LEISURE SPORTS

LEISURE SPORTS

Last week our friends Caryn & Chris took us fly fishing on North South Lake in the Catskills. North South Lake is just East Northwest of South North Lake, only more so. We were in a canoe, and they were in a little dinghy, which seems like more of a description than a noun.

We have never been fly-fishing before, and never fished at all in a canoe, which is an either/oar situation. Don’t ask us if we got any bites, because you really don’t have to fish for the flies at all- they come right over to you and bite the crap out of you. Chris explained that the fly is used to catch the fish, which is a shame because I can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, except in center field.

I asked what we were supposed to do with the fish if we caught one, because I don’t eat anything with bones. Unless the fish is such a friggin coward that it is basically a spineless jellyfish, I won’t touch it. I might consider a peanut-butter-and-spineless-jellyfish sandwich. But Chris assured us that this is a catch-and-release lake. I wasn’t sure if there was a “happy ending” or anything like that involved, so I just kept my mouth shut and kept rowing.

I told my wife that she could just sit back and look pretty, and I would do all the rowing. After traveling in a large circle 22 times, I realized that you had to alternate sides. So I rowed once in the front and once in the back. Luckily the wind blew us over to the side where we couldn’t do much harm.

The very first thing that I almost caught actually ate the lure, the sinker and the hook, possibly on a bet. Chris looked a little pissed- he said it was an expensive lure. I asked why don’t you use real flies? They’re free! All you have to do is catch them! He shot me a look that I interpreted as: “The fish are supposed to catch the flies- that’s how the food chain works.”

He fitted the line with this thing that I swear looked like a small dustmop, and I’m thinking this will appeal to a fish that is a real neat freak- I figured I was done for the day.

The next thing that happened was that I cast the line far and wide, and the top of the pole came off and went flying into the lake- no one told me it was supposed to come off so you could fold it up. So I spent the next half an hour going through the tackle box trying to figure out what might attract the top of a fishing pole.

After I got the pole back together I finally caught a fish. It was a large-mouth bass. You can tell this fish immediately in the field, because it started dishing about its in-laws. Unfortunately only its mouth is large, the rest of it is puny, so even though I wanted to take it home and stuff it, they made me throw it back. I asked Chris if he ever mounted his fish, and he dialed something on his phone that looked like 911.

Then I caught a catfish, which Chris & Caryn told me was a fluke. I said make up your mind. They meant that is rare, so I sent it back until it was well done. If a catfish is anything like my cat at home it will chase a fly for its entire life expectancy, which is one day. Then the fly dies of natural causes and the cat struts around like Lady Gaga.

After that I caught about 20 pounds of seaweed, which I have to say puts up a hell of a fight. The trick is to let it tire itself out as you give it some line, and reel it in slowly- don’t give up any slack. Once you get it into the boat it’s as valid a meal as any fish, at least for vegetarians. I also caught a stick, but that’s not going to make you a big hero- I’m just glad it didn’t run off with another lure.

The whole time I was living in abject fear that I would wind up and catch their dingy on my backswing, puncturing the pontoon and perforating their pleasure craft. But when I looked over at them, they were fighting with some kind of sea serpent or something that actually took Chris overboard, along with their lunch. I have to tell you I just started rowing and didn’t stop till I reached Ulster County.

Incidentally, If fishing in New York State you are required to have a fishing license in your possession unless you are under 16 years old. Which means that you don’t have a driver’s license, and probably cannot afford a boat, so it’s probably best to float there. If you are fishing for an “alewife” you will probably need a fishing license, a marriage license and a liquor license. I will send a gift.

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SOCIAL NETWORKING

SOCIAL NETWORKING

Due to the proliferation of Facebook I was able to reconnect with my long-lost bandmates from high school. Some of them actually were lost, but due to advancements in GPS technology, ended up finding our house by traveling along the railroad tracks.

The reunion was a lot of fun- I had assumed some of them were weird and reclusive for not getting in touch with me all these years. It turns out that they just had sound judgment. The guys are all still talented, and have been playing all these years. Kenny used to play bass once in a while, and his brother Jeff plays bass now in a band. Chris switched from keyboards to bass in 1984. I wasted most of my adult life playing bass. And Ronnie, our bass player, coincidentally also plays bass. I thought about suggesting that we all play bass on one song, which would have been funny probably only to me.

Since no one else was foolish enough to volunteer to sing, I was forced back into action. Back in 1975 I could sing very high. Meaning after smoking half an ounce of pot. These days my range is much lower, possibly because that is where I have set my sights. I seem to have the same range as Frank Sinatra, only with a horrible timbre. When I sing the “Star Spangled Banner,” I have to start it so low that only whales can hear. One time someone said, “Shut your blowhole,” which I assumed was a snarky whale. If Frank Sinatra were alive and knew “China Grove,” believe me I would have suggested him.

Plus I still don’t know the words to any song ever written. I had to go online to find the lyrics to each song, which was a headache, because what these sites desperately want is for you to download a ring tone. Silly-sounding ring tones and people snoring are all I hear on the train these days. Everyone wants to show off a little piece of their personality that is usually better kept under a rock. Am I smarter and more cultured than I look, with my mullet and lower lip pierced so that from far away it looks like I have a social disease? YES! Because I have Beethoven’s ninth as my ring tone! Sorry I fell asleep and Beethoven’s ninth runs an hour and five minutes! Hey what about ME! Even though I work for Geek Squad and wear a bow tie, I am friggin’ JAUNTY because my ring tone is “Pop Goes the Weasel!” Now you can download a ring tone that sounds like a telephone ringing, but no one recognizes the sound anymore. I would prefer if people downloaded a ring tone of someone snoring on the train since I am used to that.

My annoyance radar senses that this is just the beginning of silly ring tones. Where will it end? When my microwave goes off, will I hear, “Come and Get It?” Will my alarm clock sound James Brown’s “Get Up Like a Sex Machine” every morning? If I really had a sex machine I could sleep later, by the way.

Not being able to remember anything makes giving a speech unfathomable. I cannot imagine being a politician back when you had to memorize the speech: “Fourscore and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth… Let’s see… they brought a fifth of vodka, probably a beach chair, a snack... to be honest I can’t remember what they brought. I’d like to take the remaining time for a short Q & A period.” That empty feeling when the next line of the song comes and you remember NOTHING is a glimpse forward to Alzheimers. So I usually sing the line like Gregg Allman, and nobody notices. We did two Allman Brothers tunes, and I didn’t have to learn the words to either one of them.

It seemed very natural and easy to jam with the old crew again. But there are some important distinctions between now and then: Back then it was still a dream to become an overnight sensation. Now you are more likely to be an overweight sensation. Back then the purple pill was mescaline. Now the purple pill is Prilosec (what would happen if you take acid and an antacid at the same time?). Back in the day you could garner a large following and make a splash in the record business. Now you can garnish a salad and hope not to make a large splash in the pool. Back then you could still believe that practice makes perfect. Now it just makes you perfectly exhausted.

There is a commercial for Blue Cross or something where this gray-haired rocker is jamming out with his buddies. His keyboard player is in a wheelchair, his drummer is bald with a pair of readers on, his bass player is blind with a seeing-eye dog and his rhythm guitarist is just a torso with no head, arms or legs. At least that’s the way I remember it, and I would look at it and go jeez I hope I don’t look like that, so I always remove my readers when I play. The words “rock and roll” and “Medicare co-payment” should never appear together in any sentence other than this one.

Anyway, the reunion was a lot of fun. Even all these years after high school it seemed that with a few hours of work we could make sense of the material. Could the same be said for trigonometry? I have enjoyed music every day of my life since graduation, but I have never enjoyed one sine or cosine, and it hasn’t been for lack of opportunity. I know what you’re thinking: I am off on a tangent this very minute.

Incidentally, Beethoven’s ninth symphony was completed in 1824, and contained the famous “Ode to Joy,” which is based on a poem by Friedrich Schiller called “To Joy.” The poem was written in 1785 and revised in 1803. I wonder what he thought of 18 years later that he forgot? I’m not sure, but he might have been thinking of our reunion and added this line: “And whoever was never able to, must creep Tearfully away from this band!” The fourth movement contains the choral elements that approach the climax of the piece. Every once in a while I bring in a chorus near climax too, so it doesn’t get too lonely. Beethoven wrote the symphony when he was completely deaf. Quite an achievement, but to be fair, he had the use of a hearing-ear dog. Which explains why many of the passages refer to bacon.

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WORLD TRAVEL II

WORLD TRAVEL

From Amsterdam we took the train to Paris, where our hotel room was very, very small and made me wish I was a Barbie. Plus there was a sign on the elevator that said, “All Children MUST Be Accompanied,” so I always carried two harmonicas in different keys.

There was a language barrier- In Amsterdam, I could make out some of the words. Since everything they say in Dutch sounds like a Beatles record played backwards, I thought I could make out the words, “Paul is dead,” so I considered that a minor victory. But in Paris, the trick is that they pronounce a word, and then add several syllables at the end in parentheses. Take “Montmartre,” for example. As an American, I pronounced it as is should be: “Mount Marty.” The Parisian says “Mo-mah (cheeseburgerandfriesmakingyourasslargerthanlifeitself).” One thing I did pick up right away is that “la” means “the.” So around Christmastime when you hear, “Fa la la la la, la la la la,” it is French for, “Fa the the the the, the the the the.” You really have to pay attention, but we got through, since my wife speaks a little French and I speak a little English. We went to a Chinese restaurant, which NEITHER of us speaks. Luckily, I am fluent in the international language of love. So I took the waitress in back and made passionate love to her, since we were hungry, but it took forever since she had a stutter.

It is impossible to find really good coffee in Paris, or Europe in general. It comes in a teensie-weensie little cup, a little bit bigger than an adult dose of cough syrup. So even if you COULD find good coffee in Paris, you never WOULD find it since it is so small. In America, we enjoy an enduring friendship with our coffee. We want it to sit beside us the entire duration of the newspaper, steaming faithfully. By the time you finish the coffee at the café here, you have read this much of the story: “BP Successfully Caps Oil Well….” In America, your coffee would have lasted long enough to read more: “BP Successfully Caps Oil Well Liability at One Million using 1886 Law.” Reading further, you learn that BP will be making another attempt to plug the leak in the Earth by using a giant cork. This method has proven successful in the past, but it has only been tried on very large champagne bottles, and never at this depth.

The museums in Paris are legendary. We skipped the Louvre, since it is so huge you could spend a week there (which I should have thought of before I booked the hotel). Plus I hear the Mona Lisa is really tiny and she looks kind of stoned in it. The Louvre is a beautiful building, a former imperial palace, but for some reason they had I.M. Pei design a goofy little pyramid in the middle of it, which everyone is impressed with. If I.M. Pei had designed the one in Egypt I would be impressed, or even that big thing that looks like a cat wearing a football helmet.

The George M. Pompidou Center is their museum of modern art. It is for really creative people, not for the rest of us. In college I roomed with an art major, and he was always picking up pieces of garbage to use for a project. While I was looking around at sunsets, cute girls and hot cars, he was scouring the landscape for garbage- to him it was like gold. Modern artists can see things the rest of us don’t. Here is a quiz:

1. When a band plays “Sweet Caroline,” do you go, “SO GOOD! SO GOOD! SO GOOD!” during the chorus?
2. Do you clip poodles for a living?
3. Do you have a tattoo of a butterfly anywhere on your body (if you ARE a butterfly answering yes to this, exempt yourself from this quiz question)?
4. Do you say things like, “It’s ALL good!” (although once an existentialist asked me what I thought of his work, and I said, “It is what it is,” so I am exempting myself from this quiz question)?

If you answered yes to any of these questions, your work cannot be shown at the Pompidou Center.

One of the problems I encountered in France was what I call “pulchrivertigo.” This alarming condition occurs when the whole country is so beautiful that you don’t know where to look, and there is nothing to contrast each other with. There is little joy in proclaiming, “I am marginally better looking than you, so HA!” In New York every good-looking, well-dressed woman is balanced out by a fat woman dressed in a 300 dollar Nike jogging suit pushing a double stroller of overweight children old enough to walk by themselves. Or an over-tattooed Jersey boy shouting into his walkie-talkie phone, not realizing that he is actually gossiping. I have gross images in my mind of every race and religion of Americans, so don't think I'm bigoted. I think there is a whole different "No-fly List" for flights to Paris. Between all the art, the architecture, and the beautiful people, we vowed to pay more attention to the unattractive things back home that we took for granted all these years.

Incidentally, Gustave Eiffel designed the tower that bears his name for a 1889 world exposition marking the centennial of the French Revolution. It was ordered by Hitler to be destroyed along with the rest of Paris near the end of the German occupation, but his own military governor of Paris refused to execute the order. Eiffel also designed the armature (or infrastructure) for the Statue of Liberty. It is visible by visitors from below the statue, but you have to look up her dress, which is kind of embarrassing. If you do, don’t forget to say, “I see England, I see France, I see the Statue of Liberty’s underpants.”

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WORLD TRAVEL I

WORLD TRAVEL

We recently returned from Amsterdam, which I feel compelled to tell you, is a wonderful city. You might guess from looking at commercials for Amstel and Heineken, that everyone in the city is always drunk. This is absolutely false. The truth is that they are always stoned. If you look around, you can see entire families bicycling into Dam Plaza together. Then they get that look on their face that says, “Shit- I forgot what we came in here for.” They are completely stoned. Even the little children are stoned from secondhand smoke, which I think is a great thing for those who can’t afford to buy it new. Here they call it “Certified Pre-Owned.” Unfortunately, an hour after the cafes open there is a run on Fritos in all supermarkets, and many people are trampled each day. If I was a brilliant entrepreneur I would market a package deal of a gram of hash and a pint of Häagen-Dazs Heavenly Hash together for 20 euros.

Dam Plaza is kind of a congregating point in the middle of town, where tourists can go if they want to look lost and not feel so out of place. The problem is that you are steering your rented bike with one hand, holding the map with the other, and you finally find your destination, which is on Luijkeliedseprinsensplaat. You look up at the sign, and by some miracle, you are on that road! Then a huge trolley car slams into you and knocks you to kingdom come. And when you recover, the street sign now says Luijkeliedseprinsenstrasse. So you are back to square one. If you eventually do get onto the right road, in two blocks it changes to Kaiserspleidenrijkelgracht and you’re lost again. If you are stupid enough to ask for directions, they will tell you, “it is over by the canal.” Every street has a canal next to it in Amsterdam. There are displaced people over here, but I don’t think they are homeless. They just have no idea exactly where they are.

Whenever I am at Dam Plaza I always stick my finger in a dyke, and yes, I have been slapped for it plenty hard.

While we were here, we visited plenty of museums. One we did not get a chance to visit was the Anne Frank house. Which has to piss off the owners, because it wasn’t her house, they were just nice enough to let her stay there. The whole story is a little depressing, since she dies, but I guess if you wait around long enough every story has that same ending. The room is supposedly exactly as it was when she was living there, which made me wonder what would happen if I was Anne Frank, and MY room had to be preserved for many generations exactly as it was when I was living there. That is a LOT of pressure on a teenager to clean up your frigging room. Millions of visitors a year filing past my room behind a velvet rope going, “Gross! Is that a ginormous pile of underwear over there? When was he planning to launder it? I doubt the Nazis will occupy THAT! And what is that tacky blacklight poster of Farrah Fawcett doing there? Her nipples are practically poking my eye out.”

I never even read Anne Frank’s diary, because it seems nosy. What if there is stuff about her and her boyfriend getting to third base or something? She should have locked it with that little key if she didn’t want idiots like us reading it.

On a lighter note, there is plenty to do here. If you go to Max Euweplein square you can play chess on a giant board. The good news is that I was able to castle using an actual castle. The bad news is that on my opening move I think I killed a squirrel.

The van Gogh museum was great. Van Gogh is what I like to call a lasting impressionist. He himself was very impressionable, and soaked up techniques from other painters, such as Renoir, Gauguin and Japanese influences. The onset of mental illness caused him to do strange things, and eventually committed himself to an asylum. Whereupon hearing a voice in his head, he started removing his buttocks with a razor blade. The voice quickly corrected him: “I said cut off your EAR, not your REAR! Are you NUTS?” His fame grew even after his death, which is when he did some of his best work.

We went to the Concertgebouw and saw a kick-ass symphony concert. We were seated actually behind the instruments, facing the conductor. It was interesting to watch him work. With one hand, he was alternately keeping the time and cueing different sections of the orchestra. With the other hand he was texting somebody. Every once in awhile he made a motion towards the woodwind section, gave the finger, and mouthed the words, “F the bassoon player,” so I don’t know what that was about. At the end of the concert a page came out and gave a bouquet of flowers to the first violinist, and he yanked them out of her hand and gave them to the flute player, so I think he is banging her. One thing noticed is that the tympani player is grossly overpaid. He sat reading the paper for most of the program, clicking his tongue at the financial section, and every once in awhile he would turn the page of the music just for show.


Incidentally, Rembrandt van Rijn, who was in his painting heyday at about the time that New Amsterdam was discovering its New World identity, is purported to have painted over 300 works. Included among them are about 40 self-portraits, although in some of them he portrayed himself as looking remarkably like Brad Pitt.

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EARTH DAY

EARTH DAY

Today is Earth Day- did you get a gift? I must admit, I did not get anything. I have no idea what to get- I will probably just get a plant or something. I think I read somewhere that this Earth day the Earth is 40 YEARS OLD. And I must say it looks pretty good (although I think it has had some work done). Yes there are some cracks and crevices- Haiti looks a little wrinkly, and some of the tectonic plates definitely need to be replaced.

That’s why we all have to do our part. I am thinking of getting a Hybrid car- it’s a cross between a Yugo and a poodle- it’s called a Poogo. But I can’t even trust a battery to run a flashlight let alone my car.

Which reminds me: every time I buy a new package of batteries I go through the same stages of grief. First, Denial. I firmly believe that this will be the first package of batteries ever manufactured that I will be able to open with just my hands. I look for the little tab that says, “OPEN HERE.” I look all over for it. “PULL HERE, STUPID!” I can’t see anything. “NOT THERE, OVER HERE- ARE YOU A FUCKING MORON OR WHAT? YOU GRADUATED FROM SYRACUSE? FIGURES….” There is no tab. Next, Anger. I want to meet the person that designed this package. I want to butter him up with a little small talk, how’s the wife, the kids, etc. and make him feel at ease and light-hearted as we walk in the park, admiring nature. Then I shove him into a 10-foot pit that I have dug and covered with leaves. At first stunned, he regains his senses and pleads with me to throw down an i-phone so he can call for help, or at least pass the time surfing for internet porn. I say nothing for two hours, then throw in the i-phone, wrapped in hard seamless plastic. I watch and laugh diabolically as he ruins his incisors trying to gnaw the package open.

Then, Bargaining. I plead with the batteries to just come on out of the package willingly. Just this once. They decline. Then, Depression, where I just don’t even want to get out of bed in the morning, knowing that I can’t get those goddamn batteries out of the package. Finally, Acceptance, where I realize I will have to spring for another 20 bucks for the AC adaptor.

Anyway, alternative power is becoming a much higher priority. They are considering building a wind farm off the coast of Nantucket. Indian tribes are against that particular location, since some Indians were buried on the planet Earth, where they are thinking of building the wind farm. Congress has provided for tax credits for the proliferation of alternative energy, but what they should do is put the turbines right there in the Senate chamber where the wind is. Growing up on a wind farm is much less work than a regular farm- no milking cows, planting things, picking things. You just water those big wind things every once in awhile and they’re good to go- it’s a breeze. I have seen a giant hi-tech wind generator on top of our neighbor’s barn. It has a rooster on top and the letters, N, S, E, and W, which probably stand for something to do with the output or amperage.

Clean coal is another option that’s getting a lot of airtime these days. But clean coal is very expensive to produce, since it comes out of that mine so darn dirty. If you toss it in the washer (NOT with the delicates) using a little Tide you should be fine.

Hydro-electric power uses current to provide current. For instance, the two generating stations on the U.S. side of Niagara Falls provide 2,700 kilowatts of power, enough to supply one quarter of the electricity in New York State, as long as they don’t use their hair dryers all at the same time.

So if you live next to a coal mine, with a raging river on your property, with no trees to block the sun and constant 60- 65 mile-per-hour winds, chances are you will never have to pay one cent to run your appliances. But I have to tell you that sounds like an awful piece of property, especially in this real-estate market. Plus, one day you are going to wake up and say, “I have ZERO energy today,” and no one is going to feel sorry for you. You sound like a bit of a whiner to me.


Incidentally, Solar energy is produced in photovoltaic cells. The sun excites the electrons in these cells, possibly by telling them that they are going to Disneyworld. The cell produces DC power, which is then transformed via inverter to AC voltage. This AC/DC conversion is similar to taking kilowatts that enjoy Liza Minnelli concerts and changing them into ones that like working with power tools.

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RELIGIOUS HOLIDAYS

RELIGIOUS HOLIDAYS

I have finally finished my Easter candy. At least I think I have; my wife hid all of my chocolate eggs so that I could hunt for them. Which I found mean and vindictive. Can you imagine if the Red Cross went into a relief area and hid the food JUST FOR FUN? I took my Winchester 94 with me. That way, if I failed to find any eggs I could just shoot at the ground and hope to find oil, like Jed Clampett. Wife sat there smugly as I struggled to find food. I said hey I don’t see you going down to the reservoir and hiding the swan’s eggs. Try that on for size.

I am still finding a chocolate egg here and there- there were several in my car which I did not discover until the weather returned from its high of 91 degrees.

As a kid we used to color our hard-boiled eggs the night before Easter with Paas Easter Egg Dye. You dissolve the different color dyes in bowls of water. After holding the egg patiently in the mixture for about an hour-and-a-half, the white egg would magically re-appear the vibrant color of ecru. You could hardly recognize it. They were hardly Faberge masterpieces, but they kept us out of trouble for however long an hour-and-a-half times one dozen is.

My mother used to hide the eggs that night so we could find them the next day. Unfortunately, we all well knew that the hours between Easter Eve and Easter Morning were more than adequate for her to completely forget where she hid them. I fantasize that the people who eventually bought our house every once in awhile scratch their head and go, “There it is again- what the hell is that smell?” Sometimes someone in North Dakota will find what they insist is a petrified dinosaur egg, but us six kids know better.

Then we would get hauled off to the Country Club (I love saying that, but I’m sure you know that if you call yourself a “Country Club,” it only means that you are hoping with desperation that you could be that which you are not), where they had a lovely Easter day planned, with an Easter egg hunt and a magician. I remember hating it, which proves I was cool even back then. The other kids were way faster and smarter at finding the plastic eggs with the prizes in them. Which proves I was unathletic, even back then. The magician did the same lame tricks every time, including the old “milk-in-the-newspaper-cone” trick.

Which I just had to try at home. Not only would there be a huge puddle of milk on the floor, but Dad would have no idea what happened in the world that day. Prior to getting yelled at and possibly misdemeanor assaulted, I would say, “Well, there’s no use crying over THAT is there?” and run like hell.

Easter is the most cannibalistic-seeming holiday. The torturous glee with which you slowly devour a whole animal, without skinning it or cooking it, starting with its ears. With no ability to hear, and sometimes with its tail suddenly consumed, hence its balance compromised, it still wears an fatuous and gruesome smile. I finally get to the flesh-eater’s prize, the beautiful blue eyes. I chew them slowly and savor them. Should the chocolate bunny lay chocolate eggs, I will swallow their unborn children whole.

I start to see things from Hannibal Lechter’s side. Which reminds me: every time I see a baby with one of those sucker things in its mouth I think of Hannibal Lechter. Is that baby a dangerous criminal? A psychotic killer? It is laughing at inappropriate times, a clear sign. It has a dazed, drooly look. Could it jump across that high chair, club me, remove my skin and eat me? It does not look particularly agile, but neither do NFL offensive linemen. Then the sucker thing falls out of its mouth and I feel stupid for even thinking it. But I steer well clear of it anyway.

I never pay much attention to the religious side of it; that people believe in such things seems vaguely embarrassing to me. But I would NEVER say so out loud. If there really is a Judgement Day I picture everyone sitting around a big table holding up signs with “7.5” or “6.0” on them. It will be a lot like the Easter Egg hunt, where I never made such a great showing.


Incidentally, the name “Easter” is possibly derived from “Eostre,” a month of the Germanic calendar akin to April, in which feasts were held. The holiday corresponds with the Jewish holiday of Passover, and the gambling holiday of Passover/under. The New Testament of the Bible teaches that Easter follows the Last Supper and the Crucifixion. And if you look closely at da Vinci’s The Last Supper, you can plainly see that Judas is reaching for a chocolate Easter bunny.

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NATIONAL RESPONSIBILITY

NATIONAL RESPONSIBILITY

Have you sent your Census Form back yet? I have not. But Person Number 1 has. After 30 some odd years (some would argue most odd) of signing on the dotted line below my dotted line, my wife has taken it upon herself to become “Person Number 1,” as directed by our Census form. I found this amazing! Of all the people in America to receive the survey, she was the FIRST!

So Person Number 1 was just about to start answering the questions, but then Person Number 1 had to clean up a cat number 2.

The questions seem fairly simple. They ask your name, which she got right. But that is not until question #5. There are other more important matters. First it asks, “How many people are living or staying at this house, apartment or mobile home?” Which implies that some of the people staying at your house might not necessarily be alive. This is potentially a trick question which you should answer carefully, and if need be, consult a deceased lawyer.

Question 2: “Are there any additional people staying here that you did not include in Question 1?” If you recently put an addition on your home, this is where they probably are living, so check that out. Or it might mean people who are good at math.

Then it asks: Are You Hot? If so, what is your telephone number???

It asks your sex, Male or Female. It instructs you to “Mark ONE box,” so it won’t do to hedge your bets.

You have to list your age. The form says it is okay to report a baby as age 0, but a baby age 0 seems like it may have been ill-conceived.

In addition to asking your race (I put the 5K), it separately asks whether you are of Hispanic, Latino or Spanish origin. If so, what is your batting average? I think they may be starting a softball team at the census bureau.

Question number 10: “Does Person 1 sometimes live or stay somewhere else?” By the way if you live in a trailer, you may be at home and also somewhere else, depending on where you are parked. The choices are: 1.) In college housing; 2.) In the military; 3.) At a second residence; 4.) For child custody; 5). In jail or prison; 6.) In a nursing home; 7.) For another reason, which I take to mean: Who-knows-where with Tiger Woods.

Speaking of Tiger, I was recently in the office of a noted sexual psychiatrist, who evaluated him. The doctor sat him down and said, “Mr. Woods, I will first ask you two important questions to make an analysis of your condition and determine whether you are a sex addict. First, are you a guy?” Tiger answered yes. The doctor said, “Okay, so you are a sex addict. Now the next question: do you know how to play whist? We have another 50 minutes to kill till ten minutes of two.”

The doctor then proceeded to win 17 hands of whist in a row, but then Tiger challenged him to arm wrestle, whereupon he won and bruised a bone in the doctor’s hand.

Tiger then showed me a text message he recently sent to a “links minx:”
“I C U from 16th T. U R a Q T! I like UR B hind. U have a nice boo T. luv TGRRR”

I can’t really picture Tiger as a ladies man since he seems so polite- the very name “Tiger” should be reserved for football players or boxers, not golfers. These guys are dressing in knickers and visors- you make your own judgement, and please mark only ONE box.

Question number 11 asks: “Didn’t I just see you at the hardware store?”

There are many scam questionnaires going around, so pay attention to the questions if they do not match the ones I have listed above. Does it ask for your Social Security number? Does it ask, “What is your cat’s name?” That plus the current year will get you into just about any account. Does it ask, “Where do you keep your spare key?” All red flags.

So fill out the census and be counted. And long live the NEW Person Number 1. She will enjoy her newfound status, higher self-esteem, and I’m guessing a jury duty notice sometime very soon.


Incidentally, if you do not send back your form, a government Census agent comes to you to harass, cajole and harangue you, not necessarily in that order. And your tax dollars are paying for it. The first thing they ask you is won’t you please come to your census. Then they push right in and check what’s in the fridge. If they don’t leave, you may have to list them in Question number two. Chances are they will eventually go; it’s off to the next field trip, where apparently NO ONE at Sin City Gentlemen’s Club has answered the census.

Provided by website-hit-counters.com site.