Merry F***king Christmas: Yogurt Edition

 

When I was a kid, my brothers, sisters, and I loved Christmas. The anticipation, the lights, the nearly two weeks off from school was special. Life seemed so wonderful in those days immediately before the big day. However, it was not so great for my dad. We didn't know he had to pay for all of the stuff that showed up under the Christmas tree. I never thought about what a bitch it was to lug that big tree home, set it up, and then drag all the decorations down from the attic crawl space. So at some point in the days before Christmas something would set him off. Dad would blow his top and in his thunderous big man voice, burst into a symphony of profanities. It could be a burned out string of lights. It could be something that happened in traffic on his way home from work. It could be me saying just the right thing in front of him. All I knew was to get the hell out of the way. I'm not much different. I've had my Christmas disasters that have turned me into a raving maniac. Disasters that send me screaming every foul, nasty curse word I can muster at the top of my lungs. One year in Florida it was an open window that allowed the tropical breezes to topple Mark's beautifully decorated Christmas Tree.

I make my own yogurt. Every eight days or so, I pour twenty four ounces of milk into the six hundred dollar Vitamix blender that Mark made me buy for him one Christmas. Then I add my live yogurt starter and blend it at the very lowest speed for a minute. It takes about eighteen hours to cook and then you have yogurt at a third the cost of buying it pre-made. Today was yogurt day. After pouring the milk and the live yogurt starter into the blender, I turned to throw away the yogurt carton. At which point some part of my body brushed against the blender and flipped the on/off switch to on. In a panic I flipped the wrong switch and turned the speed up to 500,000 rpm blasting all the milk and yogurt straight up onto the cabinets, walls, floor, and me. Immediately the dogs came running in to help clean up the mess. Just as immediately they ran as I burst into my impression of my dad.

It took about an hour to clean it all up. I think I got it all, but it's hard to tell. White milk, white yogurt, white kitchen cabinets and counters. I may have missed some. I'm sure I'll know if I did in a day or so. That's when the aroma of sour milk will make it known.

Busy Week

 

I've had an odd week that could have been overwhelming. However, if I break it down into smaller compartments I can deal with it all. I'm babysitting my sister's dog. Two of my sisters are in the hospital. I got a new housekeeper. I lost Dennis.

First off, the dogs. My older sister had surgery this week so I took her dog in while she recuperates. Nothing funnier than watching me walk three barking, snarling dogs down our street. Snarling because the two smallest dogs seem to think that every approaching human is a threat, and every cat or squirrel needs to be chased. Scout, the big girl of the group, has been an angel about the whole deal. By the way, finding tiny small dog turds among the fallen leaves of autumn is quite a challenge.

The housekeeper. As for her cleaning abilities, she's great. Very diligent, which can be a drawback since she spent four hours cleaning my bathroom and kitchen. I had to stop her at four hours because I am paying her by the hour. But that bathroom is spotless and the kitchen shines. I'll have her start in the living room next time she's scheduled.

Dennis. No, he's not dead. Literally, I lost him. On Tuesday I dropped him off at his doctor's office for an appointment. Around three in the afternoon I texted him, "Do you need me to pick you up?" Crickets, no answer. At five I tried calling him, but his phone went straight to voicemail. Then for the next three hours I kept calling every half hour or so, and every time straight to voicemail. I was getting worried about him. No doctor's office is still seeing patients at eight in the evening. After checking the bushes in front of the house to see if maybe he fell into them while coming up the stairs, I decided to call the hospital emergency room by his doctor's office. "Oh yes, Dennis is here in the waiting room. He's been here for four hours." So relief and panic all rolled into one. HIPAA rules and his phone taking me straight to voicemail meant that I had no idea why he was there. Which is where he stayed for over thirty hours. Finally the next evening, the dogs started going batshit and I looked out the window. Two men were helping Dennis up the porch stairs. A taxi driver and a stranger who helped pick Dennis up after he fell getting out of the taxi.

So, Dennis is fine, the dogs are fine, and I surely hope my two sisters are/will be fine. Meanwhile the two smallest dogs have staked out their sleeping positions on my bed, inches from my face.

Zombie Dog

 

This morning I Googled, "How long are dreams?". I dream a lot and sometimes they seem to go on for a long time. Google says, "Five to twenty minutes." Seems about right. My craziest dreams used to come after watching episodes of The Walking Dead earlier in the evening. If you don't know, it's a show about zombies. To try and stop the bad dreams I would record The Walking Dead and then watch it during the daytime. That didn't totally clear the dreams, so I stopped watching it all together. I haven't watched it for a few of years now.

Last night I had what seemed like an extended dream involving zombies. People I knew were turning into zombies. Everybody was trying to bite me and turn me into a zombie. Worst of all, I knew it was a dream and I couldn't wake up. If you ever watched The Walking Dead, you know the growling sound the zombies make. That was what I kept hearing in my dream, until I finally woke up. Next to my bed, in the dark, was Scout. She was doing her "I have to go out and poop" growl while staring up at me. It's a very low, almost inaudible growl, that is not meant to scare. Only meant to let me know she has to poop. I can only assume she had been sitting there for quite a while before I woke up.

The Magic Chair

 

When my grandfather was in his eighties I would often stop over to visit when my delivery job took me close by. If it was during the baseball season I would find Grandpa asleep in his recliner chair with the television on very loud, and tuned to the Chicago Cubs. Not that Grandpa was a big fan of the Cubs. He had the Cubs on because he was a fan of naps in the middle of the day and the Cubs didn't play night games back then. No sleeping pill could compete with the Cubs of the 1970s and a can of Meister Brau Beer. The recliner chair helped too, I believe.

I'm not yet in my eighties, but I do understand now how all that worked. I've owned a string of recliner chairs over the last forty years. Some were cheap and some were expensive, often they were uncomfortable. Then there were those giant fluffy things that seemed to want to swallow you. Whatever, I like to recline when I watch television. When my last one broke down, I went to the La-Z-Boy store and spent a lot of money on a new recliner chair. It is like nothing I have ever experienced before. I've had it for a year and a half now and it still feels like new. I sit in that thing when my back hurts, and the hurt subsides. What I didn't expect was what it would do for my napping. I sleep better in that chair than I do in bed. The problem is that it puts me to sleep when I don't even want to sleep. I will turn on a program, see the first few minutes, and then I find myself opening my eyes to a completely different show. I won't even remember closing my eyes. It's like magic, kind of like time travel. If it weren't for DVR's I would miss a lot of shows. Also, if it weren't for the two dogs that live with me I'd  probably never wake up. They don't put up with this ignoring them shit.

The Real Reason For the Time Change

 

Day one of government enforced sleep deprivation. At 4:00am on that morning, ten pounds of Daisy dog walked across my mid-section and leaped to the floor of the bedroom landing next to the other dog, Scout, sleeping on the rug. Scout then took up the cause, letting out the soft whining that she uses to wake me up. Welcome to the world of the deep state, big brother, the conspiracy to ruin my life. Time to fuck with time again. I'm not sure if it's a Republican conspiracy or Democrat conspiracy to ruin an entire week for me. Probably just those embedded, secret government bureaucrats trying to keep Americans from thinking clearly. Yes, wake up sheeples. Haven't you noticed that it comes right before the November elections so you vote in a fog?

By 2:30pm on Sunday it was already getting dark and the dogs started to remind me that they will need to be fed at any minute now. Normal dinner time for the dogs is 4:30pm, with a nice walk afterwards. Now, six days later, nothing has changed. I am still awakened in the dark, early hours of the morning by a very insistent little fur ball. Around 2:30 in the afternoon they both stand in front of my recliner chair, staring at me, expecting to be fed and walked. Meanwhile, I am constantly looking at clocks all day because I have no idea what time it is either.

All this is because some evil beings, hidden deep within the halls of the government, want to screw with us and the elections. You think I'm kidding? Just watch. They'll do it again next year right before the Presidential elections. Then we'll all go to the polls and vote for the wrong candidates, while those really in charge sit back and giggle.

Daisy

 

Grrrrrrr......

This is Daisy, my third foster dog so far this year. She gets along really well with Scout, seems to like me very much, and she has killed two rats so far in the back yard. I plan to keep this one. No dog is perfect. Daisy has her flaws. The previous owner had Daisy's DNA done and she is 49% Yorkshire Terrier, 49% Pomeranian, and 2% Chihuahua. Yorkies are energetic and feisty. Chihuahuas are energetic, feisty, and bold. Pomeranians are energetic, and like to spin in circles. What all those breeds have in common is "energetic". Daisy is energetic, and she spins in circles. In fact sometimes it's like living with a tiny, furry, crack head. Ever since she got her first kill in the back yard it has become her favorite place. She runs the entire perimeter of the yard along the fences checking for rats, thus pointing out to me all the places rats enter and exit my yard. Not too many are visiting anymore since Daisy took over.

Next week we have to go through the stupid ritual of changing the time again. I am not looking forward to that. Mostly because my dogs are very attuned to the schedule I keep. Up at 5:30am. Eat dinner at 5:00pm. At around 9:00pm I turn off the television and lights in the living room, and move to the back of the house. If I don't do that Scout will stand in front of my chair and stare at me, letting out an occasional little bark. Daisy has now joined her in that routine. I've been trying to get them used to later times so that they'll be acclimated by next week when the clocks get turned back. I don't want to be getting up at 4:30am and have Scout telling me to turn off the television at 8:00pm. Seriously, if I don't get up out of bed at the right time, Daisy just keeps walking on me until I do.

Nobody Died

 

Me when I could still run... kind of.

Last Wednesday I was walking Scout and Daisy around the block as we do twice every day. Down at Thorndale Avenue there is a long stretch of grass between the street and the sidewalk that they love to take their time investigating. I assume many dogs leave messages in that grass for each other. That day I heard what I thought were firecrackers going off over by the high school, which is half a block from that street. It was not firecrackers, but three volleys of automatic gunfire. Within seconds high school kids were running towards me, and right past me. One kid across the street in a leg cast with a crutch, dropped the crutch and took off running too. Meanwhile, my two dogs ignored it all and kept on smelling the grass, picking up all the gossip of the day. I used to have a black lab named Molly who would start shaking if she heard the barely audible pop of a firecracker two miles away. Not Scout and Daisy, they acted like the hadn't heard anything. I can't run anymore. So all this time I'm looking for a place to drag the dogs and hide. There were no cars parked nearby that I could hide behind and behind me was a long stretch of brick wall. So I just stood there waiting. I did tighten up my grip on the dog leashes just in case I went down. Now before anybody makes disparaging comments about Chicago and shootings, remember this can happen anywhere. Guns are everywhere because the NRA and politicians have made sure that they armed all the crazy people in our country. Murder is not new, guns are not new. My grandfather was murdered with a gun in Chicago, eighty one years ago. It is the easy access and the increased lethal capacity that the NRA, the Supreme Court, and politicians have unleashed upon us that is different.

Anyway, we all pooped right after that. Scout and Daisy in the grass, me in my pants.

The New Neighbors

 

Dennis from upstairs, calls me Gladys Kravitz. Only because I'm on the first floor and I can see everything from my living room windows. Five big windows that let me see what's going on from one end of the street to the other. Last week I noticed a beat up Jeep Cherokee parked across the street from my house. Not only was it beat up, but there always seemed to be trash scattered around it. I mentioned it to Dennis. He suggested that maybe somebody is living in it. Sure enough, that very day I saw a woman with a baby stroller going through the trash in the alley. Later I saw that same stroller sitting behind the Jeep. So I kept an eye on it and I then saw that there was a man too. Me being the good Gladys Kravitz, I decided that I would go talk to them. Assuming that they were probably from another country, probably from South or Central America, I brushed up on a few Spanish words that I knew before going over there. It went like this.

The man was standing behind the Jeep working on his bicycle. "Hello."

He responded. "Hello."

"Are you sleeping in the car?" I pointed to the Jeep.

"Yes"

"Okay, that's fine. Did you know this is permit parking? If you park north of the alley you won't get a ticket."

"Okay."

"If you get too many tickets they'll tow your car away." Not that the city of Chicago really enforces the permit parking around here.

"Okay."

"Just one more thing. Try not to leave trash on the street or the parkway. It attracts rats."

"Okay."

I didn't have to use any of my Spanglish. The next day, and the next day, the Jeep did not move. Also, there was still trash showing up around it. I had hoped the guy would have understood that I was only trying to help. Then I thought about it. He only said three words to me. "Hello", "Yes", and "Okay." Kind of like me speaking Spanish. "Sí", "Dónde", and "Baño".

 

Fondue You

Delicious cheese wrapped Diphacinone balls for my guests

 A somewhat well known restaurant across the alley from my house permanently closed at the end of July. It was a fondue restaurant, so I never tried it. I've never been a fan of fondue. When I go out to eat, it is so somebody else will cook my food. I'm not going to pay a restaurant for the privilege of cooking my own food. Next door to the restaurant was an empty storefront office. Just about the time the fondue place closed, somebody took a lease on the empty office and converted it to a children's pre-school/daycare. Of course they had to gut the interior and make it nice for the little children.

So right across the alley there has been much upheaval and now I have a rat problem. I assume the rats were living in the office building and dining next door at the restaurant's garbage bins. I can see a rat trail come into my yard from that direction and clearly see where they trampled down my wild flower garden to dig burrows under my back porch. I put one of my security cameras under the porch just to get an idea of what was going on. It was much worse than I even imagined. Overnight there was a steady parade of rats. Small rats, medium sized rats, and one giant, supersized rat. The giant rat is at least six inches tall at the shoulders and ten inches long not counting the tail. I ran to the hardware store and bought all sort of rat traps. Sticky boards, snap traps, and poison. I baited the sticky boards and laid them across the rat trail. The rats just turned them over and used them as little bridges. I used peanut butter on the snap trap. The first night the rats ate the peanut butter without triggering the trap. The second night, they broke it. Nothing was caught. I then went on line and bought an electric trap that guaranteed sixty dead rats in no time by electrocution. On my security camera I could see the rats just walk on by my thirty four dollar rat trap. A couple of them even walked right up to the camera and posed in front of it. I also called the City of Chicago. They came out and put poison in the burrows. It was all gone within hours and the burrows were even larger. My last try in the war on rats involves little marble sized balls of poison. The package says the rats will die within five days after eating it. If they eat it. They won't even look at the stuff. So a few days ago I took the little marble sized balls and wrapped them in Kraft singles 'cheese'. The cheese balls were a hit with the rats. They devoured that stuff. For three nights in a row I have served them up and the rats have had a nice cheese and wine party under my porch. I'll give the poison another couple of days, but I better start smelling dead rat soon because my next option will be, sell the house.

Sometimes I Drive Too Fast

 

Richard M Daley is probably the worst mayor Chicago ever had. He sold off the parking meters for one billion dollars. Actually a seventy five year lease that will return the company that got the lease well over five time that much money. Then Daley sold off the Chicago Skyway, a toll/expressway/bridge that is a shortcut to Indiana. Once again, a bad deal for Chicago because the people who now control it can raise the tolls to whatever the hell they want. Daley also sold off the parking garages under Grant Park downtown. In each of these cases the city would have made many times more money than the purchase price of the leases if they had kept control. What cost a quarter to park on the street now costs two and a half dollars. The toll to Indiana was two dollars. It is now six dollars and sixty cents. I'm not sure how much it costs to park under Grant Park, but I'll bet it isn't cheap. Oh, and Daley spent all that money immediately while he was in office. One more thing, the city is riddled with empty lots. Lots where houses and businesses used to sit, now empty and not returning any real estate tax money. Finding a way to improve those neighborhoods apparently just didn't sit well with the politicians.

I like to drive fast. Not all the time, it is inappropriate sometimes. But on the expressways, especially the Dan Ryan, I like to drive fast. Unfortunately, the City of Chicago realized the they could make a lot of money off of my driving. Before Lori Lightfoot the previous mayor of Chicago left office, she dropped the grace speed on speed trap cameras so she could meet her budget. Ever since, I have been a regular contributor to city funds. This is over and above my property tax, ten and a half percent sales tax, and parking in front of my favorite bars. Hey, this last ticket was because the green light was about to turn red, so I sped up to catch the green. Think about all the fuel I saved and exhaust that wasn't pumped into the air by sitting waiting for the light to turn green again. I'm very eco-friendly. 

Daisy, Daisy

 

When I hear the name, Daisy, I think of the HAL 9000 computer in '2001, A Space Odyssey' singing the song. Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer do. But this is not about HAL 9000 or the song. It's about a dog. On Saturday a small dog named Daisy should be coming to stay with me and Scout. Yes, another foster dog. Her present foster mom brought her by last Saturday to see how she'd get along with Scout. They got along just fine.

A lot of people ask me how I can do that, foster dogs without falling in love with them. I can't. I do fall in love with them. I look at it like this, Bucky had a very happy time while he was with me. He became a star in our neighborhood almost immediately, hopping around on those three legs. We walked twice a day until he couldn't walk anymore. Yes I was sad when he passed away from the cancer, but I knew all about that going in. After Bucky there was Cricket. Never a sweeter dog in the world than that little terrier. A real cuddly love bug who went to a very nice couple. Once again, I knew going in that Cricket was already adopted and I was only a short stopover until her new family was ready. She now has the undivided attention of her new human mom and dad.

So now I'm getting Daisy to foster. She's small, about one fourth the size of Scout. She's also a bit older than Scout. Mature is the word. At least she has all four legs and hasn't been already taken for adoption. So if I fail at being a foster father to her by adopting her myself, all will be fine. Because I'm half crazy, just like in the song.

 

Daisy

The Heartbreak of AOGS

 

Angry Old Guy/Gal Syndrome.

The other day I was walking Scout and at the intersection where we cross to take our 'long' walk, a car whizzed through without stopping. There is a large red octagon made out of metal at that corner, and it says 'STOP'. Not, slow down. Not, speed right on through. Not, gently roll through and hope you don't hit somebody. It clearly says 'STOP'. So I did the right thing and screamed "Asshole" at the guy as he disappeared down Thorndale Avenue. His windows were all down, so there is a chance he heard me. However, this being Chicago. This being the United States. There is a good chance that asshole could be driving around with anger issues and a loaded gun. Also, I know better. A couple of summers ago the guy across the street took it upon himself to scream at all the assholes who sped down our street. At one point he ran after a car and threw something at it. It didn't work. It only got him into a very dangerous argument with possibly, a very dangerous asshole. Cars still speed down our street. Just today a UPS truck flew by the house, at least ten MPH above the limit followed closely by a woman in a small gray car. I think she was trying to pass him. We live on a very narrow street.

There is an old guy around the corner on Washtenaw Avenue who once yelled at me while I was walking Scout. He told me that the tree in front of his house died because Scout peed on it. The tree was old and very tall. Probably forty feet high. I think it just got tired of listening to that old guy. Scout still pees there. I think she's leaving her condolences to the tree.

Anger is a very bad emotion. It doesn't do anybody, any good, ever. People charge into wars because they're angry. People get killed every day because somebody is angry. So much of what is bad about human life is caused by anger. I should not have let the car that ran through the stop sign rile me up. There's not a thing I could do about it. I have called the police and told them about the cars going through that stop sign. The cop on the phone at the local precinct was very respectful and promised to let the proper people know. I'm sure he hung up, took a sip of coffee, and a bite out of a donut, then answered the next call.

So I now have a new outlook on things. If I can't actually make a difference, fuck it. Screaming at speeding cars will never slow them down. The police are very busy with assholes shooting each other, so I won't bother them with minor details. Oh, and I also stopped watching MSNBC. They market in anger. Just like Fox News, they market in rage. I know, MSNBC mostly uses facts while Fox twists facts then tells you a lie, but they both are doing the same thing. Getting people enraged over things they cannot control. I can vote, and I do. That is my responsibility. Hating people, neighbors, politicians, gets me nowhere. I vote and I trust my vote is counted.

By the way. On Monday I went to a cookout at a friend's house. Afterwards, when I returned to my car in the parking lot to leave, a big pile of steaming human poop was sitting next to my car. Right next to the driver's side door. I stepped over it, and got in. I could have got angry, but there was not a thing I could do about it. No matter how angry it could make me, it would still be there after I drove away.  

What I Did Over My Summer Vacation

 

All those films in the upper photo, are now on one thumb drive

I'm seventy three years old and I still get a bit melancholy at this time of year. Summer is over and next Tuesday I will have to go back to school. Not really, but those feelings still come back. I did not like school. One thing some teachers did to welcome you back was to immediately give you an assignment. Write an essay about what you did over your summer vacation. I suppose that was to drive home the fact that the good times were over and for the next nine months it would be dreary work, in school and for homework. Anyway, here is my essay about my summer.

There were three dogs besides Scout. Bucky, Cricket, and Eddie. Bucky was a three legged dog with cancer who passed away soon after I started fostering him. I still cry when I look at the photos of him. Cricket was a sweetheart. Fostering her was pure love. Maybe too much love. Scout seemed just a bit perturbed that Cricket spent so much time in my lap and sleeping in my bed. Cricket found a great home with somebody who will give her that undivided attention she craved. Then there is Eddie. I did not foster Eddie, Eddie is just a fun old friend who I get to babysit while his daddies are on vacation.

Way back in April I picked up two boxes of 8mm movies from my uncle. Around one hundred and fifty, three minute rolls of movie film from around 1960 until 1982. My job was to convert them to mp4 digital files. I just finished the last one on Sunday. It kept me busy, and was educational. That's because the movies were full of my cousins, who I never really knew very well. After all, I was at least thirteen years older than the oldest of my uncle's children. So while they were having vacations, first communions, little league games, and birthday parties, I was living in hippie communes, hanging out in gay bars, and moving around a lot. Now I feel like I know that part of the family like I never did before. They seemed to be really great kids.

I also finished another summer task only yesterday. I repainted the wheels for my 1929 Ford Model A. They look fantastic, considering I did it my way. No sandblasting of the old paint. No powder coated paint job for me. I didn't even take the tires off the wheels. Just two spray cans of 'Roasted Corn' yellow paint from Home Depot, and a fitted bed sheet to keep the overspray off the tires. Anyway, like I said, the wheels look fantastic... as long as you're ten feet away. At least ten feet away.

So that was my summer. Now, bring on autumn, dead leaves, Halloween, and dark evenings.

Trees

 

This is my eighth summer in this house. When I bought the place there were no trees in the yard. Not in the back, not in the front. No shrubs, no flowers, just grass and a chain link fence. The dogs loved the wide open spaces, but I was not brought up that way. My mom and dad filled our muddy yard in the summer of 1950 with trees and bushes. Five apple trees, two or three... maybe four elm trees. A dogwood tree, poplar trees, and rows of lilac bushes. The trees grew as I grew and before long we were living in a little forested yard. Oh, and the weeping willow tree. We had one of those too, which was fun to climb but full of bugs. So starting in 2016, the first summer here in this house, I started to plant trees and shrubs. Not as many as my mom and dad planted, but enough to already give us shade in the backyard. Out front, the maple tree is as tall as the building and the Japanese maple has filled out nicely. The thing is that trees attract birds. We get a lot of birds hanging around now. So many that Scout doesn't even chase them anymore. Squirrels yes, but not the birds. As much as I love the birds and the trees there is only one drawback. That's what the umbrella is for. It usually catches most of it.

Dad Always Said, "Pee Before We Leave"

 

Here in the Chicago area they have these stores called Menards. When I moved away in 1989 there weren't any. When I moved back in 2016 they were a big thing. A big thing in more than just them being everywhere. The actual stores are gigantic. They're about the size of two football fields side by side. Along the same lines as Home Depot and Lowes, but more. They sell hardware and lumber, also clothing, food, furniture, and probably a lot more only I've never been through the entire place. It's like trying to see the Louvre in one visit. Anyway, I went to Menards on Tuesday and it brought up two problems that I've always had.

When I walked in the place I was overwhelmed to the point of forgetting most of what I had wanted to buy. Just the massiveness of the place put me so in awe that it wiped my brain clean. Also, I had to pee really bad. I had peed before I left the house knowing the tendency of my bladder to fill rapidly. I don't know why, but when I get in the car every bit of liquid in my body starts racing to the bladder. So I peed at home, peed at Menards, and in a final insult from my bladder, I had to pee by the time I returned home. All this was within about an hour and fifteen minutes.

You might think this is all caused by old age. I don't think it is. I've always had problems remembering things, like shopping lists, people's names, what I did yesterday, and I've always had a weak bladder. In fact I got arrested one night in Henry County, Illinois for pulling over on a country road and peeing next to the car. I have no idea what the cop was doing parked in the bushes with his lights off only a few feet away.

Screw It

 

Just in case you don't know, a lag bolt is a large screw-in bolt used for putting two large pieces of wood together. I need three of them.

The other day I drove up to the big blue hardware store to buy some plants. Sadly, the heavy rains we had over the past few weeks drowned some of my flowers to the point of killing them. Because we're months into the growing season, I assumed the big box hardware stores would have some bargains. They didn't, their plants seemed a bit over priced. I put three large pots of flowers into my basket anyway because I'm lazy and didn't want to drive all over looking for cheaper stuff. Also, while I was there, I went over to the nut and bolt aisle for those three lag bolts I need. In a little drawer marked 3/8 x 6, I found a jumbled mess of different sized lag bolts along with a few regular bolts. After digging around I got the three I needed and headed for the checkout. One more fact you need to know before I go on. The bolts had no labels on them. No markings, no prices. I had looked for an employee to see if they had little bags and a pencil like real hardware stores have, but there wasn't one anywhere near nuts and bolts. I pushed my cart up to the row of checkout counters. They were all closed. Down at the end were four self-check counters with two of those closed. I know they were closed because the only employee near the checkout counters told me, "Thems closed." I then handed her the three unmarked lag bolts, told her what the price was on the little drawer, and asked her to ring them up for me. With a sigh and a roll of the eyes, she walked over to one of the regular old fashioned checkout counters and picked up the phone. Over the store loudspeakers I heard, "I need an associate from hardware at the checkout." Minutes later a slow moving old guy showed up. I was still standing over in the self-check area waiting as the old guy slowly walked back past me holding the three bolts. As he disappeared off into the bowels of the big blue hardware store you could hear my voice nearly as loud as the checkout lady's voice was over the loudspeakers. "Oh, hell no." as I walked out the door, leaving my cart with the plants behind.

Cricket Has Left the Building

 

Cricket

When Chandler passed away over a year ago, it seemed that Scout missed him. Maybe I was just projecting my feelings of sadness. I don't know because Scout doesn't speak English and can't tell me how she feels. To address this feeling I contacted the rescue that gave me Scout. I let the lady who runs the show around here know that I would be open to adopting another dog. Maybe a dog around Scout's age that she could bond with. Shell, the lady in charge, told me she would keep an eye out for the appropriate pup. I heard nothing for months and then I saw a post on the Cairn Terrier Rescue, Facebook page. Shell was looking for somebody to transport a dog from downtown Chicago, to St. Charles, Illinois. I volunteered. That was Bucky, the three legged dog that I had here for two months. Yes, after Bucky got his leg amputated at the vet in St. Charles, I volunteered to foster him. Sadly, the cancer that required the amputation finally took Bucky. A few weeks later I again volunteered to foster a dog. This was Cricket. One of the sweetest, most affectionate dogs I have ever come across. And she is smart. Within one week I had taught Cricket to 'come' and 'sit'. She also learned from Scout that when I say wait at a crosswalk, it is time to stop walking. The biggest problem with Cricket is that she needs your one hundred percent attention. She wants to be with you, on you, and to sleep with you. It's all about Cricket. This, unfortunately, seemed to bother Scout. She wasn't getting her share of my attention, and as much as I tried to make sure that happened, Cricket hogged the show. Again, I may have been projecting my feelings onto Scout.

On Sunday I took Cricket to her forever home out in Coal City, Illinois. I knew from the start that she was already adopted and that after two weeks she would be leaving. Still, it was difficult. I have taken in strays before and found homes for them, but these last two, Bucky and Cricket, really got to me. Watching Cricket sitting at the front door of her new home, staring out at me as I drove away was not easy. It was for the best. Best for her and best for the elderly couple who adopted her. It was also good for Scout. She now gets to sit on my lap again.

Scout the lap dog

Tommy, it was a gas

 

In May of 1969, I drove into the city, to the Uptown neighborhood. I was going to the Kinetic Playground, a small music venue, to see The Who. I believe it cost me five dollars to get in. No reserved seating, no seating at all except on the floor. The opening act was some strange guy named Joe Cocker. I had never heard of him and watching him for the first time while high on LSD was an experience. Anyway, I was looking forward to having my ears blown out by Magic Bus, and My Generation. Instead, The Who played their new album, Tommy from beginning to end. They did do Magic Bus for an encore, so I wasn't too disappointed. The thing is I had never heard Tommy before that night. As I stated, I was tripping my ass off and didn't even realize all those songs made one cohesive story. So, I was high on drugs, sitting on the floor of the Kinetic Playground, listening to the rock opera Tommy. I was young and happy.

Last Sunday my good friend Chuck invited me to lunch and a show at the Goodman Theater. The show was Tommy, an adaptation of the Who's famous album. Lunch was good. I didn't eat much and didn't drink anything other than a cup of coffee. The show was very good. For the first time in fifty four years I finally understood the whole album. Not just that a kid was deaf, dumb, and blind, and was being molested by Uncle Ernie.

There was just one problem with going to lunch and the theater. I'm not young anymore. After I eat, things happen. I find that I have to pee every thirty minutes and I get gassy. About five minutes into the show I started feeling the pressure. Not only that, but at my age sitting in a theater chair is uncomfortable. I need my Lay-Z-Boy recliner. Twenty minutes in, and I really had to pee but our seats were at the end of a row jammed up against the wall. So I hung on for the entire first act, about an hour or more. At intermission I trampled everybody while rushing to the rest room, and managed to get a good urinal. I proceeded to pee for about five minutes. When I was done, there was a long line stretching out the door of the restroom. By the time I walked by the end of that line, I rejoined it and peed again. Then, just to make things exciting, on my way out of the place I farted. Didn't need that stewing in my gut for the second act. Which I might say, was excellent.

G.O.A.T

When I start my day, there are three things I need before the 'day' actually begins. Feed and walk the dog (That's one thing, taking care of Scout). Second, I have coffee. The final thing, and most important for making a new day, is my shower. Until I get my shower it is still last night. It is still me laying in bed, unwashed with yesterday all over me. Everything that comes before or after the shower is extra. Breakfast, my morning poop, watching the WGN morning news, all just extra good stuff.

Usually, on Wednesday, I go grocery shopping. I like to go around ten in the morning when the store is not very crowded. When employees out number customers. It's a good time and the lady behind the service desk knows me. That's because I usually find a mistake on my receipt and I immediately scuttle over to see her. It's like a game for me. Find the mistake, and don't be wrong. If there is a real mistake and she has to refund some money, I smile. If I'm wrong, and she points out the fine print on the coupon, she smiles. Anyway, that's not the point of this post. The point here is that before I went shopping on Wednesday, I took a shower. I used soap, I shaved, and I used deodorant. Yet almost every single time I go shopping, there  is some old fart walking around smelling like a goat. You know he's there before you even see him. The aroma lingers in the aisle so you know that when you turn the corner, he'll be there. Smelling like a fucking goat. Gross, Old, AnTique.

Memories, Cobwebs in the Corners of My Mind....

 

I have a terrible memory, always have. I have to read and re-read things because I often forget what I just read. This goes all the way back to grade school, where the nuns and other teachers would tell my parents, "If Alan would only apply himself." Now that I have found myself on the ugly side of seventy, my memory seems to be getting just a little worse.

Last week I was moving stuff around on my dining room table (I use it for much more than just dining these days) and I came across a bit of paper from the Chicago City Clerk's Office. It was about renewing the tax tag for my 1929 Ford. I can purchase one for my 2014 Ford on line, but not for an antique car according to the city web site. It said that I would have to go in person to the clerk's office. So that's what I did. I even drove the 1929 Ford to the office on Gale Street. What I found was a long line and no parking anywhere near the clerk's office. So I turned around and went home. On Thursday I tried again, only earlier in the day and I drove the 2014 Ford. This time there was a parking spot right next to the building and the line of people waiting only stretched about ten feet out the door. I got in line with the rest of the cattle and slowly shuffled my way until I was first in line.

"Next!" Called out a clerk from behind her little window.

I handed her the bit of paper the city had sent me with all my information on it.

"Registration."

"I'm just renewing the city tag. You have my registration in your computer."

"You can only buy a new tag with your registration."

"It's not a new tag. It's a renewal. The city sent me that paper."

She looked at the piece of paper I had handed her, turned it over and said,  "This is last years."

I took it back from her and looked at it. It was not from last year, unless I fell asleep for an entire year and it was now 2024. Which is isn't. The lady behind the little window walked away for a minute and a different lady returned.

"You can't buy a new city tag without the State of Illinois registration."

And that was that. I bottled up my rage and walked out of there. I was pissed. I was going to send off a stern letter to the City Clerk. Son of a bitch, this meant I would have to make a third visit to the clerk's office. Grrr.....

On Friday I got mail from the Chicago City Clerk's Office. Inside was the little metal tag for my 1929 Ford. I was baffled. Were they trying to apologize for screwing with me? The receipt with the tag showed that I had paid for it, but they didn't take any money from me at the clerk's office. Then I started to think. That little piece of paper with all the information on it. It was torn at the bottom like part of it was missing. Like maybe a form you would mail in with a check to purchase your new vehicle tag. Seriously, I forgot that I had mailed in for that. I forgot that I had written a check for thirty three dollars to the City of Chicago and mailed it to them. At least I think I did. I don't really remember.

Who's Your Daddy?

 

I'm a terrible foster daddy. The whole idea of fostering animals from rescue groups and shelters, is to not get attached. The idea is to give the pet a loving and healthy place to live until a forever home can be found. I failed on my first official try at fostering. I have taken in stray and unwanted animals before. Cats that tenants and neighbors have left behind. I never could find homes for them, so I ended up with a lot of cats over the course of forty years. Did I mention that I'm allergic to cats? Then there are the dogs. I've taken in unwanted dogs a few times, but other than Sasha, our first schnauzer, I did find homes for them. Including a three legged dog named Tuffy. Can you believe that? I found a home for Tuffy the three legged dog. My nephew, I gave Tuffy to my nephew.

Back in early February I chauffeured an adorable little dog out to Batavia, or it may have been West Chicago, I forget. I did that for Cairn Terrier Rescue, the group that gave me Scout. On that short ride to the suburbs I fell in love with that little dog. Sadly, he was going out there to have his leg amputated. His name was Bucky and he had cancer. This was all explained to me up front. A month later I volunteered to foster Bucky while he had treatments in Chicago for his cancer. He became the star of my block. Everybody up and down the street got to know Bucky in a short while, including my neighbor who has the hair salon on the corner. She would cook up sweet potatoes for Bucky and trim the hair around his eyes while human patrons of the salon sat and watched.

Bucky and I connected immediately. He also won over Scout. He took over her bed. She didn't care. He ate next to her, drank out of the same bowl, she didn't care. Like I said, I was a bad foster father to Bucky. I fell in love with that little guy and became his good daddy instead, until the end. That was yesterday.

There is Always That One Guy

 

I sprayed my backyard fence with a tinted waterproofing yesterday. Not on my side of the fence, but on the neighbor's side. I tried to be very careful because I didn't want to get any overspray on her vinyl siding. However, I did get some on the air conditioner that sits just inches away from the fence. All day long I worried that she would notice that and complain. She didn't. That property used to be owned by a guy who never cut his grass, so I used to cut it for him. Not because I'm such a nice guy, but because his unruly lawn made my house look like crap. The new owner has a service that cuts the lawn, so that's not a problem anymore.

Every morning and evening, when I walk the dogs, I pass by another neighbor's house. One of those little Chicago bungalows that line so many of our streets. This place is owned by an older guy (My age) who appears to be in bad shape. I was talking to him the other day and noticed that one of his feet looked like a big wrapped ham. I figured that probably was why he never cut his grass. It was about two feet high at that point. So I told him that I was going to mow my lawn the next day and would he mind if I also ran my mower over his front yard. Once again, not because I'm such a nice guy, but because I was tired of my dogs wandering through that jungle and coming out covered in dandelion fuzz and other things. Yesterday I cut his lawn. Only the front yard, the part I can see. While I was chugging away, back and forth with my mower, his next door neighbor motioned to me. I figured he was going to ask how much I charge or something like that. I turned off the mower and he says to me in one of those crabby old fart voices, "Why are you doing that so early in the morning? You're waking everybody up." I smiled and started the mower back up. It was nine in the morning.

 

Life With Bucky

 

Bucky and me going to the suburbs

Back in February I saw that Cairn Terrier Rescue needed a ride for a little white dog named Bucky. Bucky had to leave his adopted home in Chicago and go out to a foster home along the Fox River. Bucky had cancer and was to have his right fore-limb amputated. It was impossible for the elderly lady who had adopted him to deal with all the vet visits and care he needed, so I messaged the rescue that I could be his chauffer. They had given Scout to me seven years earlier, and I felt I owed them something. Even though Scout turned out to be a bossy little girl who over indulges on cookies and food, I love having her with me. I picked Bucky up, strapped him into the backseat of my car, and off we went. At the very first stoplight I looked into the rear view mirror and saw his innocent little face staring right back at me.

About one month after that trip with Bucky, Shell Lewis from the rescue, texted me about Bucky. She spelled out exactly what was going on with him and what he needed. Then she asked if I could possibly foster him during his medical issues. I texted back one word, "Yes". I had fallen in love with that little dog during our short trip out to the suburbs. I couldn't say no.

He has been a joy to have here for the last two months. Scout likes the company, and who doesn't love two sets of eyes staring at you while you dish out dog food and walking down the street with two bags of dog shit in your hand? Unfortunately the inevitable has come. Bucky has been getting less active and two days ago he started having trouble with the stairs. Also, yesterday he did not want to go for a walk and instead spent the entire day under my bed. It seems that Bucky was crashing, and I should be making plans. I knew what I was getting into. This morning I got up expecting things to be worse, but Bucky got up, went outside and peed (I carried him), ate with Scout, and then went for a walk with me and Scout. It's a miracle! No, I'm not stupid. I've seen dogs bounce back like this before. He has cancer that has spread to his lungs and lymph glands. It is incurable. But hell, I got another day with Bucky and so far it's been a good day.

Hosta

 

My winter hosta garden

It's that time of the year again. Planting season. Out in the yard, all of my perennials are coming up nicely. I dumped my usual giant bag of wild flower seeds along the back of the house and next to the front porch. They have sprouted and are growing. Last week I drove out to the suburbs to dig up hostas from my sister's yard and transplanted them in my yard. They look fabulous.

About hostas. Over the years I have spent a lot of money buying plants from HD, Lowes, and garden centers. To save some money I decided to grow plants from seed. Starting in January I would set up tables in my living room and put my newly planted seeds in the window. I watered them and coddled them. Marigolds grew well that way. Last year I tried begonias. The result was just so-so, but I got some flowers out of that. This year I ordered seeds from Amazon. I ordered two hundred hosta seeds of varying types. I carefully planted and watered them, and then I waited. Water, wait, water, wait. After over three months of waiting, this is all I got. One tiny seedling. Very cute and it will probably mature into a nice hosta. The only thing bad about that seedling is that it cost me twenty dollars.

For scale, that is my finger in the upper left corner

Old Friends

 

Leah and I became old friends about six years ago. I say old because I was sixty seven and Leah was eighty eight years old. She was the mother of Gary whose bowling team I am now with. The first time I met Leah, I was watching some friends bowl. She sat on a high seat watching her son's team, with a bowl of candy on the counter in front of her. She was the candy lady who brought candy for anybody who wanted some. Leah was also the arbiter of poker hands. For three dollars you could buy into the poker game. Two cards for a strike, one card for a spare. The cards featured nude men which kind of freaked me out at first. Not because I don't like nude men, but because nobody seemed bothered that they were showing an eighty eight year old woman cards with naked men on them. I got over it. After all, my mom used to have a party cake business and would make you a naked man cake for any occasion. Anyway, without hesitation Leah would look at the cards and declare which hand was better than another. Leah was fun to talk to and I got a thrill out of taking her out in my 1929 Model A Ford a few times. The car and the lady were the same age. We will miss Leah, everybody at the bowling alley knew her and loved her. She passed away on Tuesday.

White Heat

 

Mom, 1949

Yesterday I saw an old man walking down the street wearing a heavy winter coat with a knit hat pulled down over his ears. Seeing that made me think about my mom. It was seventy three degrees outside. The same temperature outside as inside the house. I was wearing shorts and a tee shirt and was ready for this spurt of summer like weather. I was ready, but my body apparently is not. I was cold. Seventy three degrees and I was cold. I seriously thought about turning the heat back on, but then I'd have to listen to Dennis whine about how hot his apartment is. Mom was the same way. She was always cold. I remember when I was a kid and Mom would stand in the corner of the living room where the heat register was, letting that blessed hot air warm her legs. When she got older, no amount of heat could satisfy Mom. When I would visit her, even on a summer day, the house would be stifling and the furnace would be blasting away.

"Mom! (You had to shout) You have the thermostat set for nearly ninety degrees."

"Oh, I do? I was cold."

I would turn the furnace off and open a window. Fifteen minutes later Mom would ask, "Is it cold in here? Aren't you cold?"  No, it would usually still be well over eighty degrees in the house. Mom would sit there wearing a sweater with a blanket over her lap, pouting. Moments later she would put her electric Hoveround chair in gear and zip on over to the hallway. I could see her staring up at the thermostat, at which time I would go over and pretend to turn the heat up. But I wouldn't

That's what I was thinking of as I sat in my recliner chair wearing my shorts and tee shirt. No, I did not turn the heat on. I went and put on long pants, a thermal long sleeve shirt over my tee shirt, and a sweat shirt over that. I also turned on the little fireplace space heater for awhile.

Mom, 2018

Mi Perro es Gordo

 

I put Scout on a diet  over a week ago. I had noticed that she seemed to be extremely overweight. So bad that I had a dream where I was using her back as a table because it was very flat and wide. I waited too long to do this, to put her on a diet. Scout is fat and it wasn't until Bucky came to stay with us that I realized just how fat she is. Bucky is lean, almost anorexic compared to Scout.

In the living room there are five huge windows that look over the street. It is Scout's realm, where she keeps a lookout for trespassers and strangers. She has a chair that she uses to get up on the radiator/window sill so that she can 'Gladys Kravitz' the street. It's the same chair that Bucky, our new roommate, likes to sleep on. Saturday I had noticed Scout limping a little bit. Later in the evening she was up on the radiator/window sill, but could not get down. That's because Bucky was sleeping on her exit chair, so she jumped. The thing about Scout, is that she thinks that she can fly. She jumped the two and a half feet off of the radiator and hit the floor like a sack of potatoes. She let out a yelp and I thought she had broken a bone. For half an hour Scout moaned and cried, so I took her to the Doggy Emergency Room.

First time I had been to the doggy emergency room and I was impressed. The building looks like a human hospital. After being triaged and given a tag to put around Scout's neck, we took a seat. It was a seat that I would get to know very well over the next five hours. Over two hours waiting to see a doctor, and three hours waiting for Scout to get her xrays. During those two hours Scout and I were first waiting, I got to see a large Doberman have diarrhea on the floor of the waiting room, and a small dog that looked like a cross between a Chihuahua and a Beagle, barf up a chocolate Easter bunny. We'll call that, the floor show. Meanwhile, Scout decided that she owned the waiting room and barked at every new dog that entered her new territory.

It turned out that Scout had not broken a bone in her foot but had only sprained it. She came out of the xray department all happy and walking on all fours as if nothing was wrong. She was on a methadone pain killer. The nice lady handed me her on the leash along with two bottles of pain killers and instructions for her to lose ten pounds. Oh, and a bill for nearly eight hundred dollars.

Scout and Bucky

Lucky Bucky

 

I have a new roommate. This time it's a white guy with three legs. Actually, sort of off white, and adorable. His name is Bucky, and he's a dog. So cute and Scout seems to really like him too. She went sniffing around his nether regions the other night, so she's interested. However, Bucky didn't go for it and there was a short confrontation. After I settled them both down, Scout kind of pouted. I think she was surprised that Bucky wouldn't let her do a complete examination. Anyway, they're getting along very well now. They walk together, and they both visited the hair salon together. Not to get their hair done. It's the place on the corner that Scout stops in every day at the end of her walk. Latta, the owner, gives Scout a cookie and the ladies all go gaga over her. Yesterday they got to go gaga over the two of them.

Bucky isn't my dog. I'm only his foster father while he goes through chemo and treatment for cancer. That's why he only has three legs. Lost the right front one to cancer and as of now the doctors aren't sure they got it all. So he needs more medical care. Which is what my job will be, taking him to the doctor and making sure all his needs are taken care of. So far the little guy is a dream roommate. Other than the fact that Scout has taught him to bark at everything they see out the front windows, he's been a sweetheart. My only problem is that one day I might have to give him up to a new forever home. However, I will be lobbying for permanent custody if that comes up.

Bread and Circuses

 

When I was fifteen years old I got my first real job that didn't involve delivering newspapers. It was working for a neighbor in his pizza joint as the sandwich and chicken guy. I made the sandwiches and chicken dinners. Somebody else made the pizzas. The first thing, very first thing Ray the owner showed me, was how to cut the Vienna Bread for the sandwiches.

"Cut the bread as long as your wiener."

He did not use the word 'wiener'. I only used that here because family reads this sometimes. Anyway, I was not shocked. I was not offended. I didn't storm off in a huff and whine about inappropriate behavior. I cut the bread and made Italian beef and sausage sandwiches.

A couple of weeks ago I ordered two long sleeve tee shirts from my favorite place. Eddie Bauer. They looked great as do all of Eddie Bauer clothes. Unfortunately, after I washed them, they shrunk. I had three inches from the end of the sleeve to my wrist. So I went on line to return them. Noticing in the fine print that they do not accept clothes after they've been washed, I clicked on the 'chat' icon. A very nice person chatted with me about my predicament and agreed that the shirts were damaged goods and gave me authority to return them. I could either send them back in the mail or return them to a store. I chose the store because I wanted to buy some more great Eddie Bauer clothes. Yesterday morning I drove on out to Old Orchard mall and walked into the Eddie Bauer Store.

"Can I help you?"

"Yes, I need to return these shirts. Either for exchange or credit."

The elderly clerk (Probably ten years younger than me) started typing away on the computer screen. When a quizzical look came over him, I showed him the return authorization on my phone.

"But you washed them. I can't let you return those shirts. You washed them."

I explained that I had already discussed that with the online chat person and they okayed it.

"Oh, I don't know. I'll have to go get my manager."

I responded, "Well then, go get his ass over here." Sure, I know. Sounds kind of rough, but I live in Chicago and that's how people talk. The guy gave me a look and told me, "We do not allow cursing in the store."

"Oh for krissakes, like you've never heard that before."

It seems that I was in a bad mood after driving all the way to Skokie only to be denied my return. May I also point out that I was wearing Eddie Bauer jeans, an Eddie Bauer tee shirt, and an Eddie Bauer jacket and sweatshirt.

Okay, this is already a short story too long. I'll get to the point. I was denied the return by the manager, Gavin, because I had washed the shirts. I also think the elderly clerk had whined to him about me using the word 'ass' and there was no way he was going to give in to me. Seriously, it wasn't a mean thing when I said to get his ass over here. It's just how some people talk sometimes. Like me. What a bunch of fragile people we have in our world these days. After leaving the store, I called Eddie Bauer customer support and will now mail my tee shirts back for a full refund and I got a ten dollar credit for my next purchase. The nice customer support lady in India also told me that she cannot get Gavin fired. 

One more thing. After making a few sandwiches at Ray's pizza place, Ray told me that I was making the sandwiches too big.