Mentalless

MARK’S ARTICLE – February 18, 2010
“Body Language”

There’s a directory going around that lists the names and e-mail addresses of people who write for newspapers and such. There’s bound to be, ‘cause I keep getting a bunch of press releases concerning everything from a Minneapolis museum opening to the invention of a spit-driven pepper mill. Why else would I get stuff like that?

There is going to be a D-Cinema Festival in Kawaguchi, Japan this July. Thought I’d share that with you. I know what “cinema” and “festival” mean. I assume the person who forwarded this to me thought I knew what the “D” meant. We all know what can happen when you assume.

Due to a proposed video project, I’ve started eating out with Montgomery County’s restaurant reviewer Brad Meyer. You might’ve noticed. Since then, I’ve been getting press releases from all over the place about culinary happenings. Did you know there’s a Culinary World Summit in Halifax coming up? Someone thought I should be aware of it. Someone who doesn’t have the foggiest of what an unsophisticated goober I am.

That said, if Brad can get someone to pay my way, I’ll be there. Don’t care if he goes or not. I’ll take notes and let him write the thing up.

Fortunately, not everything I’ve received has been useless info. The whole intro has just been a buildup for the book I just bought on Amazon. Seems I got a press release from Gregory Hartley’s agent. I had never heard of him either. The release mentioned a book he had written with the help of a Maryann Karinch (no idea.) titled “The Body Language Handbook: How to read everyone’s hidden thoughts and intentions.”

The e-mail encouraged me to call Greg and interview him about his book. While in the U.S. army, the guy apparently taught a course in interrogation and resistance to interrogation. I e-mailed back that I’d like to have Greg appear on a Rooftop episode with Big Al and me. His agent responded that Greg lives in Atlanta. I took that to mean that I’d hafta fly his buns out here and put him up somewhere. If I don’t have money to get myself to Halifax, I’m sure not gonna fly Greg over for a visit. Read this body language.

But, I will read his book. Haven’t gotten very far, yet. Just got it yesterday. I bought the thing ‘cause I’ve been getting more and more confused by what people tell me. I think I need to be able to read them to see what they really mean. Like “The Mentalist.” That guy is great. Kay especially likes him. He could put on a show about how to paint doorknobs and Kay would watch.

The Mentalist knows when you’re lying or scared or worried, but don’t want anyone to know. He reads body language and voice inflec-- uh, tone, I guess.

I’d like to be able to do stuff like that. Not to show-off or anything, though I’m sure I would. But, I’d genuinely like to know what people really mean when they’re talking to me. After an audition I’ll hear, “Fantastic! You blew us away! I’ll call you tonight.” That usually means, “You stink on ice. I think you actually hurt my retinas.” You can never trust people in the acting business. I’d like to be able to read ‘em right off, so I wouldn’t get my hopes up.

If this book works, I’ll be able to take everything at body value and not word value. The body says a bunch… according to Greg. You ladies may not realize that when a guy folds his hands in front of him, in a fig leaf sort of way, that means he’s under stress. Men know that, ‘cause we’re smart like everything. I do the fig leaf pose every time one of the brothers enters a room with a rolled up newspaper. Believe I’ve mentioned that.
When a lady folds her arms across her chest while talking to you, she may be annoyed and want to put distance between the both of you. I usually just use a book or pillow or chair. Just kind of shove it out there. But, folded arms will do in a pinch.

By the way, my attitude is one of a defeatist. I know that ‘cause I stand in a constant slump with my shoulders drooped. Greg and Maryann say I do that ‘cause I’m defeated. I think it’s just ‘cause I’ve got lousy posture… possibly brought on by defeatism.

Oh well, I didn’t buy the book to find out about me. I know me. No, I got it so I could read other people. Like the Mentalist does. Of course, I’m pretty sure that Kay doesn’t care one way or the other if I can read people. She’d just like me to look like the Mentalist. She hasn’t said it, but even without a book, I can pick up on things like that. It’s a gift.

END

Order anything you want

Hayter family eating with Oklahoma kinfolk. This was BA. (Before Al)

MARK’S ARTICLE – February 15, 2010

"No pie for you"

I just got off the phone with Dennis. Nothing earth shattering. He couldn’t read what he wrote down for our sister Sue’s phone number, and wanted to know what I had. I was his third call… the first person he caught home.

I learned a couple of things from the phone call. First of all, I found out that in an emergency I’m the third person Dennis would call. That kind of hurts. -- Wait a minute. -- Okay, I’m over it.

The other thing I learned was that Dennis and Dardon Ann ate supper out yesterday. I don’t remember where. (And I just took the call. I’m worrying myself.) Fortunately, Dennis didn’t tell me what he ordered, ‘cause we’re not that old… yet. -- "Then I got the peas. No, it was the beans. The limer beans. Somethin’ green." -- When that starts happenin’, just shoot us. Dennis first.

One thing that Dennis did tell me had to do with a guy who brought his entire family to the restaurant. Must’ve been eight kids and his wife. They all ordered whatever they wanted, and the dad paid. Probably about $150.

That started the big conversation about when we were kids. Doesn’t take much to start that conversation. You can count on one hand the times Dad took us all out to eat. Never took us anywhere fancy. Wyatts Cafeteria was the only place I recall.

I don’t ever remember Mom standing there in line and telling us what to get. We just understood that we were to ask for the cheapest stuff. "Yes, young man? The chicken fried mystery product? What else for you?"

Once I did ask Mom if I could get pie for dessert. I don’t know what I was thinking. It was coconut cream, icebox pie and it called to me. Then Mom called to me. --"Are you outta your ever lovin’ mind? You touch that pie and you’ll set off a chain reaction that will start with Dennis and stop down there at li’l Al, and it’ll end up sending us all to the poor house! ‘Can I have a piece of pie?’ Idiots! I’ve birthed idiots!" -- Mom didn’t say it exactly like that, but that’s what I heard.

These are the people who woulda wanted pie. Too many kids. Too much pie.

I can remember only one time in my life when I was allowed to order anything I wanted. I was about 10 and Dennis 13. We were in Florida with Dad and Larry and Grandma Pearl. Pearl was the rich grandma. The stuff of scandal.

Grandma took us to a foreign restaurant. Spanish, French, Romanian…? Who can remember? Dad said we could order anything off the menu, ‘cause Grandma was buying. He didn’t say that in front of grandma, of course.

It was the first time Dennis or I had seen a menu that was more than a page. The only thing I recognized was the fried chicken, so we both ordered it. When the waiter took our order, Dad was all over us. "Here you are in a fancy French or Romanian restaurant, and you order fried chicken! What’s wrong with you two?"

Grandma got after Dad for yelling at us, but we still felt like clods. We couldn’t even order a meal right. We’d played the "eating-out game" and lost. Mom was so right.

Dad was right, too. When at a Romanian restaurant, never order the fried chicken. Maybe since the Iron Curtain came down they’ve improved a bit. But, back in the day, they cooked a vile bird.

Well, that story is what Dennis and I kicked around for a few minutes. Probably the 68th retelling. Before Dennis could hang up, I said, "Hey, dawg, don’t forget to call your sister." There was a brief pause and then he said, "Oh, yeah. You got her phone number?"

We are so close to being there. Don’t forget. Dennis first.

END

MARK’S ARTICLE – Febrary 10, 2010
“Guilt Closet”

How do you handle guilt? Pretty well? Don’t let it fester? Hold onto it for a second and then let it go? Looks like a few of you.

Well, you oughtta teach a class. I might even attend. Second thought, no I won’t. But, I will feel guilty for not. I’m a mess. I could go to my closet of the mind and drag out a buncha guilt that I’ve been holding onto forever. Stuff from back in my kid days, most of which I’ve written about. Doesn’t help. It stays in storage.

Several things have touched off this week’s guilt topic. Haiti for one. Have you heard about that? Thought so. The news breaks my heart. Yet, you’ve got people in the U.S. adopting Haitian children; doctors flying over there donating their time and supplies; firemen and other rescue personnel helping dig through the rubble.

Kay and I have thrown a little money at the problem and said some serious prayers, but haven't yet stepped out of our comfort zone to do much. Don’t know what to do, and scared of someone telling me what I could do. Shovel on the guilt.

Saw in the paper today a story about a kid riding his bicycle around the park trying to raise money for the relief effort. There’s a guy at church who got together some medical supplies and commandeered a plane to fly the supplies to Port-au-Prince.

If I had the money to do that, I still wouldn’t do it. I might hire somebody to do it, but I wouldn’t tackle something that required so much effort. Same reason I won’t personally paint my house. Way too much effort. If I can’t afford to hire the job out, it’s not going to happen.

So, I sit on the couch and the news of people starving, people horribly injured and people with absolutely nothing left of their lives, except their lives. I’m watching this during supper. “Oops, forgot the rolls. I’ll go get ‘em.”

More guilt. The kind that takes up residence, while doing little to spark one to action. It’s the worst kind. Psychologists will tell you to lose something like that. I imagine. That’s their job, isn’t it? Make you feel better about yourself.

So, I’ll keep my inaction concerning Haiti stored in the closet for a good while. Try to shove it way back there. Back behind the times I chose to lose contact with “close” friends; the times I treated rude people rudely; the times I provided an excellent example on how not to handle a situation. It’s all up there… and in vivid detail.

I got into a heated argument last week. I didn’t think it was all that heated at the time, but Al assured me it was. I told myself to keep quiet during the whole thing. Didn’t help. Had to show that I was in the right. Accomplished absolutely nothing in doing so. I knew that at the time. I still did it. So, the guilt gets stuffed into the closet.

Weird how I can still find room for new stuff in that closet. Still haven’t tossed out the guilt concerning the time as a child when I told on Jill for something I did. Jill doesn’t remember the incident. She didn’t choose to store it her closet of jerks. Jill is a peach.

Me? I feel like the peach pit. Yeah, I think someone out there needs to teach a class in guilt. How to get it out of storage and then how to dispose of it. You need to make it sound easy, though. Anything requiring much effort is not likely to help. You’ll just be adding to the closet. You don’t wanna do that. – A prayer a blessing for the people of Haiti, and for all those working to make a difference.

END

Past and future TV remotes

MARK’S ARTICLE – January 19, 2010
“The virtual remote”

Did you read in the paper where TV remotes are gonna become obsolete? Well, you need to read technological stuff like that, or life will just pass you by and you’ll have people pointing and laughing at you? It’s no fun, let me tell you.

According to some really smart people, instead of pointing a remote at the TV, you’ll just point your finger. Somehow or other a signal comes through your finger and tells the TV what to do.

I’m pretty sure it all started with that Tom Cruise movie “Minority Report.” Remember that? Cruise points to a huge glass panel, and instantly words appear and disappear with the movement of his hands.

After the movie came out, scientists must’ve gotten busy doing stuff like that. Started off with the weather. As the weatherman moves his hand over a screen, a yellow line shows up and goes wherever he points. Wouldn’t it be great to have that power?

So, in the not too distant future we’re going to be able to change channels by pointing. We’re either going to have to wear diodes on our fingertips or else the cable box is going to be reading our thoughts. I don’t know that I want a box reading my thoughts. My thoughts scare me sometimes. Sure don’t want to put the people at DISH Network on alert. – “Hey, it was just a thought! It’s gone now. No, cuffs, please!”

The new pointing technology is coming at a time when I’m already a real pro with the handheld remote. Do you know that it takes 17 clicks of the remote to get DISH to “close caption” a program? Well it does. And, I can hit the menu button, up and down and sideways buttons without looking or thinking. In fact, if I stop long enough to think, I’ll really mess up.

It’s just a reflex. Kind of like when someone walks near me with a ball. I instantly guard my privates. Dennis did that to me. Created an unconscious flinch. An embarrassing thing it is. And, I can’t get past it.

It’ll probably take me awhile to get my remote finger to work right. I’ll be pointing and waving and throwing stuff at the TV. But, I’ll catch on. Don’t know about little old ladies. I can’t see it happening. – “Sonny, will you come over and point at my TV. It won’t listen to my finger.”

I wish my Dad had been alive to see what they’ve done with remotes. He just wouldn’t believe it. You see, I was raised at time when your finger and thumb was the remote. You had to walk or scoot over to the TV and twist the dials. Whatta pain.

In our house, the remote was the closest person to the TV who wasn’t Dad. -- “Mark, put it on Channel 2.” or “Dennis, hit the volume. Mr. Ed is mumbling again.” Or “Hey, the vertical hold isn’t gonna fix itself. Move!”

Dennis and I began changing positions in the living room. We started out lying on the floor in front of the TV, and then changed to sitting on the couch. Jill and Big Al had to do adjust the TV after that.

If they had developed the finger pointing remote back in The Day, there would’ve been a lot of bloodshed in the Hayter house. I’m thinking. – “Hey, who changed the channel? Which one of you little weasels pointed at the TV?” – Yeah, Dad would’ve killed us. Or, duct taped our body parts.

Dad loved duct tape. And, I know he would’ve liked the notion of pointing to a TV and getting it to do what he wanted. That’s some serious power. Don’t know how it’s gonna play out in the hands of the masses. Carnage. I’m thinking carnage.

END

Jill extending Elsie's path

MARK’S ARTICLE – January 11, 2010
“All New People”


ROOFTOP -- Can you believe Kay asked me just last week if she could throw this hat away? The very thought.

For those of you too cozy to climb up here with us, let me say that it’s one of those red, plaid, woolen, hunter’s caps with the earflaps. Elmer Fudd cap is what it is. We used it as a prop for Jill in one of our Rooftop episodes. I hafta say it looks so much better on me. Stunning, actually.

This is among the coldest of roofsits. Not the coldest, just among ‘em. And, on that note, let me say that there’s no way you’re getting this mug of coffee away from me. Those of you who wish to climb down and start another pot, go head. The backdoor is open, and-- Well, looks like I lost half my readership.

I really enjoy the cold. I’ve got about five jackets in my closet, and only get to wear one or two of ‘em three weeks out of the year.

When I was in high school I used to wear a lot of sweaters. Not all at once. I can’t handle sweaters anymore. I have to take ‘em off the minute I go indoors. Messes up my near-bald head. Few things goofier-looking than messed up hair on a near-bald guy. Well, that’s a lie. There are a lot of things goofier, but I’m just saying…

By the by, how many have noticed that this is the first roofsit of the year… of the decade for that matter? That’s cool, but I’m still not sharing my coffee. If we had time we could reminisce about the decade past, but that’s been done and done.

Or, we could make predictions. I used to make predictions each New Year. I quit when I realized that I hate reading the corny predictions of others. Just about every prediction I made involved running someone down. I’m not above criticizing people or institutions, but I hate to dig to come up with stuff. It’s attitude wrecking. Hate to start a New Year with a wrecked attitude.

So, no predicting. No matter how much silly prognosticating we do it all means absolutely nothing. Good or bad, stuff is headed our way. We’ll deal with it… however we deal with it. Laugh, dance, worry, fuss… Then a hundred years from now it’s all new people.

I used to say “A hundred years from now it’s not gonna matter.” We all did. It didn’t stick long, but we thought it a time or two. On one of the episodes of the new Ray Romano series, “Men of a Certain Age”, one of the characters told Ramono, “A hundred years from now there will be all new people.” Point being: Don’t get too bogged down with stuff.

I thought that line sounded so much more profound than “In 100 years it won’t make any difference.” Regardless, the “new people” notion shouldn’t make us want to give up on stuff. Should make us more aware of leaving some kind of footprint in life. Just a little something that changed for the better because of our being here.

Jill told me about being near the end of a line at a checkout. Seems there was an elderly lady up front holding everything up. She was fumbling nervously through her purse for change, while the people in the area were acting a bit putout. Jill said the lady reminded her of Mom.

My kid sister walked to the front of the line and asked the lady if she could help. “Oh, thank you, Sweetheart. I’m just all thumbs, today,” the lady said. Jill found the change and helped the lady load her cart. Jill rushed to the parking lot after checking out, but the old the lady was nowhere to be found.

Doesn’t matter. Jill left a footprint at the end of a trail that Mom began. The print may stop right there. Who can know? Regardless, wouldn’t Elsie be proud?

Makes me feel guilty about not sharing my coffee. Oops. The guilt just passed. No worry. The year is young. Plenty of time for footprints. Besides, I don’t think giving up my coffee is a good place to make a footprint. I’ll try to find something better. Pick a time when we’re not freezing on the roof. Like maybe next time.

END

'nother birthday trip

MARK’S ARTICLE – January 7, 2009
“Virginia’s birthday trip”

Last week we took Virginia on her birthday trip. It came a month late, because of scheduling problems. If she hadn’t kept reminding us, I would’ve forgotten she had a birthday.

I can see we have some first-time readers out there, so I’d best explain the birthday trip. For reasons long since forgotten, the Plilers and the Hayters have a birthday tradition whereby we celebrate each special day with a day trip to a place designated by the birthday person. The birthdayed.

We eat breakfast out; drive to who knows where; eat lunch out; and try to make it home by suppertime. It’s an outing where you go around looking at stuff between meals. Does it get any better than that?

Of course, one of Virginia’s outings turned into an overnighter. We ended up passing right by the Tepee Motel near Wharton. Virginia decided she wanted to sleep in a wigwam in a town where there was nothing to do but look for a place to eat. So we did. We did it all for Sleeps in Wigwam Woman. She was so happy.

That was a couple of years back. On this year’s trip, Virginia started off bad by choosing the wrong breakfast place. Sleeps in Wigwam made me drive right past the place where they leave the coffeepot on your table. Right past it. We ended up at the Magnolia Diner just east of Montgomery.

I like the Magnolia Diner. Good food, great atmosphere, and the best music on the planet. However, their meals don’t have interesting names. Instead of the “Hot ‘N Tooty, Fresh ‘N Fruity” breakfast, you get the “Two Eggs and Meat” breakfast. You can’t even sing that!

But the worst is that the waitress doesn’t leave the coffeepot. Doesn’t trust me. During my meal, she came by once to refill. The next time I had to wave at someone in the kitchen. They were as apologetic as all get out, but, hey, I had to wave.

Brad Meyer, the Montgomery County restaurant review guy, would think a coffeepot not much of an issue. He’s more concerned about the temperature of the bacon and the texture of the toast. Hey, I’ve eaten out with the guy. I wouldn’t have him over to my house for anything. We’d end up in a punchfest. But, at least I’d have a coffeepot close by to swing at him.

Virginia didn’t care about my coffee issues. She wanted country hash browns. In the country, people don’t shred their potatoes. They cut ‘em in chunks. That’s what Virginia wanted. Chunks. It’s always about Sleeps in Wigwam.

After our scrumptious breakfast, sans coffeepot, we left the diner and headed to I-knew-not where. That’s another thing about the birthday outing. The birthday person doesn’t hafta tell the rest of us where we’re going. I was driving, so I just turned where I was told

We ended up touring every little crossroad town south and west of Harris County. Virginia wanted to see some small towns. The big problem with that has to do with the fact that the birthday person gets $15 to spend on something non-edible, non-essential, and unthought of prior to the trip. Something you wouldn’t normally get yourself.

If you stop in places like Frydek, Orchard and Burleigh, you’re definitely gonna find stuff you hadn’t thought of, but you’re not gonna to fork over $15 for any of it. – “How ‘bout a rice pruner?”

Obviously, Virginia didn’t find anything she wanted to spend her birthday money on. The rules say that if you don’t spend the $15 on the trip, you forfeit it. Hey, it’s a rule. But, just tell that to Sleeps in Wigwam.

I eventually gave in and let her keep the money. The rules aren’t worth the grief. She’d have me driving around till after supper. And, let me tell you, a couple of times we got way too close to Wharton. I couldn’t risk accidentally driving past those tepees. Sits With Coffeepot no want stop at wigwams. Bad medson.

But we did kill off another birthday. The next trip will be of Freeman’s choosing. Fortunately, Married to Sleeps in Wigwam is sensible as all get out. I might be able to talk him into Hot ‘N Tooty with a coffeepot on the table. No waving.

END

A spectacle on ice

MARK’S ARTICLE – January 5, 2009
“Ice follies”

Big Al and I shot a “From the Rooftop” episode last week at The Woodlands Ice Rink. In a week or two you oughtta be able to see it on My Metropolis Television Network. (www.mymtvnetwork.com)

My MTV Network is the only place that airs all of the Montgomery County happenings that you care to see. And, some you’d just as soon not. -- Hey, I think I just came up with their slogan. It’ll probably get me summoned to the Producer’s office. Mr. Tyler Forner. The man’s a bear.

In fact, he’s the one who ordered us onto the ice. Al and I figured we’d just go the rink and interview people. Little kids, medium-sized kids and wanna-be kids all skating along like they had good sense. Great episode.


But, noooo. The big guy wants Big Al and me in skates. Tight-fitting, ankle twisting, balance hampering footwear. Mr. Forner wants to see us out on the ice having fun. He wants me dead is what he wants. A shot of me dying on ice would be great for the ratings. That’s the way the man thinks.

Big Al? Not worried at all… at first. Then he put on the skates. Grace was nowhere under the tent. Al managed to hold half an interview before he fell on his rear and had to be helped up. Took about three of us. Al was worried for about three minutes. Then he was all over the place. He’s an athlete. I’m so tired of hearing that.

Me? I was worried from the get go. I had been ice-skating once many years ago and came home with my pants soaked. Some of the water came from the constant landing on the ice.

Fortunately, people at the ice rink couldn’t have been nicer. We had a great interview with Jim, the manager, and with Victor, The Spectrum manager who set up the whole operation.

Victor yelled at Al when he tried to turn off all 100,000 lights around the complex by unscrewing a single bulb. Al is such a goober. After that, I thought the ice rink manager would be mean to us, but Jim was a peach. He even agreed to provide us with an instructor. I think I kissed the guy.

Yeah, but get this; Jim’s complementary instructor turned out to be a five-year old girl named Addison. The kid explained how we were supposed to move our feet and how to stop and how not to fall. Then she carried her tiny walker onto the ice and scooted along. I would’ve been really ticked off at Jim, had li’l Addie not been so cute. A doll she was.

Long story less long, Al and I skidded and tripped and double faulted all over the ice. I never fell, ‘cause I married the railing. Al fell once. Took him about two minutes to eventually hit the ice. People were applauding.

Yes, the skating part was shaky as all get out, but it happened inside a giant tent full of fun. There are some people in this county, people of all ages, who really have some graceful moves. And, those with less graceful moves have twice the fortitude I do. Hey, had I been Columbus, the Santa Maria would’ve turned back at Gibraltar.

Yes, we did a lot of laughing and clowning at the rink, which, incidentally will be open through January 18. Take grandma and the kids with you. Watch grandma pretty close.

The important thing is, I didn’t get hurt. Humiliated big time, but not hurt. And, Kay missed it. That’s another good thing.

Unfortunately, she’ll see it when it comes out on My Metropolis Television Network. Maybe in a week or two. The network is in its infancy. When it’s in full swing, you’re gonna see some serious stuff. And, some not so. Al and I are the not so.

Of course, if Forner, the big boss man, doesn’t tone himself down, I’m gonna get super serious on one of his fists. The man’s a bear I tell you!

END