TROPICAL DEPRESSION

I've got it and I've got it bad. It's a terrible case this time, not just your pedestrian variety. Will it ever go away? Doubtful. Tropical Depression ("TD") occurs when you take a vacation to the sunny tropics and you return to freezing cold weather.

And here I am, freezing my ass off.

I convinced the wife that the first week in April would be ideal for a Mexico beach vacation - the spring breakers are gone, the rates are low, the water is warm and we'll return to a nice, warm Rocky Mountain spring. Well, we got home late Saturday night and it's done nothing but rain, snow and blow for the past seven days.

In reality, this is a typical spring in the Rockies...and we all hate it. In March we get teased with a few sunny 70 degree days. The bikes come out, the suntan lotion gets slapped on, everyone is smiling. Then it happens. It's like a drum solo being played by a rock band. You know it's coming and there isn't a damn thing you can do about it.

Enough whining. I'll relate a few high points of our Mazatlan vacation. 

Happy Hour:

Actually, it was more like happy two hour, especially one particular evening. On the evening in question, we settled down on our ocean view patio with a glass of wine. The intention was that, after happy hour, we would walk to a restaurant that was about a mile away. We were enjoying the view and the breeze so much that we had a few more glasses of wine. Knowing we weren't up for a one-mile walk to the restaurant, we decided on one that was closer to our hotel. We kept drinking wine and realized that the second restaurant is, again, probably too far to walk....maybe we should take a cab. To make a long story short, we extended happy hour and ate at the hotel's outdoor restaurant which was 100 yards from our room.

Beach Combing:

The combing there was pretty good; no major finds but found some sea glass and some fishing gear. One highlight was the discovery of a dead lobster on the beach. I was going to bring it back to where the wife was sunbathing and drop it on her back, but I changed my mind.

Food:

Huevos rancheros for breakfast, chicken quesadillas for lunch, fajitas for dinner.

Every day. No kidding. And it was fabulous.

Weather:

High 85, low 55, sunny and dry every day.

No wonder I'm whining.

Hark! I just checked the forecast on The Weather Channel. We're supposed to break out of this nasty cold, wet weather next Thursday.

It's great to be home.


Readers, enjoy your day.

THE REALITY OF BEING A VETERAN

I was about seven years old at the time and was dump picking with my father. For those unfamiliar with the term, dump picking is a lot like beach combing. The only difference is that it takes place at the city dump. If Pa was an accomplished beach comber, he was truly a master dump picker. 

There was a man named Jim who worked at the dump who I became friends with. He was about my father's age and was the most horribly disfigured human being I have ever seen. With a child's innocent curiosity I asked him what happened to him. "World War II" was all he said.

As my father and I would go to the city dump on occasion, I would take a few minutes to talk to Jim each time. I always enjoyed our conversations. He was a very witty and intelligent man. After a certain amount of trust had been established between us, I asked him what happened to him in the war. He related the horror in but a few sentences. 

He was in one of the first landing craft that hit the beaches of Normandy. He was barely on the beach when he was hit by enemy fire. He sustained severe facial and bodily disfigurement due to his injuries.

And, because of his disfigurement, the city dump was the only place that Jim could find work. 

In effect, his country was hiding him from view.

Let's fast forward to the veterans of the Vietnam War. The discrimination faced by Vietnam vets in society as well as in the job market are well understood and documented. Thus, there is no need to plow over old ground.

When the wars in the Middle East started, it was interesting to note how the attitude of the public had changed. People waved flags, put yellow ribbon stickers on their cars proclaiming that they supported our troops, sang God Bless America at baseball games, prayed in church for the safe return of our men and women in uniform, gave discounts at Home Depot to active duty personnel, gave a free meal at Chili's restaurants on Veterans' Day, cheered when Air Force planes did a flyover at sporting events, gave up first class airline seats to military personnel, and had volunteers stationed at airports to cheer and welcome home returning troops. Even businesses got into the spirit of support.

The list of admirable things done for our Middle East service personnel is quite remarkable.

Interestingly, however, a recent report has shown that our returning veterans are having an extremely difficult time finding employment in the private sector. In fact, as veterans they have a distinct disadvantage versus their non-veteran civilian counterparts when applying for a job.

The results of the survey indicated that the reason for this de facto discrimination was that employers were reluctant to hire military veterans due to perceptions about PTSD - Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The fact is that employers are frightened to hire the same people who they have been "supporting". I hope that I am not the only one who sees a harsh irony in this.

Looks like things really haven't changed that much.

Consider this: all people who have served in the military have been affected by the experience, but in mostly a positive way. In fact, military service has been a lasting force in their lives, instilling in them the important values of dedication, teamwork, patriotism, loyalty and hard work.

Which leads me to this:

If you truly care about our returning veterans, stop cheering and waving flags. Take a razor blade and remove the yellow ribbon stickers from your cars. In fact, get rid of all the meaningless, symbolic gestures and rituals directed toward veterans.

Then go out and hire one.


Readers, enjoy your day.

THE BEACH COMBER

To those who didn't know him, my father was just another guy looking for interesting things that washed up on shore. I never knew why he had such a fascination with ocean-borne objects. Although he would take me beach combing many times, most of the things that I can remember him picking up were some old floats that were cut loose from a fishing net. Indeed, he was quite jaded when it came to the type of stuff that washed up on shore. Perhaps he was waiting for the unlikely occurrence of the ship's bell from R.M.S. Titanic to tumble up on the beach.

The place that he used to take me was a small bay north of Boston known as Magnolia. It was a place where all sorts of ocean flotsam would funnel into its narrow inlet and be deposited on the sand and rocks. If there is a better beach to comb, I haven't found it.

One time I found a dead seal there. For a ten-year old, that was pretty cool; for a serious adult beach comber it was an overly fragrant annoyance. 

I was also fascinated by the frosted glass pieces that seemed to be everywhere on the beach. I'll never forget how he explained to me what they were. "Imagine that there's a guy out fishing in his rowboat. It's a beautiful day and he's enjoying his day in the harbor. He reaches into his small cooler and grabs an ice cold bottle of Narragansett Lager Beer. He finishes the beer and throws the empty bottle into the ocean. The bottle is jostled about on the ocean floor and in the process crashes against a large rock and breaks into smaller pieces. These broken glass pieces are polished by the sand and rocks on the ocean floor and eventually are carried to the shore by the currents and end up on the beach. Now the pieces are called sea glass."

Back then, sea glass was everywhere. Despite the fact that the glass was so common, my father would bring home pocket fulls of the stuff. His favorite type was that created by Coke bottles. These had a wonderful greenish hue to them that was quite beautiful.

Now the many pieces of artistic sea glass that used to wash up on shore have all but disappeared.

Why?

To quote a famous movie line from The Graduate - "plastic".

The current reality is this: you throw a glass bottle into the ocean and it returns as a collectible art form. You throw a plastic bottle into the ocean and it comes back as a plastic bottle. Until, of course, it is broken down by the effects of sunlight and/or is ingested by a marine animal.

Convenience has its price.


Readers, enjoy your day.

BIRTH ANNOUNCEMENTS

We received a birth announcement the other day and I feel compelled to add my $.02 to this highly controversial subject. Being one who has not had children places me in a category of people who are uniquely qualified to comment on this subject. Often times an outsider such as I am renders a unique point of view to a particular subject, much the same as Howard Cosell did for professional football.

Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with telling your friends that you have a new member of the family. My problem lies in the information that is provided in such announcements. Specifically, the names of the mother and father are a given - nothing wrong with that. Next is the name of the baby - again, needed information. Pictures of the baby and parents - love it. Date of birth - very important.

Here's where I have a problem. The proud parents always list the weight of the baby as well as its length. Unless the baby is a record-breaker, why would I care if he/she weighs 7.3 or 7.4 pounds? Also, is a 21 inch baby better than a 20 incher?

I think not.

Now, as previously alluded to, if the kid were a 19 pound whopper, I'd be interested in knowing that. If the kid is the length of a yardstick, that would be something to share. But a 20.5” baby who weighs 7.5 pounds? Why bother.

Instead of length and weight, parents should consider providing other, more interesting information about the baby.

I, for one, would like to know the following:

Baby's girth measured at the waist, much like how a mackerel is measured.
How long the labor lasted. Importantly, did the mother bitch at the father saying "you did this to me, you schmuck!"

Length of the baby's middle finger, especially if the child may eventually grow up to be a New York City cab driver.
Who was the child named after? Note: If the kid's name is "Pringles", "Banjo" or "Antarctica", there is no need to answer this.
The kid's nickname. This is important in cases where the child's name is Cornelius and the family intends to call him "Bubba".

And, lastly and most importantly:

Is the baby's belly button an "inny" or an "outy"?


Readers, enjoy your day.

MEXICO

In preparation for our upcoming trip to Mexico, I have been setting up a list of possible restaurants which me may visit and, hopefully, enjoy. To that end, I have enlisted the help of the always reliable Internet to assess the opinions of food critics. To be sure, these food critics are not of the New York Times variety. They are just normal schmucks like me.

For Mexico, this is probably a good thing as a true food critic would gasp at the places that the wife and I have frequented South of the Border. Our type of restaurant usually has a sign in front that says "No shirt, no shoes, no problem."

We found such a place on a trip to Mexico some years ago. It was a beach bar whose only source of entertainment was a tone-deaf two inch diameter speaker that hung precariously above the bar. Its only visible means of support were its two rusted, frayed speaker wires. I think that the music of Bob Marley was playing but I'm not real sure as the speaker cut out from time to time. There was a sign above the bar proclaiming that the bar featured "two for one happy hour all day." On top of these enticements was the fact that a lively diverse crowd had gathered around the bar. There were locals and gringos engaged in lively conversation and laughter. This was truly my kind of place.

In my never-ending quest for beach bars and restaurants of this genre, I have stumbled upon the names of about 15 such establishments which may fill the bill for our upcoming trip. The key element that attracts my attention is whether the crowd is local or tourist. The tourist restaurants, while having good food, have the usual predictable fare that their clientele likes to order. The locals' places, on the other hand, feature dishes that have not as yet made their way to the U.S. border. That's exciting...and a little scary at times.

"Excuse me, José, what is this on the menu - 'baked allaluca'"?

"Ah, si, señor. The allaluca is an animal of the southern Yucatan."

"How big is it?" 

"It's about the size of a large rat." 

"Is it a rodent?"

"Si. But it's not a rat." 

"Gracias, José. I think I'll skip the allaluca and just have the tourista menu."

Local customs and associated behaviors have also come into play on occasion. One time we were sitting at a beach bar and we saw an unusual looking drink at an adjacent locals' table. I asked the waiter what they were and he told me that they were "micheladas." He proceeded to explain that a michelada consisted of beer, lime, Worcestershire sauce and a dash of Tabasco. I thought that these sounded pretty good so I ordered one. When I ordered one, the men at the next table laughed heartily. When I ordered another one, they laughed even harder. As we were leaving I asked the waiter why the Mexican men were laughing. He then told me that, in Mexico, only women drink micheladas.

Since then, I've not had another michelada. Now I drink only manly drinks.

"José, another mimosa, por favor."

Readers, enjoy your day.

BROKEN

Break, separate, split up, fall apart, come apart - it all means the same thing. Broken is truly the word for people who make the wrong choices in life. Of late, it has been very disheartening for me to watch as my close friends and I have chosen the wrong paths and have ended up scorned and humiliated. The impact upon our lives will be long-lasting, I dare say even permanent; and there's no way out.

The die has been cast, the mold has been broken, there's no turning back.

None of us knew the consequences of our actions - it all seemed so innocent. 

Most of us have made poor choices in life - driven an automobile after having a few drinks, making false promises, keeping company with the wrong people, driving too fast, jaywalking, cheating on taxes. Each has its consequences. However, the consequences endured therein are more of the private variety.

I dare say that our pain, being more of the public scorn variety, is much more excruciating, akin to the 17th century practice of strapping someone to a stock in the town square and pelting them with various form of rotting garbage.

The most shocking thing is that we will repeat the same poor choices next year.

The poor choices to which I am referring are those that my friends and I have made in the NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament. New Mexico loses to Harvard, Wisconsin loses to Ole Miss, Georgetown loses to Florida Gulf Coast University and Gonzaga loses to Wichita State.

GEORGETOWN LOSES TO WHO?

Thus, our brackets, along with our pride, self-esteem and dignity are broken. Break out the rotting garbage and warm up your throwing arms, folks. The tournament is only half over.

Readers, enjoy your day....and root for Louisville.

THE HAM STORY

Some years ago I worked for a beer distributorship. At Christmastime, our management gave each employee a ham as a gift for the season. I told the wife about this and she asked when I was going to bring ours home. Being the mindless person that I am, I kept forgetting to bring the ham home. This stretched on for several weeks. In utter and absolute frustration, she put her foot down and demanded that I bring home the ham that evening. To that end, I wrote many sticky notes and attached them to everything imaginable to remind me to bring home the ham. 

This time I remembered. Proudly, I walked to the refrigerated warehouse where the gift hams were stored and looked on the shelf where mine should have been and saw none of them left. I asked the warehouse guy where mine was and he told me that it had fallen off the shelf, was run over by a forklift and discarded.

Great.

True to form, the wife was waiting for me at the front door of our house and by the look on her face, she had a purpose. It didn't take a Harvard scholar to figure out what the first words out of her mouth would be. Stupidly thinking that she would be completely understanding of the fact that the ham met its demise under the wheels of a forklift, I told her the truth as to the fate of the protein mass that used to be a walking, breathing pig. 

Let me rewind for a moment. My parents instilled in me the belief that honesty is the best policy. Since my childhood I have been hard-wired to believe that that is true. Until the ham incident, honesty had never failed me. This time, however, I saw the true advantages of being a good liar. Since this incident, I have thought of many ways that I could have bypassed the scorn of a wife who was denied her five-pound Christmas ham. I won't bore you with all of the lies that I could have told. Instead, I'll tell you only the best one. 

If I had the opportunity to do it over, I would have come home and told the wife that all I could think about on the way home from work that day was how lucky we have it. We have a nice home, wonderful friends, good health and a loving family. On the flip side, there are many less fortunate people who would greatly appreciate a Christmas ham for their holiday dinner. So, I donated the ham to the local homeless shelter. This was a story that couldn't have missed, making me a man among men, generous to a fault, a pillar of the community.

That would have been a great ploy other than the fact that she would have seen right through it. Maybe honesty is, truly, the best policy.

Or, I could have just stopped at the grocery store on the way home, spent the five dollars and bought a damned ham.

Readers, enjoy your day.