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I lead a fairly stress free life, but my dreams are filled with anxiety.  In my dreams I am usually lost, late for something, or both.  Normally, I don’t remember much of my dreams, but lately, I have been having more vivid and more memorable dreams.  I think there are two reasons for this.  Number one is that I ran out of pot, and my sleeping self is probably trying to make up for the hallucinations it is missing.  Number two is that I have been going to sleep listening to audio books, and pieces of the book are appearing in my dreams.

Last week I listened to Dead Heat by Dick Francis.  The protagonist, an award winning chef, investigates a bombing at a racetrack outside London where he has catered a gala event.  Following clues, he flies to America, rents a car, and goes off to a polo club to question employees of his main suspect.  He gets attacked by a polo mallet wielding madman.  His arm is broken and he makes a mad dash to get away.  He gets to his rental car, but has trouble starting it because his right arm is broken.  The mallet wielding madman smashes most of the windows in the car before Chef Max finally makes his escape.

In my dream I am driving a car to work.  On my way I pick up five people to give them a lift.  They are the comedians Danny DeVito and Brian Posehn, my friend Tilda, and two others who I don’t remember.  They have to stop at various places and I am running late.  Danny DeVito wants me to stop at his aunt’s house, and I complain that doing so will make me late for work.  We go there anyway.  The aunt is not home, but Danny has a key.  Tilda goes in with him.  Tilda is a seamstress, a costume designer, and a perennial do-gooder.  She comes out and tells me that the aunt’s curtains are in need of repair, and she wants to fix them.  I tell her that I cannot wait.  I’m supposed to be at work at 8 o’clock and it is already 8:30.  I go to start the car and it won’t start.  Why won’t the car start?  What am I doing driving, anyway?  The last time I drove a car was back when Jimmy Carter was the President.  What am I doing going to work?  The last time I had a full-time job was when George W. Bush was President.  What am I doing with Danny DeVito and Brian Posehn?  This can’t be happening.  It’s not.  I wake up.

The next night before bed I watched a rerun of Two and a Half Men and Allan has to babysit for his ex-wife Judith.  In my dream I wind up babysitting for a cousin.  I’m doing a good job and the baby in my arms is asleep, but I start wondering.  Why am I babysitting?  Nobody ever asks me to babysit.  I’ve done some dogsitting in my day, but never babysitting.  Whose baby is this, anyway?  I’m 67 years old.  All my cousins are way past their childbearing years.  This can’t be happening.  It’s not.  I wake up with my pillow cradled in my arms.

The next night I read a Tony Hillerman novel about his Navajo policemen, Jim Chee and Joe Leaphorn.  It takes place in New Mexico.  I fully expected my dreams that night to take me to New Mexico, but I guess the written word is not as powerful to my subconscious as the spoken word.  I wound up back in England, and I was packing for a flight from Heathrow.  The phone rang and it was Brother X.  We talked for a minute, but I couldn’t pack with one hand and hold the phone with the other.  I told him that I had to catch a flight, was running late, and that I would call him from Heathrow.

As soon as I put down the phone, it rang again.  It was Tilda.  She told me that the curtains for Danny DeVito’s aunt were finished.  I told her I couldn’t talk because I had to catch a flight and I was running late.  “What time is your flight?” she asked.  I didn’t know.  How could I not know what time my flight was leaving?  This wasn’t happening.  I was dreaming, and I knew it, but I didn’t wake up.  I went on dreaming, but I stopped packing, stopped worrying about the flight, and decided to enjoy my dream.  I went out to see the sites of London.  I went to a fancy restaurant and had a superb dinner with a table full of people, whose names I can’t recall.  We split the bill and my share was only $22.  So I left $30 to cover the meal and gratuity.  Why was a London restaurant charging dollars instead of Euros or Pounds?  This can’t be happening.  It wasn’t.  I woke up.

Now, I’m going to go to the library to check out another audio book, and I’m going to make sure it takes place somewhere I would like to go to in my dreams.  Either that or I’m going to pick up some more pot.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

 

Last night Jeb Bush suspended his campaign for the Presidency of the United States.  Why did this man, who early in the campaign was the presumed Republican frontrunner, do so poorly?  I think I know.

Back when Barrack Obama was first elected President, there was a lot of complaining by Democrats that George W. Bush was the reason for most of the problems they faced.  Most Republicans took umbrage at the new President’s claim.  The Republicans countered with the idea that President Obama was just not able to handle the job of President.  Some even paid for “Miss me yet?” billboards of the former President.

The party faithful rallied to support the ex-president’s legacy.  All blame fell on President Obama.  Never did they waver from this position.  They even encouraged his brother Jeb to run for the office to return the country back to the glorious years of the Bush Administration.  However, when Jeb did launch a campaign for the Presidency he was soundly defeated and forced to drop out after only three primaries.  Why did this happen?  I believe that no matter how much Republicans claimed out loud that George W. Bush was a great President, deep down they knew that his administration was a dismal failure, and that “Mission Accomplished” was a joke.

So, when George’s brother ran for the office of President, they didn’t consider his personality or his platform as much as they considered his DNA.  They didn’t see him.  They remembered his brother.

Can President Obama blame the Presidency of George W. Bush for many of the problems he faced when he took office?   Maybe.  Maybe not.

Can Jeb Bush blame the Presidency of George W. Bush for many of the problems he faced running for the office of President?  Most definitely.  Now, it looks like the Republicans will be stuck with Donald Trump, Marco Rubio, or Ted Cruz as their standard bearer in 2016.

Feel the Bern.

Peace and Love, and all of the above,

Earl

Recently, I went to the local library to pick up a voter registration form.  I’ve been here in Lancaster for over two years.  It’s time to stop putting it off.  I don’t know too much about the local politicians, but I want to make sure I’m eligible to vote for the next President this November.  It looks like it’s going to be a wild and crazy election year.

While in the library, I browsed the old-fashioned way.  I actually walked up and down the rows and looked at the titles that were available.  I didn’t get too old-fashioned.  I didn’t look at any actual books.  I looked at the Audio books on CD’s.  I’m a big fan of the Janet Evanovich audio books about her inept bounty hunter, Stephanie Plum.  Lorelei King does a great job of voicing all the crazy characters.  I chose, however, a 19 CD set called “Don’t Know Much About History,” by Kenneth C. Davis.  Maybe you’ve heard of it.   A decade or two ago it spent 35 consecutive weeks on the N.Y. Times Bestseller List.  I figured I might learn something.

I got way more than I bargained for.  It took two weeks to listen to all 19 CD’s, and I finished the last one on President’s Day.  I can honestly say that I learned more about American history and the Presidents in those two weeks than I did in all my years in regular school.  Full disclosure, though, it wasn’t too hard to do that.  I wasn’t a very good student back then, and I learned practically nothing in school.

I won’t go into the details about the book, as I’m sure that you, the reader, would be bored stiff with any attempt I would make to retell the stories.  It’s like when somebody goes to see a stand-up comedian and later tries to duplicate the show for their friends.  It doesn’t work.  The main point I want to make is that voting is more interesting when we know a little bit about the people Americans have voted for in the past, and why.   The other point I want to make is that when the wind chill, ice, and snow make going outdoors miserable, it’s a great time to sit inside and just curl up with a good book, even if it is educational.

Stay warm.  Spring is coming.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

 

“…All the cats want to dance with Sweet Little Sixteen…”

 

 

In 2015 American Pharaoh won the Triple Crown. So, it is only fitting that I had my own Triple Crown this year.  I celebrated Thanksgiving and Christmas early in 2015, and I completed the triple by celebrating the New Year early, too.  Normally on December 30^th, I celebrate the anniversary of my friends Marianne and Tres.  This year I also celebrated New Year’s Eve on that day.

I’ve been poking around the apartment for the past month or so looking for the kitty litter buckets and cardboard boxes that contain my December storage items, which include my Christmas decorations.  I still haven’t found anything, but I did find my “January” storage items which included two New Year’s hats and some noisemakers.

I thought it would be interesting to go out on the town on the evening before New Year’s Eve wearing the Happy New Year Hats.  What would the crowd reaction be?  This would be fun, I thought, but I couldn’t do it alone.  I needed an accomplice.  Immediately I thought of Debbie.  She’s crazy.  She’ll do anything.  So, I invited her over to play Scrabble.  We put the hats on and proceeded to get drunk.  Then we went to the Alley Kat.

The reaction was great.  Even though just about everyone told us that we were a day off, they quickly joined in the fun.  It turned out to be the perfect ice breaker.  The Alley Kat is more of a restaurant than a bar.  Most people go there to eat, not converse with strangers, so it was a bit unusual to have everyone at the bar joining in the conversation.  Pretty soon we were taking selfies together and wishing each other a “Happy New Year.”  There weren’t a lot of people, but that was nice, too.  You don’t need to be packed in like the sardines in Times Square to have a good time.

I would like to point out that I was not drinking from the water glass which you see in front of me in the picture.  I don’t want to tarnish my reputation as a party animal.  My beer was just out of the frame.  That’s Debbie’s water.  Knowing that she has to drive home, we both make sure that her last few drinks of the night are water.

We left the bar at 11:30 to watch TV and sober up some more.  I don’t think we made it until midnight, but that’s one of the benefits of celebrating early.  No pressure.  The next night, on the real New Year’s Eve, I was content to sit quietly and watch the ball drop on TV without feeling like I was missing out on something.  I had already celebrated the New Year on Australian Time.

I hope everyone had an enjoyable New Year’s Eve, and I hope you all have a Happy, Healthy New Year.

Happy Sweet Sixteen.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

 

 

Can it be that it was all so simple then

Or has time rewritten every line

If we had the chance to do it all again, tell me, would we, could we?

 

I have to give Peter VanderMeulen credit for making my enhanced memories.  He taught me that I should never retell a story, unless I could improve it.  By retelling and rethinking my stories over the years, I’ve finally managed to actually forget the original dull stories and only remember the latest and greatest versions of those stories.  Thanks Pete.

Caught up in the frenzy of nostalgia surrounding the Christmas holiday, I was thinking about one of my fondest memories, the time I was “The Next Elvis” in Germany.  I’ve told this story 100 times, but I don’t think I ever put it in writing.  Now, knowing that there are only a very few people on the planet who can dispute what really happened that day, here goes my version.

First, a little background.  When I was a kid I played clarinet and saxophone.  It was a way to control my asthma.  Being one of the few saxophonists in the neighborhood, I wound up in a band called The Townsmen, later called The Heard.  When I went to boot camp in the Navy, I used my “musical experience” as a way to free me from the drudges of boot camp.  I managed to talk my way into the boot camp band, and I would always say I had band practice whenever my company was scheduled for the obstacle course.  I never once had to run the obstacle course, and I never played with the band.

So, I didn’t really have a big career in music, but, when I was stationed in Germany, I did do something that no musician before me ever did.  I invented the mike drop.

The Navy guys I worked with in Germany would bust my chops anytime I mentioned anything about once playing in a band.  Since Elvis Presley had recently departed Germany, they jokingly dubbed me “the next Elvis.”  Hey, call me anything but late for dinner.  I didn’t object.  I liked the nickname.

So one night, the fleet is in.  Three American ships are docking at the nearby seaport town of Kiel.  One ship is enough to get all the single girls out.  Three ships and even the married women will be out on the town.  My buddies and I planned to get to Kiel early, and we did.  We were the first half dozen guys lined up at the main bar on the lower level of the biggest disco in the town, The Star Palast.  The owner of the club was also at that bar and he was in his glory.  The club was packed with the proverbial drunken sailors spending just like they do in the proverb.  He was raking in money like never before.

My supervisor, Dave, was sitting on a bar stool next to the owner and he decided to prank him, and me.  They talked and talked and the owner kept glancing down the bar at me.  Finally, he got up and walked over to me.  He shook my hand and said, “Your friend told me who you are.”

I turned and saw “my friend” laughing his ass off.

“Just who did my friend say I was?” I asked the owner.

“He told me you were the next Elvis.”

By now, Dave is laughing so hard he’s crying.

“Well, I don’t know about that,” I said modestly.

“Look at how many Americans are in my club tonight,” he said waving his arm in a circle.  “Would you do me a big honor and go up on stage and sing one song for them?”

Dave is now having trouble not laughing himself off his barstool.  There must have been a thousand drunken sailors in the place and not one of them knew me from Adam.  “I’m sorry” I told the owner.  I would love to sing a song, but my band isn’t here.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said. “Of course.  How silly of me.”  Then, just a beat later.  “But, how about if you just say hello to everyone.  You don’t have to sing a song.  Just say hello to them.  You’re such a big star in America, that I’m sure they’d all like to know that you are here partying with them.”

I was cornered.  Dave was practically wetting himself laughing.  Then I thought of a way out.  “I tell you what,” I told the owner.  “I’ll sing a song, but since I don’t have my band here, I’ll need to recruit some background singers.”

“Sure.  Anything you want.”

I walked onto the stage, grabbed the mike and announced that I would like some sailors to join me on the stage to sing the gospel song, “Oh Happy Day, which was currently the #1 song in Germany.

About 300 sailors scrambled onto the stage completely surrounding me.  We did the song and their buddies in the audience went absolutely wild to see so many of their friends up on the stage in a foreign country.  The owner thought the crowd was going wild for me.  I could tell by looking at him.  We see what we want to see.

As soon as the song was over, I said, “Thank you.” And just dropped the mike.  I was hoping to break it, just in case somebody wanted an encore, which I knew I could not provide.  Fortunately, nobody did, but I still give myself credit for inventing the mike drop.  It was a cool move.

When I got back to my bar stool, the owner congratulated me, and he swept up all the checks on the bar.  He tore them in half and threw them down.  “Thank you.” He said.  “I’m so glad I got to see the next Elvis.  Come back anytime.  You never have to pay for a drink in my club.”

I never went back there.  Lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place, and I didn’t risk it,  So, now I can continue to enjoy my enhanced memory of the moment.  I just wonder if somewhere in Germany a guy is telling the story about how the next Elvis disappeared after performing in his club in Kiel, Germany.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

I watch way too much television.  I can’t help it.  I was an infant when television was in its infancy, and we grew up together.   The shows have changed.  Howdy Doody and Kukla, Fran and Ollie are gone, but we now have Sesame Street.  The Lone Ranger and Westerns were replaced by Space Westerns, and the guns can now be set to stun, at least on TV.  One thing has remained unchanged throughout the years, though.  There have always been way too many commercials, even after we tossed the rabbit ears and paid extra for cable hoping to avoid the commercials completely.

As long as there have been commercials, there have been company spokespersons, both living and cartoon.  No matter how much we hate commercials, we fondly remember Speedy Alka Seltzer, the lonely Maytag repairman, the Charmin squeezing Mr Wipple, the e-Trade baby, and the Time-to-make-the-Dunkin Donuts guy.

Some of the spokespeople are annoying, though.  In my opinion, the Burger King King is a royal pain in the butt.  The most annoying spokespeople, however, are all the mudslingers in the barrage of political ads that appear in the month before any election.

The General in the General Insurance commercials is over the hill, but Mr. Peanut keeps reinventing himself to stay fresh.  Snap, Crackle, and Pop are no longer popular with me, now that they are sounds that come more frequently from my body than from my cereal bowl.

The Geico Caveman was always good for a laugh.   Captain Picard’s Strongbow Cider commercials are all funny, too.  Captain Obvious can sometimes be amusing.  As Captains go, he’s at least funnier than Capt’n Crunch.

Animals make good spokespeople. Buzz the Bee for Honey Oat Cereal is cute.  The Energizer Bunny and Tony the Tiger are G-r-r-r-e-a-t.  LOL

The Aflac Duck, the Trix Rabbit, the Geiko Gecko, Spuds MacKenzie, and Charlie Tuna are all-star animal spokespersons.

It’s much safer with cartoon characters.  You don’t have to worry about your spokesperson getting arrested or involved in a scandal.  I don’t think the recently arrested Jared will be doing any more Subway commercials.

Michael Phelps lost sponsors when the Olympic swimmer was caught smoking pot. Tiger Woods was caught in a sex scandal that cost him sponsors, and OJ Simpson turned out to be an embarrassment for Hertz.  Kobe Bryant was another sponsor’s nightmare.  Marilyn Chambers turned out to be the wrong spokesperson for Ivory Snow detergent.  Michael Jackson’s child molestation accusations didn’t help him with Pepsi.  There’s always room for Jello, but I doubt if Jello still has room for Bill Cosby.

Lance Armstrong even had cancer, but that wasn’t enough to keep his Cancer spokesperson job, after he got caught in a doping scandal.  Barry Bonds lost endorsements when he became the face of Steroids.  Martha Stewart and her business, however, managed to survive despite jail time.  Go Martha.

Even if they don’t break the law, human spokespeople can be risky.  James Garner, the spokesperson for the beef industry, had to have quadruple bypass surgery for his clogged arteries.  Billy Jean King came out of the closet and lost sponsors.  Magic Johnson lost sponsors when word came out that he had AIDS.  Steve Jobs was more than just the spokesperson for Apple.  He was Apple, and he still got rebooted as their spokesperson.  The Marlboro Man lost his job when he died of lung cancer.

That is why I am surprised to see the return of human spokespeople to commercials.  Most companies who are using human spokespeople are trying to play it safe, though.  Instead of celebrities and athletes with ego and drug problems, they have cute and perky young women, like Jan the Toyota spokesperson (Laurel Coppock),  Lily, the AT&T spokesperson (Milana Vaynetrub), and Progressive’s ubiquitous Flo (Stephanie Courtney).

The most annoying company spokesperson doesn’t wear a nametag, so I’ll just call him DICK.  I’m sure that it must be his name.  He’s the Chevy guy who tosses raw eggs at people in a focus group and he also pretends to run their smart phones through a wood chipper.  He makes other people take a math test before he reveals the Chevy that is smarter than them and can figure out how long it will take a car going 52 mph heading north to crash head-on with a car going 55 mph heading south.  He’s a dick, my least favorite product spokesperson.

My favorite spokesperson, that’s easy.  He’s the Dos Equis most interesting man in the world, Jonathan Goldsmith – Stay thirsty my friends.

Peace & Love and all of the above,

Earl

In the past month I went to two family weddings in Johnstown, and the first one for Brian and Lauren was exactly what I expected.  After a church service, we went to a hall that had been decorated by family and friends.  About a hundred close friends and family members were there and there was a DJ playing music and the buffet table was piled high with food.  It was exactly what I expected, and I had a great time.

Brian and Lauren had an autumn theme and fall colors and decorations were everywhere.  Acorns were scattered about on the tables and I quickly scooped a handful off our table.

“What are you doing?” my cousins wanted to know.

I explained that I have two squirrels living in my backyard and I planned to bring the acorns home as a treat for them.  During the course of the night, my cousins kept coming up to me with acorns they had scooped off other tables.  By the end of the night, every pocket I had was stuffed with acorns.  When I got home, the aforementioned squirrels were delighted with the sight of all those acorns.  They ate a bunch and “squirreled” the rest away for winter.

The second wedding was for Stephany and Justin, and this one broke the mold.

After the church wedding, a trolley pulled up to the church for the bridal party and they climbed aboard and headed off to take pictures someplace.  There were also a few coolers on the trolley and I’m sure they weren’t all filled with soft drinks.  Those of us not in the bridal party were jealous that we couldn’t ride the trolley to the reception.

The reception was the part that was really different.  It wasn’t a good old-fashioned Johnstown wedding reception.  It looked more like it was planned by a New York Bar Mitzvah planner.  First off, it wasn’t in one of the familiar small halls around town, but at a big catering place.  There were about 250 people there, and we started with a cocktail hour.  This part seemed just like the usual Johnstown wedding.  We kept the bartenders busier than they had ever been in their life.

Then we went into the main dining room, which was about four times the size of a basketball court.  It was packed with people and it occurred to me that the rest of Johnstown must be quite empty.  This is where it reminded me of a NY Bar Mitzvah.  There was something going on in every corner of the room.  They had popcorn machines for the kids in one corner and a photo booth in another.  Everybody who even walked near the dancefloor was given glow-in-the-dark tubes, which most people fashioned into necklaces.  They also had a ton of party hats and costume supplies that quickly wound up making their way into the photo booth pictures.

My cousin Debbie’s son Matt was in the bridal party, so she kept an eye on his 4-year-old daughter, Mackenzie.  Mackenzie was the first one on the dance floor, and a couple dozen other kids rushed out to join her.  None could keep up with her, though.  She made the Energizer Bunny look like a narcoleptic by comparison.  When she wasn’t dancing she was in the photo booth.  During the course of the evening the photographer in the booth took about 300 pictures.  Mackenzie was in at least 40 of them.

Debbie’s husband Barry was in South Carolina doing his best to keep the flood waters away from their home there.  So, when they asked all married couples to get on the dance floor, she grabbed me and I was his proxy.  They played a slow song and after a while the DJ asked for all those who were married less than 5 years to leave the dance floor.  I started to leave and Debbie stopped me.  “Thirty-one years,” she said.  Then they asked everyone who was married less than 10 years to leave the dance floor.  I started feeling self-conscious as the crowd on the dance floor thinned out.  I tried to leave again and was stopped.  “Thirty-one years,” Debbie repeated.

They quickly eliminated those who were married under 15 years, then those under 20 years, and when they eliminated those married under 25 years, I started to get really nervous.  There were only a few couples left on the dance floor, and my role as an imposter was about to be revealed.

“Everyone married under 30 years please leave the dance floor.”  Now, there were just a handful of couples on the dance floor, and I tried to slink off again.

“Thirty-one years,” Debbie repeated again and tightened her grip.  Fortunately, we were eliminated in the next cut, so I didn’t have to admit my fraud to all in attendance.

Then, they had the removal of the garter and all the single men were invited to the dance floor.

“Get up there,” Debbie said.

“There are 200 people here who just saw me claim to be married over 30 years.  I can’t go out there.”

“Sure you can.”

“I don’t know how we ever lasted 31 years,” I joked.

By this time the party was really going strong and the dance floor was packed as the DJ played all those songs he had saved for the last hour.  None of my feeble excuses about a bad hip or a heart condition worked.  My “wife of 31 years” was relieved of her babysitting job and she wanted to dance.

“Do you have a big life insurance policy on me?” I wanted to know.

The next thing you know, I was dancing my ass off.  I guess I just needed a little push and I was the old Earl again, an older old Earl, but still more like my old self.

When the party was over, several people in the bridal party asked Deb for a lift to their cars.  They had left them in the church parking lot when they got on the trolley.  The next thing you know, Debbie had 17 people in her van, including 3 in the trunk area.  It looked like a human trafficking scene at the border.  I thought that Debbie’s van was gonna be the next one needing a little push, when we hit one of the steep mountain roads, but she breezed all the way to the church, where I was reminded of the clown car in the circus when 17 people got out.

A few minutes later we pulled into Debbie’s driveway and I noticed that Mackenzie had finally fallen asleep.  I may be getting a little old to dance all night, but I think that the next generation will do just fine.

Congratulations to Lauren & Brian and Stephany & Justin, and I hope you’re all still just as much in love after you’ve been married for 31 years.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl