I went to a fellow blogger's site this morning. We have had a couple of conversations back and forth between comments and e-mails. We have some common interests in food, philosophy and other topics. It turns out, I used to live quite close to where he is now, in Lambertville, NJ. Small world. He is a genuinely good and caring man.
Frank is a Baptist minister and quite the food expert. He lost his father suddenly, on May 26. No matter what your profession, this has got to hurt. Fortunately, his faith will carry him through, but, no matter what, there is still tremendous pain. My guess is that they were extremely close.
All I ask is that you visit his site and if the spirit moves you, write a little message to him in the comment section. Every kind word has got to help a little. You can click on the title of this post to get there. Thanks.
http://www.theworldonaplate.com/
Please visit my main blog at marinadedave.com
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Friday, May 27, 2005
Opening Doors
In the early eighties, I worked for an ad agency. A woman, Linda, who worked with us was, and I'm sure still is to this day, a staunch feminist. Now, I have nothing against the ERA and all that. My only problem was that she just did not like men. She wasn't a lesbian. She actually was married to a really nice guy. He was a police captain, but, she managed to turn him into a veritable milquetoast. You could ask her about the weather, a seemingly innocent topic, and she would somehow twist it into some kind of warped discussion about how most meteorologists are men and how much women have suffered because of male meteorologists. Any topic. So, as a male, you couldn't expect to have a conversation with her without somehow feeling guilty about yourself. She hated Republicans, yet she was registered as one. I sensed an inner confusion.
Another woman, Terri, worked with her in the same room. She was seemingly normal, in a sense that she didn't feel as compelled to destroy the male id. One day, at lunch time, we all kind of poured out the front door at the same time. As I walked out, Terri scampered up behind me. I held the door open for her. She said, in a rather bitter tone of voice, "You don't have to hold the door open for me." I let go. Bam. Caught her off guard. She was so caught up in her contempt she never saw it coming. I said, "Terri, I would hold the door for anyone behind me, whether male or female. It's just the polite thing to do." I mean, heck, I slow down for squirrels in the street. I had this gut feeling that Linda had brought in one of those body snatching pods and it had taken over her body and mind. A few days later, she apologized. She said she was wrong and it was totally out of character for her. Of course, I said I was sorry for letting go of the door, too. She said, no, it kind of opened her eyes. You work with a person, day after day, year after year, bent on indoctrinating you to some cause, it's got to have an affect on you. Terri never showed an ounce of disdain, nor acted impulsively again.
I think that most people aren't always afraid of change with regards to whatever movement arises and sustains itself, whether social, political or religious in nature. I think people are more apprehensive due to the militant nature of so many of the proponents. They just scare people off.
Another woman, Terri, worked with her in the same room. She was seemingly normal, in a sense that she didn't feel as compelled to destroy the male id. One day, at lunch time, we all kind of poured out the front door at the same time. As I walked out, Terri scampered up behind me. I held the door open for her. She said, in a rather bitter tone of voice, "You don't have to hold the door open for me." I let go. Bam. Caught her off guard. She was so caught up in her contempt she never saw it coming. I said, "Terri, I would hold the door for anyone behind me, whether male or female. It's just the polite thing to do." I mean, heck, I slow down for squirrels in the street. I had this gut feeling that Linda had brought in one of those body snatching pods and it had taken over her body and mind. A few days later, she apologized. She said she was wrong and it was totally out of character for her. Of course, I said I was sorry for letting go of the door, too. She said, no, it kind of opened her eyes. You work with a person, day after day, year after year, bent on indoctrinating you to some cause, it's got to have an affect on you. Terri never showed an ounce of disdain, nor acted impulsively again.
I think that most people aren't always afraid of change with regards to whatever movement arises and sustains itself, whether social, political or religious in nature. I think people are more apprehensive due to the militant nature of so many of the proponents. They just scare people off.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Science Fiction Writer
This is my uncle, David A. Kyle. He is recognized in the science fiction community as the elder statesman, certainly to the older generation. I don't know about present day fans. He still goes to many sci-fi conventions around the world. He is now 86 and to this day, has no trouble hopping in his car and driving down to Orlando from Potsdam, NY. Way upstate. He is married to my mother's sister, Ruth. His mind is as sharp as it was 50 years ago. Back in 1980, he was authorized by the late E.E. 'Doc' Smith estate to write further adventures in the 'Dragon Lensmen' series. He has written other books and many years ago, was an author and illustrator for detective, fantasy and sci-fi pulp fiction magazines, such as Analog, and was the founder of Gnome Press. Years ago, he and my aunt owned a radio station up there, WPDM.
I remember, when I was four, going to their wedding in New York City. I sat with my grandmother and great aunt in the front row. During the ceremony, I looked up at the stained glass windows. It was an Episcopal church, The Little Church Around the Corner in midtown Manhattan. Quite ornate and somewhat gothic, if I recall. The moment was very silent. Pointing upward, I blurted out, "Is that God?" And I meant 'was that really God?' It reverberated throughout the whole church. The congregation roared in laughter. I guess I had my 15 minutes of fame rather early in life.
When I was young, probably from around nine to fifteen, they used to fly me up to spend summers with them. Mohawk Airlines. DC-3s back then. Sometimes, they'd entertain guests for dinner. Earlier on, it meant nothing to me to dine with Isaac Asomov or Robert Heinlein. A close friend is Forrest J. Ackerman and not far behind is some guy named Arthur C. Clarke, like anyone would know who he is. Being famous was not part of my vocabulary back then. About the same age, my father took me to a midget or sprint car race in Flemington, NJ, where I'm from. "See that guy out there?" he asked. "That's A.J. Foyt." "So?" I responded. I knew who Superman was.
My uncle has always had a very vibrant and creative mind and a keen, dry sense of humor. He still does.
Every winter, he and my Aunt Ruthie try to come down, to escape the brutal and long winters of the north country.
If you are familiar with him, would you drop me a line? I'd love to pass along any stories to him, especially since he can be the consummate storyteller, himself.
I remember, when I was four, going to their wedding in New York City. I sat with my grandmother and great aunt in the front row. During the ceremony, I looked up at the stained glass windows. It was an Episcopal church, The Little Church Around the Corner in midtown Manhattan. Quite ornate and somewhat gothic, if I recall. The moment was very silent. Pointing upward, I blurted out, "Is that God?" And I meant 'was that really God?' It reverberated throughout the whole church. The congregation roared in laughter. I guess I had my 15 minutes of fame rather early in life.
When I was young, probably from around nine to fifteen, they used to fly me up to spend summers with them. Mohawk Airlines. DC-3s back then. Sometimes, they'd entertain guests for dinner. Earlier on, it meant nothing to me to dine with Isaac Asomov or Robert Heinlein. A close friend is Forrest J. Ackerman and not far behind is some guy named Arthur C. Clarke, like anyone would know who he is. Being famous was not part of my vocabulary back then. About the same age, my father took me to a midget or sprint car race in Flemington, NJ, where I'm from. "See that guy out there?" he asked. "That's A.J. Foyt." "So?" I responded. I knew who Superman was.
My uncle has always had a very vibrant and creative mind and a keen, dry sense of humor. He still does.
Every winter, he and my Aunt Ruthie try to come down, to escape the brutal and long winters of the north country.
If you are familiar with him, would you drop me a line? I'd love to pass along any stories to him, especially since he can be the consummate storyteller, himself.
Monday, May 16, 2005
Wart Tree
In the late seventies, early eighties, I owned a restaurant called Weiner King. I know, it's funny, but I did. The restaurant originated in Flemington, NJ. There were several franchises. One in Warminster, PA, one in Morristown, PA, and mine in Whitehouse Station, NJ.
There was a nice lady who came in at least twice a week to eat. One afternoon, she came in during that slump time beween the end of the lunch rush and before the dinner crowd. The girl who worked with me that day, Lauri Goodell, was studying biochemistry at Rutgers University. I had this plant on a window sill that spanned the front counter and into the service area, on a side wall. At that time, there was no one else in the restaurant. After our hellos and how are yuz, she walked toward the plant with her arms extended to touch it.
She asked, smilingly, "What is this plant? I've been admiring it for quite some time now."
"It's a wart tree," I responded. I don't know where the thought even came from, but it was too late. I said it.
"A WART TREE?" Her arms quickly retracted.
I had to think fast. "Yes, a wart tree. Lauri goes to Rutgers and is majoring in biochemistry. You know how warts have seeds in them?"
"Yes?"
"Well, someone she knew had a plantar wart and she took them and cultivated them into what you're looking at here."
"You're kidding."
"No," I said. "Ask her."
Lauri collaborated my story and went into some kind of microbiospeak that neither of us understood.
She bought it, or it seemed like she believed her. The poor woman composed herself, even though she had a perplexed look on her face, and ordered food. I think she asked for it to go.
I think when her husband got home from work that day, she told him about the wart tree. He probably told her there is no such thing, all the while laughing.
Well, I never saw that woman again. She was either afraid of the tree, warts and all, embarassed by her gullibility, or too mad at me to ever come back.
I guess I probably shouldn't have done that, but, Lauri and I sure did get a laugh. Working 80 hours a week will do that.
There was a nice lady who came in at least twice a week to eat. One afternoon, she came in during that slump time beween the end of the lunch rush and before the dinner crowd. The girl who worked with me that day, Lauri Goodell, was studying biochemistry at Rutgers University. I had this plant on a window sill that spanned the front counter and into the service area, on a side wall. At that time, there was no one else in the restaurant. After our hellos and how are yuz, she walked toward the plant with her arms extended to touch it.
She asked, smilingly, "What is this plant? I've been admiring it for quite some time now."
"It's a wart tree," I responded. I don't know where the thought even came from, but it was too late. I said it.
"A WART TREE?" Her arms quickly retracted.
I had to think fast. "Yes, a wart tree. Lauri goes to Rutgers and is majoring in biochemistry. You know how warts have seeds in them?"
"Yes?"
"Well, someone she knew had a plantar wart and she took them and cultivated them into what you're looking at here."
"You're kidding."
"No," I said. "Ask her."
Lauri collaborated my story and went into some kind of microbiospeak that neither of us understood.
She bought it, or it seemed like she believed her. The poor woman composed herself, even though she had a perplexed look on her face, and ordered food. I think she asked for it to go.
I think when her husband got home from work that day, she told him about the wart tree. He probably told her there is no such thing, all the while laughing.
Well, I never saw that woman again. She was either afraid of the tree, warts and all, embarassed by her gullibility, or too mad at me to ever come back.
I guess I probably shouldn't have done that, but, Lauri and I sure did get a laugh. Working 80 hours a week will do that.
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
The Road Trip
Tim is home! Yup. Back from Kirkuk, Iraq. We must have sent a thousand e-mails to each other.
When I arrived in Houston on Sunday the 24th of April, with my best friend, Stew, we went to the M.D. Anderson Cancer Center to see Bud. At that point, he was pretty healthy. He had the transplant the Tuesday before. By Thursday, he was pretty sick. The doctors told him and my sister that it was just a reaction to the chemo he had to prep him for the transplant. His white cell count was only .2% at that time. We left that weekend. On the way home, Maggie called me and said his cell count was on the rise, which meant the new bone marrow was starting to do its thing already. By the time I got home, it had gone up to 2.9% and that was good news. He is very tired and weak, but, so far things are looking up for them. It better continue that way. He's not even close to being anywhere near the edge of the forest yet. The doctors did allow him to go home to their apartment for the weekend, so that must have lifted his spirits. One interesting thing. The doctors say that any type of fungus is deadly to him. Kill him outright. I would imagine that would include mold and mildew. Don't know why, but I'll try to find out.
On the way there, we stopped in Rayne, Louisiana for the night. Did you know that Rayne is the frog capital of the world? I didn't think so. Stewart spoke with his wife the next morning. She's pretty gullible. He told her that when we got to the hotel, they only had a room with one bed, but, don't worry, one of us slept above the covers and one below the covers. But we had to share a pillow. I think she believed him. We went through the gambling district in Biloxi, hugging the coast. Pretty interesting. Jefferson Davis had a home there, which is now a museum. A lot of shade trees with spanish moss. Then we went on through Bay St. Louis, which is a very nice little community. From there we went into the French Quarter in New Orleans and took some pictures. As soon as he e-mails them to me, I will post some at my Flickr site. We went to one of the above ground cemeteries with all the mausoleums. St. Louis #1. Very interesting. The rest of the drive was rather boring to look at. Lake Charles to the west is nothing but a giant chemical town. Next door is the town of Sulphur. I looked for Birthdefect on the map. I thought it would be nearby.
Houston itself is pretty big. There is one good sized downtown and clusters of others. The medical district alone is just about the size of downtown Orlando. Bud's hospital is big. Four floors are for leukemia only. The staff is dedicated to that disease and the care is impeccable. He says the food's pretty good, too.
Stewart wanted to go to Galveston. Maggie said it's nothing to see. Don't waste your time. I said, hey, you drove all the way out here and you want to go to Galveston. Let's go. So we did. The three of us. We all actually enjoyed it. It's a nice place. We went on an oil rig museum. We walked through the gaslight area called The Strand with shops and restaurants and second floor iron railings, like in New Orleans. A nice place to escape the city. That night, back in Houston, my sister took us to a restaurant/bar for happy hour called Benjy's. Certainly a good place to eat and drink. Everyone we met in Houston was very nice, but I wouldn't want to live there.
When we left for home, we spent the night in Tallahassee. Little did we know that FSU graduation was going on and virtually every room was filled. We did find the last one at a La Quinta at exit 99. Nice little area. The next morning, back on the road, Stew talked to his wife An, and told her that we did have two beds this time. Good, she said. Then he told her that the air conditioner was stuck on the lowest setting and wouldn't go off. We had to sleep in the same bed to stay warm, but we did have separate pillows. "I'm leaving you!" she screamed. Pretty funny, but she should know better. I don't lean that way.
One thing we really did notice. EVERY exit on I-10 had a Waffle House.
Every exit.
Well, except for the bayou.
And we only saw one cowboy in Texas. Horns on his Ford truck.
It's fun to travel.
When I arrived in Houston on Sunday the 24th of April, with my best friend, Stew, we went to the M.D. Anderson Cancer Center to see Bud. At that point, he was pretty healthy. He had the transplant the Tuesday before. By Thursday, he was pretty sick. The doctors told him and my sister that it was just a reaction to the chemo he had to prep him for the transplant. His white cell count was only .2% at that time. We left that weekend. On the way home, Maggie called me and said his cell count was on the rise, which meant the new bone marrow was starting to do its thing already. By the time I got home, it had gone up to 2.9% and that was good news. He is very tired and weak, but, so far things are looking up for them. It better continue that way. He's not even close to being anywhere near the edge of the forest yet. The doctors did allow him to go home to their apartment for the weekend, so that must have lifted his spirits. One interesting thing. The doctors say that any type of fungus is deadly to him. Kill him outright. I would imagine that would include mold and mildew. Don't know why, but I'll try to find out.
On the way there, we stopped in Rayne, Louisiana for the night. Did you know that Rayne is the frog capital of the world? I didn't think so. Stewart spoke with his wife the next morning. She's pretty gullible. He told her that when we got to the hotel, they only had a room with one bed, but, don't worry, one of us slept above the covers and one below the covers. But we had to share a pillow. I think she believed him. We went through the gambling district in Biloxi, hugging the coast. Pretty interesting. Jefferson Davis had a home there, which is now a museum. A lot of shade trees with spanish moss. Then we went on through Bay St. Louis, which is a very nice little community. From there we went into the French Quarter in New Orleans and took some pictures. As soon as he e-mails them to me, I will post some at my Flickr site. We went to one of the above ground cemeteries with all the mausoleums. St. Louis #1. Very interesting. The rest of the drive was rather boring to look at. Lake Charles to the west is nothing but a giant chemical town. Next door is the town of Sulphur. I looked for Birthdefect on the map. I thought it would be nearby.
Houston itself is pretty big. There is one good sized downtown and clusters of others. The medical district alone is just about the size of downtown Orlando. Bud's hospital is big. Four floors are for leukemia only. The staff is dedicated to that disease and the care is impeccable. He says the food's pretty good, too.
Stewart wanted to go to Galveston. Maggie said it's nothing to see. Don't waste your time. I said, hey, you drove all the way out here and you want to go to Galveston. Let's go. So we did. The three of us. We all actually enjoyed it. It's a nice place. We went on an oil rig museum. We walked through the gaslight area called The Strand with shops and restaurants and second floor iron railings, like in New Orleans. A nice place to escape the city. That night, back in Houston, my sister took us to a restaurant/bar for happy hour called Benjy's. Certainly a good place to eat and drink. Everyone we met in Houston was very nice, but I wouldn't want to live there.
When we left for home, we spent the night in Tallahassee. Little did we know that FSU graduation was going on and virtually every room was filled. We did find the last one at a La Quinta at exit 99. Nice little area. The next morning, back on the road, Stew talked to his wife An, and told her that we did have two beds this time. Good, she said. Then he told her that the air conditioner was stuck on the lowest setting and wouldn't go off. We had to sleep in the same bed to stay warm, but we did have separate pillows. "I'm leaving you!" she screamed. Pretty funny, but she should know better. I don't lean that way.
One thing we really did notice. EVERY exit on I-10 had a Waffle House.
Every exit.
Well, except for the bayou.
And we only saw one cowboy in Texas. Horns on his Ford truck.
It's fun to travel.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
I'm Houston Bound & Tim's Coming Home
I'm on my way to see my sister and brother-in-law tomorrow morning. He's through with the bone marrow transplant and now only time will tell if it has been successful.
Today is my brother Tim's last official day in Iraq. He should be home with his loving wife in about a week or so.
Today is my brother Tim's last official day in Iraq. He should be home with his loving wife in about a week or so.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Poor Woman
I was talking to a friend of mine in New Jersey recently. She had a pretty interesting story to tell and wanted an opinion from a male point of view. I've known her a very long time.
She's been dating this guy for 2-3 years. I don't know him. She has a son in his early twenties. Her son decided to place a Yahoo! personal ad. Not being as savvy as older, more experienced men, well, he decided to read what older, more experienced men were writing to learn some lines before penning his own. Scrolling through Yahoo! personals, lo and behold, guess what? He stumbled upon an entry by her "of course I love you" boyfriend.
Of course he showed his mother. Of course she confronted him. Of course he denied it. It was some kind of terrible joke by one of his friends or a rotten thing to do by someone who was trying to get even with him for something he had done. I asked her if she believed him. She said she didn't know what to think. He was so adamant about it. I said, don't you think this jokester or rotten "friend" would have made something up that was more negative than positive? I mean, don't you think he would have said he was gay and written from that point of view? I found it at Yahoo! and it was all this typical personal ad mushy stuff about liking children, boating, fine dining and that kind of puke. Sounded pretty sincere to me. Where did his picture come from? Why would one of his friends or enemies write something that would benefit him in any way? Why would a friend try to set him up with other women if he wasn't going to be there to respond? Besides, someone had to pay for it to be active. Suppose what he said was true, who would meet this dream date, him or his friend? Then she would see it wasn't him. I couldn't find any logical way out of the mess, you know, guy to guy support.
She asked me what she should do. I said I wasn't into messing around with an already messy situation. But, I did give her one bit of advice. I told her to place a personal ad on Yahoo! Heck, I'll even find a picture of a sweet looking babe. In a bikini. Just the right age, size and haircolor. I said, write a description you know he'll respond to. I mean, who knows him better than you? Or respond to his. How much is it going to cost? Do a little chit chat for a while and decide to meet somewhere like a Bennigan's. That seems to be a safe place to "meet" someone "new." When he walks in, he'll be in for quite a surprise. Serves him right.
I haven't talked to her for a little while, so I don't know what is going on. My guess is he finally fessed up and she forgave him. Stupid. Oh well, but hey, he sounded like a nice guy in his personal ad. It must be true. Any woman out there looking for some type of soulmate not into lying or playing games? Add a comment here and I'll pass it on to her. See if he's still available.
She's been dating this guy for 2-3 years. I don't know him. She has a son in his early twenties. Her son decided to place a Yahoo! personal ad. Not being as savvy as older, more experienced men, well, he decided to read what older, more experienced men were writing to learn some lines before penning his own. Scrolling through Yahoo! personals, lo and behold, guess what? He stumbled upon an entry by her "of course I love you" boyfriend.
Of course he showed his mother. Of course she confronted him. Of course he denied it. It was some kind of terrible joke by one of his friends or a rotten thing to do by someone who was trying to get even with him for something he had done. I asked her if she believed him. She said she didn't know what to think. He was so adamant about it. I said, don't you think this jokester or rotten "friend" would have made something up that was more negative than positive? I mean, don't you think he would have said he was gay and written from that point of view? I found it at Yahoo! and it was all this typical personal ad mushy stuff about liking children, boating, fine dining and that kind of puke. Sounded pretty sincere to me. Where did his picture come from? Why would one of his friends or enemies write something that would benefit him in any way? Why would a friend try to set him up with other women if he wasn't going to be there to respond? Besides, someone had to pay for it to be active. Suppose what he said was true, who would meet this dream date, him or his friend? Then she would see it wasn't him. I couldn't find any logical way out of the mess, you know, guy to guy support.
She asked me what she should do. I said I wasn't into messing around with an already messy situation. But, I did give her one bit of advice. I told her to place a personal ad on Yahoo! Heck, I'll even find a picture of a sweet looking babe. In a bikini. Just the right age, size and haircolor. I said, write a description you know he'll respond to. I mean, who knows him better than you? Or respond to his. How much is it going to cost? Do a little chit chat for a while and decide to meet somewhere like a Bennigan's. That seems to be a safe place to "meet" someone "new." When he walks in, he'll be in for quite a surprise. Serves him right.
I haven't talked to her for a little while, so I don't know what is going on. My guess is he finally fessed up and she forgave him. Stupid. Oh well, but hey, he sounded like a nice guy in his personal ad. It must be true. Any woman out there looking for some type of soulmate not into lying or playing games? Add a comment here and I'll pass it on to her. See if he's still available.
Monday, April 18, 2005
BM-Day For Bud
Tomorrow is bone marrow day. It will come in the form of a blood transfusion. No thick needles into his bones. He won't feel a thing. It should take about 8 hours to complete. Then, the real finger crossing begins. Will the host cells like him or will they attack him like some sort of pariah? Time will tell. Not much time, either.
I leave for Houston Saturday morning, from Orlando. My best friend Stewart and I are driving. And he has to come up from around Port Charlotte, leaving his wife behind for a week. We have been best friends for 38 years. He's about as much family as I am. This will be a welcome and comforting sight for Bud and, especially, my sister, Maggie.
We take nothing but hopes and prayers with us.
I leave for Houston Saturday morning, from Orlando. My best friend Stewart and I are driving. And he has to come up from around Port Charlotte, leaving his wife behind for a week. We have been best friends for 38 years. He's about as much family as I am. This will be a welcome and comforting sight for Bud and, especially, my sister, Maggie.
We take nothing but hopes and prayers with us.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Beefy King
Years ago, I was a hardline artist for an ad agency here in Orlando. I also designed and built ads for a department store chain that ran in various newspapers throughout the state. Previous to that job I was mostly in the restaurant business. Soon after I started working there, I saw a sort of fast food place up the street called Beefy King. Since I had come from a background in that industry, I thought it would be nice to meet these people. We soon became good friends.
One of the interesting, if not quirky, aspects of my job was break time. My boss insisted that we all come in at 8:30 in the morning, but we had to take a break from 9 to 10. Strange, but that was the way it was. Pretty much every morning I would drive up the street to Beefy King, make myself a sandwich and pour a cup of coffee. Sometimes I'd help slice meats or whatever, but most of the time I'd stand at the front counter reading the newspaper. They weren't open that early, so I wasn't getting in the way of customers.
One morning I went in, there was a short, chubby man working on an ice machine that had broken down. Seemed like a really nice fellow. The next morning he was still working on it. On the morning of the third day, as he was finishing up, he and the owner, Roland Smith, were standing in a hallway between the dining area and the back room, probably working out the bill. He whispered to Roland, "Hey, that guy up there. He's been here every morning just standing there reading the newspaper. What's he do for a living?"
Now, the acoustics were just right and I heard every word of it. He didn't know. Roland said, "He's a professional newspaper reader."
The guy said, "No way. There's no such thing." Roland told him to go ask me, then.
I was standing there, seriously reading my paper, acting oblivious, when he sauntered up. He very politely said, "Excuse me."
I looked up and in a face that showed great concentration, as I was very deep in my work, replied, "Yes?"
"Well, I've been here three days now and I see you reading the paper. I was just wondering what kind of job you have. What do you do for a living, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Why of course not. I'm a professional newspaper reader."
"No way. I've never heard of such a job."
"Yup. That's what I do."
"No kidding! Well, I'm from Florida. Born and raised. What's the name of the newspaper in Leesburg?"
"Which one? The Commercial or the Gazette? Plus the Orlando Sentinel has a zoned edition."
"No kidding! Alright. What about St. Augustine?"
"The St. Augustine Record."
And so it went. No matter where he asked, I had an answer. I mean, we advertised in all of those publications.
"I believe you. I think I've heard it all. I can't wait to tell my wife tonight. She's not going to believe it."
Later, Roland and I got the biggest laugh out of it. To this day, I'm sure he's still telling people about the job to stump all jobs.
One thing about the Beefy King. Having hung around there for many years, I can tell you that it is, by far, about the cleanest restaurant I've ever set foot in. You could practically eat off the floors. Really good food, too. The same family has owned it since 1968, with the third generation in charge now. If you are ever in Orlando for business or whatever, try to stop by. It's on Bumby. Tell them Marinade Dave sent you.
One of the interesting, if not quirky, aspects of my job was break time. My boss insisted that we all come in at 8:30 in the morning, but we had to take a break from 9 to 10. Strange, but that was the way it was. Pretty much every morning I would drive up the street to Beefy King, make myself a sandwich and pour a cup of coffee. Sometimes I'd help slice meats or whatever, but most of the time I'd stand at the front counter reading the newspaper. They weren't open that early, so I wasn't getting in the way of customers.
One morning I went in, there was a short, chubby man working on an ice machine that had broken down. Seemed like a really nice fellow. The next morning he was still working on it. On the morning of the third day, as he was finishing up, he and the owner, Roland Smith, were standing in a hallway between the dining area and the back room, probably working out the bill. He whispered to Roland, "Hey, that guy up there. He's been here every morning just standing there reading the newspaper. What's he do for a living?"
Now, the acoustics were just right and I heard every word of it. He didn't know. Roland said, "He's a professional newspaper reader."
The guy said, "No way. There's no such thing." Roland told him to go ask me, then.
I was standing there, seriously reading my paper, acting oblivious, when he sauntered up. He very politely said, "Excuse me."
I looked up and in a face that showed great concentration, as I was very deep in my work, replied, "Yes?"
"Well, I've been here three days now and I see you reading the paper. I was just wondering what kind of job you have. What do you do for a living, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Why of course not. I'm a professional newspaper reader."
"No way. I've never heard of such a job."
"Yup. That's what I do."
"No kidding! Well, I'm from Florida. Born and raised. What's the name of the newspaper in Leesburg?"
"Which one? The Commercial or the Gazette? Plus the Orlando Sentinel has a zoned edition."
"No kidding! Alright. What about St. Augustine?"
"The St. Augustine Record."
And so it went. No matter where he asked, I had an answer. I mean, we advertised in all of those publications.
"I believe you. I think I've heard it all. I can't wait to tell my wife tonight. She's not going to believe it."
Later, Roland and I got the biggest laugh out of it. To this day, I'm sure he's still telling people about the job to stump all jobs.
One thing about the Beefy King. Having hung around there for many years, I can tell you that it is, by far, about the cleanest restaurant I've ever set foot in. You could practically eat off the floors. Really good food, too. The same family has owned it since 1968, with the third generation in charge now. If you are ever in Orlando for business or whatever, try to stop by. It's on Bumby. Tell them Marinade Dave sent you.
Monday, April 11, 2005
Last Chance To Dance
Yesterday, my brother-in-law, Bud, went into M.D. Anderson in Houston for his final chance at survival. Today, he gets a small dose of an experimental (clinical trial) form of chemo. The doctors will then monitor him to see how he reacts and to formulate what amount the final dose will be before the transplant. All of his bone marrow must be neutralized. He will be in for a month. As some of you might be aware, Bud has AML (Acute Myelogenous Leukemia.) He has been fighting this since January of 2004.
Originally, he was to receive a donor stem cell transplant. His siblings were all tested and none were considered to be viable. Fortunately, a matching donor was found. What is incredible about this donor is that he decided to donate bone marrow, too, on top of the stem cells. This is quite a nice gesture on his part, since it entails more work and pain to extract the marrow. My sister says it can take up to a week to retrieve enough. Then it must be flown in within 24 hours of the transplant. The doctors will give Bud bone marrow now instead of stem cells, which is a stronger treatment and much more beneficial than just the cells in fighting the leukemia. This man is not just out to help a little, he is out there to try to save someone's life. I wish I could thank him regardless of the outcome.
This is a one shot chance to live. It will work or it won't. The marrow transplant will be done on the 19th of this month. The first 72 hours after treatment are absolutely crucial. Since his body is pretty much in a state of nothingness at this point, the host cells have a chance to eat him up and destroy his organs. He will not have antibodies. The new cells are in total control. If these cells accept his body, then he is well on his way to recovery.
My mother is on her way to see him and my sister, Maggie. She left this morning from Orlando. I will be leaving to see them on the 23rd. I hope the news is music to my ears.
Originally, he was to receive a donor stem cell transplant. His siblings were all tested and none were considered to be viable. Fortunately, a matching donor was found. What is incredible about this donor is that he decided to donate bone marrow, too, on top of the stem cells. This is quite a nice gesture on his part, since it entails more work and pain to extract the marrow. My sister says it can take up to a week to retrieve enough. Then it must be flown in within 24 hours of the transplant. The doctors will give Bud bone marrow now instead of stem cells, which is a stronger treatment and much more beneficial than just the cells in fighting the leukemia. This man is not just out to help a little, he is out there to try to save someone's life. I wish I could thank him regardless of the outcome.
This is a one shot chance to live. It will work or it won't. The marrow transplant will be done on the 19th of this month. The first 72 hours after treatment are absolutely crucial. Since his body is pretty much in a state of nothingness at this point, the host cells have a chance to eat him up and destroy his organs. He will not have antibodies. The new cells are in total control. If these cells accept his body, then he is well on his way to recovery.
My mother is on her way to see him and my sister, Maggie. She left this morning from Orlando. I will be leaving to see them on the 23rd. I hope the news is music to my ears.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
A Ghost Story?
I received an e-mail from someone after reading my "Not About Terri Schiavo" post. The person said there is no Heaven or Hell. When you die, you're gone. Journey over. It made me think a little and I decided to respond with this post.
When I was living on Bonnell Street, in Flemington, NJ, back in the late 70s, I had several experiences that you could call strange. One night, lying in bed, I was dozing off, but awakened by the front door opening. At that time, I lived alone and my bedroom was the first one up the stairs. I heard footsteps, like female footsteps, not heavy, walk across the room and start up the stairs. I was sure I had locked the door. I waited until the steps came almost to the top. There was no way I was going to let an intruder near me. I jumped out of bed and at the same time I turned on the light switch, I kicked into the air at my target. There was no one there. OK. The possibility of it being a dream was true, but, I've never dreamed like that. I wasn't on drugs. When I was awake, I still heard the footsteps coming up. I heard the door open. I was scared and quite alert. What was it? I don't know. When I first moved in, I heard voices coming from the kitchen a couple of times. It stopped whenever I entered the room. No one was outside talking. Those, I just ignored. Thought nothing of it. Until...
When I started seeing Maryen, but before she moved in, we were going out for the night to hear a friend, Ken Yard play in a band in Easton, PA. Ken and his girlfriend, Nancy were living with me at that time. They had left hours earlier. We stopped at Maryen's and then mine to get changed. While I was in the bedroom looking through my dresser, Maryen went down the hall to the bathroom. She left the door open. The downstairs door opened and up the stairs walked a female. I assumed Nancy had come back for something because she walked right into their bedroom. They should have been hours away. When Maryen came to my room, she said that Nancy was home. I said, yes, I know, I heard her. When I had glanced out of the corner of my eye, I saw a shadow walk by. Maryen saw the same thing. I yelled, Hi, Nancy! There was no answer. We walked into their room. No one was there. I looked under the bed and in the closet. Nothing. I would have shrugged it off again, but, Maryen heard and saw the same thing as I did. I had never brought up the notion of spirits in the house to her before. I mean, we hadn't been together that long. I didn't want her to think I was crazy. Was that strange? Or were we? We never experienced anything again.
About a year or so later, I ran into an author and locally renowned historion on Flemington and Hunterdon County. When I told her of my incidents, I piqued her interest. She researched the address. Later, she told me a seven year old girl had drowned in a well out back hundreds of years ago. The well was long gone. At one time, the house was part of the Fleming Castle estate, most likely a barn, erected after the castle was built in 1756.
I had always been skeptical about ghosts until those experiences. I can't say for sure that I believe in them, but, I won't say that I don't, either. I think what I'm trying to say, is that, if there is even a remote possibility of the existence of apparitions, then there is also that chance of an afterlife.
When I was living on Bonnell Street, in Flemington, NJ, back in the late 70s, I had several experiences that you could call strange. One night, lying in bed, I was dozing off, but awakened by the front door opening. At that time, I lived alone and my bedroom was the first one up the stairs. I heard footsteps, like female footsteps, not heavy, walk across the room and start up the stairs. I was sure I had locked the door. I waited until the steps came almost to the top. There was no way I was going to let an intruder near me. I jumped out of bed and at the same time I turned on the light switch, I kicked into the air at my target. There was no one there. OK. The possibility of it being a dream was true, but, I've never dreamed like that. I wasn't on drugs. When I was awake, I still heard the footsteps coming up. I heard the door open. I was scared and quite alert. What was it? I don't know. When I first moved in, I heard voices coming from the kitchen a couple of times. It stopped whenever I entered the room. No one was outside talking. Those, I just ignored. Thought nothing of it. Until...
When I started seeing Maryen, but before she moved in, we were going out for the night to hear a friend, Ken Yard play in a band in Easton, PA. Ken and his girlfriend, Nancy were living with me at that time. They had left hours earlier. We stopped at Maryen's and then mine to get changed. While I was in the bedroom looking through my dresser, Maryen went down the hall to the bathroom. She left the door open. The downstairs door opened and up the stairs walked a female. I assumed Nancy had come back for something because she walked right into their bedroom. They should have been hours away. When Maryen came to my room, she said that Nancy was home. I said, yes, I know, I heard her. When I had glanced out of the corner of my eye, I saw a shadow walk by. Maryen saw the same thing. I yelled, Hi, Nancy! There was no answer. We walked into their room. No one was there. I looked under the bed and in the closet. Nothing. I would have shrugged it off again, but, Maryen heard and saw the same thing as I did. I had never brought up the notion of spirits in the house to her before. I mean, we hadn't been together that long. I didn't want her to think I was crazy. Was that strange? Or were we? We never experienced anything again.
About a year or so later, I ran into an author and locally renowned historion on Flemington and Hunterdon County. When I told her of my incidents, I piqued her interest. She researched the address. Later, she told me a seven year old girl had drowned in a well out back hundreds of years ago. The well was long gone. At one time, the house was part of the Fleming Castle estate, most likely a barn, erected after the castle was built in 1756.
I had always been skeptical about ghosts until those experiences. I can't say for sure that I believe in them, but, I won't say that I don't, either. I think what I'm trying to say, is that, if there is even a remote possibility of the existence of apparitions, then there is also that chance of an afterlife.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Not About Terri Schiavo
I had the good fortune of seeing some very close friends over the weekend. They have a son they took to Universal Studios and Disney World. Since I live here in the Orlando area, I went with them. Their son, Ryan, who is 24, is mentally challenged, to be politically correct. Very much so.
One thing that's true about people with his mentality. They are so innocent. A really great guy and extremely people oriented, but, he'd walk around naively naked if no one told him to get dressed. It kind of makes me think about the Schaivo case. Take a woman who had virtually no brain function left, and a guy like Ryan, who was born with very limited mental faculties. Suppose Terri Schiavo, or someone with a condition like hers, being the result of an injury, at any age, never had a chance to formulate their religious beliefs. Ryan has no concept of any type of supreme being just by the inherent nature of his mind. You can't teach him. He, and many like him, are babes in the woods. Do these people have no chance to go to any type of heaven if there is such a thing as an afterlife? Don't tell me that God has a "special place" for the innocents. Whose God? Yours, mine or someone elses? Where, in your scriptures, does it state a "special place" where God baptizes them into Heaven? Do they go to a place reserved for the mentally challenged? Or do they lose that handicap?
What happens, if a teenager, who might have been brought up in a religious and/or structured family, does typical teenage things, like swearing, drinking, smoking and generally becomes rebellious and antisocial? There is that 16 going on 30 thing, you know. Then they die before having a chance to become an adult and really formulate their opinions. You don't know what positive or negative influence they might have had on life. What happens to them? Hell? They still had the mind of a child.
At what point are "mind-less" people acceptable to God? Who is authorized to answer these complex and moral questions? Religious leaders always seem to have the answers that suit their own desires and beliefs, though. For example, why is it better to err on the side of life as you are condoning the death penalty? I'm not questioning that or the right to die. I just wonder who is qualified to answer for God.
I do know, though, that Ryan, Terri Schiavo and all like them will always have a "special place" in my heart.
One thing that's true about people with his mentality. They are so innocent. A really great guy and extremely people oriented, but, he'd walk around naively naked if no one told him to get dressed. It kind of makes me think about the Schaivo case. Take a woman who had virtually no brain function left, and a guy like Ryan, who was born with very limited mental faculties. Suppose Terri Schiavo, or someone with a condition like hers, being the result of an injury, at any age, never had a chance to formulate their religious beliefs. Ryan has no concept of any type of supreme being just by the inherent nature of his mind. You can't teach him. He, and many like him, are babes in the woods. Do these people have no chance to go to any type of heaven if there is such a thing as an afterlife? Don't tell me that God has a "special place" for the innocents. Whose God? Yours, mine or someone elses? Where, in your scriptures, does it state a "special place" where God baptizes them into Heaven? Do they go to a place reserved for the mentally challenged? Or do they lose that handicap?
What happens, if a teenager, who might have been brought up in a religious and/or structured family, does typical teenage things, like swearing, drinking, smoking and generally becomes rebellious and antisocial? There is that 16 going on 30 thing, you know. Then they die before having a chance to become an adult and really formulate their opinions. You don't know what positive or negative influence they might have had on life. What happens to them? Hell? They still had the mind of a child.
At what point are "mind-less" people acceptable to God? Who is authorized to answer these complex and moral questions? Religious leaders always seem to have the answers that suit their own desires and beliefs, though. For example, why is it better to err on the side of life as you are condoning the death penalty? I'm not questioning that or the right to die. I just wonder who is qualified to answer for God.
I do know, though, that Ryan, Terri Schiavo and all like them will always have a "special place" in my heart.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Business Card Promotion
This is a business card I designed for a company I work for. If you wanted to order cards, guess who would do the design work?
Monday, March 28, 2005
Marinating Tips
Please click on the title of this post (above) to link to the actual Marinating Tips post, or CLICK HERE .
Thursday, March 24, 2005
The Difference Between Men And Women
This morning, on my way into work, I stopped at a grocery store to buy some frozen entrees for lunch. The store was promoting a 'buy one, get one free' deal, so, I wanted to take advantage of that and stock up. On my way out, a somewhat attractive woman stopped her car in front of me. She looked and said, "I can't find my drink!" I walked over to her vehicle, not too close, though, and looked in. Then she turned around and looked into the back seat. There, in plain view, were pretty much her exposed butt crack and cheeks. Her jeans were slid down. Far.
Well, and a mighty fine 'Good Morning' to you. Not what one would expect to see at 8:00 o'clock in the morning. At least, not from a total stranger.
I wished her good luck, told her she'd either find it or get wet, and went on my way.
I thought about what if, when I approached her, I noticed she wasn't wearing pants or anything at all down there. Suppose it was a man doing the same thing to a woman, exposing all his parts, what would she do? My guess is that she would take down his tag number as she was running back inside and call the police. Most men, though, in this situation, might be inclined to ask for her phone number and a date. Or at least give it a passing thought before calling the police.
Well, and a mighty fine 'Good Morning' to you. Not what one would expect to see at 8:00 o'clock in the morning. At least, not from a total stranger.
I wished her good luck, told her she'd either find it or get wet, and went on my way.
I thought about what if, when I approached her, I noticed she wasn't wearing pants or anything at all down there. Suppose it was a man doing the same thing to a woman, exposing all his parts, what would she do? My guess is that she would take down his tag number as she was running back inside and call the police. Most men, though, in this situation, might be inclined to ask for her phone number and a date. Or at least give it a passing thought before calling the police.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
San Diego Fires
When I went to San Diego, I went up to my hosts' mountain home, overlooking Lake Cuyamaca. I took this coming down the mountain, January 7, 2005. This is from the San Diego Fires in October of 2003. A lot of the structures haven't been rebuilt yet. Construction companies are backlogged, just like roofing companies in Florida from the hurricanes of 2004.
It kind of symbolizes, to me, how devastating fires can be. A little piece of Heaven turned suddenly into a fiery Hell. It was one of the worst in the history of the United States.
It kind of symbolizes, to me, how devastating fires can be. A little piece of Heaven turned suddenly into a fiery Hell. It was one of the worst in the history of the United States.
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