You guys like Larry David? To me, he’s one of the funniest guys around (even if he does have two first names). Obviously, the “Seinfeld” stuff was great, but I liked him even more in his own show, “Curb Your Enthusiasm.” That damn show used to make me weak. I’d be laughing so hard that I had to wear diapers — over my nose. I would be snot-snorting, baby.
In case some of you excuses-for-qualified-readers still can’t quite remember who Larry David is, he’s the lanky bald dude who is seemingly neurotic but who I think has his head on pretty straight. He notices things that most people miss, and not only does he notice them, he acts on them. Not only does he act on what he notices, but he can’t not act on what he notices. If Shakespeare wrote “Hamlet” for Larry he would have had him say, “To be or to be, what is the question?”
Well, I’ve always had a little Larry in me. I do tend to notice weird stuff and find myself not quite able to let things go. The other day I go into a Starbucks to get a regular black coffee (which they had to send out for), and when I get my coffee and am about to sit down I notice that the little table I’m about to sit at has a checkerboard/chess game grid painted on the top of it. Yes, I was hesitant. My mind flashed to Larry and Hamlet arm wrestling.
Anyway, I’ve got my crusty cinnamon roll in one hand and my coffee in my other hand and I look around and notice that there are no free tables around. People are sitting at every table — except for the table with the checkerboard/chess layout painted on it. There is one table for four with one guy sitting there. I could have joined him, but I am not the social type. I can’t even come up with things to say to my friends. What the hell would I say to a latte stranger? Had any good mocha lately?
Well, I really wanted to have my coffee and cinnamon roll, so I asked myself, very quietly, “What would Larry do?” And, of course, I instantly knew what the answer was. I put my coffee and the roll on the checkerboard/chess grid on the table and said in a rather startlingly loud voice, “Excuse me, Starbucks coffee drinkers. May I have your attention? Please stop sipping your beverages for a few seconds.” The place went dead quiet.
I raised my hands up to try to reassure them that I wasn’t carrying an Uzi and that they shouldn’t be alarmed, and continued. “I am about to sit down at this table which has a checkerboard/chess layout on it and I just want to make sure that none of you are about to play a game of checkers or chess. I just don’t think it would be right if you were really wanting to play checkers, say, and some jerk-off such as myself just sat down at the official checkerboard table with no intention of playing checkers or chess. It just wouldn’t be fair. And I want you to know that I know it wouldn’t be fair, and if I sat there and didn’t say anything I would feel guilty and I would think you were looking at me with justifiable disdain.
“And because I am a person who does not handle public displays of disdain all that well, I thought I should just be upfront and see if any of you had plans to use the chess table before I just assumed you didn’t and sat there. Well, I am asking you now. Do any of you want to use the checkerboard/chess table?”
If possible, the room became even quieter than before. All you could hear were the thoughts of people wishing they hadn’t been born. I went on.
“Because of your silence I can only assume that none of you wish to play either checkers or chess at this time and that the table is free for me to use without even any glimmer of guilt. Is that correct? Have I made the correct assumption? I don’t see any little boxes of checkers. Anybody carrying a case of chessmen? I am going to sit down right now. Any problems with me sitting here?
I am pulling the chair back? I don’t hear anyone. I’m sitting down. Thank you for your time and attention. Please continue sipping your coffee or the other flavorful drink you have purchased. This checkerboard/chess announcement is now over. Thanks again. Appreciate your time. Take care.”
As I sat there at the checkerboard table enjoying my guiltless cup of coffee, I got to wondering. Why are checkerboards and chessboards the same? Same number of rows. Same number of columns. Even the squares are the same size. What kind of crap is that? Are Scrabble boards the same as Monopoly boards? Just what is going on here? I stood up again and said, “Excuse me, excuse me. One more thing, everybody …”
I think Larry would have been proud.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Thursday, May 7, 2009
So Far, So Dumb (Cigar Smoke 5-7-09)
First of all, before I try to be semi-funny, I want to thank all of you who sent me emails and cards about my having to put down my Airedale, Hadley. They meant a lot to me. Thank you very, very much.
Well, to kind of get my head out of what had been going on here, I decided to take another trip up to my new hovel in Oregon. I’m in the process of trying to make the place livable and I needed to take some special bunk beds up there.
So, after reading all the bed ads on craigslist for two weeks, I bought this kind of funky regular double bed with a twin bed on top. I got it at Couch Potatoes. I was going to haul it up to Oregon in my big old Dodge Durango. Finally, that polluting, gas-guzzling sumbitch was going to pay off.
The only little problem arose the day after I bought the beds. I sold the Durango. Pretty good planning, huh? (The White House has called me to help them screen their cabinet nominees. I kid Obama.) Just so you don’t think I’m completely nutso, I only sold the Durango because it wouldn’t start. I got stranded four times. It wouldn’t even start after I cursed at it and kicked it silly.
I got a neat used car that I really like, except it is not made to haul funky large bunk beds. It did, however, have a roof rack, and that’s where I made a really bad decision.
I was able to stuff all the wooden bed parts in the car. Yes, it was not completely safe. I had planks and springs and boxes going from the folded-down back-seat area up to the passenger side in the front. Just jammed in there. I could barely get in the driver’s seat, but I could see the right side rearview mirror, so I thought it would be relatively safe. My son, Casey, helped me get everything in there, but he made me sign a release form so he could show people at the funeral.
So far, so dumb. Then I decided to put the double-bed mattress on the roof and drive 830 miles. So far, so dumber. Being a conservative type, I wrapped the mattress in a special plastic tarp cover, and then I tied it down to the roof. And I knew the wind would be brutal, so I got six tie-down straps and cinched those suckers down tight. And I bought a bunch of bungee cords. And — I hate to say it — it looked pretty damn secure.
So I kissed Marge goodbye, and she said those 10 special words that I love, “Honey, you got the life insurance premiums paid, haven’t you?”
So off I went. I’m tooling along the 210 Freeway, everything is smoother than Nicole Kidman’s butt, and I merge onto Interstate 5, heading for hovelville. I am smoking a stogie I bought on the Internet so I didn’t have to pay California taxes; I am listening to Waylon say he is “too dumb for New York City and too ugly for L.A.,” and then I look out my left-hand window (the only window I can see out of) and I see a shadow. And the shadow is flapping around. Flapping shadows are not good. Then I hear the flapping shadow. Audible flapping shadows are even worse.
I pull off the freeway at Gorman. I stop at a gas station and I get out and look at the roof. It was like looking at Rosie O’Donell — it wasn’t pretty. The plastic was all ripped up; the straps were loose; the bungee cords were laughing.
So I go into this hokey AM-PM store and I look around for roof rack help and end up with some electrical tape, some duct tape and two coils of cheap rope. I spend 45 minutes in 60-mile an hour winds tying up that mattress, and I use up all the rope and the tape and the sanity I have left.
I go on down the road. It’s my life. I do not get far. I just make it over the Grapevine and the flapping is now so loud it’s making Big Bird horny. I get out and look up and I shudder. There is a loose, flapping, bleeding mattress, with ripped strands of tape and frayed rope everywhere.
Luckily, I have stopped at a Mobil station that has some pretty heavyweight tie-down materials. I buy four more cinch straps, wider ones. I get some better rope that doesn’t come apart as soon as you pay for it. And I get industrial-strength tape with fiberglass threads embedded in it. I spend another hour tying down that mess.
I head up the road again. I’m not having quite as much fun as earlier. I had to tell Waylon to put a lid on it. (You’re too ugly for Nashville!) Somehow I made it another couple hundred miles to a rest stop south of Stockton. I get out to go to the bathroom. Even bad roof-rack movers have to pee, dammit.
And, as I’m walking to the restroom, this guy next to me looks at the roof of my car, looks back at me, and then says, “Hey Tom, I loved you in ‘The Grapes of Wrath.”
I’m not going to tell you if I made it up to Oregon or not. However, if you’re driving northbound on Interstate 5 between Stockton and Sacramento, you might dial it down a few notches.
Well, to kind of get my head out of what had been going on here, I decided to take another trip up to my new hovel in Oregon. I’m in the process of trying to make the place livable and I needed to take some special bunk beds up there.
So, after reading all the bed ads on craigslist for two weeks, I bought this kind of funky regular double bed with a twin bed on top. I got it at Couch Potatoes. I was going to haul it up to Oregon in my big old Dodge Durango. Finally, that polluting, gas-guzzling sumbitch was going to pay off.
The only little problem arose the day after I bought the beds. I sold the Durango. Pretty good planning, huh? (The White House has called me to help them screen their cabinet nominees. I kid Obama.) Just so you don’t think I’m completely nutso, I only sold the Durango because it wouldn’t start. I got stranded four times. It wouldn’t even start after I cursed at it and kicked it silly.
I got a neat used car that I really like, except it is not made to haul funky large bunk beds. It did, however, have a roof rack, and that’s where I made a really bad decision.
I was able to stuff all the wooden bed parts in the car. Yes, it was not completely safe. I had planks and springs and boxes going from the folded-down back-seat area up to the passenger side in the front. Just jammed in there. I could barely get in the driver’s seat, but I could see the right side rearview mirror, so I thought it would be relatively safe. My son, Casey, helped me get everything in there, but he made me sign a release form so he could show people at the funeral.
So far, so dumb. Then I decided to put the double-bed mattress on the roof and drive 830 miles. So far, so dumber. Being a conservative type, I wrapped the mattress in a special plastic tarp cover, and then I tied it down to the roof. And I knew the wind would be brutal, so I got six tie-down straps and cinched those suckers down tight. And I bought a bunch of bungee cords. And — I hate to say it — it looked pretty damn secure.
So I kissed Marge goodbye, and she said those 10 special words that I love, “Honey, you got the life insurance premiums paid, haven’t you?”
So off I went. I’m tooling along the 210 Freeway, everything is smoother than Nicole Kidman’s butt, and I merge onto Interstate 5, heading for hovelville. I am smoking a stogie I bought on the Internet so I didn’t have to pay California taxes; I am listening to Waylon say he is “too dumb for New York City and too ugly for L.A.,” and then I look out my left-hand window (the only window I can see out of) and I see a shadow. And the shadow is flapping around. Flapping shadows are not good. Then I hear the flapping shadow. Audible flapping shadows are even worse.
I pull off the freeway at Gorman. I stop at a gas station and I get out and look at the roof. It was like looking at Rosie O’Donell — it wasn’t pretty. The plastic was all ripped up; the straps were loose; the bungee cords were laughing.
So I go into this hokey AM-PM store and I look around for roof rack help and end up with some electrical tape, some duct tape and two coils of cheap rope. I spend 45 minutes in 60-mile an hour winds tying up that mattress, and I use up all the rope and the tape and the sanity I have left.
I go on down the road. It’s my life. I do not get far. I just make it over the Grapevine and the flapping is now so loud it’s making Big Bird horny. I get out and look up and I shudder. There is a loose, flapping, bleeding mattress, with ripped strands of tape and frayed rope everywhere.
Luckily, I have stopped at a Mobil station that has some pretty heavyweight tie-down materials. I buy four more cinch straps, wider ones. I get some better rope that doesn’t come apart as soon as you pay for it. And I get industrial-strength tape with fiberglass threads embedded in it. I spend another hour tying down that mess.
I head up the road again. I’m not having quite as much fun as earlier. I had to tell Waylon to put a lid on it. (You’re too ugly for Nashville!) Somehow I made it another couple hundred miles to a rest stop south of Stockton. I get out to go to the bathroom. Even bad roof-rack movers have to pee, dammit.
And, as I’m walking to the restroom, this guy next to me looks at the roof of my car, looks back at me, and then says, “Hey Tom, I loved you in ‘The Grapes of Wrath.”
I’m not going to tell you if I made it up to Oregon or not. However, if you’re driving northbound on Interstate 5 between Stockton and Sacramento, you might dial it down a few notches.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Rest in Peace, Big Guy (Cigar Smoke 4-23-09)
Last month Marge and I had to put our Airedale, Hadley, down. It was very sad. I can’t quite believe he’s really gone. I can still hear his dog tags jingling.
He had been on a steady decline for over a year. His back legs had been failing him and he had lost control of his bowels. He was going blind and looked dazed and confused a lot of the time. We knew he was in pain, but he had always been a stoic dog. He would not complain. He would not whimper. He never cried.
We tried to help him as much as we could. We’d lift his back legs to help him up. We’d hold his collar and guide him through doorways so he wouldn’t hit his head. Somehow, though, we knew we were probably doing all this for ourselves as much as we were for Hadley. We couldn’t bear to lose him. I guess we were selfish.
At the end, he was not able to get up at all. He had fallen on the driveway and was stranded there. He could not lift himself up, even to his back legs. Because he was so heavy, we couldn’t lift him. So we got his bed and managed to put him in there, and then we gently pulled the bed from the driveway into our bedroom. We wanted one last night with our furry friend. And we hoped he might be better in the morning.
And, amazingly, he was — for a while. Then he got worse. So I decided to go down to talk to the vet. She had taken care of him for almost 13 years, so she knew him well. She told us that he had had a good life and she couldn’t do much for him now. She thought it was time for us to let him go.
We brought him in later that afternoon. It was the longest 15-minute ride I’ve ever had. We arrived at the clinic and one of the attendants was able to carry him into the vet’s office and put him on the table. He looked so fragile, and scared. I put my hand on his head. He was shaking.
I had never put a dog down before. I asked the vet how it would all work. She said she would give him a shot to relax him. And then she would give him the final shot. She said it would be fast and painless.
We said OK. She gave him the first shot, and the process had started. Marge and I both broke down. We were crying and trying to comfort Hadley. But he didn’t seem to be relaxing much. So the vet gave him a second shot and then he did become more relaxed. He became very calm and quiet and stopped shaking.
Before she gave him the final shot, she told us it would take about 15 seconds to reach his heart, and then that would be it. We nodded. She gave him the shot. We looked at our Good Boy through our tears and then we saw his big, fuzzy head gently drop and cover his right paw. Hadley was gone. Marge and I both cried and said our good-byes.
It was the saddest thing I have ever seen. It broke my heart.
The last two weeks have been hard. We miss our guy, and we both expect to see him every day. Marge will automatically look outside to see if Hadley wants to come in. I will start to get up to fix his dinner at 5:30 every night and then remember. I’ll come home and expect him to meet me at the door. I’ll get a cigar out of my cigar box, and I’ll look for Hadley to ask him, “You wanna go have a cigar with me, you long-headed weasel?”
And the other day I snuck a box of Cheez-Its into the living room. You know, that big red-and-orange box. I actually had the box on my right hip, trying to hide it from Hadley. Hadley used to love Cheez-Its, and when he’d see me with that box, he’d jump up and come over and, well, hound me, for some handouts. He loved those damn things. I mean, really loved ’em. I’d take a couple for myself, and then give him one, and he’d gobble it down, sometimes with a side order of my fingers, and then he’d want another Cheez-It. When I’d put the box down, he would sit in front of me and paw my knee until I caved in and gave him a few more. Now he’s not there. It’s just not the same eating all the Cheez-Its myself. They’re too dry.
I miss so many things about that crazy dog. I miss how he used to scatter-ass the ducks at the Santa Fe Dam; I miss how he did a double take the first time he drank some seawater at the beach; I miss having him sit upright in the passenger seat of my old Explorer; I miss him nose-poking my butt to suggest we go for a walk; I miss bringing him two pieces of a cinnamon roll or a donut every morning. Whenever I’d go to Starbucks or some donut shop, I’d always have to save two pieces for him. Once I brought back only one piece of donut to the car, and gave it to him. He was pissed. I never did that again.
And I miss lying down with him on the rug. I used to lie down with him on the bed for a nap, but lately he couldn’t jump up there, so we had our naptime on the rug. Usually, he’d be lying there, and I would interrupt his sleep, and get down next to him, and put my human head right near his long horse head, and he would thump his tail a few times on the rug and then he would lick my face. I think he got a little doggie high on my cologne. And sometimes that wouldn’t be enough and he would slobber-lick the hairspray off my hair, too. And finally, he would calm down, and I would sleep next to him with my arm resting on his shoulder.
Rest in peace, my friend.
He had been on a steady decline for over a year. His back legs had been failing him and he had lost control of his bowels. He was going blind and looked dazed and confused a lot of the time. We knew he was in pain, but he had always been a stoic dog. He would not complain. He would not whimper. He never cried.
We tried to help him as much as we could. We’d lift his back legs to help him up. We’d hold his collar and guide him through doorways so he wouldn’t hit his head. Somehow, though, we knew we were probably doing all this for ourselves as much as we were for Hadley. We couldn’t bear to lose him. I guess we were selfish.
At the end, he was not able to get up at all. He had fallen on the driveway and was stranded there. He could not lift himself up, even to his back legs. Because he was so heavy, we couldn’t lift him. So we got his bed and managed to put him in there, and then we gently pulled the bed from the driveway into our bedroom. We wanted one last night with our furry friend. And we hoped he might be better in the morning.
And, amazingly, he was — for a while. Then he got worse. So I decided to go down to talk to the vet. She had taken care of him for almost 13 years, so she knew him well. She told us that he had had a good life and she couldn’t do much for him now. She thought it was time for us to let him go.
We brought him in later that afternoon. It was the longest 15-minute ride I’ve ever had. We arrived at the clinic and one of the attendants was able to carry him into the vet’s office and put him on the table. He looked so fragile, and scared. I put my hand on his head. He was shaking.
I had never put a dog down before. I asked the vet how it would all work. She said she would give him a shot to relax him. And then she would give him the final shot. She said it would be fast and painless.
We said OK. She gave him the first shot, and the process had started. Marge and I both broke down. We were crying and trying to comfort Hadley. But he didn’t seem to be relaxing much. So the vet gave him a second shot and then he did become more relaxed. He became very calm and quiet and stopped shaking.
Before she gave him the final shot, she told us it would take about 15 seconds to reach his heart, and then that would be it. We nodded. She gave him the shot. We looked at our Good Boy through our tears and then we saw his big, fuzzy head gently drop and cover his right paw. Hadley was gone. Marge and I both cried and said our good-byes.
It was the saddest thing I have ever seen. It broke my heart.
The last two weeks have been hard. We miss our guy, and we both expect to see him every day. Marge will automatically look outside to see if Hadley wants to come in. I will start to get up to fix his dinner at 5:30 every night and then remember. I’ll come home and expect him to meet me at the door. I’ll get a cigar out of my cigar box, and I’ll look for Hadley to ask him, “You wanna go have a cigar with me, you long-headed weasel?”
And the other day I snuck a box of Cheez-Its into the living room. You know, that big red-and-orange box. I actually had the box on my right hip, trying to hide it from Hadley. Hadley used to love Cheez-Its, and when he’d see me with that box, he’d jump up and come over and, well, hound me, for some handouts. He loved those damn things. I mean, really loved ’em. I’d take a couple for myself, and then give him one, and he’d gobble it down, sometimes with a side order of my fingers, and then he’d want another Cheez-It. When I’d put the box down, he would sit in front of me and paw my knee until I caved in and gave him a few more. Now he’s not there. It’s just not the same eating all the Cheez-Its myself. They’re too dry.
I miss so many things about that crazy dog. I miss how he used to scatter-ass the ducks at the Santa Fe Dam; I miss how he did a double take the first time he drank some seawater at the beach; I miss having him sit upright in the passenger seat of my old Explorer; I miss him nose-poking my butt to suggest we go for a walk; I miss bringing him two pieces of a cinnamon roll or a donut every morning. Whenever I’d go to Starbucks or some donut shop, I’d always have to save two pieces for him. Once I brought back only one piece of donut to the car, and gave it to him. He was pissed. I never did that again.
And I miss lying down with him on the rug. I used to lie down with him on the bed for a nap, but lately he couldn’t jump up there, so we had our naptime on the rug. Usually, he’d be lying there, and I would interrupt his sleep, and get down next to him, and put my human head right near his long horse head, and he would thump his tail a few times on the rug and then he would lick my face. I think he got a little doggie high on my cologne. And sometimes that wouldn’t be enough and he would slobber-lick the hairspray off my hair, too. And finally, he would calm down, and I would sleep next to him with my arm resting on his shoulder.
Rest in peace, my friend.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Off at the Races (Cigar Smoke 4-9-09)
I am not a big horse-racing fan. I’ve only been to maybe six or seven tracks in my lifetime. So I average about one race every decade. But I should go more often because, well, I am pretty damn good at betting the ponies.
And I’m going to share my system with you so you can take out what’s left of your 401(k) and finally make a little money. Here’s what I do. I get a copy of the Racing Form and look over the odds. Some horses will be 2 to 1, others will be 34 to 1. Whatever.
First of all, I never bet either the favorites or the long shots. If the favorite wins, I don’t make much money, and if the long shot wins, I just swear a lot. So I always pick a horse with medium odds, say, 8 to 1 up to 15 to 1. These horses usually will not be glue in the near future. And if they happen to win, you can make some nice money.
Armed with this fail-safe strategy, I went to Santa Anita Park last Sunday with the Altadena Soroptomist Club. My wife, Marge, is a member, and I like all the gals in the club. In fact, I’ve hung around with them for years now. One day I asked longtime member Shirley Manning why they let me, a man, run with their all-women club. And she said, “Because occasionally we need heavy objects lifted by someone not quite as smart as we are.” You can probably guess that I have warm feelings for them.
Anyway, they invited me to join them for A Day at the Races last Sunday, and I lifted a heavy object (myself) and accepted the invitation. We had great seats right near the center of the track. Had a super lunch of a corned beef on rye with crusty fries and a piece of cheesecake that took a couple years off your life. Oh, that’s another reason I like these people. They eat pretty well … for women.
For some reason (cheesecake withdrawal) I miss the first race. I bet 20 bucks to win on the No. 4 horse, High Note, in the second race. He goes off at 8 or 9 to 1. He starts off in last place. But I am screaming for him. I mean screaming. Soroptomist members are clutching their purses and their mint juleps to their bosoms like sick children.
But my screaming pays off. High Note wins the race. By a nose in a photo finish. I win $216. My system is a killer. My throat and nearby Soroptomist eardrums are broken.
So I kind of strut off to the window to collect my winnings and I come back waving two one-hundred dollar bills and I puff my chest out a little and ask if maybe any of the women are getting just a tad tired of their current husbands and might want a change. Marge supports me in this. She yells, “Take the bastard!”
In the third race, I find another horse that fits my system. I put another 20 bucks to win on the No. 3 horse, Patriotic Soldier. I think he went off at about 10 to 1. Well, this turns out to be an incredible race. It doesn’t get more exciting than this. My horse and the No. 5 horse were neck and neck. Coming down the stretch I was screaming, “Go 3! 3! 3! 3!” And the announcer says, “Down the stretch they come.” And me and my throat are raw. I’m yelling “3.” A guy next to me, a commie, is yelling “5.” I yell a louder “3!” He yells a pissy “5!”
It ends up in another photo finish. We have to wait over five minutes for them to figure out who won. I am weak. I would cry but there are too many Soroptomists around. Finally, the winning number flashes on the tote board. It’s No. 5. Not No. 3. I lost by a damn nose. No, by a damn nostril. No, by a damn booger. Yes, I lost another sure $220 by a booger.
I was devastated. My throat was wiped out. My chest was unpuffed. I felt weak and vulnerable. My wallet was lighter. Then another Soroptomist, JoAnn Formia, came up to me and said “You couldn’t carry my husband’s shoes, you loser.”
I lost another $20 on Bad Boy in the fourth. So then I gave up on that system and I went to my surefire backup system: picking horses by their funny names. I almost picked Cardinal Zin, but finally decided on Grylls because how could a horse without any vowels lose. I yelled Grylls as often as I could. I even yelled it with a German accent once and put an “a” on the end of it — Gryllsa.
Go Gryllsa! Go you vowel-less piece of dog food. Grylls did not win. Grylls did not finish. Grylls is still out on the track. Grylls is trying to buy a vowel from Vanna White.
So now that my system of medium odds wasn’t working, and my funny names system had mysteriously failed, I had to turn to my last great scientific strategy — always picking a gray horse. Somehow this had worked for me in the past. And I could always see my gray horse easily. It just stood out. And it made my screaming easier. “Go gray horse. Beat the brown and black horses.” Well, I yelled, “Go gray horse” in the final four races and lost all four. I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe gray horses are hard of hearing.
But just send me your retirement money, anyway. I hear there’s a sure thing running at Hollywood Park next week — 12 to 1. A Hawaiian gray horse. No consonants in his name.
And I’m going to share my system with you so you can take out what’s left of your 401(k) and finally make a little money. Here’s what I do. I get a copy of the Racing Form and look over the odds. Some horses will be 2 to 1, others will be 34 to 1. Whatever.
First of all, I never bet either the favorites or the long shots. If the favorite wins, I don’t make much money, and if the long shot wins, I just swear a lot. So I always pick a horse with medium odds, say, 8 to 1 up to 15 to 1. These horses usually will not be glue in the near future. And if they happen to win, you can make some nice money.
Armed with this fail-safe strategy, I went to Santa Anita Park last Sunday with the Altadena Soroptomist Club. My wife, Marge, is a member, and I like all the gals in the club. In fact, I’ve hung around with them for years now. One day I asked longtime member Shirley Manning why they let me, a man, run with their all-women club. And she said, “Because occasionally we need heavy objects lifted by someone not quite as smart as we are.” You can probably guess that I have warm feelings for them.
Anyway, they invited me to join them for A Day at the Races last Sunday, and I lifted a heavy object (myself) and accepted the invitation. We had great seats right near the center of the track. Had a super lunch of a corned beef on rye with crusty fries and a piece of cheesecake that took a couple years off your life. Oh, that’s another reason I like these people. They eat pretty well … for women.
For some reason (cheesecake withdrawal) I miss the first race. I bet 20 bucks to win on the No. 4 horse, High Note, in the second race. He goes off at 8 or 9 to 1. He starts off in last place. But I am screaming for him. I mean screaming. Soroptomist members are clutching their purses and their mint juleps to their bosoms like sick children.
But my screaming pays off. High Note wins the race. By a nose in a photo finish. I win $216. My system is a killer. My throat and nearby Soroptomist eardrums are broken.
So I kind of strut off to the window to collect my winnings and I come back waving two one-hundred dollar bills and I puff my chest out a little and ask if maybe any of the women are getting just a tad tired of their current husbands and might want a change. Marge supports me in this. She yells, “Take the bastard!”
In the third race, I find another horse that fits my system. I put another 20 bucks to win on the No. 3 horse, Patriotic Soldier. I think he went off at about 10 to 1. Well, this turns out to be an incredible race. It doesn’t get more exciting than this. My horse and the No. 5 horse were neck and neck. Coming down the stretch I was screaming, “Go 3! 3! 3! 3!” And the announcer says, “Down the stretch they come.” And me and my throat are raw. I’m yelling “3.” A guy next to me, a commie, is yelling “5.” I yell a louder “3!” He yells a pissy “5!”
It ends up in another photo finish. We have to wait over five minutes for them to figure out who won. I am weak. I would cry but there are too many Soroptomists around. Finally, the winning number flashes on the tote board. It’s No. 5. Not No. 3. I lost by a damn nose. No, by a damn nostril. No, by a damn booger. Yes, I lost another sure $220 by a booger.
I was devastated. My throat was wiped out. My chest was unpuffed. I felt weak and vulnerable. My wallet was lighter. Then another Soroptomist, JoAnn Formia, came up to me and said “You couldn’t carry my husband’s shoes, you loser.”
I lost another $20 on Bad Boy in the fourth. So then I gave up on that system and I went to my surefire backup system: picking horses by their funny names. I almost picked Cardinal Zin, but finally decided on Grylls because how could a horse without any vowels lose. I yelled Grylls as often as I could. I even yelled it with a German accent once and put an “a” on the end of it — Gryllsa.
Go Gryllsa! Go you vowel-less piece of dog food. Grylls did not win. Grylls did not finish. Grylls is still out on the track. Grylls is trying to buy a vowel from Vanna White.
So now that my system of medium odds wasn’t working, and my funny names system had mysteriously failed, I had to turn to my last great scientific strategy — always picking a gray horse. Somehow this had worked for me in the past. And I could always see my gray horse easily. It just stood out. And it made my screaming easier. “Go gray horse. Beat the brown and black horses.” Well, I yelled, “Go gray horse” in the final four races and lost all four. I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe gray horses are hard of hearing.
But just send me your retirement money, anyway. I hear there’s a sure thing running at Hollywood Park next week — 12 to 1. A Hawaiian gray horse. No consonants in his name.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
A Stimulating Column (Cigar Smoke 3-26-09)
You know, I have been stimulating the economy for more than 50 years now. And how do I do this altruistic service to humanity? I buy cars, that’s how. No, I’m not Jay Leno. I don’t keep the cars and buy more cars. No, I just buy one car at a time, milk every last dying ounce of metallic life-juice out of it, then buy a new over-priced piece of potential junk, and repeat. I’m a serial car buyer. I live to stimulate the economy.
And while you have been crying and whining about the economy, I have been out there in the car-buying streets of hell for a half-century.
I bought my first car in 1957. I was 16 years old and the only thing leaner than my tough, stud body was my wallet. So, I bought a 1947 Mercury coupe for $50. The guy said he dropped a ’49 Ford engine in it and, sure enough, he did drop a V-8 into the engine compartment. However, he did not bolt it down to the actual car.
But you don’t care about my problems. All you care about is me stimulating the damn economy while you lie back and bitch about bailouts and moan about money. Go buy a car. Right now. They’re cheaper than houses.
When I was in my 20s and had a little more money, I remember, literally, using my last $900 to buy an MG roadster. It was a dumb decision. I did not have rent money. But, because my life was based on stimulating the economy, I did this for you and your ungrateful friends. I never even got a thank-you note.
A couple years later, I had my first kid and my wife thought we should sell the MG to help pay for the little interloper. She won that fight and I sold it for $500. I’ve made many bad decisions in my life, but that’s in the final four.
So, I took the $500 MG money and immediately bought an old lady Plymouth Valiant from my dad’s girlfriend. It was like a sedan with doilies. My biggest expense was buying paper towels to clean up my upchuck every time I got in that four-door loser. But I held my nose and my tongue and something else — I wanted to stimulate something. Yes, the economy. For you.
After owning the Valiant for a while, a friend of mine at work was selling this cool Pontiac convertible. I mean, it was really cool. It was really long and had more chrome and silver than Mexico and was shiny and had whitewall tires and air conditioning and the seats were this plush, dark blue leather. I bought it right on the spot, without telling the semi-little woman. I brought it home. I took the SLW (semi-little woman) out to see it. I told her to sit in the driver’s seat. I sat down in the passenger seat and I let the top down and I turned on the radio (which the Valiant didn’t even have) and turned the volume up to rumble and raised my eyebrows a couple of times and said, “What do you think, Interloper Mother?” And she said, “This will sure stimulate the economy.”
And I continued my personal stimulus plan over the years. When I left the job I had for about seven years, I had the option to take out my retirement money, so because I knew the economy needed to be stroked a little, I took the whole wad and went down to Felix Chevrolet in downtown LA and bought a brand new Monte Carlo. Drove that damn thing right off the showroom floor. I remember it to this day. My accountant was yelling at me as I drove off, “Don’t do this, you dumbass!”
And when that Monte Carlo turned into a worthless heap, I took that pile of junk over to a car dealer in Arcadia and I asked him what I could get for it, and he said, “Arrested.” OK, it didn’t have any brakes and the exhaust fumes were killing neighborhood pets. But the important thing was I had had the courage to drive it over there without any brakes to help stimulate the economy.
Yes, I ended up buying a pissy little Sentra because I was divorced and broke and lonely and the payments were only $127 a month. I hope you heard that. I was broke and lonely and I still had the humanity to stimulate the economy. I selflessly spent $127 a month for three years to help America defeat communism and be safe for me to get more credit cards with a 29 percent interest rate. And what were you doing? Don’t lie to me.
Oh, I could go on about other stimulating things I have done. But maybe there are kids reading this. Sure, I could tell you how I went out and bought an Eagle Talon sports car moving-ass machine so I could race home after my shrink sessions to regain my sanity. Yes, again I sacrificed and stimulated the economy. I was a good citizen in deep crushing debt, and you did nothing!
And, because the need is so great today, I went out and bought a new used car just yesterday. Yeah, I sold my big old gas-guzzling Durango SUV and I bought a pretty cool car. I can’t tell you what kind of car it is or you would know what size galoshes to buy Mr. Johnson.
The important thing is I stimulated the economy. I bought something I don’t need and I spent more money than I wanted to spend. You can do it too. S-T-I-M-U-L-A-T-E!
Jim Laris is for the former publisher and owner of the Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
And while you have been crying and whining about the economy, I have been out there in the car-buying streets of hell for a half-century.
I bought my first car in 1957. I was 16 years old and the only thing leaner than my tough, stud body was my wallet. So, I bought a 1947 Mercury coupe for $50. The guy said he dropped a ’49 Ford engine in it and, sure enough, he did drop a V-8 into the engine compartment. However, he did not bolt it down to the actual car.
But you don’t care about my problems. All you care about is me stimulating the damn economy while you lie back and bitch about bailouts and moan about money. Go buy a car. Right now. They’re cheaper than houses.
When I was in my 20s and had a little more money, I remember, literally, using my last $900 to buy an MG roadster. It was a dumb decision. I did not have rent money. But, because my life was based on stimulating the economy, I did this for you and your ungrateful friends. I never even got a thank-you note.
A couple years later, I had my first kid and my wife thought we should sell the MG to help pay for the little interloper. She won that fight and I sold it for $500. I’ve made many bad decisions in my life, but that’s in the final four.
So, I took the $500 MG money and immediately bought an old lady Plymouth Valiant from my dad’s girlfriend. It was like a sedan with doilies. My biggest expense was buying paper towels to clean up my upchuck every time I got in that four-door loser. But I held my nose and my tongue and something else — I wanted to stimulate something. Yes, the economy. For you.
After owning the Valiant for a while, a friend of mine at work was selling this cool Pontiac convertible. I mean, it was really cool. It was really long and had more chrome and silver than Mexico and was shiny and had whitewall tires and air conditioning and the seats were this plush, dark blue leather. I bought it right on the spot, without telling the semi-little woman. I brought it home. I took the SLW (semi-little woman) out to see it. I told her to sit in the driver’s seat. I sat down in the passenger seat and I let the top down and I turned on the radio (which the Valiant didn’t even have) and turned the volume up to rumble and raised my eyebrows a couple of times and said, “What do you think, Interloper Mother?” And she said, “This will sure stimulate the economy.”
And I continued my personal stimulus plan over the years. When I left the job I had for about seven years, I had the option to take out my retirement money, so because I knew the economy needed to be stroked a little, I took the whole wad and went down to Felix Chevrolet in downtown LA and bought a brand new Monte Carlo. Drove that damn thing right off the showroom floor. I remember it to this day. My accountant was yelling at me as I drove off, “Don’t do this, you dumbass!”
And when that Monte Carlo turned into a worthless heap, I took that pile of junk over to a car dealer in Arcadia and I asked him what I could get for it, and he said, “Arrested.” OK, it didn’t have any brakes and the exhaust fumes were killing neighborhood pets. But the important thing was I had had the courage to drive it over there without any brakes to help stimulate the economy.
Yes, I ended up buying a pissy little Sentra because I was divorced and broke and lonely and the payments were only $127 a month. I hope you heard that. I was broke and lonely and I still had the humanity to stimulate the economy. I selflessly spent $127 a month for three years to help America defeat communism and be safe for me to get more credit cards with a 29 percent interest rate. And what were you doing? Don’t lie to me.
Oh, I could go on about other stimulating things I have done. But maybe there are kids reading this. Sure, I could tell you how I went out and bought an Eagle Talon sports car moving-ass machine so I could race home after my shrink sessions to regain my sanity. Yes, again I sacrificed and stimulated the economy. I was a good citizen in deep crushing debt, and you did nothing!
And, because the need is so great today, I went out and bought a new used car just yesterday. Yeah, I sold my big old gas-guzzling Durango SUV and I bought a pretty cool car. I can’t tell you what kind of car it is or you would know what size galoshes to buy Mr. Johnson.
The important thing is I stimulated the economy. I bought something I don’t need and I spent more money than I wanted to spend. You can do it too. S-T-I-M-U-L-A-T-E!
Jim Laris is for the former publisher and owner of the Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
Friday, March 13, 2009
This Column is Depressing (Cigar Smoke 3-12-09)
I’ve always had a problem with depression. It runs in my family. (Or walks, trudges actually, with its head down.) My dad was depressed. My grandmother was depressed. Her father was depressed. And I’m pretty sure my Greek forebears, Plato and Aristotle, were depressed.
I’ve had a lot of therapy over the years. It’s helped a little. Now I pretty much know why I’m depressed. But, when I think of how much money it cost me for that knowledge, I get depressed. I’ve got two friends who are depressed, too. But we’re too depressed to talk about it. We’d all shoot ourselves except we’re such poor shots.
So, how do I deal with depression? Basically, I try to ignore it, or blame it on other people. Especially dead people – it’s very difficult for dead people to defend themselves. But when that fails, I do something that has worked every damn time. I take a road trip.
I just get in the car, light up a semi-cheap cigar and take off. And something always happens that cheers me up. Like last week I was feeling really low, so I decided to drive up to Oregon to visit my empty hovel.
I was buzzing along Highway 5 in the rain, which is not the part that cheered me up, and I had to pee. I saw a sign that said there was a rest stop in 20 miles. I thought me and my bladder could make that, so I kept driving. When we get to the rest stop exit, it says: Closed. Next Rest Stop 52 miles. Mr. Bladder was, excuse the expression, pissed.
Anyway, I couldn’t wait that long, so I found a gas station in a few miles. Got some gas and went in to the Stop N’ Overpay store to get a bottle of water and a lighter. I gave the clerk five bucks and she said, “It’s $11.27, sir?” I said, “For a bottle of water and a $1.99 lighter?” She said, “The lighter is $9.99.”
I looked down and, sure enough, it was $9.99. I inquired as to why it was $9.99. She told me because it had a fingernail clipper hidden inside it.
Now that cheered me up. Finally someone had invented something I’ve needed. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been lighting a cigar and I’ve said to myself, “God, I wish I could cut my fingernails right now, too.” It’s just a shame they didn’t come up with this lighter/fingernail clipper earlier. I could have saved a bundle in psychiatry bills. It’s depressing.
Oh, well. Got back on the road and drove along the California Aqueduct for a while, and remembered many years ago seeing a pilot fly his open-cockpit crop-duster right over my head and he had a Snoopy scarf blowing behind him in the wind and it made me smile. The road comes through. Again.
I got to the Kettleman City turnoff. I always stop at Mike’s Diner for lunch. It’s one of those cluttered Cracker Barrel kind of places with kids’ wagons and old Texaco signs and license plates on the walls. I ordered a chicken tostada. (Yes, I’m going to tell you what I ate for breakfast soon.) When I took my first bite of chicken, I thought something wasn’t right. It did not taste like chicken. It did not taste like anything I had ever eaten before. It tasted like an unlucky circus animal. But it did get me out of my own head. It’s hard to be depressed while eating a lion tostada.
That night I stayed at a Holiday Inn and my avalanche of cheerfulness continued. I turned on the TV and I saw a bunch of teenage guys chasing emus around in a field. Yes, emus. Big, clumsy, ostrich-like emus. Yee-haw! Take that, depression.
The next morning I had breakfast at IHOP. (I told you.) Every time I eat there, I get real serious and lower my voice and I ask the waitress, “Do you guys have pancakes?” And every time, her reaction cheers me up. But then I look at the seven kinds of syrup to choose from, and I go back down.
After breakfast I drove three hours out of my way to see a little mountain town called Hayfork. I’d always wanted to see it. I don’t want to see it again. Then I zigzagged and car-sicked my way through hours of switchbacks and slushy snow and I got to the Eureka Bay in Humboldt County. Now, I’m not saying the rainy, foggy, cold, sludge-filled bay is not attractive, but their slogan is “Our Harbor is Uglier than Your Butt.”
I ate lunch at a neat little place at the marina. And I swear to God, as I’m eating my tuna melt, the waitress comes up to me and says, “Would you run with the bulls?” Out of nowhere. “Would you run with the bulls?” So I said, “Would you share what you’re smoking?” She looked quizzical. I said, “Honey, I wouldn’t even walk with the cows.”
By the time you read this, I’ll be home again. Why don’t you come on over. I’ll light up a cigar for you. And clip your nails.
I’ve had a lot of therapy over the years. It’s helped a little. Now I pretty much know why I’m depressed. But, when I think of how much money it cost me for that knowledge, I get depressed. I’ve got two friends who are depressed, too. But we’re too depressed to talk about it. We’d all shoot ourselves except we’re such poor shots.
So, how do I deal with depression? Basically, I try to ignore it, or blame it on other people. Especially dead people – it’s very difficult for dead people to defend themselves. But when that fails, I do something that has worked every damn time. I take a road trip.
I just get in the car, light up a semi-cheap cigar and take off. And something always happens that cheers me up. Like last week I was feeling really low, so I decided to drive up to Oregon to visit my empty hovel.
I was buzzing along Highway 5 in the rain, which is not the part that cheered me up, and I had to pee. I saw a sign that said there was a rest stop in 20 miles. I thought me and my bladder could make that, so I kept driving. When we get to the rest stop exit, it says: Closed. Next Rest Stop 52 miles. Mr. Bladder was, excuse the expression, pissed.
Anyway, I couldn’t wait that long, so I found a gas station in a few miles. Got some gas and went in to the Stop N’ Overpay store to get a bottle of water and a lighter. I gave the clerk five bucks and she said, “It’s $11.27, sir?” I said, “For a bottle of water and a $1.99 lighter?” She said, “The lighter is $9.99.”
I looked down and, sure enough, it was $9.99. I inquired as to why it was $9.99. She told me because it had a fingernail clipper hidden inside it.
Now that cheered me up. Finally someone had invented something I’ve needed. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been lighting a cigar and I’ve said to myself, “God, I wish I could cut my fingernails right now, too.” It’s just a shame they didn’t come up with this lighter/fingernail clipper earlier. I could have saved a bundle in psychiatry bills. It’s depressing.
Oh, well. Got back on the road and drove along the California Aqueduct for a while, and remembered many years ago seeing a pilot fly his open-cockpit crop-duster right over my head and he had a Snoopy scarf blowing behind him in the wind and it made me smile. The road comes through. Again.
I got to the Kettleman City turnoff. I always stop at Mike’s Diner for lunch. It’s one of those cluttered Cracker Barrel kind of places with kids’ wagons and old Texaco signs and license plates on the walls. I ordered a chicken tostada. (Yes, I’m going to tell you what I ate for breakfast soon.) When I took my first bite of chicken, I thought something wasn’t right. It did not taste like chicken. It did not taste like anything I had ever eaten before. It tasted like an unlucky circus animal. But it did get me out of my own head. It’s hard to be depressed while eating a lion tostada.
That night I stayed at a Holiday Inn and my avalanche of cheerfulness continued. I turned on the TV and I saw a bunch of teenage guys chasing emus around in a field. Yes, emus. Big, clumsy, ostrich-like emus. Yee-haw! Take that, depression.
The next morning I had breakfast at IHOP. (I told you.) Every time I eat there, I get real serious and lower my voice and I ask the waitress, “Do you guys have pancakes?” And every time, her reaction cheers me up. But then I look at the seven kinds of syrup to choose from, and I go back down.
After breakfast I drove three hours out of my way to see a little mountain town called Hayfork. I’d always wanted to see it. I don’t want to see it again. Then I zigzagged and car-sicked my way through hours of switchbacks and slushy snow and I got to the Eureka Bay in Humboldt County. Now, I’m not saying the rainy, foggy, cold, sludge-filled bay is not attractive, but their slogan is “Our Harbor is Uglier than Your Butt.”
I ate lunch at a neat little place at the marina. And I swear to God, as I’m eating my tuna melt, the waitress comes up to me and says, “Would you run with the bulls?” Out of nowhere. “Would you run with the bulls?” So I said, “Would you share what you’re smoking?” She looked quizzical. I said, “Honey, I wouldn’t even walk with the cows.”
By the time you read this, I’ll be home again. Why don’t you come on over. I’ll light up a cigar for you. And clip your nails.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Spilling My Guts (Cigar Smoke 2-26-09)
You probably think you’re a better person than I am. Maybe you are, maybe you’re not. You probably think you’re smarter than I am. I doubt it, but I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. And you probably think you’re better looking than I am, don’t you? OK, I’ll give you that, too, Brad Pitt Face.
But I know one thing you’re not as good as I am on. Nope. You cannot now, or have ever in the past, or will ever in your fecund future, be able to spill stuff on yourself like I do. I can spill, baby. I am the Sultan of Spilling. I have been spilling stuff on myself for as long as I can remember — even as long as I can’t remember. I thought I would outgrow it, but now I have reached the doggone doddering age of 67 and I am still spilling stuff on myself. I have failed in this one aspect of life and I acknowledge it and I hereby pause to listen to your cruel mockery of a spill-stained senior citizen suck-face such as myself. Mock away.
I won’t go back to my childhood days and charmingly regale you with adorable childish spilling stories. But I do remember my mom just taking a bottle of milk and emptying it on my high chair and on my head and on my baby jammies outfit and on the floor, saying, “It’ll save time.” My mom was a kidder.
I will also skip through my teen and college years where I developed my spilling skills to near perfection. You don’t need to know the details, especially if you are eating right now. I will tell you though, that my friends applauded me one day with appreciative slow-clapping of hands that built into a genuine crescendo of pure admiration when they couldn’t determine just what gross liquid I had spilled on my shirt as they watched it eat away one of my pockets and start burning my chest hair. God, those were good days.
When I got married and became mature and bought insurance and sedans and got mad at younger people who spilled things, I had one particular spilling problem. I always spilled little drops of chocolate sauce on my white T-shirts. (For you younger readers, a white T-shirt is like your T-shirts only without all the rock star art and sports advertising bullshit and profanity.) By the way, when I was a kid we didn’t even have white T-shirts. We just had T-shirts. Period. No need to differentiate — colors were invented by the next generation.
Back in the ’60s and ’70s my first wife and I always had ice cream sundaes for dessert after dinner. Almost every night, just some, excuse the expression, healthy scoops of vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce. And every night I would be on the couch watching TV, and my wife would look over at me, and say, “Why in the name of holy bejabbers did I marry you?” No, that was something else she would say. She would say, “There’s chocolate on your shirt.” And she’d kind of head-point. And I’d look down and, sure as Shinola, there were two dark chocolate drops on my white T-shirt. This would happen most every night. (In later years, if I hadn’t spilled chocolate on my T-shirt, my kids would walk by and smear chocolate onto it. I don’t think the authorities ever found their bodies.)
I don’t know what to say. I still spill ashes on myself every time I drive. A bunch of my shirts have cigar-ash holes in them, and there are burn marks on most of the cushions in the backyard. And I swear I am not trying to be careless.
I really make an effort to not spill stuff. I just don’t succeed. Dammit, I try. Like when I get a barbecue-beef sandwich, I’ll be careful for the first half, but I always fail on the second half. I’ll end up with a wadded-up soppy-ass napkin that could kick Mike Tyson’s butt, and then I’ll accidentally wipe my face and I’ll get barbecue-sauce stains on my cheeks and on my collar and on my eyelids and on my dog. I’m worthless.
Just last night, after Marge went to bed, I stayed up and made myself a fried-egg sandwich. A couple of over-easy eggs on some white bread. I put it on a plate. I go sit down on the couch. I’m watching TV. I am very aware of the egg sandwich and my proneness to spillage. I lift the sandwich off the plate, carefully, and I extend my hands out over the plate like a Boy Scout asking for a nun’s hand in marriage, and I take a big, careful bite.
And I hear something. A whooshing sound. I look on the plate. It’s clean. For a split second I think I am not a spilling slob. Then I glance at my chest and my dark blue robe has a giant splotch of yellow yolk on it. Ugly, ugly splotch, a glob of guck. Looked like the Sea of Cortez with hepatitis. Just all yellow and yucky.
I told you I was The King.
Jim Laris is for the former publisher and owner of the Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
But I know one thing you’re not as good as I am on. Nope. You cannot now, or have ever in the past, or will ever in your fecund future, be able to spill stuff on yourself like I do. I can spill, baby. I am the Sultan of Spilling. I have been spilling stuff on myself for as long as I can remember — even as long as I can’t remember. I thought I would outgrow it, but now I have reached the doggone doddering age of 67 and I am still spilling stuff on myself. I have failed in this one aspect of life and I acknowledge it and I hereby pause to listen to your cruel mockery of a spill-stained senior citizen suck-face such as myself. Mock away.
I won’t go back to my childhood days and charmingly regale you with adorable childish spilling stories. But I do remember my mom just taking a bottle of milk and emptying it on my high chair and on my head and on my baby jammies outfit and on the floor, saying, “It’ll save time.” My mom was a kidder.
I will also skip through my teen and college years where I developed my spilling skills to near perfection. You don’t need to know the details, especially if you are eating right now. I will tell you though, that my friends applauded me one day with appreciative slow-clapping of hands that built into a genuine crescendo of pure admiration when they couldn’t determine just what gross liquid I had spilled on my shirt as they watched it eat away one of my pockets and start burning my chest hair. God, those were good days.
When I got married and became mature and bought insurance and sedans and got mad at younger people who spilled things, I had one particular spilling problem. I always spilled little drops of chocolate sauce on my white T-shirts. (For you younger readers, a white T-shirt is like your T-shirts only without all the rock star art and sports advertising bullshit and profanity.) By the way, when I was a kid we didn’t even have white T-shirts. We just had T-shirts. Period. No need to differentiate — colors were invented by the next generation.
Back in the ’60s and ’70s my first wife and I always had ice cream sundaes for dessert after dinner. Almost every night, just some, excuse the expression, healthy scoops of vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce. And every night I would be on the couch watching TV, and my wife would look over at me, and say, “Why in the name of holy bejabbers did I marry you?” No, that was something else she would say. She would say, “There’s chocolate on your shirt.” And she’d kind of head-point. And I’d look down and, sure as Shinola, there were two dark chocolate drops on my white T-shirt. This would happen most every night. (In later years, if I hadn’t spilled chocolate on my T-shirt, my kids would walk by and smear chocolate onto it. I don’t think the authorities ever found their bodies.)
I don’t know what to say. I still spill ashes on myself every time I drive. A bunch of my shirts have cigar-ash holes in them, and there are burn marks on most of the cushions in the backyard. And I swear I am not trying to be careless.
I really make an effort to not spill stuff. I just don’t succeed. Dammit, I try. Like when I get a barbecue-beef sandwich, I’ll be careful for the first half, but I always fail on the second half. I’ll end up with a wadded-up soppy-ass napkin that could kick Mike Tyson’s butt, and then I’ll accidentally wipe my face and I’ll get barbecue-sauce stains on my cheeks and on my collar and on my eyelids and on my dog. I’m worthless.
Just last night, after Marge went to bed, I stayed up and made myself a fried-egg sandwich. A couple of over-easy eggs on some white bread. I put it on a plate. I go sit down on the couch. I’m watching TV. I am very aware of the egg sandwich and my proneness to spillage. I lift the sandwich off the plate, carefully, and I extend my hands out over the plate like a Boy Scout asking for a nun’s hand in marriage, and I take a big, careful bite.
And I hear something. A whooshing sound. I look on the plate. It’s clean. For a split second I think I am not a spilling slob. Then I glance at my chest and my dark blue robe has a giant splotch of yellow yolk on it. Ugly, ugly splotch, a glob of guck. Looked like the Sea of Cortez with hepatitis. Just all yellow and yucky.
I told you I was The King.
Jim Laris is for the former publisher and owner of the Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
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