I’m taking a pledge to be a better person (well, on my blog at least)

A couple months back, I read a quote by some famous writer (I wish I could find it or remember who said it):  “A good writer writes about people, a bad writer gossips about them.”  

The words stung a little as I recalled how often I’ve dished on noisy, nosy (or even dead) neighbors in my apartment life past & present.  I consoled myself with the thoughts I’m not REALLY a writer, and I live alone and need to vent.

Seriously though, when I ranted in the past (like at my former gay neighbors) it wasn’t to gossip, but just to vent.

And when I wrote about people here (like Violet and her senior citizen girl gang), it wasn’t nasty or disrespectful.  They’re a fun group of ladies, and I enjoyed their teasing—plus it gave me something new to put on my blog. 

But THEN I met the new tenant the other day, and was so put off by his attitude, I wasted no time getting on here and sharing it…and then some.

Where I went wrong was pointing out his resemblance to someone not high up in the Good Looks department (that’s not his fault) and snarking on his outfit.  I admit he bruised my ego when he looked me up & down and asked me if I was in my late 60s(!) but my description of him was no better. 

I had no business being so critical of someone I didn’t know.  Or being that petty about ANYONE.

I used to have this policy that whenever I posted a blog, If I got hit by a bus or dropped over from a heart attack, is the last piece I wrote the last one I wanted people to see?  And if I was writing about someone and they saw it, would they be okay with it?   I failed on both counts.

It’d be easier to just delete it (and I might still), but for now I just wanted to say that what I wrote was small-minded, and I dont want to be that person again, and I’m sorry. 

(But I may feel less bad the next time I run into him or discover he’s a Trump supporter!)

The older I get, the more I like older people: as for you, Mr. Zero wannabe…

Have you ever met someone and been repulsed at first glance, then chided yourself for judging that book by it’s cover, then that cover opens their dumb awful mouth and you realize it’s even worse than you thought?  (If you say yes, Donald Trump then I say good answer and I love you, but I’m actually talking about someone else here.)

Earlier today I got dressed, grabbed my umbrella (it was raining pretty hard) and went downstairs.  I enter the lobby, and there’s three of the Older Women Gang—Violet, Sue & Soso sitting there, and a man is with them.   And oh boy, he is not a pretty sight.

How can I describe him?  Actually, it’s very simple—he’s a DEAD RINGER for Zero Mostel.  Well, if Zero had the flu for a week then rolled out of bed and headed downstairs.  This guy is 60ish, heavy, with greasy strands of hair plastered down this way & that across his bald dome.  He’s wearing a gray t-shirt with a big cactus in the middle and the words BIG N’ PRICKLY below it—and a pair of tan satin short-shorts that made it look like he was wearing nothing down there at all.  My first thought was “Yeow!!”  and my second thought was “Doug, be cool.”
   
Violet says “Well look who’s here!   And where do you think you’re headed off to in all this rain, Mister!”  I say “Just going to the store to get some crushed tomatoes… yikes, it’s really coming down out there isn’t it?”  Violet nods her head somberly.  Sue says “What are you making Doug?  Rigatoni?”   I laugh and say yes, as a matter of fact I am.  Soso says “Doug, this is our new tenant, he moved in our building last week on the fifth floor.  He came here all the way from Arizona, his name is Joel.”   I say hi.  He taps the front of his shirt and says “It’s why I’m wearing this.  T-shirts and shorts are the ONLY things I own.  And the only things I WILL own.”
 
First of all, gross.  Second, my Snarky Gaydar screen has picked up a big one—dead ahead. 
   
I say “So what brings you all the way to Pittsburgh, Joel?”   He says “For the…”  and puts two fingers up from each hand, making air quotes. “PREMIUM healthcare Pittsburgh is known for.  Anyway, I was born & grew up here and came back for a kidney operation and decided to stay put.”

Soso says “Doug was just in the hospital for a kidney operation too!  Did you have your kidney removed, Doug?”   What the—how the heck does she know anything?  I shake my head no, and say I had kidney stones and got a lithotripsy.  Joel says “Only one?  Try having 19 lithotripsies!”  He leans forward then and looks me up and down.  “How old are you?  Late 60s?”
   
As I stand there looking stupid, Sue says “Doug isn’t in his 60s!  He’s 57!  What gave you that idea!”  Joel rolls his eyes.  “If you’d let me finish, I was paying him a COMPLIMENT.  I was going to tell him he looks very… nice for a man his age.  But 57?  I’m 61 and you look older than me.”

Behind him, Violet is shaking her head, mouthing the word “NO”.   Haha, God bless her.  I say “Um… so Joel, are you here on your own?”  He rolls his eyes.  “No, I have 5 little ones upstairs.  Want to meet them?”   I don’t say anything.  He says “I have a partner, Samuel but he isn’t home right now.   I’m sure you’ve seen him, he’s very round and black, and MUCH older than me.  He’s 69.”  I say nope, haven’t seen him around.  Joel says “You probably have, but most white people think all blacks look alike.  Maybe you thought he was one of our so-called… (air quotes) maintenance men.”

What a dick.  Violet shakes her head silently at me again and mouths the word WOW, and I struggle to keep a straight face.  I say “I guess it IS raining too hard to go out right now, I think I’ll wait till later.  Nice seeing you ladies, welcome to the building Joel.”  He says “Why don’t you do the polite thing and sit down and talk to us for awhile.”  Nope, I’ve had all I can take.  I come back upstairs, kick off my shoes, lay down on my couch and fall asleep.   When I awaken an hour or so later, it’s still gloomy outside but the rain has stopped.  I slip back on my shoes, grab my keys and open my door.

And sitting on my welcome mat is a can of something—it’s a 28 oz. can of crushed tomatoes!  My first thought was “Wonder which one of those ladies left this?”
  
My second thought was “Please don’t let this be from Joel.”

You go your way, I’ll go mine: These guys did it, so should we

 

One of the great things about being a reader of comic books in the early-mid 1970s was the “80 Page Giant”.  In an effort to squeeze a couple more dimes from their readers, DC Comics would publish a Superman or Batman book (regularly 22 pages) in an 80 page format, containing mostly reprints of older adventures from the 1950s-60s.  I loved those Silver Age Superman stories!
One such story that I’ve never forgotten was from 1963, “The Amazing Story of Superman-Red & Superman-Blue.”
   
The editors are quick to point out at the begnning of the story—“This is an IMAGINARY tale, foks!  It may or may not ever happen!”  Those ones were always the best, because unlike so-called REGULAR stories, anything could happen.
  
It begins with Superman feeling guilty for not accomplishing everything on his ‘Super List’, so he builds a brain machine (a glass chamber with a multi-kryptonite headband) to magnify his intelligence 100 times.  When I was a kid, this made perfect sense.
   
It doesn’t go as planned; even his super-brain can handle only so much power.  The machine explodes—and when the smoke clears, there are two Supermen.  (After splitting Superman into two people, it managed to give each their own full colored costume—one all red, the other blue.)

Aside from their fashion statement, they’re indistinguishable from the other.  Right away they get to work on that bucket list.

If you must know, they build a new planet Krypton for the people of the bottle-city of Kandor (long story) and an anti-evil satellite ray to put in Earth’s orbit to ‘make everyone good’.  Baddie Lex Luthor is so transformed into a good person, he creates a serum for Earth’s water supply that cures everyone of all diseases.  People jump up from wheelchairs, blind men throw away their canes.

With no more crime or disease in the world, Red and Blue Superman decide to go their separate ways.  Red marries Lois Lane & moves to New Krypton, while Blue marries their childhood sweetheart Lana Lang & remains on Earth.  Each lives happily ever after.

I thought about this story today, after reading an article this morning about Trump’s henchmen (aka the Dept of Justice) missing that second deadline to hand over his income taxes, all to cheers of support from his base.  I commented that I was counting down the days until we had a law-abiding President again and someone responded “Wah! Poor Douglas Morris misses his HillaryBeest!  He still can’t believe she lost!” Er… I guess he meant Hildebeast, but Trumpers (and Russian trolls masquerading as Trumpers) aren’t known for their spelling.  Actually, Hillary was the farthest thing from my mind.  I was thinking of his supporters… his 39% base is never going to change their way of thinking. 

At the same time, no Democrat in their right mind would give this Donald character or his minions anything more than their scorn. 

So maybe it’s time we did what Superman Blue & Red did—at the start they were united, but knew when to part company.  We should be like them, go our separate ways.  The Blue States & Red States of America.  Yes I know we tried that before and wound up with a Civil War, but it’s only because both sides weren’t keen on the idea. 

I think we are now.

Think about it Trumpers… since you’re a bit more than a third of the population, you could settle in our country’s breadbasket, right in the center of things.  (It’s best you forget the East and West coasts, that’s where Muslims, transgenders & other minorities live.)  Hey look at that red shape—you even LOOK like Trump there!  

You could come up with your own laws & everything.  While us damn liberals continue electing a new President every 4 years regardless of gender or religion or sexual orientation (I saw all the childish, homophobic comments about Mayor Pete Buttigieg on FoxNews by FoxNews hosts by the way), you could elect Donald Trump your king and his sons next in line for the throne.  You’d have a Trump in power for generations!

You wouldn’t have to deal with annoying things like compassion for others less fortunate or civility towards people who don’t love or worship as you do, those are weak Democrat traits.  And you wouldn’t have to worry about fake things like climate change or evolution being taught to your kids, you probably wouldn’t have the funds for public schooling anyway.  Your richer kids would attend private schools of course, the other 95% would go to gay & Christian conversion camps.  Who needs to learn how to read anyway!   Words are bad—they’re Enemies of the People!  

I could go on & on here, but I know I’m not saying anything productive or helpful.  Just felt like blowing off some steam.  While I really do believe the BSA (Blue States of America) would thrive & become a real example to the rest of the world (you know, like Finland or Australia or New Zealand or Canada), the red states would have no one to take from, corrupt or hate on but themselves, and within 10 years would probably be declaring war on us. 

And God knows they have the firepower.

If I can just get through today: That’s what an optimist with TMJ (TMD) says every day

I will freely admit (on here, where no one has to respond) that I’m having difficulty managing this facial pain.  I’ve been battling this latest bout of TMJ since the first week of December 2018, when it returned with a vengeance the day after I came out of the operating room for work on my kidney.  Man, that was 4 1/2 months ago. 

It began as a stinging sensation in the center of my face (like a mild sock to the nose) and has steadily gotten worse.  I get to sleep at night by wrapping my face in ice until it’s achy-numb, than getting into bed & laying flat on my back. 

You’re so worn out from the day you usually fall asleep pretty quickly. 

But right before I conk out, I have a hopeful thought:  “Maybe I’ll wake up in the morning and it’ll be all gone, like Marcia Brady and her swollen nose.”  I am the eternal optimist.

If you’re a regular visitor to this blog, you might be doing a little scoffing right now, but it’s the truth.  I’m a glass half-full guy and here’s why:

1.  At least I can afford it.  If I had to work right now, I’d be in big trouble—because the truth is, there’s no way I could while dealing with this.  And what if I had no savings, or had a family to take care of, or a kid in college or a wife who relied on my job’s health insurance?  At least I’m not causing others distress.as well..

2.  I believe it will get better.  This jaw curse first struck in July 2016 and sent me into an absolute panic; it was a miserable existence that went on for over 7 months.  But it DID begin getting better by March, and by the summer of 2017 I was looking at the box of TMJ stuff under my bathroom sink (pills, creams, oral splints) and debating tossing it.  (I’m glad now I didn’t..)  It returned in December 2017, but was more manageable and lasted all of 3 months.  If it’s gone away twice before… third time’s a charm, right?

3.  I can’t talk about it, but I can still write about it.   I mean that literally—it hurts too much to say more than a couple sentences aloud, and forget stuff like yawning or smiling.  I’m sure all of this is a lousy read, but having a space like my blog to get this stuff off my chest helps a lot.

4.  I have the right mindset for it.   I’m not trying to sound like a martyr here, but if anyone in my world HAS to have this… TMJ is a hermit thing.  You can’t socialize or live a normal life while it’s going on.  And it’s not like the flu where you’re miserable now, but know you’ll be all better in 1-2 weeks.  So… when it comes to solitary confinement,  I’m an old pro.

5. Misery loves company… not on my watch.   A few nights ago I visited a TMJ forum (to see if there’s been any advances in treatment since my first bout with this) and noticed this little gem:

“I don’t have tmj, but some years back I come home from work and my neighbor is in his backyard smoking a cigarette.  I  thought he quit them a long time ago.  I asked him if anything was wrong, he said the doctor told him there’s nothing more they can do for his TMJ.  He shot himself in the head that week.  People don’t die from pain, they die attempting to stop pain.”

If this fella doesn’t suffer from tmj, why was he on a TMJ forum?  Anyway, I know they say misery loves company— I sure don’t.  I’m reminded of that scene in Mel Brook’s History of the World Pt.1 where starving peasants are pleading to one another in the streets—“FEED ME!!”  and a filthy Cloris Leachman is off to the side looking disgusted:  “Look what we’ve become—beggars begging beggars!”

That’s what it feels like when you share your story with other TMJ sufferers.  Aren’t there former TMJ sufferers to provide tips or encouragement?  For the most part, no.  I’ve read 1-2 pieces that give me hope, but the bulk of them cause heartbreak for them (and worry for myself).  I can’t hold anything against former sufferers who go on their merry way… I know the first time mine first went away, I had no answers.  And the last thing I wanted to do was go back to those forums and be reminded of it.

If you made it to the end here… thanks for letting me share.  I’m sure things will be better real soon.

Darn it, enough with the phony comments: a man’s blog is his castle

Every morning after I get out of bed & do my morning routine, sit down with a cup of coffee, turn on “Morning Joe” and my computer—I see several of these in my inbox:

From: Anonymous [mailto:noreply-comment@blogger.com]
Sent: Saturday, April 13, 2019 5:59 AM
To: edougmorris@gmail.com
Subject: [ApacheDug's Teepee] New comment on Chocolate teepees and my so-called secrets of weight loss

Anonymous has left a new comment on your post "Chocolate teepees and my so-called secrets of weight loss":
 
I have been surfing on-line greater than 3 hours today, but I by no means discovered any interesting article like yours. It is pretty value sufficient for me.  Personally, if all web owners and bloggers made excellent content as you did, the net will probably be a lot more helpful than ever before.
   
It’s not real; it’s generic crap, it’s spam.   And during the day, I’ll get 7-8 more.  (That chocolate teepee post recently got several of these phony comments, I wonder why that is?   It’s probably why that chocolate post is at the top of my “Revisited Posts” in my sidebar.  I have no control over that.)

Anyway… it’s getting to be a real drag.  I read every one, just in case someone “real” is commenting.  It’s not like these spam comments contain links to some nefarious site, I read up on the innocuous ones I get and I still don’t understand it.  Something about low-life websites posting benign comments to spread themselves out, grow tentacles in the googleverse. 

I don’t know how it works, but I get it—I know that if I visit someone’s blog & leave a comment (a REAL one), if it asks me to include my website I always do.  Nothing like a little self promotion!

I’ve done my best to keep the spam off my personal blog—I changed the settings to ask my permission before publishing a comment on a post older than 30 days.  When that didn’t work, I set it to ask me first before publishing a comment on ANY post.  And when that still didn’t stop ‘em, I changed it to do a “bot check”, which DID work. 

But when I tested it by attempting to publish a dummy comment on my own blog, it required me to jump thru so many hoops “Place an X on every tree in this photo to prove you’re not a bot” I failed it every time!  No one’s going to go thru all that crap just to let me know they read my blog about my latest kidney stone!

ENOUGH.  I think I have little choice but to remove the ‘Leave a comment’ below.  It’s not like I get many anyway… and that’s okay.   I admit, I enjoy the occasional feedback.  Hey, someone actually read my blog about why I left Facebook!  but I don’t expect them.   This isn’t a specialty or entertainment blog, and I’m certainly no Erma Bombeck or Garrison Keillor.


All this talk about SPAM has reminded me I haven’t had the canned stuff since… I dunno, the 70s?   I think I need to pick up a can this week.  Do they still have those little keys on them?

Omigod, I just proofread this—it’s the most boring thing I’ve ever written… right? 

So I think I may wait a day or two and turn them off.  Honestly, I don’t know if anyone even READS this stuff (besides a daily visitor or two & my sister Shawn, when I post new movie reviews on Fridays).  I have a flooky visitors map on the sidebar that lets me know if someone has been here, but it doesn’t even work right. 
If my sister (from Greene County, PA) gets on here, it shows her location as ‘Chagrin Falls, Ohio’.  Er.. that’s not even close!  

For all I know, I’m pretty much talking to an empty room.  Again, that’s okay;  living alone as long as I have, I’ve gotten pretty good at it.

When it comes to aging gracefully… er, 5 things I’d like to see before I go

This past Tuesday night while brushing my teeth, I felt a sharp pain in my lower right back.  I stood there at my bathroom sink, praying please go away, please go away…  It didn’t go away of course, just increased in intensity.  I KNEW what it was—kidney stones.   When I was having all those issues with my left kidney in November & December, my urologist told me I had them on my right side too, eventually we’d have to address that issue.  I guess that time had come.

Long story short, I called 911—got a pair of paramedics who kept reminding me they couldn’t give me anything for the pain everytime I cried out, got taken to Mercy Hospital (at my insistence), was doped & wound up staying 3 days while waiting for 2 stones to pass—a day longer than necessary because I passed out while signing my first release.  I woke up back in my hospital bed with a FALL RISK band on my arm.

I laid there thinking: since leaving UPMC at the start of 2015, this was my 12th trip to the Emergency room, my 7th ride by ambulance, my third extended stay at a hospital. 

What the heck is going on?  In the 28 years I worked as a computer analyst, I’d been to the hospital exactly ONE time, when I broke my leg in 2002.  

I know that time spares no one, but let’s face it—I am not aging gracefully.

Last May, my left leg swelled up to double it’s size from the knee down.  It stayed that way for 2-3 months too.  I should’ve had it looked at, but frankly I was doctored out—and afraid they’d tell me I had 6 months to live

I don’t want to make light of these health concerns, and I realize things could be far worse; but to be honest it’s been difficult for me to stay upbeat about things in general.  With all these medical emergencies and the chronic TMJ, I’ve been struggling with some serious bouts of depression. 

It’s also gotten me to thinking a lot about my parents deaths (my dad died when he was only 63 years old, my mom at 64) and sometimes I can’t help but wonder, at the rate I’m going, if I’m going to even make it to my sixties. 

Death, if you’re listening—here are 5 things I’d very much like to see before you tell me it’s time to go.

1.  The Brady House rebuild

Ever since HGTV bought the “actual” Brady house and began construction on its interior to match the original show, I’ve been watching the Youtube snippets with bated breath— “They found the 1969 avacado green refrigerator with the water & ice dispenser in the door!”  “The original manufacturer of those orange formica counters is still in business and has those countertops in stock?  Groovy!”  

C’mon Death—this reality series is set to premiere in September 2019, PLEASE LET ME REMAIN HERE LONG ENOUGH TO SEE THIS SHOW.  It’s only 6 months away, is that too much to ask?   If it helps, I’ll probably have a heart attack when the house is completed and the original Brady kids take us on a tour!

2.  A Democratic president again

When I told my friend Danielle that I’m partial to Kamala Harris winning the Democratic Primary, she said “Black AND a woman?  Did you forget where we live?  This is the land of hillbillies and rednecks!”  

She has a point, but I remain hopeful.  While I’d be over the top to see ANYONE with a hint of decency & compassion in the White House (I’ve just ruled out Trump and every GOP politician btw), I think Kamala would be the perfect bridge between moderate & progressive Dems.  (I’d happily vote for Joe Biden though.)

C’mon Death—it’s only 2 years away, it’s not like I’m asking for the moon here.  And I’ll make your job a little easier—if Trump somehow gets re-elected, I promise to knot something around my neck and hang myself in my bedroom closet.  Your job will be done.

3.  Donald Trump sent to jail

Death, if you’re going to let me live long enough to see a Democratic president, you might as well stretch it out a bit further and let me see some justice get served—I’ve no desire to become a ghost & haunt Mar-A-Lago, but if this dictator-wannabe isn’t in Federal prison or getting his trump roasted by the Devil himself, then I am NOT ready to meet my maker.

4.  My first Social Security check

Seriously, I can’t stick around long enough to collect my first check?  It’s not like I’m waiting until FRA (full retirement age).  I plan to sign up early—like 5-6 years from now.  Hey, I’ve seen that FICA deduction on every paycheck of mine since my first job as a dishwasher at the Olde Southern Pancake House in the summer of 1978.  Let me have this.

5.  My 50th Social Security check

What, you’re only going to let me collect ONE?   I deserve more than that!

Well, if I have to go back to the hospital soon, so be it.  I think they like me.  During my (second) check-out, while I was standing at the nurses station signing various release forms, a hospital worker wheeled a food cart from the last room and parked it next to me while he went into the restroom.  On the cart were 3 full breakfast trays.  I said “A couple of the patients didn’t want their breakfast?”  Deanna (the nurse) said “They got early releases, before the breakfast trays were distributed.”  I said “So these go back to the kitchen & get recycled into tomorrow’s meal?”

She said “Oh no… everything on those trays is disposed of.  Nothing is returned to the kitchen.”   I said “But—but those fruit cups are sealed, so are the apple crumbcakes and oatmeal packs and juice jugs!”   She said “I know!  All tossed.”   I said “Can I take them home with me?”  Deanna said “Seriously?”  I said “Yes, us single guys have no shame.”

Dr. Jackson (who was standing on my other side, looking at his clipboard) said “Doug should I scoot down to the Marriott and get you some soaps & shampoos?”  The other nurses laughed and I told him that wouldn’t be necessary as I filled my bag from the trays.  The food service worker came out of the restroom then, and the doctor said “Chnta, is the soap pump still on the wall in there?”  Chinta nodded yes with a confused look on his face, and Dr. Jackson looked at my bag of salvaged food and said “Okay… I was just making sure!”

Dare I say it? The older I get, the less I like older people

My God, isn’t that a rotten title?  Growing up, I loved old people.  (Wait, is that politically correct?  Okay, how about senior folk.)  But I did—in fact, the older the better.  When we lived in town in the ‘60s, our neighbor was this 77 year old woman named Katie, who I enjoyed visiting with on occasion.  She lived alone with 400 lbs of old newpapers & her cat Ginger, an orange tabby. 

Sometimes I’d go over to pet Ginger and once I asked Katie where Ginger got her name.  Katie said from her color, and I said I thought it came from the movie star on Gilligan’s Island.   She acted like it was the funniest thing she ever heard.   I have one more story about that sweet woman—a couple weeks after my sister Shawn’s birthday, I told Katie how our parents had thrown her a big party with 50 kids, and a couple years earlier had a party for our older brother Duke, but for some reason I got skipped over.  Later that week after coming home from school, there was a chocolate cake sitting on our kitchen table with “DOUG” squiggled across the top.  

Okay, it wasn’t so much a chocolate cake as it was a chocolate brick—it was loaf-shaped and very dense, like a poundcake.  Who cares, it was chocolate and had my name on it!

My birthday wasn’t for another month, I figured I’d done something really fabulous to warrant this early celebration.  My mom said “It’s from that old lady next door!  She thinks you’re a nice little boy and was curious why we never celebrated your birthday, did you tell her we keep you locked away in the basement too!?”

From that same year, there’s my Dad with my brother Steve on his lap, my brother Duke in glasses and me looking pretty darn fabulous

Anyway, that was then and this is now, and if I saw a robot giving the shakedown to a couple of the senior folks here in my apartment building… I’m not sure I’d be in a big hurry to call and report a mad robot was on the loose.  

A couple days ago as I was exiting the building, Sue (one of the 70-ish ladies from Violet’s posse that I wrote about here) said “There’s Doug!  Where is Doug off to now?”  I said to the store to get some ice cream.  She said “You worked for UPMC, right?”   Yes. 

“Doing what?”  I said I was just another grunt in the IT dept and worked with computers.  She asked “So what are you doing now?”  I said “Nothing, but I’ll be eating some ice cream real soon.”

She said “Besides that… what do you do?”   I said “Not much of anything I guess.  Sue, I don’t have another job, I’m retired like you.” 

She said “Yes I know—but what do you DO.”   I said “I dunno!  Watch movies—read books, talk to family and friends, eat junk.  I’m not sure what you want to hear…”  

She said “No… listen.  WHAT—DO—YOU—DO.”

Hmm… do I choke the life out of her or smash this vase over—I gave Sue my Katherine Hepburn salute instead and walked out the front door.  As I went down the walkway I vented “WHAT THE HELL’S YOUR PROBLEM!”  just in time for a man coming in the opposite direction to give me a confused look before looking down to see if he’d forgotten his pants or something. 

Dude I wasn’t talking to you, I was--Sue do you see what you made me do??

And it just happened again.  I received an email from Barnes & Noble that my nifty new Nook Tablet 10.1 was on its way, due to arrive any minute. 

I am in some real love here; it’s no ipad or Samsung Galaxy Tab, but it’s still a full fledged Android tablet, has a 10” screen and comes with access to the Google Play store.  It only set me back $129 too

I head down to the lobby, and (groan) there’s 79 year old Jack sitting there, holding his cane by his side like a scepter.  On Fridays the lobby is his kingdom.  He says “What can I do for you, Chief.”  I said I was just waiting for a package to arrive.  He asks where from, I say Barnes & Noble.

“Barnes & Noble?  What are ya ordering books in the mail for, we got a library right down the street.”   It’s not books Jack, it’s a tab… let.  (Regret saying it as I’m saying it.)

“A tablet?  Like artist supplies?”   No Jack, it’s like a… handheld computer you can watch movies on and read email and digital books with.

“Aw, what kind of crazy shit is THAT.”   It’s not crazy shit Jack, it’s like those smartphones you see everyone with, only bigger.

“Well, the UPS man already made his deliveries.  Let me hoist myself up and get my Yellow Pages, where’s it coming from, Waterworks Mall? That’s the closest Barnes & Noble around here.”   No thanks Jack, it’s coming from Connecticut or New Jersey or something.  I ordered it online.

“Aw, what kind of crazy shit is that!  You got a real store, 20 minutes drive from here!” 

I DON’T HAVE A CAR, YOU CRAZY SH—I MEAN JACK!   As I stood there debating the best way to put this fool out of his misery and mine, my package arrived.  Jack, you’ll live to see another day.  I once again gave my Katherine Hepburn salute and headed to the elevator as I heard him call out after me.  “Don’t forget we got a library right down the street Chief!” 

I yelled back “I know, Jack—I’ve been there a bunch of times!”  He said “Never been there, myself!  I don’t read books if I can help it!”