Chasing a Buck

I had to pick up my dry cleaning on Saturday morning. I was in a bit of a rush, so I opted for the "drive thru" service area. Pulled up, got my clothes, handed the nice little Asian lady six dollars (a five and a one). She fanned them, as if counting...

...Then an enormous gust of wind blew the one dollar bill out of her hand! I was momentarily speechless...that bill took serious flight and was 75 yards downrange in a matter of seconds.

What happened next was even more impressive...the lady dove out of the window, squeezed herself between my car and the wall of the drycleaners...and took off at a dead run after the bill.

Right into traffic...there's a car wash next door and a steady stream of customers pulling in on a Pollen Season Saturday morning.!! She finally stepped on the bill...I estimate she'd gone over 100 yards...the length of a football field...for a lousy dollar.

I've heard of  business folks "chasing a buck" before, but had never experienced it..literally...first hand!

Bob's Steamiest Post Ever

Not pictured: Me

Most of you know that I'm not the most coordinated person in the world. Today, though, I reached new heights....or perhaps I should say new lows...for being accident prone.

I worked out this afternoon at the gym, then decided to go visit the steam room to work the kinks out of a tight shoulder muscle. The door to the steam room is heavy and spring loaded, it's designed that way to close quickly and tightly when someone enters.

I opened the door and stepped into the steam room, which was for some reason much more crowded then normal. Unfortunately, the door snapped back and caught the heel of my flip-flop/shower shoe.

I hadn't realized it had caught so when I took a step forward, my shoe's thong snapped and I pitched forward like a cannonball into steam oblivion.

If I was a bowling ball and everyone else standing around were bowling pins, I'd have had a perfect strike. Pins....I mean, bodies....went flying everywhere. I honestly don't know how many people I knocked down, but by the time I hit the floor there was no one else left standing.

So there is a tangle of people on the hot 'n sweaty floor of the steam room, and guys are trying to assist people to their feet (in a manly, heterosexual way, of course!).

Another fellow outside heard the commotion, and opened and propped open the door to see if anyone needed assistance....bad idea. The steam jets on the side floor of the room start firing like crazy  and those of us who had yet to get to their feet got a faceful of live steam. Not pleasant.

The topper, though, was the Good Samaritan who thought he was helping us by opening the door...a few minutes later, he told me, "I opened that door and for a second there I thought I was looking at live action gay porno from Hell!"

Fun at the DMV

Spent entirely too long at the Texas DMV today, getting my brand new Texas driver's license. $245 spent today on tax, tags and titles.

Sitting next to me today was an ancient Vietnamese lady. She had a great story....

"I come from Vietnam in 1972. I arrive this country, I always work. Work for cash. I pay no taxes. I have no social security card. I do this for years, many years. I never ask any help from government. Government no good. Almost forty years, today is first time I get identification card".

Wow, I say, what made you change your mind?

She starts laughing. People turn and start looking at her.

She reaches into her purse, pulls out a piece of paper very dramatically...and waves it.

Because.......I WIN LOTTERY....and Texas not cash big winning tickets without ID!

The rest of the time I was there was a steady stream of people coming up to her and asking if they could just touch her winning lottery ticket.

Rogue Cat

I have a cat. She is a rather ordinary housecat, with one striking peculiarity. She hackles when she hears mere humans breathing heavily.

I was doing a heavy kettlebell workout at home yesterday, swinging a 35 pounder and working up quite a sweat.

In my peripheral vision I noticed the cat atop a shelf, watching me swing the kettlebell back and forth.

On my last set of double armed swings, I was trying to get through my last 30 repetitions. I was seriously gassed and my heart felt as if it were going to explode through my chest....

It was then that the cat, having had quite enough of my heavy breathing, decided to pounce.

Tooth, Fang and Claw sunk into my right wrist, shredding skin everywhere.

Did I mention I was swinging a kettlebell at the time?

Kettlebells are very dangerous missles when you lose control.

The cat was hanging on for dear life and I was off balance. I somehow managed to right myself with just my left hand on the bell, the bell's momentum swung down through my leg and I did an interesting pirouette trying to simultaneously drop the bell and scrape the cat off my arm.

The cat got a serious lecture about interrupting my exercise time afterwards. I don't think she listened.

Things that go "BOOM" in the night...

Tremendous explosion in the main floor bathroom at 10:30 tonight. Scared the hell out of me!

My cat had had an accident in the bathroom earlier that evening (try as she might, she never seems to be able to poop inside the toilet).

I cleaned up the mess and sprayed the room top-to-bottom with Lysol. While I was straightening stuff up, I inadvertently left the can of Lysol touching a heating element on the baseboard in the bathroom.

Did I mention it was rather cold here in Georgia tonight?

The heat caused the side of the Lysol can to tear a one inch rupture, creating a tremendous missile that detonated against the door of the bathroom. Evidently the Lysol can spent it's dying moment swirling around in a circle, spewing about a pound of concentrated Lysol all over the walls and floor.

The whole house smells like Lysol now.

The cat is hiding under the sofa.

Things that go "blink" in the night...

This morning, I awoke to a rather surrealistic scene.... flashing yellow, red and blue lights on my bedroom walls.

Since my disco days were long since past, I naturally assumed I was having some sort of bizzare LSD flashback.

Upon remembering that I'd never actually done LSD, I got out of be and looked out my bedroom window.

I live on a corner lot at the entrance to my subdivision. On my side yard there was a broken down fire engine (flashing red brake lights). There was a police cruiser (flashing blue lights) directing cars around the engine, and one of the monstrous truck towing trucks (flashing yellow lights) attempting to position itself so it would be able to tow the disabled fire engine.

I never did get back to sleep....

Almost drowned

I almost drowned once. The circumstances of my almost-demise were bizarre enough that I would have certainly made the "New of the Weird" column in the newspaper had I not survived.

Last June, I was wheeling my 55 gallon trash can back from the curb in front of my house. It was trash day and the garbagemen had just left. Unfortunately, a bag of used cat litter had broken inside the trash can and the smell of the trash can...even though it was now empty...was pretty horrific.

I decided to clean out the trash can...I couldn't envision it smelling that way for another week in the hot garage. I dumped an entire bottle of bleach into the bottom of the can, then filled it up about one third of the way full with a garden hose. I got an old broom and scrubbed the sides and bottom of the can.

So far, so good.

I then faced a dilemma as to where to dump my now-toxic suds. I ultimately decided to wheel the can around to my back yard and dump the trash can out back in the woods.

In order to do this, however, I had to negotiate a rather steep hill on the right side of my house. I gingerly eased the trash can down the fifty-degree incline, angling it downward. The top flap of the can flopped open...and I accidently stepped on it.

Things happened very quickly after that. When I stepped on the lid, the can immediately stopped rolling...but I didn't stop moving. I pitched forward and fell face first into the soapy bleachy cat-crappy water. My forward momentum caused the trash can to slide very fast down the hill, my face and chest underwater, my legs thrashing wildly near the top of the can.

I desperately tried to roll upward within the sliding can but the trash can rolled as well, keeping my head underwater. I could not catch my breath and was panicking...I kept thinking, I am going to die in this catshit swamp.

Eventually, though, we reached the bottom of the hill and the can slowed to a halt. I managed to force my head above the water, but I was still essentially upside down inside the trash can. My predicament was so ludicrous I couldn't help but laugh...

then...the coup de grace....my cell phone popped out of my jeans pocket and hit me in the face. It bounced off me and fell into the water next to my ear. I heard it make a soft buzzing sound right before it died in its watery grave.

I eventually managed to crawl out of my reinforced plastic tomb, and couldn't hit the showers fast enough. I scrubbed every inch of my body for what seemed like a half an hour...and when I got out of the shower I noticed my dark brown hair had been turned into a completely unappealing shade of dark orange, requiring me to get a crew cut that day for the first time since I'd left the Army.

When I tell this story, sometimes people laugh....other times, they tell me I'm full of garbage.

Two Nights (Part one)

My youngest daughter just received an “A” in her college folklore class. Her semester final exam was a project entitled “Tales of My Father: an Oral Tradition”. She told her class my “Two Nights” story.

Day One

I was honestly looking forward to my very first two-week summer drill commitment when I joined the US Army Reserve. I was interested in seeing how different it would be after recently completing three years of active duty in the Army. I was slated to teach advanced CPR and lifesaving techniques at Fort Devens, Massachusetts.

Our platoon sergeant at Ft. Devens was a genuinely scary Sergeant First Class named Crow. I’d heard things about “Crazy Sgt. Crow”, none of them good things. He was 100% Choctaw Indian, had a crew cut and an odd way of tilting his head that made him look like a bird. He was 100% muscle and had a tendency to stare intently.

He also seemed to think we were back in basic training. We got up at 5:30 in the morning and did two hellish hours of PT (Physical Training) with Crazy Sgt. Crow leading the way, followed by a 3 mile run….definitely NOT the way I had planned to spend my “summer vacation”.

After my first long day was finished, I was ready for a drink. I didn’t have a car, so I walked to the front gate of the base and asked if there was a bar nearby. The front gate guard told me about a club called the Wagon Wheel “just down the road”.

So I walked down the road.

And walked…

And walked…

I walked three freakin' miles before I found that place.

That first beer never tasted so good.

A group of four girls were pointing at me and giggling. “Did I pass you on the road? Did you walk all the way from the base here?”

Why, yes, yes I did.

For some reason they thought this was pretty amusing, and introductions were made all around. They invited me to sit with them.

The bar had live music and I danced with each of my new friends. I was having a pretty good time, even if my muscles were a bit sore.

Returning from a quick trip to the restroom, I happened to look over to a dark corner of the bar.

Sitting there, alone at a two-seat table next to the pool table, was Crazy Sgt. Crow.

Now, if I hadn’t had four beers in the past hour and been dancing non-stop, I might have just ignored him.

But I had had four beers and my mind works in devious ways.

I went back to my newfound lady-friends and asked them to follow me. We went over to Crazy Sgt. Crow’s table and I introduced him to them, and them to him.

Seeing the look of outright panic in his eyes was the highlight of my night (so far). It seemed Crazy Sgt. Crow had more than a few major anxiety issues around women.

One of the girls asked Crazy Sgt. Crow to dance and he shot me an evil glance…nope, sorry Sarge, I didn’t put her up to it. I watched as she basically dragged her “prisoner” out onto the dance floor.

I’d have given a month’s salary for a video camera, watching him attempt to dance…Life did not get much better than this.

About this time I felt a poke. I turned around and saw that it was a local townie guy holding a pool cue. He'd poked me with his cue!

“You guys shouldn’t be here…you have your own clubs on base”.

Hey, I’m just here to have a few beers and dance, there are plenty of women here for everyone, buddy.

“We don’t like you dancing with our women”.

I laughed at him, and noticed a bit late that he had five, count ‘em FIVE, guys standing behind him.

He started to blather on again, and I turned to ignore him.

He swung the cue. I saw it coming, and tried to twist out of the way. The stick still glanced off my shoulder blades.

All hell broke loose about then.

I stepped on the end of the guy’s pool cue so he couldn’t swing it again and got a single good swing in, connecting solidly on his ear.

That was the last good swing I got in.

His buddies jumped me and knocked me to the floor and began punching and kicking the hell out of me.

Recognizing a bad situation, I basically “tucked” on the floor, protecting my head and ribs.

In an absolutely surreal moment, I opened my eyes in between stomps and kicks…and there was Crazy Sgt. Crow, about four inches away from my face, staring at me with that all-too-familiar birdlike tilt.

“Needs some help?”

Uh…yes.

Now, most bar fights are over in a minute or less.

The next minute, however, seemed to be a blur. I’ve replayed this minute over and over in my head countless times but it still is a jumble.

Crazy Sgt. Crow cleaned house.

He grabbed two guys by their hair and smashed their heads together with such force you could hear the “thwock” sound above the noise of the band (smack two coconuts together very hard, the sound is similar). They went down, lights-out.

He grabbed another long-haired guy by the hair, and Mr. Longhair twisted violently away, which was a big mistake…Crazy Sgt. Crown was left with a handful of hair in his hand. Longhair started shrieking in pain, which got virtually everyone’s attention in the bar.

Another guy tried to tackle the sarge, but the sarge basically played matador and pushed him to the floor as he bulled by. Crow then STOOD on him.

I’m still on the floor, my pride bruised but my ribs intact and watching this guy on the floor next to me…maybe 5 feet away, turning red because someone is standing on him.

The other two turned and ran.

As is so often the case, the bouncers showed up after the fight was essentially over. One of the girls we were with explained what happened to the bouncers, and our “competition” was summarily ejected from the place.

A splendid time was had by all for the remainder of the evening. I won’t bore you with the details.

5:30 a.m. came all too early the next morning.

Our platoon grumbled and moaned as we assembled for two hours of physical hell.

Crazy Sgt. Crow was in a happy mood, which unnerved more than a few of my fellow soldiers.

“Jensen? We had some fun last night, didn’t we? Doesn’t get much better than this!” He cackled at me.

He was wrong.

Very, very wrong.

End Part One.

I've got the Backup/Restore Blues

From bitter experience, I have learned to always...ALWAYS.....back up important data. When my laptop's hard drive went to the great bit bucket in the sky yesterday, I was ready. I bought a replacement, fired up my restore program, and waited...

10% restored....50% restored.....95% restored....95% restored....95% restored...

Mr. Restore Program seemed quite stuck at 95%. Where is the problem? Hmmm....missing my Toastmaster club records (almost 3 years worth). Well, that's annoying, I'll go to last week's backup.

Still missing. Three weeks back: still missing.

What the heck?

Then a sudden horror dawned upon me...in the interests of efficiency, I'd moved my Toastmaster meeting management program and the folder with all my club records to my laptop's desktop over a year ago.

What I didn't realize is that years ago I'd set a parameter in my backup program to specifically EXCLUDE stuff on my desktop (which used to be icons and other trivial unneeded stuff).

So now I'm looking at least a solid week's worth of re-entering data at night.

Remembering Celeste

Over on Facebook, I've joined a group called "Chamblee High School Memorial", a group formed to remember those from my high school that have passed away. One of the memorials was to Celeste Marley, who passed away in an accident in 1977. I never understood the phrase "laughing until tears come out of your eyes" until I met Celeste.

Let me explain:

I took third-year French class with Celeste. The class was mostly juniors and seniors, with the exception of one eighth-grade phenom, a very tiny boy named Eric who had spent his childhood growing up in France. Third year French is mostly conversational, and the following exchange was the highlight of my year: (Note: entire conversation is in French)

Teacher: How are you this morning, Celeste?
Celeste: I am very happy, my little friend has come to visit this morning!
Teacher (slightly confused, then looks over at little Eric): Your friend came to visit?
Celeste: Yes, my little friend visits me once a month. Sometimes I don't like it when my little friend comes to visit, but I was very very happy this month.
At this point, I'm laughing, so the teacher turned to me
Teacher: Robert, is something funny?
Me: No, no, I was happy when Celeste's little friend came to visit this month too! Very, very happy!
(Celeste is giving me dirty looks now)
Teacher: Why is that?
Me: Celeste was afraid her little friend would not visit her for a long time!
Teacher: I see. Do you visit Celeste's house also?
Me: Sometimes I do, but not when her little friend is visiting.
Teacher: And why not?
Me: Because she never wants to play with me when her little friend has come to visit...
Celeste (interrupting): *ahem* I never want to play with you even when my little friend is NOT visiting.

Only now, after three minutes of conversation does the French teacher suddenly get the inneundo....I watched the light bulb go on over her head and she turned seven shades of scarlet. The entire class breaks out in laughter, I'm laughing so hard I have tears rolling out of my eyes and the French teacher is spluttering nonstop in French at me for almost a minute.

I miss Celeste.

The End of The Road

On January 1st, 2010, I will have come to the end of the road. Literally. My body has betrayed me.

I have always enjoyed running (except in Buffalo NY during the winter of course, but that's the exception). I've been overweight for years but I have a large frame that easily absorbed the punishment of the additional weight...I went 31 years between knee injuries, for example.

Around June of this year I had gotten my blood pressure and blood sugar under control, dropped 70 pounds and was in the best shape I've been in in almost 20 years. I was breaking personal records lifting weights at the gym and running mile after mile on the golf cart paths here.

But then, inexplicably, I began slowing down...and this was not due to old age. I literally had my running stride shorten from 42 inches (I'm six foot four, have long legs) to 36 inches, to 32 and finally 29 inches. My legs refused to stretch any further...they didn't hurt, they just...wouldn't...stretch.

I tried increasing my pre-run stretching from 10 to 15 to almost 20 minutes, with no improvement. I swung a 25 pound kettlebell to stretch my hamstrings, nothing doing. Finally, I went to my doctor. He suggested I see an orthopedic doctor with a sports medicine specialty.

Long story short: one of the two ankles I broke in 1978 has so much calcium buildup on the upper joints that my right ankle only has half the mobility it should (it "locks" now at 90 degrees). This has forced me to take almost twice as many strides as most people when running....

...and this excessive number of steps, while making my musculature in my legs incredibly strong, has worn out BOTH of my hip joints. Bone is grinding on bone on each side.

The ortho doc gave me a Faustian choice:

• give up running and save what is left of your hips for another 20 or so years,
• or run for another year or so and get your hips replaced before you're 53. Of course, once you have artificial hips, you can no longer run.

Bottom line: my running days are effectively over. I've reached the end of the road, literally.

He told me that most people in my situation take up cycling, but the "wear pattern" on my hips would make it hard to pedal a bike, so he suggested getting a recumbant bike. I'm not to enthusiastic about that idea.

I'm still coming to grips with this, but this has put me in a profound funk. I have decided to make a clean break and "retire" from running on January 1st after one final 4 mile run on December 31st.

New year, new decade, new exercise regimen.

Anyone want to buy a pair of almost new New Balance running shoes, size 13? They're only a month old!

Life is too short to carry a grudge

Gayle and I had been friends for a very long time. Three years ago, we had a serious argument about some catty remark she'd made about my wife. I was very offended and basically shut her out of my life. Tonight, I thought about her for the first time in a long time and decided that life was too short to carry a grudge. So I did what most people do in this day and age: I looked her up on Facebook. I sent a "friend" request to her, and included a note that said that after all we had been through together, it's really dumb that we weren't on speaking terms.

I got a response back within an hour.

It wasn't what I expected.

The response came from her son, Anthony. He hadn't realized his mother even had a Facebook account. Her email was being forwarded to his email, he explained, as she had passed away in June 2008 unexpectedly. He'd tried to contact me then, but his email to me had been returned as "undeliverable" (I'd gotten a new email two years ago).

Life really is too short to carry a grudge.

I feel awful.