Boomer Twilight

Mostly Humorous Observations of Most Anything, with a Boomer Slant

Archive for May 2008

A Coked-up Wedding

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Our wedding took place on July 7th, 1984, in the basement of Towne House Restaurant in Media, PA. It was an event that revolved around the usual exchange of vows, ceremonial preaching and linner (in between lunch and dinner). It was exciting, because it gave me the opportunity to have a side helping of Spaghetti Aglio e Olio, for which I developed a taste while Bartending at Anna Maria’s in Washington, DC. It gave me chills just knowing I would soon partake of the world’s best noodles. Being the Groom, special attention was mine.

As protocol dictates, my Bride and I arrived after everyone else. Being late is OK, because we were the beautiful couple. Our guests eyed us while descending the staircase, but my attention was directed to the bar, where my twelve-year-old son, Sean, was downing another Coca-Cola; his favorite beverage. As a parent, I attempted to regulate the sugar intake of my tots, but in this case it was too late. “Open bar” means infinite Cokes to my son. By the time we arrived, he had several, because his drinking could not be monitored.

Soon we began the ceremony. Sean was my Best Man, and my daughter, Pamela, was a Flower Girl. It seemed an exciting time for them, too. We went through the wedding procedures, eventually sitting down for our meal. The waitress took my order, with an emphasis on Spaghetti Aglio e Olio. “Bring it to me now, Fair Maiden,” I thought. “I am the Groom and shall have whatever desired.” I felt like Henry VIII. Shortly thereafter the meal arrived, followed by a distressed son with a belly ache. “Dad, I feel sick,” he moaned. “My stomach hurts.” So, we walked outside to kill the gas pains, caused by the indulgence of unlimited soda on an empty stomach.

It felt good being a dutiful parent and helping my son with his difficulty. Walking around the streets of Media with my little pal by my side was a parental thrill. I was doing a good thing. After what seemed like a short stroll, he felt relieved enough to return to the affair. I went back to my table, gave my new wife a peck on the cheek and sat down to enjoy my meal.

The Spaghetti Aglio e Olio had been removed. My walk down Main Street apparently took longer than I thought. The food was gone. They must have assumed I wasn’t coming back. During the excitement of all the people talking with my lovely Bride, it slipped everyone’s mind I ordered vittles. The untouched plate must not have alerted the server. I could have made a big deal out of it and screamed at her, but the loss of my pasta was so devastating, it didn’t occur to me to complain. The funk of not having my favorite dish cleared my mind of any other thoughts. “Olio? Olio, where are you?”

I’m not sure of everything that took place after my traumatic experience. We went to a nearby hotel where we were staying before our morning flight, with our relatives and wedding guests for drinks and dancing. The loss of Spaghetti Aglio e Olio weighed heavy on my mind. After a few cocktails, disco and heart-felt kisses from my Bride, my interest in Olio waned. We were beginning our honeymoon, so food was not as high on the list as usual.

The loss of my side dish was not the end of the world. It’s just that it isn’t on the menu at Towne House, and they made it special for me because it was my day, too. It’s not as if I can use another bowl of pasta, carrying with it about 700 calories, but for them to go out of their way to cater to me, and then for me not being able to enjoy it, left the eventual compliment unuttered. How could I rave about food uneaten?

I probably should have ordered the Baked Fish.

With Love,

Bake My Fish

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Signing For Dollars

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During a drive from Baltimore to Florida in late April, I was assaulted by South of the Border billboards beginning about 175 miles before the camp. After entering South Carolina on 95, I passed the official, government-sponsored Rest Area and while crossing over the short bridge that followed, I thought, “If I just had a can of green paint and silver reflective tape, I could change the D to a P, and cause a few travelers to giggle.” In my mind, a short distance after, a sign would be erected that reads, “Welcome to South Carolina, Tiny.” The females would probably get a better laugh than the males.

The inundation of road signs, billboards and markers along every highway fascinates me. I want to be a Signage Mogul in my next life. There are signs selling food, reminding you to rest, warning to watch for the next sign that warns to watch for the next sign and giving distance in fractions of miles. In one section of Virgina, there are mileage markers every 1/10th of a mile. One tenth! That’s like the distance from my house to my neighbor’s. Or from the parking lot of Walmart to the store. Do they need to remind us every tenth of a mile we have driven 1/10th of a mile? Those who order the signs for whichever governmental office appropriates that sort of thing, must be getting good seats at some sporting event.

Of course, traffic signs are a necessity. Otherwise, how could we locate the nearest fast food establishment and get a full tank of golden liquid for our vehicles, so we can drive to our next quick cuisine joint four hours later? When I’m on a road trip, there better be some indication of the nearest restroom, because I drink a lot of liquids; so “thank you” Sign Procurement Officer. Without you, I wouldn’t know where to stop.

When I was a pre-teen, my parents drove a few times from Maryland to Indiana to see my Grandmother. I loved the trip because it gave me the chance to be on Burma Alert. Some of the best commercial poetry of the time was the series of signs made famous by Burma Shave and I couldn’t wait to read the next group. They were fun because I was a kid who didn’t shave and didn’t pay taxes. Burma Shave wasn’t using my dollars to test my roadway literacy. They were footing the bill.

Even though most traffic signs are necessary, there’s one that pisses me off every time I pass it. Now, I don’t mean to be a whiny, “I’m always over-taxed, government sucks” nuisance. My complaints about wasteful spending are kept to a minimum. Salaries of governcove-f-ortment workers have to be paid, trash has to be collected, schools need money, streets need mending and the homeless need to eat (unless we can find a use for the cadavers ;-)). I know all that, and acquiesce to the assumed worthiness. Road signage falls within the aura of government responsibility. Then every time I take Exit 16-A off Baltimore’s Beltway on to I-70 toward Frederick, there is this huge Green Monster informing me how far it is from that point to Cove Fort. 2200 miles. Who is driving to Cove Fort from Baltimore? Who’s even thinking of it? Maybe the idea comes to mind after you see the sign, but the message is a waste. I don’t think anyone is really driving that far, and the bus station doesn’t have a long line of people purchasing tickets to Cove Fort. Anyone flying there doesn’t care the distance from I-70 is 2,200 miles. And, where the hell is it, anyway?

Somebody got paid for that sign. I wish it were me.

Signing off,

Weird Geezer
Guest Contributor

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Hurling at the 7-11

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On my way to the office most mornings, I stop at the 7-11 in Randallstown, at the corner of Offutt and Liberty Road. They have the energy-fusioned coffee (and there are no Wawas around), so I get a 20-ounce cup and continue my journey to work. I would consider this routine.

Two really nice African-American fellows are usually hanging out in front of the store. They appear to be in their mid-to-late 50s. Maybe retired. They greet me every time I stop with a sincere, “How are you this morning?” Very friendly and personable. Many people stop to chat with them, and they seem to know everybody.

Lately I have been bothered by nausea. It comes and goes. Sometimes it is enough of a problem to cause me to rest more than preferred. The other day, on my way to the office I decided to stop at the 7-11 for a cup of coffee. After parking my car, I got out and waved at the two guys as they greeted me. Then I leaned over into the grassy knoll and heaved. I’m talking Blanch! It came on so quickly I didn’t know what the hell to think. But, the 7-11 Greeters were concerned. “Are you OK? Is everything all right?” Man, this was embarrassing. I was blowing my breakfast-less entrails in front of someone who knows me, and is not family.

My purging did not cause me to nix the coffee. I went inside in a somewhat shaky State of Being and continued my routine of huddling around the coffee station and preparing my beverage. “Excuse me. Pardon me,” I droned on with my drink-mixing maneuvers, meandering my way around multiple hands reaching for the sweeteners. While stirring my container of caffeine, I eyed the donuts nearby. They looked good, but evil. My better judgement forced me to pass.

Depositing my innards on morning dew-covered grass is not an activity I relish. But, I love getting my morning caffeine fix.

I’m not sure what to assume with regard to the nausea thing. Being a Boomer, I really don’t want to know. All bodily weird things seem to happen within our Scheme of Age, so I’ll just let it rest.

But, I really do love the 7-11 coffee. Starbucks, you are on notice.

With Love,

Bake My Fish

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Written by bakemyfish

May 22, 2008 at 11:48 pm

Posted in Food, Humor

Tagged with ,

I’ve Always Thought it was Neanderthal, But Apparently it is Neandertal

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I was on Chicken Foot Road, in St. Paul’s, North Carolina this past Mother’s Day, sitting around the kitchen table with my Mom, younger sister and her daughter (she calls me Uncle Baggo). We were enjoying strawberry-covered angel food cake. The small TV in the corner was tuned to Clash of the Cavemen on the History Channel. In the beginning I was the only one watching, but after a short time my sister started commenting, then my niece, and finally my Mother.

It wasn’t so much the content of the show that caught their attention; it was the Narrator’s pronunciation of Neanderthal. The premise of the episode was how Mr. & Mrs. Neanderthal’s contact with Homo sapiens (Cro-Magnon Person) about 27,000 years ago, because of the necessary migration forced by Global Cooling (better known as the Ice Age), caused their eventual extinction.

When I was young, the only pronunciation for Neanderthal was Neanderthal. But apparently the hoity-toity, high-brow Anthropologists prefer to use the proper German Neandertal. So what if Neanderthal was discovered in Neander Valley? I want to say it the way I know. Although I heard the “correct” pronunciation a few months before my family on a different “educational” show, at the time I didn’t pay it much mind. Now it kind of ticks me off. How dare them change it? Bastages. All of them!

Then the Narrator started pronouncing Cro-Magnon as Cro-Magnyon, in some sort of French, Sissy way. Where will it end? I always knew Cro-Magnon as Cro-Magnon. Now, I have to picture Peppy Le Pew walking around saying, “Theese eeze Cro-Magnyon Pairson” as he points to the picture on the left.

Homo sapiens were much less mentally-challenged than Neanderthal (tal). Anytime a more advanced brain subjects an inferior brain to The Ways of the World, the superior mind wins.

I think I’ll have another donut. Pass the pizza.

With Love,

Bag O’ Donuts
Guest Contributor

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Written by bakemyfish

May 14, 2008 at 11:50 pm