Wait....What?

Squeeze my lemon 'til the juice runs down my leg.


Whaaaaatt????

I had my earbuds in, volume up, music library set to Shuffle All as I went through my workout at the gym. Songs were coming and going, but I wasn't paying much attention to lyrics. Suddenly, those lyrics burst into my brain.  Was it really "Squeeze my lemon 'til the juice runs down my leg?" I was in no position at the moment to rewind/replay. The song continued:

Squeeze it so hard I fall right outa bed.
Can you squeeze my lemon 'til the juice runs down my leg?


Yep, I heard it right.

When I got a chance, I looked at the iPhone screen to see what and who. The what was Travelling Riverside Blues and the who was Led Zeppelin.

Most of the Led Zeppelin stuff is not to my taste, so I had pretty much ignored them through the years. Not much of a surprise that these lyrics had never caught my attention before.

Google and Wikipedia have informed me that this song was written and first recorded back in 1937. Really. 

Led Zeppelin recorded the song in 1969, so that version has been around for 45 years.

Times have changed. Censorship has evolved. I can't help wondering how much censorship has been applied to this song over the years.

Where is the Quality Control?

A friend is all excited about a new granddaughter, born 4 days ago. The kid is "21-1/4 inches long," she says.

That's the first time I have seen the Closest Half-Inch rule broken. Used to be, a kid would be 21" or 21-1/2" long. Now they are measuring, apparently, to the nearest 1/4 inch.

Or are they?

I mean, how accurate do you think a nurse is going to be when he/she does the measurement? What kind of equipment do they have? How many nurses do they commit to that measurement? One for the legs, one for the head, one holding the tape measure, and maybe one yelling at the kid to stretch out?

Yeah. In the blink of an eye, some unassisted nurse, in a hurry to get all the other stuff done so she/he can get a smoke break, eyeballs the tape and pronounces the kid to be 21-1/4.

There should be a couple of challenge flags in the delivery room.

The Last Frontier

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Mr. Scowl & Mr. Asshole

More about my gym (see Dec. 1, 2014 posting)....

Mr. Scowl has that look on his face every minute he's at the gym. He works out relentlessly, and he's a old guy like me. A couple of times, I have said hi to him in passing - I thought maybe we have a lot in common and maybe we could be friends. He has ignored these greetings. Always a scowl.

I have wondered what he is going through in his life that makes him (a) seemingly so driven in his workouts, and (b) so sad/angry/hostile. Maybe it's a health crisis. I know he's slowing down; it is now pretty easy for me to pass him when we are walking on the track, but a year ago it was almost impossible.

Anyway, I named him Mr. Scowl and wrote him off. But then, on a visit to the Apple store, I saw him in actual street clothes. He was with a pretty young woman. Maybe his daughter. Maybe his granddaughter. It appeared to me that he was buying her a laptop computer. He was smiling. Shit! I may have to change his name.

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Mr. Asshole is a personal trainer at the gym. Everything about him -- the way he looks (hair style, piercings, tattoos), the way he moves (struts), the way he yells at the women in his group sessions -- everything about the guy screams "Look at me, I'm Mr. Hotshit." But he's not hotshit at all. He isn't good-looking, he isn't particularly buff, and he yells much louder than it takes to be heard. 

I always see him at the gym wearing the purple shirt that all trainers wear. Yesterday, I saw him at the supermarket, and Mr. Asshole was wearing a Superman shirt. No shit. 

I have a Superman shirt. I'm going to burn it.

Insecurity. That's my diagnosis. He's not really an asshole, but his insecurity makes him act like an asshole. Shit! I may have to change his name.

NZ Postal Service

My postcard arrived in my son’s Austin, Texas mailbox a couple of days ago. It doesn’t look exactly like it did when I stuck it in the New Zealand mailbox. Now it is wrapped in plastic, and not one, but two stamps cover up the "anywhere" stamp I paid 2 NZ dollars for. The one you see is from Singapore, but there is Brunei stamp under that.

In 1967 it took about a week for a letter to get from Viet Nam to the USA. With transportation improvements, I thought it would be much faster in 2014. Well, it took a bit longer than that. Let’s see, from October 17 to December 9......that is 7.5 weeks. 

The explanation is simple, and had I thought it through I would have expected such a slow delivery. You see, the Maori warriors in New Zealand are out of work. They got laid off when it was no longer fashionable to kill and eat the white settlers. So they have been reassigned, retrained, re-employed as postal workers. 

Using their wakas (like dugout canoes but way more sophisticated), they provide courier service between New Zealand and the U.S. To protect the mail from salt spray, rain, etc., during the long voyage, they wrap each letter in plastic. 

A typhoon took them off course of course, and they washed up on-shore in Malaysia. The local authorities forced the Maori postal workers to buy both a Brunei and Singapore stamp before they could proceed on their voyage to Los Angeles. 

It’s the only explanation that makes any sense.

Billy Joel

It is in my nature to measure just about anything that can be measured.

When I started a regular exercise program (in my 60s, for the first time in my life), I started measuring how long it took me to walk 3 miles, how long it took to run 100 meters, etc. I kept track and I was pleased to see that I was getting faster as time went by.

I knew that getting faster would not last forever, that age would bend the curve the other way. I just didn't know when that would happen.

Well, it happened.

That doesn't bum me out. I knew it was going to happen. As BJ once wrote, "I took the good times, I'll take the bad times."

What I Like About My Gym

Looking around the Des Peres Lodge, you see all sizes, shapes, ages, and genders. There are a few studs, an occasional hottie, a sprinkling of blobs, more than a few in their 80s, some rehabbing a knee or hip or whatever, but mainly it's a mix of the in-betweens -- not particularly buff, but trying to get or stay fit.

It's really rare to see anyone prancing or preening or otherwise showing off. A paunchy 71-year-old guy can go there and sweat and not feel out of place.

Oh, and the place is a half-mile from my house.

Nothing But Net

Out of 100 free throws, I will hit around 45. That's a pitiful percentage if you're in the NBA. Actually, if you are a 45% FT shooter, you are not in the NBA. You can't even make the Berkeley Bulldogs (if Berkeley High School still existed, but that's another story) squad.

Of the 45 times the ball goes through the hoop and down through the net, maybe 2 of them are what I call perfect. That's when the ball misses the hoop on the way to the net, brushes dead center on the inside of the back of the net, falls to the hardwood with backspin induced by the net, and bounces twice on the way straight back to the me at the free throw line.

All 45 of them are appreciated, but those 1 or 2 "perfect" shots give me a great deal of pleasure.

I Washed My Balls Today

They had gotten a little grimy, and there were some marks showing the results of being banged around day after day.

Now they look and feel fantastic!

Road Scholar

Most of us do some vacation traveling. For me, it's been a mixed bag -- some driving, some flying, some cruises. Some on my own, some guided tours. All of them have their pluses and minuses.

Road Scholar conducted a tour of New Zealand and Australia that fit my needs and wants very well. They just have their shit together. Our tour was well-planned and well-executed.

Road Scholar offers tours in just about every country, and a bunch of different tours in the U.S. I'm going to assume their feces is consolidated on all their tours. Some of the Road Scholars with us in NZ and Aus were on their Xth Road Scholar tour, where X was as high as 38.

The amount of planning, preparation, coordination, experience, eloquence, and just plain energy required of the Group Leaders, Site Coordinators -- they have to make sure guest lecturers, hotels, restaurants, sights, airlines, and the humans in their charge are all on the same page -- is extraordinary.

They never make you feel like they are cutting corners, only taking you to cheap hotel, restaurants, attractions, etc. You really get the good stuff.

My hat is off to Road Scholar.

Anybody want to see the "best of" photos we came back with? Warning: some of these photos were taken of fellow travelers, and will be of little interest to others.

Here is the link:  https://jerrysdownunderphotos.shutterfly.com/

I'm attaching a map to show where we went. The numbers inside the circles indicate how many nights we were to spend in that place. The penciled-in numbers are time zone changes.

A Sad Day

Today is Veterans Day.

I recently saw a list of restaurants that offer free meals to veterans on November 11. It reminded me of that day several years ago when I took advantage of the offer at Appleby's or Ruby Tuesday or some such place. Went by myself. Got a free meal. Didn't enjoy it. Won't do it again.

Today I will eat what I want where I want. I'm lucky to be able to do that.

There are a lot of veterans who aren't so fortunate. When I allow myself to think about them, and that is by no means every day, I am very sad.

War. What is it good for?

The last straw was Melbourne's Shrine of Remembrance.

Having seen a large number of memorials to Wars X, Y, Z, P, Q, and TT, and having seen row upon row of white crosses on grassy fields, and having seen innumerable sculpted bronze and stone images of known and unknown warriors, and having seen eternal flames, and having seen incomprehensibly long lists of those lost in the fray, and having read the gory accounts of senseless carnage in the name of king or country or some god or another, and having listened to the Irish song The Green Fields of France, and having seen too many photos of fresh-faced exuberant young men flooding some recruiting office or another, and having seen too many flag-draped coffins, and having listened to the sad last note of Taps too many times, and having met too many badly-damaged vets, and having seen too many video clips of kids climbing out of rubble where a house used to be, and having seen and smelled and lived it, I am sick of the whole war thing.

LEST WE FORGET

Those words are carved in stone at the aforementioned Shrine.

Forget? I wish! 

Fat freakin' chance. New wars and the reminders of old ones just keep coming, and both make me want to puke.

What Mary Had

This country has a lot of appeal, and I could move here except for a couple of things. Well, one main thing: they don't allow outsiders to take up permanent residence unless (a) the outsider has skills they need and has no medical issues their healthcare system will be called on to address, or (2) the outsider forks over more money than I will ever have.

It is a gorgeous country. When we leave here for Australia tomorrow, it will be a sad farewell. The likelihood of passing this way again is small. 

Lamb is a plentiful food here, so I tasted it for the third time in my life. Guess what? I dislike it just as much as the first and second times. The likelihood of me trying it a fourth time equals the likelihood of another trip to New Zealand.

The Senate

Imagine, if you will, the United States Senate voting to abolish itself. Very difficult to picture that, I know.

Some 50 or so years ago the New Zealand "upper house" of Parliament, realizing that they were adding no value to the democratic process, did just that. After the vote, the members gathered to sing Auld Lang Syne and then went home. That was it. With no constitution saying there had to be two houses in Parliament, those guys were able to do what they thought was right, and the citizens have saved some money ever since. 

Problems

Yeah, everyone has 'em.

Right now, I have two. First, I am unable to attach a photo to this Post. A photo that is already on this iPad. I want to demonstrate that I really am in New Zealand, not just holed up in the Motel 6 down in Arnold. 

Second, my pseudophilosophical wit seems to be on the fritz. I called the repairman, but the first available appointment is three months from next Tuesday -- I simply can't wait that long.

I'll just relate a story our Road Scholar group was told by one of our Site Coordinator, a mate named Albert Sword, who educated us a bit on New Zealand history.

It seems that many of the European sailors who first landed here in the 1600s were badly malnourished and suffered from very serious constipation. The settlers asked the indigenous Maori people if they had any enema facilities, as they were afraid some of their men would die. The Maori chief said they never had that problem because they chewed on the fronds of a certain kind of fern. The fronds were offered, the men chewed on them and got immediate relief. The ship's captain wrote in his log, "With fronds like this, who needs enemas?"

Big Bang

Nothing was left alive for miles around after the series of explosions in the middle of the night in June, 1886. It was a sort of Mt. St. Helens deal in the central part of New Zealand's north island. Eventually, the dust settled and craters -- plural -- filled with water.

Although the dust had settled, the steam vents and geysers have not. During a boat cruise on Lake Rotomahana, which formed in the largest crater, we saw a large number of them along the shore. Many more are submerged in the lake, diameter 2 miles and depth in hundreds of feet. Black swans swim lazily around until the boat infringes on their precious primadona personal space; then they fly a hundred meters away and water-ski 10 meters to a soft landing.

The area around the lake is very hilly. Call it mountainous. After the Big Bang, it was a desolate landscape covered in volcanic ash. Now, 128 years later, it is a lush forest, almost jungle, and, if there is a lesson to be learned, that lesson is something about resilience. This is an ugly place turned beautiful.

We are definitely not in Kansas.

Barbra Streisand

People are people. No matter where in the world you go, people are pretty much the same. 

Except they aren't. 

New Zealanders have the standard number of arms and eyes and testicles and whatever, but they are a tad different from Americans. We are finding less graffiti and less litter and more kindness and more cordiality and less baseball knowledge down here.

I have been some places where people are phony-nice to the American tourist, and I see right through that. This isn't that. They are just a bit more .... bloody civilised 'round here. 

Please forgive the obscure reference to Ms. Streisand.

You see? Only a few days here, and I am already saying things like "please" and "thank you." I have not told one bloke to bugger off!

Rules

Somewhere above the Tasman Sea aboard Qantas 145 between Sydney and Auckland: The headphones only worked for the right ear, so I turned the volume up, trying to drown out the engine and wind noises. On the video screen, a  documentary  on (lack of) modern manners sounded interesting, and probably would have been had I been able to understand at least 51% of the words. The background noise, the Aussie accent (these people talk funny!), the half-active headphones, and my age-appropriate hearing loss all conspired to sabotage the experience. After 3 minutes, I ripped the headphones off and tried to asphyxiate myself by wrapping the cord around my neck. A flight attendant sternly reminded me that suicides are not permitted on eastbound flights while the window shades are down. Shit!

Rules. They suck.

Comments

One of my fans has reported an unsuccessful attempt to comment on one of my Musings. Anyone else have that experience? If so, let me know by leaving a comment. Unless, of course, this blog won't let you comment -- in which case you should post a comment.

It's Different Down Under

We have been in Australia for just over an hour, so I don't know all the differences yet -- but I have learned that infants don't get strapped into special seats in cars here. Their mothers carry them around in fur-lined pouches just below their belly-buttons.

Strange place, but the natives seem friendly so far.

Crossing the International Date Line

We just landed in Australia, and the clocks are all screwed up. Time here is allegedly 10:02AM on Tuesday October 14, but that is not possible under international law. Methinks the Y2K team had something to do with this.

L.A.

Qantas 108 is starting to board passengers to Sydney. We will connect with an Air New Zealand flight to Auckland. That will take place in 274 hours, more or less, and we will begin our tour Down Under.

Today I got to visit a little bit with Gary Morse, a dear friend from long ago. He lives in the LA area and is recovering from a nasty mesothelioma surgery and radiation treatments. A sobering reminder of how fortunate I have been, enjoying good health.

I may drink heavily on this flight. Nobody gets arrested for that, do they?

Fun!

It has been 3 hours since "wheels up" leaving STL. Only an hour left on this plane; we land in L.A. and seek luggage, rental car, Sheraton, food, and alcohol -- not necessarily in that order.

The past 180 minutes have been somewhere between miserable and torturous. I could not stay awake, but I couldn't stay asleep. My head won't stay back on the headrest when I sleep. It falls forward and wakes me up. My bladder finally rescued me from the head-bob shuffle, and the woman in 23D barely betrayed her hostility as she unbuckled and stood to let me go drain the snake.

Flight attendants of indiscernible genders and ethnicities just reached Row 23 dispensing drinks. As I considered my Coke-wine decision, the pilot announced "Prepare for landing," which Flight Attendant B quickly followed with (looking straight at me) "Sorry!"

Fun. Everyone told me to have fun. I intend to start any minute now.

Kid Rock

I have a pretty large number of songs on my iPhone. At the gym yesterday, with the music set to "Shuffle," a rap song named Cowboy came up. I almost rejected it after 10 seconds -- I'm not big on rap. But as it played on, I got hooked on the lyrics, and then I told my iPhone to repeat the song. It repeated maybe 20 times. I really like the song.

Kid Rock and Sheryl Crow had a hit sort-of-country duet named "Picture" a few years ago, and I really like that one.

I might be the oldest fan Kid Rock has.

Well, Crap!

Doctor dude looked at my left knee MRI and told me I have a torn meniscus. He said it will never heal on its own and could get worse. Surgery is the only way my knee will ever be pain-free. Well, crap!

I found this image on medicine net.com site. It's not my knee, but it does show a torn medial meniscus, and the tear is somewhat near where mine is.

Pain sucks. Surgery sucks. Pain after surgery sucks. Last year it was my shoulder, this year my knee. Oh, well -- things could be a lot worse. The guy says I'll be able to resume all activities within a month. I don't believe him, but I do believe I'll be able to run at some point.

Inspiration

Every day, her goal is to walk 20 laps without stopping. When I talked to her, she was on lap #12 and breathing a bit hard, but she was determined to press on. She's 89.

I don't know what keeps her going, but people like her keep me going.

The Circle of Life

True story:
I was shopping at Sam's about 13 years ago, soon after a divorce that stripped me of most of my personal possessions -- including my tools. Sam's had a Dewalt portable power tool set for what seemed like a really good price, and I needed the drill, reciprocating saw, etc. I put the set in the cart.

Some guy came by as I was loading it up, and I remarked to him that this set seemed to good to pass up. He scoffed at it and said "I don't buy anything that isn't 18 volts." The set I was buying was 14.4V.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago. Guy across the street asked me if my drill was less than 3.5" wide. I measured it at 3.25" and told him. He wanted to borrow mine because it would fit between drywall sheets in a wall (the 2-by-4s are 3.5" wide). He borrowed my drill and got his job done. He told me his drill is 18V and wouldn't fit.

Wouldn't it be just a perfect story if the guy in Sam's, whose face I can't remember, just happened to be my present-day neighbor?

This Could Be The Start of Something Small

I started a blog several years ago using a free Apple site. A couple of years ago, Apple stopped hosting the site, so I switched to a different (paid subscription) site. The guy at the Apple Store told me everything would transfer, but he was wrong -- the comments, which were important to me, did not.

For that and other reasons, I pretty much stopped blogging. On my To Do list, though, I had this entry: "Find a new Blog site that allows comments."

This is it.

I'm abandoning the old site, but my dues are paid up for the next 2 years. So all my old Musings are there for the viewing. Go there if you wish. The address is http://iHydexxx.com/Medium_Guy/Musings/Musings.html

Medium Guy