Underwear backwards scheme

I'm a Twilight Zone episode


     When I was a kid, I used to think that maybe I was the only real person on the planet. All the other “people” were aliens who were pretending to be my family, classmates, people at church, Woolworth clerks…  

And as soon as I walked out of the room, or out of the store, they’d take on their real appearance and laugh their bulbous heads off about how stupid I was. In other words, I was a Twilight Zone episode. Only it was a real.

    I just didn’t fit in. Couldn’t figure stuff out like normal people. No telling how many times I was the only kid in class who hadn’t picked up on something that was said earlier in the day. – “Mark, let’s start with you. Read your paragraph.” – “My what?”

    I was even that way in college. I had near perfect sight and hearing, but still managed to miss instructions and important stuff in lectures. I’d look all over in an attempt to make eye contact with a fellow perplexed person, but seldom found one.

    I even went to a psychiatrist once. He did nothing but reinforce my theory about the aliens. This guy didn’t even wait for me to leave the room before he started laughing. 

    Fortunately, my self-esteem has improved a bit over the years. I’m nowhere near normal, but I’m better… at least I was until I bought some boxer-briefs at an underwear store. Boxer-briefs are the best of two underwear styles fused into a single pair. It’s ingenious.

Usually I try on my underwear in the store, but this time I took them straight home. (The first part of that was a fabrication.) I like the feel of new underwear. Always have. And, that’s not a fabrication. There’s just something about the encompassing sense of security in new elastic. 

However, I felt less than secure immediately after I put on my new pair. In fact, I felt as if I was being subjected to unpleasantness. I had to flee my drawers. That’s when I saw it. It defied explanation. -- Meaning, it was normal for me.

Do you know what they did to my underwear? They sewed the tag in the front of the underwear just above the opening. I’m not joking.

The only advantage I can see is that I can now determine what my underwear are made of and where they were made by simply looking down. I no longer have to disrobe and turn them around.

Of course, you’re apparently in on the joke. Being an alien and all. I’m just glad I’m able to give everyone something to laugh at. I went along with the ruse that one of you concocted whereby basketball shorts would suddenly become monstrous and baggy.

When some of you started putting on your ball caps sideways, it got to me a little bit, but I endured. Then there was the trick with the exaggeratedly baggy pants with no belt. That almost sent me to therapy. The joke about everyone getting tattoos all over his or her arms and necks is a bit unsettling for me. But, again, I’ve been dealing with it.

Defies logic, common sense and a couple of the forces in nature, but… whatever. Hey, it’s a crazy world. I accept that. At least I used to.

 But this thing… this reversed-underwear-tag-placement thing has pretty well pushed me over the edge. The one thing I thought I could always count on was putting my underwear on without having to do much thinking. I was getting good at it, too.

Now?  Now, when I reach into my drawer, I hafta notice if I’m grabbing new underwear or old underwear. The old ones go on the old fashion way. The new ones go on backwards. That is wrong in so many ways.

It’s a cute little trick. One of hundreds that’s been aimed at me over a lifetime. It seems to never get old for the performers, but it’s the stuff of Twilight Zone for me.– Oh, and by the way, from where I’m sitting I can look down and see that my underwear are 100 percent cotton, made in China.

End

To watch Mark and Brad Meyer’s review of Fukuda's click on pic.

The policeman is your friend.

Me pretending not to be afraid of guns

“Visit with the Po-po”

    Over the years I’ve always had a decent relationship with Johnny Law. You know, Cops, Fuzz, The Heat, Smokey, Po-po, Five-0… Oh yeah, we’re on good terms.

    In fact, I’ve only gotten one ticket in my 47 years of driving. Back in my college days, I was doing 60 in a 50. Had I not slapped my forehead the minute I saw Nacagodoches’ Finest, I don’t think he would’ve pulled me over. Best not to react guiltily when making eye contact.

    Almost 30 years ago, I did get stopped for speeding, but wasn’t ticketed. You wanna know what’s weird? I ran into a officer awhile back who claimed to have stopped me. And, I didn’t even bring it up. That’s weird.

    I remember he looked at my driver’s license and said, “Are you planning on writing about this?” I didn’t know the preferred answer to that, so I just stammered. He then looked up and noticed a car coming in the distance. He apparently didn’t like what he saw.

    The officer handed me my driver’s license and told me to slow it down. Then he said, “Get outta here.” You know what happened next? He walked right in the middle of the road and pointed at the car that was headed toward him. Once he got the driver’s attention, he signaled for him to pull over. The driver did, too.

I would’ve had some serious intestinal problems had I seen a Law Dawg standing in the middle of the road pointing at me. That’s an image that commands respect. One reason I didn’t attend the police academy.

By the way, Brad Meyer is responsible for introducing me to topic of law enforcement. Two restaurant reviews back, Brad told me that we needed to hurry ‘cause he had to get back in time to attend an open house at the County Sheriff facility. I doubt he called it an open house, but I only started listening when he said something about a Swat Team.

Instead of driving Bradford back to The Courier, I begged him to let me tag along. Since we were in my car, he agreed.

What a great outing. I got to handle a lot of good stuff. They let me aim a 50 caliber sniper-looking rifle that was as long as I am tall. It weighed a ton. The officer who was explaining the weaponry told me that the giant gun was not nearly as accurate as the shorter-barreled weapon setting next to it.

He said some other important sounding stuff,  but I didn’t listen ‘cause I was too busy looking through the telescopic lens, trying to find objects to pretend-shoot.

I also got to go into the big truck where the mayor and all the top-level officers meet when they’re negotiating with bank robbers. Or they’re trying to prevent a terrorist bomb from blowing up the city. Hey, I’ve seen the movies.

Let me tell you, the area inside one of those truck/trailer things is huge. Monitors and technical stuff are all over the place. I imagined being in a movie with Denzel Washington where we’re talking tough to some terrorists.

I also got the lowdown on the police motorcycles. I was listening to a sergeant with the Sheriff’s department explain about what’s involved in being a MOPO, when I noticed that the guy talking was Kevin. I taught the kid at Oak Ridge. Only he’s not so much a kid anymore. In fact, Sgt. Kevin Ray is one of those guys who could stand in the middle of the road and make you stop right in your tracks.   

Kevin Ray next to a guy asking stupid questions

With my friend Bob Berry

Kevin pointed out some of the electronic features on his motorcycle, but wouldn’t let me ride it. I could sit on it, but he wouldn’t let his old teacher ride it. Sheesh.

I also ran across Sgt. Bob Berry, The Courier’s Po-C. (Police columnist.) Either the Conroe Police work closely with the Sheriff’s Department, or Bob was there to steal some of the equipment. Just a guess.

The piece of equipment I really wanted to see was the drone. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find it. I just imagine that the Top Bull got a load of me playing around with the rifles and put the word out on me. – “Hey, Theo, keep that idiot away from the drone.”

Too soon, Brad walked up and said, “You ready to go, Kojak?” I told him I was waiting for my complimentary Sheriff’s badge. Brad didn’t even smile. – When someone calls you “dillweed” is that a bad thing? “You dillweed.” Doesn’t have a good sound to it.

End

How do they do it?

    It’s almost scary the things they can do. Oh, they’re good all right. That’s why they call them “they.”

It started several weeks back with a call from my grocery store. I thought my prescription was ready. The fact that I couldn’t remember turning in a prescription failed to surprise me. So many pills, so little time.

Turns out the call had nothing to do with a prescription. They never call just to chat, so my interest was piqued. (Weird word “piqued.”)

 The automated voice on the phone said, “Don’t eat the popcorn. It’s poison.”  Didn’t use those exact words, but that’s what I heard.

I don’t get all that many contaminated corn calls, so you can see where I was a bit concerned. The mechanical voice told me not to eat the popcorn, and to return it to the store for a refund.

Return what? I bought the stuff a week before. It was gone. Eaten. I don’t store popcorn at the house. You don’t ever have to ask if I’ve got any pre-popped corn. Even if I did, I wouldn’t share.

The voice gave no advice about what to do if I had eaten the stuff. If I hadn’t eaten it, I get my money back. If I had… well, I was an idiot for buying the stuff.

While I was pleased as punch about the store computer warning me about the corrupt corn, I was really impressed at the fact that “they” not only knew what I bought, but they knew how to find me.

It’s the “rewards” card. They’re all over the place. If you get a special card with your life story on it, the store gives you a special deal on some of your purchases. Practically everyone is doing it. Even my masseur. (Don’t dwell.)

    I went to my drug store about a month ago to take advantage of a sale on nuts. It’s my favorite drug store ‘cause they don’t make me have a card, and ‘cause they have nut sales. I thought I already said that.

 Before ringing up the purchase, the cashier lady asked for my card. I screamed, “Noooooo! Not you, too!” I told her that I didn’t like cards.

    The lady said, “Oh, yeah? How do you like paying full price for cashews?” She said it in a way that I could tell she had a sense of humor. We were kindred spirits. Just a few seconds later I had my cheap nuts and a new drugstore card.

So, there’s another place that knows all about me and keeps a list of my purchases. Any day now they’ll call and tell me about a bad can of candied nuts. More likely, they’ll tell me not to use the off-brand hemmerroidal cream.

Hey, I don’t buy embarrassing creams for future use. I’ve been known to use some medications right there in the store. – “Sir, please-- Whoa! Here, let me do your other foot.” -- My next purchase at my drugstore will likely include a coupon for fungal cream.

    I saw one of those futuristic Sci-fi cop movies a few years back that I considered pure fantasy. It showed a busy city street with holographic images all over the place. As each pedestrian passed by a screen or an image, a voice would greet them BY NAME, and entice them with products they might be prone to buy.

    We’re close to that. Last time I drove through one of the EZ tag areas of the toll road, I mentioned to Kay about the technology involved in what just transpired. While we were traveling 60 plus mph, a laser managed to scan a bar code through our windshield. The info was transported to a tower that sent it to a satellite where it was bounced off a few other satellites before ending up in the netherworld for processing.

Quicker than I could blink, my identity was recognized, the time was recorded and my credit card account was lessened by $1.75. Kay said, “So what’s your point?”

My point is -- How do “they” do that? And, if “they” can do that, what will “they” be able to do by the end of the next decade? Is this a time to gloriously embrace the wonderment of technology, or is it a time to buy some automatic weaponry and move to Alaska?

Take a few minutes to ponder that. As for me and my house, we’re staying put. Alaska has too few nut sales. – Hey, what say we lighten up a bit for 2013?

end
You can view Mark and Brad’s latest restaurant review of McAllister's Deli, by clicking on pic below.

 

You can reach Mark at mark@rooftopwriter.com

The last word on Christmas 2012

A few Hayters from an earlier Christmas.

 Jill, Susan, Mom holding Big Al, me and Dennis.

This was before flash attachments. 

  

All I got for Christmas

    Now that the smoke has cleared from all the Holiday cheer, let me ask about your Christmas? Before you start telling me, let me say that I don’t have time to hear it.

There is just not enough space here for all of us, so what say I tell you about my Christmas? A tricker guy I be.

My Christmas was okay. Had I been expecting more, I would’ve been disappointed. When you quit expecting, life can’t disappoint. Isn’t that neato?

Truth is, Kay and I buy ourselves stuff during the off season – March, late September – so, by the time Christmas is here we don’t need anything. If I waited till December to buy a double-handled hammer wrench that I’ll never use, I wouldn’t even have one. Kay would never know to get me something like that.

No, we kept it simple. Kay got me a LARGE jar of cashews. Is there anything that says “I love you” more than that?  I think not. She also got me a new ear/nose hair trimmer. Is there anything that says “You need to trim your ears and nose” more than that?

And, do you wanna know the scary part? I was glad to get the thing. Don’t you just hate it when a person is talking to you and you spot a hair on his lobe that’s as long as a cat whisker? I usually point and scream.

There are actually rich and famous people with nose hair issues. Seriously. It must happen to everyone. You think? Well, it may not happen to me anymore, ‘cause I got the trimmer.

Oh, and let me tell you what I got Kay? I got her this big, cushioned lap desktop thing. Something that enables her to comfortably use her laptop while it’s in her lap. Get it?

The leather-topped cushion is so big that she even has room for her mouse. Normal people don’t have the coordination to use a flat-surface in place of a mouse. Our brains don’t work that way. The only people who can master the flat-surfaced mouse are individuals who can curl their tongues -- backwards. They’re just wired differently.

I also got Kay a giant tin of bad cookies. In my defense, I didn’t know the cookies were bad. They were labeled as being really good. The big selling feature – other than the price – was the word “chocolate.”

You’ve got to go a long way to mess up a chocolate cookie. But, they managed. The cookies were well traveled. Some were made in Italy, a few in Sweden, but most came from Uzbekistan. (Please note that all three countries have great cookies. They just weren’t included in this particular tin. -- Sheesh. Have you noticed how people are so easily angered? – “You don’t like Italian cookies? I’ll give you and Italian cookie!)

The good news is, we got rid of some of the cookies at the Christmas supper Kay prepared for the Hayter family. Just the older Hayters. I didn’t invite any nieces and nephews, ‘cause… well, there are just too many of ‘em.

Do you have any idea how tactful you have to be to exclude certain family members from a “family” gathering? Turns out, nobody seemed to care one way or the other. It was one less place they had to go.  How sweet is that?

I let Jill show up early Christmas morning ‘cause I like her best, and ‘cause she bought our breakfast at I-HOP. I had no idea I-HOP would be open on Christmas. Try to figure. Ryan, our waiter, said that I-HOP is opened on all holidays. He should know. He’s worked ‘em all.

I-HOP didn’t even close during Hurricane Ike. Two guys with a Coleman stove were in the parking lot flippin’ jacks. (I just made that up.)

Anyway, turns out, Jill started a new Christmas tradition. From now on, she will take Kay and me out for breakfast at I-HOP Christmas morning. She’s thrilled.

Kay and I also got to— Oh, my goodness, I’ve gotta end this thing. I don’t want to do to you what I did with the Christmas Short Story. Boy, that thing was long, wasn’t it? It takes me longer to develop characters than it does the really good writers. 

So, I’m going to give you a rest and stop this thing right here. What a great way to start the New Year. – That didn’t sound right.

End

Take a look at Whine and Dine's latest restaurant review by clicking on pic.

Red Phoenix

Contact Hayter at mark@rooftopwriter.com

A christmas short story by Hayter

“Mrs. B and the Christmas Play” -- by Mark Hayter


    The persons and events in this story are fictitious. As far as I know.
--
    Blanch Blyleven was chosen to ramrod the Christmas Play at Milford Elementary back ’92. Milford’s music teacher, Anne Lupton, was in the middle of a big divorce, and just didn’t feel in the mood to put on a play.

To tell the truth, Lupton had pretty well shutdown back in early November. Everyone knew that she was better off without the cheating slug, but try to tell her that.

    School Superintendent Rafe Weaver waited till three weeks before the Christmas play before making a serious move to replace Lupton as the chief play person.  Weaver, as well as the entire town, knew that the only capable candidate was Blyleven. They also knew that the cantankerous, sour, chain-smoking ol’ fusspot would rather ride a derailed train across a narrow bridge than put on the play.

No one could really blame the woman. Mrs. B was the best Little Theatre director and actor in a three county area. Being responsible for a theatrical joke would kill her reputation. Plus, she didn’t like kids. Not one bit.

During the first day of their argument, Weaver offered Mrs. B $300 to take charge of the play. She laughed at the offer. She had recently sold her Dry Cleaners to Malford Reed who owned the hardware store next door. The lady was sittin’ fine.

    No amount of bribing, soft-soaping or intervention could sway the woman. Not even the Wednesday night prayer meeting at the Lutheran Church had any noticeable effect.

    Mr. Weaver finally had to resort to extortion. On Day Three, he said, “BB, as President of the Milford Little Theatre, I’m here to tell you that the only way you will get to direct and star in the upcoming production of ‘Steel Magnolias’ is for either God to turn my right arm white with leprosy or for you to agree to put on the Christmas play.”

“Jebus Chrispies, Rafe!” she said. “You can’t do that!” Rafe Weaver assured her that he could and he would. Before storming out of the office, Mrs. B grabbed Mr. Weaver’s stapler and took it with her outside where she handed it to Betty Simons, his secretary who was smoking in the parking lot over by her Mazda. Mrs. B considered it childish to throw things.

    During the first afternoon of rehearsals, Mrs. B didn’t let five minutes expire without letting all us kids know that she was directing this funker-stinking play under protest. No duh.

We were all scared to death of the woman. The only thing that scared me more than Mrs. B the fact that I was chosen to be Joseph in the play.

    Joseph had a speaking part and everything. He had to ask the innkeeper for a room; he had to welcome the wisemen and then tie-up their camels; and he had to take the gold and “frankenstance” and “merv” from them and hand ‘em to Mary. Charlotte Plum was in the third grad and was the absolute perfect choice for Mary. I was also in the third grade and was the absolute worst choice for Joseph. There were girls who could’ve played the part more convincingly.

    When you shuck down the corn, you’ll realize that the scariest thing about being Joseph was having to hold Charlotte’s hand for about five seconds. I just couldn’t do that. It would cause some serious cell sapping in my brain.

So, a week into rehearsal I got up enough nerve to tell Mrs. B that I couldn’t be Joseph. She could yell at me, hit me or even kill me, but I just couldn’t do it. I’d never be able to remember my lines and I’d die of infantigo if I had to hold a girl’s hand. I had heard Mom mention infantigo once when I got a boil on my rear. The word fascinated me. Not so much the boil. 

Mrs. B let me whine for a good minute before she said,  “Benjamin, let me shovel a little rat fat at you. I chose you to be Joseph because you’re the best boy in the third grade. You’re smart and cute. But, you’re only gonna be cute for a little while. Then, you turn into a pimply, awkward freak just like every other kid. So, be Joseph while you’ve still got it in you, kid. You’ll thank me later.” 

    That’s when I busted out crying. I couldn’t help it. “Jebus Chrispies,” Mrs. B said. “Turn off the smeggin’ spiget! If not Joseph, who can you be?” I told her that maybe I could be a sheep or a camel or maybe a tree.”

    “There are no trees in Bethlehem,” she said. It’s in the smeggin’ desert! Don’t you know anything, kid? Besides, I’ve got too many camels and nerfherder sheep as is.” She rubbed her forehead with the palm of her hand like she was trying to rub a thought into her brain. Then she said, “There is one way out. Would you happen to be a Buddhist or Muslim… or maybe a Jehovah’s Witness. I don’t know about them. Are you any of those?

    I told her that I might be a Buddhist. She actually laughed. Then she said, “I tell you what, numb nuggins. You can be a reindeer during the dasher dancin’ Santa scene. How’s that?”

    “Okay, but, please, not Rudolph?” Boy, was I pushing it.  – “Great gobs of goose snot! You’re killin’ me, boy!” she said.  “Okay, you can be “Nixon?” she said. – “Nixon?” I said. -- “Yeah, you know? Prancer, Donald and Nixon.” You’ll be the last reindeer, upstage right. You don’t say nothin’, you don’t do nothing… except pull the Belgium-burping sleigh with all the other little idiots. What do ya think?”

Mrs. B was the best describer of stuff I ever knew. And, I loved her to pieces. She wasn’t mean at all. Not really. I couldn’t wait to get home and tell Mom and Dad. It would break Mom’s heart, but Daddy would be really happy for me.

 “Nixon? You’re gonna play Nixon in a Christmas play?” I had to do a little explaining to Daddy about how Mrs. B talked. “Oh, you mean like, Prancer, Donder and Blixon?” Daddy said. My daddy had some word issues of his own.

The auditorium was packed that Thursday night. This was going to be big. Really big. Three minutes before the curtain was supposed to go up, Mrs. B walked up to me and said, “Hey, Nixon. Take the stupid pipe cleaner antlers off your skull and put this bathrobe on. Loser Larry is tossin’ chowder in the bathroom, so you’re gonna be Joseph again. And, don’t worry. You still get to be Nixon.”

I knew it! I knew it! “But, I’ve got this black stuff on my nose!” I said. “I can’t be Joseph with a reindeer nose.” – Mrs. B nodded in agreement. “Well, not in perfect world. But this is Milford, kid. So, I don’t wanna hear another sithspittin’ word out of you.”

There was no arguing with the woman. I put the robe on and ran to other side of the stage, positioning myself right next to Charlotte Plum. She looked over at me, smiled and said. “I’m glad it’s you.” I’d never heard such thing. Nobody had ever been glad it was me.

Just as the curtain began to rise, Charlotte took my antlers off and then took my hand. We walked past the cardboard Bethlehem right to the inn. At that very moment something came over me. It was a Christmas miracle. I was actually doing something scary as all get out, yet, I didn’t care. I had a black nose and was wearing a gray bathrobe about three sizes too big for me, but I didn’t care. How crazy is that?

I could’ve done Joseph in my sleep. In fact I had. Fear had pretty well branded the scene in my cranial. And, you know something? Charlotte was still holding my hand when Floyd, the innkeeper, answered the door. And, she didn’t let go until she had to put the Baby Jesus in the manger.

Turned out, I was great. Everyone of those wisemen forgot his lines. Everyone of ‘em! I ended up saying their lines as I grabbed the gold and the “frankenstance” and “mirv.” Oh, and once I had to shove a camel and a couple of sheep out of the way, so the audience could see what was happening. I owned the moment.

    The way I saw it, God wanted me to play Joseph, so He let me nail the role. Black nose and all. Oh, and turns out, after you’ve been Joseph, being a reindeer is a piece of rat fat. The audience seemed to get a kick out of us. Parents are the best audience in the world.

    As soon as the curtain came down, it opened right back up. Instantly, we were all practically blinded by a thousand or so camera flashes. Eventually, Mrs. B walked on stage and said nice things about us. Then she lied about what a joy it was for her to be asked to take charge of the play.

    After the curtain closed for the final time, Charlotte shook my hand and told me she was glad I got to be Joseph. I have no idea what I said in response, but I’m pretty sure it was stupid.

A few weeks later, Mom and Dad took me to the Milford Little Theatre to see “Steel Magnolias.” I didn’t understand the play much, but I will always remember how good Mrs. B was. She didn’t play Ouiser Bourdeaux. She was Quiser Bourdeaux.

After the play, I brought my program up to her to see if she would sign it for me. I saw a couple of ladies do that, so I figured it was okay.

Mrs. B graciously took my program, wrote something on it and then gave me a big hug. I couldn’t make out her handwriting, so I asked Mother to read it for me when we got in the car.

She read, “Benjamin, isn’t it weird how some of the things we hate to do most turn out to be the best things for us? You were the best thing that happened to me during my first Christmas Play experience. You’re a cute kid and a good Joseph. -- Mrs. B.”

A cantankerous, sour ol’ fusspot? Maybe to others. But, Mrs. B was no slug-in-a-ditch to me.

No, the thought of that woman has always warmed my heart. More so during the Holidays. Oh, and I also have fond thoughts of Charlotte Plum. She was the first person to ever be glad it was me. – Merry Christmas to you all. From Mark and Kay.

end.
You can reach Mark at mark@rooftopwriter.com

Of trees, song, and dance

"Now that's a Nannyberry!"

    ROOFTOP – Before you take another step, I want you to be mindful that you’re about to walk across a dewy, slippery as-all-get-out metal roof. This roof is begging you to fall and bust your buns. It tempts like a snake in Eden.

If this roof could talk, it’d say, “Oppa Gangnam Style.”  You’d be dancing around like that Korean guy on YouTube.

Click on pic

Oh, and you’d end up wanting to sue me. You’d be much better off suing the Korean guy. I think his name is PSY. Go to YouTube and watch him dance. – No not now.

I noticed that on your way across the yard, you gave up trying to step on each of the round bricks on the walk-path. You should see the UPS drivers try to manage that course. After the third step, they wisely give up and just walk on the grass.

    I want you to know that every third month, I measure to make sure those stepping-stones are equal distance. But, in no time they manage to wander. I think it’s caused by the earth rotation or the pull of the moon. Surely one the neighbors wouldn’t be messing with me.

    By the way, I saw a couple of those black fuzzy caterpillars crossing the road last week. Not the same road, but they were definitely crossing. I think that’s supposed to be an indication that winter is over. Indication of something.

    I’d like cold weather to come and stay for awhile. I love this time of year. Take a look down there. A lot of people rake their yards or mulch their leaves with a mower. I don’t like to disturb fallen leaves. Not because I hate raking… which I do. No, it-s really because I like the look and sound of leaf-covered ground. (Another good song intro.)

    Speaking of which, when you get a chance, go to YouTube and key in “Killing the Blues.” The song starts out “Leaves are falling, just like embers.” Absolutely beautiful. The Robert Plant and Allison Krauss version is the best.

Click on pic to see performance

    The fallen leaves we’re looking at aren’t nearly as colorful as the ones in the song, but they’ll sure do for our roofsit.

    I believe I mentioned about the acorns falling all over the place. That’s still happening. Those things land with a vengeance. On this metal roof it sounds like incoming rounds.

    I should be glad we don’t have pecan trees. Kay’s brother, Tracy, has a rather prolific pecan tree in his backyard. He said that a nut landed next to him on the patio and nearly scared him to death.

    By the way, Tracy gave us a couple of boxes of pecans. Kay is going to hafta deal with ‘em, ‘cause they’re way too much trouble me. When I was at the COURIER office the other day to tape a restaurant review with crazy ol’ Brad Meyer, I noticed that the tree next to the building was a pecan. Low and behold, there were plenty of nuts on the ground… and one in a cubicle inside the building.

    COURIER pecans are small paper-shell and easier to crack. Tracy’s pecans must be lead-shelled, but they are a bit more flavorful than the COURIER’s.

    Oh, a little something about non-nut-producing trees. Ash trees have something called a samara, a winged seed that twirls down and slightly burrows into the turf. Just cool as it can be. No fear of being bopped by an ash seed.

Kay in me in next to my TX Forest Service Pickup -- '72

    I used to know a whole bunch about trees and shrubbery and stuff. I actually have a degree in Forestry. I’m proud to have it, but I’ve forgotten so much over the years. Today, it’d take a hypnotist to get me to recall many tree facts.

    Having said that, I remember a time when Kay and I were sitting outside with some neighbors. The teenage daughter asked me the name of the red tree across the lawn. I was tempted to say “The tree’s name is Timmy.” But, I wanted to impress everyone, so I told her it was in fact a Rusty Nannyberry. “It has fur on the underside of its leaves,” I told her.

    That girl laughed till she cried. I’m fairly sure she has no recollection of the moment, but I’ve somehow managed to carry it along through the years. One of life’s fun times… the kind that occasionally surface during a pleasant roofsit.

    Speaking of which, this roofsit is going to end right now with us doing the Gangnam Style dance in the front yard. I’ll show you how. Hey, it’ll be a blast. – Oh, yes you are.

end

To see Mark and Brad's most recent restaurant review click on pic below.

You can reach Mark at mark@rooftopwriter.com

When to strike up a conversation?

“A bad judge of character”


    Do you generally talk to the person on the other side of the gas pump when you’re filling up? I seldom do, and I think people appreciate that.

The rule of thumb is that if you have to go out of your way to make eye contact, you don’t need to speak. There’s not enough time to develop a relationship; the person might pull out photos of the grandkids; you might hafta buy Girl Scout cookes--  That kind of stuff.

    I said that to say this – Yesterday I had a conversation with the guy next to me at the Kroger gas-up place. He started it. Asked me about my car. It’s a little-bitty thing. A Yaris. It’s Japanese for “eel egg.” Just a guess.

    I told the gassing-guy about the mileage and the back wiper. He was impressed. All the while I’m subconsciously judging him. (I realize it’s hard to know what you’re thinking when you’re doing it subconsciously.)

Who is this guy? How smart is he? Does he prefer “Gilligan’s Island” over “Seinfeld”?  In about, oh, 12 seconds, I assessed him as a sharecropper, junior high education, considered Jim Backus his favorite actor. (My Grandpa Hayter was a sharecropper. And, he didn’t have a TV.)

It wasn’t long before the conversation turned to TV programs. The switch came right after a guy in a pickup stopped and asked if we wanted to buy a TV sound system, still in the box. He got a good deal on it and wanted to “pass it forward.”

As he drove off, the tenant farmer said, “Nice guy. Wanted to give us a good deal on a stolen TV sound system.” Then he said, “Do you get PBS? I don’t have cable or satellite but I think it’s on channel 8, or something like that.” He asked if I ever watched “Doc Martin.”

Is he kidding? I’ve seen every episode the British have made available. (They’re really holding back on Doc Martin.) I love the Doc. Oddest-looking person in the British Isles. (Hard to beat the British for homely). But, I do enjoy the characters, the rural coastal setting, and the stories. – I instantly took liking to the farmer.

Then he asked about “Downton Abbey.”  The guy was a “Masterpiece Theatre” junkie! In my mind, he’s now a retired professor of Philosophy. Degree from Harvard.

See how I go from one extreme to the next? I’m a bad judge of people. Fortunately, we’re not supposed to judge people at all… unless we’re in an elevator with a guy who looks like Jason Bourne. I’m telling you, Bourne can do some serious damage in an elevator. He could beat up Batman, even.

Oh, and do you wanna know the other time I misjudged somebody at the gas pump? Pretend. It was late at night, just me and one pickup full of thugs a few pumps to my right.

The ringleader sized me up and then started walking my way. I was hoping he didn’t have a knife, ‘cause the thought of getting stabbed horrifies me. Or getting hit with an arrow. I hate arrows. Thank goodness for the invention of the firearm.

As the thug approached, he appeared to be friendly as all get out. (I believe I’ve told you this story before, but bear with me.) He reached into is wallet and pulled out a credit card. Told me that he and his buddies were headed to Houston from Dallas, and they only had three dollars for gas. Would I be willing to give him $10 for a Best Buy gift card that had $15 on it?

I gladly handed him $20, and he graciously gave me the card. He seemed most thankful. I gave him the five extra bucks for not stabbing me. When I got home I checked on the Internet and found that the card was legit. Had $15 bucks on it just like he said. The boy wasn’t a thug at all. As usual, I had misjudged. I hate that about me.

    I’ve gotta do better. It’s a bad judge who gets most of his convictions overturned, but it’s a sign of character when one allows personal judgements to be easily reversed. Hey, that just came to me. I probably subconsciously stole it. Oh, how wicked be the subconscious.  

And, about the Best Buy card? Kay used it to purchase a Susan Boyle CD. We’re constantly fighting over it. – If you’ve judged me appropriately, you realize I was trying be funny there.

End

To watch a Whine and Dine video about Jimmy John’s Gourmet Sandwiches, click on pic below. You can reach Mark at mark@rooftopwriter.com