Category Archives: Humor

Nice Car!

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Sometimes when I chauffeur Gary to his grocery outing, my Preferred Parking Place at The Purity (PPPP) is taken.

This spot allows me a 180-degree view of Franklin Street and the ability to witness any manner of craziness while I wait for Gary to do his shopping. My second choice is the handicap spot nearest the store’s entrance (we have a disabled placard).

On this day, as I sit in the car in parking place choice #2, a guy in a small beige pickup with a black canopy over the bed swooshes in on my left to create his own a handicap spot closer to the door.

I want to tell him, “Just because there’s a few feet of curb painted blue doesn’t mean this is a designated handicap spot.” I’ll bet he doesn’t even have a handicap placard. I’m tempted to get out of my car and check. But this isn’t the gym. I’m not moving.

I’m bitter that my view of Franklin Street is now limited to 50 degrees, and only when I crane my neck to look out the driver’s side window.

Staking claim to the PPPP

I’m not able to go to The Purity every day and I don’t have all day to hang out there (at least until I retire when, sorry kids, you’ll have to put up with comments like, “Why does your mom hang outside The Purity all day?”). My precious time spent in the parking lot must allow the potential for maximum return.

I hear the approach of a vehicle that sounds like it’s running on a diet of chili beans. A blue mid-sized pickup with large patches of rust cancer is shaking and rattling into what is clearly designated a loading zone (curb painted yellow = loading zone) to my right. Like the small beige pickup guy, this driver creates his own parking space.

Amid the clinking of change, I hear mumble, mumble, “bottle,” hacking coughs, animal-like grunts, “bottle.”

The pickup door opens with a nasty groan. A passenger emerges. With a painful grunt, the truck door is slammed shut.

The man looks like a collapsed pup tent. He stumbles as he steps onto the walkway. His knees don’t fully bend, and he has to lean to one side and then the other to propel himself forward. His head is like a bobble doll threatening to send him flying backwards. I’m ready to leap from the car to assist if he falls.

I estimate he’s in his mid-thirties. His facial features are limp and his lips clumsily hold back saliva. His auburn hair is thick with a natural wave. With proper care and conditioning, it could be lovely.

He stops directly in front of my car, and wobbles to face me. He strains to focus as his left eye lingers at the outer portion of the socket.

“HEY!” His voice is the quality of nails shaken in a tin can.

I smile.

His top half swaggers from the hips. “THAT’S A NICE CAR!”

“Thank you.” He’s right. It is a nice car. It’s dark red and kind of sporty and gets great gas mileage. I give him a little wave.

He raises his left hand and uses his wave to assist him in turning towards his original path,the change rattling in his pocket as he makes his way into The Purity to buy his bottle.

My Doppleganger

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It is a rare Sunday morning when, after making the grocery list for the week, I determine I can pick everything up at The Purity and don’t have to fight the crowds at The Safeway.

I don my gym wear and head out the door. I don’t bother with makeup or putting in my contact lenses. (I wear my grotesquely unfashionable glasses.) One of the many great things about The Purity is the lack of dress code. They should have a sign on the door: “The term ‘Inappropriate Dress’ does not apply.”

My shopping spree is complete within 15 minutes. I stand in line behind a woman who I size up as being in her mid-60’s. Short, blonde hair in sorry disarray. Glasses. Black, velour jogging suit. No makeup.

I take my own inventory:  Mid-50’s. Short, blonde hair in sorry disarray. Glasses. Gym sweats that are only a few wears away from being retired as pajamas. Oh Lord….

I simply must emerge superior in this comparison game. My gym sweats will lead me to the gym later. (I lift weights.) I’m fairly certain her jogging suit will lead her back to the sofa from whence she came. (Let’s compare arm muscle tone, shall we?)

There’s no win-win in the comparison game. Today is a win for me. I’m okay. She’s not.

The checker looks between the two of us. While jogging suit lady writes her check, the young woman says, “You two look alike.” She giggles.

Jogging suit lady stops in mid-check writing. We make eye contact. A silent scream, “Nooooooooooooooooo!” reverberates between us.

The young checker continues to giggle.

I vow to never go through her checkout line again.

Wolfhound

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Almost every day, I take our 13-year old dog, Wilson, on a 20-minute walk “to town.” The route we take to get there and back depends on our mood and how adventurous we feel during our limited time slot.

This day, we cut through The Purity parking lot and head southeast when I see a man limping towards us. He looks like he’s struggling to hold onto the last bit of what God gave him.

He is of fair complexion and has thinning, strawberry-blonde hair. The red flakiness of his face indicates non-use of sun screen. His furrowed brow deepens as he stops a few feet away.

He shapes his right thumb and forefinger into an L or a mock gun and points it at Wilson. “I’m thinking wolfhound,” he says, and taps the L to his temple to confirm that such a thought is indeed in his brain.

I smile. “Really?”

“Yes. That’s what he’s called, right? A wolfhound?” His tone is adamant, his chest puffs with pride. The L is given a rat-a-tat at Wilson.

“More like a lab,” I gently suggest.

As he shakes his head, the effort appears to make him dizzy and he shuffles his feet to regain balance. “No, I wouldn’t say lab. Definitely not lab.”

Okay, Wilson is a wolfhound. We move on.

Wilson

Wilson in his wolfhound camo gear

Nuns Packing Heat

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It’s one of the top five phone calls a parent dreads:

It’s 5:30 am and it’s my daughter. “We had an intruder in our house at 4:00 this morning.”

It’s 5:30 am and I am unable to decode what she just said.

“Jenny woke up and saw a man standing over her.”

Decode successful…. JesusChristGodAlmighty!!! My blood goes to instant boil, but because my daughter has told me many times over the years that I have a tendency to overreact, I keep my mouth shut and let her tell the story.

Her roommate woke to find a man standing over the bed. She screamed. Fortunately, the man ran out of the house. They called the police who came and took a report. The police just left.

I’m shaking and want to throw up. I want to go on a verbal rampage of disgust and horror, a tirade about how young women are prey in our society. Instead, I ask my daughter if she’s okay. She’s emotionally shaken and will take the day off work, but she’s physically unharmed. I express gratitude for her safety and praise for the way she handled the situation. I invite her to call whenever she needs me. I tell her I love her.

My 23-year old daughter is capable of taking care of herself. But this doesn’t stop me from wanting to grab a shotgun, jump in the car, drive the eight hours to her house, sit on her front porch every night, and shoot anyone who walks by.

How does Gary handle this news? Over the decades, we’ve developed into quite the yin and yang. Whenever I’m a raging maniac, he stays calm, and vice versa. He points out the positives of the ordeal: no one was physically harmed, the police are investigating, blah, blah, blah….

Shut the hell up. Where’s the shotgun?

I do not believe that women need to be coupled with men for protection. I was exposed to the women’s lib movement in the ‘70s and went so far as to keep my maiden name when married at the age of 21. Over the next 25 years, I was so radical that I cooked, cleaned, did laundry and grocery shopping while also engaged in full time employment. It wasn’t until I was too tired to continue that I stopped doing nearly all domestic chores.

In my defense, women’s lib did little to restructure the early imprinting my tender mind received in the ‘50’s and ‘60’s. Men worked and made money to support the household. Their only domestic requirement was to mow the lawn on Saturdays. That is, until their sons grew old enough to run the lawn mower, releasing Dad to his uninterrupted weekend beer fest, while Mom cooked, cleaned, did laundry, grocery shopping, and made sure the kids were raised before divorcing Dad.

I want my daughter to be strong and independent. I hope she eventually finds a mate she loves and respects and who loves and respects her in return. I want her to pair with someone who will share the weight of what it means to run a household. In the meantime, I want her to be safe from sick bastards who feel entitled to walk into her house under the cover of darkness.

Therefore, I am embarking on a campaign where our society returns to the social values of the ‘50s when it was unacceptable for women to live on their own. “You’re not married; you’re not leaving this house.”

When living with a 20-something, sexually frustrated female becomes too burdensome, we will ship them off to boarding houses run by nuns. Residents will be required to check in and out. Weekday curfew will be 10pm; midnight on weekends. No alcohol or drugs allowed.

The nuns will be trained in the military style of sharpshooting and will pack guns at all times.

It doesn’t matter if the girls like it. Parents and nuns will love it.

Guy on a Bench – Part 2

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When Wilson and I wander the streets of Fort Bragg each day for 20 minutes, most everyone we encounter is capable of the following interaction:

            Hi.

            Hi.

            How ya doing?

            Fine. You?

            Fine.

            Have a good one.

            You, too.

Over the course of several months, I was lulled into believing that if a street person can master the above, then s/he might be capable of holding a more meaningful conversation.

I tested this theory on Guy on a Bench.

Author masquerading as Guy on a Bench

I had not seen him for a couple of weeks and became genuinely concerned. Maybe the drug dealers or panhandlers finally got to him and he freaked out and was thrown in jail. (But his mug shot had not shown up in the Mendocino County Sheriff’s Booking Logs.)

Today, he was back on the bench. We exchanged our above-referenced greeting. I then added, “I haven’t seen you for a long time. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Are you okay?”

Oops!

My next mistake was to fail to keep walking. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“Hippies come by here all the time asking me if I’m okay and infecting me with their supposed good karma. But they’re not good; they’re full of crap. Every day I have to fend them off with their supposed concern about my well-being. I’m fine until they come by. I don’t need their crap in my life. They need to keep their crap karma to themselves.

“Then there’s Ted [blah, blah] who thinks I need to be put in a home where I can’t get out and do what I want. Now there’s some bad karma crap going on right there. I tell Ted to stay out of my life and deal with his own crap.”

I engaged in what therapists term active listening—nodding my head and muttering, “Uh huh.”

“You must know Ted.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You’re nodding your head so you must agree with everything he says.”

“No, I’m just acknowledging that I hear you.”

Wilson looking for a poop bush

I tried to coax Wilson away, but all the talk about crap led him to choose an inviting bush against which to shake his booty and take a dump. (Such is his favorite bowel elimination ritual.)

As I waited for Wilson to finish and used a bag to retrieve the poop, Guy on a Bench continued.

“Ted’s a jerk and should stick to his own business. I happen to know his karma’s crap and he and the Hippies can go to hell for all I care. With their karma that’s exactly where they’re going. Trying to make their karma rub off on me—now that’s just wrong!”

“I’m sorry if I offended you,” I said, backing away.

“You should be! Don’t be going around asking people if they’re okay. I’m fine. It’s you who you should be looking at.” His eyes squinted in a mad dog glare. “I’m starting to wonder about you.”

Wilson and I skedaddled away.

Lessons learned: (1) just because someone can exchange a greeting doesn’t mean his brain is composed of anything more than nacho cheese dip; and (2) it’s probably best if I start keeping my crap karma to myself.

Local Newspaper Goes Viral

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Our weekly newspaper, the Fort Bragg Advocate News, began a Facebook presence a couple of years ago. This opened up a fantastic opportunity for any person with a computer and internet access.

In order to make your voice heard, you no longer have to go to the trouble to type a letter, put it in an envelope, and spend money to mail it.

The newspaper’s Facebook page makes it easy to express your opinion for all the world to see. You are not required to be grammatically correct. (Screw you, third grade writer’s workshop with your insistence upon spelling, punctuation, and complete sentences!)

And–here’s the best part–you don’t have to struggle to formulate an opinion that even remotely makes sense.

You can disagree with other commentators, instigate fights and resort to name calling. You can even precede a highly descriptive noun, such as moron with an obscene adjective.  (The Advocate News staff will eventually remove such a post, but it’ll take them awhile to do so.)

Since I no longer have kids in local schools, I don’t mingle with a wide variety of people in ways I once did. This Facebook page puts me back in touch with the core of Fort Bragg, and reminds me of the many reasons I love living here.

Sometimes the Advocate News posts a topic that incites a great deal of passion. Like this picture of graffiti on the CV Starr Aquatic Center property with the heading: “Does anyone know what this means or who did it?”

 

The post received 123 comments over the course of an entire week. My favorites:

A guy named Caps.

Oh i better stop before i hurt someones little feelings. Bottom line grow some balls. Keep your kids in check. Hell keep your neighbors kids in check also.

Well, ‘CAPS’ made his mark. Let’s hope “lower case” doesn’t follow suit.

Get over it talking shit on bob marley the way people dress judgeing a book by its cover those are the kind of things ignorant people say a rad neck take over please are u serious it will never happen I guess keep talking shit if it makes u feel better about urself lol some funny shit.

Whos talking shit about bob marley. There is no ignorance besides you telling me to stop talking shit and get over it. Lol. Did this topic hit a nerve in your brain. It made you comment as if you were the queen bee stepping in and taking control like we were your children. I can sence you fidgiting around in your chair now flipping your hair and letting out the typical women “Pffffftttttt” noise. Now this is talking shit. Know the difference please before you jump on here and font fuck your opinon.

Toward the end—around comment #117—came a non sequitur:

Can someone tell me if their is a craft fair going on anywhere for whale festival weekend and where and who to contact to set up a booth?

This seemed to simmer everyone down. Five posts later, the comments stopped.

After such an exhilarating experience with the Advocate News Facebook page, I like to take a moment and ponder what I’ve learned:

  • I will plant balls in my garden this year with the hope that, as they grow, I will be able to keep both my kids and my neighbors in check.
  • I have never, nor will I ever, talk s—t on bob marley, but I must admit I feel better about myself when I keep talking s—t in general.
  • I happen to prefer the “typical women Pffffftttttt” noise over many of the other noises my body spontaneously emits.
  • I always enjoy the Whale Festival craft fair, especially now that the mere mention of it has a calming effect on people.

Guy on a Bench – Part 1

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He’s in his mid-30’s and pleasant looking. He sits on the bus stop bench at the corner of Redwood and McPherson. Whenever Wilson (my 13-year old dog) and I walk by, our interaction usually goes like this:

“How’re you doing?”

“Fine. How’re you?”

“Fine.”

“Have a good one.”

“You, too. Bye.”

“Bye.”

This time, my “How’re you doing?” is responded with “Not so good.”

I stop. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s the same old thing day after day.”

I imagine it is. He sits on this bench nearly all day every day.

“People either accost me for money or ask if I want to buy drugs. I tell them no, but they keep harassing me. I don’t know what to do about it. There’s no solution.”

I can think of one: Stop sitting on this bench nearly all day every day.

“I guess I’ll have to eventually get the cops involved.”

“That might help.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Have a good one.”

“You, too.”

My advice to stop sitting on that bench becomes a metaphor for handling my own troubles.

I don’t know what to do about the five extra pounds I can’t seem to shake.

But my body aches after I work out.

  • Stop sitting on that bench: stretch for 10-15 minutes after each workout.

I don’t have time to do that, so let’s change the subject.

When Gary goes on a whistling marathon, I want to yell at him.

But then I won’t lose these five pounds.

  • Stop sitting on that bench: work out more.

But then my body will ache all the time.

  • Stop sitting on that bench: then stretch more.

This all seems like too much trouble.

  • Keep sitting on your stupid bench and shut the hell up!

You shut up!

No, you shut up!

And so it goes.

My friend and I continue to sit on our respective benches.

Bill & His Dog

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I can hardly believe I’ve lived in Fort Bragg long enough to miss something that used to be. But then things tend to come and go over the course of 20 years. One of the things I miss is how a group of old Italian men used to gather outside The Purity. I once stopped and chatted with them.

I was told there are two things rarer than hen’s teeth for a retired Italian guy in Fort Bragg—dodging the wife’s honey-do’s and a warm sunny day. When he’s able to bring the two together, he’s off to The Purity. The wife can’t understand why he needs to get together with his buddies. “Didn’t you have enough of them when you worked at the mill?” He might have been happy to leave the job behind, but not the guys. It didn’t take long to start missing the guys.

Staying home can get lonely. When the weather’s good and the wives backs are turned, they sneak out of the house and congregate at The Purity. They talk about old times, but mostly they wait to see if something exciting will happen.

One day, sitting in my car as Gary shopped, I saw one of the old the guys walk up to stand along the south wall. Another arrived and then another and another, until the gang was there. They spoke Italian, laughed at jokes, and eyed women walking by.

A younger man walked around the corner with his dog. He wasn’t a member of the group, but they knew his name. They shouted, “Hey Bill, how you doing?” Bill wasn’t too swift. He was mentally slow and fat, a combination that made it hard for him to get around.

One of the guys said, “You should enter that mutt in the Ugly Dog Contest at the Paul Bunyan Days. You’d be sure winners in the owner-dog lookalike category.”

Bill shared the rheumy eyes, tottering gait and dirty blonde hair of the old, tired cocker spaniel. He laughed even though it looked like he didn’t get the joke.

“All that dog needs is a pair of glasses and you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between you.”

Bill tied the dog’s leash to a pillar outside The Purity doors. It wasn’t really a leash, but a frayed rope. “Will you guys watch my dog?”

“Yeah, yeah, go ahead. He’ll be fine.”

Bill disappeared into the store and the dog started to yelp like someone was beating it with a stick.

The guys took turns bending down, patting the dog’s head. “It’s okay, fella.

The dog announced that it wasn’t okay. His yelps turned into ear-piercing howls.

“Maybe I should we take him for a walk.” One guy untied the rope and tried to coax the dog out of his sitting position. The dog refused. His howls turned to screams.

“Jesus!”

“Goddamnit!”

“Shit!”

A few minutes later, Bill came out of the store and the dog stopped crying.

“We tried everything. Damn dog wouldn’t shut up.”

“Don’t ever leave him with us again.”

Bill said nothing, just looked confused. One guy handed him the rope. Bill and his little dog tottered down the street.

The guys agreed it was time to go home. Bill and his dog were enough excitement for the day.

Words with Friends

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“What the f—? You’re kidding me!”

She sits on the curb outside The Purity. She’s so deeply involved in pressing buttons on and talking to her smart phone that she appears to forget she’s holding a burning cigarette. When she takes a drag, she makes it meaningful, tugging it all the way down to her toes. She’s also chewing gum.

“Oh man!”https://encrypted-tbn0.google.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcS-DaM2W6Fiq2YHYB8USQfrqdH5lCEEA7PgwJB6trIiaikslwn9

She’s a skinny little thing in her mid-90’s—or maybe she’s my age. It’s hard to tell.

She looks like a troll doll left under a pile of leaves for the winter and found after the spring thaw. Like a troll doll, there’s a cute quality to her face.

“Damnit!”

I wonder why she’s sitting on the curb with the pant legs of her jeans hiked up to reveal white anklets and tan Keds sneakers. It’s too dreary and cold to be sitting outside.

Maybe she’s waiting for someone. In the meantime, maybe she’s playing Words with Friends.

“Jesus Christ!”