Trees, a crowd

There are three Christmas trees in my house. One is your standard tall tree bedecked with lovely lights and ornaments. But, ah, consider the other two:

* One is a replica of Charlie Brown's pathetic little tree. I consider it the finest Christmas decoration in my home.

* The other is a three-foot tree decorated by me and me alone with nothing but Donald Duck lights and ornaments. Some say I am walking a frayed tightrope of sanity.

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Christmastime rekindles a lot of warm memories, such as the time my late friend Ralph popped open a can of beer during Midnight Mass.

A never-forgotten Christmas in Connecticut

For complex reasons, my brother  and I  found ourselves spending Christmastime 1946 with my Aunt May and Uncle John in Somers, Conn., more than 100 miles from our home in Massachusetts. Now my aunt was a sweetheart of a human being and my uncle fooled no one with his gruff exterior, so staying with them was a pleasure. But I was 6 and my brother was 7 and being well away from home, we worried  whether anything would be waiting under the tree for us on Christmas morning. Would Santa even be able to find us at our temporary location?  

Come Christmas morning,  we worriedly tiptoed down the stairs not knowing what, if anything, was waiting for us. We needn't have been concerned, though, for beneath the tree were two wooden wheelbarrows, both painted blue. On the side of one, the name "Richard" was emblazoned  in red, and  "Kenneth" was on the other. Both were fairly overflowing with presents -- toys and games and candy and all the little things that help make Christmas so merry for young boys. 

 

The years flew faster than Santa's sleigh. My uncle John (who, were learned long after, had built the wheelbarrows) passed away, and  several years later so did my Aunt May. Her children had the sad job of emptying out her house in preparation for selling it. They later told my brother and me that when they went to check what was in the attic, they spotted a couple of items tucked deep into a corner. 

 

 There they were, more than three decades later -- the two wheelbarrows, with the wood now split and the paint faded and flaking. Those wheelbarrows no longer held presents, of course, but they were filled with something perhaps even better: the memories of a Christmas made wondrous and joyous by the love of an aunt and uncle.

The above item was written for, and read on, the Sentimental Journey radio show, which originates in Nova Scotia, is heard on several Canadian stations and has a worldwide audience via the Internet. 

 

Usurious credit-card companies strike again

I never received my BJ's credit-card bill for $18. Consequently, they imposed a $39 late fee and refuse to waive it. Take heed, BJ's and Barclaycard customers.

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This is rapidly turning into The Gripe File.

Apple's iTunes strikes a sour note

For the second time since the dawn of the Computer Age, I have been defrauded online. And while neither episode has cost me money, I have paid a price in stress and wasted time.

A couple of nights ago, I was trying to download an App for my iPod touch when my password was rejected time after time, even though I knew I was writing it correctly. The following morning, on a hunch, I checked my online credit-card statement and found three new iTunes transactions, each totaling $40 and change. These certainly weren't mine, so I called my credit-card company, and a fraud squad rep told me the card would be canceled and all copies of it should be shredded. I will get a new card in about a week. Meanwhile, I am being kept busy cancelling all recurring payments with the shredded card, as well as other scheduled payments.

I suspected my password had been breached and  tried to call Apple, but got a recording telling me to e-mail the company. The response was relatively quick but awkward, since I had to keep e-mailing back as other questions arose. My iTunes account was temporarily suspended and the Apple rep informed me that someone had changed both my password and e-mail address. She wrote, "I urge you to contact your financial institution as soon as possible to inquire about canceling the card or account and removing the unauthorized transactions. You should also ask them to launch an investigation into the security of your account.  Your bank or credit card company's fraud department should then contact the iTunes Store to resolve this issue. The iTunes Store cannot reverse the charges." That sounded to me as though the credit-card company has to do most of the work, but what do I know.

Fortunately, the iTunes charges had never passed the temporary authorization stage in my credit-card account and in any event my account has fraud protection. But what a bleeping nuisance. I checked the Internet and found similar stories from other  iTunes customers. Apple, with all its sophisticated technology,  really has to come up with a way to prevent such scamming.

(My other defrauding incident took place on eBay a couple of years ago and involved an evil person who stole my password and had me buying and selling objects for thousands of dollars. I saw no way the defrauder could profit by this and concluded it was done out of sheer malice by someone I don't even know.)

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As if this weren't enough, last night my iPod Shuffle went through the wash and shuffled off to iPod heaven.

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The experts say that you should create passwords that are a combination of letters and numbers and even symbols, that you should have a different password for each site you are subscribed to, and that you should change those passwords frequently. I for one am going to take that advice.

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Such is the power of Halloween in Salem that my Salem State College geezer classes will not be held all next week so that we will not have to deal with the mobs of zombies, ghosts, witches and a**holes descending upon the city.

It's a fat world after all

Many things amazed me during my recent visit to Walt Disney World but none more so than the girth of many of the visitors. I saw more obese people at Disney than even in Las Vegas. Some had rented motorized scooters for $65 a day because they were too bloated even to walk much. And all of this seems to have occurred since I last visited Disney World, about two years ago.

Obesity has become a national epidemic. According to the National Institutes of Health, about two-thirds of adults in the United States are overweight (I myself could lose a few pounds) but almost one-third are obese, having an abnormally high proportion of body fat. Overweight and obesity are known risk factors for diabetes, coronary heart disease, high blood cholesterol, stroke, hypertension, gallbladder disease, osteoarthritis, sleep apnea and some forms of cancer. I could go on, but you get the idea. All of us who need to do so should strive to lose weight. The lives we save may be our own, and a thinner America will be a better America.

Shine on, shine on island sun

The sun has been shining almost all of my first week on Prince Edward Island, and all is right with the world.

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Sunny days find me at the beach, where I wonder when pregnant women decided that bathing suits that expose their bulging bellies is the height of fashion.

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The only way things could possibly be better would be if my SPF 30 sun lotion hadn't slid into my right eye, where it is currently burning a hole.

Seen my keys? My glasses? Or how about ...

This has been my week for losing things. I can see losing a set of keys. I can see losing a spare pair of glasses. But how could I have lost a 26-inch suitcase?

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During last night's downpour, the air conditioner in my bedroom was apparently placed in such a way that the raindrops created a loud PING every few seconds. After an hour of that in the middle of the night, I fully understood the efficacy of Chinese water torture.

*

If President Obama had said the Cambridge, Mass., police acted rashly instead of saying they acted stupidly, I don't think such a hullabaloo would have ensued. And the president is usually so careful in choosing his words.

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I'm off to Prince Edward Island for a two-week stay, after spending a night in Bangor, Maine, at the local casino/hotel. Here's hoping I have money left to spend on the island. Chances are I won't be doing much posting for a couple of weeks, so enjoy the summer and maybe find something that's actually worth reading..

When you're no longer the leader of the pack

“It happens to lots of leading men as they fade into supporting roles,” writes Larry Tye in a new biography of Satchel Paige. “Loneliness sets in, along with sadness. There is more time to remember all you have achieved and to wonder why others have forgotten.” Kind of makes me glad I was never a leading man.

*

I cannot believe that some of the most valuable video in history -- the moon-landing tape -- was accidentally erased by NASA. No wonder there are conspiracy theorists.

*

I finally saw the film version of "Mamma Mia!", then wondered why.

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A new book says Jacqueline Kennedy had a romantic relationship with Bobby Kennedy.  RFK has also been linked to Marilyn Monroe. Gee, when did he find the time to be ruthless?

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I may be the only person in the world whose favorite Paul Simon song is "Rene and Georgette Magritte With Their Dog After the War." But that's because the song mentions the "deep forbidden music" of the Penguins, the Orioles, the Moonglows and the Five Satins. Oh, for the days of doo-wop.

A voice that evokes memories of The Voice

For decades, he lived and sang in the shadow of his famous father. While Frank Sinatra took the bows in packed stadiums around the world, Frank Sinatra Jr. sang for  sometimes sparse crowds in out-of-the way, no-name lounges. It wasn't that he didn't have a great voice -- he did and does -- but inevitably comparisons were made with a singer who defied comparison. And it didn't help that, early in his career,  Frank Jr.'s very real kidnapping was tagged a hoax by the lawyer for the guilty party. But after his father died, the younger Sinatra's fortunes improved. That was evident in an appearance at Rhode Island's Twin River Casino last Saturday when he packed a very big hall and won a well-deserved standing ovation. Unlike when his father was alive, Frank Jr. nowadays mainly sings numbers associated with Ol' Blue Eyes in a voice that is as close to his dad's as anyone is going to get. In a sense, that is too bad because the non-Sinatra songs he began the concert with were excellent, yet the audience response was tempered. The people, of course, comes for the songs and the memories of the greatest entertainer of the 20th century and that is why the place was jammed. As Frank Jr. replied when someone asked if he'd ever played in Rhode Island before, when he was young and seeking his own path, "I played in places you don't even know existed."

*

When I was driving to the concert, my text-to-speech GPS told me to "take the Lincoln Ree exit." I puzzled over that until I realized that Gina the GPS was translating "RI" as "Ree." She must not be from these parts.

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Finally getting a sunny day and spending it at the zoo with my grandson -- it doesn't get a whole lot better than that.

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Speaking of the zoo, the people who run it recently made a bogus claim that budget cuts would lead to closing the zoo and euthanizing animals. That reminded me of that wonderful National Lampoon magazine cover picturing a dog with a gun to his head. The accompanying words were, "If You Don't Buy This Magazine, We'll Kill This Dog."

Some use a fist and some use a smile

I was a fifth grader walking home from school when suddenly an older boy grabbed my cap and began flipping it in the air, taunting me all the while. "Hey," said his companion, "don't bother the kid. Let's give him back his hat." He took the cap from his friend and held it in front of me. But when I reached out to get it, he slammed his other hand into my stomach, making me double over. The twosome, it turned out,  was a well-practiced tag team of bullies, who had pulled that cruel trick perhaps dozens of times. After that incident, it took a while before I was again able to trust my fellow man, or at least my fellow boy.

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When we grow up and have jobs and relationships, all but the fortunate few experience a lot more pain than the above-mentioned punch in the solar plexus. The inflicter of that pain doesn't even have to make a fist and, in fact, may be smiling as he or she delivers the figurative wallop. When that happens, think of the lyrics of "The Mary Ellen Carter," a song that on the surface is about saving a sunken boat:

And you, to whom adversity has dealt the final blow
With smiling b**tards lying to you everywhere you go
Turn to, and put out all your strength of arm and heart and brain
And like the Mary Ellen Carter, rise again.

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Now that Robert McNamara is dead, it will be extremely hard to find an American male with his hair parted in the middle.

*

"Hawaii Five-0" had the greatest TV theme music ever.

*

Aretha Franklin has grown quite big, but her voice remains even bigger.

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Grover has always been my favorite "Sesame Street" character. In fact, I do a pretty fair imitation of him.

Sparkling memories of the Fourth of July

In my memory at least, the Independence Days of my late childhood were always sunny and hot and wonderful. Wonderful because many of them were spent at my aunt and uncle's big, old house in Connecticut, where fireworks were still legal. After a seemingly endless ride in those pre-superhighway days, we would arrive in Somers, a town so small that every resident's birthday was printed on the calendar. My brother and I would quickly renew acquaintances with our cousin, Jackie Brennan, who was my age, and off we would go to the corner store, named Flossie's. We would spend our life savings on firecrackers and for the rest of the day devise daring, creative and, in retrospect, dangerous ways to set them off -- under bottles and on the hoods of passing cars, for example. Sometimes we would ignite a whole package, and, as the day waned, an entire brick. At night, the grownups would put on a show with fountains and rockets, a show that in many ways was more marvelous than the professional, big-buck spectacles of today. Then came the Fourth when we arrived to find that fireworks had been declared illegal, a move that undoubtedly prevented injuries and saved lives, maybe even our own. But in all the years that followed, I have never had an Independence Day that could hold a roman candle to the firecracker-flinging Fourths of my late childhood.

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Yesterday my wife took me to see the movie "My Sister's Keeper." Watching children suffer is not my idea of a good time. If it hadn't been pouring, I would have walked the quarter-mile to BJ's warehouse and spent the remainder of the movie time roaming the aisles.

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I can't remember who wrote it, but my favorite description of the Rat Pack (Sinatra, Martin, Davis and Bishop) labels them "baggy-eyed, boozed-up, middle-aged men trying to make it New Year's Eve forever."

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Everyone has a cellphone. My 5-year-old grandson has a cellphone.

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When I was dating my wife, one day I said, "Linda, if I were a Carpenter and you were a lady, would you marry me anyway, would you have my baby?" She married me anyway.

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For someone who can't carry a tune and whose singing voice sounds like the squawk of an angry penguin, I spend a lot of time thinking about songs and singers.

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In days of old, I would hve several drinks and go wild. Now I have one drink and go beddy-bye.

Nothing new under the sun, or on the air

Long before Conan O'Brien's nightly zaniness, another comedian of Irish descent from the Boston area also made audiences howl with laughter. His name was Fred Allen and his medium was radio. Like O'Brien, Allen (1894-1956) had a variety show that over the years took on  different names but kept the same wackiness. As with O'Brien's show, news stories were fodder for jokes and routines, there was a sidekick (his wife, Portland Hoffa, who would greet him with a hearty "Misssss-ter Allll-llennnn!") and characters galore, not all of whom were politically correct (Mrs. Nussbaum, for example). But while O'Brien thrives on TV, Allen never made a successful transition from radio. Under the bright lights, he looked old and tired and baggy-eyed, and he seemed to lack the verve he brought to radio. But where would O'Brien's show -- and those of his predecessors -- be without the pioneering absurdity of a very funny man named Fred Allen.

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A couple years back, I nodded off during the movie version of "The Da Vinci Code," so it was only fitting that the other day I nodded off during the sequel, "Angels & Demons."

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My favorite Michael Jackson song is the poignant "She's Out of My Life." And you can't even moonwalk to it.

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Homer Simpson is my role model.

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I love the Heineken TV ad featuring a bunch of drunks singing in a taxi.

Exhaustion, thy name is Maxwell

Whew. My wife and I have just spent three days taking care of our 5-year-old grandson, Maxwell. Or maybe he was taking care of us. In any event, here's what he did:

* Built a Lego city in about an hour. That same task would have taken me a month. That is, a month before I gave up and threw the pieces against a wall.

* Went to Canobie Lake Park in Salem, N.H., where he rode the bumper cars (the Dodgem) six times in a row, often ignoring the traffic because he was busy looking up at the mechanism that causes a spark and propels the cars.

* Announced a career change. Instead of being a train engineer, with his grandparents as his assistants (presumably shoveling in the coal), he wants to join the State Police and operate the command center that is located within a police truck.

* Slept fitfully for a couple of hours, sending the bedsheets and pillows flying, then slept like a motionless angel for a couple of hours, then repeated the process.

* Instructed the plumber on how to tame the disaster that occurred when our outside faucet wouldn't shut off and our yard was being flooded. The plumber appreciated Maxwell's  instructions, acknowledging them with an angry grunt.

It was a marvelous three days, and I think I will recover nicely after an uninterrupted week of sleep.

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A couple of decades ago, when my daughter (a.k.a. Maxwell's mother) was about 13, I was practicing Michael Jackson's moonwalk in our kitchen when she looked up and said, "Why don't you be like other fathers and play chess or something."

*

Now that the 40th anniversary of Woodstock is coming up, expect to hear from many great pretenders claiming that they were there. If all the people who say they attended the music festival were really there, the ground would have caved in, sending the attendees to the center of the earth.

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I never see anyone smoking a pipe anymore. I abhor smoking in any form, but I always thought pipe smokers looked kind of cool.

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My wife prefers to bring junk into the house by going to yard sales. I prefer to bring junk into the house by ordering on eBay and elsewhere. We heartily disapprove of each other's methods.

It was once filled with magic

I remember the dawn of television. I remember chairs lined up in an appliance store so people could sit and gawk at the pictures coming from this new wonder. I remember black-and-white pictures so small that some sets had a magnifying glass in front of the screen. I remember Tuesday night trips with my family to the local social club, where I could be in paradise watching Uncle Miltie while chomping on a nickel’s worth of pistachio nuts. I remember a friend named Bobby Kaminski, whose family was the first in the neighborhood with a TV, inviting me over to watch “Howdy Doody” and me wondering how he could ever leave the house with this magic box in residence. I remember when only three channels were available, and those channels showed a test pattern, or nothing, for much of the day.

I remember tri-colored transparent plastic sheets that people taped over their screens to give the illusion of color TV. I remember announcements that "the following program will be broadcast in compatible color."

I remember watching TV for almost three days straight when John Fitzgerald Kennedy and Lee Harvey Oswald were shot to death. I remember watching hours of 9/11 coverage, then turning off the TV with a sigh and playing some soft music instead. I remember the tears in the eyes of many audience members when on election night Barack Obama proclaimed to a Chicago crowd, “Change has come to America.” The TV screen was now giant and wide, the picture was in incredible-looking high definition, and the number of channels to watch was almost uncountable.

Yes, I remember the dawn, and fruition, of television. I also remember life before TV, but that’s a story for another day.

Speaking of TV, one of the dumbest shows ever was certainly “Superman” starring George Reeves. To this day, I cannot understand why Lois Lane, Perry White, Jimmy Olsen, etc., never made the connection between Clark Kent disappearing and Superman arriving. I mean, those people worked for a great metropolitan newspaper, didn’t they? Oh ... maybe that’s why they never figured it out.

And speaking of newspapers, the Boston Globe appears on the brink of taking away lifetime job guarantees. I guess a lifetime just ain’t what it used to be.

When I was maybe 4 years old, I was gathering flowers (most likely dandelions) in a field when a couple of old ladies walked by. “Oh, isn’t that sweet," said one. “He’s making a bouquet for his mommy.” But she was wrong: I hadn’t even thought about what I was going to do with the flowers. I was just collecting them because collecting things for no reason is what I did, and do.

Fathers and sons -- and grandsons, too

I never will forget him

For he made me what I am 

Though he may be gone

Memories linger on

And I miss him, the old man

  --"The Old Man," sung best by John McDermott

Happy Father's Day to all you fine fellows out there. To commemorate the occasion, here are a fatherly item and a grandfatherly one.

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My older son drives a truck for a living, and is behind the wheel up to 10 hours a day. So what does he decide to do for his vacation? Drive to Virginia. I don't get it, but then there are many things about my kids that I don't get. (And I'm sure they could say the same about me.)

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I am thrice blessed! In addition to going to two preschool plays within a few weeks, I went to my grandson's preschool graduation. That's right: graduation ceremonies for preschoolers, with T-shirts and visors in lieu of caps and gowns. What next: graduation ceremonies for the babies in a hospital nursery? Anyhow, when called to receive his diploma, Maxwell decided to play the clown, staggering up to the teacher while making monkey faces. Not overly amusing.

A kiddie book with a moral for grownups

How lucky can one man be? Thanks to my grandson, I've been privileged to see two preschool plays within a month! Today's offering was "The Rainbow Fish," a story of a beautiful but selfish fishie who soon found himself isolated because of his selfishness. But when he began to share his beautiful scales, he was surrounded by friends. We should all pay heed. (By the way, my grandson, Maxwell, admirably portrayed an orange fish. But when the rainbow fish shared a scale with him, Max kind of lost interest in the play because he was quite busy playing with the scale.)

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The other day, I re-watched "Taxi Driver," released in 1976.Robert DeNiro was never that young and cab fares were never that low.

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Being born. Growing up. Going to school. Graduating. Working. Marrying. Raising children. Burying your parents. Retiring. Dying. Nine down and one to go.

A tummy-tossing trip to the old ball game

When I was in the third grade, I was named a last-minute substitute to go to a Red Sox game with the third-grade patrol boys. I was so excited that I threw up my milk at lunchtime. I don't get that excited about many things anymore.

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At that age, I really didn't understand how baseball was played, but I did see my father's hero Ted Williams get a hit. I think that later today I will buy a Ted Williams T-shirt, sporting number 9, to commemorate the event.

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In those days, third-graders were entrusted to stop traffic with red flags on long poles and let pupils cross the street. That would be unthinkable today, yet I suspect the patrol boys of yore were often more alert than some of the people I see doing the job now. And they certainly earn more than  a once-a-year Red Sox trip to Fenway Park was worth ... in those days, anyway.

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Did you know that the letters in "ELEVEN PLUS TWO" can be rearranged to read "TWELVE PLUS ONE"? Amazing.

The unkindest cuts of all

I guess you could call yesterday Bloody Tuesday. In the morning my wife cut her finger badly in the kitchen, so we roared off to our HMO ... where we waited and waited. By the time they got to her, it's a wonder there was any blood left. Then in the afternoon, we heard the person who handles our savings alibi about why the account has been bleeding red ink.

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Speaking of money, I am learning that most bloggers make virtually none. I guess that's why the call the Internet a virtual world.

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You know how you sometimes mishear song lyrics? For a half century, when the chorus in Jimmy Dorsey's "So Rare" sang about "Angels singing the Ave Maria," I thought the lyrics were, "Angels singing way off in the rear."

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I don't mean to make a career out of writing about John Updike, but his final short-story collection contains a great quote: "It is easy to love people in memory; the hard thing is to love them when they are there in front of you."

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Years ago, I worked at a newspaper that had a photographer named Pete Zaharis. It didn't take long for our summer interns to name him Pizza Harris. (One of those interns went on to win a Pulitzer Prize.)

You've gotta love that shrieking duck!

Those insurance ads featuring a duck yelling 'AFLAC!" just get better and better. My father-in-law loved those ads so much that he would shout "AFLAC!" at random, and one time greeted a bride and groom as they walked down the church aisle after the cremony with "AFLAC!"  When he died, we buried him with a stuffed Aflac duck.

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I always thought there was something smarmy about Arthur Godfrey.

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I knew I shouldn't have stepped on the scales. I knew there was a reason I was avoiding weighing myself.

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Rachel Maddow is an American original.

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I can actually date when I gave up on popular music. It was after I heard Strawberry Alarm Clock singing "Incense and Peppermints."

 

Freddy is on the loose, or soon will be

Freddy the kitten may be little but he is devilishly clever. When I arrived at my daughter's house, Freddy was on the inside but not for long. He was cleverly moving a window screen that he had attached himself to, and soon half of him had found freedom. I was very sorry to do so but called attention to his escape plans.

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Many retired journalists write books or teach classes. I have never wanted to do either. So proud.

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Everybody has a Web page these days. My 82-year-old aunt has a Web page.

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I know this is out of season, but the other day I found myself thinking about how when I was 8 or so, I would go on a Great Chestnut Hun, scouring yards and streets for the fallen nuts and collecting them by the hundreds. I would admire their glossy coats and smooth bodies but after a few days it would dawn on me that the chestnuts served no useful purpose. Into the rubbish they would go. I repeated this practice for three or four years, I think.

Two lives that turned a final page

The other day I brought home "My Father's Tears," which presumably is the final collection of short stories by John Updike. When the author died in January, in a hospice in the town I live in, I found myself thinking about my friend Dick Iwanowicz, who died three decades ago of a brain aneurism. Dick was a big fan of Updike's writings, but his German-born wife thought they had a depressing effect on her husband. "You read too much of this Oopdeek," she used to tell him. So when I heard that Updike died, I remembered that unique pronunciation, and off and on throughout the day, despite my wife's withering glare, I shouted, "OOPDEEK! OOPDEEK!" in tribute to a great writer and to a good friend.

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My wife and I went to a health forum yesterday. The main speaker, a feel-good kind of guy, said something like, "We can't control what happens to us, but we can control our reaction to it." Gee, when something adverse happens to me, I usually shout, "OH F***!!!!!" in a voice loud enough to split the skies. It has a most satisfying effect.

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Cherry Dr Pepper is pretty good. That's something I've never said about regular Dr Pepper. (And, by the way, if you look at the can or bottle, you will see that "Dr" is not followed by a period.)

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Whatever happened to the "reasonable facsimile"? I remember announcers used to say things like, "Send in the coupon or a reasonable facsimile and we will mail you some useless junk." I suppose nowadays they would say, "Send in the coupon or Xerox that puppy." They still would send you useless junk, however.

The PT Cruiser rides into automotive history

This is the month that Chrysler officially stops making PT Cruisers, but what a ride it has been!

The roomy and retro car debuted in the 2000 model year, looking like no other car -- or at least no other car in the last half-century. The public fell in love, and Cruisers began to sell for as much as 10,000 over list.

Then a funny thing happened. People who bought the car because of its looks began to change them. They added chrome or flames or wood paneling, or sometimes all three. Cruiser owners who would wave or toot at other owners began holding gatherings, in Modesto, Calif., Niagara Falls, Wildwood, N.J., and indeed throughout much of the country. In some, more than 500 Cruiser owners would show up to vie for prizes or just to admire other participants' cars.

But, as they say, all good things must end. Apparently most everyone who wanted the  quirky car bought one, because sales began to slump. The cars took up semi-permanent residence on dealer lots, and Chrysler decided to put on the brakes. 

Many owners, however, still love their Cruisers, are keeping them in good repair, and wouldn't trade them for any other vehicle. Count me among those owners.

UPDATE: Chrysler has abruptly shifted into reverse and announced that it will continue to make PT Cruisers after all. For how long is a question yet to be answered.

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Yesterday as I was taking a brisk walk, a guy I didn't even know started telling me how we "older fellas" have to keep active. Older fellas? I kept active by punching him out.

That Gina is one angry woman, I'll tell ya

Sometimes, just for kicks, I ignore the directions my GPS gives me and take a radically different route. I like to get her all angry and frustrated and even screaming at me. I say "her" because a female voice gives the directions. Her name, I decided, is Gina Pamela Smith, or G.P.S. I have two other GPSes, one named Gertie Patricia Smith and the other, Giselle Pauline Smith. I believe they are sisters.

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Watch the ending of "Marley & Me" without shedding a tear, I dare you.

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I think John Lennon's most profound lyric is, "Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans." For Bob Dylan, it is, "He not busy being born is busy dying." Coming in second are "He bag production, he got walrus gumboot" for Lennon and "See the primitive wallflower freeze/When the jelly-faced women all sneeze" for Dylan.

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I cannot believe it is June already. Oh no I cannot.

Bart and Homer extend their deepest sympathies

I've just purchased a large quantity of the new 44-cent U.S. postage stamps depicting the Simpsons -- Bart, Homer, Lisa, Marge, et al. Just one problem: Suppose I have to stick a stamp on a sympathy card.

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There's a funny song out there by Hardy Drew and the Nancy Boys (great name!) as well as the Corrigan Brothers, titled "There's No One As Irish As Barack Obama." You see, his great-great-great grandfather, or something like that, was from Ireland, although why that would make no one as Irish is still a mystery to me. Anyway, my favorite lines are, "He’s in the White House/He took his chance/Now let’s see Barack do Riverdance." You can find the lyrics and video here. (Click on the second video.)

Give the man the respect he so well deserves

It is fitting that during his final "Tonight" show, Jay Leno showed clips from Rodney Dangerfield, whose famous line was "I don't get no respect." In a sense, neither does Leno. Even as he crushed David Letterman in the late-night ratings, many critics continued to swoon over Letterman and, at best, make snide remarks about Leno's success. But Jay has a way of connecting with people that Letterman does not, and I, for one,  respect that. I'll be looking forward to Leno's new show in the fall at a time when I will be fully awake to watch it.

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During my last week at work before retiring nearly four years ago, I was sick as a swine yet I came to work every day. I was alternately sweating and cold, and felt extremely weak.   I often wonder why I still came to work. It certainly wasn't because I was expecting a farewell party; I had made it clear that I wanted none. Maybe it was the work ethic that has been part of me since I had my first job at age 10. Or maybe I feared that people would think I really wasn't sick and was just goofing off in my final week. (Why I should care what they thought is another question.) Maybe I thought I wasn't really sick and this was just an emotional last-week thing. In any event, it wasn't till I was through with the job that my problem was diagnosed: I had Lyme Disease. Fortunately, it wasn't contagious or I would have been the one giving my colleagues a farewell "gift."

Sing, sing a song ... sing it loud, sing it long

Sometimes I find myself wondering about the damnedest things. This morning, for instance, I started thinking about how singing started. Did some caveman one day start melodiously saying, "Zorg, zorg, zorg,  zorg, ZORG" and enjoy the sound of it? Or did some prehistoric person create an instrument and decide to imitate the sound with his voice? I, of course, will never know. But I do know that life would be so much drabber and drearier without the sound of music.

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And speaking of music, I think the most non-sequitur lyrics in modern music are contained in Gordon Lightfoot's "Carefree Highway": "Pickin' up the pieces of my sweet shattered dream/
I wonder how the old folks are tonight."

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Back in the day when many people kept St. Christopher medals or statuettes in their cars, my brother mounted a plastic toad on his dashboard. When people asked about it, he would explain, "Why, that's St. Toad of the Road."

Time flies -- in this case literally

"Do not open the back of this watch. Only a professional jeweler should," said the instructions that came with one of my digital watches, which uses solar power but nonetheless needs a special battery evey 10 years or so. "Hah," said I. "I'll change the battery myself." So after spending many minutes removing screws that are smaller than atomic particles," I got the back of the watch open. The battery, however, was clasped in place, and in attempting to unclasp it I sent the entire inside of the watch flying across the table. "No matter," thought I. I retrieved the core of the watch, replaced the battery, and screwed everything back together. It was then that I noticed that a couple of parts were left over. But, aha, it was showing the time. Just one problem: It was nowhere near the correct time and the buttons used to set the watch no longer function. So as long as I don't mind the displayed time being seven hours and 18 minutes earlier than it actually is, and the date being Saturday, Jan. 1, the watch is as good as new!

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Good thing I've got 199 other watches to choose from. Well, not 199 that actually work.

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I'm sure a shrink would have a field day with my timepiece obsession ("You appear concerned about the passing of time, Richard"). Ah, but what do they know.

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With Newsweek's redesign, I can't always tell the stories from the ads.

Over hill, over dale ... and out of sight

For years, one of the highlights of the televised Memorial Day concert in Washington, D.C., was seeing and hearing actor Charles Durning spare no emotion as he talked about World War II, the conflict he valiantly fought in, and was wounded in, and was honored for. Then last year he was introduced but looked old and ill and only waved to the crowd. This year, although a brief clip of one of Durning's past speeches was played,  the 86-year-old was not even present. Time marches on and the Greatest Generation rapidly fades from our sight.

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Answer to Sunday's bizarre puzzlement: H. Ross Perot was the 1992 presidential candidate with the biggest ears.

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A Memorial Day meal with my wife and kids consisting of steamed clams, lobster and a bottle of Amstel Light -- it doesn't get a whole lot better than that.

Butterflies and frogs and trees, oh my

The other day I wondered whether anything could be more comical than a baseball game played by 5-year-olds. Today I wonder if anything could be cuter and sweeter than a play staged by preschoolers. The plot was a woodsman-spare-that-tree kind of thing, and my grandson had the challenging role of pointing to the tree. Kiddies dresssed as butterflies flapped their "wings," while others in frog disguise hopped across the stage. When the next Tony awards are handed out, this play should definitely be in contention.

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Here's a puzzlement for those with long memories: Which U.S. presidential candidate in 1992 had the biggest ears? (Answer will be given when we next post.)

It's only words -- lots and lots of them

I have so many unread books in my library that I would need two lifetimes to finish reading them. So what do I do? That's right, I go out and buy more books.

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Instead of reading those books, I could spend the rest of my days trying to decipher the lyrics of "Tin Man," as recorded by the group America. For example: "And Cause never was the reason for the evening/Or the tropic of Sir Galahad."

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You know what's really painful: when they give you a senior discount without your asking. Then again, I saved 9 cents on my latest purchase.

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One reason my wife and I have gotten along these past 42 years is because we tell each other, "Do what you want. You will, anyway."

He squeaked and squeaked for three decades

Can it be anything but a sad day when the man who did the voice of Mickey Mouse for three decades passes on? RIP, Wayne Allwine.

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The only drawback to a vacation is that everything -- and I do mean everything -- you didn't do while away is sitting there just waiting for your return. 

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I would have sworn that the great song in the AT&T TV ads (the one that begins, "I think that possibly, maybe I'm falling for you") came from the movie "Juno." But my swearing would have been in vain. The song is "Falling in Love in a Coffee Shop," from an album by by Landon Pigg (a great name).

Win or lose, Adam Lambert is the winner

It doesn't matter who wins this week's "American Idol" finale: The future superstar is going to be Adam Lambert. Maybe the 12-year-old girls who I suspect make up the majority of voters will choose Kris Allen because they find him cute, while Lambert may be too edgy and gay (or gay-like) for their tastes. But Lambert has what the late writer George Frazier called "duende" -- that special something that will shoot him to stardom and keep him there long after Allen is forgotten. Update: Told you so!

That was the year that was

Surely I am misremembering and all these things couldn't have happened to me when I was 4 years old. But here's what I recall:

* While riding a bus, I slipped from my mother's sight and somehow lifted the back door's emergency bar, causing me to nearly fall out and the bus to screech to a halt.

* When crossing a street, I froze and a car tapped my knee. I received only a small bruise, but to this day my heart rate increases when I cross the street.

* I began to stutter. There were fewer child experts in those days, so my parents decided that my thoughts were coming out too fast for me to properly process them into words. Sounds like a baloney theory now, but after a few weeks my stuttering stopped, so maybe they had something there.

What a traumatic year ... assuming these three things really did happen within 12 months.

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Answer to Friday's puzzlement: Fred is 6 and Joe is 22.

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I'm going to Disney World! In October! With my grandson! Wheeee!

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I don't know if I'm happiest when I am traveling, but I am usually pretty happy.

Pop goes the memory

During my grandson's Little League game, I bought some popcorn from a booth, and to my surprise it came in a small brown paper bag. Seeing it sent my mind traveling backward to the Common in Salem, Mass., when I was a boy and a popcorn man dispensed his product in the same kind of paper bag. The difference is that after filling the bag, he poured in a generous quantity of melted butter, which was hardly good for us but in this case, ignorance was truly bliss. Although the small bag was rather pricey at 10 cents, never did popcorn taste so heavenly. Sometimes I would splurge and also buy a Coca-Cola in a 6-ounce glass bottle for a nickel. Hot popcorn in a butter-stained bag and a cold Coke in a glass bottle -- it didn't get a whole lot better than that.

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Here's a puzzlement: Fred is 16 years younger than Joe. In 10 years, Joe will be twice as old as Fred. How old are they now?  Answer Saturday.

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This is not the Big Papi I remember.

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Gee, maybe I should have asked for a new rebate form (see earlier items). The DVD collection would have been quite a bargain and maybe this time I would have actually gotten the rebate. (And maybe the proverbial pigs would have flown.)

Take me out to the (chuckle) ball game

Can there be anything more comic than a bunch of 5-year-old Little Leaguers playing their first game? I think not. Hard to decide what my favorite moment was during yesterday evening's game. Maybe it was when my grandson somehow crossed home plate after the guy who batted him in. Or mayb e it was the guy who, instead of cathcing the ball, ran from it. But this is how our future baseball stars start their careers. So carry on, boys and girls.

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I haven't yet reported on my wristwatch collection, which must number 200 timepieces, most of them worthless. I just can't stop collecting things, which would explain the Elvis LPs in gold, blue, green, and red vinyl.

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One of my geezer-class professors has l-o-n-g sideburns, a la Steve McGarrett on the old "Hawaii Five-O" TV series. So I spend much of the class imagining a razor floating through the air and then shaving off those sideburns.

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Ah, the golden years: floaters in the eyes, ringing in the ears, a shortage of synapses, and more prescriptions than Elvis and Heath Ledger combined.

Take those rebate forms and !@#$%^&*!

My Rebate Rage is alive and well. I wrote earlier in this blog that although I always fill out rebate forms properly, the submission always seems to be declared invalid. The latest case is a DVD set I bought at f.y.e. with the promise of a $20 rebate. Yesterday I got an e-mail saying that my form was invalid because the clerk had given me a form that was coded for a Wii and I should go back to the store for the proper rebate slip. Yeah, right. Then the rebate sadists would tell me that I had been given the form for a robotic dinosaur or something.  So I got my money back. I have read that it does no good to write to a store to say you will never shop there again. Instead, I just won't shop there again. And I'm never applying for another rebate again. Absolutely not. Well, probably not. Well, maybe not.

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Answer to Tuesday's puzzlement: The blind beggar was the sister of her brother, who died.

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Unsolicited testimonial: My favorite newsmagazine is The Week, because it does what Time originally set out to do: provide a lively summary of the past week's news.

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You know what's boring (besides this blog)? Insomnia is boring. Fortunately, I don't have it much anymore, but I can sympathize with those who spend never-ending nights of staring at the ceiling. 

Hey, look, it's what's-her-face!

Wherever we go, somone recognizes my wife. Just one problem: She is not the person they were thinking of; she just sort of looks like that person. Over the years, this has happened hundreds of times. "I have a generic face," my wife says.

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Robert Parker is best known for his mystery books, but he writes a mean Western, too. His latest of that genre is "Brimstone."

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Willie Nelson is my kind of geezer.

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Here's a puzzlement: A blind beggar had a brother who died. What relation was the blind beggar to the brother who died?  Answer Wednesday.

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Unsolicited testimonial: I'd rather give up one of my front teeth than my Sirius XM satellite radio subscription. And I listen at home, not in the car.

A red-hot memory (or is it a green-hot memory?)

While in the buffet line at an Asian restaurant yesterday, I was reminded of a previous visit. I am a fan of the restaurant's green tea ice cream and scooped myself a sizable quantity. Unfortunately, the horseradish-like wasabi, which looks just like the ice cream, was located nearby. You know what happened. When I took a big bite of the wasabi, flames rocketed out of my mouth, and I could have substituted for the dragon at a parade.

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Answer to Friday's puzzlement: You would need to take out 12 socks to ensure getting a matching pair. (Don't ask me why.)

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James Earl Jones has the finest voice in the movie world. Maybe in the whole world.

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I am testing the Windows 7 operating system, and I think Microsoft is going to have a hit on its hands.

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There may be nothing in the world more adorable than my grandson's new kitten, Freddy. He is about the size of a can of Foster's Lager.

M is for the many things ...

Happy Mother's Day to all you wonderful women out there. My mother passed away in 2005 at the age of 93, and what I wouldn't give to hear her mispronounce "aluminum" just one more time.

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As a pre-Mother's Day treat, I took my wife to the International House of Pancakes last night. Our giggly waitress was new on the job and got  one aspect of her work out of sequence. Shortly after she took our orders, she came back and said, "How's everything so far?" We looked at the empty table and didn't quite know how to answer. Finally, I said, "This is a fine glass of water." I tipped her generously.

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I always thought the idea of reading books on an electronic tablet was silly and impractical. Now, after seeing the Kindle in action and after downloading 130 classic books on my iPod touch for $2.99, I'm not so sure.

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I've never understood what people see in Walmart.

Enough strutting and fretting for one lifetime

Watching "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" last night, I found myself wondering whether I, like the movie's title character, would like to get younger and younger. I decided that, knowing what I know now, I wouldn't make the same mistakes over again -- just different ones. The more I thought about getting younger, the more frightening the prospect seemed to be. Maybe it's a good thing that we have, in Shakespeare's metaphor, just one hour upon the stage. 

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Speaking of the film, it is amazing that Hollywood could turn a short story of 20 or so pages into an epic that lasts nearly three hours.

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Gee, it's almost three weeks and I still haven't received notice that my rebate submission has been accepted. (see entry for April 28.)

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Shane McGowan of The Pogues has one of the most distinct voices in the world of music. Note that I said "distinct," not "great."

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Jimmy Carter may well be our finest ex-president.

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My subconscious may finally be giving me a break. Although I have been retired nearly four years, I used to dream every night that I was still at work, a scary thought. Now I only dream that every third night or so.

Ah, sweet mysteries of life.

One of life's great mysteries, to me anyway, is how people who face the same circumstances act or react so differently. Both my parents struggled through the Great Depression. And afterward? My mother became cautious and saved every penny she could. My father, on the other hand, became reckless and spent every penny he had, and some he didn't have.  A mystery indeed.

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The last time I went to San Francisco, I was going to wear flowers in my hair, just as the song says you should. But I discovered my hair was too thin to support the stems.

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Today's puzzlement is an oldie but a goodie. A drawer contains 10 brown socks and 10 black socks. How many socks must you remove without looking at them before you are sure to have a pair of brown socks. We'll give the answer Monday.

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Once I had a bright yellow car. But I was so much younger then.

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The movie "In Bruges" made me want to go to that city, despite the weird goings-on depicted in the film. Or maybe it was because of the weird goings-on.

But you should try, anyway

When they said, "You can lead a horse to water but you can't make him drink," they may as well have been talking about children. You can surround your daughter with books but you can't make her read. You can throw out your TV but your son will watch it with a vengeance elsewhere. You can talk about the evils of drugs and liquor but they will give it a try,  anyway. In sum, it is easier to teach a cat to jump through flaming hoops than to send your children in the direction you want them to go.

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Answer to Wednesday's puzzlement: Linguine means "little tongues."

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I once sold a Donald Duck anthology to a man named Donald Drake. It was his real name, too.

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Some paranoid people really are being persecuted. And, sadly, some people with inferiority complexes really have inferiorities.

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I do everything online: pay bills, order goods, read articles, send e-mails, blog, etc., etc. My wife says I am working toward never having to communicate with another human being in person. She may have a point.

One month later ....

The reincarnated Boring File is a month old today. During that month, it has been published 26 times and the page has been called up several hundred times by people other than me.  Most of those page "hits," I suspect, were on purpose, although some people  must have wandered in here by accident, said "What is this crap?" and scooted right back out. I certainly didn't start this blog to make money, and that's a good thing. You remember Dialing for Dollars? Well, this is Blogging for Bupkes. In any event, I may continue a while longer in hopes of attracting more readers. Can't understand why everyone doesn't want to read  incoherent, yawn-inducing ramblings.

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Watching "Last Chance Harvey" starring Dustin Hoffman, it dawned on me that several male stars like Hoffman, Tom Cruise, Michael J. Fox and Alan Ladd are, or were , short guys. Maybe it's a compensation thing: Because of their small stature, they worked extra hard to reach great heights in their profession.

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The aforementioned Alan Ladd was so short (about 5 foot 5)  that movie sets were scaled down to make him look taller.

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And the aforementioned Michael J. Fox rates high on my list of good guys. Watch his TV special Thursday night to see what I mean.

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It's puzzlement time. The name of which pasta means "little tongues"?  (Answer Thursday.)

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Anna Quindlen, I will miss your Newsweek columns.

Fathers and sons

My father, who died in 2003, would have been 94 today. We didn't always get along -- what father and son do? -- and I didn't always take his advice, yet it wasn't until after he died that I realized just how much of an impact he had on my career. For most of his life he wanted to do two things above all others: travel and write. He was a child of the Great Depresion and the quest to make a living took him in a different direction, allowing him time for just a little traveling and a little writing. Although I never consciously set out to fulfill his wishes, I became, among other things, a travel writer. "You're doing what I always wanted to do," he once said late in life. I guess that, as Dan Fogelberg sang, I'm just a living legacy to the leader of the band.

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The movie "State of Play" repeats the same dumb mistake that movies about newspapers have been making for eight decades. Listen up, Hollywood: Reporters do not write the headlines for their stories.

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POTHOLES!!!!

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Pepsi Cola's new natural sugar cola is called Pepsi Throwback, giving wiseacres the opportunity to refer to it as Pepsi Throwup. What were the product namers thinking?

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Speaking of such, I get a chuckle over the names of cellphones -- names like Curve, Dare, Storm and Bold. What are they, phones or strip-tease artists?

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When I read about negotiations between the Boston Globe union and the newspaper's parent company, the editorially liberal New York Times, I am reminded of singer Phil Ochs' description of a liberal: “ten degrees to the left of center in good times, ten degrees to the right if it affects them personally."

Not-so-goody two shoes

During my recent stint on the grand jury, I showed up one day wearing one brown shoe and one black shoe. And although I sat in the front row with both feet visible, no one said anything and I saw no eyes examining my mismatched shoes. That proved to me what I have long suspected: No one looks at men's shoes. I think women look at other women's shoes only,  and men, unless they are foot fetishists, look at no one's shoes. I would like to say that I purposely wore two different shoes as a sociological experiment, but that would be a lie. Chalk it up to a sleepy guy getting dressed in a dark room.

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Pete Seeger, who turned 90 yesterday,  may once  have been a naive communist, but we could sure use some Seeger-type songs today. 

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It probably doesn't do much good to take a brisk 30-minute walk then top it off with a slab of strawberry-rhubarb pie.

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Speaking of gluttony, the illustration for May on my Coke  calendar probably first appeared in the 1920s or '30s and proclaims, “The six-ounce glass is the right size for a perfect Coca-Cola.” Today, of course, the standard is 20 ounces in a plastic bottle. No wonder so many Americans are supersized.

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Here's the puzzlement answer you've been waiting for. Two babies born on the same day in the same year with the same mother and father are not twins ... because they are two of a set of triplets.  (Heh.)

Life (and its opposite) could be a dream

Let us begin the week on a morbid note. As Jim Morrison of The Doors once noted, no one here gets out alive. Accordingly, I have spent some time planning for the inevitable. A gravestone for my wife and me is already in place (and a fine one it is, with both a Celtic cross and a Polish eagle), and I have picked out my funeral music. Beyond that, though, I have come up with what I think will be a nice touch: three or four doo-woppers singing “Sh-Boom” at graveside. When they come to the lyrics “take you up to paradise up above,” they will point with one hand at the coffin and with the other hand at the sky. (Not that I am certain that I will qualify for any paradise up above.) And by the way, everyone is invited to my final  farewell party ... to be held sometime in 2055. (Yeah, right.)

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I mentioned to my wife that there are a lot of ads promoting electronics as Mother's Day gifts. "Are some mothers men?" she asked.

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Speaking of my wife, her yard sale was a smashing success. She sold tons of stuff, just as I have on eBay and Amazon the past couple of years. My question, then: Why is our house still stuffed with stuff?

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In "Honest Lullaby," Joan Baez sings, "I look around and I wonder how the years and I survived." Ms Baez, I wonder, too.

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One person in the United States has died from the H1N1 virus, formerly known as swine flu. Yet this year some 40,000 Americans will die in motor vehicle accidents and no one seems to care very much, except Mothers Against Drunk Driving and people who have lost a relative or friend in a crash.

Toothsome thoughts

While in the dentist's chair yesterday, I told the hygienist that as our yard sale drew near, my wife was getting tense. "Getting tents is a good idea," she said, "because it might rain." I didn't correct her but chuckled inwardly. Then, as she tackled my teeth, my mind sailed back to when I was a boy and went to a cut-rate dentist, who would fill a tooth for about a tenth of what my current cleaning was going to cost. His stomach gurgled continually as he worked, but the price was right. I also thought that if I were to give a graduation speech, I would eliminate the baloney about reaching for the stars and say this: "Take care of your teeth, kids. You will look better and feel better and save scads of dollars over the decades." I imagine I would get a standing ovation.

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I remember toothpaste brands like Kolynos and Ipana. I remember chlorophyll toothpaste. I remember "miracle" ingredients like Gardol. I even remember tooth powder.

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The aforementioned yard sale is happening even as I write this. People are arriving in droves and buying in quantity. But why?

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Memo to Classmates.com: I don't care how many mystery people have signed my online guest book, I am not going to learn who they are by buying an automatically renewing membership.

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Blogs are contributing to the demise of literacy and fairness. (Fortunately, this blog contributes to nothing.)

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"There is no body fat in the Obama administration," writes a contributor who signs himself Rhyming Silver. He cites such physically fit administration members as Obama himself, Timothy Geitner, Peter Orszag, Emanuel Rahm, Arne Duncan, and Kathleen Sibelius. Then he drives his point home by noting, "Bill Richardson definitely wouldn't have fit in."