We had such a great time, we agreed to do it again every 70 years.
Newt
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Something for the Ages
We had a nice Thanksgiving dinner at a restaurant in Clearwater Beach with Judy's folks, Bill and Florence Flaherty. Nothing unusual about that except this year the folks were celebrating 70 years of wedded bliss.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Farewell to Bloodwort
I mentioned recently a Dearest Relative ("DR") in Gainesville who faced moving to some manner of assisted living arrangement. Swell fellow that I am, I have been trying to help smooth the transition. All went predictably enough until we addressed "What to Do With Bloodwort?" Bloodwort is my DR's aging cocker spaniel. (DR loves flowers and thinks "Bloodwort" a perfectly responsible spaniel name.)
Anyway, no sufficiently accommodating relative or friend came forward to claim Bloodwort, and dogs could not go where DR was bound. Dear Reader, if you are of a sensitive nature, please move on to Moody's Notebook or something genteel like that.
You were warned.
With Bloodwort well past the age of likely adoption through the local SPCA, and with no other options in evidence, it looked grim for Bloodwort. Reluctantly, DR concluded that Bloodwort would likely need to be - um - put gently to sleep. Sigh.
But DR is a novice in these matters, and his previous pets had had the good grace to expire of natural causes. So DR had never before had to take an active hand in the matter. The decision process was long and properly tearful.
Finally, DR stood tall and announced, "I'm going to have Bloodwort cremated."
Cremated. Cremated.
Mind you, Bloodwort was still among the living. I allowed as to how it might be well to have some humane ministration - an overdose of doggie barbiturates or the like - at the caring hand of some pet professional. Discreet and humane, however sad and seemingly unavoidable.
"No." DR stood his ground. "I'm going to have Bloodwort cremated."
At this point, you might understand why DR was headed for protective custody himself, but he didn't really seem that far around the bend. Except for the cremation thing. "Think on it tonight," I said, "and I'll be back in the morning."
The warm Florida sun rose as scheduled the next day, and a new day always brings new promise. Not so fast, Pollyanna. Cremation was the final word, and cremation it was going to be. I rehearsed the likely conversation with DR's long-time vet. "When did Bloodwort pass away?" Dr. Friendly would naturally ask. And DR would respond, "Oh, he's not dead. That's why I want him cremated." I stopped thinking about it.
Enter - thankfully for Bloodwort - Janice. Janice is DR's letter carrier, who conveniently lives in pastoral Archer, some ten miles west of DR's place. In Archer, Bloodwort would have lots of land, the company of other dogs - dogs with perhaps more euphonious names - and an owner not apparently headed for assisted living. Janice would love to take Bloodwort home.
"Excellent," said DR, "I never wanted to cremate him anyway."
Sigh.
Newt
Anyway, no sufficiently accommodating relative or friend came forward to claim Bloodwort, and dogs could not go where DR was bound. Dear Reader, if you are of a sensitive nature, please move on to Moody's Notebook or something genteel like that.
You were warned.
With Bloodwort well past the age of likely adoption through the local SPCA, and with no other options in evidence, it looked grim for Bloodwort. Reluctantly, DR concluded that Bloodwort would likely need to be - um - put gently to sleep. Sigh.
But DR is a novice in these matters, and his previous pets had had the good grace to expire of natural causes. So DR had never before had to take an active hand in the matter. The decision process was long and properly tearful.
Finally, DR stood tall and announced, "I'm going to have Bloodwort cremated."
Cremated. Cremated.
Mind you, Bloodwort was still among the living. I allowed as to how it might be well to have some humane ministration - an overdose of doggie barbiturates or the like - at the caring hand of some pet professional. Discreet and humane, however sad and seemingly unavoidable.
"No." DR stood his ground. "I'm going to have Bloodwort cremated."
At this point, you might understand why DR was headed for protective custody himself, but he didn't really seem that far around the bend. Except for the cremation thing. "Think on it tonight," I said, "and I'll be back in the morning."
The warm Florida sun rose as scheduled the next day, and a new day always brings new promise. Not so fast, Pollyanna. Cremation was the final word, and cremation it was going to be. I rehearsed the likely conversation with DR's long-time vet. "When did Bloodwort pass away?" Dr. Friendly would naturally ask. And DR would respond, "Oh, he's not dead. That's why I want him cremated." I stopped thinking about it.
Enter - thankfully for Bloodwort - Janice. Janice is DR's letter carrier, who conveniently lives in pastoral Archer, some ten miles west of DR's place. In Archer, Bloodwort would have lots of land, the company of other dogs - dogs with perhaps more euphonious names - and an owner not apparently headed for assisted living. Janice would love to take Bloodwort home.
"Excellent," said DR, "I never wanted to cremate him anyway."
Sigh.
Newt
Saturday, November 5, 2011
Boggle With Me
Think you've seen it all? HAH! Here is a door in a nearby strip mall:
So what, you ask? Here is the sign next door:
Wait for it . . .
Are you sitting down?
Both offices are currently empty. I'm thinking the occupants annihilated each other, like matter and anti-matter.
Newt
Wait for it . . .
Are you sitting down?
Both offices are currently empty. I'm thinking the occupants annihilated each other, like matter and anti-matter.
Newt
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Last Unbillboarded Lawyer
Eye of Newt was privileged last week to land an exclusive interview with Gilbert T. Pardee, Esq., the last lawyer in Pinellas County without his own billboard.
Eye: Mr. Pardee, thank -
Pardee: Please - call me Gil.
EON: OK. Now I understand you do not have a billboard anywhere with your picture and phone number.
P: That's correct. Not even one of those side-of-a-building jobbies.
EON: Why not? I mean, every other lawyer has a whole string of billboards.
P: I know, I know. I guess I'm just a late bloomer. My mother says I was not potty trained until long after all the other kids my age.
EON: Which was . . . ?
P: Two years ago. But we're not here to talk about -
EON: Right, right. But why don't you put up a billboard now?
P: Well, first of all, all the good spots are taken. The bail bondsmen grabbed up all the spots near the criminal courts, and the personal injury guys got the juiciest street corners.
P: Also, I've been trying to set myself apart from the crowd.
EON: How about a referral service? Can I find you through 1-800-ASK-GARY?
P: Actually, no. They, uh, asked me to leave.
EON: Really? Why?
P: I don't have a billboard. You see, Ask Gary makes referrals by checking out the billboards. The billboards closest to the 1-800-ASK-GARY Amphitheater in Tampa get first dibs.
EON: And . . . ?
P: The closest spot not already advertising lawyers was in Savannah. I'm not admitted in Georgia.
EON: So, now what? How are you gonna sell your soul to the devil if he doesn't know you're for sale?
P: I have one brilliant word for you: naming rights!
EON: Uh -
P: I thought of it when I saw that New York's Times Square is now Discovery Times Square. I thought, "Man, that is so COOL!" So I've just finished negotiating for the rights to our most precious asset.
EON: I'm afraid to ask.
P: You got it: The Gil T. Pardee 1-800-I-Object Clearwater Beach. Signs will be appearing soon.
Newt
Eye: Mr. Pardee, thank -
Pardee: Please - call me Gil.
EON: OK. Now I understand you do not have a billboard anywhere with your picture and phone number.
P: That's correct. Not even one of those side-of-a-building jobbies.
EON: Why not? I mean, every other lawyer has a whole string of billboards.
P: I know, I know. I guess I'm just a late bloomer. My mother says I was not potty trained until long after all the other kids my age.
EON: Which was . . . ?
P: Two years ago. But we're not here to talk about -
EON: Right, right. But why don't you put up a billboard now?
P: Well, first of all, all the good spots are taken. The bail bondsmen grabbed up all the spots near the criminal courts, and the personal injury guys got the juiciest street corners.
P: Also, I've been trying to set myself apart from the crowd.
EON: How about a referral service? Can I find you through 1-800-ASK-GARY?
P: Actually, no. They, uh, asked me to leave.
EON: Really? Why?
P: I don't have a billboard. You see, Ask Gary makes referrals by checking out the billboards. The billboards closest to the 1-800-ASK-GARY Amphitheater in Tampa get first dibs.
EON: And . . . ?
P: The closest spot not already advertising lawyers was in Savannah. I'm not admitted in Georgia.
EON: So, now what? How are you gonna sell your soul to the devil if he doesn't know you're for sale?
P: I have one brilliant word for you: naming rights!
EON: Uh -
P: I thought of it when I saw that New York's Times Square is now Discovery Times Square. I thought, "Man, that is so COOL!" So I've just finished negotiating for the rights to our most precious asset.
EON: I'm afraid to ask.
P: You got it: The Gil T. Pardee 1-800-I-Object Clearwater Beach. Signs will be appearing soon.
Newt
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Flashing to Gainesville
My much-loved but somewhat tattered BMW is in the shop as the result of my embarrassing indiscretion with a curbstone. The loaner they gave me is 8 years newer - sweet! - but the interior layout is generally similar to my own. Except for the cruise control, which has celebrated the new decade by migrating from the steering wheel to a stumpy little stalk under the turn-signal-cum-high-beam lever.
So this morning I embarked in the little white loaner to visit an elderly and beloved relative up near Gainesville, about 130 miles from here. Now, I'm a big fan of cruise control, and this particular cruise control is set up cleverly so a forward tap on the stumpy stalk bumps your speed up 1 mph; a rearward tap drops 1 mph. A simple formula. Need to slow down 4 mph? 4 taps. In practice, of course, you just start tapping away as you approach a car in your lane until you match speeds, hopefully settling in a respectful distance behind the overtakee.
You've done that; you know you have.
Oddly, since this is a new car, I keep finding myself tapping away to no effect whatsoever. In this next picture, I'm closing rapidly on the Honda in front of me. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap. Taptaptaptap. Oh crap! Brakes.
I hate to brake on the highway. It's unprofessional and wasteful.
Right. I was tapping the high-beam stalk instead of the cruise control. That explains why the cars I was coming up on - this was not just that one Honda, I'm afraid - anyway, my co-drivers on this highway of life were reacting rather testily. Fingers appeared out windows. Hondas scattered awkwardly out of my lane, apparently discomfited by the berserker in the white BMW closing fast with strobing brights. It was daylight! How was I to know I was flashing? Did I mention the high-intensity laser-quality high beams on my loaner, the ones designed to vaporize small animals at short range? Someone could probably construct an interesting social experiment from this.
There is no universal hand signal for, "Oops, sorry."
Anyway, I finished my visit and later spent an hour alone scouting a potential retirement facility that might be appropriate for my relative. (Ah - if you happen to know the relative in question, would you not mention this? He thinks he will never need assistance with much of anything. He may be right.)
So I'm getting the tour from an overly effective marketing guy, and he's introducing me to a succession of impressively satisfied residents. Big Bad Charlie has just bowled his fourth 300 game on the community Wii, and a lady named "Nancy Pickles" is at the bulletin board admiring her picture taken next to the '55 Chevy that won the parking lot classic car contest.
Finally, we come to an old-timer walking through the dining room. He turns, and his eyes say, "I. Am. Really. Old." He's leprechaun-ish and affable. I quiz him about the food. "Not bad," he says, which I take to mean, "Not particularly good." We chat for a bit.
Inevitably, he asks how old I think he is. Diplomat that I am, I suggest, "a well-preserved 73?"
"Nope. Higher." He pumps his thumb and hops from foot to foot as he reels in the fish.
"75?"
"Higher."
I say, "78?" "81?" This is kind of fun, and my new old friend is working it.
"85?"
"No," he says, "and you better go by fives or we'll be here all day."
When I stop laughing, I guess "90?" I know I'm getting closer. So rather than continue creeping up on the likely right answer - about 94, I'd say - I make the leap to the absurd.
"105?"
His eyes get big, as I expect, and he exclaims, to my gaping amazement, "How did you know?"
One hundred and five years old.
On the way home I flashed another dozen cars into flaming hulks in the drainage ditches.
So this morning I embarked in the little white loaner to visit an elderly and beloved relative up near Gainesville, about 130 miles from here. Now, I'm a big fan of cruise control, and this particular cruise control is set up cleverly so a forward tap on the stumpy stalk bumps your speed up 1 mph; a rearward tap drops 1 mph. A simple formula. Need to slow down 4 mph? 4 taps. In practice, of course, you just start tapping away as you approach a car in your lane until you match speeds, hopefully settling in a respectful distance behind the overtakee.
You've done that; you know you have.
Oddly, since this is a new car, I keep finding myself tapping away to no effect whatsoever. In this next picture, I'm closing rapidly on the Honda in front of me. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap. Taptaptaptap. Oh crap! Brakes.
I hate to brake on the highway. It's unprofessional and wasteful.
Right. I was tapping the high-beam stalk instead of the cruise control. That explains why the cars I was coming up on - this was not just that one Honda, I'm afraid - anyway, my co-drivers on this highway of life were reacting rather testily. Fingers appeared out windows. Hondas scattered awkwardly out of my lane, apparently discomfited by the berserker in the white BMW closing fast with strobing brights. It was daylight! How was I to know I was flashing? Did I mention the high-intensity laser-quality high beams on my loaner, the ones designed to vaporize small animals at short range? Someone could probably construct an interesting social experiment from this.
There is no universal hand signal for, "Oops, sorry."
Anyway, I finished my visit and later spent an hour alone scouting a potential retirement facility that might be appropriate for my relative. (Ah - if you happen to know the relative in question, would you not mention this? He thinks he will never need assistance with much of anything. He may be right.)
So I'm getting the tour from an overly effective marketing guy, and he's introducing me to a succession of impressively satisfied residents. Big Bad Charlie has just bowled his fourth 300 game on the community Wii, and a lady named "Nancy Pickles" is at the bulletin board admiring her picture taken next to the '55 Chevy that won the parking lot classic car contest.
Finally, we come to an old-timer walking through the dining room. He turns, and his eyes say, "I. Am. Really. Old." He's leprechaun-ish and affable. I quiz him about the food. "Not bad," he says, which I take to mean, "Not particularly good." We chat for a bit.
Inevitably, he asks how old I think he is. Diplomat that I am, I suggest, "a well-preserved 73?"
"Nope. Higher." He pumps his thumb and hops from foot to foot as he reels in the fish.
"75?"
"Higher."
I say, "78?" "81?" This is kind of fun, and my new old friend is working it.
"85?"
"No," he says, "and you better go by fives or we'll be here all day."
When I stop laughing, I guess "90?" I know I'm getting closer. So rather than continue creeping up on the likely right answer - about 94, I'd say - I make the leap to the absurd.
"105?"
His eyes get big, as I expect, and he exclaims, to my gaping amazement, "How did you know?"
One hundred and five years old.
On the way home I flashed another dozen cars into flaming hulks in the drainage ditches.
Newt
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