The Easy Way Out

These words officially fulfill my daily blogging requirement
for Tuesday, November 13, 2007.


*drives away*

*shoots a hat trick*

hooray! (there was much rejoicing)

*bellies up to the bar*


See you guys tomorrow.

Or...
...
...

A Sherpa To Guide Me...

Thirty days isn't so tough, right? Nahhh. Nothing to it.

Then why am I sitting here staring at this blank screen, flicking my finger up and down against my upper lip, asking myself, "I wonder if I should tell them that I'm sitting here flicking my finger against my upper lip?"

And after much deep thought, I've decided that, no, I'm not going to reveal that I am, in fact, flicking my finger up and down against my upper lip. You don't need to know that anyway.

I got an e-mail last night from a friend who's been following this blog from the start. She's been the bearer of more than a few compliments along the way, and has also made it known when I've gone into hibernation a few times that there's something missing from her morning reading at work, and when the hell am I going to start posting again?

It's nice to be missed.

Anyway, last night she commented on this whole big hoopla that is NaBlahBlahBlah, and likened it to one of her favorite shows on the Discovery Channel, "Climbing Mount Everest."

"Sometimes I bet you feel like you could use a Sherpa," she wrote.

That line killed me. And I decided I had to thank my Sherpa for the evening, for giving me some words to build on tonight.

I think maybe this endeavor is just a tiny bit easier than scaling Everest, but I thought it was a super analogy, and it gave me a little bit of extra motivation.

As I click around the NaBloPoMo community, I've gotten to read dozens of new blogs. Some are spectacular and worthy of an instant bookmark. Others are somewhat engaging. And still others are...um...not. But it's a great lesson in seeing what's out there. I see some posts getting shorter, and some bloggers voicing their concern over how much quality they can continue to offer as November rolls on. Day. By Day.

My buddy Jeff even threatened to start writing Ronco infomercials if he didn't get some inspiration soon. I feel a little guilty about that, because I'm the one that roped him into this in the first place. And by "roped in," I really mean "sent an e-mail and gently suggested," so I guess...hmm...nope, maybe I don't feel guilty after all! He'll do fine. He's a writer, after all.

Thing is...if I don't find some extra motivation a couple hours from now and write a post shortly after midnight for my Tuesday requirement, then I'll be faced with the same dilemma that brought me home early from darts last week. Blogging responsibilities.

Pretty soon I'm going to start inventorying (whatever. it's a verb to me.) my sock drawer, and sharing its contents with the blogiverse:

5 pairs black socks
3 pairs brown socks
5 pairs blue socks
6 pairs tube socks, crew length (2 with substandard elastic)

By the end of the month, I guarantee you...it's going to be riveting stuff.

Last night's e-mail ended with: "When you get to the summit without using any oxygen at all, and only three of your fingers have turned black due to keying frostbite...it will be worth it!"

Thanks, Gerbs. As small of a moral victory as it may be, you're right. It'll be worth it. Although...minus three digits, I'll become pretty much of a hunt-and-peck typist, and will have to shorten my blog entries to the Cliff's Notes versions. Gotta take the good with the bad, right?

"Winners take time to relish their work,
knowing that scaling the mountain is what

makes the view from the top so exhilarating."
—Denis Waitley

...In The Rooms Of Her Ice-Water Mansion

(well look what made it back to my blog. it's time for a squib!)

I know I missed this anniversary by a day, but it seemed to fit pretty well under this heading. That, and I wanted to be super cool and have a link to a Gordon Lightfoot song/video on my blog.

Yesterday was the anniversary of the sinking of the Edmund Fitzgerald, the 729-foot ore carrier that went down on Lake Superior on November 10, 1975. For many of us, the only reason we recognize the name "Edmund Fitzgerald" is because of Gordon Lightfoot, who made the ship and its fate almost as famous as the Titanic. Almost. (I don't think James Cameron is rushing to make a movie about the Edmund Fitzgerald, though.)

There have been recent programs and exhibits in this area, at the Wisconsin Maritime Museum and the Capitol Civic Centre, but I didn't make it to them. The program at the Capitol was described as a narrative with several musical numbers. Perhaps I read too much into it, but the one and only "musical number" I want to hear when learning about the shipwreck is by Gordon himself.

The video clip I found features not only the song, but a lot of cool underwater footage of the wreck, along with bio information of the 29 crew members who went down with the ship. It's very eerie, but very powerful, too. (no, not Erie. eerie! big difference.)

Listen to Gord tell an incredible story:

"At seven p.m. a main hatchway caved in,
he said, 'Fellas, it's been good t' know ya.' "
—Gordon Lightfoot

Notes From Nights In A Crowd

I've kinda always wanted to do this, and seeing as how I'm required to do an overabundance of writing this month, I figured now is as good a time as any. It's time for a concert list. And I realize now that as I sit here and try to remember them off the top of my head, I'm going to forget like 30 percent of them, so this might be an entry that I come back to update. Often.

Concerts to me are as close to spiritual events as anything. Well...some of them are, anyway. Somewhere on the list I'm about to start making you'll find Billy Idol...and honestly, while it was a fun show, I didn't exactly carry the mood of the evening with me for weeks and weeks after. I pretty much said, "Damn, that's some spiky hair!" did the obligatory sing-a-long parts to "Mony, Mony," chuckled at the stage-sized blow-up doll that was inflated near the end of his show, and went home.

I've seen my share of concerts. Not nearly as many as some, but enough to be very familiar with the surge of adrenaline that pours through a crowd when a pretty cool band walks out on stage to start its show, or graces the screams and applause with a second or third encore.

I've run the gamut from 40,000-seat outdoor theaters to converted bars that held 200-ish people and were still half empty because people didn't have the good sense to realize that there was affordable, high-quality musical entertainment happening that night.

In no particular order, here are all (or most, because I have a really bad memory, so those of you with whom I've been to concerts, speak up if you don't see the one we attended on the list!) of the concerts I've gone to in my life, with the number of shows seen, and any relevant comments added to make your concert-reading experience just that much more exciting!

Obviously, I know where to start:

Counting Crows (10)
(I've seen them in an amphitheater, a coliseum, a ballroom, a center, a theatre, a fieldhouse, and who knows what else. From 10 feet away, and from an awkard right side angle way too far up and back. Duritz...is a god.)

Matt Nathanson (3)
(As soon as I got a hold of some of his music, he vaulted up near the top of my charts faster than Britney's career went down. (and no, you won't find Britney on this list.) Nathanson is a god, too, and a lot funnier than Duritz, because let's face it...Duritz likes to brood. These two have now become interchangeable at the top of my list, and I'm currently giving the slightest edge to Nathanson. I never thought anyone would topple Duritz.)

Roger Clyne and The Peacemakers (3)
(Formerly The Refreshments, who put out only two discs before disbanding. I've come as close to wearing out those two discs as is possible. I never thought I'd get to hear Refreshments stuff live, and then the lead singer and drummer started this group, and have made several more discs since. Roger Clyne is applying for god status. The first two shows were seen in that converted bar I mentioned earlier. The third was in another small venue that used to be an auto garage. Kick. Ass.)

Carbon Leaf (3)
(A buddy of mine introduced me to these guys one night while we were drinking beer on his deck. I think halfway into the first song I was hooked. Big-time hooked. They're musically perfect live.)

Matchbox 20
(The first group to appear on the list without a number after it. I wish I could add an (8) there, because it was a phenomenal show. Rob Thomas poured everything into his songs. And they also covered, "Don't You (Forget About Me)" by Simple Minds. Sweeeet. A story about that night, and a meme sorta thingie, can be found here. I'd love to hear your answers to those questions.)

Blue Man Group
(Go! Go! Runnnn to see Blue Man Group! I saw them in Chicago, and I've heard that their Vegas show is even better. I'm sure it's bigger, cuz the Chicago show was pretty cozy. I'll see them in Vegas within the next few years.)

BoDeans (4)
(Very few songs are more powerful in concert than "Naked" and "Good Things" by these guys.)

Barenaked Ladies (2)
(I wanna see them again and again and again. The energy level at their shows is incredibly high.)

Alanis Morissette
(I add her next because she co-headlined with the Naked Ladies the second time I saw them. (coupla Canadians, eh?) She's a great songwriter. But she looked a bit odd on stage because all she did almost ALL night was walk from the center of the stage, about mid-way back, out to the sides and up to the front edge of the stage. It looked as though she was tethered to a bungee cord or something that she slowly stretched to its limit...she'd start in the center, take 20 angled steps out to the front left corner, and then take those same steps backward to the center...then 20 angled steps out to the front right corner, then backward to the center. Lather, rinse, repeat. It got a little annoying. Would I go see her again? You betcha.)

Sister Hazel (3)
(I simply can't NOT have a good time at their shows.)

Def Leppard (2)
(First time was during the height of their "Hysteria" tour, and the show started with a low bass drum beat that got louder and faster, and when the huuuge curtain covering the outdoor stage dropped to the stage floor in front of 40,000 screaming fans.......unforgettable. Europe opened for them. I can't bring myself to give Europe its own line on this list.)

Will Hoge
(Up-and-coming artist who'll probably never hit it really big, and I don't know why. Outrageously talented. Great live show.)

Billy Joel/Elton John
(The only show I ever saw at Milwaukee's County Stadium. Wow, how good were they!!)

Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers
John Mellencamp
Journey
Goo Goo Dolls
John Mayer
Dave Matthews Band
(I felt so out of place because I wasn't wearing an A&F shirt.)
Live
Jimmy Buffett (2)
(and I've also partied in the parking lot before, during and after a couple of his shows without actually going in to see him.)
The Wallflowers
Boston
Hootie & The Blowfish (2)
Edwin McCain
Toad The Wet Sprocket
Uncle Kracker
Howie Day
Fountains of Wayne
(Opened for Matchbox 20. Cool stuff.)
Billy Idol
The Smithereens
Violent Femmes
Three Dog Night
(Couldn't wait to hear "Joy To The World." And they were so old that it sucked.)
Poi Dog Pondering
Steve Miller Band
(They played guitar solos so long that if you were sober at the beginning of the song, you could be drunk by the end. I like Steve Miller, but not that much Steve Miller.)
Bottle Rockets
Susan Tedeschi
Bob Schneider
Nitty Gritty Dirt Band
Indigo Girls
Allman Brothers
(They were the headliners of a Blues Fest we were at. Totally psychedelic backdrop images; longer guitar solo/blues jams than Steve Miller; I was bored and wasn't at all unhappy when it was time to go.)
John Eddie
(Opened for Roger Clyne. Great storyteller.)

I'm sure I'm missing a huge handful of them...maybe even some big names. But my brain has decided to stop functioning for now, so I think I'll post this, and add to it later.

I've left the local-ish acts off of the list, like Pat McCurdy (more of a show than a concert), Framing Amy, Road Trip (covers and original stuff mixed together).

If you're both a reader of my blog and one who regularly attends concerts with me, help me out a little.

And if you've read all the way down to the bottom of this...tell me about some groups you've seen, some you'd like to see, some you hated after seeing them.

"You are the music

while the music lasts."

—T.S. Eliot

...And A Side Order Of Indigestion

I hate drive-thrus.
(no, that's not me. —>)

Not because if there are more than three cars in line, you'll usually crawl at a snail's pace up to the squawk box to place your order; not because about 74 percent of the time, they get your order wrong!!; not even because of the cutesy way they spell "thru."

I hate drive-thrus because my car tends to drive through them more often than I'd like it to.

I think maybe I need to get a more health-conscious, cooperative car. I'll be driving home from somewhere, and I'll pat him on the dashboard and say, "OK, Jarvis (my car's name is Jarvis, by the way)...let's go home and have a nice salad with alfalfa sprouts, or maybe three ounces of baked fish and a piece of fresh fruit."

And Jarvis revs his engine, takes over the controls and blurts out through the stereo speakers, "Me want french fries! Me want cheeeeseburger!!" (Jarvis is also, apparently, from the Neanderthal Era.) (what, did you expect a British accent or something? He's a freakin' Pontiac!)

A couple years ago I saw the documentary, "Super Size Me," which I highly recommend if you want to be informed and grossed out about the fast food industry. It's about a New Yorker named Morgan Spurlock who decided to eat nothing but McDonald's food for an entire month and document his health throughout.

Let's just say it didn't go too well. He began the first day as a pretty fit physical specimen, and by the end of the month, he'd packed on 25 pounds and seen his cholesterol rise 65 points. All in the name of filmmaking, I guess, huh?

After I saw the movie, I was challenged by the friend who recommended it to me to go without fast food for 30 days. (I wonder which is more difficult...no fast food for 30 days or blogging every day for 30 days. hmmm.)

For the record, it was an easy month. I didn't cheat, I didn't cave, I didn't go crazy for want of a Big Mac. But the idea was to eventually quit, and not go back to it. And I didn't exactly rush to a Burger King on Day 31, but...I did find myself driving through a drive-thru again within a couple weeks.

And the first time I had McDonald's food, it was kinda disgusting.

I think I need one of those challenges again. It's not like I order my meals over an intercom seven days a week. But I am...familiar, shall we say...with the phrases, "Please drive forward," or "Please pull around."

If we can agree that chicken wings are, in fact, not fast food, then I think I might give it a go, and see if I can avoid McDonald's, Burger King, Taco Bell, etc., etc., until at least January 1.

So, NO! I would not like fries with that.

(Jarvis is gonna hate me.)

"At the end of this month, I'll have eaten
as much McDonald's as most nutritionists say
you're supposed to eat...in eight years."
—Morgan Spurlock

Hello. Or is it..."Hi"?

I'm not sure exactly where this post is headed tonight, or how it's going to sound to those of you who aren't crawling around inside my head, but I'm gonna ramble for a bit, and give it a shot. Stay with me, if you dare.

Question: When you greet people you run into in your everyday lives, be they co-workers or clients or associates or customers or random strangers on the street, what is your preferred form of salutation? I'm not talking about close friends or family, but people with whom you're less familiar.

Are you a "hello" person, or a "hi" person?

I've been conducting an informal study over the past few years, probably...with myself as the main subject, but many other unknowing participants involved as well. And one thing I've deduced from this study is that, even if I make a conscious effort to change my habit, I'm overwhelmingly more of "hello" person.

"So??" you ask.

Well...I've also been a bit curious as to the connection between hello/hi and introvertism/extrovertism.

For those of you who know me in person, here comes the most shocking, unbelievable statement you'll ever read about me on this blog or anywhere else:

I am an introvert.

(stunned, aren't you?)

I've taken those Myers-Briggs personality tests in the past, but can't remember what all of my letters were. You know the ones...they classify you as an ISFJ or an ESTP, or one of fourteen other combinations. The one letter that I'm 100 percent positive about is the "I". I'd have to lie like a rug on the test to ever see an "E" pop up.

Perhaps as another entry this month, seeing as how I'm this once-a-day kick, I'll take one of those tests again and post the results here.

But I think I may have invented a new category to include: the INAKTCE. (I Need A Keyboard To Communicate Effectively.)

What I've seen quite often in my research is that people who appear to be bubbling over with personality to spare are much more likely to shoot you a "Hi!" as you pass on the street or interact for a few minutes. Whereas people who are more reserved tend to choose "hellooo" or, if they're particularly quiet, even for introverts, a barely audible " 'lo."

There are exceptions, of course, and I don't have any concrete data to back up my theory. If I made up a couple spreadsheets and pie charts and bar graphs, I might be able to get some grant money for my study.

I can't stand the word "shy," but I suppose that's what I am. I much prefer "reserved," and can accept "quiet." And I despise the fact that being this way makes some people automatically consider a person to be aloof. (although...isn't "aloof" one of the coolest words in the whole entire dictionary? I think so.) Just because I'm not pushing and shoving to be the center of attention doesn't mean I'm disinterested or aloof. It just means that, um...I don't always have a lot of words coming out of my mouth.

Even among my closest friends, I'm usually most comfortable hanging a couple rows back. If I've got something to say, I certainly don't hesitate to speak up. But I don't have to be the loudest cymbal in the band. I'm more like...an oboe.

Kind of a lot to chew on all because of two tiny words, isn't it?

So tell me...
Do you say "hello"?
Or do you say "hi"?

"Why can't we get all the people together in the world that we

really like and then just stay together? I guess that wouldn't work.

Someone would leave. Someone always leaves. Then we would

have to say goodbye. I hate goodbyes. I know what I need.

I need more hellos."

—Snoopy

Decisions, Decisions...

I feel sorry for Andy Pettitte.

The Yankees pitcher has got so much weighing on his mind right now:

"Should I retire, so I can spend more time with my family, or should I come back to the most powerful franchise in baseball, play catch every five days with my buddy 60 feet away and watch grown men with wooden sticks whhhiff as the ball screams past them? Oh, and there's also that little matter of the sixteen million dollars that I'll put in my pocket for less than a calendar year's work!"

Officially, Pettitte has already declined the option. But Yankees management, known for being so patient, generous and accommodating, *ahem* has left the offer sitting on the table, in effect telling him, "Take all the time you need, Andy. And if you decide you'd like to play a little ball next year, we'll have this wheelbarrow of money waiting right here for you."

I know a story like this is nothing new. Professional athletes have so much money they pay people they don't even know simply because they have hands with which it can be carried away. ("Here, take these wads and wads of hundred dollar bills just so I don't have to find more places to put the stuff.")

But how does anyone walk away from sixteeeeen milllllion dollars? That's enough to buy three houses that are guaranteed to be featured on MTV's "Cribs"! Talk about celebrity status.

Hell, hire me! I'll work for One-point-Six Million. Or even point-One-Six Million! Granted, I might make the pinstripes look a little, um...wavy. And while I'm assuming Pettitte throws in the mid-90s, I might be able to hit only the mid......twenties? OK, maybe I'll give myself the forties. I've got (had) a pretty good arm.

Wait, wait...hold everything. Pettitte's a lefty. Yep, he's got me there. Baseball teams look for those, don't they? Now I understand why he's worth the sixteen and I'm not even worth considering for the backup assistant bat boy position. Gotcha.

Take the money, Andy.
Give it a go for one more year, and see how you guys fare without Torre and A-Rod and whomever else bolts before the mass exodus has ended in the Bronx.

You'll have plenty of time to spend with your family soon enough.
And three new houses in which to spend it.

"Good pitching will beat

good hitting any time,

and vice versa."

—Bob Veale

For The Long Haul.

So apparently, I'm in it to win it, as they say.

I realize that we're only on like, the sixth day of this thing, and have thirty or thirty-one more of them to go before we reach the finish line.

But tonight was dart night. And you know what usually goes great with darts? That's right...beeeer. And you know what goes amazingly well after darts and beer? Uh-huh...wings!

That's how last Tuesday night went, anyway. Darts. Beer. Wings. But that was a dart night in October. And this one...well this one just happens to fall in November. And not only is it a Tuesday in November, it's a Tuesday on which I hadn't yet posted a blog entry.


So my thoughts tonight were centered nowhere around beer and wings. Instead, I kept thinking, "What if I have a flat tire on my way home, or hit a bison or some other road-blocking ungulate, and am unable to get home and sit down in front of my computer until 12:07 a.m.? Tuesday, November Sixth will have passed me by! I'll be a NaBloPoMo failure."

As I hope you can see, I made it home unscathed, and with all four tires intact. And post No. 6 is only a click of the mouse away from being official.

I wasn't sure how I'd respond to this post-a-day regimen, and as I said...I know we're still miles away from the end. But I like it so far. I'm having fun with it, and I'm anxious to see where the next few weeks take me.

At the forefront of my mind tonight wasn't darts (and it showed in my stats! eesh.) or beverages or wing sauce so hot it makes my tongue numb. Nope. It was words on a screen. And the "Publish" button.

I'm not the sort that can sit and get half schnockered up when I write, claiming that altering my mind in that way provides inspiration. I might be wrong, but I think Hemingway did that...drank a lot when he wrote. I'll do the research some other time, I'm kind of under the gun here to get these words down.

And that might be a cool, hip way to be a writer, too...with a snifter of brandy beside the keyboard. The problems with that scenario, however, are twofold: 1) I don't own a snifter; and 2) I don't care much for brandy.

My thoughts as we get rolling along into this blog-posting month are that if I'm unable to complete the challenge, it won't be for some lazy-ass reason such as lying on my couch, watching the clock tick past midnight, with no care or desire to even attempt to write a post.

It will be the work of a natural disaster, or a sudden overwhelming loss of blood, or I'll drop my car's transmission on the highway, seventeen miles from home, at 11:12 p.m.

Or perhaps as soon as I publish this post, my computer will start to smoke and gurgle and my monitor will melt. (in which case, I'll become a library rat every damn day until Dec. 1.)

November is upon us, people. Let's do some bloggin'.

All that being said...you can probably expect my post next Tuesday to be written and published shortly after midnight, so that my evening is free of blogger's guilt.

(did I mention I like beer? and wings?)

"To the right, books; to the left, a teacup.

In front of me, the fireplace; behind me, the post.

There is no greater happiness than this."

—Teiga

Just How Many Levels of "Deep" Do I Possess?

"It's nice to do nice things."

I was on the phone with a friend earlier tonight, and somehow we got to talking about charitable acts, and how they affect who we are. And before I could stop myself...those words came out of my mouth.

While I wasn't trying too hard to be terribly profound, I realized that what I just said made me sound like a poorly written Hallmark card, one that was run through the shredder before it even made it to the shelves.

I cringed and tried to explain my way out of it, suggesting that perhaps that one simple sentence was really a Zen koan of sorts, holding within its six syllables all the great mysteries of life and the secret of eternal happiness.

But let's face it: when you use the word "nice" twice in four words, you've pretty much hit rock bottom.

"Nice" always reminds me of my high school English teacher, who looked upon that word with such great disdain that he'd wrinkle up his entire face, and barely squeeze it through gritted teeth when he was forced to say it. There were plenty of more descriptive words to choose from, he said. Leave that one at the back of the line where it belongs.

I'm a total quote junkie, and often times, searching for the quotes at the end of these blog entries is more fun than writing the entries themselves. You never know when you're going to stumble across a great profundity uttered by Bob Dylan or John F. Kennedy, or Kermit the Frog.

And I'm not the only addict...because the Internets contain pages upon pages of quotes gathered from many eclectic sources.

I think it's beyond safe to say, though, that the six words that begin this entry will never...ever...be featured on a page of award-winning quotes.

(and, yes...I'm aware that the photo up there is really a place in France that rhymes with "geese," but I wanted to add something here besides words. And when I googled images, that's what came up. And I thought it looked, umm...

...nice.)

"It's nice..to be nice, to the nice."

—Frank Burns

How Pedestrian.

I should really post a squib tonight, because it is Sunday, and I haven't used my little graphic thingie for much longer than I care to admit...but what I have for you tonight doesn't exactly qualify as a squib.

Instead it's more like...a link to go visit, because I'm kinda lazy and don't feel like searching for really fun squib material and I wanna watch some more football, even though that's what I've basically been doing for most of the day, anyway.

There's a blog listed in my sidebar (uhh...excuse me. my blogroll. gotta talk the talk, I guess) that's right up my alley. Very little text to the blog, but the images are priceless.

An art director named Carolyn from Washington D.C. takes photos of street signs, business signs, handwritten posters and the like. Some of them have typographical errors, others use great-looking or unique fonts and type styles, and still others are examples of graffiti that she thinks is worth putting on display.

I can just picture this woman, camera in tow everywhere she goes, on the lookout for misplaced apostrophes, misspelled words and general abuse of the English language. Or irresistible fonts that she feels compelled to share.

I don't remember where I stumbled upon the site, but I felt a quiet contentedness when I saw the subject matter that there were others out there "like me." I think we might be soulmates.

Her blog header is a fun piece of creative work in itself, but I think, even with the header and all the great photos she posts, she should win an award for the title alone. If any blog anywhere was ever perfectly named, this would be it. I give you...

Pedestrian Typography

"A pedestrian is a man in danger of his life.

A walker is a man in possession of his soul."

—David McCord

Yo, Money...It Must Be The Shoes!

(I haven't seen the Spike Lee commercial in years, but I think that's how the line went.)

While Jordan and his Nikes turned out to be a pretty successful pair, I wonder if Spike would consider bringing back his tag line for, maybe...Garrison Keillor and his Sauconys.

Not the same allure, probably. But knowing what I know now, if I had to choose between going to see Michael Jordan or Garrison Keillor, I think I'd opt for the Sauconys.

Garrison Keillor: syndicated columnist, novelist, host of the Prairie Home Companion radio show on National Public Radio, proud Democrat, storyteller extraordinaire. And all-around odd duck.

I don't know what the significance of the red shoes and socks is, but in many of his photos online, and in this one taken by yours truly, there they are. They seem to be part of his trademark, along with a tie that he likes to tie a good four or five inches too long.

Several months ago, I barely knew who he was. I'd heard the name before, but that's about as much knowledge I had of him. A buddy of mine mentioned him several times in e-mails or in conversation: "I just read in Garrison Keillor's column this week that..."; or "Keillor told a great story about..."; or "You remind me so much of Garrison Keillor, except that you're a much better writer and should be way more famous than he is." (I may have stretched that last one a bit too far.)

My point is, I was bombarded with enough Keillor references that I started reading his columns, and when I found out that he was coming to Milwaukee as part of his promotional book tour, I found myself on the interstate, driving to see an author about whom I knew very little.

And I can't wait to go back.

Mr. Keillor has instantly vaulted up my list of favorites to somewhere near the top, and I now own two of his books, one called "Pontoon," a fourth book in his series of tales of Lake Wobegon, a fictitious town in his native Minnesota "where all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children are above average."

I was forced to buy that book as part of admission to see him that night, a bad rule in principle...but in hindsight, so well worth it. It cost me $37 for the book and admission to spend an hour and a half in his presence, and I think I'd pay that next time, even without the book!

The other book on his table of goodies that I couldn't resist purchasing was "Homegrown Democrat." Suffice it to say he's not the biggest George W. Bush supporter in the nation, often referring to him as the Current Occupant in his columns and books.

The evening with Keillor was engaging, entertaining, and filled with more than the occasional burst of laughter from the 900-ish people in the theater. His dry wit and command of the English language have made me an instant fan, and regular reader.


He often stood in front of the crowd with his hands stuffed into his suitcoat pockets, or his eyes closed as he reflected on a story, or possibly invented it as he went along. He was unassuming, perhaps a bit frumpy, but addicting at the same time.

As he walked out onto the stage and got close enough to the mic, he said, "It's good to be in Milwaukee, home of...the full serving." As he peered down at his belly: "The stains down the front of my...shirt, are...frozen custard from Leon's."

His timing was part of what made him so engaging, I think. He inserted pauses in his conversation that made you hang on his last word, anxious to hear what he was going to follow it up with.

Much of his monologue included his thoughts on turning 65 earlier this year. He has a residence in New York as well as Minnesota, and he spent some time out east for a while, saying, "New York is a great place to walk around when you're brooding." So much activity and life whirring around you, but people leave you alone for the most part.

Another observation of getting older: "We used to talk about ideas, and now we talk about medications."

He focused on the different generations and how they viewed life as they went through it, because he's got a son who's 38, and a daughter who's 9, and he's trying to make sense of how their lives, and his own, too, are different.

Back when he was a child, he said, they could stand up on the seat of a car while it was in motion; they ate ground beef and ground pork; and my favorite...they always made it to school, no matter what the weather. "School never closed when I was a boy. That is why we know how to spell!"

Also reflecting on days gone by: "We typed on an Underwood, and hit the keys hard. You had to mean it when you wrote something."

He's been on the radio with his Prairie Home Companion show for 37 years, and he said, "That's why there has to be someone on the radio, someone who knows this stuff. So that you remember there was a time before your time."

I could have listened to him all night, skipped work the next morning, and not cared one bit.

In describing his newest book, he said he was anxious to get back to writing a comic novel again, talking about how much he enjoyed writing this one. "It's not too long of a book, because you can't be funny for very long. Or, you shouldn't try."

To close the night, he took more than a handful of questions from the audience (next time I'll ask him about the shoes and socks!), and then regaled us with an a cappella Gospel tune called, "Lord, Won't You Come Down Here?" to which several members of the crowd joined in singing.

For the record...with Keillor, it's so much more than the shoes.
It's the words.

(although I think with Jordan, it was probably more than the shoes, too.)

"Some luck lies in not getting what you
thought you wanted but getting what you have,
which once you have got it you may be
smart enough to see is what you would

have wanted had you known."
—Garrison Keillor

"The funniest line in English is, 'Get it?'
When you say that, everyone chortles."
—Garrison Keillor

This Would Make Two. In A Row.

So remember last night, when I said I was a Last-Minute Larry for signing up like a day before this madness started, and was happy to see a few hundred people sneaking through the gates after me?

Apparently there's been a mad rush all damn day, of people pushing and shoving, trying to get their NaBloPoMo spot, and there are currently 4598 participants...more than 1700 of those signed up after me. (I would admit here to spending much of my day and night hitting the refresh button, and watching the number of members steadily increase, but that would be an unfair and inaccurate portrayal of my idea of "fun," so I won't admit it.)

I realize that eventually that number is going to hit a ceiling, because it'll stop being Nov. 1 pretty much everywhere, and start being Nov. 2, ya know? And then what's the point of BloPo'ing, if you've already failed before you've begun?

— • — • —

In the interest of not rambling on and on about things that contain Blo or Po or Na in every single entry during this month, today I'd like to share a Web site that I read about recently and spent part of the evening exploring.

MyElectionDecision.org is a site created by a professor of education at Lawrence University in Appleton, designed to give clear, concise views on several of the important issues being discussed by the presidential candidates vying for their party's nominations and to help people decide which candidate best matches their viewpoints.

Readers take a series of surveys, voting for their positions on these issues. They also read through several anonymous statements made by the four front-running candidates in each party, and are asked to vote whether or not they agree with these statements.

After all the votes are tallied, your ideal candidate is spit out of the machine and displayed on the screen before your very eyes. (at least...that's how I think it's supposed to work. it's somewhat of an involved process, and I haven't gotten all the way through it yet.)

The one unfortunate part about the site is that you're required to go through an annoying registration process before you can take the surveys. I usually don't bother with those, but I was curious enough to see how the site works that I'm a full-blown "member," if you will, of the site.

The article I read that led me to the site stated that after the primaries are over, the site will be retooled so that it's able to be used for the general election as well. Not that many people need a Web site to help them decipher which candidates suit them best, but I thought the idea was one worth exploring. And sharing.

Maybe the site will be smarter than I'm giving it credit for. Say, for instance, I reveal a penchant for Wrangler jeans, gunslingers and martial artists...I'm assuming that the site would delve deep into its computer memory banks and tell me that my ideal presidential candidate would be Walker, Texas Ranger. Or Brett Favre.

Perhaps I'll stick to Iraq, immigration, energy, and health care.

"We have a presidential election coming up.

And I think the big problem, of course,

is that someone will win."

—Barry Crimmins

Oh-Oh! It's NaBloPoMo!

As I glance at my atomic clock, the time reads 12:05am, and I can now state that I am officially in over my head.

For those of you who aren't aware, or haven't seen my badge proudly displayed in the sidebar, it's NaBloPoMo!

("huh?" you ask.)

National. Blog. Posting. Month.

The rules, as they say, are simple. Post every day during the month of November. For those of you who know the frequency with which I've been posting lately, it's easy to agree that while I'm 6'4", the hole I've dug myself by attempting to participate in this "contest" is perhaps nine or ten feet deep. Way...waaayyy...over my head.

I've talked a little bit in the past about NaNoWriMo, which is the thing that started all this nonsense. National Novel Writing Month was founded by a freelance writer from San Francisco, who, along with a few friends, decided to write a 50,000-word novel in a month. No editing, no cares about plot or structure. Just write, just write, just write...and when it's over, mine the prose for the nuggets of ideas worth keeping and building upon. Or...if you're really good, give it a quick edit, send it off to a publisher, and sit back and wait for your advance.

NaNoWriMo grew by leaps and bounds each year with the power of The Internets, and while I attempted it a couple years in a row, I usually bombed out by about 10K words. I think the idea is amazing, and Chris Baty (The Man) got a lot of people writing. And for that, he should win a prize. I hope to someday give that a more legitimate shot, and come closer to the 50K finish line.

Enter NaBloPoMo, born last year as far as I'm aware, as an alternative to NaNoWriMo. Same concept, though. A bit of a push to get you writing and keep you writing...an organized event in which your blog comes knockin' on your noggin every day, saying, "hey. remember me? let's get some words down today, buddy." and you're supposed to listen.

After clicking around on the blogroll of last year's participants, I found many who finished, some who were stopped short, and others who posted the occasional entry that said, "I don't know what to post today, but I wanted to sign in and write something. See you tomorrow."

(if I include entries like that during my NaBloPoMo attempt, please take the most venomous verbs you can find, and hurl them at me in the comments section. and call me a cheater.)

Truth be told, with the level of inspiration I've had in the last few months in regard to the writing process, I might be finished by...oh, Monday, perhaps. But I always kept it in my head that this little activity was approaching, and pondered whether or not to make it official by signing up. This year the NaBlo founder has a cool Web site with registrations and forums and other goodies, and I was compelled to join. I signed up late Tuesday night, and was member No. 2870, and as I write these words now, there are 3381 members. So apparently I wasn't the only Last-Minute Larry to add my name and blog to the party.

Being a bit of night owl (ok, fine...I'm an insomniac), I will probably be able to use that to my advantage on this NaBlo quest. You might find me posting at 11pm one night, and then at 12:30am the next "morning." Still within the rules of posting every day, but perhaps a bit of creative clock management coming into play there. (hey, maybe I'll get an NFL coaching job if I do well enough, seeing as how some don't know how to run an efficient two-minute drill.)

I really don't know what to expect over the next month, so I can't give you much of a preview. Maybe I'll post some photo entries, maybe I'll post a couple dozen links some days, I just don't know.

All I know is that my life better get a lot more exciting, and quickly. And if that's not possible, then it's my job to make the mundane seem exciting.

Oh boy. Are we in for a rocky road ahead or what??

One down. Twenty-nine to go.

"Once we discover how to appreciate

the timeless values in our daily experiences,

we can enjoy the best things in life."

—Harry Hepner

Awww...How Sweet!

This post will be much shorter than the posts you're used to here at Ton-Fifty-ONE, because it's late...but I had to share this. I realize that by the time all of you read this, the day will be past, but I learned today at work that this day, October 30, is National Candy Corn Day! How could I let the day go by without announcing it to my faithful readers? Especially since candy corn was my very most favoritest Halloween candy ever!

I bought a bag of candy corn a couple weeks ago, on an impulse buy, because it was on display in the middle of an aisle, and it was Brach's. And only Brach's candy corn will do. So yeah...I bought a bag, I reminisced, and I wrote a column about it. I'm sure my readers were ecstatic.

And now today I found out that the day before Halloween is a day devoted completely to candy corn.

The National Confectioners Association claims that more than 35 million pounds of candy corn will be produced this year. This equates to approximately the same amount I used to eat each Halloween when I was a kid.

I have to admit that by the time I was half finished with the pound-and-a-half bag I bought recently, I was sick of it. Maybe it's just a kid thing, I don't know. Or maybe sugar isn't quite as important when you reach your (*sigh*) late 30s.

Although according to that Web site, one serving of candy corn contains only about 140 calories. What they don't tell you, though, is that one serving is that tiny white tip of each kernel. When you get down into the orange and yellow sections, you're diving into three- and four-serving territory in a big big hurry.

Anyway, I couldn't help but share the news of National Candy Corn Day. And while it's a day late as you read this, maybe you can think back to some of your own favorite Halloween candies when you were younger...and some you never outgrew.

What candy could you simply not resist?

(see you all on Thursday. which, also by the time you read this, is the same as saying, "see you all tomorrow.")

(here we go.)

"I'll bet living in a nudist colony

takes all the fun out of Halloween."

—Charles Swartz

The Insanity of Apostrophe(')s

Clearly, I'm a dork.
I must be, because I've got myself worked into such a tizzy over nothing. And I don't even have a clue what a tizzy is!

(Webster does, though: a highly excited and distracted state of mind. Yes, yes I believe it's true. I'm officially in a tizzy.)

I was driving home earlier tonight, listening to ESPN Radio. Doug Gottlieb's show, "The Pulse," was on, and he was talking baseball. Makes sense, seeing as how there are some pretty important baseball games on these days.

As filler material in between calls and e-mails, he was tossing around the question of the correct usage of the term "RBI." A single run batted in is an RBI, but how are multiple runs batted in supposed to be abbreviated? If you say RBIs, then you're literally saying, "runs batted ins," right?

For the record, the Associated Press Stylebook says the correct usage is RBI (s.) and RBIs (pl.). I happen to agree with that, but it doesn't chafe my hide either way if people want to say RBI or RBIs when talking about multiple runs batted in.

If you say, "Manny drove in three RBI, but the Sox still lost by four," it doesn't affect me any more or less than if you say, "Jeter's nine RBIs in the last game couldn't save Joe Torre's job, because the Steinbrenners are total assholes."

I say and write "RBIs," simply because I think it flows better, not because the AP Stylebook tells me so. I've put up my dukes against AP style before, and will again in the future, to be sure.

Gottlieb has a cutesy little name for guests on his show that he's known for a while, introducing them as a "Friend of Doug," or an "FOD." Blending this with the RBI query, someone called in and asked if two or more guests were on at once, would they still be "FOD," or would they now be known as "FODs?" Got a chuckle out of me that he was blabbering on and on about RBIs and FODs, and I was enjoying the listeners' responses.


Here comes the tizzy part. After a few listeners called in to voice their opinions, some guy gets on the air and says, "Hey Doug, I've got your RBI answer. I teach English, and if there are more than one, then it's plural, so it needs an apostrophe s."

Gottlieb kind of interrupted him before he was finished with what he was saying, so I looked at my radio to make sure that I didn't just hear what I thought I just heard. But Gottlieb was kind enough to confirm it for me. After a little bit of conversation, he asked the caller, "So you're saying the correct way to say it and write it is 'R-B-I-apostrophe-s.'"

"Exaaaactly," was the English teacher's reply.

I nearly stood up in my driver's seat as I reached to pull out my hair, glaring at my radio's display, and shouting, "Nnnnooooo!!"

Just because this guy said he was an English teacher from Albany, he had Gottlieb convinced that he knew what he was talking about, and that his word was now law. But RBIs are not possessive. They don't own...anything. (I suppose a good example to the contrary could be: "The RBI's effect on the outcome of the game is still being argued by amateur baseball analysts around office water coolers nationwide.")

I've never called in to any ESPN Radio talk shows, even though I listen to many of them when I'm driving. But before I knew it, I was reaching for my phone, traffic accidents be damned. I had to rush to an English emergency!

1-888-SAY-ESPN
*busy signal*

1-888-SAY-ESPN
*busy signal*

1-888-SAY ESPN
*busy signal*

(repeat about a dozen more times for effect.)
(actually...I just checked my phone log. I dialed it 18 times before giving up. this was serious stuff! I don't take apostrophe abuse lightly.)

Obviously, Gottlieb's show is over by now, and the urgency with which I needed to reach the host has passed. I haven't sent him an e-mail since I've been home, but I also haven't ruled that possibility out, either. I wanted to come and rant on my blog, first, and release a little of this stress.

So to recap, I don't care if you say RBI or RBIs, but if you ever catch someone writing RBI's, please point them in the direction of this blog entry, and not toward an English classroom in Albany!

I can just feeeel the ulcer starting to fester.
I need some milk.
And perhaps three or four pain-relieving tablet's.

"If the English language made any sense,

a catastrophe would be an

apostrophe with fur."

—Doug Larson

Juuust A Bit Outside!

Since I started this blog, I haven't done a whole lot of blogging about darts, which is probably for the best, because let's face it...it's not exactly a hangin'-on-the-edge-of-your-seat topic, is it?

But since it's the pastime that actually gave this blog its name, and since I had a chance at that elusive ton-fifty-one a couple nights ago, I figured I'd tell y'all a story.

Tuesday night was my first night of dart league for the year, as I'd skipped the first week for a chance to see one of my new favorite writers who happened to be passing through the state. (talk about a good move! hilarious, popular, engaging writer, or...dart league. what would you pick? I know I made the right choice, and he'll be the subject of a blog post in the next few days.) Anyway...last week our team had a bye, so three weeks into the season, I got my first chance to shoot some darts, after not having picked one up since the season-ending state tournament in Green Bay back in mid-May (where I shot like a second grader, I might add. and that's an insult to second graders! not......a pretty way to end my season.)

I got to the bar a little early, which doesn't happen too often during the season. Usually, I just show up at about the time we're starting, and am ready to roll without any warm-up darts. But I knew there'd be substantial rust to shake off, so I wanted to throw at least a couple dozen before they counted.

And boy was there rust! Every time I tried to shoot a straight, hard dart, it'd fly about two inches above the bullseye, and I couldn't correct it. I resigned myself to the fact that I might be in for a lonnng, embarrassing night.

Thing is...there's something about shooting practice darts vs. shooting darts in a game that counts for league, or in a tournament game. Often times (not always, mind you...or I might be some kind of touring pro by now) I can flip a switch and if the darts count for something, they start to find their way to their intended target with a lot more regularity than when I'm practicing. I think part of it is just because I've been doing it for so long, that when it's time to get serious, it's easy enough to focus and concentrate on upholding my good name as a dart god. (yes, I just wrote that. no, I'm not going to delete it. and no, I'm really not one.)

I must admit here, however, that this psychic, magical power becomes a totally moot point as soon as I cross the county line. I wish I knew why, and how to fix it, but it's been proven over the years. When we were über-serious about our darts, we used to shoot a lot of tournaments on weekends. And anywhere in the county, we were good. Really good. Like, "Run for your lives! Tommy and Gregg are here, they're gonna wear out all the bulls and triples on the board and take all our beer money!" (I'm embellishing just a tad.)

When we'd go to Green Bay or Appleton or Oshkosh to shoot, however, my darts took an embarrassing downturn. I'd still shoot...OK...but I have very few tournament titles and very little prize money during my "career" that came from outside the county. Some, but not enough to brag about. Over the years, our league team has shot state tournaments in La Crosse, Milwaukee, Stevens Point, Appleton, Green Bay, Wisconsin Dells...and we'd always shoot well enough on the weekend to make it to the Sunday morning final round, only to bomb out and pout all the way home.

I guess that's why it's just a pastime, eh?

Sorry. Back to Tuesday.

League began, and my darts were hitting the bull quite a bit more often than when I first arrived. Before I knew it, I had a handful of tons and a couple/few hat tricks and a few wins on the stat sheet. Whoo hoo! I didn't totally sully my image of dart godliness on the very first night. That would have been depressing.

As I hinted up above, one of the hat tricks I had was at the beginning of a game, which meant I was left with (ready for it?) a ton-fifty-one for my second round. A perfect game just three darts away. Not an easy three darts...but three darts, nonetheless.

My first dart of my second round found the bullseye, and.........so did my second. One dart left in my hand. One triple-17 left to hit for a perfect game. One very cool way to start my season.

I wish I could tell you here that I paused for a moment, stepped off the line, closed my eyes and got a mental image in my head of my blog title, gathering up all the hopes and dreams of my dozens and dozens of readers (ok, three) inside of me and as I let go of that dart it guided itself into the triple-17, and lights flashed, fireworks exploded, dancing girls...danced. (and that's how it'll be when they make the movie of my life, I can guarantee you that right now.)

Instead, I let out one big exhale, leaned in and aimed...and let 'er fly.

While it's only about eight feet from the line to the board, sometimes you can tell just as soon as the dart leaves your fingertips how badly you've fucked up. And my dart, sticking in the board about two inches north of the triple-17, was evidence that I'll have to wait for another day to proclaim the great news that I got my six-dart out for the season.

But it sure is fun to shoot five bulls in a row, and have that chance.
I'll get one for ya this year. Hell, I'll get one for me this year.
And you'll be the first to read about it.

"Wit is a treacherous dart. It is perhaps

the only weapon with which it is possible

to stab oneself in one's own back."

—Geoffrey Bocca

Do I Have To Take Your Order??

[OK, one or two more of these blog entries where I cheat and pull stuff from my archives, and then I hope to get back to writing in real time again, rather than copying and pasting. But in keeping with the theme of strangers helping me to write my columns, I wanted to share this one, mostly because of the reaction it got after it was published, which I've included in this entry as an Addendum at the bottom. I have to admit that it made me grin pretty big to know that the story written below was seen by the right eyes. Oh, and the references to the Olympics should make it pretty obvious that this column was pulled from 2004.]

I had originally intended for this week’s column to be an Olympic wrap-up of sorts, touching on some of the big stories of the games.

I thought I’d comment on Paul Hamm’s controversial gold medal (keep it) and the U.S. men’s basketball team and the medal they brought home. (Doesn’t quite match all the bling they wear around their necks, does it?)

But instead, I’ve been inspired to go on a bit of a rant, so join me if you will.

I’d like to use this space to make a plea to fast food establishments everywhere that if you don’t wish to serve food up until the closing time of your posted open hours, then please edit your signage to read as such.

A couple days ago I walked into such a place to buy myself a late dinner. I knew it was getting close to closing, but I looked at the clock and still had a dozen minutes to spare, and I even asked if they were still serving, to which I received a “yes” response.

So I placed my order, overjoyed that I wouldn’t go hungry, or be forced to eat a tube of crackers as a meal.

And then...it began. Tension so thick you could have cut it with an oven mitt. Apparently, what this person really wanted to say when asked if I could still get my dinner was, “Umm, no. If I’m gonna get out of here two seconds after we close, there’s no way you can order anything. Goodbye.”

I stood there quietly and observed as things were not-so-gently flung about, and got the heaviest silent guilt trip laid on me, because I had the audacity to commit such a heinous crime as (stay with me on this one) entering a place of business during its open hours and offering to drop another 15 bucks into its till before it closes that day’s business.

I should be flogged.

The inconvenience I must have caused this person by asking her to do...her...job...had to be monumental.

Now, I’ve never worked fast food before, and I’m sure there’s a closing procedure that gets knocked out of kilter when a Johnny-Come-Lately like me tries to get a bite to eat before things are shut down.

But again...did I show up two minutes after closing and demand that my order be filled? No. I was there 12 minutes before.

This type of customer abuse (I’m scarred for life, by the way) can be prevented if these establishments would only clarify their hours of operation by requesting that all orders be completed 20 minutes before the posted closing time, so that employees can bolt for the door the second the business’s “Closed” sign gets flipped.

And if I did something wrong, I’d appreciate it if someone well-versed in fast food etiquette would point it out to me.

Rather than fanning the fire by refusing my order after it was filled and walking out, or making some sort of formal complaint to management, I simply sat back and took it all in, and thought to myself, “Thanks for the column!”

And by the way...if they add an Olympic customer service event in the Beijing Olympics in 2008, I can guarantee you one American who’ll never even make it to the trials.

“Your most unhappy customers are
your greatest source of learning.”
—Bill Gates

[Addendum: A couple days after this column appeared in the newspaper, I received a voicemail from the owner of three franchises like the one in which this episode occurred. He was concerned whether this took place in one of his restaurants (it didn't), and he also asked me if I would be opposed to him hanging my column on the wall in the back of his restaurants as a reminder to his employees of how to treat their customers (I wasn't). So I can only assume now that the employees of those three restaurants aren't real big fans of the guy who wrote that column, and they look at my byline and ask, "Who the hell is this asshole?" waiting to for me to come in and buy something so they can run the janitor's mop over my food before serving it to me, or replace my "extra pickles" order with extra dust balls instead. I've tried to avoid such retaliation by using the following line when I go into any of these three establishments: "Hi, I'm Bill! I'd like to place an order, please." So far, it's been working.]

Good Times...Noodle Salad

[The following column was written four years ago, after spending about five minutes next to a curious, clueless individual at a deli counter.]

There’s an old business maxim that says, “The customer is always right.”

Not a bad rule to promote a successful business. But what if the customer is crazy?

I was waiting in line at the deli counter at an area grocery store the other day, and was lucky enough to observe a girl trying to buy noodle salad who would have tested the sanity of even the most tolerant of those in the customer service business.

First, she wasn’t certain what size container she wanted. The half-pound container was too small, but she didn’t think she wanted the one-pound container completely filled. There’s a fraction in between there somewhere, so she settled on a three-quarter-pound purchase.

The girl even pointed to an imaginary mark exactly where she thought she wanted the noodles in her not-quite-filled one-pound container to reach.

“How much will that cost?” she asked, before the clerk could start scooping.

“It’s a dollar ninety-nine per pound with your savings card,” was the clerk’s reply.

“So that’d be like...Wait, how much was this again?” she asked, grabbing the half-pound container off of the counter.

“That’s the half-pound container that you said was too small,” said the clerk. “That would be a dollar.”

“OK, so this one not quite full would be...a dollar fifty?”

“Is that enough for a meal?” was her next question.

I know customer service people are supposed to have all the answers, but how was she supposed to know the appetite of this girl that was causing her so much grief?

“Umm, I dunno,” was the clerk’s indifferent reply.

After confirming the girl’s request, the clerk disappeared into the back with the empty container to get a mystery salad that wasn’t at the counter.

Miss Picky continued to browse the deli selections, unaware of the people standing near her...namely, me. Soon I felt the awkward closeness of a personal space invader, and tried to lean a bit to make it not quite as obvious.

That just brought her another nudge closer to me. After a few more clicks to the left, I realized that I couldn’t lean at a 45-degree angle without falling over, and I figured one person causing a scene at the deli counter was enough, so I took a small step backwards and out of her way.

That’s all the opening she needed and she moved right in, as she wasn’t going to let a 250-pound roadblock like myself deter her from getting closer to the seafood pasta and mustard potato salad in front of me.

The clerk emerged soon after, and presented a beautifully packed container of noodle salad...not too full, not too empty, and as level on top as you can get without borrowing carpenter’s tools.

“Oh,” was the customer’s first reaction, as she studied her selection. “That looks like a lot. I think...umm...yeah, I think I’m gonna keep looking.”

“So you don’t want it? You want me to put this back in the case?” the clerk asked, as our eyes met briefly and I could tell that we were both sharing the same thought. I only hoped that she knew that I was a single customer at her deli.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Off went the clerk, back into hiding for as long as it took, I can only assume, for Miss Indecision to move along to Aisle 3.

As I was placing my order, the girl went back to her routine, this time with another clerk who was trying to fill someone else’s order.

“Miss? Miss?” she said, pointing. “Is this any good, this Oriental coleslaw? Is that like Mexican, or what does it taste like?”

“It’s kinda sweet,” said the clerk.

“Ohhh, so it’s like Chinese food,” the girl said with a giggle. Maybe she thought all Chinese food was sweet, or maybe she had just then realized that Oriental coleslaw and Mexican food were on two totally different sides of the plate.

I wasn’t about to crawl inside her brain to try and figure it out. I was having my fun just eavesdropping and taking mental notes. A lot of them! Quickly.

Anyway, that clerk went about her business of filling the order she had originally been working on, and the girl was again left alone to ponder.

I got my order filled...14/37 of a pound of Mexican-flavored Oriental potato salad...and was on my way. I wanted to hang around for the exciting deli conclusion, but that might have made me late for work Monday morning.

And I knew that with what I had witnessed, I had way more than my requisite 600 words for this week’s column.

Another old adage states: “Truth is stranger than fiction.”
Ya think?

“There is only one boss. The customer.
And he can fire everybody in the company
from the chairman on down, simply by
spending his money somewhere else.”
—Sam Walton

Yes...I Always Do That.

Uncle Kracker has left the building!!

(or...at least moved out of the way, that if you aren't totally sick of looking at him for the past month and a half, you have to scroll down to see him again.)

Hello?

Helloooooo...hellooooo...elloo...llo...lo...lo.

Dammit, just what I thought. Empty.

— • — • —

As some of you may know, I write a weekly column in the paper for which I work. Kind of along the same lines as this blog, where I can write about whatever strikes me, and whatever I find to ramble about for six or seven hundred words.

Thing is, the big difference between my column and this blog is that if I don't submit a column every week, it won't take too long and I'll lose it. And that space will ultimately get filled with an AP story on luxury taxes for the middle class or a recipe on how best to prepare hog jowls for the holidays.

If I take a step or two away from this blog...and then return eons later...it's still here, waiting for me. Of course, all my readers have vanished, and I'll have to go and purchase new ones now. But the blog, that's still intact.

[Wanted: People who enjoy reading, and who have internet access, to commit to a blog whose author is fully committed to updating at least once a we..uhh...once a mo.......is committed to updating on his own personal whim. Topics of conversation include hot dog gluttony, spam poetry and gospel music. Come one, come all. Next entry to be posted any time before February. Comments always welcome.]

Sometimes coming up with a column topic is about as easy as admitting aloud that I'm a Lions fan. It hurts more than a little. The weekend comes, and I start thinking I better find something to write about, and before I know it it's Sunday afternoon, and Sunday evening, and after obsessing over football scores and highlights, I think, "Uh-oh. Column!!" You can write only so many columns bashing Britney Spears or commenting on unseasonably warm weather before the natives get restless. They want content...good content. Or else they'll sue!! (I made that part up.)

But sometimes...just by going through life and keeping my eyes and ears open, my columns write themselves, with the help of some unknowing citizens. Remember the blog entry (decades ago?) about the drunk woman at the wayside who couldn't find her Saturn? I didn't drive away from that thinking, "What a kook!" The first thing that popped into my head was, "Score! My column's written!"

That's happened to me more than once, and in the interest of easing back into this blogging thing after being gone for a while, I'm going to post a few examples over the next few days in which being in the right place at the right time, and observing, got me a free pass for my column that week. Those are my favorite ones to write, too. The ones that I'm not expecting.


The first one happened a couple months ago, when I walked into a convenience store to buy a few, um, conveniences. A bag of Gummi Bears and a Vitamin Water (the yellow "energy" flavor, if you're interested in trying something that'll immediately turn you into a Vitamin Water addict).

I walked to the cashier in the tiny store, and as I placed my two items on the counter, she looked at me and asked, "Do you always do that?"

With a blank stare, unsure of how to answer her because I had no idea if I did or didn't do whatever it was she was asking, my reply was something like, "......huh?" (a scintillating conversationalist, I am not.)

"Do you always shuffle past the first item and take the second or third one behind it?"

Apparently, she'd been watching me take the Gummi Bears off of the peg. I had scanned the clear front panel of the first few bags and settled on purchasing one a couple bags deep.

"Oh, that," I said. "I was just looking for the bag with the most red and orange Gummis in it, and while I know it's probably not true, this one looked like it had more."

After a short pause, I continued, "But...yeah, come to think of it, I do always do that!"

"I do that with evvvrything," she said. "Everything."

"Well, that first one's just for display. Nobody wants that one, right?"

"Yeah," she said. "Everybody touches that one."

After our brief exchange, I walked out the door, knowing she'd just written about 80 percent of this column, and all I had to do was let it spill out of my brain. But I began to wonder how often I really do bypass the first item for one behind it or below it or next to it or...wherever.

I did it with the Gummi Bears, under the excuse that I was looking for more reds and oranges, and fewer greens and clears.

But I didn't do it with the Vitamin Water. First one in the rack is the one I grabbed.

I do it with newspapers at a newsstand. I never grab the top paper on the stack. Why is that? Better news down below? Less smudging on the newsprint, perhaps? Better coupons?? (which I don't clip anyway.) Doubtful. Just a foolish habit.

I rarely buy a loaf of bread without squeezing at least three of them. Not hard enough to put an imprint in 'em or anything. But for a quick freshness check. Sometimes I go back to the first one I squeezed, but not after I've tested one or two others.

Now that I've revealed what a totally neurotic shopper I am, I hope I don't get bombarded everywhere I go with the same vague, confusing question:

"Do you always do that?"

[coming sooner than you might think: strange ladies at deli counters, and surly fast food employees.]

"You've got bad eating habits if you

use a grocery cart in 7-Eleven, OK?"

—Dennis Miller