Miss American Pee

The Day the Tee Shirts Died

My grandfather collected buttons. My father collected sugar packets from restaurants. And I collected free tee shirts.

My shirts were neatly stacked on shelves. They came from every race I had ever run, every Lab Week UroPartners had ever celebrated, every blood drive and food bank giveaway I had ever joined. They came from gyms and hockey arenas, and from a visit to the Brookfield Zoo. They were green and gray, blue and orange, even 1960s-style tie-dye. I rotated wearing them in order. Just like with my grandchildren, I never played favorites.

Today, all of them, the would-be favorites and the also-rans, are sitting in a garbage bag in the garage, never to be worn again.

I first noticed the odor three mornings ago, about ten minutes into a session on my elliptical. At first it was so faint I thought I was imagining it. But as the shirt became more sweat-soaked, the scent grew stronger and unmistakable. I was smelling cat urine, and it was coming from me.

Our little kitten is almost sixteen years old now. She spends most of her time sleeping in her favorite spots: the wingback chair, the bathroom floor mat, the folded duvet on our bed. But when she isn’t sleeping, she is usually in one of her two litter boxes. The girl can pee.

I do my best to keep the litter boxes clean, emptying them every night and refreshing the litter regularly. Apparently not regularly enough. Maybe the litter no longer met her standards, or maybe one of the boxes had become difficult for her to reach. Whatever the reason, she eventually decided it was preferable to relieve herself on the neatly folded stacks of my tee shirts.

I know from experience that it is impossible to wash that odor out of clothing. It lingers and reblooms through Tide and Downy and Febreze. That is why all those shirts are now headed for the trash. Some of those shirts had been with me for decades, and it is a said, but necessary, parting.

From now on, maybe I’ll collect sugar packets instead..

Confessions of a Presidential Doppelgänger: Why I Need Joe to Hang Up His Hat

Hi Joe,

Remember me? It’s me, Dave. You know, the guy who can fill in for you at a moment’s notice. The dude who looks enough like you behind a pair of Ray-Bans that the Washington press corp gets fooled for a minute or two.

I took the job, with its hefty paycheck and the 24/7 on-call responsibility, with the understanding that it would be all quick hits. You know, things like when I took over for you when you got the stomach flu on the evening you were supposed to meet the Japanese ambassador. Or the time I stepped up to the plate when the Little League champions came to the White House for a photo op and you had a bad case of sniffles. Heck, I even did the teleprompter thing for you at a donor luncheon the day Jill needed you to bring some boxes to her classroom.

But Joe, I’ve got to tell you that I am worried. I’ve watched the debate; I’ve seen the George Stephanopoulos interview. And you know what has me upset? Not that you might lose the election — though that sure looks likely. I’m worried about the small chance that you are going to win!

Here’s the skinny. We know that you are a trooper between 10 am and 4 pm. But what about all the policy breakfasts and state dinners that are outside of those hours? If you are Prez for another four years are you going to need me to substitute for you on all of those appointments? Am I going to have to give up ALL my “Netflix and Chill” nights to pretend to be the “President”? That’s not quite what I took this gig for. After all, before I became your Dave I was retired and loving it.

So please Joe. Think of me and get out of the race. I’m happy to do another five months of fill-ins, wherever you need me. But after that why don’t you retire to sunny beaches, gentle waves, and Tequila Sunrises. And let Kamala or Donald or whoever get their own doppelgangers–this one wants to go home.

With Warmest Regards.

Your friend and imposter,

Dave.

From Critic to Critiqued: A Long Plays Journey Out Of Sight

As a connoisseur of critical reviews, I savor media critics who dare to slice and dice a popular restaurant, give a “thumbs down” to a blockbuster movie, or advise us to tune out the latest Walking Dead sequel. More than 10 years after it was published I still relish Pete Wells’s New York Times bloody evisceration of Guy’s American Kitchen & Bar, Guy Fieri’s Times Square outpost.

But now the glistening kitchen knife is pointed my way. My schadenfreude has been repaid with a critique of my first, unpublished, play, White Collar. The post-mortem.

Writing a full-length theater piece has been simultaneously challenging and exhilarating. Under the tutelage of my dramaturge, the work underwent seventeen revisions. It expanded and contracted like Weird Al’s accordion, going from one act to an act-and-a-half, back down to one, and finally a full two acts with a prologue and epilogue tossed in for good measure. Characters were added, subtracted, and redefined, while scenes were melded together using (almost) seamless segues. Only the final twist remained unmanipulated.

When the manuscript reached the ideal number of 90 pages, my dramaturge scrubbed out the obvious gaffes and cliches and submitted the work to his friend, a local theater producer. The producer didn’t like the play. At all.

In a very detailed email, he explained why. He saw dramatic inconsistencies, stilted dialogue, and characters who added nothing and had no arc. If the prologue was bad, the epilogue was worse. And too many witty retorts.

I could quibble with a few of his thoughts and comments–I could quibble with more than a few. But I will take this as a positive learning experience. I normally express myself in 500-word blogs, so completing a work of this length was immensely satisfying, even if it is nowhere near professional quality.

My next step? My cognoscenti included some suggestions. He even tossed in a compliment or two. I may use that insight to tear the play down and rebuild it in a few new ways—versions 18 through 30. But on my honor, no more witty retorts.

And from now on, Guy Fieri, I stand with you!

photo by phot.ai

“Curb Your Enthusiasm.” The REAL Story

The final season of “Curb Your Enthusiasm” begins tonight. Is this how this season’s first cast meeting went?

SETTING: A glitzy Hollywood restaurant. The cast sits at a round table, staring at menus.

Susie (staring at Jeff): You couldn’t get us a better contract? Some decent money? Something I could live on?

Jeff: I tried; you know? But HE only wanted to do it for one more year. HBO wasn’t gonna throw dollars into something that was only gonna run for 10 weeks.

J.B: Like those mutha-fuckas have anything else to show? You see that dragon show? Boring as shit.

Cheryl: I sort of liked that one. It’s that creepy detective show that turns me off.

Jeff: YOU are not the target audience for that one.

Susie: At least our show doesn’t have any ads on it. Netflix with commercials on it. Can you believe that?

J.B: Come on, Susie. You can afford to come up with the fuckin’ 4 bucks a month to pay for the ad-free version.

Susie: Not with what Mr. Wonderful negotiated for us with this contract.

Cheryl: It’s really not that bad for the time it takes. You’re in what, 2 scenes an episode?

Susie: Mrs. Hoity-Toity here. Going to milk all those scenes with Ted Danson? I guess that’s better than when they had you married to Larry.

J.B: Or that guy you are really married to. That is one freaking weird dude, man.

Cheryl: I didn’t think we were here to discuss my home life.

Larry: Is there a waiter here? We’ve been sitting here for 20 minutes, and I haven’t seen a waiter yet. Jeff, can’t you do something?

Susie: Yeah. He’ll negotiate for a waiter to serve us half a meal.

Larry: Bread, at least I need some bread.

Cheryl: I’ve got a package of crackers in my bag; will that keep you happy?

Larry: You have Rye Crisp. I can’t eat Rye Crisp. Too much gluten.

Cheryl: You don’t have a problem with gluten.

Larry: But I could.

A waiter approaches the table.

Waiter: Good evening, Mr. David. Ms. Hines. All. Can I take everyone’s drink order?

Susie: I like this guy. He doesn’t think I need to know his name. And I don’t wanna know his name. How are you at negotiating contracts?

Waiter: Not so good, Miss Essman. But I’m a good waiter.

J.B: Like every other black and brown man in Hollywood.

Cheryl: But not you.

J.B: Well, I’m me, man. I got the goods.

Larry: The nameless brown man is here to get our drinks. I want water with lemon. Only one ice cube. And the lemon on the side. In a plate. I want to choose my own degree of lemonosity.

Susie: Don’t ask Jeff for help. He’ll make it too sour, just like everything else.

Jeff: I tried. They wanted three years from us.

Susie: And you had something better to do?

Jeff: You gotta look at Larry. He decided “one and done.”

J.B: Susie, you and me, we gotta do a spin-off.

Susie: You going to move in with me now?

J. B: You’d have a problem with that?

Long moments of uncomfortable silence.

Larry: No one has anything to say.

Jeff: We have a round table. We have no middle to keep things moving.

Cheryl: We don’t need a middle. That was a bit, remember?

Everyone nods their heads.

Cheryl: We are nothing like those people we play in the show.

Everyone nods their heads.

Larry: So you think I’ll ever see my water? I don’t want the ice cube to start to melt. And I know he won’t remember my lemon…

If you liked this post, remember this one?

Zoom, Ghosts, and the Case of the Elusive Joe: A Comedy of Professional Errors

“Hi Les – We are currently looking into an investment in the pathology space and are looking for an expert that can engage with us as an advisor and potential board member. Are you open to an opportunity like this? Would be great to schedule some time to chat this week or early next week. Best, Joe“
LinkedIn

The LinkedIn invitation came early this week. As you have read in a previous post, I’ve been puttering around in various professional capacities since retirement, and this sounded like a possible puttering opportunity. I messaged back expressing potential interest, but warning “Joe” that I wasn’t a big fan of venture capital and private equity funding, particularly in health care. Joe assured me that his company took good care not just of the investors, but of physicians and patients as well.

I retained my doubts, but after Joe and I exchanged a few more messages, I accepted his invitation to a Zoom meeting on Thursday morning. In preparation, I researched Joe and his Capital partners (all seemed legitimate) and cleared my schedule (sorry Cooper, no morning walk for you.)

Just before 9 a.m. I booted up my balky desktop computer, focused the camera, and logged in on the prescribed Zoom link. I was alone. Fearing I had logged into the wrong site, I logged out and logged back in. Still no Joe.

Staring at the blank screen, I typed a LinkedIn message to Joe, very politely asking him where the hell he was. After 20 minutes of patient waiting, I exited Zoom and said goodbye to my opportunity to become “an advisor and potential board member.”

After 24 hours there was no apology or explanation from Joe. Now after 48 hours, he has remained a ghost. I have concluded that either:

Joe was hit by a car
Joe was fired
Joe found a better candidate
The whole thing was a scam

Am I cruel to hope a speeding SUV was involved?

It’s not the first time I have been ghosted. A bookkeeper disappeared on me a few years ago. A bookkeeper/pilot, I think she flew the coop. That episode was more significant; I had to scramble to get my corporate income tax completed on time that year. Am I foolish to think people involved in commerce would be more reliable?

How about you? Professional ghost stories? Reply or email me at chidoc@post.com and I’ll collect and publish the most unusual tales.

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An Open Letter To WDRV’s Bob Stroud. Late isn’t Always Great!

WDRV’s Bob Stroud Hosts *Rock ‘n Roll Roots* on Sunday Mornings

Hi Bob,

I hope you are enjoying your semi-retirement as much as I am enjoying mine. New paths to discover and old ones to reminisce about.

And plenty of free time to air pet peeves and gripes, hang-ups and annoyances. So I am using this space to air one of mine.

But first, a compliment. Long-time listener long-time fan. I was an early adopter and admirer of The Drive. I only relegated the station to the hardest-to-reach button on my car radio when Van Halen+ACDC+Aerosmith began to dominate the station’s playlist and I was forced to return to ‘XRT. But through it all, if I am in my car on Sunday mornings, I push that hard-to-get-to button and listen to you and Rock’n’Roll Roots. You beat that Breakfast with the Beatles show hands down.

I greatly enjoy the mix of 60s and 70s rock you feature. Some of the songs are well-remembered, others buried deep in the sulci of my cerebral hemispheres. Cover versions and forgotten originals are always a plus. But it’s your thoughtful commentary that holds the show together.

So what is my complaint? Bob, I know it’s your phrase that pays, but not everyone who has passed away deserves the honorific of “the late great.” When you die you are “late,” but that doesn’t automatically make you “great.”

I can understand if on February 25th you want to play While My Guitar Gently Weeps and preface it as a celebration and remembrance on the birthday of the “the late great George Harrison.” After all, he was a Beatle, if only the quiet one. And sure, on the anniversary of Glenn Frey’s death it’s ok to play The Heat is On and reminisce about the late, great former Eagle.

But I cringe when I hear you call the guy who brought Fleetwood Mac their coffee during the recording of Rumours as “the late great caterer Ferd McPorter.” From what I hear, McPorter frequently poured too much milk into Lindsay Buckingham’s cappuccino. Surely you can find a better way to talk up You Make Loving Fun. Late great indeed!

And don’t get me started on your annual Gone But Not Forgotten episode. Was the guy who vacuumed the carpet in the office where Billy Joel signed with Columbia Records really all that great of a janitor?

I know you didn’t originate the phrase, and I know you aren’t the only one to ~~over~~use it. I ran across it in the New York Times today, in an article about the very good, but never-Oscar-winning, not quite great, actor Tom Wilkinson. And there was a massive best-seller in the 1970s, The Late Great Planet Earth. Perhaps that’s where you first came across the “late great” phrase?

I have no quibble with memorializing people who have passed on. From celebrating my own mentors to folks in the world of music, I have done it often in my blog posts. But while these people had a huge impact on me, their knocking on the pearly gates didn’t instantly elevate them to greatness. Even the Oscars and other awards program present their “In Memorium” segments with somber music and dimmed lights, but without the allegation that every cameraman being recognized was a great one.

Bob, thanks for letting me get this off my chest. It’s quite a relief. And let me say, for all these years, it has been GREAT listening to you.

Long-time fan,

Les

26 And Me. The Unhandy Side Of Retirement

Did you read my blog detailing my first year of retirement? If you did, and I hope that was the case, you read about travel and pickleball, playwriting and volunteering. What you didn’t see was a description of any of the multitude of home improvement projects that kept me busy. There is a good reason I didn’t include them in my post. You see, there were none. Zero. Zilch. Nada.

To be quite clear about it, my Y chromosome totally lacks the Y326798g gene, more colloquially known as the “HandyMan Gene.” First identified in Bob Villa’s righthand-man Norm Abram of This Old House fame, with a variant discovered in Home Improvement’s Al Borland 10 years later, it is Y326798g that gives a man the confidence and the ability to hang drywall, paint a baseboard, and to cut once without measuring twice. I just have a big, gnarly, gene deletion where that stretch of DNA should be. It’s a gap only CRISPR could repair.

Despite my genetic deletion, there are some minor repairs and adjustments I am capable of accomplishing. For instance, Barb has repeatedly reminded me that the pair of twin beds in one of the loft bedrooms are as close to collapse as the Berlin Wall had been in the autumn of 1989. In an attempt to avoid an international incident, I lugged my toolbox (more on that later) up the stairs, used trial and error to select the proper hex wrench, and in the span of slightly less than one hour tightened the 16 bolts that kept the two Bob’s Discount Furniture beds from falling apart. Tragedy averted!

Now about the toolbox. I may use them rarely, but I have a lot of tools in that black box; 26 pounds worth, to be exact. It has an insert tray of wrenches and another of screwdrivers. It contains whatchamacallits and thing-a-ma-jigs and even a petite-sized hand saw with a rusty blade that reeks of tetanus spores. Where most of the tools came from is a mystery to me, but I love their brilliant patina. I just can’t recall buying any of those wrenches, screwdrivers, thing-a-ma-jigs, or either of the two hammers that nestle at the bottom of the rectangular box.

I did make one significant tool purchase recently. The ancient electric drill we inherited from my father-in-law drilled its last hole a few months ago, ending its life in a blaze of sparks. Feeling emasculated not owning a working driller (a name bestowed upon drills by a long-ago Israeli boyfriend of our daughter Laury) I ventured into Home Depot and found a menacing-looking battery-powered model for under a hundred dollars. I have only used it once, but it looks cool hanging in the garage. At least, it looks cool to me.

So if any of you need help with something around the house, please don’t call me for my help or my advice. But I will be happy to lend you my tools, all 26 pounds of them. You can borrow my cool drill too. Just be sure to return it to its spot of glory on the garage wall. I might even find a use for it–someday soon.

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No Use Crying Over Spilt Blogs!–Read on to find out why.

Some of you have asked why there hasn’t been a new blog in a few days. Here is the sad reason why.

Last week I wrote a lovely blog
Deep thoughts and inspiration
It took me hours to get it right.
A mighty fine creation.

My fingers danced upon the keys
Choosing words and illustrations.
When I read the piece back to myself
I felt trembling sensations.

In all my years of writing posts
No one was ever better.
I knew I'd found the perfect place,
For each comma, verb, and letter.

I was sure I'd win a prize
For the column that I wrote.
Perhaps I'd get a Pulitzer,
Or some other plum of note.

A movie would be made of it
With big stars like Jane Fonda.
They'd have to film the closing scene
On location in Uganda.

I would go to Hollywood
Where an Oscar they would hand me
And if they gave me two or three
Well that would be just dandy!

In my speech, I'd want to thank
All my family, pets, and friends.
Then drive away in a fancy car,
A big blue Bentley or a Benz.

But I'm in tears, because you see
This all won't happen ever.
I forgot to "Save" when I finished my piece,
I lost the whole endeavor.

So words of advice to my loyal fans
Who have followed through this story.
Always remember to save your work,
Or bye-bye to your fame and glory.

Hey! Can you do me a favor? If you are a subscriber and enjoy my blogs, please email them to friends and contacts. And if you read my blogs on Facebook, please share them! We are always looking for new readers.

You can always get a hold of me at chidoc@post.com Look forward to hearing from you.

Read last week’s blog here!

No Use Crying Over Spilt Blogs!–Read on to find out why.

Some of you have asked why there hasn’t been a new blog in a few days. Here is the sad reason why.

Last week I wrote a lovely blog
Deep thoughts and inspiration
It took me hours to get it right.
A mighty fine creation.

My fingers danced upon the keys
Choosing words and illustrations.
When I read the piece back to myself
I felt trembling sensations.

In all my years of writing posts
No one was ever better.
I knew I'd found the perfect place,
For each comma, verb, and letter.

I was sure I'd win a prize
For the column that I wrote.
Perhaps I'd get a Pulitzer,
Or some other plum of note.

A movie would be made of it
With big stars like Jane Fonda.
They'd have to film the closing scene
On location in Uganda.

I would go to Hollywood
Where an Oscar they would hand me
And if they gave me two or three
Well that would be just dandy!

In my speech, I'd want to thank
All my family, pets, and friends.
Then drive away in a fancy car,
A big blue Bentley or a Benz.

But I'm in tears, because you see
This all won't happen ever.
I forgot to "Save" when I finished my piece,
I lost the whole endeavor.

So words of advice to my loyal fans
Who have followed through this story.
Always remember to save your work,
Or bye-bye to your fame and glory.

You can always get a hold of me at chidoc@post.com Look forward to hearing from you.

Read last week’s blog here!

In Stunning Move, Reinsdorf Hires Ghost of Al Lopez to Manage White Sox.

(Not the New York Times, June 29, 2023, Chicago, Il)

In an unprecedented move, Jerry Reinsdorf, majority owner of the Chicago White Sox Baseball Club, has announced the hiring of a new manager for his consistently beleaguered team. The Ghost of Al Lopez will replace outgoing manager Pedro Grifol as the 43rd manager, beginning after the All-Star Break.

The White Sox are currently mired deep in the American League Central Division and have suffered with a losing record continuously since the 7th game of the season. This has been Mr. Grifol’s first season as a major league manager and he has watched as his team has been plagued by inconsistent play and a plethora of injuries. This poor performance has been matched by decreased attendance as White Sox fans continue to avoid Guaranteed Rate Field during losing seasons.

In making his announcement, Mr. Reinsdorf said “I know our fans deserve better than what they have seen in the past decade. I thought bringing back an old-timer like Tony LaRussa would be the answer, but Tony was never given a fair chance by the media in this town. We took a shot with Pedro, but I don’t like what I am seeing, and neither do the paying customers.

“When I realized that the Ghost of Al Lopez was available, I knew this was a move I had to make. I loved Al’s Go-Go White Sox. Some of you old-timers will recall they won an American League Championship.”

Mr. Lopez, known affectionately as El Señor died in 2005 at the age of 97. The pennant Mr. Reinsdorf refers to was in 1959, with a team that featured players such as Hall of Famers Nellie Fox, Luis Aparicio, and Early Wynn. Mr. Lopez also won an American League pennant in 1954 with the Cleveland ~~Indians.~~ The White Sox have won one pennant and accompanying World Series in the intervening 64 years. Mr. Reinsdorf has been the owner for 42 of those years.

General Manager Rick Hahn commented that although he had not been consulted by Mr. Reinsdorf, he fully supported the decision to release Grifol, whom he had personally chosen to lead the White Sox. “When a Hall of Fame Manager like the Ghost of Al Lopez becomes available, you have to go for him, even if that didn’t work out so well with LaRussa.” (Lopez was enshrined in the Hall of Fame in 1977, LaRussa in 2014)

No contract terms were announced. Efforts to reach the Ghost of Al Lopez or any agent representing him failed. When asked about the move most players on the White Sox responded through a translator “Who?”

Gambling sites removed the White Sox from all sports lines. Paul Parsons, public media representative for the YouBet online gaming app called this “the most appalling hiring in the history of professional sports.”

Tickets for all remaining White Sox home games are available via Ticketmaster. No secondary market exists for these games.

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