Foolery

"She's Psychic. We've Decided to Find it Charming."

(Photo stolen from this site) 

A Friday night note from my brother Mantel Man, who moved this week to his old stomping grounds in Oregon, and is trying to get settled.

Hi all,

Having not had TV for almost three years, I've grown a bit unfamiliar. Up here in Oregon there's a station that plays the sitcom "Frasier" over and over for two or three hours every evening. Even more oddly, it plays a shocking number of commercials for prescription drugs, plus some ads for Hallmark Channel movies and a Christian dating web site.

You won't be surprised to know that I've named this TV station the "harmful side effects channel."

-- Mantel Man

Miss Mendocino, the Calf Who Vacations at the Shore

 I have written a lot about growing up around cows: family lore about our dairy, occasional tales of danger, and yes, lots of poop stories. The glamour stories get all the attention.

But for every true tale about being chased by a crazy bovine, or having a black widow on my neck, or helping the vet put a cow's uterus back in during a rain storm, there's a quiet story about a small life that never gets told.

This e-mail from my friend Jackie came Tuesday, and I hurried to ask permission to share it on Fooleryland. Jackie is my friend Gubby's mom, and she somewhat recently signed up for a life of animal husbandry when she married Harvey, a retired dairyman and all-around Good Guy. Here is Jackie's story, and the photos are hers as well.

*     *     *     *     *

So...it is Monday afternoon and  I am getting things ready to pack for our trip to Whale Watch [Harvey and Jackie's beach house in Mendocino, a 4 1/2 hour drive away]. Harvey, as usual, is busy getting things done with the animals so they will be taken care of while we are gone. He comes back from feeding at Anthony's and he has the calf bottle out. He says there is a real little one down there that is having trouble standing so she can nurse. OK, so we have had that happen before. I ask if this is going to postpone our trip until Tuesday. No, he says, we'll still be going today. Only this time, we will have another passenger.

This little thing is a preemie, and cannot get up. The only chance of saving her is to take her with us in the dog carrier and bottle feed her. I insisted that she ride over in the camper shell and give Maggie the whole back seat to herself.

She is doing fine so far. She gets about a cup of milk with an egg about every 4 hours during the day.

You can see from the pictures that she is about at Harvey's knees. When a calf goes off the cow, the cow's milk dries up and there is no going back, so this bottle feeding looks to be about a 3-month job. We have dubbed her "Miss Mendocino."  We sure hope she makes it. You just never know with little ones.

*     *     *     *     *

My own mother had to bottle feed "eggnog milkshakes"  to shaky baby calves many times. Usually it's enough to sustain them until they're sufficiently strong, and learn to drink from a bucket. But Jackie is right: if little Miss Mendocino makes it, Jackie and Harvey are in for lots of feedings ahead. I'll keep you posted.

Thanks Jackie and Harvey, and I hope your neighborhood association at the coast doesn't mind a little calf bawling. TAKE PHOTOS!

Where Ya From?

My brothers are way funnier than I am, without even trying. I found this in my inbox yesterday, from my brother Mantel Man:




Mantel Man: "You just never know what you'll find on Google Maps."

Then came this answer from our brother Bocci: "Are you buying property there?"

Answered Mantel Man: "Yeah, you're required to own property there when you're the mayor."

So I got into the game: "You're the mayor of Google Map Data?"

Smedley told me that wasn't funny at all.

Yet Another Thing for the LaGrone Family to Be Proud Of

Got an e-mail from my brother Mantel Man the other day. Had I ever written about this? he wanted to know. "Oh, of course, I'm sure I must have," I answered, not at all sure. I checked: nope. "Okay, write it," I told him. So today I found this perfect little essay in my inbox, complete with a couple of photos (which I, of course, picked at) written by my talented brother (whom I, of course, am always picking at). The titles -- all four of them -- seemed to work as a set, so I left them as they came.

THE GROUND IS ALWAYS WEAKER OVER THE SEPTIC TANK

Or,

HERE'S ONE COW YOU WON'T WANT TO EAT,

Or,

POOL, POND . . . POND'D BE GOOD FOR YOU

Or,

FENCING LESSONS

by Mantel Man

Laurie's observation that “Nothing good has ever come from a phone call from Dad in the morning” reminded me that nothing good can come from being awakened by Mom in the middle of the night.

When I was a teenager on the ranch, Dad had grown tired of occasional mass bovine escapes and was gradually replacing our miles of old barbed-wire with heavy steel fences. It took a while to complete the job, and the pastures that bordered out our back yard were at the tail end of the schedule.

(Original photo used by permission of ShakataGaNai on Wikimedia Commons)

We had always taken break-outs in stride. One night a few years earlier I woke to the sound of barbed wire being stretched to its breaking point and finally snapping, accompanied by the sound of many hooves -- and then a splash. We had just installed our in-ground swimming pool but had not yet put in the fence around it. Fortunately the entire pool was only four feet deep. We shooed a very surprised heifer toward one end so she could walk up the steps and make her exit.* I'm sure Mom shock-treated the pool afterward, but it wasn't as fouled as the irrigation-runoff ponds I was accustomed to swimming in anyway.

The next wading adventure was more stressful -- for the cow and for me. All Mom had to do was wake me with the words, “Sorry, Mantel Man -- cows are out again,” and I would have rolled out of bed, grumbled something about the wisdom of any animal that needs fences in the first place, and prepared to do what needed to be done. Instead, Mom shock-treated me by standing, dimly silhouetted in my bedroom doorway, holding a flashlight, and saying, “Wake up -- we've got trouble!”** Climbing down from the ceiling, I'm sure I grumbled something about the wisdom of any woman who wakes someone in such a manner.

An old-fashioned country septic tank is an open concrete box covered at the top with heavy wooden boards and buried underground. The boards don't last forever, and the owner is typically notified that it's time for new timbers when something heavy passes over the septic tank -- like, say, a cow.

We heard her mooing in the darkness but couldn't find her in the beams of our flashlights. We were looking too high. The animal had broken through the top of the septic tank behind the mobile home next to our house and was craning her neck just to see above the ground. She couldn't climb out by herself, so we tried lowering a hay bale to use as a step. However, even a dense alfalfa bale is too buoyant to be pushed under the, uh, water that filled the tank. Next we brought the old wooden stepstair from the mobile home's back door and lowered it into the tank. The cow tried climbing up but quickly turned the steps into splinters.  Okay, so those boards needed replacing, too. Then my older cousin Mike arrived with Dad's big Ford loader and began excavating the earth beside the tank, using great care not to excavate parts of the frightened cow standing just inches from the huge steel scoop bucket.

By the time Mike had dug out the earth beside the tank and broken down its concrete wall, the cow had grown too weak from the cold water to climb out by herself, so he got a chain around her neck and dragged her out with the tractor. I half-expected to hear the sound of the cow's neck being stretched to its breaking point and finally snapping, but once on solid ground she was able to walk away with only her dignity injured.

Mike, with his wonderful twangy voice and blunt wit, summed up the event: “Growing up on your farm I've always seen people covered with cow shit, but I've never seen a cow covered with people shit!” This is country life -- where septic tanks become swimming pools, and vice-versa.***

*Laurie simply MUST add that The Swimming Pool Incident happened at about 5:00 a.m. on a school day at the tail-end of winter and it was raining. Of course.

**"We've got trouble"? Who says that, except maybe in "Old Yeller"?!

***I must object here. I have NEVER used a septic tank for swimming. Also, I was not there on this fateful day as I was off at college  killing brain cells improving my inbred little pea brain.

Put . . . Zee Kindle . . . BICK

Mantel Man checked in this week with a catch of another NPR goof . . . or was it a goof?

 

(Photo stolen from these guys)

The other day I heard the NPR News announcer say, "...brought to you by the new 'Nook' e-reader, from Barnes & Noble..."*

He really should have said it more slowly.

While cleaning up spilled coffee and ceramic shards from the kitchen floor, I had the passing thought that not only is NPR becoming more commercial, they're also rather sly about their humor.  If the product I pictured were real, a stampede of customers would crash the Barnes & Noble web site trying to trade in their Kindles.

Hope all is clear where you are.

*Foolery's note: whatever that is, I totally want one. I think.

No News Is Good News

My brother Mantel Man sent me this last night and I had a coughing fit from laughing. And as usual he wrote it in only 20 minutes. Jerk.


 
(Photo stolen from Tannis Toohey/Toronto Star)

Some NPR news program was interviewing a Canadian stand-up comic about his recently being offered a job at a brand-new conservative news network being created in our neighbor to the north. Officially it will be Sun TV News, but people are informally referring to it as "Fox News North." 

I was struck not so much by the comic's obvious sense of "us" and "them" (and his surprise at being invited to work with "them") as I was about his apparent wonder at who in the world (or at least in Canada) will be consumers of that kind of network. It got me thinking about the varying perspectives of different news outlets, and I imagined how those networks might report on current events in, say, Afghanistan:

 

(Logo stolen from these guys) 

"Next on CNN: two more U.S. troops were killed today in Afghanistan, bringing this month's total to 14. Anderson Cooper will take you live to the homes of the families, with some extreme closeups of women crying, and Anderson will debut his new theme music."

 
(Banner stolen from Fox News)

"Later on Fox News: Bill O'Reilly interviews three different heads of state about the political situation in Afghanistan, and tells them why he is right and they are all idiots."

 

(Logo stolen from this guy)

"Next up on MSNBC: a small earthen dam breaks in Helmand Province, killing two farmers. We'll tell you why it's all Dick Cheney's fault."

 
(Logo stolen from these guys)

"Next on Al Jazeera: courageous American journalist Helen Thomas, speaking for President Obama, admits that the slaughter of innocent young Muslim men in Afghanistan is all the fault of Jewish U.S. troops."

 
(Original image stolen from these guys)

"Tomorrow on NPR's 'All Things Considered': we learn about a young man from Kandahar and the daily challenges he faces as a gay poet in this conservative society."

Yikes. I wonder what the new Canadian news network would report: 

 
(Photo stolen from these guys)

"Next on Sun TV News: Prime Minister Steven Harper appeared, along with two other heads of state, on the Fox News show 'The O'Reilly Factor.' The PM explained to his host that although the new Canadian network is informally called 'Fox News North,' we'll have difficulty publicly comparing our programmes to O'Reilly's because in Canada you still can't say the word 'ass' on the air."

And that's the way it is -- or at least the way it seems sometimes. But at least the U.S. television news networks have the good sense to hire supermodels instead of comedians.

 
(Collage stolen from this site) 

Sole Mates

Some of you know my brother, whom I call Mantel Man, as a talented writer and a terribly silly person. While you are spot-on in your assessment, you should know that Mantel Man also has a rich and diverse background of exotic travel and adventure outings. Also, he talks to his shoes. Would you really expect anything else from a Fooleryland family member?

If you know ME, then you know I am  cheap  thrifty, which is a trait my brother Mantel Man shares. We can squeeze more use out of  a rotary phone   a decrepit artifact  a beloved old item than almost anyone we know. Except for possibly our father and his clothes, but that's  revolting  a story for another day.

Mantel Man sent me this little essay, or paean to his hiking boots, just because, a couple of weeks ago. I made him send me photos which (this being Mantel Man) I was certain he had. Yes, he had them. Here is his story.

*     *     *     *     *

 
(Photo used by permission of Robertbody at en.wikipedia)

After a few recent hikes up Squaw Peak ( a short climb in the middle of Phoenix) in my sneakers, during which I felt every single rock on the trail through the thin soles, I finally decided to invest in a new pair of hiking boots.

At the Sports Chalet, the shoe department is right next to the rental department, and I glanced over at the red canoe on the rack to see if it had gotten any new scratches since the last time I rented it.  Probably not -- this being Scottsdale.  The salesman helped me try on about six different pairs of boots.  When I asked how long they generally last, he said, "Oh, all these brands are pretty durable.  Even with heavy use, they should last you up to a year."

SAY, WHAT?

I keep shoes longer than most people keep their spouses -- at least in Scottsdale (even with heavy use).  In a year, my relationship with a pair of  shoes usually isn't even beyond the "on your best behavior" courtship stage.  In fact, my fanzi-panzi Italian sneakers, the ones I got in Rome in 2005, are known in my closet as "the new guys."* (Some of my other shoes are a little passive-aggressive.)

 
(Original photo used by permission of andrew.petro at Flickr, Wikimedia Commons)

The whole reason I needed new hiking boots is because last summer my old ones finally fell apart during my descent from Humphreys Peak, north of Flagstaff. I walked the last couple of miles with the outsole of one boot in my hand. With only a thin insole remaining, the injured boot was little more than a slipper. Fortunately I was past the rocky part of the trek. When I later told the elderly Korean shoe-repair shop owner about the boot while picking up some other shoes (I was a regular there), he was sure he could fix it -- but he hadn't seen the remains of the boot and didn't realize how thrashed both of them were. 

 
(Original photo used by permission of Mckaysavage, Wikimedia Commons)

I had ordered the heavy-duty boots in 1994 for my trek in Nepal. Even though they arrived in the mail right AFTER my return, forcing me to trek in my $20 "Korea specials" (which I finally threw out in 2004), they endured years of strenuous hiking on rough terrain, occasionally strapped to crampons or snowshoes. It was time to let them go.

I actually have yet another pair of all-leather boots, but their outsoles are peeling away from the midsoles and need to be glued -- again. They are my oldest shoes, purchased in 1989 and made in the U.S., probably by Amish cobblers.

 
They are pretty low-tech, more suitable for walking across pastures at the ranch than carrying a backpack on some rough trail. Hence my trip to the shoe store to start a new relationship. The honeymoon phase ended unusually early, as last weekend I put the new boots through an 18-20 mile hike involving a good bit of off-trail bushwhacking in the alpine region above Arizona's Mogollon Rim. The boots are still in a snit over it, and we're not speaking right now. I can hear my 1989 boots snickering in my closet.

 

*Those fanzi-panzi Italian shoes are known in our family by a battery of unflattering names, none of which is "The New Guys."

CRUSHED LIKE A BEER CAN, or PLEASE RECYCLE

After last night's post about the fair, I heard from my brother Mantel Man. He wrote, "Your post brought back a memory I had from county fairs past, and I wrote up something that you might consider posting, or at least keeping in your 'drafts' file for three or four years. Your call."  He knows me so well. Here is his story, and yes, it took him all of 20 minutes to write this one up:

CRUSHED LIKE A BEER CAN, or PLEASE RECYCLE

 
(Photo stolen from this site) 

I had never thought of the residents of Glenn County, California as environmentalists, but we did tend to get maximum use out of our metals.  For example, a twenty-year-old car on its way to the auto recyclers would probably make a stop along the way, at the annual Glenn County Fair and its ever-popular demolition derby.  Besides providing entertainment to the fair-goers, the event partially pre-crushed the cars so they occupied less space on the way to the recyclers – kinda like the beer cans in your own recycling bin.

When I was about 14, one of the milkers on our dairy farm acquired a twenty-year-old car that looked even less roadworthy than the car he regularly drove, and I wandered over to the on-site mobile home that he rented from my father to check out the vehicle.  Its windows had all been removed, and a large number was spray-painted on the driver’s door.  Aha – a demolition derby car for the upcoming fair!  Larry was tinkering under the hood. 

 

(Original photo stolen from this guy) 

“Hi Larry.  Are you going to drive in the derby this year?”

“Yeah – what do you think of the car?”

The brown, dented, well-ventilated Chevrolet looked quite suitable for the task.   Glancing inside, I saw that Larry had already removed the rear seat.  In its place was the largest quantity of empty beer cans I had ever seen.  If you grew up in a county like mine, you know that’s saying a lot.

“So, are you going to take the cans out before the derby?” I asked with a grin.  Looking a bit sheepish, Larry replied, “Yeah – I’ll recycle them, but for now it’s just an easy place to toss the empties while I’m working on the car.”

The fair arrived.  In the grandstand, in the hands of my fellow derby watchers, was the second-largest quantity of beer cans I had ever seen.  A water truck rumbled around the arena below, spraying liberally to turn the dirt into mud.  The slippery surface would prevent the derby cars from gaining enough speed to cause serious injury to any drivers.  The object was for each competitor to race around in reverse, using the rear end of his car as a battering ram to disable his opponents. 

The derby had several elimination rounds like an athletic tournament.  The last car still standing would be the winner.  When Larry’s car first appeared, I watched as it slipped and slid around the track among a dozen or so other cars, lining up for its first attack.  The brown Chevy accelerated across the middle of the arena and rammed another car with a satisfying crunch.  With other collisions occurring all around, I don’t know if anyone else in the grandstand noticed the small, shiny object that came flying out the back window of the brown Chevy upon impact.  I wonder if anyone in the crowd noticed the teenager among them shout, to no one in particular,

“Hey, Larry – you missed one!”

*     *     *     *     *

And, for those of you who have never been  redneck  lucky enough to watch a demolition derby in person, please enjoy this video -- one of hundreds available on Youtube.com for your viewing pleasure. The demolition derby is tonight at the Glenn County Fair. Any of you goin'?

Stupid Pilot Tricks, or, Swells Like Team Spirit

This post was sent to me last year, ready-made, from my brother Mantel Man. Once upon a time he was a Bombardier-Navigator in the Navy, serving on A-6 Intruders. Yeah, I know; it's taken me YEARS to be able to type that sentence without any major errors. Ahem.

Other than finding a few images, I had nothing to do to prepare this post, so, of course, I lost it. BUT I found it again while combing my Drafts folder for something of value.

Here is Mantel Man's story about when he served on an aircraft carrier some time  after the first Gulf War.

 

(Original photo stolen from this guy) 

As if our flight gear weren’t heavy enough already.

On any normal flight from the aircraft carrier, I wore my flight suit (with Spaceman Spiff underwear, but that’s none of your business), G-suit to keep from blacking out during hard turns, harness to connect to the ejection seat, survival vest, and helmet – plus a .45 and ammo for patrols over Iraq or flights over the wild Australian outback. Then, if the weather got cold enough, we might also be required to wear…

Dry suits.

That’s right – waterproof one-piece suits with rubber seals at the neck, wrists, and ankles, plus special thermal underwear (without pictures of Spaceman Spiff, dammit).

 

The suits were hot and uncomfortable under our flight suits, and fortunately I had to wear them on only one deployment, off the coast of South Korea one winter during the annual Team Spirit exercise with the ROK armed forces.

After each flight over the cold Sea of Japan, I couldn’t wait to get out of the dry suit before heading to the forward (a.k.a. “dirty shirt”) wardroom, where the flyers would gather for an evening meal or snack. One evening, however, my friend Jack from the helicopter squadron came up still wearing a dry suit under his flight suit. Now, Jack was 6 feet 6 inches tall and had to fly search-and-rescue helo’s because he was too tall for jet fighters. He had a great sense of humor and was liked by all.

When Jack finished his meal, he suddenly pushed back from the table and announced, “Uh oh, I’m getting that after-dinner bloated feeling!” He then grabbed the rubber seal around his neck, pulled it above his nose, and began repeatedly exhaling into his dry suit. In just a few seconds the thing had swelled up until we thought it would tear the flight suit he had on over it. We howled with laughter over the six-foot green life raft at our table.

Is this the sort of thing that happens at summer camp? Well, Team Spirit was our winter camp, and despite the crappy weather and the confining couture, we remained in pretty high spirits. And if I had to eject into that cold water, I knew how to increase my positive buoyancy while I waited for Jack to fly out and find me.

*     *     *     *     *

Foolery here -- I don't know about YOU guys, but I'M picturing a HydroVac suit from the Woody Allen movie "Sleeper."

 

(Original photo stolen from these guys) 

Thanks for the bedtime story, Mantel Man!

NUKE ‘EM ALL

My computer at home had a stroke, and I had no aspirin on hand, so we're gonna try some after-care tonight and hope it works. In the meantime, here is a little something my brother Mantel Man (a.k.a. Field Marshal Butthead on this day, apparently) sent me a few weeks ago. I'm just getting around to sharing it now. Yes, I am a Lame-O. And also, this post took Mantel Man/Butthead all of twenty minutes to write. It's taken me all lunch hour to post it. The butthead.

 

(Original photo used with permission from hebster, commons.wikipedia.org) 

If you laughed at Laurie’s recent posting about a slice of cake practicing self-immolation in a microwave, you may be interested to know that microwave popcorn has a similar sense of nihilism.

 

(Original photo used with permission from Andrew Butko at Wikimedia Commons)

When I removed a packet from its outer plastic wrapper and heard the light “clack” of two or three kernels hitting the floor, I realized that the paper cooking pouch had a small tear in it.  Being resourceful, and not overly fond of gathering popped corn from all over the inside of the microwave, I placed the pouch into a larger brown paper bag and put the whole thing on the cooking plate.

I now realize that I had become complacent.  After about two minutes of nuking, I came back to check on the food’s progress and saw the entire oven’s interior engulfed in orange flames and the exterior vent grill above the door beginning to melt.  The oven was still going and I had to hit the “stop” button, but after dousing the flames with a soaked towel, opening every door and window in the house, and cleaning up the carnage, I tried to revive my trusty appliance and found that it had been successfully assassinated.

Fortunately this popcorn was the “Lite” version, with 60% less fat than regular butter-flavored microwave popcorn.  The regular stuff must be what the Green Berets used in Afghanistan to get the bad guys out of those mountain caves.  If I’d put that in my micro, I might be living in a refugee camp now.

You could say it was the first successful suicide-bombing of a major appliance in U.S. history.  Sure, the enemy martyred 300 of its own lite kernels, but they also took out my five-star General Electric.  I showed ‘em, though: the very next day another one was recruited to take its place.  We must show resolve:  if we lose the right to have a simple pleasure like microwave popcorn, then the terrorists win.

 

(Original photo stolen from these guys)

Signed,

Field Marshal Butthead

Plymouth Rock On

Got a letter from my brother Mantel Man today. I don't think it will need any explanation. Hope he won't mind the theft. You don't mind, do you Mantel Man? (He doesn't mind.)

 


(Original photo stolen from mrbinfv on Flickr)

After driving the Camaro around for two years using only the rear stereo speakers, I finally got the cracked front ones replaced in time for my road trip north. It didn't cost much -- at least not monetarily.

The manager handed me the car keys and told me, "Wait a week or so before you really rock it."  Hmm... a breaking-in period for stereo speakers? No problem -- I don't play my music very loudly anyway. I walked out to the car, got in, and turned the key.

I regained consciousness lying face-down about 30 feet from the car. All the windows were broken, the paint had peeled off, and the car itself seemed to have melted and re-formed as some sort of Plymouth (most of which have broken windows and no paint anyway). Well, the new speakers definitely worked.  However, if they needed breaking in, it appeared that the installer had been accomplishing just that, before shutting down the car without turning the volume down.  Either he forgot, or he had a twisted sense of humor.

 


(Original Photo stolen from samwilkinson on Flickr)

That's not the worst part:  when I turned on the ignition, the radio happened to be playing something by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.  SOMEBODY out there has a twisted sense of humor.

 


(Original photo stolen from these guys)

Microwave Live-to-Tell Stories: Peg's Egg

Here is one of my favorite on-line friends, Bob Cleveland, sharing a story he told me the other day in an instant message conversation. Pretty sure this story rabbit-trailed from all the egg talk that's gone on around here at Foolery lately. We talk about the goofiest things, but I'm guessing all y'all can relate to this microwave story.

 


(Photo stolen from these guys)

We got our first microwave in perhaps 1977. I recall it was a G.E.

One of the kids, who were teens at the time, suggested we ought to zap an egg in it. Not having heard anything contrary, at that time, we did. We put it in for half a minute, I think, and nothing happened.

So Peg took it out to see if it was hot ... just warm on the outside, when it sounded like someone had fired a .22 in the room. We had egg ALL OVER the kitchen walls, some on the ceiling. But most of it ended up on Peg, with a LOT of white and yolk in her hair.

We all laughed about that, but I'm sorry I didn't glop on some mayonnaise. She'd have gotten a nice natural oil treatment and the kids and I'd have had a nice sandwich spread.

Live and learn.  

We stick to zapping CD's now.

*     *     *     *     *

I hate to ask about zapping CDs . . . Anyone else out there have horrible microwave experience? Enough time passed that you can laugh about it now? Leave it in the comments, or post it on your own site and leave a link for us here. Or, do as Bob did and e-mail it to me at foolery (at) clearwire (dot) com, and I'll post it on Foolery this week. Thanks again, Bob!

You Can Read This Or Have Nookie BUT NOT BOTH

This letter from my brother Mantel Man was in my inbox this morning. Mantel Man can make me laugh before 7:00 a.m., loud enough to wake up the whole family, which he did, and I did, and they did . . . and now I'm gonna let him make you laugh. Because I think you will. Just don't go furniture shopping with the man.

*     *     *     *     *

Okay, so I’m looking for a couple of second-hand furniture items on the Craig’s List web site, where people can upload their own ads and sell items for free.  I didn’t check the “services” section, but if there was an ad there for spelling and grammar instruction, I doubt it had any takers.

I had no idea there was so much entertainment in reading the headlines for these ads!  Most were silly due to misspellings, but a few were from mere word choice – such as “Black Stools.”  ‘Nuff said?  These would go great with the “Spanish wrought iron cabinet with designer bowel.”

Some items seemed to be advertised in the wrong section, such as “White Flowered Drawers.”  Who would want to buy such things used, anyway?

How about this:  “Slight Damage - $125.”  This one clearly belongs under “services.”  I wonder how much they would want for serious damage.

Not to be outdone by the Spanish cabinet, someone offered a “Brown Micro-fibre Swede Sofa.”  Another abomination from Ikea, no doubt.

(Original photo stolen from these probable non-Swedes)

Some of these sellers are more cultured than I thought: “Brass Handel Door Knobs.”  I’ve been looking for a set of those for years!  I wonder if he’d part with his Wing-Bach Chair, too.  Might as well collect the complete set.

(Photo stolen from these people of culture)

“Tables, Tables, and More Tables . . . or Desks.”  Well, which is it?  Make up your mind!  Perhaps this was the same seller who offered “Occassional Tables” – which “occasionally” turn into desks, apparently. 

The trouble with wrought iron is that it’s hard to spell if you don’t know what you’re saying.  I saw “Rod Iron” and the intriguing-sounding “Rot Iron,” but my favorite item was “’Faux’ Wrong Iron / Glass Table.”  Can you believe it?  He handled faux but he spelled “wrought” . . . wrong.

Let’s skip over “Lather Wrap Bar Stools” and “Descent and Pretty Comfortable” and get to the biggie:

Dinning.

You would not believe how many “dinning tables” I saw advertised.  I didn’t even know “din” was a verb.  Do these tables have something to do with loud noise?  If I wanted that, I’d get the cabinet with designer bowel.

Finally, the subject of sex was bound to make an appearance.  One seller, frustrated at apparently having wasted time waiting for buyers who stood her up, didn’t even advertise an item but instead wrote an ad entitled, “What’s with the NO SHOWS?  (I could’ve been having nookie.)”  She mentioned sex-starved parents and laid a curse on the flaky respondents to her ad:  “I hope your doorbell rings whenever you’re having nookie and your mother calls when you’re taking a nap.”

Talk about sex-starved!  She clearly was not the same person who offered to sell my favorite item of all:  a “Bonk Bed.”

(Original photo stolen from these guys)

Hope things are making more sense where you are,

Mantel Man

Auto-Dog

Dear Internuts,

Another conversation with my brother Mantel Man; another story dredged up from the depths of his experience-rich life. I told him this morning that I wanted him to write this story up for me, and so, within hours, he did -- complete with photos, charts and arrows and a machine that goes BING! Sort of.

PLUS, he provided me with possible titles -- he's nothing if not thorough. The choices:

NEGATIVE NEEDLES, or

DOG DAY AFTERNOON, or

OF DOGS AND ICE CREAM, or

THOSE MAGNIFICENT MEN AND THEIR INTERCHANGEABLE MACHINES, or

“502 INTRUDER BALL, 4.2, NEGATIVE NEEDLES, CHOCOLATE PLEASE”

I suspect that half of those were meant to mess with my head. So of course, I had to choose my own title; not sharing Mantel Man's Navy background and fixated as I am upon scatological references, I have chosen to call his story

AUTO-DOG

by Mantel Man

(Photo stolen from this site)

This story isn’t exactly suitable for the dinner table, but it came from a conversation with my sister [that'd be Laurie], so don’t be surprised.

Ever heard the term “coiler”?

Me neither – until Laurie had occasion to allude to the general shape of a dog’s daily constitutional [that'd be dookie, for the coarse folks, like Laurie]. Oh well – we grew up on a farm and aren’t squeamish about such things.

Neither were the other pilots I used to fly with in the Navy. Aboard an aircraft carrier, soft-serve ice cream was known as “auto-dog.” Don’t worry, the unappetizing name had no ill effect on the flavor. When it’s 110 degrees and 100% humid in the Persian Gulf, you’ll eat almost anything cold.

[Laurie's note: Even THIS?!]

(Photo stolen from this site)

Like a lot of equipment on the venerable [that means "stinkin' old"] USS Independence, the auto-dog machine in the forward wardroom often broke down. Being a low-priority item, it usually sat for a long period each time before being repaired. Auto-dog was therefore a rare treat, especially after a long flight during a scorching day or a sweltering evening, capped by the most difficult maneuver a pilot can make: a carrier landing.

(Photo stolen from this site)

[The following paragraph made Laurie's brain contract and her sphincter tingle. Please read it because it's fascinating, in a tingly-sphincter sort of way, but understand that all you really need to know for the story to make sense is ACLS = Really Important Machine That Goes BING! And Is Supposed To Work At All Times. Carry on.]

One shipboard system that was a high priority, and therefore usually worked, was ACLS. The Automated Carrier Landing System* connected the auto-pilot of an aircraft on final approach to a very precise radar on the ship via electronic data link. The system was nicknamed “Needles,” after the crossed vertical and horizontal needles on a gauge in front of the pilot. In a Mode 1 instrument approach, the ACLS could actually fly the jet hands-off all the way to touchdown in case of terrible weather, but a much more common use was the Mode 2, in which the pilot used the system for guidance but flew manually. The approach controller would direct a pilot to “Say needles” after connecting the data link. The pilot would respond “On and on,” or “fly up and right,” or whatever his needles indicated he needed to do to be exactly on glide path and glide slope. If the approach controller saw the same on his own equipment, he would say, “Concur, continue Mode 2.” If the system was inoperative – either in the aircraft or on the ship – the pilot would reply, “Negative needles” and have to work harder to make a decent landing.

During my first cruise, we made an amusing observation: on the rare occasion
when the auto-dog machine was working, the ACLS usually wasn’t. Just a coincidence, perhaps? We joked that somehow these two dissimilar pieces of gear must share a lot of components, and that our technicians had to rob parts from one to get the other up and running. Landing on the ship was hazardous and difficult at best, and not having the ACLS made it even more of a challenge – but at least it meant we could usually look forward to a nice cold coiler at the dinner table.

(Photo stolen from this site)

*More ACLS info at this site [machine that goes BING! sold separately]

*     *     *     *     *

What do you all think -- is auto-dog anything like auto-pilot? I get them completely mixed up.

Thanks, Mantel Man, and I'm sorry if any of you Internuts were eating. Especially if it was squid ink soft-serve.

Isn't It Ironic?

My friend Suz at Alive in Wonderland made me laugh today, which is no surprise since she makes me laugh quite often. This is what she wrote on Twitter:

"I've given up irony for lent. It's been difficult and spending time with my parents hasn't helped."

I started thinking about irony.  Like when I ran into an ex-boyfriend in the Honolulu airport. Like when the only American people on the island of Bora Bora that my family met . . . were from Hayfork, California?  Which is a mountain town above my valley. They were astounded that we had heard of Hayfork; we were thrilled that they had heard of Orland.

Ironic.

That reminded me that I have a story from my friend Bob Cleveland, about irony. I thought you might enjoy this.

(Photo stolen from these guys)

Arguably one of the weirdest and funniest things that EVER happened to me was in 1997, in Bauska, Latvia.

We were there as a singing group, ministering at meetings in Latvia, and Pskov, Russia. On a free afternoon, we were walking around downtown Bauska and the others in the group (of 12) wanted to go into a store and "shop." So I sat down outside on this little wooden bench, next to an 18-year-old girl named Yunona Baleiva. She had insisted on carrying the big box of dark chocolate bars I'd bought to bring home.

She spoke no English and I spoke no Latvian or Russian. Not one word.

So after maybe 3 or 4 minutes, I said (recalling a tad of German that I had studied in 1954 (yes...FORTY THREE YEARS BEFORE)..."du bis wundershoen."  Which means "you are pretty (or beautiful)."

She immediately brightened up and said "ahhh...SPRECHEN sie DEUTCH??" (do you speak German)

I laughed and said "ein bisschen"...a little.

We were off to the races...she asked me some simple questions like do I have a wife, kids, grandkids, etc.   We "talked" for maybe 5 minutes and then the group came back out and that was that.

1954 sophomore 2 semester German, dredged up and used in 1997. I cannot tell you how much I've laughed about that since. And the funny thing is we've visited with friends in Otterfing, Germany, twice and I didn't know NEARLY enough German to talk German with somebody who lives there...

I thought you might enjoy the irony of the situation.

So I'm asking you, what can you tell me about irony?  Maybe something that has happened to you that you found very ironic . . . leave it in a comment, or write a post and leave the link here in a comment so we can all come read it and go "oooooooooooooooh."  I'm counting on you to have better irony stories than running into an old boyfriend (to whom I wasn't speaking) in an airport 3000 miles from home.

Huge thanks to Bob Cleveland for his irony story and his friendship.

HELLO-O-O-O CLEVELAND!

Posted some photos tonight over at my other blog, Reasonably Educated Bumpkins, in case you're feeling frisky.

Meanwhile.

One (among many) of my favorite people roaming the halls of Foolery is Bob Cleveland.  Bob is deep, insightful, caring, spiritual, warm, and witty.  But mostly?  Bob is a heckuva lot of fun.  So when last week Bob and I were e-mailing back and forth about fake news stories or something, it triggered a funny memory for him.  I asked Bob if he cared to share the Cleveland magic with us here at Foolery, and I wasn't the least bit surprised when, not only did he say YES, but also he had it written in a matter of hours.

It's I who am the tardy one, not Bob.

Here is Bob's story, which I know you're going to enjoy.

(Original photo stolen from these guys)

My Uncle Wilbur, husband to my mom’s next older sister, was the foreman of the composing room at the Indianapolis News. He had the ability to produce a sheet of news print that said most anything we wanted.

 

When I was a junior in high school, my brother’s picture was in an ad on the back cover of a national magazine. He was in his lifeguard gear ... he was the pool manager at a local swim club … and he was talking to a local girl.

 

The News picked up the story of the local kid on the cover of the magazine, and ran a little story about it. Complete with picture. The caption said something like “Art Cleveland tells a funny story to (whatever the girl’s name was)." Uncle Wilbur had the wording changed to “Art Cleveland tells a dirty story to….” and printed up the page for us. He knew we didn’t get the paper, so he told Art here’s a copy for you.

 

My brother was thunderstruck. It took him about a week to find a genuine copy. All those days of keeping a straight face, down the drain.

 

When my wife and I were married and had our own home in Carmel, Indiana, we belonged to a pinochle club with seven other couples. Dale, one of the guys, told us one evening that he’d bought a wooded lot a mile away and was going to build a house. He also mentioned there was a black walnut tree on the property that was very valuable and would pay for a chunk of the house. About a month later, he said he was disappointed; it turned out to be an oak tree.

 

I couldn’t resist. I had Uncle Wilbur print up a page of routine articles, headed The Pittsburgh Press (my folks lived there). I wrote an article about the incident, featured all sort of outrageous stuff like a team from Purdue had come down to appraise the tree and had observed that there were normally walnuts, not acorns, around a walnut tree.

 

Then I glued it to a piece of paper (it was only printed on one side) and wrote in a big red marker “Bob ... is this anyone you know?” and stuffed it into the next letter we got from the folks.

 

I uncorked that jewel at the next pinochle party, and it got passed around and howled about all evening.

 

I never did tell Dale what I’d done.

*     *     *     *     *

Laurie's note:  internet news is probably easier to fake, but it just wouldn't have the same zing! to it.  Thanks for a great story, Bob.

Dear Apple . . .

(Logo stolen from iindigo)

My friend Gubby sent me this list last night.  Give it up for Gubby, whatever THAT means, and send Steve Jobs all your best wishes for a full recovery.


Five Reasons Why I Should Be the Interim Apple CEO:
by Gubby


5.  I look good in a black mock-turtle neck.


(Photo stolen from these guys)


4.  I need the Apple employee discount to buy my next iMac.


(Photo stolen from this guy)


3.  I have a greying beard and wear small round wire glasses.


(Photo stolen from these guys)


2.  I was once fired by my grandma from a job.

Download Crickets_28aug07


and the number 1 reason why I should be the interim Apple CEO...
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

1.  Never in my life have I been described as gaunt.



(Original photo stolen from Apple)


Get well soon Steve!!

The Worst Day Fishing, Or, Stick With Mrs. Paul's

My brother Mantel Man doesn't send e-mails, he creates miniature works of art and drops them into my inbox.  I swear, if he burps it must sound like an aria.  So here is the e-mail he sent out to family yesterday, describing his Saturday fishing trip with a friend.  I know him, and this e-mail took him no more than 20 minutes, I'm sure of it.  Maybe 10.

*     *     *     *     *

Mantel Man netting a trout during a luckier fishing trip (on Woods Canyon Lake last year)

Y'know that old saying, "The worst day fishing is better than the best day working"?  I tested that theory last weekend on a local lake with a fishing buddy.  I'll call him "Gene" -- because that's his real name, and if I have to endure humiliation, then so does he.

Gene fly fishing on the Black River a few weeks ago

Gene's particular hang-up that day was just that: a hang-up.  His casts, aimed near snags sticking out of the water, were usually quite accurate, but several times they got caught on the branches above the surface and never on the bass underneath.  Fortunately, we could always paddle our canoe over and free his line.  Incidentally, we now feel fully prepared for the approaching task of Christmas tree-decorating.

(Photo stolen from these guys)

My own problem was worse: not catching things, but losing things.  I was using a fairly heavy lure to reach a greater depth, attached to lightweight 3 lb. test line.  On one cast, the line suddenly snapped with a loud noise, and I instantly knew I had lost the lure.

That's not all I lost.  The snap was accompanied by a loud pop, and the upper half of my two-piece fishing rod dropped into the deep water.  Never before in my life had such a thing happened.  The line must have wrapped around the tip just as I cast, wrenching it from the lower half.  Gene turned around and said, "What the -- " as I reached, too late, for the sinking piece of fiberglass.

That rod had been in the family for years, belonging to my brother before he admitted he didn't have the patience to be a fisherman and gave it to me around twenty years ago.  If he hadn't, the rod surely would have ended up at the bottom of a lake anyway, only not by accident.  It wasn't fancy, but I hated to lose it -- not because I'm sentimental about material things, but because I'm a cheapskate.  I'm also an optimist: my other rod (an even older one) was left in my Jeep because I didn't think I'd need it that day.  Fortunately, Gene was a pessimist, and he pulled out his spare for me to use.  Yeah, he's a little too trusting as well.

Ever heard of "jerk bait"?  Some single women apply that moniker to themselves, but it's actually a floating lure that dives under the surface when the line is tugged.  I didn't lose any lures while casting with Gene's rod and reel due to the 8 lb. test line he had strung on.  His rig worked fine, but it was like fishing with piano wire, so eventually I replaced his reel with the one from my own half-a-pole.

On about my fifth cast with this combination, I heard a small snap and watched my lure sail across the cove, unencumbered by its erstwhile tether.  "My turn, Gene."  We paddled over and retrieved it, and I managed not to lose it again -- mainly because I soon replaced it with another jerk bait.  I treat lures like B-17 bomber crews: once your 25 combat missions are up, you've been put at risk quite enough, and it's time to send you Stateside.

By mid-afternoon, the gathering clouds looked like they were assembling for less-than-peaceable purposes, and Gene and I paddled back toward where we had launched the canoe.  As raindrops began stirring the surface of the lake, I cast again and instantly felt that something had gone awry.  I watched the lure fly away like a B-17.  Without a noise, it had somehow parted from its line and was now floating invisibly on the roiled surface at least 200 feet away.  We searched for a while, but when it's pouring down rain, you can quickly lose your enthusiasm for even the most highly decorated, combat-seasoned lure.

The same canoe on Blue Ridge Reservoir last year, as Mantel Man sat under a big overhanging rock waiting out a squall

The clouds had a silver lining, however.  Since neither of us smelled remotely of fish, Gene's wife Diane allowed both of us into their house for a fabulous dinner.  I had gotten nary a nibble on the lake, but I had more than a few good bites at the table.  And I didn't lose any forks, in case you were wondering.

This weekend I'm going shopping for piano wire.

Mantel Man at Blue Ridge, smelling of fish and having to cook his own food

No One Was Scalped in the Creation of This Post

After reading (and essentially reposting) Auds' wonderful story about vacuuming up her own hair Tuesday, and after telling four people the story to share the joy, I have a similar tale to share. This comes from my real-life friend Ms. Boz (Not Her Real Name, Nor Is She Any Relation To Boz Skaggs). To give you a good mental picture, I have provided some photos. Also, Ms. Boz is very tall and willowy with long wavy hair.

When I was a freshman in college, I found myself in one of those "can't believe this is really happening" instances. I had waist-length "hippy" hair in those days like many other young women. One day another girl and I were running copies on one of those mimeograph machines.  In those days those machines were used to duplicate, rather than the modern copiers we have today.

Just kidding, Boz. Well, sort of kidding. (Original photo stolen from these guys)

Anyway, as the machine was running, I bent down for some reason and realized that the ends of my hair on one whole side of my head started wrapping themselves around one of the drums. As the drum kept running, more and more of my hair was disappearing inside of it. I was so horrified that I couldn't talk, but finally managed to scream "TURN IT OFF" as my head became plastered against the side of the machine. My friend shut off the machine just as it began to tug on my scalp.

There was a class going on next door with a glass wall separating the two rooms. Thirty faces appeared behind that glass and amongst all of the horrified comments of the students, I could hear one voice loud and clear, "HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU GIRLS TO TIE YOUR HAIR BACK?" The teacher in that class was yelling and bawling me out. Not one bit of sympathy. Here I was bent over with my cheek plastered against the mimeograph machine listening to that crap. Then she started yelling, "JUST CUT IT. DOES ANYONE HAVE ANY SCISSORS?" I started yelling back, "YOU'RE NOT CUTTING MY HAIR" and demanded that they call campus security. When I think about it today, that was pretty comical, in the position I was in. They ended up calling some repair and maintenance guys to come and take the machine apart.

I ended up with half of my hair in a big tangled greasy mess, but I got to keep my hair.

Again, just kidding, Boz. You have beautiful hair. (Original photo stolen from these guys)

Then I had to listen to the teacher's "I told you so" comments for the rest of the semester.  It actually could have ended really badly and the machine could have scalped me.

Which is why to this day, everyone uses photocopiers. The end.

Just messing with you, Ms. Boz. Thank you for this hair-raising story. Yeah, I know; I'm a HARE BRAIN.

How DO you suppose Meatloaf got his hair out of HIS mimeograph machine?

Band-Aids for Bonzo

My brother Mantel Man has written another guest post. In my defense of the green socks, let me say that a) I was 17 at the time, and b) I have much gaudier footwear than those socks, and c) who has socks older than Miss America?

I had some strange friends in high school.  Our small group tended to be quirkier, more intellectual, and less inhibited than most of our fellow students.  We weren’t richer, though, so one year, for my birthday, one of the girls in the group made me a gift.  She took a dozen or so ¾” Band-Aid brand adhesive bandages and, uh, decorated them for me. 

Nowadays you can get bandages in bright colors or with drawings or designs on them.  You can even get Dora the Explorer Band-Aids, if it isn’t enough for your child to spend half an hour hearing the television character shout things like “Say, ‘LACERATION’!!!”  However, the birthday in question was a quarter-century ago, long before Dora was a twinkle in some sadistic cartoonist’s eye, and if you wanted designer bandages, you had to design them yourself.  And that’s what my friend did.  On the back of each bandage she had glued a magazine photo or cartoon drawing of . . . Ronald Reagan.  Her note expressed the hope that I would enjoy my “Ronnie Band-Aids.”

Well, what did you get for YOUR sixteenth birthday?  At least I remember MY gift.  And still have it – most of it, anyway.  I also still have another memorable gift: a pair of fluorescent green socks that my sister Foolery had given me for my fifteenth birthday.  She wanted to encourage her somewhat shy younger brother to be less inhibited.  I wreaked my revenge by wearing them to school frequently and telling my horrified classmates exactly who had given them to me.  However, I never wore the bandages and the socks on the same day.  When I had a Ronnie Band-Aid on, I just felt too serious and dignified.

Today I’m more confident and less inhibited than I might have been without these gifts.  Recently, for example, I took a lady on a first date to an outdoor cocktail lounge and managed to spill an entire glass of Oregon pinot noir on my pants.  I know what you’re thinking: “They make pinot noir in Oregon?”  Anyway, my reaction put my companion at ease and helped get me a second date: instead of being mortified by the spill, I laughed it off, stood up, and showed everyone my cotton-clad hiney, which was now the color of Dora Band-Aids.*

(Photo stolen from these guys)

I like to think it’s what Ronald Reagan would have done.

*Foolery here: I thought your hiney was ALWAYS that color.

(Photo stolen from these guys)