Welcome to the Variety Show

My long-dead father didn’t rear me to be no left-leaning hippo who’d stand up on all fours to openly opinionate on every dipsy-doodle decree of the government, no sirree. If the president said to pay $20.50 for a half gallon of Blue Bell Vanilla Ice Cream that cost only $10.25 the week before, then by golly we were paying the $20.50. We may not have been able to buy vegetables that month, but we were certainly not going to whine about it like some tree-hugging sociable vegetarian.

And what would he have thought of an executive odor distinguishing only two kinds of Ice Cream, Vanilla and Chocolate? It would’ve whiffled my Dad a bit because he loved Strawberry, but he would’ve adapticated. He’d just order his Banana Splint with two dollops of Vanilla and a Chocolate in the muddle. No muddle, no fuddle. 

“Add extra nuts and lots of whiffle cream and you’ll never know the deference,” I can hear him saying.

My long-dead mother certainly wouldn’t have minded the abstinence of variety in the grocery store’s Ice Cream Freezer. No more having to ponder if Dad would like the Jamocoa Almond Fudge this week or the Old Fashioned Butter Pecan. 

“The Neapolitan? Not in MY house,” I imagine her shouting. “Vanilla or Chocolate. Shoot, maybe I’ll buy both.”

Of course, my parents would’ve been solidified to know the exclusion of all the other flavors would pert near put Baskin-Robbins out of business.

“But that’s the troll you pay for wanting to live under a ’Nothing But Vanilla or Chocolate’ bridge,” they might have said. “If you want to surf a rainbow, then move to Portugal. Or Canada.”

Let’s now imagine the Soup Aisle in this crazy “can’t happen in a million years” world. Cream of Mushroom or Cream of Chicken. That’s it. Anything else would be particularly prohibited. Are you pining for a portion of pretentious Pork N Pea Soup? Sorry. That’s been alliterated. 

“Mushroom or Chicken. Those are the candidates,” my Mom might have said. “If you can’t vote for either, there’s plenty of White Bread and Vanilla Ice Cream in the House and Senate.”

Speaking of White Bread: the bread aisle would only promote White and Wheat. The store manager could have told poor Pumpernickel that hard work might earn him a spot on the shelf, but that would be “playing fair,” and we’ll have none of that around here, mister. 

“Howdy White and Wheat! Welcome to our humble store, and enjoy your stay,” the manager would ceremoniously salute. “Pumpernickel? You’re not welcome here,” he’d sermonize. “Somebody should arrest you, put a brown paper sack over your head and ship you back to where you came from.”

But I am not my parents.

Vanilla and Chocolate are fine, but life is so much richer when you can choose between Cookies N Cream, Dr. Pepper Float, The Great Divide and Gooey Butter Cake. 

Having only two varieties of soup is just not fair to the millions of Clam Chowders, Ramens, Italian-Style Chickens, and Poblano Pepper & Corns that live among us in peace and harmony.

And no one has the right to tell me what Bread I should or shouldn’t eat. Sourdough, Dark Rye, Cornbread, Baguette, Brioche, Himbasha. They’re all good. To say different would make you no better than a card-carrying…

Not seeing the good in variety is like cooking with only Salt-N-Pepa. Sure, they’ll do in a pinch, but there’s a lot to be said for Red Hot Chili Peppers, Spice Girls, Sugar Ray, Bananarama, and The Bacon Brothers. And who among us would cast a stone at bacon? Certainly not me, you silly nilly.

The Morning Star

Taking a photograph of Venus with your cellphone is like taking a photograph of a chipmunk on a pile of rocks with your vintage Kodak Instamatic X-15 film camera. You could've sworn there's a chipmunk in that photograph, but for the life of you, you can't find it.

Venus comes out a little better in photographs, but still, it's not near as impressive as seeing it early in the morning while you're trying to convince the dog that it's really better to pee in the grass than on the carpet.

I'm just a guy

The human body is capable of withstanding a tremendous amount of hardship, whether it be suffering through polar vortexes, desert heat, ultra marathons or waiting for the grocery store to restock their shelves with more Blue Bell ice cream. But when you talk about the demands on the human body brought about by fatherhood — well, that’s a different story.

I remember when my children were young, I had no problem waking up to a child’s blood-curdling scream in the middle of the night and trying to calm them down after they’d had a nightmare. (Usually they were about being chased around the house by a hundred scary grey-haired grandmothers trying to change their diapers.) Today, I’d sleep right through the world coming to an end. 

I was proud of being an awesome horse because I knew my back could endure a gallop through the house with a young rider in the saddle. Today, anybody asking me for a ride is going to hear me saying “neigh” in no uncertain terms.

It didn’t bother me too much when a child would repeat, “Do it again, do it again,” after seeing me stump my hoof on a sofa leg and fall to the floor in a fair bit of pain. Today, they’d probably just put me out of my misery.

But what I couldn’t handle — and still can’t as a grandfather — is trying to figure out what my wife would spell at me so our children wouldn’t know what we were talking about.

“After we finish D-I-N-N-E-R, do you mind taking them all O-U-T-S-I-D-E and playing B-A-L-L with them?” she might ask, spitting out letters faster than I could interpret. “Then when you bring them I-N-S-I-D-E, I’ll give them a C-O-O-K-I-E and you can give them a B-A-T-H and put them to B-E-D. OK?”

By the time she’d finish spelling B-E-D, I was just understanding what D-I-N-N-E-R meant, and I knew I was in trouble because she wanted an answer and I was still trying to figure out the question.

My wife, mother and mother-in-law could sit and spell at each other for hours. It could have been Klingon for all I knew. I’d wonder if women were born with this ability, or did it manifest itself when they gave birth? And why weren’t fathers blessed with the gift? Was it not an option up there on Mars?

My wife’s answer was always, “You’re just a guy.”

My kids are all grown up now, and nobody has wasted their time spelling at me in years. Until this past weekend.

We were on an overnight trip to babysit the granddaughter, when out of the blue my wife and daughter starting spelling all sorts of can’t-say-aloud words in front of the toddler. 

“You can give her a quick S-N-A-C-K at 3 o’clock, then take her O-U-T-S-I-D-E because she loves to S-W-I-N-G on the S-W-I-N-G-S-E-T. After that, she’ll probably ask for some A-P-P-L-E-S-I-P. That’s her word for A-P-P-L-E-J-U-I-C-E. Not to be confused with A-P-P-L-E-S-A-P, which she calls A-P-P-L-E-S-A-U-C-E. Any questions? 

I should have known my daughter was gifted with the spelling skill. Her husband and I just looked at each other and shrugged.

DAUGHTER: “Do they ever L-E-A-R-N how to S-P-E-L-L on the F-L-Y?”

WIFE: “Your F-A-T-H-E-R hasn’t in almost F-O-R-T-Y years. Maybe J-A-M-E-S will, but I wouldn’t B-E-T on it.

ME: “Hey, they might be talking about us. I think they spelled your name.”

JAMES: “I don’t D-O-U-B-T it!”

ME: “Et tu, Brute?”

 

I'm only here for the cat

 

Neighbors, everybody needs good neighbors

Having good neighbors is not a right guaranteed by the constitution. You move into a new neighborhood, you take your chances. Either that or you’ve lived in the same house for 50 years and the new neighbors — the ones who moved into old man Bartholomew’s house three years ago — are now starting to look a little bit odd. Of course, once you’ve reached a certain age, everybody starts to look a little odd. It’s all part of the aging process.

My wife and I got lucky. We have good neighbors. How good? They are so good, they’ll laugh at the rest of this story because they’ll know it’s completely made up. Fiction. A 100-percent fairy tale. But just in case, let me repeat myself: this story depicts a situation that would never actually happen in the real world. Not to good neighbors.

It all started in 2014. “Lloyd” was looking over the fence at my property, shaking his head. I admit I’ll never win a yard of the month prize, but at least no washing machines or bathtubs are growing out of the weeds. Lloyd keeps his yard spick and span. I allow mine to express its own personality.

One morning, to my surprise, Lloyd moved our shared fence line five feet closer to my house. He mowed the area, raked it, mulched it, planted some hedges, and looked much happier for doing so. Were the other neighbors stunned by Lloyd’s brazenness? Of course they were. Did they condemn him in all manners short of violence? Certainly. Was I able to get my property back? Not one inch.

That was 11 years ago. There has been no way for me to fight back. (Remember, this is all made up). He has tractors and leaf blowers and welding torches at his disposal. I have a broken hoe and battery-operated lawn mower somewhere. Three years ago, Lloyd struck again.

I had noticed he had been staging his rakes and tillers and riding lawnmowers and leaf blowers on the property line for weeks, but I had no idea what for.

It happened on a Saturday. The day is etched in my imagination. Lloyd moved the fence again, this time right up to the south side of my house. He had been eyeing my pert near perfect soil with aspirations of expanding his garden. He likes to garden. But I never thought he’d stoop so low as to initiate a full out invasion. 

“Lenny” stepped in to help. Lenny’s my other neighbor. He has as much “fighting” yard appliances as Lloyd. Together, over the next two years, we pushed back on Lloyd’s fence, sometimes gaining ground, sometimes losing. It was a hard-fought battle. Hard fought right up until the day Lenny moved away and “Lonnie” moved in.

Lonnie said he’d help, but only if I gave him all the pecans out of every pecan tree on my property for the next ten years. Not only that, but he wanted me to publicly thank him in front of all the other neighbors. The worst part? Even if I thanked him and signed away my pecans, he still wouldn’t guarantee I would get my yard back.

So, the struggle continues.

And that’s the end of my story. Whew! I’m glad it was all made up. Thankfully, neighbors would never act that way to each other. Right?

CUE THEME SONG: “Neighbors. Everybody needs good neighbors. With a little understanding, you can find the perfect blend. Neighbors. Should be there for one another. That’s when good neighbors become good friends.” (Taken from the Australian TV series, “Neighbors.” I kid you not.)

If I were a rich man

There are only a few people on this planet who know exactly how tough it is to be a billionaire. Of course, they would never admit it, but you can tell. It’s in the way they talk and walk, how they dress and keep their fingernails clean. It’s how they smile so bigly to cover up their misery. 

Let’s talk cars. An ultra-rich billionaire can choose to buy and drive any car their heart desires. Fast, vintage, futuristic, armored, amphibious. Oh, so many choices. Want to add any extra features? How about all of the extra features? It doesn’t matter. I’m buying this car just to sit in. Do you take cash?

People like me (non ultra-rich billionaires) have it much easier. Got anything on the lot? Not picky on colors. Basic trim. Used if you got one. Scratch on the back bumper? No problem. How much down? Ouch. Can I pay it out? Say, over 10 years? Ok, let me talk it over with my wife.

Let’s talk groceries. I doubt ultra-rich billionaires shop for their own groceries. They have people who hire other people to shop for groceries. Ultra-rich billionaires have no idea how to choose a ripe watermelon or know how many eggs you have to break before you can make a perfect omelette. They couldn’t find the eggs if you gave them a map.

People like me (non ultra-rich billionaires) know the cashiers, stock people and personal shoppers by name. We know exactly how to smell a mango for ripeness. We could find the boxes of gluten-free pasta with our eyes closed. They’re on aisle…hey, wait a minute. Have they rearranged the store again? 

Let’s talk job security. If an ultra-rich billionaire had to turn in a list of five productive things they did this past week or else lose their ultra-rich billionaire status, they’d be hard pressed to list anything more than “I made and spent a ton of money.” You mean you didn’t develop a cure for cancer? Nope, but I bought the company that’s at the forefront of finding the cure. You mean you bought it and poured a ton of money into making life better for humanity? Nope, I fired 90 percent of the staff to cut costs. You mean you fired our only hope? Look, they were mostly sitting and looking through silly microscopes all day. I want doers, not sitters and lookers.

People like me (non ultra-rich billionaires) are starting to make lists of our daily accomplishments because we’re now in constant fear our significant others are going to send us an email telling us to justify our existence or else.

“Let’s see. I mowed the yard, walked the dog, went grocery shopping, volunteered at the food bank, and wrote a couple of silly poems. I do much more than just make money. I turn simple living into an art form. So you’ll keep me for another week?”

If I were an ultra-rich billionaire, I hope I’d be kind to others, as well as helpful, giving, forgiving, considerate, compassionate and soft hearted. Your car broke down? Have one of mine. You lost your job? Let me buy your groceries this month. You need a backer for new cancer research? Count me in.

But people like me are never ultra-rich billionaires. We’re too nice. Not in anyway cutthroat. Our smiles mean “Howdy, friend. Want to come over for supper?” and not “Wait until you read my latest post on social media and discover I just fired you. Oh, to be a spider on the wall.”

Proof: out walking the dog.