Nothing Serious

The Sweet Taste of...Perfume?

2009-06-20T21:07:00.005-04:00

On my lunch hour one day last week, I was about to enjoy my meal in a local sandwich shop when my senses were hijacked by another customer entering the dining area. In her late 50s or early 60s, this woman was a spectacle of what was clearly a lifetime of diet and fashion disasters.

Stretch pants strained to the absolute limit of the polyester fiber's tensile strength. The straps of her orange high heel shoes threatened to burst with every step she took. Her sweatshirt was emblazoned with a giant yellow smiley face, the intended purpose of which was to assure those around her that there was no reason to run screaming for the hills. The poor smiley, however, was grotesquely misshapen by this woman's bulging torso and the expression was more of a grimace than a smile.

A spectacle of this sort could have gone down in my book as a mildly amusing distraction if it weren't for olfactory assault that followed her around the restaurant like a cloud of mustard gas. One can only guess at the price per gallon of this woman's scent. And I say gallon because she had obviously bathed in no less than 2 quarts of the stuff before leaving her single-wide that morning.

Because I have clearly committed some awful deed that has unleashed the most negative form of karma in the universe, this woman elected to sit in the booth adjacent to mine. Her invasion of my lunchtime oasis away from work could not have been more complete if she had intentionally sat on my sandwich and stomped on my chips. For, you see, as I gagged to breathe, I realized that her odor had not only destroyed my sinuses, but my taste buds were ruined as well.

Any pretext of gentleman's manners were quickly discarded in the interest of self-preservation. As my tongue melted in my mouth I tried to explain the problem to her, but she just snorted and went back to munching on the first of her two footlong meatball subs.

Other patrons were coughing and gagging, the windows were fogging up with a yellowish layer of slime, small children were crying and I quickly came to the conclusion that this was an emergency situation. My training kicked in and, as I tried to explain to the police, my actions became automatic. I snatched the nearest fire extinguisher from it's perch on the wall and I let loose. By the time I finished, the fire extinguisher
was empty, the perfume lady was covered in white powder, everyone in the restaurant was cheering and, yes, the odor was gone.

I sat back down at my table, brushed off my sandwich and finished my lunch.

Pig Wrasslin'

2009-02-19T08:21:00.004-05:00

I was talking with my mom the other day and she quoted an expression that was just so relevant.

"Never wrestle with a pig. You'll both get dirty, but only the pig will enjoy it."

Black Ice

2009-02-04T07:20:00.004-05:00

Why do so many drivers get upset about black ice? Don't they realize that less friction means better gas mileage? It's basic science.

A Checkered Past

2009-01-28T10:59:00.006-05:00

Recently, it has come to light that I have a dark spot on my past. Even though the election is over and even though I was not a candidate for any public office, I think I should clear the air on this matter.

Technically, yes, I am an axe murderer, although I prefer to say "reformed axe murderer." Life is never simple and there's much more to the story so I'd like a chance to elaborate.

When I was in high school, I was cast in a rather avant-garde play about an itinerant lumberjack gone mad. I happened to own a flannel shirt which was kind of rare in Florida so I got the part. I was told that the axe was a fake, made of rubber.

The crew included a special effects guy who was considered quite handy with the fake blood and after my first swing in rehearsal, I figured he was a genius. The blows to fellow cast members seemed so realistic that I was amazed. Well, it seems that the prop guy wasn't very bright and there was a bit of a mix-up with the axe.

To make matters worse, the director kept yelling "cut! cut!" and things just got out of hand. Needless to say, I didn't get a very good grade in drama that semester.

Washing The Cat's Bed

2009-01-26T20:51:00.005-05:00

The cats tripped me when I was on the way out to my car yesterday. It was no accident. They were demanding my attention in an evil, cat-like way.

The cats in question are two brothers and don't belong to me. I am renting a furnished house for the time being and these came with the package. I guess I would describe them as semi-feral; a gray and a black. The lady who owns this house lives nearby and she comes to feed them every day, but they always stay outside. They were here before me and they will probably be here after I leave so, even though I am not much of a cat person, I treat them with the respect deserved by a couple of successful squatters.

For the most part, they keep their distance. They steadfastly refuse most human contact and even my Dr. Doolittle daughter, Anna, has been unsuccessful trying to pet them.

As for me, the cats and I share a mutual disdain for one another. If I get up and out the door before my landlady comes to feed them in the morning, I will usually oblige and fill their bowls. In turn, they refrain from leaving dead birds on my doormat.

After being tripped, my first inclination was to check and see if they had been fed. Actually, my first inclination was admittedly less benevolent. (deep cleansing breaths) So, I checked the bowls and they had food.

When I looked at the brothers, I noticed that their fur-licking activity was in overdrive. I have never studied cats, but I'm told this is how they clean themselves. Why they don't just jump in a muddy creek like a good hound dog, I'll never know.

Then I looked at my car which was filthy; coated with salt from driving in the recent snow. I suddenly realized why the brothers had tripped me. Their bed was dirty.

I drive a 1995 Mercedes E320, a bargain I recently found on ebay. It's a comfortable little sedan, but its primary purpose in this world is not transportation. No, it is, first and foremost, a cat bed. You see, if you add up the time I spend driving it versus the time it serves as sleeping quarters for the brothers, there's no comparison. They graciously allow me to take it to work in the morning so long as I bring it back by bedtime and the hood is nice and warm.

The evidence of my car's primary function can be found on the hood and roof in the form of muddy paw prints. The sad fact is, that as I struggle in my quest to finalize an unsavory domestic situation, I just don't have the energy to do battle with the brothers for the sake of my paint job.

So I drove my cat bed to the car wash and as I shoved quarters into the coin slot, I tried to convince myself that it was good for the car's finish to remove the road salt. The truth is, she's already a goner. When I move out of this rental house, I'll probably just put my car up on cinder blocks and abandon it to it's adopted purpose. Sometimes you simply cannot overcome the forces of nature.

When Syrup Goes Bad

2009-01-13T11:17:00.011-05:00

I’m scared to go into my kitchen. Last night, I opened the fridge and noticed that the bulb had burned out. No big deal, right? Well, I reached in to grab a gherkin and from out of a darkened corner Mrs. Butterworth jumped me. Naturally, I freaked! She tried to pin my hand down and I think she was going for the Rolex.

I just barely managed to escape, but my hand was sticky with maple syrup and my nerves were rattled. I mean, you don’t expect that kind of behavior from common breakfast foods. The only explanation I can come up with is that the eternal darkness made her go mad.

“What to do? What to do?” I was beside myself. I guess I could have called the cops, but how do you explain something like that to the 911 operator? Strange as it may seem, I had to accept the fact that the authorities might not believe me.

“911, what is your emergency?”
“Yes, hi, my maple syrup just tried to mug me.”

After reflecting on the possibilities, I decided to handle it without the gendarmes. They have such limited imaginations.

How to proceed? I knew I would need some help, but where to turn? After looking through the cabinets I came across a couple of stout characters that gave me reason to hope. Under the sink I found the muscular Mr. Clean standing there like a beacon of goodness in his bright white t-shirt. Behind him was the Brawny Lumberjack clad in a flannel shirt and holding an axe.

So I enlisted these two heroes to restore order to my kitchen with every confidence in their abilities. I opened the fridge only as far as needed, tossed them in and slammed the door.

Well, there was a terrible commotion for several hours. Some of the lesser condiments were screaming to get out, but after a while everything calmed down. Just to be safe, I left it alone overnight.

This morning I got up and went to the kitchen to fix breakfast. Everything seemed normal, but I needed milk for my cereal. I opened the fridge just a crack to peak inside and discovered that Mrs. Butterworth remained at large.

She was wreaking havoc all about the fridge and the place was a disaster zone. Mr. Clean and the Brawny Lumberjack were cowering behind her like prison bitches and cleaning up the syrup spills. It was pathetic, really. I just closed the door and sealed it up with duct tape.

As I sit here now, I’m just trying to determine which cabinets to remove so I can fit another fridge in my kitchen.

I want to suck your blood

2008-12-13T21:50:00.009-05:00

Megan, my 14-year-old, has taken an alarming interest in vampires. Like many of her peers she has read all of the Twilight books and was first in line to see the movie. I know it's just one of those teenage fads, but I worry that she no longer enjoys my grilled tofu burgers.

Maybe it's just my prejudice coming to light. I grew up in Florida, the sunshine state, so goth never really played that well when I was in high school. Isn't that what these vampires are, the ultimate goths? They stay up all night, sport pale complexions and dress all in black.

What if Megan brings home a vampire boyfriend someday? How do I deal with that? I mean, I understand raging teenage hormones, but I don't know anything about bloodlust. Is there such a thing as chastity collars?

When I was young

2008-11-12T23:02:00.002-05:00

Click on the title to go to a page with a youtube video to see me in younger days. You have to watch to the end of the video.

Gales of November

2008-11-05T21:45:00.005-05:00

The gales of November are what took the Edmund Fitzgerald to her watery grave in 1975 according to the song by Gordon Lightfoot. Of course, North Carolina is far from the Great Lakes, but November still brings change for some, disaster for others.

I can't really predict what's in the air, but it feels like change. Of course, I've been wrong before...and I'll be there again.

And now, I have hit upon a topic for this post; people who can't admit when they are wrong. Everyone knows someone like this, right? Maybe even you have trouble admitting a mistake from time to time.

There are those who are incapable of accepting a flaw in themselves regardless of the shrieking sirens and flashing lights of reality. Is it unflappable confidence or ultimate insecurity that keeps a person from owning a mistake?

I suppose it varies by individual and possibly by circumstance. As for me, I won't try deny that I occasionally attempt to distance myself from an error, but I have discovered that I feel more human and a lot less stressed when I admit to myself and those around me that I made a mistake.

I also find that I am more likely to respect someone who has the courage to admit that they are flawed. The others, the ones who are never wrong seem lonely and troubled to me. It's never fun to be around a critical perfectionist, for even if they are only criticizing themselves, the atmosphere is full of negative emotion. Who needs that?

Where's the funny stuff Dave? The title of the blog is Nothing Serious. Can't you keep it light?

That's how I pretend to have readers for this blog, by printing a contrivance of their thoughts in italics. To answer my inquisitive imaginary reader, I promise to go lite next time. ('Lite' being even more buoyant than 'light').

Is there any hope for me in my pursuit of happiness?

2008-09-12T23:40:00.009-04:00

I was out and about around lunchtime today and I found myself all in a
panic. It seems that there was a run on gasoline because of hurricane
Ike. Lines were forming all over town and there were even places that
required police assistance to direct the overwhelming traffic. It
reminded me of the '70s.

Maybe the insanity was justified, but I decided to treat the whole mess like a North Carolina snowstorm. Whenever there is the slightest threat of wintry weather, the good citizens of our fair city go mad to get bread and milk. If you wind up at the store too late, all you'll find is a stale package of whole wheat hamburger buns and a leaky carton of soy milk.

What is up with those items anyway? Don't people realize that the only thing you can make with milk and bread is milquetoast? I may go to the store before a snowstorm, but I'm in caveman mode, hunting down the canned chili, frozen hot wings and the heartier varieties of Chunky Soups.

So, although I found myself in the throes of a city gone mad for petrol, I managed to keep my cool. That is, until I saw the line at McDonald's. It was wrapped around the entire parking lot. People were honking and cursing; it was a madhouse. I started to get worried because it was my intention to get a Big Mac for lunch and these nutjobs were in the way.

I'm no social anthropologist, but I think it was all a carryover effect from the gas lines. If fuel is in such short supply, what's next? Better get that last McFlurry before Armageddon destroys all remnants of civilization. Well, I have to admit that I was swept up in the community freak-out and jumped in that McDonald's line.

After a mere 40 minutes in the drive-thru I had my Big Mac and Super-Sized Fries. By the time I fought my way out of the parking lot I had a revelation. The swarming frenzy that I had just escaped was simply the peak of the lunch hour rush and yes, it's true, the McRib is back, but only for a limited time.

Spotted A Great Bumper Sticker

2008-09-09T22:31:00.001-04:00

Silence is Golden
& Duct Tape is Silver

Dirty Laundry

2007-12-15T16:02:00.001-05:00

My thirteen-year-old was snooping around in the clothes dryer the other day and I said, "Hey! What are doing in my laundry?"

"Looking for my bra," came her reply.

"There's nothing but my stuff in there so just back off."

On the surface that may sound harsh, but when you are the only guy in a house full of women, you must enforce some boundaries or you will drown in a sea of estrogen.

My laundry is my laundry with an emphasis on the pronoun "my." I don't want any items that could be described as: silky, frilly, lacy, low-cut, sheer, petite or pink rolling around with my guy stuff. I've got blue jeans in there that I wear when I'm doing manly feats like building a deck or cutting down trees with a chainsaw. Sometimes, while wearing my jeans, I stand around with other men after completing our feats of strength and we drink beer. I don't want my jeans covered in anything but dirt, sweat and grease.

You can bet your bottom dollar that John Wayne's cowboy shirts never tumbled around the laundry with any kind of lingerie. It's just not natural.

I thought he was a robot.

2007-11-27T09:37:00.000-05:00

Click on the title of this post for a link to a CNN story about Dick Cheney's heart. I guess this means that there is medical proof that the man has a heart. Now all we need is a team of experts to find his soul.

Academic Hazards

2007-11-01T08:56:00.000-04:00

When I was a kid in school, all we had to worry about was getting cooties from the girls. A simple cootie shot administered by your best friend on the bus was all the protection you needed to survive a day in the trenches.

Now, you have to wear a level 3 hazmat suit or risk getting a deadly staph infection. Even if you're lucky enough to avoid MRSA, you have to dodge bullets and refrain from inadvertent displays of gang colors. There's predatory teachers, HIV, lead tainted toys, mad cows, sinkholes, SARS, and global warming.

If you have children, you have to wonder if the price of an education is worth all the risk. I have considered home schooling, but I'm just not that bright. My kids would wind up with infinite knowledge of '70s sitcoms, but no measurable academic skills. Their career prospects would be limited to low-paying options in the fast-food industry.

Of course, wherever there is hardship, there is an opportunity to make money. Next summer, I am planning to open a pre-school boot camp. Before their first day in public school, youngsters will be taught the basics of self-defense while receiving the latest immunization boosters. The children will also train in small arms fire and urban camoflauge techniques. As further protection, the kids will be fitted with the latest bullet-proof fashions from GAP.

If all goes well with my new business, I'll make enough money to hire a private tutor for my children so my problems will be solved. I am confident that I can provide all the cootie shots they will need.

Suggested name for a rock band...

2007-10-28T20:15:00.001-04:00

Cut The Red Wire

I'm Singin' in the Rain

2007-10-25T08:40:00.000-04:00

Bumped into Gene Kelly this morning. We splashed around in the street for a little bit until some flatfoot chased us off.

Admittedly, the weather has spawned some odd behavior around town.

...and then the fireman rushes in
from the pouring rain - very strange.

A few blades of grass have even dared to turn green.

It's nice to finally get a some rain and a little fall weather. I know city fathers will be quick to point out that this rain does not mean that the drought is over, but I tend to see the reservoir as half full rather than half empty.

Another Casualty of the Drought

2007-10-13T00:24:00.000-04:00

My brother-in-law has said that he suspects the car wash cartel is
behind the drought. He means, of course, that the new water
restrictions favor commercial car washes because citizens are no longer allowed to wash their cars at home.

I think he may have a point even though I understand the argument that commercial car washes recycle their water. But really, don't we all recycle to a certain degree.

I mean if I wash my car in the driveway and the runoff makes it to a nearby creek, don't the fish benefit. Even if their eyes are burning as a result of the harsh chemicals in the car soap, isn't there a net positive effect to having more water in the stream?

Inspired by the Rain

2007-10-04T08:27:00.000-04:00

This little bit of rainfall and the cool morning air have inspired me to envision a perfect day. The ingredients include a porch with a hammock, a giant oak tree and a gentle, all-day rain. The picture in my head does not include a cell phone, television, doorbell or children. My to do list has evaporated and the only sound I hear is the rain filtering down through the leaves of the oak. I have a book in the hammock with me, but it is laying open-faced on my chest like a small blanket. I close my eyes and...

Looking At The Positive Side of Drought

2007-09-11T08:50:00.000-04:00

Everybody is always looking at the negative side of things. Below, I have listed a few of the benefits and opportunities that go along with a long-term drought.

1. Leaf season will be much easier this year. Just point the leaf blower at your dried leaves and they turn to powder.

2. Fewer bloodsucking mosquitoes means less exposure to carcinogenic DEET.

3. Cancel that useless flood insurance policy.

4. Tsunami threat level at an all-time low.

5. Unemployed landscapers and weathermen find new jobs in the well-digging business.

6. Sell your lawnmower and buy a camel for the kids to ride.

7. Conserve water by drinking more beer and showering with a partner.

8. Replace your dead shrubs with cacti and watch the fun when the wild bunnies try to nibble on a prickly pear.

9. Driving a dirty car is finally considered chic.

10. Plan an outdoor wedding and skip the tent rental.

11. Gutters full of leaves; no worries.

What's in a name?

2007-09-04T21:25:00.000-04:00

The Greensboro City Council has recently decided on a name change for our fair city. It seems that too many visitors have been disappointed by our drought-stricken landscape.

After a long debate, it was finally decided to adopt a name that is more accurately descriptive of our current environs. With a nod to the Old West, the name "Dry Gulch" will be replacing Greensboro on all maps, web sites and promotional materials.

Restless

2007-08-27T13:44:00.000-04:00

The other night, my wife and I were watching TV and we were amused by a pharmaceutical commercial for a product that treats Restless Legs Syndrome (RLS). I don't mean to belittle the suffering of those who may be afflicted with this syndrome, but it just seems that there is a drug for everything these days. I also have to wonder how many hypochandriacs have developed RLS since this commercial started airing.

I'm no doctor, however, and after last night I am beginning to take it all a little more seriously. I went to bed without incident or restless legs, but was awakened suddenly in the middle of the night. There was an intense pain in my side and I was on the floor of the bedroom. I looked up to see my wife standing over me. She was wearing my steel-toe work boots and trying very hard to break my ribs.

When I told her to quit, she blinked and shook her head. "Sorry," she said. "I think I must have that Restless Legs Syndrome."

"Yes, well now I have that broken rib syndrome." I pulled myself up off the floor and told her, "I think that RLS is only supposed to occur when you are lying in bed."

"Oh!" she said. I guess I was just sleepwalking."

I don't know what it was, but at this point I don't want to be the victim of any more syndromes. Tonight I'm sleeping with a ball peen hammer under my pillow.

Legacy

2007-08-24T21:31:00.000-04:00

Do you ever worry that your only lasting contribution to society is the check mark in the organ donor box on your driver’s license?

I still remember her first skinned knee...

2007-08-17T00:30:00.000-04:00

It's hard to be a father. Maybe not as hard as it is to be the front end of my 17-year-old daughter's Jetta, but fatherhood offers a unique blend of suffering that transcends mere physical damage.

Kate and her passenger are fine, but the car may never be the same. It's all in the hands of the insurance company, now, and so is my financial future. My wife already donated a kidney just to get coverage for Kate when she was sixteen. Now it looks like I'm going to lose half of my liver and two feet of my lower intestine just so we can keep her on the road.

What do I expect in return? Isn't it obvious? I think I deserve some uninterrupted and gratefully received lecture time. (At this point, let me offer some advice to anyone who is just starting out as a parent. Never tell your children any stories about your past. You might think your "cool" rating will rise in the eyes of your teenager as you relate the story about the time you rolled the family station wagon going around a corner too fast, but let me tell you, that kind of relationship building will only come around and bite you on the ass).

I figured this wreck entitled me to require some supplemental driving instruction for my daughter; a recitation on the many, many years I have gone without any type of accident whatsoever; and a sincere appreciation for not only my skills, but my appearance behind the wheel.

Sometimes, even the dreams of a madman seem rational. You see, I have my own story about a driving mishap. I grew up in Orlando and it was no big deal to make a day trip to the beach. New Smyrna, driving right down on the beach and convenience store clerks with poor eyesight when presented with questionable id's. Thankfully, I was sober on this occasion, but I did have a terrible wreck and my daughter has heard the story.

The truth is, car wrecks are hard to handle as a parent. On the one hand, this is about the biggest mistake your child can make. No other teenage activity offers so much potential for devastating consequences. On the other hand, you are so relieved when no one is hurt that you hope against hope that a lesson has been learned.

I don't know if Kate has a new respect for the seriousness of driving after this accident. I remember a sixteen-year-old boy who wishes he could change what happened just before his car did flips in the grass alongside the highway.

Anyway, place your votes for one of two options: six months in a Pakistani child labor camp to help defer the increased insurance premium or a year without text messaging.

Get up off the tracks...

2007-08-02T21:52:00.001-04:00

My teenage daughter is on her computer, instant messaging with her friends, looking at each other's MySpace pages and laughing at YouTube videos. She spends countless hours this way and if I was the least bit competent as a parent, I would drag her, kicking, screaming and squinting out into the sunlight and throw a Frisbee with her.

What I choose to do, instead, is sit in my little office just down the hall, goofing on this blog when I should be working on freelance assignments. Some digital tunes, a mini fridge filled with Mountain Dew and Life Is Good, just like the little bumper sticker says.

What is wrong with me? The onslaught of mid-life crisis approaches like a freight train bearing down on a prostrate wino whose face is resting on the track. Despite the imminent doom, that feeling of cold steel pressed against my cheek is comforting somehow.

This isn't one of those 'buy a sports car and rent a toupee' mid-life crises. This locomotive has the word 'CAREER' painted in reflective, white letters just under the headlight.

I like what I do and I like the people I work with, but I don't love it. What I love is writing comedy.

I had a little taste of it in college. Even though I didn't get paid squat, nothing could match the charge I got every time I saw my name on a humor feature or cartoon in the student newspaper. For some reason it didn't seem to be a reasonable career path to pursue after graduation.

Making a living at comedy writing might be a little pie-in-the-sky at this point in my life. If I had an ounce of adventurous spirit left, I would split for Alaska and sign up as an ice-road trucker. Work for a few months, then move to Hollywood and write a sitcom about it.

"...your shift knob broke off in the Arctic air? Well, that's what you get for trying to write your name in the snow."

Would this make a good opening for a novel?

2007-08-01T15:02:00.000-04:00

Walking across the cotton field was much easier once the crop had been harvested, but Steven Vernicke still stumbled over the furrows as he stared at the red and blue flashing lights of the emergency vehicles parked in front of his family’s gas station.

Steven had walked across the field many times, but he was a little distracted. The sun was fading and he still had about a hundred yards to cover. He could see that the station was buzzin'. It seemed like every cop car, ambulance and fire truck in Harnek County was bumper-to-bumper, fender-to-fender, piled up right there in the parking lot.

As Steven got closer to the scene he could tell that Silver was dead because they had her on a gurney with the sheet pulled up over her face. Then he saw the heavy boots sticking out at the bottom and he knew it couldn’t be his grandmother. Her boots were brown.

"Get out of here, kid," he heard one cop yell as he tucked tail and scooted in through one of the service bays.

“…Son-of-a-bitch tried to steel a turquoise bracelet,” he heard his grandmother saying as he squeezed past a deputy with a camera.

His grandmother gave him a quick hug that told him, "Shut up, I'm fine," and "it's good to see you Little Steve" all at the same time.

There was a large pool of blood on the floor and you had to watch your step. Steven was starting to circle the room when the deputy who had tried to snag him in the parking lot caught up. As the deputy reached for Steven's shirt, Silver spoke up, "Dammit Earl, don't you even recognize my own flesh n' blood?"

"Oh, I'm sorry Silver," he stammered. Then to regain his authority, "but this is a crime scene and we need to protect the evidence."

"Don't be so officious," she scolded. "Or I'll tell your mother that you were being rude to a senior citizen." Everyone in the room chuckled, not because the man was being chastised, but because nobody in Harnek County ever thought of Silver as a little old lady.