2007- In Review
Greetings, Friends, enemies and strangers!
During the last few months, many, many people (around the world) have contacted
me to ask the same question- "What happened to your newsletter?"
You may be sorry you asked.
The Read&Delete Newsletter spent the better part of the year 2007 in a
hiatus mode due to the onset of M.A.W.B. (Middle-Aged Writer's Block) as the
writer's muse left me for an extended period.......................... and
nobody wants to be seen as museless. But, since the Hollywood screen writers'
strike has also continued for an extended period, I now have my choice of
Greek mythological inspirations-- and feel quite muse-ical at the moment. So
without further hesitation I will present to you:
*The Read&Delete 2007 Year In Review*- I'd like to present my side of
it.
2007 was a year filled to the brim with painful fun, watery wisdom, top-less
dating and cicadas.
Grab Your Chest and Do-Si-Do
Last February was healthscare month at the Maloney ranch. One day after work, I
was pushing a little snow around, and there was a little tightness in my chest,
a little shooting pain in my arm, and it was time to test the Emergency Room. I
tried to drive to my home hospital, but the roads were slow and I didn't want to
die in a traffic jam, so I ended up at Edward Hospital in Naperville. The tests
showed that I did not have a heart attack, but a medic was ready to give me a
drug to lower my blood pressure- which was already low at the time. If I didn't
stop him, I would have probably gone into a coma. But that was only the
beginning. I was scheduled for an angiogram the next morning, but the test was
rescheduled a half
dozen times and so I spent 2 days in the ICU waiting for a 1 hour test. I came
out of it clean, without any arterial blockage, but the medics still managed to
scare Wendy half to death by leaving her alone in the surgery waiting room for
two and a half hours (until I woke from the anesthetic and asked where she was).
There was very little to laugh about at the time, but I had my moments. The call
button in my room was not functioning correctly (it was intermittent). Normally
I could hear it chime at the nurses' station when I pushed the button. Sometimes
I could get it to go by twisting the wires on the call box. When that wouldn't
work, I simply made a fist and thumped my chest rapidly for about five seconds
near one of the wires they taped on me. It made a different chime go off, and
the nurse came in more quickly. I didn't make a habit of it, but sometimes
you have to improvise to get what you need. Something to remember the next time
you are strapped in a hospital bed.
It Sounds Just Like a Stapler.......
During March, I had a prostate biopsy (rest of story censored due to graphic
description of something totally gross and humiliating)
.....but I came out of it okay. No cancer.
Slow Roasted or Quick-Fried?
In the middle of March, when the snow melts and the weather breaks, a young
man's fancy may turn to love, but the older man's fancy turns to ....... GOLF!
This is the time when one's golf clubs are taken out, dusted off and gnawed on
until the first tee time. For me, I celebrated my first outing of the year by
dropping my sticks into my new golf bag holder (Chrysler Convertible) and
heading off to the Tamarack Golf Club, where every hole was like an aircraft
carrier-- long, open, flat and had water on all sides. Due to the recent thaw
and rains, the uniform of the day should have included hip-waders. (more on this
later)
It was also the beginning of the Outdoor Baking Season. Get in your
convertible, put the top down and anoint yourself with sunblock. Forty miles
later it's time to baste yourself again. In the evening you switch to mosquito
repellant. Keep a baseball cap on at all times or you will cook your head. Every
cumulus cloud is a blessing. Above all else-- do not wear shorts on a long day
trip. By the end of the day you will have LOBSTER THIGHS- and any icy drink that
you might spill on your leg can eject you from the car. But even after a full
summer on the griddle-- Wendy and I wouldn't have it any other way. There is
still no better way to spend a summer evening than for us to be tooling around
in a convertible together with the moon and stars overhead, and the boys left at
home.
One, Two--- (pause) Three, One---(pause), Two, Three
2007 was also the Summer of Rhythm. Wendy and I tossed a coin to see if we were
to take couples' golf or dance lessons. (I lost). We went to the local park
district and for $65 we took part in the Dancing With the Stiffs program. Thirty
couples and one teacher in a poorly air conditioned room in the middle of July.
Most of the young couples were planning to dance at weddings, and the older ones
were 'brushing up"on their ballroom skills-- Wendy and I were trying to
survive. I will tell you now-- anybody who stands on their feet all day at their
job and tales a weekly 90 minute dance class-- deserves what he gets. I danced
like a marionette having seizures, as we banged into the other couples like
sweaty boxcars in a train yard. Wendy bravely put up with it, but I got worried
every time the instructor came by. I thought she would hand us our money back
and send us out via the back door. We did have a lot of fun, and it would have
been much more successful - if I had ANY natural rhythm.
And The Score is...... Girls 800, Boys 300... (and the boys win!)
Also this summer, James, our 15-year-old violinist, got the opportunity to spend
nearly two weeks in Michigan at Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp, where the girls
outnumbered the boys by nearly 3 to 1. He spent most of his time perfecting his
technique (on the violin, OK!). James says that he had a good time and is
looking forward to next year. He also came home with the phone number of a lady
friend, with whom since he has had his first date. We are growing up- yes we
are.
Not A Recognized Maintenance Procedure
I made three trips to Michigan this year. One to drop James off at camp, one to
pick him up-- and one to wash the car----- well, soak it in water, really. I was
on my way to an event I refer to as the 2007 Indian Lake Aqua Interruptus golf
tournament (formerly known as the Pendley Cup). I can't blame Michigan really,
since it was in Indiana that the minivan took to the waves. It was a two day-ish
event that was to start on a Thursday night up at the summer cottage of my good
friend David.
I was planning to leave directly from work at 3 PM on that fateful
Thursday afternoon - when I stepped out the back door of the factory and walked
across the parking lot to my convertible, noting that the clouds in the sky have
changed from puffy white to greenish-black. This is not a good sign. The
Chrysler Sebring, albeit a comfortable car- is not a fair match for hailstones.
Just as I put my briefcase into the trunk and reach for the door handle, the
tornado sirens go off. This clinches it. I am NOT going to be driving around in
a pup tent during a twister and get myself blown all the way to the Land of Oz.
I duck back into the building. Michigan can wait.
Friday morning 4AM. I get up and check the weather report. Due to power
problems, most of the northern and western suburbs around Chicago are now fixed
somewhere between an Amish conclave and the stone age. A lot of the foliage went
dancing with the power lines up there, but the southern route around the lake
'appeared' to be in good shape, no power problems. Go or no go, that's the
question. I ponder it for about 10 milliseconds. What am I, a wimp? I've
PLAYED golf in a hailstorm (I use a different colored ball when I do, since it's
hard to tell a Titilist from an iceball-- JUST KIDDING!) I move my clubs to the
back of my minivan (solid roof!) and set forth for grand adventure.
I make it around the city with little or no resistance, I-55 and I-294
are open for business and traffic is light. No power problems, no water on the
pavement- we are good to go. I listen to the traffic reports as I roll along, as
the 294 gives way to I-80/94, the Frank Borman Expressway. I make the Indiana
border in just over an hour. Not bad. Then they happened, two things at once.
The radio traffic announcer says, "By the way, there is standing water on
80/94 at Kennedy avenue", and a sea of brake lights light up right in front
of me. The Indiana Highway Patrol (the 'IHPS') are busy funneling traffic into
two lanes and driving us into the dead pool. My turn comes and they send me
through next to an 18 wheeler. The semi churns up a wake, and suddenly I'm awash
in whitewater. A big wave comes up and gets sucked up in the engine intake. The
engine locks up and there we are, stuck in the first water hazard at Kennedy
Avenue-- no sign of Ted Kennedy either.... I spent about 30 minutes
bobbing in the surf, where I
met David (coming the other way) on his way back to Illinois to get his home
dried out. The motor club guy tows me out of the I-94 boat launch ramp, and in
his backyard located in downtown Gary, we crank out about 2 liters of water from
my engine. Needless to say-- the golf tournament is cancelled. But I
got home with a clean engine (albeit about $300 lighter.) Moral: Chryslers
may look like a boat and drive like a boat, but they don't float like one.
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ...............
2007 was also the Great Summer of Buzz--For those of you who do not live
in the Eastern and Midwestern United States - I pity you. -- as you did not
experience the happy mating song of the cicada. Our version of the
little fellow spends about 17 years burrowing underground only to come out into
the light of day for a week or so, sprout wings, buzz excitedly, mate and die.
Just like the average suburban mortgagee, only the cicadas get to do it twice as
often.
And they weren't so widespread either--some areas-- no bugs. Just a mile or so
away-- the trees were alive with the guys. The sound in my office parking lot
was deafening- as thousands of male cicadas buzzed about insistently, trying to
get the attention of one of the nine available females in the area. The quality
of the sound is unique, and unnerving-- especially if you grew up watching the
old 1950's sci-fi movies. The sound of the cicada is quite similar to the sound
effects used in the movies where ordinary insects are turned into enormous
mutant predators by cosmic rays, atomic blasts or teenage hormones. It conjured
up visions of old movies like "Them!", which featured the gigantic
antics of gigantic ants, or "The Beginning of the End", where young
actor Peter Graves saves us all from huge praying manti that were climbing all
over Chicago's Wrigley Building. (or a postcard picture of it, anyway)
this sound gives the definite impression that some 150 foot tall cootie is going
to come crashing through the trees and chase me into a cave filled with B movie
actors trying to out emote one another. But it's all over now and we will see
them again in 2021- (That's only 4 and 1/4 presidential elections away. So
beware!)
The Seven-Month Itch
Those of you who are mechanically bent .. excuse me ... those OF mechanical bent
will understand the pure and simple joy that comes from taking something that is
broken and making it work once again. It is a lot of fun to do with a plethora
of ordinary things: flickering table lamps, jammed camcorders, dead microwave
ovens, exploded lawn mowers- these are things that can be either repaired easily
or quietly disposed of at recycle centers or into dumpsters on dark nights. It
can be an addiction-- or a compulsion-- to rescue and repair bigger and
bigger things. At the Maloney Ranch-- we refer to this simply as THE
ITCH-- and I get it from time to time. Wendy has been extremely
gracious about this, especially this last October, after I kicked her minivan
out of the garage when I dragged home a dead elephant- a 2000 Dodge Intrepid
with a blown engine. The Intrepid is a fine car, apart from its 2.7 liter
engine, which was designed by flying monkeys (engineers with Attention Deficit
Disorder- who NEVER proofread their work). The lubrication passages inside the
2.7 engine block defy logic- so the oil has a very hard time finding its way
home, and if you don't follow the maintenance schedule BIBLICALLY, you run the
risk of overheating the thing and turning everything under the hood into
shrapnel. That's just what it did, and that's what I bought and brought home.
Two months, 6 pistons, 24 valves, 3 timing chains (yes, it
uses 3), gears, rings, bearings, seals, oil and water pump later--- it purrs
like the proverbial kitten. The trouble is that when the kitten purrs, it is
extremely easy to forget about the time spent lying on an ice cold garage floor,
time spent locating parts, the expenditure, the busted tools, skinned knuckles
and spinal contusions suffered in the process. You bask in the glory,
forgetting the humiliation.It's sort of like childbirth-- but with flying
monkeys.
And I am looking for another challenge, a bigger one, .... because there
is no cure for THE ITCH.
The Busticated Boy
Peter loves to play tennis. He is not quite 13 years old, but can already
smash the ball like a pro. But that's not the only thing he can smash. In
November, he smashed up his finger during a basketball game (during a
rebound). It's the third time he broke a finger (and the second time from
playing basketball). I tried to talk Peter into playing golf, but he says that
he prefers contact sports. When I say that tennis is not a contact sport,
he tells me that I need to watch him play sometime. Great. I can imagine----
John Mc Enroe meets Bill Lambeer. Blood tennis.
Not quite. Peter has a great sense of humor and a vivid imagination--
he must have gotten it from his mother.
Getting Malled at Christmas
Most of the Christmas season can be a blur--- with the right medication. One of
the axioms that I tend to live by is: He who shops online will save, but he goes
to the mall is lost. Most of my duty as the Maloney family representative for
the Jolly Fat Red Pagan was accomplished via the Internet, but I took my sanity
firmly in my hands by making my first trip to the local indoor mall in over half
a decade. I am not normally faint of heart, (I can draw my own blood if I have
to) but to do something as foolish as to wander aimlessly among the hawkers and
gawkers of the upscale and the unnecessary- is beyond the pale. On one
day, Wendy and I washed about, drifting with the tide, in the ebb and flow of
unbridled consumerism, as we looked at potential gifts, and other stuff-- then
more stuff - more and more stuff-- until I lapsed into the Mall Zombie state.The
Mall Zombie state is described as a condition where the human senses are
overstimulated until overloaded- then the mind's perception closes off most of
the stimuli as a defense mechanism-- then processes whatever it can in order to
rationalize the situation. For me it means that I start to process colors,
shapes, movement, light and sound independently and totally out of sync. It is
like Mies Van der Rohe meets Peter Max meets Jingle Bells-- eventually blending
into an Impressionist landscape--in soft focus and dreamy as if I were walking
around the Fox Valley Mall as painted by Monet or Renoir- and losing all track
of time and space. The fog usually lifts after a few minutes in the
parking lot- the crisp monoxide laden air clears the phony frankincense and
sandalwood fumes from my brain. Then I notice the packages and bundles under my
arms - and go into Post-Traumatic Mall Shock.
The funny thing is that I went back into the mall the next day, and
bought more stuff. Maybe they added Post Hypnotic Suggestion to their bag of
tricks.
And there you have it, an entire year summed up in an e-mail that is just too
long.
My 2008 New Year's resolution is to restart distribution of the Moronic Monthly
Missive of Mischief , The Blog of Blah, The Great Mattress Tag of Literature,
The Son of Spam, The World's Longest Documented Literary Suicide Attempt - The
One and Only (thank heavens) Read&Delete Newsletter and Commentary (now in
its 15th year of obscurity) 12 issues per year , at no cost to you (and worth
every penny of it)
Gotta go.... I'm running out of adjectives.
Neil