Big Lot Stores

I like big lot stores. Mostly I like the ability to get my shopping done while having new tires put on my car, getting my oil changed and a lube job, getting new eyeglasses, and coming soon, having a colonoscopy performed. Hopefully they use a different lube than the automotive service area. I'm also a fan of being able to buy an entire year's supply of toilet tissue in a single visit.

Of course, there's some things I don't like about big lot stores. And by "some things', I mean: people.

I know we're all raised differently; but I'd like to think there are basic tenets of parenting that are universal: be considerate of others, be kind, it's not all about you, etc. That's the way I was raised. I don't recall my parents following that with, "Unless, of course, you're in a big lot store - then you can be a totally rude moron." Obviously, big lot stores did not exist for my parents; I remember mom driving to 3 or 4 different grocery stores. Not because she couldn't purchase everything in one store; she did so because the milk in the other store was $0.01 cheaper than the other store. None us had the heart to tell her that because our family's vehicle got the same gas mileage as a Sherman tank (probably because it weighed as much), that she ate up that savings just by starting the car.

One might assume that, given that one had to park far enough from the entrance that one is in an entirely

different zip code, that the store may be a wee bit crowded. Surely upon entering said store, one must realize that, apparently, the entire population of Asia has decided to go shopping at the exact same time as one has. And by now, I hope that you are as tired of reading "one" and I am of typing it.

One of my favorites are the people who go around lunch or dinner time, often both, on both days of the weekend, with the goal of feeding their entire extended family from the sampler trays; blocking aisles is, naturally, optional, but rarely passed on. Giving YOU a dirty look because you had the temerity to ask them to move their cart so you can proceed down the aisle, appears, however, mandatory. These attempts to provide daily nourishment for your family is exactly why stores like BJ's and Costco close on Thanksgiving; they're not stupid.

You may run into them later (quite possibly days later), at the checkout lines, where they realize that they are in a cash-only aisle, and convince one of the managers to make a special case for them since they've already scanned their 2,000+ items. Or the math-challenged shoppers who are ahead of you at the express lane, which CLEARLY says "8 items or less"with their 32 items, and then appear confused as to what that means: "Oh, I thought multiples of 8 were also okay".

It's not all bad, though. Even if I don't need to pick up any on that particular visit, I will cruise the feminine hygiene products aisle, simply to amuse myself by watching the dazed husbands trying to locate the exact product for their womenfolk from a selection that spans an entire aisle, from the floor to the 30-foot ceiling. I believe there may actually be less species of insects on the planet than there are choices from this aisle. I try, from their appearance, to determine what phase they are in. Usually it begins with shock - a widening of the eyes, a slowly turning head as they take in the enormity of the task of selection ahead of them, knowing they will ultimately fail to purchase the correct one, resulting in their being sent back into this horror show, in a big lot store version of Groundhog Day. Some are in frustration phase, muttering curses under their breath, punctuated by words such as, "super", "maxi", "flexi-wings", "odor control". Then there's the defeated stage, where they have utterly given up - they look as if they have aged 5 years in the half-hour they just spent, and are now, finally, degraded to asking a passing female for help (because the odds of finding an employee to help you are equal to you finding your desired product). And none of them, ever, will make eye contact with another male in that aisle. Ever. I do feel bad for them, and sometimes, but not always, will tell them my trick: take a pic on your cell phone and just match the packaging. This works like a charm, until, of course, they change the packaging, and then I am also shuffling about muttering words like, "super-absorbent", while drooling and trying to force my eyes to focus..

You'll have to excuse me now, since I have things to do, people to see. Colonscopy/lube jobs to schedule. Lubricants to choose. Peace.

Groin Tackle

On December 2, 2013, tight end Vernon Davis of the San Francisco 49ers was tackled by St. Louis Ram safety T. J. McDonald. BY THE GROIN. Watching an NFL player get tackled in his most sensitive area (surprisingly, not his bank account), as unpleasant as it was to watch, had to pale in comparison to actually having another player tackle you by grabbing your groin and dragging you down. Sure, this is perfectly acceptable in the dentist's office, where you reach over and grab the dentist and say, "We're not going to hurt each other, are we?", but on the football field? C'mon, man. That kind of behavior has no place in a civilized sport, where, until recently, it was perfectly acceptable to charge full speed with your head down and spear another player in their head, spleen or spine with your helmet. I mean, we're not animals, are we?

There should be a penalty for this, and it should be devastating: like making the offender watch 16 straight hours of C-SPAN. Or perhaps rooming with Dennis Rodman for a week (here or in North Korea, I don't think it really matters). Or appearing in a Miley Cyrus video. Listen, we're okay with brain damage, lacerated internal organs, spinal cord injuries, etc., but you have to draw the line somewhere, and I think it should be drawn directly around the groinage area.

Lest you think this is purely a football thing, let me assure you, it is not. It happens in other sports as well, albeit with less frequency as the opportunities to grope each other are pretty high in football. I assure you this happens in basketball all the time, having played the game myself and thus been the gropee, and it probably happens in Hockey, Rugby and maybe even Curling (although the cold weather makes this more difficult). They don't do this in Baseball since they're already grabbing themselves incessantly, in a manner not at all unlike monkeys grooming themselves. Hockey fights are the most advantageous time for gropage to occur, when the gloves come off, since trying to grab someone in their nether region with those gloves on is like trying to eat soup with chopsticks. In Rugby, scrums are likely the best time to grope, but I think the technical term in that sport is "asking for a date".

I believe the NFL should create a penalty for this, and I'm thinking an eye for an eye - the offending player should also be hit big time in a very sensitive area. And this time I AM talking about their bank account. And wouldn't you love to hear the ref announce a "groinage infraction"? You know you would. Peace.

Space Invaders

No, not the old video arcade game where you could zap the invaders with your laser cannon.

I'm talking about those people that seem to have to be right up in your face to talk to you. I mean, literally, IN YOUR FACE. Which, in itself, is bad enough, but when their breath smells like what two warthogs in heat smells like (don't ask why I know two warthogs in heat smell like - I've been advised by legal counsel not to explain), it transcends discomfort and winds up triggering your flight or fight response. Much like you'd experience if you encountered a dangerous animal. Or a United States Congressman. Pick flight, since fight only brings you in even closer contact with them.

Who ARE these people? You know almost immediately when you've encountered one - a conversation starts with a reasonable, respectable buffer zone between you, then they start slowly, inexorably advancing on you, like a zombie (who hasn't lost their ability to speak, sadly). You back up a step, then they close the gap by two steps, like the round boulder from Indiana Jones' Raiders of the Lost Ark. Or the perfume/cologne snipers in your larger department stores - and why is it illegal to punch those little scent assassins? I just don't understand our justice system. But, I digress. Back to the face-talkers.

Why does it always seem that these face-talkers are always taller than you? So that you can count the cavities in their upper teeth before passing out (see warthog reference, above)? Or is it that you can now admire their luxuriant nose hair up close, which is often so out of control that you'd have to get in their with a commercial-grade weed whacker to make a dent in that National Geographic-level foliage? Maybe they shouldn't clean it up - perhaps the next wonder drug may come from that nasal rain forest. They could be hiding the next erectile dysfunction or hair loss drug - you know, the important drugs, not something frivolous like a breast cancer drug. Could be there's even an endangered lemur or two hanging out in there as well. Better safe than sorry and save the napalm.

There's only a few sure-fire methods of getting away from these space invaders...and I'm going to share some with my readers. One of my favorites is to fake a stroke - very effective, but since you can only use this once on a person (unless they're really stupid - not an unheard-of complimentary trait of space invaders), it should be saved for a space invader that's a relative stranger. Unless, of course, it's at Thanksgiving or some other family function, where it doubles the escape value. Another way is to explosively vomit on them. I'm talking full-on exorcist-level projectile vomiting. Works every time, and can be used again on the same person; just blame it on food poisoning, or eating White Castle or Hot Pockets. Or you could fire Tic-Tacs rapid-fire into their mouth - c'mon, they're so close you can hardly miss - until they get the message.

Or, of course, you could also just fire a laser cannon at them from your space ship. Peace.

The Fan - A Cautionary Tale of Bad Behavior and Porta-Potties

Fans. The lifeblood of any sport. Without fans, there would be no arenas, multi-million dollar salaries, sports agents, televised sports events, etc. No superstars, nor their DUI's, arrests for illegally carrying guns (sometimes shooting others with them, sometimes shooting themselves), fines for testing positive for controlled substances. Speaking of televised sports events, I'm not referring to things like bass fishing, curling, or even golf - those are sports events in much the same way that Monsanto is an organic agriculture firm. I really can't understand why anyone wants to watch these things, let alone do them. They are basically 98% waiting for something interesting to happen; something I don't desire on a sports channel. This is why we have C-SPAN (okay, that's 99.95% waiting for something interesting to happen). And no activity involving a broom can ever be considered a sport - I'm talking to you, curling. That's just housekeeping. With rocks. On ice. Meh.

And fans come in many varieties: good, bad, indifferent and truly embarrassing. Good fans, predictably, even though desirable (especially to be within earshot of), would be, by definition, boring. They cheer for their teams, don't argue calls, never criticize the coach and wish only the best for the other team. I say "would be", because they do not exist, at least in my experience. They may have all committed suicide. Bad fans, however, are out in great quantities, are MUCH more interesting, and come in different varieties:

The "referee" fan. This guy knows more about the rules of whatever game he's watching than any human being, ever. They have super-vision, allowing them to see what we mere mortals (and the trained referees) missed. Unsurprisingly, their own team never commits a penalty, foul or similar infraction, but the opposing team is guilty on virtually every single play. This is also the same fan, who, after having watched their kid play soccer for the last 15 years, STILL does not understand the concept of the offside penalty, and hasn't even heard of "advantage" - but they will gleefully scream offsides after every goal by the opposing team, as if it will magically erase the score. When asked why they don't go and get their referee license since they know the sport so well, usually tell you they don't have the time, which is code for: I can't pass the licensing test.

The "connected" fan. They are the opposite of the "living vicariously through my children" fan. Easy to spot, these fans either have their heads buried in their mobile devices or are deeply involved in a conversation (having nothing whatsoever to do with the sporting event they are attending) with another "connected" fan. Truly gifted connected fans can do both simultaneously. They are thereby able to claim that they attend their children's games, without the annoyance of ever having actually watched any of them. These are the fans who are completely unaware that something has occurred until the cheering or booing begins, and then are suddenly interested: "What happended?" "Your son just broke both his legs trying to bicycle-kick the ball." "Oh, I'm sure he'll be okay - excuse me, I have to look up what a bicycle-kick is." These fans don't really bother anyone else, and are usually taken care of via karma. Karma, at least in the soccer games I've attended, is when this fan, sitting 5 feet from the field of play in their folding chair while their attention is focused on their phone, gets hit soundly in the side of the face by a soccer ball traveling upwards of 900 miles per hour, usually knocking the parent to the ground and disintegrating the phone. Typically it will have been kicked by the fan's offspring; atypically, while the child performs a bicycle kick.

The "living vicariously through my children" fan. We all know this guy (it's usually a guy, but sometimes it's a woman, and for some reason, they're actually worse) - it's all negative criticism with no positive feedback: "How could you miss that catch?", "Hey, why don't you open your eyes?" "C'mon, get up, you're not hurt - if you can't see bone, it''s not broken!", etc. It's a pretty safe bet this kind of fan SUCKED when they played, but convinced their kids they themselves were the equivalent of Peyton Manning when they played. If they played at all. They pray their kids never run into one of their former classmates, otherwise the jig's up: "Your dad? On the football team? Seriously? He was always too high to play!". They are bellicose, to the point where they appear not to even require inhaling; it just is one long endless stream of profanity-laced criticism. They are totally focused on the game, and have trained themselves not to blink for long periods of time so as not to miss a single moment of play. Almost every statement begins with, "When I played...". No one likes to be near them, except, of course, others of their ilk, but everyone else will do almost anything to be away from them, including, but not limited to, sitting atop the porta-potty. Get a few of these fans in the same spot and there will likely be suicidal drownings in those porta-potties. But not at curling matches - they usually just wander out onto the ice into oblivion. Those medieval Scotts knew how to handle adversity in a socially acceptable way. Peace.

Bunco - A Man's Perspective

My wife hosted Bunco at our house the other night. Bunco is a dice game 12 women play under the guise of playing a dice game. What it really is is an excuse to get together. And eat. And talk. And talk. And talk. If some dice get thrown during this 3-4 hour event, well, you know, sometimes that's gonna happen. It's really about having a good time - if you're a woman. If you're a man, it's basically the 5th inner circle of hell.

Don't get me wrong - I love women. Especially my wife. But no one ("no one" being code for: man) wants 12 women in their house at once without their accompanying spouses. Said spouses are required to constantly distract their women by doing normal ("normal" being code for: disgusting) men things, such as groin-scratching, burping and even more odorous and odious bodily functions. Without the husbands there, 12 women will focus on the one guy there, and you don't want it to be you. It's kind of like the interns following the doctor around on rounds to your room: "Here's Mr. Smith. Mr. Smith thought it would be a good idea to operate a chainsaw while chugging a case of beer. How's the groin feeling today, Mr. Smith? Which one of you would like to change his dressing?".

I'll go into a detailed explanation of the rules of Bunco for you: there aren't any. At least not that I could discern. Oh, I'm sure there are official rules, somewhere, but I couldn't figure out what they were. A lot of time seemed to be spent getting the ladies to move from one table to another, signaled by the ringing of a bell, which is totally ignored. You see, there's 3 tables set up with 4 ladies at each table. After a round of Bunco is completed (we just don't have enough space here to explain THAT), some of the ladies from each table are supposed to move to one of the other tables, while others remain at their present table, but have to move to a different seat at that table. It's much like musical chairs, except everyone's on crack. And deaf.

If one of the ladies can't make it to a Bunco night, the other players can either play a "ghost" at the missing chair, or better yet, get a substitute player. Sometimes, the extremely gullible husband of the woman hosting Bunco will be invited to play. Don't do it. Make up an excuse - changing the oil on the car, re-siding the house, shaving your head with a cheese grater - anything. I'm joking, of course - it wasn't that bad. But it does now rank lower than the cheese grater. And they call you a "dice monkey". I'm serious.

The scoring in Bunco is interesting and seems to depend upon the phase of the moon, the average speed of an English swallow in flight and pi. There can be ties, which are settled by swordplay. Just kidding - if there was swordplay involved, men would be playing this. Depending on your definition of the term "swordplay", dice may not even be needed. (You'll have to Google this if that doesn't make sense to you - don't make me go there.) The game ends when all the food is gone, or the number of Bunco's scored is greater than the square root of of dessert, whichever comes first. Peace.

Jimmy's Facebook guidelines

Okay, moving away from the cancer theme.

I'm on Facebook. A LOT. Also, as part of my job responsibilities, I teach social media to our real estate agents, so I've done quite a bit of research on this to be able to sound lucid, and I think I have a pretty good handle on good practices. The following is NOT part of what I normally teach, just my observations on some some things people (at least those over the age of 25) should stop doing on Facebook, IMHO.

Do NOT like your own post, comment, or uploaded pic/video. We know you like it, because, duh, you posted it, didn't you?. Liking any of the aforementioned makes you a tool. It's like complimenting yourself, which is narcissistic, unless you're a member of Congress; then it's okay. I'm smart enough to know that. See? That was me, being a tool. Don't be a tool. Develop some tool-radar.

Drama posts - just say no. You know what these are; those cryptic, vague cries for attention. They're easy to spot: "I'm having the worst day", or "Something terrible just happened", or "Nobody will ever love me", or some variant. Don't post them, and whatever you do, don't ever respond to them - that's what they want, and you're just enabling that behavior. Well-meaning responses are typically: "Oh, no, what happened?", "Oh please call me", "I'm here for you", etc. Warning: if you keep responding this way, they will keep posting these types of desperate, attention-begging posts. If you must respond, please do so in a way that makes them stop. Here's some suggested responses: "You know you still owe me money, right?", "Call me, the test results are back and we need to tell your wife to get tested", or "I have an investment opportunity you can't afford to miss, but only for the first 100 people who private message me". Those may sound callous, but trust me, the sooner we get these people to stop posting drama posts, the happier we'll all be. Trust me.

Selfies - those photos you take of yourself with your phone, usually in a mirror, to be used, in theory, as a sexy profile pic. Couple of tips on this one, starting with turning off the flash - that's just distracting. Let's try not to do this in the bathroom (yes, I know, that's where the BIG mirror is), but if you must, let's keep the shots of the toilet in the background to a minimum. More critically, let's keep it to zero if someone's actually using it. Nobody wants to see that, although there are entire websites devoted to just those kind of selfies. Making a duck face (excessively pursing your lips) is fine. If you're 13. And have low self-esteem. Otherwise, you just look silly (see: above). They do, too, but they're 13, so, you know, it's okay.

Take a decent photo if you're going to post it, for Pete's sake. I shouldn't have to figure out if that's a picture of your kid at the waterpark or a three-toed sloth giving birth. Tag it with who's in it and a location - don't make us guess, it's awkward: "Oh that's a lovely shot of possibly your child whose name I can't remember in some place I don't recognize". And if your camera does not take good pictures in low-light situations, stop posting them. I've seen people post pics that seemed to be taken in a black hole, only darker. You may know that it's a shot of your wife in the movie theatre, but to us, it's just a unfocused, disembodied head, floating, apparition-like, in an even darker room. That's just spooky.

Food photos. Stop. Just stop. Seriously. Nobody cares anymore. If it's a remarkably exotic meal with an outstanding presentation - fine. That's not something most of have seen/will see, so that makes it interesting. I've seen about a billion pictures of burgers and fries - I believe we all know what they look like by now - we got it, thanks, no more visual aids are necessary. Same thing with shots of soup, chili  and/or meth cooking on the stove - I try scratching my screen, but, nothing, no aroma at all. Maybe it works on the new iPad Air, but on a laptop, nothing. It's frustrating, so stop it. It's almost like you're saying, "Look at this delicious food I'm making that you can't have". The people who comment that it "looks so good"? They're just your friends humoring you, but they're thinking what I'm thinking.

I trust you liked this latest blog post. I think it's excellent.

Hope your tool-radar went off. Peace.

Road to Recovery

Part of my recovery is to walk - basically as much as I can, and I do. I walk all around my small town, which allows me to see things you normally don't see while driving. Interesting things. Confusing things. Scary things.

What's scary? The things people do while driving. Can't tell you how many people are using their cell phones while driving, but that's no surprise. Some are blatant about it, holding their phones right on top of the steering wheel; some keep it in their laps, because someone driving while smiling at their crotch fools...well, no one, really. I've seen people eating, drinking, even shaving. How that woman got her leg up on the dashboard, I'll never know. Maybe I don't want to. And the eating - really? Soup? You're eating soup while driving? Cereal? Seriously? What's next - barbecuing while driving? I'm actually surprised Keurig hasn't come out with an automotive one-cup coffee machine yet. My favorite is when they do all these at the same time. Usually I see this from my vantage point of hiding behind a telephone pole or sturdy tree for safety, because these people are really scary, and I refuse to die by someone else's stupidity; I insist I die by my own stupidity (and I've come close).

What's confusing? Why the high school kids suddenly lose the learned skill of crossing the street safely. I mean, some of them look like insurance scam artists hoping for a payday. They don't even look before crossing, often from between parked cars, or even better giant SUV's (crosswalk? what's a crosswalk?); it's like they're TRYING to get hit. I mean, c'mon, kids, your SAT scores can't be THAT bad. You have so much to look forward to; crushing college loan debts, a position in the fast food industry, living with your parents until you're 40, the latest release of HALO, etc.. I've talked to my daughter, who is a senior, and she's equally perplexed. Personally, I blame the Pythagorean theorem; I remember it causing some suicidal thoughts in high school. I even think we lost a kid to calculus one year. Math kills.

What's interesting? Basically, people, again. I find people fascinating. I've seen people, on my walks, who refuse to make eye contact, clutch their bag a little tighter, even cross the street (of course, that only makes me want to cross the street to see what happens next) as I approach them. I mean, I'm mid-50's, gray hair, wear glasses, 5' 7" tall, usually have a smile on my face - I don't believe I offer that an intimidating a presence. And this was even happening immediately after my surgery, where I was shuffling along at a blistering pace of possibly 10 yards an hour, basically slow enough for the old school zombies to catch and devour me (remember, I'm now prostate-free, so, you know, less calories). The current zombies move much faster, something I'm not happy about as your ability to run fast is inversely proportional to your aging process. But I'm not worried about the zombies getting me because I'm a realist. I'm pretty sure it'll be the shaving, cereal-eating, texting and mascara-applying driver in the weapons-grade Hummer.
Peace.