So much stuff, so little space.

  The greatest pen in the history of Western Civilization

 

“Gotta have it”

    Do you consider yourself a sucker for advertisement? If you see a picture of a battery powered posthole digger does it cause your palms to sweat? Stuff like that does not affect me. I am practical beyond reason. Most days.

    Yesterday, I was getting my oil changed at Troy Garrison’s new automotive shop on South Frazier near Gladstell. Troy, his dad and a friend named Jerry just set up the place. It’s called Jay’s Automotive. I only mention it because the experience is tied to this story, and because Troy’s an ex-student and among the most honest mechanics in the county. Maybe the world.

    So, I’m sitting in Jay’s waitingroom watching TV ‘cause I’m tired of reading my Larry McMurtry book --“The Wandering Hill.” McMurtry introduces about two dozen characters in the first 20 pages. I’m good for five, tops.

    That’s why I started watching “Price is Right” with Drew Cary, a comedian who stepped into something lucrative, but o’ so demeaning. As I looked up to see my car and the TV at the same time, a contestant had just gone absolutely freakizoid over winning a hot tub, a Vespa and about 100 other things.

    It was the blue Vespa that called to me. How cool is that thing? You don’t straddle it, you just sit down like you’re at the kitchen table and the handlebars are your fork and spoon. My big brother Larry owned a white Vespa back in the sixties, when it was groovy for a guy to ride a sissy motor bike. Self-awareness was unfashionable.

When I got home, I mentioned the Vespa to Kay and she was not all that excited. Tell the truth, I don’t think she took me seriously. Not even when I told her I could drive it around the neighborhood and maybe down to Sonic to bring us home some tater tots. You wanna know what her response was? -- “Sonic never fries their tater tots enough.” –Thanks, Sonic. 

Okay, let’s go back to Jay’s Automotive. While I was paying Troy’s dad for the oil change, he handed me a complementary pen. It had “Jay’s Automotive and Transmission” printed on the side and – Get this! – a tiny flashlight bulb on the opposite end of the writing part. You push on the bulb and the thing shines one of those bright LED lights. LCD? One of those tiny lights.

When I showed Virginia the pen, she went squirrel spaz on me. I had to try to wrestle the thing out of her purse. Who needs a pen with a light on the end? I do when I’m on the rooftop at night, but Virginia definitely doesn’t need one. Yet, she punched, kicked, and karate chopped her way out of my house. 

Crazy thing is, I understand why. Just a little while ago I was looking at the ads when I saw something I really wanted. Almost needed it, even. You’re absolutely right. It was a picture of a pitchfork.

    There is no farm implement that intimidates more than a pitchfork. Anytime a pitchfork is introduced into a movie or TV show it ends up in somebody?  Can you imagine Kay and I watching “Longmire” and all of a sudden there’s a home invasion. Two thugs manage to kick, knock and pry their way into the house, and I reach over and grab the pitchfork next to the couch.

    Instantly, I become a most menacing figure. – “Hey, Four Toes, we’ve got a really mean one here. He’s got a pitchfork!” – “Oh, yeah? Well plug him!” – “Did I mention he’s holding a pitchfork!” – “Oh, right. Let’s get outta here!”

    The mental image of getting pitchforked is among the worst imaginings known to man. One step below putting drops in your ear. Regardless, I’m not getting a pitchfork. Kay doesn’t want one in the house. She said my second wife may not mind so much.

    And, that’s not all. I know you wish it were. But, yesterday, Kay’s cousin Sharla, posted on Facebook, an ad for weird office supplies. Among the ads was a Desk Egg Paperclip Nest. You put a pile of paperclips on your desk, and then set this fist-size magnetic egg on top. Instantly the clips surround the egg to the point where it looks like it’s in a nest.

There are four paperclip holders in this house. But, not a one of ‘em is a magnetic egg. I have no use for one, but I feel a need. Kay says there will be a pitchfork in the living room, before there will be a magnetic egg on my desk.

    I was actually glad to hear that, ‘cause it looks like I’m gonna need a pitchfork before I ever expect to get my flashlight ballpoint pen back. Ruby Jewel would be so disappointed in her daughter if she were alive to see how she covets her friend’s stuff. It’s one of the Commandments, you know? I believe it was Moses who said, “When it’s hot, want it cold. When it’s cold want it hot. Always wanting what is not.” Maybe Noah.

end

mark@rooftopwriter.com  &  www.rooftopwriter.com

I got birthday gifts from Kay and the neighbor's cat.

An underwear flip kick from a record 11.3 feet

 

“A Happy Birthday”

    I had a nice birthday. It was absolutely party-less. Been my experience, a party can really mess up a perfectly good day.

I received gifts this year from Kay and one of the neighbor’s cats. That was one more gift-giver than I anticipated. I did get a lot of attention on Facebook. Jill, Big Al and a few of my friends mentioned my birthday and I got a lot of wishes to be happy. Just look at me. See? It worked. 

I know you’re eager to find out what Kay got me. She did great. Two weeks ago we were strolling in Sams and I saw a whole crate of pillows in cardboard boxes with a pillow picture on each box. This made it quite difficult for me to squeeze the actual pillow.

 The picture did look cool, though. Literally. It showed the pillow to have a thin layer of that blue gel stuff on it. You know, that gel that they put inside ensoles to make you’re steps feel soft? Like you’re walking across the bottoms of some giggling babies, and they’re lovin’ it. It doesn’t get softer than that. I imagine.

So, I summoned Kay over to the pillow box and asked her to open one so I could squeeze the pillow to see if was soft and cool just like in the picture. I didn’t want to do open it ‘cause I don’t think you’re supposed to open stuff before you buy it. Kids do it all the time, but I don’t adults are supposed to. Kids get to open anything they want. Cracker Jacks, potato chips, bananas… Today’s Moms don’t care. Elsie would’ve smacked me across the back of the head with a sack of dried beans.

I’m sorry. I’m just a little jealous of today’s youth. Anyway, Kay wouldn’t open the box for me, but she did something better. She sneaked back to Sam’s and bought me the pillow. I really like it, too, ‘cause it keeps my head cool during the night. I’m fairly sure it’s psychosomatic. If you tell me that putting a boiled egg in my armpit will cause constipation, I’ll get constipated. Even without the egg. Maybe “psycho” is the word I’m looking for.

Kay also got me two big jars of cashews. That adds up to four pounds and two ounces of nuts. A four-day supply. They’re the whole nuts. Not the extra salty, halves and pieces. I’m telling you, they’re the big ones.

Oh, oh, and she also bought me this compressed web-like hoop thing that springs out to form a four oval-sided webbed basket. That’s the best description I’ve got. It’s light as all get out. You can kick it down the stairs, sail it off the roof, or stick it over your head. I’ve tried two of those. One of ‘em almost emasculated me. The little wire oval things have pent-up energy just waiting to thwack something.

Anyway, Kay got me the basket ‘cause she was tired of me throwing my socks and underwear on the bedroom floor. She thought if I had a fun basket, I’d make a game of flipping my underwear toward it. This woman is gold. 

Oh, and the cat? The cat did great. About two weeks ago, Kay opened the backdoor from the outside and yelled, “Mark!” Boy, I hate it when she does that. I’ve given up thinking she might’ve found a dollar bill in the yard.  Anyway, she said, “The neighbor’s cat just chased a coral snake across our yard!” – I yelled back, “Okay!”

Five seconds later, a winded Kay was standing in the doorway of the living room with her hands on her hips giving me the ol’ stink-eye. I gradually hurried out of my recliner and followed her to the backyard, all the while praying, “Please, please let the snake be gone.”

Prayer answered. The thing was hiding in the little wooded patch on the edge of our property. I honestly believe Kay wanted me to go in there and flush it out. It’d be like in the movies when the stupid person goes into the attic to catch the old ghost woman who has been terrorizing the family for months. The ghost can make the walls and doors bend, yet, one person has got to go in and find her. I don’t think so.

Kay eventually ran back to the house and called the neighbors on both sides of us. Warned them about the coral snake. I would’ve done that, but I still have just a hint of masculinity left. – “Hey, Mark called. He’s afraid of a snake.”

Well, eight o’clock this morning, the neighbor’s son called Kay. “Ms. Kay, my cat killed the coral snake and put it on our porch. Cut its head off and everything.” Cats are always showing off.

That was actually my first birthday gift of the day. While I still hold no true affection for cats, I will no longer shoo them away from the yard. Any animal that has the tenacity to bite the head off a poisonous snake can roam my yard day or night. In fact, I insist.  – Yeah, this year’s birthday will be hard to top. I insist no one try .

End

Mark@rooftopwriter.com  and  www.rooftopwriter.com

Cursive? What happened to writing?

“Stuck in time”

A lousy singer and brilliant songwriter once put the words, “The times they are a changin’” to music. Then he followed ‘em with the worst harmonica playing ever broadcast. And, I thought it genius.

“The times they are a changin’.” Of course times are changing. If they didn’t, everything would stop. Scientists would never be able to get things started again, because they couldn’t move. That Dylan was so profound.

If time suddenly stopped, I’d probably be frozen in time putting on deodorant. Do you know how hard it is to keep your arm raised above your head for a couple of minutes? Try a lifetime. I’m sure you can think of other unfortunate positions to be in, but you’ll have to do it on your own time. I’m goin’ somewhere with this. Don’t think I’m not.

Did you happen to read the article about proof of insurance verification? As of September 1, in Texas, you can now download your proof of insurance to your cell phone and show it to the officer.

This is an example of our changing times. Not for me, though. It’s all I can do to complete a call on my cell phone. There’s no way I could pull up a picture or written message. You might as well send me an air guitar as a text message.

This is only one of a few thousand changes in paper usage that are taking place. There is now a new type of digital money called “Bitcoin.”  It’s a currency that is backed by absolutely nothing. No country or bank. It has value simply because some people desire to have it. It’s like… well, nothing of which I’m aware. I would try to explain the concept, but I’m the guy who has trouble using his cell phone.

There was a time when I never thought I’d ever use a credit card. Just when I got good at it, someone came up with bitcoin. I can safely say that I’ll never use it because I have little faith in something that exists only in the minds of those who play Internet games… not that there’s anything wrong with that.

And, something else I never imagined I’d live to see is the elimination of cursive writing from school curriculum. Cursive? I was in my mid-forties before I even knew what it meant. My teachers were foolishly calling it “handwriting.” That makes as much sense as referring to jogging as “feet-running.”

It took me longer than most to catch on to cursive writing. Writing words in a way that they’re all connected in one continual pen stroke required students with an eye/hand coordination rate higher than four. I eventually achieved what was referred to by all of my teachers as “lousy handwriting.” I’m a fast writer, though. Boy, am I fast.

Today’s youngsters may never have to worry about anything other than handprinting. The word “signature” will mean nothing to them. – “Print your name at the top of the page and then print it at the bottom in a way that no one can read it.”

It takes me at least three times longer to print something than to write it. Do you realize it takes four pen strokes to print an E? After two strokes, I’m pretty well alibiing.

The next generation of kids won’t have to worry about any kind of writing. They’ll be keying in everything. There will be no need for paper or pens in school. It’ll be keyboards and styluses. Or styli. You know, those little pointy things that you poke at your Kindles and Ipads and such?

In time the word “write” will go the way of, uh… words we don’t use anymore. Let’s see, Dookie. As in, “That’s a buncha dookie.” -- Ice box. As in, “If you don’t close that ice box door, I’m gonna knock the dookie out of you!” – This is actually more enjoyable than thinking of the changing times.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, “write” is gone. Gone the way of the word “type,” as in 40 words-a-minute. I once got up to 64 with no mistakes. Afterwards, I jumped up and did 73 pushups. I was wired. To this day I sometimes air-type while I’m watching TV or when Kay talks to me.  

Of course, it’s now it’s called “keying.” I suppose. Don’t worry about learning that, ‘cause “keying” will soon be a thing of the past. There are now computers that print whatever you say. Jill has a phone that she talks to. I’m not making this up! -- “Text Mark, ‘The recipe I told you about is wrong.  Add one cup of ‘sugar’ not ‘black olives.’” – Of course, I don’t know how to pull up texts, so I’ll end up baking sugarless chocolate chip olive cookies. 

Yes-siree, times they are a changin’ and I’m on hold. You might say, when it comes to technology I’m handicapped. Oops. That’s another one of those obsolete words. I’m dumb as dirt. I think we can still say stuff like that. For now.


End

Mark@rooftopwriter.com and www.rooftopwriter.com

BBQ INN in Houston

“Directions for eating a Seafood Platter”

    I finally got Kay’s birthday behind me. I know you were worried about that. Since none of you bothered to help me select something nice, I ended up getting practical stuff. A lot of practical stuff. I went to Sam’s.

    Do you know how much of our Tupperware Kay has given away over the last couple of years? Practically all of it. I keep telling her to put her name on the stuff, but noooo. She considers it rude.

    You know what’s rude? I’ll tell you what’s rude. Not giving somebody back their Tupperware. -- By the way, I call all see-through plastic food containers “Tupperware.” Just like I call all lawn trimmers “weedeaters” and all carbonated beverages “coke.” Of course, like everyone else, I call cocaine -- Bernice. My brain? What am I gonna do with it?

    So, where is this leading? It’s leading to a 50 piece Tupperware collection that I got Kay for her birthday. She was flabbergasted. Oh, and I also got her 24 different clips to clamp chip, bread and cereal bags. There are a bunch of small ones, too, for posting notes on the fridge. We don’t do that, but when we start, we’ve certainly got the clip magnets. There are even a couple of large clips that you can really hurt yourself with. Kay even warned. I considered that a dare.

    What else? Oh, I got her a giant bag of shelled pistachios, a bunch of peanut M&Ms and a dozen yellow roses. There may be better looking husbands, but none as nicer. What I’m sayin’?

    The best thing about Kay’s birthday was letting her pick a place to eat. She chose The Barbecue Inn in Houston. When she named the place, I quit eating her pistachios long enough to do the dance of joy. This man can boogie.

About 40 years ago, Virginia’s Dad, Rodger Parker, introduced us to The Barbecue Inn, located on the corner of Crosstimbers and Yale. A less than attractive part of town, Crosstimbers and Yale. However, it happens to be the location of the best fried seafood platter known to mankind.

Rodger used to sing the praises of the BBQ Inn. I hate it when someone does that. I figured it could not possibly live up to his acclaim, but it did. Surpassed it even. That old man even had to tell us how to eat the mountain of oysters, shrimp, fish and stuffed crab.

That’s the kind of stuff we talked about during our trip to the BBQ Inn with Virginia and Freeman. Virginia tried to impersonate her father in telling how he would instruct people how to eat the seafood platter. -- “Don’t eat the salad. It’ll only fill you up. And the fries? Forget ‘em! You’ll never be able to finish your seafood if you eat the potatoes...”

That was Rodger all right. The first time we went with him, the seafood platter cost about $2.50. The price was a little higher this time. It was right at $22. Not bad for the best seafood platter in the Western Hemisphere. (Note: I have never witnessed anyone ordering BBQ at the Barbecue Inn. I’m sure it’s great, but I will likely never find out.

    What made our meal even more special was the re-living part. Do you know where the Hayters and Plilers were during Game One of the 1988 World Series between the Dodgers and Oakland As? We were staying at a ranch resort somewhere in the Hill Country, watching the game on a live feed. It was the first time I had ever heard of a live feed.

When the announcers cut to a commercial, the camera stayed right on ‘em and you could hear them swearing and joking and planning what they were going to say when they went back on the air. I thought the camera man was playing a joke on ‘em.

What was even more astonishing was the fact that Kirk Gibson, a dinosaur of  a player, hobbled to the plate with two outs in the bottom of the ninth, and with a 3:2 count clobbered a homerun. The guy limped around the bases and gave the famous arm pump. I didn’t give two hoots for the Dodgers, but I sure did enjoy the game and the time we spent out there zip-lining, cooking breakfast in a giant skillet, telling stories by a campfire, riding around in the back of a pickup down hillside, rocky roads… 

Yes, those were the days. The days when we would celebrate birthdays with day trips. The birthday person would get $15 to buy something he or she would not normally purchase. Why $15. Well, $10 was not enough and $20 seemed like too much. Hey, we took a vote on it.

But, no more. Between the Pliler grandkids and the weather, something always seemed to come up around birthday time. It’s all we can do now to arrange a meal on birthdays. Speaking of which, it doesn’t sound as if we’ll be going out for my birthday. Virginia said that the BBQ Inn trip will have to serve for Kay’s birthday and mine. She apparently thinks she has that much pull. – She does.

Just for that, I’m going to take my time returning her Tupperware. The Plilers gave us some watermelon last week in a big plastic tub. Unfortunately, I just can’t remember to return the container. You ask me, she shoulda put her name on it.

End

mark@rooftopwriter.com  and  www.rooftopwriter.com

August stinks on ice

 What? I was born in August? You'd better rethink that.

Favorite month is ‘Not August’

    ROOFTOP – Do you know what my favorite month of the year is? Not August. I can find something pleasant to mention about any other month, but I have to make up stuff when the eighth month rolls around.

    I do have to admit that it’s not as hot up here on this August day as I thought it’d be. There’s even a breeze that is less hot than I imagined. See how I make up stuff?

    I wish you’d look at the lawn. It still has green areas. Of course, by the end of this month it will look all bleached out. I’ll probably have to mow just one time in August. I’m falling in love with this month.

    Kay’s got a birthday this week. I don’t consider that necessarily a good thing. Oh, it’s good she was born, but I would’ve preferred she been born in a more pleasant month and on a day that doesn’t commemorate the bombing of Hiroshima. Kay was born years after the bombing, but still.

I think it would’ve been so much nicer had she been born some day during National Celery Month. That’d be March. A much better month, March. And, I just can’t say enough about celery. You may not be aware, but people who are allergic to celery are usually allergic to mugwort pollen. (The Illiad, Homer)

    One thing scary about Kay’s birthday is the fact that she’s taking a day off work. She’s never done that before. What am I supposed to do about that? We gave up on celebrating birthdays. Didn’t we? I thought it best that I change the appointment with my urologist that was scheduled on the same day. Couldn’t handle the stigma. – ‘Hey, Mark, what’d you do for Kay’s birthday/” – “I took her out to eat and then had a far too intimate moment with my urologist.”

    Besides a good meal, there’s no gift I could get Kay that she’d enjoy. I could get her one of those artificial gemstone rings, but I’d get the wrong one. Say I buy her a ring with a blue stone. Just say I did. She’d smile big and then tactfully tell me that she’s got plenty of blue tourmalines or floriminites.

I don’t know gems – faux or real. Gemstones have gotten so complicated over the years, while stealing ‘em has gotten so much easier. Used to be, jewel thieves had to either come through the air-ducts and suspend from the ceiling to steal a bunch of jewels, or tunnel beneath and then have a ballerina contortionist dance through the maze of laser alarms.

Now all you need is a scarf and something that looks like a pistol. Can you believe that guy in France? Puts a scarf across his face, walks in the front door of the Carlton, pulls out a pistol which may or may not have been loaded, holds up a half dozen cops and walks out with $136 million worth of diamonds.

The hotel might as well have hired the Hayter brothers to guard those gems. At least we would’ve dared the thief to fire off a couple of shots to make sure his gun worked.

Stealing the diamonds was the easy part. I don’t know how the guy plans on selling them. I’d end up advertising on Craig’s List. – “$136 million in diamonds on sale for a fraction of their value. Meet in the parking lot of Vernon’s Kuntry Katfish parking lot at noon on fried chicken day. (Tuesday) See the man wearing the Lone Ranger mask. Only truly interested buyers need respond.”  

    Well, that cute little sideline did nothing to solve the birthday dilemma. Remember? Kay’s birthday? Like I mentioned, I’ll just take her out to eat at a fancy place. “Fancy” is such a relative term, you understand? Fancy for me is getting dessert with my Luann platter. Kay will likely expect more.

    I could let the fancy meal serve as both our birthday gifts. I was born just two weeks after Kay. Born on President Benjamin Harrison’s birthday. What? Benjamin Harrison. Twenty-third President. Yes, of the U.S. Defeated Grover Cleveland in 1888.

Grover Cleveland? Yes, 22nd and 24th President. Yes of the-- Squirrel! No, seriously. At the base of the elm. No that’s an oak. To the right. See? The crop of squirrels has been slowly increasing over what it was last year. Of course, by the end of the month the population will likely take another plunge. That’s August for you.

Tell you what. Let’s stay off the roof for the rest of the month. I will if you will. – Oh, and if you have any keen ideas for a possible gift for Kay, don’t keep it to yourself. – Next time.

End

Mark@rooftopwriter.com  and  www.rooftopwriter.com

The witching hour?

“Awake at 3:00 a.m."

    Do you often find yourself awake on or around three in the a.m. and can’t go back to sleep? Happens a lot, does it? Well, join the crowd, Bucko.

    Happens to me practically every morning. I’m beginning to adopt the notion that if anyone ever does find me asleep at three, it’ll be an early morning jogger who just tripped over a body. You people need to watch where you’re stepping.

    Right now it’s 4:09… just like the song. You know, the car song? “Nothing can catch her, nothing can stop my 409, 409…” Well, pretend you remember… and cut me some slack. I’m a little weird of a morning. – What? Thought I heard you say something?

    I actually woke at 2:43 and just lay in bed for an hour. If I had to work today, I’d still be in bed trying to fight it. But, since retirement, I’ve been dragging my rear down stairs to eat a bowl of cereal or read. Sometimes both. I’m one impetuous fool. – Beg pardon?

    This morning, I decided to go to the here and talk with you awhile. What on earth are you doing up so early? And, how did you get your hands on the paper this early? Can I have your crossword while you’re reading me? -- Whoa. That got seriously mysterious.

    By the way, I did research to find out why the propensity for a three a.m. mental wakeup call. Seems to be no consensus on the cause. Some think it’s because three is when spirits come out to... do what they do. It’s like a witching hour. Hey, movies have been made.

    While I don’t believe that to be the case, I’ve got to tell you that this house makes a lot of noise at night. There are some cracking noises and loud ticking sounds… like maybe clocks. Which is odd, ‘cause I’ve only got about three clicking clocks in this house, but they make absolutely no noise during the day.

    The icemaker is one loud piece of appliance add-on. I think I’ve got problems, an icemaker never sleeps. Mine doesn’t dispense either. To repair the small, plastic hook that holds the dispensing doohickey, I’d have to replace the entire door. The door itself would cost  $400. The repair guy said I could do the job myself. 

When it comes to judging one’s abilities, repairmen are idiots. The guy looked at me and actually made the assessment that I was capable of removing my refrigerator door and then installing another. Not to worry. After looking on line, the repairman told me that they don’t sell my refrigerator door anymore.

And that, dear friend, is why my ice dispenser no longer works. Just thought you’d wanna know. Like I said, it’s early in the morning. -- Y’all want some ice? Maybe later?

A more logical reason for the dreaded “three” has to do with your liver, adrenaline, and glycogen. I knew glycogen was going to be in there somewhere. I just hate that stuff.

Many researchers say that we wake up at three-ish due to stress. We’ve got stuff on our minds. -- No bat-guano, Sherlock. If there was nothing on my mind, I wouldn’t be awake. There’d be people standing around an urn laughing about what a goober I was. Each comment would be preceded by a “Bless his heart.”

    What’s that got to do with, uh, what was that stuff? Oh, glycogen. According to smart people, when you’re stressed, your adrenal glands release adrenaline -- not PEZ as many have suspected.

    For whatever reason, adrenaline causes parts of the body to use glycogen which happens to be liver food. So, when your liver can’t eat, it stresses your whole body, so your adrenal gland gives you another fix of adrenaline. The adrenaline causes the body to use more glycogen, which the liver needs to… Are you following this? I’m beginning to see the evil spirit thing as more plausible.

    A less smart person would thing that I should be taking glycogen. I’m sure you can get a huge bottle of it at Sam’s. They’ve even got krill oil. Kay got a free sample with her bottle of CQ-10. -- Krill oil? Save the whale? You can kiss my hairy fanny! -- What? I have no idea where that came from.

    So, after all that, what is the cure for the Big Three? Seems to be -- “Quit being stressed! Stop thinking about stuff at bedtime, you dolt!” -- “Worry not. Worry is the thorn of the Bicobal tree before it blooms.” (Amrem Presop, 1275)

    Oh, yeah, and don’t drink as much coffee. Unless, you don’t drink coffee, in which case you need to start. And, exercise. Unless you already do, in which case tone it down just a bit.

    Well, I hope that helped. I’m feeling just ducky about it. Think I’ll go downstairs, get a bowl of cereal and try to figure out what I’ve been worrying about for the past three decades.

End
mark@rooftopwriter.com and  www.rooftopwriter.com

On saying what you mean

“Word defilement”

    I doubt anyone will remember me as a person who did all he could to preserve the English language in the form to which it was intended. “Of” which it was intended? One of those prepositional things.

    Truth is, I’ve been known to make up words, but only on rarifiable occasions. And, I’ll occasionally turn verbs into nouns and visa versa. About three times in my writing career I’ve even exaggerated. Can’t think of an example at the moment, but I’m sure it’s happened.

    However, my misuse of the English language is nothing compared to what I’ve been witnessing of late. Case in point, Kay and I went out for Chinese last weekend -- Which in itself is a misuse of the word Chinese. We weren’t looking for Chinese any more than we were looking to eat Mexicans when we went out for fajitas. We berate an entire ethnic group when we do stuff like that, and that’s something to put up with of which I won’t. 

    Where was I? —Oh, yeah. I ordered a bunch of crab puffs at the Chinese Restaurant. They were delicious. Crunchy crust with cream cheese stuffing. The only thing missing was even the hint of crab, making one wonder why the Chinese settled on the word “crab” in naming the puffs.

    Considering the significance “crab” plays in the making of the puff, it could as easily called “Volvo puff” as “crab.” I’m not saying the puffs never came with crab, I’m just saying the restaurants I visit have yet to incorporate the ingredient into the recipe. I’m thinking that during Mao’s Cultural Revolution he ordered crab removed from the recipe just so he could mess with the U.S. I don’t want to upset any Chinese-Americans, but I consider that beyond cruel. It’s crueliester.

    Enough of that. I’ve mentioned three or 18 times that I’ve got Restless Leg Syndrome. It’s a bear. The prescribed recommended to calm my legs has side effects that include vision loss, excessive sweating and a propensity to gamble. I kid you not.

    While I haven’t gambled any more or less than usual, I have noticed massive sweating problems to the point where I am now 136 years-old in Galapagos tortoise years. (I may have misconstrued something during my research on perspiration.)

    My vision has also worsened. That’s why I called my eye doctor, to see if the vision might improve once I quit the pills. You’ve got to be pretty bad off to just pop in to see your doctor. I’m thinking most doctors have quit and we’ve been left out of the loop. “Let’s see, Mr. Hayter, I can get you in January 32.”

    After explaining my problem my doctor’s assistant, I was asked if I had suffered vision loss. I told her I didn’t know what that meant. If “vision loss” means I can’t see as well as I used to, then yes, I’m at a loss. If “loss” means that I can’t see at all, I would’ve never found the phone to make the call. The nurse said that being able to see was a good sign, so it’d be okay to wait for the nearest appointment date which was in late September.

Vision “loss” and “crab” puff? The substances of quandary I’ve got little time and  two more examples, so I lets push on.--  I watch a bunch of those investigative reporting shows. Dateline, 20/20, Behind Mansion Walls, I Married a Lunatic… At some point during each episode of every series, a detective will say, “You can’t make this stuff up.”

Really? In one episode it was discovered that a daughter had her boyfriend murder her mother. While explaining the case, the detective said, “It’s stranger than fiction. You can’t make this stuff up.”

Do any of these detectives ever watch “The Mentalist,” “NCIS”, “Elementary,” or any of the other two dozen cop dramas? Just try to follow the reasoning of the murderer. “So it was you, Mrs. Thompson, mother of the auto mechanic, who was having an affair with the victims cousin in order to get drugs from her step father who happened to owe the victim some money.” – What? No one has yet found something that is impossible to make up. You can quote me.

During a commercial last week, I heard an announcer make this disclaimer in regard to a highly touted medication -- “May cause unusual dreams.”  What? If you’ve ever had a dream where everything seemed normal, you were awake at the time.

By definition, dreams are unusual. – “Dream: an unusual course of imaginary events that take place in one’s mind during sleep… each of which is somehow tied to the sense that you’re naked.” (Webson’s Dictionary, 2002)

Hey, I could go on and on here, but I’m out of time. Let me just say in closing that society now finds itself at a point where it can no longer place value on the meaning of certain words. Most words. And, let me tell you, I’m getting sick and tired of it. – Well, not literally sick, but definitely tired. Oh, I’m tired all right.

End

Mark@rooftopwriter.com  and www.rooftopwriter.com