Wherein Your Humble Servant Addresses "The Mystery of the Cold Hands"

Jesus Gary! What the hell is WRONG with you? You own six pairs of good winter gloves and you've lost every one of them! Why can you not hold on to a pair of gloves from one winter to the next?

This is not rocket science: WHEN YOU TAKE OFF YOUR GLOVES, PUT THEM IN THE POCKETS OF THE JACKET YOU'RE WEARING! You are 45 years old. Why is it that 6-year-olds have mastered this skill and you have not?

And it's not like this is new behavior for you.  When you were a kid your mother had to tie a piece of yarn to your gloves and thread them through the sleeves of your Mighty Mac. Even then you lost them with regularity! I swear to God, you'd lose your pecker if it weren't attached to you!

Find your gloves. Keep them in your pockets. Because the next time we have to have this conversation, I'll slap you. With a VERY cold hand.

Wherein Your Humble Servant Has a Busy Day

Had a full slate yesterday, and all of it good.

Went to see my pal The Corporal, who has been home lately, while convalescing from a particularly vicious MS attack that left him unable to use the right side of his body. Some hospital time, some rehab, and now some home care. So I went to see him, to pick up his spirits with the insipid yet oddly endearing brand of buffoonery for which I have become noted.

As it turned out, he was more or less fine. He woke up Saturday morning to find that his ability to walk had drastically improved - to the extent that he and the Mrs. took a walk around the reservoir behind his house, took a shower standing up, the whole bit. So our visit was light and full of laughs, which was enormously gratifying.

If my little medical misadventure has taught me anything - besides to take care of my health, that is - it is not to underestimate the power of a visit to the sick or the healing. Really. When you give your time to someone who is laid up, it's a gesture that he will never forget. Trust your Uncle Crafty on this one.

After his visit I thought I'd go see my mother at The Ancestral Manse. But I couldn't raise her on the telephone. I went to the house anyway, just to make sure she hadn't broken her hip or anything, and hung around a bit waiting for her, graciously helping her by doing her crossword puzzle and fucking up her Sudoku. I knew better than to raid the fridge - I know where that goddamn fridge has been. But I had something to drink and left, apparently leaving every light in the place on, much to my mother's later consternation. Despite the fact that I left a note ("was in the neighborhood, thought I'd stop by. I took a leak in the brown bathroom. I thought you should know.") and splayed the newspaper on the kitchen table, she was sure that the house had been broken into, and the burglar, taking nothing, instead left all the lights on and left, locking the door and the deadbolt behind him.

Ma's a little touched.

Anyway, after that I headed over to the Very Josie's, where we all went to our favorite Chinese restaurant (Bali Hai in Lynnfield, for any of you Townies that might happen along this little chucklefest). "All" in this case meant the entire VJ clan, including Cricket, whom I hadn't seen in forever, and Ursa Sucrosum, who is turning into a man in front of my very eyes. Great grub as always, even though Josie complained that my shrimp smelled a bit fishy. Also as always we had a lot of laughs.

From there we went to our old pal Noodles' place to have an evening of poker and conviviality. The Mayor was there, whom I hadn't seen since the stroke at least, and Butchie was there too. He's most noteworthy in my life for giving Tootsie the nickname "Thumbs," for reasons that are, alas, lost to the four winds.

So let's see, me, the Very Josies, Cricket, the Mayor, Noodles, Butchie. I think that's everyone. Ohhh yes, I did miss one.

The dog.

Noodles has a little terrier-type dog named Theo. I'm sure Theo is a good dog. Somewhere in that walnut-sized brain of his lies the ability to be calm, and to be silent; of this I am absolutely sure.

That ability was not on display last night.

Yap yap yap yap yap, all night with this goddamn dog. When someone would get up to get something to drink. When we would hit the crapper. When we spoke. When we DIDN'T speak. When we shifted in our seats. Yap yap yap yap fucking yap. At least 70% of the time we were there, canine silence failed miserably to fill the room.

This constant barking took its toll on Jo. God love her, she's a cat person, like I am.  Dogs are not high on her list. And you could just see her wilting as the night went on, like old lettuce at the salad bar. When the second of our mini-tourneys were done, she looked around the table and said, "we're not fucking doing another one of these, are we?" She did not state it like a question.

So - cues taken, we decided to call it quits for the night. Neither one of us finished in the money, but as this was a friendly (soccer term), it didn't really matter. I spent more money on snackies for the table, I think, than I spent on buy-ins.

But it was good to see everyone, that's the stone cold truth. My cheeks still hurt from the laughing I did. I have to tell you, my poker table is fucking awesome. I can't wait to do it again. I think next time, though, Josie's going to be bringing ear protection, or perhaps a dog whistle.

Thanks for listening. Go see a doctor if you haven't recently.

Giuseppina Ginger

To Rob and everyone else who remembers her fondly: Josie indeed says hello, and as per her comment in my previous post, is indeed now a flaming redhead. Forthwith then a picture of Josie as the ginger that, in my heart, I always knew she had it in her to be:

Vitally, Perhaps Critically, Important Post

This morning early I was awakened to the unsettling feeling of my cat, Maya, licking my armpit.

An Open Letter to Senator Diane Feinstein

Senator Feinstein:

Not for the first time, you have disappointed me today and, I believe, let your country down.

We disagree on the question of gun control. That's ok; I have a lot of friends, and some family, who share your views on the matter. I like to think I have the facts on my side, but that is truly a discussion for another day.

My issue with you today is the press release you put out yesterday, calling for a renewal of the debate on gun control in the aftermath of the recent shooting at the Washington Navy Yard.

We may leave behind for the moment that the breathless reports - reports which you chose to pass along, in the utter absence of proof - that the shooter used an AR-15 rifle to wreak his havok were totally false. We may also leave behind your repetition of the same tired falsehoods about the AR-15 being a "military-style assault rifle," when in fact it is a consumer version of a military rifle, that can not shoot automatically, as "assault rifles" do.

What I cannot leave behind is the fact that you put this press release out as soon as you did. In a sickeningly literal way, you could not muster the grace to wait until the bodies were cold before you pounced upon an opportunity to forward a political agenda. I find it hard to think that a savvy politician such as yourself could strike such a tone deaf position; instead of providing whatever comfort you could in a raw moment, you chose rather to stir the pot in a calculating way that, if I didn't know better, I would dismiss as the act of a political dilettante.

As the dust settles we find that the shooter wrestled with significant mental health issues, had multiple arrests for crimes involving the combination of anger and firearms, and was somehow able to bring a shotgun into the Navy Yard. The failures on an institutional level that allowed this rampage to take place were staggering: He should have never had WNY clearance, he should have never passed the background check that he took and passed on Sunday when he purchased his shotgun, and for heaven's sake he should have never been able to bring the firearm onto Navy Yard property, clearance or no.

What we do not find is any mention of these facts in yesterday's press release, or for that matter any subsequent ones.

If you would really display a bona fide desire to prevent the next Navy Yard, or Aurora, or Newtown - as you claim to want to do - you would at barest minimum acknowledge the common thread of mental instability that binds the perpetrators of these unspeakable acts. You would lend some of that single-mindedness with which you pursue your agenda towards enforcing existing laws regarding who can purchase a firearm and who cannot.

Or, you may just carry on as always, and not let pass a single opportunity to make political hay, whether or not the facts of the matter are represented.

I would like to think that the American people are smarter than that; you may find that this approach will backfire on you, as the recent recall elections in Colorado have proven can happen.

I suspect, though, that you will continue with your ever-more-shrill rhetoric about how the only problem here is guns, guns, guns, and how the best way to keep guns out of the hands of the criminal element is to remove them from the hands of the law-abiding.

Because, as I have stated before, you have disappointed me, and you will very likely do so again.

10 Ways to Know A Loved One Smokes Pot

1. They gain an appreciation for good music, specifically Pink Floyd.
2. They get stopped for doing 18 in a 55 mph zone.
3. They drive by a dead skunk in the road and close their eyes and say, "mmmmm...."
4. They can spend 20 minutes debating the merits of moon-pies vs. Twinkies.
5. They are better than MacGyver and Michael Westen combined when it comes to making a pipe out of anything at hand.
6. Suggest anything cosmic, like "dude, think about this: we could all just be one tiny speck in the thumbnail of a giant being...and we could also have a universe in our thumbnails" and they will sit, stunned and silent, for the next forty minutes.
7. They lick the top flap of a burrito before they close it.
8. They pray for glaucoma.
9. They can out-think an aircraft engineer in matters of air-flow.
10. They could survive a fire in a tire factory and never cough.

Fruit Fly, Don't Bother Me

Drosophilia Melanogaster. The common fruit fly. And currently, the bane of my existence.

If you'd like to make their acquaintance, here's all you have to do:

1. Have a wife find a wonderful farmer's market with amazing produce, fresh fruit, and THE best tomatoes to be had in New England. 
2. Have her leave a basket of blackberries on the counter in anticipation of eating them later.
3. Watch as hordes of fruit flies overrun your kitchen. What fun!

Yes - fruit flies are tiny. No, they're not very smart. You'd think it wouldn't be anything near a fair fight. And you'd be right. The little bastards are EVERYWHERE, and they're elusive as all hell. Their extremely diminutive size works to their favor in a dozen ways: You don't see them unless they're flying into your eyeballs, for one, and for another, when you swat at them, the cushion of air that your hand creates as it whirrs through the air is enough to push the little bastards safely on their way.

So when you're up against an enemy, you have to fight with YOUR advantage, against HIS disadvantage. That's military strategy 101 - you don't need to read Sun Tzu or Machiavelli to know this. And what advantages does H. sapiens sapiens enjoy that D. melanogaster does not? A giant brain, an opposable thumb, and the use of tools, among many others. So I knew that if I was going to beat these tiny little shits, I was gonna need to use my brain, tools, and yes, my thumbs. 

I contrived what is, modestly, the single best fruit fly trap to have ever been invented. And the flies have already started flocking there in droves, never to return. And I watch them, imagining as the fruit fly version of panic sets in as they realize that what they thought of as fruity utopia was in fact a crypt, a house of horrors where they will stay until they die, while a fat guy with a beard looks upon them and laughs.

This is how you make it. And no fake, this works.

TOOLS NEEDED:

A big brain

Two (2) opposable thumbs

The ability to use tools

A knife

Packing tape (scotch tape will do in a pinch but you really want something thicker)

A length of string/twine/jute

1. Take a plastic soda bottle. Drink the soda. Reflect on how yummy diet Mountain Dew is. Make sure the bottle is empty.
2. Take the knife and cut just down from the neck of the bottle, where the sides just turn straight.
3. Take the decapitated bottle and put a piece of fruit in there, like, oh, I don't know, maybe a bit of blackberry that fruit flies have already shit on?
4. Take the piece that you've just cut off the bottle, turn it upside down, and put it back in the bottle. Tape it well, so that there's no way for the little bastards to escape.  You should now have something that looks like this:
   
5. turn it upside down so that the open bit is now on the bottom. Make sure the fruit doesn't block the hole.
   
6. Take some string, or twine, or jute, and tape it to the top of the trap so you can hang it. By now you know where the evil fuckers hang out - put it wherever they are. The flies will smell the fruit, fly through the hole to get at it, but because their brains are so very tiny, they can't fly down out of the hole to freedom. 
7. Watch them as they caper about, absurdly pleased with themselves for their find of bountiful feast, until the slow realization dawns upon them that their little fruit fly lives, already so short as to be pitiable, will be spent in their prison, where they will die well-fed but unfulfilled. 
8. Accept the praise and adulation of your spouse for your ingenuity and your uncanny ability to use a knife without cutting off a finger.

And that's it. Now you, my seven faithful readers, now have the ability to rid yourselves of the scourge of the 21st century. Not global communism - that was the 20th century. I'm talking about fruit flies. Know how to build one of these and your problems are solved forever.

You're welcome. Go to a doctor if you haven't been recently.