The Vampire's Tomb

Last Saturday, after a yoga lesson and a morning meeting, my pal Constance & I went to brunch at The Black Sheep. This is a small restaurant in the Carver District, and the food and coffee are quite good. Since it was an exceptionally nice day, cool but sunny, we decided to walk off our meals at Hollywood Cemetery. I'll include a few pictures for you of our famous local boneyard. Some of you may recall reading about this humongous cemetery in a post from last year.


We rode through Oregon Hill, a 19th century neighborhood consisting mostly of old row houses. Within the past few years, blocks of new homes and apartments have been built in this area as well. Oregon Hill is situated next to the river and within sight of the downtown skyline, but for most of its existence was always a neighborhood for the working class. The white working class, to be specific. Within easy walking distance of the VCU campus, at least one black college student was harassed into moving out of the neighborhood when I lived in Oregon Hill back in the mid-80's. I remember how angry I was when I heard about that incident. It seems odd that one has to drive through this hardscrabble neighborhood to reach the burial ground of Presidents.


Constance & I found a place to park and began our stroll. We both enjoyed looking at the various styles of stone monuments. Finding unusual names is fun, too, and a cemetery is the perfect venue for sketching out evil schemes. The last time we went to dinner, Constance had told me about her plan to masturbate to good health and happiness. It seems she had read somewhere about the therapeutic benefits of daily masturbation, and had been giving it a try. I'm always concerned about the well-being of my friends, so I asked her how the plan was working. "Oh, I got bored at Day 17 and quit," Constance admitted disconsolately. I was glad we were taking a walk in Hollywood. There's nothing like a stroll through a sunny cemetery to lift one's spirits.


One family plot that we found interesting and, frankly, amusing was a woodsman's fantasy. The central monument was a stone tree trunk wrapped with stone vines & leaves, and the individual tombstones were stacks of logs (like bundles of firewood). While not the choice of the masses, this sort of theme was apparent in several plots scattered throughout the bucolic landscape. Not my cup of tea, but eye-catching nonetheless.


Near the edge of the bluffs a modern multi-family mausoleum still has space available. If you're sick & tired of moving, consider this for your final home. The central hall is suitable for worship or entertaining, and the terrace boasts spectacular views of the rolling river and the downtown skyline. Garden view, river view, or atrium units available. One bedroom apartments comfortably accommodate most caskets; efficiency units also offered for fancy-free crematory urns. Note: no heating or air conditioning. In our next photo, Constance contemplates the river view while deciding which unit makes her heart beat faster (or not at all).


Down below, we see a train on the CSX tracks below the bluffs. Alongside the railroad tracks, the James River and Kanawha Canal is visible. The canal was first proposed by the young George Washington when he was surveying our country and searching for a way to open a water route to the west for commercial purposes.


The canal was opened in 1790, and allowed vessels called packets to transport goods, bypassing the river rapids. Packet boats drew more water than the bateaux which were used on the James River, and were pulled by mules & horses on towpaths which flanked the canal. This photograph points out the demise of the nation's canal system; this once-promising form of transport was usurped by the locomotive. You can see a couple of walkers enjoying the old towpath.



In the photograph below, you can see the barest glimpse of the James River. Hollywood Cemetery sits on bluffs overlooking the James River rapids.

Below is the mausoleum of Lewis Ginter, the man we met in a previous post. Lewis Ginter made and lost several fortunes in Richmond.

He decided that Richmond deserved a world-class hotel, built the Jefferson Hotel in 1892, and opened the hotel in 1895. At one time, the Jefferson featured live alligators in its marble pools in the Palm Court. Margaret Mitchell stayed at the hotel while writing Gone With The Wind, and it is said that the magnificent marble staircase in the lobby was the inspiration for the one described in Scarlett's Atlanta mansion. There is a long-standing but false rumor that the Jefferson's staircase was used in the film. Today, the Jefferson is recognized with Mobil's Five Star rating and AAA's Five Diamonds.

Since it is my understanding that Mr. Ginter never married, and was a man of impeccable taste and vision, it is my personal belief that he must have been gay. He rests alone in the structure below which overlooks the James River.



Then we have this old girl, typical of cemetery monuments of the era. There are more stone angels in Hollywood Cemetery than you could chase off with a stick.



At last we come to the moment you've been waiting for! The Vampire's Tomb!
Yes, Virginia, there is a vampire. Indeed, Richmond does have a legendary hometown bloodsucker, but he does not exist in the tomb pictured below. He lives at the intersection of False Rumor Boulevard and Wild Imagination Way. True or make-believe, it's fun to point out W.W. Pool's tomb to visitors, because it is a creepy spot in the cemetery. From the sad little lamb at the top of the crypt, to the rusty iron & glass door beyond the iron outer gate, Goth wannabes and Anne Rice fans would be well-pleased with a picnic on W.W. Pool's banquette.


The outer iron door used to be unlocked, so you could step inside the ante-chamber of the tomb. Inside this vestibule, there is an inner door with an ancient lock, and an aperture above this doorway gives a view into the dim burial chamber. This opening only works for tall people, or folks that find something to stand on. Nowadays, the outer door is secured, but you can still peer through the ironwork. Below is the opening between the vestibule and the inner crypt. The upper part of the rusted door frame is visible at the bottom of the photograph. (Edit: I added a photo of the door below the mysterious opening, so you get a fairly good idea of how the whole picture looks at the entrance to the burial chamber. The hexagonal glass pieces fitted into the oxidized muntins were painted long ago, perhaps to foil curiousity seekers)



So, how did the notion of a local vampire spring forth? In 1925, the Church Hill Tunnel along the C&O Railroad track collapsed on a train, killing several workers. One man, a fireman named Ben Mosby, escaped from the tunnel horribly burned by the ruptured steam engine. He died later at Grace Hospital. Somehow, this sad story morphed into the legend of a vampire with jagged teeth and torn skin hanging from his body who was seen disappearing into the tomb of W.W. Pool, as if the actual train disaster weren't horrible enough. The train still rests in the collapsed tunnel, despite attempts to dig it free and retrieve the remaining bodies. The tunnel was ordered to be sealed, leaving inside a steam locomotive and ten flatcars.

Wonderful World

Sheldon has been on a mission lately to learn how to make yeast rolls, but he found time to send me this video. It's guaranteed to warm the cockles of your heart. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

Behind the Door

We have had a couple of sunny days with warmer temperatures. I was not surprised Saturday to arrive home from yoga to find one of my neighbors splayed out in her front yard working on her tan. She knows how to tan, so she's sticking to her plan.

Yesterday morning, before I went to work, I decided to take advantage of the sunlight and the low threat of frostbite by taking a stroll along Monument Avenue before I came to the office. The picture on the left was taken outside Branch House. The property is surrounded by a brick wall, and this is a side service gate. Constructed more like a door, it makes you want to open it to see what lies behind.

Yesterday morning in my early AA meeting we discussed one of our Promises. We do this every Monday, and today's discussion was about "We will suddenly realize that God is doing for us what we could not do for ourselves." We had a powerful discussion centering around this promise. One woman, quiet as a mouse, who has been joining us for a few months opened up and told us some of her private troubles. It was the most we have ever heard from her, and despite the tears and torment I know that she took a healing step this morning by letting us peek behind the door. To watch someone look cautiously into a better life instead of back toward shame and remorse is truly thrilling.

So we're back to the morning walk. I'd like to show you more of Branch House, but the structure is so massive that it's hard to capture it with my cheap little camera. I run the risk of being struck by a car if I stray off the sidewalk. The home was designed by John Russell Pope (who also designed the National Gallery of Art) for John Kerr Branch in 1916, and was completed in 1919. It was the largest private home on the street with a nearly 30,000 square foot interior. That allowed room for a private chapel, so the Branches didn't have to mingle with the hoi polloi. It's now the Virginia Center for Architecture. The photo on the right is from an oblique side/front sort of angle, so you're not seeing much of the house, I'm afraid.

Oh, look, I found a better picture on line. Maybe someone stopped traffic for this photographer. John Kerr Branch was a banker who liked to collect stuff, and I guess if your tastes run toward suits of armor and big old tapestries you need a house with oversized rooms. The house remained in the Branch family until the 1950's, and was then bequeathed to the United Giver's Fund. Who can blame the family? Can you imagine inheriting a money pit like this place? It sits on an entire city block, and I can tell you that city taxes are ghastly. I can hear my mother's ghost whispering in my ear "I'd hate to clean that place." That's the first thing she'd think of, buddy.

In the next block sits this house, designed by William Bottomley (the fellow who designed Stuart Court, one of my favorite former homes). This handsome house is still occupied by Frances Lewis, widow of Sydney Lewis. Together, they co-founded a chain of catalog showrooms that some of you may remember. Best Products started in Richmond, and remained headquartered here until its demise in 1997. Best Products was known for its association with the SITE architectural firm, and many of the Best Products showrooms were famous for whimsical design. I'll include a couple of pictures of Best Products stores at the very bottom of this post.

The Lewises were major 20th century art collectors, and their patronage has greatly benefited the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, located just around the corner from their Monument Avenue home. Their home was also a repository of art, and modern sculptures could frequently be seen in front of their house near the circular driveway. A giant brown clothes-pin stood guard outside the front door for years.

In the previous post I showed a picture of Jeff & Vicki's current house. I knew them for several years before I discovered that they had once lived in the third-floor caretaker's apartment in the Lewis home. Jeff, now a dentist, was studying at MCV many years ago, and met Sydney Lewis several times. One day Mr. Lewis asked Jeff if he & his wife would be interested in moving into their top-floor apartment. Jeff demurred, thanking Mr. Lewis, but explaining that as students they could barely afford to live in their current apartment.

Mr. Lewis told Jeff that they could live there rent-free, if they would agree to keep watch on the house while the Lewises traveled the globe collecting art. Jeff & Vicki had free run of the entire house, as long as Sydney & Frances weren't in town. They could even hold parties, but Sydney cautioned them about who they invited, since the home was stuffed with famous & costly art. Jeff & Vicki were also invited to parties hosted by the Lewises, where patrons and artists mingled. Jeff recalled Andy Warhol moping about in a corner during one gathering.

I can't pretend that I'm on lunch break any longer. I fetched a club sandwich from City Diner, one of my favorite breakfast spots, and - Good Heavens! - it was the tallest club sandwich I have ever tried to eat. My mouth could not stretch wide enough, and I prayed that no one would come in my office while I was trying to wrap my face around the behemoth. It sure was delicious, though. Now I need to get busy unpacking books.

I was sorry to hear that Blossom Dearie died this past Saturday. I love her voice. I'll include a song I found on YouTube of some unknown person's trip to Manhattan. He's bound to be a swell guy, though, if he likes Blossom. So, enjoy one of my favorite Blossom Dearie songs, They Say It's Spring. Rest easy, Miss Dearie.

Brighten Up!

I shot this photograph on my way home from work one evening. I'm glad I did, because when I drove past the other night, the sign had been fixed and now says Princess Cleaners. B O R I N G.

I'm tired of cold, damp, bone-chilling weather.

But I'm grateful that my car has seat heaters. We are entering that phase of the winter of my discontent when I begin longing for warm weather. Still, we have not had a bad time of it here in Virginia, so I'm glad for that. You know those ear-warmers that look like thick headbands? The beanies-without-tops thingies that keep your ears and forehead all snuggly? I have one of those from L.L. Bean, and it will probably turn up one day in August when I need it most.

I've got a few photos for you to look at today. These homes are in Richmond's Northside district. Richmond is set up on an east-west axis. This orientation is based on the course of the James River. Most of Richmond's growth pushed westward, which meant that businessmen had the sun in their eyes to & from work. Lewis Ginter, 19th century Mr. Everything, decided to purchase and develop land north of downtown for gracious living.

Lewis Ginter bought up several hundred acres of farmland, laid roads, installed a sewer system, drilled artesian wells, and planted thousands of shade trees & miles of hedges. He even negotiated an extension of the city's electric trolley car line to Ginter Park for even easier commuting. The neighborhood was joined by others like Bellevue, Sherwood Park, and Barton Heights. Residential growth in the area continued in fits & starts from the late 1800's through the period prior to the Great Depression. You can see the range of years in the photos below.

In the 1950's, Chamberlayne Avenue was designated as Route 1, which brought commercial growth but changed the posh air of the immediate area. Tourist homes popped up, and several of the mansions were converted to nursing homes. Whores and junkies are common sights along this stretch of Route 1 these days, and the beautiful homes sit uneasily a few blocks away.

Here are a couple of the older homes. You can see that these pictures were taken on overcast days.
A few blocks away you will find a neighborhood of homes built in the 1920's. The brick home built in the English Cottage-style is my favorite.
The house below is where my friends Jeff & Vicki live. My favorite room is the one behind the windows on the shed dormer on the third floor. It's very cozy with sloping ceilings. It would be a perfect place to curl up with a good book.

Now let's have a little sunshine.

Scary Mary

My car was covered with snow when I left home this morning. Fortunately, I was expecting this, so I allowed extra time. According to Scott, we will have have another six months of winter. This will be a long day, because tonight I have a monthly work-related meeting that usually keeps me at the office until ten o'clock.

I went to bed early so that I'd be rested today. I watched a documentary about Abe & Mary Lincoln before I nodded off. I usually read when I go to bed, but I'm working on a humongous book right now that could kill or paralyze me if it dropped on my head when I start drowsing. There's something about reading or watching a movie that works on me like Sleeping Beauty's spindle. It's great to be able to fall asleep quickly, compared to the tossing & turning I used to experience. The pitfall is that I regularly turn an ordinary feature-length film into a mini-series. It gets a little aggravating, especially since I should be getting these things back in the mail to Netflix as quickly as possible. I've been watching this daggone Lincoln chronicle for over a week now. It makes no difference how interesting it is, either. Ten, fifteen minutes tops, and I'm adrift in the wooden shoe with Wynken, Blynken, and Nod.

I saw my share of movies when I was little, but my parents did not take me to every children's movie that hit the big screen. I remember loving Disney's The Jungle Book and The Aristocats. Also That Darned Cat!, The Shaggy Dog, and The Absent-Minded Professor. Doctor Dolittle seemed like the movie that would never end, but maybe Anthony Newley annoyed the hell out of me even as a child.

Swiss Family Robinson made me look at my treehouse with a critical eye. Why couldn't I live in a treehouse like the Robinson family? Where was my giant water wheel? I had to go to the garden hose to get water. My treehouse seemed mundane after seeing that movie. And instead of an ostrich, I had an ordinary old beagle.

There were quite a few movies that I didn't see until I became an adult. Bambi, for example, and Sleeping Beauty. I still haven't seen Pinocchio, believe it or not. I didn't see Mary Poppins until a few years ago. Perhaps my parents thought it was too dark. I can understand that, after looking at the trailer below.

Thai Hot & Spicy Conversation

Sigh.

It's nice to be home on a cold, damp night. This has been an Alice Through the Looking Glass week at work. The faster I go, I still manage to end the day in the same place. Tuesday night I went straight from the office to a monthly service meeting, which was all the more fun because our Local Lunatic was in attendance.

After the meeting, I met my friend Constance at Chadar Thai for dinner. Chadar is a pleasant restaurant operated by a tiny & attractive couple. The food is excellent; exquisitely prepared and presented. It was nice to relax after the busy day and the evening meeting.

Both Constance & I ordered our food "Thai hot." The proprietors offer varying levels of spiciness with most food selections: mild, medium, American hot, and Thai hot. As we ate, we chatted, and somehow (the economy? Job lay-offs? Dashed dreams?) the conversation wended its way to a friend of Constance's who lives in New York City.

Her friend had moved to the big city, armed with a degree in fashion design, and even though she found work with top designers, it was difficult to make a living. Finally, in desperation, Constance's friend turned to an unusual method of supplementing her meager income. She discovered that, with a minimum of expense and effort, she could consistently earn a living wage just by going through her usual daily activities. All she had to do at the end of the day was pop her soiled panties in an envelope, and send them through US mail to buyers found via an advertisement in a men's magazine.

Of course, most fetishists have specific ideas about what is compelling, so our NY Girl would have to wear thong underwear one day, and big girl cotton panties the next. When demand exceeded supply, she would entreat friends to "wear these when you go jogging," and provide them with a pair of underwear. Apparently, she developed a steady clientele.

Well, talk about thinking outside the box! With the economy near collapse, and the job market in flux, it's nice to know that there are always opportunities for quick cash if you're willing to lick an envelope. It's best not to think about what happens when the envelope gets opened, however.

Black Crepe on the Coffee Pot

nataliedee.com

My coffeemaker died Friday night. The clock still works, and the On button lights up promisingly, but those are the only signs of life. The water just sits there, and there are no choo-choo sounds of brewing. It's very sad.

I went to Target today to buy a new coffeemaker, and they had a selection ranging in price from inexpensive to ridiculous. I didn't find one that is suitable; they were all the basket filter variety, and I want a cone filter. I have to put up with basket-filtered coffee at AA meetings, but if I'm buying one for my home I'll hold out for what I want.

My mother's Guardian Service coffee pot is lurking somewhere around here, but I have no idea where it is. Suzanne & I even looked in the attic last time she was visiting, but we couldn't find it. It makes good coffee if I can locate it. The disadvantage to using it is waiting for water to boil, and then waiting after you pour the boiling water in the drip-o-lator. On the plus side, there are no paper filters to buy, and it doesn't hog counter space. It's retro coffee at its finest.

In the meanwhile, I may have to put up with tea.

A Tubeful of Birthday Cake

A recent post by Gdad about the elevators at his office brought back some memories I haven't thought about in awhile. One summer evening after dinner, I was hanging out with some neighborhood kids down the street. I was about thirteen. I rapidly started feeling lousy and returned home, complaining of nausea and abdominal pains. My parents took me to Boone Clinic on the nearby Navy base, and they sent me to Portsmouth Naval Hospital.

By this time, I was in a great deal of pain, and could feel every bump in the road on the way to the hospital. Outside the emergency room, an eager orderly grabbed me around the waist to hoist me onto a gurney, and I rewarded him by throwing up all over him. I was having an appendicitis attack, and I was in the operating room by midnight. A corpsman prepped me for the operation, and I remember feeling sad as he shaved my pubic hair, which I had waited to grow with such impatience. He assured me that it would grow back in no time.

I came to after surgery in a men's ward, and a friendly corpsman named Powell told me that they would want me to get up and move around sometime soon. The ward occupied one wing of an upper floor, and was a long rectangular room with a communal bathroom at the midpoint. As the night sky began to brighten, I needed to go to the bathroom, so I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. Wow, was I sore! I was a little shaky, but I had my IV on wheels to hang onto as I shuffled toward the bathroom. Suddenly Powell was at my side. He was alarmed, and asked me what I was doing. I told him I had to pee, and that he had told me that I needed to get up and move around. "Not without help, little man. You call me or whoever's on duty next time."

I was in the first bed, just outside the nurse's station, and I was the only kid on the ward. There were probably 24 to 30 beds, some empty, but most occupied. The more serious cases were near the nurse's station, but I think I was placed there because of my age. In the bed beside me was a guy named Karl Savage. When the ward came to life for the day, he introduced himself. He was in the final stages of cancer, and had all sorts of tubes and monitors hooked to his frail body. When breakfast came, he didn't get a tray, and he explained that he could no longer eat. He was a very nice fellow; he kept an eye on me and would call the corpsmen when he thought I was in pain and needed medication. He also kept the other men on the ward from pestering me, and made sure they behaved when they were within earshot.

I recovered steadily and rapidly, and soon was allowed to roam the hospital in a wheelchair. Portsmouth Naval Hospital, officially known as Naval Medical Center Portsmouth, Virginia, is the oldest continuously operating Navy hospital in the country. The original building's construction was started in 1827, and was an imposing but impractical structure. In June of 1855, yellow fever came to Tidewater via the ship Ben Franklin. By mid-July, the epidemic had swept the area. Within three months, Portsmouth's civilian population of 5000 had suffered 1000 casualties, and the Naval hospital admitted afflicted local residents. Ten percent of the total area's population was killed by the yellow fever epidemic. The hospital was praised for its service to the community.

I was in a modern high-rise building that was completed in 1960. Fifteen stories high, it was like a city under one roof. It had a post office, a library, shops, and a movie theater. The elevators were often problematic for my wheelchair, because sometimes they would stop several inches above or below the selected floor. Powell was stern with a warning about the elevators: Don't just roll in when the doors open. Be sure the elevator is really there. It seems a distracted nurse fell to her death when she stepped into an empty elevator shaft. I'm not sure if that's true, but it may have been, considering how untrustworthy the elevators could be. A lot of times they had their own ideas about which floors to visit.

One morning I woke up and there was a new guy directly across from me. He moaned, screamed, and cried a lot. He was a typical brash sailor, and he had been in an accident with his motorcycle. Riding shirtless, he had wiped out on his bike, and skidded about a hundred feet down the pavement on his bare back. He was in a lot of pain. He was also teased by the other fellows for being an idiot.

One unexpected outcome of my surgery was the discovery of a little something extra called a Meckel's diverticulum, an extra appendage in the intestinal tract that, at the time, could only be detected during surgery. This was also removed, and was the likely cause of previous unexplainable pain and discomfort. Only 2% of the population has these weird things.

My parents took advantage of my confinement, and sold the house, changed their names, and moved to an undisclosed location. Naw, of course they didn't; there wasn't time. They visited every day, and usually brought one of my friends to ease my boredom. One visitor was a schoolchum named Karen, who brought me a huge hunk of her birthday cake since I had missed her party. That evening, after everything was quiet, I unwrapped the cake and showed it to Karl. It was one of those store-bought sheet cakes with lots of pink & white icing. He said he loved birthday cake, and I asked him if he wanted to share it. He said he couldn't because he wasn't allowed any food. I asked him what would happen if he had some. He said it would get sucked back out through the tube that went in his nose and down to his stomach.

We grinned at each other. I cut the cake in half, and we both ate quickly. He said it tasted so good. A few minutes later, we giggled hysterically when the pink and white goop started coming up through the tube in his nose. I'm glad he got to taste birthday cake again.

How Fights Start

A friend sent me the following, so I thought I'd pass it along. I'd heard some of these before; you probably have, too. But, let's face it, your memory ain't what it used to be. By the way, where am I?

Oh, wait! Before I forget, a woman who recently started coming to the early morning meeting picked up a thirty-day chip today. For my Earth-people readers, most AA meetings give out tokens in recognition of consecutive days in sobriety. At my very first meeting, a guy picked up a thirty-day chip, and I wanted to be just like him. Experts are still trying to figure out how in the heck one-thousand nights can be crammed into those first thirty days. That's how it feels, anyway.

So, at the end of the meeting this woman comes up to me and says "You're the Bill who answers the phone line? I was hoping I'd meet you one day. Can I give you a hug?" Of course I said no. Are you kidding? I gave her a big hug and thanked her, and congratulated her on her thirty days. What a way to start my day!

I rarely meet the people I've talked to, so I was grateful to hear that she is doing well. She said she was scared when she called, but I was encouraging and humorous. Note to self: be that way on all calls, even when you're swamped. I know that when these folks call, the phone receiver seems to weigh one thousand pounds. It is so difficult to admit we need help.

When I got to work this morning, one of the first things on my list was making a deposit at the bank across the street. Unless I'm depositing a million dollars, which hasn't happened yet, I walk to the bank. Today, when I went out the front door, there was a hullabaloo in the street. An SUV was straddling the median, windows blown out, one tire flat, and had sustained quite a bit of body damage. Glass was all over the street, along with a prone traffic light pole. I guess someone was in a hurry to get to work this morning, but they had been hauled off, either to a hospital or jail.

Oh, I promised to share the information on how fights start. Here you go...

My wife sat down on the couch next to me as I was flipping channels. She asked, 'What's on TV?' I said, 'Dust.' And then the fight started...

My wife was hinting about what she wanted for our upcoming anniversary. She said, 'I want something shiny that goes from 0 to 150 in about 3 seconds.' I bought her a scale. And then the fight started...

After retiring, I went to the Social Security office to apply for Social Security. The woman behind the counter asked me for my driver's license to verify my age. I looked in my pockets and realized I had left my wallet at home. I told the woman that I was very sorry, but I would have to go home and come back later. The woman said, 'Unbutton your shirt'. So I opened my shirt revealing my curly silver hair. She said, 'That silver hair on your chest is proof enough for me' and she processed my Social Security application. When I got home, I excitedly told my wife about my experience at the Social Security office. She said, 'You should have dropped your pants. You might have gotten disability, too.' And then the fight started...

My wife and I were sitting at a table at my high school reunion, and I kept staring at a drunken lady swigging her drink as she sat alone at a nearby table. My wife asked, 'Do you know her? ''Yes,' I sighed, 'she’s my old girlfriend. I understand she took to drinking right after we split up those many years ago, and I hear she hasn't been sober since . ''My God!' says my wife, 'who would think a person could go on celebrating that long?' And then the fight started...

I took my wife to a restaurant. The waiter, for some reason, took my order first. "I'll have the strip steak, medium rare, please." He said, "Aren't you worried about the mad cow?" "Nah, she can order for herself." And then the fight started...

A woman is standing nude, looking in the bedroom mirror. She is not happy with what she sees and says to her husband, 'I feel horrible; I look old, fat and ugly. I really need you to pay me a compliment. 'The husband replies, 'Your eyesight's damn near perfect.' And then the fight started...

I asked my wife to buy a case of Miller Light for $14.95. Instead, she bought a jar of cold cream for $7.95. I told her the beer would make her look better at night than the cold cream. And then the fight started...

My wife asked me if a certain dress made her butt look big. I told her not as much as the dress she wore yesterday and then the fight started...

A man and a woman were asleep like two innocent babies. Suddenly, at 3 o'clock in the morning, a loud noise came from outside. The woman jumped up from the bed and yelled at the man 'Holy crap. That must be my husband!' So the man jumped out of the bed, scared & naked, and jumped out the window. He smashed himself on the ground, ran through a thorn bush and to his car as fast as he could go. A few minutes later he returned and went up to the bedroom and screamed at the woman, 'I AM your husband!' The woman yelled back, 'Yeah, then why were you running?' And then the fight started...

Saturday morning I got up early, quietly dressed, made my lunch, grabbed the dog, and slipped quietly into the garage. I hooked up the boat up to the truck, and proceeded to back out into a torrential downpour. The wind was blowing 50 mph, so I pulled back into the garage, turned on the radio, and discovered that the weather would be bad all day. I went back into the house, quietly undressed, and slipped back into bed. I cuddled up to my wife's back, now with a different anticipation, and whispered, 'The weather out there is terrible.' My loving wife of 10 years replied, 'Can you believe my stupid husband is out fishing in that?' And then the fight started ...

I asked my wife, "Where do you want to go for our anniversary?" It warmed my heart to see her face melt in sweet appreciation. "Somewhere I haven't been in a long time!" she said. So I suggested, "How about the kitchen ?" And that's when the fight started...

My wife and I were watching Who Wants To Be A Millionaire while we were in bed. I turned to her and said, "Do you want to have sex?" "No," she answered. I then said, "Is that your final answer?" She didn't even look at me this time, simply saying "Yes." So I said, "Then I'd like to phone a friend." And that's when the fight started...

Update on the traffic light out front: when I escaped for lunch at 2:20 this afternoon, there was a new pole already in place. I'm surprised they were able to replace it so quickly.

A Fifth (of Beethoven)

The pace at work is slowing down a bit following the holidays. I had five consecutive days off at Christmas. At left is a picture of my desk when I returned. I wish. It never looks that tidy. My desk is covered with post-it notes: reminders of things to do, people to call, unfinished projects, and reports clamoring for attention. Add some standing files, fax machine, computer, phone, and other typical desk items, and I'm lucky to have a large free-standing wooden desk instead of a modern Dilbert arrangement. That little desk in the photo would never work.

I was on Mr. Toad's Wild Ride for a few weeks. There's one of me but two phone lines, which is usually very manageable, but when I'm juggling two distress calls and handling walk-in customers, it can be edgy. The day certainly flies by, though, so that's nice. I'm happy to be moving at a canter rather than a full gallop this week, and I can spend a little time on organization rather than SOS calls.

I'm wearing an orange hooded Champion sweatshirt today with khaki pants. Sheldon gave me a Target gift card for Christmas, and I took advantage of sale prices. I also bought a black flat-knit cotton cardigan with gray piping, and a new pair of sneakers. The sneakers were sorely needed; my old pair looked disgraceful, but the damned things refused to wear out. These new ones feel great, and have put a spring in my step.

Have you changed the way you feel about colors over the years? Orange used to be my least favored color, but now I love it. I don't have a favorite color, and what I like on a particular day may vary. Perhaps it depends on my mood. Some days I feel like wearing muted, monochromatic tones, but the next day I may choose an eye-popping palette.

Is it just me, or is anyone else interested in giving Barney Frank elocution lessons? I'm sure he's a smart guy, but he sounds like he's got a mouthful of marbles or mashed potatoes. Or both.

A woman called me today because of a friend who has a drinking problem. We talked for awhile, and the woman started crying and admitted she was calling for herself. Her friends & family are worried, because she just got out of the hospital. Her liver is in bad shape. It's the typical story of feeling guilty, remorseful, isolated, and bewildered because her willpower fails her. I told her that was because we have a disease, and that a frontal assault using willpower simply won't work...if she didn't believe me try willpower on a bad case of diarrhea. I said she didn't have to live this way any longer, and found a few meetings she could get to easily within the next couple of days. I usually don't give meeting information more than a couple of days out, because their disease will tell them to choose the latest available option and then try to talk them out of going to that one. I made her laugh, and I could hear a small spark of hope in her voice. She said she hoped she would meet me one day. I told her she probably would if she went to enough meetings. That may not happen, but it doesn't matter. She'll meet many people in the rooms who will love her and help her recover her health and sanity. It was a privilege to talk with her today; she helped me more than she knows.

Boy, do I need a haircut. Most people like my hair with some length to it, but it drives me crazy. Even though my hair is finely textured, it's like a pelt. Unless things change drastically, I won't go bald. My hair is unruly and curly, so it's easier to handle when it's cropped short. We've had several windy days, and when I go outside I end up with Beethoven Hair. Maybe I can get a haircut later this week or this weekend. Think of the money I'll save on shampoo.