LAX Dreamin

Dear Bloginistas,

Flying into Los Angeles, bringing in a couple of keys. Don't check my bags if you please Mister Customs Maaann... Good grief I'm singing a 60's Arlo Guthrie song!

Why the delirium? Because my new mission impossible (abet in a supporting role) is in Burbank CA. So now I get to fly to a whole new mega city (abet with palm trees) and do what I do best to earn the dosh that keeps me in diet Vault and tangerine orange juice, and, oh yeah, a place to keep the frig, plus heat.

LAXers seem about as muttley a bunch as EWRers except with a tan and a bit of the 'tude. No doubt brought on by the superiority they feel from having to pay for living in a $1.5 million shotgun house and getting to inch along in their daily 90 minute three mile commute. If it were me, I'd try to milk it for all it was worth too.

I guess with all the perks of living in Iowa (pigs, corn, no airports, no paved roads, no shopping, Slipknot(?), pigs and corn) I've been tainted.

Hey speaking of refrigerators, this winter has been just sweet. I never realized that at minus 12 degrees F even I, rather than go outside (in sympathy with the dogs Hans and Bell), would just as soon crap on the living room rug in protest.

Since I'm flying again on Sundays one of my rituals is to read the Sunday New York Times.

Even though it is a commie bastard left wing piece of crap(note: reoccuring theme), I do find the writing uplifting.

For example, in this week’s NYT Magazine was an interesting waste of ink article on an experiment by some kind of female sociologist who took a group of straight men, straight women, gay men and gay women and showed them films of baboons having sex (honest) to see what would happen.

Since this was the literary equivalent of a traffic accident (and it had the word sex in it) I had to keep reading on. Well, (pant, pant) to everyone's surprise, after getting them all wired up with electrodes in places best left to your imagination, the straight men and women all felt "sick", while the other "gender" to no ones surprise..., well actually this is where I felt sick and stopped reading.

For only 5 bucks you can't beat this kind of reading enjoyment.

The only thing that could top this little tidbit would be if this "project" was another federally funded executive order penned by Barky.

Hey, why I'm speaking of flying, why is it that the moron sitting in front of you (in steerage/last class err coach) always thinks it is aok to put his seat back in your face? Retardo must think that the 2 inches of space he's shoehorned into doesn't apply to the poor sap(i.e. me) behind him.

Luckily, revenge is sweet. I conveniently turn my air nozzle full blast at his head all the while rhythmically tapping my knee into the back of El Reclino's seat. To top off his continued flying comfort, I also wrinkle my NY Times by his head every 15 seconds or so. Who says its 5 bucks wasted? This takes commitment, but for the 3 hour and 51 minute flight, I'm up for it.

With some feeling still left in my legs, and still feeling the love, and with a little good karma (dude), maybe I'll see some "stars" like Micky Dolenz while I'm out here. Here's hoping and changing (leg position).

YHS

Wal-Mart Bingo

Dear Bloginistas,



I didn't write this, but thought it was pretty funny. Remember that you can always buy happiness at Wal-Mart.

YHS


(Click on the below to enlarge)

Amish PopTarts

Dear Bloginistas,

I'm sorry that I've been away for awhile. I've pretty much been hanging out with Her Hotness and servicing her every request. Accordingly and continuing on her "frugal food storage kick" I've managed to visit every embarrassingly cheapo retail food establishment in the tri-state area.

I’m always afraid to make eye contact with anyone shopping at these places lest I be recognized. Of course, anyone else shopping at these dumps also would have to be in as desperate as, err frugal a state as you. This embarrassment can best be equated to that of your Bishop catching you reading "Cosmo" in the supermarket check out line. (BTW, what exactly is your "V-jayjay" anyways?)

The creme de la creme of these discount food establishments is the Amish "Hilltop Grocery" in Plymouth IL (Where? Who knows? The Aussie voiced Karen on the GPS couldn’t find it either).

What do you normally think of when you think of an Amish business? Some quaint setting, or some fine old world craftsmanship? Ha. Not a chance here. We are talking Depression era ambiance. Let's see, hmm, the panache of shopping here can best be ranked (pun) in this order:

1) ALDI's
2) A Dumpster
3) This place (Hilltop Grocery)


Where to begin describing its charm (sic)?....

Well first off there is no electricity (nor heat), so you only get to see what you are buying if you had the forethought of bringing a book of matches or shopping on an extremely sunny day (which there ain’t none in Nov/Dec) since standing under one of their 4 "skylights" (ie holes in the roof) provides the only light in the whole place.

Secondly, the food is so cheap because it all is past its expiration. Somehow the Amish evidently get to fly under the radar of the health board (and common sense) and can get away with this, possibly on religious grounds. I guess since they all still live in the 1530's, the term "best if sold by Nov 22, 1997" isn’t really relevant.

Note: the lack of visibility may actually be a virtue, for the multi year old food doesn’t exactly still have much “curb appeal” either, Go figure.

While the prospect of buying a 3 pack of two year old expired granola bars can make Her Hotness's wick light up, the sheer weirdness of it all has YHS kinda raising an eyebrow and thinking "I'm still employed, right? So why in the heck am I shopping here?”

To add to the tinge of self doubt is the sight of my other "shoplifters" (nod to Gerry). These other patrons all seem to drive clapped out/gutted out green 1981 Ford Country Squire station wagons held together with baling wire packed to the brim with snot noised kids that all say "Eyuk" in unison every time they pick up a package of 1999 (let’s party like it’s) expired poptarts. Good grief Toto why am I here?

Let’s see, what else has been going on this X-mas time? Well, sugar plums have been dancing around in my head (sort of), and my annual "go out and buy what I really want for X-mas" shopping spree seems to have bolstered my self esteem for a wee bit helping to negate the above Amish delirium.

I managed to sneak past Her Hotness this year a Garmin GPS (sweet), and a 12 gauge shotgun (pre Obama vintage). So all is well in whoville for the moment (fleeting).

What else is going on? Hmm, Herr Mosley (sic) this off-season is trying his best to ruin my beloved F1 by turning it into Formula Super Vee with everyone running a “standardized” engine (whatever that is), but hope springs eternal that reason will still prevail.

Also on the F1 front, since Herr Ecclestone has cancelled the Canadian GP, to go along with the Indy GP as being a fond past memory, now for the 1st time since 1959 there will be no F1 race held in North America.

With all of the collective wisdom of the Federation International de L’Automobile, the closest I can now come to attending a Grand Prix is Sao Paulo Brazil. (nice)

Not that going to a place in another hemisphere full of “less tanned” Mexicans wouldn’t be a treat, but I’m not so sure this is what I signed up for 40 years ago when I first went to Watkins Glen.


That’s it for now. Obrigado, over and out.


YHS

HIDDEN SPYCAM PHOTO: Her Hotness Driving...

Road Trip!

Dear Bloginistas,

Hey, when you think of winter time destinations, where do you think of? The Bahamas, Jamaica, Florida, Hawaii, someplace warm, correct? Well, Her Hotness has a totally different idea of such. Hey let’s go to Rochester NY! And by car. Sweet! No problems there. Of course the 100+ inches of snow they get each winter never seemed to have crossed her mind.

This coming all from a woman who wears 2 full pairs of Iditarod strength long johns (just in case one pair rips) over her “normal” underwear (hubba hubba) and up to 2 sweaters, a full length jacket, a pair of gloves, a hat, 2 pairs of socks, a scarf, a blanket and whatever else she can throw on just so she can complain that I have the car “too cold”.

I digress. So this past Thanksgiving we (Her Hotness and driver) got to go to Rottenchester NY (btw, our ancestral home) in order for Her Hotness to attend her 30th (I know you are all counting, but she was minus 2 years old when she graduated) High School Reunion.

This in itself wouldn’t be so bad except that during the whole week leading up to this there was an endless loop of “Let’s go to Jamaica and be alright” commercials on the dish with assorted bikini babes dancing about. So for a fraction of the cost of going to Siberia we could have flown to some sun and fun (hubba hubba) destination instead of trying to remember which way to turn during a left-handed snow skid.

Not that the Outback Subaru (the 1st choice of gay women everywhere) wasn’t up to it. It was a tank going through the snow, but somehow, even if you don’t blink for a couple of hours, Upstate Western New York ain’t no beach.

As a side tour we also went to see my Uncle and Aunt in Mayville NY where they usually (and I’m not making this up) get up to 280 inches of snow a year. We lucked out and there was only about 2 feet on the ground when we passed thru.

As an added bonus, we also took the dogs (Hans and Bell) with us. Even they were wondering about the wisdom of the decision to cross Antarctica every time they had to go out and use the facilities. (see the below photo)

Among other things, Rochester is known for being the suicidal, and coincidently, the Paxil capital of the world. “Rochester Gray” only begins to describe how warm and forgiving the skyscape is for the 11 months and 28 days a year of gloom.

Since it was the Thanksgiving weekend, traffic was kinda busy on the way up from Montrose, but it was crazy busy on the way home. BTW, getting to the “Flower” (probably dead) city took like 2 days (28 hours) each way. Anywho, getting home was insane. An example would be the scrum needed to stop at a “rest” stop along the NY/Ohio/Indiana (toll – crap) Turnpike. Jockeying into a lone parking space and then fighting your way through to the pig-sty-esk bathrooms added to the Gulag theme of the trip. Also, since the US dollar is in the tank there seemed to be either a yearning by lots of Eastern European peoples to explore the Indiana dunes this time of year or way too many foreign speaking types wanting to eat at the I-90 Woody Hayes/Bernie Kosar Memorial Rest Stop’s Popeyes.

Since the Buckeyes seem to be bean counters also (get it? – ha) they’ve managed to precisely under staff their westbound (ie homebound) toll hold up booth. Thus we experienced a 2 hour, and 15 mile back up, all culminating in being fleeced for the six bucks (0.00003 Euros) right of passage toll.

Since Her Hotness while being really hot is also “Her Cheapness” (I’m not cheap, I'm just frugal”) we usually get to stay in some roadside flop house along the way run by either (pick one):

a) an Indian
b) a Pakistani
c) the Taliban

So after staying at that night’s “Taj Mahal” de jour, I usually feel crummy from the bad night’s sleep (cardboard mattress), and I reek of incense and have an unexplained yearning for an Egg McYak.

I know by now you are all wondering what happened at the HS Reunion? Were old boyfriends put to shame by YHS? Where waistlines compared with Her Hotness and some former Homecoming Queen? Were some life stories shared with Her Hotness’s former loser classmates? Well um, err, no

Since Her Cheapness decided that the $50 a person (so a total of $100 including the driver) was excessive we(she) decided that we would just crash the party “after the food was served”. Well, adding up that we had spent the whole day visiting some long lost relatives too crazy to understand that moving away from the North Pole is a good thing, and eating way too many cheeseburgers at “Bill Grays” hamburger joint (burp), we were too pooped to pop (so to speak) and just went to bed early. Now how pathetic is that?

That’s it for now.

Still Recoveringly,

YHS

The Roach People Ate Here

Dear Bloginistas,

Ok, this whole "economic meltdown" thing is starting to get me worried. Her Hotness is now beginning to "pre test" a food storage program out on me. By pre test I mean going to ALDI's (where the truly desperate shop) and get any kind of food that could survive a nuclear attack with only the surviving roach people being able to eat it. Most of this stuff is so awful that our dogs (Hans and Bell (btw Hans is a girl)) won't even smell it.

The whole idea is to test this stuff out before the whole economy goes completely bust (thanks BO) and we now have to live off our food stuffs until the world comes back from the dark ages or I run out of bullets.

Some examples of the proposed cuisine du barf are:

1) Canned really greasy boiled (lanced ?) brownish meat
2) Canned tennis shoe flavored (this is just a guess) Chicken(?)
3) Dried beans with dirt
4) Canned Creamed (don't even ask) Spinach and Wieners
5) Thai noodles with some kind of fingernail textured nuts
6) Canned Cheese Tortellini

Yummo, sorta makes ya wish for Armageddon to hurry up and "come on down" don't it?

Anywho, Her Hotness has now designated every Wednesday as "choke and puke" night to try out her new gruel. Mysteriously, I now (Hans and Bell too) seem to have awakened the desire to attend Wednesday night church activities early and miss out on all of the excitement. Hallelujah, salvation at last! Please pray for me (us).

Genuflectively,

YHS

Am I Hip (still) Enough?

Dear Bloginistas,

With X-Mas and New Years upon us, this time of year brings self reflection. As such, I’m taking my yearly account of myself and trying to answer this perplexing question: Do I Still Look Hip?

Luckily, I was reading this month’s issue of “Ol Coot” Monthly (BTW, OCM is now combined with Skeeze and Frumpster Magazine) and they approached this very subject. Below is the self inventory list they provided: (reprinted with permission)

Do You Still Look Hip?:
Check (x) to all that apply to your appearance:

1. Really cool F1 tee-shirt or tee-shirt with retarded saying on it ( X )
2. Still wearing same gold chain from when you were 18 years old ( X )
3. White socks ( X )
4. Rockport Docksider Shoes ( X )
5. Escaped Mental Patient Style Haircut: ( X )
6. Less Than 28 pounds overweight: ( X )
7. MLB/F1 baseball cap with star flag pin: ( X )
8. Nauvoo Star lapel pin on all jackets: ( X )
9. Overpriced wrist watch: ( X )
10. Lee Jeans: ( X )
11. Blown up looking Cargo Shorts with tie belt (summer only): ( X )
12. Red Scarf (winter only): (X )
13. ¾ Length Black Leather Jacket (winter only) ( X )
14. Tattoo: ( )

Crap, somehow I missed out on “#14”. I do not have a tattoo. This brings up a couple of problems:

1) God said I can’t have one
2) If I could have one:
a. What would it be of?
b. Where would I have it?

After giving about 5 minutes forethought to the above, I’ve decided that I can get around these problems easily: I can get a henna tattoo that would only last for about 2 weeks. In order to stay hip I would just have to get it reapplied biweekly.

The only problem might be the constant cost of having to do this, but I can probably just get a home henna tattoo kit from the Mt Idy Tattoo Parlor (right next to the combo Double Dip Ice Cream, Laundrymat and Video Rental Shoppe right here in Montrose) and apply these to myself in the mirror. What could be easier?

So the next solved problem is what kind and where should I put a tattoo? Well, after much studied research of the various life forms at the Keokuk Iowa Walmart (where you can buy happiness), I’m thinking that nothing says “hip” like a big ol’ neck tattoo. I’m thinking something catchy like “Eat the Rich” in gothic letters on top of a skull with a rose in its teeth. Of course, if I do it in the mirror, it will have to say “hciR eht taE”

Despite the fact that I can barely shave myself in the mirror and have absolutely no artistic aptitude whatsoever, I’m sure something as fun as sticking needles in my neck every two weeks should be a piece of cake.

Sounds like a plan.

Later Tater,

YHS