Tail Tales

I'm mostly a dog lover, though I don't mind cats. Actually, I like all pets, though some — fish, for example — don't lead to deep relationships. We have a black lab who might be the best dog I've ever had.

But they haven't all been great. We had a beagle who was as cute and lovable as could be, but dumb as a rock. Whenever he escaped out the door (which was often) he would take himself on his normal walk route, because that was the only place he knew. When he dashed out the door and started on his route I'd walk it in the opposite direction, and catch him somewhere in the middle. He was always surprised.

I had an afghan hound, a mangy looking thing, who was a dead ringer for Cloris Leachman, the actress, and was, in fact, named Cloris. Whenever I'd take her for a walk people would stop me to excitedly say, "Do you know who your dog looks like?" Why, yes, I do.

My parents had a great dane named Duke who tipped the scales at about 160 pounds, closer to a pony than a dog. They never locked their door during the years that they had him, because no one in their right mind was going to break into that house. Once he escaped and was hit by a car. The driver jumped out of his car (it was a Toyota) to see if Duke was all right. Not only was Duke all right, but he was pissed, and leapt for the guy. Luckily, the guy got back into his car and slammed the door before Duke could get him. Not only was my stepfather the only person to whom Duke would listen, but he (Duke, not my stepfather) had a problem with flatulence. I wasn't that sad when he died.

But the worst dog, by far, was one we got from the pound a week or so before my borthday and only kept a few weeks. a mixed breed who was mostly German Shepherd, she was good natured, but very high strung. We thought that our relatively calm home might help her.

We named her Pinky, though I can't remember why. The week we had her prior to my birthday passed uneventfully.

Now, one my favorite parts of my birthday was the chocolate cake with rich chocolate icing that my mother would bake me. (My mother was an outstanding baker and cook.)

The morning of my birthday she baked and frosted the cake, and set it on the kitchen counter, where it sat undisturbed. For awhile.

I got home from school and rushed into the kitchen for an after school snack and a peek at my cake. Or what, as it turned out, was half a cake. Half the cake was gone, and the remaining part had bites that were suspiciously dog shaped around the edges.

It had to be Pinky. But where was she? I angrily yelled her name as I ran through the house looking for her.

I found her, cowering in my bedroom, afraid she was going to be punished. I also found the missing half cake.

Pinky had thrown it up. On my bed.

I was beyond furious. My mother threw out the rest of the cake, and my birthday was cake free that year. My cake was gone and, shortly thereafter, so was Pinky.

Man's best friend? Not on man's birthday.

Spin Cycle

I was once the unwitting victim of a lonely, hopeful, carnival ride operator. My stomach will never be the same.

In the town where I spent most of my childhood, the carnival's annual arrival was the high point of every summer. The rides and attractions would set up in a dusty field on the outskirts of our small town (approximately 15,000 people), and everyone would spend at least one evening (and generally more) winning stuffed animals, tilting and whirling on rides and eating greasy, fried, sugary foods.

It was always one of the best weeks of the year. I had every reason to believe that the summer I was 16 would be no different.

At the time I had a girlfriend named Barbara. The evening we decided to go to the carnival she asked if her friend, Beryl, could tag along. Beryl wasn't much for rides, but she was visiting Barbara from out of town that weekend, and really had nothing else to do. So of we went as a trio.

After the girls insisted on some carnival food, we hit our first ride: the octopus-like creation (I can't recall the name) where riders tilt, whirl and spin. Barbara and I squeezed into one of the cars, while Beryl declined. The operator pushed a button and off we went.

Beryl, bored with just watching us ride, began chatting with the ride operator, who was only a few years older than us and, as it turned out, still filled with teenage hormones. Sensing that he had a chance to get to now Beryl more intimately, he began flirting madly with her.

As we spun and swooped he told Beryl he had a private spot (his trailer — classy guy) and a break coming up, if she wanted to try a ride of a different sort. Beryl, too polite and non assertive to turn him down, kept talking to him. Emboldened by the fact that she hadn't said no (even though she also hadn't said yes), he kept talking to her. Once she mentioned that she was waiting for her friends (us) to get off the ride, our fates were sealed.

There was no way he was going to let us off that ride until Beryl agreed to join him in his trailer. So, as Beryl continued to not refuse his advances, Barbara and I rode the ride. And rode. And rode.

Finally there was too much of a line for the guy to continue letting us ride, even though he hadn't come any closer to his goal with Beryl. Reluctantly, he pushed the stop button and we slowed to a stop.

Barbara and I staggered off to the nearest bushes and promptly threw up. Beryl, sweet innocent that she was, filled us in on why we'd received such great value for our ride dollar.

Our comments didn't include much gratitude, I'm afraid, and the relationship between Barbara and Beryl was frosty for awhile.

And I haven't been on that carnival ride since.

In-laws

My in-laws, for the most part, made me feel welcome and part of the family from day one. But that's not to say that all of them did.

When my wife and I were dating she waited until the relationship was solid — in fact, until we got engaged — to introduce me to her Aunt Hody. I'd been warned about Aunt Hody's attitude and nastiness by every other in-law, so I thought I knew what to expect.

In her 80s, confined to a bed in a nursing home by a broken hip, Hody has lost much of her hearing and eyesight, and even the ability to feed herself. But her tongue was as sharp as ever.

After greeting her, my wife-to-be introduced me: "Hody, this is my fiance, David." Hody's greeting: "Are you cross-eyed?"

My wife-to-be was horrified. "Hody, does he look cross-eyed?" she sputtered, unsure of what to say. "Yes, he does," was the reply.

I thought the whole thing was pretty funny. If I was cross-eyed, Hody was certainly the first person who'd mentioned it.

The second incident happened during the first Christmas dinner with my future in-laws. Knowing that cherry pie was (and is) my favorite dessert, my (sadly now, late) future mother-in-law had made a cherry pie as one of the desserts. My future father-in-law, a sometimes gruff sort (retired Air Force colonel) also loved cherry pie. We each had a slice.

After dinner he and I were the only ones left at the table, finishing our coffee, as everyone else drifted out of the room. My future mother-in-law came into the dining room, noticed there was one slice of cherry pie left, and asked me if I'd like it. Before I could reply, my father-in-law answered for me: "He doesn't want it."

I guess I didn't.

Car talk

A few years ago, I inadvertently hit upon a brilliant car buying strategy. It's yours if you can use it.

I walked into the nearest Honda dealership one cool, drizzly, weekday evening, with no appointment. I had some spare time and I wanted to look at a new Civic Si.

When I walked in a woman at a desk near the door asked me if I had an appointment with a salesperson. I asked her if I could use the bathroom before I talked to anybody. She gave me directions to the bathroom, which was down the back hallway behind the showroom.

Now car dealerships, like other sales organizations, generally have a sales chart outside the sales manager's door showing how each salesperson is doing that month. I happened to pass that sales chart on my way to and from the bathroom.

Although it was almost the end of the month, one salesperson had only sold two cars, while all of the others had sold at least 10. I looked at the name of the laggard, and had an idea.

I walked back to the front desk, and told the woman I had an appointment with ... I had to guess at the gender, since the sales chart had only listed last names — Mr. Jackson. Luck was with me, because he was a Mr. and he was working that night. "Hi, Mr. Jackson," I said. I introduced myself. "I called you earlier about the Civic Si." I stuck out my hand and he shook it. "Oh, yes," he said, remembering the call I, of course, had never made. After being unable to find the information he was sure he'd taken down during our phone call, he apologetically asked for my personal information again and off we went for a test drive.

I really liked the car and wanted it, so we went back to his desk to negotiate. Although this was pre-Internet I had a pretty good idea of what the invoice amount was on that car. His first offer was $200 under sticker. My first offer was what I thought was invoice, a good $1,000+ less than his offer. He grimaced slightly, and trotted off to the sales manager, no doubt hoping for his third sale of the month.

"Good news!" he exulted when he returned, showing me the number his sales manager had authorized: another $200 off sticker. "I'm very sorry," I said, rising and shaking his hand. "I think I need to look somewhere else." I turned and starting walking towards the door.

I made it six steps. "Wait," he pleaded. "Let me talk to the sales manager again. I think I can get you your price if I tell him you're a serious buyer. You are a serious buyer, aren't you?" I assured him I was, and he disappeared.

I sat in his cubicle for a long time, imaging the conversation. "Please, Mike, I've only sold two cars this month. This guy is serious." "I can't go this low." "Come on, it's only three days 'til the end of the month, and I'm hurting." "I don't know."

Finally he came back, with my offer approved. Because it was late, we agreed that he'd prep the car the next morning, and I told him I'd be in after work to pick it up, which I was.

When I came back and sat with him and the finance guy to complete the paperwork that next morning, I overheard a couple in the next cubicle agreeing to pay $400 more for a Civic that was one model down from mine. I felt pretty good.

I notice that in the dealership where I bought my most recent car (a Subaru) the sales chart is nowhere near the bathrooms. Maybe they're getting smarter at the dealerships.

Name Game

The name of this blog grew out of an odd period in my life which was the basis of a philosophy which remains the cornerstone of my world view to this day. (In fact, "Yikes" has been my license plate for 25 years.)

When my first wife an I separated, I moved into an apartment in a big old house in Catonsville, Maryland. Catonsville, with roots in the early days of the railroad, has a number of big, old houses that were once the homes of railroad executives, and have now been broken up into apartments. The building had eight apartments, I think, and it was magnificent: 10 foot ceilings, (non working) Italian marble fireplaces, beautiful woodwork. It was drafty and expensive to heat, but it was lovely if you didn't have to pay for it.

It was also filled with the most bizarre collection of characters I'd ever met.

The landlords were a man and woman who were heavily into est — look it up — and were constantly trying to get all of us to go to a free introductory seminar. I eventually went to one, which was another story. Bill, the male half of the duo, was completely incompetent when it came to repairing anything in the house, often turning minor problems into major ones. He never did get the heat working correctly, so we alternately froze or roasted. The female half of the duo swung both ways, I think, because she was always visiting the lesbians' apartment (more on that in a minute).

The other inhabitants of the house included:

 a woman who tended bar in a topless bar (she invited me to come down for a free drink, but I decided I couldn't see her topless and then pass her in the hallway), 

a guy who made his living playing the horses (and did pretty well), 

a guy who played violin in a string quartet in the U.S. Army (they played a lot of fancy generals' balls and events like that) and was stoned every waking moment (he was amused that the generals had no idea), 

a woman who filled her Volvo station wagon with everything she owned and left her husband and children to find herself (she ended up in bed with every male in the house at one time or another, except for me — I declined — including my oldest stepbrother when he came to visit me once),

a musician who played trombone in a jazz band and bass in a punk band, was superb in both, but definitely tended toward the dress and lifestyle of the punk side, rather than the jazz side,

two lesbians who used to have screaming, throw things at each other, battles at least once a week,

and Bill, one of the only two fairly normal people in the house (I count myself as the other one).

The house was semi-communal, in that many folks kept their doors propped open and sometimes people would wander in and out of each other's apartment, generally when looking for the occupant.

One day Bill and I were walking up the stairs from my second floor apartment to his third floor place. His apartment was at the end of a hallway, with the lesbians' apartment next to his. As we approached their open door we heard yelling. Just as we were bout to pass their door, a teacup came flying out the door to smash against the opposite wall, missing us by inches. As we paused to make sure no other missiles were about to be launched, the saucer followed it.

Bill turned to me and shook his head. "Yikes" was all he said.

I decided there were too many things in life that all you could do is shake your head and say,

"Yikes," and that's been my philosophy ever since.

Just before I moved out of that house I took a play-writing class, and decided to write about some of the people and incidents that took place while I was living there. I handed in my play, and proudly waited for what I was sure would be the professor's glowing praise.

"Is this farce?" he asked me. "No, it's my life," I replied. I got a B. His criticism: "often humorous, but not believable."

Furry Friend

If your office holiday parties are boring, do what I do: rent a gorilla suit.

Several years ago I worked for a company that was bought by a competitor. The first holiday party after the acquisition was deadly dull: everyone clustered with their immediate co-workers and talked shop. No one from any department talked to anyone from any other department. No one from the new company talked to anyone from the old company. The venue was fancy, the food was great, the party was boring.

The following year the company hadn't lost any of its cliquishness. The holiday party had every indication of being another deadly dull affair. Someone, I thought, had to do something to liven up the party. I nominated myself.

At the best costume shop in town I rented a gorilla costume — not some cheap kid's Halloween costume, but an expensive, authentic model. From what little I could see through the eye holes when I tried it on at home, I looked smashing.

Wiggling into the costume in my car outside the party was no easy task. But once inside it was worth it.

Heads turned. People laughed. The entire atmosphere of the party (100+ people) changed.

Unfortunately, I hadn't counted on the fact that the head allowed me no peripheral vision whatsoever. I could barely see right in front of me, let alone to the sides. I'd turn to the side and knock a tray out of a passing server's hands. I knocked over a couple of chairs and a couple of people. The more I moved, the more chaos I created. Servers were making wide paths to avoid me as they carried trays of drinks and finger food. I started to sweat, and not just because I was covered in fur.

Meanwhile, no one knew who was inside the costume. Not having much of a reputation as a jokester at the company, everyone who spoke to me guessed I was someone else. It was only my anonymity, I thought, that was protecting me from getting fired. But I was there, the damage was done, and I thought I'd see how it all played out.

A couple of hours into the party the president of the company, a very serious man who hadn't said 10 words to me in the year and half I'd worked for him, came up to me. He asked me to take off my gorilla head so he could talk to me.

"How much did this costume cost you?" he asked me. I told him. "Put it on your expense account. This is the best holiday party we've ever had."

I bet the servers didn't think so.

In (my) heaven there is no beer

I don't mean for this to turn into Kids Say The Darndest Things, but I was reminded yesterday of one of the many times out oldest, Madeline, publicly embarrassed me (a great talent of hers).

We were visiting my in-laws at a timeshare in Naples, Florida, back in the days when they were alive and spent every winter in Florida. One day I took Madeline, then bout two years old, to the grocery store. In Florida, as in many other places (but not most of Maryland), beer and wine are sold in the grocery stores. I drink very little, and a six-pack of beer could, at the time, last me for two weeks. Still, it was a warm week, and when I passed the beer coolers it seemed like a good idea. I was getting a little tired of orange juice.

The store was quiet, with only one cash register open and one older (of course) couple in line when Madeline and I, she in the cart, approached the checkout line. I put my groceries, including a six-pack of beer, on the conveyor belt. No one was paying me any attention.

Madeline saw the beer and spoke up. "I like beer," she chirped brightly. The couple behind us, who'd been quietly talking to each other, stopped in mid sentence.

"Madeline," I said, as lightly as I could, "you've never had beer."

"Yes I have!"

"You don't even know what beer is," I said, this time a little more forcefully.

The older couple had turned to look at me. So had the cashier. I didn't get the sense that they were considering nominating me for the Father of The Year award.

"Madeline, you know you've never had beer. You have no idea what it tastes like."

"Yes I do!" Her honor impugned, Madeline was getting louder. The more I doubted her, the firmer she became.

The older couple fumbled for their money and one of them paid the cashier. The cashier, transfixed by the scene, fumbled the change, but eventually recovered and processed the money.

She began ringing up our groceries. I was afraid to say a word, and even more afraid of what words Madeline might say. Luckily, we finished without further comments on Madeline's part, and I fled the store with Madeline.

The beer wasn't quite as refreshing as I thought.

Your Guess Is As Good As Mine

I'm reading a new biography of Cheech and Chong, by Tommy Chong, which is odd in more ways than one (the book, not that I'm reading it).

First, although it purports to be about both members of the original stoner comedy team, Chong wrote it without Cheech Marin's input while the two weren't talking (they've since reconciled and are, I believe, touring again).

Second, although I'm only about halfway through, the book is poorly written: it meanders, repeats itself, skips large chunks of time and then backtracks, almost as if the author was ...

Nah, couldn't be.

Little Pisser

Should you ever have children, or if you have a baby or two in the house, here's my advice: keep a close eye on your coffee. Especially if you have a boy. Especially especially if you're suffering from extreme sleep deprivation.

When our son, Adam, was born, he was our second child, following his sister by 19 months. We were sure that with all of our baby memories so fresh there would be no surprises with Adam.

There was one.

We had a changing table in his room and early one morning my wife, Sarah, had him on the table and was changing his diaper. He was, at only a couple of weeks old, significantly smaller than the table top, so Sarah had plenty of room for both Adam and her cup of coffee on the table. It was safely out of the way of his feet, so no worries about spilling.

Spilling, as it turned out, wasn't the danger.

If you've ever changed an infant boy's diaper, you probably know what Sarah learned that morning: when cool air hits that boy's penis, he's going to pee. In Adam's case, it was a perfect arc that landed dead center in her coffee cup.

Luckily she saw it, though at first she couldn't believe what she was seeing. Adam looked proud and, given his aim, he had every right to be.

Sadly, when we were potty training him his aim didn't turn out to be quite as good. Then again, he wasn't aiming for a coffee cup.

That's Rich

I was checking On Demand the other night (love FiOS) and stumbled across this odd show, apparently either the first of a series or a promo for the series, called All U Need Is Love, put together by Tony Parker. A quick Internet search turned up no information, and I don't know a thing about it, but some of the clips of upcoming shows were hilarious.

The clips ping ponged dizzily from B. B. King to Cream to Edith Piaf — Edith Piaf? — with both interviews and live performances. My favorite clip was an interview with Buddy Rich, the master of pyrotechnic jazz drumming. Rich, who disdained most rock drummers, comes out swinging in his interview, and I mean swinging in the boxing, not the jazz, sense. "They hold their sticks wrong!" he thunders about rock percussionists. He demonstrated, holding his drumsticks like two flags, and showing all of the things a drummer can't do when holding his sticks that way.

He flipped his sticks to hold them "correctly" unleashed a typical volcanic solo, and then sat back, with just the hint of a smile flickering across his face.

A few clips later the show cut to Cream's drummer, Ginger Baker, a strong contender for the most ham handed drummer in rock. Baker was, as Rich noted, holding his sticks the wrong way. Sure enough, he attempted a couple of the moves Rich said couldn't be done when holding the sticks incorrectly ... and couldn't do them.

Rich was, at least when I saw him, somewhat prickly, and known for being less than pleasant to those he considered lesser musicians. Still, it's not bragging if you can back it up (a quote credited to both Muhammad Ali and Dizzy Dean, two names you rarely see in the same sentence), and Rich could back it up.

Or two paraphrase, "if you listen to only one drum solo this year, make it Buddy Rich."

Tris

This post will be neither humorous or music related, so it's a bit of an anomaly for me. I was thinking today about graphic designers/art directors; I've met many and worked with and managed several.

The finest art director I ever had the privilege to work with, and someone whom I still think was one of the best advertising art directors in the Baltimore-Washington area, was the late Tris Johnson.

Tris graduated from the Rocky Mountain School of Art + Design, where he was a gifted sculptor, primarily working in bronze. He apparently blew everyone away at the annual student art show in his freshman and sophomore years, to the point where he was asked not to compete during his junior year, so someone else would have a chance.

Unlike most artists, Tris saw no difference between commercial art and fine art. To him, your job was to communicate something, and the only difference was the medium and the tools. He won many advertising awards for his work, and deservedly so.

For reasons I won't get into, Tris and I saw many, many designers and writers and their portfolios. For the three years we worked together, I'm sure we saw at least one person most weeks, even if we didn't have a job opening, because we liked seeing who was around and what they were doing. For Tris, who valued substance over style, the worst criticism of any graphic designer was this: page decorator.

"Tris, what'd you think of that guy?" I'd ask after we'd reviewed someone's portfolio.

"Page decorator."

"Didn't like his work, did you?"

"No. Good typography, though."

To this day, when I look at beautiful, empty work, I think of Tris' two-word dismissal.

Tris was a large man, 6' 5", holder of a Bronze Star from his tour of Vietnam. He rarely spoke and was, in fact, rather shy. Given his size and silence, most folks were intimidated by him. I, a foot shorter and ten times more gregarious, got along with him famously.

We worked together in a very high pressure, high volume ad agency. Freelancers who worked with us couldn't believe the volume of work we sent out the door. It was quality work, too: the first year I was there we won eight ADDYs, finishing second only to an agency 15 times our size in that year's competition.

The agency owner would bring in an impossible project with an insane deadline, and I'd look at Tris.

"Tris, we're screwed."

"I know."

"Are we gonna dodge the bullet this time?"

"Yeah."

And we always did.

Now I'm a writer, and not a designer. But I try to never be the writing equivalent of a page decorator.