I mentioned in a recent post that the best popular song ever written is Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavour on the Bedpost Overnight?
I am confident in my assessment of that piece of musical brilliance for a very good reason. When I judge a song for its quality or lack thereof, I rate it on its uniqueness along with other factors. Has that song employed any words that cannot be found in any other song? I think this is important as it indicates a maximum level of creativity.
So, for the song mentioned above, I have always been delighted to know that the word “tonsils” is repeated several times, in reference to the chewing gum: “Do you put it on your tonsils, do you heave it left and right?”
I challenge song lovers everywhere to come up with another pop song that uses that word. If you know of one, please forward it and I might be forced to reassess my adjudication.
A possible worthy runner-up might be All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth. What other song in musical history, I ask you, refers to the singer’s “two front teeth.”
I wrote a new song this week. I soon realized it is the best song I have ever written. A few minutes later, it dawned on me that this is, in fact, probably the best song that has ever been written – by anyone.
Wow! You can imagine my happiness at that discovery.
So, what you do with the best song ever written, of course, is sing it 24 hours a day till you hate it worse than oatmeal porridge (which is not recommended for human consumption). It is at that point that you are willing to entertain the idea that it might not actually be the best four minutes of song styling ever put together since the beginning of music. That distinction goes to My Boomerang Won’t Come Back.
However, having thudded back to Earth isn’t the least bit disconcerting because you still think the thing is pretty darned good for an amateur. You have to or you’d never write another one. Besides, there is always next week when you probably will come up with the best song ever and My Boomerang … will just be a distant, but wonderful, memory.
Ian Tyson was interviewed by a Canadian radio host a while back who asked the folk/country artist what the best song he ever wrote was and the only answer could be Four Strong Winds. Tyson wouldn’t cooperate and gave him the name of a song he’d just come up with.
“That’s the best one I’ve ever written,” he said excitedly to the dejected interviewer. “You always think your latest one is your best one.”
I guess I am in good company. But no matter how good I get at this, I will never surpass the writer of Does Your Chewing Gum Lose Its Flavour on the Bedpost Overnight?
One of my favourite pastimes in recent years has been to walk past construction sites and examine the proceedings. Yes, it’s true, I have become a Certified Sidewalk Superintendent. I have my full papers from the Canadian Construction Industry and am completely licensed to stand at a distance and detect whatever flaws I might witness being perpretrated on a new building.
I earned this stature because of the many astute observations I have made over the years, criticisms that range from the subtle, “Who the hell designed this mess?” to “That thing’s gonna fall down in a year.” I am able to make these assessments based on my own past, working three summers on bridge construction when I was attending university almost 50 years ago and from growing up on a farm where we built a lot of sheds and things.
And so it was that a big hole was dug in the ground last year on a lot just a stone’s throw from my (well-constructed) house. Although I was not notified that construction was under way, I soon detected the activity and began my daily inspection tours.
For the first while, I had no idea what was being planned for the hole, but the builders, thankfully, erected a very nice sign showing an artist’s conception of a new medical centre. It was very appealing and I hoped the builders would adhere to the architect’s vision very closely.
I walked by almost every day, even during the winter months, and was mostly impressed with the gradually evolving three-storey brick structure. It would be a very welcome addition to the neighbourhood and to be honest, I could find little fault with the construction though it wasn’t for a lack of trying. The thing that appealed to me about it was the fact that it was all function and no frill. If it was a car, it would be a stripped down Chevy Malibu.
Some modern buildings look like works of modern art with metal protrusions and glass hanging out all over the place. I always wonder how they will replace those special panes of glass and fiberglass panels 30 years down the road. I worry about stuff like that which makes me an excellent Sidewalk Super.
Finally, the completed Stratford Medical Centre opened its doors on a Monday in early January. I just happened to have an appointment that morning.
Guess who was the Medical Centre’s first patient?
A very fitting development, I must say.
I asked my doctor if I would be honoured in some way, maybe with a special gift, a plaque on the wall, a large framed portrait in the lobby. In response, the good physician fought me off bravely and handed me a prescription for more drugs.
One thing I have noticed about our changing times is the lack of respect these days for the critical role Sidewalk Superintendents play in the scheme of things.
Warren Buffett and I have a lot in common. Males, fathers, eyeglass wearers. Balding. Speak English.
But our biggest shared characteristic is our incredible financial acumen. Our brains don’t operate in the same way others do. Ours are functioning on a whole, remarkable, elevated level. Don’t feel badly that yours doesn’t. Warren and I are special.
My evidence of the above truths, is this.
Today, I entered the McDonald’s drivethrough, wanting a cup of coffee. I told the woman who greeted me through the speaker that I had a card for a free one. I had collected seven little stickers from previous cups I had drank and attached them to this card. This entitled me to a free medium coffee. At the last minute, and in my enthusiasm, I asked her to include a carrot muffin. She said that would be $1.65.
Now here’s where the acumen kicked in.
“Really?” I said, unbelieving. “Just for the muffin?” The reason for my skepticism was that I have, in the past, paid just over $2 in total for a medium coffee and muffin at McDonald’s. Now I was being asked for $1.65 for the muffin alone, given my coffee would be free.
I had to think fast. Buffett and I are good at that. We make decisions quickly and change our minds slowly. The mark of most great men.
I slipped the free card out of sight and when I drove up to the window, I told the speaker woman there that I didn’t have the card after all. That I wanted to pay cash for my purchase.
“That will be $2.10,” she said, looking a little confused. (Maybe even a bit scared.)
Therefore – try to follow the logic – I acquired a carrot muffin for next to nothing.
When I got to the window, and was handed my food, I asked the woman there how much a medium coffee on its own would have cost.
“It would be $1.82, plus tax,” she replied.
I pulled off to the side, activated the calculator on my phone, and quickly came to this conclusion: By paying $2.06 cash for my purchase, I had received a muffin for four cents. Whereas, if I hadn’t thought quickly, I would have been charged $1.65 or, put in Hagarty-Buffet terms, 165 cents as opposed to four cents. This is the kind of inflation both of us insist on avoiding.
McDonalds wanted $1.65 for a carrot muffin. I paid four cents for mine. It’s all about beating the system.
The only flaw in my operation, and this is one I need to correct in future, is that if I had paid with my debit card instead of with cash, the cost would have been $2.09 instead of $2.10, but that is a downside of living in a country which doesn’t have pennies anymore.
I will admit, that it is that penny that signifies the central difference between Warren Buffett and me. He would have never made an error such as that. This explains why he has $60 billion and I have less than $60 billion. But, we both have some dollars, another similarity.
Also this difference: He steers his own car through McDonald’s drivethrough. Frequently. He doesn’t have a driver. He’s his own driver.
And that is the only other difference between us.
To close that gap, I am going to fire my driver tomorrow.
I have been studying the political landscape for some time now with an eye to running for office somewhere. However, judging from what I see and read about the process, it seems as though it is a lot of hard, hard work and a big commitment of money with wholesale rejection by the voters a good possibility as a candidate`s reward. I have never done well with wholesale rejection. Too many high school dating memories still haunt.
But now, as I digest today’s news, I realize I have been approaching this from a misplaced starting point. I always assumed, not without some reason, I suppose, that a candidate for public office would need to be alive and breathing in order to run and win. But apparently that isn`t so.
On Tuesday, Dennis Hof won a seat in the Nevada state legislature less than a month after dying. Hof defeated Democratic opponent Lesia Romanov. The Nevada Republican died on Oct. 16 at the age of 72 following a weekend of parties to celebrate his birthday.
Although I am happy for Dennis, my heart goes out to Romanov. Imagine knocking on all those doors only to lose to a guy who just recently knocked on only one door – Heaven’s. I think that would give me the sads.
I don’t know whether a dead candidate’s occupation has any influence on his electoral chances but Hof was a fine, upstanding businessman, best known for owning seven legally run brothels in the state of Nevada. He also previously starred in the HBO show “Cathouse.”
This last item might trip me up, I am thinking, as I own no brothels, legal or otherwise, and to be honest, I don’t have the energy to start any. I honestly would not know where to begin. But Dennis did.
So, when my doc says I have one month to live, I am going to enter my name into whatever public office I think could use my talents after I die. If I win, I guess it will be up to the authorities to get me to the meetings and while I might not say much, I promise to be a good, quiet listener.
I wonder who the first person was who said the words, “You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.” Maybe some guy who went completely bald at 30. A hungry breakfast eater who found an empty box of his favourite Chewy Chunks cereal in the recycling bin. An owner of 50,000 shares in a company that just declared bankruptcy.
Years ago, we had a nice new car stolen from our driveway in the middle of the night and wrecked by the thieves. I also wonder who first used the words “write off” as we heard them used to describe a vehicle we really liked.
And while the loss of the car was a blow, what bothered me almost more was the idea that strangers had been walking around on our property in the middle of the night. It took a long time to shake that feeling.
But here’s a funny thing. I can get myself worked up to the point of around the bend over little things while major events such as the loss of a job I can handle with comparative calmness.
And so it was my mind was blown when I went outside this morning to see that the lid to one of the two big plastic garbage cans I had put out last night for pickup by the city was gone. I knew on some level how important those lids were to me, but not till that moment, did I realize just how much value I had attached to them. I didn’t know if it would be possible to buy a new lid. I suspected it would not be.
It was a very windy day in our city today. It was almost gale-like in intensity. So I spent too much time walking up and down our street looking for our lid. During my search, I discovered lids of every size, shape and colour dislodged and lying around but none that belonged at our place. Always in search of our town’s Citizen of the Year Award which, amazingly I have never won, I picked up several neighbours’ lids and reattached them to their cans.
But our lid was gone and there was only one conclusion that made any sense at that point.
There is a garbage can lid thief roaming the area and our lid was just too gorgeous not to steal, with its black handle, gentle contours and slightly rough black surface. Even someone who had never stolen a thing in his life could almost be forgiven for wanting to give himself the five-finger discount on our lid.
This bothered me one whole hell of a lot.
So an hour later, I wandered our section of town once again, this time crossing to the other side of the street for a new perspective. I even took to peering into people’s backyards to see if a thief had tucked it away behind his house.
The wind was fierce, blowing me west and almost preventing me entirely from walking east.
But to reward me, I guess, for replacing my neighbours’ lids, the Universe blessed me by showing me where our garbage can lid had wound up. There it was, lying in the middle of a four-lane main street. Almost as though it had been blown almost an entire city block to where it came to rest.
With only one truck on the road, I dashed out onto the street to rescue my treasure. You would have done the same.
What has me puzzled, however, was why the person who stole our lid dropped it onto the pavement as he ran across the street. Sadly, for him, he probably didn’t really know what he had till it was gone.
Ever since I bought a used smartphone a few years ago, I have noticed a strange thing happening when I send text messages. Every once in a while, my oversized gorilla fingers touch the wrong button and the bottom half of the screen is suddenly filled with this strange thing with a wavy line running through it. I’ve tried to ignore it and soldier on but it’s been a real pain.
On Sunday, as I was texting a message, the random screen popped up again. This time, I was shocked to see words appearing at the end of my message that I hadn’t typed.
“What the hell?” I asked, then was flabbergasted (my all-time favourite word) when the words “What the hell?” appeared on my message. To test this out, I said a few more words: “This is just crazy.” Sure enough, “This is just crazy” appeared in my message too.
So, brave new world, here I come. Finally, I can give my stubby digits a rest and talk and text instead by tapping a microphone icon at the bottom of the screen.
I just hope my editing skills are up to par and I don’t click send on a muttered remark such as, “Why does this silly person keep texting me?” or “I wish I could just ignore this idiot.”
What we don’t have enough of in this world are people who hit you when they’re talking to you. Man I just love that.
To keep your attention, I guess, the uninvited guest in your personal space keeps tapping you on the leg, the knee, the forearm, the elbow – any dangly part that can be reached – as they relate their fascinating tales, which are whispered conspiratorially as though the code to the U.S. nuclear warheads supply was being revealed. And gosh darn it (sorry for the foul language), their stories do compel.
In their presence, I am almost tempted to tell them that with narratives as captivating as they regularly roll out, there is no need for them to assault the people around them to get them to listen. But then, if I provided talker-hitters with that opinion, they might stop with the tapping and my gosh (there I go again), I love it. Maybe I even need it.
I sat beside such a touch-feely raconteur at an event the other day and I found myself fighting the urge to place body parts within his reach that he hadn’t yet tapped. It was a thrill listening to his tales and a cheap thrill feeling his hand all over my body. Well, not ALL over. That’s my secret goal for the next time we sit side by side. Which can’t come soon enough.
And yes, I promise to come out with my hands up, officer.
My wife and I are different in many ways. She loves doing puzzles, I’d rather sit naked in a pot of honey and then go find a bears’ den to moon than do a puzzle. I don’t see the point of sitting for hours flipping over little pieces of cardboard to try to reassemble what was a perfectly good picture till some demented soul with a bunch of goofy cookie cutters blew the whole thing apart.
The same brain that feels satisfaction piecing together a cruelly dismembered depiction of some sort or other also enjoys endless knitting sessions or hours of playing solitaire on a computer. If I ever play solitaire on our computer I sincerely hope the police will come and arrest me and put me to work breaking rocks in a remote rock pile in Siberia.
My point is, how can anyone find joy in sitting down at a table covered by 2,000 randomly shaped puzzle pieces with an eye to reconstructing something that should have been left alone all along?
So when I hear the telltale flip of the puzzle pieces on the table, I go out to my garage and tinker. The thing I love to do most, and it is a very engaging task, is to sort through the chaos out there and try to bring some order.
For example, I was recently given several cardboard boxes and mutliple plastic bags all full of screwnails. Mixed in among the drywall screws, decks screws, fence screws, metal screws, and concrete screws, are assorted nuts and washers. Also, there are dozens of common nails, spikes, ardocs, concrete nails and finishing nails. Also sharing containers with all these screwnails and old-fashioned nails, are various sizes of plastic drywall plugs, plastic electrical wire connectors and hooks of every description.
I love to dump the containers of goodies out on my workbench and I can spend hours isolating items according to type and size and dropping them into empty peanut butter jars I have collected. When I accumulate new jars, I like to dump all the full ones on the table again and sort them into finer and more specific categories.
I have enough of this inventory to build a space shuttle or at least a really fancy sandbox for kids. But I will never use 95 per cent of all the material I love to sort and I know that going in. Very little is actually accomplished, therefore, by all this activity, but my mind is strangely calm and satisfied at the conclusion of each session.
But you wouldn’t see me put together a puzzle if the executioner said he wouldn’t give the riflemen the signal if I could complete, in three hours, a 200-piece puzzle showing a horse standing in a field. I would look him straight in the eye and yell, defiantly, “FIRE!!!!”
Yes, my wife and I are so different. It’s a wonder we’re still together after all this time.
You might have to juggle three balls in the air at once to follow this, but I’ll try my best to make it easy for you.
Last week, I went to my dental office to pay a bill. While at the front counter, a dental hygienist in scrubs appeared and I called out to her. “Rebecca,” I yelled. She corrected me. Her name was Amanda. “You cleaned my teeth in January and told me to buy an electric toothbrush but I forgot what kind.” She very nicely gave me her recommendation, though she seemed a bit hesitant.
Back to the dentist for another cleaning I went today, and when the hygienist in scrubs came to the waiting room to get me, I said, “Hi Amanda,” very proud to have gotten the name right this time. “My name is Michelle,” she replied. I explained my previous visit and conversation with the phantom hygienist. “There is an Amanda here,” explained Michelle, helpfully.
I dutifully reclined in the dentist’s chair and Michelle got to work. At times, the inside of my 66-year-old mouth looks like an abandoned warehouse, with windows broken and graffiti everywhere. I felt sorry for her but she soldiered on. She is a brave soul, I will give her that much.
I enjoyed Rebecca/Amanda/Michelle during our first encounter in January. We talked about our kids and she seemed to enjoy my sense of humour. Anyone who makes the mistake of laughing at something I say is just asking for it, so I like her but I have no sympathy for her. She would get what she deserved.
Suddenly, my smartphone went off, as someone had sent me a text message.
“Quack, quack, quack, quack,” went the phone, loudly repeating the alert sound I had chosen for texts.
“Sorry,” I said to RAM. “I’ve got a duck in my pocket.”
She seemed to like that so I was compelled to follow it up. When she took a break, I continued, “Its name is Clarence.” A few seconds later, four more quacks.
“It’s noon,” said my multi-named hygienist. “Is Clarence getting hungry?” I like people who humour me when I am humouring them.
However, the fun would come to an end when she found a broken tooth among the flotsam and jetsam inside my gob. She decided it needed to be fixed and I agreed. When the cleaning was done, I was ushered into another room and lay myself down on another reclining chair.
A dentist came in, asked how I was doing, and proceeded to inject some cement into the hole left by the broken tooth. Then he left. He was replaced by what I am assuming was another dental assistant who tightened a big clamp around the cement to form it up, sort of like two-by-fours holding a freshly poured sidewalk together. Meanwhile, another woman stuck a small vacuum in my mouth to suck up the fluids so the cement could set.
While all this was going on, Clarence started quacking again so I repeated the joke that I had told Rebecca/Amanda/Michelle. Not as much hilarity ensued as had broken out the first time I told it, but it was a six out of ten.
Finally done, I staggered up to the main counter to settle my bill and I asked the woman there, “Have you got anybody else who would like to take a whack at me?” When she said she didn’t, I said, “Surely there are two or three more people who would like to have a go.” But there weren’t.
