Friday, February 16, 2018

What does Robin Hood have to do with it?

I was jostled awake by a firm nudge to my left leg.  “Pretz, you’re snoring again.” (Pretz is short for Pretzel, which sounds a bit like Russell, hence the nickname. The fact that pretzels are generally twisted has nothing to do with it---I’m almost certain.)  This mid-night awakening resulted in a familiar mumbled apology and a shuffling off to the spare bedroom.
The subject was revived in the light of day. “Not only are you snoring, it’s like you stop breathing for a while, and then start up again.”

“That’s disconcerting,” I said. “For a long-suffering wife, it must be like receiving a pardon from the governor, only to have it snatched away thirty seconds later.”
Donna replied, “Thou hast said.”

Actually, my lovely wife was sympathetic, and she urged me to go forthwith to a sleep clinic---to have my head examined.
One night a few weeks later I was in a cozy room with a bazillion wires attached to my head.

“Try to just relax and sleep as you normally do," the technician said.
“I don’t normally sleep with a bazillion wires attached to my head.”

“I suspect you don’t normally sleep normally at all---that’s why you’re here.”

I politely explained to her that in my stories I prefer to ascribe to myself any remarks that could be construed as clever.

After a few days I was told the results were in, and I went to see the doctor.  Those of you with a medical background may know him as a Sleepologist, Dreamician, Nocturnist or Snornithologist, but to me he was just the sleep doctor.  An older gentleman hailing from the Hudson River Valley, Dr. Van Winkle told me that on the night I was tested I had “only danced on the edges of deep sleep.”  This came as a complete shock to me. 

“So I can dance?” 
The Dr. was not amused.  He said, “This is a serious condition. You have Sleep Apnea."

Wednesday, February 7, 2018

The Tax-Paying Fish


Ravi Zacharias likes to tell the story of two brothers, known throughout their town as crooked and ruthless in their business dealings. When one of them died, the surviving brother sought out a minister who would be willing to say good things about the dear departed at the funeral.  He told one pastor:

“I will pay you a great sum…if in eulogizing my brother, you will refer to him as ‘a saint.’”

This minister was a man of principle, so he could not speak falsely for carnal gain; but he also knew that he could do some good with the promised funds, so he consented.  With the sanctuary full of those who had been swindled by the brothers and were hoping for some public vindication, the pastor rose to speak:

“The man you see in the coffin was a vile and debauched individual.  He was a liar, a thief, a deceiver, a manipulator, a reprobate, and a hedonist.  He destroyed the fortunes, careers, and lives of countless people in this city, some of whom are here today.  The man did every dirty, rotten, unconscionable thing you can think of.  But compared to his brother here, he was a saint.”  [Can Man Live Without God? pp.136-137, Word Publishing]

Something tells me that the minister in that little anecdote never received a dime from the surviving brother.) Ravi's humorous story reminds us that men of principle cannot always do what others desire or expect of them.  

On one occasion, Jesus was asked to pay the temple tax, an amount that each Jewish man was expected to give to support the great Temple of Jerusalem. Here's the way the incident is recounted by Matthew, who, you may recall, was himself a tax collector for the Roman occupiers of Palestine before Jesus called him.

When they had come to Capernaum, those who received the temple tax came to Peter and said, “Does your teacher not pay the temple tax?”  He said, “Yes.” And when he had come into the house, Jesus anticipated him, saying, “What do you think, Simon?  From whom do the kings of the earth take customs or taxes, from their sons or from strangers?” Peter said to Him, “From strangers.”  Jesus said to him, “Then the sons are free. [Matthew 17:24-26]


Jesus' point was, since the temple was for the worship of God, our sovereign king, it would not be appropriate to expect the Son of God---God in the flesh, to pay such a tax.

Friday, February 2, 2018

Hair Wars


Before I came to faith in Christ, or to be more precise, before I was brought by God’s grace to faith in Christ, I was not too particular about keeping rules, especially if the rule in question made no sense to me. Our high school had a rule that the hair on the back of a male student’s head should not reach beyond the top of the collar of his shirt.  (Back in the twentieth century, we were not given the option of choosing our gender. It was assigned to us before birth.) As you can guess, the hair on the collar rule was one I resisted.

When my hair began to extend over my collar (as it inevitably did, and still tends to do, albeit in smaller quantities) I was summoned to Principal Henley’s office. A fly on the wall of that office would have heard----  

unintelligible noises coming from the giants in the room.

But suppose that fly had been trained to distinguish and comprehend human speech, and suppose it could recall it word for word decades later?  You’re right---it’s a huge stretch.  Why don’t we just forget about the fly?  How about this: Suppose Principal Henley kept a tape recorder in his office, and suppose the sound on the recording was still audible today.  Perhaps we would hear:

PH: Please take a seat, Young Man. Do you know why you’re here, Mr. Sukhia?

Me: I have a general idea.

PH: Enlighten me.

Me: Well according to Mr. Todd and the Science Department, I’m here as a result of something my parents did in secret over 16 years ago now.

PH: Do you know why you’re in my office?

Me: I was in French Class and a student aide came…

PH: (rather loudly interrupting) You are here because you need a haircut.

Me: Why do I need a haircut?

PH: Your hair is too long.

Me: I don’t think it’s too long.

PH: That has nothing to do with it.

Me: How can that be? It’s my hair…Wait---look at that fly.

PH: What about it?

Me: I think it’s listening to us.

Friday, January 26, 2018

It's Raining Cats and Apples








The same issue of Time Magazine that told of fifteen pounds of frozen pork finding its way onto a fellow’s Ft. Lauderdale roof in mid-July (See When Pigs Flew also noted the following:

Rush-hour motorists were alarmed when it began raining apples over a main road in Coventry, England, in 2011.                                                                                                                                     

I don’t know about you, but I’ve never seen it raining apples, though we’ve all seen it raining cats and dogs so often that it's become cliché, and we’re exhorted by the guardians of the language to euthanize the expression.  In fact, here's the message that the retired English teacher who monitors my laptop sent me the moment I typed the words raining cats and dogs, which she underlined in green.

The marked word or phrase may be overused or unnecessary to the meaning of your sentence. For a more forceful and convincing sentence, consider replacing or shortening the word or phrase.
Thank you, Mrs. Hughes. If I had known you would have to keep working into your eighties, I might have been a bit more respectful in high school. Perhaps you’ll allow this shortened version:                

We’ve all seen it raining cats.
Okay. That worked.  No objections from Mrs. Hughes. 
She’s the one, by the way, who couldn’t help but notice that one of her most promising students, Donna Kilmer, Secretary of the Lyman High School chapter of the National Honor Society, and voted Best-All-Around by her classmates, was fraternizing with one of Mrs. Hughes' least promising students, voted Most Likely to be Mauled by a Bear. She took Donna aside and tried to tell her, tactfully, that she could do better.  I remember the day distinctly; it was raining Calicoes. Thankfully for me, Donna did not act on our teacher’s wise counsel. Excuse me. My laptop is sending me another message:

Monday, January 22, 2018

When Pigs Flew


Time Magazine reported several months ago that a homeowner in Ft. Lauderdale was trying to determine how 15 pounds of frozen pork landed on the roof of his home one sunny day in mid-July.  This piqued my interest, not just for the obvious mystery---how and why did the pork end up on the guy’s roof, but also because, having lived in South Florida, I recall how unlikely it was to find anything frozen outside in July (or, come to think of it, in any other month). 

But because Wry Bread connoisseurs (yes, I had to spell-check it) have learned to look here for answers to life’s mysteries, such as, “Who in his right mind would get within ten yards of a wild bear just for a better photo?” Answer:  No one in his right mind; and, “What idiot would conclude that dropping campaign materials from a plane onto his high school campus would persuade his classmates to elect him their president?” Answer: Just one idiot I know of; the idiot in question will here propose explanations for what shall now (and never again) be called the Porcine Parapet Predicament.  (No, technically a parapet is not a roof, but it’s close enough.) 
How did 15 pounds of frozen pork end up on this fellow’s roof?

Explanation 1: A south Florida Congressman, returning from a DC budget battle with his carry-on luggage filled with pork for a major donor, spotted Scott Pelley of CBS’s Sixty Minutes on the plane, and jettisoned the pork. (No, I don’t know how he got the pork off the plane, but then neither does Scott Pelley.)
                                                                                                                                                                    Explanation 2: A Ft. Lauderdale High School student was running for class president.  The school’s rivals were the Bradenton Wild Boars.  He thought he might create some buzz and win some votes if he dropped a frozen pig from a plane onto the campus.  Unfortunately, not only did he miss the campus, he missed the start of the school year by about six weeks.  His political life came to a swift and sudden end, not unlike that of the pig. (No, I don’t know what office the pig was running for.  I can’t solve ALL the mysteries for you).

Wednesday, January 10, 2018

ST. ISADOR THE FARMER CHURCH



Driving on Rt. 15 in Virginia, I did a double-take when I passed a church named "St. Isador the Farmer." So we're naming churches after farmers now?  How long has this been going on?  Why dont you people tell me anything?  No, it wasn't called the Old McDonald had a Farm Church," but it was close enough. It got me wondering how many other churches are named after farmers.  Is there a Farmer John Church,a Farmer Brown Church, or a Farmer in the Dell Church, maybe one with a sanctuary sponsored by Farmers Insurance, and hymnals courtesy of The Farmers' Almanac?

What about other vocations?  If there's a "St. Isador the Farmer Church" in Virginia, maybe there's a "St. Donald the Developer Church in New York, or a "St. Mario the Plumber Churchin Florence, or a "St. Bob the Builder Church" in Indiana. Perhaps, somewhere in Maryland, there's a "St. Brooks the Third Baseman Church," and if New England still has any churches, one of them may be named "St. Brady the Patriot." 

Wednesday, December 13, 2017

ON BEHALF of ALL HUSBANDS



Speaking on behalf of all husbands (and who better to do so than I?), and as part of my ongoing effort to bridge the gap between the sexes (you may recall my inside scoop on Men’s Rooms in the Wry Bread story, “Rest Room Break”) I now reveal additional information that was previously classified:  

No husband, of any age, creed or ethnicity, ever took the following medical advice: 
“Ask your doctor if your heart is healthy enough for sex.”  
A husband in his right mind would not ask that question, as in his right mind he would be able to reason that his doctor’s answer could be “No.” If not in his right mind, he would never remember to ask the question.  I rest my case.  
Here’s more advice no husband has ever taken:

Saturday, July 8, 2017

Necessity is the Mother of Invention

NECESSITY is the mother of Invention. Invention's father is a guy named Bob. Bob told me he wanted to name his daughter Mary, but Necessity wouldn't hear of it. She had her mind set on "Invention."

Bob tried to reason with her:

•None of the other kids in school will be named 'Invention.'


 •Boys attempting to write her Valentine poems will be forced to use words like intention, declension or detention.

"I'd spend two hours in detention,
If I could be with you, Invention."


•Or her friends will call her Venti, and she'll be humiliated when a middle school boy discovers that at Starbucks, Venti means "very large."


But Bob's arguments were unpersuasive. Necessity was determined.


After giving the matter the thirty seconds of thought that such matters demand ("That's pretty much your thought limit, isn't it Rusty?--PB)  I realized that surely Necessity must have been teased about her OWN name. Kids at school would have called her "Nessie," which not only rhymes with "messy," but is the chosen name of the Loch Ness monster.

Thursday, July 6, 2017

SUICIDE-ATTACK DEER


Last Friday night we were attacked by a suicide-attack deer as we were driving the Prius, our car from the future. It was after 9PM, when most respectable deer are home from work, bouncing their fawning offspring on their numerous knees. The one who attacked us was evidently crouching behind a bush, awaiting our approach on a dark country road in Maryland.  It certainly seemed that he knew we were coming, which makes me suspect that he was tipped off by someone like Tommy (Pretty Boy) Humphrey.  Since I don’t know anyone like Pretty Boy, it was probably him.

He leaped in front of us at the last possible second (the deer, not Pretty Boy), and although I immediately hit the brakes, we collided. The good news is that if the deer was wearing a suicide-vest, it didn't detonate. I suspect this was because he hadn't anticipated my cat-like reflexes, so he was struck in the hindquarters rather than the chest as he evidently intended. The point of impact was the very front of the car, where there is (or was) an oval shaped Toyota emblem.

I don't think I'll ever forget the hatred I saw in his eye just before impact.  (The hatred was in his left eye, in case you were wondering.) My first thought was that the attack might be ISIS-related, through its radicalized deer army, DASH (Deer/Angry/Suicidal/Hostile).  But as you know, those attacks are usually planned for places where large numbers congregate. This deer seemed to be waiting for us specifically.

At Risk to Die of BB's


After some routine blood work involving a small vial of My Precious being extracted from my left arm, I had a follow up appointment with my new Asian doctor.  Although I should point out that he is far more fluent in my native language than I am in his, issues remain.

"Blood levels not good. Too high. You at risk to die of BBs."


This came as a complete shock, first because I assumed my risk of dying of BBs dropped dramatically after my brothers stopped shooting me; and second, because even with all the trumpeted advancements in medicine, I couldn’t see how a simple blood test could reveal the risk of a future BB shot. 
“The patient’s blood looks normal, with that red color we’ve come to expect, but his BB titers are elevated.  The short term risk of a lethal BB shot is quite high.”

Then it occurred to me that maybe what the doctor meant was that the test revealed BBs already present in the blood, BBs that have presumably been there for decades. 


If so, the BBs would have company.  I remember one day when I dropped my pencil while sitting on a stool in a Lyman High drafting class in Longwood, Florida, north of Orlando.  I had the presence of mind and the catlike reflexes to clap my legs together and catch it, thus saving me the trouble of stepping off the stool to retrieve it, as some of my slower classmates had to do when they dropped their pencils.  Had my recently sharpened pencil been falling vertically, this clapping together of the legs might have been a good plan.  It was not.  If you are ever assigned the task of identifying my body, let me make it easy for you.  Look for a 1/8 inch black foreign object below the skin on my right thigh about six inches above the knee.

Rusty Dumpty's not so Great Fall


    

Our home has two skylights.  They both fulfill their purpose well, if as I assume, their purpose is to bring in sky light.  One of them, however, has developed the annoying habit of also bringing in sky rain.  I don’t know about your home, but in ours, light is welcome; rain is not.  I consulted a man more knowledgeable in such matters than I (which was easy, as I just had to consult any other man).  We went on the roof together one November day and he showed me where to caulk to prevent further interior hydration.  An hour or two later the skylight was as tight as your Uncle Scrooge, or your Uncle Scrooge’s drum, or your Uncle Scrooge  beating a drum with the minister’s cat, after a Christmas bowl of smoking bishop.

For several weeks after what I’d like to call the November Peace Caulks (but decided against it), I was cautiously optimistic that our détente might lead to a permanent resolution. But during a heavy downpour one December morning, rain began dripping down our living room wall and onto our carpet, a flagrant violation of the Rooftop Peace Accord.  Our response had to be swift and firm if we were to maintain any credibility in the international skylight community.  Heedless of the wind and weather, I donned rain-gear and ventured out.  [“Wait---if you had been in fact heedless of the wind and weather, Rusty, you wouldn’t have donned rain-gear.”] Look Pretty Boy, apart from one carol, when do we get to use the phrase, “heedless of the wind and weather?”  If you expect me to let your thoughts intrude into my stories, you’ll have to cut me some slack.

Saturday, April 4, 2015

Everyone's a Critic


The experts at the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) have declared June 1 to November 30 to be “Hurricane Season.”  When they did this last year, I thought it was a bad idea, and sure enough, before long a Hurricane with the odd name of Arthur ambled up the east coast, messing up beach vacations.   No one declares a Volcano Season or an Earthquake Season for good reason; we don’t want to encourage such things.  The Centers for Disease Control (CDC) doesn’t declare a Bubonic Plague Period, or Typhoid Time.  The Justice Department doesn’t announce a Murder Month, or a Kidnapping Week.  This is plain common sense.  In the same way, you don’t put a mobile home in an open field in Oklahoma unless you want to attract tornadoes, and you don’t hang a ham in your garage unless you want to attract stray dogs, flies, or Tommy Humphrey. 
NOAA has even gone so far as to pick out names for each storm this year, including Bill, Fred and Sam for the run of the mill storms; Claudette for a storm of French origin; and for a fierce tempest they never want repeated (or pronounced), Joaquin.  I am particularly troubled that they have chosen to call one of the storms Grace.  Even if this were not the name of our sweet daughter, it would still be a lousy name for a violent storm.   Why not Hurricane Hannibal, or Hurricane Hitler?  Or does NOAA think we can tame the beast by assigning it a benign name?  I’ve tried it.  It didn’t work with Pretty Boy Humphrey.

Talk of violent storms takes me back to South Florida, where we coexisted with hurricanes (sometimes just barely) for several years.  Remind me to tell you about playing ball there.  Oh never mind---you have enough things to remember.  I’ll tell you about it now. 

Sunday, February 1, 2015

The Battle of Glenridge: Thus Always to Tyrants


My parents moved our family from Maryland to Central Florida in the summer after I completed sixth grade.  That fall, after a few traumatic weeks finding my way around my new school, it was becoming clear to me that none of the friends I had at Old Post Road Elementary in Abingdon, Maryland had been promoted to the seventh grade; or if they had been, clearly none had been assigned to Glenridge Junior High in Orlando.  Every living being in the school was a complete stranger to me; and if there were dead beings there, they were even stranger, although perhaps less complete.  

The campus was sprawling, covering several acres, and just a single story high, as are most Florida schools.  That way, if a building or two is swallowed by a sinkhole, or lost in a hurricane, it’s just a single story loss.  For some reason I had chosen Band as my seventh period elective, although I had two relevant problems; I couldn’t play an instrument, and I couldn’t read music.  Even today the smell of a clarinet reed strikes me with terror.  You would be terrified too if you were expected to play selections from Scheherazade with the aforementioned handicaps.  The Persian bride Scheherazade faced beheading if the king decided he wanted to hear no more from her.  I experienced a similar dread every time the teacher asked me to play.  I grew to hate Rimsky; and truth be told, I wasn’t that fond of Korsakov.

The alternative courses available during seventh period must have been really horrid---“Sinkhole Filling for Newcomers,” or “Sandspur Picking, 101.”  Sandspurs, for the uninitiated, are sharp spiny things, like three-dimensional asterisks, about the size of pencil erasers, and they’re as common in Florida as moss on trees. They stick to your socks, find a way to your skin and can’t be removed without drawing blood from your fingers.  Their primary function, it seems, is to keep Floridians from overdosing on Vitamins C and D by releasing a healthy bit of their blood each day.  Their secondary function is to make Phys. Ed class in the heat and humidity even more unpleasant than it would otherwise be, and make no mistake, it would otherwise be unpleasant enough.  

The worst thing about PE, of course, was showering with a slew of other boys, some of whom had so perfected the art of snapping a towel against an unsuspecting posterior that it would leave a welt.  The other worst thing (yes, there were two worst things about PE) was when, once every eight or ten days, presumably because the coach was in a foul mood, the dreaded words began to filter through the school from the earlier periods, “Happy Hour Today.”  Happy Hour was the name coined by the Marquis de Sade for an entire PE period devoted to jumping jacks, sit-ups, pull-ups, and laps around the track.  I believe he called it "l’heure joyeux."  Some of the kids blamed Happy Hour on the fitness initiative of President Kennedy (whose French wife, it was rumored, was related to the Marquis).  But I have come into possession of an old reel-to-reel tape recording from a closed-door session in Tallahassee.  The following is an exact transcript, with expletives deleted: 

Monday, January 26, 2015

When Blizzards were Blizzards

Earlier this winter, my brother Doug and his wife Nancy endured a Buffalo snowfall with accumulations recorded between five and seven feet----but enough about them.  Their storm can’t be compared to the one Donna and I survived when we lived there, the historic Western New York Blizzard of ‘77.  In those days, before the environmentalists got their hands on our atmosphere, America was cranking out pollutants to beat the band, and Buffalo was a major band beater.  The weather pattern then was as follows:  In Buffalo’s summer, which usually fell sometime between the first and fifteenth of August, industrial waste would block the sun’s rays and help to hasten the season we were famous for, winter.  In winter, moisture from Lake Erie would condense around the various toxins in the clouds, and the result would be the descent of huge, semi-metallic snowflakes, and lots of them. 

Yes, other cities received occasional snow pollution; my brother Kenny, who as a child in Baltimore would catch snowflakes on his tongue, still has tongue shrapnel, which along with his suspicious-sounding last name, makes it tough for him to get through airport security.  But Buffalo snow was renowned for its high metallic content.  When the mountains of snow eventually melted, almost always before the Fourth of July, our kids would earn spending money raking up the metal fragments in the yard and selling them back to one of the local steel plants.  The air pollution wasn’t especially good for our lungs, but in those days, you must remember, lungs were toughened by the second-hand smoke everyone inhaled in public places.

Let the record show that the recent snow in Buffalo was comprised entirely of young, flighty November flakes.  By contrast, the Blizzard of ‘77 used only mature, January snow.  In Buffalo, January flakes are ripe and plump, and they hit like mini-snowballs.  The flakes in that blizzard were especially fat; every time three of them landed on each other they formed a snowman.  Donna and I were in Northeast Philly visiting our friends, Wayne and Phyllis Clapier, when we heard a forecast of heavy snow for western New York, which didn’t alarm us.  If at that point they had called it the historic blizzard of ‘77 we might have been more concerned, but no one got around to naming it until later.  It’s also true that at the time I didn’t put much stock in meteorologists’ forecasts because I thought, “What qualifies someone who studies meteors to make predictions about the weather?”  It has since been explained to me that meteorologists focus not on meteors, but on meteorites, and anything that plunges into our atmosphere must have some effect on it.  So I stand corrected.

Monday, November 10, 2014

Bye Bye Birdies

 
If you’ve read my little book, Wry Bread, then you already know me to be a man of exceptional courage.  Those exceptions include bears, sharks, wolves, high school principals, feisty aunts, Godzilla and any other real or fictitious creature which may inadvertently (or advertently) bring me harm.  Some throw caution to the wind (and when you think about it, we’ve never been offered another place to throw it) and do things like attend Yankee games, as if they had never heard of Lou Gehrig’s Disease.  But it’s not through such recklessness that I’m just one day shy of reaching the ripe old age at which, as I was told by my high school mentors John and Paul, every summer Donna and I can rent a cottage in the Isle of Wight (if it’s not too dear) with Vera, Chuck and Dave on her knee.  In high school it didn’t seem preposterous that at sixty-four we could put three grandchildren on one knee.  This snake adventure highlights the caution that has served me so well yea these many years.

It was a warm evening in early summer; the Katydids were chattering and the lightening bugs flashing---wait, maybe they weren’t.  I can’t remember now.  But I remember I happened to look out our large front picture window and see a long black something on our white porch railing.  (Why we call it a picture window, I don’t know, as there’s no picture on it---I just checked to make sure.  All I could find is an ADT™ sticker left by the last occupant.  I suppose I should have removed the sticker sometime in the past ten years, since ADT™ has never received a dime from us to protect our home, but as I didn’t put the sticker on there, I felt no constraint to take it off.  The only person it might mislead is one intending to rob us, or one trying to sell us a home-security system, and I have little sympathy for either of those fellows, who, now that I think of it, may in fact be the same fellow.  The ADT™ sticker really has nothing to do with the story, so why don’t we just move on?  We’re almost at the snake part.  We’d have been there a lot sooner if not for the sticker, but remember, I’m not the one who put it on the window.)  

You’ve probably guessed by now that the long black something on our white porch railing was----a dog leash.  Wrong.  It was a snake.  Don’t you remember when I called this a snake story?  Not only was it a snake, and black, but it was a Black Snake, which makes it doubly black and doubly snake-ish.  He or she was about 3 feet long, and about two inches in diameter, and shall be referred to hence as “it.”  It seemed to have an inordinate interest in the small cylindrical wooden birdhouse hanging from the porch roof support, about two and a half feet above said snake.  You may have already deduced, from the snake’s interest, that the birdhouse was occupied by a family of-----dog leashes.  Wrong again!   It was occupied by a family of birds, including several recently hatched chicks.  

Tuesday, January 21, 2014

Ivan The Terrible


The following item appeared in our newspaper last week:
“On this date in 1547, Ivan IV of Russia, popularly known as ‘Ivan the Terrible,’ was crowned Czar.”

This got me wondering:  Just how dreadful must the other candidates have been, if the man popularly known as ‘Ivan the Terrible’ was crowned Czar? Then I discovered a rare transcript of the Czar Search Committee from early 1547.

“Thank you all for coming.  Let us get right to the point.  Vlad the Horrendous, you have many qualities we were looking for in a leader.  But I’m afraid the committee has decided to go in a different direction.  With so many ruthless applicants, we hope you understand our dilemma. Sergei the Atrocious, you were under serious consideration, as were you, Igor the Malodorus.  All in Russia have heard of your great exploits, and of the Cossack town, Slovitch the Serene, known since your visit as Slovitch the Smoldering;  surely never again will any innkeeper be so imprudent as to suggest that you and your men should ‘sleep with the pigs.’   The decision we announce today should not be understood as disparaging your capacity for pillaging and plundering.  Keep up the---ah, work.  I must say, Pavel the Appalling, the committee was impressed with your collection of Polish toes, until one member pointed out that it is impossible to determine if, as you say, they were cut off the unfortunate peasants following your sacking of a defenseless town, or they simply reflect natural Siberian-winter toe-loss.  Dimitri the Despicable, and Nicolai the Nefarious, we love the alliteration; but although we have no reason to doubt your claim to be scoundrels of the baser sort, we were unable to verify any truly heinous acts ascribed to you.” 

Sunday, January 5, 2014

Wry Bread Now in Book Form

As readers of Little Loaves may know, several months ago I compiled the stories I had written up to that point into a book, and self-published them as an E-book on Amazon.com.   You can see it by going to the Amazon site, clicking Kindle Books, and searching for Wry Bread. Since then, the book has far exceeded all expectations.  (This was not hard to do, in that no one expected it to sell any copies.)  Having persuaded, cajoled and shamed several family members and friends into buying the book, sales of Wry Bread have plateaued at about 30. Let me emphasize, that's thirtynot thirty thousand.  By the way, you can encourage more people to read the book by giving it a positive review on the site.  The best thing to do with a negative review is mail it to me without postage.

Some friends asked if I would publish Wry Bread the old fashioned way---you know, printed on paper made from trees. That has now been done, and those are selling like---well not so much like hotcakes, more like bread that sells slowly. The paperback books of 190 pages are available for a suggested donation of $8 each, or $10 with shipping included (within the U.S.) Just Email me at RussSukhia2@gmail.com to request your fresh baked copy. 

Tuesday, October 8, 2013

The Best Laid Schemes



When my lovely wife Darla and I had some plans derailed recently, I was reminded of the words of Robert Burns: “The best laid schemes of mice and men gang aft a-gley.”  What he meant was, they get messed up.  Take that verse, for example.  Burns started off well: “The best laid schemes of mice and men…”  That phrase showed promise.  We weren’t sure where he was going with it, but juxtaposing the mice with the men was enough to generate interest, and spin off a novel or two. Then his verse got sidetracked with gangs and gleys.  I suppose his gang reference shouldn’t surprise us; he wouldn’t be the first poet involved in gang activity (Longfellow’s Gitche Gumee Boys spring to mind).  But what’s this business of afting a-gley?  “The best laid schemes of mice and men gang aft a-gley.” 

I’ve concluded he intentionally messed up the line to prove his point.  The verse didn’t just pronounce that the best-laid schemes tend to go awry, it demonstrated it, by going awry.  It’s kind of like onomatopoeia---you remember: the word used to identify the noise bees make actually sounds like the noise bees make.  I think Burns was handing future generations a fresh figure of speech---let’s call it “gang-afting,” to add to metaphor, simile, alliteration, personification, etc. (If you’ve ever had to create a Match the Figure of Speech to its Name Quiz for an English class, you know that you can always use another figure of speech; if possible, you’d rather not resort to the use of Metonymy and Synecdoche).  Burns gifted us with gang-afting: to start out with a good plan that gets royally messed up.  I suspect there are other examples of it out there. We just didn’t know it because we weren’t looking for them, and we wouldn’t have known what to call them if we’d seen them.  I could do a search of English literature and maybe come up with a few examples, but that would require time and effort, and alter my normal pattern.  However, any reader who performs such a search will receive extra credit.

I’m more curious about how Burns determined that the best-laid schemes of mice go astray. We won’t give him any argument about men’s schemes, having watched a number of botched rocket launches (which were presumably planned by rocket scientists), but there seems to me to be no good reason to impugn the best-laid plans of mice.  Granted, some schemes of mice go astray, unless those particular mice schemed to have their backs suddenly broken while they nibbled on a tiny glob of peanut butter or cheese.  But I suspect that, among all the schemes those mice may have entertained for that particular evening---chewing into the box of rice in the pantry, eating the crumbs around the toaster, making the humans jump and scream, encouraging the Mrs. to try to make more mice---the plan to eat the food on that odd looking wooden contraption under the kitchen sink was not among the “best laid.”  I would not want to be the reporter, interviewing the grieving mouse spouse on the following day, who suggested to her that the unfortunate events of the previous evening were the results of her hubby’s “best laid” scheme. 

Monday, September 23, 2013

Colonoscopy Games

Since I revealed my shocking medical condition in the article, Hospital Cat Scams, scores of Wry Bread readers on various continents have written to inquire about the present status of my health.  Well, maybe not scores, but several of you.  Okay, the word several may give the wrong impression, let’s just say that some of you have---well, you haven’t actually written---you’ve been busy with other things, I’m sure, but I have no doubt you’ve been anxious about my current condition, perhaps subconsciously. Yes, that’s it.  There’s been a lot of subconscious anxiety going on.  So to ease your mind, and to permit you to focus on your daily tasks undistracted, I will bring you up to date on my progress. 

As you may recall, I was driven to an emergency room by severe stomach pain (and for a pain, it drove surprisingly well), where a cat scan revealed that although my intestinal tract was completely cat-free (as I kept insisting), there were diverse ticks in my litis (a segment of the colon, I presume).  The technical name is Diverticulitis.  I was told to follow up with the doctor who had conducted my last colonoscopy.  This seemed an odd choice, because in that procedure, just months before, this “expert” had detected no signs of ticks.  The question before us was a simple one; in light of the new diagnosis, should I schedule another colonoscopy?  I argued for the opposition. 

In case you haven’t yet had the experience, the colonoscopy, as one might guess, involves a colon and a scope.  As the patient reclines face down in a poor-excuse for a robe, the doctor, having previously chosen a convenient point of access, drives a remote-controlled camera through the hairpin turns of the patient’s digestive tract, all the while trying not to collide with the intestinal wall.  If he touches the wall, a buzzer sounds and he loses his turn.  Then the next doctor steps in, but he can’t begin where the first doctor left off.  He has to begin at Start (also called Home). 

In the Sorry™ version of the colonoscopy, before he can enter the colon with his scope, each doctor has to draw either a one or a two from the deck of cards which the nurse has provided.  Furthermore, if while Doctor A is probing the colon, Doctor B draws a Sorry™ card, Doctor A has to go all the way back to start, even if he was almost at the end (you’re right, Pretty Boy, one might say these doctors are always at the end).  This version can take a bit longer than the classic version, but it has the advantage of suspense, in that one can never tell which doctor will complete it first. 

Friday, August 2, 2013

Our Car from the Future



We recently bought a Prius.  It’s from the future.  Like cars from the past, it has a gasoline engine, but it also has a mid-twenty-first century energy generator that, even if I understood, I’m legally forbidden to describe until the year 2050, when the car was built, which happens to be long after my prospective departure date.  Exactly how we bought a car from the future will be explained below.  You need to learn to be patient. 

When we mention to people that we’re averaging between 55 and 61 miles per gallon (and that seems to come up a lot) they usually say, “But you have to plug it in, right?”  I think what they’re saying is:

“You doofus!  It’s not such a bargain if you have to pay the electric company for the juice you use---plus you have the hassle of having to remember to plug in the car every night, and you have to find charging stations when you’re traveling.  Don’t call me when you’re stranded on I-95.”   

But I respond, “That’s not the way it works (in other words, I see your doofus, and raise you one).”  It’s not a plug-in car.  It generates some of its own energy.  The whole scheme is displayed in animation on a magic 3D monitor in the cockpit (apparently they no longer use written language in 2050).  The 3D image depicts energy flowing from brakes to batteries to motors and back again.  I’m sure it makes perfect sense to the young engineer who designed it, who probably won’t be born for several years. 

Thursday, March 14, 2013

Hospital Cat Scams

I had to have a Cat Scan this week.  It’s no wonder health care costs are crazy high, when invariably, the first thing that’s recommended, when you’re sick, is an expensive test to scan you for cats.  The statistics are not readily available (surprise), but I suspect that fewer than one in ten thousand Cat Scans comes back positive.  Just because there’s a machine that can do it doesn’t mean it should be done.  This is a perfect example of big medical corporations marketing products that hospitals don’t really need.  All an aggressive salesperson had to do was convince one hospital administrator to invest a few hundred grand (which, I understand, a hospital can make from one day’s mark-up on Acetaminophen) for the “latest technology,” and every other hospital had to follow suit.  No hospital wanted to be the only one in town without a fancy new Cat Scanning device.  Did any administrator pause to ask, “How in the world would the cat get in there in the first place?”---Evidently not.  Now that universities have cracked down on fraternity cat-gulping parties, abdominal cat diagnoses are actually relatively rare.  Are we supposed to believe that thousands of kittens are wandering into their owner’s open mouths at night, attracted by their snoring?   I know kittens are curious, but that sounds a bit far-fetched.

Sunday, March 10, 2013

Foxes and Beavers and Owls, Oh My.

We’ve been told since we were children that foxes are sly.  But I’ve seen quite a few of them dead in the road recently.  I can only assume they’re having some unpleasant interactions with fast moving vehicles.  I don’t know about you, but it strikes me as not particularly sly to run directly across the path of a car or truck hurtling down a highway.  

“Hey, Ralph.  How much you wanna bet I can get to the other side of the smooth trail before that next giant monster runs by?” 

“You mean that big one with the round black feet and the fire-eyes that’s coming incredibly fast?  I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Sly. Why don’t you just wait until he goes by?  Remember Cousin Wily tried the same thing last week and—Sly?  SLY!

Even people generally regarded as, shall we say—not particularly sly—seldom try to outrun cars and trucks.  If they did, there would be a severe pastor shortage, and perhaps Pretty Boy would be known as Pretty-Banged-up-Humphrey. 

Now someone may respond (let’s call him Melvin),

“This is simply nature’s way of weeding out the foxes that don’t deserve the sly label—in other words, a way of protecting the brand.  The vast majority of foxes are clever enough to wait until the monster passes before crossing the street.  The ones you see flattened are the few, the proud, the non-sly.”  

Sunday, February 24, 2013

Though it be Madness

My watch battery died.  Now I have to advance the minute hand manually.  It pretty much takes up my whole day.  This has given me a greater appreciation for people in the old days, before there were time-savers like batteries.  It’s no wonder it took them forever to get anything done, like, inventing batteries.  For example, it has taken me twenty-two minutes just to write the above, taking a break every fifty-five seconds to advance my watch.  Of course moving the minute hand only takes about five seconds.  The time-consuming part is counting “one Mississippi,” “two Mississippi,” etc., until I get to “fifty-five Mississippi,” over and over again.  (The only thing worse might be typingone Mississippi,” “two Mississippi,” etc.  By the way, I don’t know that I’ve ever been to Mississippi, but the scuttlebutt seems to be, one Mississippi is more than enough, and fifty-five Mississippies would be way too many---But this is getting us off track, or it would be if we had some sort of track, and if we were on it.)