Gummi

When I used to live and work in Chicago, one of my clients was the Farley Candy Company, and one of their products was Gummi Bears. The best part about having them for a client, is that I was allowed to shop in the company store, where I could buy Gummi Bears for fifty cents a pound. Every time I made a visit to the account, I would buy five pounds of the sweets and when I returned to our offices, I'd distribute little baggies of Gummi Bears to everyone's desk. It was just like a drug dealer dropping off little baggies of crack or pot. The folks in the office were always glad when I went to Farley Candy, because they were all addicted.

Luckily for me, I have a found a connection who flies to Germany every week and can get me a fix of the real thing. Gummi Bears from Deutschland. These are not like the ones you get from the grocery store, the texture and flavor surpass those by far. From the time my pusher hands me the bag of candy, and I rip the first one open, I am in sugar rush heaven. I keep telling myself, "just one more, and I'll put them away for later", but later never comes because I can hear them calling me, "Oh fat ass, yoo! hoo!, fat ass, come and eat us.". Before I know it, they are all gone and I'm craving more.

So now I am going through Gummi withdrawals and cursing the evil inventor of Gummis. I wonder if I can talk Mark into running up to the 7-11 for one of those little bags of candy. It's domestic Gummis, but I think they'll do.

Mark's Revenge

When it comes to steak, I like mine rare. This is always a problem for Mark since he likes his the consistency of charred shoe leather, and it requires him to prepare our steaks differently. In fact, if there is even a hint of pink in Marks steak, he freaks out and throws it away.

We have other differences in taste that have also caused problems. For instance, I have a palate that cannot stand, spicy hot, foods, while Mark puts hot sauce on almost everything, eggs, potatoes, grits. He even puts hot sauce on hot peppers. I can't imagine what the lining of his stomach looks like. It probably has the same texture as his steaks.

Once in a while Mark tries to slip one past me, like last night, when he made delicious enchiladas with slow cooked pork and poblano peppers. I sat down to dinner and started to dig in. It was so good that I was half way through the first enchilada before I realized that my tongue was on fire, and hot embers were burning in my stomach. My first reaction was, 'maybe it isn't so spicy, I'll just eat more slowly'. By the time I was through with the enchilada, sweat was rolling down my neck and tears were welling up in my eyes.

Mark swears that the peppers he used were mild and he removed all the seeds, but what he doesn't say is how much hot sauce he might have put in it. All I know, is that I have been to the bathroom twice already today, and it is quite possible that I have an idea for an alternative fuel source for automobiles. I just don't know how to get it into the fuel tank.

Photo Friday

1968

Doggy-robics

I have been whining lately about my weight and how hard it is to lose the fat. Last week I may just have stumbled upon the answer, and I think I will call it 'Doggy-robics'.

When Molly left this world, she left behind a cabinet full of dog food, doggy treats, and flea and heartworm medications. I decided that the best use for it was to give it to a local organization called 'Abandoned Pet Rescue'. So I bundled it all into the car last Wednesday and brought it over. The people who run the place were very nice and thanked me, then they asked, "would you like a tour of the shelter?". Now I don't fault them for it, but a tour is obviously their way of finding the soft touches. A way of finding people who might want to come and lend a hand with the animals. People like me.

Before I went in there, I pictured the place as being full of pitiful neglected animals that were once somebody's pet, but quite the contrary, all the animals seemed happy enough for where they were, and they were definitely not neglected. While taking the tour, the nice girl who was showing me around, asked if I would like to walk some of the dogs.

Stepping into a cage holding strange dogs can be somewhat intimidating, but as soon as I was in, the residents, Rocket and Carrie, enveloped me in dog love. After getting the leash on Rocket, and wiping the dog slobber off my face, I was off through the maze of gates to the outside. Before I knew it I had walked seven large dogs up and down the grassy expanse between the street and the railroad tracks. I only fell once, and managed not to step into any dog poop, but I know that was just luck because it was everywhere.

When I returned home all sweaty and full of dog slobber, my feet hurt, my legs ached, and my left arm felt like I had done fifty, one arm pull-ups. I figured I had walked seven large dogs, most of whom pulled as hard as they could, over uneven, rocky, poop strewn terrain, a total of twenty blocks or two miles. It was the hardest workout I have had in a long time. So yesterday, after a week of recovery, I went back for more, and in the ninety degree heat and humidity, I did it again. It's nice to have somebody so happy to go out with me for a change.

The Cat Whisperer

Mark hasn't any cat sense, what so ever. He carries Fat Kitty around the same way a three year old child does, as if she's a sack of potatoes. He calls her like she's a dog, and expects her to sit and stay. Cats just don't work that way. No matter how many times I tell him that she's going to scratch or bite him, he still tries to make her do what he wants.

Today we made a trip to Target for the sole purpose of buying cat paraphernalia. To keep Fat Kitty from ripping the furniture to shreds like she did to the outdoor furniture, we got a large scratching pole. For Carlotta kitty, we got a collar with a little bell so that Fat Kitty will have ample warning when she's in the vicinity. Finally for Fat Kitty and Carlotta, we got them a bag of catnip, hoping that if they were both high as kites, they wouldn't fight so much. Unfortunately, after Fat Kitty rolled around in the stuff for while and got completely toasted, Mark rolled the vacuum cleaner into the room. Fat Kitty is scared to death of vacuums, and just the sight of it freaked her out. I once had that same sort of experience when I was eighteen, and my dad came into my room after my cousin and I had smoked bag of pot. It can be unsettling.

For the most part, Fat Kitty has settled into her new indoor existence as if it was always meant to be. When I open the back door to take out the garbage, she just stands there and looks. She doesn't make even the slightest move towards the door for fear she may get stuck out there again. At the front door there is a different problem. Tigger, the cat that belongs to the kid next door, has set up camp and never goes home anymore. I think he has recognized what a sweet deal it is to move into Mark and Alan's house, and is trying to work his way in. We'll see who has the greater will power. Fat Kitty worked on me for over a year before I caved in.

The Fungus That Ate My House

Will it never end? My bank account seems to have diarrhea. A seemingly never ending series of calamities requiring large donations to workmen, hardware stores and doctors keep coming my way without relief.

After a year and a half, my tenant in the little studio apartment had to leave, and despite the fact that he paraded around the pool every day in an unflattering, grape smuggler, speedo bathing suit, he was a valued tenant. The man was very clean and he did pay his rent in a timely manner. Before he moved in, I was aware of a leak in the shower, but I thought I had addressed the problem and I never heard otherwise from my tenant. After he left, an inspection of the apartment revealed that the leak had continued, apparently unabated for the last year. In fact the leak was so bad that I decided that the shower needed to be replaced.

As usual with projects done at 'Casa Alan', This one is having it's share of surprises. Over the years many snags have come up on my projects, but nothing prepared me for what the man rebuilding my shower found when he ripped out the old one. Behind the old shower wall was a weird growth of spores, and mildew, that looked like some kind of blob that was planning to burst out and envelop an unsuspecting renter. When he pulled up the old floor pan, it was even weirder. It looked like something from one of the Alien movies. A mass of fungus was growing in a circle around the drain, with huge long tentacles trying to work their way out into the rest of the room. All this requires that more time and money will have to be spent on the job.

So now I have another thing to worry about here in the high heat, and humidity of Florida. In addition to the rats, cockroaches the size of your fist, alligators, hurricanes, and crack crazed car-jackers, I have the beast that grows under your shower.

Is That One a Dud?

Well we made it through another Fourth of July, and this year it was quite a bit more tame than in the past. Instead of sounding like I was living in Baghdad, it was more like Beirut in 1982. First of all, the drunken crack heads who lived across the street moved out. They were always good for blowing off a small mountain of fireworks. Then the next door neighbors who always put on a fireworks display rivaling the city of Fort Lauderdale, went away for the weekend. Add to that, the fact that it rained most of the evening of the fourth and fireworks activity was seriously cut down. For once there weren't children running around with their clothes on fire, and drunks fighting over who gets to launch flaming rockets at my house.

What I don't understand is how given the fact that firecrackers and rockets are illegal in Florida, people can go to a store here in Dania Beach and buy anything they want that blows up. I have been to that store. The loophole that they use is a piece of paper that they have you sign promising that you won't use the powerful firecrackers you have just bought in the State of Florida. "No sir, I'm just passing through on my way to Cuba."

I'm just glad it's all over and Fat Kitty can come out of hiding in the closet. We won't have to worry about explosions and rockets now until New Years Eve, when it starts all over again. The only difference between Independence Day and New Years Eve, is that besides fireworks, the drunken assholes with guns decide it's a good idea to shoot them into the air. Now I don't know where they think those bullets go, but you can only hope the bullet goes straight up, and comes straight down on them.