimrTpF_x4Zupe8pp9f4GBBO81u9FpRmZelj9KBz0hP0mdtvX7m8x8IzOy9lFfS1R8OmGn2nNfc3KoAmlnVgPnVhjccX-IFxU8rrPOTlYOAQdf7u4LjwKIEbrSQHoDCw9/s564/9667c74459326b9bfe5f683fbb06ddb0.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: left; float: left;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="538" data-original-width="564" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGSX0iNaZ2t5Kgq7OkR3vhbBazL-GWJTioZkqBefU8dA6-xqHvYNHmimrTpF_x4Zupe8pp9f4GBBO81u9FpRmZelj9KBz0hP0mdtvX7m8x8IzOy9lFfS1R8OmGn2nNfc3KoAmlnVgPnVhjccX-IFxU8rrPOTlYOAQdf7u4LjwKIEbrSQHoDCw9/s320/9667c74459326b9bfe5f683fbb06ddb0.jpg"/></a></div>
I was bit taken aback. You’re the plumber, dude, what are you asking me for? <p>
I'm not a very handy guy and my toolkit is pretty much nonexistent, so I gave him something that was either a wrench or a nutcracker and let him go to town. No luck.<p>
The guy got to work and quickly discovered that the kitchen pipe was also leaking. He spent a good part of the afternoon making the necessary repairs and dropping f-bombs like he was getting paid per usage.<p>
He seemed to take the problem personally.<p>
I could understand if this were his own house he was working on, but when it’s your job shouldn’t a faulty sink be good news? The more work, the bigger your paycheck.<p>
But perhaps he was offended by the previous plumber’s pernicious lack of professionalism.<p>
In any case, it’s obvious that this daytime disaster sparked my midnight madness. Being undressed or naked in a dream is interpreted as a sign of vulnerability and helplessness. And I surely felt that way when my sink went south.<p>
However, I am still working on the meaning of that armored police car from yesteryear. Maybe the driver was coming a different dream.<p>
The plumber finally wrapped up and cleared out and I returned to something approaching a normal life. I'm happy to report that I’ve got new handles, new pipes, new gears and a brand new hose in my sink.<p>
And the last time I checked I was still wearing pants.<p>Rob Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741955202727936194noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214458.post-71110889157494077612023-12-10T18:44:00.000-08:002023-12-10T18:44:11.971-08:00Down to EarthWhen I was young, all I wanted to read was science fiction novels.<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLxRnIaBEJRgIEaeiJ_0phyphenhyphenFiLABuJ5GLkIvB0oKsfMBrWHPMjgebNCO_oDpXO0pVFOWaafNVqTSBYB7kzCYflr1PpJe0i5S2Z_UnYszyMDr89tKAYzZX659HVl6tRg5vOSmAMzTAEoiq4RL9xMRL2Pt9gxwa-7RdSG5lgKf4UM7D4ttPQFPWq/s1200/s-l1200.webp" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="947" data-original-width="1200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLxRnIaBEJRgIEaeiJ_0phyphenhyphenFiLABuJ5GLkIvB0oKsfMBrWHPMjgebNCO_oDpXO0pVFOWaafNVqTSBYB7kzCYflr1PpJe0i5S2Z_UnYszyMDr89tKAYzZX659HVl6tRg5vOSmAMzTAEoiq4RL9xMRL2Pt9gxwa-7RdSG5lgKf4UM7D4ttPQFPWq/s320/s-l1200.webp"/></a></div>
Every few weeks, I’d go to the Brooklyn Public Library on Ridge Boulevard and head straight for the science fiction section to find books by such writers as Ray Bradbury, Isaac Asimov, and Arthur C. Clarke.<p>
I am indebted to these authors because they—along with The Hardy Boys-helped me develop my love of reading.<p>
As I got older, my interest in science fiction gave way to crime stories with Raymond Chandler muscling out Robert Silverberg. I’ve since moved away from genre stories for the most part to more "serious" fiction.<p>
Obviously, our tastes change as we get older, but I do feel a little wistful sometimes when I think about the kid in his Catholic school uniform so eagerly looking for his next trip to space.<p>
I’ll still look at science fiction movies—if they’re good, but I’ve always had a bit trouble defining a good sci fi film.<p>
Recently, however, I watched two films by the same director that helped put the issue in perspective.<p>
Denis Villeneuve, an incredibly talented director—I highly recommend his 2013 film <i>Prisoners</i> with Huge Jackman—is the force behind <i>Dune</i> and <i>Arrival</i> and the movies underscore what I’m talking about.<p>
They’re both science fiction films, but they couldn’t be more different.<p>
<i>Dune</i> is based on Frank Herbert’s 1965 novel, which was the big science fiction book of the day. The story takes place in a feudal interstellar society where various noble houses control planetary fiefs.<p>
Although the book was wildly popular, I had a hard time with it and I never get around to finishing it, which was rare by in those days. Someday I’d like to give it another try.<p>
David Lynch did the first film adaption in 1984 and it was not well-received by fans of the book or moviegoers who couldn’t make head nor tail out of the story. <p>
There was a miniseries in 2000 and most recently, Villeneuve’s 2021 movie, which I recently watched on Amazon Prime.<p>
<i><b>Speaking my Language</b></i><p>
Visually, the film is stunning. Villeneuve just can’t make a bad-looking film and he did a fabulous job of bringing this fantasy world to live.<p>
On the emotional side, however, it left me cold. I never got into the drama, never felt anything, and spent most of the film enjoying the images and little else.<p>
Arrival was a completely different experience. Released in 2016, it tells the story of a linguist who works with the military to communicate with alien lifeforms after 12 mysterious spacecraft appear around the world.<p>
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The film stars Amy Adams, Jeremy Renner and Forest Whitaker, and to be honest, I wasn’t particularly interested in watching it until I learned that it had been directed Villeneuve. And even then, I wasn’t expecting much.<p>
Boy, did I get did a surprise. This is a science fiction film, all right, but it uses elements like aliens and spaceships and time shifts to tell a very human story.<p>
The film is based on the novella “Story of Your Life” by Ted Chiang and it is light years from any “space opera” with ray guns and hideous monsters.<p>
There's no Wookies or droids or Obi Wan Kenobis here. Just real people living through a fantastic situation.<p>
Amy Adams plays the linguist, whom we see raising and ultimately losing a daughter.<p>
I’m reluctant to say much more out of fear of ruining the story, but I can say that it’s an excellent film—and not just in the science fiction genre.<p>
I look at that young man in the library searching through the science fiction titles trying to find the one that will make his imagination soar. I wonder if he would like <i>Arrival</i> if he saw it.<p>
Maybe not at the first viewing. But give him time and I’m sure he’ll come around.<p>
Rob Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741955202727936194noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214458.post-67545495302482183582023-12-03T13:32:00.000-08:002023-12-03T13:32:39.051-08:00Slap DanceIt looks like Lon Chaney was ahead of his time.<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_BztpO4DMFaa9pS0_5Wyb0G0PPTiNC1S2IOms9OyXvuUSH1Z_MaQ_-PSjUqEVgXZGC3tyAHWOUhcYww-5kPc-tGXA2iT3Iwg6pDCMfpSVDJqGo_p3Rno9qSKKQ2-tw60qiGbqzeX2n0OrggJzCwy9z05c83WZ_6mpXXBNO6KEphw6K1IsWqZx/s1200/5971469de6a615006b415046b50b575702-gong-yoo-squid-game-slap.1x.rsocial.w1200.webp" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="1200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_BztpO4DMFaa9pS0_5Wyb0G0PPTiNC1S2IOms9OyXvuUSH1Z_MaQ_-PSjUqEVgXZGC3tyAHWOUhcYww-5kPc-tGXA2iT3Iwg6pDCMfpSVDJqGo_p3Rno9qSKKQ2-tw60qiGbqzeX2n0OrggJzCwy9z05c83WZ_6mpXXBNO6KEphw6K1IsWqZx/s320/5971469de6a615006b415046b50b575702-gong-yoo-squid-game-slap.1x.rsocial.w1200.webp"/></a></div>
Several years ago, I went to Prospect Park to see an outdoor screening of a Lon Chaney movie called “<a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0014972/?ref_=nv_sr_srsg_0_tt_8_nm_0_q_he%2520who%2520gets">He Who Gets Slapped</a>.”<p>
The 1924 silent film tells the rather bizarre story a man who is so shattered by his wife’s betrayal that he becomes a circus clown whose act consists solely of being slapped and abused by 60 of his floppy-shoed co-workers.<p>
It’s supposed to be a classic, but it was late, I was hungry, and I didn’t much feel like sitting through this battered Bozo story. So, I bailed.<p>
I had pretty forgotten the movie entirely until Friday when I caught some footage on YouTube of something called Power Slap.<p>
For those of you who have never heard of it, well, first of all, consider yourself lucky.<p>
Power Slap is a…sport?...freak show?...where two competitors face each other and, after a coin toss to decide who goes first, one of them hauls off and slaps the other one right across the face.<p>
Then it’s the other person’s turn to lay down the smack—assuming they haven't been bitch-slapped into oblivion.<p>
Those being slapped may not flinch, raise their shoulder or tuck in their chins. They just stand there and take it.<p>
And if that doesn't give you a Catholic school flashback, nothing will.<p>
I used to be a big fan of combat sports--boxing, kickboxing, and, later on, mixed martial arts. But now that I'm older, and perhaps a little bit smarter, I don't particularly enojoy watching young people giving each other brain damage while a stadium full of wannabe tough guy ghouls cheers them on.<p>
But at least in these sports, the combatants defend themselves with blocking, ducking, slipping and footwork. The basic lesson of boxing is to hit without getting hit.<p>
Power Slap, on the other hand--yeah, I said it--is just full-on abuse.<p>
The only skill—if you want to call it that—is the ability to absorb extreme punishment and having enough of your marbles intact to return the favor.<p>
Gosh, someone should make a movie about this. Oh, wait…<p>
I hate to be the old geezer in the room who starts every other sentence with “Back in my day…” and ends up saying something about the world going to hell in a handbasket, but when I look at something like this I’m not sure what else to say.<p>
I don’t doubt the participants’ courage or toughness. Just their sanity. And the ability to withstand pain in the moment doesn't matter much in the long term. <p>
<i><b>Talk to the hand<p></b></i>
In fact, it probably makes things worse since people who ignore the agony tend to increase the injury. You keep on telling yourself you can take it until the day comes when you can't rememeber where you live.<p>
Power Slap is owned by Dana White, the Trump-loving CEO of the UFC, which isn't terribly surpring.<p>
There was an event scheduled in January but it was delayed a week after White was recorded slapping his wife at a New Year’s Eve party.<p>
Yes, exactly.<p>
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Greek neurologist Nikolas Evangelou called the show a "recipe for disaster" due to how "impact to the head, from an angle, can cause rotational forces on the brain", leading to "hopefully temporary, but sometimes permanent disruption to brain function" and "even more serious complications".<p>
Boxer and WBC champion, Ryan Garcia, wrote "Power slap is a horrible idea and it needs to be stopped."<p>
For their part, the show producers said, "We spend the money to make sure we have two healthy people in there, proper medical attention during and after the fight. These are the things we need to educate people on, just like we needed to educate people on mixed martial arts."<p>
And the always eloquent Dana White declared "If you don't fucking like it, don't watch it."<p>
There are other slap fighting events, with competitions such as <a href="https://www.buzzfeednews.com/article/fjollaarifi/health-risks-slap-fighting">the PunchDown gala</a> in Poland that ended up with the death of a fighter.<p>
Slap fighting could fizzle out and end up being a trivia question in a few years and writing about it probably gives this lunacy more attention than it deserves.
But the fact that it exists in the first place is disturbing. Part of me is wondering what's next after this, but, honestly, I'd rather not know.<p>
I did a little searching and I found that "He Who Gets Slapped" has been posted on YouTube, so I can watch it anytime I get the urge.<p>
I doubt if that will be anytime soon.<p>Rob Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741955202727936194noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214458.post-77000751726664161392023-11-26T14:34:00.000-08:002023-11-26T14:34:59.376-08:00Wonderful StatesAnnemarie Wiesner should be alive today.<p>
She should have celebrated Thanksgiving with her family like so many of us did on Thursday and she should be looking forward to the holidays and the start of a new year.<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnbiL3dMUMzoxDQTnOw6KT2pMwUJcKe_dnZNuO-R3Kwe28UEkI__CU59pTai1Ur9zRofLiMgbbxxMXrYJK3MfIKNjDzn4L5V2oIO0o0UlvAhdw89fDS9C1Zz6u2RNthOKEwx4fwE3OrSPB3n49WzShQ2sAKuLkA6rb4FkOhUP-vc718wWywUjg/s1000/Buy-emergency-vehicle-lights-online.jpg.webp" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="1000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnbiL3dMUMzoxDQTnOw6KT2pMwUJcKe_dnZNuO-R3Kwe28UEkI__CU59pTai1Ur9zRofLiMgbbxxMXrYJK3MfIKNjDzn4L5V2oIO0o0UlvAhdw89fDS9C1Zz6u2RNthOKEwx4fwE3OrSPB3n49WzShQ2sAKuLkA6rb4FkOhUP-vc718wWywUjg/s320/Buy-emergency-vehicle-lights-online.jpg.webp"/></a></div>
But that’s not going to happen.<p>
Annemarie Wiesner, 72, was struck and killed by a hit-and-run driver on Nov. 16 as she was crossing the street with a shopping cart. She was pronounced dead at the scene.<p>
The accident happened at Marine Avenue and 96th Street, which is a short distance from me and just a block away from my sister’s house.<p>
She was one of three people killed by hit and run drivers in New York City in a 24-hour period.<p>
Local news reports noted how Marine Avenue goes on for several blocks without traffic lights, speed bumps, stop signs or anything else to slow down the maniacs that tear through this neighborhood like characters straight out of “Mad Max.”<p>
I can hear them at night on the Belt Parkway, along Shore Road and other streets in this neighborhood and I often think “one of these days somebody is going to get killed.” <p>
I never knew Annmarie Wiesner, but after reading about her online I so dearly wish I had.<p>
An immigrant from Switzerland, she moved here in the 1980s and studied at the New England Conservatory of Music.<p>
Her LinkedIn page describes her as an “independent music professional” and her experience includes “violinist, singer, composer and improvisor.”<p>
I found one friend online who talked about traveling to California with her several years ago to perform.<p>
“I always wanted to play violin from when I was a baby,” Wiesner said in a 2012 interview with <a href="https://www.timeout.com/newyork/things-to-do/public-eye-anne-marie-wiesner-60">Timeout New York</a>. “I was in Switzerland, and I went to the Conservatory in Zurich. I really liked to improvise, but in those days, they didn’t let you. The Conservatory found out I was improvising during a performance and almost kicked me out.”<p>
When asked about her age, Wiesner said “whenever I play, I feel like I’m getting younger.”<p>
“Also, I do dance meditation,” she said. “You can go into very wonderful states that way.”<p>
Wiesner told Time Out that she had a band called “AW Flextet, because it’s flexible in size, style and media.”<p>
“I’m also making music for a DVD of a technique called Jin Shin Jyutsu, a healing practice that’s older than acupuncture,” she said.<p>
<i><b>Frequencies and Vibrations</b></i><p>
My aunt first told me Jin Shin Jyustu several years ago, and even though I have only limited experience with the practice, I can attest to its effectiveness.<p>
“The whole world is just frequencies and vibrations, so when we use those better, we can improve our quality of life,” Wiesner said in the interview. “This man did research where he photographed molecules of water after he said something nice to them or played nice music. Or he would say something ugly or play some bad-vibration music.”<p>
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“The good-vibration water molecules looked totally different from the bad-vibration ones,” she said.<p>
And now this talented, brilliant woman, this grandmother, is gone, her life ended so brutally.<p>
What makes this even worse is that her killer has, so far, escaped punishment.<p>
One of Annmarie Wiesner’s friends told CBS News that she hopes the driver turns himself in, but I’m not holding out much hope for that to happen.<p>
Anyone capable of running down an elderly woman without stopping probably doesn’t do much in the way of soul-searching.<p>
When I think about this woman, I am reminded of the line from Harper Lee’s <i>To Kill a Mocking Bird</i>, which tells us that “mockingbirds don’t do one thing but make music for us to enjoy.”<p>
“They don’t eat up people’s gardens, don’t nest in corncribs, they don’t do one thing but sing their hearts out for us,” one character says. “That’s why it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.”<p>
Annmarie Wiesner’s death is a sin and I feel cheated for not knowing when she was in this world. I’m furious that her life was so violently cut short.<p>
And I’m also fearful, to be honest. I worry about my loved ones and myself as we go out in this world where life doesn’t seem to be worth a damn thing.<p>
But we have to keep making music, keep creating beautiful frequencies and vibrations.<p>
Maybe someday we’ll get it right.<p>
Rob Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741955202727936194noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214458.post-62867838083689288932023-11-19T16:10:00.000-08:002023-11-19T16:10:18.665-08:00Recovery RoadWe don’t need Sherlock Holmes to figure this one.<p>
Being a good Catholic boy, I live to feel guilty, and in the past few days as I climb out of the Covid abyss, I am getting those familiar stirrings once again.<p>
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<i>You should be working on your novel. You should clean up this apartment, it’s a hellhole. You should be eating better</i>.<p>
There’s nothing like guilt to let you know you’re healing.<p>
When I’m sick, I don’t give a damn about writing or cleaning or reading or healthy eating, or any of the other various vows I have made to myself over the years. And guilt is nowhere to be seen.<p>
But now, I’ve finished my first week of work since coming back from L.A., I’m starting to feel a little stronger, and, thus, thoroughly ashamed of my inaction.<p>
Yes, I’ve been watching far too much TV. My living couch has permanent dent in the cushion where I’ve parked my keester for far too many days. But my head has been too fried for reading.<p>
I’ve been especially enjoying the old Sherlock Holmes movies with Basil Rathbone as the legendary detective, and Nigel Bruce, as the massively dimwitted Dr. Watson, which are available on YouTube with limited but annoying commercial interruption.<p>
I used to watch these films with my family when I was kid so there’s tons of nostalgia here.<p>
I watched “The Scarlet Claw,” which was about a series of murders in rural Canada, “Sherlock Holmes in Washington,” where our hero took on spies in the nation’s capital, and “Pursuit to Algiers,” which, for the most part, takes place on an ocean liner.<p>
Rathbone and Bruce did a total of 14 films between 1939 and 1946. They were corny, low budget, and I absolutely loved them.<p>
But they’re only an hour or so long and when they’re over I return to my old cranky self.<p>
<i><b>Elementary, my dear Watson…<p></b></i>
This is hardly news to anyone who knows me, but today I had a bad experience at my local grocery store that highlighted my anger management issues.<p>
Now, not to make excuses, (yeah, <i>right</i>) but I was contending with a couple of challenges. In addition to trying to bounce back from Covid, one of my hearing aids decided to crap out on me this morning. (Notice how I take this personally.)<p>
Fixing this problem promised to be expensive and time-consuming, since the hearing aid people I work with are in Manhattan and replacement parts are costly.<p>
And naturally this just had to happen at the start of Thanksgiving Week.<p>
I staggered around the supermarket boiling inside. Oh, great, I thought, more money down the toilet, to join the doctor bills, and the travel expenses—which $1,000 higher than I had bargained for—and every else coming my way.<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUlLVD4iNIB9Vvn7G32SrbSyUA77r-i6__4ytRv23hvaqfnhKPFZsVJiyBSgc-ZInj2-AiBQ27Z5BAUMl7-jpOad37FsyuVK32Sb8yklvcXUtir0ZFFQjfidOa-g_Ikpdr1UlHWllMiB9s5nuw4X7hVF3g689aBGafL7gcAm9Ax22qQADMB8jD/s1258/106635628_2405779683048018_4129925927167746096_n.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: left; float: left;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="1258" data-original-width="1125" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUlLVD4iNIB9Vvn7G32SrbSyUA77r-i6__4ytRv23hvaqfnhKPFZsVJiyBSgc-ZInj2-AiBQ27Z5BAUMl7-jpOad37FsyuVK32Sb8yklvcXUtir0ZFFQjfidOa-g_Ikpdr1UlHWllMiB9s5nuw4X7hVF3g689aBGafL7gcAm9Ax22qQADMB8jD/s320/106635628_2405779683048018_4129925927167746096_n.jpg"/></a></div>
Hey, I whined, how about somebody steps up and gives me money instead of raiding my wallet?<p>
Yes, I was in full self-pity mode, gorging myself on endorphins, which like any other drug feels good for a short time—until you crash.<p>
And it got worse when it was time to ring up my stuff. I struggled through the crowds and did battle with an automatic checkout machine that seemed to be lying in wait for me.<p>
Insane, of course, but I didn’t want anything to do with logic as I bugged a young employee twice to help me ring up my goods.<p>
Now brace yourself for a shock, but there was nothing wrong with this machine. It hadn’t rung up my order because I neglected to insert my credit card.<p>
The people in the store weren’t in my way. I was the obstruction—me and my 20-megaton attitude.<p>
When I got home, I decided to fiddle with the hearing aids one more time. I switched the batteries and, using my vast powers of deduction, I determined that one of them was dead.<p>
Once I replaced it, I was back to stereo hearing again.<p>
Of course, I’m relieved that I’ve been spared all that effort and expense. But I could’ve saved myself a lot of misery if I had tried this several hours earlier.<p>
Okay, so every journey has its rough spots. You get lost, you find your way, and you get back on the road.<p>
Happy Thanksgiving.<p>
Rob Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741955202727936194noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214458.post-36367516117347170422023-11-12T15:30:00.000-08:002023-11-12T15:30:04.869-08:00Refried ConfusionI staggered into the lobby of the Glendale Express Hotel with a heartful of misery and Dr. John on the sound system.<p>
It took me a few seconds to recognize the 1973 hit "<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HT4RainY-lY">Right Place, Wrong Time</a>" and a few more days to realize that the song perfectly described my disasterous visit to Los Angeles.<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilw-WtxpATvELHhqIyWgPFAr2AFYvsPJETaS6qSp2WvG4WoC9RmwwaYAcx0OMPtbk7DChzARrvafWFM_2EG2fhx-krrMFkykHsLgvkhwsQtzjdkI2TzXsFBJpHvFHsAW92ci2Ha-dHhe9fRv1OMiDfMJWsBCnrsiuyUXLTYy_eEix1UEz479Kf/s700/2912.webp" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="458" data-original-width="700" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilw-WtxpATvELHhqIyWgPFAr2AFYvsPJETaS6qSp2WvG4WoC9RmwwaYAcx0OMPtbk7DChzARrvafWFM_2EG2fhx-krrMFkykHsLgvkhwsQtzjdkI2TzXsFBJpHvFHsAW92ci2Ha-dHhe9fRv1OMiDfMJWsBCnrsiuyUXLTYy_eEix1UEz479Kf/s320/2912.webp"/></a></div>
I had been staying with my Uncle Joe and his wife for what was supposed to be a 10-day visit, but I was forced to scrub those plans and evacuate his home when what I thought was a sinfus infection turned out to be Covid-19.<p>
Yes, after dodging this dreadful disease since 2020, the coronavirus finally caught up with me in sunny California.<p>
I was feeling fine when I left--I'd never visit my family if I were sick, even with the common cold.<p>
I met up with my West Coast cousins, I zoomed into my writing class, and I was all set to do some touristy stuff. I was feeling so good--except for a slightly scratchy throat which started on my fourth day.<p>
The TV weather people said this wasn't unusual since the humidity was so low due to the Santa Ana winds. But then the coughing started and got worse and finally on Thursday I decided to take a covid test--just to rule it out.<p>
Yeah, right.<p>
I was shocked when I saw the results of the home test. I was in total denial and I walked over to a local outpatient place for a second opinion, convinced I couldn't possibly have Covid.<p>
I had done everything right: I was up to date on my booster shots, I was still wearing masks in crowded areas. How could I have Covid?<p>
But the clinic results were equally dismal. And the doctor giving me the bad news was taking no chances as she wore a mask and a faceshield.<p>
"It's better to get this now than three years ago," she said.<p>
Yeah, there's that, but I had to worry about infecting my 95-year-old uncle, his wife, my cousins and they're kids.<p>
When I went to the drug store to pick up my prescription, the woman behind the counter said I had to leave because they didn't want the pharmacists getting infected.<p>
They were all set to deliver my meds, but then my order was ready sooner than expected, so I was able to take it myself.<p>
<i><b>Brain Salad Surgery<p></b></i>
As I turned to leave, the woman came out of her booth to disinfect the counter area where I had standing.<p>
I realize this was necessary, and I would've done the same thing myself, but I kind of wish she had waited until I left the building.<p>
Staying with my uncle was out of the question, of course, so I bailed to the hotel in Glendale, where I locked myself in my room and watched cable TV, which is what I do most weekends, only now I was paying a 150 bucks a night for the privilege.<p>
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Instead of meeting friends and relatives and seeing the sights, I was slipping, dodging, sneaking, creeping, hiding out down the street.<p>
I tried to find something positive out of this experience, applying Tony Robbins' question "What's great about this problem?" but I was coming up dry.<p>
It's good to be optimistic, but pretending you're happy when you're not is bad for your brain.<p>
I guess on some level I just thought I would never get Covid, even though I know many people who have been infected. And my cousin in Arizona got Covid last year while vacationing in Ireland, which really sucks.<p>
I was in Ireland last year with my niece and my sister and I thank God none of us got sick during that trip.<p>
My auntie and my siblings called me several times to buck up my spirits, for which I am very thankful. And all my California people are okay, so at least I didn't get them sick.<p>
But my vacation was wrecked and now I've got to go back to work even though I feel awful. I had a fever and heavy congestion Saturday night, a sign of Covid Rebound, which can happen to people who take Paxlovid, like yours truly.<p>
Going to California was a good idea, but like Dr. John says, I was in the right place, but it must've been the wrong time.<p>Rob Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741955202727936194noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214458.post-49102913176777415132023-10-22T17:19:00.000-07:002023-10-22T17:19:24.551-07:00Get Me RewriteI woke up this morning some time before dawn convinced that I had lost my job at the Associated Press.<p>
I had completely bungled an assignment, a fact that not one, but two, editors drilled through my skull in a pair of royal reamings that made me feel like I was back in Catholic school.<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCafohLYu2z9dJ1ymD9j-Hd3XPkluW4zd90yI8suFxKn0XNTCSx3ct03zezU_pW_cTAK2i6fI9FD0PF4uLgOSYcCGqGBt6GxndhRl3raLUF2On9tro7jk0LTBnWm2_XqcejXBF_yEIETEjwoNQyMjpCgji9O5x1fHsN_d9UM2oT237i0ROlhd8/s1024/old-time-reporter-taking-call-1024x788.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="788" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCafohLYu2z9dJ1ymD9j-Hd3XPkluW4zd90yI8suFxKn0XNTCSx3ct03zezU_pW_cTAK2i6fI9FD0PF4uLgOSYcCGqGBt6GxndhRl3raLUF2On9tro7jk0LTBnWm2_XqcejXBF_yEIETEjwoNQyMjpCgji9O5x1fHsN_d9UM2oT237i0ROlhd8/s320/old-time-reporter-taking-call-1024x788.jpg"/></a></div>
I lay there in the dark wondering how I had destroyed my only chance to work with this prestigious news organization and if there was any possible way to undo this disaster.<p>
Gradually I calmed down. I became more aware of my surroundings, and I suddenly came to a startling conclusion.<p>
I don’t work for the Associated Press.<p>
I have never worked for this company. I haven’t applied for a job there since the early 2000s, when I Amtraked up to Albany to meet with the bureau chiefs and discuss a position that sounded more like SWAT than AP.<p>
They described a monstrous workload that involved racing to all corners of Upstate New York anytime day or night to cover every kind of catastrophe.<p>
Back then I was convinced I was too old for the job. Now I exhausted just thinking about that train ride.<p>
No, this AP gig had nothing to do with reality. It was just me having yet another one of my patented, screaming, four-alarm bat-crap crazy nightmares.<p>
And this was the second hideous head trip to come roaring out of subconscious mind in three days. What gives?<p>
The first bad dream involved a childhood friend I had not seen or spoken to in ages who had just been told she had Covid and would have to cancel her plans for Christmas.<p>
<b>Bulldog edition<p></b>
My friend began to sob uncontrollably, as if she lost a loved one. It was terrible and I’m extremely glad that it never actually happened.<p>
A short time later I was standing in a new apartment that was far too small for me, listening to my friend’s parents—who passed away years ago—having a terrible argument.<p>
Okay, let's see if we can figure this out.<p>
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I suspect a big factor in this sleepy time <i>sturm und drang</i> is related to my upcoming trip to Los Angeles to visit my uncle and his wife. I tend to get twisted about long trips in general and long trips on airplanes really crank up the cuckoo.<p>
I’m also concerned—hypochondriacal--about getting sick, so clearly my childhood friend is a stand-in for me and my fears.<p>
The battling couple could be connected to a manuscript I’m working that includes a similar scene. I’m just not sure why my friend cropped up as my avatar.<p>
As for the Associated Press, that could have something to do with my current job. I filled in a colleague on the early shift last Friday and I’ll be doing it again this week, one day take before I take off.<p>
Things happen very fast at this time of the day, but that kind of pressure can be exhilarating if you play it right.<p>
And there’s also a bit of the imposter syndrome going on, where you doubt your skills and abilities and live in chronic dread that you’ll be exposed as a fraud, a fake and a loser.<p>
This affliction can creep into your mind like a ninja and hack your self-esteem to pieces.<p>
I don’t have much in the way of plans yet for my L.A. trip, other than seeing some of my West Coast family and friends. I also intend to catch up on my sleep.<p>
And if the AP calls while I’m gone, tell them I don’t want the job.<p>
Rob Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741955202727936194noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214458.post-36407611291850231102023-10-15T13:53:00.000-07:002023-10-15T13:53:49.532-07:00Funny you should askWhen something goes wrong, self-help coach Tony Robbins advises people to ask themselves a simple question.<p>
What’s great about this problem?<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlzjSlyoX13du9jGmVvgByxtRZDN4k31usAxlCBgyZQCP9rF5PaxCMY4IyeqfqWnmkClRperbbx1SCy0Ch1NU7TMzwXbvzByD_ZFErNyG-rSOSBrt53MmKWIpsgQcREZ-_KZoN4NK8CkCSmhnflwNu9U76tP8GJF91PYxeOUIN37GU6ijcqgtg/s1000/ok.webp" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlzjSlyoX13du9jGmVvgByxtRZDN4k31usAxlCBgyZQCP9rF5PaxCMY4IyeqfqWnmkClRperbbx1SCy0Ch1NU7TMzwXbvzByD_ZFErNyG-rSOSBrt53MmKWIpsgQcREZ-_KZoN4NK8CkCSmhnflwNu9U76tP8GJF91PYxeOUIN37GU6ijcqgtg/s320/ok.webp"/></a></div>
Yes, it sounds counterintuitive and probably a bit corny, but having tried this method myself, I can attest to its effectiveness.<p>
I’ve found that asking myself this question is an improvement over my usual response to challenges, which is to throw up my hands in despair, wail that life sucks, all is lost, and demand to know why does this always happen to me?<p>
But even though I have a fourth-degree black belt in self-pity, I’ve been trying to change my ways.<p>
I finally got around to asking myself that question on Saturday as I started feeling better from this hideous cold that’s been dragging me down for the last week.<p>
I was sitting on my couch, merrily feeding my internet addiction when I came across a meme about Christopher Nolan, the director of Oppenheimer, Dunkirk and the Batman series with Christian Bale.<p>
The meme claimed that Nolan doesn’t have a smart phone, which I didn’t think was true or even humanly possible.<p>
Well, it turns out that this tidbit was true.<p>
“I'm easily distractible so I don't really want to have access to the internet every time when I'm bored,” he told People magazine. “If I’m generating my material and writing my own scripts, being on a smartphone all day wouldn’t be very useful for me.”<p>
What impressed me about this attitude was that Nolan, who uses a flip phone, freely admits that he is distracted easily, something that I know in my heart is true of me, but I've refused to admit.<p>
<i><b>‘No sense of self’<p></b></i>
That afternoon I watched Bill Maher’s latest New Rules segment, which addressed the same issue.<p>
I have grown to thoroughly dislike Maher over the last few years, but he did make a good point when he talked about the danger of isolation and loneliness and it’s far too easy to isolate with all of today’s various devices.<p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidTyEeXtLEjv-mioL9ZZMm-Eh2vSMsMBZI7N34bPaqAfUQa_uhumoe3Gv4NUO-5M6OVnopTUA_kTEPUyRdKFDXdf71zhCupe6YVEdFrQWIntRnhPoXmd2LbCFhdCfPLBjZ4Gp97sqpVAyYT0u5awRSQ2Ys8tqfZ0CCCKtR73ArpCCpyjSgBQXW/s900/robert-oppenheimer-standing-bettmann.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: left; float: left;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="637" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidTyEeXtLEjv-mioL9ZZMm-Eh2vSMsMBZI7N34bPaqAfUQa_uhumoe3Gv4NUO-5M6OVnopTUA_kTEPUyRdKFDXdf71zhCupe6YVEdFrQWIntRnhPoXmd2LbCFhdCfPLBjZ4Gp97sqpVAyYT0u5awRSQ2Ys8tqfZ0CCCKtR73ArpCCpyjSgBQXW/s320/robert-oppenheimer-standing-bettmann.jpg"/></a></div>
“Has anything been more misnamed than social media?” he asked, noting how Facebook, Twitter and God knows what else is dragging us away from real contact with people in favor of likes and tweets.<p>
Of course, he went on to irritate me when he talked about the “overreaction” to the Covid pandemic, conveniently neglecting to mention the nearly 7 million deaths worldwide and how New York City was dotted with portable morgues-- or Body Collection Points—because the regular facilities were stacked with corpses.<p>
No matter, I can still extract a lesson from his bloviating and that’s to cut down on the phone. I can finally admit that I, too, am easily distracted.<p>
Of course, this is nothing new to my auntie, who is far more intelligent than Bill Maher and way ahead of him in her disdain for social media. She once declared that “people today have selfies, but no sense of self.”<p>
That line was so good I posted it on Facebook, and I got a ton of likes.<p>
Getting sick sucks, but when I ask myself what’s great about this problem, I can say it does force me to slow down and take a look at my life.<p>
I can see that less scrolling and more reading and writing are in order here.
On Saturday, I was watching a documentary on TV. It was 90 minutes, and I went a whole hour before picking up the phone.<p>
That may not be much, but I think it’s a good start.<p>
Rob Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741955202727936194noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214458.post-80488786707986002552023-10-08T17:17:00.000-07:002023-10-08T17:17:03.943-07:00Seven Days in OctoberOkay, I’ll start with the good news: I don’t have Covid-19.<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV6r9VbzD5xTnOGqEKir4VnToT7yo7qmH6MsGLekadMZryGY6TlBqJ-R4sxsueBr4q3Hx5MrssNuDQdK8QiHCzmY-fR31s3G31_sZuzE-l-xJQQN4EJcjbGVWB-ESp6wP7TLMVD_M8Gz9cBsYMvABNZJ2vLi0tCj_UfFnHUvfiPbPH5iFoo7j-/s547/f636266079234c2af330cefb11ff0f87934adad5f9b52ce66b0f818866a9435a_1.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="531" data-original-width="547" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV6r9VbzD5xTnOGqEKir4VnToT7yo7qmH6MsGLekadMZryGY6TlBqJ-R4sxsueBr4q3Hx5MrssNuDQdK8QiHCzmY-fR31s3G31_sZuzE-l-xJQQN4EJcjbGVWB-ESp6wP7TLMVD_M8Gz9cBsYMvABNZJ2vLi0tCj_UfFnHUvfiPbPH5iFoo7j-/s320/f636266079234c2af330cefb11ff0f87934adad5f9b52ce66b0f818866a9435a_1.jpg"/></a></div>
I’ve been coughing my lungs out, my head is so stuffed it feels like it’s going to explode and I can barely walk down the stairs without keeling over.<p>
Whatever the hell I’ve got sucks royally and I hope it goes away real fast, but at least it ain’t the coronavirus, which I have been successfully dodging—praise the Lord—for the last three years.<p>
In fact, I have not been this sick since January 2021, which is an excellent run, especially given some the health problems I’ve had.<p>
I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised that came down with something, seeing as how I’ve been running around like a loon for the last several days.<p>
First there was last week’s film shoot, where it rained for most of the day, and then my niece Victoria and her husband came to town from Colorado.<p>
I took some time off from work so I could join them and my sister to visit the Museum of Natural History, take in a Broadway show, bounce over to Coney Island to take in the New York Aquarium (where we did another turn on the Spook-A-Rama) and finally get together with the rest of the family—including my niece Kristin, and my oldest brother and sister-in-law, Victoria’s parents--for a fabulous dinner at our favorite Chinese restaurant.<p>
Other than that, it was a pretty quiet week.<p>
By the way, I didn’t know Victoria was married until they told us, so talking about my niece’s husband still feels a bit strange to me. But then it feels like just last week I was bouncing her on my lap.<p>
It was wonderful having the family together. The only one missing was my other brother, who wasn’t feeling well.<p>
So, you can imagine how upset I was when I started feeling sick Friday night into Saturday morning and I learned that he had tested positive for Covid.<p>
His symptoms sounded an awful lot like mine and I was so worried that I had infected my entire family like Typhoid Mary.<p>
My sister convinced me to dash up to a local drug store to get tested on Saturday afternoon. And I got the good news at 6pm tonight. I have never been so happy to see the word "negative" in my life.<p>
I’m feeling better—especially emotionally. It’s been a rough couple of days, but that's a small price to pay for such a great week.<p>Rob Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741955202727936194noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214458.post-68936781093938714392023-10-01T18:30:00.000-07:002023-10-01T18:30:54.699-07:00Worming Up I wonder if this ever happened to Alfred Hitchcock.<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibdA0GaTqg3vZGIyi5p0Vt3Quq9NpOlH5XOtlGNqP31NGivko_DgJAHwNPEgxOSgVEi4KeCubwg7-2r-02vSJqQB_NzKUeoAjjQQS0UbayQfd_Aib8fwAF1GO3fjcrl12vla1FwtxxOlGI6Kk7GC6eveAFm1Zb1N_oKYtaxFUPNT117kMojUnA/s500/gettyimages-515984042.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="500" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibdA0GaTqg3vZGIyi5p0Vt3Quq9NpOlH5XOtlGNqP31NGivko_DgJAHwNPEgxOSgVEi4KeCubwg7-2r-02vSJqQB_NzKUeoAjjQQS0UbayQfd_Aib8fwAF1GO3fjcrl12vla1FwtxxOlGI6Kk7GC6eveAFm1Zb1N_oKYtaxFUPNT117kMojUnA/s320/gettyimages-515984042.jpg"/></a></div>
So, there we were, across the street from the United Nations, where a scene from “North by Northwest”—one my favorite Hitchcock films--was shot.<p>
I was the director now, having signed up for <a href="https://www.48hourfilm.com/">The 48 Hour Film Project</a>, where a team writes, shoots and edits a submit a film in, well, 48 hours.<p>
Only we were contending with a massive worm that was wriggling its way toward the park bench that we had planned to use in our scene.<p>
What would Hitch do?<p>
I ws here at my sistet's urging, after she told me that a colleague of hers was participating in the competition and looking for a crew.<p>
Immediately, I cranked up the excuse machine: I don’t time for this, I don’t know how to shoot a film—the usual crap.<p>
Now bear in mind, I’ve been promising to work on more film sets every single year for the last several decades, so I could get the knowledge and confidence I need to shoot a film of my own.<p>
Of course, I was totally ignoring the elephant in my brain, which was roaring, “<i>hey, schmuck, if you work on this film shoot, you’ll have more film experience, won’t you?</i>”<p>
I signed up and after checking the call sheet, I saw the only position I could even remotely handle was director--the writer's position was filled--even though the only film directing I ever did was nearly a decade ago, when I took a directing course at the School of Visual of Arts.<p>
<i><b>September in the Rain...</b></i><p>
However, the class was conducted under extremely safe conditions where I shot one scene indoors.<p>
Luckily, Anne, our producer, had vast filmmaking experience and promised to back me up.<p>
I got up before dawn on Saturday, trekked over to Manhattan and met up with crew. I was under the mistaken impression that we were going to have decent weather, after Friday’s deluge, which saw parts of Brooklyn getting up to 7.4 inches of rain.<p>
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I was getting messages from family members in Los Angeles and Denver, asking me if I was okay, which, thank God, I was.<p>
The rain decided to stick around an extra day, so that we were slowly saturated by an endless drizzle.<p>
The rain is probably brought the worm out into the light of day and directly in our path. Nevertheless, we ready work around it until a couple of guys came up the street rolling a crate and we had to wait for them to pass.<p>
One of the guys noticed the camera and the boom mike—which were pretty hard to miss—and made a comment.<p>
“Your turn to shine, worm,” he said.<p>
We got a laugh out of that, the worm disappeared into a crack in the sidewalk, and we eventually finished shooting. I was so tired by the end of the day I just wanted to make like a worm and crawl into bed.<p>
I’m putting together a list of what I liked about my behavior on Saturday and what needs work--including be more assertive on set. But first and foremost, I really liked that I did this in the first place.<p>
I have a lot more to learn about filmmaking, but like the worm near the UN, it’s my turn to shine.<p>
Rob Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741955202727936194noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214458.post-69545126287534056522023-09-24T18:24:00.000-07:002023-09-24T18:24:09.669-07:00Off the RailsNow it’s my turn to stand on the geezer line.<p>
So, there I was Union Station in Washington D.C. waiting to board the train to New York.<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg8i7_e8qcXVS7YmITFPXxKCLjv8jxX8_K4lUP3RQMj2adPzvkDFq4UIC5V-g1DkXS27MwlScymof8oepwQYOKpU5zpsNn74BJ168fdf-BSs2FWiu2ZdCY6JCjylx1QZuU_gytugUUYyCS8CObzdga9COjuakpNYWrTfJ0BY1a5WyWRgAQUCdl/s499/d1cc287fc242b5d9aa1d67aebbbe00b8.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="499" data-original-width="394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg8i7_e8qcXVS7YmITFPXxKCLjv8jxX8_K4lUP3RQMj2adPzvkDFq4UIC5V-g1DkXS27MwlScymof8oepwQYOKpU5zpsNn74BJ168fdf-BSs2FWiu2ZdCY6JCjylx1QZuU_gytugUUYyCS8CObzdga9COjuakpNYWrTfJ0BY1a5WyWRgAQUCdl/s320/d1cc287fc242b5d9aa1d67aebbbe00b8.jpg"/></a></div>
I had shown up ridiculously early, as usual, and I was starting to get sick of the place. Finally, people started lining up outside one of the gates.<p>
Not wanting to board the wrong choo-choo and end up in Chattanooga—or Tierra del Fuego—I asked an Amtrak employee if this was indeed the train to the Big Apple.<p>
“Yes,” she said. “Are you over 65 years old?”<p>
I didn’t see the connection and I really didn’t appreciate the question. I have grown quite comfortable (delusional?) with people telling me (lying?) that I look much younger than I am.<p>
A guy told me this at the gym just the other day, damn it. Yet this woman had me pegged as an old timer in under five seconds and my ego was now a train wreck.<p>
“Uh, yes,” I muttered.<p>
“Well, then you can get on the express line.”<p>
She pointed beyond the curving cobra of humanity that was ready to bum rush the train the second the gates opened to a much shorter, straighter, and decidedly older line of people waiting just to the right of the rabble.<p>
I’m familiar with pre-boarding at airports, but that’s meant for veterans, families with small children and people in wheelchairs.<p>
That process never had anything to do with me and I never complained as I knew I’d get on board sooner or later. And that’s how I felt about the train. <p>
Nobody said anything about an express line when I left New York, but now, I’m suddenly getting first dibs. Did I age overnight?<p>
I know this lady meant well and I really appreciate her thoughtfulness. It was her eyesight that was pissing me off.<p>
<i><b>Tickets, Please…<p></b></i>
Maybe she’d spotted my hearing aids and drew the obvious conclusion. I knew I should’ve gotten the kind that disappear in your ears.<p>
I shambled over to the express line, took my place beyond a mature couple who were happily chattering away and checked my phone for the time.<p>
My phone was behaving itself, thankfully, following an incident during my trip that had me convinced the thing was possessed.<p>
I was on a group tour of George Washington’s home in Mount Vernon when the font of my phone suddenly expanded to gargantuan size.<p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLvAavmzztqueXg0WfB1H7016kKwYkYH3oOA9Q0XdcLkR7I4z5FzuQFVWSaAAoZI_CnsxT3SqJIhFxdHM6gx4_h8IdPLB-BDMRLJFaeDJyVKujXm0JmWGv_6VfBoxOjNhRWLAeu5gd3fvM7WVb9nE8GTOe9SyIgsNb-7xRDWuwI5IUc2Uj2BQA/s563/bb79083e86bb6ef33d4845ef9f86ac74.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: left; float: left;"><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="444" data-original-width="563" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLvAavmzztqueXg0WfB1H7016kKwYkYH3oOA9Q0XdcLkR7I4z5FzuQFVWSaAAoZI_CnsxT3SqJIhFxdHM6gx4_h8IdPLB-BDMRLJFaeDJyVKujXm0JmWGv_6VfBoxOjNhRWLAeu5gd3fvM7WVb9nE8GTOe9SyIgsNb-7xRDWuwI5IUc2Uj2BQA/s320/bb79083e86bb6ef33d4845ef9f86ac74.jpg"/></a></div>
The numbers were so big that I couldn’t use the damn thing—no phone, no camera, no nothing.<p>
I didn’t know it had started and I couldn’t do anything to undo whatever the hell I had done. I couldn’t even turn phone off and restart because the keypad was too big for me to type my password.<p>
I was angry and ashamed. Cellphone cluelessness is one of the telltale signs of the elderly—along with going to the bathroom a lot and starting every sentence with “back in my day…”<p>
I knew it was something simple and that when I figured it out, I would feel really dumb. And I was right on both counts.<p>
I finally decided to let the power run out and pray the big numbers would vanish with a reboot. And just to be on the safe side, I also asked the hotel staff where the nearest Apple store was in case my big idea when kablooey.<p>
The next morning I powered up my phone and as soon as the thing had enough juice I googled my predicament out to the internet. It turns out that the zoom setting was on—with a vengeance---and I quickly disabled it.<p>
I don’t know how I had zoomed in the zoom, but I took some comfort in seeing how many people had run into the same problem.<p>
So, I had two senior moments inside of three days. I’m not comfortable with that at all, but when it was time to board the train, at least I had the pleasure of waltzing by those young chumps fiddling with their phones.<p>
All board—right after me.<p>Rob Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741955202727936194noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10214458.post-20205845884124195502023-09-17T19:09:00.000-07:002023-09-17T19:09:01.779-07:00Nothing in HellI sure hope I got that salute right.<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd_noAwY3HnKtOdyOt2aXYTcXDA1BbSsDOq67e4I6rdfWa_ugOFnSRtJEeoB1ivqoKB85-DjG2_glgnFqE6lNX-H2HQ62M9oEgALpBf8pV-MYkNEA6TPa_vaKsVhxZEH-6g3bOwtg4iZeM_b0g5o2DmyIJpbEH0UxpdpnN-16jHXSGus8K8fq0/s2787/thumbnail_IMG-5665.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: right; float: right;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="2787" data-original-width="1920" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd_noAwY3HnKtOdyOt2aXYTcXDA1BbSsDOq67e4I6rdfWa_ugOFnSRtJEeoB1ivqoKB85-DjG2_glgnFqE6lNX-H2HQ62M9oEgALpBf8pV-MYkNEA6TPa_vaKsVhxZEH-6g3bOwtg4iZeM_b0g5o2DmyIJpbEH0UxpdpnN-16jHXSGus8K8fq0/s320/thumbnail_IMG-5665.jpg"/></a></div>
I’m home now after a 5-day trip to Washington D.C. where I attended a meeting of the <a href="https://www.timberwolf104inf.org/index.html">the 104th National Timberwolf Pups Associatin</a>.<p>
The group is made up the sons, daughters, families, and friends of my father’s army unit, The Timberwolves, who fought in Europe during World War II.<p>
Let me say right up front that I had a blast.<p>
I met such wonderful people, heard fantastic stories, did some sightseeing around our nation’s capital—including a nighttime ride around town--and spoke with a 98-year-old veteran who had attended the conference.<p>
As usual, I hemmed and hawed about making the trip. It’s too much money, I have other projects to work on, I need to clean up my apartment—you know, the usual crap I put myself through.<p>
Well, I’m happy to report that I ignored all those irrational fears, booked a hotel room and Amtraked my butt down to Washington. And I’m so happy that I did.<p>
My dad’s unit, whose motto was “Nothing in Hell can stop The Timberwolves,” landed in France in 1944 and liberated the Dora-Mittelbau concentration camp a year later.<p>
I’m working on a novel that includes scenes that take place during World War II, and I thought that connecting with this group would be helpful for my project and give me a more complete picture of my dad’s war experiences.<p>
I grew up listening to my father’s war stories and I never grew tired of hearing about his exploits—no matter how many times he repeated them.<p>
Ten-<i>hut!</i><p>
Over time, the people he spoke about—guys like Benny Tornetta, Tiger Ryan from Chicago, and The Swede—became real to me.<p>
He told me about training in Arizona, described nighttime battles, where, as he said, “the shit was flying” and the horrors of artillery attacks where he dug in the ground with his bare hands in a desperate effort to find shelter.<p>
I’m older now and I can see how these events must have done lasting damage to his psyche.<p>
He saw men killed and horribly injured, listened as they screamed for their mothers. My father and some of his buddies had made plans to get together after the war, but he was the only one to come home.<p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE3ZOwAwAmvalzJyt7OKCuHvQmvr3yasPLJCcZ_jNOsOcxQtLrbmPpCK2taJ1ms-sjmnmQAPErYs2CS6Jrutcw4wc8wDG6u52ZdrW0nftJ-Tp0ykgXUmFqjWqwgxlXgmUElcgQ9F9oWnhxtS8jlqlME7f-LZC2IW_LH2FQrdtwl5D-N5qRvbc3/s1920/thumbnail_IMG-5726.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; clear: left; float: left;"><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="1440" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE3ZOwAwAmvalzJyt7OKCuHvQmvr3yasPLJCcZ_jNOsOcxQtLrbmPpCK2taJ1ms-sjmnmQAPErYs2CS6Jrutcw4wc8wDG6u52ZdrW0nftJ-Tp0ykgXUmFqjWqwgxlXgmUElcgQ9F9oWnhxtS8jlqlME7f-LZC2IW_LH2FQrdtwl5D-N5qRvbc3/s320/thumbnail_IMG-5726.jpg"/></a></div>
You can’t just walk away from these nightmares, but treatment for returning soldiers seems to have been very primitive back then, when GIs were expected to put down the rifle and pick up the briefcase.<p>
I wish I had a better understanding of my father’s suffering while he was still alive, but what does a child know of war?<p>
The highlight of the trip was a memorial service that included the lighting and extinguishing of altar candles.<p>
I proudly accepted an offer to participate in this ceremony where I was called upon to put out one of the candles and then salute.<p>
Now my dad often complained about inaccuracies in war movies, such as soldiers who made impossible shots, and hand grenades powerful enough to take down a mountain.<p>
But one of his biggest pet peeves was the sloppy salutes he saw in so many films and TV shows. I guess after all that time doing the real thing in a real war, my father had no patience with actors who couldn’t get this basic gesture right.<p>
“That’s a pretty half-assed salute,” he’d sneer.<p>
When my name was called, I stepped up to the altar, picked up the snuffer, extinguished the candle, and did my very best to execute a proper salute.<p>
Thank you for your service, Dad.<p>
Rob Khttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04741955202727936194noreply@blogger.com4