Classic Newsreel of the Month - April 2012

Happy Easter, everybody!

 Dinner last night:  Eggplant parmagiana.

The First Mugs of Spring

Something tells me her vote next November will be a write-in ballot.

As dwarfs go, she's also a little Dopey.

 "I'm strong to the finish, cause I eat my spinach."

 "Oh, Grandmama, a nice prison record you have."

 Yeah, I'd put gloves on too before I touched that hair.

 My God, there must be ants in here.

But certainly not the first Black inmate.

  Cut yourself shaving?

 Do those things come in strawberry?

 Who stole Billy Joel's Norelco shaver?

Dinner last night:  Rotisserie chicken and broccoli salad from California Chicken Cafe.

Moron of the Month - April 2012

Yes, folks, our winner this month is Democratic National Committee Chairperson Debbie Wasserman Schultz.  And she's not only stupid, but, from the photo above, she's pretty butt ugly, too.  It's a look not worthy of an American politician.  She seems to be better suited to pulling a donkey cart in some depressed farmland area of the Soviet Union.  And, hopefully, she's doing just that really soon.  The sooner we are rid of the likes of her in this nation, the better.  Besides, there's not enough Lancome counters in America to fix that mug.

Unfortunately, we're going to be stuck seeing a lot of this shithead come this summer when the Democrats hold their big party in Charlotte, North Carolina.  She will be center ring.  Like the apes in the Barnum and Bailey Circus.  It will be bad enough we have to look at her.  But, wait till this big fresser opens her piehole and the same thing comes out that emanates from the orefice on the other side of her body.  God help us all.

Ms. Wasserman Schultz epitomizes everything that is wrong with American politics and government.  She speaks from a script crafted in some pot-filled room deep in the recesses of the nation's capital.  Thoughts and talking points are given to dumbbells like Debbie and, all of a sudden, she speaks original ideas straight from a mind that would normally have none.  Paul Winchell would have had a field sliding his hand up her back and doing a new comedy act with this dummy.   And, frankly, from the photo above, it's been a long while since Ms. Wasserman Schultz had any man's arm even remotely on her body.

Both sides of the aisle litter our world with mis-truths and non-facts.  But, Debbie seems to puke them out at a record pace.    And her voice sounds like that parrot in your local pet shop.  Squawk!  More taxes for billionaires.  Squawk!  Republicans are all racists.  Squawk!  Only Democrats worry about the common man.  Squawk!!

Choke on that cracker, Polly.

As uber-annoying as Ms. Wasserman Schultz is on her best days, nothing was more delicious than her appearance two days ago on the KABC-AM morning show hosted by the incomparable Doug McIntyre, who is relatively balanced when it comes to political viewpoints.  I'm not sure what Debbie was doing on this show.  She was in Los Angeles to do what a Democrat apparently does best....raise money.  But, unfortunately, she walked into a firewall that exposed her for the true moron that she is. 

She talked glowingly of Los Angeles Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa. 

Huh???

Okay, anybody who lives in Los Angeles and doesn't have a "Z" at the end of their last name hates this guy.  He has been a complete fraud and embarrassment to the city.  Meanwhile, President Barry Obama has tapped him to play a major role in his re-election campaign moving forward.  Why?  He badly needs the Hispanic vote and Villaraigosa is the perfect patsy to deliver that bloc.  Stupid is as stupid does. 

But, to hear Debbie talk about him, you would think that Villaraigosa has died on the cross right next to Jesus Christ and Barabbas.  Hello?  Well, the good news is that McIntyre calls her out on this big time.  And her panties are pulled down on Los Angeles radio.  I'll also suggest that it's been a while since Debbie had that done by a man as well.

Give a listen...



In this battle of wits, Debbie Wasserman Schultz is unarmed.    She tries desperately to recover by resorting to the scripted Democratic talking points.

Squawk!

Squawk!

Squawk!

And Polly does choke on that cracker.

It's great to see somebody as unctuous and disgraceful as Debbie Wasserman Schultz get trashed for all to hear.  Payback is just like what you are, lady. 

A bitch.

Women can certainly be leaders in our world.  This one, however, is better suited to be carrying a clothespin bag and wearing a babushka.  All Debbie Wasserman Schultz should being with her life is....the wash.

UPDATE:  For shits and giggles, I Googled her name with the word "moron."  I am not the first person to connect that description to Dumbbell Debbie.  As a matter of fact, there is a long, long history of stupidity attached to this clown.  If you ever once cast a vote for her in some election, you, too, are a complete moron.  My deepest sympathies to Mr. Schultz, who should have used a better filter when he joined Jewish Singles.com.

Dinner last night:  Spinach salad with grilled chicken.

This Date in History - April 4

Happy Birthday, Blanche Morton, Kate Bradley, Betty Rubble, and you, too, Bea Benaderet.

1081:  ALEXIOS I KOMNENOS IS CROWNED BYZANTINE EMPEROR AT CONSTANTINOPLE, BRINGING THE KOMNENIAN DYNASTY TO FULL POWER.

Talk about a big ego.  Komnenos naming his own dynasty.  Self-involved to the Nth degree.

1147:  FIRST HISTORICAL RECORD OF MOSCOW.

Landed at #5 on that week's top hits of WABC.

1581:  FRANCIS DRAKE IS KNIGHTED FOR COMPLETING A CIRCUMNAVIGATION OF THE WORLD.

Oh!!!!  Circumnavigation!  That's a different joke.

1721:  SIR ROBERT WALPOLE ENTERS OFFICE AS THE FIRST PRIME MINISTER OF THE UNITED KINGDOM UNDER KING GEORGE I.

10 Downing Street when it was new construction.

1821:  US PRESIDENT JAMES MADISON ENACTS A NINETY-DAY EMBARGO ON TRADE WITH THE UNITED KINGDOM.

The great tea bag shortage of 1821.

1814:  NAPOLEON ABDICATES FOR THE FIRST TIME.

You mean he did it more than once???

1818:  THE UNITED STATES CONGRESS ADOPTS THE FLAG OF THE UNITED STATES.

Just in case you think Betsy Ross did all that sewing for nothing.

1841:  WILLIAM HENRY HARRISON DIES OF PNEUMONIA BECOMING THE FIRST PRESIDENT TO DIE IN OFFICE AND THE ONE WITH THE SHORTEST TERM.

He lasted 32 days in office.  Probably didn't even last long enough to see the new business cards.

1850:  LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA IS INCORPORATED AS A CITY.

Once the smog cleared, they realized it was there.

1853:  ABE'S SON, TAD LINCOLN, IS BORN.

He lasted longer in the White House than Harrison but not by much.

1859:  BRYANT'S MINSTRELS DEBUT "DIXIE" IN NEW YORK CITY IN THE FINALE OF A BLACKFACE MINSTREL SHOW.

I am eagerly awaiting the 2012 revival.

1865:  A DAY AFTER UNION FORCES CAPTURE RICHMOND, VIRGINIA, PRESIDENT ABRAHAM LINCOLN VISITS THE CONFEDERATE CAPITAL.

Abe spikes the football.  Sadly, he has a little over a week left to live.

1873:  THE KENNEL CLUB IS FOUNDED.

Coincidentally, this also marks the construction of the girls dorm at Fordham University.

1887:  ARGONIA, KANSAS ELECTS SUSANNA M. SALTER AS THE FIRST FEMALE MAYOR IN THE UNITED STATES.

Okay, so we blame Argonia, Kansas...

1895:  DANCER ARTHUR MURRAY IS BORN.

One, two, two, one, three, four, four, three...

1906:  ACTRESS BEA BENADERET IS BORN.

....it is run by Kate.  Come and be her guest at the Junction....

1906:  JOURNALIST JOHN CAMERON SWAYZE IS BORN.

He died in 1995.  Might have been his ticker.

1924:  BASEBALL STAR GIL HODGES IS BORN.

God bless you for 1969.

1928:  WRITER MAYA ANGELOU IS BORN.

There once was a hermit named Dave.  He lived by himself in a cave...

1932:  ACTOR ANTHONY PERKINS IS BORN.

Mother?

1939:  FAISAL II BECOMES KING OF IRAQ.

Anybody wondering what happened to Faisal I?

1942:  BASEBALL STAR JIM FREGOSI IS BORN.

The Mets traded Nolan Ryan to get him.  Perhaps the worst trade in baseball history.

1945:  DURING WORLD WAR II, AMERICAN TROOPS LIBERATE OHRDRUF FORCED LABOR CAMP IN GERMANY.

If you know how to pronounce "Ohrdruf," please call me.

1947:  ACTOR LUKE HALPIN IS BORN.

He swam with Flipper.  And who knows what else he did with that fish?

1949:  TWELVE NATIONS SIGN THE NORTH ATLANTIC TREATY CREATING NATO.

Just twelve?  The dues must have been damn expensive.

1958:  GANGSTER JOHNNY STOMPANATO IS KILLED.

Knife wound to the gut from Lana Turner's daughter.  Or maybe it was Lana Turner?  We will never know.

1964:  THE BEATLES OCCUPY THE TOP FIVE POSITIONS ON THE BILLBOARD HOT 100 POP CHART.

Yeah, yeah, yeah...

1965:  ACTOR ROBERT DOWNEY JR. IS BORN.

He slept in a crib on this night.  And again years later when he was 30.

1967:  MARTIN LUTHER KING JR.  DELIVERS HIS "BEYOND VIETNAM" SPEECH IN NEW YORK CITY'S RIVERSIDE CHURCH.

And one year later to the day...

1968:  MARTIN LUTHER KING JR. IS ASSASSINATED AT A MEMPHIS MOTEL.

Killed in the evening so he missed check-out time.

1968:  NASA LAUNCHES APOLLO 6.

Nothing much happened so, sorry, no Ron Howard movie yet.

1969:  DR. DENTON COOLEY IMPLANTS THE FIRST TEMPORARY ARTIFICIAL HEART.

It was obviously a rental and not a purchase.

1970:  ACTOR BYRON FOULGER DIES.

He was one of the engineers on Petticoat Junction.  He died on Bea's birthday as well as the day the last episode aired in prime time.

1973:  THE WORLD TRADE CENTER IN NEW YORK CITY IS OFFICIALLY DEDICATED.

Oh, well.

1972:  POLITICIAN ADAM CLAYTON POWELL DIES.

You mean "politician/crook?"

1973:  MAGICIAN DAVID BLAINE IS BORN.

Poof, he's here.

1973:  MICROSOFT IS FOUNDED AS A PARTNERSHIP BETWEEN BILL GATES AND PAUL ALLEN.

And, thanks to them, I can type that sentence on this blog.

1979:  ACTOR EDGAR BUCHANAN DIES.

And the Petticoat Junction curse of April 4 continues.

1979:  PRESIDENT ALI BHUTTO OF PAKISTAN IS EXECUTED.

What season was he on Petticoat Junction?

1983:  SPACE SHUTTLE CHALLENGER MAKES ITS MAIDEN VOYAGE INTO SPACE.

Gee, that lasted about as long as William Henry Harrison.

1983:  ACTRESS GLORIA SWANSON DIES.

Sunset Boulevard now closed.  Use Wilshire as a detour.

1984:  PRESIDENT RONALD REAGAN CALLS FOR AN INTERNATIONAL BAN ON CHEMICAL WEAPONS.

I'm glad everybody paid attention to that.

1999:  BASEBALL STAR EARLY WYNN DIES.

Now Late Wynn.

2007:  DIRECTOR BOB CLARK DIES.

In a car crash.  The director of the wonderful "Christmas Story."  A sad loss.

Dinner last night:  Pasta and meatballs.

Mister and Meniscus

For those of you not completely up on your anatomy, here's where your meniscus sits in each of your knees.  And what one looks like when it's torn.

I've only got one now.  In my right knee.  The meniscus that resided comfortably in my left knee is likely in some disposable bag of medical waste ready to be picked up by Beverly Hills Sanitation.  The rest of my years will have to be left-meniscus-free.  I hope people don't judge me by that when I try to join a country club.

Just how does one arrive at being one meniscus short?  Well, regular readers will know that my hippity-hoppity journey began last December.  On a windswept and rainy night in multi-pot-holed Manhattan, I was working very hard as I twisted and turned to prevent my umbrella from going inside out.  Well, I saved the bumpershoot.  The meniscus in my left knee?  Not so much.

The minor twinge in my leg that night escalated into something major two days before Christmas when a simple stretch with my personal trainer ballooned my left knee to Cecil B. DeMille proportions.  The damage was already done, so I probably could have aggravated it all by chewing a stick of gum.  The fact that I had screwed up my left knee in an event to work with a trainer and physical therapists to strengthen my long-arthritic right knee has that kind of ironic twist you'd expect from O Henry.

Nevertheless, the first few weeks of 2012 found me in severe pain.  I would be sitting quietly and suddenly feel as if I was being stabbed in the left knee joint by Brutus.  The simple act of going to a movie theater was the equivalent of climbing Mount Everest.  I needed a sherpa to go and get me my box of Raisinets. 

I called my internist who prescribed some Celebrex short term.  But, when that worked as well as the last stimulus plan, I headed back to Kerlan-Jobe, the orthopaedic consultants to the Dodgers, the Lakers, and me.  One grope of the back of my knee joint and my doctor knew what he was dealing with. 

"You obviously tore your meniscus."

Up to that moment, I didn't even know I had one.

All of his suspicions were confirmed with a MRI, which I believe stands for the words "Maybe Really Injured."   My friend, the Bibster, allegedly tore his a while back.  Back when, he bought a Toyota right before me and a VCR right before me.  I guess we were still locked in that bizarre pattern of life---copying each other endlessly.

So, what does one do now with a torn meniscus, I asked dumbly.

"Well, we repair it if we can.  Or we remove it."

Having just become aware that I had one, it was depressing to think that I would lose touch with it so quickly.  Nevertheless, the Meniscus Farewell Tour aka arthroscopic surgery was scheduled for the end of March.  In the meantime, I kept at a combination of work with my personal trainer Christina and physical therapists Susie and Justin.  I mention their names because they have been so important to me.   As a result, the level of pain dropped faster than the housing market in 2008.  The week before my date with a pinhole camera, my pain level on a scale of 1 to 10 was at a miniscule 0.25.  Except for going down stairs, I was walking fine.  I suddenly realized that the process of getting it fixed would undo all the weeks of exercise and core strengthening. 

D'oh.

At the same time, I couldn't back out now.  Opening Day at Dodger Stadium is in several weeks.  To get to my seats in Loge Aisle 120, I must descend from Row Z to Row L.  Half the alphabet.  With no railing or bannister.

God perish the thought.  What time is my surgery, please?

Well, it was supposed to be 730AM on Tuesday, March 27 at a surgical center in Beverly Hills.  In fact, they wanted me so badly that they called at 645AM and asked me to come in even earlier.  Hmm.  Why the special attention?  Perhaps they are fans of this blog?  

Well, I was able to get there at 720AM.  As it turns out, they wanted to slot me in before this guy who was getting his two shoulders repaired.  But, I missed the window of opportunity and was put into the kind of holding pattern one usually experiences at Newark Airport on a rainy day.  With questions at every turn.

Er, I thought I answered all this stuff on other forms.  Apparently, three times is not enough.

"Do you drink?"

"What do you take for your sinus headaches?"

"What brand of cigarette did your mother smoke during the early 60s?"

If any of these people really did read my blog, they'd know all this crap already.  But, in the "Cover Your Ass" department, this surgical center was looking to use the tarpulin from the Citi Field infield.

I changed into my gown, little paper booties, and a hat that made me look like Mrs. Patmore from "Downton Abbey."  The night cleaning crew may have left it behind.  And then I was shuttled into the "pre-op" waiting room.  It was filled with several easy chairs equipped with personal IV poles.  It reminded me of one of those places where you go for chemotherapy.  Okay, how come nobody asked about a family history of cancer?

There was one other guy already in queue for his appointed surgery.  He may have been there since the Super Bowl, because he was really angry and insisted that the flat screen TV be tuned to ESPN Sportscenter.  And it was that time of early morning where they run the same show over and over and over.

My personal "pre-op" nurse was adorable and very helpful.  She apologized when she said that she needed to shave my left knee.  I complimented her on her work and remarked that she obviously had experience doing the same with her own legs.

"Oh, I never shave my own legs."

Gee, thanks for sharing that.  Please keep your scrubs on while I am here, thank you very much.

All the nurses that came in and out of the room had pieces of paper that signified your appointed time with the happy sleep juice.  I was told that I was set now for 9AM.  The guy next to me groaned.  So was he.  And his surgeon was my surgeon.  Suddenly, the concept of multitasking scared me.

9AM turned out to be overly optimistic.  When we were still sitting there at 945AM,  I could only hope that this surgical center had forgotten to change their clocks three weeks ago.

The gurney showed up to take the other dude at 10AM.  From the conversation, I discerned that he was having surgery by my doctor on not one but two meniscus.  Or is that meniscii?  Whatever the case, I did some simple clock math and figured that I wouldn't be seeing anything remotely sharp until lunchtime.  And, oh, yeah, I hadn't had anything to eat or drink since 7PM the night before.  Who knew that a torn meniscus could be a fatal disease?

My pre-op nurse must have noted my angst.  Her offer was generous.

"You want to use my laptop for a while?"

All of a sudden, Facebook became a neat way for me to stop thinking about my impending surgery as well as Christmas which might be following shortly thereafter at this rate.  I started to post updates for my day.  Or non-updates in this case.  The verbal banter with friends, especially old chums like Joanne and Andrew, made the time pass quickly.  And eased every raw nerve in my body.

At 11AM, the "inter-op" staff arrived for me and I posted one last Facebook message.

"My ride is here.  Talk to you all later."

If complications had set in during surgery, I suddenly worried that my last line on Earth was not funny enough.

I walked past several surgical suites and actually saw my former "pre-op" neighbor in mid-surgery.  Um, that will be me in a few moments and his positioning on that table is hardly dignified.

The operating room I was destined for was about thirty degrees colder than David Letterman's studio.  It would not have surprised me to see steaks hanging on a rack in the corner.  I popped up on the table and spread my arms out to resemble a cross as I was directed.  I remembered the very same image from an overhead camera when Sid Fairgate died on the table in the third season of "Knots Landing."  Can I go home now?

Technicians scurried around me as I was prepped.  They threw so many sheets and blankets on top of me that I felt like the bed with all the coats at your last Christmas party.  The surgical assistant showed me the little camera that would soon zoom in for a close-up of my meniscus.  I saw the television screen with the color bars that would ultimately feature my knee as the star of a 30-minute sitcom.  Even my surgeon came in for a greeting.  I asked him if he was too tired to deal with me after this busy morning.  And, oh, by the way, the hair that was shaved off my knee at 730AM had already grown back.

It was time for the anesthesia guy, except the one who was scheduled apparently didn't want to do it.

What?  Am I not good enough?  You'd be here if it was Zsa Zsa Gabor lying on this table, even though there is nothing left on her to be removed.  Hey, bub, right now, the biggest celebrity in this place is...well, me.

Eventually, they got somebody to come and knock me out.  He introduced himself as George Glass and I started to laugh.  That's the name of the imaginary boyfriend that Jan Brady concocted in the "Brady Bunch" movie.  But, this George Glass was alive in front of me and more than happy to shut me up for a while.

I looked at the clock.  It was 11:27AM.

When I woke up, I was in a completely different room.  Post-op and it was 12:12PM.

45 minutes from both Broadway and consciousness.  Just what could they do in that short time frame?  Did they do anything?  I thought about my dad and the complaints he used to make about taking your car to the dealer for the service.

"They drive the car in the back and, for all you know, they don't even touch your vehicle."

Hmmm.  Was I one of Dad's old Buicks?  I doubt it.  I looked down at my left leg residing on the gurney.  It was bandaged but it looked the worse for the wear.

To make sure I wasn't rendered a complete mess by the procedure, a "post-op" nurse offered me a Juicy Juice.  Hmmm.  Is this on the list of an approved Michelle Obama school lunch?  I must have asked that question out loud, because the nurse laughed.  Oh, good, they didn't take out my sense of humor.

I was pronounced fit to go home and an orderly came to dress me.  Wait, this is Beverly Hills.  Should I call him a valet?  He unwrapped some crutches and I suddenly was going to become the opening credits to "Double Indemnity."  Gee, I would think of Billy Wilder at a time like this.  

The orderly/valet suggested that I try and put a little weight on the bandaged appendage.  I did more than that.  I went all the way.  And nothing happened.

It's an amazing day when you can literally walk out on two legs an hour after arthroscopic surgery.  Crutches, I don't need no stinkin' crutches.  At home, I tooled around like I was prepping for the next marathon.  Around 8PM, the anesthesia completely wore off.

Okay, okay, I give up.  Pain, have your way with me.

It was a rough first night but that was only the one.  By the next day, I was walking slowly.  By the next day after that, I could shower and cover the small little puncture wounds with Band-Aids.

And, on the very next day, I went to an appointment with my physical therapist.

As it turns out, the doctor tells me that he ultimately did remove a very ripped-up meniscus.  He cleaned out some loose bone fragments, but, all in all, he was surprised that my left knee was in much better shape than he originally thought.

That's because it's my right knee that has always been the problem.  And now it can return to its place as the limb that causes Len the most grief.

And, to think that, three months ago, I didn't even know where my meniscus was.  You learn something new every single day.

Dinner last night:  Meat loaf sandwich at the Cheesecake Factory.

Monday Morning Video Laugh - April 2, 2012

Vintage but wonderful Martin Short.

Dinner last night:   Antipasto pasta salad.

The Sunday Memory Drawer - Money, Money, Money

Boy, I remember these!   It was one of the cool promotions run by the Eastchester Savings Bank in Mount Vernon, New York.  They'd come to your school and show you how to open up your own bank savings account.  A pretty heady and adult thing to do if you were a fourth-grader.

Once armed with my passbook and my deposit slip, I walked proudly down to their First Street branch and entrusted my five dollars to them.  Let the riches begin.  All of a sudden, I was Jed Clampett looking for a consultation with my own personal Milburn Drysdale.  

I would try to make regular contributions to my future.  When birthdays and Christmas came around, I could be even more savings-minded by depositing those five dollar bills I would get from Tante Emma.  And it absolutely thrilled me when the teller would update my account on the passbook.  And, wow, 35 cents interest.  Where's that Aston Martin I can buy?  Well, actually, a put-together model of an Aston Martin purchased at the hobby shop.

I always felt better when I could see my updated money printed in the passbook.  It made the amount tangible.  Rest assured, I wasn't the only one in my house who needed the same assurance.

Grandma.

Interestingly enough,  she had a savings account at the very same place.   So, one of the many errands she would entrust to me including the extremely important updating of the account.   She would give me her passbook and I would go to the bank and ask the teller for an update.  Oh, Grandma hadn't made a new deposit in years.  But she absolutely had to see the new amount in fresh ink on that passbook.

Keep in mind that my grandmother could not read words or write anything except her name.  But, numbers?  She could be a whiz. 

"Hmmm, I only got four dollars and ten cents interest this month.  Last time, it was four dollars and eight cents."

She would be that precise.   A similar drama unfolded every Thursday morning when she did her weekly shopping at the A & P supermarket on Oak Street in Mount Vernon.

"You see this grape jelly?  Last week, it was 69 cents.  This week, it is 71 cents.  Gott in himmel."

The entire grocery store's price grid seemed to reside in my grandmother's left frontal lobe.

"The bologna.  $1.49.  Last Christmas, it was $1.29.  Gott in himmel."

Yes, even God in heaven couldn't keep all the prices straight that my grandmother could recite with the accuracy of Albert Einstein.

Now this amazing knack was all probably a direct by-product of my grandparents living through the Great Depression of 1929.  Every dollar and every dime meant something to them.  And it was doubly important to keep track of every single bit of currency they had to their name.  Even if it was forty years later.

Now, while Grandma kept a good deal of dough in the Eastchester Savings Bank, she probably sported a much more universal distrust of banks.  That's because she preferred to keep her money all over the house.  Or so I discovered when she fell and broke her hip.

As she laid in her bed waiting for the ambulance that would take her to the hospital, Grandma felt a need to share her treasury with us in the event she never made it off the operating table.

For one solid half-hour, my grandmother ticked off with astonishing precision and depth the hiding places for her life savings.

"In my black purse in the bottom drawer of the dresser.  Not the black one with the clasp.  The other one.  Inside.  There's two hundred dollars."

Okay.

"In my coat closet.  On the floor.  There is a green shoe box.  Inside.  There's three hundred and twenty-one dollars."

Not just three hundred.  Not three hundred and twenty.  Exactly three hundred and twenty-one dollars.

"In my make-up powder box.  Lift up the powder puff.  Sixty dollars."

Grandma had about two dozen different spots all around her bedroom doubling as her own personal Fort Knoxes.

It was likely a generational thing.  Except....

Flash forward about fifteen years.  I'm in a similar situation.  Awaiting an ambulance, but, this time, it's taking my father to the hospital.  He asked me to sit down alongside him.

"Just in case...."

What?

"In my closet.  In the brown shoe box.  Four hundred and fifty dollars."

And on and on and on.  Like father, like mother.

Dinner last night:  Italian sub from Jersey Mike's.