Hell of a Guy
No legacy is so rich as honesty - William Shakespeare

Saturday, April 07, 2007

Cell Phones on Airplanes


I have heard there has been discussion in regard to whether or not to allow cell phones to be used on planes.  God help us!  If they are going to allow this travesty to occur, they should allow us to bring guns on the planes to eliminate the pests that use them.  Can you imagine being stuffed into a plane on a long flight with 100, 200 or more people and you trying to grab a little shuteye with 100 to 200 cell phones ringing intermittently for the length of the flight?  God, help us?

Have you been in a movie theater lately?  There is always some inconsiderate boob who doesn’t turn off his/her cell phone.  The damn things go off in meetings and waiting rooms, in restaurants and probably even church services (I wouldn’t know about the church thing).  I don’t really know why some people cannot part with cellular devices.  Mine drives me up a wall.  Note to the world:  Hell of a Guy hates his cell phone.

I wrote about having to wait at the Indianapolis Airport for a few hours not long ago.  During my beer drinking marathon at this oasis I quite naturally had to answer nature’s call about every thirty minutes – I have a small bladder, in case you wish to make note of it.  I would be willing to lay money on this; almost every time I made the sojourn into the men’s room some doofus would be engaging both in urination and a cell phone conversation – while occasionally juggling the phone from hand to hand.  I was waiting for one of these guys to be doing his business and his cell phone rings; he answers it and says to a buddy who is waiting for him, “It’s for you.”  Ouch!

Men and Ladies, how often have you been in a restroom and hear someone from within a stall carrying on a conversation?  Is that not one of the most disgusting things, or is it just me?  I just know Emily Post is rolling over in her grave.  Am I too sensitive about this?  I think not.  Please, do not call me from you cell phone with pee-pee or poopy hands?  This may be a My Bad, but if I even sense you are calling me while you are urinating or defecating, I am hanging up.

And that is all I have to say about that…

Monday, April 02, 2007

Lots and Lots of Knots…


The Nancy and I spent our weekend hanging out on the farm.  Those of you new to this site need to know the farm is not really a farm…certainly not a working farm.  We own three and half acres of what was once a 115 acre farm.  We bought the old home place of the farm.  The balance of what was the old farm is owned by a corporation but controlled by one family.  They have owned this land for thirty years and not likely to develop it now, but if they should, it will most likely increase the value of our home.  I am all for seeing the value go up.

The weekend was one of those most of us truly hold dear.  We had no plans or agenda for Saturday or Sunday.  Most of both days were spent with my butt firmly planted in my favorite chair in my favorite room in the house – the family room.  I read two James Patterson novels; both very quick reading mystery novels, large type, short chapters.  We had some good meals and drank a few really good beers and stayed, for the most part, dressed in our comfy stuff – big and baggy.  All in all, it was a perfect weekend.

Now the time wasn’t all spent in relaxation.  We did complete some chores.  My ace financial advisor, and that would be The Nancy (I don’t do money), did some bookkeeping and some record upkeep and shredding.  I, on the other hand, did get outside to do some chores like picking up some tree limbs and twigs that had fallen during the winter, giving my two riding lawn mowers a good bath and doing some straightening and rearranging in the garage.  Both mowers were loaded with dust and grime from being stored all winter, and one of them, perhaps, still had a little mud caked on it from an adventure back in November. 

One of the things I have wanted to do, but has been very easy to not do, is to get rid of a pile of newspapers we have been accumulating over the winter.  It’s been easier to put them the large basket in our foyer rather than throw them in the trash.  Besides, one never knows when one might be in need of old newspapers.  You really can’t just throw them out after you have read them from front to back, can you?  We probably had three or four month’s worth of Sunday papers in the basket.  I had an empty copier paper box in the basement.  I filled it with the papers but noticed as I filled it one side had given way and the side of the box was spreading and giving way even more.  I knew I would have to secure it in some fashion and got the brainstorm to tie up the box so the papers wouldn’t fall out if the box fell apart.

It just so happened there was a ball of hemp cord in the basement, probably belonged to the guy who owned the house before us.  I retrieved it from the basement and began to secure the lid to the box and the sides of the box so it wouldn’t separate any further.  As I began to wrap the cord around the box and about halfway through the process I noticed something about it.  Lo and behold!  The process I was using and the manner in which I was tying up the poor carton reminded me of boxes I have seen tied up by my dad and The Nancy’s father.  That’s when it hit me! 

Bundling stuff up and securing it with cord or rope once a man hits his sixtieth birthday triggers something in his brain.  It doesn’t matter what needs to be secured or tied up, the stuff is merely the catalyst allowing the medulla oblongata to interact chemically with the cerebellum to release enzymes into the brain cells which requires every man to use a special, time-honored procedure.  This procedure is one passed down genetically since the beginning of time.  It is time tested, but can only be used by those of us in the autumn of our lives.

Basically, albeit simply, anything we sixty-plusers secure with rope or cord has to be done using three or four times the amount of rope or cord actually necessary to get the job done properly.  The cord has to go around the box several times at evenly spaced intervals both laterally and horizontally, with each intersection having its own knot so the “net” will not shift.  Don’t laugh, you have all seen it.  Your dad or grandfather used this method, and at some point in your lives, guys, you will, as well.

About halfway through the process and having used half the ball of cord, the box I filled with papers looked at though I had crocheted a fishnet around it.  I had to chuckle at my handy work and was even tempted to scan the room to see if my dad had risen from the dead and had somehow affected my body.  I was looking at a perfectly tied up box, the way my dad would have done it.  Hell, I know one thing: those daggone newspapers will rot inside that box before they ever fall out of it.  This is an ancient art form, and I am an artist.

All that is all I have to say about that… 

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