Pretty in Pink?

This is coming to you live…well almost live...from my local Starbucks. I say 'almost' because it's taking me more time to write about the scene than it took for the scene to happen in the first place.

I'm sitting in Starbucks as I write this...having my usual double espresso, reading my favorite blogs, and leering discreetly glancing at the pretty women...when...out of the corner of my eye...I glimpse an ass dressed in a pink mini-mini skirt wiggling about two feet away from me. Yes, wiggling. Wiggling like in "Hey sailor, lookin' for a good time?" kind of wiggling. Wiggling like when hookers wiggle their ass on the street corner…that kind of wiggling.

What can I say, I have to stop and look, right? I mean I have no choice anyway since it's a reflex reaction, right?

Okay, so I look.

Oh my gawwwd!

It's a pink mini-mini skirt all right, and it barely covers the butt cheeks. My eyes float upward…a white sports bra top, about two sizes too small. My eyes drift downward…pink flip flops decorated with fluffy pink flowers. The toes were painted…you guessed it…pink. The oversized purse was slung over a shoulder and was, of course, also pink. And did I mention the pink headband.

And the wiggling ass…well, it was still wiggling, and now only about a foot from where I'm sitting.

Now that I've got you all hot and bothered you're probably wondering about the rest of the body, right?

Okay, let's start with the legs and work our way up. The legs are long and slender with just a hint of muscular definition.

And hairy. Yes, I said hairy. Hairy as in more hair than I had on my legs when I was twenty. Hairy as in manly hairy.

The tummy. It's not flat. It's a beer belly. A hairy beer belly. A hairy beer belly with an 'outie' belly button. A very outie 'outie'…a 3/4-inch outie.

Have you guessed it yet?

No?

Let me get you off the hook.

It's a friggin' man wearing that outfit. I kid you not. A man. Well, I'm 99.99% it's a man, but I'm sure as hell not going to check under the skirt to see if he's got a quarter pounder.

Oh yeah. I forgot. He's wearing these little crushed velvet bracelets too. You already know the color.

I guess one could say he's really 'out' there. (get it?)

So, let me repeat…Oh my gawwwwd!

This is true...every pinkin' word of it. Now I'm gettin' the hell out of here before he thinks I'm interested.


Badaboom Badabing...

Where's Pythagoras?

American students are falling behind many European and Asian countries in math and the sciences. With test answers like this is it any wonder??

Or maybe the question was just ambiquous? Not!

Talk Talk Talk...Can There Be Too Much of It??

A few weeks ago I wrote a note to myself questioning whether I use too much dialog in my writing. Now I'm not referring to what I write in my blog. I'm referring to a novel that I have been stutter-starting on for the last few years and that I have promised myself I would finish by the end of June. Well…at least the first draft.

I like dialog and find it easy to write…I really like to write dialog. The majority of many of my scenes are heavy with dialog. Personally, I find the dialog easy to read…but, I may be prejudiced because I'm the one who wrote them. Ya' think? Anyway, I never realized I used so much dialog, and wondered if that is bad style.


I just finished reading James Patterson's newest novel, The 6th Target, and I noticed he uses a combination of styles. Some of his chapters have no dialog, some have one to three sentences of dialog, and some are virtually all dialog. He really mixes it up, and since most of his chapters are three pages or less his stories just zip right along.

On the other hand, I just started reading Elmore Leonard's new book, Up In Honey's Room, and he has a completely different style. After reading the first few chapters, I noticed that they were almost pure dialog. I spot checked random chapters later in the book and those chapters appear to be almost 100% dialog too. Chapter after chapter after chapter...

I'll have to double check, but I think I read somewhere in one of those "how to" books that Leonard is supposed to be a master of dialog. Personally, I found his dialog hard to read. It could have just been me…it was late at night and I was tired…or maybe not. I guess I should re-read and see if I have the same reaction…

Okay, I did just that. I re-read some chapters and made a decision…I'm shit-canning his book. That's a technical term meaning I'm not going to read it…which is something I very rarely choose to do.

I did the same thing for my novel. I went back and re-read a dozen scenes, and I think there is a good mix of narration and dialog. Yes, several scenes are almost pure dialog but they seem to work, IMHO.

So I guess I'll keep plugging along…June is just around the corner.


Badaboom Badabing...

Business Was Picking Up...

Last week kenju made a post about her favorite job when she was growing up. It brought back memories of my summer jobs and I got to thinking about which one was my favorite.

And the winner is…garbage man.

I kid you not. When I was in college I worked as a garbage man one summer. That job was head and shoulders the best job ever…for a summer job anyway.

So, how come it was such a great job, you ask? Well, first, there was the money. I can't remember exactly how much it paid, but it was about $80 per week…that was good money for a college kid in the 60's.

There were also some interesting perks. If you were lucky enough to get on a route that included business establishments...restaurants, bakeries, bars, for example... you got freebies every time you picked up. I ate a lot of free breakfasts and lunches, brought home dozens of pastries, and, yes, drank a considerable amount of beer.

You couldn't beat the hours. We started at 7:30am, but you were done after making two trips to the dumps. On a slow day, if we got partnered up with an old fart, we were done no later than 3:00. Many of the drivers lobbied to get two college kids assigned to their trucks. We'd run between houses instead of walk, and would toss cans back and forth between us instead of carrying them to the truck. It was quite a beautiful thing to see (you have to let your imagination go here)...full garbage cans launched into a perfect parabolic arc from the kid at curbside to his waiting partner, who, in one fluid motion, would dump its contents into the truck and send the empty can flying back. Without spilling anything on the street. There were dual benefits to this: First, it was great exercise. Second, and most important, we'd usually finish our second trip to the dumps by noon, and then hit the beach for the rest of the day.

To be fair, there were also a few downsides as well.

The job was absolutely mindless. After a few weeks of working the trucks your mind went to mush, and even reading the newspaper (and I'm talking the Daily News here, not the New York Times) became a challenge.

And then there was the vocabulary. The regulars who worked on the trucks had a vocabulary that was pretty much limited to four letter words…and we absorbed them through the process of verbal osmosis (okay, okay, I'm back to making words up again.) One of the kids was the son of a devout minister. He came in one day telling us that at dinner the night before he said "Mom, can you pass the fuckin' potatoes, please?" He didn't even realize what he had said until his parents recovered from the shock and filled him in.

Oh yeah, and the nicknames some of the regulars had...Sitting Bull, Nobby, Eight Ball….

I could go on, but I've gotta' go.

Badaboom Badabing...

Who's Got The Biggest One?

There are big fish stories, and there are ...




Badaboom Badabing...

"Just how big was it Madame Secretary?"

I just couldn't resist :-)

Quote of the Day

I ran across this quote and just couldn't resist posting it.

"I find television very educating. Every time somebody turns on the set, I go into the other room and read a book." - Groucho Marx

A Good Time Was Had By All

Last week I went to Milwaukee. It's one of the few cities I'd never been to before.

I stayed at a really nice hotel, the Hotel Intercontinental. The place had several nice bars and restaurants so I was looking forward to an interesting evening.

I moseyed down to the main bar during happy hour. It was fairly crowded, so I thought I'd probably get into one of my typical conversations. Normally I manage to strike up conversations with people while on my travels, but nothing was happening. Nada. Zilch. I had just brushed my teeth, so I knew it wasn't my breath. I discreetly whiffed each armpit and ruled out GAPO (Gorilla Armpit Odor for the uninitiated.) I didn't pick my nose...I'm pretty sure I didn't. Maybe after the prior week's trip to Cleveland my expectations were running a bit high. Maybe I was just giving off bad vibes. Oh, and here's a thought…maybe it was just the crowd. So, I went and had dinner then returned to another one of the bars in the hotel where a DJ was spinning tunes. The sound was a little loud for my taste but the music was good and the surroundings were attractive. I felt like I was sitting in a club.

The place was almost empty. I was the only cotton head there. An attractive blonde woman, mid-30's, was a few seats to my left, talking on her cell phone. Off to my right, at the other end of the bar, a young couple were billing and cooing and drinking martinis. Strains of "I'm just a lonely boy, lonely and blue..." played inside my head. About the best I could do for entertainment was to try my hand at teasing the pretty young bartender…I asked her to recite the wine list in reverse. She was a good sport and actually tried, but couldn't do it. Geez, it was almost 9:30 and that was the highlight of my evening so far. I seriously considered going back to my room and watching American Idol…well, almost seriously. I'd have to be incredibly dire straits to do something like that...I'm not a tv-watcher, unless it's something like the Sopranos.

I had another drink and listened to the music. I had a clever thought, something I might be able to work into a story someday, so I opened my journal to write it down.

"So, you're a lefty, huh?" It was the pretty blonde.

"I don't know many lefties," she continued.

I told her she was about to add one more to her list and introduced myself. She said something about lefties supposedly being very intelligent.

"Do I look intelligent?"

Of course she said "yes" (smart girl) so I figured I'd just go with whatever came to mind. I told her I was semi-ambidextrous...I play golf right-handed and bat right-handed in baseball. This is actually the truth, though I must admit I haven't played baseball in 20 years. I figured I'd lay it on thicker.

"I'm also ambimoustrous."

It only took her half a beat to catch on, so I knew this was someone I was going to enjoy talking with.

Okay, okay. You know I like to make up words sometimes. Yes, I made up 'ambimoustrous.' It means I can use a mouse equally well with either hand. A computer mouse. Now, I didn't make that word up on the spot. I've actually been using it for years. Of course ambimoustrous is a form of ambidexterity, but there is a distinction...it only applies to working with a computer mouse. Applied to the rodent variety of mouse the proper descriptive term would be ambidextrous...as in having the ability to hold a dead (rodent) mouse by the tail and to be able to throw it into the woods behind my house (or at someone) equally well with either my right hand or my left hand. Yeah, in case you're wondering, I just made that up. But, when you think about it, it makes perfect sense, right? What the hell, it's almost happy hour and my creative juices are starting to flow.

Anyway, our conversation ultimately drifted into what we did for a living. When it came to sharing my profession I was very tempted to respond with "pornographer," "astronaut," or "brain surgeon." Since I couldn't decide between the three I just told the truth.

It turns out she was an artsy type and proved it by doing a pen-and-ink drawing of me in my journal. Actually, it was a drawing of my face, not me in my entirety. No one had ever done a drawing of my face before. It was a sort of caricature, and when I looked at it I saw my son's face instead of mine. It kind of blew me away, because if you put photos of my son and myself side by side those similarities would never be apparent. (Actually, my kids are lucky to have inherited their mother's looks instead of my looks...she is quite beautiful.)

We talked for almost an hour. Then her boyfriend came in. We had more good conversation. We bought each other drinks. They were really nice people and we all hit it off extremely well. I must admit to being a bit envious of him. He was a year younger than me...with a thirty-something goomah. See my N'Italian lessons here if you need the definition of goomah.

They invited me to go to one of their local hangouts. It was great. There was a piano player doing Frank Sinatra songs, several people got up and sang. We had more drinks and more good conversation. I stayed up way later than I should have, but all that good energy easily carried me through the next day.

To me, encounters like this put a lot of fun into life.

Just another episode in Badabing's travels.


Badaboom Badabing...

My Very First Time

This is a true story. It really happened. It happened exactly as I describe it. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent. Oh yeah...I should warn you in advance that this is a long post.

My trip two weeks ago was to a suburb of Cleveland. A buddy and I arranged to have dinner at a trendy restaurant that neither of us had been to before. I arrived before he did. There was a waiting line, so I put my name on the list and went to the bar to wait. I knew he'd know where to find me.

The bar was packed with 20, 30, and 40-somethings pressed shoulder-to-shoulder. I was the only 'cotton head' in the place. I wedged my way to the bar, ordered a glass of wine, and retreated to the periphery to watch and wait.

A woman standing at a chest-high partition at the back of the bar started waving and smiling at me. She was tanned, pretty face, late-30's to early-40's. I looked over both shoulders to check if she was waving at someone else...then smiled back. Now, I'm a happily married guy and wasn't looking for a woman, but I figured it might be interesting to at least strike up a conversation. A few minutes later, a spot opened up next to her and I instinctively made a bee-line for it. My reflex reaction to the empty space was clearly the result of many decades of training.

As I approached, she smiled again. "Hi. Nice to see you. You're Norman, right?"

Not. There's no way in hell that I look like a Norman.

I chuckled to myself, because that line was almost identical to one of my old pick up lines back in my bachelor days…with 'Susan' or some other spur-of-the-moment female name substituted for 'Norman.' In any case, I was flattered by the thought of an attractive woman dishing me a pick up line.

Then again, it could just have been wishful thinking. Hmmm. Nah. Okay...maybe.

We made small talk and she told me I looked just like her friend Norman. She introduced herself (we'll just call her Fran) and offered to buy me a drink. It was a nice gesture, but I declined and just stuck with the small talk. She was waiting for a girlfriend. I was waiting for a buddy. She offered to let us share a table with them since their name would come up first. I didn't think my friend would be comfortable with that, so I didn't want to commit. I don't remember exactly what my response was, but it would definitely have earned me a senior position in the diplomatic corps.

And besides, I didn't know what her girlfriend looked like ;-)

I eventually bought her a drink. My buddy arrived and I bought him a drink. Her girlfriend arrived (we'll call her Carla), and I bought her a drink. Then we took turns buying each other drinks.

Did I mention that Carla was hot? Well, she was. Pretty, blonde, tanned, possibly liposucted, and nicely cleavaged. Okay, okay, I know 'liposucted' and 'cleavaged' aren't officially words. So what? I made 'em up…but I'll bet you got the picture, right? So, just think of them as my contribution to the blogtionary. Yeah…I just made up that word too…creative old fart that I am.

Anyway, we continued buying rounds for quite some time. I can't remember how many iterations this went on for, but I was way past what I usually drink and my friends were liking my jokes, so everything was right with the world. I could tell the booze was working its magic since the girls were laughing even before I got to the punchlines of my jokes. I chose to ignore this little factoid in favor of believing it was my superb delivery.

Suddenly, in mid-slur, Carla and Fran saw two open stools at the bar and swooped them up before I could even swallow a sip of my wine. I was a bit envious that they reacted faster than me. They must have had the same hands-on, hardcore bar training as me. We won't mention the roughly 20-year age advantage they had on me. They waved at us to join them at the bar, but my buddy and I decided to stay put and figure out what, if anything, we were going to do about dinner. I suggested we have another round, on me, and think about our options.

When I returned from the bar with our drinks I found my friend talking with an attractive black woman. We had a nice conversation…and she liked my jokes too, so we were off and running. My friend spent the next hour talking with her, and I shared my time between them and Carla and Fran who were still sitting at the bar. Every time I checked-in with the girls at the bar, Fran would say "Oh, isn't he the sweetest guy, my new friend?" to which Carla would (by this time semi-inebriatedly) agree. Then, Fran would say, "Poor Carla. She says she feels so old. Don't you think she's beautiful?" Of course, I would reply with "Absolutely. I think she's very beautiful," or with "Absolutely. I think she's the hottest 35 year-old in this place." Both lines got an "Oh, get outta' here" from Carla and a "See, what did I tell ya'. He's just the sweetest guy" from Fran.

Did I mention that each time Fran said how sweet I was she would punctuate it with a kiss on the cheek? Yes, that would be my cheek. She was a good kisser. I thought about telling her that, but logic got the best of me and I held my tongue.

After about ten iterations (hell, it could have been only six but who's counting) Carla started to say "thank you" whenever I paid her one of those compliments. I wonder if it took her that long because by that point maybe I started looking at her baby blue's instead of her cleavage…or maybe she was too far gone to know or care. Probably the latter, since I long ago mastered the art of inconspicuous cleavage peeking. (I'm so tempted to make up another new word here…somehow 'cleaking' doesn't quite have the right ring to it...but I shall resist.)

Oh yeah. Fran continued with the kisses, but upped the ante to two on each cheek.

Did I mention that my two new friends were getting shit-faced? Now, I like women when they're a little giddy, but when they get too drunk it can be a very un-pretty sight. That is, of course, unless I'm also shit-faced...in which case I wouldn't notice. Of course, the fact that I did notice is proof positive that I wasn't shit-faced. Wow, my logic is so perfect it scares me sometimes. (quod erat demonstrandum)

I started spending more time with my buddy and his new friend. She was getting a little tipsy and the conversation got very interesting. Turns out she was married, but she had a thing for older white guys with gray hair. And, as we say in New York, she was looking for a little "strange"…a little something "on the side"...so to speak. Upon hearing this I really perked up (get your mind out of the gutter…there isn't room for all of us there) and did a quick scan of the room. Well, there were only two older 'cotton heads' in the bar…and I was one of them.

Shit…she had to go and spoil my fantasy by saying she was interested in the other guy. I kidded that I was insulted. She said she was originally attracted to me…that's why she struck up a conversation with my buddy…but that after talking with me she thought I was too nice of a guy for her. The ensuing conversation went like this:

"So, you like more of the bad boy type, huh?"

"Yes. You're better looking than him, but he looks like the bad boy type to me."

"Well, I can be a bad boy too, ya' know."

"Really? But you seem like such a nice guy. It's hard to believe. I don't think so."

"Okay then, girl. Maybe I should just bend you over that bar stool and spank your ass real good. How'd you like that?"

"Oh yeah baby," she squealed with delight and grabbed my arm, "that's the kind of thing I'm lookin' for."

By the way, I kid you not. This actually happened. Verbatim.

The woman ultimately left to persue the remaining cotton head, and I got tired of standing, so my buddy and I found a couple of lounge chairs and we shot the shit for who knows how long. In case you don't know, 'shot the shit' is a technical term meaning we talked.

Suddenly, there was a bit of a ruckus at the bar, but all we could see was a crowd of people stepping away from it as we heard the sound of glasses shattering on the floor, and cries of "Oh my god" and "Are you okay?"

It took a few seconds more for the unmistakable scent of vomit to waft our way.

First the bad news. My new friend Fran had just up-chucked at the bar. The good news is that the empty bar stool to her left was the only victim. Carla would normally have been sitting there, but, fortunately for her, she was on a potty break.

After the air cleared, literally and figuratively, I went over to see if Fran was okay. She started into a glassy-eyed "Oh, here's my sweet friend. Isn't he…" but I stopped her in midstream because I sure as hell didn't want that peck on the cheek. Instead, I took her hand.

Big mistake!!

Everything got cleaned up pretty good. Everything but Fran's hand.

Yes. That's right. I was holding a gooey vomit hand. A very gooey vomit hand. It was wet. It was clammy. It was sticky. It had little solid vomit bits mixed in. Arggh.

That was my first time…my first time holding a gooey vomit hand.

Aren't you glad I shared?


Badaboom Badabing...

Global Warming Is Real...I Have The Proof

Earlier this month my friend the Duke of Earle made a post about global warming. I have been thinking about this topic ever since. Being an engineer by training, and having a little too much time on my hands, I have been searching far and wide to get my hands on all the data I could to prove whether this phenomenon is or isn't real. I now have irrefutable (and tangible) evidence that global warming is, in fact, real. See below.



The data speaks for itself. Q.E.D.


Badaboom Badabing...

Kids Say The Darndest Things

I'm trying to recover from a really nasty cold, so my head is too foggy to compose one of my usual posts. But...I just couldn't help lifting this from Old Horsetail Snake's blog. I'm still laughing my ass off.

Some People Shouldn't Drink & Chew Gum At The Same Time

I'm sitting here in my motel room, somewhere in the belly of North Carolina, visiting some of my favorite blogs and trying to figure out where I can get a decent meal, and I realize I haven't posted anything in several weeks. Now, unlike my friend Viki, who thinks nothing of abandoning her readers for weeks on end, I've got the guilt and figure it's about time I post something for my two readers.

I've got lots of stories to tell from my almost-weekly business trips, but I often forget to write them down. After a few minutes of brainstorming, I'm reminded of something I observed on one of my recent trips to Chicago.

The scene takes place at Pete Miller's Steakhouse, in a western Chicago suburb. I'm sitting at the bar having dinner. (Where else, right?)

A couple of guys are sitting on the opposite side of the bar. They're probably about my age, though they look a bit older (okay, okay, I've still got a big head from the compliments I received a few weeks ago…see here…and, get your mind out of the gutter…you know which head I'm talkin' about.) An attractive woman walks in. I'd say she was 40 to 42. She's dressed in black, blondish hair, slim and curvy in all the right places, nice tan (wonder if it's an all over tan…sorry, couldn't resist…sometimes it's hard to leave the gutter when you spend so much time there), short sleeve top sporting just enough cleavage to make an old horndog start to fantasize. In case you're wondering, the horndog would be me. Anyway, she's looking around like she's supposed to meet someone.

One of the guys gets up and goes to meet her. He introduces himself then brings her back and introduces the other guy. She takes a seat. One guy is sitting next to her, the other standing behind and leaning in to talk. While they're talking to her, she's looking around at other people, kind of like when one is at a party and talking to someone and that someone is looking around for more important people to talk to. Not that it's ever happened to me, of course, but you get the picture.

What little conversation there is seems to be strained…and she is making absolutely no eye contact. They all look a little uncomfortable. I get the feeling they weren't what she expected.

One guy says something to her. I think he's asking what she'd like to drink. She answers without looking at him. The two guys look at each other…one raises his eyebrows. They order her a split of champagne. Very little conversation for the next twenty minutes or so, and she doesn't make eye contact until she starts working on her second split. They look to me like they're negotiating something…like plans for the evening perhaps? Or maybe I was just getting carried away with my fantasizing. Oh, and did I forget to mention she's chewing gum while drinking her champagne? Classy, huh? Not.

So one guy excuses himself and disappears. A minute later the other guy does the same. They go to a corner of the bar, where she can't see them, and they start talking to each other. They're gone for a good 15 minutes.

The woman starts looking around, very discreetly, like she thinks they might have bolted (and left her with the check) but she doesn't want anyone to know.

The place starts getting crowded, with people standing behind the bar stools a few rows deep. Someone bumps her stool accidentally, and she spits the gum into her champagne glass. She looks at her drink, then looks left and right. She does this about half a dozen times. I think she's trying to determine if anyone noticed…probably no one but me did. Then, she suddenly sticks her forefinger into the champagne flute, spears the chewing gum, and pops it into her mouth.

Now, you can call me a snobolla (That's a N'Italian word I just made up, pronounced snob-'bowla), but that kinda' grossed me out.

Now maybe it was the sound of my fork dropping, or maybe it was just coincidence, but she made eye contact with me right after she scarfed the gum. I was too far away to make a wise ass remark, so I just smiled, made a chewing motion, and took a sip of my wine. For a split second I thought she was going to throw something at me (hopefully not the gum), but she just blushed and looked away.

Just another night in the travels of Badabing.

That's gonna' be all for now. According to the map I'm looking at I'll need to drive about twenty miles to a town where I might be able to get a decent glass of wine.


Badabing Badaboom...

They Can Make Your Day...Or Make Your Day Hell

Now I really should be spending my time writing my novel or working on my textbook, but I wanted to post this while it was still fresh in my mind.

Last week I made a few posts about my recent trip, and how it pays to keep your cool and be nice to the airline reps. This post is about how those reps can make your day…or make your day hell.

In September of 2000 my wife and I took a trip to our favorite Caribbean island. It was our first trip there in 10 years without the kids. Everything was perfect. On our last day we checked out of the hotel, left the car in the airport parking lot with the keys in the glove compartment (how's that for security?), and checked in for our flight. We boarded, the plane (a prop job) taxied down the runway and stopped. We were waiting about 10 minutes and it wasn't do to air traffic issues…there were only 2 flights a day in and out of that airport. Eventually, the pilot announced there was an equipment malfunction and the flight would have to be cancelled. They needed to fly in parts from San Juan.

So, we went back to the terminal, reclaimed the luggage, and queued up to wait and see what the airline is going to do. Of course, there are always the requisite A-holes bitchin' and moanin' about the situation, and this was no exception. They hadn't made any announcements yet, so I got out of line and went up to talk with the airline rep. She was busy trying to placate a rude New Yawka bitch and her snotty daughter. They were bitchin' and moanin' personified, and they began to sling personal insults at the poor island girl.

Bitch: "Ya know, we come heeya several toymes a yeeah. Ow-er money pays faw yaw salree. I expect betta treetment dan dis."

Rep: "Mam, we're working on seeing what we can do. As soon as I know something I'll let you know."

Bitch: "We ah also eeleet frequent flyuhs, so we expect to get an upgrade. That's the least you can do faw ow-wer troubles."

Rep: "We're working on it mam."

Snotty Daughter (stomping her feet): "Mommy? Mommy? I'm going to miss moy appointment with Doctah Kleinfeld. Doesn't that idiot understand he's the best awthodontist in New Yawk. It's gonna' take us two months to get anutha appointment with him. God I hate huh."

Bitch: "Oh my gawd, I fawgot about dat."

Snotty Daughter: "Stupid imbecile prawbably doesn't even know what an awthodontist is."

I waited for the bitch to stop bitching, and explained to the rep that I understood it's not her fault. And, if it made logistics any easier, I said that my wife and I would be okay with staying on the island another night. I also schmoozed her a little bit to try and make up for the crap she had to take from those A-holes. She smiled and thanked me...and genuinely seemed to appreciate my effort.

Ultimately, the airline decided to ferry us to another island where we would catch a plane to San Juan, then overnight us in San Juan and fly us to New York the next day. From New York my wife and I would then catch a flight home. Not the most direct route, but whaddya' gonna' do.

The rep called each person's name and handed them tickets and meal vouchers. When I went up to get ours, the rep smiled and thanked me for being so patient. Then she said, in a voice just loud enough for the A-holes to hear, "And we've got you and your wife going back first class."

You can imagine how the shit hit the fan when Ms. Bitch heard that. Of course, I just had to rub it in a little and mentioned that I wasn't even an elite frequent flyer on that airline...at which point I quickly learned a few curse words I hadn't heard before and became the newest enemy of Ms. Bitch and Snotty Daughter.

Ah, but it gets even better. San Juan was apparently a hub for passengers traveling to New York from many Latin American and Caribbean countries, so the plane was absolutely full on the San Juan to New York leg. Now, I'm sure everyone has seen at least one movie with a scene from a third world country…a scene that involves a bus packed with locals, food, chickens, pigs, etc. Hold that vision for a second. The aircraft on this leg was a DC-10…a very large plane with 8-10 seats in the middle. Guess where Ms. Bitch and Snotty Daughter were seated? Yep, right smack in the middle of the middle…worst seats on the plane. Now this occurred before 9/11 when there weren't many restrictions on what you could carry aboard...so about the only things missing were the pigs and chickens.

I had to give her credit for persistence if nothing else. Ms. Bitch refused to go down without a fight. Before we took off and several times during the flight she complained to the first class flight attendants that she and Snotty Daughter should be put in first class and we should be moved back to cattle class because they were elite flyers and we weren't.

We just smiled at each other and enjoyed our champagne. As my wife likes to say..."what goes around, comes around."


Badabing Badaboom...

Brooklyn Tony on Math

Brooklyn Tony returns from school and says he got an F in arithmetic.

"Why?" asks the father.

"Da teacher asked 'How much is 2x3,' I said '6,'" replies TONY.

"But dat's right!" says his dad.

"Yeah, but den she asked me 'How much is 3x2?'"

"What's da f---ing difference?" asks the father.

"Dat's what I said!"

Reach Out And Touch Someone...

Well, kenju's recent post got me thinking about cousins today. I grew up living in the same neighborhood with my many cousins. We basically saw each other every day. Over time, most of us drifted apart. I was one of the very few "sinners" who actually left New York. As we became adults, weddings and Christmas would be the primary times when we'd see each other. As we aged, the funerals began replacing the weddings. After a couple of funerals that were only weeks apart, we decided to hold an annual cousin's party. That was incredible fun and brought back some wonderful childhood memories, but after a few years it was harder to get people to participate and it eventually fell by the wayside.

This is a picture of me and two of my older cousins. I was three years old at the time, which would have made it 1950. My cousin Anthony is the one wearing the hat and looking like a miniature mafioso. The other is my cousin John. My father was godfather to Anthony. John's father was my godfather. Anthony was the first one in our family to go to college. I was the second. Actually, my father used to joke that he was the first one in the family to go through college...in through the front door and out through the back door. (Hey, maybe that's how I got my sense of humor.)

Around Christmas time, Anthony sent me an email which was the motivation behind my Older 'N Dirt post. I sent him the above picture and he got a real kick out of it.

Now, the theme of this post is to reach out and touch someone (but not in a private place...sorry, I just couldn't let that one pass.) ... which means, try to contact someone...friend or family...that you haven't seen or communicated with in a very long time. Do it sooner, not later.

I'm going to communicate twice. First, with a very old and dear friend whom I haven't seen or spoken with in almost a year. She normally contacts me if I let things go too long, but I know she's really pissed at me because I said that I'd be the catalyst since she's been playing that role for the last 20 years. Second, I'm going to contact a relative that I've never met. My cousin Anthony found that we have relatives in Texas. He actually met some of them when they were in New York. I found out from an aunt that one of my grandfather's brothers was really the first family "sinner"...he decided to settle in Texas instead of in New York with the rest of his siblings...so all of our Texas relatives are descendants from my father's side of the family. Anyway, I am planning to contact a distant cousin via email, and maybe even meet when I'm in Texas in June.

So, reach out and touch someone...now!!


Badabing Badaboom...

Memories Are Made Of This...

The more I blog, the more things from my past keep popping up. I think it's some sort of "stream of consciousness" thing. In any case, I think it's a good thing.

When I was writing my last two posts, about my recent trip, the book Gulliver's Travels popped into my mind. I don't know why, maybe I was thinking Badabing's Travels or something as a possible title. Anyway, Gulliver's Travels brought up an interesting memory from my college days, and that's what this post is all about.

A "sort of" friend and I were in the same English class in college. I say "sort of" friend because his wife worked with my girlfriend, and we'd double-date on occasion. That's how we knew each other.

I'll call this guy Vinny. Vinny was a very good-looking Italian kid...could have been a male model. He was studying to be a physicist and I was studying engineering. I thought I was a serious student until I met Vinny. His looks betrayed the reality...he was what we'd call today a serious "geek" or "nerd," albeit a handsome one. Back them we just called 'em serious students. I guess I was sort of one too, but nowhere in his league.

Whenever we double-dated the girls would be talking girl stuff and we'd usually talk about school stuff. Not that I necessarily wanted to, but that was the only thing he would talk about. A typical conversation snippet from Vinny would go something like this:

"So, have you read the latest Feynman paper on quantum dynamics? I want to get your opinion about it."

Of course, Vinny being born and raised in Brooklyn, New York, it would have sounded like this to the listener:

"So, you seen da' latest Foynman paypuh on quan'em dawynamics? I wanna' get yaw opinion aboud' it."

(As an aside, Richard Feynman was a very famous physicist of that era who won a Nobel Prize in 1965.)

Sometimes I knew what the hell Vinny was talking about and sometimes he was out there circling in his own orbit, in which case I'd have to try and change the conversation to something more down to earth...like partial differential equations or stochastic processes.

In any case, he was a nice guy, and I usually enjoyed conversing with him. However, I often wondered what the hell he and his wife talked about when they were together.

In our English class one of our required readings was Gulliver's Travels. The professor had each student give a short verbal report to the class on various aspects of the book. On the day we had to deliver the reports Vinny sat next to me and we made small talk before the start of class.

"So, Vinny, what's your report on?"

"You know about me and Angie?" he said. Angie was his wife.

"Yeah. Sorry to hear about it. You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'll live."

"So, what's your topic?" I repeated.

"You're gonna' love this."

"What?" I queried.

"Okay. I have to report on Gulliver's experiences in Laputa."

"You're shittin' me," I say.

"Is that fuckin' spooky, or what?"

"That's a beer or three spooky. You up for a few cold ones after class?"

"Fuckin' a. Shoulda' had a few before I came here." He started trembling.

"Maybe just look at me while you're up there. You and I are the only ones in the room who know about you and Angie, right?"

His normally dark complexion was pasty white. "I think I'm gonna' throw up."

Now, here's the poop on Vinny and the book. Laputa was a floating island in one of Gulliver's travels. The upper crust of society lived on the island. The men of Laputa were deep thinkers, and spent most of their time contemplating and speculating on things mathematical. (Gee, any likeness to Vinny ya' think?) They were so extreme that they rarely spoke and even went so far as to cut their food into perfect geometric shapes...circles, rhomboids, triangles, etc. (And, no, a rhomboid is not a form of arthritis. Nor is it something you take Preparation-H for.)

They also weren't very attentive to the women of Laputa, who, as a result of their neglect, would sneak off the island for evenings or days at a time to satisfy their carnal desires with the "lower lifes" below. Yes...their wives would boink the commoners.

So how does this relate to Vinny and Angie? Well, it turns out that Vinny came home unexpectedly one day and found Angie in the sack with her hairdresser. Yes...the hairdresser was a guy...or they still might be married today.

In case you're wondering, Vinny did a passable job on his report, and managed to suppress a "ralph" or two while he was up there. Then he went straight from the front of the class to the men's room where he puked his guts out.

Afterwards we went out and got shit-faced.


The old "stream of consciousness" beastie bubbled up another memory from my college days as I was writing this post. Has to do with legs, sex, and psychology...but I'll leave that for another post.


Badaboom Badabing...

Same Bar, Same Seat...

It's my second night on the road. I'm in the same bar as in my last post. I'd already eaten dinner elsewhere, but Duke and Maryland were playing so I figured I'd have a few pops, watch the game, work on a scene for my novel, maybe engage in a little conversation.

I'm sitting in the same seat as the night before. Different bartender, different crowd. Oh yeah, and I've officially dubbed this my "lucky seat."

A couple is seated to my left, at the end of the bar. Very attractive brunette, 30-something. Who cares what the guy looked like.

Like I said, she was very attractive. Very slim, naturally tan, long dark hair, sexy brown eyes, brilliant white teeth, beautiful smile. Her lips weren't as full as I'd have liked them to be, but...okay, okay, I'm a picky old fart.

I was writing in my journal, working on the next scene in my novel. I couldn't help it, but I kept sneaking peeks at her...especially when she gave him occasional kisses. Very soft kisses. Very wet kisses. Very sexy kisses. I could almost feel them...the kisses I mean.

Now the classic way to describe my reaction to this is something like "I felt a stirring in my loins." And, while I can be a very classy classic guy, the more modern interpretation is "I'm gettin' oak."

Anyway, I guess she must have noticed me stealing glances at her. She leaned towards me and asked, "You're not writing down our conversation, are you?"

"Only the parts about sex."

She cracked up. "I'll make sure we talk more slowly, then," she laughed.

"No need. I can read lips and have a bear trap memory."

"I'm gonna' go sit closer to him," she said to her paramour.

"No you're not," he snapped.

I went back to my writing, still sneaking the occasional glance, as they continued their billing and cooing. (Oh, and for any of you young 'uns reading this, 'cooing' is not a dirty word...'billing,' however, is questionable.)

Now, I had a feeling they were my kind of people, because they were well into their second bottle of wine and dinner hadn't even been served yet. The billing got bill-ier (that's probably not a word) and the cooing got coo-ier (ditto), and watching them became quite arousing for this old horndog. I even caught a few flashes of tongue.

I really needed to use the men's room...but it would have been embarrasing...if you catch my drift. You don't? Let me give a subtle hint. Go back to the paragraph where I mention I'm a classy classic kind of guy and search for the keyword "oak."

They're dinner finally came. Just before it was served I was tempted to say,"Wow, you two have some appetite." Reason prevailed. I held my tongue.

Portions were huge and they offered to share it with me. I graciously declined. They dined. They cooed. I eavesdropped. They left. And, yes, they did bid me good night.

Maryland beat Duke. Life was good.

There's more, but that's another post.



Badabooom Badabing...

Any Siblings? ... No, just brothers and sisters

When I finally got to my destination last week, I checked into my hotel and looked for a place to eat dinner. I found a place on the Internet that was close by and looked pretty good, so I gave it a shot.

I almost always sit at the bar when I go out to eat. Less lonely, often better reading light, and I am almost always able to strike up a conversation or two if I'm in the mood. So, I squeeze into a barstool, order a glass of wine, and take a look at the menu.

A man and an attractive blonde woman are sitting to my left. He's probably mid-40's. She's more like early 40's. At first, I can't tell whether he's just making conversation or trying to hit on her. It takes a minute for my ears to adjust into eavesdrop mode, and I pick up the following tidbit of conversation.

Him: "So, do you have any siblings?"
Her: "No, I don't."
Him: "Oh, so you're an only child, then."
Her: "Oh no. I have three brothers and sisters."

He makes eye contact with me and rolls his eyes when she takes a sip of her drink. I couldn't help it...just had to laugh.

So, we just stumble into light conversation. He teases her a bit, offers to fly her to Vegas with him for the weekend, yada yada... Of course, I tell her the Bellagio is first class and that she should go.

"Really? Well, I don't know..."

Anyway, the guy asks me how old I am. I tell him I'm pushing 60. He can't believe it. Neither can she.

"Oh, my gawd, you don't even look fifty," she says with an admiring look.

Then she leans over and runs her hand over my shoulder and down my arm...did I say it felt really good?...and says, "Wow, you really look great."

Boing!! (Secret guy code)

Of course, I thank her for her compliment.

Then, the guy asks, "So, what's the secret to your youth? Do you have a daily regimen that you follow?"

Now, I could have been a wise ass and said something like "Yes, I owe it all to having incredible sex three times a day...every day...religiously." For a moment I thought it might be interesting to see how the woman would have responded. Then, maybe I'd have looked her right in the eye and followed up with "So far today it's only been twice. So I'm going to need it once more before midnight."

But, alas, I behaved, and just said "A bottle of wine and three cloves of garlic every day." She nodded knowingly, like I had just revealed some great key to life...and followed up with another pat on the arm.

Did I say I'm beginning to like this?

We talk a little more and he says, "You know, they say when a guy gets married he puts on an average of a pound each year. You don't look like you fit that statistic."

"Well, I'm actually the same weight as I was in high school." I paused.

"Really?"

"Yes, but instead of having a v-shape like I did back then, now it's more like a u-shape." (This is actually the truth.)

I looked at her and smiled. She half-smiled back, but I could tell she didn't get it. Then, she got a strange/confused look on her face like maybe I just said something dirty. The smile vanished and her gaze went back to her drink. A few minutes later she bid us goodnight and left.

No. I'm not going to make any blonde jokes :-)

Anyway, just another episode in wide world of Badabing's Travels.

Ciao for now.

Badabing Badaboom...

Road Warrior Rant...

I normally travel several days per week, so I guess that qualifies me as a road warrior.

I wrote this post in my journal while sitting in an airport on Tuesday afternoon...just getting around to officially posting it today. WARNING...this is a long rant.

I'm on my way to New Haven, CT today. No direct flights there from any of the airports in my area, so I have to go via a connecting flight---something I try to avoid at all costs, particularly during the winter months. Three hours before my scheduled departure I get a voice message from the airline informing me that my departing flight is delayed and I will miss my connection...and, they're working on a new connection (but haven't established one yet.)

I'm a little worried (road warriors always prepare themselves with backups and alternatives), so I hop onto their website and see there's a 6pm connection to my destination...the last flight there. Even with the delay of my departing flight, I should be able to make the last connection, no sweat. What bothers me is why the airline didn't automatically book it for me. So, I try to re-book myself and the site won't let me unless I pay an additional $300...you know what I say about that...fuggedaboudit...I gotta' speak to a real person.

I call reservations, and wait for 20 minutes to speak to an actual person who informs me that they'll have to transfer me to someone who can help. Fine with me. I get switched to another call queue where I wait an additional 15 minutes before I get to talk with someone. Badaboom badabing...takes just three minutes and I'm booked on the 6pm connector. I ask the agent for the new departure time of my originating flight and am informed that it is 3:45.

I arrive at the airport just before 2:45, go to the carry-on check-in kiosk (road warriors never check their baggage), but it wouldn't let me check in...I must seek the assistance of a ticket agent. Now, I know from experience that this often happens when you show up less than 30 minutes prior to departure time, your flight has already left without you (Oh shit, ya' think?), or you showed up on the wrong day (I am only a senior citizen in-waiting, not a real one...yet..so I ignore this possibility.)

I tell the agent standing behind the kiosk my problem. Without even looking at me, she points to a line of about 25 people who are all waiting to check bags..."unless you're first class, in which case I can help you." Normally, I'd respond to an opening like that with something to the tune of "Then I guess I'm in the right place. People always tell me I'm a first class guy."...but I sensed that it wouldn't get me any chuckles let alone smiles, so I held my tongue (no, not literally). I look at the first class line, but there's no one on it. I inform her, but I guess she didn't appreciate the update because she barked a "That line...over there!!" and at the same time gave a very angry left-handed Third Reich salute to point the way. It reminded me of the time my teacher sent me off to the principal's office (ok, ok, it happened more than once). I've got an hour, security lines aren't an issue this time of day, it's a small plane so they'll probably board 15 minutes before departure, yada yada yada...so I get on the line (though I am very tempted to return her salute with a "Sig, heil."

It takes me about 10 minutes to get to the head of the line, at which point an agent points me to a kiosk. I explain that it won't let me check in, and she tells me to wait (yeah, while she figures out what to do). Takes her about five minutes, then she sends me over to the first class ticket agent (not the nazi fraulein...she had disappeared thru one of those little doors behind the luggage conveyor...probably her break time, even though there were now at least 20 people on line). The agent hits about 75 different keys on his console, spins around once, slaps his knee and rubs his belly...only kidding...he didn't slap his knee...then tells me it may be too late.

By now, it's 3:05...still plenty of time...so I mention that departure time is not until 3:45. He says (rubbing his chin), "Hmm, you're right. Let me call down there (to the gate) and see what's going on." He calls, plays a little more Fussball with his keyboard,prints my boarding pass, and tells me to get my ass down to gate D-45 ASAP. I know enough about the airport to know that's the furthest gate from where I am standing, but I've still got plenty of time to get there.

I enter security, the guard checks my boarding pass and ID and says, "Wait a minute, sir, I think you've missed your flight. Says here it leaves at 2:25"

"Yeah, it was supposed to, but it's been delayed," I smiled.

She nods knowingly, I breeze through security, do a semi-senior-citizen jog down to the gate, and arrive at precisely 3:17.

There's me and two gate agents. "Philadelphia," I say.

The male gate agent replies, "Already closed."

The female agent is not making eye contact.

"But, it's not supposed to leave until 3:45."

Now, I look out the window and the plane is less than 100 feet from me.

"That my plane? The one with the door still open, baggage still being loaded?"

"It was running late. But it's closed now," the guys says.

"I know it was running late," I reply. "It was supposed to leave at 2:25."

He does a (very feminine, IMHO) sigh, purses his lips just so, and turns bee-yotch.

"So, why weren't you here at 2:25?"

He says this with just enough condescension to make my blood pressure thump up 30 points. So now I'm thinking, "Why that bitchy little fanuch!!!" (see my N'Italian Lessons 101 for a translation).

The female agent sneaks me a glance and slips away. Wonder if it was the expression on my face or the look in my eyes? Pick any two. And, during all this time the little fanuch never even made eye contact with me.

Now, all road warriors know that gate agents can make your day...or make your day hell...so I hold my temper in check. Aren't you proud of me? Good thing he wasn't looking at me while all this is going on.

"I'm pretty sure the 6:00 to New Haven is the last flight out. There's another flight to Philly sometime this afternoon, but I'm not sure if it'll let me make that connection." I figure sharing this with him might save time (as well as give him a hint that he's dealing with a genuine road warrior...we always know when the last flight is).

He nods and starts doing his thing with the keyboard, and I've just gotta' tell him I'm a little pissed...but not at him. Well, okay, I'm a little pissed at him for that earlier remark, but being the nice guy that I am I'll give him a pass...this time. So, I tell him I know it's not his fault, but I'm ticked off that they closed the flight so early. I figured arriving 25 minutes before flight time would be more than enough.

He looks up. "Who told you it was going at 3:45?"

"The agent who re-booked me."

"They shouldn't have told you that."

He pointed over his shoulder to flight information board. It still had 2:25 posted as the departure time.

All of a sudden I was beginning to see little pieces fall into place. Apparently, they never really officially rescheduled the flight, so when it did come in the pilot was anxious to make up for lost time and took off with whoever was there. Some of the computers were not accurately updated, which is apparently why my boarding pass and the flight information board showed 2:25 as the departure time. The reservation agent who gave me bad info wasn't around for me to yell at, so I took a few deep breaths and let my blood pressure drift back to near-normal.

Anyway, Lady Luck was with me from that point on. There was a flight that would get me in about 5:30, if everything went on schedule. The arriving gate was F18 and the connecting gate was F9, so he thought I could make it "if you hustle."

My wiseass side almost made me say "And, if they don't leave early," but instead I settled for "I don't know how fast I can hustle. Ya' think a semi-senior-citizen jog will be good enough?"

That got a smile out of him. Even better, he apologized for the inconvenience...and was very sincere.

Maybe he's not always such a bitchy fanuch, ya' know?

So, this rant has a happy ending...even though I did manage to get lost for 45 minutes once I left the New Haven airport. I forgot how awful the signs are in New England.

Damn, I think this is my longest post ever.

Anyway, I ended up having a nice evening in Connecticut, which will be the subject of another post.


Badaboom Badabing...

Badabing: Bon Vivant, Raconteur ... Hero

About a month ago I went into town to do some errands on a Saturday afternoon. As I passed the corral we have on our property, I saw a deer hanging halfway over the corral fence. It wasn't moving at all...just kind of hanging there. I stopped the truck...waited at least five minutes...still no movement. I concluded that the deer must have gotten stuck as it tried to jump the fence, had hung there for a while, and maybe died of starvation, frustration, or simply fright.

I continued into town to do my errands before the shops closed, wondering along the way how the hell I'm gonna' get rid of a dead deer in my corral. I asked the barber, who advised me not to worry since the turkey vultures would probably pick the carcass clean in a matter of days...then, I'd only have to move the skeleton. I asked the optometrist, who laughed and said he'd never heard of anything like that...I invited him to come out and take a look as long as he wouldn't mind lending a hand. By the time I got to Starbucks I figured it would be fruitless to ask the baristra for advice, so I just kept my mouth shut and got my coffee to go.

On the way back up the driveway it was still hanging there. When I got back to the house I told my wife and daughter to take a look out the dining room window and they'd be able to see it through the leafless trees about a hundred yards away. We all looked for a few minutes, and my wife suggested I call the local farmer who would probably know what to do with it. I went searching for the phone book.

Suddenly, my wife screamed. She saw what appeared to be turkey vultures attacking the carcass, but she wasn't absolutely sure since the trees were blocking the view. I took a look and couldn't see any vultures, then noticed that the deer was still alive. It was probably fatigued and resting when I went by. So, with split-second thinking rivaling that of the most accomplished emergency room surgeon (ok, maybe not exactly), I grabbed a pair of cutting pliers and we jumped in the truck and raced to the rescue.

Sure enough, it was flailing away, trying to get free of the barbs on the fence wire. My daughter wanted to hold and console it. My wife was yelling for both of us not to get too near it so we wouldn't get kicked. I approached cautiously, trying to get it freed without either of us getting hurt. In about a minute was able to cut through two layers of the fence wire.

Boing...it was like the deer had been shot straight out of a giant slingshot. In two or three seconds it had streaked about fifty yards to the other side of the corral and, this time, successfully leapt over the fence. Just before disappearing into the woods, it stopped and looked back for a moment. My daughter said, "Aw, daddy, maybe it's saying thank you."


So, now in addition to being a friend, husband, father, lover, senior citizen in-waiting, gourmet cook, wine connosseur consumer, wannabe novelist, horndog, witty conversationalist, jokester, skilled eavesdropper, book hound, music lover, raconteur, bon vivant, and all-around nice guy...oh, did I mention modest?...I am now also a hero...saver of deer and all animalkind...with pictures to prove it :-)


What's that?...I hear strains of Whitney Houston singing "You are my hero..."

Ok, ok...enough. The sun is below the yardarm so it's time to start happy hour.


Badaboom Badabing...

We Called Her Mellow Yellow

On my trip to Atlanta last week, I was looking out the window at a river that ran by my client's office. Somebody told me it was the Chattahoochee River. The name seemed to ring a bell somewhere in my mind, and on the plane ride back it came to me...I thought it was the river where they shot the movie Deliverance (with Burt Reynolds and John Voight) back around 1970. For some reason it triggered a memory from my youth. As it turns out, I checked, and the river where the film was shot was the Chatooga, but who gives a rat's ass...it gave me the idea for this post.

I went through some old photo albums and dug out the pictures posted here. Back in the 1960's a few of my buddies and I pooled our meager funds and purchased a life raft that we named Mellow Yellow (after the Beatles Song). Every Spring, for several years, we would take a roadtrip from our neighborhood just outside of New York City to the Delaware Water Gap in Pennsylvania...city boys in the country. We'd park one car up river and another car several miles down river. Then we'd launch Mellow Yellow and run the rapids down the Delaware River. It would take us a few hours to do the run, then we'd break out sandwiches and beer and talk about how hot-shit lucky we were to conquer those monster rapids. Truthfully, they were more like mouse rapids though we did have a few close calls. In any case, it made for good bar braggin' for the weekend (big fish stories couldn't hold a candle to ours)...and I vividly recall that there was a definite non-linear relationship between the number of beers consumed and the treachery of the rapids.

   

City Boys in the Country (Click to Enlarge)

So here's a few pictures of my buds and Mellow Yellow. The big blond guy (he was 6-foot-4 and 240 pounds at 15 years old...bigger when photo was taken) is Eddy (aka Big Bear). The dark skinny guy is Denny (sadly, Leukemia took him at 25 years of age), and the other big guy with curly hair is Jimmy. I was the designated photographer (wielding my Kodak Instamatic) for the color pics. In the black & white pic, that's me in the plaid shirt and long hair looking like a midget standing between Jimmy and Bear.

One of the VW's belonged to Jimmy, the other to Bear. I can't tell which one we were posing in from the picture, but they were identical cars except for the color...I remember that Jimmy's was green and Bear's was blue. I've actually been in touch with Jimmy over the last two years, and sent him these pics this past Xmas. We both confirmed that neither of us was in possession of Mellow Yellow, and we know that Denny didn't have her when he left us, which leaves the possibility that Bear may still have her...I saw him 20 years ago but forgot to ask him. I'm gonna' try to track him down and find out.

Ahh, the good ol' days.

Oh yeah...in case anyone is wondering...no, we didn't meet with the same fate as the characters in that movie :-)



Badabing Badaboom...

It Really Bugs Me When...

When best-selling authors don't get their facts straight...I posted about this a while ago, and it just happened again. I know I shouldn't get all upset about this, but it really bugs the shit out of me whenever I encounter it...and I'm not even looking for this kind of stuff. I'm reading Short Straw, the new novel from Stuart Woods (who is a very good writer). So...the thing that ticked me off this time is that his main character grew from 5' 8" tall to 6 feet tall in a mere 75 pages.

There, I feel so much better now.

And...I'll be feeling even better very shortly...free happy hour at my hotel starts in 5 minutes :-)


Badabing Badaboom...

Cupid Missed His Train to Georgia...

So, here's the scene...upscale restaurant in an upscale Atlanta suburb. It's Valentine's Day, early evening. The place is packed...mostly couples, a few stray pairs of dateless males and females, and one or two guys like me who were eating or drinking alone. I manage to get the last seat at the large circular bar, and am even lucky enough to have both a perfect view of the dining areas and a small lamp in front of me that threw off enough light to read by.

I order a glass of wine and alternate between reading my book and evesdropping, er, observing the crowd. Focusing my attention on the couples, I was a bit shocked. The vast majority of the couples weren't even close to connecting with each other. Guys were watching the basketball game on the tv screens hanging at various locations in the restaurant; some women were reading, some were just eating or drinking; and a few were trying, with mixed success, to converse with their dinner partners.

The woman sitting next to me was talkin' at...not with...her husband, explaining to him the finer points of the rhumba. I found out later they had been taking dancing lessons. Between feigning interest with occasional "uh huh's" and nods, the husband was more focused on sneaking peeks at the game. Figuring to get his attention, she finally hopped off the bar stool and began to demonstrate the dance steps. That seemed to work...it held his attention for a full five seconds. Before I forget, it did look like she'd had a drink or three by this time.

I couldn't resist, so I started up a conversation with her while hubby went back to enjoying his game. Apparently enjoying my undivided attention, she repeated the rhumba demo, and switched to a salsa. I didn't want her to think I was a real wise ass, but, being the wise ass that I sometimes am...after I complimented her on her lovely dance I couldn't resist telling her that what she was doing was actually a mambo step...and that that was ok because it is commonly used in salsa as well. And no, I didn't just make that up...and yes, I know how to dance. Ok, ok, not really, but I am taking lessions. Oops, I'm digressing...so maybe that will be fodder for a future post.

Anyway, that got her full attention. She slid her barstool closer to mine and hopped back on. I guess it was something I said. And if you're wondering...yes, she was attractive...I can say this truthfully because I was still nursing my first drink. Hubby was engrossed in his game, so she and I had a nice conversation about dancing and other things (I quickly switched off the dancing topic because the extent of my knowledge about it was exhausted in less than five minutes.)

Eventually this small black thing setting on the bar between her and her husband starts blinking and buzzing and doing its own little thing. Their table was finally ready. Hubby jumps up and reaches for his wallet to close out the bar tab, but she stops him and says she'd prefer if they just ate at the bar. He gives me a glance and then engages in a little tete a tete with the wife, that became a bit animated in a not so good way. The only dialogue I was able to catch was "we waited a god damned hour for this table...". They ultimately decided to take the table, and I got a smile and a "thanks for the company" from her and a potentially dirty look from him. Gee, ya' think he'd have appreciated me getting him off the hook so he could watch the game. I did notice that as they were seated he was doing all the talking. Hey, I can't help it if I'm such a nice guy...the lady at least deserves a nice conversation on Valentine's Day.

Being so engrossed in that conversation, I missed all but the end of the what was going on between a young couple that was sitting a little further down the bar. They had finished their meal and were arguing about who should pay...and about three minutes after I heard one of them say "cheap bastard" the guy gets up and leaves without her. In case anyone is wondering...no, I did not slide on over... Saving one damsel a day is about Badabing's limit. Besides, she was way too young for me :-)

I guess cupid missed his train to Georgia that day.


Badaboom Badabing...

I'm in a Biblical Mood...

For some reason I'm in a biblical state of mind this morning. This one is for anyone who might enjoy a biblical brain teaser of sorts.

What is the difference between the following?

The Old Testament
The Torah
The Five Books of Moses

Answers posted shortly.


Badabing Badaboom...

I Guess Some Folks Actually Read This Blog

I took the plunge and upgraded to the new version of Blogger a few minutes ago...and got a nice surprise. I found out that some of you actually read and comment here :-) Nice to know that I have more than one reader.

So, if you thought I was ignoring you...not so. I don't know why, but all of your comments from the last several months did not post on the old version. So, please forgive me if I didn't reply to your posts. I'm going to go back through the last few months and reply to you all...well, almost all...I received some pretty wierd comments that I'll probably edit out.

Actually, knowing that I have more than one reader is good motivation for posting more...which I will definitely do.

Ciao for now...I've got to catch a plane.


Badaboom Badabing...

Livin' On Sponge Cake Watchin' The Sun Bake...

Can you guess where I am?

Hint #1: Parrot heads

Hint #2: Think Jimmy Buffet

Give up?

That's right. I'm in paradise...sorta.

Actually, I just returned from a few days in the Florida keys...where the weather was a helluva lot better than it is here at home. Nothin' to do but relax, read, bask in the sun, eat, drink, drink, drink...and watch the daily sunsets (a tradition in the keys)...and drink some more. Check out the pics taken from our hotel.



Needless to say, after several balmy 85-degree days it was really hard to come back to temperatures in the teens. To make things worse, in the next hour I'm leaving to catch a plane to Chicago where the temperature is expected to be in the @#$%-shriveling single digits and sub-zero with the wind chill factor.

I'd definitely rather be "wastin' away in Margaritaville..."


Badaboom Burrr Badabing...

Badabing's Xmas Eve Dinner

It's been a pretty consistent tradition for the Badabing family to have a fancy Xmas Eve dinner. It really helps to get us in the mood for Xmas day, which is pretty hectic since we usually play host to about 20 family members. Xmas Eve is something I always look forward to, and usually make something pretty elaborate or special dishes that the family has always enjoyed. This year we had only five of us, and for the first time in years both of my children were able to make it. The menu, with the exception of dessert, was very Italian:

• Fried mozzarella with garlic, capers & anchovies
  
• Finocchio salad with parmagiano reggiano
  
• Osso buco (braised veal shanks)
  
• Risotto Milanese
  
• French fruit tarts & chocolates from our local chocolatier
  

We had a nice French champagne to kick things off, followed by a few bottles of Melini Chianti Classico (a nice smooth chianti), and we enjoyed a nice aged port wine with the dessert. Bellisimo!!

I got up bright and early Xmas morning to begin cooking baked ziti, meatballs and sausage for the Xmas day gathering.

Tonight I'm doing something simple on the grill. Buon Natale a Tutti.

Badaboom Badabing...

Bad Santa...The Day After Xmas

I just couldn't resist

A Little Christmas Music

Hear What They're Playing


Nothing like a little holiday music to get one in the spirit of the season. These are a few of my classic favorites:

• White Christmas(Bing Crosby)
  
• Silent Night(Dean Martin)
  
• Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire(Perry Como)
  
• I'll Be Home ForChristmas(Dean Martin)
  
• Santa Claus Is Coming To Town(Perry Como)
  
• Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas(Frank Sinatra)
  
• Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer(Patsy & Elmo)
  

Yeah, yeah, I know...Grandma Got Run Over is not exactly a classic, but it's my son's favorite so it is classic in the Badabing household.

Oops...speaking of favorites, I forgot to include my wife's...Alvin & The Chipmunks. Well, maybe I'll add that tomorrow. Okay, I found it over here.

Badaboom Badabing...

Home For The Holidays...

Let the holidays begin!!

Last week was my last business trip of the year. so, no more planes to catch, no more hotels to check in to, no more cars to rent, no more thinking about work, no more drinking in strange bars...at least for a few more weeks. I'll only sorta miss one of the above.

Xmas shopping is done...almost. I tied my record of two hours if I don't count the time I spent surfing online. One or two things yet to get for wifey, but that will coincide with my trip to the grocery store to purchase the vittles for the traditional Badabing family Xmas Eve feast, so I don't count that as shopping...technically. I even ordered a gift online...my second one ever...a new digital camera which was ordered yesterday and is scheduled to arrive today (and I didn't even pay for overnight shipping.)

So now I'm sitting in a Starbucks, drinking my morning espresso, listening to Frank, Dean and Bing sing Xmas carols (I should buy that album), looking at the pretty girls, browsing through some of my favorite blogs, thinking about some things I want to post in the next week, and trying to get into the holiday spirit. Yes...all of these things at the same time, not to mention writing this post...just call me Mr. multi-tasker.

Pop quiz...where did the 'X' in the abbreviation 'Xmas' originate?

Give up? Hah. Here's a hint from an old Francis Albert song I listened to last night...fill in the blank..."Though your figure's less than _____"

I ran into this joke on three blogs this morning, so I'm posting it here as well:

Three men died on Christmas Eve and were met by St. Peter at the Pearly Gates.

"In honor of this Holy Season," said St. Pete, "you must each possess something that symbolizes Christmas to get into Heaven.

"The first guy fumbles through his pockets and pulls out a lighter. He flicked it on. "This represents a candle," he says.

St. Pete says, "You may pass through the Pearly Gates."

The second guy reaches into his pocket and pulls out a set of keys. He shook them and said, "They're bells."

St. Pete says, "You may pass through the Pearly Gates."

The third guy searches desperately, and finally pulls out a pair of women's panties.

St. Peter looks at the man with a raised eyebrow, and says, "And just what do those symbolize?"

The man replies: "They're Carol's."

Ahh, now I'm gettin' into the spirit of things. :-)


Badaboom Badabing...

Older 'n Dirt

Last week, Old Horsetail Snake posted some items that brought back quite a few childhood memories. Then, earlier this week, Duke of Earle posted some pics that he found in his mom's cedar chest. That also brought some memories. Well, this morning I got an email from a cousin that contained more trips down memory lane, so I figured I'd borrow some from each of those sources, add a few of my own, and share them here. If you remember most of these, then you are, as I am....an old fart.

1. There was no such thing as fast food.
2. Most moms were home when the kids got home from school.
3. Most of the time you ate dinner, together, with your parents and siblings. Oh yeah, and if you didn't like what your mom put on your plate you were allowed to sit there until you did like it...or at least ate it.
4. You had to have permission to leave the table.
5. For your high school picture you HAD to dress up in a jacket and tie...and if you graduated in the 60's that tie was a skinny one.
6. You probably came home from school to eat lunch.
7. If you're a guy, your parents beamed with pride if someone referred to you as a "clean cut" kid.
8. Some parents never owned their own house, set foot on a golf course, traveled out of the country, or had a credit card.
9. Your parents never drove you to soccer practice. Mostly because no one ever heard of soccer.
10. If you needed to go someplace, and didn't want to walk, you probably rode your 50-pound bike. If you were really cool, you made believe your bike had a motor by clipping baseball cards to the spokes with your mom's clothespins.
11. And speaking of clothespins...when your mom did the wash she may have used a washboard and wringer...and she most definitely hung the clothes out to dry in the back yard...on clostheline, of course.
12. And speaking of bikes, you may have used pant leg clips if yours didn't have a chain guard.
13. Roller skates had keys.
14. Cars had headlight dimmer switches on the floor, ignition switches on the dashboard, and heaters mounted on the inside of the fire wall.
15. Your dad may have used hand signals if his car didn't have turn signals.
16. You remember Packards and Studebakers.
17. Televisions were black and white...and your family may not have had one until you were almost a teenager.
18. Pizza was not delivered to your home...but milk was...in glass bottles with cardboard stoppers...and your mom put the empties outside so the milkman could reuse them.
19. You never had a telephone in your room.
20. The only phone in the house was in the living room or kitchen, and it was on a party line so you had to check whether someone was using it before you dialed.
21. Phones had a rotary dial and phone numbers had a word prefix, like Ivanhoe-3903.
22. If you were a boy, you had a paper route. Papers cost 5 cents and you got to keep 1 cent. And, if you were lucky, when you collected on Saturday you had some customers who gave you 35 cents and told you to keep the change.
23. You played the following games: hide and go seek (preferably at dusk), kick the can, dodge ball, hopscotch, jacks, mother may I. If you were a boy you also played cowboys and indians, cops and robbers.
24. In the summer, you ran through the sprinkler.
25. There were only two types of sneakers: Keds and PF Flyers...and the only time you wore them was when you had "gym" in school.
26. There were no such things as "play dates." When you wanted to play with someone you walked or rode your bike to their house, went to the back door, and either knocked or called out "Hey, Jimeeee!" or whatever your friend's name was. If you went in a group each person probably took a turn calling for Jimmy until his mom opened the door.
27. Your mom never used paper towels.
28. You made paper chains at school during Christmas season.
29. Your male teachers all wore suits and ties, and your female teachers wore dresses and high heels.
30. If you're a girl, you wore a dress or skirt to school and the hemline had to be below your knees.
31. If you're a girl, you probably all wore the same baggy blue or green gym uniform.
32. When your dad went to the gas station, an attendant filled the tank, checked the oil, and washed the windshield, without even asking...for free. Oh yeah...and you didn't have to pay for air.
33. Nobody owned a pure bred dog.
34. You know who Howdy Doody, Buffalo Bob, and Clarabell were.
35. Wax lips and mustaches, and little wax bottles in the shape of a Coke can that were filled with colored sugar water.
36. Candy cigarettes.
37. Soda machines that dispensed glass bottles.
38. Coffee shops and diners with tableside juke boxes.
39. Your mom probably collectd green stamps.
40. You may have 'gone steady' in high school...or at least you knew couples who did.
41. Mimeograph paper.
42. Hi-fi's.
43. Blue flashbulbs.
44. Drive-ins...both movies and restaurants.
45. Metal ice trays with a lever.
46. 45 rpm records.
47. Butch wax.
48. Cork popguns.
49. If you're a girl, you may have worn stockings when you dressed up, but wearing pantyhose came a bit later.
50. You remember the smell of the paste they used in school.
51. You may have used glue in school that came in black, white, and orange cans...and you spread a little on your desk, let it start to dry a bit, then rolled it up into a rubbery little spitball that you chucked at someone when the teacher wasn't looking.
52. You made silhouettes of Lincoln and Washington.
53. You remember the March of Dimes.
54. You remember Ozzie & Harriet, Micky Mouse Club (if you're a guy you had to have a thing for at least one of the female mouseketeers...for me it was Annette Funicello), Rocky and Bullwinkle, and Kukla Fran & Ollie.
55. For cartoons, you watched Looney Tunes and Popeye.
56. If you're a guy, you know who Gene Autry, Hopalong Cassidy, and the Cisco Kid were.
57. You remember the Jackie Gleason, Dinah Shore, Perry Como, Ed Sullivan, Arthur Godfrey, Steve Allen shows.
58. If you're a guy, you climbed trees and made forts.
59. You may have had a lemonade stand.
60. You know what bobby pins and saddle shoes are.
61. If you wore penny loafers there's a good chance they actually had pennies in them.
62. If you're a girl, you may have worn a poodle skirt.
63. A quarter was a huge weekly allowance...if you were lucky enough to have an allowance.
64. Movie stars kissed with their mouths shut...at least while they were making the movie. Touching someone else's tongue with yours was called French kissing...and they didn't do that in the movies. We didn't know what they did in French movies because French movies were dirty and we weren't allowed to watch them.
65. When you came home from school you changed out of your school clothes and into your play clothes.

You may want to share some of these memories with your children or grandchildren...but, be forewarned...they may bust a gut laughing at you. Growin' up today ain't what it used to be...then again, our kids will probably say the same thing to their kids.

Whew...now I need a nap. If you've got any similar memories, please share.

Badaboom Badabing....

Finnochio Salad

Gee...I'm on a roll today with two posts. Anyway, my stomach's growling, I'm hungry, and for some reason I'm thinking about the finocchio I bought at the grocery store yesterday. I figure that maybe if I write about food it will make the hunger subside a little.

Finocchio ( pronounced fin-'oh-kee-oh), or fennel, is an anise-flavored vegetable that is very popular in Italian cooking. A finocchio, or fanuch for the N'italian afficianado, is also slang for a gay person, and if anyone is interested in Italian slang they can check out my earlier posts in the above links, but I'm not going there tonight. Tonight it's about the food.

One of my favorite ways to fix finnocchio is to make a salad with it...very simple...very Italian. Don't even think about saying 'eye-talian or my grandmother will rise from the dead and put the evil eye on you.

Badabing's Finocchio Salad

1 bulb finocchio
1/2 fresh lemon
handful of baby arugula, stems removed
Parmagiano Reggiano cheese
Extra virgin olive oil

Cut the finocchio crosswise in extremely thin slices, best done using a mandoline (no, not the kind you play like a guitar...that's a mandolin). The thinner the better.

Put the finocchio slices in a salad bowl, add arugula & lemon juice, and toss. Add enough olive oil to coat lightly and toss again.

Top with parmagiano shavings...that's shavings and not grated...and don't even think about substituting canned or jarred grated cheese...and serve. Finito!!

Oh yeah...my stomach's growling even more than when I first started this post. Maybe a little wine will help...for medicinal purposes of course.

Badaboom Badabing...

At Least Get The Friggin' Facts Straight...

Okay, this is my first post in a while, and I hate to start the week off by ranting, but it's my bloggie and I'll rant when I want to...rant when I want to...rant when I want to...you would rant too if it happened to you :-(

One of my pet peeves when reading a novel is when the author gets some obvious facts about a person, place or whatever just plain wrong. Yes, I know it's a novel and it's not true, and so on and so forth...but, it really ticks me off when an author gets something so wrong which could have been prevented with just a few minutes of research. Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy!!!

Okay, here's an example: "The cab turned west on Madison Avenue and raced towards Little Italy." Now, you don't have to be a New Yawka to know that 'avenues' in Manhattan run north and south and 'streets' run east and west, and if you're writing about a place at least look it up on a friggin' map. If you're a best selling author, such a faux pas is friggin' inexcusable in my opinion.

So, last week I'm reading the latest, Cross, from one of my very favorite authors, James Patterson. Now, the book was just fine overall...one of his typically great stories that makes you want to read the whole thing in one sitting. He describes a scene in which a mob character sneaks away from his home in Brooklyn and holes up in his waterfront compound in Mineola, New York...which is on Long Island. Actually, Brooklyn is on Long Island as well, though there are still (many) people there who will argue to the death that it's not...but that's another story. Anyway, here's the thing...I grew up a few miles from Mineola and haven't been to Mineola in 20 years, but I can tell you that there's no body of water anywhere within miles of Mineola, which is the county seat of Nassau County...except for maybe a drainage ditch or two and and a handful of backyard pools. I love Patterson's books, but you'd think a guy who pulls down tens of millions of green a year can get a fact like that straight. There are also a few minor f-ups about locations and stuff in the DC area where I now live, but that one really drives me f---ing nuts. To make it worse, the book credits thank a team of researchers.

Ahh...I feel so much better now. Ranting can be good for one's health.

Badaboom badabing...

Badabing is Back

The rumors that I have been dispatched to perform a secret mission for an unmentionable agency of the US government during the last two months are simply not true ;-) Hehehe.

Anyway, I can't believe it's been two whole months since I made a post...been very busy with work and stuff. So, I apologize to the two readers of this blog (one being myself) :-) , and I'll be posting again in the next day or so. But now, I've got to run and catch a plane for Denver...

Badaboom Badabing....

N'Italian-American Slang

A few weeks ago I posted my N'Italian Lessons 101. I got tons of hits to this blog from that post, and came up on hundreds of Google searches. Today I'm going to follow up with some English slang that is commonly used by Italian-Americans in the New York/New Jersey area. These are typically used with some of the N'Italian 101 words...in fact, some of the words are used by New Yorkers in general...at least the ones that I grew up with. I think I'll call this N'Italian-American slang.

whaddya talkin? Pronounced waddya talkin' or wuddya talkin'. It simply means "what are you talking about?" or "what do you mean?"

shyster. Pronounced 'shy-stuh. Someone who is a cheat or crook, someone not to be trusted. Often used as a synonym for a lawyer. See below for sample usage.

how ya doin? or hey, how ya doin?. This is a common greeting that means "how are you?", "nice to meet you?" or "how's it going?" A dead giveaway that you're a born and raised New Yawka. Sample usage:

Tony: "Joey, this is Vinny."
Joey: "Hey, how ya doin?"
Vinny: "How ya doin?"

beautiful. This has the same meaning as the regular English word, but is pronounced bee-'you-tee-full. You really have to hear it to appreciate it.

some shit. This means "hard to believe" or "can you believe that?" A variation is some shit, huh? Sample usage:

Frankie: "So, they want $2.50 for a lousy cuppa coffee. Some shit, huh?"
Vinny: "Yeah, some shit."

fuhgeddaboutit. This is pronounced fuh-'ged-da-bow-tit. It is a very versatile expression that can mean "forget about it" literally, or "no big deal," or sometimes "no friggin' way." Sometimes emphasis is on the fourth syllable, fuh-ged-da-'bow-tit, especially when context is "no friggin' way." Sample usage:

Paulie: "Tony, I'm a little short today. I owe you a C-note."
Tony: "Fuhgeddaboutit. Pay me when you got it."

Paulie: "Can you believe that bitch? Her friggin' shyster is askin' me for another $500 a month in alimony. You think I'm gonna' pay that? Fuh-ged-da-'bow-tit."


fuggin' a. Pronounced the way it looks. Variations include fukkin' a and friggin' a. This can have different meanings depending on the context, including "way to go," "good for you" or "I agree with you." Another very versatile expression. Sample usage:

Frankie: "You believe those Mets? Took both games last night. Keep it up they could make it to the series."
Joey: "Fukkin' a."

waddya gonna' do? or wuddya gonna' do? Pronounced the way it looks. This expression can mean "oh, well", "shit happens", "nothing you can do about it," depending on the context in which it is used. Sample usage:

Tony: "Thirty friggin' grand for my kid's tuition. In advance! Some shit, huh?"
Vinnie: "Waddya gonna' do? Schools ain't cheap no more."


are you shittin' me? Pronounced the way it looks. This means "are you kidding me?" or "you're kidding me." There are many variations. Sample usage:

Tony: "Did you hear about Vinny? Wife caught him with his goomah yesterday."
Joey: "You shittin me?" or "You're shittin me, right?" or "You gotta be shittin me."

badaboom badabing. Pronounced like it looks. See my very first post for the the history behind this phrase. Commonly used to mean "piece a' cake," "done deal," "no problem," "just like that," or "instantly." A variation is the shortform, simply badabing.

So, there ya go. All you need to talk N'Italian with a New Yawka.

Badaboom Badabing...

Left Right Left Right...

Okay, okay, so I lied. I was supposed to post a solution to this brain teaser almost a week ago. Better late than never...

When most people try to do the brain teaser below, they try to say the color but end up saying the word...or, they manage to say the color after some hesitation. Why does this happen? There's a hint in the title of this post. You can also scroll down to find out.


Look At The Table And Say the Color NOT The Word



Hehehe...this is the old left brain / right brain conflict

Your right brain wants to say the color
But
Your left brain wants to say the word

Badaboom Badabing...

I'm In A Teasing Frame Of Mind

The gout is almost gone today, so I'm feelin' pretty good...and when I'm feelin' good I love to tease. So, here's a little brain teaser that'll drive you nuts.


Look At The Table And Say the Color NOT The Word




Hehehe...finding it a bit difficult to follow instructions? Want to know why?

Well, come back tomorrow and I'll take the mystery out of it ;-)

In the meantime, I'm leavin' on a jet plane...


Badaboom Badabing...

Bombs Away

Well, the gout is almost gone. Hopefully I'll be back to normal very soon. The new medication seemed to work faster than the original prescription, but it's the first time I've ever suffered side effects from any type of medication. Let me tell you...the last few days have been pretty very rough.

I'm usually good at asking the docs questions about the meds they prescribe..."Do I take it all, even if the symptoms go away?"..."Can I take it as a preventative, if I feel symptoms coming back?"...stuff like that. This time, the conversation went something like this:

ME: "How long should I take the new prescription, Doc?"

DOC (deadpan face, scribbling on my chart): "Take it until you get diahrea, feel nauseous, or throw up."

ME (with a 'Did he just say what I think he said?' look on my face): "What?"

DOC (same deadpan face, still scribbling): "The symptoms may resolve before any of those things happen. Otherwise, stop if any of them occur and you can continue taking it after they go away, if you need to."

Like I said, I've never in my life had any side effects from medication, so I just chalked his remarks off to some wierd kind of doctor humor. Boy, was I wrong!!

So, guess which of the side effects I was lucky enough to get?

Give up?

Okay, I'll give you a hint...refer to this post's title or read on.

You know the warnings they print on the plastic pill bottles...like 'avoid alcohol while taking this medication'...stuff like that? Well, I've got a few additions I'd like to see them include for this particular medication:

• Buy a 12-pack of toilet tissue, extra soft, before beginning this medication
  
• Once you start this medication, stay within a 20-foot radius of (available) bathroom
  
• Head directly to bathroom at first sign of stomach gurggling
  

Uhh, I could add a few more things but...gotta go :-)

Badaboom Gurgle Gurgle Badabing

As Simple As Black & White

Do you see white dots or black dots where the lines intersect?



Weeee...I don't know about you, but this one makes me a little dizzy!



FYI, I found this over at Bit of Fun