WINTER SPRINGS ETERNAL

Jesus Christ are we done with this goddamned winter yet? I'm sorry to yell but this has just gone on far too long. I'm sick and tired of it. I'm actually sick and tired because I have a cold, but if we are still blaming colds on the lack of warmth, then I can go back to yelling at the winter. I never knew that HELL could be so friggin' cold. If I wanted to live in Syracuse I wouldn't have bothered to graduate.

I've been living in the Northeast all my life and have seen my share of rough winters. Every year the TV weathermen and weather chicks, who get paid by the idiotic phrase, come up with a new one every year. They made up the term, "Wind Chill Factor" so that they could tell you that it's cold AND windy. "Dew Point," is a cocktail of numbers brewed together that pilots use for judging the possibility of icing. I have used the formula to evaluate cupcakes and it works. "Real Feel Temperature" was invented for those to whom the actual temperature did not feel real enough.

This year they have come up with: "The Polar Vortex." It sounds to me like they spent a lot of money on the word "vortex" and were waiting for another word to come along to use with it. It sounds pretty high tech, like it should be flying around the mountains of Pakistan flushing out terrorists. Next year if we had a "Polar Vortex Matrix," it wouldn't surprise me.

All this harping on how cold it is and the fact that it's going to be EVEN COLDER TOMORROW made me intermittently sad and angry, sometimes violent, and almost always cold. I call this the "Bipolar Vortex."

They say that we are losing our polar ice caps, since all the snow has migrated down here to my driveway. Every day brings a new snowstorm with it. As the snow fell gently around the property, making nary a sound, a peaceful smile came over my face. "Isn't it beautiful?" I ask my wife. "Our cable's out," replies my wife. "FUCK THIS CRAP!" I ejaculate.

To get back the romantic mood I attempt to start a fire. In a nick of time, I remember to start it in the fireplace. Some crumpled newspaper (I start with the unfinished Monday New York Times crossword puzzle, which was harder than usual), a little kindling strategically placed, some logs stacked to allow the flow of oxygen and VOILA! Nothing. "You have to heat the draft," says my wife, romance still in the air. "I know you have to heat the draft. Or is it the other way around?" I reply, a hopeless romantic.

Of course I forgot to bring the firewood inside to dry. I suggest that we might use one of the kitchen chairs. "When was the last time we had more than three people sitting in there?" I query. By this time I have burned about four months-worth of newspapers, giving the illusion of a blazing inferno and also singeing off my eyebrows.

I remember that there is a ton of dry firewood under the eaves from hurricane Sandy, in the form of a 20-foot uncut tree trunk. My idea is to feed it into the fire perpendicularly, a little at a time, over the course of about 14 hours. My wife gives me a little look with her eyes that might mean that she thinks I am a genius.

Meanwhile I have run out of newspapers and I am burning our past tax returns. You are supposed to save them for ten days. Or is it ten years? Oops. The ashes from the paper have almost reached the top of the fireplace, and our carbon footprint has swelled to Wilt Chamberlain size. Remember when Wilt Chamberlain said he slept with 20,000 women? How the hell would he remember them all? I'm thinking he slept with the same slut maybe 6,000 of those times and didn't even remember. "Wilt the Stilt" they called him, but they only mention the one stilt. How did he stand up, unless....?

So now more smoke is coming out the front of the fireplace than is going up the chimney. "When was the last time we had the chimney cleaned?" I ask. "Sixteen years ago when we moved in," she replies. I remember my wife called a chimney sweep company, and I was kind of expecting a British bloke with a top hat. Instead, this little Spanish guy showed up who looked small enough to scale down the chimney and scrub it by hand. I asked him if he could sing or tap dance, but he didn't seem to speak any English. I broke into "Chim Chim Cher-ee" to get him started. "Chim chim-a-nee, chim chim-a-nee, chim chim che-ree!" I sing, but he looks like he is pointing to his crotch. In retrospect, I realize now that he wanted to use the bathroom. I don't know where he ended up going, but now that I think about it, our damper was damper.

I hear the plow guy outside, so I head out to see if he wants some hot chocolate. But he is already gone, and so are most of our driveway lights. He has plowed the blacktop into a perfect sheet of ice, like a zamboni. So I have to sprinkle rock salt, and as I descend the 45-degree ski slope of our driveway, I realize I am sliding inexorably down towards the mailbox. I am still tossing the salt granules as I go, and it looks like a weird wedding reception.

But here we are in April, and March came in like a lion, stayed like a lion, married, had cubs, and ate the lamb. But at least finally enough snow has melted around our mailbox so that we could retrieve our newspaper from January 3rd. You know what the headline was that day? "Snow Blankets Area!" It sounded so warm in print, but would have been warmer if a blanket had blanketed the area.



Incidentally, the polar vortex is actually a never-ending cyclone that pushes air masses around near the North and South Poles. It represents a constant low-pressure area, so if you can get a job there, not much will be expected of you.

THE ONE-ARMED MAN

Life as a one-armed man in a two-armed world is murder. And I really mean murder- I get the feeling that there is a guy following me around who thinks I killed his wife. Can you see me even trying? "Hold on baby could you turn around? I can't kill you from this side because I need to hold the knife in my left hand." I can't even weild a knife lefty, although I can brandish not too bad.

But it has been hard. I'm ostracized at clandestine "business meetings" because one hand won't wash the other. I'm scoffed at in the ballgame bleachers when the wave goes all the way around the stadium, makes it through my left hand then comes to a screeching halt at my right hand, and they have to start the thing all over. At Gospel revivals when it comes time to Put My Hands Together, Jesus is looking down from the stained glass window, rolling His eyes.

My life right now is like that episode of "Flipper" where Flipper gets his ventral fin caught in a propeller and has to learn how to masturbate with his dorsal fin. Was Flipper a boy or a girl? I don't suppose it matters much.

All of a sudden I'm a southpaw. I used to be a northpaw, but my slip and fall pulled it southeast, and the surgery yanked it back northwest. I tried to write lefty, and discovered that it really didn't make much different to my handwriting, which either way is read from bottom to top, like Chinese, only taller. Typing isn't much better; I have to avoid certain words altogether, which has stunted my vocabulary. Words that I use often, like "lumpy," I have to type with one hand.

My right arm is in a sling, which I usually keep tucked underneath my shirt so I don't have to remove it to get dressed (the sling not the arm). So my right sleeve hangs limply at my side, causing people to think the injury much worse than it actually is. Until my hand pops out of the bottom of my shirt like a rogue Muppet. Sometimes it retrieves the mail like "Thing" when I am asleep.

I was hoping that I didn't need "Tommy John" surgery, since I would rather have it performed by a qualified doctor than an aging ex-ballplayer with one bad elbow. I even fantasized that I could pioneer a NEW type of procedure, and have it named after ME! Can you imagine the glory? My OWN infirmity! I pictured an operation that grafted tissue from my ass and had it implanted into my elbow, thereby reducing the need to distinguish one from the other.

I went to a dinner party recently, and it became apparent that I could not cut my food and might do something gross. My friend Matt had to cut my food, and offered to feed me if I promised to do it like in "Clockwork Orange."

No matter how hard I try I can't use a scissor lefty. Try it yourself sometime and you'll see what I mean. I remembered that you're supposed to use a PAIR of scissors, and that was twice as ineffective.

I'm finding it hard to blow my nose. I never realized it was a two-handed operation- I only have one nose; am I using one hand for each nostril? Or putting on my socks- I get them almost all the way on, and on the final pull the heel ends up on top. I have to leave my shoelaces tied in a double knot so I can slip my sneakers on and off.

I couldn't live upstairs with the grownups so I had to make do downstairs- my wife calls it my "nest." It consists of a pullout couch, a phone, a TV and a computer. The pullout couch is kind of a cheapo - if you lie in the wrong spot it starts to fold back up into a couch, so you need to plan an escape route.

There really isn't a hell of a lot to do with one hand. I did do a lot of gambling- me and the one-armed bandit are basically both in the same boat. I had to find one that was righty. I was going to try poker but didn't want to lose the only good hand I had left.

I'm in physical therapy three times a week. My physical therapist used to work on some of the Knicks- Patrick Ewing, Bill Cartwright, etc. She is big on stretching, and she must be good at her job because look how tall those guys are?

In my spare time (which is the only time I have right now) I am fabricating a better story than that I was walking along and all of a sudden I was on my back like an upside-down beetle. Tearing up your shoulder just by being a pedestrian is so... well, pedestrian.

So if you happen to be a fugitive, and you are wanted for murder, and you need to find a one-armed man to clear your name and avoid the death penalty, it really isn't that hard. Just look for a guy with a runny nose and sloppy arts and crafts who swallows food whole and can only do half the wave at the ballgame, and arrest him on the spot.



Incidently, people who are left-handed process emotions differently than their right-handed counterparts, according to the Journal of Nervous and Mental Disease. Much more fascinating is that there is no more Life Magazine, but we have a Journal of Nervous and Mental Disease. Speaking of right-handed counterparts, that reminds me I need a new washer for my cold water faucet.

A COLD WINTER'S FALL

So I was slipping on the ice about a month ago and on the way down I decided to take the opportunity to launch into a double axel followed by an immediate triple salchow. I did not stick the landing- in fact: quite the other way around.

While I was waiting for the scoring from the judges I noticed a searing pain in my shoulder- I must have used my oustretched arm to break my fall (AGAIN- quite the opposite was true).

I assumed it was a separated shoulder, or maybe just a trial separation, since we've been trying to work things out. We used to do everything together, and now we aren't as attached as we once were.

For a few weeks I tried to ignore it, but when my shoulder refused to play tennis with me I knew it was time to act. So I performed a soliloquy from Richard the Third, but still nothing.

The orthopedist (he started calling himself an orthopaedist and my co-payment went up 5 bucks) said to press against his hand as hard as I could.
Me: "I've been pressing against it for five minutes already."
Doctor: "Jesus you are weak."
Me: "if you think that's bad wait till I use my injured shoulder."

The MRI confirmed the two things my doctor already knew: that I had a torn rotator cuff and that I was frightened of loud noises.

I was considered a good candidate for surgery, since I was not a republican. The anesthesiologist came by with a gown for me to wear (It was no Versace, but it really showed off my ass nicely).

They repaired my rotator cuff, and also shaved my labrum. I said to the doctor that the shaved labrum sounded hot, but I thought those were "lady-parts?" He assured me that that was true only in my case, so I felt good about that.

The operation went well, and my wife was told that I was resting comfortably. Translation: He is in a drug-induced coma, is weak, nauseous and has a tube coming out of his ass that may or may not be related to the surgery. She assumed that I was still under anesthesia, since I was saying stupid things. You can go ahead and stick your own joke here, I don't mind.

She had already told the staff that my wish is not to have any heroic measures to keep me alive in the case of a tragic mishap such as having shoulder surgery. I was worried that she might consider the act of making me dinner a heroic measure, and end all life-support.
Wife: "What seems to be the problem officer?"
Police: "someone called to report you trying to kill your husband."
Wife: "He would have wanted it that way- Look at his quality of life- He can't function normally and in fact never could."
Police: "the hospital staff saw you smothering him with a pillow."
Wife: "Come on- we were just having a little fun."
Police: "But he's dead!"
Wife: "Okay- a LOT of fun."

The doctor said my arm would be in a sling for six weeks. SIX WEEKS! That's over FIVE WEEKS!

I thought the procedure would be fairly easy; if you watch any western movie you'll see the "good guy" get shot at least once in the shoulder, and he laughs it off as if he just stubbed his toe. "The bullet only grazed him!" they cheer. Well that is exactly what it is like: a herd of antelope grazing on your shoulder. And by the way stubbing your toe is no fun and games either.

The pain was so great ("great" hardly describes it) that I could only sleep for about 10 minutes at a time. And it was not the deep, satisfying sleep that I used to get in high school trigonometry class.

It was like constant torture. At least now I know that if the enemy ever gets hold of me, I will have NOTHing to say to them. Mostly because we probably don't share the same interests.

My wife heard about animal therapy and she thought, wouldn't it be healing to leave our 16 year-old dog with me to cheer me up and help me convalesce? We had a short non-verbal conversation of whistles and stares that went like this:
Dog: "Who the hell are you?"
Me: "Come here my little friend!"
Dog: "What did you say?"
Me: "I want to pet you! Nice Doggie!"
Dog: "I'm coming over there since someone just took a crap over here."
Me: "Ahhhhh, Nice Doggie! I knew you'd come to your Daddy!"
But instead he just stood there until a stiff wind blew him over, then it was time for his nap.

So I've been sitting here alone at home, my arm immobilized, with plenty of time to collect my thoughts. The first thought that I collected is that the collection probably will not go up in value.



Incidentally, the rotator cuff is actually a group of four muscles, and the tendons associated with them. They attach the scapula, or shoulder bone, to the top of the arm. The arm bone is the humerus, unless you break it, then it's not so funny, is it? If you have a dislocated shoulder, don't immediately go running into surgery. If you really can't locate it, do what my mom used to suggest to me, and ask yourself, "Where did I last see it?" I used to say, "Mom, if I knew where I last saw it, I'd go over there and get it."

THE YEAR IN REVIEW

Now that we have rung in the New Year and the holiday lights have been taken off the tree, it’s time to take a look back at the year that was. Also, that reminds me to take the holiday lights off the tree. Now, a review of the weird stories of 2013, and remember, all of these stories are true:

In January, Notre Dame football player Manti Te'o revealed that the death of his girlfriend in a car accident was indeed a hoax, and that the girlfriend was imaginary. I have certainly imagined many women, many times, specializing in many things. They all share a common bond: a deep-seated relief that they are not real. It was later acknowledged that the ruse was perpetrated by his former friend, Ronaiah Tuiasosopo, who also was imaginary.

In February, an article appeared that a growing number of wildlife experts have begun to question whether the endangered giant panda is really worth saving. I wholeheartedly agree with this assessment; where are we going to put a bunch of giant pandas? I can’t even find enough counter space in my kitchen for the coffeemaker. Further, the panda is an herbivore. We should be concentrating on species that are more important to the ecosystem, such as the Argentinean Boa constrictor, which could potentially be trained to eat Republicans.

In March, women’s clothing maker Lululemon recalled its popular line of yoga pants amid complaints that people could see through them. The company tried to insinuate that the pants might not be suitable for fat women, but people saw right through that excuse. I also recall those pants- I saw them on a girl and for a moment I thought I had X-ray vision. I did notice that she had a hairline fracture on her hairline. On the plus side, if I get trapped inside a pair of these pants at least I would be able to see out of them, provided I remember to bring my glasses.

In March, a NY city police officer was convicted of plotting to kill and eat women. Officer Gilberto Valle was accused of this behavior by his wife, whom he called “tasteless.” (I made that last part up) His lawyer, Julia Gatto, called the verdict “devastating,” whereupon Officer Valle popped her in his mouth like a tic-tac. (I made that last part up too, although it was written about in Law Digest) It does prove the old adage that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.

In April, Henry Gribbohm from New Hampshire lost his life savings of $2,600 playing "Tubs of Fun," a game that involves tossing a ball into a tub so that it does not bounce out. From my limited experience with tubs, I can tell you that your balls should NEVER bounce out. What is even more shocking is that during his 30 years on Earth he managed to save only $2,600. Even though he did spend all that money, he did win a prize: there is a picture on the internet of him with a huge stuffed banana that wears a permanent facial expression that says: "HAHA! I may be a stuffed banana but at least I have my dignity!" The banana should look great Mr. Gribbohm’s new home, a refrigerator box.

In August, the IRS was accused of requiring Tea Party-related groups to fill out extra paperwork to apply for non-profit status. My sisters had tea parties all the time when we were kids, and we never once filled out extra paperwork. Then again, they were never very profitable.

In August, a baby giant anteater was born at a Greenwich zoo. Sometimes when a baby is born the parents send a card in the mail that says how much it weighs, so you know right away if the baby needs to hit the gym and maybe give up blintzes. Well they didn't even bother with that in this case. It could be that this is an animal that eats baby giant ants- the article doesn't say.

In October, ancient cave art was discovered in Paiui, Brazil, dating back 30,000 years. They have been able to pin it down exactly, since some of the fashions depicted are hopelessly out of date: some of the animals are wearing animal prints- really??? Get with it! Some of the drawings showed people having sex, proving that porn was freely available even in pre-historic man-caves.

In December, 2,000 dead mice were dropped onto the island of Guam, each gently falling to Earth using a parachute of cardboard and tissue paper so that the fall didn't kill them even more than they already were. The mice were laced with acetaminophen so that they might in turn kill the excess population of brown tree snakes, an invasive species. It was not considered "cruelty to animals" since the acetaminophen cured their headaches first.



Incidentally, 2013 is the first year since 1987 that contains four different digits.

TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS

I was re-reading “A Visit From St. Nicholas,” more commonly known as “’Twas the Night Before Christmas,” and I was shocked to learn that St. Nicholas and the reindeer are described as “tiny.” This did not seem to throw my wife, but I was aghast! I had always thought of Santa Claus as being this big, fat dude, probably with bad breath, not miniature, as in the poem. I wondered what else was in the text that I had previously missed:

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

If no one is stirring in the house, how are my cookies going to get made??? If the mouse does end up baking the cookies, make sure those little brown things are chocolate chips, please.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there; The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

A sugar-plum is an old recipe of chopped up fruit (which usually did not contain plums) mixed with nuts, honey and spices, rolled into a ball and covered with shredded coconut. If that thing starts dancing in my head please let it not tap-dance.

And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled down for a long winter's nap, When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

I am so used to clatter on my lawn I swear it wouldn’t even wake me up anymore.

Away to the window I flew like a flash, Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

I once threw up a sash when I was in college, and I always wonder what happened to the person who was wearing it.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

I have seen that same tattoo before.

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below, When, what to my wondering eyes should appear, But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer, With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

You ever get behind a “little old driver?” Were they ever “lively and quick,” or did you end up trying to pass them on a double-yellow line and almost causing an accident?

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came, And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name; "Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! on Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!

“Donder and Blitzen” loosely translates in German to “thunder and lightning.” Prancer & Vixen used to dance at a place in Queens

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall! Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

What’s the hurry? It’s as if the cops just showed up.

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky, So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too. And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

If my dad was still alive I promise you he would yell to the roof and ask them to clean out the gutters as long as they were up there anyway.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot, And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;

Would you wear all fur if you were going to be traveling up and down chimneys?

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack. His eyes -- how they twinkled! his dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

Drunk, obviously.

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow; The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;

Drunk AND stoned.

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

Wait until that broad finds out who has her face.

That shook, when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly. He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf, And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself; A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread; He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,

Where did he come from?

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

Better aside than inside.

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose; He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

NEVER give anyone a whistle- I made that mistake once with my nephew.

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, "Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."

Merry Christmas, and happy birthday to all the others born Christmas day!

A NIGHT AT THE MOVIES

So we went to see Gravity the other day in 3D. The glasses make me feel like Jack Nicholson, so I started annoying the ticket-taker with some scenes from Five Easy Pieces, and had to hide from Security. I realize Nicholson probably does wear those glasses all the time to prevent the Lakers from looking like a one-dimensional team.

Anyway for 90 minutes I was glued to my seat. At around the 91st minute I realized I WAS stuck to the seat with somebody’s gum. I couldn’t even move my feet, which were sucked into a mucilaginous soda-related quagmire.

I don’t want to give away the whole movie so I will only give away the plot. Sandra Bullock and George Clooney are on a shuttle mission to repair the Hubble telescope. The Russians decide to blow up one of their own satellites, and it causes a barrage of space junk to rain through the universe destroying all the space stations. Can you believe after all this time we are still blaming shit on the Russians?

Anyway, to continue ruining the movie, Sandra Bullock had a daughter or something and she was killed or something. I wasn’t really paying attention because I was so focused on Sandra Bullock’s plastic surgery. It looked to me like she had her nose done, her chin done, her cheeks done and her lips done. And my boss Maggie could probably tell you 10 other things she had done. I would tell you if she had her cans done, since I am an expert on that, but I couldn’t really see them through the friggin’ space suit. So Sandra, if you are out there, show me your boobs and I will tell you if you had them done.

I have no idea what the plastic surgeon put in there, but her nose looks so sharp that it might have been the thing that killed her daughter. I definitely wouldn’t let her too close to balloons or cheap radial tires. Her chin has a big cleft in it now- it actually looks just like George Clooney’s now that I think of it. The two are good friends so I hear so maybe they got a deal on them. I remember her being kind of cute but now her face looks really angular, like she went to a cubist plastic surgeon.

They don’t get back in the space shuttle in time and end up being severed from their tethers, hurtling around up there until Clooney finally gets control of his jetpack and points them toward another space station. But of course Clooney doesn’t have enough bluster in his thruster (never happened before I swear!) and he has just enough juice to point Sandra towards the airlock before he hurls himself off into the starry abyss, lost forever until he hooks up with some alien chick.

They keep trying to communicate with each other through some NASA radio contraption, which is futile. Instead they should be using Twitter, so they can say what they REALLY think about Brad Pitt.

She runs out of oxygen and fuel, and she is just about to bite the spacedust. Then Clooney reappears, lets himself into the cabin, and tells her how to drive the thing. She is excited to see him, whereas my wife would be like, “I KNOW how to drive already, so just sit back in your seat and don’t touch the radio.” But alas, it’s all a dream. Now tell me ladies, if you were going to spend precious intergalactic time having a dream about Clooney, would you dress him in a space suit???? So that was another thing that was totally unrealistic.

She re-enters the atmosphere in some damn space pod that she pod-jacks from the Chinese space station. She figures out the controls even though they are written in Asian hieroglyphics. Meanwhile I almost have an accident if I drive a car with an automatic transmission because I keep applying the brake thinking it’s the clutch. Sandra touches down flawlessly right next to a beach, and walks off into the sunset, Hollywood style.

But I was thinking, wouldn’t it be funny if after all that she finally gets back to Earth and a big crab comes up to her and bites her on the toe, and she dies from an infection. To make it a happier ending, the crab also dies from it.



Incidentally, the Space Station and the Hubble Telescope are in different orbits, as is the Chinese Space Station, and any satellite that would have been blown up by the Russians. Therefore the events in the movie could never have taken place. That bothers some space purists, but look at all the other impossible plot twists in past movies. For instance, in “2001: A Space Odyssey” a chimpanzee throws a bone in the air and it becomes a spaceship. It is highly unlikely that he could have thrown the bone all the way into space. I have a bunch of others that I’ll tell you about another time.

WHAT WERE YOU FOR HALLOWEEN?

We went to a couple Halloween parties this year. Saw all the usual faces. At least I think that was them. We always go to Jenn’s for pre-Halloween Saturday, and we’ve met so many nice friends over the years, although I have no idea what any of them look like. If they happen to be at the A & P dressed like Spiderman or a flapper I might recognize them and say hello.

We were late to the party because there was an accident on the highway, and I couldn’t help thinking how awful it would be to get into a car accident on Halloween-Party-Saturday. The indignity of the police scanner broadcast: “We need EMS here right away. We have a cat with a possible broken fetlock and some lacerations to the tail. Also a beer keg dude with a spigot injury. Accident possibly caused by a horseman trying to get ahead.”

So this year I went as a pirate joke. It’s pretty much the same as a pirate costume only I had a lot of bad quips to go along with it. Oh and I also had a captain’s wheel stuck to my crotch (“Why?” I heard you ask. “I don’t know, but it’s driving me nuts!”). I also had a paper towel stuck to the top of my pirate hat (“There’s a bounty on me head HAR!”). It went on like this for quite some time, certainly longer than absolutely necessary. I made a papier mache parrot for my shoulder (“Have you met me bird? Her memory’s not what it used to be- I call her Poly-nesia! ARRGGGGH”). Argh. I apologize to anyone who already heard these gems that evening, but I’m thinking of taking the act over to Somalia, where the pirates clearly have no respect for tradition. Same in Pittsburgh. There is also a lot of piracy on the internet that I will be addressing. By the way, what has eight arms and eight legs? Eight pirates! Avast!

“I liked that guy dressed as a fireman,” I told my wife on the way to the next party. “That actually was a fireman- I think we got the hell out of there just in time,” she said.

Have you noticed that Halloween is getting more and more sexy? A lot of bats with bustiers, cats with camisoles, schoolgirls in stockings, etc. I am okay with this- zombie broads in stockings are still hot. Also it seems that drunk girls who have a tail have better balance.

You hardly ever see any of the old-school monsters any more. There was Dracula, but he doesn’t Count. I read in a crossword puzzle that Dracula can’t see himself in the mirror, which explains his horrible hair. One of these days I am going to go as Frankenstein. Who actually dressed more like a bell captain; it was Frankenstein’s monster that got all the attention.

Or maybe I will go as the Phantom of the Opera. But do I have to sit through the goddamned opera? Couldn’t I just be the Phantom of the Giant’s Home Game, or the Phantom of the Strip Club??

I might go as the Invisible Man, especially if there is a game on.

Some people dressed as Miley Cyrus, even Miley Cyrus did. By the way, my New Year’s resolution is to spend less time with Miley Cyrus. Why is she in my life so often? She doesn’t seem particularly attractive, not especially talented, her music uncompelling, not even much of a body, and yet there she is, day after day, appearing in an important news bulletin for sticking out her tongue while dancing. I used to stick out my tongue all the time when I was a little kid and no one thought I was a special genius. Now Taylor Swift on the other hand is a different story. Quite a beauty, but I would never date her, even if I was not married. The reason? No, not all of those, or even those, thanks a lot. The reason I could never date Taylor Swift is that our relationship would end badly after a couple hours, and she would write a song about me. And there isn’t one thing that rhymes with “Rick” that is at all flattering.



Incidentally, here are a few Halloween trick-or-treating safety tips that I came across:

1.) Always wear flame retardant costumes. But don’t use the word “retardant” where the costumes can hear you.
2.) Wear comfortable, practical shoes, especially if you are going as a lesbian.
3.) Don’t carry fake knives, guns or weapons. It doesn’t say you shouldn’t carry real ones, interestingly enough.
4.) Carry a flashlight, and plan your route ahead of time.
5.) If a stranger says, “Come here, I want to give you some candy,” that’s pretty much what you signed up for.
6.) Avoid any candy that has been opened. Try to go for candy that you like, but your parents do not, or do what I used to do, and make a “decoy” bag of stupid stuff or treats that are good for you (I once got a box of frigging raisins), and make sure your parents see that instead of the good candy. Happy trick-or-treating!