Monday, February 15, 2010
In Love with Being Alive
Click on the player to hear a podcast of this blog.
Dane Allred seeks to combine the best of podcasting and blogging in 800 word blogs turned into 5 minute podcasts. They are broadcast every Sunday on KTKK AM 630 from 7 to 8 p.m. (Mountain Standard Time), and are also available at daneallred.podbean.com. This and other episodes will appear in his upcoming book, “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred”.
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred
In Love With Being Alive
I love life. There really is nothing like experiencing a perfect day, hour or minute. I know life can’t be bliss every moment, but it really is worth those times we get to feel that all is right with ourselves, the world, and the universe.
There are some that stand out in my mind as I contemplate the times I really felt at one with the universe. The birth of my daughters are moments I will never forget, and welcoming them into this world was extraordinary. Running a marathon may seem like a strange way to experience the bliss of the universe, but it really is an amazing experience. Walking up a mountain and admiring the beauty of nature is another way. When the day is not going so well, it may be time to reflect back on the best of times.
Having daughters may be much easier than having sons, but there’s a tremendous amount of worry that comes with female offspring. Maybe because fathers were once young men, and they are familiar with the thought patterns and habits of the boys in the world. Let’s just say it’s not all purity and light. Now that my daughters are in their twenties, I feel much more comfortable with their ability to deal with the world. Sadly, they seem to grow up way too fast, and while we try to enjoy them while they are growing up, it all happens much too fast. We don’t really seem to understand they won’t stay young forever. But that doesn’t stop us from reflecting back and remembering how sweet it is to see your children mature into adulthood.
Running three marathons may seem a strange way to celebrate the bounty of the universe, but after 26.2 grueling miles, your mind has overcome the complaints of your body and you are sure you can do anything you try to do. It is a life affirming action, and the number of people who are participating in marathons grew 11 percent last year. The finishing time for runners is slower, which show an expansion in the sport for those running for the experience, and not necessarily to win the race. They want to see what they are made of, if they can accomplish something most other people consider crazy. Over a million people finished marathons last year, and the other road races showed growth as well. The average number of people finishing each race was over 4000 people.
Think about that number. Here are 4000 people all trying to do the same thing. They encourage each other as they run along, and the support staff all along the way cheer them on, too. It really is like a giant party celebrating just what the human body can accomplish. When it’s your body which has run 26.2 miles, it can be quite a celebration indeed.
But I really love what I experience when I am in nature. It could be just digging in the dirt in my yard and planting another seedling, hoping it will grow and flourish. I was even insane enough one summer to actually climb the mountain behind my house instead of just looking at it and wondering what it was really like up there. I didn’t use the right shoes; I didn’t train correctly for it; it didn’t take enough water with me; so it’s amazing I survived to tell the story. But on the way up the mountain I found a penny left by someone else two-thirds of the way to the top. I walked by a swarm of bumblebees, who weren’t afraid of me, so I wasn’t afraid of them, and they walked on my hands and arm, then flew away. I saw a field full of wild flowers and was probably the only person that summer to walk through them. At the top of the mountain, six thousand feet from where I started; I saw the massive trees which looked like twigs from the valley floor. They had been burned, or had become diseased, and had died.
But here they were at the top of the mountain, defying gravity and age to pull them down. When I look at them from the valley now, I know I’m not looking at small sticks on a peak. I’ve stood next to them and wondered just what they had seen happening down in the valley floor as we inhabited and once barren desert valley and made it bloom.
Perhaps lightning had struck these mighty giants. But they still stand today as a witness of the incredible grandeur of what this world really is. If we can only look up from our daily trudge, we might be able to see the splendor of the universe, and our place in it.
Love is Green
Click on the player to hear a podcast of this blog.
Dane Allred seeks to combine the best of podcasting and blogging in 800 word episodes turned into 5 minute podcasts. They are broadcast live every Sunday on KTKK AM 630 from 7 to 8 p.m. (Mountain Standard Time), and are also available at daneallred.podbean.com. This and other episodes will appear in his upcoming book, “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred”.
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred
Love is Green
Love is a strange word. When we think of the things we love, usually family is first on our list. Some people are easy to love, while some others make it difficult for anyone to love them. But when I started thinking about things I love, after my family, I think I would have to say I love tinkering.
I would have to say I get my love of tinkering from my father. I didn’t think we had much in common until someone reminded me I didn’t fall far from the tinkering tree. It’s true we both have cut trees in the forest, and I do like gardening while he prefers ranching, but when it comes to tinkering, I admit I may have the same bug. We are both bargain hunters, too.
Two stories will illustrate what I mean. First, and I love to tell this story, my father once found a great deal on a couple of pontoons. For the uninitiated, pontoon boats have these floating devices that hold the boat up. Dad got pretty excited since he is handy and creative, so he decided to build a house boat. When he was finished, it was very nice, with a bathroom, kitchen, and places to fish both fore and aft. The great part about his ambition with this boat happens when it finally meets water.
Dad had over-estimated the weight the pontoons could float, and the boat didn’t even make it out of the trailer. He could see there was a problem, and the way to fix it was to get bigger pontoons. Now, remember, the reason for the boat was the good deal on the pontoons. So he had to buy bigger ones and the boat turned out fine.
What to do with the smaller pontoons? Only one thing, of course. Build another, smaller pontoon boat, which also worked fine.
So I made the connection when one of my friends pointed out my proclivity for tinkering. One of my favorite projects involved the windows we had replaced for our house. One of the employees of the window company asked me if I wanted the old windows hauled away. If you listen closely to questions like these, the natural reaction is to say “sure”. But you should always try to find out the real answer to the question. I asked the guy, “How much to haul them away?” He said, “A hundred bucks.” I said, “Leave them.” I knew I could find something to use them for, and I had a vague idea floating around in the back of my brain.
I have always wanted a greenhouse. If you’ve ever priced them, you would know they tend to be very expensive. Now I had windows, and they were nice double pane windows which were still in good shape. So my tinkering mind began to plan, and after looking at some designs on the internet, I decided to design a greenhouse around the windows. That meant measuring, calculating, and trying to decide just how big a greenhouse I could build. I had to decide if I wanted it tall enough to stand inside, and if I had enough glass to make it work.
Designing around existing pieces of glass isn’t much different than building a boat from the pontoons up. I decided on the shape I wanted it to be, and after making some pretty detailed plans, I began to build. I have never built a greenhouse before, and as the sides began to rise, I wondered how to make it all stand up so I could screw it together.
There probably are easier ways to build a greenhouse, and anyone watching must have wondered what I thought I was doing. There was one point I didn’t know if it would work, but with about a hundred dollars worth of lumber, mostly two by fours, I had a perfectly serviceable greenhouse.
It’s not the most appealing looking thing in the world, but it works. It does need a little bit of heat assistance in the winter, but it stays 51 degrees even in the coldest winter day. I installed a little adjustable wooden window which opens and closes if it gets too hot. It’s controlled by a little metal lever which is heat activated.
I’ve grown flowers for the spring, banana plants, tangerine and lemon trees in the greenhouse. I usually start some of the plants for the garden in the cold of winter, and I’ve even sold some of them on EBay.
Love is a strange thing. I love to stand surrounded by flowers and green plants in the middle of January with snow and ice all around the greenhouse I tinkered with until it was done.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
The Reformation
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A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred
The Reformation
Nothing so needs reforming as other peoples habits.
Mark Twain
One of the great things about a routine is it does predict what will happen during the week. Working is a great way to get into the habit of doing some of the same things everyday. Get to work, get going, go to lunch, finish up, go home. We even end up doing some of the same things every night.
Changing what we do is often very hard. Once we are in the grips of habit, it is very hard not to stop and have the giant soda every morning. We get to know the people at the store, get used to the drive, and find ourselves in the same place every day.
When I was a junior in high school, I used to have the same lunch every day, even though it wasn’t very healthy. If you have had a Suzy Q, a delicious Hostess product, you know the whipped cream center surrounded by devil’s food cake is not the best daily lunch. Chase that sugary goodness with a little Fanta Orange soda, and you have the preferred lunch of my 11th grade year. I can even see myself sitting on the steps of the old Jordan High School at about the same time every day.
Routine is good for us if we want to earn a living. When we are working for others, showing up on time and leaving at the appropriate time are considered good behaviors. Completing our work is usually a good indication we will keep the job, and routine can help us get things done.
I find I get the most done early in the morning, but that might be because my job allows time to prepare in the morning. I do most of my teaching later in the morning and in the afternoon. I also teach some evenings, so if I get prepared for the day early, most of the rest of the day goes well. I hate when I don’t have time to get ready, and luckily, that happens less and less the longer I work.
But it doesn’t take much to upset a schedule. There could be an accident delaying traffic on the way to work, or there could be extra errands. With recent construction on our roads, I have had some interesting delays. One of the changes was a left turn to go south. The light was adjusted to let the freeway traffic have the right of way most of the time, since that was the only freeway entrance into our fair city. So every morning for a year, almost without fail, I got to wait about a minute and a half at that light waiting to go south.
I reformed my ways and decided to use the time better. Instead of getting impatient and wondering why I had to sit and wait, I decided to use the time to clean the garbage which is always accumulating in my car. Now that the road is finished, I almost miss the chance everyday to clean the car. Going to work a different way has also helped me save a little time now, so I can use those extra minutes to be better prepared for the day.
Sometimes we have to reform our ways because we want to keep living. When the doctor tells me to stop using so much salt, I guess I better listen if I want to stay around. When I’m told to stop eating broccoli and spinach, I guess can I stop that, too. I really do like broccoli and spinach, but I don’t want any more kidney stones. I’ll bet I probably will get another kidney stone, but it won’t be from the oxalates in those vegetables.
Some reform is fun. Deciding to do something new because we want to is a good reward for all the other stuff we may have to do we don’t like. During the last year, I’ve learned some new things about the computer, and about a few computer programs. That’s been fun for me because it isn’t what I do every day. But if you are a computer entry person and have to be on the computer every day, I probably wouldn’t like it. I’ve learned how to do some things I didn’t know I would need to know.
In the past 10 years I’ve learned to blog, podcast, and text. I’ve learned to use a computer in ways I never imagined. I guess it hasn’t hurt me any, but it does make me wonder what kinds of things I’ll have to learn next. I hope it’s easier than texting. I’m still pretty bad at that. Let’s hope it’s not too technical or complicated. I just hope I understand it.
This is another episode of “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred”. From the weekly broadcast of “Abundance”. Tune each week from 7 to 8 P.M. Mountain Standard Time (9 to 10 EST) or listen on any web browser at www.k-talk.com.
Monday, February 8, 2010
The Cop and the Anthem by O'Henry
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Literature Out Loud
Dane Allred reads "The Cop and the Anthem" by O'Henry on his radio program "Abundance".
The Cop And The Anthem
O Henry
On his bench in Madison Square Soapy moved uneasily. When wild geese honk high of nights, and when women without sealskin coats grow kind to their husbands, and when Soapy moves uneasily on his bench in the park, you may know that winter is near at hand.
A dead leaf fell in Soapy's lap. That was Jack Frost's card. Jack is kind to the regular denizens of Madison Square, and gives fair warning of his annual call. At the corners of four streets he hands his pasteboard to the North Wind, footman of the mansion of All Outdoors, so that the inhabitants thereof may make ready.
Soapy's mind became cognisant of the fact that the time had come for him to resolve himself into a singular Committee of Ways and Means to provide against the coming rigour. And therefore he moved uneasily on his bench.
The hibernatorial ambitions of Soapy were not of the highest. In them there were no considerations of Mediterranean cruises, of soporific Southern skies drifting in the Vesuvian Bay. Three months on the Island was what his soul craved. Three months of assured board and bed and congenial company, safe from Boreas and bluecoats, seemed to Soapy the essence of things desirable.
For years the hospitable Blackwell's had been his winter quarters. Just as his more fortunate fellow New Yorkers had bought their tickets to Palm Beach and the Riviera each winter, so Soapy had made his humble arrangements for his annual hegira to the Island. And now the time was come. On the previous night three Sabbath newspapers, distributed beneath his coat, about his ankles and over his lap, had failed to repulse the cold as he slept on his bench near the spurting fountain in the ancient square.
So the Island loomed big and timely in Soapy's mind. He scorned the provisions made in the name of charity for the city's dependents. In Soapy's opinion the Law was more benign than Philanthropy. There was an endless round of institutions, municipal and eleemosynary, on which he might set out and receive lodging and food accordant with the simple life. But to one of Soapy's proud spirit the gifts of charity are encumbered. If not in coin you must pay in humiliation of spirit for every benefit received at the hands of philanthropy. As Caesar had his Brutus, every bed of charity must have its toll of a bath, every loaf of bread its compensation of a private and personal inquisition. Wherefore it is better to be a guest of the law, which though conducted by rules, does not meddle unduly with a gentleman's private affairs.
Soapy, having decided to go to the Island, at once set about accomplishing his desire. There were many easy ways of doing this. The pleasantest was to dine luxuriously at some expensive restaurant; and then, after declaring insolvency, be handed over quietly and without uproar to a policeman. An accommodating magistrate would do the rest.
Soapy left his bench and strolled out of the square and across the level sea of asphalt, where Broadway and Fifth Avenue flow together. Up Broadway he turned, and halted at a glittering cafe, where are gathered together nightly the choicest products of the grape, the silkworm and the protoplasm.
Soapy had confidence in himself from the lowest button of his vest upward. He was shaven, and his coat was decent and his neat black, ready-tied four-in-hand had been presented to him by a lady missionary on Thanksgiving Day. If he could reach a table in the restaurant unsuspected success would be his. The portion of him that would show above the table would raise no doubt in the waiter's mind. A roasted mallard duck, thought Soapy, would be about the thing--with a bottle of Chablis, and then Camembert, a demi-tasse and a cigar. One dollar for the cigar would be enough. The total would not be so high as to call forth any supreme manifestation of revenge from the cafe management; and yet the meat would leave him filled and happy for the journey to his winter refuge.
But as Soapy set foot inside the restaurant door the head waiter's eye fell upon his frayed trousers and decadent shoes. Strong and ready hands turned him about and conveyed him in silence and haste to the sidewalk and averted the ignoble fate of the menaced mallard.
Soapy turned off Broadway. It seemed that his route to the coveted island was not to be an epicurean one. Some other way of entering limbo must be thought of.
At a corner of Sixth Avenue electric lights and cunningly displayed wares behind plate-glass made a shop window conspicuous. Soapy took a cobblestone and dashed it through the glass. People came running around the corner, a policeman in the lead. Soapy stood still, with his hands in his pockets, and smiled at the sight of brass buttons.
"Where's the man that done that?" inquired the officer excitedly.
"Don't you figure out that I might have had something to do with it?" said Soapy, not without sarcasm, but friendly, as one greets good fortune.
The policeman's mind refused to accept Soapy even as a clue. Men who smash windows do not remain to parley with the law's minions. They take to their heels. The policeman saw a man half way down the block running to catch a car. With drawn club he joined in the pursuit. Soapy, with disgust in his heart, loafed along, twice unsuccessful.
On the opposite side of the street was a restaurant of no great pretensions. It catered to large appetites and modest purses. Its crockery and atmosphere were thick; its soup and napery thin. Into this place Soapy took his accusive shoes and telltale trousers without challenge. At a table he sat and consumed beefsteak, flapjacks, doughnuts and pie. And then to the waiter he betrayed the fact that the minutest coin and himself were strangers.
"Now, get busy and call a cop," said Soapy. "And don't keep a gentleman waiting."
"No cop for youse," said the waiter, with a voice like butter cakes and an eye like the cherry in a Manhattan cocktail. "Hey, Con!"
Neatly upon his left ear on the callous pavement two waiters pitched Soapy. He arose, joint by joint, as a carpenter's rule opens, and beat the dust from his clothes. Arrest seemed but a rosy dream. The Island seemed very far away. A policeman who stood before a drug store two doors away laughed and walked down the street.
Five blocks Soapy travelled before his courage permitted him to woo capture again. This time the opportunity presented what he fatuously termed to himself a "cinch." A young woman of a modest and pleasing guise was standing before a show window gazing with sprightly interest at its display of shaving mugs and inkstands, and two yards from the window a large policeman of severe demeanor leaned against a water plug.
It was Soapy's design to assume the role of the despicable and execrated "masher." The refined and elegant appearance of his victim and the contiguity of the conscientious cop encouraged him to believe that he would soon feel the pleasant official clutch upon his arm that would insure his winter quarters on the right little, tight little isle.
Soapy straightened the lady missionary's readymade tie, dragged his shrinking cuffs into the open, set his hat at a killing cant and sidled toward the young woman. He made eyes at her, was taken with sudden coughs and "hems," smiled, smirked and went brazenly through the impudent and contemptible litany of the "masher." With half an eye Soapy saw that the policeman was watching him fixedly. The young woman moved away a few steps, and again bestowed her absorbed attention upon the shaving mugs. Soapy followed, boldly stepping to her side, raised his hat and said:
"Ah there, Bedelia! Don't you want to come and play in my yard?"
The policeman was still looking. The persecuted young woman had but to beckon a finger and Soapy would be practically en route for his insular haven. Already he imagined he could feel the cozy warmth of the station-house. The young woman faced him and, stretching out a hand, caught Soapy's coat sleeve.
“Sure, Mike," she said joyfully, "if you'll blow me to a pail of suds. I'd have spoke to you sooner, but the cop was watching."
With the young woman playing the clinging ivy to his oak Soapy walked past the policeman overcome with gloom. He seemed doomed to liberty.
At the next corner he shook off his companion and ran. He halted in the district where by night are found the lightest streets, hearts, vows and librettos.
Women in furs and men in greatcoats moved gaily in the wintry air. A sudden fear seized Soapy that some dreadful enchantment had rendered him immune to arrest. The thought brought a little of panic upon it, and when he came upon another policeman lounging grandly in front of a transplendent theatre he caught at the immediate straw of "disorderly conduct."
On the sidewalk Soapy began to yell drunken gibberish at the top of his harsh voice. He danced, howled, raved and otherwise disturbed the welkin.
The policeman twirled his club, turned his back to Soapy and remarked to a citizen.
"'Tis one of them Yale lads celebratin' the goose egg they give to the Hartford College. Noisy; but no harm. We've instructions to leave them be."
Disconsolate, Soapy ceased his unavailing racket. Would never a policeman lay hands
on him? In his fancy the Island seemed an unattainable Arcadia. He buttoned his thin coat against the chilling wind.
In a cigar store he saw a well-dressed man lighting a cigar at a swinging light. His silk umbrella he had set by the door on entering. Soapy stepped inside, secured the umbrella and sauntered off with it slowly. The man at the cigar light followed hastily.
"My umbrella," he said, sternly.
"Oh, is it?" sneered Soapy, adding insult to petit larceny. "Well, why don't you call a policeman? I took it. Your umbrella! Why don't you call a cop? There stands one on the corner."
The umbrella owner slowed his steps. Soapy did likewise, with a presentiment that luck would again run against him. The policeman looked at the two curiously.
"Of course," said the umbrella man--"that is--well, you know how these mistakes occur--I--if it's your umbrella I hope you'll excuse me--I picked it up this morning in a restaurant--If you recognize it as yours, why--I hope you'll--"
"Of course it's mine," said Soapy, viciously.
The ex-umbrella man retreated. The policeman hurried to assist a tall blonde in an opera cloak across the street in front of a street car that was approaching two blocks away.
Soapy walked eastward through a street damaged by improvements. He hurled the umbrella wrathfully into an excavation. He muttered against the men who wear helmets and carry clubs. Because he wanted to fall into their clutches, they seemed to regard him as a king who could do no wrong.
At length Soapy reached one of the avenues to the east where the glitter and turmoil was but faint. He set his face down this toward Madison Square, for the homing instinct survives even when the home is a park bench.
But on an unusually quiet corner Soapy came to a standstill. Here was an old church, quaint and rambling and gabled. Through one violet-stained window a soft light glowed, where, no doubt, the organist loitered over the keys, making sure of his mastery of the coming Sabbath anthem. For there drifted out to Soapy's ears sweet music that caught and held him transfixed against the convolutions of the iron fence.
The moon was above, lustrous and serene; vehicles and pedestrians were few; sparrows twittered sleepily in the eaves--for a little while the scene might have been a country churchyard. And the anthem that the organist played cemented Soapy to the iron fence, for he had known it well in the days when his life contained such things as mothers and roses and ambitions and friends and immaculate thoughts and collars.
The conjunction of Soapy's receptive state of mind and the influences about the old church wrought a sudden and wonderful change in his soul. He viewed with swift horror the pit into which he had tumbled, the degraded days, unworthy desires, dead hopes, wrecked faculties and base motives that made up his existence.
And also in a moment his heart responded thrillingly to this novel mood. An instantaneous and strong impulse moved him to battle with his desperate fate. He would pull himself out of the mire; he would make a man of himself again; he would conquer the evil that had taken possession of him. There was time; he was comparatively young yet; he would resurrect his old eager ambitions and pursue them without faltering. Those solemn but sweet organ notes had set up a revolution in him. Tomorrow he would go into the roaring downtown district and find work. A fur importer had once offered him a place as driver. He would find him tomorrow and ask for the position. He would be somebody in the world. He would--
Soapy felt a hand laid on his arm. He looked quickly around into the broad face of a policeman.
"What are you doin' here?" asked the officer.
"Nothin'," said Soapy.
"Then come along," said the policeman.
"Three months on the Island," said the Magistrate in the Police Court the next morning.
This is another episode of "Literature Out Loud" from Dane Allred's program "Abundance. Lsiten live every Sunday night from 7 to 8 pm Mountain Standard Time on www.k-talk.com.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
A Little Too Much Honesty
A Little Too Much Honesty
I believe in being honest. I recently asked one of my classes if they took the spare change from vending machines. They are poor college students, so most of them said “Yes”. I told them it wasn’t their money, but one student insisted it was like finding money on the street. I assured them when I was a starving student, I, too, used to take the money left by someone else in a vending machine. It was found money. But now, I usually leave the change for someone who really needs it.
I’ve also asked students why they hate Abraham Lincoln. They look at me and wonder why I am saying such a strange thing. I tell them in the building where I work, enough students leave pennies lying around for the custodians to pick up that they can usually have a pizza party at the end of the year. The custodians tell me they pick up sixty or seventy dollars in a year. I tell the students it just shows a rampant disrespect for our sixteenth president to just leave him lying around like that. I tell them people in the future will wonder why we hated pennies so much.
I also asked the students if we could be too honest. One guy reminded me we don’t want to answer one question in particular too honestly. Guys know what question I’m talking about. If a woman ever asks you “Does this dress, these pants, this skirt, this Mumu, make me look fat?” There is no correct answer, but it does make me laugh when I think of Chris Farley’s response from “Tommy Boy”. You can never say it out loud to anyone, but he is immortalized on film saying, “No, your face makes you look fat”, or something like that. Honesty is a relative quality, and the closer the relative, the more dishonest you may have to be.
Really, though, honesty is overrated most of the time. No one wants you to be honest with them, and most times, you are asked to lie for someone else. Tell me you didn’t tell the boss his last idea was great when you really thought it was inane.
I’ve lied and taken the blame for someone else’s poor driving and denting of a van. I’ve lied about my weight, but it’s not what you think. I weigh about 180 now, but all during high school I was probably about 130 or 135. But there is no way I would have admitted that to anyone. I think I put 140 on my license just in case someone checked. So when I got fat in my late twenties, no one was happier than me. It may sound strange to be glad to carry around extra weight, but I am so much happier being fat than skinny.
Most of us aren’t really comfortable in our skin. We have a perfect image we really want to be, and almost no one is ever happy with how they are right now. When we ask others, they try to assure us we look fine, our lives are fine, and that we should be happy with our lives. But there always seems to be someone else happier, skinnier, richer, or whatever than we are. It’s a sad way to live, and while we wish our lives away, we are really being dishonest with ourselves.
Can I just be happy with this day, with this body, with this spouse, with this job, with this life? There are really only two choices. Happy, unhappy. Most of us choose to spend our days, weeks and years yearning for something we will probably never see. My wife gave me a great compliment the other day, and I don’t think she realized she did. She said to me, “But you don’t care what other people think about you.” She may be right. I think there is a small part of me which vainly wishes praise, but it is dominated by the comfortable part of me which want to wear pajama pants to Walmart. She’s even brave enough to be seen in public with me, since nearly everyone we know is aware she has to put up with me.
Maybe I’m just a little too honest. I should probably care more about how I look, but when I pointed out to some of my colleagues I had the hanger wrinkle on my dress pants. This particular woman was incredulous. She couldn’t believe I didn’t use special hangers for pants. They are even called pants hangers. I don’t use those for pants. Well, I do hang my pajama pants with them. That is my wife hangs them up for me. If it was my choice, I would probably just fold them up. Honestly.
This is another episode of “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred”. From the weekly broadcast of “Abundance”. Tune each week from 7 to 8 P.M. Mountain Standard Time (9 to 10 EST) or listen on any web browser at www.k-talk.com.
Value Meal
Click on the player to hear a podcast of this episode.
Value Meal
You know I claim I don’t like to complain, but it does seem that’s mostly what I do. Since I’m trying to be honest today, I think I should honestly say I don’t like to complain. But today I will. I probably will tomorrow, too.
I really do try to be honest, and I want others to be honest with me too. I think I have two examples which are bothering me today, so let’s get down to brass tacks, which I think means, getting to the heart of the business. Brass tacks must be used underneath the fabric, and where people can see, the upholsterers must use some other kind of tack.
Anyway, I was really excited to have an Arby’s French Dip sandwich on the way to teach one of my night classes. I usually leave the high school with plenty of time to get something to eat before my college classes at 5:00, and I was cutting it pretty close. The French Dip, for those who are unfamiliar with one of the most delicious sandwiches ever invented, is roast beef on a stale bun. This must have been popular back when bread didn’t have all the preservatives, but the reason you don’t mind having a stale bun is because you dip the whole thing in au jus.
Perhaps another explanation is necessary here if you don’t know what au jus is. The Encarta dictionary, which pops up on demand in my word processing program, tells us that it means “in it’s own juice”. I think it is French. In other words, meat juice served with meat. I would have guessed it was salty water dyed brown, but even if it is just brown salty water, it is also delicious. You dip the sandwich, soak up the salty goodness of au jus, and “Voila”, which is also French for “there you are!”, the formerly stale bun is now a sop, which means “food dipped in liquid”. I love the Encarta feature – who cares if it is right? Does this mean a donut dipped in coffee is also a sop?
I think by now you understand my attraction to the French Dip sandwich has more to do with the au jus than the sandwich. Which is why I was not too pleased when I opened my order, after driving 10 miles to where I could eat a sopping sandwich, and found out there was no au jus.
I know it is probably an honest mistake, but that’s what we are discussing today, isn’t it? An honest mistake is one not necessarily made on purpose, but still upsetting nonetheless. I was too far away to go back and get the delicious accompaniment to my now mostly just roast beef and stale bun sandwich, so I suffered in silence, and really, can I take offense if someone forgot to give me my au jus? I just love saying that phrase.
Now let’s move to another “honest mistake”, which I think cost me one hundred dollars today. My daughter drives the Jeep, and the starter quit working, so I paid five hundred dollars yesterday to get it fixed. No complaints yet, since this is about typical for that car ever so often. I understand cars don’t last forever, and I do want mechanics to be there when I need them, so sometimes I may have to be the one making sure they stay in business. Maybe next week it will be you.
So my daughter gets in the Jeep this morning, and since it was below freezing this morning, she turned on the rear defroster. Again, the car won’t start. So she calls me while I am in class, so I have to ignore her call and the text, which tells me her car won’t start again. By the time I call her at lunch, she has read my mind and called the shop to tow it back and see what is wrong.
So here’s the report I get later in the day. Surprise! The wiring for the starter and the defroster are somehow connected! And it cost me one hundred dollars for the mechanic to find this out. When I called to make the payment over the phone, I asked about having the towing waived.
For the uninitiated, if the car doesn’t work and it’s the shops fault, you usually aren’t charged to have the car towed back in. So when I questioned the towing charge, the person in charge waived it much too quickly. I mean it was a wiring problem, not a starter problem, and how could they have predicted they were wired together?
Here’s what I think happened. Yank on the starter wires and you might short out the defroster wires. But they still got another hundred dollars from me.
This is another episode of “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred”. From the weekly broadcast of “Abundance”. Tune each week from 7 to 8 P.M. Mountain Standard Time (9 to 10 EST) or listen on any web browser at www.k-talk.com.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
All The World's a Stage
Click on the player to listen to a podcast of this blog.
Seven Ages of Man
by William Shakespeare
All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players,
They have their exits and entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then, the whining schoolboy with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice
In fair round belly, with good capon lin'd,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws, and modern instances,
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side,
His youthful hose well sav'd, a world too wide,
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
This is another episode of “Literature Out Loud” from the weekly broadcast of “Abundance”. Host Dane Allred reads "The Seven Ages of Man" by William Shakespeare from "As You Like It". This selection is is also available at daneallred.podbean.com. Tune each week from 7 to 8 P.M. Mountain Standard Time (9 to 10 EST) or listen on any web browser at www.k-talk.com.
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