Dem Bones

Oh, crap.

It's times like this, I wish I were a "real" gambler. It was our last night of gambling at that tourist Mecca known as Tunica, located in Robinsonville Mississippi.
Ms V and I had dinner reservations and were meeting at the "steak house" at 8:00 that night. She was off playing the “penny” slot machines and I was at the dice table, down about a hundred and fifty. I was planning to quit about 7:45. My turn to “roll” came at about 7:35, plenty of time for me to have a final chance and then get to the restaurant. I was wrong. I rolled and rolled some more. I started looking over my shoulder at about 8:10 to see if Ms V was looking for me. She came soon thereafter and I said “I CAN’T stop now.” She sat at a nearby table and chanted (under her breath) "7 out, 7 out" until she gave up that mantra at about 8:30 and said she was going to eat. "Go, says I." On I rolled. No one there had seen the likes of this, dealers included. At approximately 9:25 the dreaded call was finally made "7 out." One hour and forty-five minutes. Unbelievable. A half dozen or so players threw me $25 chips as a tip for the thousands of dollars they made on that roll. As for me, I refused to press my bets more than once for superstitious reasons. I knew if I bet more, the streak would end. I was quite satisfied with the $900 or so I made myself. I don't expect to ever see the likes of that roll, by anyone, anywhere, in my lifetime.
Call me "Lucky"

Bureaucracy

What’s in a name?

My nephew, on my mother’s side, her sister Maude’s boy, Ron, recently filed for two separate tax reliefs. One for reduction for being over 65, one to delay payment of taxes until selling the property (or death). Notification was received granting the second, (signed Doug Eustice) but the first was being held in abeyance until Ron could provide documentation to prove that he and “Fred Woodsum” were the same person. His response:

Dear Doug (or is it Dougie or Douglas?) Eustice,
How nice to hear from you concerning the possibility that there may be more than one “Woodsum” in the State of Texas. However, exhaustive genealogical searches and public records indicate that such is not the case. Phone records = nada.
January 15, 1939. Unto us a boy was born. His momma named him Fred Ronald Woodsum. Little Fred’s daddy was named Frederick, so to avoid the “little Fred – big Fred” problems she decided he was to be called “Ronny” with a “y” not “ie”
As time passed and many nicknames (Woody, Ronski, Big Boy, Woodman). Later, the adult Fred Ronald Woodsum elected to be known as “Ron.” You, being in the bureaucracy business, understand that the powers that be do not take lightly those of us who wish to mess with official documented facts, birth certificates, driver’s licenses, form 1040s. Etc. However, having done so, I must now deal with the fruits of my misdeed.
I have enclosed for your viewing pleasure several official documents which relate to me in many of my aliases, Fred R. Woodsum, F. Ronald Woodsum, and Ron Woodsum, all showing the same social security number. My driver’s license, which you have a copy of, says “Fred Ronald Woodsum”, the DPS being one of the few anachronistic bureaucracies requiring an exact match between birth certificate and drivers ID.
I assure you that had I known some possible benefit would accrue to me by having another person with a similar name nearby for nefarious purposes I would have had myself cloned.
But enough about me. Could you be the same “Doug Eustice” who signed (or rubber stamped) the letter to “Woodsum Ron” from HCAD dated 02/09/2004 approving my “Tax Deferral Affidavit?” I thought you knew me.
I hope I do not hear from you again unless you can produce another person in the State of Texas named “Woodsum”

Yours truly, the one, the only,
Fred Ronald (Ron) Woodsum

Enclosed:
SSA-1099 Social Sec.Benefit “Fred R. Woodsum” SS# 123456789
WTFCU Credit Union Account “F. Ronald Woodsum” SS# 123456789
Wells Fargo Mortgage interest statement “Ron Woodsum” SS# 123456789
Aftermath: Application was granted (without notification) shortly after this letter was sent.

The Great Unwashed

Swine

ACBL Unit 174 Recorder:

Dear M, I looked in the by-laws for the Unit but couldn't find a description of the "Recorder's" duties. I am assuming that, if nothing else, reports of behavior unbecoming to a member of the Unit may be reported and if sufficient occurrences of this behavior happen, a warning or other means of censure would be forthcoming from the Board.

I have heard rumors that Otto Barf has accosted men in the restrooms and chastised them if it appeared they were leaving without washing their hands. Most of the people I know considered this to be a joke.

However, last Wednesday at the finish of the morning game at JCC Otto was playing "Potty Police" and as I zoomed out of the restroom I heard a grating screech "Hey Rev, you forgot something!" Ignoring his plea, I left (unwashed). Yesterday he caught up with me in the bridge entry buying line and says "Gentlemen wash their hands after using the rest room." "No, gentlemen don't pee on their hands" was my witty repartee. He upped the ante with a tiny "You're a pig. " I responded quietly, "You're an asshole." "PIG!" "ASSHOLE!" Before we could put the matter to a vote by the assembly, the director ordered Barf to take it outside. As he did his crab-crawl walk he kept mumbling under his breath... "pig...pig...pig" A fine example from a member of Phi Beta Kappa.

While I applaud his Susan B. Anthony concern for pub(l)ic hygiene, I believe that his feeble attempts at public humiliation go beyond the bounds of acceptable behavior. I am sorry if his mother taught him that touching that "thing" would bring about some kind of plague if your hands were not scrubbed immediately thereafter.

I recommend that the board suggest he keep his duties as Potty Police in or near the restrooms. Perhaps he could stand outside the door and distribute "Handi-wipes" to those who may have forgotten Mommy's warning.

Sincerely,
Rev Snodgrass
One of the Great Unwashed

I'm working on a new product for men to carry in their wallets, maybe in a little foil container. It will be called Forget Acceptable Restroom Behavior? A little towelette, perhaps with a PBK insignia to remind one of what true gentlemen find important.

Payoff

Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty, among other things. Persistence can sometimes pay off as well. After haggling with the folks who answer the phones at MBNA Mastercard, I was moved to write to the head honcho and see if that would bring results:

B. L. Hammond, CEO MBNA
Dear Sir:

As I am unable to be satisfied by your “customer satisfaction representatives” and e-mail is a medium you eschew, I am forced to resort to “snail mail.”
I’m sure I am small potatoes in your scheme of things, yet I feel that thousands of us little people are your bread and butter and deserve better treatment than I have received.
I have been a customer of MBNA for almost 20 years and over the years have built up a credit limit of some 25 thousand dollars. I am 65 years old and have lately used my credit when special offers (usually less than 5%) are made. I have been successful in using this for other investments which far exceed those percentages.
Some 6 or 7 months ago a “special offer” was due to expire. I called your representative and was told they could not do anything but let the percent revert to 15+. So, I sold stock to pay off my MBNA. Low and behold , no sooner than the ink had dried, MBNA could now offer 4.7%. (Yes I know you get transaction fees)
Once again, I took advantage of your offer which is due to expire the middle of next month. Now comes the part that really irks me. I get in the mail an ad offering me “by invitation” to take advantage of a 5.9% rate (NOT INTRODUCTORY) I offered to pay off my present loan if that would allow me to take advantage of the new rate. I was refused. By the way, this is exactly the same “Pioneer” card which I hold. How can you offer 5.9% to unknown customers in a mass mailing yet withhold it from your longstanding loyal customers? You have until March 15th to fix this or I will pay off my card and close my account forever.

Yours truly,
Rev. Snodgrass

Post Script: 5.9% rate granted March 15th, with no notice sent or given to me.

Gemini

The Twins

Eye dentical twins yet. If you looked real close for several years you might have been able to tell one from another. The immediate family had trouble, strangers had no chance. This attribute alone opened a world of opportunity for chicanery, which they realized at an early age.

Our row house was in the middle of a group of about 20 houses on a street with a slight incline. In the back was an alley and between the next group was a walkway which we called an “airy way.” Twin “A” would loiter at the bottom of the hill and engage roaming young cyclists in conversation about their bikes and then bet them that “even though the kid’s bike was fast, they could run up the alley to the air way faster than the unsuspecting dupe could pedal his mount up the street.” The poor sucker would ante up whatever loose change he had on him and take off like a rocket. Low and behold, when he crossed the finish line, there was twin “B” waiting for him, panting and holding her chest with her hand out to collect on the wager!

Anything that is scarce is more desirable. During WWII butter was rationed and therefore a real treat. Mom came home from the store with her groceries, including a pound of delicious butter. Twin “A” begs and pleads for “just a little taste.” Mom finally gives in with the warning “don’t tell your sister!” She hasn’t even finished putting the food away when in storms twin “B” moaning “you gave A some butter, I want some too. What’s a mother to do? She cuts off a chunk and it is gobbled down hurriedly. “Thanks mom, but I’m the same one” Ha ha.

In the early days of TV, there was a “quiz show” called “There’s one in every family.”
Entrants were selected based on letters sent to the producers about why their “one” was special. This was a natural for mom, who said there was not only one, but two! The twins were about 8 or 9 years old when they appeared on the show. The prizes were insignificant by today’s standards. The grand prize for the girls, if they won, was a Cocker Spaniel puppy. The $64,000 scandal had not happened yet, so there was no problem with a pre-show interview where the twins were asked the same questions that they would get live in a few minutes. The final question was “Which way do you screw in a light bulb?” Wow, they went all the way – the puppy would be on its way to Kimble Road. They named it “Mikey” in honor of the show’s host, Mike Wallace (yes, THE Mike Wallace). Mikey lived a long and happy life.

BARFY

Achtung! Barbi Announces Real Fun - Yowsuh!

Set your palm pilot to land in K-K-K-Katy (named after the famous freeway that connects it to Houston) September 27th, 2004 A.D.

Barbi has lost her mind and is inviting this rag-tag bunch of card shuckers to destroy the peace and quiet of a lovely (I'm sure) domicile.

Since Y'all are veterans of this act, you know the drill. Please Respondez if you will, so we can replace (irreplaceable) you if you can't make it.

If you would like a new partner. HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!

Prayer meeting begins at 5:00 PM, feasting at 6:00

Our lookouts tell us that K-K-K-Katy has word of the invasion and sandbagging of the perimeter has begun. Drive your 4WD SUVs (that'll show 'em) Oh, yeah, I hear the sentries can be bought off with some good chawin' tobaccy. If you run into the Chief, however, you better have some "white Lightnin'" available. Yes, the Mason jar is the official container.

The Honorable Most Reverend Snodgrass
Committee Chairman

NOT so alert

Everyone looks forward to Monday morning.

As I look back on this Monday morning I have to laugh, otherwise I'd cry. (I know that's an old one)
6:30 Waking up knowing my computer graphics were screwed up I started working on that while I waited until I could go fetch Bogart (my bulldog) from the kennel. No rush since my bridge game was cancelled. Access to computer bridge was denied due to my computer glitch. Still had not cracked open Saturdays newspaper much less Sundays goliath.
7:15 No success with computer, I pour a nice cup of Kona coffee to sip thru my one hour journey and get in my car to head North. Only there's no sound when I turn the ignition key to start. After a blast of the appropriate expletives I jumped in my friends car and went to get the beast. One mile later, as I reached for my coffee, I found I would need plastic man's arms since my coffee was nestled comfortably in the dead battery car in my driveway.
8:15 Bogart safely tucked away, I get out the old jumper cables and get my car started. Ha, I’m not forgetting my coffee THIS time as I head out to purchase a new battery.
8:30ish As I wait for the new battery to be installed, pondering just how many angels CAN dance on the head of a pin, a horrible thought crosses my mind. I fear I have not properly closed down the donor car engine. Yes, there it was sitting in my driveway 2 miles away , just idling away, begging some thief to jump in and head to Mehico.
9:00 Great relief, the car is still in the driveway putt-putt-putting away wasting who knows how much of that precious $2 a gallon gasoline. Back to work on that ##$$%%^& computer.
10:00 Gather round! Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls! There’s GOOD news.
After some 6 years of trying to get an answer from AOL “HELP” that actually worked - I finally succeeded! I’m BAAAAACK! ALL SYSTEMS GO! E-mail, junk mail, spam, web sites galore, instant messages and BBO! All the right color shape and size for my viewing pleasure. Hallelujah! Free at last! Thank God almighty, I’m free at last!
11:00 I need a nap.

ALERT!

Cryptology

Bridge players are required to have available for the opponents inspection what is called a “convention card.” On it are all the partnership’s agreements concerning bids that are outside the realm of everyday bridge. Most people have FAR too many listed and are lucky if they can remember them when they occur. As an aid for those folks, like myself, who are unable to remember as well as we used to, I created a modified card with much fewer conventions:

The HDT Convention Card (convention overload relief), named in honor of Henry David Thoreau, who espoused the succinct philosophy “Simplify”

What on earth prompted me to sit down and revamp my convention card and discard many that have long been near and dear to me? I was adding more and more conventions to my bridge card and remembering fewer and fewer. Have you looked at your “convention” cards lately? What a mess!

Once upon a time…bidding at bridge was relatively simple. Bidding a suit meant you had that suit, no trump was used to show balanced hands and doubles were for penalty. How many different uses for the double can you name today?
“Theorists” are constantly running new conventions up the flagpole, hoping we will salute, thereby bestowing upon them bridge immortality, since most conventions are named for their (real or presumed) inventor.

The HDT card may be used as a guide by the bridge-convention challenged. This is not for novices. It is not intended for the young and adventurous, who may have extra space left in their brain for little-used information. Rather it is a distillation of the plethora of conventions that those of us with shrinking gray matter may actually use from time to time.

Simplify.

Pie in the Sky

An insane company policy prompted this exchange:

Tastykake Company:

Dear Sirs, Following are a few E Mail exchanges as a result of my attempting to buy your apple pies via the internet. First are my comments to your Web site to whoever gets them. A kind response from Mrs. Ruth Steinke, then my follow-up in return.
Comments: Dear Tasty, moving to Houston meant giving up access to your succulent products in local stores. The internet, I hoped would once again bring me access to heavenly treats. But no, I expect you don't wish to sell to individual consumers, even though I am willing to buy a case at a time. I am sure you, as I do, get a chuckle from ads on TV where the shipping and handling (in small print) usually add another 50-75% to the cost. You have finally broken the barrier where the shipping charges are more than the price of the product. Apple pies, $35, shipping, $37.
One weeps.
Ah, yes, you claim that with less than 2-day air shipping "freshness." will be lost. I am willing to sign an affidavit that I will not return any product for lack of freshness if I can get it shipped to me at a normal rate. Love the product, can't pay the freight.
Hungry in Houston,
Rev. Snodgrass

"Steinke, Ruth M." wrote:
You aren't the first person who has mentioned the high cost of shipping pies. I have forwarded your e-mail to a number of Tastykake people for consideration. Who knows, perhaps your e-mail may lead to a change. I do know that we will be offering a lesser amount of pies sometime in March. I'm sure that selection will be far less than shipping a case. However, for the present, there is no other alternative than to ship the pies 2-day air. Thanks for your comments. (They made me smile.)
Dear Ruth, if I may be so bold, my objective was not to make you smile, but to cry - for those of us far enough west to be out the reaches of the Tastykake selling area. I am an old man who grew up on Tastykakes and Utz potato chips, neither of which are available here in Houston. I get a "care" package each Xmas from my daughter in Maryland with a package of butterscotch krimpets and a bag of Utz chips. Isn't that sad? What eludes me is what Mr (Tasty)Kake has to lose by slower shipping if I take full responsibility for not bad-mouthing the pies if they are not 2-day fresh. I couldn't hurt his business here, since there is none. If all else fails, I suppose I can enlist my kid to rifle the shelves of the local stores for apple pies and send me as many as will fit in the USPS $3.85 special mail bag. I will be 66 years old this Saturday and here I sit watching Gilligan's Island re-runs and about to open my last package of Christmas krimpets. I don't know about you, but I'm about to cry...

Wasting away in Houston
Rev. Snodgrass

While I am sure Mrs. Steinke has sympathy for my plight, I am equally sure there is little she can do about it. Therfore, I put the issues before you:
Are you comfortable with the fact that you have broken the shipping to product cost of over 100%?
Do all the pies you ship to your furthest location get there within 2 days?
Do you pull the pies from the shelves of the “Seven-Elevens” and “Stop and Gos”
if they’re not sold within 2 days?
Are you satisfied that this 2 day shipping requirement is in the best interest of the stockholders and the BOTTOM LINE?
Please don’t make me turn to “Little Debbie” or “Mrs. Baird”

Post script: About a month later I got a package (shipped regular UPS) with five pies and a note of apology saying they were sorry but unmoved to change their policy. So I could get free pies without regard for freshness, but I still couldn’t pay for them and get them. Go figure.

Powerless

Shocked!

Recently, during a thunderstorm one evening, I lost electrical power for a short period (about a minute) several times. This was quite inconvenient since I was playing on-line bridge with my computer. I got kicked out of one game because I couldn’t re-boot fast enough. Nothing earth shattering, but the fun was just about to begin.

The next morning, as I was preparing to leave for bridge (what else), the power went out again. As I stepped into the garage, forgetting the power was out, I automatically hit the button to open the garage door – but up it went! Huh, the power has returned. Oh, would that it were so.

I return later that afternoon, go to the fridge to get a drink and – whoa! The little man that lights the inside has taken a break! A quick inspection finds that I have about half my electricity working. But, no refrigerator, no air conditioning, and no (God help us) computer.

Breaker – breaker! Let it be a breaker… No, not so lucky as that. After exhausting my limited knowledge, I was forced to call the Electric company (who shall remain un-named, since they have changed names so many times I don’t think they know who they are). I ran long extension cords from working outlets to get the fridge and computer working while I waited for the power company to come.

Two hours later they came…and they pried, and they probed, inside and out. Sorry, Reverend Snodgrass, you need an ELECTRICIAN! A word that strikes fear in the heart of the happy homeowner! And away they went, merrily on their way to destroy the hopes of the next victim.

Obtaining the name of a qualified electrician, Greg, from a trusted friend, I was able to get him to come over later that same day. He, ladies and gentlemen, is the only “good guy” in this adventure. Competent, qualified and helpful. Now we begin the twisted route to recovery.

First, Greg says, I need access to the “meter” but your power company experts, who should know this fact, locked the meter. Now, we must call the power company and have them issue an order to unlock the meter. Aye yi yi! It’s now 5 PM so I call the power people and they quote 2-4 hours. Greg gets me back on temporary 110 volt lines (no A/C) and leaves for the day. I hope the power people show. They do. 8PM and the meter is unlocked.

Day two. Greg arrives and begins his prying and probing. “It’s worse than I thought” says he, A phrase which will come up frequently in this story. “It’s not in the meter but in the underground cable. Can that shed (an 8 X 10 wooden structure built by a former owner) be moved?” Not that I know of (it’s worse than I thought)
Says Greg “Would you like us to leave the debris from the tear-down in the yard or call someone to haul it away?” By now we have an assistant on the way to help with the destruction of the shed and the digging of the trench. Oy vey, it’s not going to be a good day. Nonetheless, I leave for several hours for my bridge game.

After a thirty day drought, in the middle of my bridge game, the heavens open up and thunderstorms and heavy rain begin as I ponder the fate of my ditch-digging crew. I arrive home and find them slogging about and trying to find the best way to dig under two fences, two neighboring yards, and the tree roots that have enmeshed the underground cable with their roots. Remains of the shed are strewn about and there is a contractor who has been called waiting to see how much I can be talked into paying for having him haul them off to never-never land. We negotiate from $200 to $150 and he says he will return at about 9 in the morning. The other workers depart at about 4 O’ clock with the promise of an early start in the morning.

Day three. No rain yet. The diggers are there by 8 and the hauler and his helper get there by 10. When the shed parts have been loaded there remains five 5 gallon partially filled paint cans. I am told they can’t take them because they are hazardous waste. For another $10 they are swiftly added to the back of the takeaway truck.

As I prepare to leave for the day’s bridge game, I am given the expected scenario for the rest of the day by Greg. They will finish their work sometime before I get home (around 4) and immediately call the power Company. At this point I will have no (zero) power until the power company comes out and officially restores service.

I return, as does the rain, around 4. The workers are gone, the house is in darkeness. After 2 or so hours of sweat, I see the Electric Company truck stop outside. Glory hallelujah! I go out to greet them and they get out and go across the street to another house. A wrong address I speculate – but no! After a few minutes the repairman returns and I ask if I’m next. Nope – not on his list. AAUUUGGGHH! Another 3 hours and the same man returns with the order to plug me in. Working outdoors in the rain with zillions of watts and amperes requires great caution, so I am not surprised that it takes another hour to get my power back.

I love a story with a “moral.” An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure. This whole nightmare and the expenditure of thousands (literally) of dollars (of MY money) could have been prevented by the original contractor spending about $5 for a few feet of plastic conduit. No doubt, the contractor was guided by his own aphorism “A penny saved is a penny earned.”

God Bless America

Post WWII

Farewell to the ‘40's

Packards and Hudsons which have been parked for years are sputtering and backfiring announcing the end of gas rationing. The days of making margarine look like butter by adding yellow food coloring were over. World peace is upon us…OOPS!, look out! Here comes the RED menace!

Kids are moaning about returning to school, but secretly anxious to meet up with their old buddies and make some new friends. The old desks at P.S. 51 still had a hole where the ink wells once nestled. In an effort to control God-knows-what the boys had to enter at one end of the school and the girls at the other.

Our German Shepherd, Yinky, had been honorably discharged from the Marines, but was having trouble adjusting to civilian life. He became overly protective of our family and began snapping at children he thought were posing a threat to us. We found a home for him with a farmer who needed a good watchdog for his livestock.

One of the traits, for better or worse, I learned from my father was that if there was some new gadget that you REALLY wanted, you do what you must do to get it; pay 20% interest on a loan, promise your 1st born to the devil, whatever. Mom said we couldn’t afford a TV. Dad said “I’m going to see Rose,” who I imagined was some benevolent rich relative. Later, I learned that “Rose” was Rose Shanis, a storefront loan business. We had the 1st TV in the neighborhood.

What a thrill to try to keep the test patterns straight on that 8 inch screen with the horizontal and vertical adjustment knobs until an actual show came on. There were three colors, white, black, and shades of grey. Shows were “live” so the flubs were often the most entertaining part of the program. Tuesday nights were “wrasslin” events and our living room was full of neighbors anxious to see if “Gorgeous George” could vanquish his latest foe.

The MARTY's over

MARTY REPORT

There were those of us, who, by trial and error, managed to solve the puzzle of fortress McCulloch, a street than runs in an east-west direction. No entrance from the east, no entrance from the west, both guarded with huge iron gates. My navigator suggested we drive down the next (parallel) street and get close to the same house number and scale the fence there. Much to our relief, as we approached the number, we spotted a place where the drawbridge had been left down over the moat. We had arrived. Upon entering the MARTY castle we found that others were not quite so lucky as we and the MARTY cellphone navigation system was in full swing guiding those poor lost souls to their target.

A guided tour of the palace was professionally handled with only one small heart attack from ascending the stairs to the second floor. Tres magnific.

A splendiferous display of foodstuffs that would tempt the strictest dieter was ready for the gobbling, and gobble we did.

Egg Report: Due to the reduction in labor hours from 5 to 3 the cost of deviled eggs has been significantly reduced. The chef did report that due to the lack of a “dinger” (timer to you) some eggs were cooked 15 – 20 minutes, some 5 – 10. Only those of us with the most sophisticated palates noticed the difference. Dividends for the deviled egg company will be cut so that funds may be set aside for future purchase of a “dinger.”

The “throwing of the cards” began with Marta and Fox assuming their rightful positions as reigning champions at table 1 North/South. Obviously every one was out to get them, including their teammates, as they did not fare well. Ms. Mann and Rick won the first two matches and appeared to be a shoe-in for the win. While Rick grabbed half of the ill-gotten booty and tried to make a getaway, he was tackled in the front yard by the stronger (physically) half of the “real” winning (58 vs 56) team of Vince and Barbi and the loot was retrieved.

MARTY! MARTY!

The next act, MARTY

Marta Acts Rashly, Thank You

Despite the threat of damage to her home and reputation, Marta has declared it may be possible to one-up the FARTY we had in June. The date of August 16, Monday night has been proposed. This is the Monday after the Houston Sectional Tournament. No doubt those of you licking your wounds will jump at the opportunity for some easier competition.

Some of you were at the FARTY so you know what to expect. The rest of you, well, you’ll find out soon enough. I will say you’ve probably not had $5 apiece deviled eggs before. This and other delicacies, which you will share in bringing, offer a gourmet's delight that will put Luby’s to shame.

To begin the list of foodstuffs, I will bring shrimp, which all seem to enjoy.
Miss Virginia is aching to produce another batch of $5 deviled eggs. Unfortunately this will prevent her from playing in the tournament Sunday as she will need the time to begin her preparations. Although, Ms V’s granddaughter Sarah (4 years old), who has been assisting in the kitchen chores may be enlisted to get things started.

Address and time (probably 6 PM) will be provided after you respondez to this once-in-a-lifetime offer.

Later:
Shrimp are being sought, spinach is being picked, crabs are being culled, and most importantly – eggs are being laid.

Those of you who have not replied should either send your regrets or tell us what gourmet’s delight will be your contribution to the trough. We have people clamoring to take your place, so tarry not or you will be gone with the wind!

Computer 1, Humans 0

The “Finger”

After months of providing convincing arguments to the Directors of the ACBL that the veracity of ACBL SCORE was sadly lacking, I threw in the soggy towel:

Directors of the ACBL,

To whom it may concern:

Some months ago I spotted a leak in the ACBL Score dike and like the little Dutch boy I inserted my largest finger in the hole to stem the leak while I called for help. Alas, no help was forthcoming, and that, as you good men who chose to do nothing know, is all that is necessary for evil to triumph.

I hereby surrender and abandon my post as pseudo-ombudsman and salute you do-nothings with my now waterlogged shrunken digit.

Yellow Rain

Leading a horse to water

The American Contract Bridge League is the primary organization in the USA for conducting organized bridge games and tournaments. They have put ill-advised faith in someone’s computer program known as ACBL SCORE. Following is one of my many attempts at getting them to open their eyes, but all for naught:

Let there be light – The case for simplified scoring for club games.

Dear ACBL Directors:

Recently I sent examples of cases where scoring with ACBL SCORE seem to be contrary to common sense and coupling that with the “.01 rule” injustices occur.

Now I would like to present one final argument for simplified scoring in club games.

Bridge is a complex game but we must begin teaching it with basics and work toward more sophisticated concepts over time. At some point in time, players who became directors learned how to matchpoint. It was simple, it was understandable and it could be explained to the novice.

Now, along comes the computer and ACBL SCORE and no one can explain it so that anyone can understand it. Directors have questioned some of its apparent aberrations only to be told “Don’t worry about it, the computer figures it out.”
“Taking it on faith” should only belong to religious groups, not the ACBL.

Where do new ACBL members come from? Can we count on our present member’s progeny to swell our ranks? Do we recruit graduates in computer science? I think wherever they come from a lot of their early experiences in playing duplicate bridge will be in club games until they are “hooked.”

Why handicap club directors with a scoring system that cannot be explained to the novice? Try explaining why you lost first place by .01 matchpoints because there was a sit out in another section. What has the ACBL to lose by creating an optional ½ point scoring system for clubs? Let the big tournaments break ties by as many “point zeros” as they wish.

The computer is indeed a wonderful tool, but I think that sometimes we get carried away. I was told that there was “no compelling reason” for keeping ½ matchpoint as the tie breaker. I don’t know what reason there was to make it .01 but for club games I can think of NO reason why it shouldn’t be ½. You understand it, I understand it and club directors can explain it to new players.

I propose that the ACBL amend its fiat that the .01 rule apply universally and that club games may optionally select ½ matchpoint (natures way) and that ACBL’s computer wizards provide the appropriate program for use.

Respectfully,
Rev. Snodgrass

Nothing has been done nor should I ever expect it to be, even as I stand here in yellow stained clothing pissing into the wind.

No Sir Galahad

Knights Inn

I recently booked a stay at Knights Inn in Hot Springs Arkansas.
The “amenities” listed and the actual facts are as follows:

“In room coffee”: Choice (none) of “regular” with a total of two sugar packets for two people. Standard small 2 styrofoam cups provided.

“Free continental breakfast”: I did not expect much, but got less. Once again, a choice (none) of “regular” coffee, reconstituted orange juice, milk, day old glazed donuts (one type only) and two types of mystery “cereals” in plastic containers.

Of course, the “soaps” are Motel 6 size, you can hardly get a grip on them, they’re so small.

The coup de grace came on the third day when we returned at 6 PM and found our room door WIDE open. Thankfully nothing was missing. A call to the office got the response that they were training maids that day. "Maybe the door was only left open a crack and the wind blew it open further." I suggested an apology from the manager was appropriate which elicited the response that he was very busy due to some employees not showing up that day.

With little or no assurance that the “open door” policy was not regular, I checked out the next morning.

I suggest a name change to Knightmare Inn.

Rev. Snodgrass

P.S. About 2 months later I got a letter, not apologizing, but trying to explain away their lack of common sense. The letter tried to gain my favor by stating I was being given a 10% off coupon (enclosed) for my next stay ( ha ha ha ha ) at a Knight’s Inn. There was no coupon enclosed. Do you think they’re trying to tell me something?

Shut up and deal

Pinochle

It has been said that prowess at the billiard table is often the sign of a misspent youth. Any advantage I may have at the bridge table is not because I started playing bridge at an early age, or even in college as many players have. I was thirty five before I discovered that bridge was more fun than the avocation of my youth, pinochle.

As soon as I could hold 12 cards in my little hands I was drafted into the weekend pinochle marathon. My granny, Ada, had been a widow forever. Friday evening when dad came home from labor as a lithograph pressman, he had grandma in tow.
Dinner, if you could call it that, was scarfed down in a matter of minutes so that the game could begin. I would partner dad or mom so that grandma would not be saddled with the novice. Ten cents a game and five cents for each set back. My puny allowance was at stake.

At least we did not stay up too late, since both mom and grandma had been brought up on the farm. On the flip side, though, it was early to rise! Cinnamon toast and a glass of milk and we were under way for the morning session. Saturday and Sunday were pretty much the same, with only time out for brief meals to sustain the stamina needed for “the game” Sunday evening ended with the winners gloating and the losers promising revenge. Dad takes grandma home, anticipating next weekend’s respite from the dreary work week.

Jack of Diamonds, Queen of Spades

Movin' on up

Big City

Some time in 1944, we loaded up the conestoga wagon and headed north to the BIG city, Bawlmer, Merlin. Our new abode was a row house on Kimble Rd. in beautiful Ednor Gardens, 3 blocks north of the (really) old Memorial Stadium, at that time a totally wooden structure.

Our home was the standard for the time, two story brick with a full basement. Heat was provided by radiators fueled by a coal furnace, converted to oil burner by my big brother after he returned from the war.

All homes in Baltimore had allies in the rear, used mostly by the trash collectors and kids playing. Horse drawn carts came through at various seasons hawking the current crop of goods… “WaaaaaaTaaaaMeeeeelllllooooon!”, “Sooffff Craaaabs!)

Milk from Green Spring Dairy was delivered to our door, as was bread from Rice’s Bakery. Some in the neighborhood still didn’t have refrigerators and had ice delivered on a regular basis. The mail man was like a member of the family who stopped by every day. Spring began the anticipated return of the “Good Humor” man.

Summer brought the heat and humidity which meant many nights sleeping on the first floor to avoid the heat of “upstairs.” Kids would chase after the milk man’s truck to try to snatch a piece of loose ice. The only serious relief from the heat would come if you could afford to go to the “upscale” Boulevard movie house and relax in air conditioned comfort while watching the miracle of Technicolor films.

Saturdays at the Waverly theatre was reserved for cowboy movies with our heros, Red Rider, the Lone Ranger, Hopalong Cassidy, and the singing wranglers, Roy and Gene. The main event would be bolstered by one cartoon and the latest chapter of some serial adventure. The kids were given a quarter and told to bring home the change. (10 cents to get in, 5 for a soda and 5 for some treat like “Good and Plenties”)

Most of our fantasy games involved playing “cowboys” where we were heavily armed with “cap” pistols. Caps, which would make a small “bang” noise when set off by the gun were considered “fireworks” by the local authorities and therefore illegal. It was quite a coup when someone smuggled some in from a far away state, like Virginia.

The bigger kids had 2 wheel bikes, most of the young’uns made due with 3 wheelers or scooters. Our thrill ride was putting a telephone book on a roller skate, sitting on it and zooming down the walkways between the row house groups.

Life was simple, life was good. And then…“Mad Man Muntz” assaulted the airwaves with ads for the amazing new contraption that would change our lives forever : TV

The FARTY's over

A follow up report on the FARTY:

Foul Weather Fails to Foil Farty-goers

Neither rain nor snow…by kayak or canoe…they came.
Threatened more by a shortage of vittles, no one was late for the starting gun at 6. (Don’t forget, Susie Q didn’t have a chance to keep her record of always being late as she was illin’’ and could not attend)
It was a gourmand’s delight. Some bought tasty goodies (from 4 star markets), others made tempting treats from scratch. The prize for labor intensive preparation goes to the person (who shall remain unnamed) who took $2 worth of eggs and spent 5 (five) hours (@$20/hr) turning them into what you thought were “deviled eggs.” My CPA tells me this works out to about $4 per egg. Hope you enjoyed them.
It turned out that even after over four hours of unsurpassed gluttony, HUGE amounts of foodstuffs remained in the trough. A “care” package was sent to feed a small village in Somalia for a week. (I escaped with $20 worth of eggs)
Someone suggested that, rather than take the extended naps we were all craving - we play BRIDGE! We waddled to our seats and let the fun begin. Two tables of overstuffed, half loaded (I speak only for myself) card shuckers – it was a kibitzer’s delight. Shouts from one table or another of “7 no trump” or “down eleven hundred” failed miserably in the attempt to influence the other table. A word of caution – don’t whisper anything within 50 yards of Annie if you want to keep a secret.
Three team matches with set pairs but team mate changes were blessedly completed in a timely fashion (thank you , Fox) Marta and Fox were the winners with 58 VPs, followed closely by Anna and Susan with 56. The so-called flight “A” players got coupons for 50% off “Ace of Clubs” next intermediate class.
I don’t know about you, but the cries of “Farty! Farty!” will long linger in memory.

FARTY! FARTY!

Hunger pains

From time to time, some of the congregation get together for a little card playing.
These events are usually given some name to distinguish one from another. Some of the parishioners expressed concern over what they perceived to be a lack of food for the “FARTY”(Forgotten Achievers Receive Thank You), thus a response was sent to all:

Fear of Famine hits Fartygoers

The presently proposed foodstuffs for the Farty have struck some attendees as lacking in sustenance. An Ad Hoc investigating committee has been appointed to look into this matter. Thus far they have reported that the catering department assures them that if each individual attendee brings a sufficient amount of their contribution to satisfy the hunger of one person then 8 X 1 = 8 / 8 =1 Voila! It is a mathematical certainty that all will be well fed! But wait!, we who live by the “rule of restricted choice” have been fooled before. Therefore, The Committee has some additional suggestions if you feel your needs will not be satisfied by the present menu,

Pre 6:00 PM. Go directly from Pech Rd after the game ends to either Wun Hung Lows all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet and fill-er-up or Rudy’s bar and drink yourself into a state where food is no longer of interest.

At 6:00 The food serving area will be cordoned off and a starters pistol will signal “go” on a handicap schedule. Persons under 100 Lbs will have a 5 minute head start, BAM (gunshot), next the 100 – 150 Lb group, POW, another 5 minutes and all those up to 200Lbs may attack the table. Click, click (out of bullets) if there’s anything left, you fat bastards have at it.

6:30 PM Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches go on sale at $2.50 each, bottled water $1.00

Approx 7:00, Let the Games begin! There have been suggestions that perhaps a “pot” of $ be collected for use as prize money to those whose performance merits.
$1 or 2 per person. So, stop by the ATM so you don’t get caught short (keep in mind how many PB&Js you may need to get you thru)

The War Years

Yes, THE war, WWII. Picture this – Mom has her first born, a 16 year old sailor somewhere in the Pacific dodging kamikazis, her pride and joy (me) doing the “terrible two” dance (NO!…NO!…), an infant girl suckling at each breast, and proud papa comes home with a German Shepherd puppy –“every boy should have a dog.” How she coped I’ll never know, but for me the word “suicide” comes to mind.

One-upping “honest Abe”, we had a clapboard bungalow in the then far out suburb of Baltimore known as Pasedena, comfortably nestled in the two blocks between the “highway” and the railroad tracks. The ESSO station was at the corner of the highway and the post office was at the railroad track.

We had all the modern conveniences, indoor plumbing and a septic tank system. Many of the neighbors still had “outhouses.” The folks next door raised chickens, mostly for personal use. I gained first hand knowledge of how a chicken running around with its head cut off looks. Not a pleasant sight.

Miraculously, the puppy, named “Yinky” survived to become a real dog. He was drafted by the Marines and entered the service of his country. He returned to his family at the end of the war.

The family’s primary entertainment was from the latest electronic device, the “radio.” We would turn the volume down low during “blackouts” and cover the dim light of the dial with black paper lest a glimmer escape and be seen by the enemy bombers overhead. What a thrill to imagine Superman leaping over tall buildings with a single bound and knowing that the “William Tell overture” meant the “masked man” and his faithful companion were here to save the day! Hi Yo Silver!

Those were the days, my friend, those were the days.

Unfriendly Skies

Continental unfAirlines

Continental Airlines pissed me off when they refused to honor their “frequent flyer”
System where you earn miles and turn them in for flights at 25,000 miles per round trip. Once upon a time, it worked. Now, my letter to the CEO of Continental:

Dear Sir,

The following letter was sent via E Mail to your onepass department. Their response follows.

Dear onepass people,
I have been a member for many years and would like to let you know that the more recent operations are unsatisfactory. For the first few years I could call and had no trouble getting any flight I wanted for 20,000 miles. I have no problem with the minimum being raised to 25,000 due to costs, but I do object to not being able to get vacant seats for the 25,000 miles.. They’re there, I can get one for 40,000 or 50,000 or hard cash but evidently the policy is to limit the number of cheap (25,000) seats. I have tried three times in the last year to use my points only to be rebuffed by the higher requirements. Each time was with a three month advance notice. I don’t think you can expect a regular person to know much more in advance than that. I have flown exclusively with Continental and use a Continental Visa card to take advantage of what once WAS a good plan. I just recently tried to use my points for a trip to Las Vegas. No go, so I booked the flight for cash. If you cannot convert those flights from cash to 25,000 miles each, I will be canceling my credit card and saying hello to Southwest. Thank you for your attention.

Rev. Snodgrass

Continental responds:

“Thank you for contacting the OnePass Service Center.

I am sorry, but we cannot convert that reservation to a Standard Reward ticket.

David Allen
OnePass Service Center”

While I’m sure Mr. Allen meant “will not” rather than “cannot” I feel I must refer this matter to someone who has the power to do the right thing. I’m sure there are a host of lawyers who dream up the rules for onepass but once it ceases to serve its customers with service that I feel is well within reason, it ceases to be a plus for Continental.

Sincere regards.
Rev. Snodgrass

This matter still has not been resolved satisfactorily.

Super Shopper

About once every two weeks I make a trip to the Auchan (what they call) Hypermarket. They sell everything from tomatoes to TVs. My main interest is in their selection and price of beer from all over the world. They also sell fake beer, like Bud and Miller Lite.

One of the unique features of Auchan is their method of trying to keep shopping carts from littering their humongous parking lot. The carts are chained together with a gadget that you can release by inserting a two-bit piece into a slot. Upon returning the cart, a male type object inserted into your carts female end releases your very same quarter. Your money is never out of your sight and you get it back when you return your cart to the proper location. Of course if your car is not parked close to the cart return location it can be a pain to truck it back.

Today, as I drove into the lot looking for a prime spot, I spotted a rogue runaway cart loose in the lot. AHA! If I grabbed that one I wouldn’t have to return it to the “proper” location AND I wouldn’t have to dig up a quarter either! Keeping my eye on the cart I zipped into the closest vacant slot. Whoa! Some woman in a raggedy looking pickup had pulled in on the other side of the cart! I could read her mind, she was after MY cart! I leapt into action and had my hand on that cart before she hit the ground.

My lucky day! As I cruised the aisles with an air of superiority, not having to pull a quarter from my pocket, I knew I was the envy of the rest of the low lifes. Having finally settled on a variety of prime brew six-packs, I strolled triumphantly to the check out line.

Pushing my cart in the parking lot, I was able to wave at those I was passing heading in the opposite direction for the return of their carts. I could leave my cart right where I found it, by my car. Reaching for my keys…What the hell? Where are my keys? I grab my door handle and it is locked! I look inside and there are my keys in the ignition. And now ladies and gentlemen, the best part of all, the motor was still running! Quite a savings…quite a savings.

Next week’s sermon is “Haste makes waste”

Don't blame me!

In the beginning…

“What,” you may ask, ”kind of screwed up person writes this drivel and then thinks anyone would be interested in reading it?” My psychiatric records are sealed by court order but I can tell you a little about my beginnings and the people that affected me.

My family; Mom, Pop, and the Kids

Daddy was born in Sandy Hook, Maryland in 1898, making him almost 41 years old when I was hatched, January 15, 1939. He labored as a lithograph pressman for the Federal Tin Company on East Barre St. in Baltimore and was treasurer of the Union local (United Steel Workers). He did not drink liquor, although he might have a cold beer on a hot summer day. He smoked Lucky Strike cigarettes until he was 65, then quit cold turkey. He went to his reward at age 79.

Momma was two years younger than dad, still a little old to be having kids. She claimed “somewhere in Virginia” as her birthplace (since her actual birthplace, Philadelphia, PA would possibly brand her as a Yankee). Two years after I was born, along came the twins (Katy and Susie). Momma had her hands full. It was her second marriage and she was raising my half-brother, C. B., who was 13 when I was born. Most of the time she was employed in various accounting jobs where she was a whiz on the modern day apparatus called the comptometer.” No smoking, no drinking. Coffee and tea. She fed us well with down-home country cookin’, usually with enough leftovers for another meal. After father died, she remained a widow, living alone, until her passing in 1999, one year short of living the entire 20th century. What changes she had seen.

Big Brother. C. B. has always been my hero. Born in 1926, he enlisted (illegally at age 16) in the US Navy during the BIG ONE, WW II, and served aboard a “destroyer” in the Pacific. Attacks by kamakazis no doubt maimed and killed several of his buddies. Apparently he coped with these tragedies by never telling “war stories.” He sent money home for my first two wheel bike and always came home on leave with a couple of cartons of “Luckies” for Dad. After the war he went to work for the telephone company, where he stayed until he retired. He never drank, never smoked, and never fooled around with women. His only “real” marriage (having been duped earlier by a false claim of pregnancy) has lasted since 1954. Unfortunately for the world, he had no progeny. His second love, after Mabel, his wife, has always been cars. The first one I remember was a Crosley, which seemed to be about half the size of a VW bug. Then came the convertibles and sports cars. He had one of the first Corvettes and until this day I think has a working Corvair (“unsafe at any speed” R. Nader). Today, he and Mabel are living on the eastern shore of Maryland.

The Twins. Katy and Susie. Born in Baltimore March 22, 1941. They were inseperable and had little need for me. I, in turn rejected them from most of my more “mature” activities unless it suited my purposes, of course. It was not until we all were grown up and married that we had any kind of a real relationship. Neither of them ever smoked or drank. Unlike me (3 weddings and as many divorces) they took their first spouses till death do them part. Unfortunately, Katy’s husband was a heavy smoker and died of cancer in his late 40’s. They had 3 kids, two boys and one girl. Susie and her husband “Willy” are living in North Carolina (his home state) with several bulldogs in residence. They have a boy and a girl. Sadly, when mother died the twins became estranged over the settlement of mother’s “estate,” such as it was. Today they are not on speaking terms. I weep for them.

These are the people who helped me become what I am today. Perhaps I can blame them. I know it’s not my fault. Them and that electronic implant the government put in my teeth when I was sedated.

What's in a name?

A Rose by any other name…

I am known by many names, as we all are. Father, son, brother, uncle, nephew, student, teacher, Etc. Then there are the “Official” birth certificate, social security, driver’s license names. Aliases abound for those whose nefarious activities are best hidden from the authorities.

My full name is Kobee Ignatius Shackeel Snodgrass. As you can tell, my parents were jokesters and gave me all those goofy names so that my monogram would be KISS. I once considered changing my name, but “Snotgrass” was already taken.

And then there are the “titles” we may use to show off how much money our parents could spend on education. MD, DDS, PhD (does that really stand for phony Doctor?), DVM, Esquire. ETC. Personally, I attended a rigorous three week correspondence class offered by the “Elephant Butte” annex to the University of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. The open book spelling tests were the worst. Can you spell Dooteronomy? This labor of love culminated in the bestowal of the “Master In All Sacred Studies” Degree. For me, this was the perfect addition for all my monogrammed towels, shirts, and undies.
(For the dim-witted among you: KISS, MIASS)

WARNING !

SURGEON GENERALS WARNING:

Reading Reverend Snodgrass may be injurious to your health. Truth, if any, and fiction are interchanged randomly with no thought given to the consequences. Beware of him who speaketh with forked tongue. Titles are intended to be provocative and sometimes turn out to be the best part of the story. Little or no mention will be made of my three ex wives or two daughters in order to protect the guilty. Mostly it’s about foolish things; foolish things I have done and foolish things others have done whereby I have taken the time out of my busy schedule to enlighten them in the error of their ways.



































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































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