tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59799509725210900942024-03-20T01:06:38.132-07:00YikesHumor, music, observations. Nothing earth shattering, but worth a few minutes of your time. Money back if not completely satisfied.DAShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13883193120256826302noreply@blogger.comBlogger174125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5979950972521090094.post-55256659598661189622010-07-27T10:29:00.001-07:002010-07-27T10:44:31.682-07:00If a tree falls in the forestThis is a story about how a car accident I was in a few days ago probably saved some lives.<div><br /></div><div>Last Thursday at 5 p.m., at the beginning of rush hour, I was driving south on a section of Route 1 which is a four-lane highway (two northbound, two southbound). I was in the left southbound lane, stopped with my blinker on, waiting to make a left turn. In front of me was a Honda Civic, also stopped with its blinker on, also waiting for a break in the northbound traffic to make a left turn.</div><div><br /></div><div>All of a sudden a Toyota Rav-4 slammed into the back of my car, pushing me into the Honda.</div><div><br /></div><div>Luckily no one was hurt. The Toyota was seriously smashed (airbags, leaking radiator fluid, steam rising, front end demolished). The back of my car was heavily damaged, though my car (a mighty Subaru Legacy) was drivable. The Honda had a dent in the rear bumper.</div><div><br /></div><div>I called 911 and police and a fire engine (just in case) were there in less than five minutes. The police stopped traffic in both directions. The couple in the Honda and I pulled our cars into the right lane, so an arriving tow truck could collect the Toyota. The man and woman from the Honda and I leaned on a guardrail at the side of the road, waiting for a police officer to finish with the Toyota driver and come talk to us.</div><div><br /></div><div>Without warning, a tree behind us (on the other side of the guardrail) suddenly cracked at its base and fell, missing the guy beside me by inches and smashing into the Honda. It was large enough to shatter the rear window and heavily damage the roof and rear of the Honda.</div><div><br /></div><div>We all jumped. "Damn, I've never seen anything like that before," the police officer said. I silently agreed. The Honda driving couple went ballistic.</div><div><br /></div><div>A few minutes later the police officer finished with me and I drove home, rear bumper and bodywork flapping as I went. As I drove, I realized that if that tree had fallen as cars were going by at 50-60 mph there would have been a serious accident, almost certainly with people killed. It's easy for me to say this, since it wasn't my Honda the tree landed on, but a lot of people who don't even know it were lucky that day.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I got home and called my insurance company to report the accident, the adjuster had this comment:</div><div><br /></div><div>"I've processed a lot of claims. I thought I'd heard them all, but I've never heard a story like this." When the Toyota driver's insurance company called me to arrange for repairs, that adjuster told me the same thing.</div><div><br /></div><div>Note to police officers: the next time someone tells you "that tree just jumped in front of me," it could be true.</div>DAShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13883193120256826302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5979950972521090094.post-45081321579076395502010-03-18T13:41:00.000-07:002010-03-18T13:47:48.957-07:00Patience of Job III recently had a great job interview, and really hope I'm offered the job, but it won't hold a candle to my favorite job interview of all time.<div><br /></div><div>Years ago I interviewed at an ad agency whose name I can't recall for a copywriting position. I really liked the agency and the creative director who interviewed me, and was hoping he'd call me with an offer.</div><div><br /></div><div>A few days later he did. Yes! All was right with the world.</div><div><br /></div><div>He started talking about the things about me that had impressed him, including certain projects. "I really like what you did for (this client) and (that client)," he told me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Unfortunately, none of the clients he mentioned were mine.</div><div><br /></div><div>He was a bit bubbly, and took him a couple of minutes to pause for breath. When he did I was honest: "I'm really flattered, but none of the work you mentioned is mine."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Well who the hell's work is it?" he asked me. I had to plead ignorance. "Who am I trying to hire?" he demanded. Again, I had no idea.</div><div><br /></div><div>"But if you can't find out who it is, I'd still love to be considered for the position," I told him. He cursed — not at me, I think, but at the situation — and hung up.</div><div><br /></div><div>He never called back.</div>DAShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13883193120256826302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5979950972521090094.post-73982022816403353262009-10-06T09:18:00.000-07:002009-10-06T09:43:40.143-07:00Firecracker shrimpTo this day my sister claims that she didn't almost burn down the house.<div><br /></div><div>But I know better.</div><div><br /></div><div>For a couple of years, back when I was a teenager and my sister was a pre-teen, we fell in love with shrimp chips. (If you've never had them, Chinese restaurants used to offer them, sometimes as an appetizer and sometimes gratis. They were colorful, deep fried chips that looked like colored styrofoam and tasted like shrimp. Very crunchy, very addictive.)</div><div><br /></div><div>They came in a bag and looked like colorful, uneven poker chips. But drop them in boiling oil, and in seconds they puffed up into a delicious chip.</div><div><br /></div><div>One day my sister put a pot of oil on the stove, cranked the burner to high, and walked out of the kitchen. Our stove took awhile to heat up, and she had other things to do.</div><div><br /></div><div>About five minutes later I happened to walk past the kitchen. Flames were shooting out of the pot, licking at the bottom of the cabinet above the stove. For some reason there was a cookie sheet on the counter and I, thinking much more quickly than I normally did, put the sheet on top of the pot. The flames were instantly extinguished.</div><div><br /></div><div>I began yelling at my sister. "You almost burned the house down. There were flames shooting out of the top of the pot of oil you put on the stove."</div><div><br /></div><div>"I didn't put the pot there."</div><div><br /></div><div>"We're the only two people in the house, and I didn't do it. That leaves only you."</div><div><br /></div><div>She nervously glanced at the stove. "Don't tell Mom."</div><div><br /></div><div>I glanced at the cabinet above the stove. The finish on the bottom was burnt and peeling, and the odor of smoke hung in the air. "I think she'll figure it out herself."</div><div><br /></div><div>Needless to say, my mother never bought us shrimp chips again, and I haven't had one to this day. But there is no cabinet above our stove now, and I've been thinking...</div>DAShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13883193120256826302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5979950972521090094.post-40047289559495445832009-09-10T11:22:00.001-07:002009-09-10T11:43:46.296-07:00I Spy With My Little EyeAlthough I've never been a private investigator, I was once spied on by one who was a great role model for what not to do.<div><br /></div><div>And it wasn't even me he was supposed to be watching.</div><div><br /></div><div>When my stepfather and his first wife were getting divorced, it got ugly for awhile. So ugly, in fact, that she had him followed by a private eye. (They later reconciled and remained friends until her death.) He and my mother, childhood friends who'd lost touch for 30 years and then reconnected, had recently started dating. (My stepfather and his first wife were no longer living together by then, and it was all over but the legal wrangling.)</div><div><br /></div><div>She was in New York, we were in New Jersey, and when the soon-to-be-ex wanted to find out what my future stepfather was doing, she hired a PI firm in New York.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was pretty easy to figure out what a car with New York plates was doing cruising our neighborhood all of the time.</div><div><br /></div><div>My favorite incident was the time that, one evening, one of the PI's was parked across the street from our house. At night. Wearing sunglasses. I, who was the only one home that evening, happened to walk down the driveway to take out the trash, and spotted him. He spotted me at the same time, and quickly pulled up a newspaper to hide his face. Any chance he had of fooling me about his reason for being there was thwarted when I noticed the newspaper was upside down.</div><div><br /></div><div>I walked up to his car and tapped on his window. He opened it, looking as innocent as a man in sunglasses at night time reading a newspaper upside down can look.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Are you lost?" I inquired as brightly as a 16-year-old can inquire. "I know the area pretty well, and I can give you directions."</div><div><br /></div><div>He mumbled something and started the car and began to pull away, though not before I noticed he had a gun in a shoulder holster peeking out from his coat.</div><div><br /></div><div>I walked up the driveway and hid behind a bush. Sure enough, he pulled up again a few minutes later.</div><div><br /></div><div>I eased back into the house and called the police, telling them that there was a man with a gun parked across the street from our house in a car with New York plates. Less than five minutes later, a police car pulled up behind my observer. Watching from the house I couldn't hear the conversation, but the PI was VERY animated and, it appeared, upset.</div><div><br /></div><div>They both left in the police car for the police station where, as it turned out, the New York PI had no license to carry a gun in New Jersey. I later learned that the police took the gun and told the man that his boss could come down from New York to retrieve it at his convenience. They MAY have also suggested that he find a better place to park than our neighborhood.</div><div><br /></div><div>Apparently he did, because I never saw him again. It's possible that his change of parking place coincided with a change in his employment status. But I'm just guessing.</div>DAShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13883193120256826302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5979950972521090094.post-59121778895191578642009-08-26T07:31:00.000-07:002009-08-26T07:54:47.595-07:00BelovedA love I didn't even know about is, apparently, about to make me rich.<div><br /></div><div>This morning I received an email with the subject line "My Beloved One." Although I like to think of myself as lovable — Don't we all? — no one has called me "beloved" in some time. Maybe never. I had to read this email.</div><div><br /></div><div>Instantly, I was confused. The email was sent by Barr. Chinedu Anderson Esq. (KSM), on behalf of the late Scott Kennedy.</div><div><br /></div><div>Which one considered me beloved? I was pretty sure I didn't know anyone named Chinedu; I'm quite sure I would have remembered that name. But the late Scott Kennedy, according to his esteemed barrister, left me $31.5 million in his will.</div><div><br /></div><div>$31.5 million certainly says "beloved" to me.</div><div><br /></div><div>But why did a person I didn't know leave me such a princely sum? According to Chinedu — by this point I felt we were on a first-name basis — "Scott Kennedy until his death was a very dedicated Christian who loved to give out."</div><div><br /></div><div>This statement by the Chinster asked more questions than it answered. I, for one, am not a dedicated Christian, or any kind of Christian, at all, so it wasn't a spiritual linkage between the late Mr. Kennedy and myself. And what did he love to give out? Money, I suppose, but the email wasn't clear.</div><div><br /></div><div>I read on. Mr. Kennedy's "great philanthropy earned him numerous awards during his lifetime," Chinny stated. I'd never heard of Mr. Kennedy or his awards until this morning, but I don't move in philanthropic circles, so this certainly is possible. I don't regularly read the obituaries, either, so Mr. Kennedy's demise could have easily slipped by me.</div><div><br /></div><div>But why was I chosen to receive millions of dollars? Chinedu had an explanation for that as well: "this money is to support your activities and to help the poor and the needy."</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not poor and needy, though compared to someone who's handing out $31.5 million I suppose I would be. That sum would definitely support my activities, and even enable me to develop some new ones.</div><div><br /></div><div>How could I claim this money? The instructions were simple: respond with my full name, telephone number, contact address/country, occupation, age, and "identity card or national drivers license."</div><div><br /></div><div>Wait, wouldn't Scott Kennedy have known most, if not all, of this information about someone to whom he was leaving $31.5 million? And being American, I have no national drivers license or identity card, unless my social security card counts.</div><div><br /></div><div>But why quibble when millions of dollars are at stake? I eagerly sent back my information. Under occupation I wrote, "waiting by the mailbox."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Belovedly."</div>DAShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13883193120256826302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5979950972521090094.post-33758763145471089222009-07-21T12:34:00.000-07:002009-08-26T07:57:12.297-07:00Fore-get ItWhen I was growing up my cousin's town had an annual Junk Day where folks could put out anything they didn't want for the trash men to pick up. This is why I've only played golf once.<div><br /></div><div>On Junk Day my cousin Philip and I would roam around his town, looking for treasures others were throwing out. One year, when we were probably 12 or 13, we hit the jackpot. Or, rather, several jackpots.</div><div><br /></div><div>In one person's trash we found an old, but still decent looking, golf club. A few doors down we found another. Within an hour we probably had a dozen clubs of various types and sizes. (We even found and took a couple of left-handed clubs, for goodness knows what reason.)</div><div><br /></div><div>By the end of the afternoon we felt like we had enough different woods and irons — we didn't really know the differences, though they mostly had different numbers — along with a putter (we knew what that one was) to actually try to play.</div><div><br /></div><div>Luckily, there was a Par 3 (some places might call it an Executive Course or a Pitch 'N Putt) course nearby. Off we went, with the clubs tied to our bicycles. We had no golf bag, but we had plenty of clubs.</div><div><br /></div><div>At the course we ran into a problem: on busy days the owner insisted on groups of four players, and there were only two of us. Fortune smiled upon us, in the form of two guys, both in their early 20's, who were in the same predicament and were willing to go together as a foursome.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't remember them asking us if we'd ever played before, but they could probably tell by our fine collection of clubs that we were new to the game. As we approached the first hole we politely told them they could go first, thinking we could watch them and learn what to do.</div><div><br /></div><div>At the first hole one of them set up his ball and swung. Hole in one. He was thrilled.</div><div><br /></div><div>At the second hold the other one went first. He swung. Hole in one.</div><div><br /></div><div>Philip and I looked at each other. Then we looked at our golf partners. "I don't think we're the right guys for you," Philip said. "You should play with someone better."</div><div><br /></div><div>And we left. I haven't played golf since. I can't speak for Philip.</div>DAShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13883193120256826302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5979950972521090094.post-48942374220413502382009-07-17T11:14:00.000-07:002009-08-26T08:00:38.514-07:00You auto see thisI like shopping for a new car, primarily because the potential for entertainment is often high.<div><br /></div><div>The time I was shopping for a Mazda Miata was one of those times. Not because of the dealership where I eventually bought the car; that salesperson was honest, ethical and professional — but the one I visited after his, just to confirm that what I thought was a great deal was, in fact, a great deal.</div><div><br /></div><div>I walked into the second dealership, at the time a combined Pontiac-Mazda dealership, late on a Saturday morning. I told the greeter at the desk I was interested in a Miata, and she turned me over to a salesperson. A very stereotypical salesperson, with a food stain on his shirt, a tie that had seen better days, and a hearty handshake.</div><div><br /></div><div>I told him I didn't need a test drive, but I was buying a Miata that day, and already had a price from another dealer. He ushered me into his office, and I, not wanting to waste time, told him what dealership I'd already visited and what price I'd been given.</div><div><br /></div><div>He gave me a lecture, in a somewhat fatherly, somewhat superior tone, about why the price that other dealership had given me wasn't really going to happen. He told me about what shysters they were, all of the tricks they were pulling to get me to buy, and a number of other criticisms that didn't at all match the actual treatment I'd received at the first dealership.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then he told me he was going to talk to his sales manager "to get you a real deal" and disappeared.</div><div><br /></div><div>I waited. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Finally, bored, I left his office and wandered down the only hallway to what turned out to be the sales manager's office.</div><div><br /></div><div>I poked my head in the office. Inside was the man I presumed was the sales manager, along with several other salespeople, all watching a baseball game on TV. They looked up, slightly shocked and perturbed, when I appeared. My salesman was the most perturbed of all. "Have you had a chance to talk to the sales manager yet?" I inquired brightly. He waved me back to his office.</div><div><br /></div><div>He hustled down the hall behind me, and we both sat. He, being overweight and, apparently out of shape, was a bit out of breath. "I was, uh (wheeze) ... the sales manager had to (wheeze) do some research."</div><div><br /></div><div>Unless the sales manager was researching whether Mike Mussina would throw a fast-ball or a slider on a 3-2 pitch to a left hander, I doubted there was much research going on. Still, I listened with a straight face while the salesperson told me why HIS deal, which would have cost me $1,000 more than the deal I'd already been promised, was by far the better deal.</div><div><br /></div><div>"They're liars!" he thundered, referring to the dealership I'd visited earlier. "They take advantage of people who don't know any better." Apparently, I was one of those people.</div><div><br /></div><div>I stood up, thanked him for his time, told him I was going to take advantage of my better deal, shook his hand and left. His comment: "You'll see. You'll be back."</div><div><br /></div><div>He was right about one thing: when I returned to the original dealership, the deal wasn't what I'd originally been offered. It was better.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I'd visited the dealership initially, the salesperson had given me a price for the car ($1,000 over invoice, very fair at the time) while his used car manager had called around to various wholesalers to see what he could get for my old Honda. (The dealership didn't want my car for its own used car lot, and so was wholesaling it to someone else.) $2,500 was the best price the used car manager had received, my salesperson told me. I was happy, because Blue Book value was $2,200 at the time.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I got back to the first dealership, my salesperson, Steve, greeted me with a smile. "Hey, after you left one of the other dealerships called back, and we can get $3,000 for your Honda."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Really? Wow. Write it up."</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, he could have done the deal and given me $2,500. I would have been happy and never known better. But he sweetened the deal by $500 because, I suppose, it was the ethical thing to do.</div><div><br /></div><div>Since then I've bought two other cars from that dealership and referred it to two friends who both bought cars. Steve, unfortunately, is long gone.</div><div><br /></div><div>So, less unfortunately, is the Pontiac-Mazda dealer. I wonder if the sales manager got to keep the TV.</div>DAShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13883193120256826302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5979950972521090094.post-45559702363176167992009-07-16T15:08:00.000-07:002009-07-16T15:33:09.320-07:00Scam-A-Rama Ding DongOur oldest daughter, at the tender age of 15, is on the verge of having money. A lot of money.<div><br /></div><div>Or so says a letter she just received today from a man in South Carolina (we're in Maryland).</div><div><br /></div><div>The letter, which many, many folks have received, is a variation on the old chain letter scheme: send the seven people on a list some money, remove the top person's name, add your name to the bottom of the list, mail to a bunch of people (in this case 200) and wait for the money to roll in.</div><div><br /></div><div>The letter promised that our daughter, currently making minimum wage as a restaurant hostess, would make $71,000, $250,000 or $800,000. (The letter was a little vague on the exact amount to expect, but in bold, capital letters it said the $800,000 was guaranteed. (It neglected to mention by whom.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Skeptical? Well, don't be. The letter offered not one, not two, but three proofs:</div><div><br /></div><div>Oprah Winfrey had tested this idea and it worked.</div><div>ABC's 20/20 had tested this idea and it worked.</div><div>A retired attorney had tested this idea and it worked. His unsigned letter — no name given — was part of the package.</div><div><br /></div><div>I wonder just what sort of attorney he was.</div><div><br /></div><div>For one thing, his punctuation and grammar are, shall we say, a bit creative. (He particularly likes to capitalize words randomly in the middle of sentences.) He also seems to be unaware that chain letters such as this are illegal, and have been for years.</div><div><br /></div><div>I suspect he's also a little math challenged, since the letter he cites returns of $71,000, $250,000, $800,000 and $2,341,178 for a mere $3 investment. It doesn't take much of a mathematician to realize that, since none of these numbers are divisible by 3, either some folks don't mail $3, some folks can't count, or some folks are running a scam.</div><div><br /></div><div>What are the odds?</div><div><br /></div><div>My favorite part of the letter is this:</div><div><br /></div><div>The attorney tells his client, who brought him the letter originally, that it is "100% legal." Apparently 100% isn't enough, because his client "then asked me to alter it to make it perfectly legal."</div><div><br /></div><div>What's the difference between "100% legal" and "perfectly legal"? "I asked him to make one small change in the letter."</div><div><br /></div><div>There are other letters included in the packet, along with helpful instructions, including the comment that stamps are sold at the Post Office. (Gotta spell everything out for some people, I guess.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Don't know 200 people to whom you can mail this golden opportunity? Not to worry: information on a company that sells mailing lists is in the instructions, along with the company's phone number and the note that it accepts Mastercard and Visa.</div><div><br /></div><div>So how did this stranger in South Carolina get our daughter's name? If he followed the instructions, he asked the mailing list company for names in this category: Opportunity Seekers.</div><div><br /></div><div>Our daughter must be one, though I haven't seen her seek too many opportunities beyond attempting to make the track team and soccer team at school.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sadly, her five-, six- or seven-figure income opportunity doesn't seem like it's going to happen any time soon. But her economic future isn't all bad.</div><div><br /></div><div>Minimum wage goes up next week.</div>DAShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13883193120256826302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5979950972521090094.post-84443470593480129432009-07-10T13:41:00.000-07:002009-07-17T12:03:03.388-07:00Silence is GoldenMy first wife, for reasons I never understood, was fluent in sign language for the deaf. When we met I thought it was a fairly useless skill, but it turned out I was wrong.<div><br /></div><div>One day we were riding the subway in New York (at the time we both lived in New Jersey, not far from Manhattan) and a group of teenagers got on our train. They were hooting and hollering and making a lot of noise, though not speaking actual words. The reason became quickly obvious: they were deaf.</div><div><br /></div><div>As they carried on and the people in the car looked at them, they began signing to each other about how stupid and ugly all of us were. They criticized what everyone else in the subway car was wearing, reading, doing, etc. I turned to my wife. "You know what they're saying, don't you?" She nodded.</div><div><br /></div><div>We continued on, as they finally got around to commenting in sign language about us. We sat silently. Then we arrived at our stop.</div><div><br /></div><div>As the train doors opened and we stood to walk out, my wife signed to them: "You're right, there are stupid people on this train. Guess who?"</div><div><br /></div><div>The looks on their faces were priceless.</div>DAShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13883193120256826302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5979950972521090094.post-63077488738842626532009-06-17T14:23:00.000-07:002009-06-17T14:27:29.427-07:00Sit down, stand up, fight, fight, fightThis past weekend I did a two-day walk to raise money for multiple sclerosis, and this year for the first time (at least in Maryland) the event included both walkers and bicycle riders.<div><br /></div><div>The walkers went 50k, or 31 miles, over two days. The bike riders had a choice of routes, but most went 50-125 miles over two days.</div><div><br /></div><div>At the awards ceremony after the event, the chapter president had no trouble telling which group was which.</div><div><br /></div><div>"The walkers," he noted, "are sitting down. The bikers are standing up."</div><div><br /></div><div>Sore legs or sore ass. It's always something.</div>DAShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13883193120256826302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5979950972521090094.post-53684952108802904062009-06-15T10:27:00.000-07:002009-06-15T10:58:28.774-07:00Plus ça change...If you've ever wondered how much times have changed in America, spend a few minutes with the 1925 yearbook from, in this case, Catonsville High School.<div><br /></div><div>I have to admit this is the first time I've ever seen an ad for bloomers. (The "Man O' War Middy," sold with the boast "the sloped sides make it fit." Oh, it's "wholesome looking.") The portable steel garage was advertised with this provocative question: "Why own a car and walk halfway home?" Milk came from tuberculin tested cows. Grocery stores also sold animal feed, Hudson and Essex automobiles were available at excellent prices, and a private sanitarium was the place "for mental and nervous invalids (no alcoholics or drug addicts received)." Automobile insurance covered "you while operating, adjusting or cranking any automobile" (and if you were run over by an automobile as well). The premium? Five dollars a year. And who needed margarine when one could buy butterine?</div><div><br /></div><div>The second best section of the book is split between the sections titled Noted Personages — students judged to be the Class Hercules, Class Romeo, Queen of the Ivories, Most Versatile (?) and other categories — and what are charmingly termed Class Statistics.</div><div><br /></div><div>You might think statistics involves numbers. Well, not in 1925. The class statistics included: tallest boy, tallest girl, best boy athlete, best girl athlete, and shortest boy and girl.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then come the categories that would never fly today: most thrilling Latin type (Herbert Rice, who hardly sounds Latin), most obliging girl (one can only imagine), biggest tease (ditto, though won by a boy that year), most backward in coming forward (different from quietest, most studious, most unobtrusive or meekest), and the list goes on. Elizabeth Rodgers had the most attractive dimples, though Cora Appler beat her out for prettiest eyes. Lula Cook was the class milliner — I'll wait while you look it up — and Albrecht Stude (great name for a band) was the most argumentative.</div><div><br /></div><div>The best part, though, is the jokes and riddles. Even the names of the people speaking are great:</div><div><br /></div><div>Miss K: Billy, give your oral composition.</div><div>Absent-minded Billy: I left it home.</div><div><br /></div><div>Pedagogue: What would be the first thing you would do if you spilled acid on yourself?</div><div>Victim: Yell.</div><div><br /></div><div>Some of the jokes require bits of knowledge that I never acquired in school — the composition of Glauber's Salts, for example, and the meaning of slang expressions such as "chewing the rag" (it means to ponder or meditate) — but one still has meaning today:</div><div><br /></div><div>How to avoid falling hair: get out of the way.</div><div><br /></div>DAShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13883193120256826302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5979950972521090094.post-50368133391211183552009-06-10T07:28:00.001-07:002009-06-10T07:32:46.354-07:00New relationship, statMore than once, I've found humor in a place you'd probably least expect it: the hospital emergency room.<div><br /></div><div>Once when I was waiting my turn for a doctor (I had a broken finger, not so serious), a man was rushed in by an ambulance crew. It didn't take a medical expert to spot the problem. He had a hatchet in his head.</div><div><br /></div><div>Surprisingly, he was both conscious and coherent. As they rushed him into an operating room, he was yelling about how his girlfriend had been the one to hit him in the head with a hatchet. His threat, yelled to everyone within earshot but clearly meant only for his absent girlfriend, was this: "the relationship is over, bitch!"</div><div><br /></div><div>I guess so.</div>DAShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13883193120256826302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5979950972521090094.post-19081240462321261932009-05-21T12:30:00.000-07:002009-05-21T12:50:37.497-07:00Lessons LearnedWhen I was a kid, probably 7 or 8, my parents tried to teach me a lesson every parent has to teach at one point: behaving in the car.<div><br /></div><div>In their case, I think the lesson wasn't the one they were expecting.</div><div><br /></div><div>I had, apparently, been acting up or fussing about something. Whatever it was, my father said something like, "If you don't stop, I'm going to make you get out of the car."</div><div><br /></div><div>I didn't, and he did.</div><div><br /></div><div>Where we were was a commercial part of town — not a highway, exactly, but sort of a highway — with stores on either side. It was night time. My guess is the plan was to make me get out of the car, drive a short distance away, then come back and get me. I guess I was supposed to be so scared that I'd actually been left that I'd never misbehave in the car again.</div><div><br /></div><div>Unfortunately, no one had given me the script, and I didn't play my part.</div><div><br /></div><div>I can't remember what store my parents dropped me off in front of, but I remember vividly the one that was a couple of doors down: it sold boats and boating supplies. It looked interesting, so I walked over there.</div><div><br /></div><div>Meanwhile, my parents drove off a little ways, turned around, and came back to hear the tearful apologies from their thoroughly chastened son.</div><div><br /></div><div>Except I wasn't there. Nor was I in the store where they'd dropped me off. Or the one next to it.</div><div><br /></div><div>When they finally found me, after half an hour of frantic searching, they had forgotten the lesson they were trying to teach. (I'm sure my lack of contrition and puzzlement at their frantic faces was part of the problem.)</div><div><br /></div><div>The lesson I learned? Parents get really angry and upset when you look at boats.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have yet to teach that lesson to my own children.</div>DAShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13883193120256826302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5979950972521090094.post-71774829137664894132009-05-18T09:15:00.000-07:002009-05-18T09:36:24.467-07:00The BamaI haven't heard all of the legendary disk jockeys in America, but I've heard most of them: the great New York record spinners of the 1960s, on both the rock stations and the black stations. The 50s legends (though some only on recordings), such as Alan Freed and Wolfman Jack. Tom Wilson from L.A. The AM giants, including Murray the K and Cousin Brucie. The wild and profane, the demented and the scholarly.<div><br /></div><div>The best ever, as far as I'm concerned, was occasionally rough, often unpolished, and as much a philosopher (albeit homespun) as a disk jockey.</div><div><br /></div><div>That, of course, would be Jerry Washington, whose Blues Hour (actually three hours) on Washington's WPFW-FM was the <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">only</span> place to be from 11 a.m. to 2 p.m. every Saturday.</div><div><br /></div><div>Nicknamed The Bama (the term is a derogatory one denoting someone who is a country bumpkin, a hayseed, a yokel, which Washington most assuredly was not), Washington would break every rule of polished radio announcing: pauses for thought, repeating himself occasionally, correcting himself, sometimes long after the fact. But he combined a deep, deep knowledge and understanding of the blues with a sometimes ironic, sometimes hilarious, sometimes jaw-droppingly wise stream of philosophical observations, mostly about the relationships between men and women. Mostly about all of the things that can go wrong in those relationships, all of the things that can be misunderstood, all of the ways words and actions can be misinterpreted.</div><div><br /></div><div>Like many Pacifica radio stations, WPFW was always hurting for money, its combination of jazz and left-leaning, Afro-centric talk and politics less than viable commercially. One year, feeling flush, I donated enough during the annual fund drive to qualify for the gifts of a Bama coffee mug and a cassette of some of his thoughts.</div><div><br /></div><div>The coffee mug arrived within a couple of weeks. The cassette, despite several phone calls, was apparently never sent by the station's volunteer workers. I eventually gave up trying.</div><div><br /></div><div>But about once a week or so I have my morning coffee in my Bama mug. It always tastes a little funky that day.</div>DAShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13883193120256826302noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5979950972521090094.post-52944906694871516512009-05-11T09:28:00.000-07:002009-05-11T09:35:40.444-07:00Do My BiddingI once offered to do a project for free and was underbid.<div><br /></div><div>The project was a pro bono project — I can't remember the client — and because it was a good group and a worthy cause, and it had been awhile since I'd done a pro bono project, I offered to do it for free.</div><div><br /></div><div>The woman who'd contacted me thanked me. She told me I'd hear from her soon.</div><div><br /></div><div>She called back a few days later to tell me she'd spoken to another writer. My thought: "And you're calling me to tell me this because...?"</div><div><br /></div><div>The other writer, she said, had not only offered to do the project for free, but was going to make a donation to the organization.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the same tone clients have when they say, "I found someone who will do it for less. Will you match their price?" she told me that she was sure I was a better writer, "but his offer was so generous," and she was going to have to "reluctantly" choose the other writer "unless you feel you can tweak your offer."</div><div><br /></div><div>I believe "tweak" meant "send us a check."</div><div><br /></div><div>I told her "free" was as low as I could go, but I was glad she'd found a more generous offer. I asked her to send a sample of what the other writer did (she didn't tell me who it was), because I was curious.</div><div><br /></div><div>That was several years ago. I'm still waiting.</div>DAShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13883193120256826302noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5979950972521090094.post-71792451913654623342009-05-11T05:26:00.000-07:002009-05-11T09:27:36.125-07:00Hatred is a Virtue"I Hate New Music: The Classic Rock Manifesto" by Dave Thompson isn't the longest rant I've ever read — almost any political book would top it —but at 224 pages it certainly is the longest smirk.<div><br /></div><div>Thompson truly does hate just about everything recorded after 1976, finding punk, new wave, post punk, grunge, jam bands, and power pop to be nothing but recycled ideas. And synthesizers, he says, should be used only to make space and fart noises.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is the book that the record store employees from the movie Clerks, with their smirking superiority, would have written, had they been capable of mustering the energy and the articulateness to do it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Filled with in-jokes and too clever by half commentary — one would have to know, for example, that Eric Clapton wrote Layla about his infatuation with friend George Harrison's wife, and later stole said wife — to understand why it was so tacky for Clapton to play that song at a tribute concert for George following the former Beatle's death. One would have to share his distinction that 60's artists were "influenced" by their predecessors, while 80's musicians "copied" theirs.</div><div><br /></div><div>I wish Thompson had taken his manifesto to the extreme and posited that the Beatles barely advanced Chuck Berry, and then it was all over. That, at least, would have been a defensible position.</div><div><br /></div><div>Or not.</div>DAShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13883193120256826302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5979950972521090094.post-84063462012715006822009-04-30T19:05:00.001-07:002009-04-30T19:25:34.827-07:00Hop on the BusWhen I was 16 I spent a summer as a counselor at a day camp for underprivileged, inner city youths. (I had my car and my locker broken into more times than I can count, hut that's another story.)<div><br /></div><div>One day a slightly older co-worker asked me if I wanted a ticket. To see the Rolling Stones. At Madison Square Garden. That night. Mick Jagger's birthday. For free. (This was the 1972 tour, when the Stones were still at their peak.)</div><div><br /></div><div>He, for some reason, only had the one ticket, and his girlfriend was pissed that he didn't have two (to also take her) and that he was even THINKING about going himself. So I got lucky.</div><div><br /></div><div>I lived in New Jersey, about 40 minutes outside Manhattan by bus, and went into the city regularly. After work my mother gave me a ride to the bus station, and off I went.</div><div><br /></div><div>Stevie Wonder was the warm-up band, and he was incredible. The Stones were as well. But the best part of the concert was my seat mates.</div><div><br /></div><div>Just before Wonder came onstage a large, very flashy black man and two black women sat in the three seats next to me. I realize now (but certainly didn't then) that he was a pimp, and the two women were his ... employees.</div><div><br /></div><div>For some reason he took a liking to me, a skinny, long haired, suburban white kid. He offered me liquor from a flask (I declined) and then some "blow" (I didn't know what that was), but didn't seem to mind as I repeatedly turned him down.</div><div><br /></div><div>One of the women was VERY affectionate with him during the show, while the other was eying me. As the concert was nearing its end, he started talking about what we should do after the show.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Looks like Charisse (the name of the woman who was eying me) really likes you. After the show come back to our hotel for a little party."</div><div><br /></div><div>I, having no idea what he was talking about, thought for a minute. "Oh, I can't," I told him. "The last bus leaves at 11:30."</div><div><br /></div><div>"The last bus?" He was incredulous.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yeah, I took the bus here. I can't miss the last bus."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Instead of coming with us you're gonna catch a bus?" Now he seemed amused.</div><div>He shook his head. Charisse giggled a little, as did the other woman.</div><div><br /></div><div>The concert ended and we parted, me wondering what it had all been about (I'm a little less naive now) and he, no doubt, muttering "crazy white kids" under his breath.</div><div><br /></div><div>To this day I consider it one of the best concerts I've ever attended. Even though, in retrospect, it appears that I might have missed the best part.</div>DAShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13883193120256826302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5979950972521090094.post-23626065214360670922009-04-28T10:28:00.000-07:002009-04-28T10:41:38.782-07:00Roll the DiceMy wife's record as a gambler is enviable: she's never lost. At least in a casino.<div><br /></div><div>Years ago we were vacationing in St. Martin, and arrived early for a dinner reservation in a restaurant whose building also housed a casino. With time to kill, my wife's curiosity led us into the casino.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was tiny and amateurish, compared to American casinos, the equivalent of something you might build in your basement: two short rows of slot machines (maybe 20 in all), one roulette wheel, half a dozen tables for various games. My wife, intimidated by the tables and wheel, approached the slots. She asked how they worked, and I explained.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Do we have time for me to try one?" "Sure, go ahead."</div><div><br /></div><div>She inserted a coin and yanked the lever (these weren't the modern electronic machines). The wheels spun. She won nothing. She tried again. Nothing. She tried a third time.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ding ding ding! Lights flashed, bells rang, and coins began to spill out of the machine and onto the floor, rolling and bouncing around us. My wife began giggling uncontrollably. "I won! I won!"</div><div><br /></div><div>She gathered up her winnings, which were about $80. </div><div><br /></div><div>"What do we do now?" </div><div><br /></div><div>"We leave. You just won enough to pay for dinner." </div><div><br /></div><div>"But I want to play some more."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Of course you do. And if you play long enough you'll give it all back. Trust me."</div><div><br /></div><div>And off we went to dinner. It was all the more tasty for being paid for by gambling winnings. My wife has never been in a casino since and, apparently, hasn't missed it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Last year for Christmas I bought her a one-year subscription to the lottery's Mega Millions, which meant that she was automatically entered into every drawing (twice a week) for a year. The Maryland Lottery sends you a letter if you've won a larger amount (I think over $1,000), but just adds up your smaller winnings and sends you a check for them at the end of the year.</div><div><br /></div><div>Every day, of course, I'd run out to the mailbox to see if we'd received that $1,000+ letter. I mentally spent multimillion dollar prizes many times over.</div><div><br /></div><div>One day there was a letter from the Maryland Lottery, which she eagerly ripped open. Inside was a check for her year's worth of winnings.</div><div><br /></div><div>$18. We ate dinner at home.</div>DAShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13883193120256826302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5979950972521090094.post-8980276348136062432009-04-15T10:59:00.001-07:002009-04-15T11:08:13.025-07:00Sitting In LimboOn Easter I gave a gift to a stranger that, I believe, made us both happy: she self righteously, me, well...<div><br /></div><div>Two of our children were altar servers at 9 o'clock Mass on Easter morning, so my wife and I went. (I try to go to most of the Masses they serve.) For those who have never been to a Catholic Mass, there are a couple of occasions when the parishioners kneel.</div><div><br /></div><div>Just as the service was starting, an older woman (70s, maybe) sat next to me. She looked rather severe.</div><div><br /></div><div>All was fine until the first point during the service when parishioners kneeled. Not being Catholic, I didn't, but remained seated in the pew. She shot me a look.</div><div><br /></div><div>The second time everyone else kneeled, I again remained seated. She glared at me. She said nothing, but her body language said it all.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was going to lean over and whisper to her, "I'm Jewish," but I stopped myself. Clearly she was receiving some pleasure by being so disapproving. I was sure she was going to mention my actions (or lack of actions) to someone else later in the day. Who was I to deny her a "tsk, tsk" moment?</div><div><br /></div><div>When the service ended she gave me one more look before scurrying away. I felt like a heathen. A happy, giving heathen.</div><div><br /></div><div>I hope she sits next to me the next time I go.</div>DAShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13883193120256826302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5979950972521090094.post-45907797698462506492009-04-13T13:41:00.001-07:002009-04-13T13:46:34.668-07:00'Tis better to give<span style="font-family:Helvetica;"><div>Have you ever received a gift that seemed to be more for the giver than for you? This year I received several which semed suspiciojusly driven by self interest.</div><div><br /></div><div>I only asked for two gifts, and received them both: a home made bookmark from one daughter, and a large ceramic mixing bowl (I'd broken my favorite one) from my wife.</div><div><br /></div><div>My wife also inexplicably gave me some TV trays, so I could eat dinner while sitting in front of the TV I never watch. (I watch the least TV of anyone in the house by far.) A couple of years ago she gave me a breadmaker, which she used (and loved) sveral tims before I ever got around to doing anything with it. (Since it just broke I'm expecting another as a gift some time soon.)</div><div><br /></div><div>I tend to receive gifts that the rest of the family wants, but since I really want very little it all works out. My brother-in-law was going to give me one of three books, and since he'd read two he gave me the other, assuming (correctly) that I'd lend it to him once I finished it.</div><div><br /></div><div>One of my closest friends said he plans to give me some very nice cigars.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't smoke. He does.</div></span>DAShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13883193120256826302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5979950972521090094.post-7273387720129212812009-04-02T12:48:00.000-07:002009-04-02T13:01:17.129-07:00DoppelgangerI occasionally get emails meant for another person with my name, who assume that my first initial and last name at Gmail is this other guy. (My name isn't very common.) Today I received the best email yet.<div><br /></div><div>The subject line consisted of only three letters: "wtf." The opening sentence: "Whatup dude."</div><div><br /></div><div>I knew right away the email wasn't meant for me.</div><div><br /></div><div>My other me was wished well (apparently I'm leaving a job or a place, I couldn't tell which). I was asked how long it took me to get used to my CPAP machine, told about a traffic stop where the writer had avoided a ticket, and asked how my wife was doing. (Fine, thanks.)</div><div><br /></div><div>I was asked if I felt antsy about leaving (no) and told I was missed and that my name was "invoked every time there is free food." I guess that's a compliment.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then came the heavy stuff: "my unsolicited, uninformed opinion is that you may have a pill addiction and it could possibly be underlying a lot of your issues, at least since Yvonne."</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh boy, am I in denial. I had no idea I had a bad pill habit. Nor can I quite recall Yvonne. Guess I was so wasted on pills I didn't get her name. Or something.</div><div><br /></div><div>It gets better: "At the same time, I feel like a HUGE hypocrite telling you that because I really enjoyed the pills you gave me and I wish you were here to give me more."</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, actually, I think he feels like a huge idiot for sending this email to the wrong person.</div><div><br /></div><div>I can't wait to see who writes me next. I just get more interesting by the minute.</div>DAShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13883193120256826302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5979950972521090094.post-1089658643615406892009-03-27T08:16:00.000-07:002009-03-27T08:36:00.500-07:00Good DeedIn the category of "no good deed shall go unpunished," I would place the time our oldest daughter lost her iPod in the National Aquarium in Baltimore.<div><br /></div><div>Then 13, she'd insisted on bringing her new iPod on a family trip to the aquarium, and as we were leaving she suddenly realized that she no longer had it. I retraced our entire path through the aquarium and checked with the lost and found. (It turned out the aquarium didn't always keep everything in its central lost and found, so I was directed to visit the guard station on each floor as well as the lost and found.)</div><div><br /></div><div>No iPod anywhere. She was teary in the way that a 13-year-old girl can be. Our only hope was that the person who'd found her iPod was an honest soul, since her first name and phone number were engraved on the iPod.</div><div><br /></div><div>The next day a man from Annapolis, about half an hour from us, had her iPod. I arranged to stop by his house that Saturday and retrieve it, repeatedly thanking him and telling him how relieved and happy our daughter would be.</div><div><br /></div><div>That Saturday our son wanted to take a drive with me, so we went to Annapolis together. When we arrived at the address we'd been given no one was there, but a note on the door said the man who'd called us would be back in a minute.</div><div><br /></div><div>He was, and after greeting us he went inside, got the iPod, and came back out.</div><div><br /></div><div>That's where the trouble began. He began lecturing me about being careless, hiw lucky I was that he'd been the type of person who would call about and return lost property, and how the aquarium was no place to bring an iPod.</div><div><br /></div><div>When he paused I repeated that the iPod was our daughter's, not mine, and that I was the wrong person to lecture. His response? He lectured me more. Our son, then 11, just stared at him. This guy was a Good Samaritan Maniac.</div><div><br /></div><div>Finally he ran out of steam and we escaped. I lead footed it out of his neighborhood.</div><div><br /></div><div>When we were halfway home our son, who'd been silent all this time, finally gave voice to what was on his mind. "Dad," he said. "It would have been easier just to buy a new iPod."</div><div><br /></div><div>Indeed.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>DAShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13883193120256826302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5979950972521090094.post-83937509936444636922009-03-23T08:51:00.000-07:002009-03-23T09:03:36.589-07:00Say It Ain't So, JoeJoe Vitale is, by almost any estimation, a terrific drummer. In the last 40 years he's played with Joe Walsh, Ted Nugent, the Eagles, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, Dan Fogelberg and many others. He's recorded three solo albums, produced or co-produced a few, and played in dozens of countries. He appears to be a very nice guy.<div><br /></div><div>He has, however, produced a lackluster book, a story of life as a musician which was just released. Written and edited by his wife (it's an "as told to" book) and designed by his son, this is a real family affair. A big Italian family. big Italian family that talks about how humble it is, how flattered it is and how many stories it has.</div><div><br /></div><div>If you find stories about musicians falling asleep on sofas and being left behind on tour buses, guitarists mistakingly turning up fans rather than amplifiers and people drawing mustaches on pictures to be side splittingly hilarous, you'll love this book. But somehow, the funny stories Vitale keeps saying he's going to tell never materialize. Curiously, in 40 years of touring with rock bands Vitale never seems to have seen a single groupie or drug incident, never seen a performer give a sloppy performance while drunk or high, never seen anyone act less than professional.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">that's</span> funny.</div>DAShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13883193120256826302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5979950972521090094.post-40026331889389974902009-03-19T11:27:00.000-07:002009-03-19T11:46:56.709-07:00GiftsFor those of you who haven't yet completed your Mother's Day shopping — I can't believe you've waited this long — this is the story of the best gift I ever gave my mother.<div><br /></div><div>My mother, a first generation American, grew up in New York City (Queens, to be exact) during the Depression. She loved the theatre, but there was no money for something as frivolous as a theatre ticket. Most of the time, she'd join the crowd outside a Broadway theatre during intermission after the first act of a play and walk in, find an empty seat and watch the last half or two thirds of the show. She might not have been able to completely follow the plot, having missed the first act, but it was free. On the rare occasions when she was able to scrape together the money for a ticket, it was always for the cheapest seats farthest from the stage. The actors may have been tiny figures from her vantage point but at least she was there.</div><div><br /></div><div>To my mother, the more well-to-do women in the expensive seats seemed like slightly exotic creatures. She was in awe of their greatest indulgence: even though these well dressed women were close to the stage, they still brought opera glasses to see. (For those unfamiliar, opera glasses are small, low powered, somewhat elegant binoculars.)</div><div><br /></div><div>Those opera glasses became, to my mother, the symbol of the good life she hoped one day to attain.</div><div><br /></div><div>Fast forward many years, to the point where I was in my late teens. By this time my mother was living a solidly middle class life. She and my stepfather, avid lovers of theatre, opera and the symphony, went to many shows a year,usually in the more expensive seats.</div><div><br /></div><div>She could have easily afforded a pair of opera glasses, but never bought this indulgence for herself.</div><div><br /></div><div>So one year, for her birthday, I did.</div><div><br /></div><div>The look on her face when she opened the package was one I will never forget. Her eyes filled with tears and, I must admit, so did mine.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't think she's ever used her opera glasses, but she's kept them in a prominent spot on the shelves in their living room everywhere she's lived since then. When she dies, I'll give them to one of our daughters, whichever one I think will most appreciate them.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'll tell our daughters the story of how their grandmother came to own such a magnificent, fancy, frivolous item as a pair of opera glasses. And I'll let them draw their own conclusions.</div>DAShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13883193120256826302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5979950972521090094.post-30312591485042280892009-03-12T08:56:00.001-07:002009-03-12T09:03:02.570-07:00Separated at birth<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipcSnBBVg3mgN1oPemf1IJo2_MMnUU6tTq5BbZCve-r5Yi9r0P5TfI9_4NqOCebjvUd0Q5f3rsWDbrBoic28iETIw7UhjwYmOQfjk3T-g8o4ujwOkPnjqnGG6igPcgpYaviEhpvmNiWXiT/s1600-h/David+Quarter.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipcSnBBVg3mgN1oPemf1IJo2_MMnUU6tTq5BbZCve-r5Yi9r0P5TfI9_4NqOCebjvUd0Q5f3rsWDbrBoic28iETIw7UhjwYmOQfjk3T-g8o4ujwOkPnjqnGG6igPcgpYaviEhpvmNiWXiT/s320/David+Quarter.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312331535570045810" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOjmgxLAkcUP6sDNYFJuQLfjZm_nuVqahqjCTbfNUKi5BKxzznBKXWKgqefJHUtndX-s69FqTyy5C1zZr5Fp8owXsXgLJd3Ud6yJJttJ4YmnNv463O8EaFWSjPfB3D_kZsbwQ7798x7oG1/s1600-h/ESPN-TonyKornheiser++_photo.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOjmgxLAkcUP6sDNYFJuQLfjZm_nuVqahqjCTbfNUKi5BKxzznBKXWKgqefJHUtndX-s69FqTyy5C1zZr5Fp8owXsXgLJd3Ud6yJJttJ4YmnNv463O8EaFWSjPfB3D_kZsbwQ7798x7oG1/s320/ESPN-TonyKornheiser++_photo.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5312331382408546322" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Which one is Tony Kornheiser, ESPN and Monday Night Football commentator, and which one is me? Hint: I'm grayer but he's younger (and taller and richer).</div>DAShttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13883193120256826302noreply@blogger.com0