Just a Little Bit O' Silly

 

Brush With Death

Planted some Autumn Bulbs

Elizabeth Warren Holds a Town Hall With Her Peeps

I Don't Miss the Circus

     “When I Left My Home and My Family

    I Was No More Than a Boy.

    In the Company of Strangers

    In the Quiet of a Railway Station.

    Running Scared.”

    -The Boxer

 

"You better not claim you made that up!"

    This is one of my favorite Simon and Gar, the Funkel Brothers, songs.  Not because of boxing, you understand.  But, they do mention whores on Seventh Avenue.  So there is that.

"Which is nice."

    No, I like it because it neatly sums up when I left my home so many years ago.

   You see, today is the 49^th anniversary of the day I left Connecticut for Navy boot camp.  And, with the exception of August to December, 1985, I’ve never looked back.

    For those of you who say that I should wait until next year because the FIFTIETH anniversary would be so much more significant, I will agree with you.  It would be.

But, after all, I am 67.

    Meaning, there’s no guarantee I’ll see Labor Day.  So, forty-nine it shall be.

    As the song says, I did leave my home and my family.  In fact, I’ll never forget the sight of my brothers and sister saluting me as my parents backed out of the driveway.  Before they went back in to watch cartoons.  After all, they had almost a week before school started.  It was still summer, dammit!

    I was originally supposed to leave on the 31^st, but the recruiter called me and said I would be bumped up a day earlier.  I was distraught.  You see, I was having the time of my life in the summer after I left high school.  More importantly, I didn’t want to leave the girl I had just started dating in June.

    NOTE:  That girl would break my heart two years later.  But, another story for another day.

   

If you're curious, or a glutton for punishment, this goes into the whole process.
In excruciating detail.

.
    However, in the time since, one day is frankly meaningless.  What didn’t occur to me at the time...enlisting one day earlier meant I would be able to leave the Navy one day earlier.

    NOTE:  That day wouldn’t happen for more than thirty years, not in 1980.  Once again, another story.  For another time.

It truly was.

But wait!  There's more!

   “In the quiet of a railway station.”  Despite the invention of air travel, we did take a train to Illinois.  I wondered why.  Until I realized that the end of August is also close to the end of the fiscal year.  So, taking the train was cheaper, I suppose.

    “Running scared.”  I wasn’t scared, really.  Depressed, sure, especially since I would be leaving home.  Perhaps I was nervous about a future which held a great many unknowns.  I guess we can call that “scared.”

     In any event, after all this time, I’ve never regretted that I did what I did.  I traveled the world, saw a lot of wonderful things, and never did the same thing twice (some people would call that “not making up my mind.”).

    Was there a LOT of nonsense?  Sure, there was.  To be honest, today’s Sailors probably have to endure more.  So, yeah, I don’t miss that.  But, do I miss the adventures with a group of friends who will remain so until the day I die?

Absolutely

    I would so do it all over again.  And not just because I'd have my brown hair back

And everything still worked.
Everything.

    So, happy anniversary to me.  I wouldn't have done anything differently.

    Except fall asleep in my pillowcase the night I discovered ouzo.

    I heard a great expression a little while back which totally sums up my time in the Navy:

     I don’t miss the circus, but I sure miss the clowns.

And that's better than any song.

       

Stat's the Name of the Game

 

    It’s raining a little outside as Hurricane Erin’s effects are felt this afternoon in Southeast Virginia.

    NOTE:  Since it’s well off the coast, the storm’s full force isn’t felt that much here.  This is a good thing, because Virginia drivers are bad enough as it is.  Especially since hurricanes blow.

    Anyway, since I can’t work outside and don’t feel like doing anything constructive inside (I’ve already mastu...washed the dishes), I thought this would be a great opportunity to take a look at the stats for my blogs, Penwasser Place and Nobody Asked Me But...

    Not a lot of traffic on my recent, “serious,” blog, but that is pretty much what I expected.  Like I warned informed everyone, Nobody Asked Me But... is meant to give me a chance to wax soberly (as opposed to intoxicated) on current events.  It lets me voice my opinions on all things great, small, and Trump.

Actually, not all that much different from this.

    Still, that blog has a couple (and by “couple,” I mean two) followers, one of whom, Tanza Erlambang from the Tanza Erlambang Update, has even commented twice (“twice,” meaning...uh...twice.  Hmm, guess that figures).  In any case, thank you, Tanza!

    NOTE:  Tanza also visits, and comments here.  Tanza is what we call a “glutton for punishment.”

    So, I thought I’d concentrate on my “Flagship” blog, Penwasser Place,

"Wow, someone if full of himself."

since it has more followers and generates more comments.

    Incidentally, I attach this blog to Facebook so some of my followers there can be punished enjoy what I have to say.  Still, it’s usually my Blogger followers to whom I turn.

    Most views come from, not surprisingly, the United States at 221.  If you’re reading this, you know who you are.  I thank you.

    The balance of the other views come from nations which really are to be expected.  Great Britain, France, Germany and even a handful from Canada.  For that, you have my gratitude, Birgit!

    I have to admit to being a little surprised that no views are from Australia, even though Joanne from the Jo-Anne's Ramblings is a follower who I’ve added to my Reading List.  Please forgive me for any transgressions I’ve done, Joanne.

    A couple nations who monitor Penwasser Place gave me some pause, though.  While not identified as China, per se, some viewers from Hong Kong have visited a staggering 189 times, second only to the United States. 

    Now, maybe the Chinese share my often-twisted sense of humor, but I kinda doubt all of them do.  No one from the former British colony has left a comment, so I have some unease.    

"That picture of man humping fish is laugh riot.  Penwasser rocks!"

    Still, who knows?  Maybe they do.

    Probably bots or some sort of data mining, though.

    What is most disturbing is that 37 views have come from Iraq.  Iraq.  I didn’t think computers were very common in that particular corner of the world.

    To be safe, maybe I should self-censor my comments when it comes to that particular region...?

"Okay, I'm not Iraqi, but I speak their kind of crazy! 
Infidel."

    In any case, it could be worse.  No views have come from Ukraine or the White House.

"Frankly, I think we should."

    So, I have that going for me. 

"Which is nice."

    Okay, since Chairman Xi Jinping likes it...

 

So?

End of the World?

        While perusing Instagram...or X...or Threads...or Facebook...whatever (I can't remember), I came across the above.  It's a quick little blurb about how the world ended in 2012 and, even though there have been some hiccups (e.g., Mandela Effect), we haven't really noticed.

    Of course, that dreadful John Cusack documentary, 2012, showed a "traditional" End-of-the-World.  It came complete with explosions, disasters, fires, Door Dash effing up your order but still expecting a tip, pretty much what you'd expect.

We would also accept, "New York City after Mamdani."

    And...SPOILER!..the world really did end.  Shouldn't come as much of a surprise.  No coming back from that, I suppose.  Even if we had Batman on our side.  

Especially the sucky one

    Some humans did escape on some sort of rocket ship to another planet, though.  I think.  I really can't remember.  Like I wrote, dreadful. 

    I think John Cusack survived, though.

    Anyway, the video above (trust me, I get your reluctance to just click on something willy-nilly or namby-pamby) is legit.  The presenter describes a scenario where the world really did come to an end in 2012, as per the Mayan prediction.

"Okay, let's go back to work on our predictions."
"Where?"
"Up there."
"What the f...up all those frikkin' steps????"
"Well, yeah, we're not done yet."
"How far have we gotten?"
"Well, we're up to 2012."
"Seriously, isn't that good enough?"
"I suppppose...."
"I want to go rip some hearts out."
"I guess you're right."

"You know there's no proof that the Mayans ripped anyone's heart out."
"How 'bout I rip your heart out?  Would that make you feel better, Art?"

      Only we didn't notice (except for that Door Dash thing).  For all we know, life continued on as normal.

     Except for men in women's sports, that is.

And this.  Dear Lord.  This.

    This makes me think of a story (what doesn't).....

    Years ago in a galaxy far away, when I was a crewmember on the aircraft carrier USS America, we were returning from a relatively brief at-sea period off the East Coast.

For those who received a public-school education,
this is an aircraft carrier.

    A shipmate and I were watching our ship tie up to the pier in Norfolk, Virginia from the flight deck.

  The following is our word for word conversation (as "word for word" as I can remember-this was 47 years ago, after all.  Get off my ass).

And, it should go without saying, my lawn.

   
He: "See all those friends and family members on the pier?"

Me: "Yep, there's a bunch. Guess they missed us."

"You know where we've been the past couple of weeks?"

"At sea?"

"Yes, but where?"

"Off the coast?"

"Yes, but specifically the Bermuda Triangle."

"Ok. So?"

"So what if we went into another dimension?"

"Ok. So?"

"What if they aren't real but creatures from another dimension?"

"Would I know the difference?"

"No."

"Then, I don't care."

Anyway, my point is, if the world ended in 2012, but we didn't know...

    Why would I care?

    Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to give Uber Eats a call.

"If I promise not to spit in your cheeseburger, would you reconsider?"

Have It Your Way

    No, wait.

   That's Burger King.

   My bad.

Trust me.  He's upset.  Or deranged.

    

No, this post is about Mc Donald's.  And the slogan for Mc Donald's is "I'm loving it."

In any event, RFK Jr. isn't loving it.

Some do, though.
"French, you say?  Get 'em outta here!"

    Anyway, the whole point of this post (sorry, I tend to get carried away most some of the time) is that, in an effort, apparently, to boost sagging sales by exploiting Baby Boomers' sense of nostalgia, McDonald's will soon be offering Adult Happy Meals.

"No shit?" 
"Absolute constipation."

     Each one will highlight a specific character from the Golden Arch's past:  Mayor Mc Cheese, Hamburglar, Grimace. Birdie, and Cactus Buddy (yeah, I know, who TF is that?).

"The board decided that highlighting Slappy McSmegma would send the wrong message."

"It is my favorite shake, though."

    Each Adult Happy Meal will offer chicken nuggets (or Quarter Pounder with cheese), large fries, a shake, rubbers, and lube.

Or subscription to "Porn Hub."

By the way, in doing the research for this (you're welcome),
I learned what type of critter Grimace is.  He is a...taste bud.

"And here you thought Burger King executives
were on drugs when they created me!"

Funerals By George

Prologue:  My stepfather would have been 84 today.  However, like my mother, we were denied the privilege of growing old with him.  That said, I've reposted this many times since then.  For the two of you who are regular readers, you've seen this before.  But, I've updated it a little just to keep your interest.  For those of you for whom this is new, welcome.  I hope you can get a sense of how much this man meant to my family.

Good times

    I’d spent a considerable amount of time deciding whether to write this when I first decided to...uh...write this back in 1997.

This originally came out that year.
We may see the sequel in 2026.

  At first blush, it seemed disrespectful.  I mean, how could telling a funny story about my stepfather’s funeral be anything BUT in poor taste?

    The more I thought about it, though, the more I realized that our final respects to “Poppy” weren’t contrived or phony.  Rather, they were a sincere goodbye to one of the family and the way I’d wanna go when I...uh...gotta go.

Which, frankly, is a lot closer now than when I first wrote this 28 years ago.

    Ray, or “Poppy” (as he came to be known), came into our lives when we were children.  Our mother, having grown tired of living with a man who resembled Ralph Kramden, acted like Archie Bunker, and possessed the social skills of Fred Flintstone, secured a divorce.  She somehow managed to convince this relatively young man that living with five kids really wasn’t much worse than a prostate exam from Edward Scissorhands.

    So it went through thick, thin, and adolescence until, after the untimely death of our mother, it was Ray to whom we turned as head of the family.

    Even though he remarried a few years later, he was still the glue which held us together.

    He took us to ballgames, gave us advice, provided an anchor through tough times, and was a father to five kids when he didn’t have to be.  He may have thought onion dip with chips was high cuisine and Howard Stern was Masterpiece Theater, but he was our model for manhood.

His feet also smelled like death when he took his sneakers off.

    When he succumbed to cancer in 1996, we were overwhelmed with grief at the loss of someone who had guided us into adulthood, and sadness that our own children wouldn’t get to know him as we had.

    NOTE:  Many more children have been born since then.

    As funeral preparations went into high gear, we didn’t have a lot of time to dwell on the person we had lost.  Concerned with the how and where, we began to lose our grip on the “who.”

    During the two-day viewing, my brothers, sister, and I took our proper places in the front row (the only place where being in the “front row” is not a good thing) and paid our respects to all who came to...uh...pay their respects.

    For two hours, we sat quiet as mummies, while mourners shuffled by the open casket.  As they finished, they turned to us, murmuring “I’m sorry,” “He looks so natural,” (one of the stupidest sayings known to man), or some other such platitude before rushing home to watch “Jake and the Fat Man.”

    Needless to say, it was kinda rough.  Enduring the parade of mourners while solemnly staring at someone who looked nowhere near “natural” took its toll.

    The second night was a little different.  Although prepared to be good soldiers, our solemn façades began to break down after the arrival of one of my brother's old girlfriends.

    I’ve always admired her for showing up.  She didn’t come to see my brother; she came to say goodbye.  This, of course, didn’t stop the smirks from me and my other siblings.  Nor disapproving looks and hushed “tsk tsks” from some of the other, more distant, relatives.

    Through it all, though, we maintained our composure.

    Until my other brother's old girlfriend showed up.  More smirks.  Then, when one of MY old girlfriends arrived (with a nose ring that looked downright painful), smirks became giggles.

Picture of Madonna submitted for entertainment use only. 
Because she's someone's old girlfriend.

    Giggles became whispered jokes.  And whispered jokes became throwing our voices at the casket when elderly relatives showed up.

    NOTE:  We are now the elderly relatives.  As for the former elderly relatives?  Put it this way...when we speak of them, we use past tense.

    As bad as our performances at the “home” were, they were nothing compared to the actual funeral.

    Starting off with a service at the Episcopalian Church (aka “Catholic Light”) we ended up at the biggest cemetery in town.

    NOTE:  Its parking lot was so big, it was divided into "Dead Disney Characters" sections.  We parked in "Bambi's Mom."
Yes, I realize that sounds dirty.

    A military funeral (because he was in the Marines), the service was very dignified and steeped in an appropriate level of sadness.

    At its conclusion, everyone but immediate family withdrew to a cold cuts, doughnut, and coffee fest at the Elks Lodge.

Something about funerals makes me crave boiled ham and cheese on little rolls.
  Good thing he wasn't Jewish. 
My first wife was, though. 
I ate hers.  

We were told there'd also be beer.

    Me, my siblings and our spouses remined behind.  We stared quietly at the casket, suspended over the open vault.  Festooned with an untold number of floral garlands, its mute presence reminded us of our loss.

    It was then I felt a little guilty over our hijinks from the night before.

    As we began to move toward our cars, we heard an almost imperceptible “psst!”  Quickly scanning the cemetery, I didn’t see anything or anyone.  Still looking, we heard it again and spotted a head peering around the side of a tree.

Since it was 1996, we didn't think it was Joe Biden

   But, who...?    

    Suddenly, George, one of our classmates from high school, stepped from behind the tree, a 30-pack of Budweiser in his hand.  “Everybody gone?” he called.

Back in the quaint old days of the 20th century,
no one thought women had dicks.

    When we told him we were the only ones left, he came over to the site and placed the case on the ground.  “Well, here you are.”

    Sensing we had no clue what he was talking about it, he said, “When Ray knew he was going to die, he told me to get a case of beer and go to his gravesite and hide.  Then,” he went on, “when everybody but the kids left, he told me to come on out and let you have a beer on him.”

    Stunned, we stared at George, the beer, and the grave.   

    Nobody said a word for a few minutes.  Then, one of us-I don’t remember who-grabbed a can.  The rest of us immediately followed.

    Popping our tops, we raised our cans to Poppy in toast.

    Before we drank, though, my brother said, “Wait!”  Opening a Bud, he set it on top of the casket, “Well, here you go, cheaper than you can get at Yankee Stadium.”

    With that, we all had a beer to the memory of our father.

    Needless to say, we finished that case and, despite the “These people are nuts” looks from the cemetery workers, stayed until the casket was finally lowered into the ground.

    It may have been a strange way to act at a funeral, but we knew that was the way Poppy would have preferred it.  Why else would he have had the presence of mind to contract the services of “Funerals By George”?

    At the post-service "Deviled Eggs and Macaroni Salad Fest", we were discussing how we’d like to be remembered when it was our turn to shuffle off this mortal coil.  We agreed that nobody should be sad; while “have fun with it” sounded morbid, it pretty much summed up our philosophies.

    Then, we “handicapped” who would go next.  After focusing on who had the most hazardous profession, we finally centered on health problems.  While none of us had any medical issues to speak of (that has long since changed), one of my brothers and I did have high blood pressure.  Since we couldn’t decide who was more likely to die next, we flipped a coin.

    I lost.

    Ray died when he was 55.

    I am now 67.

Wonder if George has a website?