Sofa King

When I decided that I would get a dog, I realized there would be responsibilities and that I would have to make adjustments. There would be a need for training, and some for the dog too. Despite the restrictions having a dog would put on my life, such as no trips without a good dog sitter, I adopted Molly. A couple of years later I adopted Mark, and Mark adopted a new sofa. Mark insisted, no dogs on the sofa. This is one of the few arguments Mark has lost in twenty one years with me. I told him that Molly was there before him and she had seniority. After thirteen years Molly passed and I adopted Chandler. Then one day Sasha came into our lives, so I had Chandler and Sasha. After Sasha passed we adopted Bette, who unfortunately died young. Now we have Chandler and Scout. What we do not have anymore, is the sofa. After five dogs making that lovely new sofa their favorite place to stretch out, I had to get rid of it. That sofa had some serious dog stank in it, not to mention the dog hair embedded in the crevices. Oh, and there were a couple of cats involved too. The sofa was moved from the living room to my office first. Then we moved to Chicago where we put it in the dining room where a few guests slept on it. For that I apologize. A couple of months ago I had some friends over, so I had them carry it down to the basement. There it has sat while I decided what to do with 'Old Stanky'. Only one thing to do, throw it out. So yesterday I fired up the circular saw and cut it in half. Not having help to carry it out of the basement made sawing it in half a reasonable solution. So it's now out in the alley waiting for the garbage truck. Up in our living room is a beautiful leather sofa that we bought when we moved in here and the dogs almost never even think of getting on it. I say it's the leather that scares them off. Like sleeping on a dead cow.

The Volkswagen Chronicles; Before I Grew Up

Reprint from five years ago.

1954 Beetle 

1964: I am on the Illinois Tollway with my brother in his 1954 Volkswagen. The little bug is whining along at sixty miles per hour.
"Hey Dave, look at that." I say as I point out the window.
"Is that a tire rolling down the highway next to us?"
Clunk, grind..  scrape......
It was our tire, the wheel had become detached from the car. and for a few terrifying moments it looked as if we were going to plunge off the highway and over the embankment. I have to give it up to my brother. He guided that three wheeled Beetle to a perfect stop, just feet from the drop-off to the road below.

1964 Beetle

1969: A typical summer evening, out cruising my home town with my cousin in his 1964 Volkswagen. Part of our cruising routine was getting toasted on pot. That evening we decided to smoke as we drove around the country roads just outside of town.
"Fwsssssst...  hack, hack, hack."
"Hey, pass that over here."
"Sure, here, take it." I said as I passed the joint back over to my cousin. It's funny how time slows down when you're stoned. I looked out the windshield of the little car, and thought that for sure my cousin knew we were entering a hairpin turn. As the yellow caution sign with the dogleg arrow on it slowly got closer and closer, I tried to warn him.
"Uh, slow it down man. This is a very sharp....  "
It was like rolling down a hill in a giant tin can with the sounds of crumpling metal and my cousin's curses all mixed together. Out the front window I watched as the horizon swirled around and around until we came to rest at the bottom of a little ravine.
"You boys alright?"
Out my side window I could see a pair of feet. It was a nearby resident.
"I'm okay, I think."
From behind me, in the rear window-well, I heard the voice of my cousin, "Owww... ouch. My arm hurts."
The best part of a Volkswagen Beetle is that you can roll it sideways down a hill and then just flip the thing back over, and drive away.

1966 Karmann Ghia

1972: In the summer of 1972 my cousin and I delivered a car to San Francisco, from Illinois. For the trip back to Illinois we borrowed a car from some girls we had met in Berkeley. It was a beautiful 1966 Volkswagen Karmann Ghia, and the girls were a couple of idiots who trusted the first hippies they met in California. To finance our trip to California, my cousin had a plan. He stuffed a pound of primo west coast pot in the spare tire, up front next to the fuel tank. Twenty four hours into our non-stop drive back to Illinois, while my cousin napped in the passenger seat and I drove, we ran out of gas on Interstate 80 near Atlantic, Iowa. Luckily for me an Iowa State Trooper had been behind us for some miles. Officer Friendly pulled up behind us as our little Volkswagen sputtered to a halt on the shoulder.
"Is everything alright ma'am?"
As I turned to the officer he corrected himself, "I'm sorry, I mean sir." (I had very long hair)
I explained the situation, and the policeman graciously gave us a gallon of gas. My cousin finally awoke from his nap just as the trooper was pouring the fuel into the tank, which was right next to the spare tire, which had a pound of highly illegal marijuana stuffed in it.

It's things like that, that keep me from becoming another vindictive asshole. I don't believe in the courts charging juveniles as adults. I don't believe in throwing everybody in jail for stupid decisions they may have made in their youth. Having made so many bad choices in my life that ultimately had no consequences at all for me, has made me more tolerant of other's mistakes.  After all, that cop could have noticed something wasn't quite right about that tire. That nearby resident who helped us roll the Beetle back on it's feet so we could drive out of the ditch, could have called the police to report two stoned kids. No, stupid luck is no way to go through life, but I'm glad I've had it.

Just a Temporary Thing

I guess it is human nature to think that you're invincible. I have reached a certain age where problems that pop up, like my bad vision, I like to think are just temporary aberrations. I like to believe that there are solutions, workarounds, and ways to get back to all my body parts working again. Joints can be replaced, organs transplanted, and then there is exercise. I have been going to a gym believing that exercise will restore my body to the toned perfection I enjoyed in my forties. Maybe it will.

Last evening I noticed that the dog's water bowl was nearly empty. It's a gigantic thing that holds a couple of gallons of water that the dogs seem to lap up daily. I carried the bowl into the kitchen where I intended to fill it. The sink had some dishes in it so I put the bowl on the counter and turned the faucet around to reach it there. Two gallons takes a long time to fill so I ran over to the bathroom to grab one of my blood pressure pills (A bothersome workaround). While I was there I noticed that the toilet paper was running out, so I reached up and grabbed three rolls off the top of the cabinet where we store them. I then washed my hands, straightened out the towels on the towel rack, put the toilet seat down that Mark always leaves up, and then looked in the mirror. Damn, a pimple. I seriously thought that I would never have a pimple again in my life after my twenty first birthday. It turns out that they like to pop up now and again, just to remind me of that giant one I had on my nose in 1966. As I exited the bathroom, I turned out the light and noticed the kitchen light was on. Goddamnit, Mark always leaves those lights on. Maybe if he had to pay the electric bill he wouldn't be so lax....    Wait a minute. What's that sound? Sounds like water pouring over the edge... OF THE COUNTER!!

I'm sure this memory thing is just a temporary aberration. I'm sure that with some vitamins and supplements my mind will be just as...   Hmmm, can't think of the word I want.

Fire Up the Grill

There's something to be said for perfect weather. Best place I've ever been in the United States was San Diego, California. Nearly perfect all the time. Having lived in Florida, I can say that Florida weather is nowhere near perfect. Not even close. In fact I'd say, horrible. So why am I in Chicago? Family, friends, the fear of dying alone in a nursing home staffed by bitter and unsympathetic Haitian nurses. It was about ten years ago that I realized that would be my fate if I stayed in Florida. But the weather in Chicago can be challenging. Bitter cold, cold, less cold, and then summer. Sunday it arrived. Nothing makes you appreciate the onset of warm weather more than a Chicago winter. It got me all fired up. So Sunday I planted nasturtium all along the fence, planted Mark's dahlias across the back of the house, rebuilt the little brick wall that keeps the dogs out of the tomato patch, and then I dragged the barbeque grill out of the garage. I grilled up a bunch of bratwurst, filling the neighborhood with the sweet aroma of charcoal smoke and burnt meat. Ahh.. summer.. er, I mean springtime.

I got another bit of news over the weekend that actually made me happy. My friend Rudy, who is in his nineties now, called and told me that he's moving back to Chicago from Florida. At his age everybody he knew is now dead or moved away, and he's pretty much all alone down there. Like I said, that fear of living your last years in a nursing home far away from friends and family trumps weather any day.

Spring Has Sprung

Last year winter was gentle with us. We had sixty degree days in January, nearly no snow, and by April first, winter had loosened its grip. I was already planting flowers by this time last year. I think Chicago was rope-a-doping me. "Sure, come on home from Florida. All is forgiven, we won't hurt you." Ha, you fool. It's Chicago for krissakes. So here I am after living through nearly six months of winter. Worn out, tired of putting coats on and shoveling snow. The truth is, it didn't bother me that much. If I didn't have to listen to Mark piss and moan about being dragged to this shithole (His words), I'd be fine with it. So what it is, is that I'm really tired of listening to Mark and others whine about winter. Put a big warm coat on, some gloves, and a hat, and shut up.

By this time next week it will be spring for sure. I'm going to plant my little flowers along the fence this weekend and do some other yard work. I expect to do all this with no jacket on, no hat, and if it's warm enough, in my shorts. My Florida shorts. So Yay!! Five months of summer dead ahead.

Hot Tub Slime Machine

Every morning Mark likes to watch Let's Make a Deal, and The Price is Right. I always know when they come on because the volume level in the house goes way up. Both on the television, and from Mark's mouth. He likes to help the contestants along with advice, never mind that they cannot hear him. One thing I agree with is when Mark tells them not to take the hot tub package. Take the envelope in Wayne Brady's hand or the door that Drew Carey is offering. Don't take the hot tub. Nobody really wants a hot tub.

When I first moved to Florida I rented a townhouse with its own swimming pool and a hot tub. I used the hot tub once. I have also been invited over to people's homes who had hot tubs. Now I agree, it is a nice way to get folks clothes off, but to actually get in the water is disgusting. I don't care how much disinfectant you pour into that thing, I can't get over the thought of how many people have stepped into it only to have the relaxing, warm water cause bladder release. You know it happens. Maybe you have never done such a nasty thing, but who was in there before you? Especially in a hotel hot tub. Those must be pure bacteria soup. 

Now, speaking of bacteria, let's talk about those filthy chocolate fountains at those cheap steak houses. I've never been to one, but every time I see an ad for the place, I picture little kids sticking their fingers in that thing.