First, some lyrics:
It’s a thin line between love and hate
It’s a thin line between love and hate
It’s five o’clock in the morning
And you’re just getting in
You knock on the front door
And a voice sweet and low says
Who is it? She opens up the door and lets you in
Never once asks where have you been
She says are you hungry?
Did you eat yet?
Let me hang up your coat
Pass me your hat
All the time she’s smiling
Never once raises her voice
Its five o’clock in the morning
You don’t give it a second thought
Its a thin line between love and hate
(repeat)
The sweetest woman in the world
Could be the meanest woman in the world
If you make her that way
You keep hurting her
She'll keep being quiet
She might be holding something inside
That’ll really, really hurt you one day
I see her in the hospital
Bandaged from foot to head
In a state of shock
Just that much from being dead
You couldn’t believe the girl
Would do something like this, ha
You didn’t think the girl had the nerve
But here you are
I guess action speaks louder than words
Its a thin line between love and hate
(repeat)
We were talking about a couple, let’s call them R and E, who really don’t deserve the two beautiful children they have because they are so busy being angry and hateful and vengeful with each other that they can’t see past their differences to be civil – even for their kids.
Poor little T is only 9 years old and feeling the brunt of it. A new chapter was written this weekend involving a late visitation, a power-hungry, hypocritical mom, a butthole dad, and a couple of kids that basically got squashed in the middle of the drama.
At one point in the story, I turned to the storyteller and commented that A) I don’t know whose side I am on because I dislike both of them for different reasons, and B) it’s a thin line between love and hate. Only too recently have I been exposed to many folks who “don’t love each other anymore” and who are trying to move on in their rather advanced years. It seems to me there are fundamental prideful problems with each of them. How can they attempt to find love again? How can they try to sever deep ties with home and family and kids and lives without wrecking all? What makes them think their single offering is so desirable that others will want them?
So, I have decided to open a butthole-gone-single aging-meat-market (BGSAMM) dating service. I will list their real qualities –
1) Strong determination to walk away from responsibility
2) New-found desire to improve self and look good
3) Ability to forget past (accomplishments but not faults)
and their imagined qualities –
1) Thinks they are better off
2) Have more to offer to their pursued new relationship now that they are free
I think most of the BGSAMM participants think the opposite of love is hate. They could not be more wrong. The opposite of love is indifference. The opposite of love is ‘I do not care.’
It is the inability to think objectively and rationally that I don’t get. Why not fall in love with the person you were in love with before? Is that so hard? If you hate them now, you aren’t far away from loving them. Cut yourself a big slice of that humble pie you avoid so fervently and fold up the selfishness you hold so dear into a small wad and stick it under the table of reconciliation. If you look under there you find that many others in your situation have already done that. Gross, isn’t it?
Plus, you know what they look like naked so there won't be a 'third-nipple surprise.'
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Thursday, May 24, 2007
A Fish Story
I searched my blog and found that I haven’t used the word puke nearly enough. So, I have another puke story – this one from sophomore year at Westwood High. Don’t worry, this one does not involve cows, it involves fish. I also can’t tell this story without you seeing it coming down Broadway so I apologize in advance if your anticipation exceeds the payoff. I am reminded of this story because I just ran into a friend of mine at a restaurant and had a lovely chat with him. He has a cute daughter who is graduating this year – also a plus as I have a son.
Jim, whose real name is Jim, is 2 years older than I am – making him a lofty senior when I was a lowly sophomore. Steve, the other principal in this story, was also a senior. They were contemporaries of Dennis. Jim had a knack, a gift, or a talent which I did not discuss with his children while they were in the restaurant. He could puke on command. I’m not sure how this superpower helped him but somehow we were jealous of this ability when we were in high school. He assured us that when he really puked – that is when he was sick and retching – it was nasty, painful, uncomfortable, etc. much like the experiences we all can tell and re-tell before being shut down by the wimpy weak-stomached (WWS) in our midst. However, in daily life, he could reproduce a meal with great ease and no discomfort.
One day at Mc Don Al Ds, Micky dees, you get it, right, I am hiding this from the corporate name protection police, he actually ate a Begg Meck, regurgitated it back into the styro-container that used to house these burgers before we all turned green, and tried to return it. He claimed it was ‘undercooked.’ Gross, I know. But it gets better (or worse if you are a WWS). Jim often reproduced meals, which became boring after three to four years.
Senior year, there was a school-wide dance held in the gym for charity. There were several raffle-type activities yielding funds to be given to a worthy charity, I’m sure. One of the evening’s activities was goldfish swallowing. You can see it coming, can’t you? You could spend $1 on a goldfish that you would then have to swallow – all in the name of charity.
Not to be outdone, Jim and Steve teamed up in the name of charity as well. They cornered the DJ (from a local radio station who happened to be working our dance) and told him that between the two of them they would swallow the same goldfish. Pause. Really? How? Jim would eat the goldfish, blanch it back up, and Steve would eat it again. The DJ stopped the music and announced the offer these guys had made and began the bidding. I wish I could remember how high the bidding got – somewhere around $200 or so I think. Once the bidding stopped, a hush fell over the crowd as Jim ate a goldfish (and drank a little of the water from the fish tank for effect). A minute later, up came the fish back into a cup filled with other stomach contents. The DJ verified that indeed there was a little fish in the mixture so Steve grabbed the cup, hesitated slightly, and then drank it. Without peer pressure I don’t think he could have kept that concoction down. But he did. And we were all amazed at the combination of guts and stupidity. How does anyone survive high school?
Jim, whose real name is Jim, is 2 years older than I am – making him a lofty senior when I was a lowly sophomore. Steve, the other principal in this story, was also a senior. They were contemporaries of Dennis. Jim had a knack, a gift, or a talent which I did not discuss with his children while they were in the restaurant. He could puke on command. I’m not sure how this superpower helped him but somehow we were jealous of this ability when we were in high school. He assured us that when he really puked – that is when he was sick and retching – it was nasty, painful, uncomfortable, etc. much like the experiences we all can tell and re-tell before being shut down by the wimpy weak-stomached (WWS) in our midst. However, in daily life, he could reproduce a meal with great ease and no discomfort.
One day at Mc Don Al Ds, Micky dees, you get it, right, I am hiding this from the corporate name protection police, he actually ate a Begg Meck, regurgitated it back into the styro-container that used to house these burgers before we all turned green, and tried to return it. He claimed it was ‘undercooked.’ Gross, I know. But it gets better (or worse if you are a WWS). Jim often reproduced meals, which became boring after three to four years.
Senior year, there was a school-wide dance held in the gym for charity. There were several raffle-type activities yielding funds to be given to a worthy charity, I’m sure. One of the evening’s activities was goldfish swallowing. You can see it coming, can’t you? You could spend $1 on a goldfish that you would then have to swallow – all in the name of charity.
Not to be outdone, Jim and Steve teamed up in the name of charity as well. They cornered the DJ (from a local radio station who happened to be working our dance) and told him that between the two of them they would swallow the same goldfish. Pause. Really? How? Jim would eat the goldfish, blanch it back up, and Steve would eat it again. The DJ stopped the music and announced the offer these guys had made and began the bidding. I wish I could remember how high the bidding got – somewhere around $200 or so I think. Once the bidding stopped, a hush fell over the crowd as Jim ate a goldfish (and drank a little of the water from the fish tank for effect). A minute later, up came the fish back into a cup filled with other stomach contents. The DJ verified that indeed there was a little fish in the mixture so Steve grabbed the cup, hesitated slightly, and then drank it. Without peer pressure I don’t think he could have kept that concoction down. But he did. And we were all amazed at the combination of guts and stupidity. How does anyone survive high school?
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Crabby Maui
I couldn’t resist another travel blog. This one involves in-flight turbulence. Picture yourself in the cockpit of a 4-seat Cessna with a beautiful view of the Pacific Ocean and Kahului, the airport you just left on the isthmus of Maui, Hawaii. This was me a few years ago. What a great trip. What a fabulous sight. I was the third passenger, the first two being Kioki, our instructor/pilot and Jeff Ward, my business partner who was copilot/in-training pilot trying to get a few more flight hours. Where better than in Hawaii to enjoy a little flight instruction?
After taking off, we flew toward the West Maui Mountains and on over to the sea cliffs on Molokai and Lanai before heading back to Maui. The flight was smooth and fun, not the least bit scary and there was really no concern for the wind or the weather. The pilots handled the ride differently: Kioki was calm and Jeff was, um, hyper-alert. As we made our way back around to Maui we could see Lahaina and then we circled around the West Maui Mountains toward the isthmus on the south side. Kioki, a VERY seasoned flyer, casually mentioned that we would be breaking free of the protection of the mountains and that the trade winds through the isthmus were significant. We noticed a definite line in the water ahead where the calm sea gave way to the waves churned up by the wind. On cue, Kioki said, “…we always feel the wind right about here when we come around this … [something indecipherable because of the sudden blender-like shuddering of the increasingly tiny gnat-plane we were wrapped in]”. I think he meant mountain. Wow, you think turbulence is bad in a big plane? This was eventful because A) I have never been shaken so violently in a tiny craft before and B) Kioki found our girl-like screams amusing.
Upon approach, Kioki told Jeff that the crosswind was about 30-40 knots with gusts. According to Kioki this is normal wind for the isthmus between two GIANT mountains with the trade winds, etc. According to Jeff, this was a reason to avoid takeoff – let alone attempting to land. In Arizona, these conditions cause private plane owners to divert. Kioki told Jeff to throttle back all the way to idle. Really, it looked like the propeller stopped spinning. We stayed in the air as a result of two forces: the wind and the audible prayers uttered from the back seat.
This landing reminded me of a short flight I took to Salt Lake City. I learned some new aviation terms during this flight – and not the ones used by other passengers who were puking in bags around me. We actually ran out of barf bags on that flight. Seriously, I didn’t think commercial planes could be bounced around the sky like this one was. When we got closer to landing, the wind, clouds, and, well, tornados were a little disconcerting. I was informed after we landed that they closed the airport. Our flight was evidently the experience that tipped the should-we-close-this-sucker-down scale. Upon approach, the plane’s nose pointed toward the mountains. We were flying at about a 45 degree angle relative to the runway. They call this ‘crabbing’ perhaps because crabs fly sideways. Crabbing allows the pilot to fly against crosswinds. I think I crabbed my pants.
After taking off, we flew toward the West Maui Mountains and on over to the sea cliffs on Molokai and Lanai before heading back to Maui. The flight was smooth and fun, not the least bit scary and there was really no concern for the wind or the weather. The pilots handled the ride differently: Kioki was calm and Jeff was, um, hyper-alert. As we made our way back around to Maui we could see Lahaina and then we circled around the West Maui Mountains toward the isthmus on the south side. Kioki, a VERY seasoned flyer, casually mentioned that we would be breaking free of the protection of the mountains and that the trade winds through the isthmus were significant. We noticed a definite line in the water ahead where the calm sea gave way to the waves churned up by the wind. On cue, Kioki said, “…we always feel the wind right about here when we come around this … [something indecipherable because of the sudden blender-like shuddering of the increasingly tiny gnat-plane we were wrapped in]”. I think he meant mountain. Wow, you think turbulence is bad in a big plane? This was eventful because A) I have never been shaken so violently in a tiny craft before and B) Kioki found our girl-like screams amusing.
Upon approach, Kioki told Jeff that the crosswind was about 30-40 knots with gusts. According to Kioki this is normal wind for the isthmus between two GIANT mountains with the trade winds, etc. According to Jeff, this was a reason to avoid takeoff – let alone attempting to land. In Arizona, these conditions cause private plane owners to divert. Kioki told Jeff to throttle back all the way to idle. Really, it looked like the propeller stopped spinning. We stayed in the air as a result of two forces: the wind and the audible prayers uttered from the back seat.
This landing reminded me of a short flight I took to Salt Lake City. I learned some new aviation terms during this flight – and not the ones used by other passengers who were puking in bags around me. We actually ran out of barf bags on that flight. Seriously, I didn’t think commercial planes could be bounced around the sky like this one was. When we got closer to landing, the wind, clouds, and, well, tornados were a little disconcerting. I was informed after we landed that they closed the airport. Our flight was evidently the experience that tipped the should-we-close-this-sucker-down scale. Upon approach, the plane’s nose pointed toward the mountains. We were flying at about a 45 degree angle relative to the runway. They call this ‘crabbing’ perhaps because crabs fly sideways. Crabbing allows the pilot to fly against crosswinds. I think I crabbed my pants.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
as Big as Texas
Have you ever felt turbulence while on the ground that was so bad it made you want to toss your bagels? Almost as violent as when you were in the air? I have. Here’s the story:
When I was traveling extensively for the red menace, I had occasion to visit Dallas, Texas. I was headed for San Antonio but for some reason we were diverted to Dallas. I don’t remember if I was connecting through Dallas or if we landed there temporarily. All this was because of the weather there so we were delayed for some time waiting. The airline, in a heart-felt gesture, decided I deserved a $20 voucher for my delay and troubles to be used in the airport. So, I went to the closest airport kiosk and asked for a bagel and a juice. The total was $7. The girl behind the counter decided that she would let me in on a little secret. “You see”, she said, “you can’t get change for this. You might as well order $20 worth of food.” So, I did. I just got $13 worth of bagels. It filled a brown paper bag.
We were finally allowed to board the plane and I was relegated to the rear of the plane. We taxied to the runway and then the captain came on and told us that there was another nasty cell coming through so we would have to wait. Again. Here’s where the turbulence came in. I could see out my window that the sky was darkening and actually quite ominous. No big deal. Let’s wait for the storm. Wow! As the heart of the storm beat upon us that plane rocked, tipped, and yawed like a Mormon newlywed bed. Holy smokes, many of my fellow passengers were less than amused. An hour and a half later, the storm left. The pilot came on and informed us of the proverbial good news/bad news scenario. The good news was that we had been cleared to be able to take off. The storm was over. The bad news was that there were 27 other planes that had priority over our departure. We were queued up. They expected about a 90 minute delay before takeoff.
It was at this point that a rather ample hungry-looking black woman near me began to complain about her hunger. Asking her to wait for the storm was OK, but could we please cut in front of some of these other planes and get out of here so she could eat!? So, Samaritan that I am, I piped up with an offer of a poppy seed bagel. She declined sheepishly. I think she realized that she was the only one complaining. I then said, to everyone in my section, that the airline had been gracious enough to give me money for these bagels and that I couldn’t possibly eat them all. That did it. Oh, yes. She accepted my offer of a bagel, as did many others seated around me. I nearly emptied the bag. Can you believe it, after everyone had a bagel, she had the gall to ask, “…do you have cream cheese?” I had to laugh. The nerve. Me with free bagels but no cream cheese.
After distributing the bagels, eating them, suffering with no beverage (no, I didn’t ration my juice) and apparently suffering worse with no cream cheese, we took off. It seemed to me that they saw a crack in the sky, a break between storms, and went for it. The liftoff was spectacular. I expected to hear, “…and the Airbus A320 has cleared the tower for the first-ever multi-racial, multi-bagel, experimental land-speed record-setting flight…” We were freely batted about the sky headed for San Antonio – or so I thought. Remember that storm that we waited for? Well, apparently, it had made it most of the way to San Antonio by the time we waited for the 27 planes in front of us. So, we would have to ‘fly around’ for a while waiting for the same storm to leave the San Antonio area. So we did.
Then came the pilot with some more good news/bad news. The good news is that the storm was leaving the San Antonio area but the bad news was that FAA rules stated that our fuel levels had reached a point where we had to refuel wherever we were. This, happily, was in Abilene, Texas. Abilene, it seems, had never had a plane this big actually land in this airport so they had no facilities to allow us to disembark. A truck, with a long hose, came driving up to the plane and we waited while Otis squeezed the handle and the jet fuel trickled into our plane. I half expected Gomer and Goober to run out, wash the windshield, and run the pilot’s credit card out the window.
Who knew it would take me 7 hours to fly over Texas. Sure, all the Texans did, right.
When I was traveling extensively for the red menace, I had occasion to visit Dallas, Texas. I was headed for San Antonio but for some reason we were diverted to Dallas. I don’t remember if I was connecting through Dallas or if we landed there temporarily. All this was because of the weather there so we were delayed for some time waiting. The airline, in a heart-felt gesture, decided I deserved a $20 voucher for my delay and troubles to be used in the airport. So, I went to the closest airport kiosk and asked for a bagel and a juice. The total was $7. The girl behind the counter decided that she would let me in on a little secret. “You see”, she said, “you can’t get change for this. You might as well order $20 worth of food.” So, I did. I just got $13 worth of bagels. It filled a brown paper bag.
We were finally allowed to board the plane and I was relegated to the rear of the plane. We taxied to the runway and then the captain came on and told us that there was another nasty cell coming through so we would have to wait. Again. Here’s where the turbulence came in. I could see out my window that the sky was darkening and actually quite ominous. No big deal. Let’s wait for the storm. Wow! As the heart of the storm beat upon us that plane rocked, tipped, and yawed like a Mormon newlywed bed. Holy smokes, many of my fellow passengers were less than amused. An hour and a half later, the storm left. The pilot came on and informed us of the proverbial good news/bad news scenario. The good news was that we had been cleared to be able to take off. The storm was over. The bad news was that there were 27 other planes that had priority over our departure. We were queued up. They expected about a 90 minute delay before takeoff.
It was at this point that a rather ample hungry-looking black woman near me began to complain about her hunger. Asking her to wait for the storm was OK, but could we please cut in front of some of these other planes and get out of here so she could eat!? So, Samaritan that I am, I piped up with an offer of a poppy seed bagel. She declined sheepishly. I think she realized that she was the only one complaining. I then said, to everyone in my section, that the airline had been gracious enough to give me money for these bagels and that I couldn’t possibly eat them all. That did it. Oh, yes. She accepted my offer of a bagel, as did many others seated around me. I nearly emptied the bag. Can you believe it, after everyone had a bagel, she had the gall to ask, “…do you have cream cheese?” I had to laugh. The nerve. Me with free bagels but no cream cheese.
After distributing the bagels, eating them, suffering with no beverage (no, I didn’t ration my juice) and apparently suffering worse with no cream cheese, we took off. It seemed to me that they saw a crack in the sky, a break between storms, and went for it. The liftoff was spectacular. I expected to hear, “…and the Airbus A320 has cleared the tower for the first-ever multi-racial, multi-bagel, experimental land-speed record-setting flight…” We were freely batted about the sky headed for San Antonio – or so I thought. Remember that storm that we waited for? Well, apparently, it had made it most of the way to San Antonio by the time we waited for the 27 planes in front of us. So, we would have to ‘fly around’ for a while waiting for the same storm to leave the San Antonio area. So we did.
Then came the pilot with some more good news/bad news. The good news is that the storm was leaving the San Antonio area but the bad news was that FAA rules stated that our fuel levels had reached a point where we had to refuel wherever we were. This, happily, was in Abilene, Texas. Abilene, it seems, had never had a plane this big actually land in this airport so they had no facilities to allow us to disembark. A truck, with a long hose, came driving up to the plane and we waited while Otis squeezed the handle and the jet fuel trickled into our plane. I half expected Gomer and Goober to run out, wash the windshield, and run the pilot’s credit card out the window.
Who knew it would take me 7 hours to fly over Texas. Sure, all the Texans did, right.
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