I Really Hope That’s Mayo

I have lived in my neighborhood for more than five years, and through that time I have been a regular customer at the local corner store. It’s a typical city store, with all of the essentials, more expensive than at the supermarket. Its convenience more than makes up for $6.00 Skippy.

It also has a deli counter, and a couple of times a week I’ll grab my lunch there, usually a simple ham on rye with a touch of mayonnaise.

But the sandwich maker hates me.

I don’t know why, but it’s clear he does. He’s a chatty guy who loves serving the ladies, and talks up a storm with the guys too. He’s a hip city dude with his finger on the pulse of what’s going on everywhere.

Except when it’s my turn to order.

His wide smile disappears, he taps his pencil impatiently, he looks like I’m asking him not to slice the ham, but to kill the pig and brine the meat.

Sometimes he puts mustard on instead of mayo, sometimes there’s no mayo at all.

Last week I caught him muttering while her put the meat on the bread. “He wants me to make a ham sandwich, making sandwiches, who does he think I am…”

I thought he was the sandwich man. I was wrong, he might be Jeffrey Dahmer.

There was a moment when I felt like he was going to grab my head and put my nose through the slicer.

And then when the next person ordered he was all charm again.

Gotta Be Moving On

Well, it happened.

And I have no one to blame but myself.

But for now, whatamiproducing.blogspot.com is being suspended.

I have every intention of starting up somewhere else, because I do enjoy writing, and having 3 other people in the world read it. And I do understand that a blog is a public forum.

But, because there is now a 4th person reading this, a person I’ve spent years trying to stay one step ahead of, I’m moving.

To my blog friends, I’ll email you a new location soon.

To the rest of you, sorry I can’t hang around.

JM

Look Out For The Other Guy

This just in from the Associated Press:

LOS ANGELES (AP) – Film director Robert Clark, best known for the beloved holiday classic “A Christmas Story,” and his son were killed Wednesday in a car wreck, the filmmaker’s assistant and police said… The driver of the other car was under the influence of alcohol and was driving without a license.

I am a good driver. I have good reflexes and pretty good instincts, and have been able to avoid disaster a couple of times. But as the above story shows, there are times when the best drivers in the world are flat out screwed by people who are assholes and don’t give a fuck about anyone else on the road.

Last week, my friend Mike, whom you may remember from the near-bar-fight story, was sitting at a red light. He had come to a full stop, and was just waiting for the light to change.

That’s when he heard the squealing brakes behind him.

The impact sent his car flying into the intersection, only luck kept him from getting hit by any oncoming cars. It took a moment for him to gather his wits, but when all was said and done, he was ok, sore, but not seriously injured.

I turns out a cop witnessed the whole thing, and upon questioning, figured out the other driver was hammered. But he was also fine. The drunk drivers always are.

It’s the people they crash into who are fucked.

Mike’s car, a paid off, but fairly old Audi, is a total loss as far as the insurance company is concerned. To him, it was as good as new. Now he has to buy a new one, with about $10,000 in insurance money. Sure, he could sue the guy who hit him, but there’s no point. The other guy did have insurance, but the bare bones kind for people who only want the least amount of legal coverage. Her won’t have any money of his own.

So Mike is screwed. Alive, and aware of how much worse it could have been, but screwed nonetheless.

Robert Clark and his son Ariel aren’t so lucky. 24-year-old Hector Velazquez-Nava, the driver of the other car, is alive.

Like I said, it’s the people they crash into who are fucked.

Can’t We All Just Ride Along?

I swear, I’m going to run one of them over, and when I do, the motorists of this city will erect a statue in my honor.

I love biking, really. I have a bicycle, it’s fun, it gets me from point A to point B. Yay. And there are lots of fine bike riders around here who wear their helmets, stay in the biking lane (and there are plenty of biking lanes here), stop at lights, and signal their turns.

Then there are the shitty bikers. Some are the Don’t-Give-A-Crap bike messengers, some think they’re making a save-the-environment political statement, and some are just assholes.

They’re all the ones I’m going to grind into the pavement.

There is one group that makes a bold demonstration of power once a month or so, at midnight. They ride in a massive pack through the biggest streets and they go out of their way to be obstructive. Last week, one of the dirty little pinheads chose to hold onto my bumper for a bit. No way dude, I’m not going to help you be a dick. So I “tapped” my brakes. He didn’t fall, but he was outraged by my show of defiance to his show of defiance.

He and some of his pals slowed down in front of me, keeping me at a crawl for the rest of my ride home.

Whatever.

Like I said, they’re really bold making this mass street blockage at midnight. It was me and 100 smelly, greasy hippie wannabees. I could have wiped a lot of them out with one quick movement of the gas pedal. I chose not to… that night. I’d like to see them try it when there are more than just two cars on the streets. Let’s see their bravery while the union guys here are driving to their jobs.

Today on my way to work, a grungy dirt bike rider was weaving in and out of traffic. The car in front of me came to a red light. In this city, red means stop, and the driver did just that.

The sudden decision to follow, not just the law, but one of society’s most basic norms, came as a total shock to Quicksilver (click on the link for the obscure Kevin Bacon biking reference). He slammed into the back of the car, and then went ballistic.

For the next several blocks he went out of his way to slow traffic and to get within yelling range of the driver, all the while, his baggy pants flapping in the wind.

Bikers of the world, what’s your problem? You ride, I drive. I give you your space, why won’t you give me and the other cars ours?

Anyway, if you find a pile of spokes, gears and chains, surrounding lots of cruddy helmetless bikers, you’ll know where to find me, I’ll be posing for my statue.

Funky Sh*t Going Down In The City

I haven’t been in a bar fight in 16 years. And back then, it always involved pulling a fraternity mate out of a fracas with a guy from the fraternity across the street (those Fiji’s were always asking for a beating).

Through my 20s one of my personal beliefs was that there was no good that could come from a bar fight. Drunks like to break bottles, throw chairs and sometimes someone has a knife.

Once, when an old west saloon-style brawl broke out at a local pub, I stood in one corner, drinking my beer and gnawing on popcorn, while my best friend positioned himself behind a couple of young ladies in the opposite corner. We cheared as furniture flew, ducked under flying bottles, and waved goodbye to the brawlers as the cops cleared the place out.

That said, if I or my friends are in peril, I won’t hide.

So this weekend, I was with five friends, two men and three women at an upscale bar/restaurant. Let’s just call it S&W.

A man walked in off the street and he looked a litle bedraggled. Wearing an old army jacket, his eyes were glassy, he was scary looking.

As he walked by my group, he rubbed up against two of the women and lingered, just a second too long. My friend Mike positioned himself between the ladies and the weirdo and the guy reluctantly walked away, looking back over his shoulder.

It seems Mike’s steely glare wasn’t appreciated and the crazy man spun around and came back. He got into Mike’s face and said “You giving me looks?”

Our friend Bruce wasn’t paying any attention, but I will say this about him, when the shit goes down, I want him on my side. I calmly said his name and gave him the non-verbal “check this out.”

Next thing I knew, all three of us were up, chests puffed out, fists clenched, telling the eerie stranger to keep on walking.

It turns out we all agreed that this man had a weapon, a knife probably, and the last thing we wanted was to see it. So we put up a strong unified front, but spoke in peaceful terms: “No trouble here… keep on walking… we’re all friends…” But, if I do say so myself, I think we were a pretty intimidating trio.

The guy sauntered off and left the bar, and the three of us felt very macho. We’d stood tall and protected our women-folk.

We were also very relieved, it had been a long time since any of our creeky bones had been involved in a brouhaha.

Apparently, I made an extra special impression on the place. A short time later, another man walked over and asked me if I wanted to get a bottle of champagne with him.

I was a little confused by the proposition, until I realized it was a proposition. He wasn’t my type, because he was a he, but it was still nice to know that my powerful muscles got someone’s attention.

Award Night

I am not the first person to say this, so I’m not breaking any ground here. I just want to get on record.

To me the Oscars amount to this: over paid pretty people, who don’t work as hard as the rest of us, and have no sense of what the real world is like, patting each other on the back and congratulating themselves. They cheer and cry and make statements and look serious, as if they are as important as their paychecks are bloated.

I love movies.

I don’t think an actor who has worked 8 weeks on a film has any clue what he’s talking about when he says it was an exhausting project.

When an actress puts on 40 pounds for a role, a role that earns her more many than the average American earns in a lifetime, she is not courageous.

And then when I hear a star take the stage and make a political statement, I wonder, has he ever actually had to work an entire year with two weeks or less of vacation?

And let’s talk for a moment about the jewelry and the fashions.

Here are some of the people who can actually afford to buy obscenely priced clothes and necklaces.

But they don’t have to. No, they get them for free. They get so much for free that many stars have come to expect freebees wherever they go.

Recap: They make too much, they don’t have to spend it. Nice!

It’s all ok though, because they realize that part of the price they pay for their lives of glamour is treating fans well, knowing that they’ve given up their privacy, showing with their real-life actions that they’re good people.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha.

Sorry, I had to throw some humor into this post. That’s a good one.

Back to reality.

I know, I’m painting in broad strokes here and there are exceptions. There are good people in Hollywood, smart people, caring and even real/realistic people.

But when I look at the Oscars, my first reaction is that I’m watching people who think they are worth the hype.

I just disagree.

And giving them more television time than the President does when announcing major world policy is just silly.

A Late Breaking Rant!

I never really wanted this to become a place for my political rants. Generally I find other people’s political rants quite dull and unpersuasive.

Of course, mine aren’t dull and are always right, but I still don’t want to burden what few readers I have with politics or religion.

BUT… (you knew that was coming)

Today came word that drug maker Merck is suspending its campaign to make its HPV vaccine mandatory for American kids. Among the reasons is a backlash from parents who say requiring the vaccine takes away their right to teach their children about sex.

Here’s how the flow chart works:

Vaccine stops forms of HPV… HPV can cause cervical cancer… HPV can be transmitted by unprotected sex.

Here’s how the puritans see the flow chart:

Vaccine = unprotected sex.

I don’t know where to begin here.

Once anything is in anyway linked to sex, the conservative, head-in-the-sanders are against it.

Their logic? Well, there is no logic.

Maybe it’s their belief that giving preteens this vaccine sends the message that unprotected sex is ok.

It doesn’t, that argument is stupid.

If you teach your kids that they’re too young for sex or that they must always use protection, getting this anti-cancer vaccine isn’t going to ruin your lessons.

Perhaps they think their daughters aren’t going to have sex until they’re married, and then only with a husband who has never had sex.

Dream on.

Parents will be lucky if their kids don’t have sex. You have to double that luck in order to have an abstinent daughter marry and abstinent son.

But what about those abstinence covenants? Great idea, but there are two problems with them. The first is that they don’t always work. The second is that the kids who make virginity promises are less likely to use condoms (or any birth control) when they break the promises and have sex. These are the kids who need the vaccines the most.

Maybe some parents think their daughters should be older. Maybe, but the vaccine is more effective if given before the girls are sexually active.

I fear that with this thinking, there’s no point in coming up with an AIDS vaccine. No one will let their kids have it. (Oh, by the way, the HPV vaccine has shown that it may prevent anal cancer among gay men, but there’s no way anyone is going to give it to a 12-year-old boy)

There is a segment of our country that hears “blah blah blah sex blah blah blah” and immediately starts yelling “NO NO NO,” without thinking through the consequences, without looking at the big picture.

They scare me.

Tim Hardaway Would Hate My Club

Damn computers…

I’d written the funniest, wittiest post ever. You all would have died laughing.

But I never saved it and it’s gone forever. No point in trying to rewrite it, I’ll never be able to recapture the moment.

You’ll just have to imagine the most perfectly written essay ever… and give me credit for it.

Instead, let me tell you about my first trips back to the gym.

It really isn’t a gym, it’s one of those classic old fashioned men’s clubs. The locker room is mahogany; the lounge is filled with beautiful leather furniture, which is as much about practicality as it is aesthetics. It’s not at all uncommon to see a 65-year-old man, reading the Wall Street Journal, smoking a cigar, lounging on the couch, naked. Imagine bare asses on cloth. It wouldn’t work.

Naked was the way everything there was for decades. It only went coed about 15 years ago. Before then, no clothes.

I’d seen the bare asses of some of this city’s movers and shakers poking out of the surface of the swimming pool, much like the tops of humpback whales in the ocean. I looked away before seeing the blow holes.

Heat room, naked; steam room, naked; sitting around reading the paper area, naked; no need for a towel during massages.

Go up a floor to the courts, and all of that changes. One flight of stares takes you from the least formal to the most formal. Don’t get on the squash court wearing anything but white. It’s offensive to the members.

Fat lawyers standing face to face naked, not offensive.

Blue shirts for a game, offensive.

A few weeks ago I saw a friend of my father’s in the locker room. He was, of course, naked. As he walked toward me to say hi, he gave himself a nice vigorous scratch. Then extended the same hand for a shake.

Thank goodness I was headed to the showers.

You Gotta Be Kidding (I am)

I had a couple of topics I wanted to touch on today, but then that great man Tim Hardaway opened his mouth.

As a fellow heterosexual, I will offer my opinions.

If you missed it, here’s some of what the former NBA player said on a Florida radio station.

“You know, I hate gay people, so I let it be known. I don’t like gay people and I don’t like to be around gay people… First of all, I wouldn’t want him on my team. And second of all, if he was on my team, I would, you know, really distance myself from him because, uh, I don’t think that is right. I don’t think he should be in the locker room while we are in the locker room.”

He added that he would try to have a gay player removed from the team.

Word!

I can’t tell you how many times I have been in a locker room when a gay man has lost control and grabbed my dick. All of us straight men are so good looking that we are always at risk of being jumped by gay guys.

Certainly, if I were in the shower, and one of “them” saw me naked, I’m sure I’d somehow end up in an all-man threesome.

And then there’s the risk of being hit-on by a gay man. That’s how you can catch gay, you know.

There is a gay couple in my building. Believe me, it’s just a matter of time before they kick in my door and do gay things to me. Forget keeping them out of the locker room. Let’s get them out of my building too.

Of course, I am surprised that there are any gay men in a professional locker room. Pro-sports are so manly I didn’t think a gay man could actually keep up with the real men. They throw like girls.

It’s probably a gay conspiracy, just so they can see and talk about how amazing the big muscular athletes look when they’re all sweaty after a big game.

Thanks Tim, thanks for giving me the courage to speak out as intelligently as you…

Asshole.

That’s Crazy!

I’d really like to work for NASA.

It seems like the organization really treats its employees well.

My boss has always been there for me when I needed a helping hand. She let me have time off when my divorce wore me out. When she has beaten me down for a mistake, she has always picked me up and sent me out on a positive note.

Still, if I were to drive 900 miles, wearing a diaper, with a BB gun, a wig and a plan to abduct and perhaps kill another television producer, I’m not so sure she’d fly to pick me up from my court hearing and then hold a news conference expressing such deep concern, not for whomever it was I was going to whack with my new steel mallet, but for me.

We cover stories of men and women going bonkers all the time. True, they don’t all slip into a pair of Depends to carry out their attacks, but they go from being people who hung out with neighbors, attended PTA meetings, and led church groups, to killers or attempted killers. And when they try to kill their husbands, wives, rivals, they don’t get a ton of sympathy.

So what makes our astronaut so special?

Yes, it’s clear that something went terribly wrong with her, but can’t you say that about a lot of people who do bad things?

What about the California woman who was arrested this week for plotting to kill her husband… using wasps! Police say she was going to fill his car with them, and he’s allergic. Her coworkers aren’t rallying on her behalf, talking about how sad they are for her. No one has held a news conference to talk about how they want to figure out how things went wrong in her life. But something must have made her dig into the wasp nest.

Face it, no one ever cared why O.J. snapped, except, I guess, for the guy who drove the Bronco, and maybe Ron the waiter who was probably yelling, “O.J., why the hell are you doing this?”

The astronaut plot is a great story, with all of the key elements, sex, violence, rubber tubing and space travel.

I just don’t get why she’s getting so much sympathy.