This year I have been a little down in the dumps about Christmas. However, in the past there have been some funny moments from Christmas. I decided to write them down. So here we go…
A Wal-Mart Christmas Carol
Twas a couple days before Christmas many years ago. My friend Johnna owned a small salon in Mishawaka Indiana. Her Christmas party that she held at the shop was one of the best I ever attended. On the face it wasn’t extravagant, some holiday decorations, and food brought in. But we played board games and cards and laughed all night, and enjoyed ourselves immensely.
I came up with a collection of “Salon Carols” that I wish I saved the lyrics for. Basically I took classic Christmas songs and changed the lyrics around in my typical creative style. We sang them, horribly off key.
Johnna had a last minute gift she needed to get at Wal-Mart, so off to the store we went. We were all in a little bit of a playful mood, and oddly stone cold sober. Johnna enters the store and decides she wants a career as a greeter there, so she tells the crowd “Welcome to Wal-Mart, the carts are in the back!”.
The Christmas gift Johnna needs to buy is a Dremel brand Rotary Tool. She finds exactly what she needs and we all head to the counter so she can make her purchase.
We get to the counter, and the clerk tries to scan the tool. After several passes, she realizes that it won’t go through. She punches in the UPC, but apparently the register asks her for the name as well. It isn’t a standard keyboard on the register, and she doesn’t apparently type letter characters often. So She takes a moment to enter it…. D…. R…..E….M….E…… The cashier couldn’t find the last letter for Dremel. To which she responds. “There is No ‘L’”
Being in our giddy mood, I lead our little group in a stirring musical rendition of “No ‘L’, No ‘L’, No ‘L’, No ‘L’…”. We got some stares from shoppers that night, and sadly no tips or even any Wassail.
Male Chauvinist Child
OK, I admit it, I grew up in an old fashioned “traditional” family environment. Dad worked at Republic Steel Mill, Mom stayed home and took care of the house and cooked the food. As an impressionable youth, I had some very clear views on the roles of women and men. Since, of course, I have come to respect that the roles can be different, even entirely reversed. OK, disclaimers made.
One Christmas as a child, my Mother took me to a Christmas party of some kind. It was huge with a lot of kids in attendance. At the party they had both Santa and Mrs. Claus, and kids were lining up to visit one or the other. The line to see Santa as humongous, while the line to talk to Mrs. Claus was notably smaller.
So Mom encourages me to talk to Mrs. Claus, because the line is shorter. “You know Keith, she’ll tell Santa everything you tell her”, my Mom explains to me. It made sense to me because Mom tells Dad everything I do, especially when I do something bad.
We get in the short line and wait patiently to see Mrs. Claus. When it is my turn I get up and ask her “Hey, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at home cooking and cleaning for Santa and the Elves?” My Mom shook her head in disbelief. To this day she still likes telling this tale of her chauvinistic son.
Great Grandma Newcomb
No collection of Christmas memories would be complete for me without a mention of my Great Grandmother Martha Newcomb. She was a little, frail, bookish retired schoolteacher. In fact, I think she was one of the very first schoolteachers in her small town in Indiana.
Every year, she would come to Chicago to the home of my Grandma Gergel to visit with the family. All my cousins were there, and we would eat Grandma’s excellent turkey dinner, open gifts, and play cards. (I am starting to notice a pattern of good Christmases and card playing).
Every year, Great Grandma Newcomb would give the kids shirts with our names on it. I would get a shirt with the name “KEITH” blazoned across it, as my brother got one with “MARK” on it.
Being a kid back then, I never understood what the shirts were about, or even questioned them. My brother, cousins, and I would all wear ours and think nothing of it.
See, Great Grandma was famous for what the family called “Grandma Newcomb-itus” where she couldn’t keep people’s names straight. Especially all the kids. So the names on the shirts were a clever ruse by her to get around it. We would sit next to her, she would read the shirt, and then she would ask us by name how school was going, etc.
It’s a shame that I didn’t figure it out sooner. Would have loved to switch shirts with my cousins and had her think that my name is “DANNY” or even funnier yet “JENNY”.
Great Grandma Newcomb also had a tradition. Every Christmas she would save the ribbons off all of the presents. She would collect them all in a paper bag and take them home with her.
For years we wondered what she did with them, because from what we saw she never used one of the old ribbons in a following Christmas. I don’t think anyone even ever asked her either.
My Great Grandma Newcomb made to live to see her upper upper 90s. We were all rooting for her to hit the big 100, but that didn’t happen sadly. My Dad told me that after she passed, they opened one of the closets in her home and out fell thousands upon thousands of Christmas ribbons.
Great Grandma Newcomb used to always cook a Wick’s Sugar Cream Pie when we visited her in Indiana. Every once in awhile I get one of those pies at the store, and think of her, and the Christmas ribbons.
A Very Merry Christmas to everyone, and even those who do not celebrate the holiday (like myself this year): Being the end of the year it is only proper to reflect on the past and the good times shared with family and friends. For January brings a new year, full of promise and hope. I wish everyone luck, health, and prosperity in the coming year.
Thanks for reading.
Saturday, December 25, 2010
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Tonk
A Fun Card Game
One Poker Deck of 52 cards, not using Jokers
Three tokens for each player (these can be nickels, quarters, or just poker chips)
History
When I was a kid my Great Grandmother Martha Newcomb brought to us a card game. The adults and kids alike loved to play it. Typically we would play for nickels. Every Christmas and Thanksgiving we would bring nickels to play Tonk.
I am not sure about where the game actually came from. I have heard variations called “Knock Poker”. Researching various books on card games revealed that the actual card game of Tonk is completely different. Presented are the rules as we played and enjoyed them.
The Game
The game starts with all players sitting at a table with three tokens in front of each player. The first dealer is decided or randomly determined. The dealer shuffles and deals three cards face down to each player, puts the remaining cards in the center of the table, and overturns the top card which becomes the discard pile.
The player to the dealer’s right is the player that gets to go first. The player looks at his three cards. The score of the player’s hand is determined by the highest number of one suit. For example, having 5♥, K♣, and 2♣ represents a score of 12, with the king counting as 10. The five of hearts is not part of the score since combination of the other two cards is higher. The score must all be in the same suit. The face cards (king, queen, and jack) all have a value of 10. The Ace has a value of 11. The number cards from 2 through 10 are scored based on that number.
The player has the following choices:
1.) The player can draw the top upward facing card from the discard pile, usually to complement his/her hand and increase his/her score. However since it is face up for all to see, doing so reveals what suit you are saving to other players, and you might not get lucky in getting another good discard on future turns. The player then discards one card face up to the discard pile.
2.) The player can draw the top downward facing card off of the deck. This will allow the player to keep what is received a secret. The player then discards one card face up to the discard pile.
3.) You can “knock”. When you knock, you physically knock on the table. Deciding to knock is important. What you are doing is telling the other players that you believe that your hand is the highest, or at the very least your hand is not the lowest. When you knock, you do not get a turn, instead your opponents get one extra round to improve their hand. When the turn returns to you, everyone reveals their cards. The player with the lowest score puts one of their tokens in the center. If two or more players have the same lowest score, all of them put a token in the center.
The highest score possible is 31, which includes an Ace and two cards with a value of 10. Again, they must all be in the same suit. When it is your turn, and you have acquired this score of 31, or if you have been dealt the score and it is your turn, you put down your cards and announce “Tonk!”. All of the player's opponents who got Tonked put one of their tokens into the center of the pot. The player who got the Tonk does not lose a token.
The player to the dealer’s right that is still in the game shuffles and deals three cards to each player, and play continues.
As I stated previously, all the players start with three tokens. These represent three strikes. However in the course of play, players will lose these tokens. When a player has lost all three of his/her tokens to the pot, he/she is allowed to play “on their honor”. This is like an invisible fourth token. It is completely possible for a player to win the game on their honor. If the player loses on their honor, he/she leaves the table and is out of the game.
Play continues until one player is left at the table. At that point, the one remaining player takes the pot and wins the game.
One Poker Deck of 52 cards, not using Jokers
Three tokens for each player (these can be nickels, quarters, or just poker chips)
History
When I was a kid my Great Grandmother Martha Newcomb brought to us a card game. The adults and kids alike loved to play it. Typically we would play for nickels. Every Christmas and Thanksgiving we would bring nickels to play Tonk.
I am not sure about where the game actually came from. I have heard variations called “Knock Poker”. Researching various books on card games revealed that the actual card game of Tonk is completely different. Presented are the rules as we played and enjoyed them.
The Game
The game starts with all players sitting at a table with three tokens in front of each player. The first dealer is decided or randomly determined. The dealer shuffles and deals three cards face down to each player, puts the remaining cards in the center of the table, and overturns the top card which becomes the discard pile.
The player to the dealer’s right is the player that gets to go first. The player looks at his three cards. The score of the player’s hand is determined by the highest number of one suit. For example, having 5♥, K♣, and 2♣ represents a score of 12, with the king counting as 10. The five of hearts is not part of the score since combination of the other two cards is higher. The score must all be in the same suit. The face cards (king, queen, and jack) all have a value of 10. The Ace has a value of 11. The number cards from 2 through 10 are scored based on that number.
The player has the following choices:
1.) The player can draw the top upward facing card from the discard pile, usually to complement his/her hand and increase his/her score. However since it is face up for all to see, doing so reveals what suit you are saving to other players, and you might not get lucky in getting another good discard on future turns. The player then discards one card face up to the discard pile.
2.) The player can draw the top downward facing card off of the deck. This will allow the player to keep what is received a secret. The player then discards one card face up to the discard pile.
3.) You can “knock”. When you knock, you physically knock on the table. Deciding to knock is important. What you are doing is telling the other players that you believe that your hand is the highest, or at the very least your hand is not the lowest. When you knock, you do not get a turn, instead your opponents get one extra round to improve their hand. When the turn returns to you, everyone reveals their cards. The player with the lowest score puts one of their tokens in the center. If two or more players have the same lowest score, all of them put a token in the center.
The highest score possible is 31, which includes an Ace and two cards with a value of 10. Again, they must all be in the same suit. When it is your turn, and you have acquired this score of 31, or if you have been dealt the score and it is your turn, you put down your cards and announce “Tonk!”. All of the player's opponents who got Tonked put one of their tokens into the center of the pot. The player who got the Tonk does not lose a token.
The player to the dealer’s right that is still in the game shuffles and deals three cards to each player, and play continues.
As I stated previously, all the players start with three tokens. These represent three strikes. However in the course of play, players will lose these tokens. When a player has lost all three of his/her tokens to the pot, he/she is allowed to play “on their honor”. This is like an invisible fourth token. It is completely possible for a player to win the game on their honor. If the player loses on their honor, he/she leaves the table and is out of the game.
Play continues until one player is left at the table. At that point, the one remaining player takes the pot and wins the game.
Friday, September 24, 2010
FNF: Open Mouth Insert Foot
This week’s FNF is rather short, but they do take longer to set up than facebook would allow me to post there. So here we go…
I am sure everyone had those moments where you said something that maybe you shouldn’t have, catching yourself later. These are two such circumstances.
The first one happened very recently, last weekend in fact. I finally decided on getting another gaming system. I am totally against Microsoft after purchasing my Zune only to have it totally die on me. Also, I have heard and seen the “red rings of death” on the Xbox. So I believe that Microsoft can’t make decent hardware and won’t buy an Xbox, even though the games look very attractive.
I decided on a Nintendo Wii. I have to admit that I like the way you wave the wand around and it way it reacts. Even a simple game of bowling is made fun with it. Plus Netflix works on the Wii, so that is a plus there as well.
So I walk into Wal-Mart last weekend to look at a Nintendo Wii game system. I go to the glass counter, and I see they have two. However, something is different, these are black. Before I decided on purchasing one, I wanted to make sure that it was as good (if not better) than the traditional white one I have seen before.
The case is locked, so I need to find someone to help me. I go to the electronics counter and wait for an available salesperson. A dark skinned African-American sales associate was at the counter. Without thinking I blurt out… “Hello, I would like to see your BLACK Wii (wee) please.” … I then stumbled, because although the gentleman was attractive I was not hitting on him… and then quickly recovered “the Nintendo Wii in the case, I would like to take a look”. I don’t think he caught it, or didn’t call attention to my remark. He got another associate with keys to show me to the case, and I bought one.
The next stumble happened some time ago. For all the restaurant chains in Columbus, there aren’t a lot of Long John Silver seafood restaurants. I have to travel a bit to get to the one closest to where I live.
At the time, they were having a special called the “Boatload of Seafood” which included basically everything from fish, shrimp, clams, etc etc. It looked good.
So I get up to the counter, look the cashier right in the eyes and place my order for a “BUTTLOAD of Seafood”. Apparently my filthy mind decided to take over. I was embarrassed, but the cashier admitted it was a more common mistake than I thought and we had a bit of a laugh about it.
Words are fun, and even when we stumble on them, they can be more fun.
The trick is having the ability to laugh at yourself about it later.
I am sure everyone had those moments where you said something that maybe you shouldn’t have, catching yourself later. These are two such circumstances.
The first one happened very recently, last weekend in fact. I finally decided on getting another gaming system. I am totally against Microsoft after purchasing my Zune only to have it totally die on me. Also, I have heard and seen the “red rings of death” on the Xbox. So I believe that Microsoft can’t make decent hardware and won’t buy an Xbox, even though the games look very attractive.
I decided on a Nintendo Wii. I have to admit that I like the way you wave the wand around and it way it reacts. Even a simple game of bowling is made fun with it. Plus Netflix works on the Wii, so that is a plus there as well.
So I walk into Wal-Mart last weekend to look at a Nintendo Wii game system. I go to the glass counter, and I see they have two. However, something is different, these are black. Before I decided on purchasing one, I wanted to make sure that it was as good (if not better) than the traditional white one I have seen before.
The case is locked, so I need to find someone to help me. I go to the electronics counter and wait for an available salesperson. A dark skinned African-American sales associate was at the counter. Without thinking I blurt out… “Hello, I would like to see your BLACK Wii (wee) please.” … I then stumbled, because although the gentleman was attractive I was not hitting on him… and then quickly recovered “the Nintendo Wii in the case, I would like to take a look”. I don’t think he caught it, or didn’t call attention to my remark. He got another associate with keys to show me to the case, and I bought one.
The next stumble happened some time ago. For all the restaurant chains in Columbus, there aren’t a lot of Long John Silver seafood restaurants. I have to travel a bit to get to the one closest to where I live.
At the time, they were having a special called the “Boatload of Seafood” which included basically everything from fish, shrimp, clams, etc etc. It looked good.
So I get up to the counter, look the cashier right in the eyes and place my order for a “BUTTLOAD of Seafood”. Apparently my filthy mind decided to take over. I was embarrassed, but the cashier admitted it was a more common mistake than I thought and we had a bit of a laugh about it.
Words are fun, and even when we stumble on them, they can be more fun.
The trick is having the ability to laugh at yourself about it later.
Friday, August 20, 2010
FNF: No Substitute for Class
After I graduated college, the job market was bad. Very similar to how bad the job market is now. At the time, I was able to find a part time job working at Liberty Mutual Insurance Company.
The job basically became a dead end, with no hopes of going to full time or movement anywhere in the company. So I needed to leave and find something else. But what?
Then I thought of going to become a substitute teacher. Nice flexible hours, easy to cancel if I had an interview. A prime job for someone to look for a prime job. My Mom had substituted before with great success, so it was time for me to give it a try.
My first assignment was for Physical Education. A bit of a disappointment since PE was never my kind of class. In point of fact it was the class I hated the most. Still, I took the assignment thinking that the kids would be doing most of the actual exercise, and most of the coaches I had growing up that taught PE were chubbier and more out of shape than I.
The challenge though is this PE class was at a place called the Family Children’s Center (FCC) in Mishawaka Indiana. It was a facility for troubled youth, with serious behavioral problems. Again, not really daunted by that either.
So I get there to teach PE, and was told where the gym and the coach’s office was. Walked into the office and found the notes the coach left. You’ll never guess what sport they were doing: DODGE BALL.
OK, let’s take some behaviorally challenged junior high age students. We are dealing with severe emotional problems as well as hormones causing their system to go completely bonkers. Now we are going to give them inflatable balls and actually telling them to smack each other with them.
Plus lets give this to the new substitute whose first day of teaching. Ain’t gonna happen!
So I talk to the other coach as well as the teaching assistants telling them no dodge ball. One suggests they use the weight room. First, I had no training in what to do with weights myself and felt uncomfortable. Second, the prospect of these emotionally challenged kids having access to large metal objects didn’t seem like a good idea either. If you can imagine how I felt about one of them throwing a rubber ball, I am sure you understand my fear of them throwing a five-pound weight. Again, ain’t gonna happen!
They wound up doing basic calisthenics and running around the gym. Safety first!
Later I had a discussion with the teacher, and he was apologetic. Apparently there was a regular TA (teaching assistant) that actually ran the class in his absence. That TA was out that day too. While they did do dodge ball apparently it was only with three balls, and it was a set of oversized ones that couldn’t really be tossed with much velocity. Apparently these larger balls were locked up too so I could have only gotten the smaller ones, most of them under inflated and could reach almost terminal velocity.
I would wind up teaching Junior High, and Special Education classes a lot, and had a lot of assignments at the FCC. Though that was the last attempt I made at PE at the FCC.
Later on, there would be another assignment at the FCC. Special Education from the substitute teacher’s perspective is extremely boring. A lot of the time the students are just doing deskwork and no real class to teach. Once in awhile the occasional question. I found myself doing a lot of reading.
The Special Ed classes would always have TAs to help with the discipline issues, of which there were many. Sometimes children would need to be physically restrained because they were in danger of hurting themselves and others.
OK, so I am in a class and the students are doing their deskwork. A student asked me for a pencil because he had some math to do. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I mean if someone asks you for a pencil, don’t you give them a pencil?
I go to the teacher’s desk and find a pencil. I then start making my way to the kid’s desk and start to hand him the pencil. Out of nowhere I hear a shout of “NO!” and one of the teaching assistants jumps up and grabs the pencil out of my hand.
Later on, I heard from the TA that the student once took a pencil and jammed it into a substitute’s arm for no apparent reason. What is this? Hannibal Lecter Jr. High?
After that my fears on the PE class seemed entirely justified. If a pencil is a weapon then so are metal weights and rubber balls.
After I got accustomed more to the setting and the rules, my days teaching at the FCC were very enjoyable and rewarding. While the kids had some serious emotional control issues, they were interested in learning, and there were some brilliant young minds there.
But the hilarious story was not at the FCC, but at a regular Junior High School…
See once they find out you are willing to substitute teach Jr. High and Special Ed, you become a very busy person. Not a lot of substitutes want to take those assignments.
As luck would have it a teacher was out for a whole week and I got the assignment for that whole week. Money is good, and after my experience at the FCC I was ready for anything.
I forget his name, but we will call him Jacob. Jacob was a bit of a problem that week. He had this thing about spit balls. He loved to hit the other students with them. Of course I tried telling him to stop, caught him several times, even sent him to the Principal’s Office. The other students were relieved because they were tired of it.
So it’s my last day at this assignment, and other than Jacob it has been a model class with no problems. And the last day there are a series of tests. I warn all the students that there will be no talking or interruptions of any kind during the tests. If there is, I told them I would confiscate the paper and they would have to talk to their regular teacher about a retake of the test.
Jacob actually was doing his test work… when suddenly THWACK!
A spitball hits Jacob. He starts to turn around in his desk to see who it was. To which I tell him “keep your eye on your own paper”.
Again he goes back to work… and then suddenly another THWACK!
Right in the back of the neck! Again he turns around, and this time complains that someone is hitting him with spitballs.
I respond, “I will keep my eye on you and if I see anyone shooting spitballs at you, they will go to the Principals office”.
Again, back to his work…. and another THWACK!
He jumps up and asks me if I saw anything. He then accuses two other students that were behind him of spitballs. I didn’t see anything and told him that I think he wass imagining things to cause a disruption, and if that is his game he can go to the Principal’s office.
The next three times… THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! He just sat there and took the spitballs.
At that point, I gently put the hollowed out pen I hid in my right hand back into the teacher’s desk. And discarded the remaining spitballs I had made.
Apparently no one ever suspects it was the substitute teacher that would do such a thing.
Revenge was mine and justice was served.
I would find out later from Jacob’s regular teacher that Jacob had stopped with the spitballs. So apparently it taught him a little about how it felt to be on the other end.
The job basically became a dead end, with no hopes of going to full time or movement anywhere in the company. So I needed to leave and find something else. But what?
Then I thought of going to become a substitute teacher. Nice flexible hours, easy to cancel if I had an interview. A prime job for someone to look for a prime job. My Mom had substituted before with great success, so it was time for me to give it a try.
My first assignment was for Physical Education. A bit of a disappointment since PE was never my kind of class. In point of fact it was the class I hated the most. Still, I took the assignment thinking that the kids would be doing most of the actual exercise, and most of the coaches I had growing up that taught PE were chubbier and more out of shape than I.
The challenge though is this PE class was at a place called the Family Children’s Center (FCC) in Mishawaka Indiana. It was a facility for troubled youth, with serious behavioral problems. Again, not really daunted by that either.
So I get there to teach PE, and was told where the gym and the coach’s office was. Walked into the office and found the notes the coach left. You’ll never guess what sport they were doing: DODGE BALL.
OK, let’s take some behaviorally challenged junior high age students. We are dealing with severe emotional problems as well as hormones causing their system to go completely bonkers. Now we are going to give them inflatable balls and actually telling them to smack each other with them.
Plus lets give this to the new substitute whose first day of teaching. Ain’t gonna happen!
So I talk to the other coach as well as the teaching assistants telling them no dodge ball. One suggests they use the weight room. First, I had no training in what to do with weights myself and felt uncomfortable. Second, the prospect of these emotionally challenged kids having access to large metal objects didn’t seem like a good idea either. If you can imagine how I felt about one of them throwing a rubber ball, I am sure you understand my fear of them throwing a five-pound weight. Again, ain’t gonna happen!
They wound up doing basic calisthenics and running around the gym. Safety first!
Later I had a discussion with the teacher, and he was apologetic. Apparently there was a regular TA (teaching assistant) that actually ran the class in his absence. That TA was out that day too. While they did do dodge ball apparently it was only with three balls, and it was a set of oversized ones that couldn’t really be tossed with much velocity. Apparently these larger balls were locked up too so I could have only gotten the smaller ones, most of them under inflated and could reach almost terminal velocity.
I would wind up teaching Junior High, and Special Education classes a lot, and had a lot of assignments at the FCC. Though that was the last attempt I made at PE at the FCC.
Later on, there would be another assignment at the FCC. Special Education from the substitute teacher’s perspective is extremely boring. A lot of the time the students are just doing deskwork and no real class to teach. Once in awhile the occasional question. I found myself doing a lot of reading.
The Special Ed classes would always have TAs to help with the discipline issues, of which there were many. Sometimes children would need to be physically restrained because they were in danger of hurting themselves and others.
OK, so I am in a class and the students are doing their deskwork. A student asked me for a pencil because he had some math to do. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I mean if someone asks you for a pencil, don’t you give them a pencil?
I go to the teacher’s desk and find a pencil. I then start making my way to the kid’s desk and start to hand him the pencil. Out of nowhere I hear a shout of “NO!” and one of the teaching assistants jumps up and grabs the pencil out of my hand.
Later on, I heard from the TA that the student once took a pencil and jammed it into a substitute’s arm for no apparent reason. What is this? Hannibal Lecter Jr. High?
After that my fears on the PE class seemed entirely justified. If a pencil is a weapon then so are metal weights and rubber balls.
After I got accustomed more to the setting and the rules, my days teaching at the FCC were very enjoyable and rewarding. While the kids had some serious emotional control issues, they were interested in learning, and there were some brilliant young minds there.
But the hilarious story was not at the FCC, but at a regular Junior High School…
See once they find out you are willing to substitute teach Jr. High and Special Ed, you become a very busy person. Not a lot of substitutes want to take those assignments.
As luck would have it a teacher was out for a whole week and I got the assignment for that whole week. Money is good, and after my experience at the FCC I was ready for anything.
I forget his name, but we will call him Jacob. Jacob was a bit of a problem that week. He had this thing about spit balls. He loved to hit the other students with them. Of course I tried telling him to stop, caught him several times, even sent him to the Principal’s Office. The other students were relieved because they were tired of it.
So it’s my last day at this assignment, and other than Jacob it has been a model class with no problems. And the last day there are a series of tests. I warn all the students that there will be no talking or interruptions of any kind during the tests. If there is, I told them I would confiscate the paper and they would have to talk to their regular teacher about a retake of the test.
Jacob actually was doing his test work… when suddenly THWACK!
A spitball hits Jacob. He starts to turn around in his desk to see who it was. To which I tell him “keep your eye on your own paper”.
Again he goes back to work… and then suddenly another THWACK!
Right in the back of the neck! Again he turns around, and this time complains that someone is hitting him with spitballs.
I respond, “I will keep my eye on you and if I see anyone shooting spitballs at you, they will go to the Principals office”.
Again, back to his work…. and another THWACK!
He jumps up and asks me if I saw anything. He then accuses two other students that were behind him of spitballs. I didn’t see anything and told him that I think he wass imagining things to cause a disruption, and if that is his game he can go to the Principal’s office.
The next three times… THWACK! THWACK! THWACK! He just sat there and took the spitballs.
At that point, I gently put the hollowed out pen I hid in my right hand back into the teacher’s desk. And discarded the remaining spitballs I had made.
Apparently no one ever suspects it was the substitute teacher that would do such a thing.
Revenge was mine and justice was served.
I would find out later from Jacob’s regular teacher that Jacob had stopped with the spitballs. So apparently it taught him a little about how it felt to be on the other end.
Friday, June 4, 2010
FNF: I am Not French, but I Kiss That Way
Sorry to go so long without a FNF (Friday Night Funny) Story. Not that I have run out of stories to tell, not by a long shot. Basically it came down to other things taking precedence. So today I am giving you an extra big (Super Size) FNF.
Today it is all about French.
Let me start before High School, when I was a pre-teen. My parents and I loved to travel via camper and see most of the United States. One of our destinations was Quebec Canada. Quebec is a fascinating province because it is still deeply rooted in preserving the French language and its own culture.
When we visited Quebec we had the opportunity to visit a restaurant. At the time, no one understood a word of French and the language was a complete mystery to us. The waitress apparently spoke only French. She noticed that we were English speakers and did nothing to help us breach the language barrier.
My Dad basically gave up, and immediately put on his American Legion jacket with its large flags of the United States of America. The waitress notices the jacket and then remarks in perfect English, “Oh you’re from the United States.” To which we reply in the affirmative.
She then explained to us that apparently there are sharp disagreements between the French speaking Canadians and the English speaking ones. The French speaking Canadians basically demand that all Canadians know French. Apparently my Dad’s jacket identified that we were from the USA and that we weren’t natives but tourists. Apparently the demands don’t include citizens of the USA.
So my advice to every citizen of the USA traveling in French speaking Canada is wear a shirt, jacket, pin, etc that identifies you as being from the United States. Your travel will go a lot smoother when you are easily identified as a tourist and not a native.
OK, fast-forward a bit to High School. I originally wanted to take Latin, but as luck would have it, it was cut the year I entered. Apparently the dead language was apparently officially dead then. So my choices were Spanish, French, or German.
Wasn’t too keen on German because I felt my chances of ever being exposed to the language were slim at best. So it was between Spanish and French. It came down to me thinking of the Canadian episode I just mentioned. I also started to think if there ever was a war would it be better to run South to Mexico where Spanish would be beneficial, or North to Canada where French might help. After all the joke was ROTC means “Run Out To Canada”. So French was the choice.
My teacher was a Haitian gentleman with great command of languages, but with a very distinct accent. His teaching style wasn’t the best, relying mostly on listening to records over and over again, and various true and false quizzes. So I don’t think I really learned a lot in the two years I had. The only thing I can say that I truly learned was foreign languages was not a gift to me, and I should avoid any college degree that requires a foreign language.
When I was a Senior in High School, I got the opportunity to travel to Paris and London with my Granny and my Mom. OK, two years of High School French and entering the City of Lights, I am sure you are seeing where this story is going.
Paris was a fantastic city. The streets were amazing, the buildings, the Eiffel Tower, street cafes, art, culture, wine, and Champagne.
The people of Paris though were rather unforgiving to tourists who struggled with their language. I tried my best with what I learned in High School. However, all I usually got were stares. They were all wondering why this white kid from Chicago was talking French with a Haitian accent.
French cuisine is undoubtedly one of the world’s finest. But the problem for an American traveling in Paris is the food selection. We are definitely accustomed in this country to having a great selection of food. For example, I just had Chinese food for lunch and last night I had Italian. So many cultures that we can choose food from. Paris was very uni-cultural, and while the food was excellent it got old quickly to our American tastes.
So I went out to seek out some American foods. There was a Pizza Hut in Paris at the time, but a plain pepperoni pizza was not on the menu. The flavor was definitely French with bleu cheese and even snails on pizza. So no luck there.
Then I sought a cheeseburger, a core of American cuisine. I even found a fast food place that actually served cheeseburgers. However, I walk in and the first thing that hits me is that we never went over the word for cheeseburger in class. What to do?
Crazed with hunger and wanting a cheeseburger, I walk into the place and approach the counter. I basically explain to the cashier that I am American. Having no idea what the words were to describe what I wanted, I proceeded to act it out in front of the counter.
I put my hands to each side of my head to mimic bull’s horns and make a MOO sound like a cow. I then make motions with slapping my hands together like I was making a patty, and then said the French word for cheese and bread.
The guy behind the counter is cracking up. I bet this was the first time a person placed his order via performance art. I was too hungry to be embarrassed, and the end result was I got my cheeseburger. It wasn’t a good cheeseburger by any stretch of the imagination, but it was close enough.
After spending almost a week in Paris, our next stop was London England. Guess where our first trip was: McDonald’s. I get up to the counter, relieved that I can finally speak English to a cashier and she would understand me.
I then proceed to give my order to the cashier of McDonalds in London. “I would like two AMERICAN Big Macs, a large order of AMERICAN fries, and an large AMERICAN Coca Cola with ice please.”
The cashier chuckles a bit, and says I take it your American. To which I respond, “Yes from Chicago Illinois USA, and I just got back Paris and I need an American food transfusion STAT!”
She laughs and says, “Welcome to London! Enjoy your AMERICAN food!”
Today it is all about French.
Let me start before High School, when I was a pre-teen. My parents and I loved to travel via camper and see most of the United States. One of our destinations was Quebec Canada. Quebec is a fascinating province because it is still deeply rooted in preserving the French language and its own culture.
When we visited Quebec we had the opportunity to visit a restaurant. At the time, no one understood a word of French and the language was a complete mystery to us. The waitress apparently spoke only French. She noticed that we were English speakers and did nothing to help us breach the language barrier.
My Dad basically gave up, and immediately put on his American Legion jacket with its large flags of the United States of America. The waitress notices the jacket and then remarks in perfect English, “Oh you’re from the United States.” To which we reply in the affirmative.
She then explained to us that apparently there are sharp disagreements between the French speaking Canadians and the English speaking ones. The French speaking Canadians basically demand that all Canadians know French. Apparently my Dad’s jacket identified that we were from the USA and that we weren’t natives but tourists. Apparently the demands don’t include citizens of the USA.
So my advice to every citizen of the USA traveling in French speaking Canada is wear a shirt, jacket, pin, etc that identifies you as being from the United States. Your travel will go a lot smoother when you are easily identified as a tourist and not a native.
OK, fast-forward a bit to High School. I originally wanted to take Latin, but as luck would have it, it was cut the year I entered. Apparently the dead language was apparently officially dead then. So my choices were Spanish, French, or German.
Wasn’t too keen on German because I felt my chances of ever being exposed to the language were slim at best. So it was between Spanish and French. It came down to me thinking of the Canadian episode I just mentioned. I also started to think if there ever was a war would it be better to run South to Mexico where Spanish would be beneficial, or North to Canada where French might help. After all the joke was ROTC means “Run Out To Canada”. So French was the choice.
My teacher was a Haitian gentleman with great command of languages, but with a very distinct accent. His teaching style wasn’t the best, relying mostly on listening to records over and over again, and various true and false quizzes. So I don’t think I really learned a lot in the two years I had. The only thing I can say that I truly learned was foreign languages was not a gift to me, and I should avoid any college degree that requires a foreign language.
When I was a Senior in High School, I got the opportunity to travel to Paris and London with my Granny and my Mom. OK, two years of High School French and entering the City of Lights, I am sure you are seeing where this story is going.
Paris was a fantastic city. The streets were amazing, the buildings, the Eiffel Tower, street cafes, art, culture, wine, and Champagne.
The people of Paris though were rather unforgiving to tourists who struggled with their language. I tried my best with what I learned in High School. However, all I usually got were stares. They were all wondering why this white kid from Chicago was talking French with a Haitian accent.
French cuisine is undoubtedly one of the world’s finest. But the problem for an American traveling in Paris is the food selection. We are definitely accustomed in this country to having a great selection of food. For example, I just had Chinese food for lunch and last night I had Italian. So many cultures that we can choose food from. Paris was very uni-cultural, and while the food was excellent it got old quickly to our American tastes.
So I went out to seek out some American foods. There was a Pizza Hut in Paris at the time, but a plain pepperoni pizza was not on the menu. The flavor was definitely French with bleu cheese and even snails on pizza. So no luck there.
Then I sought a cheeseburger, a core of American cuisine. I even found a fast food place that actually served cheeseburgers. However, I walk in and the first thing that hits me is that we never went over the word for cheeseburger in class. What to do?
Crazed with hunger and wanting a cheeseburger, I walk into the place and approach the counter. I basically explain to the cashier that I am American. Having no idea what the words were to describe what I wanted, I proceeded to act it out in front of the counter.
I put my hands to each side of my head to mimic bull’s horns and make a MOO sound like a cow. I then make motions with slapping my hands together like I was making a patty, and then said the French word for cheese and bread.
The guy behind the counter is cracking up. I bet this was the first time a person placed his order via performance art. I was too hungry to be embarrassed, and the end result was I got my cheeseburger. It wasn’t a good cheeseburger by any stretch of the imagination, but it was close enough.
After spending almost a week in Paris, our next stop was London England. Guess where our first trip was: McDonald’s. I get up to the counter, relieved that I can finally speak English to a cashier and she would understand me.
I then proceed to give my order to the cashier of McDonalds in London. “I would like two AMERICAN Big Macs, a large order of AMERICAN fries, and an large AMERICAN Coca Cola with ice please.”
The cashier chuckles a bit, and says I take it your American. To which I respond, “Yes from Chicago Illinois USA, and I just got back Paris and I need an American food transfusion STAT!”
She laughs and says, “Welcome to London! Enjoy your AMERICAN food!”
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Rant: Bob Evans’ Memphis Spice-Rubbed Chicken is Fried
From bobevans.com:
“New Bob-B-Q Memphis Spice-Rubbed Chicken.
Two bone-in chicken breasts are spice-rubbed Memphis style, then oven roasted to seal in the flavor.”
So on today, Wednesday, June 2, 2010 shortly after 11:30am I go to a Bob Evans close to where I work in Dublin, Ohio #129. I order the dish described above, along with some loaded French fries, a salad, and an iced tea. I had ordered the dish before and was pleased.
However, today, what I was served were two dried out chicken breasts. No moisture on the outside, and very little on the inside. This was not the dish as I remembered it. So I complained to the waitress.
At first I was concerned about being served old food. See, they don’t start serving this dish until after 11 am. Which means, at the most I should have gotten oven fresh pieces of chicken less than an hour old. As dry as these pieces were, I thought I was getting yesterday’s chicken warmed up.
She explains to me that they deep-fry the chicken, and the initial batch spent too long in the fryer. I was surprised and asked the manager, and sure enough it spends approximately 30 seconds in a bath of oil before it is served on the plate.
Take another look at the description above. Does it mention anything about being fried? I looked up “Memphis style” and it is “a dry coated BBQ with a rub and cooked in a smoker”. The description also hints at being barbecue, which is grilled over coals or gas. Oven roasting is specified in the description. No mention about being deep-fried at all.
Bob Evans deliberately misleads customers into thinking this is a slow-cooked oven product. It has no breading or batter. It is almost hinted at being healthy.
This is not a grilled Burger King hamburger, which it puts in a microwave. Bathing the chicken in hot oil turns it into “Fried Chicken”. It should be stated very clearly that this product is fried it its name and description.
What else does Bob Evans deep-fry without advising the customer? Ribs? Grilled Chicken? If they don’t tell us in one instance, how can we trust them in others?
Don’t get me wrong; I am not opposed to fat and calories. I am not on a diet (yet), and I don’t have any reactions to any food. I am however opposed to being misled, if not lied to by the people supplying my food. That’s my issue!
I called Bob Evans’ corporate office and complained. The lady who answered the phone looked on her menu and didn’t see the word fried mentioned either. They took my information, and said it would be reviewed. I have a feeling in a couple of weeks I’ll get a gift card with a generic form letter that doesn’t address the issue.
“New Bob-B-Q Memphis Spice-Rubbed Chicken.
Two bone-in chicken breasts are spice-rubbed Memphis style, then oven roasted to seal in the flavor.”
So on today, Wednesday, June 2, 2010 shortly after 11:30am I go to a Bob Evans close to where I work in Dublin, Ohio #129. I order the dish described above, along with some loaded French fries, a salad, and an iced tea. I had ordered the dish before and was pleased.
However, today, what I was served were two dried out chicken breasts. No moisture on the outside, and very little on the inside. This was not the dish as I remembered it. So I complained to the waitress.
At first I was concerned about being served old food. See, they don’t start serving this dish until after 11 am. Which means, at the most I should have gotten oven fresh pieces of chicken less than an hour old. As dry as these pieces were, I thought I was getting yesterday’s chicken warmed up.
She explains to me that they deep-fry the chicken, and the initial batch spent too long in the fryer. I was surprised and asked the manager, and sure enough it spends approximately 30 seconds in a bath of oil before it is served on the plate.
Take another look at the description above. Does it mention anything about being fried? I looked up “Memphis style” and it is “a dry coated BBQ with a rub and cooked in a smoker”. The description also hints at being barbecue, which is grilled over coals or gas. Oven roasting is specified in the description. No mention about being deep-fried at all.
Bob Evans deliberately misleads customers into thinking this is a slow-cooked oven product. It has no breading or batter. It is almost hinted at being healthy.
This is not a grilled Burger King hamburger, which it puts in a microwave. Bathing the chicken in hot oil turns it into “Fried Chicken”. It should be stated very clearly that this product is fried it its name and description.
What else does Bob Evans deep-fry without advising the customer? Ribs? Grilled Chicken? If they don’t tell us in one instance, how can we trust them in others?
Don’t get me wrong; I am not opposed to fat and calories. I am not on a diet (yet), and I don’t have any reactions to any food. I am however opposed to being misled, if not lied to by the people supplying my food. That’s my issue!
I called Bob Evans’ corporate office and complained. The lady who answered the phone looked on her menu and didn’t see the word fried mentioned either. They took my information, and said it would be reviewed. I have a feeling in a couple of weeks I’ll get a gift card with a generic form letter that doesn’t address the issue.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Rant Time: American Hikers In Iran
Call me cruel, but I have absolutely no pity for the American hikers who strayed across the border of Iran and are now captive. Why where they in Iraqi Kurdistan to begin with?
From freethehikers.org
Shane Bauer, Sarah Shourd and Josh Fattal have been detained in Iran since July 31, 2009, when news reports say they accidentally crossed an unmarked border while hiking in the mountains of Iraqi Kurdistan near the Ahmed Awa waterfall, a local beauty spot. They were in a peaceful region of northern Iraq that is increasingly popular with Western tourists attracted by its natural beauty, traditional culture and long history. The three hikers, all graduates of UC Berkeley, entered northern Iraq with visas from Turkey on July 28 and had planned to spend five days visiting the area.
Apparently UC Berkeley doesn’t teach history, and apparently didn’t advise these graduates that Iran and Iraq are warzones and have been since the crusades. Apparently they completely missed the whole incidents involving the Ayatollah Khomeni, the Iran Iraq War, and the taking of American hostages in 1979-1980. One would have think that these students would have at least heard of the war the US had with Iraq and the execution of Sadam Hussein.
No, they were liberals and believed the whole world to be as free and as expressive as the United States. Apparently they wouldn’t be satisfied with some of the safe sights to see in the world: The Grand Canyon, The Eiffel Tower, Sidney Opera House, Angel Falls, Black Forest, or Iguazu Falls.
No, they had to go see the Ahmed Awa waterfall. And they traveled in the war torn Middle East to see this local beauty spot. Looking at the pictures, Niagara Falls is far more majestic in comparison.
After spending almost a year in detainment, I am sure they learned a harsh lesson that the world is not a free place. There are places where Americans are free to travel, and there are places that pretty much hate our guts.
Turkey is a fantastic majestic country with long history and fantastic cuisine. They are members of NATO and share a really good relationship with the United States. I might want to see Istanbul on the far Western side of Turkey, however you wouldn’t catch me ever going anywhere near the Eastern side of Turkey. It shares borders with Syria, Iran, and Iraq on the Eastern side.
Iran was protecting their sovereign borders by apprehending these hikers who had no right to be in their country. As I mentioned, Iran is not a friend to the West. If they really thought the hikers were spies, they would be executed by now. No, they aren’t spies, just trespassers. Now Iran is in a good position to continue to drive the point home that Iran hates the West as much as we hate Iran. They can keep the hikers imprisoned pretty much indefinitely, with only giving visits to parents and releasing tapes to keep the story alive.
I can only hope that others learn from the stupidity of these hikers. If you have money and want to travel abroad: Do some homework. Look up the country on the Internet and understand where it is, and its attitude towards citizens of the United States. Read the maps and comprehend how close where you will be will take you to nations that are enemies of the United States. Stay out of war zones!
Most importantly, learn as you travel, that not every nation is like the United States. Not every nation has the same attitudes towards freedom and justice. There are some nations still where slavery and torture are still permitted by law. Even so called “Western nations” will have differences in the way they approach freedom and justice.
Realize there are a lot of places United States citizens can travel with relative freedom. There are a lot of nations that have good relations with the United States government and welcome your dollars as a tourist.
Lastly, there are so many sights to see right here in the United States of America and you don’t need a passport or a visa to see them. Take it from someone who has visited 49 states, they are all beautiful with rich history and cuisine. Most are even easily accessible by automobile.
From freethehikers.org
Shane Bauer, Sarah Shourd and Josh Fattal have been detained in Iran since July 31, 2009, when news reports say they accidentally crossed an unmarked border while hiking in the mountains of Iraqi Kurdistan near the Ahmed Awa waterfall, a local beauty spot. They were in a peaceful region of northern Iraq that is increasingly popular with Western tourists attracted by its natural beauty, traditional culture and long history. The three hikers, all graduates of UC Berkeley, entered northern Iraq with visas from Turkey on July 28 and had planned to spend five days visiting the area.
Apparently UC Berkeley doesn’t teach history, and apparently didn’t advise these graduates that Iran and Iraq are warzones and have been since the crusades. Apparently they completely missed the whole incidents involving the Ayatollah Khomeni, the Iran Iraq War, and the taking of American hostages in 1979-1980. One would have think that these students would have at least heard of the war the US had with Iraq and the execution of Sadam Hussein.
No, they were liberals and believed the whole world to be as free and as expressive as the United States. Apparently they wouldn’t be satisfied with some of the safe sights to see in the world: The Grand Canyon, The Eiffel Tower, Sidney Opera House, Angel Falls, Black Forest, or Iguazu Falls.
No, they had to go see the Ahmed Awa waterfall. And they traveled in the war torn Middle East to see this local beauty spot. Looking at the pictures, Niagara Falls is far more majestic in comparison.
After spending almost a year in detainment, I am sure they learned a harsh lesson that the world is not a free place. There are places where Americans are free to travel, and there are places that pretty much hate our guts.
Turkey is a fantastic majestic country with long history and fantastic cuisine. They are members of NATO and share a really good relationship with the United States. I might want to see Istanbul on the far Western side of Turkey, however you wouldn’t catch me ever going anywhere near the Eastern side of Turkey. It shares borders with Syria, Iran, and Iraq on the Eastern side.
Iran was protecting their sovereign borders by apprehending these hikers who had no right to be in their country. As I mentioned, Iran is not a friend to the West. If they really thought the hikers were spies, they would be executed by now. No, they aren’t spies, just trespassers. Now Iran is in a good position to continue to drive the point home that Iran hates the West as much as we hate Iran. They can keep the hikers imprisoned pretty much indefinitely, with only giving visits to parents and releasing tapes to keep the story alive.
I can only hope that others learn from the stupidity of these hikers. If you have money and want to travel abroad: Do some homework. Look up the country on the Internet and understand where it is, and its attitude towards citizens of the United States. Read the maps and comprehend how close where you will be will take you to nations that are enemies of the United States. Stay out of war zones!
Most importantly, learn as you travel, that not every nation is like the United States. Not every nation has the same attitudes towards freedom and justice. There are some nations still where slavery and torture are still permitted by law. Even so called “Western nations” will have differences in the way they approach freedom and justice.
Realize there are a lot of places United States citizens can travel with relative freedom. There are a lot of nations that have good relations with the United States government and welcome your dollars as a tourist.
Lastly, there are so many sights to see right here in the United States of America and you don’t need a passport or a visa to see them. Take it from someone who has visited 49 states, they are all beautiful with rich history and cuisine. Most are even easily accessible by automobile.
Monday, May 17, 2010
My Mom: The Brains of the Outfit
Since my Mom threatened me not to write any more stories about her, I decided to take it to the next level and dedicate an entire blog post to her. However, I can’t fault her, she is after all my mother. On the other side, she is an interesting person, and worth writing about, as well as reading about.
My Mom is an intelligent woman, graduated from Indiana University, English teacher, and History teacher. She deals with the most interesting circumstances where she gets to be the voice of reason and logic.
Case and point, when I was growing up, my Mom had a good friend. A very colorful and bubbly woman. My Mom’s friend had a son who was in college and recently told his mother that he got an A in Calculus.
In talking to her friend, my Mom got the feeling that her friend wasn’t impressed by her son’s achievement. To which her friend replies, “Why should I be impressed? All it is is jumping jacks and push ups!”
To which my Mom, the voice of reason tells her friend, “That’s calisthenics! Calculus is very tough Mathematics!”
“Oh, I best congratulate him then.”, said my Mom’s friend.
As I said earlier, my Granny took us to London England. There, my Mom once again became the voice of reason.
We were on a tour bus in London, and the young tour guide was telling us that Americans may drive on the right side of the road, but the British drive on the CORRECT side of the road.
The tour guide then explains that apparently the whole right side and left side of the road had to do with Napoleon. Apparently he decreed that the right side was the way to go, and the British in defiance choose the left side. Then the guide explained that she didn’t have a clue why we drove on the right side in the United States.
My Mom then takes the floor, giving the tour guide a small history lesson. “Yes we had a bit of a disagreement way back when. We called it the American Revolution. You might have learned that your General Cornwallis was surrounded by American land forces and a French fleet. We were definitely pro French back then.”
Although I think one of my favorite moments with my Mom and her reasoning, was during a very sad time in my life. When my Granny passed away from cancer, she lost a lot of weight. My Mom, brother, and I went to JC Penney’s to buy some smaller sized clothing for my Granny to be buried in. After looking, we found some clothes that looked suitable to be in a style that Granny would have worn.
We approach the sales register with the garments, and the saleslady behind the counter, not knowing about the clothes and whom they were for, inquires, “And will you be needing a gift receipt for this in case it needs to be returned?”
My Mom, not missing a beat, looks the cashier directly in the eyes and says, “IF THESE CLOTHES COME BACK I DO NOT WANT TO KNOW ABOUT IT!”
We broke out in laughter, which was I think the first time we laughed together since hearing the sad news. I think Granny would have appreciated the humor.
I like to think I have a lot of my Mom’s reason in me. Though I also have my Dad’s stubbornness, and some of my Granny’s outgoing personality. It makes me a well-rounded person in my opinion.
Thank you Mom for being that voice of reason sometimes! I know that like all children, I tested the limits of patience sometimes, but I do appreciate you and all you have done for me over all these years! I love you!
Now feel free to fire back at me…
My Mom is an intelligent woman, graduated from Indiana University, English teacher, and History teacher. She deals with the most interesting circumstances where she gets to be the voice of reason and logic.
Case and point, when I was growing up, my Mom had a good friend. A very colorful and bubbly woman. My Mom’s friend had a son who was in college and recently told his mother that he got an A in Calculus.
In talking to her friend, my Mom got the feeling that her friend wasn’t impressed by her son’s achievement. To which her friend replies, “Why should I be impressed? All it is is jumping jacks and push ups!”
To which my Mom, the voice of reason tells her friend, “That’s calisthenics! Calculus is very tough Mathematics!”
“Oh, I best congratulate him then.”, said my Mom’s friend.
As I said earlier, my Granny took us to London England. There, my Mom once again became the voice of reason.
We were on a tour bus in London, and the young tour guide was telling us that Americans may drive on the right side of the road, but the British drive on the CORRECT side of the road.
The tour guide then explains that apparently the whole right side and left side of the road had to do with Napoleon. Apparently he decreed that the right side was the way to go, and the British in defiance choose the left side. Then the guide explained that she didn’t have a clue why we drove on the right side in the United States.
My Mom then takes the floor, giving the tour guide a small history lesson. “Yes we had a bit of a disagreement way back when. We called it the American Revolution. You might have learned that your General Cornwallis was surrounded by American land forces and a French fleet. We were definitely pro French back then.”
Although I think one of my favorite moments with my Mom and her reasoning, was during a very sad time in my life. When my Granny passed away from cancer, she lost a lot of weight. My Mom, brother, and I went to JC Penney’s to buy some smaller sized clothing for my Granny to be buried in. After looking, we found some clothes that looked suitable to be in a style that Granny would have worn.
We approach the sales register with the garments, and the saleslady behind the counter, not knowing about the clothes and whom they were for, inquires, “And will you be needing a gift receipt for this in case it needs to be returned?”
My Mom, not missing a beat, looks the cashier directly in the eyes and says, “IF THESE CLOTHES COME BACK I DO NOT WANT TO KNOW ABOUT IT!”
We broke out in laughter, which was I think the first time we laughed together since hearing the sad news. I think Granny would have appreciated the humor.
I like to think I have a lot of my Mom’s reason in me. Though I also have my Dad’s stubbornness, and some of my Granny’s outgoing personality. It makes me a well-rounded person in my opinion.
Thank you Mom for being that voice of reason sometimes! I know that like all children, I tested the limits of patience sometimes, but I do appreciate you and all you have done for me over all these years! I love you!
Now feel free to fire back at me…
Friday, May 14, 2010
FNF: New York City Is All Porny
Another Friday, another Friday Night Funny story for me to post on my blog. Thank goodness there are no pictures, as the story is salacious enough.
As I wrote previously, my Granny was my best friend growing up as a kid. She was a special person in my life and taught me a lot. One of the things she taught me was the joy of travel. I was very lucky as a kid, having gone to both Disneyland and Disney World, Hawaii twice, London England, Paris France, and lots of other places with my Granny. This story is about our trip to New York City.
Granny worked in downtown Chicago at Lake Shore Bank on Michigan Avenue as a customer service representative. She knew Chicago, and thought since she could handle Chicago, New York City would be just a step up in size. I don’t know if she quite was ready for what NYC dished out.
I think I was about 12 years old when we made the trip to NYC. Granny booked the trip through a travel agent I think, but not exactly a tour package. I think the plan was to explore the big city for ourselves.
The first thing that caught my eye entering the hotel room was a strange device on the door. On the inside of the hotel door was a large metal bar, which reached from the middle of the door to the floor. I would later understand this to be a safety device to prevent someone from bashing down the door, but I hadn’t ever seen one before (or since).
The first couple of days were pure bliss. We toured the city, ate the food, and took in two Broadway musicals. One of those musicals was “The Wiz”. What was completely awesome was that the day after the show we met Stephanie Mills and two members of the cast on the streets of New York. They were really pleasant to two fans, asking us about the show.
The third day we were basically on our own. I was a huge fan of pinball back then and we went to the biggest arcade I ever saw in my life. More pinball machines than you can shake a stick at. I was in pinball heaven.
As we left the arcade, we walked the streets of New York looking at some of the shops and taking in the sites. I spotted another pinball machine, one that the arcade didn’t have. And of course it needed my quarter and needed to be played. I told Granny I was going to play, and she continued to look in the shops, knowing approximately where I would be heading.
I put in my quarter and started to play pinball. Apparently I didn’t at all look at where the pinball machine was located. I didn’t really care; I just wanted to play pinball. Granny gets done with the shop, and then comes to meet up with me.
She noticed something I didn’t, that the establishment that I walked into play pinball was a bar. And of course not just any bar. A bar where ladies take their tops off and expose their breasts. Her 12-year-old grandson was playing pinball in a topless bar!
She was sly and was able to get me away from the machine. Most importantly, she got me away from the machine without me even looking at one booby. And she would of almost made it if I didn’t put up a fuss about wanting to play pinball. She then explained to me that it wasn’t the right kind of place for a kid.
A little flustered by this small brush with naughtiness, Granny insisted we head back to the hotel room. I said OK, and was planning on watching some television.
The hotel television had a box connected to it where you could watch movies. I believe we were looking to see the movie “Oh God!” with George Burns, good wholesome family entertainment. I went ahead and pressed the buttons, and turned on the television set.
The TV took awhile to come on, apparently it was an older set and needed warming up. Then upon the screen I apparently saw a sight that I had missed in my previous experience. As the picture became clearer and clearer, there were jiggling breasts displayed on the screen. Granny lunges towards the television set and turns it off.
Apparently Granny was fearful of breasts, because in both cases she felt the urge to run away. So we had to leave our hotel room. We retreated to the arcade where there was an abundance of pinball and no bare breasts. I played pinball, Granny regained her composure, and then we left the arcade and started to walk around.
As I said in my previous story, Granny can’t resist a good Disney movie. So as we travel the streets we spot a movie theatre that sure enough one is playing a Disney movie classic. We go walking up to the theatre box office and Granny asks for two tickets, one adult and one child.
“Are you SURE you want to bring the kid into the theatre?”, says the man in the ticket booth.
Granny is surprised at such a question, and fires back, “Sure, why not? This is Disney’s Alice in Wonderland, right? It’s a kid’s movie.”
The man responds, “Lady, this movie is ALEX in Wonderland, and it is a pornographic movie. This ain’t no Disney film.”
Granny was flustered once again, and we headed back to the hotel room. No television of course. And headed back home the next day. It was an adventure to be sure, and while I think travel broadens horizons, I think this NYC trip added a few more gray hairs on Granny’s head.
The End.
As I wrote previously, my Granny was my best friend growing up as a kid. She was a special person in my life and taught me a lot. One of the things she taught me was the joy of travel. I was very lucky as a kid, having gone to both Disneyland and Disney World, Hawaii twice, London England, Paris France, and lots of other places with my Granny. This story is about our trip to New York City.
Granny worked in downtown Chicago at Lake Shore Bank on Michigan Avenue as a customer service representative. She knew Chicago, and thought since she could handle Chicago, New York City would be just a step up in size. I don’t know if she quite was ready for what NYC dished out.
I think I was about 12 years old when we made the trip to NYC. Granny booked the trip through a travel agent I think, but not exactly a tour package. I think the plan was to explore the big city for ourselves.
The first thing that caught my eye entering the hotel room was a strange device on the door. On the inside of the hotel door was a large metal bar, which reached from the middle of the door to the floor. I would later understand this to be a safety device to prevent someone from bashing down the door, but I hadn’t ever seen one before (or since).
The first couple of days were pure bliss. We toured the city, ate the food, and took in two Broadway musicals. One of those musicals was “The Wiz”. What was completely awesome was that the day after the show we met Stephanie Mills and two members of the cast on the streets of New York. They were really pleasant to two fans, asking us about the show.
The third day we were basically on our own. I was a huge fan of pinball back then and we went to the biggest arcade I ever saw in my life. More pinball machines than you can shake a stick at. I was in pinball heaven.
As we left the arcade, we walked the streets of New York looking at some of the shops and taking in the sites. I spotted another pinball machine, one that the arcade didn’t have. And of course it needed my quarter and needed to be played. I told Granny I was going to play, and she continued to look in the shops, knowing approximately where I would be heading.
I put in my quarter and started to play pinball. Apparently I didn’t at all look at where the pinball machine was located. I didn’t really care; I just wanted to play pinball. Granny gets done with the shop, and then comes to meet up with me.
She noticed something I didn’t, that the establishment that I walked into play pinball was a bar. And of course not just any bar. A bar where ladies take their tops off and expose their breasts. Her 12-year-old grandson was playing pinball in a topless bar!
She was sly and was able to get me away from the machine. Most importantly, she got me away from the machine without me even looking at one booby. And she would of almost made it if I didn’t put up a fuss about wanting to play pinball. She then explained to me that it wasn’t the right kind of place for a kid.
A little flustered by this small brush with naughtiness, Granny insisted we head back to the hotel room. I said OK, and was planning on watching some television.
The hotel television had a box connected to it where you could watch movies. I believe we were looking to see the movie “Oh God!” with George Burns, good wholesome family entertainment. I went ahead and pressed the buttons, and turned on the television set.
The TV took awhile to come on, apparently it was an older set and needed warming up. Then upon the screen I apparently saw a sight that I had missed in my previous experience. As the picture became clearer and clearer, there were jiggling breasts displayed on the screen. Granny lunges towards the television set and turns it off.
Apparently Granny was fearful of breasts, because in both cases she felt the urge to run away. So we had to leave our hotel room. We retreated to the arcade where there was an abundance of pinball and no bare breasts. I played pinball, Granny regained her composure, and then we left the arcade and started to walk around.
As I said in my previous story, Granny can’t resist a good Disney movie. So as we travel the streets we spot a movie theatre that sure enough one is playing a Disney movie classic. We go walking up to the theatre box office and Granny asks for two tickets, one adult and one child.
“Are you SURE you want to bring the kid into the theatre?”, says the man in the ticket booth.
Granny is surprised at such a question, and fires back, “Sure, why not? This is Disney’s Alice in Wonderland, right? It’s a kid’s movie.”
The man responds, “Lady, this movie is ALEX in Wonderland, and it is a pornographic movie. This ain’t no Disney film.”
Granny was flustered once again, and we headed back to the hotel room. No television of course. And headed back home the next day. It was an adventure to be sure, and while I think travel broadens horizons, I think this NYC trip added a few more gray hairs on Granny’s head.
The End.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
The Death of Dolton
Since getting more than a handful of fellow Doltonites to “friend” me on facebook, I decided to write about something I feel very passionate about. The death of the town I grew up in, and my perceptions of same.
Dolton, Illinois is a Southern suburb of Chicago, My Mom, Dad, brother, and I moved from Chicago to the town when I was in 2nd grade. We lived in a ranch style house at 14500 Van Buren Street. I loved growing up in that house and have some very fond memories. I remember every Christmas spent there, the family dinners at the table, and moving bedrooms three times.
Dolton itself was a bustling community. It had basically everyplace a kid would need growing up. Minnie’s candy store, Andy’s Dairy Freeze, Boz Hot Dogs, Value Village department store, and Dolton House Restaurant were local business hangouts. There was a park with a huge rocket slide, and so many sidewalks and side streets to ride a bicycle on. It even had streetlights everywhere, and I know this because Mom always told me as a kid that I should be heading home when I saw the streetlights turn on.
I think I traveled down memory lane enough. Fast forward to High School. Dolton started to change and not for the better.
Every good story needs a villain, and in this story the villains were greedy real estate developers and speculators. They had a brilliant plan, and unfortunately it lead to the destruction of the village.
They looked upon Dolton as an apple ripe for picking. A bustling community of hard working middle class people, most with jobs in Chicago, and land for the taking. But how to engineer their plot?
The Illinois Supreme Court caught a bite of the liberal bug and started the process of bussing kids to different schools. So some of the predominately Caucasian kids of Dolton would be bussed to the predominately African American school in Harvey, and vice versa. This was supposed to equalize the system. To make it ever more confusing the two schools shared similar names: Thornridge and Thornton.
I don’t know how they figured out the whole thing, perhaps a dartboard or consulting the entrails of a swine. But Dolton was split among the two schools, and the residents weren’t excited about it. Dolton kids who lived just blocks away from Thornridge would be bussed to Harvey. No choice.
As for myself, I managed to eject from the fray and went the private route attending Mount Carmel High School in Chicago. I got a well-rounded education that prepared me well for college, and the teacher and student population were extremely diverse (except perhaps on religious viewpoints, but that’s to be expected). Through Mount Carmel I would come to fall in love with the City of Chicago, which to this day I still call my hometown.
But enough about me, and back to the story. With the bussing of students, the evil real estate developers and speculators saw how it was affecting Dolton. They saw that this predominately white community was perhaps a little on the racist side. Or if not racist, there was enough of a fear of other races to be used to our villains’ advantage.
So they begin their plot. They start selling houses in Dolton to African Americans, perhaps even putting their own money towards the purchase price to encourage the process. It is my belief that they specifically targeted black people for houses in Dolton as those houses became available. They weren’t interested in selling to white people, as it didn’t serve their needs.
Then the fear struck Dolton. The neighborhood will be overrun, and poor whites will become the minority. The sky is falling, run and tell the King!
I remember Mayor Michael Peck of Dolton. I had once visited his office with the intention of starting a Dungeons & Dragons group and needed approval to use village meeting space (Yes, I was a D&D playing geek and I loved it).
I will never forget walking into the Mayor’s office. His desk was adorned with various figures showing less than flattering caricatures of black men and women. Some of the statues had pins stuck in them like something out of Voodoo, and others hanging by a rope. No attempt to hide such figures, as they were in open display for all to see. All he needed in that office was a KKK outfit to complete the ensemble.
Far from a hero, the Mayor strove to defend Dolton. I think it just played into our villains’ hands all the more in that it continued to stoke the fires of fear in the heart of the citizens that their white-bred community was in danger. This fear was like pure cake to the speculators.
It was obvious to me that Dolton was using every legal resource at their disposal to stop the racial makeup of their town from changing. Including outlawing real estate signs in front of people’s houses. All these maneuvers wouldn’t stop our villains, as the law shielded them. You can’t discriminate in housing. You can’t stop commerce of people buying and selling houses.
One by one the houses started to sell. The fear grew and grew. As more houses sold, the selling price of homes went down and down. The white citizens wanted out of Dolton, if not for the fear of another race, then for fear of dwindling house prices.
During this time, my Dad’s employer let him go. Chicago was no longer going to be a center of steel production, as foreign markets for steel were more attractive. I was in college at Illinois Institute of Technology in Chicago when my parents told me that they were leaving Dolton and heading for Indiana. So I had to leave my beloved Chicago.
I am not sure exactly whom my parents sold the house to, but I have a strong feeling that it helped add to our villain’s scheme.
The speculators I am sure no longer had to prime the pump with their own money. I am sure they were advertising to the black communities that they should take their money and come to the nice suburban town of Dolton. All are welcome! Good schools! Parks! Businesses! More houses entering the market everyday. Good homes at good prices.
When I last visited Dolton, nothing was the same. No longer white bred, but a mix of other races. The businesses not the same, the schools not the same. Nothing of what I remembered. This town I grew up in was no more. And I’m sorry, but while I embrace change, this was not for the better. This was a sad transformation.
Even if you go to the website now for the Village of Dolton, you will find that none of the links work.
However, looking back on it, the real estate speculators were just servants of the real villain. They set it up, they profited by it, and they helped destroy my Dolton. The true villain of this story is racism, hatred, and fear. Had the citizens not given into these and accepted their fellow human beings, this would not have happened. Instead they were lead by the speculators like lambs to slaughter.
We live in a great country, this United States of America. A country of different races, colors, creeds, nationalities, sexual orientations, ages, genders, political affiliations, cultures, foods, entertainment, and beliefs. All of these become a rich tapestry that should be embraced. Our differences make us strong, not weak.
When we allow our differences to divide us and fuel hate and fear, we give in to the most powerful of evil destructive forces ever known. At least powerful enough to destroy a village, perhaps a nation.
Dolton, Illinois is a Southern suburb of Chicago, My Mom, Dad, brother, and I moved from Chicago to the town when I was in 2nd grade. We lived in a ranch style house at 14500 Van Buren Street. I loved growing up in that house and have some very fond memories. I remember every Christmas spent there, the family dinners at the table, and moving bedrooms three times.
Dolton itself was a bustling community. It had basically everyplace a kid would need growing up. Minnie’s candy store, Andy’s Dairy Freeze, Boz Hot Dogs, Value Village department store, and Dolton House Restaurant were local business hangouts. There was a park with a huge rocket slide, and so many sidewalks and side streets to ride a bicycle on. It even had streetlights everywhere, and I know this because Mom always told me as a kid that I should be heading home when I saw the streetlights turn on.
I think I traveled down memory lane enough. Fast forward to High School. Dolton started to change and not for the better.
Every good story needs a villain, and in this story the villains were greedy real estate developers and speculators. They had a brilliant plan, and unfortunately it lead to the destruction of the village.
They looked upon Dolton as an apple ripe for picking. A bustling community of hard working middle class people, most with jobs in Chicago, and land for the taking. But how to engineer their plot?
The Illinois Supreme Court caught a bite of the liberal bug and started the process of bussing kids to different schools. So some of the predominately Caucasian kids of Dolton would be bussed to the predominately African American school in Harvey, and vice versa. This was supposed to equalize the system. To make it ever more confusing the two schools shared similar names: Thornridge and Thornton.
I don’t know how they figured out the whole thing, perhaps a dartboard or consulting the entrails of a swine. But Dolton was split among the two schools, and the residents weren’t excited about it. Dolton kids who lived just blocks away from Thornridge would be bussed to Harvey. No choice.
As for myself, I managed to eject from the fray and went the private route attending Mount Carmel High School in Chicago. I got a well-rounded education that prepared me well for college, and the teacher and student population were extremely diverse (except perhaps on religious viewpoints, but that’s to be expected). Through Mount Carmel I would come to fall in love with the City of Chicago, which to this day I still call my hometown.
But enough about me, and back to the story. With the bussing of students, the evil real estate developers and speculators saw how it was affecting Dolton. They saw that this predominately white community was perhaps a little on the racist side. Or if not racist, there was enough of a fear of other races to be used to our villains’ advantage.
So they begin their plot. They start selling houses in Dolton to African Americans, perhaps even putting their own money towards the purchase price to encourage the process. It is my belief that they specifically targeted black people for houses in Dolton as those houses became available. They weren’t interested in selling to white people, as it didn’t serve their needs.
Then the fear struck Dolton. The neighborhood will be overrun, and poor whites will become the minority. The sky is falling, run and tell the King!
I remember Mayor Michael Peck of Dolton. I had once visited his office with the intention of starting a Dungeons & Dragons group and needed approval to use village meeting space (Yes, I was a D&D playing geek and I loved it).
I will never forget walking into the Mayor’s office. His desk was adorned with various figures showing less than flattering caricatures of black men and women. Some of the statues had pins stuck in them like something out of Voodoo, and others hanging by a rope. No attempt to hide such figures, as they were in open display for all to see. All he needed in that office was a KKK outfit to complete the ensemble.
Far from a hero, the Mayor strove to defend Dolton. I think it just played into our villains’ hands all the more in that it continued to stoke the fires of fear in the heart of the citizens that their white-bred community was in danger. This fear was like pure cake to the speculators.
It was obvious to me that Dolton was using every legal resource at their disposal to stop the racial makeup of their town from changing. Including outlawing real estate signs in front of people’s houses. All these maneuvers wouldn’t stop our villains, as the law shielded them. You can’t discriminate in housing. You can’t stop commerce of people buying and selling houses.
One by one the houses started to sell. The fear grew and grew. As more houses sold, the selling price of homes went down and down. The white citizens wanted out of Dolton, if not for the fear of another race, then for fear of dwindling house prices.
During this time, my Dad’s employer let him go. Chicago was no longer going to be a center of steel production, as foreign markets for steel were more attractive. I was in college at Illinois Institute of Technology in Chicago when my parents told me that they were leaving Dolton and heading for Indiana. So I had to leave my beloved Chicago.
I am not sure exactly whom my parents sold the house to, but I have a strong feeling that it helped add to our villain’s scheme.
The speculators I am sure no longer had to prime the pump with their own money. I am sure they were advertising to the black communities that they should take their money and come to the nice suburban town of Dolton. All are welcome! Good schools! Parks! Businesses! More houses entering the market everyday. Good homes at good prices.
When I last visited Dolton, nothing was the same. No longer white bred, but a mix of other races. The businesses not the same, the schools not the same. Nothing of what I remembered. This town I grew up in was no more. And I’m sorry, but while I embrace change, this was not for the better. This was a sad transformation.
Even if you go to the website now for the Village of Dolton, you will find that none of the links work.
However, looking back on it, the real estate speculators were just servants of the real villain. They set it up, they profited by it, and they helped destroy my Dolton. The true villain of this story is racism, hatred, and fear. Had the citizens not given into these and accepted their fellow human beings, this would not have happened. Instead they were lead by the speculators like lambs to slaughter.
We live in a great country, this United States of America. A country of different races, colors, creeds, nationalities, sexual orientations, ages, genders, political affiliations, cultures, foods, entertainment, and beliefs. All of these become a rich tapestry that should be embraced. Our differences make us strong, not weak.
When we allow our differences to divide us and fuel hate and fear, we give in to the most powerful of evil destructive forces ever known. At least powerful enough to destroy a village, perhaps a nation.
Friday, May 7, 2010
FNF: Teenage Girl Gives Birth to Cricket
Every parent has stories about their child when they were little. Somewhat embarrassing stories about you that seem to creep up in conversation when they are meeting someone you’re dating. They seem to get a laugh about it. Well this seems to be “my story” that my parents liked telling, so here you go…
My Granny was a wonderful person in my life. I’ll likely write more about her as this blog continues. She was the best friend a kid could ever have. One of her standard practices was taking me out to see Disney movies. One of these was the Disney version of the story of “Pinocchio” where a wooden boy of a puppet becomes a real boy.
Anyway, my favorite character in this movie was Jiminy Cricket who served as a kind of conscious to the boy. He tries his best to keep Pinocchio out of trouble, but with little success. I was such a fan of the character when I got to go to Disney World I wouldn’t be happy until I found someone wearing a Jiminy Cricket costume. It never happened, and although I have pictures with practically every other character, no Jiminy.
Fast forward just a bit, I am still a little kid though, and my Mom and my Aunt Jean go out shopping. As it happens to practically every child in a good-sized store or mall, I got separated from my Mom and couldn’t find her.
Being raised to ask for help when I am lost, I go to the store counter and tell them I can’t find my Mom. The employee asked my name, to which I confidently replied “Jiminy Cricket!” Not sure if the employee knew anything about the movie, or perhaps she thought it was my true name. Apparently my apparel color was also important.
She picked up the microphone and announced to the store, “Will the mother of a little boy dressed in GREEN going by the name of Jiminy Cricket please report to the service counter”.
Apparently my Mom was embarrassed to have a cricket for a son, and didn’t want to claim me. She turned to my aunt who was a teenager and said to her that she would need to claim me and bring me to the car. My Mom then apparently headed for the car waiting for my aunt to retrieve me.
So here this teenage girl needs to go claim that this cricket dressed in green was her son. Which she did so, apparently getting only a few stares as she left the store with me holding her hand.
Mom claimed that if it weren’t for my aunt, I would still be waiting at that customer service counter.
The End.
*** BONUS SIDE STORY ***
Kids behaving made me also think of this tale, which is not large enough to be it’s own FNF.
Fast-forward a lot more to the very late 80s. I was in college and got a part time job working at a Ponderosa Steakhouse in LaPorte Indiana. Basically I waited tables, brought drinks, took dirty plates away, cleaned up, etc.
Anyway, once day I was working and this woman was having a difficult time with her unruly son. He didn’t want to behave. She threatened, “If you don’t start behaving I am going to leave you here!”
Not missing a beat, I approached the table and looked the kid in the eye with a sad expression on my face. I told him, “You best behave. I didn’t behave and my Mom left me here years ago and now I have to work every day.”
The child’s eyes widened in surprise and he immediately started acting like a complete angel. The Mom was almost laughing, holding it in not to give it away as the joke it was. She thanked me for the help and I got a nice tip.
The End.
My Granny was a wonderful person in my life. I’ll likely write more about her as this blog continues. She was the best friend a kid could ever have. One of her standard practices was taking me out to see Disney movies. One of these was the Disney version of the story of “Pinocchio” where a wooden boy of a puppet becomes a real boy.
Anyway, my favorite character in this movie was Jiminy Cricket who served as a kind of conscious to the boy. He tries his best to keep Pinocchio out of trouble, but with little success. I was such a fan of the character when I got to go to Disney World I wouldn’t be happy until I found someone wearing a Jiminy Cricket costume. It never happened, and although I have pictures with practically every other character, no Jiminy.
Fast forward just a bit, I am still a little kid though, and my Mom and my Aunt Jean go out shopping. As it happens to practically every child in a good-sized store or mall, I got separated from my Mom and couldn’t find her.
Being raised to ask for help when I am lost, I go to the store counter and tell them I can’t find my Mom. The employee asked my name, to which I confidently replied “Jiminy Cricket!” Not sure if the employee knew anything about the movie, or perhaps she thought it was my true name. Apparently my apparel color was also important.
She picked up the microphone and announced to the store, “Will the mother of a little boy dressed in GREEN going by the name of Jiminy Cricket please report to the service counter”.
Apparently my Mom was embarrassed to have a cricket for a son, and didn’t want to claim me. She turned to my aunt who was a teenager and said to her that she would need to claim me and bring me to the car. My Mom then apparently headed for the car waiting for my aunt to retrieve me.
So here this teenage girl needs to go claim that this cricket dressed in green was her son. Which she did so, apparently getting only a few stares as she left the store with me holding her hand.
Mom claimed that if it weren’t for my aunt, I would still be waiting at that customer service counter.
The End.
*** BONUS SIDE STORY ***
Kids behaving made me also think of this tale, which is not large enough to be it’s own FNF.
Fast-forward a lot more to the very late 80s. I was in college and got a part time job working at a Ponderosa Steakhouse in LaPorte Indiana. Basically I waited tables, brought drinks, took dirty plates away, cleaned up, etc.
Anyway, once day I was working and this woman was having a difficult time with her unruly son. He didn’t want to behave. She threatened, “If you don’t start behaving I am going to leave you here!”
Not missing a beat, I approached the table and looked the kid in the eye with a sad expression on my face. I told him, “You best behave. I didn’t behave and my Mom left me here years ago and now I have to work every day.”
The child’s eyes widened in surprise and he immediately started acting like a complete angel. The Mom was almost laughing, holding it in not to give it away as the joke it was. She thanked me for the help and I got a nice tip.
The End.
Friday, April 30, 2010
FNF: The Kryptonite Story
On Fridays I intend to post a humorous story. I can’t promise one every Friday though. I call these stories FNF meaning “Friday Night Funny”. To be absolutely honest while the core of these stories is true, I have to admit I might embellish them just a little.
My first story is “The Kryptonite Story”. I hope you enjoy it.
As Sophia from Golden Girls would open, “Picture it, Dolton, Illinois, USA. The year is 1978…”
A movie came out called “Superman” staring Christopher Reeve as Superman and Gene Hackman as the evil villain Lex Luthor. Of course I was going to see it. What kid wouldn’t want to see a Superman movie!
My favorite cinema for seeing movies was in Lansing Illinois in a mall called simply River Oaks. The theatre was behind the huge mall. I think I went with friends, because I had some money but didn’t see the movie with my parents.
Standing in the line at the concession stand, I saw a placard that the stand was selling a necklace. From what I remember it was a glowing rock on a chain, and it was called Kryptonite. It might have been just glow in the dark. Even though I would have liked to buy one, I didn’t have the pocket money after paying for my ticket and concessions. So I was contrite to just watch the movie and enjoy my popcorn.
The movie was awesome! Lots of special effects, and even through Luthor didn’t have any superpowers he still had all the presence of a good villain.
Later on, my Mom tells me that her and Dad were going to see the movie themselves. They were going to make a date night out of it for just the two of them. I think my Granny was going to stay with me while they went.
I told my Mom about the Kryptonite and that I really wanted to buy a piece of the jewelry but couldn’t. I liked the movie and wanted a souvenir to remember it. She said she would get me one.
Then my Mom comes home rather upset with me. “Why did you play such a horrible joke on your Mother?” I was confused. Why was she angry? “You have no idea how embarrassed I was!” I was still confused.
She calmed down a little, and I finally got a chance to talk to her and find out what went on…
To my horror I found out that she didn’t go with Dad to the River Oaks theatre at all. They apparently went to a different theatre. A theatre that didn’t sell the necklaces.
My Mom went up to the counter, and asked politely for the concession worker to sell her some Kryptonite. The theatre employee had no idea what she was talking about other than the obvious movie reference, and asks her, “And what are you intending to do with this Kryptonite Mrs. Luthor?! Do you think you can stop Superman?”
My Mom tries to explain to the employee that there was supposed to be jewelry that he was selling and she wanted a necklace souvenir. The clerk hadn’t a clue what she meant, as he never heard of such a thing.
So Mom thinks that I set the whole thing up as some sick joke to embarrass her. Which it wasn’t. Still not sure to this day if she believes the truth or not. Maybe this will help convince her. Cause if it was a joke I would have admitted it by now. And it wouldn’t have been as funny as this freak accident.
The End.
My first story is “The Kryptonite Story”. I hope you enjoy it.
As Sophia from Golden Girls would open, “Picture it, Dolton, Illinois, USA. The year is 1978…”
A movie came out called “Superman” staring Christopher Reeve as Superman and Gene Hackman as the evil villain Lex Luthor. Of course I was going to see it. What kid wouldn’t want to see a Superman movie!
My favorite cinema for seeing movies was in Lansing Illinois in a mall called simply River Oaks. The theatre was behind the huge mall. I think I went with friends, because I had some money but didn’t see the movie with my parents.
Standing in the line at the concession stand, I saw a placard that the stand was selling a necklace. From what I remember it was a glowing rock on a chain, and it was called Kryptonite. It might have been just glow in the dark. Even though I would have liked to buy one, I didn’t have the pocket money after paying for my ticket and concessions. So I was contrite to just watch the movie and enjoy my popcorn.
The movie was awesome! Lots of special effects, and even through Luthor didn’t have any superpowers he still had all the presence of a good villain.
Later on, my Mom tells me that her and Dad were going to see the movie themselves. They were going to make a date night out of it for just the two of them. I think my Granny was going to stay with me while they went.
I told my Mom about the Kryptonite and that I really wanted to buy a piece of the jewelry but couldn’t. I liked the movie and wanted a souvenir to remember it. She said she would get me one.
Then my Mom comes home rather upset with me. “Why did you play such a horrible joke on your Mother?” I was confused. Why was she angry? “You have no idea how embarrassed I was!” I was still confused.
She calmed down a little, and I finally got a chance to talk to her and find out what went on…
To my horror I found out that she didn’t go with Dad to the River Oaks theatre at all. They apparently went to a different theatre. A theatre that didn’t sell the necklaces.
My Mom went up to the counter, and asked politely for the concession worker to sell her some Kryptonite. The theatre employee had no idea what she was talking about other than the obvious movie reference, and asks her, “And what are you intending to do with this Kryptonite Mrs. Luthor?! Do you think you can stop Superman?”
My Mom tries to explain to the employee that there was supposed to be jewelry that he was selling and she wanted a necklace souvenir. The clerk hadn’t a clue what she meant, as he never heard of such a thing.
So Mom thinks that I set the whole thing up as some sick joke to embarrass her. Which it wasn’t. Still not sure to this day if she believes the truth or not. Maybe this will help convince her. Cause if it was a joke I would have admitted it by now. And it wouldn’t have been as funny as this freak accident.
The End.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Perceptions of God
I consider myself a Christian, meaning that I believe in Jesus Christ. However, while I consider myself a spiritual person, I don’t consider myself a religious person. In point of fact, I am very distrustful of religion. This has to do with many things, which I will address in a later post.
Having grown up in the United States, Christianity is a primary faith. Although broken into several religions, there is a basic doctrine that encapsulates them all. The most powerful for me is the concept of the “Daddy God”, that God is a father and cares for us as such. This is a very sharp transition from the Old Testament where God was more of the vengeance and authoritarian variety.
My belief is that something changed in God as a result of sending his son down to Earth. For God is powerful, all knowing, immortal, and indestructible. Through Jesus I believe that God learned what it means to be human, what it means to be mortal. For while God is able to do anything, being completely vulnerable and living a finite existence isn’t something he wants to do.
With God being a father, then human existence is his son. Like any child we have grown up. In the Old Testament days we were toddlers, being told what to do and being sharply disciplined when we did wrong. God was caring for us by using fear in him.
Jesus came at a time when we had gotten a little older as a society, and brought about change in our concepts of God. However we were still children, who were unable to completely grasp all the concepts.
Two thousand years later, and I think we progressed to the point of being teenagers. We know a lot more than we used to, and we think very highly of ourselves. We are still developing and questioning the world around us. Fear doesn’t work very well, neither does physical discipline. We have grown to the point where to be disciplined we need to be reasoned with.
Atheism doesn’t work for me. At the end of a very delicious meal or feeling a cool breeze on a hot summer day, I have to feel that something wonderful put these things in place. Something intelligent and with purpose. I also need an anchor to turn to when I need help or when things don’t make sense to me. For me, that is God.
Having grown up in the United States, Christianity is a primary faith. Although broken into several religions, there is a basic doctrine that encapsulates them all. The most powerful for me is the concept of the “Daddy God”, that God is a father and cares for us as such. This is a very sharp transition from the Old Testament where God was more of the vengeance and authoritarian variety.
My belief is that something changed in God as a result of sending his son down to Earth. For God is powerful, all knowing, immortal, and indestructible. Through Jesus I believe that God learned what it means to be human, what it means to be mortal. For while God is able to do anything, being completely vulnerable and living a finite existence isn’t something he wants to do.
With God being a father, then human existence is his son. Like any child we have grown up. In the Old Testament days we were toddlers, being told what to do and being sharply disciplined when we did wrong. God was caring for us by using fear in him.
Jesus came at a time when we had gotten a little older as a society, and brought about change in our concepts of God. However we were still children, who were unable to completely grasp all the concepts.
Two thousand years later, and I think we progressed to the point of being teenagers. We know a lot more than we used to, and we think very highly of ourselves. We are still developing and questioning the world around us. Fear doesn’t work very well, neither does physical discipline. We have grown to the point where to be disciplined we need to be reasoned with.
Atheism doesn’t work for me. At the end of a very delicious meal or feeling a cool breeze on a hot summer day, I have to feel that something wonderful put these things in place. Something intelligent and with purpose. I also need an anchor to turn to when I need help or when things don’t make sense to me. For me, that is God.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Tipping
I listen a lot to National Public Radio (NPR) while at work. I find it entertaining, and more on the liberal side (which I tend to side with typically). So I am listening to an NPR intern Danielle Gerson berate the public for their tipping. Apparently her internship is over and she’ll likely be waiting tables until she gets another opportunity:
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=126285599
I consider myself a good tipper. For sit down table service I tip 15-20% for good service. I view the tipping situation as something entirely within my discretion. I have the power to measure how I felt the service was and tip accordingly.
However, I also see it within the scope of tipping to reduce the tip for unsatisfactory service. My biggest complaint is usually not being attentive to refills. Yeah, I think I have the iced tea drinking records in several of the restaurants I visit. But to only get one or two glasses of tea and have my glass empty most of my meal is not satisfactory. So I will often leave a token tip of some change. The reasoning behind this is to communicate to the server that I didn’t merely forget the tip; I am expressing my dissatisfaction with his/her service.
I know waiters and waitresses have tough jobs, and I try not to be unrealistic in my expectations. If the server is busy, I rather understand that my glass has not been full as often as I would like. However when I see the server walking by my table, noticing my empty glass, and doing nothing I have to admit it affects my tip. I was a server myself back in my college days, and I try to be empathetic.
I am a regular customer at a local Mexican place in town, when I walk in all the servers basically know what I will order before I even sit down. They know I am an iced tea fan and bring a whole pitcher to my table. Perfect, I never go dry and they aren’t caught running back and forth for refills. It is a perfect situation all around, and they keep me coming back as a regular.
I have to admit that I am really reluctant to tip more than 20%. I was reading someplace they were encouraging people to tip 25% and I personally think that is excessive. However there are cases where I do tip more than 20%, but such service goes way beyond the call of duty.
Pizza delivery drivers should also be tipped, because they are transporting your food to your door. They use their own car and also have to travel up two flights of stairs to get to me.
However, when it comes to carry out, I have to admit I am reluctant to tip. It doesn’t matter if you phone the order in or order it at the counter; you aren’t getting the service you would expect in a full service restaurant. They don’t have to manage refills and they hardly spend any time with you. Plus you would be expected to tip them before you consume your meal. How do you know they got it correctly put together until you get it home? Would you be justified in asking for your tip back if you had to travel back because they got your order wrong? I don’t tip servers at the counter of a fast food restaurant, why would I tip for carry out?
Tipping is an extremely interesting social invention. Basically the restaurant saves money by cutting the wages of the waitstaff because it is expected that they get tips. The public the waitstaff serves evaluates that service and determines if and how much a tip is warranted. This puts the waitstaff into an interesting situation, while the restaurant actually employs them; their actual boss is their customer.
So when tipping, I think you should view it this way: Imagine your boss who judges your performance and pay. If you don’t think your boss is fair, this is your opportunity to prove that you can be fair in evaluating the performance of your server. If you think your boss is a fair person, then you should reflect that behavior in your tips. You are the boss of that waitstaff in deciding on a tip, and that person should be evaluated fairly. That doesn’t mean accepting bad performance and paying for it anyway. It means recognizing hard work and good performance and rewarding appropriately.
http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=126285599
I consider myself a good tipper. For sit down table service I tip 15-20% for good service. I view the tipping situation as something entirely within my discretion. I have the power to measure how I felt the service was and tip accordingly.
However, I also see it within the scope of tipping to reduce the tip for unsatisfactory service. My biggest complaint is usually not being attentive to refills. Yeah, I think I have the iced tea drinking records in several of the restaurants I visit. But to only get one or two glasses of tea and have my glass empty most of my meal is not satisfactory. So I will often leave a token tip of some change. The reasoning behind this is to communicate to the server that I didn’t merely forget the tip; I am expressing my dissatisfaction with his/her service.
I know waiters and waitresses have tough jobs, and I try not to be unrealistic in my expectations. If the server is busy, I rather understand that my glass has not been full as often as I would like. However when I see the server walking by my table, noticing my empty glass, and doing nothing I have to admit it affects my tip. I was a server myself back in my college days, and I try to be empathetic.
I am a regular customer at a local Mexican place in town, when I walk in all the servers basically know what I will order before I even sit down. They know I am an iced tea fan and bring a whole pitcher to my table. Perfect, I never go dry and they aren’t caught running back and forth for refills. It is a perfect situation all around, and they keep me coming back as a regular.
I have to admit that I am really reluctant to tip more than 20%. I was reading someplace they were encouraging people to tip 25% and I personally think that is excessive. However there are cases where I do tip more than 20%, but such service goes way beyond the call of duty.
Pizza delivery drivers should also be tipped, because they are transporting your food to your door. They use their own car and also have to travel up two flights of stairs to get to me.
However, when it comes to carry out, I have to admit I am reluctant to tip. It doesn’t matter if you phone the order in or order it at the counter; you aren’t getting the service you would expect in a full service restaurant. They don’t have to manage refills and they hardly spend any time with you. Plus you would be expected to tip them before you consume your meal. How do you know they got it correctly put together until you get it home? Would you be justified in asking for your tip back if you had to travel back because they got your order wrong? I don’t tip servers at the counter of a fast food restaurant, why would I tip for carry out?
Tipping is an extremely interesting social invention. Basically the restaurant saves money by cutting the wages of the waitstaff because it is expected that they get tips. The public the waitstaff serves evaluates that service and determines if and how much a tip is warranted. This puts the waitstaff into an interesting situation, while the restaurant actually employs them; their actual boss is their customer.
So when tipping, I think you should view it this way: Imagine your boss who judges your performance and pay. If you don’t think your boss is fair, this is your opportunity to prove that you can be fair in evaluating the performance of your server. If you think your boss is a fair person, then you should reflect that behavior in your tips. You are the boss of that waitstaff in deciding on a tip, and that person should be evaluated fairly. That doesn’t mean accepting bad performance and paying for it anyway. It means recognizing hard work and good performance and rewarding appropriately.
And so it begins...
In the beginning, I saw facebook, and it was good. However the 420-character limit per post was too limiting. So I needed a way to allow me to type more. I think I have so much more to say. So many stories to tell. So many opinions to give.
I called this blog the “Grimoire of Gergel”. A grimoire is a magical text. While this blog isn’t going to contain magical spells, incantations, or circles of power, I think it does have something to say about life and my view of same. So in essence it is a book of wisdom and wit that could be said to have magical properties upon the reader.
The stories and opinions are all my own. I am not intending to make this a factual text or a spiritual text. But rather as an outlet to how I think and feel about the universe. At times I think I can be rather spiritual, opinionated, and rather odd. I am sure that will be reflective in the things I write about.
So don’t hold me to any facts, as this isn’t that kind of blog. There are better sources if you want that. This is merely opinion, entertainment, and conjecture.
The challenge will be now that I have a basically unlimited amount of space, for me to pace myself. Though I think quickly this will turn into what would be a massive grimoire should it ever be printed.
I called this blog the “Grimoire of Gergel”. A grimoire is a magical text. While this blog isn’t going to contain magical spells, incantations, or circles of power, I think it does have something to say about life and my view of same. So in essence it is a book of wisdom and wit that could be said to have magical properties upon the reader.
The stories and opinions are all my own. I am not intending to make this a factual text or a spiritual text. But rather as an outlet to how I think and feel about the universe. At times I think I can be rather spiritual, opinionated, and rather odd. I am sure that will be reflective in the things I write about.
So don’t hold me to any facts, as this isn’t that kind of blog. There are better sources if you want that. This is merely opinion, entertainment, and conjecture.
The challenge will be now that I have a basically unlimited amount of space, for me to pace myself. Though I think quickly this will turn into what would be a massive grimoire should it ever be printed.
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