One Man’s Collection Is Another Man’s Trash

Lately I have been seeing a lot of things online about people and their collections of this that and the other thing. It seems that if it exists there is someone who collects it. I was never much of a collector. I left all of that to my older brother.

Jimmy was just a little guy when someone gave him some stamps and an album to stick them in. That gift lit the fuse in him and he became a serious stamp collector…or a “Philatelist” as he chose to be called. He kept on collecting for decades and turned his hobby into a significant bankroll.

I saw how much pleasure he got out of his stamp collection so I figured that I’d try it.

I found it to be mind numbingly boring and my collection soon found its way into one of my brother’s albums.

“Stamps: Free to a good home.”

I tried coin collecting. I was a failure at being a Numismatist too. At least the stamps were colorful. The coins were as exciting as dirt.

As the years passed and my brother and I moved on our separate paths his collecting gene kept him accumulating stuff while I went in the other direction and worked hard at getting rid of things. I began to suspect that one of us was adopted. He was dark and muscular. I was pale and flabby, but I had seen our birth certificates so there was no doubt about our lineage.

It was in the 1970s when the next Great Collection Storm began. I started collecting British Sports Cars. I didn’t let it get out of hand. My collection topped out at One. They take up room.

I was living in Cleveland. He was in the suburbs of Washington D.C. It had been awhile since I had driven down there to visit him, his wife and kids. I just assumed that he was still into Stamps. The stamps had become residents in a safe deposit box silently gathering in value. He had started a new collection that gave him both pleasure and the need for additional space.

I was both shocked and mystified when I walked into their den and saw row after row of shelves on

every wall filled with Beer Cans. Empty beer cans.

It had never occurred to me that anyone would collect beer cans. I don’t drink beer. I don’t like beer. I don’t have even one beer can, full or empty, in my life. He had hundreds. Of course I was given a detailed tour informing me about the “vintage” of each can. My brother made a good docent. The tour did not end in a gift shop. I have to admit that his display was both overwhelming and disturbing. Someone had to have chugged all that beer. His wife was nurse and couldn’t show up for work smelling like she hung out with Clydesdales and their daughters were significantly underage.

People love to collect things. They all have their own reasons, much like I have my reasons for not collecting things. My reasons result in a lot less dusting, but who am I to shake my head and go “tsk, tsk.”

I never criticized or belittled my brother’s collection of beer cans. It could have been worse. He could have collected Italian Sports Cars.

Drinking And Driving Can Go Together

 

I HAVE SEEN IT ALL NOW! Just when I think I have it all figured out and understand what is what and who is who, and what I can expect in my daily experience – Life throws me a curve.

My wife, the lovely and equally amazed, Dawn, were in Cincinnati last week. That, in and of itself, is nothing worthy of amazement. Cincinnati is, after all,…Cincinnati. If you’ve seen one fast food chili shop, you’ve seen ‘em all. But then we saw something that stopped us in our comfortably shod tracks.

We had stopped into a Kroger Supermarket to replenish our “Goodies” supply. Our shopping cart wobbled up and down each aisle ending up over near the Deli department and the in-store mini-St. Arbucks.

That is where we saw it.

Throwback Thursday from July 2016 – “Aww, For Me? Gee, Thanks.”

 

Throwback Thursday from July 2016 –  Aww, For Me? Gee, Thanks.

Today is July 4^th in this country and every other country as well, but it has a special meaning in this one. Yes, yes, yes, I know. It is Independence Day too. A truly sacred day in American history to be sure, but July 4^this also important because it is considered to be the Mid-Point of Summer.

Balderdash.

 

Throwback Thursday from Feb. 2017 – It Seems Simple To Me

 

It Seems Simple To Me

SOME THINGS JUST DEFY EXPLANATION. Others don’t merit explanation.

“The Brightest Flash of Light Ever Recorded Now Has An Explanation.”

That’s quite a headline. I would have opted for something shorter like, “Say Cheese! Says Heaven.”

When I saw that long headline this morning I had to read what followed.

It seems that in June of 2015 a pair of Israeli Observers (Read two guys who stay up all night really looking for UFOs, but won’t admit it.) were gazing into the night skies when they saw a bright flash of light – and lucky for them, they had their GoPro cameras or iPhones turned on to record the event.  Why was I not told about this?

Jumping ahead 18 months or so to this morning the Observers say that they have finally figured out what caused it.

“…the burst was caused by the destruction of a star consumed by a black hole at the center of a distant galaxy,”

Somehow, I have my doubts about their explanation. It all seems too complicated. I think it all might have a much simpler cause.

“What did you do last night?”

“We stayed up all night staring at the sky, like most nights.”

“See anything interesting?”

“No. Just a bright flash of light.”

“Oh, what was that all about?

“I dunno. My guess was that the pizza delivery guy coming up the hill had his bright lights on.”

“That sounds reasonable to me. That was it. Mystery solved.”

“I dunno. My boss thinks it was a star being ripped apart by a black hole in a distant galaxy.”

“Hmm? I’d go for the pizza guy thing.”

“Yeah, me too.”

I make no claims to be a scientist of any sort. I was Liberal Arts major. I’m lucky I can read the label on a can of beans, but if this brightest light ever came from a “distant galaxy” – well, I have doubts that anyone can give a surefire explanation any better than, “The pizza guy had his bright lights on.”

“When a star passes within the tidal radius of a supermassive black hole, it will be torn apart. The rapid spin and high black hole mass can explain the high luminosity of this event.”

Loose translation into English: “I admit we were drinking and before I passed out my head was spinning something fierce, and then…I saw this bright light. Funny thing is I could swear I also smelled pepperoni.”

I admit that this is a very loose translation from the original “Astronomerese.”

Explaining what happens out there in the permanent night is, quite literally, a shot in the dark. The “Black Hole” idea about the bright light is as good as any I suppose, and just as valid as anything I could come up with. I like mine better. My explanation allows the guys who spend their nights gazing skyward to have a little fun – and some pizza. If we blindly accept the more scientific sounding explanation it makes me sad. Can life be any duller than spending each night sitting in the dark waiting for something, anything, to happen? It must be like being the Understudy to Life.

Throwback Thursday from January 2016 – “Some Days I Wonder”

Throwback Thursday from January 2016

 

Some Days I Wonder

SO FAR JANUARY HAS HAD MORE THAN IT’S SHARE OF ODD.

The other day, in the illustrious Tribune-Star newspaper, there was a story about a fellow being sentenced to 69 years in the slammer for shooting and killing his “Buddy,” as the story called him.

It was said that both of these lads had been out drinking and were approaching a flammable state when the “Buddy” started feeling blue. He turned to his friend and said, “Just shoot me and put me out of my misery.”

So he did.

There’s not a lot I could add to that, except that it did appear in the Trib-Star, a newspaper not known for the accuracy/spelling/grammar/anything else one would expect. So, I suppose that it is possible that they’ve made a few errors and this story is actually about a meeting of the Garden Club’s Petunia Sub-committee.

In other January news flashes there was a story about my favorite baseball team – The San Francisco Giants – signing up a new outfielder.

Denard Span, aside from having an interesting name, is a good player and should be an asset to the team. The fly in this ointment surfaced during an interview after the contract was signed and Span was paraded before the media. It turns out that the new Giants outfielder has a serious phobia: Birds.

This could be a problem. Having been to many ballgames in San Francisco I can verify that, starting in about the 7^th inning, the seagulls arrive at the stadium. They are there looking for a free meal among the dropped hotdogs, peanuts, pizza, and other leftovers. They arrive by the hundreds and take over the bleachers and even land in the outfield. I’m afraid that Mr. Span is going to be increasing his dosage of Anti-Anxiety meds.

These seagulls are big, bold and not afraid of anything. I saw one snatch an ice cream sandwich from the hands of an infant in a stroller. Swoop! Snatch! Gulp!

I wonder if the Giants will pay for his therapist? He’s going to need one or he will turn into Jimmy Piersall right before our eyes. (Look up “Fear Strikes Out”)

Terre Haute (That’s French for, “Biscuits and Gravy – Breakfast of Champions.”) got its first real taste of winter with snow and bitter cold. There’s nothing truly unusual about that, but the NBC affiliate TV station saw things a little differently than the rest of us.

 I really hate it when we have to deal with “Blowing Snot” on the roads. I was afraid that my windshield would never be the same – until I replaced the Window Washer Fluid with Mucinex.

I guess that the BIG story of the month has been the Power Ball Lottery jackpot going over a billion dollars. It is a serious amount of money and provides easy stories for the media.

I was watching the Today Show when they did a puff piece about “what if” the prize was paid out in one dollar bills. (Can NBC do hard news, or what?) In singles, the prize would stack up X number of miles. If laid end to end, blah, blah, blah. It was pretty easy to ignore until he said, “It would weigh…” At that point my caffeine dependent mind leapt ahead of him and finished his sentence.

“It would weigh” – “slightly less than Rosie O’Donnell after six months on the Atkins Diet.”

I should talk. I once brought up the idea of having my stomach stapled. My doctor suggested, “That in your case, I would recommend spot welding.”

The odds of winning the billion-plus dollar prize are beyond astronomical, but it will happen (if it hasn’t already by the time this posts.) and someone will gain more previously unknown relatives than anyone in history.

Sudden wealth can present problems, but I’ve dealt with the problems of not so sudden poverty most of my life. I’d like a crack at the other end of that financial Mobius strip.

If you notice that I start writing about the goings-on of Tahiti instead of Terre Haute you’ll know that something big has happened. Tahiti (That’s French for, “Guess what happened to me.”)

Let Me Know If You Plan To Drive Tonight

WHOOP DI DOO! YIPPEE KAI YAY! Happy New Year and all that. 2019 begins shortly or not, depending on when you read this. Or – possibly taking into account the amount of alcohol you’ve already consumed – 2019 began some time ago. If you are an NBA Basketball player – welcome to 2027! You are coming out of your coma!

It has been a long time since I have been awake at midnight on New Year’s Eve. I just cannot stay conscious that late any more. I guess that makes me a true Geezer. Not being able to stay awake until midnight is one of the official symptoms and qualifications for Geezerhood.

Too Much Time?

 

I HAVE, IF YOU BELIEVE WHAT SOME PEOPLE ARE SAYING, A SMALL PROBLEM. They are saying subtly, and sometimes not so subtly, that they think that I have too much time on my hands.

I don’t think so.

And since I have only one good hand in operation my time, extra or not, is somewhat limited in its disposal. The time I will take to type up this blog posting will use any temporal overage I may have. When I am at the keyboard my fingers (all five of them) are flying across the keys at a blistering 5 – 6 words per minute. That apocryphal group of typing chimpanzees is faster than me and often more creative.

Throwback Thursday from August 2015 – “Some Call It Courage”

Throwback Thursday from August 2015 – 

Some Call It Courage

THERE ARE A NUMBER OF DIFFERING DEFINITIONS of the word “Courage.” Some call it “Grace under pressure,” while others say it is “Being scared, but acting anyway.” I think that, in many cases, what is called courage is simply not paying attention to what is happening around you.

I heard someone once say that the most courageous person in history was the first person to eat an oyster. How hungry must that person have been to consider eating that thing? If I was faced with that dilemma today I would still hold out for something better.

“I ain’t eating that. There’s gotta be a Cracker Barrel nearby.”

I would even eat a tuna sandwich from the Marathon Gas Station Mini-Mart before I’d pick up that raw oyster and say, “Pass the hot sauce, please.”

Last night my wife, the lovely and highly courageous, Dawn, and I attended the SF Giants vs. the St. Louis Cardinals baseball game at Busch Stadium. There were a number of people there arrayed in Giants shirts, caps, and attitude, but we were nowhere near them. We were surrounded by about 40,000 Cardinals fans, yet we never felt in peril. There was good natured ribbing going on, but being a Giants fan there never required courage – except maybe when I got in line to get a hot dog. Getting a ballpark hot dog always requires a modicum of courage. There is always a smidgen of that “first oyster” memory lurking in the background with ballpark dogs.

After downing our hot dogs we moved to our seats to enjoy the game. It was there that we witnessed the most courageous act since Bruce Jenner decided to have his eyebrows plucked.

Allow me to set the scene –

Here we were, in St. Louis – in Busch Stadium – looking across the field at the largest Budweiser sign in the galaxy – with every vendor in the park yelling, “Cold beer! Get your Bud Light here!” – And, seated in front of us was a young man of indeterminate intelligence, time/space awareness, or survival instinct wearing a shirt bearing the message, “Miller Time.”

This was a fellow who had either lost a serious bet or was trying to commit “Suicide by Brewery.”

Going anywhere in St. Louis wearing a shirt saying “Miller Time” would be comparable to opening a Pulled Pork restaurant in downtown Baghdad, while dressed as Uncle Sam and wearing a Yarmulke.

I’d like to think that this fellow, pictured above, just lives in his own private Idaho and is protected by the Fates who must have one doozy of a surprise waiting for him down the road sometime in the future.

Perhaps this guy will be selected as Joe Biden’s running mate, or Donald Trump’s barber.

I think that the fact that he was able to get out of the stadium alive is a testimony to the kindness of St. Louis-ians. In most other cities he wouldn’t have made it past the old guy selling scorecards before being turned into a crime statistic.

Personally, I didn’t really care. I’m not a beer drinker. My only concern was that we might fall into the category of “collateral damage” if things didn’t go well for Mr. Miller Time. I don’t want my death certificate reading, “Cause of Death: Jackass shrapnel.”

Maybe this guy is one of those people who are considered, “Thrill Seekers.” You know – the kind of person who skydives using a parachute packed by someone with the nickname of, “Better Luck Next Time.” – Or who jumps into shark infested waters carrying a Rare Sirloin Steak in his back pocket.

The most common phrase one hears in reference to “Thrill Seekers” is, “Oh, yeah, I remember him.”

So, whether it be wearing a shirt that doubles as a bull’s eye, or being the first person to eat a raw oyster, it takes something special, I just don’t know if I could call it courage.

I’ll reserve that word for folks in the Armed Forces and anyone who would marry a Kardashian.

“The Thrill of Victory! The Agony of Defeat! The Problem of Where I Set My Beer!”

 

WE ARE NOW INTO THE BALMY DAYS OF SUMMER and the world of sports is in full bloom and then some.

The other night after a hearty workout of watching my SF Giants on TV I was just exhausted. It was quite a workout and my cardio goals had been achieved – I still had a cardio.

It was getting late as I crawled up the stairs and stumbled into bed. I flipped on the TV and, still feeling the Muse of Sports calling my name, I did my digital exercises and tuned the tube to ESPN.

I don’t think I’ll ever be the same.

My timing was off by just a nanosecond or I would have been able to catch the broadcast of a major Pickle Ball tournament.

Pickle Ball = Tennis for the Pacemaker Set.

One of the regulars every morning at St. Arbucks is into Pickle Ball. He is 80 years old and a National Champion. I kid you not.

Say No More

I WAS DOING SOME MISCELLANEOUS RESEARCH THE OTHER DAY. “Miscellaneous” in the sense that I was just hopscotching around looking at this and that with no particular goal in mind. While I was roaming about I bumped into a compilation called, “Famous Last Words.”

About 90% of the listed “Words” were noble, erudite, and sounded more like Press Releases than someone’s actual farewell statements. I would think that in reality most people’s real “Last Words” are grunts, simple “I love you” declarations, and expressions of surprise like, “Uh, Oh,” or “What is happening?”

Throwback Thursday From March 2015 “Springtime On The Wabash”

Throwback Thursday From March 2015

“Springtime On The Wabash”

 

AH, THE CHIRPING OF THE BIRDS, the reappearance of the crocus, and the crack of the bat on the baseball – the true harbingers of Spring.

Easter is early this year, coming in late March. That and the fact that the local Dairy Queen has opened reassure me that life will continue.

It Seems Simple To Me

SOME THINGS JUST DEFY EXPLANATION. Others don’t merit explanation.

“The Brightest Flash of Light Ever Recorded Now Has An Explanation.”

That’s quite a headline. I would have opted for something shorter like, “Say Cheese! Says Heaven.”

When I saw that long headline this morning I had to read what followed.

I Think I’m Going To Be Stuffed

TODAY IS THE LAST WORKING DAY IN OCTOBER. November starts tomorrow and that means it is Unofficially the Official start of the Holiday Season.

It always seemed to me that Thanksgiving used to be the kickoff for all of the holiday madness, but over time, and with aggressive retail marketing, everything has pushed up so far that ads for Christmas toys and such are now rubbing shoulders with the Fourth of July.

It’s Only Fair.

IT IS AUGUST IN THE MIDWEST. That can mean only one thing: State Fairs and Deep Fried Food. OK, I guess that’s two things, but who’s counting?

When the gates to the fairgrounds open some people will head to the livestock exhibits, some will rush to get their seats for the entertainment shows, but thousands will head right to the food midway so they can see what’s new on this year’s menu – and there is always something new.

If there is a way to deep fry it – into the fryer it will go.

What Could Possibly Go Wrong?

A LITTLE DRIZZLE NEVER HURT ANYBODY. This year on the 4^th of July, the day for fireworks and celebration, we had low clouds and misty rain here in Terre Haute (That’s French for, “Has anybody seen my thumb?”).

The larger civic displays were postponed a day or more, hoping for clear skies. The rain, however, didn’t slow down the individual, beer-fueled, ad hoc, displays.

It seems that every year, rain or shine, there are countless people who think that they are qualified to fire off skyrockets and assorted quasi-military grade explosives in their backyards. The more alcohol consumed – the bigger the show.

Aww, For Me? Gee, Thanks.

Today is July 4^th in this country and every other country as well, but it has a special meaning in this one. Yes, yes, yes, I know. It is Independence Day too. A truly sacred day in American history to be sure, but July 4^th is also important because it is considered to be the Mid-Point of Summer.

Balderdash.

Summer only officially started on June 21^st. That was less than two weeks ago, fer cryin’ out loud. The Mid-Point of Summer? We have another month or so before we hit the real Mid-Point. Let’s try early August on for size, shall we?

July 4^th has another mantle of significance about its shoulders that few people recognize or acknowledge.

I Got What I Wanted For Father’s Day

YESTERDAY WAS FATHER’S DAY ACCORDING TO MY CALENDAR – another one of those days heavily supported by the greeting card industry and the world’s manufacturers of neckties.

I suppose if you are going to have a Mother’s Day you are somewhat obligated to have a Father’s Day. If you didn’t there would be a hue and cry about it. Therefore, we have a Father’s Day.

A few weeks ago my wife, the lovely and holiday conscious, Dawn, asked me what I would like for Father’s Day. Apparently she did not find my reply of, “The Monday morning after Father’s Day,” to be appropriate or all that helpful.

Summer Better Than Others

Well, Summer is ready to go into full swing here in beautiful Terre Haute (That’s French for, “You sure can sweat.”). All the signs of Summer are blossoming.

The colleges and universities are spewing forth a fresh crop of graduates – most of whom are trading in their mortarboards and tassels for paper hats and napkin dispensers.

Adjusting The Focus

NOW THAT WE ARE HOME, after almost two months in Ireland, there are some things that are obvious only now. We were perfectly comfortable there and had no “When do we go home?” moments. The one exception might be when it comes to food. It was a case of “Close, but no cigar.” It’s just a case of liking the things I’m familiar with.

Cinco de Mayo in Ireland

I WAS EXPECTING A PIÑATA shaped like a shamrock. Or maybe a sheep – or even a potato, but the perfect image for Cinco de Mayo in Ireland seems to be this.

While St. Patrick’s Day is celebrated around the world, including Mexico, with parades and festivals, Cinco de Mayo doesn’t get much play in Ireland. While the Diaspora planted Irish souls in almost every country on earth, the cross pollination of Mexicans into Ireland has never reached major numbers.