It was a Penny Kind of Day

I was in a Mom & Pop fast food joint the other day. When the cashier was making my change, he noticed an off-color penny sitting in the change drawer. He fished the penny out of the penny compartment and examined the coin. “Wow, this is OLD!” he exclaimed, showing it excitedly to a fellow worker. He put the penny back in the drawer. After a while, he handed me my bag of burgers and fries. I couldn’t stand it.

“Uh — just how old is that penny?” I asked.

“Nineteen eighty-five,” he said. “It’s older than I am!”

I sat down with my meal at a very tiny table, feeling a little less hungry and a whole lot older than I did a few moments before.

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Insomnia

Sometimes, when I wake up in the middle of the night, my brain begins to think rather than falling back to sleep. Like last night, when I woke up puzzling over a Dean Koontz novel I had been reading immediately before nodding off. Reading often puts me to sleep. No offense, Dean. One of the characters had just died of a heart attack.  A sputter here, a synapse there, and — bingo!  I began wondering where the story would go next.

Too late. I was wide awake.

At times like these I have often found that taking a very, very hot shower helps prepare me for a re-visit by the Sandman. Something about the influx of heat and the sound of the shower striking my skull is what does it. My master shower happens to have one of those shower-chairs (with armrests and a back) sitting in the bathtub, which makes taking a shower a lazy and comfortable experience.

“Pssssssst”, went the hot water. INnnnn went the heat. Pitter-Patterrrr went the friendly little water-sounds on my naked scalp. So pleasant. So nice. “AHhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” I awoke about an hour later, screaming — eyes wide open — within a very cold, 50-degree rush of well water. I had fallen asleep in the shower chair.

Man, oh man, I was so totally AWAKE even Dean Koontz couldn’t help.

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Duffer

(from 1999)

Last week I purchased a golf “driving net” and set it up in my back yard. With it, I will hone my golfing skills to the brink of perfection and beyond. My fingers were trembling as I teed up my first golf ball.

“Whack!”

The ball careened wildly off the top of the net and shot straight up over my backyard fence at a little over 400 miles per hour. About ten seconds later (and two blocks away), I heard a distinct “TWOP!” as the ball landed on a distant neighbor’s roof. Then, a “CLANK!” as it tumbled into an aluminum gutter.

Somewhere in the distance, a bird chirped.

I decided to move the tee box closer to the net.

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Is that a Duck?

(from 2001)

I received a phone call last week from a creditor who was inquiring about my recent change of address. It seems I had forgotten to inform the Texaco credit card folks of my move to Lake Gaston, and they were politely wondering if the current North Carolina charges were, in fact, my own doing.

Is that a Duck?

On that particular morning I had taken the call on a wireless phone. I was sitting on the dock enjoying a cup of coffee.

“Excuse me, Mister Lee… but is that a DUCK I hear in the background?” asked the account representative.

“Yes, it is,” I replied, heading to the house in order to examine my most recent Texaco credit card statement. “I’m now living on a lake,” I explained.

When I got to my office I sat down next to my computer, where I had left a Microsoft Golf game program running. (MS Golf often lets fly with a “RiBBit!” sound effect to distract you during a back-swing.)

“Excuse me, Mister Lee,” the voice said again, this time hesitantly. “… but is that a FROG I hear in the background?”

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TV Shots (Movies I Never Want to Watch)

(gleaned from the preview guide)

Tim says: it’s time once again to flush out wacky preview guide snippets. Based purely on these plot lines, it’d be fun to have been a fly on the wall during the hype and subsequent pitch to whichever movie producers finally decided these screenplays were destined for box office greatness. Or not.

VALERIE FLAKE 1999
“A nice guy with an ill-tempered mother pursues an embittered widow who drinks, bed-hops, and demeans sympathizers.”

I particularly like the “demeans sympathizers” phrase. Not sure, though, what it means.

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RETURN OF THE SWAMP THING 1989
“A mad scientist’s vegetarian stepdaughter falls in love with one of his leafy failures.”

I watched this movie for about twenty minutes just because I wanted to see Heather Locklear eating salad.

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RATZ 2000

“A woman from Indiana uses a magic ring to turn two rats into dates for her teen friends.”

Why pick on Indiana? Why not a woman from Iowa, or Kansas, or – - just “A woman uses a magic ring to turn two rats into dates for her teen friends.” Never mind. I still wouldn’t have watched it.

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BLOOD AND DONUTS 1995

“Stuck in an all night doughnut shop, a vampire hunts a rat, saves a cab driver from things, and deals with an ex-girlfriend.”

I used to dive a cab. My things were never saved. Not even by vampires. Of course, maybe the rat was in the cab while the vampire was being driven to the doughnut shop. Naw. More importantly — how come “donuts” can also be spelled “doughnuts”?

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Hey, there, Big Guy…

While covering the news as a television cameraman, often a story required traveling a great distance. Such it was one day on the back roads of Louisiana. For those unfamiliar with Louisiana’s back roads, let’s just say it is an easy place to get lost. Straight cut roads run for miles and miles, flanked only by non-diminishing rows of sugar cane and Cypress tree-lined bayous, or bridges that lead nowhere.

Upon such occasions roadside bathrooms can be hard to find. Purged by cups and cups of Louisiana’s incredible Community Coffee, it was sometimes necessary to stop frequently along the way. During one such pit stop, and while in the process of taking care of business, I found myself standing on a small chunk of land that separated two bayous from each other. A moment later, a huge alligator crawled up onto the same patch of ground upon which I was intently concentrating.

The fat alligator was no more than 7 feet away.

Who's that peeing in my living room?

I had heard that one should never attempt to run away from a curious bear, but I must admit I was somewhat unsure how I should handle a brooding, ten feet long alligator. I selected to stand perfectly still.

Well, ALMOST perfectly still.

The slow-witted creature watched me fulfilling my mission, then ambled off, unimpressed. It slipped silently into the dark bayou on the other side, swished its powerful tail once, and was gone.

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RTFM

Today I’m going to sit here and type for a while so you can see how my brain works when I don’t know exactly what it is I’m writing. Pretty much, I am zoned in on the key word “archives” as being the destination point of this article. So, when you see the word “archives” mentioned, you’ll know we’re getting close.

But first, I was reminded of a period of time in my life when writing software manuals was a large part of my job. That, plus providing customer support for the same software about which I wrote. Our customers were television stations who paid hefty monthly license fees to use our television ratings software. As such, the amount of money our customers paid to use our software placed them uniquely high up on the hierarchical food chain. Forget them ever reading my manual: these were people who demanded to bitch to someone — LIVE.

In those days, we support folks had a wonderful term that, unfortunately, we could never use publicly. “RTFM!” Which loosely translates, “Read The Fancy Manual”. After almost every support call — after the phone was politely and safely hung up — you would usually hear a frustrated support person, exclaiming “RTFM!” to nobody but everyone in particular. Since it was MY manual our customers weren’t reading, I was often one of these post phone call “RTFM!” chanters. It was personal.

The other day I was poking around my blog’s “administration” area and discovered something called the “archives widget”, which I slid into my navigation bar without really knowing what it was going to do. Turns out, the archives feature neatly categorizes and places all my past articles in a nifty “archives” pull down window near the top right of my “widgets” bar, immediately underneath the “blogroll” section.

By golly, how cool is that?

Perhaps if my blog folks had written a manual, I would have RTFM-ed it years ago.

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Tim says. It is now 24 hours later and I am sitting here again, this time wondering why I hadn’t placed the “archives widget” immediately  ABOVE my blogroll widget. Hang on. There we go.

Now, what am I going to write about for today’s article? I think coffee, Coffee, COFFEE will be today’s key words…

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In the Beginning

My vehicle was packed and ready to go one day before a trip to Florida to visit Mom. The next morning at precisely 5 AM, I stepped onto the front deck and locked the door behind me. It was 25 degrees and much too cold to think about anything else other than cranking up the Ford Explorer and turning on the heater.

But had I shut off the coffee pot? And where was my faithful morning cup of coffee? Back inside again, where a full cup steeped beside a coffee pot that — yes, had been turned off.

Anything else?

Outside, a second time. Locked the door. As the screen slammed shut I remembered the kitchen’s full trash bag. Certainly did NOT want to leave THAT festering for several weeks while I played in Florida. I set the steaming coffee cup on the hand rail and once again unlocked the door. Quickly now, I yanked the handle-tied trash bag out of the trash bin. Halfway across the kitchen I noticed dark goop dripping on the floor from a torn corner of the bag. Gravity always seems to do that to the yuckiest contents of a trash bag. Smelled like canned sardine juice and Lea & Perrins Worcestershire sauce. I grabbed a second trash bag and my all-in-one mop. Then I sealed the old bag in the new one with a loose knot and speed-mopped the floor.

I locked the front door for a third time and retrieved my coffee cup from the hand rail. It was stone cold. Okay, I thought. Settle down. I was getting nowhere. I set the trash bag-inabag down and unlocked the door, carefully carrying the coffee cup across the wet floor. I nuked the coffee in the microwave on high for 1 minute.

Outside once again, locking the door behind me. I actually made it to my Ford Explorer with the trash bag and very hot cup of coffee, managing to open the door without spilling anything. In the predawn, the driver side door light was comforting as I tossed the trash bag on the roof and climbed in. I placed the coffee cup in a travel cup holder.

Chug, chug, chug, RRRRRrrrrrrr. The engine started.

Ah, there’s nothing quite like a responsive vehicle in sub-freezing weather an hour before sunrise. But — had I forgotten to turn on the dishwasher?  I already knew the answer. I turned off the ignition.

Back inside again. A couple of pushed buttons later, the dishwasher surged to life for a second or two before I yanked open the door and stuck in the coffee pot and basket as an afterthought. Good thinking. Clean dishes would await me when I returned home from my vacation.

All was right with the world. No matter what else. I locked the front door for the final time. Look out Florida, here I come!

In the driver’s seat again. The engine started immediately, purring like the Cheshire Cat sucking on its hookah. I slipped the transmission into drive and cruised slowly up the gravel driveway, sipping my first cup of coffee. It was ice cold. Again. No matter. Still tasted good. I parked next to the trash cans at the top of the hill and stepped out of the cab, reaching towards the roof rack. The kitchen trash bag was gone, having fallen off the roof somewhere along the private gravel drive. For the second time I steered the Ford down the pitch black driveway. Dimly at first, the 13-gallon white trash bag took shape in my headlights. Out of the truck. Into the truck, this time placing the trash bag in the passenger seat. Started around the circular driveway near the front door porch ramp. Why the hell not? I turned off the engine, grabbed the keys and my cold coffee, rushed back inside and nuked it for another minute. Heading back out again up the gravel driveway. The digital dash clock read 6:02 AM.

One hour into my trip and I hadn’t even cleared my driveway!

I laughed, tossing the trash in a garbage can at the top of the hill just as the first wash of dawn silhouetted an eastern stand of shivering pines. I climbed back in the truck and quietly sipped my hot coffee. Look out Florida, here I come — AGAIN! One hundred miles south I wondered if I had turned off my computer. Didn’t matter. And what was that nasty odor?

Geeze — canned sardine juice and Lea & Perrins Worcestershire Sauce.

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FFT: First FRIDAY FOOD THING

Tim says: I found this post in my earliest archives. It is Recipe du Jour’s very first “FRIDAY FOOD THING”. Probably circa, 1998. I laughed so hard when I rediscovered it, I just HAD to post it again.

I think you will agree, FRIDAY FOOD THING has come a LONG way since then…

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Husband: “The two best things I cook are meat loaf and roast chicken…”

Wife (peering at her dinner plate): “So, give me a hint — which one is this?”

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The Stare

I don’t remember much about my kindergarten year in Yokohama, Japan, but I do recall I enjoyed every minute of it. That’s where I played hooky for the first time (I went fishing), and that’s where I was served my first fish that still had its head on it.  Minutes before the meal, I was lead to the restaurant’s indoor trout pond and waterfall, where I was given a bamboo pole with a dough ball neatly wrapped around a tiny hook. Three seconds after dipping the line in, I yanked a pan-sized trout out of the water. Zip, zang! The trout – - MY trout – - was clipped with a double, V-shaped identifying tail-notch. Flipping and flapping, the trout was quickly carried off into the restaurant’s steamy kitchen.

Thanks, kid -- I see you!

After a while, a waiter delivered the very same fish to our dining table. He pointed at the double, V-shaped tail-notch and grinned, but I was more interested in the fish’s head end, where a single, crispy-fried eyeball stared up at me from a bed of fluffy, white rice and lettuce.

I fiddled with my chopsticks.

“What’s the matter, young man?” asked my father. “You love fish.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “But this one’s LOOKING at me!”

Mom reached across the table and sliced off the fish’s head with a knife. She wrapped the head in her napkin and placed it beside her plate. “There,” she said. “Just like the way Grandpa cooks them.”

Wink, Wink!

I ate the fish, but had a difficult time keeping my eyes from wandering to Mom’s folded napkin. The trout’s nose was sticking out of a corner, and I knew the rest of the head was waiting for the napkin to slip just so it could sneak another peek at me.

Soon, the meal was finished, the table cleared, and Mom’s napkin forgotten. Later that night I laid awake and thought about the trout.

I think that was the first time I realized there was a difference between the fish I caught back home — the headless and anonymous kind that Grandpa cleaned when nobody was looking — and the more personal one I had yanked out of that Japanese Restaurant’s trout pond. No doubt, if I had been that fish, I, too, would want to stare at whomever was eating me.

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