We were going out to dinner at a rather posh restaurant, Maison Le Snoot, and I knew I was going to have to endure a personal inspection before we left.  First, there would be the wifespeak question: “Is that what you’re wearing?” which, of course, is not a question at all.  It translates to: “You cannot go out in that outfit to an upscale restaurant. They must have dress requirements.”

I decided to check that out when I called for the  reservation.  “Do you have a dress code?” I asked the reservation lady who happened to be Ms Snoot, the proprietor.

“Yes, Sir, but it’s quite liberal.”

“Well, do you check the color of socks, for instance?  Are white socks permitted with a dark suit?  I’ve been told that’s quite gauche.”

“We only check socks during the dinner hours and white socks are permitted if you have a doctor’s certificate indicating a medical necessity.  Any other time, especially on Father’s Day,  socks coloring  and even being sockless is optional.”

My old tweed sports jacket with the yellow leatherette elbow patches would only be permitted  if I didn’t take off my approved overcoat. (They would seat me near an air conditioner vent.)  Sneakers are banned and patent leather shoes are preferred, but a good shine on leather Florsheims would be tolerated. Neckties are required, even under turtle neck sweaters, Ms. Snoot said.

Baseball caps are not permitted, Ms. Snoot said, unless the diner is an all-star major league player and then he’d have to wear his complete uniform without the cleated shoes, of course.  His cap brim must be in the forward position at all times.

“I’m sure you don’t allow smoking,” I said, “but I’ve been chewing gum since I gave up the coffin nails.  Is gum chewing allowed, Ms. Snoot?”

“Oh, certainly Sir. We have a gum chewing section. Just ask the Maitre de.”



It takes courage to compile a bucket list you honestly intend to accomplish. My cousin Dolores fulfilled her dream by skydiving on her 80th birthday.  I’ve jumped out of  planes  many times, but I’ve always waited until they landed, so I’m sure I was more nervous watching her video than she was while plummeting to earth with only a few yards of nylon preventing a free-fall landing at 300 miles per hour. (You can check the math for mph after falling 3,000 ft) . Dolores’ helmet would have been no help.. However, the odds for a safe tandem skydive are excellent, about 500,000 to one. Statiscally, you should be more frightened getting into your car than buckling on a chute.

There are bucket list choices that some would call foolhardy.  A friend told me he hoped to swim the Hudson River before he died. I heard later he planned to accomplish this and I called to congratulate and encourage him. His wife answered the phone. “He’s in the river now and I’m worried sick,” she said.

“It’s only about a mile across to Manhattan from Jersey and he’s a good swimmer,” I said. “He’ll be landing in the Big Apple in no time.”

“He’s not swimming across,” she said.  “He’s swimming lengthwise.”

The last I heard he’d reached Poughkeepsie and was going strong just 235 miles from the Hudson’s source in the Adirondacks.  Fortunately, he’s accompanied by another bucket lister who wants to row his boat to Glens Falls.”

I don’t have a bucket list even though I’m getting pretty close to the bucket. I’m hoping they’ll let me fulfill a post-bucket list, because I’d need supernatural help.  A certain company has afflicted me for years with neglect and overcharges.  I’ll call the outfit “McNasty Enterprises LLC” and won’t bore you with details of their misbehavior. If I get to heaven I’d like to be granted some get-even powers. There would be no physical harm involved, just a little mischief.

For instance if I can spiritually hack McNasty’s computers I would temporarily replace their accounts receivable files with Rachael Ray recipes and clips of Marx Brothers movies. I’d also want to levitate the billing department manager whenever he’s inventing fictitious fees or browbeating a customer.

I hope Saint Peter would grant my request. It might convert a few crafty characters and save them some Purgatory time.


I’ve had to contend with only two real antagonists in my lifetime.  They are a couple of squirrels that have raided my bird feeder daily.  I paid dearly for complicated “squirrel-proof” feeders trying to thwart the little ravenous beasts.  The designs were quite ingenious and they all worked, one for almost a week before Bonnie and Clyde, the aforementioned squirrels,  figured them out.

The wintry day that I hung the first of these expensive contraptions on a back yard oak limb I watched from my window as the thieving pair approached.  Clyde struck first, climbing the tree and leaping onto the feeder. He looked surprised to discover that his weight had brought down a protective shield that closed all the feeding holes.

He returned to the ground to explain the problem to Bonnie. They appeared sad as they ambled off to search for buried acorns and open garage cans.  They returned the next day.  Clyde climbed the tree again and gnawed at the stout hitching line until the $50 feeder plunged to the ground and split open.  Dinner was served.

Another imaginative design had a small feed compartment in the middle of a seesaw platform.  Any would-be diner heavier than two or three catbirds would tip the platform steeply sending him flying.  Bonnie and Clyde worked as a team, each climbing to an opposite side and taking turns at the feeder while a flock of hungry sparrows screeched expletives from a nearby tree.

And so it went until I installed a clear plastic feeder that attached to my man-cave window with suction cups.  I can now sit and watch cardinals, chickadees, nuthatches and an occasional redheaded woodpecker chow down.  Several weeks have passed and Bonnie and Clyde have not yet figured a way to climb up aluminum siding.

I saw them in the yard this morning, looking up forlornly at a squadron of feeding finches. It looked like Clyde’s mouth was watering.  Maybe I’ll go out and toss them a handful or two of Cheerios and peanuts from time to time until some neighborhood birder puts up a feeder that’s not Clyde-proof.  I can’t let them starve.  It looks like Bonnie may be expecting and is scrounging for two.


We tend to use age old expressions that are quite inaccurate and which we contradict in our next breath.  Yet none of us objects to hearing these phrases because we’re all dedicated users.  Why is that?  Well, it goes without saying.  See what I mean? That’s one of the phrases and if it were true, that would be the end of this post. No one hardly ever says, “It goes without saying” and then shuts up. No, we go on at great length to explain why it goes without saying.

What is the reason for these popular phony phrases?  You might reply “It’s perfectly obvious”  but of course it isn’t.   Or you might say “If you asked me” and then proceed, like I’m doing now, to pontificate long windedly without actually being asked.

“Not to mention” is another good example, Whoever says that is on the verge of mentioning something to support an opinion.  But how can you say “not to mention” without mentioning what you said you were not going to mention?

I often begin with “Needless to say”  before explaining in great detail my take on a particular subject.  At some point a listener will say, while looking at his watch, “I hate to interrupt” (a polite phony phrase), but didn’t you also say you were going to make a long story short?”

Most of our phony phrases are rather harmless, but be careful about ones like, “I’m not one to pry, but…..” and  “I don’t believe in spreading vicious rumors, but have you heard….?



It’s Wednesday which is garbage day eve

and I’m planning what I’m going to heave.

It was once more spontaneous

with all of it  miscellaneous.

Now each item is separately placed

in containers  “recycled” and ” yard waste”.

There’s hazardous too,

loose paint and hard glue,

our old meds and tonics,

and broken electronics.

This sorting of all my debris

is taking its toll on me.

A task that just stumps.

I feel so down in the dumps.




Most of us have had at least one nickname during our lifetime and maybe even a current one.  If you’re in a position of authority you might have a nickname you don’t know about – and that you wouldn’t want to know about.

Parents will agonize over the given names of their newborn son.  Should he be named after an ancestor, a saint or a famous person?  His first and second names should go well with his surname and think about the resulting monogram.  Philip Ignatius Ginty, for instance, would be a bad choice.

After long debates the parents decide on Donald Madison Ginty and then proceed to call the boy “Snooky” for his first five years.  By the end of Donald’s first day in kindergarten his Disney fan classmates have dubbed him “Ducky Ginty” and he’s stuck with that for the rest of his school years.

There are websites with lists of nicknames, complimentary and otherwise. We didn’t need that kind of help in the old days.  We relied on inspiration and imagination.  We named our somber and sickly-looking high school chemistry teacher “Zombie”. Of course he didn’t know this, but on occasion a boy would be sent to the principal’s office for a discipline infraction and he would blurt out, “The Zombie sent me.”

As a kid I would have liked being called something like “Buck” or “Duke”,  but my friends chose less picturesque nicknames which I do not choose to revive here.  I still have some strict rules about name shortening.  I tell my friends they can call me Eugene or Gene, but not “Huge” until I find an effective weight-loss plan.

There’s the story of the tough-looking cowboy who was asked by his ranch foreman, “What part of Texas are you from, Tex?”

“New Orleans,” Tex replied.

“But that’s not in Texas.”

“Ain’t nobody gonna call me Louise.”