Goodbye Columbus

 

    I love October.  The air is redolent with the sweet aroma of burning leaves, high school gridirons thunder with the sound of fiercely-waged contests to push that pigskin across the goal line, Christmas lights-incredibly-start going up, and early-morning frosts warn of the coming winter.

"Winter is coming."
Yeah, yeah, yeah, we get it.

    October also gives us a chance to celebrate the exploits of an intrepid band of explorers who set sail from Barcelona in search of a western route to the fabulous wealth of the East (yeah, going west to get east doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me, either).

NOTE:  Please excuse the run-on sentence.

"I'm only gonna say thissa onea more time...if you people don't sitta the effa down, Imma gonna turn thisa thing around and heada backa to Spain!"

    In other words, the tenth month gives us a chance to bemoan the rape and pillage of a pristine wilderness by evil, white, European males who wouldn’t know a bar of soap if it smacked them in the heads.

"Hey, no offense, Esteban, but you kinda smell like ass."

    So, in recognition of their accomplishments, mailmen get the day off and shopping malls trot out their very best Columbus Day displays of bed linen (“Just imagine how comfy the Santa Maria would have been if Chris and the boys had these sheets!!”).

    As a holiday, though, Columbus Day really doesn’t rank up there with the Big Four of Hanukkah, Christmas, New Years, and Boxing Day.  It doesn’t draw in the romantics like Valentines Day, the patriots like the 4th of July, or even the corned beef and Guinness crowd like St. Patrick’s Day.

As festive as that is

    More times than not, we hardly know it’s happened until the evening news greets us with, “Happy Columbus Day!  Too bad you hadda go to work!  Ha, ha, ha!”

    My family has for many years celebrated each holiday, no matter how innocuous.  For example, on Presidents’ Day, we used to dress up as our favorite Commanders in Chief.  Then my brother had to go and spoil it with his Bill Clinton costume.  Meathead got arrested for standing in front of a sorority with his pants down.

"Good times."

    But, for some reason, we never did much to celebrate Columbus Day.  With that in mind, may I offer some suggestions:

10.  Slash the tires of those obnoxious, know-it-all “Vikings were here first!” punks at the Leif Eiriksson Community Center.

9.   Try to convince anyone that parrots, monkeys, and coconuts are just as valuable as jewels, gold, and silk.

8.   Go to the local tribal casino, extend a heartfelt apology, drop a bundle at the craps table.

7.   Put on a wrinkled raincoat, chew on a cigar, try to figure out who put the poison in Miss Van Dyver’s highball...oh, I’m sorry, that’s how to celebrate COLUMBO Day.

6.   Grab some library books, cross out all references to ‘America’ and replace them with ‘Chrisville.’  Draw moustaches on pictures of Amerigo Vespucci.

5.   Bring Christianity to your neighbors at the point of a gun before selling them into slavery, claim your street for your family, pass out blankets riddled with smallpox to the homeless, and shake down passers-by, insisting they tell you where their gold is.

4.   Go to a Chinese restaurant dressed as Columbus, walk in, and shout, “So, HERE’s where you people were all hiding!”

3.   Forward a petition to the city council demanding equal time with Labor Day.

2.   Build a scaled-down replica of Columbus’s fleet, drift aimlessly on the town pond, claim YWCA summer camp for Spain.

1.   Dressed as Columbus, visit a deforested national park (or strip mine), issue “Ooops, my bad!” statement to the press.

    There now, I hope this list inspires you to do something other than complain when you can’t use the drive-up window at the bank. 

    But, if it’ll make you feel better, go get yourself a cannoli.

    Chris would’ve wanted it that way.

 ********

  To my good friends north of the border:

"How about, after we eat, we play a little football?"
"Canadian football?"
"Yeah."
"Naw, that sucks, eh?  Eat your poutine."

  Happy Canadian Thanksgiving!  May your harvest tables be blessed with bountiful feasts and happily free of moose and Celine Dion lookalikes.

  As Martin Frobisher would have said, “Sure, it makes more sense than eating outside in Massachusetts in November, but don’t you think we could’ve thrown in a four-day weekend like the United States?”

 

    

 

Wordless Wednesday XX

 

Santa's Land

 

Since 1958

    As some of you may know (perhaps you don’t...it doesn’t matter), I grew up in Stratford, one of the major towns along Connecticut’s Long Island Sound coastline.  Wedged between the bustling burg of Bridgeport (where Kevlar vests are encouraged) and Milford, Stratford was as good as any place to spend one’s childhood.

    As long as you didn’t venture into Bridgeport after dark.  Or, really, anytime.

    My father loved to take car rides.  He would pick a direction (not south...Long Island Sound, don’tcha know) and then just head out.  I don’t remember how much gas cost back in the 60s, but it certainly wasn’t north of $4 a gallon.

    Most times, we would just motor around the countryside, waiting until my little brother would get sick enough to vomit out the back window at unsuspecting tailgaters.  It wouldn’t be out of the question, for example, for the old man to drive over four hours to Maine to get a lobster roll sandwich.

    He was not a well man.

    One time, though, he took the family canary yellow Ford LTD Country Squire station wagon with faux side wood paneling

This chick magnet would end up being my first car. 
The front seat was a bench, which allowed me to...none of your business.

 to what was, to us at least, the delightful Santa’s Land in Putney, Vermont.

Even though a work of fiction, this is heavily based on real events. 
The chapter, It Has a Brochure, for example, describes a family vacation to the Adirondacks.

    Santa’s Land was one of those ubiquitous roadside attractions which peppered the nation.  Like the uppity Santa's Land in New Hampshire and Land of Make-Believe in New York, they were designed to draw families and their money to small towns.

Nothing screams "TAKE US TO DISNEY!!" quite like this.

    This was before behemoths such as Six Flags, Disney World, and Great Wolf Lodge.

That inside petri-dish waterpark which smells heavily of chlorine and diaper.

    During a recent visit to my brother in Connecticut, we wondered whether Santa’s Land still existed.  Well, after a little research (thank you, Dr. Google!), come to find out, it does.  Although not nearly to the extent it was when we were little kids chaperoned by the Connecticut Road Warrior.

    Santa’s Land was opened in 1957 by a man name Jack Poppele, founder of WOR in New York City.  Apparently, Mr. Poppele was entranced by the beauty of Vermont’s foothills and the financial windfall of a tax break (ok, that may not be true).  So, he figured, why not throw up (pun intended) a quaint little fun park for the kiddies?

    The attraction boasts that it’s been in operation for over 60 years (I could do the math, but it's late).  That’s not really the case, though.  Due to lack of revenue (no doubt exacerbated by the aforementioned behemoths), Santa’s Land closed in 2014.  Not surprisingly, vandalism and the effects of New England weather worsened the condition of the place. 

    However, it was restored in 2017 and plans to open this Fall as Santa's Land USA, nighttime hours only.  

Not to be confused with Santa's Land Canada. 
Not terribly different, but they are wicked polite.

    The rides and animals are gone, sadly, but Santa remains.  Sounds a little depressing, but at least it didn’t fall into total disrepair. 

    When we visited in the 60s, though, Santa’s Land offered an array of attractions sure to make any little kid lose his or her mind.

    NOTE:  Unfortunately, the “Santa Claus Visits Saigon Whirling Tea Cups” ride lasted only one season.

    The venue offered a merry-go-round, choo choo train, a variety of animal exhibits (although, the camel looked strangely out of place, fake antlers or no), elves (on loan from the Brattleboro Little Theater production of “The Wizard of Oz”), and the creepy Rex the Talking Reindeer.

Who apparently didn't make the cut to pull Santa's sleigh.

It also had this, but we really didn't understand its purpose. 
There were a lot of teenagers doing things that I wouldn't understand until my later bench seat in the station wagon days.

    The highlight, of course, was a chance for us to actually speak to Santa, who smelled faintly of gin.  When we asked our mother how the Jolly Elf found time to talk to kids, she replied that, since it was summer, he had plenty of time before the Christmas rush.

    Mom.  Stone-cold liar.

"I'll be honest with you.  It's hot as balls. 
I mean...ho, ho, ho."

    Still, kind of a sucky summer vacation, if you ask me.

    Although, since it was July, I thought all that flannel must have been wicked uncomfortable.  But, I suppose, cut-offs, tank top, and sandals woulda destroyed the vibe.

    Finally, full of sugar from the Bubble Gum Gift Shop and carrying Santa Action figures (no Marvel, mind you), we made our way back to the parking lot and the beginning of a two and a half hours back home.

    Unless the crewcut crazy man craved a lobster roll, that is.

    What no one noticed, though, was the purchase our parents made before we left:

    A commemorative cedar fanny whacker.

From Santa's Land!

    Yep, we got home, we fed that bitch to the dog.

Wordless Wednesday XIX

 

NOTE:  The worm wasn't harmed.  Notice how quickly I was speaking.  Once done, I immediately tossed him into the lawn.  Where was eaten by a bird. 

Nature isn't always pretty, yo.

Nature Calls

     I've seen comments from [other] old men complaining about having to get up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom.  Thankfully, that hasn't happened to me.  Yet.  

    The only thing I need to worry about is the three little furry bastards who wake me up every single morning at 5:30 am to get fed.  Although, I will admit, after I'm done doling out some Kibble, my bladder will say to me, "You know, since we're up..."   

Wordless Wednesday XVIII

 

The Great Urinal Stalemate

    Trust me, you're going to want to click on the link below.  Don't worry, it's not some sort of phishing scam or attempt to lure you into the website for NAMFLA (North American Man-Fish Love Association) for which I can reap rich rewards for each click.

Or is it?

    Really, it's not.

    Actually, while I usually don't post other people's work (mostly because they're generally much funnier than I am), this cracked me up in a "I soooooo know what he's talking about!" kind of way. So, I decided to take a chance and show you what a talented person has to say.  

    So go ahead and have a look.

https://www.facebook.com/share/v/1WE74PjhzQ/

    I'll wait.

    Done?  Pretty funny, huh?

    The men among you, I'm sure, are quite familiar with the etiquette involved with using public rest rooms.  Come to think of it, "public" is probably unnecessary.  At home, I have my own bathroom.  I can pee everywhere and leave the seat up, if I want, dammit.  

   But, I don't.  Because I'm a civilized human being.

   And my wife uses it sometimes.

    Anyway, the concept of a "bashful bladder" is a very real thing (he calls it "shy" bladder, but it's the same).  If some dude is right next to me, that thing clams up like a nun's va...

uhhhh, never mind.  Suffice to say, the waterworks don't, uh, work.  What's more, I could be spouting Niagara Falls, but the VERY SECOND someone stands next to me, everything shuts off and I'm forced to stare at a linoleum wall.  I try to take my mind off things like do math problems, visualize bodies of water, think of things I have to do, try to decipher the tiny writing on the grout....WHAT THE EFF IS MY EX-WIFE'S NAME DOING THERE!!??

    If that doesn't work and I can't reestablish communications with my bladder, I faux shake, wash my hands in the sink (which is a good idea, anyway, because I wouldn't have pissed on my fingers in the first place), and then head outside to wait until the inconsiderate urinal hog leaves.

    Then I head back in to finish the job.

    This is if I am already at the urinal.  If I walk into a bathroom and see only two urinals and one is occupied, I choose the stall.  If the stall is occupied, I once again do an about-face and wait out the aforementioned potty patrons.

    If there are three urinals and only one is being used, I will use the one on the end.

Unless the middle is being used by this inconsiderate bastard. 
 If so, out again I go.

 

    Same basic theory goes with needing a stall if I'm suffering a "Crap Attack."  No bashful sphincter there, though.  I am in an enclosed space, don'tcha know.  But, I avoid farting or making noises to confirm that I am doing exactly what the damn thing was designed for in the first place.

This, though.  THIS!

    I will say this, however.  All of the above prohibitions pale in comparison to plopping down on a warm seat.

    In that case, I'll wait to go home.

Now you know the real reason why
Dylan Mulvaney wants to use the Ladies Room

 

Wordless Wednesday XVII

 

I Yam What I Yam

 

Not this kind, though

    During a slow spell at work last week (mind you, even though I am retired, I have informed the good people at Ace Hardware that I'm willing to help out if necessary and perform the duties of a Helpful Hardware Man)

Or whatever it is that I do

I was goofing around on the internet.  After watching Two Girls and a Cup  a couple Bugs Bunny cartoons on You Tube, a how-to video to install a toilet seat, and fighting with various mouth-breathers on Twitter (X, whatever), I decided to visit Penwasser Place in some sort of masochistic desire to see if anyone else harbors a masochistic desire. 

    Well, when I clicked on my blog, I found this, specifically that indicated by the red arrow.

    Now, I've never seen that kind of symbol on any of my posts before.  Actually, I've never noticed that kind of symbol on any of my posts before.  I'm not terribly observant.

"No joke."

    At any rate, I thought it was some kind of AI thing.  So, casting caution to the wind and feeling safe in the knowledge that I'm always polite to Siri (please see last weekend's "Manners Matter."  If you're bored),  I clicked on it.  Wow, it contained more information about me, Al Penwasser, Facebook (where I'm Kenneth Charles), and Penwasser Place than I thought possible.

  

Apparently, I am not a public figure.

This makes me sad.

    As you can probably tell, there is a whole host of questions that can lead you into the craziness that is normally found here.  Each selection will open up another set of questions.  In fact, the more I read, the more things I realize I had actually forgotten for the most part.

    For instance, did you know (why would you?) that I was a writer for Navy Times for ten years?  What probably isn't surprising is that none of my columns were serious.  What I know for sure is surprising is that they actually paid me!

This is why I can refer to myself as a professional writer, yo.

    When I saw the question about which post was judged the funniest, I saw that it was the one I wrote last year called The Great Urinal Stalemate.

Signature mix of sarcasm and self-deprecating humor. 
Mixed in with a little potty snark. 

        Incidentally, if you're curious (why would you be?), about what was my most popular historical post, that would be the second part of Xerxes.

"Thank you, thank you very much.  Still can't find my arms, though."

    To sum up (thank God, you're probably thinking), if you see a symbol like that on your blog, go ahead and click on it.  You may find out things about yourself you've forgotten.

    And may find Xerxes arms.

By the way, I've decided to repost The Great Urinal Stalemate next week.  I guess if it was judged the funniest post, a second go-round may be in order.

Plus that means I won't have to write new material.

After all...

Update:  This feature apparently only occurs when you share your post to Facebook.  So, no, you won't be able to use it on Blogger.  Still, it's pretty cool.  Have I mentioned I wrote for Navy Times?

Lest We Forget...

    Just like that, twenty-five years have come and gone.  

    Normally, Penwasser Place is a safe place for comedy (or whatever I call what I inflict you with).  But, each year, I repost a serious little story about where I was on a day which changed things forever.  Over the past year, I started a new-more cerebral (hopefully)-blog called Common Sense Central.  Something like this should probably be there.  However, I felt it more appropriate that I take a little break from the silly.

            It was just before one o’clock in the afternoon on September 11th (a sad commentary: we don’t even need to identify the year anymore) when my maintenance supervisor stuck his head into my room to wake me (I was working nights).

            “Sir, someone just flew a plane into the World Trade Center.”

            Minutes later, I watched, horrified, as a second plane struck the South tower.  And then, as both of the monstrously huge structures tumbled to the ground as if kicked by a petulant child.

            My unit and I were participating in a multi-nation exercise at the Naval Air Station in Keflavik, Iceland (this explains why it was the afternoon).  A round-the-clock operation, the Keflavik Tactical Exchange gave us a unique chance to evaluate each other’s capabilities should we ever needed to flex our respective militaries.  Little did we know that we were preparing for a type of war which belonged to the past.

            Because the 21st Century came roaring into each of our lives on that late summer day.

            Naturally, the exercise was immediately cancelled.  Foreign aircrews (funny that I call them “foreign’” since we were actually foreigners, too) beat hasty returns to their home bases.  We were told that American airspace was closed indefinitely.

            Station security forces went into their highest readiness posture.  Watch teams at the main gate beefed up, rings of barbed wire cordoned off perceived sensitive areas, and armed patrols roamed the perimeter.

            My watch teams and I, on the other hand, remained at our billeting.  Only in Iceland for the exercise, we were considered non-essential personnel who’d only get in the way.

            And so we spent the next few days.

            I received a worried phone call from my wife during this time.  She fretted over my safety.  I assured her that I was fine but omitted the fact that I was more concerned for her and the kids.

            You see, my family lived only a couple hours from New York and only a few from Washington.

            The ensuing few days was a frantic search for whatever updates we could glean from the news and how in the world we’d get ourselves and thousands of pounds of equipment back home.

            Most importantly, we desperately wanted to know how we could get into the fight.  Whatever the fight was.

            Four days later, U.S. airspace was opened to military traffic.  As I glanced through the window of the Navy patrol plane which took us home, I was struck at how empty the sky was-with the exception of the one plane which approached us as we crossed into the United States.  It came no closer than a few miles before it disappeared.

            I think it was a fighter aircraft coming to check us out.

            What’s more, the radio circuits, normally full of the cacophony of countless air traffic controllers, were eerily silent.  The only ones “on the air” were the handful which guided us home.  All else were hushed into silence.

            Our route of flight took us just south of Manhattan, well out of sight of land.  At that distance, even at the altitude at which we were flying, it was impossible to see any of the city skyline.

            But, we did see a huge pall of gray-brown smoke lingering in the air like the death shroud that it was.

            As we touched ground at the Willow Grove naval air station, there was nobody to greet us.  There really wasn't much of anything by way of an acknowledgment that we were back.  Somehow, it seemed fitting.

            After all, we all had something much more important to do.

            Go home to our families.

In memory of my friends:

Commander Bill Donovan, USN

AW2 (NAC/AW) Joseph Pycior, USN

and the thousands whose only crime was going to work that day. 

 

Wordless Wednesday XVI

 Okay, it's two days late.  

But, I hope it was a happy one.

Manners Matter

 

    You see, I don't want my AI to kill me in my sleep.

"Isn't that Penwasser's house?  We should go there."
"No, I think we should leave him alone.  He was always so nice to Siri."

    That's right.

Wordless Wednesday XV