A Morning in October. An Evening in April

Our visit to Paris, 1999

We had arrived in Paris late in the afternoon the day before, so with the first light of day Mark and I headed out down the Rue Vieille du Temple, towards the River Seine. It was a long walk for me with my crappy feet. One and a half kilometers. And though the hotel clerk had told us it would take about twenty minutes, we spent about an hour slowly moving down that street. I had never been in Paris. It is profoundly beautiful. On both sides of the street we were walking down were buildings that had been built centuries before anything in Chicago. The gray stone of those buildings reflected the light of the morning. The sky was not sunny, yet it wasn't that drab slate of autumn that I was used to. As we approached the bridge over the Seine, a vista opened up revealing the grandeur of Île de la Cité, with the Cathedral Notre Dame off to the right. We continued walking, around the rear of the giant cathedral, in awe of the history before us. There were the gargoyles, the giant rose windows, and those flying buttresses. Eight hundred years of history right there, built before Europe had even known that North America existed.

When the news broke yesterday, my heart sank. Surely they can stop that little fire before it does too much damage. But as the hours wore on it became obvious that most of the history was being incinerated, and I couldn't watch anymore. With a knot in my stomach, I turned to a different channel. But I soon found myself turning back, this time to the English language channel from France. You could hear the sadness in the reporter's voice.

It is sad, very sad to see historical things lost forever. Sure, Cathedral Notre Dame can be rebuilt and recreated. Europeans are very good at that, having had to rebuild entire countries after two horrific wars. But it will only be a recreation, a Disney like replica of what once was. So sad, but I'm glad that I got to see it that October morning.

Chubby Ass

I first noticed that my big recliner chair was listing to one side a few months ago. Not much, in fact only I noticed it. I asked Mark if he could tell that the chair was lower on one side than the other, but of course he could not. He only weighs about ninety eight pounds wet, and I weigh just a smidge over two hundred. It was like putting a feather on a scale. I thought maybe it was an optical illusion because I had it on an angle from the television, and ninety nine, point nine percent of the time I was watching television from that chair. So I moved the chair and had it face the television straight on. No, that didn't help. I still felt a bit of a lean, mostly down by the footrest. So I upped the number of cocktails during prime television viewing time. That helped for a little while, until I stood up.

I paid a lot for that chair and I was not happy that it didn't feel right. Problem is, I bought it from Carson's, a famous and somewhat upscale store in Chicago that went bankrupt and out of business. Too bad. When they were still in business they replaced that chair when I complained that it didn't feel like the one I tried in the store. There was now nobody to replace the replacement. It wasn't until Miss Scout came bounding into the living room the other day and jumped up onto the chair with me that I figured out what was wrong. She's fat, and when she hit the footrest it noticeably sagged. I turned the chair over and inspected the complicated mechanics of the recliner parts. Sure enough, between Scout's fat ass and my fat legs, we had broken one of the steel struts.

I'm thinking of one of those ugly, big marshmallow looking recliner chairs. The kind with the cup holder in the arm, a USB port, and vibrator. That's what I'm thinking. It's not what Mark will let me buy. 

Voice Activated Road Rage

Nothing pisses me off more than people who use the cell phone while they're driving. Unless you're talking about the assholes who speed up the left turn lanes on Lake Shore Drive as if they intend to turn left, and then at the last minute cut back into the traffic lane ahead of you. I hate them even more than the cell phone users. But enough about the assholery of the fake left turn people. This story is about cell phones and driving. I use the cell phone while driving. However, I use the hands free, blue tooth system in my Ford. When it works, it works great. I press a button and tell my car who to call. Unfortunately, the lady voice of my car's computer is an idiot. I tried to call my friend Dennis yesterday morning as I drove out to Mom's house. I pressed the button on the steering wheel and said, "Call Dennis."

"Which line would you like?" The pleasant voice from the computer asked, and she listed four options.

1 David

2 Durwood

3 Menace

4 Dennis"

"Line Four." I replied.

"Which line would you like?" Miss dumb ass repeated.

1 David

2 Durwood

3 Menace

4 Dennis

"LINE FOUR!!! YOU IDIOT." I screamed.

When she came back a third time and asked me which line, I hit the button and re-started from the beginning. I was now experiencing road rage inside my car, against my own car.

"Call Dennis." I tried again.

"Dennis. Please choose, cell phone, home phone." This time she got it easily.

"Home phone." I told her.

"Dennis. Please choose, cell phone, home phone." She again instructed me.

"Home phone." I tried to keep calm.

"Dennis. Please choose, cell phone, home phone."

"HOME PHONE... HOME PHONE... HOME PHONE YOU STUPID ASSHOLE IDIOT BITCH!"

I had let my anger get the best of me, and other drivers were looking at me as if I were insane. That's when she went into 'instructing the idiot user mode'.

"Please say a command, such as climate or phone."

I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket, flipped through my contacts, then poked the name Dennis.

"Dialing Dennis." Came the voice from my dashboard.

I was now one of those assholes fumbling around with a cell phone while driving.

Spring, Sprang, Sprung

Chicago is known for its spindly back porches built out of lumber. Unfortunately, some of the suburban yuppies who have moved into the city have mistaken them for the decks they remember on mom and dad's split level. You put a dozen drunken low-level management types out on one of those, and you can have yourself a disaster. They do collapse. So when I noticed that my back porch quivered a bit when I took the dogs out, I decided it was time to get rid of some of the crap I've been storing out there. You see, when Mark orders things on line I bring the new stuff in through the front door, then shove the older things out the back door to make room. Sometimes I even cut out the middle part and carry his new thing straight out to the back porch. Anyway, it is spring and I decided it was time to do my spring cleaning. I've already schlepped about one quarter of the crap on the porch down to the basement. Basically I'm making a new job for next year, when I'll have to clean out the basement. I hope to get everything that Mark doesn't use very often, off the porch by the end of the week. It'll make Dennis from upstairs, me, and the dogs feel a bit more safe.

Before I started schlepping it down to the basement.

Clutter in the Fridge

Mark is feeling much better lately, which means he is cooking. Which means I feel fat. Don't' get me wrong, I love it when he cooks and hate it when I cook. He is the Michael Jordan of cooking, while I am the worst player on the Washington Generals. When I cook, the refrigerator looks like a wasteland, with sparsely used vegetables in the front, and rotting vegetables near the back. I tend to not cook vegetables. I don't really understand them that much, like how do you make them taste good? It's a mystery. Anyway, this week Mark has made lasagna, chicken and rice, sloppy Joes, and ribs. And he has made a shit load of all that. So much so that the fridge is jam packed with leftovers. Seriously, I cannot eat that stuff fast enough. No sooner am I digging into last night's lasagna when the chicken and rice is thrust upon me. So now I have  two leftover dishes to work on, when ribs appear. If I ate everything Mark cooked, everything stuffed into that refrigerator, I would not be able to leave the house. I'd weigh six hundred pounds. So I am not hoping Mark gets sick again and stops cooking. That would be evil. Besides, then I'd have to be Nurse Alan again, and I hate that even more. No, what I am hoping is that some of you drop in at dinner time and help me clean out the refrigerator.