Alien Abduction/British Understatement

In an article entitled "Keep Calm and Never Mind, Britain Says in Its X-Files", the British Ministry of Defense is quoted as responded to an inquiry as follows:

"Abduction is a criminal offense and as such is a matter for the civil police to handle. The police can only investigate allegations of abduction if there is evidence to suggest that such a crime has taken place."

That sure clears things up.

Hip by Accident

My brother knows hip when he sees it - it's part of his job. "I hope this doesn't come as a shock," he said, "but you're wearing what hip people are wearing."

Now we both know it wasn't true, but from a distance you might be fooled.

I was wearing pants which were too short - showing a couple of inches of white socks, a flannel shirt of indeterminant age, and an over-sized sweatshirt. The pants were tight because I've put on a few pounds in the 15 or 20 years since I bought them. The truly hip buy skin tight skinny jeans. The over-sized sweatshirt was either road kill or a thrift store purchase by my main squeeze. She knows I wear enough layers in the winter to fill out the sweatshirt.

On the subject of clothing, my favorite remark was recounted by a friend who, knowing I always wanted one, bought me a tattersall vest. As she was buying it the salesman, trying to be helpful, said, "You know it's not in fashion." She replied, "He doesn't care."

Saved by the Snow

I forgot to mail in my mother's tax payment.

I remember dropping a whole bunch of mail into the local post box, but not the tax payment. I like to make sure the letter has a validating postmark. (For years I made my own local tax payment in person and getting a receipt. Only recently have I been mailing in my own tax payments, but making sure to get a postmark.)

Last night I opened a manila envelope and, Oh blast! There was the envelope for my mother's payment. Was there any way I could evade taking the rap for a late payment? Maybe the me everyone saw was a substitute from another dimension where I was trapped in a block of carbonite like Han Solo. Better yet, I selflessly volunteered to take Hans's place so he could save the Universe. It was only, now through a series of brilliantly complex actions (much too complicated to explain here) that I was able to escape back to earth. Unfortunately I got here too late to get the tax payment in on time.

OK, that was fun but stupid. I just got off the phone with the tax office. I had called to see if I could drop off my mother's check and my own check for the late payment penalty. It turned out that, because of the recent weather, the governor pushed back the payment due date for taxes until tomorrow. AllI'll need is today's postmark.

Saved by the storm. I'm a lucky guy.

Right after I click PUBLISH POST I'm off to get my mother's payment postmarked.

Albert Across the Street Dies

I went to my house yesterday to shovel more snow from the driveway and remove nails and screws from some old louvered shutters so I could set them out for trash collection. I hadn't been to the house since I'd shoveled out a path to the front door for the mailman and a place for the car a few days ago. I had to go because it was the day the mail delivery resumed.

I was surprised to see an empty yellow recycling container in the path to the door, but I decided to figure out why after I shoveled and took care of the nails and screws in the shutters. (I didn't know what local ordinance I'd be violating if I didn't remove protruding nails and screws, but I wasn't interested in learning about it either.)

So after all that I trotted across the street to see Carol, the neighborhood busybody (her own description). When I rang the bell, I saw the blinds blink, but I didn't hear Albert's growl telling Carol that I was at the door.

I started to describe the recycling bin, when Carol said, "You didn't hear?" Carol usually starts with a mock complaint or an accusation. ("Back from your secret mission?" or "Well, hello stranger.") Something was wrong: Albert wasn't in his chair. The TV was off.

Albert had died in his sleep over a week ago.

There had been a going away party for a fellow headed for Afghanistan. Afterward Al had gone drinking with his boys and Carol had headed home. The next morning before she headed off to church, he'd asked her for some chocolate milk, his usual morning after drink. When she came back, she could see that he'd had the chocolate milk. She went into the bedroom to ask if he wanted another, but couldn't rose him. He was gone.

The police and EMS came. Because he died at home, toxicology tests have to be performed. It'll be several months before Carol can get widows benefits because those are dependent on a death certificate, and the death certificate won't be issued until all the toxicology reports are in.

Carol handled the household accounts so she knows how much money she has and what she can afford, but it's all the unnoticed things he did in his part of their marriage which see sees now. Carol, for example, never put gas in her car. Al always did that. (It reminded me of a friend who misread her utility meters the first time after her husband's death. "So that's what guys do." she told me. (She'd always wondered.) That thought seems especially timely: my friend and here husband were getting ready for bed on Valentines Day when he collapsed right before her eyes. He too was a nice guy.)

Carol said that people came over and said just ask if you need anything, bu tshe'd been there as one of the people saying the same thing. And after a while everyone else goes on with their life, not through callousness, but because life has to be lived.

Carol and the FBI (her next door neighbor) tried to reach me by phone, but as I don't have a home phone, cell phone and I occasionally forget to put fresh batteries in my beeper, they never reached me. Carol said that Albert's friend's came in groups: his post office buddies, although he'd been retired for 14 years, his biker friends, and his bar friends.

Al had a lot of friends for the simple reason that he was a nice guy. He looked out for me because he was a neighbor. It was a simple as that.

Hadju at Port Washington

Riffing on the January 24 entry in Tom Bodett's blog: while I was out shoveling snow a few days ago, someone else while enjoying a stroll on a sunny beach cut their foot on a sharp stone. Now, due to inattention, they are writhing in agony while I'm typing this blog entry.

Ahh, life can be sweet.

On another matter, I got to see David Hajdu at the Port Washington Library talking about his book Heroes and Villians and buy an autographed copy of the book. The program scheduler at the library told me that my name actually meant first born and beloved. That's nice I told her and in my case was probably appropriate. With tongue firmly planted in their cheeks, my parents referred to me as "the Jesusil". (The simplest explanation would be Yiddish for the infant Jesus.)

I will probably have the last photograph of Hajdu with his beard. To his surprise his beard came in almost white. He intended to shave it off the next day. (He pointed out that my beard is unusually darker than my hair.)

There was a young woman at the checkout desk with strikingly dark makeup around her eyes. The effect was more Edward Gorey's kohl-eyed woman than Goth. I asked her if I could take her picture. She wasn't sure, asking me if I was a photographer. "I replied that I was an indifferent one." I went on to tell her that her appearance changed markedly from front to profile and that her eye makeup was more reminiscent of the 70's than the young women around the college. It turned out, surprise, surprise, that she's a student where I work.

I gave her my e-mail address in case she should change her mind about being photographed. I've got to remember to print out and carry release forms.

"Hell hath no wrath like a woman with proof." - Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me"