Tagged: Humor
Kitsch and Tell
Thought you might like to know I recently bought a blue thing that’ll keep my sunglasses from sinking in the river…and a kazoo. These were not impulse items. Indeed, I had considered both for some time but never had the ambition to search among many stores, or online, for either. But I found them them mere yards apart at an old emporium in East Aurora, New York. It’s called Viddlers 5 and 10 with the subtitle, “you never know what you’ll find there.”
Let’s clear up something first. The 5 and the 10 do not mean nickel or dime. I found nothing there that costs pennies, but I suppose you could make the case that you do need at least 100 pennies to make a buck and most items there cost several of those.
Unlike the 5 and 10-cent stores I remember as a kid, Viddlers doesn’t have a tank of homeless goldfish for sale or a lunch counter serving up malts, BLTs or Bromo Seltzers.
What it does have is the luscious aroma of old wood-planked floors that squeak with every step, a million little tchochkes begging to collect dust in your home, lawn art, pots and pans, board games, paint, back scratchers, a billion types of candy and other sweets, books, magnets for your refrigerator with a picture of the store, (bought one of those too) and silly signs.
I love the one that says, “Unattended children will be given espresso and a free kitten.” No one actually buys them, but if you wanted to, Viddlers has ‘em for you.
How about a dopey hat that looks like a cheeseburger….or a bison? Might be a hit at the synagogue where every other guy just sports a little round yarmulke? I think bisons are kosher, no?
Then there’s the toothpick bird. Got something caught in your teeth? Touch the birdie the right way and it coughs up a handy toothpick. I can only hope Viddlers finds the floss flounder one day.
When visiting Viddlers it’s important to check out every one of its many rooms and every corner in each room because that’s where some of the best stuff is hiding, like a some odd sized pan or garden gargoyle.
I found my kazoo begging for attention on a lower shelf. It competed against two other kazoos, but I settled on mine because I liked the box and color. I wanted to try it out, as you would with any musical instrument, but I was told it’s not cool to slobber over something you may not decide to buy. So I took a chance and gambled two bucks it would mesh with my particular playing style.
The blue thing for my sunglasses was hanging near a bunch of toys, and not anywhere near sunglasses, which I’m not even sure Viddlers sells. I need this thing because I’m always afraid my sunglasses will fall off my head and into the drink when I’m kayaking or attempting to walk across Lake Michigan to Milwaukee. Now I can enter water with full confidence that no matter what unfortunate circumstances befall me, my sunglasses won’t sink.
Viddlers hasn’t always been called Viddlers. According to its website, “Robert S. Vidler, Sr. opened “The Fair Store” in the quaint village of East Aurora. Family legend has it that his mother-in-law complained of having to go all the way to Buffalo (16 miles distant) to buy a spool of thread – and Robert saw the opportunity for a new, local business.”
He changed the name to Viddlers 15 years later.
This was technically my second visit to Viddlers. My first didn’t last long. We intended to stop in on our way home to Michigan from my in-laws place in Rochester, N.Y. East Aurora, which is near Buffalo, is way off the route but my in-laws had enthusiastically recommended, so we took the detour. Hmm..plenty of parking in the back. Good start. Uh oh…door locked. It was Memorial Day. Sign informed us Viddlers not open on Memorial Day. Bad ending. So now it’s a year later and we avoided all holidays and tried again. This time there was still plenty of parking, but many of the spaces were taken…and the door was open.
We may go back to Viddlers again some day. I do like corn on the cob and ribs. I hope the toothpick bird is still available.
Clucking Over Stampede for Chick fil A
I woke up this morning to read about a stampede of sheep lining up to eat chicken. Here in Detroit people are used to working hard to put food on the table but I would suggest, the meal they got yesterday wasn’t worth the laborious multi-hour wait in line for a breaded chicken sandwich.
I truly believe it’s Atlanta’s lingering revenge for the work of General Sherman. He burned that southern city long ago, and now it’s returning the favor to us Yankees by luring us away from work, play, families and good health with the scourge called Chick fil A.
For a few hours Wednesday the chain of chicken joints opened a pop-up version in the lobby of the Chrysler House–a downtown Detroit office building. Long before the doors opened the lines began to form with those who had never sampled the stuff along with those who are addicted to it. Only two cashiers were on duty to handle the hundreds of hungry Chick fil Afficiandos.
Detroit Free Press Photo
I lived in Atlanta for 8 years and yes, we stopped at Chick fil A from time to time but we much preferred a chain called Mrs. Winners for our chicken fix. The biscuits were as big as cat’s heads and the chicken was to die for, since the greasy, delicious barnyard bird would surely hasten one’s demise, but who needs to live that long anyway, right?
Let’s get real. A Chick fil A sandwich is a breaded piece of chicken with a pickle on top on a very ordinary bun. The chicken does taste pretty good, but worth wasting one’s limited time on Earth waiting for it? I don’t think so.
In Chick fil A’s hometown, the lines were about the same as you’d see at any fast food place. Here in Michigan, at the very upscale Somerset Collection mall, the lines at the Chick fil A in its food court inexplicably snake around and around while other vendors sadly sit with no one to serve. I’m always tempted to hang around with a camera hoping to catch someone in imagined rapture after taking that last bite, sighing, and lighting up a Lucky to complete the act.
I have another beef with aforementioned chicken place. When I lived in Atlanta and working for CNN, there was a Chick fil A in the commercial atrium at CNN Center. Many of us belonged to the health club on the lower level. Since I worked overnights when I produced the morning show, I would hit the gym when I got off the air at 9am. Did my exercises, swam my laps, knocked myself out playing racket ball, gettin’ real healthy, right? But the fumes from the damned Chick fil A wafted down the stairs, into the gym and after showering and dressing and being hypnotized by the aroma we followed our noses back up the stairs straight to the Chick fil A and promptly ordered two chicken biscuits and waffle fries. A sincere workout gone straight to hell.
Aw..what am I saying? Writing about it has my olfactory working overtime. It was damned worth it. Gonna head to Somerset Place and get in line.
Shakes on a Plane–A First Class Mystery
I don’t fly much anymore. After I retired three years ago I went from Igneous Medallion to Toughshit Sucker. That all means I lose certain “privileges” such as schlepping down to the airport several times a week, being herded like calves about to become veal and stuffed into a seat even Barbie would find confining.
Now I fly when I want to, which is almost never. In fact I hadn’t been on a plane in 18 months…before last Thursday for a quick trip to Florida and back with my wife. We splurged and cashed in whatever miles I had lingering in my account, coughed up the difference in actual money and flew first class. Nice.
It all started out fine. I received a notice the day before on my Delta app to check in and I was even asked my lunch preference–Salad d’chicken stale, or a turkey sandwich floating in cheese and a bag of chips. I chose the latter. It was fine, although my cholesterol medication later sneered at me while mocking my choice, saying “you eat that shit I can’t help you.” Damn Big Pharma!
But all that seemed about normal. The spooky stuff was to come. I did NOT receive a notice to check in the day before our return flight. I did NOT receive a request to choose a meal for our return flight. After awhile I became suspicious that perhaps I screwed up somehow…but I didn’t. When I attempted to check in on the Delta app it said I had ALREADY checked in. My wife too! We did not check in. Not having flown for so long, perhaps flying first class now entitled you to a “check in angel.” It did not. So when we got to the airport I figured I’d just go old school and use the kiosk to check in. 
I slip in my credit card and instead of being nice and polite to first class customer on the screen it says, “do you want to check in…again?” I mean the box had a freakin’ attitude as if I was annoying it during its reboot break. I reply, most emphatically, “yes!” I thought I heard a pathetic sigh from the little speaker and the instructions on the screen seem to indicate the electronic fucker was ready to see things my way by leading me through the process of re-checking in…even though I had never checked in in the first place. But fine.
From there everything was cool until we settle in our seats. The flight attendant comes over to me and says, “so you pre-ordered the burgers for lunch.” In fact I did not. I did not have the opportunity to pre-order anything, but I thought I’d play it cool. “I believe so,” I lied. The flight attendant whipped out a computer readout that had my name and “burgers” next to it. Strange. But I wasn’t sure. What if there was something better? So I asked in my most innocent tone, “I can’t remember. What was the other choice?” The flight attendant was delighted to tell me it didn’t matter. Whatever the other choice was there weren’t any left. “Ah! Good thing I pre-ordered the burgers, then!” “Yes,” she replied. “You were very smart to do that!” Although the entire scenario was a sham. So were the burgers. They were billed, actually, as “sliders.” Maybe that’s because rather than actual meat, they appeared to be made with some sort of non-stick chemical in a shade of gray-beige. Of course, since I’m a man and men will eat anything I scarfed down both sliders which later slid through my digestive tract and were useful in waxing our hardwood floors to a high-gloss sheen.
Now I’m actually looking forward to my next flight to see if the Dark Spirit of Delta will further intervene on my behalf. Maybe send me a notice that it already watched the safety video for me, or nixed my drink selection because I deserve a better brand of bourbon. I’m OK with such pro-active service. In fact, I’d love it if I received an email informing me “We already snagged an extra dozen of those Biscoff cookies for you. They’ll be in your seat pocket.” Damn…Delta, you’re good!
Regarding Oscar and Other Fancy Nutcrackers
Are you excited about the Oscars? I’ve only seen one of the films, “A Star is Born,” so I have very little skin in the game. Maybe I’ll catch up with some of the others, but probably won’t. It isn’t that I don’t like movies. I just don’t like sitting in one place in the dark for 2-3 hours unless, since it reminds me of the time my family toured the U.S. House and Senate chambers where most everyone who sits there is in the dark.
My issue today, however, is not the worthiness of movies as a form of entertainment. I did enjoy “It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World” back in the 60’s because it was packed with stars, funny gags and was really, really long, which meant I didn’t have to do my homework.
My issue, however, is the award itself. Formally known as the Academy Award, of course, it’s also known as Oscar. Now Oscar is damn fine name. I named my first goldfish Oscar. Unfortunately, a month or so after we got together, Oscar decided to jump out of his bowl and ended up inside a steaming radiator in our Queens, New York apartment.
My brave brother attempted to rescue Oscar, but the poor little mini-carp was steamed into eternity. At least my Oscar, when he was alive, briefly, he had fully functioning fins, gills and a mouth. The Oscar award is basically a casting of a naked eunuch with his arms clutched to his bare chest..just like one of the hapless nominees who was only put on the list to fill out the ballot but has zero chance of winning. Oh, the camera will show them in their seats with a look of hope as their names are read, but honestly, they’re nothing but high profile seat fillers doomed to disappointment. An honor just to be nominated? Really. It just means you were chosen to be one of the designated losers cast aside so the actor or film with a biggest kiss ass budget could be paid off with a fancy nutcracker, with no nuts! Now that itself warrants an award–so many people screwed without benefit of a weenie.
It also makes no sense to me because the Oscar trophy doesn’t scream “awesome acting! Awesome movie!” It’s just a functionless guy mounted on a pedestal. Kind of like Sean Hannity.
At least the Grammy award is an old gramophone–a device on which music was once played–so it makes sense.
The Tony really looks more like a Chinese gong and no Broadway show or actor wants to get the gong, especially before intermission. Maybe something that looks more like a marquee or a likeness of the late great Carol Channing or Zero Mostel.
The Emmy is also stupid. It looks like someone on the ladies Olympic beach volleyball team ready to spike the pumpkin, but is disqualified due to her use of wings. An award for television should look like a teenager with zombie eyes. 
So I’ll probably watch the beginning of the Oscar broadcast because there’s no host, which mean no embarrassing monologue, although I think they should have given Dave Letterman a second chance. “Uma..Oprah!” Heh. I don’t care. Dave could do no wrong in my book.
If you do watch, and care about the outcome..enjoy it. But when they start handing out those statues, just remember, all those winners are going home with a guy who can only gather dust…but can’t satisfy their lust..except for attention..and, as the song that will probably win a guy with no poopik..is pretty, um, Shallow.
Signs of Un-Intelligent Life
I must ask you all something. Do you hang signs in your house or office? I’m not talking about signs that offer actual information or warnings like “Exit” or “Laundry” or “Joey’s Room-Stay Out!” I’m talking about signs with dopey stuff like this one like this:
Ha! Funny stuff. Well, back at ya from the eternally eye-rolling spouse with this one: 
Can you just see these dueling placards decorating a special place in home populated by people so dumb, all their IQs added together couldn’t pass muster with Mensa.
I see a lot of signs since my family enjoys hunting for old stuff in antique malls. My wife finds things she can craft with. She’s incredibly inventive with how she turns something old into something new and fun. My son collects playing cards. I look for old records. What we don’t look for are dopey signs because, well, we try not to hang stupid stuff in our house which might spark a call from anyone visiting who might be worried about our sanity to call social services that might go like this:
“Hello!”
“Yes sir. This is Morty Feid from social services. I understand you have a number of idiotic fishing signs hanging in your house.”
“Excuse me, Morty. They’re not idiotic. They’re providing valuable information regarding our regard for angling and total disregard for each other.”
“Well, Mr. Garsten. One of your neighbors gave us a call. She was concerned about your sanity.”
“Oh..you took the bait! HAHAHAHA! Bait! Get it? That should be a sign!”
MORTY HANGS UP.
Of course, not all signs pertain to fishing. Some have been created to merely convey class, or lack thereof.
Case in point, this one aimed at setting an immediate tone for visitors who need a quick pitstop: 
And this one, explaining why the living room may look more like a landfill: 
I always thought this one provided nice, subtle information as to where one might clean their clothing:
Of course, it’s always nice to convey to friends just how much they mean to you when they pop over for a visit: 
The funny thing is, while I may see scores of signs for sale I have never once seen anyone actually buy one, or display such profundity in their homes, leading me to wonder if that’s a warning sign that one might not care to hang in their homes proof they’re a horse’s ass.
I Grew Up With Mrs. Maisel
“So…P.S…. Gloria is getting shtupped by the Mike the apartment maintenance guy and that’s about as far as he’s going to fix her pipes!” Yeah, it’s true. Growing up in Queens in a 400 square foot garden apartment that’s the kind of stuff I’d hear every afternoon when my mother and her yenta friends drank coffee and puffed menthol Newports in our tight little kitchen while I was trying to do my homework.
As I watch the marvelous “Marvelous Mrs. Maisel” it dawned on me. Holy kishka! I grew up with a posse of Mrs. Maisels–repressed Jewish housewives with potty mouths and punchlines with my kitchen as their stage and each other as the toughest audience.
There was the haughty one my brother dubbed “The Duchess.” Big hair, big makeup, big mouth and owned one of the first color TVs in the apartments so her only, coddled, child, could watch the New York Rangers games in living color. “The uniforms look better in color!” is how The Duchess explained the extravagant largesse. “Who gives a shit, it’s just hockey and he’s 12!” the rough crowd responded and in unison sipped their heavily lightened and sweetened lukewarm coffee and puffed a menthol ciggy hanging from their over-glossed lips.
Another one didn’t have a nickname, or much of an act, but she was funny anyway because she doled out her lines in a breathy stream with things like “Ooohhh…fuck the PTA. Me? Bake cookies? Oooooohhh….fuck that!” Laughs, sips, puffs.
My sort-of best friend’s mom was a cross between Totie Fields and Don Rickles. Chunky, spunky and insulting. “Hey Gert!,” she’d holler at my mother. “Where’d you get this coffee! It taste like if you dipped my Murray’s schmecky in boiling water–limp and weak!” Raucous laughs, tentative sips, hearty puffs.
My mother had her sights on a showbiz career before she got married. She was a good singer and even cut a record. We had a single copy but sadly it was one of those old style brittle records, not the later unbreakable vinyl. and eventually broke into many pieces. As the host and ringleader of the Glen Oaks Village Afternoon Friar’s Club and Coffee Klatch she kept things moving with lines like “OK ladies–I gotta make dinner and you all smell like shit!” Good natured..and knowing giggles, last, quick sips, ciggies quickly crushed followed by loud, deep, pre-emphysema coughs.
I never really did get much homework done. As they would say in the Catskills, the floorshow was very entertaining! Plus I’d attempt to figure out trig while I had my stereo on full blast and my feet were propped up on my little desk. When I once complained to my mother the noise in the next room was distracting me from my homework, my mother took a look over at the revolving turntable, cocked her ears to hear “Helter Skelter” blasting, gave me a questioning look, then smiled…and lit up a Newport, shook her head and left me with one last gut punch punchline, “Oh Edward, you’re gonna fail that test.” Humor is always based on truth. I laughed.
P.S. My brother’s name is Joel.
On the 8 Nights of Chanukah..Hint: No Partridges..Not Kosher
On the first night of Chanukah my true love gave to me..
A sandwich of hot pastrami
On the second night of Chanukah my true love gave to me..
2 sizzling latkes
and a sandwich of hot pastrami
On the third night of Chanukah my true love gave to me..
3 types of guilt
2 sizzling latkes
and a sandwich of hot pastrami
On the fourth night of Chanukah my true love gave to me..
4 aggravations
3 types of guilt
2 sizzling latkes
and a sandwich of hot pastrami
On the fifth night of Chanukah my true love gave to me..
5 pouting putzes…
4 aggravations
3 types of guilt
2 sizzling latkes
and a sandwich of hot pastrami
On the sixth night of Chanukah my true love gave to me..
6 cheese blintzes
5 pouting putzes
4 aggravations
3 types of guilt
2 sizzling latkes
and a sandwich of hot pastrami
On the seventh night of Chanukah my true love gave to me..
7 yapping yentas
6 cheese blintzes
5 pouting putzes
4 aggravations
3 types of guilt
2 sizzling latkes
and a sandwich of hot pastrami
On the eighth night of Chanukah my true love gave to me..
8 grounds for impeachment 
7 yapping yentas
6 cheese blintzes
5 pouting putzes
4 aggravations
3 types of guilt
2 sizzling latkes
and a sandwich of hot pastrami
Happy Hanukkah everyone!
Papering Over the Generational Divide
Earlier this week I found myself at a local community college for a business meeting. I got there early and decided to find a spot in the student center where I could go over my notes. I set up camp at a high top in the snack bar then made a choice. I had all my notes stored electronically on my tablet, but also on printed pages in a folder. Hmm..I’m in a place crawling with college students, sitting among them in a jacket and tie, so I already stuck out like a pastrami sandwich at a vegan restaurant. What the hell, I whipped out my old school file folder, spread the pages out and completed the tableau by scribbling notes with an actual pen.
It was too easy. Not 10 seconds elapsed before creatures in their teens and early 20’s started finding excuses to buzz by me. Some were blatant by craning their necks or lingering just a little too long. Others tried to play it cool straining their peripheral vision to its max as they adjusted their route between the coffee machine and their table to include a recon sortie past me. I loved the looks that telegraphed their quandary and confusion. I imagined them asking themselves, “what the hell’s this dressed up dude doing with actual paper and a ‘analog’ writing thingy doing here? Is he a spy, a narc, terribly lost or just a creep?”
As each one walked by for a closer look at my strange activity I made sure I scribbled some notes because I knew none of them could decode what I wrote in the long-lost form called cursive. That only piqued their interest further because now they would wonder what I wrote…about them? About the school? About the awesome chicken nuggets at the grab and go snack bar? Ha! If only they had developed the skill once taught called “handwriting,” they would know I was writing, “I’ve gotta stop. I might piss my pants.”
The whole exercise was pretty entertaining if not self-serving and put me in just the frame of mind for my meeting. I headed for the conference room with a pretty incandescent smile slapped on my puss. Most of the participants were closer to my age, and as the conference got underway we gave each other inquiring looks, seemed to get the right signals…and whipped out our pads…and pens. I think the meeting went pretty well, but I’ll check my notes.
Caught With Loyalty Stuck In The Cookie Jar
Oh people, when will you realize there’s a quiet controversy polarizing this nation that goes far beyond the white noise surrounding the White House and directly into the hearts, minds and bellies of anyone who has ever had to take a stand to defend a vital personal choice.
Indeed, once one has chosen an option, that’s it–there’s no turning back and that person becomes a stubborn, surly, inflexible advocate, willing to take you to task for even suggesting some sort of equivocation.
Deep in your heart you know of what I speak, because you are quietly simmering the more you think about it as your pour yourself a cool, calming glass of milk, considering the move that will define you among family and friends with the fear your choice will blow previously warm relationships permanently asunder.
I tell you this because a discussion during a recent family meal quickly escalated into harsh words and accusations of questionable loyalty. You see, I innocently remarked I could be perfectly happy eating an oatmeal-raisin cookie. But, aha! My family turned on me with the force of the Pillsbury Doughboy’s belly with the barb, “you say that, but if faced with the choice of an oatmeal-raisin or chocolate chip cookie which one would you choose? Don’t lie! We know no one REALLY prefers oatmeal-raisin. You will guiltily go for the chips!” While not under oath, my personal code did not allow me to fudge my reply as I mumbled, “mmmyeah, like the chocolate chip but ok with oatmeal-raisin….IF NO OTHER CHOICE.”
“What a wimp!,” said a family member. “Your alleged loyalty for oatmeal-raisin is totally conditional on it being the only cookie in the jar. Most sane and honest people would just as soon go cookie-less than descend to the depths of the oatmeal-based outlier.”
Feeling further pressured in this would-be CA…”Cookies Anonymous” meeting I crumbled and admitted to a dalliance with an alluring Snickerdoodle. 
Was it so bad to stray, just once? But my exposure as someone who cookied-around while trying to pose as an ardent oatmeal-raisin advocate was complete.
I helplessly asked the group, “are you telling me I have to stick with one cookie and make the same choice every single time?”
“Here’s the deal,” the biggest and bulliest family member shot back. “If you’re faced with the choice of chocolate chip and oatmeal-raisin, you better pick the oatmeal -raisin. You may be the only one to save it from gathering mold at the bottom of the jar.”
But I suddenly rallied. I noticed something on the face of the family member who first launched the attack, smugly claiming to be a chocolate chip loyalist and fired my coup de grace: “What’s that on your face.??..OREO CRUMBS!” Indeed…there’s no victory for those caught in an argument half-baked.
Going Gut to Gut on Labor Day at Harbor Freight
On this Labor Day during this second year of my sort-of retirement I would like to announce I sometimes like to labor with my hands–making things like Jack Daniels on the rocks or a thick steak on the grill, but sometimes I’m compelled to perform actual handiwork, building something out of wood or something electrical, yardwork and repairs with tools.
There are others like me and many of them join me in the same club–the mailing list for the bestest, most awesome store for guys with guts, too-tight t-shirts, ballcaps and an active email account. Yup it’s the Harbor Freight mailing list. 
Every single week you receive two, three, four pages of coupons that offer discounts on all sorts of stuff you may never need in your life, but crap, those coupons are like catnip for men like me who just like to buy stuff that either plugs in, spins, cuts, bangs, screws or wipes. At the top of the sheet are generally three coupons offering a free item with any purchase. The free item could be a bag of rags, a little battery-powered worklight, even an electric bug swatter in the shape of a tennis racket! 
Some are items of no actual redeeming value but you are compelled to buy and item so you can redeem the coupon for the free thing. But here’s the best part, for Labor Day, a one-day coupon offering 25 percent off anything! So off I went with my magic tickets ready to score some great deals.
I needed some cheap gardening gloves, and sure as hell, there was a coupon for $1.99 a pair. Score! My wife requested the free bag of rags. Got ’em, even though I had to fight off two guys with large wrenches in their hands, accompanied, of course, by the appropriate coupons.
Now what would I use that awesome 25 percent coupon to buy? I don’t really need any more power tools, or an ax or even an extension ladder, lathe, plastic tie-downs, tarps, welding torch or drill bits. Ah! I just bought a new bike and there waiting for me was an industrial-strength cable and lock to secure that shiny new two-wheeler. Yes! What’s 25 percent of $10.99? Doesn’t matter. 25 percent is less than 100 percent! I also ended up buying some attachments for my rotary tool, but there was no coupon for that. Sad face.
Bottom line? The $1.99 gloves and free bag ‘o rags I came for ended up costing me a little over 18 bucks. Bet you can guess who the real tool in the store was. But Harbor Freight, I love ya. Can’t wait for next week’s coupons. I think I really need that bug-killing tennis racket.
edLINES 