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.
Saturday, December 27, 2014
Monday, December 22, 2014
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.
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.
Sunday, December 21, 2014
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.
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.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.
Friday, December 12, 2014
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.
Tuesday, December 2, 2014
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."
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."
Monday, December 1, 2014
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.
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.
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