Saturday, March 11, 2017
The Saturday Picture Show, March 11, 2017
Friday, March 10, 2017
Give Rodney another chance
I told my psychiatrist that everyone hates me. He said I was being ridiculous - everyone hasn't met me yet.
Of all the comedians, I don't remember anyone saying they didn't like Rodney Dangerfield. Maybe that was because he seemed like the ordinary funny guy from down the street, the guy who made everyone laugh at the church supper.
He was such a Mr Everyman! My father, in line at a casino buffet in Atlantic City one day, looked to his left one day to see Rodney shoveling fried chicken onto his tray.
But his whole schtick was "I don't get no respect," and that sad fate continues even today.
My uncle's dying wish - he wanted me on his lap. He was in the electric chair.
Rodney lived until 2004 and passed away at 82, and all his wife wanted was for a fitting memorial in his old neighborhood of Queens, New York City.
A community group commissioned an artist to come over from Italy and paint a giant mural of Rodney Dangerfield on a brick wall, and the results were...let's say...less than satisfying.
To be quite frank about it, I think the guy on that wall looks more like Bill Maher than Rodney.
I could tell my parents hated me. My bath toys were a toaster and a radio.
That's the artist, Francesca Robicci, in the picture above. She did the mural last year, using a photo that the widow Joan Dangerfield gave her.
Mrs Dangerfield is on record as saying she isn't pleased, but local resident Flynn McLean thinks the mural is fine.
"I would not want to see that mural removed just because it's not the most flattering" likeness, said McLean, who was kind enough to point out that Dangerfield "wasn't the best-looking guy in the world."
On Halloween, the parents sent their kids out looking like me.
Ms Robicci says she was not paid for her work, and is "heartbroken" about the results, but would be willing to come back and brush up on the mural a bit.
Stay tuned.
A girl phoned me the other day and said... 'Come on over, there's nobody home.' I went over. Nobody was home.
Of all the comedians, I don't remember anyone saying they didn't like Rodney Dangerfield. Maybe that was because he seemed like the ordinary funny guy from down the street, the guy who made everyone laugh at the church supper.
He was such a Mr Everyman! My father, in line at a casino buffet in Atlantic City one day, looked to his left one day to see Rodney shoveling fried chicken onto his tray.
But his whole schtick was "I don't get no respect," and that sad fate continues even today.
My uncle's dying wish - he wanted me on his lap. He was in the electric chair.
Rodney lived until 2004 and passed away at 82, and all his wife wanted was for a fitting memorial in his old neighborhood of Queens, New York City.A community group commissioned an artist to come over from Italy and paint a giant mural of Rodney Dangerfield on a brick wall, and the results were...let's say...less than satisfying.
To be quite frank about it, I think the guy on that wall looks more like Bill Maher than Rodney.
I could tell my parents hated me. My bath toys were a toaster and a radio.
Mrs Dangerfield is on record as saying she isn't pleased, but local resident Flynn McLean thinks the mural is fine.
"I would not want to see that mural removed just because it's not the most flattering" likeness, said McLean, who was kind enough to point out that Dangerfield "wasn't the best-looking guy in the world."
On Halloween, the parents sent their kids out looking like me.
Ms Robicci says she was not paid for her work, and is "heartbroken" about the results, but would be willing to come back and brush up on the mural a bit.
Stay tuned.
A girl phoned me the other day and said... 'Come on over, there's nobody home.' I went over. Nobody was home.
Thursday, March 9, 2017
Fired Up
Old-time fire buffs in Baltimore will recall the time in the late 60s when a local tuxedo rental firm had the horrible misfortune of a warehouse fire that totally obliterated their entire stock of worn, outdated, out-of-style tuxedos and dinner jackets that had just been moved into the warehouse in question days earlier.
Such a shame.
Likewise, connoisseurs of fine dining at Burger Kings across the nation and the world are often moved to tears at the sight of a flaming burger joint. Especially if you live in one of those towns with only one BK, meaning there is nowhere else to go to slake your hunger for Whoppers, Double Whoppers, Triple Whoppers, Whopper Jrs, and BK Single Stackers.
You take open-flame broiling, performed by a staff of people unschooled in fire prevention techniques, and you get this:
But never let it be said that the advertising people who make up the commercials for the King will miss a way to turn their misfortune into business, by a new advertising campaign that features burning Burger Kings.
Did you know that Burger King has had the highest number of restaurant-related fires than any other fast-food chain since they grilled their first burger in 1954?
The slogan for the ads, appearing in print only, is "Flame Grilled since 1954." There will be pictures of flamin' Kings in Oregon, Italy and Pennsylvania.
This was a fire at a BK in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. The fire occurred in September of 2015 and they reopened a new restaurant last November, meaning 14 months of Whopper deprivation for the luckless residents of Amish Country.
Next up, if my guess is right: Ford ads showing F-350 monster pickups getting slammed into by large delivery vans and coming out with the worst of the encounter, and of course, the upcoming "Liar Liar pants on fire!" commercials showing people whose cell phones catch fire in their pockets.
And now all I can think of is, I want a whopper.
Such a shame.
Likewise, connoisseurs of fine dining at Burger Kings across the nation and the world are often moved to tears at the sight of a flaming burger joint. Especially if you live in one of those towns with only one BK, meaning there is nowhere else to go to slake your hunger for Whoppers, Double Whoppers, Triple Whoppers, Whopper Jrs, and BK Single Stackers.
You take open-flame broiling, performed by a staff of people unschooled in fire prevention techniques, and you get this:
But never let it be said that the advertising people who make up the commercials for the King will miss a way to turn their misfortune into business, by a new advertising campaign that features burning Burger Kings.
Did you know that Burger King has had the highest number of restaurant-related fires than any other fast-food chain since they grilled their first burger in 1954?
The slogan for the ads, appearing in print only, is "Flame Grilled since 1954." There will be pictures of flamin' Kings in Oregon, Italy and Pennsylvania.
This was a fire at a BK in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. The fire occurred in September of 2015 and they reopened a new restaurant last November, meaning 14 months of Whopper deprivation for the luckless residents of Amish Country.
Next up, if my guess is right: Ford ads showing F-350 monster pickups getting slammed into by large delivery vans and coming out with the worst of the encounter, and of course, the upcoming "Liar Liar pants on fire!" commercials showing people whose cell phones catch fire in their pockets.
And now all I can think of is, I want a whopper.
Wednesday, March 8, 2017
It's just ben a little odd lately
Back in my radio DJ days, I worked at a station whose chief engineer was also a psychology student, a pursuit in which he gained great insights into the minds of people who sit in small rooms, playing records and talking about the weather.
I remember him telling me about studies that were being conducted to prove that probing a certain part of the brain would enable one to recall everything that had ever happened, every single event, every meal, every book read, every message about picking up milk on the way home from work, all of it.
I thought it was a horrible idea, believing that forgetting most stuff was the best way to deal with most stuff. And when that same dude told me that in the future we would all be carrying phones around with us so we could make and receive calls wherever we were on the face of the earth, I really thought some of the cheese had fallen off his cracker. (And he didn't mention that the pocket phone would replace a camera, a video recorder, a dictionary, an encyclopedia and a dozen personal photo albums.)
Well now, 40 years later, along comes my former fellow Baltimore County resident Dr Ben Carson, newly anointed Secretary of Housing and Urban Development, who told a crowd of stunned employees who now face the prospect of working for him every day that the human brain is incapable of forgetting things. Remember, he was a neurosurgeon who performed incredible medical feats such as separating conjoined twins, so naturally, the president has chosen him to apply those skills to the field of building houses and workplaces for the disadvantaged.
But he told the hushed (shocked) crowd, in his Meet The New Boss address, that the brain "remembers everything you’ve ever seen. Everything you’ve ever heard. I could take the oldest person here, make a little hole on the side of the head and put some depth electrodes into their hippocampus and stimulate. And they would be able to recite back to you, verbatim, a book they read 60 years ago. It’s all there. It doesn’t go away. You just have to learn how to recall it."
And here I sit, thinking a "hippocampus" was where giant herbivorous mammals go to college.
But, thanks just the same, Ben. I don't want to recall every single thing that happened to me on July 23, 1954, April 3, 1962, or the first time I went on a date. I remember every second of the last date I went on, because it's still going on.
He continued: "(The brain) can process more than 2 million bits of information per second. You can’t overload it. Have you ever heard people say, 'Don’t do all that, you’ll overload your brain.' You can’t overload the human brain. If you learned one new fact every second, it would take you more than 3 million years to challenge the capacity of your brain."
He says this, and then I look up "weather" on the cell phone (there's another use!) and two seconds later, someone asks me what the weather's gonna be, and all I say is, "I dunno."
Darin Dougherty, a psychiatrist and the director of Massachusetts General Hospital’s neurotherapeutics division, said, "Using electrodes placed in the human brain to implant memories or to recall forgotten memories is simply not possible at this time," and he ought to know.
Dr Carson ought to know too, and he also ought to know that slaves were not brought here as "immigrants" who came to the U.S. in "the bottom of slaves ships" for better opportunities.
Also, "jumping off the roof of a building" is not a definition of "transportation."
I remember him telling me about studies that were being conducted to prove that probing a certain part of the brain would enable one to recall everything that had ever happened, every single event, every meal, every book read, every message about picking up milk on the way home from work, all of it.
I thought it was a horrible idea, believing that forgetting most stuff was the best way to deal with most stuff. And when that same dude told me that in the future we would all be carrying phones around with us so we could make and receive calls wherever we were on the face of the earth, I really thought some of the cheese had fallen off his cracker. (And he didn't mention that the pocket phone would replace a camera, a video recorder, a dictionary, an encyclopedia and a dozen personal photo albums.)
Well now, 40 years later, along comes my former fellow Baltimore County resident Dr Ben Carson, newly anointed Secretary of Housing and Urban Development, who told a crowd of stunned employees who now face the prospect of working for him every day that the human brain is incapable of forgetting things. Remember, he was a neurosurgeon who performed incredible medical feats such as separating conjoined twins, so naturally, the president has chosen him to apply those skills to the field of building houses and workplaces for the disadvantaged.
But he told the hushed (shocked) crowd, in his Meet The New Boss address, that the brain "remembers everything you’ve ever seen. Everything you’ve ever heard. I could take the oldest person here, make a little hole on the side of the head and put some depth electrodes into their hippocampus and stimulate. And they would be able to recite back to you, verbatim, a book they read 60 years ago. It’s all there. It doesn’t go away. You just have to learn how to recall it."
And here I sit, thinking a "hippocampus" was where giant herbivorous mammals go to college.
But, thanks just the same, Ben. I don't want to recall every single thing that happened to me on July 23, 1954, April 3, 1962, or the first time I went on a date. I remember every second of the last date I went on, because it's still going on.
He continued: "(The brain) can process more than 2 million bits of information per second. You can’t overload it. Have you ever heard people say, 'Don’t do all that, you’ll overload your brain.' You can’t overload the human brain. If you learned one new fact every second, it would take you more than 3 million years to challenge the capacity of your brain."
He says this, and then I look up "weather" on the cell phone (there's another use!) and two seconds later, someone asks me what the weather's gonna be, and all I say is, "I dunno."
Darin Dougherty, a psychiatrist and the director of Massachusetts General Hospital’s neurotherapeutics division, said, "Using electrodes placed in the human brain to implant memories or to recall forgotten memories is simply not possible at this time," and he ought to know.Dr Carson ought to know too, and he also ought to know that slaves were not brought here as "immigrants" who came to the U.S. in "the bottom of slaves ships" for better opportunities.
Also, "jumping off the roof of a building" is not a definition of "transportation."
Tuesday, March 7, 2017
Why take the risk?
In Maryland, people can drive motor vehicles starting at the age of 16. There are restrictions, such as, one can only drive to the mall as long as a sober relative is in the car (if one can be found.) But the deal is, you have to be 16 to get out on the road and drive a car or truck or motorcycle.
It's going to irritate some people for me to say this, but I don't think it's such a great idea to see 8-year-olds zipping around back yards and woodland trails on ATVs or dirt bikes. Sure, it's cute: a little kid in a little helmet racing by on a little machine, but...
...It's dangerous.
Someone decided it was a good idea for Jamie Lynn Spears's daughter to have an ATV. And then, a few weeks ago, young Maddie flipped her Polaris ATV into a pond on the family property in Kentwood, LA.
The 8-year-old was riding the four-wheeler and trying to avoid a drainage ditch, and wound up crashing into a pond. By the time her mom and step-dad got to her, and managed to untangle her from the seatbelt and netting, she had been unconscious and underwater for two minutes. She could have drowned, she could have suffered brain damage, and she was lucky.
Paramedics rescued her and airlifted her to a hospital, where she remained unconscious for two days. All in all, she was in the hospital for five days, and although she is now back to her regular activities, the question remains, why allow this to happen in the first place?
The Consumer Product Safety Commission, the people who work hard to point out hazards everywhere, have some good advice for ATV use. Right in there is the statement "Do not allow a child under 16 to drive or ride an adult ATV."
The CPSC annual report contains this stunning statistic:
I don't like to be Capt. Bringdown, and no one likes having fun more than I, but these vehicles racing through piney wooded paths are unsafe in the hands of someone who can't legally drive the Corolla down to the farm store to pick up some hot dog rolls.
It's tough to tell a child "no" to having an ATV. Imagine how tough it is to have to go to Shock Trauma because someone said "yes" to one.
I know, I'll hear from people whose children have ridden for years without a bump or a scratch. I also hear from people who have smoked cigarettes daily for 57 years and are still hale and hearty. That doesn't change the odds, I'm sorry to say.
It's going to irritate some people for me to say this, but I don't think it's such a great idea to see 8-year-olds zipping around back yards and woodland trails on ATVs or dirt bikes. Sure, it's cute: a little kid in a little helmet racing by on a little machine, but...
...It's dangerous.
 |
| Before the wreck |
The 8-year-old was riding the four-wheeler and trying to avoid a drainage ditch, and wound up crashing into a pond. By the time her mom and step-dad got to her, and managed to untangle her from the seatbelt and netting, she had been unconscious and underwater for two minutes. She could have drowned, she could have suffered brain damage, and she was lucky.
Paramedics rescued her and airlifted her to a hospital, where she remained unconscious for two days. All in all, she was in the hospital for five days, and although she is now back to her regular activities, the question remains, why allow this to happen in the first place?
The Consumer Product Safety Commission, the people who work hard to point out hazards everywhere, have some good advice for ATV use. Right in there is the statement "Do not allow a child under 16 to drive or ride an adult ATV."
The CPSC annual report contains this stunning statistic:
As of December 31, 2015, CPSC staff received reports of 14,129 ATV-related fatalities occurring between 1982 and 2015. CPSC staff received reports of 340 ATV-related fatalities occurring in 2015, 547 occurring in 2014, and 581 occurring in 2013.
I don't like to be Capt. Bringdown, and no one likes having fun more than I, but these vehicles racing through piney wooded paths are unsafe in the hands of someone who can't legally drive the Corolla down to the farm store to pick up some hot dog rolls.
It's tough to tell a child "no" to having an ATV. Imagine how tough it is to have to go to Shock Trauma because someone said "yes" to one.
I know, I'll hear from people whose children have ridden for years without a bump or a scratch. I also hear from people who have smoked cigarettes daily for 57 years and are still hale and hearty. That doesn't change the odds, I'm sorry to say.
Monday, March 6, 2017
Book 'Em
So, yesterday, we dropped off a couple of tons of books at the Book Thing of Baltimore, the wonderful eleemosynary institution that gives books away to anyone, any weekend day, except when they are recovering from a terrible fire, which they currently are. But check them out online and see if you couldn't swing by there one Sunday soon and drop off some of those pageturners and spellbinders you're finished with. These people process and give away a world of information free for nothing, and the world is better for what they do.
Used to be, I saved every book I read, on the grounds that I might want to read it again. But two things now have come together to make me want to give them away (except for the ones I just CANNOT live without - Ring Lardner, Tom Wolfe, J.D. Salinger, Truman Capote.) A, I now realize that I just might not live forever, and therefore I cannot plan to be around for 40 more years, and if I started tonight re-reading all the books I own, I would not finish by 2057. And that doesn't even count the stacks of books purchased, but as yet unread (1/6 of which is here in fig 1).
And 2, it now dawns on me that even if, somewhere down the lovely road of life, I wish to re-read a book I have given away, I can get a new copy from Amazon toot suite or even faster on the old Kindle.
That's that. And then, we left to take a nice walk on a brisk March day, and headed for the 1/4-mile track at my alma mater Towson High School. It was a perfect day to walk four times around the track while overhearing bits of conversation among lacrosse moms that one might not hear anywhere else in the world ("Kelly wants to dye his hair green for St Patrick's Day but I'm afraid it might stain the inside of his helmet") and seeing boys and girls playing Maryland's great game on a synthetic turf field.
But. Someone has to tell me why, on the walk from the parking lot to the track, I had to deal with people letting their dogs run loose on the school campus. The law is quite clear in our county that all dogs and cats off the owner's property must be on a leash. You can hold that page in the county code up to the light, turn it upside down and backwards, and you'll never find an asterisk* that says "All animals have to be on a leash except for Stinky, because everyone loves him when he comes running up to you and places his muddy paws on your shoulders and slobbers down your back." If you want to let your dog run free, either buy some acreage out in the country, or take Stinky to one of the county dog runs.
Everybody thinks everybody loves their dog, and everybody is quite wrong quite often, if the dog is running loose.
 |
| Fig.1 - some of the Great As Yet Unread |
And 2, it now dawns on me that even if, somewhere down the lovely road of life, I wish to re-read a book I have given away, I can get a new copy from Amazon toot suite or even faster on the old Kindle.
That's that. And then, we left to take a nice walk on a brisk March day, and headed for the 1/4-mile track at my alma mater Towson High School. It was a perfect day to walk four times around the track while overhearing bits of conversation among lacrosse moms that one might not hear anywhere else in the world ("Kelly wants to dye his hair green for St Patrick's Day but I'm afraid it might stain the inside of his helmet") and seeing boys and girls playing Maryland's great game on a synthetic turf field.
But. Someone has to tell me why, on the walk from the parking lot to the track, I had to deal with people letting their dogs run loose on the school campus. The law is quite clear in our county that all dogs and cats off the owner's property must be on a leash. You can hold that page in the county code up to the light, turn it upside down and backwards, and you'll never find an asterisk* that says "All animals have to be on a leash except for Stinky, because everyone loves him when he comes running up to you and places his muddy paws on your shoulders and slobbers down your back." If you want to let your dog run free, either buy some acreage out in the country, or take Stinky to one of the county dog runs.
Everybody thinks everybody loves their dog, and everybody is quite wrong quite often, if the dog is running loose.
Sunday, March 5, 2017
Sunday Rerun: The Steal Industry
 |
| Crime Scene footage |
You may rest assured of this truth: if I ever lose my grip and go into a store and shove as many Jackass T-shirts, Bing Crosby CDs and cans of wasabi peas as I can into a sack, and try to leave Cheap-E-Mart without paying...and there are 17 customers and employees all saying they saw me pulling off the caper...if there is HD video from 13 different cameras, none further than 3 feet away from me, all showing me furtively secreting the goods in a false-bottom bag...if a priest, a rabbi and a minister were headed into a bar next door, saw me purloin the items and immediately offered me absolution, forgiveness and a raffle ticket for a new Buick in exchange for my confession...if a courtroom sketch artist had been in the store and immediately pulled out a sketch pad and pencil to make a crude charcoal rendering of the crime in progress...if the heavens open to reveal Moses standing above me with two stone tablets in his hands, and he is pointing to Commandment #8 and shaking his head at me...and if a little urchin appears on the sidewalk with a tear running down his grubby face as he wails, "Say it ain't so, Mark!"...it will not fail that my lawyer will plead me "Guilty as hell, your honor!" and I will descend into a lowly place at the Ironbar Hilton.
 |
| Ryder (l) and Jacobs |
And...
One of the items she ripped off that day almost 14 years ago was a $760 Marc Jacobs sweater.
And...
Four days ago, Jacobs, who writes "fashion designer" in that little "occupation" space in the income tax form, said that he has hired Kleptosaurus Rex Ryder as the face of his line's new beauty campaign.
So to all the lovely women I know who want to be models, this is not how I recommend you get into it.
I hope he pays her in free sweaters.
Saturday, March 4, 2017
The Saturday Picture Show, March 4, 2017
Friday, March 3, 2017
Actors Know Stuff
No theatre lover, I. People on Broadway are still talking about the time Peggy took me to see The Phantom Of The Opera and I fell dead asleep, only regaining consciousness in time to see a giant chandelier plummeting earthward.
I had tried to figure the story out as it unwound in front of me, but when they started talking about a guy who lived in the subterranean sewers, all I could think of was Ed Norton >>> from The Honeymooners, and when the scene shifted to Paris, I was lost and yielded to sweet restoring sleep.
I hope I didn't snore, But once I heard them singing, "Close your eyes
for your eyes will only tell the truth
and the truth isn't what you want to see," I closed my eyes, because THAT PLAY wasn't what I wanted to see.
You know who else felt that way? Abraham Lincoln! Chances are, he was a tired man by April, 1865, having just won another presidential election and a civil war. But off he went to see "Our American Cousin" at Ford's Theater, and, well, you know how that turned out.
I've always been interested in reading about a man who had an even worse time at the theatre than any of us did. Here's something I find fascinating.
John Wilkes Booth, the guy who killed Lincoln because he was unhappy about the way the Civil War turned out (as are a lot of people even yet today 🙍☹) was an actor by trade, and a pretty good one, very famous in his day, with no "Entertainment Tonight" to make him even more so.
He planned the assassination for just the moment in the play of peak applause and laughter so that the sound of his gunshot would be drowned out by the hooting and hollering of the assemblage. As an actor, he knew the line to wait for, spoken by actor Harry Hawk:
"Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal, you sockdologizing old man-trap!"
This was enough to convulse a room full of people in 1865, you see.
"Sockdologize" was a word they used a lot back then. It meant a knockout blow, enough to end a discussion.
I'm afraid that no matter how much that guy down the street annoys you, you cannot go down there and threaten to sockdologize him. For one thing, he wouldn't know what you mean, and for another, if he guessed, well, it sounds kind of...bizarre, unnatural, you know?
The word lives on in the current "I'm gonna sock you on the jaw!" but that hardly would put a crowd into paroxysms of laughter, would it?
I had tried to figure the story out as it unwound in front of me, but when they started talking about a guy who lived in the subterranean sewers, all I could think of was Ed Norton >>> from The Honeymooners, and when the scene shifted to Paris, I was lost and yielded to sweet restoring sleep.I hope I didn't snore, But once I heard them singing, "Close your eyes
for your eyes will only tell the truth
and the truth isn't what you want to see," I closed my eyes, because THAT PLAY wasn't what I wanted to see.
You know who else felt that way? Abraham Lincoln! Chances are, he was a tired man by April, 1865, having just won another presidential election and a civil war. But off he went to see "Our American Cousin" at Ford's Theater, and, well, you know how that turned out.I've always been interested in reading about a man who had an even worse time at the theatre than any of us did. Here's something I find fascinating.
John Wilkes Booth, the guy who killed Lincoln because he was unhappy about the way the Civil War turned out (as are a lot of people even yet today 🙍☹) was an actor by trade, and a pretty good one, very famous in his day, with no "Entertainment Tonight" to make him even more so.
He planned the assassination for just the moment in the play of peak applause and laughter so that the sound of his gunshot would be drowned out by the hooting and hollering of the assemblage. As an actor, he knew the line to wait for, spoken by actor Harry Hawk:
"Well, I guess I know enough to turn you inside out, old gal, you sockdologizing old man-trap!"
This was enough to convulse a room full of people in 1865, you see.
"Sockdologize" was a word they used a lot back then. It meant a knockout blow, enough to end a discussion.
I'm afraid that no matter how much that guy down the street annoys you, you cannot go down there and threaten to sockdologize him. For one thing, he wouldn't know what you mean, and for another, if he guessed, well, it sounds kind of...bizarre, unnatural, you know?
The word lives on in the current "I'm gonna sock you on the jaw!" but that hardly would put a crowd into paroxysms of laughter, would it?
Thursday, March 2, 2017
Follow the law
There are several laws of the universe that I consider inviolable: break them at your own risk and peril.
I don't think there is a man or woman alive who does not realize that if one washes the car after two weeks without rain, weeks that leave the Cutlass Supreme looking like it just came back from being driven across the Sahara, it will rain like all-get-out that very afternoon.
And I don't think there is a man or woman who knows what "like all-get-out" means. Does it mean that everyone has to leave? Same with "to beat the band." Which band is being beaten? I hope it's A Flock Of Seagulls, for crying out loud.
Other laws: if you order a pizza with pepperoni on one side and anchovies on the other, you're guaranteed that no one wants a slice from the anchovy side.
All hardware stores reek of fertilizer. Even if they don't sell fertilizer, it smells like they do.
And of course, when you need a red light as you drive along so you can pull up your socks or retrieve something you dropped on the floor of the car, you will see nothing but green from here to Cleveland. It never fails.
And I have another new one to add.
I use one of those shaving razors to whittle away the stubble, and now and then I get a cartridge (the kind with like 5 blades) that lasts and lasts. I mean, day after day, off come the whiskers, and I can also use it to remove paint or old wallpaper in between shaves. It doesn't matter. Those blades are good to go many many times.
And then - this never fails - the end comes, as it must for us all, and I eject that old cartridge and toss it, replacing it with a brand-clean, brand-new shiny new one, whose blades glisten in the morning sun as I lather up the old melon and prepare to make myself presentable.
And the new one will cut me within the first week! Every time! I wind up calling it Stevie, because it Nicks me.
I don't think there is a man or woman alive who does not realize that if one washes the car after two weeks without rain, weeks that leave the Cutlass Supreme looking like it just came back from being driven across the Sahara, it will rain like all-get-out that very afternoon.
And I don't think there is a man or woman who knows what "like all-get-out" means. Does it mean that everyone has to leave? Same with "to beat the band." Which band is being beaten? I hope it's A Flock Of Seagulls, for crying out loud.
Other laws: if you order a pizza with pepperoni on one side and anchovies on the other, you're guaranteed that no one wants a slice from the anchovy side.
All hardware stores reek of fertilizer. Even if they don't sell fertilizer, it smells like they do.
And of course, when you need a red light as you drive along so you can pull up your socks or retrieve something you dropped on the floor of the car, you will see nothing but green from here to Cleveland. It never fails.
And I have another new one to add. I use one of those shaving razors to whittle away the stubble, and now and then I get a cartridge (the kind with like 5 blades) that lasts and lasts. I mean, day after day, off come the whiskers, and I can also use it to remove paint or old wallpaper in between shaves. It doesn't matter. Those blades are good to go many many times.
And then - this never fails - the end comes, as it must for us all, and I eject that old cartridge and toss it, replacing it with a brand-clean, brand-new shiny new one, whose blades glisten in the morning sun as I lather up the old melon and prepare to make myself presentable.
And the new one will cut me within the first week! Every time! I wind up calling it Stevie, because it Nicks me.Wednesday, March 1, 2017
It's a drag
The highway known as I-70 is a 2,151-mile superslab that starts at I-15 near Cove Fort, Utah, and ends when it runs into I-695 (the Baltimore Beltway) near Baltimore, Maryland.
The highway serves the American motorist in two ways - it more or less follows the path of the old "National Road" - US 40 - from west to east across the nation, and it serves as a place for people to use as a dragstrip in western Baltimore County, MD.
Time and again, the Maryland State Police are busy breaking up crowds of spectators and participants in illegal street races on the highway.
That's right. Too bad for that family that might be on their way home from a weekend at Grandma's, or the cheerleading competition, because if you're on the road back to Baltimore late one night, you might just feel like you're in Daytona, racing in the 500.
Last weekend, people whose houses adjoin the highway in the Woodlawn area (out-of-state residents: that's where they keep track of your $ocial $ecurity!) called MSP at 2 in the yawning to report the loud cars racing around. The highway patrol responded and told the racers to go home, or at least go somewhere. The speed-lovin' crowd was actually blocking all the lanes of the highway with other cars to create a racing space.
And away they went.
And the trooper came back an hour later, and guess what? They were back, preparing for Round 2. The trooper pulled his car up to the starting line and stepped out, causing the racers to scatter like roaches when you come in and turn on the kitchen light at 2 in the morning.
One guy didn't get away fast enough. He's 42-year-old Keith Parker of Pasadena, MD, who, police say, stood at the starting line urging others to vamoose. He was arrested and faces several charges.
"This has been an ongoing occurrence for quite a while. And that is why we have our troopers regularly do patrol checks in the area," Elena Russo, an MSP spokesperson, told WJZ-TV
This is the same spot where 2 spectators were killed and 2 others severely injured in 2009 by a drunk driver.
I understand it's a thrill to hop up your car and make it go really fast and loud, and part of the pleasure is finding out that your machine is louder and faster than Jerry from around the corner. This is why there are drag strips, where people can do this legally.
The highway - and this seems to take many people by surprise - is not a drag strip.
But this is America 2017, where we all do what we want, where and when we want, and tough beans for anyone else.
The highway serves the American motorist in two ways - it more or less follows the path of the old "National Road" - US 40 - from west to east across the nation, and it serves as a place for people to use as a dragstrip in western Baltimore County, MD.
Time and again, the Maryland State Police are busy breaking up crowds of spectators and participants in illegal street races on the highway.
That's right. Too bad for that family that might be on their way home from a weekend at Grandma's, or the cheerleading competition, because if you're on the road back to Baltimore late one night, you might just feel like you're in Daytona, racing in the 500.
Last weekend, people whose houses adjoin the highway in the Woodlawn area (out-of-state residents: that's where they keep track of your $ocial $ecurity!) called MSP at 2 in the yawning to report the loud cars racing around. The highway patrol responded and told the racers to go home, or at least go somewhere. The speed-lovin' crowd was actually blocking all the lanes of the highway with other cars to create a racing space.
And away they went.
And the trooper came back an hour later, and guess what? They were back, preparing for Round 2. The trooper pulled his car up to the starting line and stepped out, causing the racers to scatter like roaches when you come in and turn on the kitchen light at 2 in the morning.
One guy didn't get away fast enough. He's 42-year-old Keith Parker of Pasadena, MD, who, police say, stood at the starting line urging others to vamoose. He was arrested and faces several charges.
"This has been an ongoing occurrence for quite a while. And that is why we have our troopers regularly do patrol checks in the area," Elena Russo, an MSP spokesperson, told WJZ-TV
This is the same spot where 2 spectators were killed and 2 others severely injured in 2009 by a drunk driver.
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| The aftermath of a drag race on MD 301 South |
I understand it's a thrill to hop up your car and make it go really fast and loud, and part of the pleasure is finding out that your machine is louder and faster than Jerry from around the corner. This is why there are drag strips, where people can do this legally.
The highway - and this seems to take many people by surprise - is not a drag strip.
But this is America 2017, where we all do what we want, where and when we want, and tough beans for anyone else.
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