Jitters for sale -- half price!

The tension mounts as Saturday's yard sale nears. Will it rain? Will the Fear of Flu keep away potential  customers? Will my wife sneak out my treasures and sell them before I notice? Will anybody buy any of the junk we're selling? Oh, the uncertainty.

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Do the world a little good and visit The Hunger Site at www.thehungersite.com. Just one click gives food to the needy. No purchase necessary. You can also help feed animals, fight breast cancer, contribute to literacy, and save  rainforests. No, really.

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I finally saw "Frost/Nixon" and thought Frank Langella more closely resembled Ed Sullivan than Richard Nixon.

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When a teacher complained, parents used to give their kids a talking-to. Now they yell at the teachers.

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If you transpose the last two letters of FBI, you get FIB. (This was noted in my geezer class on the Rosenbergs' trial, during which some fibs may have been told about the defendants, who were hardly above reproach but didn't deserve death.)

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More often, we regret the things we didn't do, not the ones we did. This is hardly an original thought but an accurate one nonetheless.

When it came to being nice, he stood tall

He was a very little man and perhaps a little lonely. He would always stop to chat briefly with our neighborhood "gang" of kids, and to a 4-year-old me, he seemed like a very nice guy. I would find out just how nice when I once repeated to him what my mother had said in an attempt to get me to improve my diet: "My mother says you never grew very tall because you didn't eat your vegetables." The height-challenged man just smiled and nodded and said, "That's right. That's what happened. You should listen to your mother." A nice guy, indeed.

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In preparing for a yard sale, my wife is uncovering all kinds of treasures -- knicknacks, books, LPs, etc. -- that I had forgotten I even owned. I, of course, refuse to part with them.

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I love that Amstel TV ad that begins with a belllowing Dutchman.

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Answer to Tuesday's puzzlement: William Howard Taft is the other president buried at Arlington National Cemetery.

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The handful (fingerful?) of people who read this blog first thing in the morning may notice a few typographical or grammatical errors. Be assured that as the day goes on, these are corrected. Well, most of them anyway.

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Ray Bradbury is an American treasure.

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If the media had covered the buildup to the Iraq war the way they are covering the non-epidemic of swine flu in the United States, the Iraqi landscape might not have become littered with bodies.

Step right up and get your money back

I call it Rebate Rage. It's a condition that occurs when you buy a pricey item on the promise that you will get all or most of your money back by mailing in a simple rebate form. At least half the time, it seems that even though you followed the instructions to the letter, you are notified that you didn't qualify for the refund. Either that or you hear nothing. When this happens to me and the smoke is pouring from my ears, I vow never again to buy anything that carries the promise of a rebate. So a while ago, I bought this great DVD set that will cost me only $9.99 when I get my rebate. Haven't heard anything from the rebate folks yet, though.

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Ah, New England, if ever I would leave you it wouldn't be in springtime, when the forsythia is butter yellow and the dogwoods are blooming. No, never in springtime.

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The song that the above entry is based on was popularized by Robert Goulet. Whenever Elvis Presley saw Goulet on television, Elvis would reportedly exercise his good taste by shooting out the TV tube.

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And speaking of TV, I despise those furniture ads in which  wealthy owners with obnoxious voices try to act like jovial regular guys. (I don't mean Barry or Elliot, whichever one that guy is.)

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Today's puzzlement: We know John F. Kennedy is buried at Arlington National Cemetery, but what other president is taking his final rest there? (Answer Wednesday.)

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Until my geezer class yesterday, I knew nothing about Aung San Suu Kyi. Now I am her number one fan. (You could look her up, in Wikipedia for instance.)

Faces that shine brightly in memory

Eight months have gone by since my 50th high school reunion, but I remain haunted by the wall of photos. This was a display of graduation pictures of classmates who have died, some recently and others decades ago. In all, about 50 of the 250 graduates had left us.  I knew about some of the deaths, of course, having read about their terrible accidents or heard about their debilitating illnesses. But there were many I  was looking forward to seeing at the reunion. There, for instance, was my grammar school buddy who, I learned, had been dead for two years because of ALS. There was the woman from my old neighborhood who called me a few years back to compliment me on a newspaper article I had written. I was told that she had tried to hang on long enough to go to the reunion, but missed by a couple of months. And there were many classmates I hadn't seen, or even thought much about,  since high school, and their deaths were the hardest to accept because in my mind they were still 18 years old and alive and lively.

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To answer Friday's puzzlement, here are 10 combinations that make 23 cents: 23 pennies;  one nickel and 18 pennies; 2 nickels and 13 pennies; 4 nickels and 3 cents, 3 nickels and 8 pennies.1 dime and 13 pennies; 1 dime and 1 nickel and 8 pennies; 1 dime and 2 nickels and 3 pennies; and 2 dimes and 3 pennies.

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I don't know anyone with swine flu, but I have known a few swine in my life.

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How 'bout them Red Sox!

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I have never seen a Star Trek episode or movie and I'm certainly not going to start now.

The 1950s: delightful or depressing?

Those who remember the 1950s as fabulous either weren't there or are wearing the rosiest of rose-colored glasses. Can you say Korea? Can you say segregation? Can you say McCarthyism? Can you say sexism? Great music and movies, though.

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She was decidedly unattractive, and to look at her might want to make you smirk. Then she opened her mouth and the world fell in love. Susan Boyle? No, Eleanor Roosevelt, 70 years before Susan. Unlike Susan's, Eleanor's voice was strange but her words were golden.

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I am tall but life is short.

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Digital cameras have done more for the environment than Al Gore. No more  Polaroid papers slathered with chemicals. No more yellow Kodak boxes littering the landscape.

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Yesterday my blogging earned me a penny. So proud.

Twirling and whirling into the past

One definition of masochism is taking your 5-year-old grandson to a children's museum during school vacation week. But take him we did, to the EcoTarium in Worcester, Mass., where he joined the multitudes in twirling dials, pressing buttons, dashing from exhibit to exhibit and ignoring whatever science lesson the display was attempting to teach. As he did so, I found myself thinking back three decades to when the place was known as the Worcester Science Center and we took our own three children there and they too twirled, whirled and ignored. They were about Max's age, with school, jobs and crucial life choices all ahead of them. Thinking about that, I shed a tiny tear. But just one.

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I remember when comic strips were actually comic.

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When I hear about Obama being criticized for shaking hands with the likes of Hugo Chavez, I recall the words of JFK: "Civility is not a sign of weakness, and sincerity is always subject to proof." (In reality, those were probably speechwriter Ted Sorensen's words, but the point is the same.)

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My cold is keeping Kleenex in business.

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"The Dutchman" may be the greatest love song ever written. It's about a senile man whose wife remembers for him when he was young and strong. The lyrics are by Michael Smith and can be found at www.artistsofnote.com/michael/lyrics/dutchman.shtml (but hurry back here), and I think that Liam Clancy sings it best.

Achoo to you, too

Whenever I'm around people with colds, I take extraordinary preventive measures. I wash my hands dozens of times a day, avoid touching my eyes and nose,  and even use a paper towel to  turn doorknobs. The result is that I catch the cold. There are, of course, hundreds of conditions worse than a cold, but when you have one, you really don't believe that.

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Most apologies are less than sincere. (That was said by a geezer professor in my geezer class. Like a good newsman, I attribute everything.)

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After decades of taste tests, I have concluded that pink and white Good and Plentys taste exactly the same.

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Many a truth is sung. Take these lyrics from "The Winning Side" by Robbie O"Connell: "Ah, but justice is a fickle thing./One law for the common man, another for the king. ... /And it's all justified when you're on the winning side."

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Here's a puzzlement that may take you all weekend to figure out: Come up with 10 combinations of coins that add up to 23 cents. Answer Monday. 

That notorious word

This week I saw "Notorious" on DVD. I didn't know the "mother" word -- or is it the "mutha" word? -- could be used in so many combinations and permutations.

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Answer to Wednesday's puzzlement: 1 BC was followed by 1 AD. There was no zero year.

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My last two cars were recommended by Consumer Reports ... then unrecommended months later. In fact, my current auto is on the magazine's list of "used cars to avoid." Never mind that the car  has always run fine, it will now be worth less at trade-in time. Thanks a lot, Consumer Reports.

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My wife and I had planned to join the Peace Corps or AmeriCorps when we retired. But, as they often do, circumstances intervened.

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In a class on how George Orwell's novel "1984" is coming true, I encountered the word "duckspeak," which means to speak rubbish without thinking, a la our past president. And all this time I thought duckspeak is what Donald did.

Guilty until proven innocent

Whatever happened to "innocent until proven guilty"? 

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Speaking of such, today I heard someone say, "Cheney shouldn't be on television. He should be in prison!"

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Today's puzzlement: What year followed 1 BC? (Answer Thursday.)

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My grandson Maxwell's mother, whom we adopted  34 years ago, is Korean and his father is Jewish. So he tells people he is "Koreeish." God, I love that kid.

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When I was 9 or 10, a boy from another country moved into the neighborhood. I remember making fun of him. I've regretted that all my life.

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No one reads John O’Hara anymore. At one time he was so popular that Alan Sherman wrote a song that included the words, "How's your sister Sarah? Reading John O'Hara. He's nice, too."

Speak up -- if you dare

The other day it was mentioned in my geezer class that people who take a stand -- be it on abortion, gay rights or whatever -- can expect to pay a price. Maybe I should take a stand, perhaps against loudmouthed Fox News commentators or maybe the tiny minority of people in motorized wheelchairs or other mini-vehicles who feel it is all right to be rude while improperly cutting cut in front of you in line. Ah, but if I did that I would pay the price of losing perhaps half my readers. (What's half of zero, anyway?)

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Playboy really should get rid of the monthly page that features several photos of Hugh Hefner looking like a wax dummy.

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As mentioned in an Arlo & Janis comic strip some time back, life is too short to wash cars.

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Why is it that nearly every U.S.-written feature about Canada seems to have "eh?" in the headline or lead sentence? When writing about Americans, Canadian writers don't automatically put in "like, yuh know."

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There are plenty of social networking pages, but this is one of the few antisocial networking ones!

Now I lay me down to sleep

While on a cruise a month ago, I discovered the delights of a duvet.  With that kind of bed covering, I found, I would no longer wake up with blankets and sheets wrapped around my neck after a night of unconscious thrashing. So, once home, I went to buy a duvet and found it wasn't all that easy. All I could find for sale were "duvet covers." After a lot of research, I learned that the inside of a duvet is called a comforter, which, after a series of contortions on the owner's part, will fit into the duvet cover. I wonder why the nomenclature is so strange. And if you think this is boring, a former colleague once wrote a 2,000-word article on a similar subject. (Just joking, Tim.)

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Perhaps feeling newly important because she was mentioned in The Boring File, Chloe the Cat broke down my bedroom door at 6 this morning and bounded into my bed, pushing her wet nose against my face. I patted her in the area where her brains should be.

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Answer to Saturday's puzzlement:  Minus-40 Celsius equals minus-40 Fahrenheit. (Heh.)

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I once ran six steps in the Boston Marathon.  Just wanted to get across the street.

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My wife has a cold and insists on using only  green-colored NyQuil. No matter how many times I point out that the ingredients in the generic drugstore version are exactly the same, she says that only the brand name works. Even stranger, she will not use cherry flavored NyQuil. Apparently she feels that unless taking a spoonful forces you to say, "AAAARGH, YUCKKKK,  that stuff tastes awful," it will not work.

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Memo to Leo Tolstoy: All families are dysfunctional.

Different strokes for different felines

After living with cats -- as many as six at a time -- for 30 years,  I have learned one thing: They all have different personalities, sometimes radically different. Take the current twosome who inhabit our house. Honey is a beauty, mostly Maine Coon I think, but she is a coward, at least in my presence. When I enter a room, she flies out of it (and "flies" is no exaggeration). Chloe, on the other hand, is of indeterminate breed, has a twisted tail and a hind leg of a different color than the rest of her. She rejoices at my presence and comes up to me to have her neck rubbed, purring like an Evinrude motor as I stroke the fur. The only problem is that she believes I exist solely to rub her neck and will not leave me alone until I hint strngly that her presence is no longer welcome -- by throwing her across the room, for instance. (Not really, although I've been tempted.) Both cats had nine traumatic months recently when my son moved in temporarily with his three cats, but that's a story for another day.

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Sign in front of a local church: "Give your troubles to God. He's up all night anyway."

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I mentioned a while back that I have several iPods. Well, I also have several pay-as-you-go cellphones -- 10 to be exact. This is truly odd because I never call anyone and no one ever calls me.

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The most exciting thing in today's newspapers was an ad for free shaving cream.

Some dance to remember, some dance to forget

Having just come back from Los Angeles and environs, I rented David Lynch's mystical and maniacal movie "Mullholland Drive." The opening scene, which shows people jitterbugging, took my mind back six decades to a wedding reception on Boston's North Shore. During one fast dance, my cousin Joanne and I, both about 7 years old, joined in and started jitterbugging. After a while, the other dancers dropped out and a crowd gathered around to watch my cousin and I shake, rattle and roll. When the dance ended, we were met with a rousing round of applause. And that is the only time in history that my dancing has elicited something besides a chuckle or snicker.

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I just don't get Twitter. (But then, most people probably wouldn't get this blog, either.)

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This is a roundabout way to get to today's puzzlement. While waiting in line at Disneyland for the Indiana Jones shake-up-your-stomach ride, I talked with a young man from Yellowknife in Canada's Northwest Territories. He told me that winters there can bring temperatures of minus-40 Celsius. Today's question: What is that temperature in Fahrenheit? (Although we publish on Sundays, we will hold the answer till Monday.)

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I consider the lyrics of "Big Rock Candy Mountain" to be great literature. To wit: "In the Big Rock Candy Mountains all the cops have wooden legs/And the bulldogs all have rubber teeth/And the hens lay soft-boiled eggs."

Famous long ago

Re-reading "Rabbit, Run," with its masterful opening chapter,  got me thinking about high school sports stars. For many (most?), their high school stardom is the pinnacle of their lives. After graduation, their fame vanishes along with the friendship of hangers-on and the adulation of the opposite sex, to be replaced in many cases by a boring job and humdrum existence. It is as if life after high school is merely an aftermath. But, I suppose, it is better to have one brief, shining moment than none at all.

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Answer to Thursday's puzzlement: The Coppertone, Cracker Jack and Buster Brown logos have this in common: children and dogs. (You had to list both kids and canines for your answer to count.)

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Wonder what it's like to be a grownup. 

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If my grandson continues to con us into buying him expensive things at Toys 'R Us, I am going to have to go back to work. (But what kind of a job could I get -- punching anuses in teddy bears?)

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I would rather listen to a recording of a 1942 "Great Gildersleeve" radio sitcom than watch most of the dreck that is on TV today. (But I watch the dreck anyway.)

Puttin' on the pounds

Seeing people in warm-weather clothes during my recent California trip reminded me that there are far, far too many obese Americans, and something really should be done. (I could stand to lose a couple of pounds myself.)

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I would describe the color of actor Daniel Craig's eyes as Psychotic Blue.

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Time for what the king of Siam would call a puzzlement. What do the logos for Coppertone, Buster Brown, and Cracker Jack have in common? Come back Friday for the answer.

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This is a wholly unsolicited testimonial. I've searched for something to keep my new eyeglasses from slipping down my nose, and nothing worked until I found Wedgees online. These are little neoprene thingies that you slip over the temples of your glasses. Being directionally disabled, I slipped mine on upside down but found they still worked and maybe I like them better that way. The Web site is www.wedgees.com. (But come right back here afterward.)

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I never look back. So many scary things are behind me.

Happy feat

Because I was accompanied by my two sons, I came home from a southern Californis odyssey with blisters on my feet and joy in my heart.

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The steak at Morton's in Anaheim, where the waiters wear tuxedos and the customers wear T-shirts, was among the best I have ever had. I did have to take out a loan to pay for it, however.

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In today's geezer class, which was about Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, it was noted that your children, even when they are in their 30s, 40s, or beyond, still seem like children to you. How true.

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Today's lesson in how to feel dumb: You complain to a bank officer that the ATM machine isn't working right because it won't accept your bank card. Then she examines that card and tells you your AAA membership card is stuck to the back of it.

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"When I was 17, Dwight Eisenhower was president, Elvis Presley was king, and James Dean was God." That's the opening sentence of a novel I was going to write. I never did get around to the second sentence.

In the warm California sun

Sitting in the ballpark stands on a sunny California afternoon with a cup of beer in one hand and a hot dog in the other, then seeing the Red Sox finally win a game that you attend -- it doesn't get a whole lot better than that.

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I like cats. They're evil.

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Answer to Thursday's brain teaser: According to the website word-english, the second most commonly used word in the English language is "of." For the full list, visit www.world-english.org/english500.htm. But hurry back because we'll have another puzzlement soon.

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I wonder what is the worst part of flying coach. Maybe it's when the passenger in front of you puts his seat in full recline, forcing your knees up to your chin. Or maybe it's when the guy in the seat next to you slops his elbow into your space. No, wait, I know: It's the smug looks on the first-class passengers' faces as you make your way past them en route to your little slice of hell.

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Because I don't always talk a lot, some people think I'm deep. Believe me, there is less to me than meets they eye.

Up, up and away!

Years ago I worked at a suburban newspaper with a nice guy named Henry, who had a quirky sense of humor. Every Easter Sunday, the phone would ring at my home and there would be Henry at the other end of the line announcing that "He has risen." Then, in a voice burbling with excitement, he would add the location where the risen Savior had been spotted this year: "He was seen flying over the high school ... He's now in Dunkin' Donuts breaking his fast ... He was spotted running along the causeway," etc. Sacrilegious? Maybe. Funny? Definitely, at least the way Henry carried it off. I always looked forward to Henry's Easter calls, but one day a few years ago he died too soon of a heart attack. Still, every Easter morning I find myself half-expecting the phone to ring.

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McDonald's hot mocha is every bit as good as what you get at the high-priced joint.

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I am getting up at the butt-crack of dawn Friday to fly to California. I may or may not be able to resume this nonsense until Wednesday, but here's a brain-teaser designed to keep you checking back for the answer: You may know that "the" is the most frequently used word in the English language, but what word comes in second?

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I recently served a three-month stint on a grand jury. Deliberations were secret, but it is no breach of confidence to mention that the phrase "dregs of the earth" frequently crossed my mind.

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My 5-year-old grandson, Maxwell (whom you may read about more than you want to), told me that new homes are very expensive. "You not only have to build the home but you have to put in the flooring and the rugging (sic). A new home can cost $350." God, I love that kid.

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Happy Easter/Passover.

   

Root, root, root for the away team

Can it be anything but a good omen when the Boston Red Sox win the season opener? Aha, but my older son and I will take care of that auspicious beginning this weekend when we head to Anaheim, Calif., for our annual trip to a Sox away game. Over the past few years, we have seen the Crimson Hose play in Toronto, Detroit, Minneapolis, and Chicago -- and they have lost in every city. We call ourselves The New Curse or, alternatively, The Two Bambinos. Nonetheless, we always have a great time, and this year it may even be greater because my younger son is also going. He cares nothing for baseball but does love Disneyland. So, win or lose, things should be grand. After all, we are staying at a Super 8.

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While at Disneyland, I plan to launch an investigation into why Donald Duck no longer gets respect.

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Here's the answer to Tuesday's brain teaser: The only word on the front of an iPod (Classic or Nano) is "Menu." No fair if you peeked. (And speaking of devices, I love my iPod Touch more than life itself.)

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I have made my first 90 cents blogging. I am so proud! (Come on, folks, and click on those little ads to push the earnings past a buck.)

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The two dumbest things I ever did on the Internet (besides starting this blog) were reserving a rental car in Charlotte, N.C., when I was actually heading for Charleston, S.C., and negotiating with a car dealer I thought was located in Lynnfield, Mass., but was actually in Burlington, Vt., some 220 miles from my home.

Is there anybody here?

They say there are 50 million blogs on the web. Do we really need 50 million and one? Probably not, but here I go into the blogosphere. Most blogs, it is said, are read by two people -- the author and his mother. My mother, bless her, is gone and I never read what I write. Ah, zero readership! So proud.

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Here's a brain-teaser: Picture an iPod (Classic or Nano). What is the only word on the front of the device? (Answer on Wednesday, April 8.)

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Speaking of iPods, I have a Classic, a Shuffle and a Touch. If only I could have stopped there. I also have so-called Chinese clones of a Shuffle and two generations of Nanos. But wait, there's more: I have a clone of an iPhone and a so-far non-existent iPhone Nano. I'm nuts, you see.

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Ya gotta love jelly beans. Quality jelly beans, that is.

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Today I helped my son buy a used car. Gee, but I hate car dealerships. And garages make two.

Like a rubber ball, I come bouncing back

I take Life Learning (read "Geezer") Courses sponsored by Salem (Mass.) State College. Today's class was about Nelson Mandela, who once wrote, " The greatest glory in living lies not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall." I guess that would make me a human yo-yo.

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I was so exhausted and jet-lagged when I came back from Hawaii the other day that I fell asleep in a chair and dreamed about Alan Dershowitz.

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I woke up the other day with a sore left foot, and by the end of the day I could hardly walk. Perhaps there was a sprain or tear precipitated by my daily 2.2-mile brisk walks. In any event, I needed support to get around so I grabbed my late father-in-law’s shilleleagh and hobbled about with that as an aid. The foot appears to be getting better, but, gee, I feel kind of cool wielding the cane, so maybe I will keep using it. I can imagine myself as a boulevardier on the Champs Elysees. No, wait, it’s a shilleleagh. I guess I’ll have to imagine I’m a large leprechaun on Grafton Street.

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In his final book of poetry, "Endpoint," John Updike writes that perhaps we find heaven at the beginning of our lives, not the end. The man may have something there.