Oh, the cheesy prime-time television of my 80's youth. And just one more in a long list of shows that I was home watching instead of going out with girls, partaking of school dances and otherwise having a life.
Ben Nutty pulled up at the local courthouse. He’d recently accepted a part-time gig that required his rubbing elbows with the great unwashed in the county records department. But times could hardly be called robust since he’d been canned from his corporate communications job, and the phone had not exactly been ringing off the hook with freelance offers.
Predisposed to frugality, Ben bypasses the available metered parking directly in front of the records department, circling the adjacent parking lot in his rattling Toyota in search of a vacant, gratuitous, space. Passing through, and exiting the far end of the parking lot, he finds an empty spot on a side street, and maneuvers his sputtering heap between to colossal SUV’s, the resulting dings to their chrome bumpers barely discernible even in direct sunlight.
Ben slings his computer laden backpack over his shoulders and begins trudging the 200-yards back to the records bureau. He enters the building to discover the usual long line of “customers,” the disheveled and potentially dangerous, waiting to speak to a clerk of the court. Ben excuses his way toward the back of the 8x10 room, claiming the only available piece of countertop, and wedges himself between the heating vent and a sizable, well-suited, but rather pungent gentleman, reviewing a court file.
Not long ago, I found myself in a department store shopping for jeans. I usually only have two pairs of wearable jeans at any given time. I wear them for years,they fall apart, I buy new ones.
So anyway, I was on my “once every four years” jeans buying trip and I found my two pairs of normal, boring Levis “relaxed fit” jeans, which is basically a nice way of saying “for guys over 35 whose metabolism isn’t what it used to be.” But that would be difficult to stitch on a pair of jeans, so they went with “relaxed fit.” I’m walking to the dressing room when I pass a display rack of “skinny” jeans. The models in the pictures are all hip and cool, striking defiant poses full of vigorous abandon.
Don't miss the exciting conclusion of Here's the skinny on making a fashion statement. Click HERE and scroll to page 8.
The local paper did not feel that the following piece was appropriate for their readers. I'm seriously curious to hear what you think about it. Would you be offended if this piece appeared in your paper? I kind of figured that colonoscopies were a pretty common topic in this day and age, and that most people would not be put off by the subject, but maybe I'm wrong. I'm not publishing this to rail on newspapers or editors, I'm genuinely interested to know if I'm off the mark. Please let me know your thoughts.
Is that a 40-foot tube in your hand, or are you just happy to see me?
One of the positives about aging, besides no longer caring how you look when you dance, is that you get to experience all sorts of fun procedures in the name of “preventative care.” Most doctors recommend that everyone, upon turning 50, should submit to a lovely little procedure known as the colonoscopy.
“But Joe, you’re far too hale and hearty. Surely you can’t be 50 yet. Why are you getting a procedure you shouldn’t need for many years to come?”
Because, astute reader, having been diagnosed with colitis at the tender age of 35, my gastrointestinal professional, thought that it would be a good idea to “go in and take a look, just to see what we’re dealing with.”
I’ll tell you what you’re dealing with Doc, a guy who has no interest in having a tubular camera shoved up his backside.
That was six years ago.
Shortly after that visit I switched jobs and medical providers, so the good Dr. was likely left in a state of profound disappointment for not getting the chance to defile me under the guise of medical science.
However, the old saying, “he who laughs last laughs best” came back to bite me on my colonoscopy entry zone, because this January we switched BACK to our old medical provider, and who should I find myself face to face with before the groundhog even thought about looking for his shadow, was my old friend the GI professional.
In a constant effort to slash expenses while searching for work, I’ve thought more than once about dumping the cats – you know, two less mouths to feed and all that jazz.
Relax PETA folks. Holster those wagging fingers before you start pecking out that angry email. I’m not talking about fitting them with cement kitty shoes, or sending them to “a nice farm where they can chase mice and have plenty of wide-open space to run around.” Besides, I think my kids are on to that one since they discovered that there’s no such thing as a guinea pig cruise ship. But I wonder sometimes if I’m getting a good “pleasure return” on my cat investment, and if I should consider investing that money into something else, like Chia Pets, or an expanded cable package.
To read the rest of this awesome "cat tail" (Ha! I slay myself), CLICK HERE and scroll to page 16.
For those who remember Night Court, this was part of NBC's mid-80's blockbuster Thursday night line up. As I recall, Night Court was preceeded by The Cosby Show, Family Ties, and Cheers. Good show, good song.