Category: blog

Traditions are important to people. Each Spring there is one holiday/tradition that most Americans, and several retailers, look forward to with great anticipation – National Corndog Day.

 

I first celebrated this grand event with Alice. Even though Alice doesn’t eat swine (her word, not mine), she knows a good celebration when she sees it, plus, she had a couple of Pabst Blue Ribbon (PBR) ball caps so it only made sense to engage. In many ways, we started celebrating in the same fashion as the Day’s originators, Brady Sahnow and Henry Otley, did, just the two of us eating corndogs – well, just one of us, really – and playing basketball, sans the part about basketball.

 

Several years later it has turned into an annual event for my friends and I – made complete by the official National Corndog Day Party Pack which includes light-up pins, poster, tally sheet, PBR koozie, t-shirt and corndog mints. This year’s participation was amazing. Almost 20 of us convoyed over to our favorite fast food restaurant and, as usual, they weren’t expecting us and weren’t particularly happy to see us. We don’t mind the disdain as long as they hurry up with our Foster Farms corndogs.

 

We hung our tally sheet on the lattice wall of the ‘private’ room we commandeered, put our bell on the table, and started our competition. With each corndog and tater tot eaten the competitors would ring the bell, mark the tally sheet, and an angel swine would get his wings – hopefully they were buffalo wings, those are delicious.

 

Once everyone was in a deep-fried coma, we enjoyed a couple of courtesy cones, corndog cupcakes, and retreated to my house where we continued to tally up points, this time for PBRs.  Despite the complete gut rot, I must say, this was a very winning day and I am really looking forward to next year. Like Tevye (Fiddler on the Roof), I’m a sucker for tradition and (kosher or Foster Farms) corndogs.

 

In 1997, a ‘runaway bestseller’ by  Mitch Albom was published. ‘tuesdays with Morrie,’ a story about ‘an old man, a young man, and life’s greatest lesson,’ has apparently ‘changed millions of lives’ as readers learned of the exchange between Mitch and Morrie over the course of many years.

 

Several years ago, I met Fru Fru Pants’ neighbor. She is in her eighties (much like Morrie), full of wisdom, and holds happy hour every Friday (and perhaps every day) at four. I’ve attended happy hour with her and her other friends (also in their eighties) on a few occasions. Each time I walk away hoping to be just like her when I grow up. This last Friday was no different.

 

Fru Fru Pants and I grabbed a glass of wine and walked next door to find happy hour in full swing. “We used to have all kinds of parties at this house,” her neighbor told us as she poured another drink for a male neighbor in her same age bracket. As she put the bottle of Canadian Club away I noticed the handwriting on the side, “Original Crown.” Clever – make it look cheap and taste good.

 

She went on, “You should see the bar downstairs. Our friends would come over and never leave. Now, none of them can get down the stairs. If they do make it down, they can’t make it back up.” “That last bit sounds a lot like my friends,” I told her. “Well you ladies are welcome at my place anytime. I’ve got a bar too, so if you get thirsty,” the male neighbor told us, not letting his age or impaired abilities get in the way of his ‘game.’

 

As Morrie would say, “Embrace aging.” And an afternoon beverage, I might add.

Tree and I have been talking about having our own television show for some time. We figure it will be a mix between Wayne’s World and Today with Kathie Lee and Hoda.

 

“We can just pick up where they leave off – on the weekends and with the drinking,” I told Tree. “Can we drink champagne?” he asked. “Of course, it is our show! We can drink whatever we want,” I replied.

 

A few minutes later I told Tree, “I think Kathie Lee and I have something in common.” “What? Being drunk?” Tree asked. “Well, yes, that, but also the fact that I think people really miss us when they haven’t been with us for some time. You know, because, even though we may be assholes – which is another thing we have in common, but I promise not to treat you how she treats Hoda – we’re really a good time.” “Like I said, drunk,” he replied. Maybe he is more like Kathie Lee than me.

That’s Not Chinese recently invited Tree and I to her house for dinner. I told her I would make bread, she said she would make dinner, and Tree told us he would simply make his way there. An hour or so before dinner I received a text from That’s Not Chinese asking if I would grab wine.
“Should I bring one or two bottles?” I asked Tree. “Two, just in case,” he advised and added, “I’m sure she is at least one glass into a bottle already.” We arrived to find That’s Not Chinese was completely without wine and had been waiting patiently for us to arrive. “Thank God you are finally here. I’ve been dying to both eat and drink,” she told us, took a bottle, and quickly opened it.

 

As we dined, Tree shared a story with us about a Honda Fit, ‘She’s‘ that is designed specifically for women. “It’s got a special air conditioner to prevent dry skin and a wrinkle guard on the windshield. “Who needs all that?” That’s Not Chinese asked. “True. Although, you could use the wrinkle guard,” I replied. “You’re an ass,” she scowled at me. “Don’t do that. It gives you wrinkles and you don’t have a She’s to prevent them,” I told her.

 

An hour or so after dinner was over we realized we were facing a wine emergency. “Who can we call to bring us wine?” That’s Not Chinese asked. We discussed several options, I put a ‘wine emergency’ message on facebook, and That’s Not Chinese called her next door neighbor. “Any chance you can bring over a bottle wine? White? Huh, well, OK. What about cupcakes? We’re celebrating a birthday but don’t have dessert. Perfect, see you soon.” “They’re bringing white wine and waffles,” That’s Not Chinese told me and Tree, the very belated birthday boy.

 

That’s Not Chinese then left the room and soon returned with a bottle of red wine. “Where did you get that?” I asked. “It was hiding,” she replied. “We were in the middle of a wine emergency and you left that in hiding?” Tree asked. “And who are you hiding it from? Us? You live alone,” I piped in. “Hey, it’s good wine,” she said. “We’ll be the judge of that. Put some in our glasses!” Tree told her as the neighbors walked in with two bottles of white and several packages of waffles. Wine emergency abated.

When I think back about my family vacations, I often blur those memories with scenes from National Lampoon’s Vacation.

 

As many self-employed people do, Pops often traded work. Sometimes it was for labor – plumbing, electrical, mechanics, other times it was for items – frozen meat, dairy, motorhomes.

 

One year, my aunt and uncle traded their time share with him. We arrived at Lake Powell excited to experience a week on a luxurious houseboat. We had all been drooling over the brochure for months, so when we arrived to see a shiny houseboat at the dock, complete with a slide, we were ecstatic! Our excitement quickly faded when that houseboat pulled away from the dock revealing the actual houseboat we would be living on for the next week. It was old, rusted and bore a striking resemblance to a pontoon.

 

Other trips involved motorhomes that Pops would borrow from clients. The first year we borrowed one I envisioned it would be an Airstream. You can imagine my shock when the Army green traveling machine with a mural of a mountain scene pulled up in front of our house. Another motorhome trade involved us making a detour to pick up a trailer in San Francisco. This motorhome had a slew of problems, from electricity shortages to flat tires. In addition, our driver, Pops, got a really bad sunburn on the bottom of his feet which resulted in us kids having to peel off the dead skin while he drove. Safety first was never our motto.

 

Once, while staying at a motel in Anaheim, we got more than just the continental breakfast and fresh linens. We also got to be smackdab in the middle of a SWAT situation – helicopter, snipers, the works. Like every other white family, instead of staying in our room, we stepped outside so we could be right in the middle of the action.

 

Then there was the time we flew to Virginia and borrowed Aunt Winnie’s Ford Country Squire station wagon so we could go to Washington, D.C. We parked along the National Mall and visited several museums. Due to strict parking restrictions, we knew the car had to be moved by rush hour. Thinking we had enough time, we were leisurely making our way back to the car and were quickly forced to pick up the pace when we noticed the Country Squire on the back of a tow truck. Fortunately, due to traffic, the tow truck had not yet pulled away. The driver, kindly, released the wagon and we were able to return to Virginia without incident, surprisingly.

For the last few weeks, my left foot has been itching at night. While scratching it and talking to Tree, I told him I was going to research my situation. As I started to type ‘left foot itches,’ it autocompleted, ‘left foot itches at night.’ “Unbelievable,” I told Tree. “It’s just the internet, it isn’t psychic,” he told me. “Whatever. Looks like there are quite a few superstitions about this, but I’ve always been superstitious of superstitions,” I told him. “Let’s hear ’em,” he replied.

 

“I’ll soon walk on the ground that I will later be buried on. I will walk where I’m not welcome. I’m going to lose money on the road. I’m going to go somewhere new. A pointless and wasted journey.” “You’re at home right?” Tree asked. “Yes.” “Well, you’re not welcome in your own home.” “That’s no surprise, but I’m a little confused. A new journey. A walk to my burial.”  “They seem to be conflicting. What is the name of your ghost?” Tree asked. “Agnes,” I replied. “She wants you gone,” he advised me. “She definitely doesn’t like me to use the oven,” I said and added,  Thank God I don’t have two left feet.” “I don’t know about that,” Tree quipped.

 

 

I’m all about wearing an outfit that screams, “I’m in charge.” If I can do that with a lacy number, even better. Thus, when I recently researched the ‘camisole de force,’ I must say I was a bit surprised to learn that, despite sounding fiercely sexy, it is the French’s fashion centric term for a major fashion faux pas: the strait-jacket. While wearing a camisole de force may involve screaming, “I’m in charge,” will most likely not be what others hear.

 

This jacket, now a key accessory for escapologists and those into bondage, was originally invented to restrain individuals with mental illness. Or, as they said back in the camisole de force wearing days, the ‘insane.’

 

In the late 1800s, early 1900s, a lot of ‘insane’ people were admitted to asylums for a variety of reasons. While reviewing a detailed list of causes for asylum admission during that time period, I thought to myself, “This sounds like me and my friends. Or, better yet, somebody’s online dating profile.”

 

Former reasons of insanity include ‘masturbation’ – often referred to as ‘onanism’ or ‘coitus interruptus” back in the day; ‘drink and dissipation;’ ‘reading novels;’ ‘studying prize fighting;’ ‘suppressed secretion;’ ‘girl trouble;’ and, my favorite and a real problem in rural parts of our country, ‘sheep herding.’  That’s right, sheep herding.

 

What do you call a guy standing on the corner with a sheep under each arm? An insane pimp.

Due to some strange state liquor laws and my preference for wine, it has been a while since I’ve had a Long Island Iced Tea. In fact, the last time I had one in this state was the first time I had one in this state, at a gay bar on the West side of town almost 20 years ago. Since then, a strange tornado blew that bar down, something conservatives in this town believe was, “an act of God.”

 

I don’t agree with this or most of the beliefs in this town. That bar was one of my favorite places to bump and not grind.

 

Twenty years later and I’m still hitting the gay bars (not all of them blew down) on the West side of town, usually with Tree by my side. This last time, I decided to do as I did twenty years ago and enjoy a Long Island Iced Tea.

 

While it quenched my thirst at the time, less than six hours later I realized that, although a registered organ donor, I may no longer be able donate my liver to anyone. Regardless of whether it was Robert ‘Rosebud’ Butt or ‘Old Man Bishop’ who invented the Long Island Iced Tea, in an attempt to remain on the donor list, I’m hopping on the next Hampton Jitney out of ‘Long Island.’

Mia Mamma phoned me this morning to invite me to an estate sale. Like all estate sales, this was taking place due to a recently deceased person. Unlike most estate sales, this death was actually a homicide that took place in one of Mia Mamma’s and Pop’s rental units.

 

Oreggano is familiar with the story, because the homicide occurred on a day when we were scheduled to make nut logs with Mia Mamma, so I sent her a text to advise her of the event. “Heading to a killer yard sale. That’s right, they’re selling shit from the homicide duplex. I guess my uncle is acting like The Leaver so nothing is selling. Thus, they’re calling in the big guns.” Oreggano and I are pros at yard sales so it is no surprise they wanted at least one of us there to increase sales.

 

I arrived to find several family members at the estate sale, to include my uncle who looks like Chevy Chase. A neighbor walked up and asked whether or not one of the DVD players worked. “We don’t know if anything works,” my uncle told him. “They just pulled up to a random house, gutted it, and put up an estate sale sign,” I told the neighbor and added, “It has a remote, we’ll take $5.” “I’m well aware of what happened here,” the neighbor advised my uncle. “So I guess if I told we strapped her to the roof of the car and headed to Wally World you would understand?” my uncle asked. The neighbor walked away, sans DVD player.

 

“Do you have any mattresses?” I asked my Uncle. “We did, but it’s in the evidence room now. I do have some sequined pants we put aside for you,” he said and handed me some brown velour bedazzled pants. Just then, Mia Mamma walked up with a fur coat she had been holding for me. “How much?” I asked. “How much do you have?” Mia Mamma asked. “$10,” I replied. “Too much. We’ll take $5,” she said. “This is a killer yard sale!” I exclaimed.

 

I got home, tried on my new outfit, and posted a picture of me in it on facebook and instagram. “That fur coat is to die for. No pun intended,” Beaner commented. Based on my family’s comments today, it appears being insensitive is totally genetic. Which makes me wonder if a DNA test is in order, because when Oreggano saw the outfit she commented, “Killer Deal!”