Last week, Tina & I attended the college graduation of our daughter-in-law. The event itself was very nice. The crowd, however, had it's moments......
As we walked into the large "tent area" where the ceremony was to be held, people were already marking their territory. To make the best effort to keep the adjacent seat vacant, people would strategically scatter their belongings. If you happened to say, "Excuse me, is anyone sitting in this seat?", you were greeted with an instant attitude. I don't get it. I shower at least once daily with Irish Spring. Plus, I'm actually a pretty nice guy. Why wouldn't someone want to sit next to me?
We eventually found a couple of unoccupied seats on the end of a row. In what I'll describe as simply a blatant disregard of judgment, we sat ourselves behind a sweaty woman of robust stature. And let's just say that was quite obvious that there hadn't been any Irish Spring in the woman's recent past. It was a warm evening and the air flow under the tent was pretty much non-existent. So, in an attempt to cool the perspiring woman, her husband began to fan her with his graduation program. Of course, the side effect of his cooling process caused her body odor to be directly propelled toward us. As if she thought it might make things a little more bearable, Tina whispers to me, "I think it might be somebody's feet." My lungs were being slowly singed with each and every breath as I secretly wished for a dryer sheet to bury my nose into.....
There was a motorcycle "club" member, all decked out in his "colors", who kept strolling up and down the aisle. Really, dude? You couldn't leave your gang clothes back at the clubhouse for a few hours? Of course, I didn't say any of this out loud because I really didn't want Jax and the rest of SAMCRO showing up and kicking my ass after the ceremony.
When I go to these types of events, I like to listen to various speeches. They can often be inspirational and enlightening. For example, in the valedictorian's speech, a young graduate told the crowd about her life-journey from China to the United States. Not only was it uplifting, but the young lady also did a brilliant job with satirical comparisons of life in the two countries. As I tried to absorb every word, I was constantly being distracted by the couple in front of me who were determined to play a loud game of peek-a-boo with their toddler. Every now and then, the child would let out an ear-piercing screech. I don't have a problem with people bringing their kids to these things. But it's downright rude and inconsiderate to encourage your kid to scream while someone is trying to give a heartfelt speech. I really felt like slipping the kid a dozen candy bars after the ceremony. I figured, at least then, the parents would have to deal with the kid screaming and bouncing off the walls all night. Never underestimate the power of a Hershey bar.
Along these same lines are the various adults who have loud, animated conversations during the ceremony. If you happen to have a case of "running-mouth disease", either take it outside or talk low. I'm trying to listen to what's going on up on the stage, dammit!
Of course, no crowd would be complete without the intermittent chirping of cell phones. Even though people are told to turn off (or mute) their phones, there's always a handful of morons who feel that they are simply too important to obey this request. I love the people who answer the phone right in the middle of a ceremony and then proceed to have a loud, obnoxious conversion. One of these days, I'm going to snatch up the phone and bounce it off of the idiot's forehead. Would this really be so wrong?
And then there's always that one family who brings their own personal cheering section. When "Maurice" made his way into the venue, three rows of people in front of us went absolutely nuts. They were hooting and hollering so loud that I thought the roof might collapse. And then, sporadically, one of them would occasionally belt out an emphatic "Mar-REECE!!" At one point, I had a Tourette's (or Steve Miller) moment and almost shouted out "Some people call him the space cowboy!" By the time Maurice finally received his diploma, the group was jumping over top one another like it was Black Friday at Walmart! Amazingly, no one was injured during the celebration.
And let us not forget the people in the middle of the aisle who were constantly running in and out. It was a never-ending adventure standing up and down to allow these guys to squeeze by. An hour of this was like doing a super-set of squats at the gym. All of this exercise caused me to work up an appetite which I extinguished with a trip to Chic-fil-A afterwards......
kw
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
Saturday, May 10, 2014
Lunch Meat & Senior Citizens
As a kid, I was never fond of lunch meat. You see, my Mom, in a relentless quest for a bargain, would always go for the cheapest items at the meat counter. For instance, she would often buy this mystery meat, more commonly known as pressed ham. From the look and texture of it, I assumed that they "pressed" chunks of fat and gristle into the oval-shaped slices.
As I got older, I was introduced to something called chicken-loaf. It was similar to the pressed ham with the exception that they "pressed" chicken scraps into the "meat". I can remember eating this crap a few times and biting into a piece of bone. It was a gelatinous (and sometimes boney) piece of nastiness.This stuff was like the SPAM of the chicken world..
My friend's Dad would often take a bunch of us to Fort Smallwood park for a day of fishing. On the way to the park, he would stop by the local market. He would ask everyone would kind of lunch meat they wanted. When he asked me, I would instantly have traumatic flashbacks to the pressed ham and chicken-loaf. So, my response would always be, "I think I'll just go with cheese." I figured with a cheese sandwich, at least I wouldn't have to worry about chipping a tooth on a bone.
Years later, I realized that there was a such thing as quality lunch meats. This was a welcomed discovery for me. I soon began buying the higher-end roast beef and turkey breast. Life seemed pretty good.....
And then I was eventually introduced to the "old lady at the meat counter" experience. I'll give you one good example. An old woman pulls a number 72 from the ticket machine, The store employee barks out, "I can help number 71." At which point, middle aged man walks up and places his meat order.
Shortly afterward, another store employee announces, "I can help number 72 now!"
After about 30 seconds, there is no response, so the employee reiterates. "Number 72! Anyone have number 72?"
Still nothing. So, the guy moves on and announces, "Ok, number 73!" At that point, a young lady walks up to the counter. Seems easy enough, huh?
Well, while number 73 is in the middle of her order, the old lady wakes up and says, "Hey, wait a minute! I've got number 72. You skipped over me. I should be next!"
This usually prompts one of the employees to say, "Ok, ma'am. We'll be right with you." Of course, this is usually met with a "But I was next" response from the old lady.
Well, once the old lady finally makes her way to the counter, she proceeds to order six different lunch meats in quarter pound increments. You can sense the frustration of the meat-cutter as he lumbers six heavy pieces of meat over to the cutting area.
As the meat-cutter begins the slicing process, in a gravelly voice, the old lady shouts, "I want that sliced really thin!"
This causes the meat cutter to stop and look down over his safety glasses at the old woman. He then holds up a slice to see if it meets the woman's request. Of course, it doesn't. So, she says, "No, I want it thinner than that, hon."
So, the guy adjusts his cutting machine and slices off another sample. He holds it up for her approval. The piece of meat is sliced so thin at this point, that you can actually see through it. The old lady finally gives him the thumbs up.
But the drama doesn't end at the slicing station. Oh, no. The guy begins to lay the sliced meat onto the scale. It weighs in at about .23 pounds. He loos at the woman and asks, "Is that good?"
Now, remember, that the old woman specifically asked for a quarter pound. So, as expected, she says, "No, throw a couple more slices on there."
The guy cuts two more slices and throws them onto the scale. This brings the total weight to .27 pounds. What happens next? You've probably guessed it, the old lady says, "No, that's too much. Take a slice off."
As the guy prepares to cut the second slab of meat, the woman asks, "Can I get a sample of that one?"
The meat guy slices off a piece and hands it over the counter. The woman slowly gums the meat and as the guy resumes cutting her quarter pound order. As he finishes, the woman, swallowing the last bit of the sample, says, "I don't think I want that one, hon."
Now, keep in mind, this guy has to go through this song-and-dance routine at least four more times with the woman. I don't know how they do it. By the end of the day, I would be ready to throw myself onto the meat cutter!
Anyway, I think that's about all you need to hear about lunch meat on a Saturday morning.....
kw
As I got older, I was introduced to something called chicken-loaf. It was similar to the pressed ham with the exception that they "pressed" chicken scraps into the "meat". I can remember eating this crap a few times and biting into a piece of bone. It was a gelatinous (and sometimes boney) piece of nastiness.This stuff was like the SPAM of the chicken world..
My friend's Dad would often take a bunch of us to Fort Smallwood park for a day of fishing. On the way to the park, he would stop by the local market. He would ask everyone would kind of lunch meat they wanted. When he asked me, I would instantly have traumatic flashbacks to the pressed ham and chicken-loaf. So, my response would always be, "I think I'll just go with cheese." I figured with a cheese sandwich, at least I wouldn't have to worry about chipping a tooth on a bone.
Years later, I realized that there was a such thing as quality lunch meats. This was a welcomed discovery for me. I soon began buying the higher-end roast beef and turkey breast. Life seemed pretty good.....
And then I was eventually introduced to the "old lady at the meat counter" experience. I'll give you one good example. An old woman pulls a number 72 from the ticket machine, The store employee barks out, "I can help number 71." At which point, middle aged man walks up and places his meat order.
Shortly afterward, another store employee announces, "I can help number 72 now!"
After about 30 seconds, there is no response, so the employee reiterates. "Number 72! Anyone have number 72?"
Still nothing. So, the guy moves on and announces, "Ok, number 73!" At that point, a young lady walks up to the counter. Seems easy enough, huh?
Well, while number 73 is in the middle of her order, the old lady wakes up and says, "Hey, wait a minute! I've got number 72. You skipped over me. I should be next!"
This usually prompts one of the employees to say, "Ok, ma'am. We'll be right with you." Of course, this is usually met with a "But I was next" response from the old lady.
Well, once the old lady finally makes her way to the counter, she proceeds to order six different lunch meats in quarter pound increments. You can sense the frustration of the meat-cutter as he lumbers six heavy pieces of meat over to the cutting area.
As the meat-cutter begins the slicing process, in a gravelly voice, the old lady shouts, "I want that sliced really thin!"
This causes the meat cutter to stop and look down over his safety glasses at the old woman. He then holds up a slice to see if it meets the woman's request. Of course, it doesn't. So, she says, "No, I want it thinner than that, hon."
So, the guy adjusts his cutting machine and slices off another sample. He holds it up for her approval. The piece of meat is sliced so thin at this point, that you can actually see through it. The old lady finally gives him the thumbs up.
But the drama doesn't end at the slicing station. Oh, no. The guy begins to lay the sliced meat onto the scale. It weighs in at about .23 pounds. He loos at the woman and asks, "Is that good?"
Now, remember, that the old woman specifically asked for a quarter pound. So, as expected, she says, "No, throw a couple more slices on there."
The guy cuts two more slices and throws them onto the scale. This brings the total weight to .27 pounds. What happens next? You've probably guessed it, the old lady says, "No, that's too much. Take a slice off."
As the guy prepares to cut the second slab of meat, the woman asks, "Can I get a sample of that one?"
The meat guy slices off a piece and hands it over the counter. The woman slowly gums the meat and as the guy resumes cutting her quarter pound order. As he finishes, the woman, swallowing the last bit of the sample, says, "I don't think I want that one, hon."
Now, keep in mind, this guy has to go through this song-and-dance routine at least four more times with the woman. I don't know how they do it. By the end of the day, I would be ready to throw myself onto the meat cutter!
Anyway, I think that's about all you need to hear about lunch meat on a Saturday morning.....
kw
Saturday, May 3, 2014
The Photo Bomb - A Pictorial
I'm not sure when this new trend of "photo-bombing" became so popular, but I can tell you, I'm getting tired of it. You can't even take a simple picture anymore without some obnoxious asshole jumping in and ruining it. The traditional Kodak moment is being hi-jacked right before our very eyes.
If you don't really know what I'm talking about, let me give you a few personal examples:
Exhibit #1
This photo was taken last year at a bar in Ocean City, MD. Note the enthusiastic bald guy in the background. I have no idea who he is or why he felt the urge to join our group photo. I also have no idea why Joe is licking Fran's head. But that's another story....
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Exhibit #2
This photo was taken at a St. Patrick's Day party earlier this year. The guy in the back obviously wants everyone to know he's there. Since he looks like he's three sheets to the wind, I'll give him a pass. He probably tripped over three chairs and a Leprechaun on his way to our group shot. I can't believe that I didn't see him coming. I've got to be more observant...
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Exhibit #3
Now, this photo might appear to be free of photo-bombers. But in reality, we have no idea who the woman in the black and white striped shirt is. To make matters worse, she's actually got her arm around my shoulder! How could I not know she was there? We discovered her presence when we reviewed the photo a few minutes after it was taken. By the time we figured it out, the mystery woman was a few tables down laughing her ass off.
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Exhibit #4
This photo was taken at Nabb's Creek Dockbar a few months ago after my trivia team took first place for the winter season. The second place team is also in the photo (thus the reason for one and two fingers). By the way, what the hell is the guy over my left shoulder doing?
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Exhibit #5
Perhaps the most troubling scenario is when the photo-bomber comes from within your own circle. In the above photo, I am standing next to local celebrity/car salesman, Scott Donohoe. The clown in the back, with his head strategically placed in the middle, is none other than my brother-in-law, John.
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Exhibit #6
In this photo, you see me and my long-time friend, Mark. Of course, you can see that John has struck again. In this photo-bomb, John uses his Miller Lite to improvise a Statue of Liberty pose. The placement of his head is so meticulous, one might think that this was photo-shopped. But it's definitely a bonafide photo-bomb.
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I really have no idea would can be done to prevent future photo bombings. Maybe we can hire a police task force to look into it? I can envision it now.....the police arrive with their guns drawn:
"All right, we need you all to stand back while these folks take a picture. Sir, please don't even think of making a move, I can see what you're trying to do. I think we might need to rope off this area.''
Anyway, you can see how crazy this stuff can get. All I can say is always be aware of your surroundings. Photo-bombers can come in all shapes and sizes and can strike anywhere, anytime. Please don't allow yourself to become a victim.....
kw
If you don't really know what I'm talking about, let me give you a few personal examples:
Exhibit #1
This photo was taken last year at a bar in Ocean City, MD. Note the enthusiastic bald guy in the background. I have no idea who he is or why he felt the urge to join our group photo. I also have no idea why Joe is licking Fran's head. But that's another story....
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Exhibit #2
This photo was taken at a St. Patrick's Day party earlier this year. The guy in the back obviously wants everyone to know he's there. Since he looks like he's three sheets to the wind, I'll give him a pass. He probably tripped over three chairs and a Leprechaun on his way to our group shot. I can't believe that I didn't see him coming. I've got to be more observant...
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Exhibit #3
Now, this photo might appear to be free of photo-bombers. But in reality, we have no idea who the woman in the black and white striped shirt is. To make matters worse, she's actually got her arm around my shoulder! How could I not know she was there? We discovered her presence when we reviewed the photo a few minutes after it was taken. By the time we figured it out, the mystery woman was a few tables down laughing her ass off.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Exhibit #4
This photo was taken at Nabb's Creek Dockbar a few months ago after my trivia team took first place for the winter season. The second place team is also in the photo (thus the reason for one and two fingers). By the way, what the hell is the guy over my left shoulder doing?
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Exhibit #5
Perhaps the most troubling scenario is when the photo-bomber comes from within your own circle. In the above photo, I am standing next to local celebrity/car salesman, Scott Donohoe. The clown in the back, with his head strategically placed in the middle, is none other than my brother-in-law, John.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Exhibit #6
In this photo, you see me and my long-time friend, Mark. Of course, you can see that John has struck again. In this photo-bomb, John uses his Miller Lite to improvise a Statue of Liberty pose. The placement of his head is so meticulous, one might think that this was photo-shopped. But it's definitely a bonafide photo-bomb.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I really have no idea would can be done to prevent future photo bombings. Maybe we can hire a police task force to look into it? I can envision it now.....the police arrive with their guns drawn:
"All right, we need you all to stand back while these folks take a picture. Sir, please don't even think of making a move, I can see what you're trying to do. I think we might need to rope off this area.''
Anyway, you can see how crazy this stuff can get. All I can say is always be aware of your surroundings. Photo-bombers can come in all shapes and sizes and can strike anywhere, anytime. Please don't allow yourself to become a victim.....
kw
Friday, May 2, 2014
The Next In Line
Have you ever had this happen to you........
Last week, I'm standing in line at the grocery store. I only have five or six items, but as luck would have it, there are no express lines open. So, I find the shortest available line and take my place. There are two people in front me, both of which have a cartload of groceries. Before long, another shopper takes lines up behind me. Realizing that the lines are beginning to back up, the manager tells one of the nearby workers to to open up another check-out line. By this time, the person directly in front of me is loading his grocery on the conveyor belt.
After a few minutes, a young cashier turns on the light for her work station and says, "I can help the next person in line."
Before she even completed the sentence, the guy behind immediately bolts towards the new check-out line. The cashier and I give each other a "WTF" look as the guy starts loading his stuff onto belt. I really felt like walking over, tossing his groceries onto the floor and saying, "Hey asshole, what part of 'next in line' didn't you understand?"
But realizing that it was now my turn in my own line, I just let it go and essentially averted a Walmart moment at the Giant.
Now, just yesterday, I stopped off at a local Walgreens to pick up a few things. There are two lines open. In one line, a guy is having a pissing contest with the cashier over the price off an electronic cigarette. So, I opt to take the other line where a woman is filtering through a stack of coupons. After she finally gets her coupons sorted out, she asks the cashier for a raincheck on a particular item. The cashier begins the process of writing the raincheck. You would have thought she was writing a novel from the time it was taking her. Of course, between the cigarette guy and the coupon/raincheck lady, the line is starting to grow.
The cigarette guy finally finishes up and the cashier says to me, "Sir, I can help you over here."
So, I begin to walk over to her line. But then, to my bewilderment, the guy who was behind me, rushes past me like Emmitt Smith. I fought the instinctive urge to clothesline the jerk. Since I really didn't want to wind up in this week's Crime Beat section of the MD Gazette, I lowered my right forearm. I say to the guy, "Hey bud, I think she was calling me over."
He says, "Oh really, were you next?"
Now, the guy has been staring at the back of my head for the past ten minutes, but somehow he still couldn't comprehend that the I was in front of him. The guy's question was so stupid, that I didn't even reply to it. Now, the ironic part is I could sense that the guy was thinking that I was the asshole. I could tell this because he was mumbling to himself like Slingblade. Of course, this freaked me out a little as I envisioned the guy smacking me in the back of the head with a lawnmower blade. I couldn't get out of the place fast enough!
I'm sure this won't be the last time these things will happen. Our society seems to a severe learning disability when it comes to distinguishing between the next in line and the last in line....
kw
Last week, I'm standing in line at the grocery store. I only have five or six items, but as luck would have it, there are no express lines open. So, I find the shortest available line and take my place. There are two people in front me, both of which have a cartload of groceries. Before long, another shopper takes lines up behind me. Realizing that the lines are beginning to back up, the manager tells one of the nearby workers to to open up another check-out line. By this time, the person directly in front of me is loading his grocery on the conveyor belt.
After a few minutes, a young cashier turns on the light for her work station and says, "I can help the next person in line."
Before she even completed the sentence, the guy behind immediately bolts towards the new check-out line. The cashier and I give each other a "WTF" look as the guy starts loading his stuff onto belt. I really felt like walking over, tossing his groceries onto the floor and saying, "Hey asshole, what part of 'next in line' didn't you understand?"
But realizing that it was now my turn in my own line, I just let it go and essentially averted a Walmart moment at the Giant.
Now, just yesterday, I stopped off at a local Walgreens to pick up a few things. There are two lines open. In one line, a guy is having a pissing contest with the cashier over the price off an electronic cigarette. So, I opt to take the other line where a woman is filtering through a stack of coupons. After she finally gets her coupons sorted out, she asks the cashier for a raincheck on a particular item. The cashier begins the process of writing the raincheck. You would have thought she was writing a novel from the time it was taking her. Of course, between the cigarette guy and the coupon/raincheck lady, the line is starting to grow.
The cigarette guy finally finishes up and the cashier says to me, "Sir, I can help you over here."
So, I begin to walk over to her line. But then, to my bewilderment, the guy who was behind me, rushes past me like Emmitt Smith. I fought the instinctive urge to clothesline the jerk. Since I really didn't want to wind up in this week's Crime Beat section of the MD Gazette, I lowered my right forearm. I say to the guy, "Hey bud, I think she was calling me over."
He says, "Oh really, were you next?"
Now, the guy has been staring at the back of my head for the past ten minutes, but somehow he still couldn't comprehend that the I was in front of him. The guy's question was so stupid, that I didn't even reply to it. Now, the ironic part is I could sense that the guy was thinking that I was the asshole. I could tell this because he was mumbling to himself like Slingblade. Of course, this freaked me out a little as I envisioned the guy smacking me in the back of the head with a lawnmower blade. I couldn't get out of the place fast enough!
I'm sure this won't be the last time these things will happen. Our society seems to a severe learning disability when it comes to distinguishing between the next in line and the last in line....
kw
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