Category: Interesting Stuff

Panic of the Week

Panic of the Week

Last week it was gas stoves – this week it looks like we need to be aware of the rainbows connected to the 50th anniversary of the release of Dark Side of the Moon, a recording by some rock group which incidentally stayed on Billboard’s Top 100 album chart for as long as anyone can remember. More on the record here in a bit.

But gas stoves. Seriously? The first I heard about some government agency warning about gas stoves came with the headline: “Biden Wants to Take Away Your Gas Stove!!” Yep, Joe Biden, President of the United States, to some the root of all evil (something about stealing an election by getting more votes), is set to send thousands of IRS agents to your house to confiscate your gas range! Just like Obama was poised to set government gun confiscation vans minutes after he was sworn in as President back in 2009.

Oh! The humanity!

It seems that we are bombarded by headlines from certain news sources telling us that we are on the brink of disaster on an almost weekly basis. I recall being told back sometime in October that we would run completely out of diesel fuel by Thanksgiving and that the economy would come to a standstill.

We’re still waiting on that to come to pass. Never mind that the 60-day supply of diesel fuel some portions of the media are trying to get you to panic about is what is usually on-hand and that the supply is being supplemented daily. Note, too, that the panic mysteriously went away shortly after election day.

Imagine that!

Every day there’s something trying to grab our attention – attempting to scare us into action or inaction, usually to the benefit of some group or another wanting power to… well, to twit whatever opponent they care to choose. It’s like the headline back there in the second paragraph of this little essay. There are people who dislike Joe Biden, and they love it whenever he gets even a small measure of comeuppance.

Can you say, “Classified Documents”? I knew you could!

It was pointed out the other day that time was that you had only three sources of national television news. These days, you have a multitude of sources to choose from – and people tend to choose whatever source they feel is closest to what they believe are their own views. Any source other than the chosen source is nothing but “Fake News!” Any opportunity to twit an opponent is good news – pure and wholesome, and 100% true!

Back to gas stoves.

There are risks involved in any sort of cooking as there are risks in every aspect of life. No need to panic. No one is going to come knocking at your door, wanting to confiscate your gas range.

As far as Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon, fifty years is a landmark. Even more amazing is the fact that the album remained on the Billboard Top 100 album chart quite literally for decades. (Bruce Springsteen’s first album, Greetings From Asbury Park New Jersey, also hit the 50-year mark this month. Hardly anyone noticed.) The graphic artist who created the 50-year logo included a rainbow – something seen on the album cover. All of a sudden, there was an outcry from some quarters about the rainbow, and how there was an alignment with the Gay community! Think what you will about Pink Floyd’s Magnum Opus, I really don’t think that the musicians involved in making that album were signaling the Gay community. Yet, there you go. Someone with too much time on their hands and/or a chip on their shoulder is out there making something that isn’t about a 50-year-old record album.

It’s time to light up the gas stove, make some home-made soup, and take another listen to Pink Floyd!

Be Seeing You!

Whose Birthday?

Whose Birthday?

Yesterday, I was struggling to recall exactly who was having a birthday today. The reminder from Facebook said it was Joni Hobbs. I know a Joni Hough from long ago, but I was unsure of Joni Hobbs. When my memory of Ms. Hobbs came back, it was because I remembered that the woman died at a very young age (in her forties – she was young to me) several years ago. She was one of two people I knew from my Geocaching hobby who died within a few months of each other. The other cacher was a fellow named Will Neinke. He and I shared an enthusiasm for The Prisoner, a 1960’s series starring Patrick McGoohan as a former secret agent being held in a remote village in an unknown location.

My Geocaching moniker as well as my sign-off phrase at the end of my blogs come from that show.

To continue.

I am at an age where, “Death has more definable features…” to paraphrase William Holden’s character in the movie Network. I’ve lost several good friends to the grim reaper… too many in my humble opinion. But one must keep in mind that one does not live forever. Eventually everyone passes from being a living being to being a story. Something we need to be aware of when we meet with other people is to listen to their stories while they are living. Appreciate what they have to offer. Listen. Remind yourself that no one walks the same walk. Even if a walk appears to be on the same path, it is, somehow different.

Ms. Hobbs and I met briefly in person on several occasions. We would occasionally cross paths on the internet. It wasn’t until the last month or so of her life that she opened up to let the Geocaching community know of her impending demise and of her life to that point.

And she will miss another birthday.

As will Norm Shor.

Norm and I had a mutual admiration society based on the fact that we both worked in radio. For the most part, he was a gypsy, working radio stations primarily in western Pennsylvania and eastern Ohio. He met and married Karen, a woman who, when Norm worked at a radio station in Erie, called him up to ask him who in the hell he was and what happened to the person who usually worked the shift he was working. They hit it off that first night they called and the rest, as they say, is history.

My first wife and I became good friends with Norm and Karen. When my first wife and I split, Karen quipped that she was glad that she got custody of me in the divorce. By the time of the split, Norm was already on his final voyage – early onset Alzheimer’s. Karen and I are still friends – she says that she has been friends with me longer than anyone else she’s known. I take that as a compliment.

I drove solo from Dallas to Pittsburgh to speak at Norm’s memorial. I had to.

The inevitability of death is always present, but at the same time, never really expected. Death of a friend can be soul crushing if we let it. I prefer thinking of death as a passage, from the living world to becoming a good story which can be told with a smile or a fond rememberance. That’s what funerals are for.

When my mother died nearly seven years ago, I made the trip to Ohio not knowing what to expect. I assisted my sibling (very little as it turned out – she did the heavy lifting) with a couple of little details about the memorial service, and for the most part hung out until the viewing and the service. It was at the viewing that I began to hear the stories. Over the few hours the funeral home was open for visitors, I came to realize just how important she was to the people outside of our family. Those stories continued before and after the service the next day. And I’ll be darned if I didn’t get more stories about my mother when I visited the home town a fortnight ago.

Good stories have a long shelf life as do memories of people we know and love.

At some point, we are all going to leave this planet behind, leaving but a memory to live on with others. It’s up to us to decide what we will leave behind – good memories, good stories, or will it be a bad taste in someone else’s mouth.

I prefer good stories.

Be Seeing You!

Getting Together Several Final Times

Getting Together Several Final Times

My recent trip to Ohio had one primary purpose, the 50th anniversary of my matriculation from Chillicothe High School. The reunion featured several events between Thursday and Sunday – my interest focused on the two big events on Friday and Saturday nights.

With 50 years behind us, us being about 18 at the time, we are in Medicare/Social Security territory – having existed longer than we expect to exist. Indeed, many of us have ceased to be between 1972 and 2022. It’s just a fact of life. Getting together on that 50th anniversary will, for many, be the last time some of us will see each other.

The first “Party” was just that. A party, held at the Elk’s Hall in downtown Chillicothe. The good news is that the Elks can accommodate a large crowd. Very good, considering the number of people who actually showed up. The bad news is that the acoustics were terrible, as would be expected in a large room. Add to that, everyone talking with each other at once, and an alumni band, and you have a cacaphony which may get noise complaints from the local airport.

A month or two before the first party, I was asked to speak for a few minutes to the assembled throng. I had spent a few years as a radio announcer and had a way with words. When we got to the point where I was supposed to perform, I decided it better to tell anyone listening to go ahead and keep doing what they were doing. Which they did.

At one point in my life, my ego would have been crushed. But, not this time. I was happier just getting together with friends and going with the flow than I would have been with making a dull and boring speech. After all, it had been fifty years. Some of us had a lot to catch up on.

After the Friday party, there were a couple of events I was going to make on Saturday, the first being on Saturday morning when a few classmates would gather to take a walk on the city’s flood wall. It wasn’t until after the better half and I did our walk did we learn the reason no one else showed up was that the organized walk didn’t happen until half an hour later than we started.

The other event was the “Formal” dinner at the Chillicothe Country Club. Again, a large room, but with better acoustics. I was more than happy just to attend and not have to worry about making speeches or offering entertainment. The company at our table was amicable, and we had a good time chatting about this, that and the other before and after dinner.

Both evenings were enjoyable, despite the din. I got to see a few of my favorite people, got to meet some people I don’t remember ever meeting, and heard bunches of interesting stories from classmates from every walk of life. It wasn’t until after I got home that I discovered that there were a few other people there I didn’t get to at least speak with, despite being in the same room. I’m sorry to have missed them, although maybe some of them were deliberately avoiding me. Nah… wouldn’t happen!

The only regret I had was that some of the classmates living in Florida didn’t make it, due to the recent passing of the hurricane Ian. It was a darn shame, really. Oh, and there was at least one who didn’t make the reunion because she had been going through Cancer treatment.

Other than that, I had a really good time. Hope to be able to do it again in another five years!

Be Seeing You!

Sports Trucks and Carnies

Sports Trucks and Carnies

Before starting out on this tale, allow me to apologize in advance to long-haul truck drivers and carnival workers. You gotta make a living somehow. It’s just that some of us have a harder time understanding than others.

Anyhoo.

The other half and I took off from the homestead early last Thursday morning headed to Ohio for my high school reunion. A little less than twelve hours later, we were in Carbondale Illinois at an Italian fast food place called Fazoli’s, sucking on something resembling chicken and having a good time with the grandchild, the step-daughter and her husband, and the step-son. Was I frazzled after the drive? A little. Between the sports trucks and the “Carnies” on Interstate 40 between Little Rock and West Memphis, we had an adventure.

I have been told time and again that adventure is where you find it. What made the first day of the trip an adventure were the long-haul truckers in what my father used to call “Sports Trucks”, trying to get past a convoy of carnival food trucks headed east.

I’m not going to rag on the truckers too much. They have a lot on their plate, what with limits as to how long they can be on the road and having families back home who want them home a few hours earlier then they usually arrive. I get that. But getting around a convoy of any sort can be frustrating when the fellow in front of you is passing that convoy doing, say, 68 and the truck he’s driving can only do 69. Not only frustrating to the truck drivers, but frustrating to drivers like me, headed to see children and grandchildren in another state.

We managed.

After fighting the clog for nearly an hour and passing the carnie convoy, we decided to pull over at a rest stop and have lunch. I figured that by the time we finished having lunch, the convoy would be past us and we would be clear of the mess, headed to our first destination. No problems.

Until the convoy showed up at the rest stop just as we were having our lunch.

Wouldn’t you know it, every available parking space in the truck side of the lot was full, and one of the vehicles belonging to the convoy was taking up a couple of parking spaces on the cars only side of the rest area. And then came the oversized load which could not get past the vehicle from the convoy taking up a couple of parking spaces on the cars only side of the rest area.

My plan to exit, stage right, was impeded by the truck which couldn’t move because of the other vehicle parked in his way. It took about 5 minutes for the vehicle’s driver to realize that he was impeding traffic. We waited another five minutes after the lane was cleared before moving on.

Fortunately, that was the most frustrating moment for most of the rest of the trip up and back. There were moments spent with orange barrels (still in-season) and the usual idiots deciding that they preferred driving in the left lane – that is, until 100 yards from where they need to exit. But that’s another story.

I had a chat with Dave, a friend of mine from high school, over lunch at a small family cafe in Kentucky. He and I came to the conclusion that sometimes, getting off the Interstate and using federal or state highways is the way to go.

Even going long distances.

I’ll have to try it sometime.

On the other hand, you miss some of the more interesting roadside attractions, like Uranus Missouri.

It’s a tourist trap. Plain and simple. I’ve been there twice in the past four months because of the wordplay involved.

I’m a sucker for wordplay.

With slogans like, “The best fudge in the world comes from Uranus,” you can understand the number of jokes coming out of the place. Some people may be offended. I get it. There are others like me who appreciate the word play, offensive as the word play may seem. At any rate, the place is colorful and kitschy all at once. And the fudge, well, it’s passable. The fudge at Mackinac Island seemed better, but the last time I went there was many moons ago and another thousand miles out of our way for this trip.

At any rate, we’re back. The fudge is gone, and what we have are memories… something I will blog about in another day or two.

Be Seeing You!

Irony

Irony

As a follow up to yesterday’s post – Numbers – the little red car with the 188881 odometer reading apparently didn’t care to be written about on this page. It whined in protest nearly all the way to the dealership where we were picking up the car undergoing repairs. At one point, the better half suggested leaving the thing in a parking lot and taking an Uber to the dealership.

Long story short, the little red car was replaced by an even smaller gray car with considerably fewer miles on it. Looks like I might have to monetize my blog to help pay for it.

And that, my friends, is irony.

We are surrounded by irony.

Irony is the stuff of O’Henry stories – for that matter, many short stories make their mark because of irony. Same with some novels.

Sorting through some of my book collection so I can make a donation to a worthy cause (An AAUW Book Sale – proceeds to help sponsor a scholarship for a young woman to attend a women’s college in Missouri) I ran across The End of the Road by Tom Bodett. The book follows people in a small Alaska fishing town at “The end of the road” with a series of vignettes which end up tying together as the reader progresses throught the novel. My favorite scenario in the book has to do with a pair of couples, very good and close friends, who are just out of town enjoying time in a sauna, and then running out of the sauna naked as jaybirds in the snow to cool off before going back in to sweat it out in the sauna again.

One of the friends inadvertently locked the door of the sauna behind them. The sauna burned down and they had no recourse other than to strap on their skis and head to town before hypothermia set in. When they got to the road, they flagged down the first car they saw – driven by the prudish preacher’s wife – piling in when she stopped.

That was, indeed, irony.

Another notable piece of irony popped up in yesterday’s news. Texas’ Attorney General reportedly ran out his back door when a process server came to his front door to deliver a subpoena. The irony there is that the state’s lead attorney would avoid being served a subpoena, seeing as how he has had issued more than his share. Add to that the fact that the same state attorney general has been under indictment for most, if not all of the time he has been the attorney general. And he’s running for reelection.

The irony just oozes. And he’s not the only official with questionable backgrounds or motives. While officials from both parties can lay claim to having been involved in skullduggery, it seems as if most of those officials have a little (R) behind their names.

And from what I have observed over the years, politicians with the little (R) behind their names seem to lack the ability to understand the concept of irony… as do many of their followers.

The January 6th Commission hearings happen live tomorrow. The hearing room will be oozing with irony.

Be Seeing You!

(In another irony, it will now be noted that we have a red, or scarlet vehicle and a gray vehicle. Scarlet and Grey being Ohio State University’s school colors. I attended Ohio University. Green and white. And there was a time when we were first married, that our vehicles were green and white!)

Numbers

Numbers

I have an obsessive/compulsive relationships with numbers.

For instance, this morning, I was almost home from a doctor’s appointment when I saw the odometer on the better half’s car reading 188880. Less than two blocks from the house. I just HAD to take a turn through the neighborhood until the odometer read 188881. Seriously. Now it does. Now I’m happy. The next goal is 199991, followed by 200002. If we can quit playing whack-a-mole with the car’s cooling system, I’ll be as happy as a pig in mud!

As for my car, the odometer read 62622 when I dropped it off at the dealership for some repair work before taking a trip later this week. I’m paying more than enough for the work to be done, and am looking forward to seeing 62626 when I pick it up later today. If the dealership’s service deparment runs it over that magic number, I’ll certainly let them know.

Car odometers aren’t the only numbers I am obsessed with. Take the trip I’m about to take. I have several entertainments lined up.

One of them – “Are we there yet?” – has to do with mileage stickers on Interstate highways. I’ll see a sign saying “East Smorgaswitch – 103”, and then look for one of the mileage stickers posted along the highway. I will then calculate what the sticker will say when I arrive at East Smorgaswitch and for fun, will guesstimate the amount of time it will take me to get there at my current speed.

Oh, and I calculate what the odometer will read when I get there.

When I’m not calculating miles to go in my head, I’m listening to old radio shows on the satellite radio station, keeping up with the body count on the mystery shows.

And as a fan of Douglas Adams’ Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, I know the ultimate answer to the ultimate question about life, the universe and everything is 42. Problem is that no one knows the question, so, 42 remains an interesting enigma.

I suppose my obsession with numbers may have started when I was on the radio. We dealt with minutes and seconds and had to make sure that each message was accurately timed. We also worked it so that we would “hit the post” at the top of the hour to merge into network news. Disc-Jockey jargon. Hope you’ll understand.

Anyway, as I am counting it, I will be taking the dog Filbrix to “Doggie Camp” in 48 hours, 7 minutes and 18 seconds from the time I complete this sentence. (18 is another favorite number which came up while I was in college) When I head to the gym later today, I plan to be on the treadmill for 44 minutes and 44 seconds and/or just go for 45 minutes even. I’ll only be 16 seconds short of that second goal, you see.

Maybe I’ll stretch it out to 45:54 just to make things even!

Be Seeing You!

That’s the Ticket!

That’s the Ticket!

Last night, the better half and I went to pick up a prescription at the local pharmacy. I should have known better than to arrive at around six with the hopes of getting back home in a short amount of time. During the wait, a couple of people came to spend time in the line for their purchase – a small, older woman and an overweight know-it-all who regaled the older woman with fantastic stories about how well connected he was.

Just overhearing the man (he was loud as well as obnoxious – couldn’t help but to overhear him), I came to think that the stories he told should be taken with a pillar of salt. He reminded me of the Jon Lovitz character, the pathological liar. Yeah! That’s the ticket!

I’ve run into the type most of my life. Worked with (or for) a few. Not that I haven’t told a tall tale or two in my life. We all have from time to time. It’s just that sometimes the stories get out of hand.

I recall a snowy day at one place I worked when the boss requested that they let him know when the snow was ten-inches deep so that he could go out and measure it. There was a peer who constantly bragged about what he did before we knew him. After graduation, we never heard from him again except to hear that he had joined the Navy. I’ve always surmised that his shipmates might have grown tired of his constant bragging, saw to it that he took a walk off deck and didn’t bother to report his going overboard until three days later. I doubt that it really happened, but, it make for a good story.

One fellow I really liked listening to was a co-worker from southern Ohio who came up with some fairly credible stories. He was a natural.

One day he started spinning a tale about a neighbor who somehow or another managed to bathe the cat. Instead of going the conventional route of using towels to dry off the creature, they decided to put the cat in the microwave with the predictable, unfortunate ending. No, it didn’t happen. It was one of those “Urban Legends” involving a “Friend of a Friend.” Still, the story was entertaining. Cruel, but entertaining.

Another story he told might be true, as it involves Paul Williams, the singer, actor, and songwriter who recently celebrated a birthday (his 82nd on September 19th). According to the story, Williams’ father worked at a government atomic plant in Piketon Ohio and lived in Portsmouth when the younger Mr. Williams graduated from high school. The story is somewhat credible, considering that construction of the plant required tons of people to build it. Skilled tradesmen were likely in strong demand with not enough local laborers to do the job. It might well be that the senior Mr. Williams would have traveled with his family to live in Portsmouth while working on the project. I’ll leave the story at that.

Perhaps Portsmouth High School has Mr. Williams in its hall of fame. Two of Portsmouth’s more famous sons are celebrated on murals on the floodwall (Branch Rickey and Roy Rogers). Portsmouth’s claim to fame as one of the first NFL teams is evident as Portsmouth Trojans stadium, built for the pro team still stands today… the oldest NFL stadium still standing. The Trojans, by the way, played for just a few seasons before being purchased and moved to Detroit – becoming the Detroit Lions.

Something I’ve maintained is that sometimes stretching the boundaries just a bit for the sake of a good story is acceptable. Just as long as the story isn’t too outlandish!

Happy Trails – er – Be Seeing You!

(Photo taken by the author at the Portsmouth Ohio floodwall. Thanks to Jim Patterson for his company on the day this was taken.)

The Penguin – A Prophet

The Penguin – A Prophet

I have a Saturday night routine which leads down strange paths. I watch “Me-TV” for a string of shows, starting with The Three Stooges and ending with the first few moments of Star Trek. In between are Svengoolie (a direct descendent of Ghoulardi), the horror movie host, and Batman (In Color!). I have reasons (mostly nostalgic) for watching this Saturday night block, but I won’t get into those reasons for the moment.

What struck me was the Batman episodes run this past Saturday: Hizzonner the Penguin, followed by Dizzoner the Penguin from the second season. Burgess Meredith does an excellent job of portraying a costumed criminal with a bird fetish. In the pair of episodes shown on Me-TV this past Saturday, The Penguin stages an event enabling him to run for Mayor of Gotham City. Since it looks like he will win the election, Batman is asked to run against the “Fowl Fiend,” vowing to concentrate on the issues while Penguin works on making the Mayoral race into a popularity contest.

Included in Penguin’s bag of tricks are twists of logic (“I’m always seen in the newspapers with the police, while Batman is seen in the newspapers with criminals… therefore, I am more trustworthy.”) Hints of ballot manipulation, and finally, when the ballot counting shows Penguin losing, there are demands of a recount, accusations of fraud, and a kidnapping of the Board of Elections.

Sounds vaguely familiar. Like what transpired fifty and fifty-four years later in a pair of certain Presidential elections involving someone wearing a red hat.

A few major points stood out.

Penguin first threw his hat in the ring with a staged event. The man in the red hat descended an escalator in a staged event where he threw his hat in the ring.

Instead of building up his own qualifications, both preferred to take pot shots at their opponents.

Both called the election process to be stacked against them, especially when they were losing; both taking to subverting the process and demanding that no more votes be counted when it became obvious that the tide had turned.

One other takeaway from the pair of Batman episodes – Penguin declared that when he won, he would place a variety of costumed criminals in places where they could essentially pillage Gotham City. Judging from the number of indictments stemming from the election when the fellow in the red hat won, he was able to do what Penguin never did.

Sixty-Six years later, the parallel continues.

Some of it from a piece of literature from a long-dead British author – J.R.R. Tolkien.

There was a piece I read Monday where it seems that the man in the red hat was sounding conciliatory in something he said over the weekend. My mind jumped to Chapter 10 of the second book from Professor Tolkien’s epic trilogy of Lord of the Rings. Titled, “The Voice of Saruman,” it essentially says that the evil wizard’s voice sounded just like listener wanted to hear it. To some, his words were harsh and unforgiving. To others, he sounded like he was apologetic – his words flowing like honey over his tongue. Much the same can be said about the man in the red hat and those around who still support him. His words flow like honey, but reek of revenge.

Note that both were able to get a measure of revenge. Note also that Saruman’s end came from the knife of a once-trusted advisor.

Art imitates life and life imitates art. Or so it is said. Sometimes that old saw can be alarmingly true!

Be Seeing You!

Some Words Have None of the Luck

Some Words Have None of the Luck

I had a conversation with a naturist correspondent about the word(s) “Lifestyle(s)”. My correspondent was bemoaning that the word(s) had different meanings depending on the audience within the naturist community. To some, “Iiving the naturist lifestyle” means living as much of one’s life as possible without the burden of having to wear clothing. To others, “living the naturist lifestyle” means being a “swinger,” or someone willing to sleep with another’s spouse, while their spouse sleeps with your spouse.

Wife swapping, if you will.

Living a “Lifestyle” has had a broader meaning over the years. Most of us of a certain age remember a fellow named Robin Leach – a presenter of the show Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. It would be a safe bet to say that none of the people on that program were shown running around in their birthday suits. As to marital stability, well, that’s another matter.

I have encountered the term “Lifestyle(s) in a couple of other situations.

In the mid to late seventies, the National Lampoon published a parody of the movie Invasion of the Body Snatchers. The politically incorrect (a Lampoon specialty) conclusion came about when it was noted that the owner of the local hardware store had come up with a “Lifestyles” section. The protagonists in the story came to discover that the local townspeople had become Jewish (see what I mean by being politically incorrect?) after eating an alien deli sandwich (with a schmear, I mean, a dab of mustard).

A few years later, I worked at a radio station which moved their offices and studios into a building a few doors down from a gay nightclub. The club closed suddenly – with a notice posted on the door telling patrons that there was a new “Lifestyles” bar just down the road.

So, the term(s) “Lifestyle(s)” has taken a bit of a beating over time.

Another word with the misfortune of shifting meanings has been “Liberal.” At one time it was meant to indicate someone with an open mind – with characteristics we all strive to emulate. These days, the word has become a slur, especially in heavily “Red” areas. Come to think of it, wasn’t there a time when calling someone a “Red” indicated that the person in question was or is a communist?

Then, back to “Swinger.” Could be a kid enjoying a piece of playground equipment – or a “Hep Cat” dancing to what was once called swinging music – or a name given to a Polaroid camera, selling for “Nineteen dollars and ninety-five!”

It’s all a matter of understanding between people in a conversation. And sometimes the lines of understanding don’t easily cross between generations or other subsets of people. The phrase “Cut a rug” comes to my mind.

For some of us, the phrase “Cut a rug” is a phrase used to describe a pair of people dancing… a term not everyone is aware of.

I worked for a few years on an offshore oil drilling rig, two weeks on and two weeks off. Several of my co-workers concluded that it would be cheaper to fly back and forth to Costa Rica, stay in a hotel and enjoy the services of hot and cold running prostitutes. One of the older workers asked the pair running back and forth to Central America, “What do you do with these girls? Do you cut a rug?” Neither of the pair knew the phrase… I smiled and translated, “He wants to know if you install carpeting!”

The quip brought down the house!

English is a complex and sometimes difficult language to comprehend. It can sometimes be like a loaded gun. Just gotta be careful where you aim it!

Be Seeing You!