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A Rubber Stamp!
Recently, a pal and I were in a local closeout store. Folks from way back remember the chain as Pic N Save, but they’ve since changed their name to Big Lots. Well, said pal loves her rubber stamps – Christ Almighty, she’d get a tattoo of a rubber stamp if they could just put it on with a rubber stamp, instead of the painful, time-consuming, and all-too-often deadly process of getting pricked by a disease-laden (or -ridden?) needle by some so-called tattoo “artist.”
Anyway, I was pressing all the buttons on a shelf full of cheap talking toy trucks when I hear over the din, “Ted, come here – I’ve something to show you.” And by God, she sure did – she’d found a rubber stamp for sale at Big Lots:
Oh, Christ, that’s probably all confusing to you.
Here, let me show you the front of the stamp; that is, the block of wood on which it’s mounted.
“When you love somebody, you’re supposed to tell them.” Hm.
Okay, here’s my problem with this:First of all, this is supposed to be some brilliant out-of-the-mouths-of-babes revelation? Seriously? This is what passes for heartwarming sentiment these days?
Secondly, even if you like the inane statement up there, there’s no artwork to the stamp; it’s merely text. You could save your money and copy it down on a scrap of paper and then when you wanted to include it somewhere, just rewrite it yourself. What’s preventing me or you or anyone from doing that? I’ll tell you what: Not a goddamn thing.
And finally, who on earth is Jaden Young? Is he supposed to be known for these pithy little nuggets of wisdom? Because if he is, I’ve never heard of him, and I know you haven’t. Who the hell does Jaden think he is, Mattie Stepanowicz? (Also, I hate the name “Jaden.” It’s right up there with “Caitlyn,” folks.)
So even if you like his cloying little saying, do you really want to stamp the name and age of some complete stranger along with the rest of his message on the back of the envelope when you send in your check to the gas company? Ha, no wonder these things ended up at Big Lots, right?
Remember when Jerry Van Dyke was doing those ads for Big Lots a few years ago? I kept hoping they’d make one where he was doing his yo-yo tricks. How hard would it have been to work that into one of them?
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A Sneak Preview!
My next show is in August at a small gallery in West Los Angeles. Nothing’s concrete yet, so I don’t want to mention the name of the place until “Zasu” (How pretentious is that for someone in her early 40s who moved out here twenty years ago from Chicago and never made it as an actress? Newsflash, her real name is Susan.) who owns the place pays me for two pieces which were DESTROYED at my last show there.
Some jackass decided to smear the chocolate frosting from a cupcake on both dogs’ asses (which I did in chalk pastel and I cannot get it off without smearing it or ripping the paper) on my mixed-media drawing “Freckles and Wilhelmina” from the Springer Spaniel series. (And did I mention the white “jimmy” strategically placed on Freckles presumably to represent a worm sticking out? Disgusting.)
And some other loser thought it would be “funny” to take chewing gum and permanently adhere two Connect Four checkers (one red, one black) to my grandmother’s glasses on my cibachrome photogram print “Nana Remembers.” It’s completely beside the point that “Nana” sold after it had been defaced – the fact is that was not how I created it and I have therefore disowned it.
To add insult to injury, Zasu wants me to replace the Connect Four game (not just the two missing checkers!) for her “game shelf” which is ridiculous, because I happen to know she bought the game at a yard sale – because I was with her at the time. (Those days are over.) I either want sixty dollars cash for the two pieces ($40 for “Freckles and Wilhelmina,” $20, punitive damages, for “Nana Remembers.”) or seventy-five dollars in food credit, no exclusions – redeemable any time, after the NuArt lets out, Sunday brunch, to go, whenever! If I decide I want to buy out all their pumpkin shortbread muffins right before the Saturday morning rush, I want to be able to leave with all twelve.
Anyway, I thought you’d maybe like to see a “sneak preview” from my upcoming gallery show (official announcement after she pulls her head out of her ass). The show is going to be called “Time to Eat” (unless I come up with something better) and I got the idea when I made a pizza the other night and it looked like a clock that reads three o’clock. Ah, but three a.m. or three p.m.?
That, like all art, is open to interpretation.
Above: Three O’Clock – Digital Photography (but will be available on Premium Glossy Photo Paper), 2011
The pizza, by the way, was on sale at Target for $1 each. It’s a Tony’s Crispy Crust Party Time Supreme Pizza. Jesus, I wish I bought like ten of them – they’re really good (but the sale is over now).
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Shower Caddy!
I HATE to ruin your day but this story needs to be told.
A little less than four years ago I bought a shower caddy. It was expensive, too: $24.95. But I had one of those 20% off coupons that Linens-n-Things included in their flyers. So that brought it down to $19.96. Plus tax. (And brother, do they ever shaft you with the sales tax in California, hooo-whee!)
Why on earth would I pay enough money for a night on the town on a shower caddy? Because it was stainless steel and guaranteed for life. Let me repeat that because it’s going to become important later: Guaranteed for life. I was also probably a little overwhelmed from votive fumes. (Their candle section was truly second to none.)
As for “Guaranteed for Life,” this was an actual guarantee printed on the back of the paper that was stapled around the thing. If it ever got rusty, the manufacturer promised me they’d replace it.
Okay, are you ready for this? The sense of angry indignation you’re about to feel on my behalf is quite justified. Quite justified indeed. Look:
Ignore the mold in the grout on the left there. Also all the soap scum build up. (I let that thief Ildefonsa go two months ago after I discovered she was taking my beer cans out of the trash and turning them in for the redemption value.) I want you to focus on the rust.
And to help you focus on the rust, we’re going in for – yes! – a closeup!
Are you as disgusted as I am? Good.
Now here’s what’ll further enrage you – and I want you good and mad. I save every goddamn instruction book, every guarantee, every bit of warranty information…
…in this nice box that I even labeled with its contents. I specifically remember saving the damn shower caddy paperwork…
…but now I can’t find it! (Probably Ilda again. Oh, don’t worry, I called Immigration.)
So unless one of you steps up to the plate here, I am royally screwed. The damned caddy rusted and those pricks owe me a new one but I have no idea who made it. And oh yes, I already talked to my attorney about dragging Linens-n-Things into this for a quick five figure settlement, but that’s not what I’m after. Plus he told me to forget it because they’d filed for bankruptcy shortly after I bought this thing. (Coincidence? Hmm.)
Here’s the deal: Among the tens of thousands of regular readers of this blog, odds are a few hundred of you own this same model of shower caddy. The first one who gets me the name of the company, as well as your paperwork which I presume you saved (a scan is useless, you’ll need to send it to me via certified mail), gets his (or her, ladies) name mentioned in a future blog post!*
On your mark…Get set…Go find that warranty information!
*Upon receipt of new caddy or satisfactory financial restitution from manufacturer.
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The Cooler Stool!
HERE’S a merry little caper I came up with just for you. Are you ready?
In the paper the other day, I saw an ad for the Cooler Stool, sure.
I have it on good authority that it can also be used by medical delivery services to keep a sample properly chilled on its way from the proctologist to the lab.
But then it’s the Stool Cooler.
Print this one out and keep it in your wallet for a fun alternative to the 75¢ tip you usually leave at Bob Evans.
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Of Bees and Rebates: A Warm Remembrance of Nick Novotne
AS LONGTIME READERS of this blog know, my father (retired but still going strong at 91!) worked for years as a master beekeeper.
You’re probably wondering where I’m going with all this.
Well, before he was a master beekeeper, he was, of course, taken on as a beekeeper’s apprentice, or, as it is known in the guild, an apprentice beekeeper (and then later as a journeyman beekeeper). His mentor was the famous Nick Novotne whose name still generates a buzz (sorry!) among both keepers and bees.
A gentle soul despite a lifetime battling Mother Nature’s most bloodthirsty predator, Nick had a soft voice, a relaxed, ambling gait, and fingers as big around as a man’s penis. When I was a boy, Nick had already retired from the bee game, but many was the Saturday when he’d drop by the house to talk bees with Dad, knock back a few, and compare bee bites (“war wounds,” they’d call them) with my old man.
The thing about Nick was he’d never show up without a little something for me, and that something was usually a Maxwell House coffee rebate form from the coupon section of the paper and a few proofs-of-purchase. I’d send in the two UPCs from the label along with my name and address on the form and six to eight weeks later, voila, I’d receive, by mail, a check for a crisp one dollar bill.
If you don’t think that means much then you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be a boy. Back then, every red-blooded American boy loved getting mail, and in this particular case I was no exception. The check was beside the point – especially since it was no longer negotiable once I added a bunch of zeros to it with a green Bic Banana. What was important was getting an envelope with my name on it. Suddenly I mattered. Me. It was me who mattered. Me. Me.
Nick’s been gone for years now, probably. I have no idea when he passed away. At some point a boy doesn’t care about getting mail anymore. For me it was probably around the time Star Wars came out, or the four months I spent in the hospital after eating three tubes of Super Elastic Bubble Plastic (It doesn’t taste good per se, but you just can’t stop.). So I guess he died sometime after that; I don’t know. If he was still coming around, I wasn’t paying attention. I could ask Dad, but I want to finish this thing tonight and it’s too late to call and ask. And if I did call I’d have to endure a two-hour rant about Nancy Pelosi.
But if Nick was around today (and I don’t know that he’s not, but Jesus, he’d be like 109 or something), what he’d be doing is tearing these things out of the coupon section…
…and giving them to me, regardless that he’d have absolutely no idea what they were for. Because if he was still alive at this point he’d probably be senile. And you can’t redeem these things. (Can you?) So they’re useless to me. (Unless you can redeem them. And has anyone tried using them as postage stamps? Does it work? Is it legal / illegal…? Let me know.)
Furthermore, I can’t imagine that he’d be able to tear these out as nicely as I have without ripping the actual important part. Remember, he’d be like 109.
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The Sunday Paper!
IF THERE’S one thing that we can all agree on its how much time is wasted each weekend with the tedious, never-ending chore of reading the Sunday paper. It’s a thankless job, but it’s got to be done. I hear tell of those who are stuck at a Starbucks for hours – often with a girlfriend, goomah or, God forbid, wife – just trying to just get through this thing.
I’m going to show you how to power through that son-of-a-bitch and be done with it so you can get to more important things, like sitting in front of the TV at home, trying to undo that ingrown toenail with an awl.
Now if you have the misfortune, as I do, to live in the toilet that is Los Angeles, you’re stuck with the LA Times, which logically should be printed on cottony-soft two-ply. Though it is not.
First, let’s take a look at this bad boy:
Above: The Sunday LA Times with its requisite weekly hand-wringing front page sobfest about people who’ve made irresponsible life choices and now suddenly we’re supposed to not only feel sorry for them but take care of them. In this case the president of Yemen.
Christ on a cracker, 486 pages! This is going to take forever! Or is it…? Watch and learn, pal. Watch and learn.
Front Section: News. You’ve already read it online, heard it on the radio, or watched it on TV. Trash.
Big 5 Sporting Goods Circular: Keep.
Travel Section: You never go anywhere. Trash.
Business Section: Okay there, Mr. Rockefeller, you’re not fooling anyone. Trash.
Real Estate Supplement: In this economy? Trash.
Vehicle Classified Ads: These still exist? In the age of AutoTrader.com, Craigslist, and that stretch of Los Feliz Blvd. between Western and the 5? Trash.
Calendar Section: Trash.
Mattress Store Flyer: Like you or I know anyone who buys their mattress new. Trash.
Comics I Section: Read: Dilbert, Get Fuzzy, Pearls Before Swine, Bizarro, In the Bleachers, Frazz. Skip: Doonesbury, Lio, Candorville, Stone Soup, Non Sequitir. Then trash.
Toys R Us, Dell Computers, Local Appliance Store, Camera Store and Cash for Gold Flyers: Trash.
Coupon Sections: Hand to wife, significant other, or whoever you spent last night with and is still hanging around. Optional*: “Get clippin’, there, sweetheart!”
*Dependent on presumed temperature of partner’s coffee.
Official Vegas Guide to Summer: Hand to girlfriend.
Old Navy Flyer: Well, you should know where I stand on Old Navy since that Tie Shorts debacle. Trash. (I admit I glanced at the madras shirts for a moment. Ultimately, I’ll stick with my ring tees. As a pal says, “Ring tees never go out of style.”)
JC Penny Flyer: Wait, they’ve got better madras shirts for two bucks less than Old Navy. On the second page. Tear it out, hand scrap to wife, tell her you like green, and trash the rest.
Lowe’s Circular: Keep.
Sports Authority Flyer: Keep.
RiteAid and Walgreen’s Flyers: Wife.
Target Supplement: Glance at grill and patio furniture section, then trash.
Comics II Section: Read: Zits, Mutts, Fox Trot, Marmaduke (Yes, Marmaduke, including Doggone Funny!), Jump Start, Classic Peanuts, Shylock Fox (mystery only), Blondie, Baby Blues. Skip: Prickly City, Home and Away, Drabb– You know what, I take that back. You’ll want to read all the comics, because God knows when the final nail is hammered into the newspaper industry’s coffin in the next six months or so, the only thing we’re going to miss is the comics.
Best Buy Circular: Keep.
Sears Shoe Circular: Shoe circular?! Would it have killed Sears to include some Craftsman tools in there? Trash.
TV Weekly Lite: Trash. Unless you’re over 75 and this is the only reason you buy the paper. And believe me, if you’re over 75, this would be the only reason you’re buying the LA Times!
Harbor Freight Tools Circular: Do I really need to tell you this? Keep! Keep!
LA Times Subscription Card: Fold into paper airplane and sail into trash.
Local TV/ Stereo Superstore Insert: Keep.
Parade Magazine: Keep. Sir Walter Scott’s Questions About Celebrities That No One Actually Sent In is always good for a chuckle, and that Marilyn Bon Vivant gal makes you think.
Arts & Books Section: Tear off last page with crossword puzzle, sudoku, and, yes, Ask Amy, trash the rest.
California Section: Trash.
Sports: Tear off Fry’s ad from back page. Trash the rest.Now here’s the best part: This week’s Sunday paper comes with a great big brown paper shopping bag for OfficeMax that you’re supposed to bring to the store and cram stuff in it. But you’re going to use it to throw the rest of the paper away in. Ta da! Done. And in record time, might I add.
By now you should be back in the car, leafing through whatever’s left while laying on the horn for what’s-her-name to get her ass in gear and hurry up with that extra bear claw.
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Noisy Birds: An Update
AS I told you last week, in addition to every other damn human-related noise I’m subjected to in this God-forsaken neighborhood, the wildlife has it out for me as well.
And I thought it was bad when I wrote that first thing! It only got worse! Two days later I’m dealing with this:
(I commissioned myself to update the picture from the first post.
I’m also considering maybe getting one of my guns all inked up, so I sketched that in, too.)As you can see, the racket had gotten more than a little out of control. I could barely see myself glower anymore.
And then!
Then, the next day, it lessened by precisely half! Oh, it was still bad, but like I said, by half!
How could this be? What happened?
Well! I was in the backyard burying money in coffee cans as we all do at the end of every month when we’ve got some left over from the mortgage payment, when I saw this:
As I live and breathe, right in front of me, at my feet, one of the very culprits responsible for the disruption of my peace and quiet! And me with a sturdy shovel in my hands! (By the way, turns out it wasn’t a pterodactyl after all. Or “pteranodon,” you nitpickers. It was what I originally thought it was – a baby red-tailed hawk!)
And what a baby! This thing was literally the size of a chicken! (Now here’s where I should have put a Toolie Bird by it for scale! But you don’t think about these things until it’s too late.)
Its nest was at the very top of a tree that is easily 70 feet tall, if not more. And somehow it got from there…to the ground. I guess its first attempt at soloing didn’t quite go as planned. And it could no longer fly (if it had ever been able to).
Here’s what’ll surprise you: As much as this thing and its still-screeching sibling had aggravated me – and brother, let me tell you, they aggravated the holy hell out of me – when I approached it, and it looked at me with those big raptor eyes, I melted. You would, too. I know you would.
It was that moment when I finally understood how my friends with children felt when they saw their newborn babies for the first time.
Anyway, the poor thing was obviously hungry and as much as I would welcome any excuse to knock off a few squirrels around here to feed it, I don’t need to give the neighbors reason to get up another petition.
So I improvised with what I had in the house (Thank God I had the foresight to buy all that leftover Easter candy from three nearby Walgreens a few weeks ago!) and I’m pleased to say that my new friend Jellybeans is doing great.
I take him (Or her. Who the hell knows?) with me everywhere, tethered by a short length of sturdy rope, just like that French kid did with the red balloon in the movie of the same name. So I’m currently working up a treatment about the experience and am hopeful that Hollywood will soon come knoc–
Oh for God’s sake I called a wildlife rescue organization and they picked it up. Damn bird’s fine.
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A Memorial Day Weekend Message!
HERE’S a real laff-getter you’ll use to get things started around the ol’ barbecue this weekend while waiting for the coals to heat up and the Zima to take effect.
It seems last year I was in my local Super Walmart and since I, like you, am quite fond of the good ol’ U.S. of A., I purchased one of these:
As you can see, I have placed a Toolie Bird on the shirt for scale.
What better way to say “I love America and Old Glory” than to wear a t-shirt emblazoned with our nation’s flag in the shape of our country? Right? Right?
But before you agree with me, let’s take a look at the printed label inside the shirt collar.
All I can say is hold onto your hats for this one, brother!
If that doesn’t beat the band!This patriotic t-shirt was – yes, you read right, folks! – “MADE IN PAKISTAN” – the very country, which at the time of this shirt’s manufacture, was harboring Public Enemy Number One! For all we know, it was Osama himself (or one of his many lovely wives) who made this very shirt. It sickens me! But I will say they did a good job. Tight stitching, no hanging threads, fits snug but not too snug, etc.
The good folks at Walmart release a similar shirt each year around this time, and this year’s offering wasn’t made in Pakistan, no sir!
It was made in Nicaragua!
You can bet your Kate Smith LPs I won’t be buying one! But mostly because they were $3.80 last year and now they’re $5.50. The hell with that!
Anyway, grill’s ready. Get cookin’ there, Guy Fietti.
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Noisy Birds!
NEXT DOOR there’s a stand of eucalyptus trees. And at the top of one of them is an aerie. Do you know what an aerie is? Well, most importantly, it’s a crossword puzzle word, like “tor” or “Ida Lupino.” But also, it’s a nest for a bird of prey.
And living in this aerie is a couple of red-tailed hawks.
Now, these birds are largely benign, I guess. They don’t hunt around here, which is both good and bad, because there’s a lot of cats in the neighborhood, but there’s also a lot of filthy squirrels and that’s a population that you agree we’d all like to see decimated.
Often you can hear the hawks’ signature call as they approach their home, and my God, suddenly you think you’re back in the Andes hunting Nazi war criminals with Jonny Quest.
Now they’ve been there a few years and we’re all getting along fine, and then this year, last week, suddenly, they decide – without so much as mentioning anything to anyone – they decide to have babies!
And since then it’s been wall-to-wall high-pitched screeching from dawn to dusk! It sounds like some obnoxious kid blowing on a toy whistle! But here’s the difference: You can smack some obnoxious kid blowing on a toy whistle! You can smack ‘im hard! But you can’t smack a baby red-tailed hawk! Oh no, they’re protected by Federal and State laws!
Here’s an illustration I commissioned myself to draw so you can more easily understand my dilemma:
As you can see, my enormous muscles here help my situation little. (I didn’t draw my abs in because to be perfectly frank when I’m wearing a muscle shirt, you really can’t see them.)
I can’t even use my wrist rocket (not a euphemism; get your mind out of the toilet; it’s a slingshot) because even just pelting the holy hell out of the aerie with rocks just to get them to shut! up! is considered “harassment.” And I don’t need to sit through another court-mandated class, especially after – when I was apartment manager a few years ago – letting myself into #2-H’s place when I thought she wasn’t home and it turns out she was taking a shower.
Anyway, I hope they grow quickly and get the hell out of our neighborhood. Which, interestingly, is the way I feel about most of the human children around here, too.
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An Unlikely Find!
HERE’S some pleasant tomfoolery that’ll soon have you clutching your sides!
It seems yours truly was going through the medicine chest in the bathroom today and came across this:
A handy tube of Cutter brand Sport Pack Insect Repellant, sure. Where’s the payoff, you ask?
Keep your shirt on, Pagliacci, it’s coming!
So it occurs to me, Gee, Ted, you’ve had that forever, it seems.
And then I turn it around and look at the date on the back – and I haven’t had it forever, but I have had it…
...since 1993!
How about that! Through three apartments and a house, two divorces and an aborted attempt at a “domestic partnership” (Don’t ask!), six months in a commune and fourteen months in County, somehow, I kept this thing with me! And here’s the kicker – it just keeps getting better, folks! – through about a dozen camping trips, where I’d’ve actually used it, I never brought it with me!
Yet the question remained: Eighteen years later, is it still good?
And how!
Feel free to share this one with the boys at the 19th Hole at Fairview on Sunday afternoon.
Ted Parsnips
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