Demented

Dementia means, literally, without a mind.  The condition of dementia used to be associated with aging, a more or less natural outgrowth of years on the planet.  That is, until Dr. Alzheimer came along with his notion that an actual disease was responsible for at least some percentage of the cases of lunacy.  But could it be that the vast majority of those who "lose their minds" do so because everything which once tethered memory to reality no longer exists.  When all links to an event in your life have been eradicated, what is the point in holding on to the memory of that event.  With the realization that you're in an abyss of recall that no one else could possibly be aware of, that recall may as well be a figment or fabrication of your imagination.  Try bouncing a ball off a wall that is no longer there.   Those of us whose memories extend far back, way before the digital age where all potentially important memories can be preserved, may be deprived of such confirmation of what the world was like, and thus who they were.  I doubt though that, in years to come, aging individuals will use digitalized media aids as a way to verify their soundness of mind.  Solitude and isolation seem destined to  do their work, same as now. 
     A Memory (or not)..........A vivid memory occurred to me:  I am in our back yard, near the garden gate.  The gate swings open, in  quite a wide arc, and it is painted a sort of orangy color. ( My father built the gate wide enough to allow entry of a plow so the soil could be tilled at the proper time.  The paint is a shade of orange because he painted it with a mixture of paints left over from other projects.  The gate, including the entire fence surrounding the garden is no longer there, nor is the garden itself.  My father is gone also.)   My mother is working in the garden, a joy and passion of hers, as well as a duty.  I would say we kids were playing baseball, but it was not our usual game.  That would have been in the driveway, with all the activity directed toward the lot next door and away from the garden. This day, Billy, a boy who lived down the street stopped by: he was not one of the regular player of games in our backyard, and so it was not our usual game, in our usual spot.  I suppose he was idly looking for something to do, so there was a bat and a ball, and my brother pitched to him.  I was catcher, and when I leaned down to pick up the ball, my head exploded.  Billy, in his pre-adolescent vigor, had kept swinging the bat, and caught me right in the  forehead, lifting me right off my feet and onto the ground. I remember my mother coming out of the garden and yelling for someone to go get ice from Sara's store. I remember Billy returning with something cold, maybe ice or maybe a cold bottle; I just remember the sensation of cold.  The ice would have been in one of the 2 soda coolers in the store.  It would have been delivered by A.Z. Zappone in his weekly or twice weekly visits, dependent on the weather, and deposited in the red cooler, which was for the individual seven-ounce soft drink bottles, or the green cooler next to it, which was where the larger, quart bottles of soda and Vichy were kept cool.  (Ths store building is no longer standing; the coolers are long since gone; Mr. Zappone and his ice truck have long been gone, as are Billy, Sara, and my mother.) I remember my mother,before I went to school the next day, arranging my hair  over my forehead to try to conceal the large black and blue goose egg which had sprung out.  So why hold on to a memory, which, though significant at the  time, means absolutely  nothing to anybody at the present time; all the landmarks have disappeared, almost all the people are gone.  Maybe the definition, or diagnosis, of dementia should encompass what is retained in our mind as well as what is missing from it.
 

The Tangled Web

I hate trying to straighten out medical billing problems.  OK, even if "we" (meaning one person in the household) brought them on ourselves.  Our primary insurance was, through a misstatement at a single medical appointment (by that one person in the household), wrongly re-designated as being the secondary payer, with our secondary insurance named now as primary.  We all know that was an unfortunate mixup, and one that needs to be set straight.  So I set off on the mission to inform all the claimants so the billing can be done correctly.  I called 7 medical providers so far; I'm sure there will be at least several more.  I don't know if it's in the interest of the billing office to deliberately not know what I'm trying to say, or if they just can't comprehend the problem, though it's hard to believe, being in the billing industry, that this is a unique situation.  Of course, there are the usual responses of "no one here to take your call so please leave a message."  But even contact with a live person leaves me with that feeling that, while they are hearing my words, that is the only action they plan to take.  One call resulted in the billing clerk, or whatever is the title, saying, "I will refund the payment wrongly received from who should be the secondary payer, bill your primary payer, and then re-submit your claim to the secondary payer."  It seems so simple when she said it.  I tried to repeat this plan of action to the other billing offices, but they either didn't or want to understand.  If I could hand out bonuses to employees, I would take great pleasure in doing so.

Book of Life

   I started out loving to read.  I was thrilled when I found out I could take books home from the school library, which at first meant our elementary school teachers would let us sign books out from  the bookshelves in their classrooms.  Then a whole new world opened when I was old enough to go to the village library.  My mother was always scolding me to put that book down and go out and get some fresh air.  Later on, the high school library offered a whole new reason to delay doing homework: I found reading a book much more interesting than studying for a chemistry or physics test.  In college, there was so much assigned work that reading for pleasure had to be put on hold.  That was the reason I appreciated my literature classes; reading an assigned  novel was such a joy compared to the massive amount of text assignments for other courses.
   When I again had the opportunity to indulge in reading, after my kids were older because they resented my being lost in a book when they were little, I found that the magical aura that reading once brought had dissipated.  Some inevitable life losses had occurred by then, and I could not look on books as the same escape from reality as before.  I would begin the first chapters, in which the opening settings were mostly peaceful, with the characters living  a calm and normal life.  As the plot evolved, I knew the inevitable problems, conflicts, and disasters were going to disrupt the serenity of their lives, and I had little desire to undergo their misery along with them. Real life presented me with enough strife, so I would break my sacred rule of reading, which was to read every word of a book in order to claim readership of it:  I would skip ahead to the final chapter to see how the problems were resolved.  My suffering along with the characters was alleviated, but I lost the desire to read.
       Irony of ironies, the passage of time in real life has unfolded in the same way as the chapters of a book.  I recently attended a gathering of friends and acquaintances from the first chapter of my life, when the story was just beginning to unfold, and we, the characters, totally oblivious of how fortunate we were to be in the serenity of the present circumstance and completely unaware of the trials and tribulations in the future.   The chapters at the end of a book pay tribute to the opening chapters by serving as a resolution to the plot, of all that has transpired in the course of the story.   Oddly enough, after the passage of so many years, what is important to us is not  the resolution of  the issues and passions which consumed our lives over all those years.  Marriages, children, jobs, losses, acquisitions are not the topics of  our conversation.    Rather, we are more interested in recalling the essence of who we were then, in life's opening chapters.  The untold story is all that's happened through all those years, and at this point in time, for our purpose now, none of that really matters. 

Bittersweet

She is so full of energy and joy that we forget for a while how many years have gone by.  Even though we all knew each other very well in that time, she is the catalyst who brings us all together.  She has brought pictures this time, and we watch slides of us taken at the parties and gatherings that were part of our lives back then, in a time before anything bad had happened to us.  Our faces in the pictures are heartbreakingly young; even those who were older than out tight-knit group, whom we thought of as older, peer out with faces we now see as youthful.  Sadly, some are gone, more of them each few years when we get together.  In the pictures, as now, there is wine, but fewer are partaking, mostly avoiding any explanation as to the reasons why.  We all leave for home after a few hours, as an amorphous group.  No signal is given, no explanation needed.
     Memory flits back to the times when no one left until closing time, or dawn, if  a house party. Fridays then meant a party; location was not an issue.  We gathered anywhere, for specific reason or not.  There was a painting party in a new apartment, where we all wore work clothes and wielded a paintbrush; we helped decorate a Christmas tree in a motel unit across the street from the school; we slid on the ice with wind sails at another's home on the nearby lake; some would go on ski outings at the nearby mountain, and our fall-back party site was the Town House, where I was introduced to a drink called a Harbor Light---it was served in a flaming glass.  I never asked how.  A family man, guru to the younger set, had a home with a carriage house, so suited to our party events back then.   In a time before Facebook or email, no invitations were issued; weekends meant an event somewhere. 
     Some of the faces in the pictures we watch tonight are of peripheral people, and we search our memories for their names.  We have lost track of a few  who were integral to our group, and we wonder where they are.  In some of the pictures, the identities of even those present are not clear.  It occurs to us that youth is a blanket which makes us resemble each other, with unmarked  faces and thick hair.  The atmosphere  is upbeat though, mostly because of the joy and  happiness which emanate from the one who is the focal point of the evening, she who is there with her husband, a counterpart of her in every way.  In all the years since, those few years are dominant in our memories:  the way we were, splendor in the grass, the best years of our lives. But as I leave, one who still bears traces of a boyish face and dark curly hair, bids me goodnight and whispers "Bittersweet." 
    

Dogs Gone

  The streets of Valley Falls used to be filled with dogs----dogs that were allowed complete freedom,  dogs that would make their regular rounds through the village streets, but would always find their ways home at the appropriate times.  Some dogs stayed close to home, some ranged the entire village.  Some followed their family's kids; others roamed on their own.  Upstreet, Buddy was the Osterhout dog, a very large hound type. The Spence hunting hound was named Blue, or something like that.   Skippy was the Walker dog, a shaggy whitish gray poodle type.  Lucky was a purebred springer spaniel that belonged to Bess McGraw.  Duke, Colarusso's dog, was also a springer.  Rospo's had a shepherd mix named Sparky.  Clum's had an overgrown terrier beagle type, can't remember his name, Sport maybe? (UPDATE: The Clum dog was named Boots.) A little later, Couser's had a collie named Dawn, who was hit by a train on the tracks in front of our house.  The only person I knew who walked her dog was Louise Clark, who had a large and bounding Llewellan setter, Speckles, I think he was named.  When Agnes Tyrell's mother moved in with her from North Pole Road, she brought her huge tan dog.  I didn't know his name but he ran out of the house and bit my leg and knocked me off my bike when I was about 9 years old.  The Carey family  had some ugly nameless mutt that also bit me when I was riding my bike at the playground.  Kids on bikes were fair game then,and nobody cared a great deal what happened to them.
    Sara McMahon used to go to Tancredi's in Mechanicville or Callahan's  in Troy for lunch and a Manhattan.  When she got back, she used to get all misty and choked up telling me about Jerry, her collie-shepherd from years ago.  We never forget our dogs.

Quotation Recycled

To paraphrase a quote which had been quoted:    "Most people don't care about your problems, and are glad you've got them." 

Unwelcome Mat---A Squiggle

     We visited the new home in Holliston while they were still arranging their furniture and unpacking their stuff.  The beautiful hardwood floors were unprotected in the sense there was no floormat at the front door.  I thought it would be a nice idea to send a floormat as a kind of housewarming gift.  My first thought was L.L. Bean, but then I received the Frontgate catalog, so very trendy and upscale, so I went with that, having the doormat sent to their  home in Massachusetts.  Naturally, in my attempt at sophistication, I requested that the mat be monogrammed  with "S."  
     Dave visited Holliston this past weekend and uncovered  the doormat story.   All who enter their doorway have been subjected to the cryptic embellishment in the center of the doormat.  It looks nothing like the letter S, or any other letter for that matter.  David thinks it looks like the monogram from the Laverne and Shirley show. When I learned of the running joke of trying to decipher the message of the mat, I contacted Frontgate's Customer Service Department.  They were responsive, offered to replace the mat, or discount the price, but wanted the mat to be returned. That would have been awkward, considering their circumstances and the fact the doormat was a gift, and their receiving it should not be a chore, so we sent some  pictures of the mat Dave had taken on his iPad.  On seeing the pictures, Customer Service immediately offered a full refund, and said not to return the mat; I guess they don't have any customers in the Sanskrit community.

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Mitt Romney in "Fifty Shades of Tan"

Regrowth and Regret

    She told me she was disappointed with the pomegranate tree she had bought several years before.  It was pale and spindly, and had never borne either blossoms or fruit.  She kept it though because, following in the path of her mother, she would never discard any living thing as long as it still showed some signs of life.  In my house, the little tree remained in much the same condition, with no signs of renewed growth.  After a year, I went online to see what the problem might be:  I read that pruning often helps to set flowers and then the fruit.  I cut off several small branches and a large sucker which had grown directly out of the trunk.  In a matter of weeks, the tree began to thrive;  it has begun to fill out its branches, and at present boasts two bright little pomegranates.  I only wish I could have shared this with her.
      The website also said it is possible to propagate a new pomegranate from the old tree's cuttings.  So I took the big sucker and placed it in a vase of water, but so far nothing has happened.  The big sucker just sits there in my kitchen, drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette.
    

Rage and Outrage

I have an eye doctor appointment, scheduled for 8:10 a.m.   It was scheduled months ago, so I don't remember the reason for the early time. Now that I know I'll have to get up by 6:30 at the latest,  I am either enraged or annoyed: I can't figure out which.  I can't imagine I would have selected such an early time, and if I did, I hate myself for it.  More likely, I was told that hour  was the only time the machine was available for the procedure they want to do.  If that's the case then my rage is aimed in their direction.  How dare they impose their timeline on me when I am the patient.  Why does a machine's schedule dictate mine, I wonder.  Am I not more important than a machine?  Wait, wait, don't tell me.  I already know that answer.  Whatever, from now on, no more early appointments for me.  Emergency care is different of course, but other visits are going to be on my timetable.  I'll show 'em. 

That X Factor

I watched it for the first time this season.  They need a new producer or director or something to get rid of the bore and snore factor.  A singer will perform, bring the house down.  First judge proclaims the singer a genius, second judge says it's the best she ever heard, third judge says she loves it, wants to have the performer in her own home.  Simon, the fourth judge, proclaims it perfection.  THEN, they vote, going through the entire procedure, while the contestant stands with bated breath.  The suspense is killing me.  I just can't stand the stupidity.

Evil lurks

Visited upon the unexpecting-----Popcorn Lung!

Watch out!

    The Department of Transportation stresses the importance of highway safety, especially at construction sites, where the workers are sitting ducks, at the mercy of  drivers passing through the construction areas.  Caution signs are posted, with warnings of increased penalties for exceeding the speed in construction sites. 
     Although I have been told it takes seven years for New York State to implement policy changes, and so do not think the DOT would be very receptive to any input from me, I would like to offer a suggestion anyway.  As the saying goes, "if it saves only one life..."
     At this time of year, there is a lot of construction at bridges, as well as other road locales.  The flagperson in charge of directing traffic holds up a sign, instructing the oncoming drivers to either reduce their speed or come to a complete stop.  The trouble is it is the same sign, which the flagperson flips over to show the other side.  So both sides of the sign are the same size as well as the same color, and the lettering is also the same color.    The sole distinction is the wording:  one side reads STOP and the other side reads SLOW.  Now there are many reasons which could contribute to a driver's delayed reaction to those signs, but primary among those reasons is they can be difficult to decipher. The words STOP and SlOW each have four letters, Both words begin with the letter "S" and have "O" for the third letter, the letters "T" and "L" tend to blend together.  The last letters appear different, but they are exactly that--the last letter in the word.  Weather conditions are not always ideal, especially in traffic.  There can be haze, glare from the sun, and dust from the construction.  Drivers approaching construction sites should of course slow down anyway, but having to squint and concentrate on which  four letter word to obey is an unnecessary distraction.  Because of the level of activity at most construction sites, drivers need to be alert to the entire situation, and not just the sign. Often the area is posted to the point of saturation with other signs, pylons, workers, all in orange, which in themselves can tend to overwhelm  the presence of the flagperson holding a relatively small sign. 
    A modest suggestion for improvement would be for the sign to be  a different color on one of the sides, or to change the wording to GO SLOW or SLOW DOWN.   I'm sure there are many who could implement the change in a better fashion, and I hope someday it will happen.  Do we really want a bunch of visually impaired drivers staring at a highway sign as they approach it, temporarily  oblivious to everything else? 

Woo's to say?

    Now that there's an impending epidemic, I think it behooves the media announcers to say it right.  Woomever pronounces the disease wooping cough deserves to be whomped, whopped,  then whooshed into  a whorl of whortleberries for such a whopper. (I can't think of any other "w-h-o" words that start with the sound of "w".   It's true, many of the "wh" words can be pronounced with either the w or h sound, but the h is kind of a faint,  breathy sound, such as either wap or (h)wap.   You don't say "with a woop and a holler"  any more than you would say "The Best Little Woorhouse in Texas."  It is pronounced "hooping cough."   I hope I make myself clear.

Counterintuitivity

I know there is a scientific reason, but I just don't get how the inside of a dishwasher can be dirty.   Disease lurks there, we're told. I put my dishes in there expecting them to come out clean, not contaminated.  And they sell a cleaning solution you can use to clean your dishwasher.  I thought Cascade was powerful enough to clean everything---is there no end to dirt?

47%

I'm on the road to perdition.  First, defending Clint Eastwood's insane conversation with a chair, and now Mitt Romney!  He should know that some recipients do not THINK they are entitled to government food and housing and care:  they KNOW they are.  I don't know where he got his statistics: I expect they're skewed.  E.G., low or no-income people are not the only ones who do not pay taxes. If  "The System"  makes benefits available, how many don't take advantage of them?  Millionaires accept Social SECURITY, even though it was intended to help its recipients be able to survive.  Having little or no income is a way to not pay taxes, but so are offshore investment accounts.  Cayman Islands anyone?  The statistics Romney cites may be true, and he is entitled to his opinion, but isn't he the one who derided Biden's foot-in-mouth gaffes. It seems Romney is so invested in his own world of wealth and power and the adulation they command, that he doesn't realize how offensive it is to lump all  lower income people into one underclass, composed of  "have-not" leeches latching on to the "haves", trying to suck away that which should rightfully belong to those who have wealth.  When Romney gave that talk, he was discounting half the population of the country.  What about those prepositions, "of", "by' , and "for" the people.  

In Absentia

I don't know why it was considered so weird when Clint Eastwood addressed an empty chair at the Republican Convention.  There are plenty of empty chairs in my house, and while I don't ask the invisible inhabitants of those chairs to pass the bread at the dinner table, I most certainly talk to them, whether in their chairs or elsewhere.  Certain things need to be said, even if the audience for those words is not in attendance.  Clint Eastwood had little chance of having President Obama in attendance to listen to him, and  I have about as equal a chance to gather my would-be audience together.  So Clint, and I, engage in one-sided conversation trying to explain our viewpoints, atempting to right what we perceive as wrong, wanting to be listened to, to be understood, speaking out inaudibly to those we can't even see.

Dog Gone

      I never thought there would be a time in my life when I didn't have a dog as part of the family, but that time has been here for about eight years now, ironically enough the life span of some dogs.  After Cosmo, our last dog died, too young at the age of eight, we thought we were too old to own another dog.  It's sad enough to think about what would happen to our cat if she should outlive us.  Although Maybe is pretty low maintenance, not many people she knows would likely find a place for her.  As far back as I can remember, we always had dogs around, in the early years only one at a time, and later on a few at a time, and still later, dogs and puppies galore.  We did have a cat or several cats, but they never held the status of our dogs.  I could name all the dogs our family ever owned, except for the temporary foster dogs or the litters of puppies.  The first dog I remember was named Nellie, and my mother's last dog was Butchie the 2nd. 
     I guess it's not surprising then that my first interest in reading was about dogs.  I remember reading a poem found in a bookshelf  in Mrs. Flynn's room, which I attended for first and second grades.  The title was "Little Lost Pup" and I found it very sad, though it did have a happy ending.  "Oh, the saddest of sights in a world of sin is a little lost pup with its tail tucked in."  Mrs. Flynn also taught us one of those "act-out " rhymes:   "Whoever took my big black dog, I wish they'd bring him back.  He'd chase the big chicks over the fence and the little chicks through the cracks."  I didn't feel quite as sad about that dog, maybe because he was big, but more likely because I felt embarrassed doing the motions of simulating first a fence and then a crack in it.
  In third grade, I read a book called "Beautiful Joe," about a dog so ugly that a sensitive woman named him such to give him a better chance at life.    I don't remember much about the plot, but I do recall a scene where a maid spread some type of plague because she inverted a broom and used the end of it to mash a pot of potatoes, and all the germs fell into the pot.  Beautiful Joe must have done something to save lives, but I don't recall what it was.
   In fourth grade, while I was in the throes of suffering with Lassie while she was trying to find her way home, my father threw cold water on my ability to empathize with that heroic collie, and probably set me off on the road to cynicism at an early age.  I was recounting some of the cruel events and arduous travels that Lassie was enduring, and my father asked me how I thought those adventures had been recorded, with no humans present for most of her travails, and since dogs could not write anything down?   I was forced to reconsider that one, and ever since have been a skeptic.   I still suffered, though, through "Black Beauty."   Remember poor Ginger?  And Merry Legs?   And that horrible carriage driver? 

That Mad World

"Went to school and I was very nervous.
No one knew me.  No one knew me.
Hello, Teacher, tell me what's my lesson?
Look right through me.  Look right through me."

Human Nature

Human beings are remarkably resilient organisms. They are capable of bouncing right back from the misfortunes of others.

Low Class Joint

I'm sitting here looking at my right  knee, and trying to bring myself to hate it.  To hate it enough to discard it and replace it with another. It doesn't look so bad at present, with  minimal if any swelling.   The knee does have a half-inch long white scar a little to the left of center, but the knee did nothing to cause that; it did shear off the AC knob of an old Pontiac years ago when said vehicle smashed into another car while accelerating, but the scar has long since healed.  The early warning sign that trouble lay ahead first appeared in the fall of 2004.  I was walking a long sidewalk into a school and heard a clicking noise, and thought I had a stone lodged in the sole of my boot.  But no, it turned out to be the sound of one bone rebounding on another with none of the youthful elixir called synovial fluid left to cushion them.  Together we've trod a long and winding downhill path since then, the knee and I.   It has failed to support me on many occasions since that long ago autumn day, so I am willing myself to believe that parting ways is the best thing to do.    I have heard  such separations are very painful, so I'm still considering the split.   As a well known advice columnist used to counsel:  Before you make the decision to go your separate ways, ask if you are better off with or without the other party. 

Gone to the Dogs

So after a full season of America's self proclaimed and acclaimed search for the best talent in the country, the winner is announced:    a dog act.  Talented dogs pushing each other in carriages, wagons, little cars, or just one another.  Dogs walking on their hind legs.  Dogs dressed in little suits.  Dogs jumping over objects, or other dogs.  And one dog doing backflips.  (That is NOT good for dogs' spines.) I swear I saw all these tricks (maybe not the backflip, but maybe so) at the midway of the Schaghticoke Fair when I was a young child.  I was probably amazed then, when I was seven or eight years old.  I guess it's not surprising, considering the winner of Britain's Got Talent was a dog who danced around its human master.  I'm sure audiences don't want to consider whether an animal is actually talented, nor would they want to know what training methods are used to persuade animals to engage in unnatural activities. 
     When I was a young child, we had pet goats.  My father made a small goat cart and fashioned a little harness out of some old leather strips, so the goat could pull the cart.  A cute sight for sure, made even cuter because my dog, Lassie, loved to ride.  She used to sit in my little red Radio Flyer  wagon, and whine for someone to pull her along in the wagon.  So when she would see the goat, Patches, hitched up to the cart, she would jump right in and go along for the ride down the sidewalk.  People driving by would stop their cars to look at the sight, asking how we made the dog sit in the cart.  Little did they know we couldn't have stopped her.  Too bad we didn't have You Tube then.

Dreaming on

Dorothy appeared, as it seemed we always thought she would, while we were all enroute to some event.  Why she had been gone revolved around some issue with her house, not  her health, but she was to move back into that house now.   She asked about some cabinet for her kitchen which had been taken away, a large enameled two-part piece which she said she'd always liked.  I had no memory of  the cupboard or where it had been in her small kitchen, but said I could get it to her.  I asked if she wanted her  Corning ware dishes, in the  cornflower pattern, but she said she thought not, they were too old and out of date. 

Deja Vu, kinda

September 1974

She couldn't wait for the bus to come,
Having waited half her life,
Thrilled and anxious to join her cousins
On their journey from home to school.
Kindergarten, only a half-day then,
 Started on a Wednesday.
She returned tired but pleased with the day.
Thursday was much the same,
Still excited, but exhausted at the end.
Friday she tumbled off the bus,
Relieved at the close of the week.
  Monday morning, when awakened for school,
She cried out, in shock and disbelief,
"You mean I have to go back!
I don't really like school---it's too noisy there!"

"Lost Shaker of Salt"

Kindergarten Week Two

  "I can't go to school today," he said.
 "Why not?" asked the adult voice.
  He tried to explain, as best he could,
  Not yet having reached five years of age.
  "Because I lost something,
   And I have to look for it."
  "What did you lose?" the questioner persisted.
  Sobbing now, he answered:
 " I don't know what it is that I lost.
   I only know I can't find it."

Boys will be....?

Does it seem a natural progression of depravity to go from blowing up snakes and frogs with firecrackers to mutilating puppies by nailing them to railroad tracks?  Especially since a perpetrator of the first atrocity is now  publicly  bragging about it in a newspaper column, with the assumption that it is a normal and even admirable part of growing up?  I recall a youth being arrested a few years ago for similar use of firecrackers, and he was considered a threat to society, since many youths who torture animal life move on to harming human beings.  It's too bad the statute of limitations has run out on a person who wants others to know about his sadism.  Same for shoplifting, which we are promised a recount of  in next week's column.  What an ass!

Volte-face

I feel that one is approaching.

Poison!

   The evidence shows the enemy is.......fructose.  And not necessarily high fructose either.  Fructose, found in fruits and vegetables.  Drink too much orange juice or tomato juice and the fructose contained, especially in liquid form, will assault your liver.  Sugar, fructose--they're going to kill us.  That is why diabetes is on the increase---too damn much fructose.  Childhood obesity, and diabetes, may well  be attributed in part to that recent trend where parents were pouring apple juice down their kids' throats, thinking it was healthy.  Drink water, drink milk, (low-fat), eat one orange.  Rejoice: your liver will thank you. 

Shop this!

Yesterday when I opened my email, there was a coupon offer, from BonTon.  It was a  coupon good for $50 if you spent $100.  But it could  be used on that day only.  As usual, there were about a thousand exclusions, too many to read, but I decided to give the coupon a try anyway. I hate to bother with those cents-off coupons, but $50 reeled me in.  So I hied myself off to the Bon Ton store, and bought roughly $200 worth of merchandise which was on sale for $100.  I presented the $50 coupon, nothing was excluded from the discount, and so ended up paying $50 for all the stuff.  It was the first day of school:  everyone must have already done their shopping because the store was almost empty of customers, kind of had that over-with atmosphere....

O, the horror!

That's all.  Just the horror of it all.

Four More Years

For God's sake, why don't we just let Bill Clinton run the country.

My wish

If only my children or grandchildren were to enter politics, I could achieve a certain level of immortality, not to mention unending love, respect, and reverence.  My words of wisdom, my insights and my role of  moral compass would be etched forever in their memories, to be quoted word for word, whenever the occasion arose.  What wonderful parents and grandparents have been bestowed on political candidates!   I have an image from last night's convention of a father with legs so badly crippled that after a long hard workday, he would have to lean down and lift each leg to climb the stairs so he could reach his apartment and fall into  the loving arms of his children.   Another non-political scenario might depict the  man  collapsing on the couch, calling  for a beer, and demanding  that the kids shut up and leave him alone.  Politicians have been mightily blessed, with extraordinary parents and exceptional recall, not to mention  remarkable imaginations.

Name

I didn't know MSNBC had a commentator named Krystal Ball, and that formerly she'd been a nominee for Congress.  Her father has a PhD. and her mother is an educator.  I remember a student who was named Welcome R. Friends.  He called himself Chip.

"Poor Showing"

The TV networks should pick up on what's trending:    How about a game  show where the contestant who, in the opinion of the judges, best completes the sentence, "I was so poor that______"   wins  his or her way into the semifinals, to be voted on later by the viewers.  Or, instead of those strained and innocuous anecdotes that Jeopardy contestants are forced to relate, each could come up with a poverty legend, much more in vogue now than telling tales of their cat's antics.  Or, all the Survivor and/or Big Brother contestants could be required to bring in and eat off  their own salvaged  coffee tables, and the one who gets the sickest moves up to the next level.  The possibilities are endless----think Charles Dickens.

CoffeTableau

His first piece of furniture was a coffee table that he plucked from a dumpster, so we have a dumpster-diving President.  Not that there's anything wrong with that, (assuming it wasn't a Salvation Army collection bin.)   Our  first coffee table was a suitcase, an old one at that, donated by a relative, not retrieved from a dumpster.  There were end tables too, though those suitcases, also old, were not from a matching set.  And our very first date had him pick me up in an old car with floorboards so  rusted out that the floor was  held together with baling wire.  We never considered a run for the presidency, though, maybe because we lacked the funds to travel extensively.  

Don't touch!

So this camel bites a small child's finger at the Schaghticoke Fair.  Fortunately the child's father pulled her away before much harm was done.  Parents, need you be told not to let your child near a camel.  Haven't you ever seen a camel's face?

Less Is More

When did it become so fashionable to boast about how uneducated and poor your ancestors were.  And yet the speakers of such are successful, so I guess non-education and non-riches can lead to something good.  If only I had known this earlier, I "coulda been a contender. " I've got most of them beat in the dearth of cash and college category.