Boy, am I disgusted. All of a sudden the economy is a disaster. I didn’t do anything wrong, but now I (and you) have to pay for the mistakes, greed and corruption of a whole bunch of other people, many of whom have become immensely wealthy along the way. This sucks. I am grateful, however, that our do-nothing representatives finally got off their keisters and raised a little hell so that our bailout money has at least some accountability attached to it (along with a lot of pork, that is). It’s about time, because that’s about the only thing this government has done over the past decade (other than killing people and squandering every ounce of America’s treasure and good name while China and the Middle East oil producing countries continue to clean our clock).

Unfortunately, complaining isn’t going to help. What’s done is done, and I now realize that its time for me to start looking after “Number One” (I suggest you do the same, because money doesn’t grow on trees and, as my friend’s grandmother says, “Their ain’t no kangaroo shittin’ it out in the basement either!”). As you probably know by now, I like lists. They help me to sort through my ideas and keep things organized in my mind. I’ve developed a list of things I’m going to do in order to tighten my belt so that I weather the coming economic storm moving forward:

I’M GOING TO SHAVE MY HEAD: According to my calculations, I spend exactly $456 annually to maintain the top of my head. That’s all going to change. No more haircuts, tips for my hairdresser or expensive product. I’m going out today and I’m going to buy a pair of $15 electric clippers and I’m going to get rid of my hair. When it starts to grow back, I’m going to cut it off again, and again, and again. You should do the same. Especially the ladies—some of you would save thousands and you would get the added bonus of not having to spend all that time on your precious hair. I might even save up my hair clippings and start sending them to Congress, just to make a point. I bet that would make the news! Imagine Nancy Pelosi or John Boehner on TV with the big bag of human hair they just received in the mail…

I’M GOING TO START EATING LOTS OF BEANS: Beans are cheap and a great source of protein. Luckily, they are also one of my favorite foods. I like just about every kind of bean—pintos and navy and lima and fava—the list goes on and on. I need to find a good recipe for giant beans in tomato and dill sauce, because that’s one of my favorites. Also, bean soup and three bean salad are delicious and nutritious. I suggest you don’t eat beans though, because if you do, demand will begin to exceed supply and the price of beans will skyrocket, which would suck for me (I had the idea first, so don’t wreck it for me).

I’M GOING TO TAKE IN A BOARDER: I have a spare bedroom. Having a boarder might even be fun. I need to make sure I screen really, really well, thought. All I need is an axe murderer or serial rapist living under my roof again.

I’M GOING TO GIVE UP FRESH FOOD: Last week I had this really weird craving for Chef Boyardee ravioli. I bought a big can of it and either they changed the recipe since I was a kid or my tastes have changed dramatically. It really wasn’t that unpleasant, though. Sort of mushy and flavorless. A few of the pieces fell apart, but that used to happen when I was a kid. Tonight I’m having La Choy Chicken Chow Mein (I hope it’s not all watery the way it used to be). No more fresh food—it’s too expensive and I’ve become very spoiled.

I’M GOING TO ENACT THE “ONE POO/TWO PEES” FLUSH RULE AT HOME: If you come over and see pee water in my toilet bowl, don’t judge me. Water, like virtually everything else, costs money, and all that toilet flushing is, well, like flushing money down the toilet. If my new boarder doesn’t like it, well, they don’t have to move in then. I’m very, very strict about my house rules—especially when it comes to the bathroom and the kitchen cabinets.

 I’M GOING TO START KILLING AND/OR FIELD DRESSING MY OWN FOOD: I’ve suddenly come to realize that this might be an important skill for one to have after all. I probably saw seven squirrels on my way into the office this morning. Imagine if I had killed them and field dressed them right there, on the spot. Boy, I’d be going home to quite a feast tonight! And all those already dead animals lining the highways…I could just pull over, do a little field dressing and, voila! Suppertime! I once picked up a Junior League of New Orleans cookbook for a friend who collects Junior League cookbooks. Leafing through it on the plane ride home, I came across a recipe for “Coon Pie.” I love chicken pot pie, so maybe I’d like one made out of raccoon meat (I’m going to call my friend for the recipe after work—I think I saw a dead coon over by the airport parkway this morning…). Maybe I should start eating bugs, too. They’re everywhere–you just have to start thinking of them as livestock, rather than pests.

I’M GOING TO START WEARING RAGGED CLOTHING: This one is a no-brainer. One should look the part. I’m going to take a razor blade to my wardrobe and start carrying a tin cup or something. Maybe I’ll get a little monkey with a fez on his head to sit on my shoulder, who knows? No more posing for me. Me and my sidekick (I’ll name him Elmer) will walk the streets and people will give us money out of pity. Hey, if it’s good enough for Wall Street and the banks, why not me?

 WEEKEND UPDATE

This past Saturday I got up late and went shopping. I bought a pair of Paper Denim & Cloth jeans for $30.00 at Stein Mart (it was their 12 hour sale–the jeans retail for $155!!!!). Then Eran and I went shopping. I got a cool jacket and another pair of jeans. Then we went and had margaritas at El Jalapeno.

On Sunday I got up late and met friend Scott for breakfast at the Original Pancake House. Then we went the Apple store. After that we went to the Coach store and Scott looked for a handbag for his daughter’s birthday, but didn’t get anything. I went home, took a nap and watched TV.

I don’t know about you, but this whole election is really starting to wear me down. All this arguing and confusion and accusing—it’s becoming downright scandalous. Every time I turn on the news, I just want to scream at the top of my lungs and hurl the TV set out the window or tear the radio out of my car’s dashboard. I’m beginning to realize that all of this negativity is starting to compromise my sense of peace, balance and well being. Every time I try to step away from this thing, it grabs me by the throat and pulls me right back in. I suppose that’s my own fault, but I can’t help but feel a complete lack of control either way. When I step away, I feel like I’m missing something very, very important. When I engage, If feel like I want to smash and destroy things. Unfortunately, this thing isn’t going to be resolved for more than a month. Realizing this, along with feeling an overwhelming need to once again gain control of my emotions and intellect, I’ve developed eight things each of us, regardless of political stance or affiliation, can do to detach and cope with the current situation, along with the weeks to come.

Splurge: Have your eye on that new iPod or flat-screen TV? Go get it. Hell, get two. Don’t think you can afford it? Trust me, you can. Last week, as an American citizen, you were in debt of $36,667 (that’s one-three hundred-millionth of the national debt). As of today, that number has risen to $40,000 (most recent government bailout just cost you $3,333 )—and that doesn’t even begin to account for the additional 30%+ of your earnings that the government confiscates every two weeks and any other debt you may have racked up! Spend all your cash now, because regardless of the outcome of this election, the government is going to spend or steal everything you’re worth, and more, if at all possible. Might as well spend a little on your self, no?

Dress-Up Your Dog: This will definitely get your mind off the troubles of the world. Regardless of breed, you can release any dog’s inner pit bull by starting with a little lipstick. Choose any shade as color should be irrelevant. On second thought, nix this idea as roughly 50% of you will feel the sudden urge to euthanize your beloved pet with your bare hands. The other 50% of you will experience the sudden delusion that Fido or Fifi is manifestly destined to potentially be the most powerful mammal on the planet.

Visit Each of Your Seven (Give or Take a Few) Houses: Okay, most of us don’t have seven or so houses to visit, but we can all improvise and that will make us feel better. If you’re lucky enough to still be living in a house, chances are you have several rooms to work with. Employ a little imagination and have some fun by transforming each room in your house into the house/location of your dreams. Hang pictures of Malibu in your spare bedroom and when you visit this room pretend you are in your Malibu house. If you’re lucky enough to have a bidet in your master bath, make yourself believe it is the majestic fountain just outside your Paris apartment. Put some tall stools in your dining room to create that Upper East Side Manhattan high-rise Condo feel. Invite all your friends to your various houses to remind them that pretend is the new reality.

Develop New Relationships: Human relationships can be especially rewarding. There are so many people out there so it’s truly amazing when one starts to imagine the possibilities. But stay on the safe side to avoid potential problems, especially if your new relationship is romantic in nature. A good rule of thumb is to make sure your relationship is completely congruent with Judeo-Christian principles, as defined by fundamentalist evangelicals.

Learn A New Language: This becomes more and more important as the world becomes smaller. We truly live in a global economy, and a command of languages other than English has become extremely important, especially for Americans. Although daunting on the surface, learning a new language can be astonishingly easy. For example, a couple of weeks ago I simply opened my quarterly 401K statement and, presto…I was suddenly speaking in tongues!

Lie: Now this is a growing trend we should all take advantage of. If somebody asks you what your name is, say, “Slappy Greenbaum.” Then when they introduce you by that name, loudly accuse them of being a liar and say, “My name is Rumpelstiltskin DeCarlo.” If somebody asks you what your favorite food is, tell them its haggis. If they ever mention haggis, tell them they’re lying and that your favorite food is milkweed. If somebody asks you what you did over the weekend, tell them you went to Portugal on Saturday, then to their mother’s house on Sunday for a lurid tryst. Make sure you weave all your lies together so that they form a fabric so dense, outlandish, contradictory and confusing, it actually becomes reality (it will, I swear).

Get Lost in a Good Book: Reading can be such an escape. Get your hands on a good book and you butt in a comfortable chair, and watch the hours just fly by. Stay on the safe side, though, and make sure the book you’re reading is completely congruent with Judeo-Christian principles, as defined by fundamentalist evangelicals. If you come across a bad book that doesn’t pass the test, burn it. For that matter, if there’s anything you don’t agree with in a book, go ahead and burn it just so it doesn’t mock and offend you ceaselessly from its place on the shelf.

Kill a Forest Creature: Few things are more satisfying than going out into the woods and killing another living creature. For the truly adventurous, try field dressing your kill. And if you’re hungry, you can always cook your animal over an open flame (nice, dry wood and those especially thick, confusing books make excellent fuel for a fire in the woods. Don’t forget to bring your matches!).

Hopefully this has been helpful. I’d like to hear your ideas, though… How are you planning to survive the coming weeks? Please send your comments asap and I’ll publish them!

WEEKEND UPDATE

This past Saturday I got up Late and went to Portugal.

On Sunday, I got up late and went to your mother’s house for a lurid tryst.

I’ve had an interesting trend in my adult life that began in the mid-‘90s. One day I was feeling sick and nauseated  so I left work at lunchtime to go home and get some rest (I would have stayed, but my boss at the time exploded on me and told me to go home because he was sick of listening to me complain…). As I was napping, somebody knocked on my door. Back then I lived in the very fist apartment on the ground floor of an old four-story Tudor building on Edgewater Drive in Lakewood, Ohio. If I opened the blinds in my living room and strained my neck to the left, I could actually see Lake Erie between the two high-rise condos across the street. So much for a lake view, but whatever. Anyhow, whoever was knocking on my door was persistent, so I figured I needed to answer. When I opened the door, I found a very familiar looking person standing out in the hall, “Are you the manager?” he asked. “No, there’s no on-site manager, I’m a tenant.” He told me that somebody had put a parking violation sticker on his car window (I didn’t tell him I was the one who called the management office the previous evening to complain about unauthorized cars in the building parking lot) and wanted to know what the problem was. I asked him if he had paid his monthly parking fee, and he told me that he was only living in the building on a temporary basis and all of his arrangements should have been made by The Great Lakes Theater Festival. He said “Thanks, anyway,” and proceeded on his way. I immediately called my friend Luanne because she did all of the graphic design for Playhouse Square here in Cleveland (the place where much of The Great Lakes Theater Festival takes place). I asked her, “Is Steven Weber in any of the upcoming shows this year?” She answered, “Yes. He’s in Death of a Salesman.” Thus, my first real brush with fame (a few years earlier I saw Debra Winger and Leonard Maltin at the Cleveland International Film Festival opening event, but that’s about it). Steven Weber lived in the building for a few months and was very friendly in passing. After he moved out, his New York Times continued to be delivered to the building’s address for a week or so. I still have an issue with his name on the mailing label just to prove to folks that I’m not fibbing about the whole thing.

Well, that definitely got the ball rolling for me and celebrity sightings. I even touched some of them!!!

1999: I was with our creative team in New York City doing post-production for some bank TV spots. Unfortunately, the producer had found a great deal on hotel rooms at the old St. Moritz on Central Park South. The place was a complete hellhole. There was a bunch of scaffolding on the side of the building and a sign that said the hotel would be closing in a couple of weeks for a multi-year, complete renovation. It re-opened several years later as the Ritz-Carlton Central Park (I bet if the guests knew what a nightmarish dump it used to be as the old St. Moritz, they wouldn’t stay there). One night we were walking home from dinner and I told the group that we should walk through the Plaza Hotel lobby just to see it. We did, and we saw Robert F. Kennedy and his entourage. My entourage was dressed in stone washed jeans and flannel shirts (except for me, of course) and we high-tailed it out of there pronto before somebody called the cops. That whole trip was a mess. On the way there, we got drunk on the plane and I left the owner of my company’s brand new Apple laptop on the plane, along with a $40,000 check for the production company we were working with. We flew into Islip on Long Island to save money and the art director ended up peeing his pants in the car on the way to the hotel (we had our driver stop at a 7-11 to buy beer to drink in the car, and then got caught in a terrific traffic jam on the way into the city).

2001: We were on a TV shoot in Toronto and stayed at the Four Seasons Hotel in the Yorkville area. We ended up driving to Toronto as we had to take several large props with us for the production. On the first night, after dinner and drinking, I realized that I had left my fan in the back of the copywriter’s minivan. Those of you who know me know I can’t sleep a single wink without that fan on high, right next to my head. Sometimes I even put it on the mattress next to me instead of the night table, just so it’s closer. (We’re not just talking about any electric fan, here. I must sleep with a Honeywell [actually manufactured by Kaz] HT-804 Super Turbo Table Fan. I always have a brand new spare just in case the one I’m using breaks. I even bought a 220V step down transformer so that I could take my HT-804 on my trip to Europe with me a few months ago) Well, after some begging, we had the valet bring the car up from the underground garage. As we were standing there, a very long limousine pulled up under the canopy. Somebody said, “Who’s this? Madonna?” Well, it wasn’t Madonna. The driver got out and opened the back passenger door and Mr. Las Vegas himself, Wayne Newton popped out. He even looked over at us and nodded. Then a bunch of other people got out and they all were whisked up to their rooms (which pissed me off big-time, since I hadn’t been whisked anywhere and they gave me all kinds of grief over my credit card when I checked into that hotel earlier in the day). It was pretty late, so maybe he was tired or something, but Wayne didn’t look too good. Actually, it looked like somebody was pulling really, really hard at the back of his scalp. I thought his eyeballs were going to pop out and roll down the sidewalk right there and then. And his hair was jet black (almost blue) and it was all teased up like Kim Jong-il. What is it with these celebrities and dictators and their poofy hairdos? Who knows? When it was time to leave the hotel later in the week, our minivan had a flat tire, which screwed-up the whole schedule.

2002: Once again, we were back in Toronto working on some more TV spots. This time we had to stay at the Park Hyatt across from the completely booked Four Seasons in Yorkville. On the day we arrived (we drove again since the copywriter on this shoot was very pregnant and not allowed to fly). As soon as we arrived, the ladies (the pregnant copywriter and an account executive I worked on the account with) went to get massages at the hotel spa. When they were finished, they called all excited because they sat directly across from Mary-Kate Olsen in the spa waiting room (when they called her into the spa, they referred to “Mary-Kate Zimmermann”—a cover-name). I happened to see Mary-Kate wandering to and from the hotel (followed by some muscle-headed bodyguard) on a couple of occasions, and it was just plain shocking. She looked like she weighed 14 lbs. I remember saying to my colleagues, “I think she might be anorexic.” Well, it turns out she was and I’m glad that she got help and is doing much better now.

2003: This time we were shooting and posting TV spots in Vancouver, British Columbia. Vancouver is a very strange place and I don’t really care for it. Lots of homeless people, drug addicts and panhandlers. Really, really good sushi, though—that’s my favorite memory of the two weeks we spent there, holed-up at the Sutton Place hotel. My second favorite memory of that trip is seeing Gerald McRaney (Major Dad) at the hotel bar. We looked for Delta Burke, but he must have been traveling solo. Also, it seems like just about everybody we casted for the spots had several X-Files acting credits (I never watched the show, though, so I have to just assume that I met some people who had been on TV).

2004: Okay, I finally hit the mother-lode. We were posting some hospital TV spots in Los Angeles (Santa Monica, to be precise). The creative team had flown in a week earlier, and I came in on the following Saturday to help finish-up and handle the unruly client. When I arrived at LAX, I called my friend Brian to see if he wanted to join me for lunch. Brian, who used to work as an IT person at the agency I was working for, had moved to L.A. about a year earlier to pursue his dream of becoming a Hollywood producer. We met around Noon at Houston’s in Santa Monica and as we were catching-up, his phone rang. When he finished with the call he said, “What are you doing for the rest of the afternoon?” It turns out he was on the list for the red carpet portion of that year’s MTV Movie Awards and the friend who was supposed to accompany him had just bailed. Well, two hours later and we were front-and-center between two Culver City soundstages, waiting for the stars to appear (that year they did the castle theme with the torches and everything). We ended up being in the perfect spot for meeting celebrities—front row, right across from the last of a long line of press boxes where the celebs would talk to reporters. The first person to come over and say hello and shake our hands was Paris Hilton (muuuuuuch more stunning in person—that was the year she wore an orange dress with her flowing locks of blonde hair). We also ended up meeting: Quentin Tarantino (very nice, but a much larger fellow than I imagined—especially his head); Scarlett Johannson (very sweet, looked like a shy little girl); Vin Diesel (very cool guy); Queen Latifah (“Hey, baby!”); Mark Ruffalo (we complemented him on Eternal Sunshine, he was very gracious); Carmen Electra (Va-va-voom!). There were so many more, I can’t even remember. The Wayans Brothers were nice, I remember them now…I wrote all the names down afterward, but I can’t find it for some reason. Some of the stars were mean and arrogant. Matthew Perry and Jake Gyllenhaal didn’t even look at us or give us the time of day. When Jim Caviezel passed, I touched his shoulder and he shot daggers at me. And what’s up with Snoop Dog—he was completely surrounded by his posse. Kobe Bryant didn’t seem too nice, either, but it was during that whole rape thing, so I imagine he was laying low.

A few hours later, as we were driving out of the studio, a friend of mine from Cleveland called and said that Ronald Reagan had died. Believe it or not, later that week he was laid out at a funeral home just a few blocks away from our hotel in Santa Monica! (They wouldn’t let us in to pay respects, though). Then, believe it or not, we went over to Monica Potter’s house for poolside drinks, which was a lot of fun (she is the first cousin of the copywriter on the project we were working on).

And there was even more to come. One night near the end of our trip we went Dan Tana’s in West Hollywood. I got up to go to the restroom and as I crossed the main reception area of the restaurant, I saw Leif Garrett (he had a huge scab on his forehead and was wearing a blue bandana). I went up to him, gave him a little fist-bump on the arm and said, “Hey, how are you?” He looked confused at first, but then just smiled and walked away. Later, when we were on the curb waiting for our car, a brown VW Beetle convertible pulled up and out spilled Tyne Daley (she had pink frizzy hair and was wearing a big moo-moo and Birkenstocks). I approached her to get a touch and you should have seen the look on her face. She looked at me like I had a butcher knife in my hand and a turd growing out of my head or something. Talk about not being fan-friendly. She must have major issues. Whatever.

2005: I was in New York again for post production of some TV spots we had shot back in Cleveland. This time the agency team and client were staying at the Tribeca Grand. One night we all saw Fisher Stevens in the hotel lobby bar. On our last day in New York, we were having breakfast in the lobby restaurant and Melina Kanakaredes was sitting at the table next to us, loudly complaining to some other woman about her lousy agent and how she wasn’t getting any good work. I hope she doesn’t act like that on the set. No wonder nobody wants to hire her.

Also, in 1997 I watched Mike Wallace chase the chairman of the PR firm I worked for down Euclid Avenue and the footage eventually ended up on 60 Minutes. Oh, and in the early ‘90s I met Paula Zaun at a restaurant in Cleveland. I told her she had nice teeth, to which she responded, “Well, that’s a first…” I have a photo of me and Paula somewhere, I can’t find it, though.

I really need to get organized.

WEEKEND UPDATE

This past Saturday I got up late and Kate, Eran, Lissa and Brent for lunch. We had mediocre sushi, but good conversation. Then we went wedding dress shopping with Kate (boy, that sure was a first for me—what a great peek behind the curtain for a guy—It’s CRAZY!). Late in the afternoon we went for margaritas and then I went home and watched CNN and thought about how depressing (more like terrifying) this election is.

On Sunday I got up late and went to the new Apple store that just opened the day before, which was cool. I also ran errands, called my dad and had a good conversation and went home around 6:00 p.m. I was watching Mystery Diagnosis on TLC when the remnants of Hurricane Ike knocked out my cable and internet. I ended up watching a DVD of American Splendor, followed by disk 2 of my Citizen Kane DVD set, “The American Experience: The Battle Over Citizen Kane.”

I am taking a mental health week off from the blog and will return next Monday, September 15 (I doubt anybody will notice since nobody reads this damned thing anyway).

In the meantime, please meditate on the cat Cosmo.

I’ve been receiving a lot of comments on the blog, especially over the past two weeks or so. Many of them are available to read at the end of each entry—these comments are from people I talk to daily, and I’ve thanked them for their input in person whenever possible. Most folks are a little surprised by the fact that before a comment hits the The Scarvelis Dump, I get an email asking me whether or not I approve of the comment. If I say “yes,” the comment is posted. If I reject approval, the comment will not appear.

Although most of the comments are suitable for my approval, there have been several that just haven’t made the cut. I typically screen all reader comments based on: contribution to the broader theme I’ve explored in each respective entry; coherence; voice and/or tone. I do, however, understand that in rejecting comments, I risk alienating my audience. The last thing I want to do is stifle genuine interest in The Scarvelis Dump. Thus, I thought I would take this opportunity, now that I have seven (lucky!) blog entries under my belt, to respond to some of the random, rejected reader comments I’ve received over the past months:

u make me want to puke!

-lonnie666

Dear lonnie666,

I’m so sorry to hear you’re not feeling well. Strange coincidence, because I’m feeling a little nauseated myself today. I drank too much this weekend. But, unlike you, I choose to blame myself instead of shooting nasty, venomous letters off to Miller Brewing and the Belvedere Vodka people. I’m sorry that my blog makes you feel like the monkey with a piece of tin foil that you are. You clearly have some major issues to work out and you are projecting your own feelings of inadequacy/failure onto me, a complete stranger, who is trying to make the world a little better for all of us. Please seek some professional help because your irrational anger is going to destroy you from the inside out. Do you try to ruin everybody and everything surrounding you? Jealousy and bitterness are corrosive poisons, not only to yourself, but to everything in your tiny, insignificant life.

In the meantime, may I suggest some Pepto Bismol or a nice glass of mint ginger ale? Or maybe some chamomile tea to sooth u’re upset stomach?

Dear Pete,

I love your blog! I was wondering, though…other than mentioning the Ronald Reagan assasination attempt in your paper route entry, you don’t discuss politics. Where do you stand on the current election?

 -MeanBean

Dear MeanBean,

Thank you so much for your encouraging words. As I mentioned, I receive most of my constructive reader comments from friends and acquaintances, so it’s refreshing to hear kind words from a new stranger.

To answer your question, I have never intended to impose my political views on my audience with this blog. This was a very conscious decision made early-on and I pride myself on having kept things relatively benign as far as this election, along with politics in general, are concerned. Since you took the time to say nice things to me, though, I’ll give you a subtile, albeit vague hint on my views of this year’s election: I will not be voting for a hypocritical, broken-down, demented old man and his vapid, completely inexperienced, Bible-thumping Pilgrim’s wife of a running mate this November.

Dear Scarvelis Dump,

I’ve been reading your blog and I can’t help but to notice that you seem to have a lot of bottled-up pain in your life. Maybe we can get together and I can help you work some things out.

 -daddyzgrrrl69

Dear daddyzgrrrl69,

You are very perceptive. I do experience occassional pain, especially in my lumbar region, which, in turn, affects my hips, knees, legs and ankles. It turns out that years of carrying my wallet in my left back pocket caused my L1 (and to a lesser degree, my L2) vertibrae disc to herniate. My condition does not require surgery and I continue to improve as the months go by. Typically, this sort of injury can heal completely in six to nine months with the proper stretches, exercise and intermittent use of over-the-counter anti-inflammitories, along with prescription muscle relaxers (I use Zanaflex), but only when absolutely neccessary. I’ve also been carrying my wallet in my left front pocket, which has made a world of difference.

Fortunately, I have a very high pain-threshold, which I think has been extremely helpful lately. Sometimes I’ll be working on a project (like replumbing my toilet or building something or tearing something apart) and I’ll suddenly realize that I’m covered in my own blood from wounds I’ve sustained but didn’t even notice or feel. Although this can be frightening at first, It also makes me feel really tough and resilient. I bet Teddy Roosevelt hurt himself a lot without noticing.

As for you, daddyzgrrrl69, I think you might be one of those who needs to “rescue” another person in order to feel whole and validated. So please stop letting me live rent-free in your head. May I suggest a pet, possibly a rescue greyhound or perhaps a homeless kitten? Taking in and caring for a needy pet can do wonders for one’s psyche and offers the type of positive companionship rarely found in unhealthy and destructive human relationships.

Hi Pete!

You put a lot of pictures on your blog, but none of yourself. What do you look like?

 -YoYoMe

Dear YoYoMe,

I look exactly like a young Laurence Olivier.

What do you look like, YoYoMe?

Dear Scarvelis,

I read your piece about the nightmare. I really think you should talk to somebody about this nightmare/sleepwalking issue you have. Alot of times dreams/sleep disturbances can be a sign of other things that are going on. Believe me, I’ve been there…there is help!

-MarcyMaze123 

Dear MarcyMaze123,

First of all, you really, really should not spell “A lot” as one word. That is a big pet peeve of mine, along with people who say, “irregardless” and “for all intents and purposes.” As a matter of fact, I’m sure the reality that I am constantly bombarded with these and a whole slew of other stupid misuses of the English language is solely behind my nightmares and sleepwalking. I think you need to skulk right back into that big glass house you live in and mind your own damned business.

Dear Mr. Scarvelis,

The blog is good. I don’t understand why you are so obsessed with food in your blog. It sure seems like your diet needs some balance. The sushi is definitely healthy, but all those ribeye steaks and pork chops and Big Macs are not. Please think about eating better…

-ConcernedFriend

Dear ConcernedFriend,

Do I know you? If we do know each other, then you know that I maintain the taut body of a 17 year-old Scandinavian boy. If we do not know each other, then you now know that I maintain the taut body of a 17 year-old Scandinavian boy. I come from some very robust genes, both on my mother’s and father’s sides of the family. Most of my male ancestors lived well into their 90s. Most of them smoked, drank and ate whatever they wanted in huge quantities. Genes are a very important indicator for a prediction of longevity, along with lifestyle. I choose to practice the lifestyle of my ancestors in order to insure a long life for myself. I refuse to eat a diet of carrots and lettuce and tofu and risk dropping dead when I’m 45.

Also, I think you’re a neurotic and I believe you need to find something else (other than harassing and criticizing me) to do with your own, very, very limited time on this planet.

WEEKEND UPDATE

This past Saturday I got up late, fixed a turkey sandwich for lunch (is that healthy enough for you, ConcernedFriend???) and went to a Cleveland International Airshow party at a downtown penthouse suite! We saw the Blue Angels perform. I sure am glad none of those planes wrecked into the building we were in! Later, Eran and I stopped at Marlin Kaplan’s newest restaurant, Luxe. I nursed two dirty martinis and Eran had a candy-colored drink. Eran also made us lots of new friends, as always. One new friend is the corned beef king of Cleveland!

On Sunday I got up late and went to see Vicky Cristina Barcelona. I liked the movie very much and went shopping at Crocker Park afterwards. Last night I drank too much and went to bed at 11:45.

This morning I couldn’t sleep very well so I got up early and watched the hurricane on TV and then wrote.

(Note: This week’s entry will be very abbreviated, as I didn’t get a chance to write all weekend).

Boy, am I exhausted. This past weekend I went to Chicago (thus, no WEEKEND UPDATE) with my friends Eran and Kate. We stayed right on the Magnificent Mile (my hotel, the Allerton, was right on Michigan Avenue; the girls chose to stay at the Wyndham, a block East). I was on the 17th floor overlooking all the stores, which was nice for people-watching (except the people looked really small, like bugs scurrying around with shopping bags, which was a little creepy). We met up with our mutual friend Mary Beth and had a nice lunch with her fiancée, Dan, and their baby, Tommy. Tommy ordered a peanut butter and jelly sandwich off the children’s menu. They brought him the biggest sandwich I’ve ever seen. I don’t know who the chef is at the Allerton, where we were eating, but they really shouldn’t have made such a vulgar sandwich for a little baby. (These huge portions are making America a nation of fat slobs)

Well, during our stay we drank a lot, ate some good meals and had a lot of laughs. I had some fantastic sushi and sashimi on Friday night at a place called Sushi Samba. It was so delicious, it made me dizzy. On Saturday we ate at a place called Feast in Wicker Park (also sort of creepy—I kept thinking of the original Wicker Man movie which always skeedges me out). Then on Sunday we had brunch at a place called West Egg and headed home. All that driving really aggravated my lumbago. Today my knees and ankles and legs and hips are all stiff and I’m walking funny. I’m also really, really tired. I almost fell asleep at the wheel on my way to an 8:00 a.m. client meeting this morning. When I get sleepy in the car, I have this trick where I turn the radio up really loud and sing at the top of my lungs. I don’t sing along with the words, though. I substitute the words to the songs with really raunchy obscenities. For some reason, that wakes me up—oh well, I guess you have to do whatever gets you through the day.

There sure are a lot of stores, most of them very expensive, in Chicago. And a lot of people buying things from them, too. I didn’t buy anything, though. The trip itself cost me a fortune. Between the hotel, booze and the meals, I blew through money like it was toilet paper. I was hoping the trip would help me to unwind and relax, but now I need to scrimp for the next couple of months to get back into my financial comfort zone, and that makes me very nervous and uptight because my greatest fear is financial ruin (followed closely by testicular cancer).

Oh, and Chicago was really hot and sticky this weekend and the air conditioning in my hotel room didn’t work very well, so that was a bummer.

I’ve been feeling very, very nervous and jumpy lately. I don’t know what the problem is. Usually when I’m a nervous wreck, I can just think about it and put my finger on the cause. This time, though, I’m at a total loss. Maybe it’s the weather or something? I just hope I’m not psychic, because if I am, something horrible is going to happen. Oh, great. Now I feel even worse.

I started to feel these crippling waves of panic about a week ago. Wednesday morning at 2:33 a.m. to be exact. That’s precisely when I found myself on the kitchen floor with a bloody shin. I only sleepwalk when I’m feeling especially disturbed. The last time something like this happened was in late July of last year. I found myself collapsed on the landing just outside the kitchen door (with the door locked behind me and the keys in my hand). That time I was in the middle of a financial catastrophe. This time I must have fallen before opening the door, and I sustained an injury. The problem is, I just can’t figure out what’s wrong with me. I suppose I should be happy that I landed wedged between the refrigerator and the wall, instead of in the cats’ litter box. Maybe it’s work, or this blog, or something like that. The holidays are coming up, maybe it’s that—I always get nervous and irrational around the holidays, especially Christmas, which, if you really think about it, is just around the corner.

I’ll figure it out, I guess. This has happened a couple of times before and I’ve found that it can go away just as quickly as it started in the first place. In the meantime, I’ve been trying to focus on happy thoughts. So that’s what I’m going to share with you today—happy thoughts:

New Socks—There’s nothing, and I mean nothing, like slipping on a pair of brand new socks! Socks never feel as good as the first time they’re worn. Once you wash them, the magic is gone. I remember reading somewhere that Jerry Lewis never wears a pair of socks twice. When he’s done with a brand new pair, he just chucks them in the trash and puts on another brand new pair. I think I read that The Backstreet Boys did the same thing. Boy, what a life that must be, new socks every single day. If I could afford to do that, I bet I wouldn’t have a worry in the world.

Clean Sheets—Unlike socks, good, 800+ thread-count, 100% Egyptian cotton bed linens just get better and better with age and careful washing. I know a lot of women who synchronize their bed sheet changing with their leg shaving, just so they can experience clean sheets to the fullest with nice, smooth legs. Yesterday I changed the sheets on my bed, but I didn’t shave my legs. I’ve never shaved my legs and even if I wanted to I wouldn’t really be able to right now because of the big scab on my left shin.

Ice Water—There’s something so refreshing about a big glass of ice water. I don’t know what it is, but I find the clink and clank of ice cubes in a glass of ice water to be like beautiful music, or wind chimes. Sometimes I’ll fix myself a nice glass of ice water when I’m not even thirsty, just to calm myself. I think I went through about six bags of ice this past weekend. Every time I started to feel a little better, I had to run to the bathroom, which aggravated me.

Kraft Fudgies—When I was a kid and felt poorly, I’d gorge myself on these. They always made me feel wonderful. Unfortunately, they are no longer sold in the United States.

Homemade Chicken and Rice Soup—This always makes me feel very good. I find it calming, as it is both nutritious and tasty. Yesterday I decided to make a big pot of this delicious soup from scratch. I went out and bought an organic chicken, some carrots, onions, celery, potatoes, chicken stock and rice. I boiled the chicken and the vegetables in the stock with some water, along with salt, pepper, bay leaves and garlic. I strained the broth, added rice, the chicken meat, and more veggies and slowly, carefully cooked it some more. A lot of love went into that pot of soup, I’ll tell you. Unfortunately, it tasted like sulfur. I ate maybe two spoonfuls and ended up flushing the whole pot of soup down the toilet (I don’t have a garbage disposal). I ended up eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner and that made me depressed because peanut butter and jelly sandwiches remind me of my futile and miserable childhood.

The Ocean—I love the ocean. There is nothing more soothing than the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. And the smell of the sea mist in the air, I think it literally cleanses one’s soul. Too bad the ocean is several hundred miles away from Cleveland. If there was an ocean here, you’d better believe that’s where I’d be. Maybe I’d go on weekends or after work to clear my head, but I guess that’s just more of my pie-in-the-sky, childish, wishful thinking.

Family Picnics—These are wonderful, lazy days that seem to never end with my near and dear. The smell of the barbecue, the taste of cold beer, the laughter of children and the rich stories as told by the elders. It’s sad that all the little kids are now grown up and scattered all over the country. And so many people have died or are in the hospital or the nursing home, it’s just impossible to get together any more.

Stouffer’s Noodles Romanoff—Just about the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten. I truly believe that food is one of the great pleasures of life. Just like the Kraft folks and their Fudgies, Stouffer’s no longer makes Noodles Romanoff. It’s like there’s some conspiracy in the food business where they find out exactly what foods make me feel good and calm and then they snuff it to punish me or something. What’s next, Mrs. T’s Pierogies?

Well, since some of you have complained about the length of my blog entries, I’m going to end this one here. I’ll let you all know how things work out with this little funk of mine. Cheers!

WEEKEND UPDATE

This past Saturday I got up late and went to see the movie Tropic Thunder by myself because nobody would return my calls. The movie was a disappointment. After the movie I went to visit my friends’ Aylie and Andy’s new kitten (his name is either Huey or The Colonel—still undecided). I tried to watch Charlie Wilson’s War on DVD, but listened to music instead. Went to bed.

On Sunday I got up late, went to the grocery store, came home, made soup, washed sheets and towels, changed the bed, tried the soup, threw the soup in the toilet, fixed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and went to bed hungry.

Last Thursday I had a “Big Mac Attack.” This happens to me once every few months and when it does, I typically act on it in order to reset my appetite for another few months. This time I went through the McDonald’s drive-thru just up the street from my office. As I was waiting in line, it occurred to me that I should ask for some ketchup to go with my fries (I always order the Number One Value Meal—it comes with a Big Mac, medium fries and a medium drink). I almost always forget to ask for ketchup when I’m satisfying my Big Mac Attack, so I was glad I remembered this time, because ketchup adds whole new dimensions to those Micky-D freedom fries. Having retrieved my food and drink from the second window (I paid at the first window), I pulled into an empty parking space and prepared my meal on my lap. I had been given four packets of ketchup, which would be more than enough. I suddenly realized that I was in for a real treat because the packets said, “Fancy Ketchup.” As I thought about this, I started to get angry. What was so “fancy” about the contents of these four packets? It tasted like ketchup. I looked at the ingredients and found nothing out of the ordinary or fancy on the list. I started to wonder to myself, “So if this ketchup is fancy, where does one acquire the ordinary kind?” Is there such a thing? Maybe that kind they call “catsup” is the ordinary kind…who knows? Then I started to think about the further implications. Somebody was trying to pull a fast one on me. If this particular ketchup was so “fancy,” why was it served to me in tacky plastic packets? Shouldn’t something fancy come in a pretty glass jar, or a small porcelain tureen, or a special, tiny goblet or something? By this point I was finished eating and packed up the leftover rubbish in a state of disgust. But the torch had been lit and I spent the next couple of days ruminating over all sorts of food-related issues and absurdities. These I will now share with you:

Post Grape-Nuts: This is one of my favorite breakfast cereals. I like how it evolves while you eat it, going from hard-as-nails crunchy to sublimely supple and chewy, all in a matter of minutes once you add the milk. Grape-Nuts is proof that a great product supersedes inane and fraudulent naming. Just take a look at the ingredients on the side of the box—no grapes, no nuts. When you buy Corn Flakes, you get flakes made of corn. When you buy Shredded Wheat, you get wheat that is shredded. When you buy Grape-Nuts, you get wheat and malted barley. See? I could deal with this a little bit better if there were even such things as grape nuts (like pine nuts or macadamia nuts) in the first place, but there are no such things as grape nuts. They don’t exist. Never have. It’s like somebody was blindfolded and pulled two pieces of paper from a sack of random nouns to name this product. What’s next, “Wimple-Monkeys,” or “Cadaver-Gaskets.” Ule Gibbons is probably doing somersaults in his pine cone-lined casket.

Nestle “Fun Size” Candy Bars—These come in a big bag and for some reason their size somehow makes them “Fun.” “Hey everybody, look at me! I’m having so much fun eating this tiny candy bar!” “Sad? Listless? Got the blues? Start having fun with these minuscule candy bars!” “Woohoo! I’m in the mood for some fun—I think I’ll buy this bag of runt candy bars” Quite frankly, every time I eat one of these puny scraps of a candy bar I get depressed, wishing I had a whole candy bar.

Chicken In A Biskit Crackers—I did a little research on this product, and found that it was originally introduced in 1968. This gave me some much needed insight into their conception. In 1968, a lot of people were smoking a lot of marijuana. I’ve concocted a scenario where, back in 1967 or so, two guys were sitting around with a bong and satisfying their munchies with some crackers and some chicken when one said, “Dude, like, wouldn’t it be totally, radically cool and groovy if they could, like, put the chicken into the cracker and make tasty little chicken crackers?” “Yeah, baby!” And there you have it—Chicken In A Biskit. I don’t know why they are called “biskit” in the first place, though. Biskit isn’t even a word. Maybe they meant “biscuit,” but forgot how to spell, being in an altered state and all. But why would they even think of biscuits when the damned things are crackers? This is all very frustrating and it makes me kind of angry and sad at the same time.

Smucker’s Uncrustables Sandwiches—Here’s the premise: These are little, round sandwiches with the edges sealed together and the crust cut off. Sounds like an okay idea, especially for the kiddies. It’s the name I have a problem with. The first time I saw a commercial for these a few years back, I became very irritated and upset. What a terrible name, “Uncrustables.” I sort of get the “Uncrust” part (doesn’t have crust). But where the hell does the “ables” fit in? Are they trying a play on “unbelieveable” or a similar word? If so, there must be a “Crustable” in order for there to be an “Uncrustable.” Get it? I’ve never heard one single person say, “Oh, can I fix you a tasty ham and cheese crustable?” Maybe they’ll come out with a sandwich with the crusts called “Crustables.” I don’t think anybody would buy them, though. The whole concept of “crust” and food has always bothered me. Mainly because there are far more disgusting and repulsive crusts/krusts (crusty scab, Krusty the Clown, crusty toenail) out there than there are appetizing ones (like pizza crust or pie crust or the earth’s crust). Being an ad man, I can’t begin to imagine how a name like Uncrustables made it through consumer testing. I wonder if they focus-grouped it with a bunch of scatologists or infectious skin disease professionals by mistake. Who knows? Maybe mixups like this happen all the time in research.

Krusteaz—Their website says: “Krusteaz—a clever mix of “crust” and “ease”—has come to stand for home-baked goodness, fresh from the oven in minutes.” Hmm, um, no. (What is it with all this bloody crust/krust?) A much more clever and correct name would be “Crust-Ease.” But, no, somebody got hooked on phonics and decided to spell for make believe. I don’t care how it’s spelled though, it still sounds like something I’d pre-soak my soiled underpants in.

Fresh-Ground Pepper—As in I just got my food at a restaurant and the server produces a pepper-grinder the size of my leg and says, “Would you like some fresh-ground pepper on your linguine with clam sauce?” It’s pepper, not rare, precious frankincense imported from the remote outback of the Far East, for god’s sake. I usually answer this question with, “No. I’d like some rancid, old, previously-ground pepper, please.” (Most servers are not entertained by my rapier wit)

Keebler Townhouse Toppers—This is a brand-spanking-new cracker that has a little indentation in it to hold various cracker toppings (e.g. cheese, chicken salad, jam—whatever one puts on a cracker these days). Once again, the Keebler folks describe their new crackers on their website: “The Cracker built for Topping! These great-tasting crackers stand up to all your snacking needs. Raised edges help toppings stay put. We’ve Got the Edge.” I don’t know about you, but I’ve never really experienced “topping slippage” when using crackers. It must be a really slow year at the Keebler Treehouse. Maybe somebody over there is associated with some vertigo support group or something, but I can’t figure out how Keebler uncovered the burning need to “help toppings stay put.” Maybe I’m going to the wrong parties or something, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a piece of gouda or tuna salad go flying off a cracker and across the room or onto the floor. “Madge, I thought about serving crackers and toppings, but every time I try, all the toppings fall off and fly all over the place making one hell of a mess.” And what about the whole “The Cracker built for Topping!” nonsense. It’s a cracker, people. Since when are crackers “built?” The non-food equivalent scenario for this would go something like, “Hi Barb, I see you have another black eye. And what’s with the body cast? “Oh my, I slid off the toilet and flew across the bathroom again—I wish somebody would come out with a treaded, skid-proof toilet seat to solve this problem I and scores of others have (furtive sigh).”

Moist—As in “moist cake,” or “moist brownie.” Last time I used the word “moist,” I was called a masher and got slapped across the face.

Bonus

I pass this little disaster of an establishment daily on my way to and from work. Every day I wish it would just go away, or fall over. I’m all for the entrepreneurial spirit, but this is quite a stretch. It’s hard to imagine the state of mind of the individual who dreamt this train-wreck up in the first place. I’ve never mustered up the courage to go inside—some things are better left to the imagination, at least for me. Do they put Snuggle in the potato salad instead of mayonnaise? The whole concept of eating food prepared in a laundromat just scrambles my mind. I’m leery about breathing in a laundromat, let alone putting food in my body in one. I bet they don’t do very well on the feeder side of the business, because the last time I stepped foot into a laundromat, I could barely eat for two weeks.

WEEKEND UPDATE

This past Saturday I got up late and went to get my hair cut by Brian at BR Salon. Then I went with my friend Aylie to get a new TV at Best Buy (she purchased a sweet 52” Sharp Aquos). After helping her with setting it up, I went home and watched the Olympics on TV. I also prepared a very nice Certified Angus rib eye steak, asparagus spears and a baked potato with sour cream. I went to bed around 11:30 p.m.

On Sunday I got up late, did two loads of laundry (colors) and ran errands. I purchased eight cans of cat food, a 110 count bottle of antacid, a bag of ice and various cat toys. When I got home in the afternoon, I deployed some of the new cat toys, which Cosmo and Cocomungous seemed to enjoy. Late in the day I went to see the new movie Pineapple Express with my friend Eran. I haven’t laughed at a movie like that in a very, very long time. After the movie we stopped at Trader Joe’s where I bought a prepared rack of lamb, basmati rice and some strained Greek yogurt. I went home, watched more of the Olympics, prepared the lamb, and rice along with a small salad and ate around 8:30 p.m. I went to bed at 11:00 p.m. and woke up around 4:00 a.m. with a horrible lower back spasm and I’ve been in excruciating pain ever since.

Early in 1981, when I was 14 years old, I got my first job. It was a paper route and I had some very big shoes to fill in its execution. I would succeed a neighborhood friend named TJ. TJ was a short, skinny, white haired kid with enormous Coke bottle glasses and he was a master of the newspaper delivery craft. TJ took great pride in his work and provided timeliness, excellent customer care skills and the highest level of professionalism and dedication to his duties. In retrospect, he didn’t really seem to have any friends, though he was always cheerful. The newspaper was The North Hills News Record-a Monday and Thursday bi-weekly covering the eponymous North Hills region of Greater Pittsburgh. The route consisted of 34 households throughout the one square-mile borough of Bradford Woods where I grew up. Although he was a grade above me, TJ and I became friends the year prior, sharing a seat on the bus ride to and from Ingomar Middle School and on walks to and from the bus stop.

One day TJ informed me that his family would soon be moving to Texas. He needed to pass the paper route to someone. I jumped at the chance and told TJ that I wanted the route (sure, it wasn’t The Pittsburgh Press, but it would be a start). Unfortunately, it turned out that there was also a very high level of interest from several other neighborhood boys for the job. Being the good and disciplined steward of the route that he was, TJ decided that the fairest way for him to choose a successor for the coveted role would be to hold scheduled, one-on-one interviews with his hand-picked candidates. These interviews would be held immediately after school hours on the back patio of his house a few streets over from where I lived. After much consideration, TJ informed me on our ride to school one morning that he had narrowed the field to five highly qualified, anonymous (to avoid potential conflicts of interest) contenders and that I had made the cut. He then produced a day planner and penciled me in for my interview which would take place the following week.

With my interview approaching, I agonized over several details. What should I wear? Should I take a token of friendship/appreciation (I still had an unopened jar of Slime, and I knew that TJ loved Slime)? Should I adopt an overarching theme to my interview responses, possibly “dependability,” or maybe “perseverance?” In the end I figured that “passion” would be the right approach, as it most closely matched TJ’s approach to his duties. And so the big day came. TJ and I walked to his house after the bus dropped us off at the stop. TJ offered me a seat across from him at the picnic table on his patio and was all business as he drilled me with a set of prepared interview questions. “How do you feel about being outside in the rain for extended periods of time?” “How often do you perform proactive maintenance and repair on your bike.” “Are you at all averse to walking in the snow and/or on ice?” “Do you have an action plan aimed at maintaining the TJ brand if chosen by me to take over the route?” “What enhancements or revisions would you make to my approach to the route?” “Will you write to me in Texas every other week to let me know how things are going on the route?” “Do you have any particular skills and/or hobbies that you think make you especially qualified for this job?”

TJ carefully recorded each and every lie I told in response to his questions on a legal pad he held deliberately out of my view on his knees under the table. I made a final, begging, passionate appeal for the job before TJ stood up, shook my hand and escorted me to the path in the woods leading to my street. “I’ll be in touch with all of the candidates late next week. If you have any additional questions or concerns, please give them to me in writing prior to next Wednesday.”

That following week was pure agony for me. I would still walk to and from the bus stop with TJ, but only shared a seat with him on the bus on one of those days. On the other four days he reserved the seat for one of the other four candidates, thus letting us all know whom we were competing against. Of the other four contenders, three of them were boys I despised and I didn’t really know the fourth. Finally, on Thursday of that long, torturous week, TJ asked me if I would be able to drop by his house on the following day after school. “I’ve made my decision and we should talk.” With that, I was sure he hadn’t chosen me to take over the route. He was going to let me down personally, and for that I respected his request and I told him that I was available.

That following day, TJ and I walked from the bus stop to his house in relative silence. We were usually a pretty gregarious pair, both on our walks and bus rides together. Now I was sure I wasn’t getting the route-TJ was feeling bad about giving me the bad news, and that was why he was so quiet. When we got to TJ’s house, he asked me to wait on the patio while he went inside to get something. When he returned, he handed me a cardboard box and said, “Open it.” I did, and it contained his canvas newspaper delivery bag. “I’m giving you the route because you’re my best friend.” I was floored. I never thought of TJ as my best friend, but looking back now, I think he was about one of the nicest kids I ever knew growing up. Had he not moved away that year, I bet we would have been best friends. Then he said, “You start your training next week. Be here with your bike on Monday at 3:45 sharp, and don’t forget to bring the bag with you.”

I hated that paper route more than I can even begin to say. I loathed it with every fiber of my being. I knew it was going to be a complete disaster that first Monday of training week. “Mrs. Fritchie likes her paper to be put in-between the front door and the storm door like this…” “The Schweiger’s like their paper to be put flat on the welcome mat by the side door, unless it’s raining, then put it in the mailbox.” “If the Faretto’s dog is chained up, walk to the left of this bush to avoid him, otherwise you might get bit.” “Mrs. Francis doesn’t like anybody to come onto her property, so you have to fold the paper like this and throw it as close to the steps as you can.” I would never be able to remember all this. Worse yet, I didn’t want to.

The following Thursday was even more discouraging for me-it was monthly “collection” day on the route. Instead of leaving the newspapers, TJ would confidently ring the bell or knock on each subscriber’s door, hand them their paper, introduce me as the new “Route Specialist” and make his request, “Two dollars for the month please.” After leaving each house with the money neatly tucked in a zippered pouch (most paid in cash, a few paid with a check), TJ would give me the skinny on the idiosyncrasies of each customer. “Mrs. Volweiler never, ever gives a tip.” “Mr. Desch always gives an extra quarter.” “Mrs. Volk never has any cash and sometimes asks if I can try again the following week.” “Mrs. Wagner always seems mad when you collect, but you’ll get used to it.”

I was now sufficiently trained and my friend TJ and his family moved to Texas. With that, I proceeded to destroy the route from the inside out. One Thursday I came home from school to find the 34 newspapers in a bundle at the top of the driveway waiting for me and decided that nobody would notice if they got their paper on Friday. I wasn’t in the mood to tramp around the neighborhood as it was raining and there was an especially a compelling rerun of Star Trek on that afternoon. Knocking on strangers’ doors to ask for money made me very anxious, so I decided not to do it at all. I never once wrote to TJ to report on the status of the route. After a month or so it seemed like my customers were starting to seek me out. “Why did you leave my paper on the lawn-it was soaking wet when I got home!” “Why didn’t I get a paper last Thursday? This never happened when TJ was running the route.” “Don’t I owe you two dollars? Why don’t you collect like TJ.” The final shoe dropped on Monday, March 30^th, 1981 at around 3:45 p.m. I had managed to deliver around three newspapers when a kid named David rode up on his bike in a panic, “President Reagan was shot! He’s in the hospital-it’s all over TV!” Thus, I did what any red-blooded, patriotic young man would do in similar circumstances. I took the remaining undelivered newspapers, dumped them in the woods and sped home on my bike to watch the wall-to-wall TV coverage of the historic presidential assassination attempt.

The next day my Mom got a call from the sales manager of The North Hills News Record. I was fired. In order to straighten things out, she wrote a check to the paper to cover the outstanding neighborhood subscriptions for the month ($68.00, minus my paltry 20% commission of $13.60). Needless to say, she was not at all happy about this (“What the hell is the matter with you?”) and made me pay her back over time. Worse yet, one of the aforementioned despised candidates took over the route and did a bully job of it, growing the account to 60+ subscriptions after only six months.

This experience is notable in that it marks the first in a string of countless similar personal failures that have plagued me well into my adult life.

WEEKEND UPDATE

(This is a new weekly section that I am adding. Since this blog publishes on Monday, I thought readers would enjoy a short recap of my previous weekend, along with impressions/lessons learned, where applicable).

This past Saturday I got up late, did two loads of laundry and went shopping. I bought toothpaste, mouthwash, face soap, a PUR water filter replacement and a used $13.99 DVD of A Clockwork Orange from BuyBacks at Steelyard Commons (I got the previous items at Target in the same shopping center). I also twice checked in on and fed my friend Eran’s cats, Sophie and Lyle, while she was off whitewater rafting in Ohio Pyle. On Saturday evening, I treated myself to one of my favorite meals-Shake ‘N Bake pork chops, Betty Crocker Potatoes Au Gratin and canned corn with butter and pepper (altogether, now: “YUM!”). I also watched A Clockwork Orange, a picture I haven’t seen since the late 1980s. While and after watching the movie, I found myself thinking it puzzling that the director, Stanley Kubrick, who just four years prior made what I consider to be one of the most brilliant, prescient, timeless masterpieces of cinema-2001: A Space Odyssey (I will devote a piece exclusively to this film in the coming weeks)-could have been so off the mark with A Clockwork Orange. The movie has aged terribly. The plot is repugnant. If anything, however, it is worth seeing, if only as a post-post-modern, post-pop art-on-steroids, 137 minute document that could have only been made in that strange, strange, sickening hangover of the psychedelic 60’s that were the early ‘70s (the film was released in December of 1971). So, if any of you Droogies wants to see it, you’re welcome to borrow the DVD.

On Sunday I got up late, checked in on Sophie and Lyle and ate a Mr. Hero 7″ Original Italian Sub and a regular order of mozzarella sticks for lunch. This evening, I’m re-experiencing the Shake ‘N Bake/Au Gratin/Corn meal and plan to get to bed early, so I’m well rested for the almost-sure drama to come tomorrow morning.

Within a year or so after graduating from college, I started to have this horrible recurring nightmare. The nightmare wasn’t always the same, the recurring part had to do with the overall theme. In the nightmare, I was back at Kent State University and would find out that I wasn’t going to graduate. These nightmares usually took place on campus during the last week of my final semester of college. Somebody would walk up to me and say something like, “So, are you ready for the big applied quantum mechanics final today?” I would typically have no idea that the final was taking place, and would usually answer, “Of course. What time is the final?” The response would go something like, “It’s in 15 minutes—did you memorize Schrödinger’s equation, eigenfunctions and eigenvalues?”

Terror. I hadn’t been to the class all semester, didn’t know who the professor was, didn’t know where the class was held and didn’t know an eigenfunction from a farfegnugen. Worst of all, I needed those three credit hours in order to graduate after five years (yes, I did do the five year plan at Kent, and graduated with exactly the number of required hours to acquire a bachelor of science degree in journalism—not an hour more, not an hour less). Typically, I would force myself to wake up before slitting my wrists or drinking Draino and it would always take me a few seconds awake to convince myself that I did indeed graduate in May of 1990. This process became so disturbing that I even resorted to putting my college diploma on the night table next to me just to be sure.

As I mentioned, the specific details of this dream varied a lot. One time I was wearing a diaper. Another time Wayne Newton gave me the bad news. For a while, every time I had the dream, my book bag would morph into a chocolate ukulele stuffed with toilet paper. (The list goes on: Angry nuns; sinister clowns; dead relatives; Ewoks; strolling violinists; cotton gins; Mason Reese; laughing monkeys; Fred and Ethel Mertz; The Hamburgler; talking cats; dancing cookies; cigar-smoking babies; those girls from The Shining…you name it). Regardless of casting and props, the theme was always the same: I was going to fail. I had wasted five years and I wasn’t going to finish and for some reason (I just knew this intuitively in the dream) wouldn’t have another chance.

After suffering through this dream at least weekly for a couple of years, I finally mustered up the courage to discuss it with Dr. Jack, my primary care physician (during a routine visit for a little facial skin issue that had come up). I explained the nature of my recurring nightmare to Jack. His response both put me at ease and made me worry even more. He said, “I’ve been out of medical school for over 30 years and I still have that dream. It’s very common, nothing to worry about.” Sure, I was glad that I wasn’t a freak for having the dream in the first place, but I found it disturbing that I might be haunted by it for the rest of my life.

Over the years, I came to accept the recurring nightmare for what it was, and noted that the frequency and intensity of the dreams seemed to correlate directly with my current waking state of mind. That is to say that when I was feeling especially stressed out or challenged, I had more of these terrifying nightmares more often than when I was feeling peaceful in life. Eventually this nightmare became a mere nuisance, even a novelty, as I settled into a good long stretch of life where I’d experience it no more than once every couple of months. I was nearly cured.

Well, over the past couple of years, the nightmares have come roaring back, and with a vengeance. The most daunting aspect “Recurring College Nightmare: The Return” is that it has cunningly evolved its nefarious theme to suit my current demographic status. In the sequel, somebody at work (usually an authority figure or a forest creature) comes up to me and tells me they found out that I didn’t graduate from college. The big, initial threat involves this ultimatum: If I don’t go back to college and finish, I’ll get fired. There are lots of new characters too (few weeks ago my boss was Rip Taylor, but instead of hair he had globs of cake batter smeared all over his head and no eyes). So, knowing I have to go back to keep my job, I pack-up my things and return to college. I don’t know why it never occurs to me in the nightmare to take night courses or something. In the new nightmare, I always liquidate everything I own (sometimes liquefy too—one time my car melted and washed down a pink tapestry sewer drain) and move back into a dorm on campus, which adds all kinds of new terrors and unpleasantness to the situation.

Well, I had a real doozy just two nights ago.

I showed up at my new dorm room in Wright Hall down there at the Kent State University main campus. I was relatively pleased with the room—it was spacious and had a very nice balcony (before it was torn off by a pterodactyl). The floors were very sticky and the ceiling was spackled with mashed potatoes and gravestones. Then my roommate showed up. She was a very small Asian girl with cropped hair. She came in, said nothing, dropped her things off and left. For some reason I thought I was getting a single room. It was now apparent that since I left college nearly 20 years ago, the dorms had gone from separate men’s and women’s floors to co-ed rooms. I was even more perplexed when my roommate returned because now she was a skinny blonde haired girl named Jill. This turned out to be a good turn of events because she brought a TV set with her (it was made out of popsicle sticks and feathers and I was glad it was there since mine had turned into cockroaches) and also slept with an electric fan next to her head just like me (except her fan was also a toothpaste dispenser). I was further pleased by the fact that all the beds (there were eight or ten in the room) were king-sized waterbeds with soiled velvet bedspreads. As I was choosing my bed (I picked one in the corner of the room by the produce stand for a little privacy), I asked Jill how the bathroom arrangements worked with all the co-ed intermixing in the dorms. She was kind enough to point out a urinal on the opposite wall of our room (although that didn’t quite completely answer my question).

Then things then got really bad again, though. Additional roommates arrived (it turns out our room was a “quad”). The first was an elderly senior citizen lady who was wheeled into the room in a hospital bed pushed by dalmatians and Karen Carpenter. She did not appear to be conscious (I believe she was in a coma). Shortly thereafter a small, nervous girl arrived riding one of those multi-cup coffee percolators, the kind my mother used to pull out of mothballs when a lot of people were coming to our house. Despite the fact that the nervous girl didn’t have a face or arms, she did a good job darting around the room on her percolator, carefully arranging her ziplock bags of diarrhea. As for my belongings, they all disappeared suddenly and when I looked in a drawer where I thought I had put them, all I found was burnt toast, roofing nails and a time portal. I turned to ask Jill if she had seen any of my things (can’t remember if this was before or after my legs turned into bolts of upholstery fabric), but she was now Robert Preston (without arms or legs) and just looked at me with confusion and anger, then gently floated out the window.

I finally woke up in a complete panic when the dorm room turned into John Wayne Gacy’s basement.

Last night I tried to ask Dr. Jack what all this meant. Unfortunately, just as I started to explain the situation to him he turned into Carmine Ragusa with giant, pendulous breasts and began to weep uncontrollably.