LEADER OF THE LAUNDROMAT

Anybody remember the '60's song "Leader of the Laundromat"? I didn't think so. It was a spoof of the song "Leader of the Pack" by an all - female band called the Shangri-Las. Plug those titles into YouTube if you care to give them a listen.

Anyway, today my exciting life finds me sitting in a laundromat doing a small load of clothes. Are my washer and dryer broken? No, they work just fine. I'm just here on a nostalgic journey back to the days when I was in college (a boldface lie). Back then I used to make my weekly journey to the local "washeteria". In the town where I went to college (not the one I graduated from, the one I was asked to leave) there was the world's greatest laundromat. Picture a local tavern with the obligatory stools facing a bar. Behind those bar stools was a row of washers and dryers. A 12-ounce draught beer was the same price as a load of laundry, 25 cents. A dryer would cost the same as a bag of chips, 10 cents.

Those were the days.

The only drawback to this bar/laundromat was that your clothes always smelled like tobacco and stale beer. College students, however, paid little attention to such trivialities.

One thing that hasn't changed over the years is the character of people who frequent laundromats - simple, honest, genuine folks. In reality, laundromat people tend to be very secretive, covering the garments with plastic so as to hide their identity. But, "why the secrecy?", I've always wondered.

At this point I'd like to say that I met the wife at a laundromat as that would serve to juice up my story a bit.

Oh, hell, I'll do it anyway.

"Do you have an extra quarter?" asked the attractive young woman in the laundromat. "Sorry, I just spent my last quarter on a glass of Schlitz", said the slovenly college student who was in his underwear because his only pair of pants were in the washer.

And that's how we met.

Not really. We really met at a gas station - not quite as interesting as a laundromat but not too bad.

Readers, enjoy your day.

FISHING

I love catching fish but I hate fishing. You know the drill - you stand on the shore and toss lures at salmon who generally ignore them. Odd that all of the fishing lure manufacturers use the same language when advertising their products:

DRIVES SALMON CRAZY!!

I think that they mean that the salmon go crazy laughing at the stupid things that we throw at them to get them to bite. Here on the Strait of Juan de Fuca, I am the most unsuccessful fisherman in history, having spent many hours tossing useless lures into the ocean with nothing to show for it. People ask me where the best fishing is in town and I tell them "at the local grocery store".

When I was a kid there was a Saturday afternoon fishing show featuring an older man named Gadabout Gaddis. He called himself "the flying fisherman" because he was a licensed pilot and had a float plane which he would land at choice, remote lakes. The fishing was always fantastic and Gaddis would head home with a plane load of fish. I've always envied him.

The key to being a successful fisherman is twofold: patience and having a lot of time to kill. I spoke to one fisherman the other day and asked him how the fishing was. He said it was "terrific". I asked him how many he caught. He said "one". I asked him how long he had been there. He said "8 hours".

I'd love to be able to waste that much time but what about my afternoon soap opera? What about my nap? What about free Tuesday tacos at the senior center?

That said, you can expect to see the following ad in the local Craig's List:

FOR SALE:

SALMON FISHING EQUIPMENT IN GOOD SHAPE. SHIMANO 410 REEL WITH 12 LB. LINE. "UGLY STICK" ROD (8 1/2' LENGTH) ASSORTED LURES AND OTHER MISCELLANEOUS GEAR.

TRUTH IN ADVERTISING: NONE OF THIS EQUIPMENT WORKS AND HAS NEVER CAUGHT ONE SALMON DESPITE MANY HOURS OF USE.

PRICE IS NEGOTIABLE - HIGHLY MOTIVATED SELLER.

Readers, enjoy your day.

DANCING

Women love to dance. Most men tolerate it. But there are exceptions. I have a friend we'll call "Eddie" (because that's his real name). The guy's a dancing maniac, traveling all over the country to go dancing. He's a good-looking guy with a steady, well-paying job, and he doesn't drink, smoke or use Aqua Velva.

And he can't get a steady date. More about that later.

Now, on to my life. The wife loves to dance and I oblige her when she makes it clear that it's dance or pork and beans for a week. At last night's concert I knew I was in trouble when the band started singing "...and I would walk 500 miles and I would walk 500 more"... In all, we danced to two songs. Under normal circumstances, barring the playing of 500 miles, I should be covered until 2017.

Now back to my friend, Eddie.

Eddie gets a date every now and then but, like the boxer Apollo Creed wearing out his sparring partners, Eddie wears out these women on the dance floor. After a few dates their legs simply give out from dancing three nights in a row. In absolute fatigue, they beg for an evening of staying home and watching TV. But Eddie already has another dance lined up. In utter fatigue they kindly tell him that "this just isn't working out".

There's a valuable lesson to be learned here. Sadly, rather than now, I should have learned this lesson 30 years ago. Recognizing that every person has his/her breaking point, Eddie is really on to something. If a guy is dating a woman who loves to dance, he should make it clear that it's all he wants to do. At first she'll think she died and went to heaven but soon will realize that she's in a living hell. Within a few days, much like Eddie's short-term girlfriends, she'll be begging for the dancing to be over.

A smart guy will oblige, and the woman, who for fear of re-opening the gates of hell, will never bring up the subject again.

And they will live happily ever after.


Readers, enjoy your day.

PURPOSE IN LIFE

All of us have heard the words "purpose in life". While aware of this ubiquitous phrase, I never gave it much thought until I announced my retirement several years ago. At that point, people started asking me my purpose after I retired. If I were a candidate for Miss America I would have given an answer having to do with children, clean air, whales and/or mosquito eradication. Truthfully, I really did not have an immediate answer to what my purpose in life would be, once I was retired.

I was put on the spot one night at a friend's house standing around with two other recent retirees. One of them spoke of his need to find himself - to learn the true nature of was his life means. The other person stated that she wished to be closer to her grandchildren - watching the grow up on a daily basis.

I had to think quickly, something that I have always found difficult.

Truthfully, I wanted to say that my purpose in retired life was to drink beer, watch football and keep the couch warm. However, in light of the intelligent responses of my two acquaintances, the truth would have only served as a point of ridicule with me being the target thereof. So, I blurted out that I wanted to "be creative". One person asked "how?"

Now I was trapped. I had to come up with something quickly that would indicate to my friends that I've been thinking about this for some time. So, I blurted out "write a blog, for starters". That seemed to satisfy their immediate needs and, thus, I was able to deflect any additional curiosity about my intentions.

So, a few days later, I started the blog West of Denver which has entertained (at last count) two readers who keep coming back in hopes of reading something meaningful. And it's been fun. I enjoy writing and it gives me a wonderful creative outlet.

In sharp contrast, the musical side of my life (guitar playing) has been at a relative standstill for a few years. I was playing in an old time music band and was having the time of my life for several years. Suddenly, the band broke up, leaving its loyal members in relative ruin. Thus, I have been in a state of musical mourning, picking up the guitar on occasion and playing depressing songs while I wallowed in the misery of our band's sudden demise. After two years of playing "...remember the Red River Valley and the cowboy who loved you so true..." I had had enough.

Time to move on. But where?

The answer came at our local brewery (imagine that) where, on Friday evenings, there are free concerts. On that particular evening, an excellent blues band was playing. Somewhere in the middle of "Sweet Home Chicago" my left hand began to twitch. By the end of "Big Boss Man" my right hand was rhythmically swinging back and forth. By the middle of "Hootchie Cootchie Man" my musical future was sealed.

The blues.

Since that concert I have been eagerly diving back into re-learning blues scales, riffs and licks. I ordered a new guitar...where is that UPS truck - it should have been here an hour ago. Again, my musical life has purpose.

At present, I'm almost as good as the five-year old down the street who plays a plastic ukulele. I expect to overtake him in a few weeks.

Eric Clapton, watch out.

You're next.


Readers, enjoy your day.

"THE THING"

I've always thought of myself as the world's healthiest person. Sure, I'm a bit (well, more than a bit) overweight as well as having other small issues, but, overall, I do pretty well.

Except for this one "thing". And it's a biggie - I'll leave it at that.

"The thing", as I will now refer to it, rears its ugly head from time to time and causes me great misery. I am on the downside of such an episode right now and this one was a doozie. Painful? You bet.

I read that alcohol exacerbates the occurrence and severity of "the thing" so I decided to eliminate alcohol from my diet. No more happy hours on the back deck, no more enjoying a glass of wine with good friends, no more glasses of beer while watching Seahawks games.

Pink lemonade, here I come. Oh, joy.

It's not that I drink that much; but I DO enjoy a beer or two each day. I have declared that over. As Bob Hope once said:

"Give me a grape soda...in a dirty glass."

Medical marijuana was a possibility but a daily happy hour consisting of lighting up a joint doesn't have the same appeal as a cold Port Townsend Brewing Company IPA.

Alas, it's the end of an era. An era that saw me drinking beer at Expo 67 in Montreal, of having a few cold ones with the guys in the barracks, of college keggers, of Coronas on the beach in Mexico, of sampling the various ales in England and Germany. The list is endless.

I read in this morning's business section that the brewing industry is fearing a downturn in sales volume. They are scared and they should be.

I'm going to take a break from writing this column to take my meds, which so far have been unsuccessful at taming "The Thing". I'll be back in a few hours.

~~~~~~~~~~

Alright, I'm back. Looks like the meds have finally kicked in. The pain is gone.

Maybe that decision to quit drinking was premature. After all, I didn't really give the meds a chance to work. Maybe I was a bit impatient; I've been known to be a bit impulsive at times. Besides, the brewing industry needs the business.

Ultimately, quitting drinking was a stupid thing to do.

It was the longest 12 hours of my life.


Readers, enjoy your day.

SOMETHING TO CHEER ABOUT

One of my two readers (thanks, Kris) sent me a picture today after reading my blog about Irish sheep. Here is the picture:

I'll call them Rainbow Sheep.

Like many of us, they are overjoyed about today's U.S. Supreme Court ruling which opens the way for same sex marriage in our country.

Embracing diversity is a wonderful thing.


Readers, enjoy your day.

PORRIDGE

We call it oatmeal, the rest of the world calls it porridge. Truthfully, I love the stuff. Nothing gets your day going well like a good bowl of oatmeal...er, porridge.

A problem that I have is that I just can't bond with the word "porridge". It sounds like a word out of a Dickens novel - small boys at an orphanage or reform school being threatened by the headmaster.

"You'd better eat you porridge or you'll be punished!"

Furthermore, the word porridge sounds a lot like things that are unpleasant in nature, such as damage, silage, spillage, breakage, blockage, hostage and wreckage.

Even in the absence of these, the word porridge doesn't sound like something that tastes very good. It sounds more like feed than food. I can imagine a farmer saying to his wife, "I'll be back in a few minutes; I'm just headed to the pen to feed the hogs their porridge."

Now, let's take a look at the word oatmeal.

What a perfect word. "Oats" are wonderful things. Pure, natural, simple. Wilford Brimley eats them three meals a day. "Meal" conveys the fact that oatmeal is a MEAL, not just a namby-pamby snack.

So, to our friends and neighbors around the globe who persist in using the term porridge, the term oatmeal is much more civilized.

And it doesn't sound like garbage.

Readers, enjoy your day.