I only snack on it at work to fill the void with something non-processed. But you wouldn’t catch my buddy Paul doing that if it was the last food on Earth. Seriously – I think he would accept his fate and expire before he consumed this vile stalk.
Somebody please pass the ranch.
I was on track to be in the office by 7:30 the morning before Thanksgiving. The wife and kids had the day off, so there were no distractions, delays or missing socks to deal with at home. I was approaching an intersection and moving into the left turn lane when something caught my eye on the opposite side of the road.
Hazard lights flashed on a small pickup truck. The driver was trying to push it off the road — and by “off the road,” I mean to the entrance of a shopping center more than 100 yards away.
I stopped at the light and glanced back, assuming someone would stop to help the guy. Apparently everyone who was eastbound on University Boulevard at 6:45 a.m. had a very important appointment they couldn’t be late for. Or maybe they were afraid that the Dunkin’ Donuts a few blocks away would run out of pumpkin muffins or Munchkins. Because no one stopped.
It was a small truck. A Ford Ranger, I believe. But it’s not easy to push and steer at the same time. So the poor guy’s forward pace was somewhere between post-op heart patient using a walker, and me at the end of a 5k.
He was on track to reach the McDonald’s parking lot by Black Friday.
Click on the image to enlarge it and see where I was when I spotted the truck.
So when the light turned green, I did a U-turn, parked in the right lane behind the powerless pickup, snapped on my hazards, and hopped out to help push. By working together, we picked up the pace and quickly made it to the parking lot. That’s when I became aware of a road-grading characteristic that’s not typically a factor when you’re behind the wheel of a fully functioning vehicle.
That little swale at the entrance to a parking lot turns into the Snake River Canyon when you try to push a truck full of roofing material across it. After some rocking (my suggestion, thank you very much), we gathered enough momentum to get past our obstacle.
Take THAT, Evel Knievel!
We pushed on for the final 50 feet into a parking spot and took a well-deserved breather. That’s when Roofer Guy told me his transmission was shot. All this time I assumed he was out of gas, but that wasn’t it at all.
RG knew the transmission was about to go. He already bought a rebuilt unit, and planned on taking the truck to his transmission guy after work on this very day. English is not RG’s first language, so I missed some of what he said. I caught something about how he already called The Boss to let him know what happened. And there was another bit about a tow truck that would take his truck to the transmission place if necessary.
I was a little distracted by that point because I remembered that my van was 150 yards down the road … unlocked … with my laptop backpack on the back seat.
I’m not much of a worrier, and I really wasn’t very concerned about anyone walking off with my laptop. The bigger issue was that some hungry soul barreling down University toward her pumpkin muffin might slam into the sexy Caravan if she didn’t notice my hazard lights. It would suck to kill one driver while trying to help another.
As I was about to walk away, RG “God blessed” me a couple times and then reached into his pocket.
“Here, here. Let me …”
Right away I put up my hand in protest.
“No. I can’t take anything from you. I was glad to help. Seriously. You don’t owe me a thing.”
But RG continued.
“Here, here. Let me show you.”
He pulled a business card out of his pocket.
“See. I even have a card for the tow truck. I was ready for this.”
RG looked pretty confused by that point. I’m sure he was bewildered by the gringo who had an aversion to looking at a business card. Probably figured it was some odd phobia exclusive to middle-aged white guys.
Yes, RG. You were ready for this. And now I’m ready to crawl under a rock.
The more birthdays I have in my rear-view mirror, the more concerned I get about turning into one of those doddering old men who shuffles around in a perpetual state of confusion.
I already forget a lot of shit, or just don’t pay attention. It can only get worse.
There was plenty of time to reflect on my forgetfulness after I spotted an unread newspaper while on my way to work a few days ago. I assume the paper was unread because it was still rolled up snugly in its protective condom.
The sheathed newspaper was traveling westbound through Orlando on I-4 around Princeton Street when I made visual contact. It was hurtling toward its destination — on the trunk lid of a Toyota Corolla. This was a great discovery because it gave me a lot to think about during my 50-minute commute:
My speculation ended abruptly when I connected the dots and started thinking about how many times I’ve forgotten about something on the outside of a vehicle after setting it down for just a sec:
A Coke in a to-go cup. Pretty common, I suppose. So I know I’m not alone with this one. I remembered it as soon as I heard something sliding across the roof. That was right before I glanced in the mirror and watched 16-ounces of ice, high-fructose corn syrup and caramel color spread across the rear window, followed by a cartwheeling cup.
Packet of papers from the Orlando Science Center. It was a few years ago in January. I know it was January because that’s when we always renew our family membership. Among other things, the envelope contained four guest passes for friends and some IMAX CineDome passes. The envelope lifted off like a kite when I pulled out of the parking garage and onto … oddly enough … Princeton Street.
Garmin handheld GPS. We were on our way to a cabin in North Carolina for a week of hiking and canoeing, and I was excited about heading into the great outdoors with my first GPS. Everyone and everything was loaded in the van. I put the GPS on the roof next to the luggage rack while I stood outside the cockpit and checked my pockets to make sure I had my wallet, keys, phone and sunglasses. Satisfied that I was good to go, I climbed in and took off.
I planned on stopping two minutes from home at CVS for an extra pack of AA batteries. Halfway there I had a really bad feeling about my new toy that had been delivered by the UPS man less than 24 hours earlier. I patted my front pockets to see if the GPS was there. Then I checked the console and drink holders. Damn!
I pulled into CVS and decided to go through the motions of buying the batteries. Although it would be a moot point if the Garmin was already roadkill. As I stepped out of the van, I reached up to the luggage rack — and there was the GPS. My lucky day.
Samsung Blackjack. This is the one my kids still give me a hard time about. We were on our way somewhere. Probably the science center. I pulled out of our neighborhood and got up to about 35 mph when I heard an odd scraping sound on the roof. Once again, the mirror gave me a great view of the carnage as my phone launched off the back of the car.
I watched it bounce down the turn lane. The battery cover went one way, the battery dislodged and went the opposite direction, and the phone itself skidded to a stop 20 or 30 feet away. Much to my surprise, the phone actually worked after I collected and reassembled the pieces. Props to Samsung for making a tough device. The phone’s performance sucked — but it sure could take a hit.
I’m pretty sure this list should be longer. But I’ve forgotten about the other incidents.
I’ve lived in Florida long enough to know it’s not worth acting on my anger when I get pissed off at another driver.
Maybe it’s the heat. Or the bugs. Or the frustration of never striking it rich in the Lotto. But some people don’t take constructive criticism very well when they’re behind the wheel. And sometimes they respond by taking target practice on the rear window of the constructive criticizer.
So I try to stay pretty chill when I’m on the road.
I’m glad to know that at least one of my friends takes a bit more of an aggressive attitude. Because otherwise I never would have received this — the best text I got all week:
Good day, Mr. Guber:
Imagine the opening scene of The Blues Brothers without “She Caught the Katy” playing in the background as Jake and Elwood drive away from the prison.
At the end of Say Anything, when Lloyd stands outside Diane’s window and holds up the boombox blasting “In Your Eyes,” we can all feel his passion for her.
“Moving in Stereo” sets the perfect tone for the perfect teenage fantasy when Linda steps out of the pool wearing a red bikini in Fast Times at Ridgemont High.
“You Got a Friend in Me” in Toy Story … “Holiday Road” in National Lampoon’s Vacation … “Up Where We Belong” in An Officer and a Gentleman … “Build Me Up Buttercup” in There’s Something About Mary.
And although it’s so iconic that I don’t even have to mention it. No one can ever forget “Rocky’s Theme.”
You, Peter (may I call you Peter?), are keenly aware of how important the soundtrack is for a motion picture. Filmmakers are in the emotional transportation business, and music is an essential tool in their tell. The challenge for them is finding the right music. And that’s why I want to introduce you to some talented singer-songwriters who have a lot to offer your friends in Hollywood.
Below we have “Normandy” by Donovan Lyman, “Drinker’s Hour” by Vaughan Rhea, “Seattle” by Andrea Marchant, and “Some Comfort” by Kevin Montgomery.
These are my friends, and I would love the opportunity to expose you to their music. I don’t represent them, I’m not in the business and I have nothing to gain except seeing great artists share their music with a larger audience.
There’s plenty more where this came from. Let’s chat: john@talkstoomuch.com or 407-405-7479.
Best.
– JT
I’m on island time.
After two days on Anna Maria Island, I’ve slowed down to a pace I’m very comfortable with. Not in much of a rush to do anything.
Ambling.
This evening I went to a place called Beach Bums to rent a beach cruiser for one of the kids and to inquire about kayaks for tomorrow. I took my time completing the rental form, then strolled out the front door slowly after chatting with the clerk. As I left the store, I noticed this sign on a little table on the front porch.
That is so simple and beautiful. I think it sums up my ideal of how I wish the world operated. Just people being cool to each other.
It also reminded me of why I like this island and a lot of beach towns. There is one main street, only a few stoplights. You can drive from one end of town to the other in a few minutes. No one is in a hurry. Reminds me of where I grew up.
Heh — it’s everything Orlando isn’t.
Yeah, yeah. I know. Hopeless romantic — there I go again.
But if you visit the Gulf Coast of Florida and want to rent a bike or kayak, go see Lauren at Beach Bums. And then pedal slowly. There’s no reason to hurry.
I always tell people my happy place is in the mountains. And it’s true – mostly.
Few things make me happier than driving through the mountains and just enjoying the scenery. I love hiking to a waterfall, then parking myself on a rock to soak it all in.
I can spend hours floating downstream in a canoe or kayak. Every curve brings some new delight into view.
Yes – I really love the mountains. There is no place I’d rather spend time.
Until I sit down on a beach with no distractions and let the sound of the waves wash over me.
I might need to reconsider. But I’m too blissed out right now to think.
Peace.
I was pretty sure he was a cop.
It was a busy Friday night at Village Inn Pizza on Alpine Avenue in Grand Rapids, and I was waiting with my parents and some friends for a table. I kept watching one guy in the restaurant because I was certain he was a police detective. I really wanted to know his story. He was the perfect diversion because I was starving and it took forever to get a table that night. Probably 5 or 10 minutes.
As far as I was concerned, the Village Inn was absolutely, without a doubt, the greatest restaurant in the world. Of course this was around 1976, and my exposure to dining out was pretty limited at the time. The options in our town were a few little diners. You had Cnossen’s Restaurant and Bakery on one side of Division Street in downtown Sparta, and Rob’s Roost across the street. I preferred Rob’s Roost because I could sit on a spinny stool at the counter and the waitress would leave the stainless steel mixing cup so I could refill my own chocolate shake after I got down to the slurpy part.
Rob’s Roost later became The Sparta Inn after the Great Downtown Fire that started in the Ford dealership and consumed most of the block. I’m not sure who they were trying to fool with the upscale name. It was still the same dive.
There was also a little joint on the north side of town where all the farmers ate. I can’t remember the name of that place. What I do remember is that when Dad occasionally took me out to breakfast before he went to work during the week, we would go to Cnossen’s or Rob’s Roost. But if we went out on Saturday morning, it was always to the other place. It made sense. During the week he was in a Buick Electra and wearing a three-piece suit when he went to the bank. On the weekend he was in a rusted old Dodge pickup and jeans because we were running errands in town.
I’m pretty sure Dad liked hanging out with the farmers more than the business guys. They were more his style.
Sometimes we ate at Mr. Steak in Grand Rapids. Or at the Moose Lodge on Camp Lake, where I always got that exotic delicacy known as fried shrimp (which did not come from Camp Lake). But among the dizzying array of fine restaurants to which I was exposed, the Village Inn rose above all others. They had the best pepperoni pizza known to man. And you could get Pepsi by the pitcher. There was a window into the kitchen that provided a view of cooks tossing dough above their heads like in the movies.
And I always looked forward to seeing the duo. One guy playing ragtime piano and another playing banjo. They sang old-timey songs. Funny songs. It was like PG-rated dueling pianos long before anyone had ever heard of dueling pianos.
Only with just one piano — and a banjo.
As the duo played on that Friday night, 11-year-old JT secretly watched a sort of disheveled, middle-aged guy in a rumpled trench coat as the man waited for his pizza.
I was pretty sure he was a cop.
The man looked troubled. He seemed weary and distant — and in need of a shave. He kept running his hands through his hair and appeared to sigh a lot.
Yeah — definitely a detective. A cop brooding over an unsolvable homicide. He came to Village Inn to clear his head with a warm meal and some ragtime piano. Not the stereotypical police hangout, but it’ll do.
I told Dad my theory and asked him to go talk to the man. Ask if he’s a police detective. Dad said I should go talk to him myself.
That suggestion from Dad might have triggered something in me, because to this day I’m never afraid to walk up to someone and ask questions. I can’t say for sure if that night was the catalyst, but it sure didn’t hurt.
I approached The Detective and said, “Excuse me, sir. But I was just wondering. Um … are you by any chance a police detective? Because you look like Columbo on TV. You look like a detective to me. So … um … I was wondering.”
Peter Falk as Lt. Columbo.
The man smiled. I think it was the first time I’d seen him smile since I started my observation.
Then he told me no, he wasn’t a police detective. He worked as a high school teacher. And he thought it was pretty neat that I mistook him for a detective.
I went back to our table and told Dad, who said, “You probably made that guy’s day.”
For the first time, I finally understood what that expression meant.
It was one of those experiences that always stay with you. Since that night, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Peter Falk or heard about “Columbo” without thinking of the guy in the pizza restaurant.
I was bummed when I heard Peter Falk died on Friday. But I still smile when I think of making that guy’s day.
Being a homeowner includes many enjoyable benefits such as unclogging toilets, cleaning grout and lawn maintenance. One of the most rewarding tasks in that last category is an event called The Mulch Never Stays Where it Belongs So You Have to Rake it Back Into Place.
Mulch is great for about the first hour after you put it down. It looks fresh and smells good. That new layer of shredded dead tree really dresses up the yard. But then someone drags a hose through the flower bed, or one of the kids needs cargo to transport in a Tonka dump truck, or an animal digs a hole, and suddenly that perfectly manicured landscape looks a little disheveled.
One of the worst places for mulch is around a swimming pool. Or at least around my swimming pool. Between my kids, their friends, the dog and occasional tropical winds, pieces of pine bark always end up in the water. For five years I have cursed the previous homeowners for putting mulch in the planters around the pool. So now that we’re getting ready for another swimming season, I decided this past weekend to make the mulch-to-rock conversion.
The mulch-to-rock conversion in progress.
Or maybe my wife looked out there Sunday morning and said, “Look, I know you HATE to spend money, but you’ve GOT to do it. It will look a million times better and be so much easier to maintain.”
Yes. I think that was it.
So off I went to one of my least-favorite big-box stores: Lowe’s.
My main problem with Lowe’s is related to NASCAR. Lowe’s sponsors the No. 48 car driven by Jimmie Johnson, whose best attribute is that his last name isn’t Busch. Also — whenever I ask a Lowe’s employee for help, they don’t seem to know shit.
But Lowe’s had the rocks I needed — so they got my money.
[If you're not a NASCAR fan and you're still hanging with me. Thank you. Yes, I have all my teeth. And no, I didn't marry one of my cousins.]
After getting home with my 40 bags of extra-large river rocks, I remembered another thing I’ve planned on changing for five years: The gate situation.
The four-foot gate on the west side of my house is fine 99 percent of the time for moving things between the front and back. But when I need to haul something significant in or out, I realize what I really need to do is rip out an eight-foot section on the other side of the house and install a big gate. But I’ve never gotten around to it. And that’s why my 8-year-old son helped me haul the 40 bags of rocks from the garage to the pool deck. I loaded them into Brennan’s wagon three bags at a time, he hauled them out back, and then I unloaded at the other end.
At one point I got a half cycle ahead of Brennan, so I was in one of the planters spreading the extra-large river rocks while he was making his next delivery. I looked up to watch him on his final approach, and that’s when everything turned to slow motion. I yelled and moved as fast as I could, but it was too late. There was nothing I could do.
Once that front, right wheel started to slip off the pool deck, I knew all three bags were about to go for a swim. Brennan made a valiant attempt to slip the wagon under a couple of bags and yank them out before they made their descent. No luck.
For a moment I thought they were going to settle on the bench. Uh-uh.
The phrase “sink like a stone” was coined for a reason. There was no time for the band to play “Nearer, My God, to Thee” on the deck once those bags hit the drink. They went from surface to six feet in the blink of an eye. Which left me with a dilemma.
The bags needed to come out of the water immediately. Not only did I want them for my project, but there was something else going on. You see — rocks are dirty. Very dirty. I quickly lost sight of the three bags resting on the bottom of my pool because of the dusty cloud slowly spreading through the water from the point of impact. I thought about trying to get them out with the net, but figured the bags would be too heavy.
I needed to go in the water. The cold water.
I haven’t had the heater on this year, and our nighttime temps have been in the low 60s for the last week or so. That means the water was around 62 … 65 tops. About 20 degrees less than my ideal swimming temp. As a kid I used to swim in Lake Michigan when it was that cold. But that was a long time ago. Besides, I never had time to think about the water temp back then because I was too scared of the current. My parents had me convinced that if I let my guard down for a second, the undertow would pull me out into the lake. Then my lifeless body would wash up on shore two days later in Wisconsin.
Since there’s no undertow in the pool to worry about, I was fixated on the water temperature before starting the rock rescue mission. Thinking about it wasn’t going to make the water any warmer, so I jumped in and had the bags out after three quick dives.
The impromptu swim was actually kind of invigorating. Once I got out of the water and into the warm air, I felt great and BRIEFLY considered jumping back in. After sidestepping that thought, I changed into dry clothes and sat in the sun for a few minutes.
I felt like I’d had enough cold stones for one day.
In this re-enactment, you can see how the wheel slipped off right before gravity took over.
The first day after switching back to Standard Time is usually fairly uneventful because it’s a Sunday. Clocks and watches are adjusted. You hear about someone showing up an hour early for church, work or a tee time. But in general you just sort of breeze through the day.
Then there’s Monday.
A million people in Haiti were displaced by floods over the weekend, and volcanic ash is raining down on Indonesians, but I guaran-damn-tee you that most water-cooler conversation on Monday morning will be variations of, “I couldn’t believe how light it was this morning when my alarm went off! Isn’t that so weird?”
Um … no … not really. Daylight Saving Time ended, just like it has every fall for as long as you’ve been alive. No — what would seem weird is you coming up with something more interesting to talk about.
Then just wait until late in the afternoon when everyone is packing up and leaving for the night. That’s when all the sunrise/sunset talk reaches a fever pitch. As you’re walking to your car, bus or train, at least one person will hit you with, “Oh my gosh! I can’t believe how dark it is already! I hate this!”
So maybe I’m the weird one, because I actually like the change. I prefer Standard Time to Daylight Saving Time. I like leaving work in the twilight on that first Monday after the change, and I like driving home in the dark. It’s hard to articulate why, but I just like the feeling it gives me. It’s a mixture of nostalgia, comfort and security.
Cool darkness at 5:30 in the afternoon reminds me of being a kid in Michigan in the ’70s.
It reminds me of smoking chimneys, biscuits in the oven and snow flurries rushing past harsh streetlights. I think about shopping for army guys or a YoYo at the Ben Franklin store across the street from the bank where my dad worked. That’s when it was called Sparta State Bank and had just one location. Now it’s just a branch of something called ChoiceOne Bank, which is the most soulless, boring bank name I’ve ever heard. And it says nothing about the community it serves.
It’s like the Initech of regional banking.
I don’t know if the corporate leaders at Initech ChoiceOne allow this anymore. But every December when I was a kid, a little Santa’s house sat next to the bank at the corner of Division and Union. Santa was there for a few hours in the afternoon and evening so kids could deliver their lists in person. I never saw a mall Santa when I was growing up. Why would I go to some stupid old mall and see a guy in a suit when the REAL Santa paid brief visits to his ACTUAL Michigan cottage in MY town?
Now as an adult, I associate the gray, late-afternoon half-light of early Winter with downtown Sparta, Michigan in my youth. And with hauling my load of weekly “Sparta Reminder” newspapers on my route north of Division while Randy Gerard headed off for the area south of that dividing line. It reminds me of riding home with Dad after delivering my papers, and the car heater just getting warmed up about the time we reached the end of Stebbins Avenue and turned right onto Indian Lakes Road.
I would finally be warm during that last half-mile of the ride. Living three miles outside of town meant the car was never sufficiently heated until you were at the end of the ride going one way or the other.
Now when it gets dark early — which is how it’s supposed to be, anyway — I think of that line from “The End of the Innocence,” by Don Henley
Somewhere back there in the dust, that same small town in each of us.
I hope you adjust to the time change without too much difficulty. And give me a call if you want to play army guys.