Life In The Slow Lane

I feel like the old man who’s having sex and says, “Jeez, I don’t know whether I’m coming or going.”

It’s hard to believe I could amass so many stories that need to be written, and yet they’ve snowballed on me this week.

And the chances of getting them all done are seemingly more remote than a snowball’s chance in hell.

Hell, I haven’t yet written things from last week and it’s been go go gopher - remember that cartoon? - all this week.

Meetings Monday = stories.

Meetings Tuesday = stories.

Meetings Wednesday = stories.

Meetings Thursday = stories.

If I’ve promised any of my dear readers that I’d be in contact with them for a story, please don’t despair or throw rotten tomatoes at me. My to-do list right now is bigger than Santa’s list of good little boys - and by the way Santa, I better be on that damned list this year.

Right now I have three reporter’s notebooks filled with stuff from school boards and town boards and events I’ve covered and a little M&M chocolate and Pepsi stains here and there.

Dinner, you know.

Throw in a murder and stuff really gets out of whack.

Throw in features on school board candidates that have to be done this week - and which I have yet to start - and the mix is even more interesting.

Throw in vacation guide stories that have to be written by tomorrow and, oh hell, you may as well slit your wrists and call it a life.

And it doesn’t help when the week doesn’t end on Friday - why should it this week? - because I’ve been asked to cover a fishing derby and Robotics competition on Saturday and I’ll be there.

At least in presence, but maybe not in the right frame of mind.

I hear a vacation calling my name Memorial Day week - if I’m caught up by then.

So again, please don’t think I’m ignoring you if you’ve called me for a story and haven’t heard back yet.

I’ll be in touch.

Sometime in the next decade the way things are going.

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I can’t write today.

Katie’s still in heat and I can’t concentrate while she’s humping my leg.

This…

Must….

End….

Soon!!!!!

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Whatever happened to the North Country I used to know?

Breaking news from today’s Watertown Daily Times:

Stockholm man killed during robbery

A town of Stockholm died early today after being shot in the lower back during a robbery at his home.

Daniel P. Simonds, 649 Porter Lynch Road, died at 7:10 a.m. while undergoing surgery at Fletcher Allen Health Care, Burlington, Vt., according to St. Lawrence County sheriff Kevin M. Wells.

Investigators are seeking three men who burst into the Simonds home about 12:45 a.m. following an argument that took place nearby, Mr. Wells said. They fled after shooting Mr. Simonds, he said.

Dispatchers at the county’s emergency dispatch center, Canton, were notified of the shooting by a 911 phone call at 12:45 a.m., Mr. Wells said. The first deputies on the scene found Mr. Simonds and called rescue squad personnel. He was initially taken to Canton-Potsdam Hospital and was later taken to Fletcher Allen where he died.

Although there were others in the house when the shooting occurred there were no other injuries, Mr. Wells said.

The shooting was initially being treated as an armed robbery but is now being treated as a homicide, the sheriff said. He declined to confirm reports that the incident may have been drug related or to release descriptions of the three suspects.

Sheriff’s investigators are being assisted by state police, including members of the forensic investigation unit from Troop B headquarters in Ray Brook, Mr. Wells said.

I wonder, oh how I wonder, whatever happened to the community I grew up in.

We used to leave our car doors unlocked because we never thought a perfect stranger would actually steal anything from inside - or the vehicle itself.

We used to leave our house doors unlocked because nobody ever came barging into our homes, possibly intent on murdering somebody.

We used to walk down the streets without fear, but now we never know when somebody’s going to bitch slap us because he doesn’t like the way we look.

This place has gone the way of the city - murders, rapes, assaults.

It ain’t a pretty picture, folks.

Our society in general has gone to hell in a handbasket and Massena and the surrounding areas are no exception.

When I first moved to Cincinnati in 1992, I was shocked at the headlines I was reading. Then I became immune to the violence. It’s just another day.

You should see our police blotter. People throwing knives at their spouses or girlfriends or boyfriends and pummeling them with their fists. People repeatedly picked up for crimes against someone else and yet they still wander the streets, ready to punch the running lights out of someone else. People murdering someone because that person might have been messing around with their girlfriend. People assaulting or even murdering their own child, their own flesh and blood. People gutting somebody because, well, we don’t know the rest of that story yet.

It’s a sick world and Massena has turned into a sick place and we used to say I’ll never go to the city because of the crime and now it’s staring at us in our own back yard.

This isn’t the world I wanted to live in.

If I wanted crime, I could have stayed in Cincinnati.

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For the first time this year, I dug into my closet yesterday and yanked out my special Grill Sergeant hat and Grill Sergeant Battle Dress Uniform and one each M24A4 Cooking Utensils and fired up the barbecue.

It’s Burger Time!

I sneered at the raw meat on the plate.

“Alright you snively little slabs of cow! You’re gonna get down in that grill and give me well done hamburgers! None of this half-done shit you’d rather be because the fire’s too hot for the little baby and you don’t want to stay on the grill any longer than you have to! No, cow meat, you’re gonna be so well done that your momma’s not gonna recognize you! Do you understand? I can’t hear you! Now drop and knock ‘em out!”

I talked, they listened. Well done, slathered with barbecue sauce, mustard, ketchup, Miracle Whip and onions.

Yummy, yummy!

Of course, the cats were salivating in the windows.

Note to self - Clean the windows next weekend.

Alright, I said, as long as the burgers are listening, I’ll let the cats roam around and chew on some grass.

I brought Holly out. She stayed right by the porch and chewed on the blades.

I took her back in and brought Sissy out. She stayed right by the porch and chewed on the blades.

Katie? Not a chance. She’s still in heat and I didn’t want every Tom, Dick and Harry Cat in the neighborhood answering her mating call.

And then there was Tabu. Oh dear God. None of that staying by the porch and chewing on the grass for her. The minute I set her down she took off in a gallop - all 50-plus pounds of her - and I high-tailed her in hot pursuit.

“Get back here, you little maggot! When I catch you you’re not gonna know which way is up, you no good little furball!”

She got as far as the neighbor’s trees when I latched on to her and got her back in the house.

She’s now in civil confinement for the next 50 years.

And that was pretty much my Sunday afternoon.

Now it’s time to go back to work - again - and I’m not really sure why.

And with the new week brings new joy in life.

The price of stamps goes up today - and from what I understand they can now be jacked up every May with no prior authorization.

Yup, that’s gonna help the old business.

And the price of gas, of course, is probably going up again today. It was $3.91 as I was coming back from church yesterday. It’s probably $4.53 by now.

Actually, $4 gas would be cool. It’s one of those nice round numbers in which you can say can, “OK, I need 20 gallons” and you simply multiply that by $4 a gallon and you get…. hold on, I’m counting my fingers here… you get…. take the 8 and carry it over and… ah hell, you get a big old number that’s larger than the amount of money you have in your checkbook.

On the bright side, P&C has a special on Eskimo Pies this week. Two for the price of one.

My freezer’s stacked with ‘em - to go along with the burgers left over from yesterday.

The well-done burgers that bowed to the commands of their Grill Sergeant.

Oooo rahhhhh!

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It’s that time of year again.

No, I’m not talking about Memorial Day and summer and all that good stuff.

I’m talking the birds and the bees.

As in a cat in heat.

I vowed I was going to get Katie fixed last year when her “season” was over.

Didn’t do it.

Now I regret it.

I can’t get away from her. She’s climbing my back, rubbing my leg.

I’m not your bitch, baby!

Whatever happened to the cute little girl I used to know?

She’s all grown up now.

And I’m paying the price.

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I have some very serious matters to discuss.

But I won’t.

Not today, anyway.

Instead, let’s clean out the mailbox and let you derive the same pleasure I’ve had from these zingers.

Our first story today is called “The Golf Injury”:

Two women were playing golf. One of them teed off and watched in horror as her ball headed directly toward a foursome of men playing the next hole. The ball hit one of the men. He immediately clasped his hands together at his groin, fell to the ground and proceeded to roll around in agony. The woman rushed down to the man, and immediately began to apologize.

“Please allow me to help. I’m a Physical Therapist and I know I could relieve your pain if you’d allow me,” she told him.

“Oh, no, I’ll be all right. I’ll be fine in a few minutes,” the man replied.

He was in obvious agony, lying in the fetal position, still clasping his hands at his groin. At her persistence, however, he finally allowed her to help. She gently took his hands away and laid them to the side, loosened his pants and put her hands inside. She administered tender and artful massage for several long moments.

Then she asked him, “How does that feel?”

He replied, “It feels great, but I still think my thumb’s broken.”

Drumroll, please….

And then there’s “The Silent Nun”:

Sister Mary Katherine entered the Monastery of Silence.

The Priest said, ‘Sister, this is a silent monastery. You are welcome here as long as you like, but you may not speak until directed to do so.’

Sister Mary Katherine lived in the monastery for 5 years before the Priest said to her, ‘Sister Mary Katherine, you have been here for 5 years. You may speak two words.’

Sister Mary Katherine said, ‘Hard bed.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ the Priest said,’We will get you a better bed.’

After another 5 years, Sister Mary Katherine was summoned by the Priest. ‘You may say another two words, Sister Mary Katherine.’

‘Cold food,’ said Sister Mary Katherine, and the Priest assured her that the food would be better in the future.

On her 15th anniversary at the monastery, the Priest again called Sister Mary Katherine into his office. ‘You may say two words today.’

‘I quit,’ said Sister Mary Katherine.

‘It’s probably best,’ said the Priest, ‘You’ve done nothing but bitch since you got here.’

Hardee har har.

And finally, we leave you today with “The Wedding of the Wongs”:

Su Wong marries Lee Wong. The next year, the Wongs have a new baby. The nurse brings over a lovely, healthy, bouncy, but definitely a Caucasian, WHITE baby boy.

‘Congratulations,’ says the nurse to the new parents. ‘Well Mr. Wong, what will you and Mrs. Wong name the baby?’

The puzzled father looks at his new baby boy and says, ‘Well, two Wong’s don’t make a white, so I think we will name him…

Are you ready for this?

Sum Ting Wong.

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I was driving back from a meeting last night and I’m just passing the drive-in - yes, Massena still has one of those ancient critters - when I get this severe hankerin’.

I needed ice cream.

I don’t know what came over me, but I started salivating furiously.

For a minute I thought I might have rabies.

So, instead of heading back to the office, I dropped by P&C and ran like a bullet to their frozen food section and pondered and pondered and pondered before settling on Eskimo Pies - the triple chocolate kind that has chocolate on the outside, chocolate with a tinge of vanilla on the inside and a gooey chocolate sauce that miraculously appears out of nowhere.

I put on 50 pounds just thinking about it.

But they were good, oh so good when I got back to the office and started biting into them while cranking out my stories for the day. And they were still oh so good when I got home and sat at the kitchen table reading the newspaper and dropping hints of chocolate on the sports section. And they were oh so good this morning when I said to hell with the M&Ms, gimme one of them there Eskimo Pies.

Does that officially make me a resident of Alaska now?

Alas, all the joy went out of my life when I popped open the gas bill that had come in the day’s mail.

The gas folks around here would have you believe that natural gas is the best thing since sliced bread. It’s clean, it’s efficient, and they claim it’s cheap.

Oh really!

Then how come a bill that would normally be in the 30-something range this time of year was more like 90-something?

It’s not like I cooked up a feast on the gas-powered stove. I’m a microwave man, baby.

It’s not like I took any more showers than normal. Once a day’s enough for me unless it’s been a really muggy day and then I’ll probably throw myself under the water again.

It’s not like I’m doing any more laundry than I was last year. Two loads a weekend - one for whites, one for coloreds. See, I know what I’m doing at the washing machine, ladies.

It’s not like the furnace is going full blast. It hasn’t been turned on in over a month.

So why, oh why the hell has the bill risen - other than the pay the bandits providing the gas.

It’s absolute starts with a B and ends with a T and has the letters ullshi in between.

If ya get my drift.

I do have some solace though. I’ve been without hot water for the last two days for some strange reason, so I’ve been taking ice-cold showers that make me feel like I’ve been thrown into the Atlantic Ocean in January.

Quick showers, I might add - soap up, rinse off and dry off in a record-setting 5 seconds.

We used to call them Navy showers in the Army. Go figure.

So, since I have no hot water, then surely St. Lawrence Gas can’t charge me for that.

Or maybe they can because anybody affiliated with gasoline supply these days seems to be like Robin Hood in reverse, stealing from the poor and giving to the rich.

Gotta go. Time to shower.

I’ll be back - in about 2 seconds.

And then I’ll have another Eskimo Pie to make me feel better.

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Police: Motorcyclist flipped bird, popped wheelie, crashed

COPIAGUE, N.Y. - A Long Island man who flipped his finger at a police cruiser and then popped a wheelie on his motorcycle is recovering from injuries after crashing. Suffolk County Police said Frank Patti, 26, of West Islip, rode by the police car at a service station in Copiague at 7:30 p.m. Sunday. Police say Patti made an obscene gesture to two officers in the car, popped a wheelie and then sped away. Police gave chase. When the motorcycle turned into a parking lot it crashed into a police car that had joined the chase. Police said Patti was treated for minor injuries at Southside Hospital. He’s charged with fleeing police, resisting arrest and several traffic violations.

Newlyweds plead guilty in reception spat with band

PORT CHESTER, N.Y. (AP) - A New York bride and groom arrested at their wedding reception after the bride trashed a set of conga drums in a spat with the band have pleaded guilty to disorderly conduct. The bride was also accused of breaking a speaker in a dispute over the music at the April 5 reception. Fabiana Reyes has been sentenced in Village Court to the six days she already spent in jail. The 41-year-old also paid the band $1,500 for the damage. Her 42-year-old husband and their 21-year-old daughter were accused of interfering with Reyes’ arrest. Elmo and Helen Fernandez pleaded guilty Thursday. Police used stunned guns on both during the fracas.

Man Complains to Consumer Protection Office: Beer Made Him Drunk

Romania - 35-year-old Iancu Boroi has lodged a complaint with the country’s Consumer Protection Office over some beer he purchased at an Arges supermarket. Boroi claims that one can got him so drunk he almost passed out. “I am more than capable of holding my drink and it is ridiculous to think one can of beer can get me so drunk. There must have been something wrong with it and I am demanding compensation,” said Boroi.

Ah, but the world isn’t full of just bad news…

Softball Fans Stunned by ‘Unbelievable’ Act of Sportsmanship

Sarah Tucholsky, a 5′2″, .153 lifetime hitter for Western Oregon, hit her first-ever home run to move her team closer to its first appearance in the NCAA playoffs. But rounding first, she tore a ligament in her knee, leaving her unable to walk.

The umpires ruled she would be credited with a single. Then, opposing first baseman Mallory Holtman, the conference all-time home run leader, asked the umpires if she could help Tucholsky complete her home run. The umpires consented.

Holtman and teammate Liz Wallace picked up Tucholsky and carried her to each base, giggling as they wondered what the fans must be thinking. As they lowered Tucholsky to touch home, they saw fans weeping and cheering. Tucholsky’s team won, 4-2.

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Once a Catholic, always a Catholic, I suppose.

If you read my previous post, you’ll see that I bailed out of Catholic schools after fifth grade.

I learned something in the process.

Catholic schools were light years ahead of teaching compared to public schools.

I spent sixth grade at Washington Elementary School - long ago torn down and recently replaced with a community center - and it was then that I realized parents were getting a bang for their buck at Catholic schools. What we were learning at Washington, I had already learned two grades earlier at St .Mary’s.

They took that as a sign that I was, ahem, intelligent. And they stuck in me advanced classes at the junior high - also torn down long ago and replaced with a soccer field/skating rink/playground.

What is it with them tearing down my former schools? Did I leave some kind of a plague behind that couldn’t be eradicated, so they had to crumble the building to the ground?

But I digress.

I may not have cared for the nuns, but they taught me well.

I ended up staying away from the church for more than 20 years. My biggest fear? The number of days I’d have to set aside for confession after that 20-year absence.

“Bless me father for I have sinned. It’s been 20-plus years since…”

“Whoa, did you say 20-plus years, my son?”

“Yes, father, and these are my sins.”

“I’m sorry, son, there aren’t enough Hail Marys in this world to absolve you of 20 years of sin. Good-bye!”

Luckily, it didn’t happen like that.

I had arrived at my final assignment with the Army, a nice little hole they called Dugway Proving Ground, located smack in the middle of the Great Salt Lake Desert in Utah, so far away from civilization that we worked four-day weeks because it took three days to reach the nearest town through the mountain passes.

One of my first newspaper assignments was to interview the new priest on the block, Father Charles LaPenta, former spiritual adviser for the late Princess Grace and Prince Ranier.

The interview went well and the conversation turned to my personal life. Father Charles learned I hadn’t been a practicing Catholic for more than two decades and he offered to help if I was interested in rejoining the church.

I took him up on his offer. We went through all the paperwork and I slowly but surely learned all the lines parishioners recite during the Mass - a stark departure from the old days when we sat there with our mouths shut while the priest did all the work.

I went to church every Sunday and even attended noon Masses during the week - and I felt good when I left the building.

It’s been 16 years since then and, although I haven’t remained a devout Catholic, I’ll always remember Father Charles for his efforts in “bringing me home.”

These days I try to hit the church every Sunday. Father Mike, the current pastor at St. Mary’s, makes the Mass enjoyable. Sadly, I go for a while and then drop out for a while and then go for a while again. My current streak of attending goes back to February and the start of Lent, so I’m doing well this time.

But apparently I’m not as fanatical about religion as some other people:

Man asks court to change his name to ‘In God We Trust’

ZION, Ill. - Steve Kreuscher wants a judge to allow him to legally change his name. He wants to be known as “In God We Trust.” Kreuscher (CROY’-shir) says the new name would symbolize the help God gave him through tough times. The 57-year-old man also told the (Arlington Heights) Daily Herald he’s worried that atheists may succeed in removing the phrase “In God We Trust” from U.S. currency. He recalls that the phrase “God Reigns” was removed from the Zion city seal in 1992 after courts deemed it unconstitutional. Zion was founded as a theocracy - by a sect that believed the Earth was flat. The school bus driver and amateur artist in the northern Chicago suburb says he has filed a petition to change his name in Lake County Circuit Court.

You think that’s crazy? Try this one on for size:

Police: Texas man trying to cash $360 billion check arrested

FORT WORTH, Texas - Charles Ray Fuller must have been planning one big record company. The 21-year-old North Texas man was arrested last week for trying to cash a $360 billion check, saying he wanted to start a record business, authorities said. Tellers at the Fort Worth bank were immediately suspicious - perhaps the 10 zeros on a personal check tipped them off, according to investigators. Fuller, of suburban Crowley, was arrested on a forgery charge, police said. He was released after posting $3,750 bail.

Gee, I hope he didn’t write a check for his bail…

And finally, when it’s time to relax - for good - one beer stands clear, beer after beer:

Illinois man orders custom beer-can coffin

SOUTH CHICAGO HEIGHTS, Ill. - Bill Bramanti will love Pabst Blue Ribbon eternally, and he’s got the custom-made beer-can casket to prove it. “I actually fit, because I got in here,” said Bramanti of South Chicago Heights. The 67-year-old Glenwood village administrator doesn’t plan on needing it anytime soon, though. He threw a party Saturday for friends and filled his silver coffin - designed in Pabst’s colors of red, white and blue - with ice and his favorite brew. “Why put such a great novelty piece up on a shelf in storage when you could use it only the way Bill Bramanti would use it?” said Bramanti’s daughter, Cathy Bramanti, 42.

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It was First Communion for local students Sunday and I’ve never seen the pews of St. Mary’s so packed.

Three-quarters of the church was reserved for the students and their families, and the remainder of the “regular” people were relegated far to the back, stuffed like sardines in what little pew space was left.

Funny thing is, I’ve never seen three-quarters of these people before and I’ll probably never see them again.

Perhaps they attend another Mass or another church - or perhaps they’re part-time Catholics like so many people these days.

But seeing those little kids in their white shirt and black pants and frilly white dresses, some with a veil adorning their head, brought back memories of so long ago when I made my First Communion in that very church.

My, my, my, how times have changed.

Back then there was a Communion rail that everybody kneeled at, and we didn’t dare touch the Communion wafer - it went directly from the priest’s hand into our mouth.

Now that I think about it, ewwww.

St. Mary’s as a whole hasn’t changed much over the years. They have a side room just off the altar - a soundproof room, if you will - where my mother would always take us for Mass instead of letting us go into the main church. Maybe she thought we’d misbehave. We probably would have. Mass back then was far less interactive and far more boring.

That room is still there, with a glass window looking onto the altar, but I haven’t been back inside it in ages. Maybe I should sit in there sometime, just for old time’s sake - especially on First Communion Sunday.

Confession’s changed a lot since those old days too. Gone are the days when a terrified child went into this dark confessional with a mysterious man on the other side of a sliding screen who would say, “Tell me your sins.” You couldn’t see this stranger- but you knew he was the parish priest and you never lied to the parish priest so you told him everything and more.

These days you sit in a nice room with the priest, face-to-face, and say, “Yeah, I hosed up and I’m sorry.”

No more intimidation factor - unless you’re as scared of priests as some people are of clowns.

Some parts of St. Mary’s are history. The white schoolhouse is long gone. That’s where we younger kids got edumacated during our early years before going to the “big school.” The principal was a nun and the teachers were a mix of nuns and civilians and they had a lobby area with a piano where we’d go and sing, “This Land Is Your Land.”

After five years of Catholic schooling, before I got a chance to go to the “big school,” I bailed out. I’d had enough of the nuns and the big science fairs in the social hall when you’d build a lava-spewing volcano only to find out someone had mapped out the DNA of a cat.

And then there was the blackboard washing for being unruly in class and candy bar sales to help pay to keep the school running. Neighbors can only eat so much chocolate before they say, “NO MORE. YOU WERE JUST SELLING THESE THINGS LAST MONTH AND I HAVE ENOUGH TO LAST ME TWO LIFETIMES!”

I guess the real dinger came on a day when I wanted to stay home sick and the principal said, “No you’re not.” She told me they had a funeral going on next door at the church and there was a police escort there and if I didn’t come into school right now she’d send the policeman over to get me as soon as the funeral was over

And she did.

And I walked into the classroom with an armed escort by my side.

Oh yes, those were the days.

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