It will happen to you, too, when you get scheduled for the Covid vaccine. They will shoot you! Possibly twice, 3 to 4 weeks apart. I just thought I should let you know. And afterwards, they won’t even give you a sucker or a balloon – just a little report card with stickers on it that looks like a certificate for a free coffee at Starbucks, but isn’t.
There are three excellent reasons for getting shot, however. The first is that because of the unfriendly nature of the coronavirus, you may have an interest in avoiding a possible early death. The second is that for maybe the only time in your life, you will be receiving FREE MEDICAL CARE. And finally, it means that, soon, we can all once again be free to come together – coughing, sneezing, and spitting on each other in public, just like normal people do.
My daughter Lisa ferried me to the O.K. Corral at high noon for both the shootings. She kindly provides this service, I suspect, because she knows that as soon as her mask-wearing mother’s glasses fog up, she’ll be walking into the walls.
Both shootings followed the same script. A line of masked AARP member/candidates was lined up outside the building about a half-car-length apart pretending to be nonchalant about the coming event. As we gradually edged into the building, an apparently friendly lady was greeting everyone who entered with questions which I couldn’t hear but which sounded like “How many times have you vacationed in Wuhan, China recently?” I must have passed her test because we were invited to step inside to stand on a series of magical circles on the floor, socially distanced to be 6 feet apart. As soon as the next circle was vacated, we were to hop-scotch forward.
Encouraging us on our long trail through the magical circles, and guiding our journey, were several more exceedingly friendly individuals. One of them gently pressed a clipboard into my hand with questions on it needing Yes-No or Don’t-Know answers on it. I’m not sure what they asked because of my foggy glasses but I think I marked “No” to all, even the ones as to whether I was pregnant or breastfeeding. (Due to the excessive fertility of my earlier years, I am still convinced that at least some of my children must have been the result of a virgin birth. Persistent organs in there might still be hardwired and secretly churning, just waiting to yell “Surprise! The old lady has done it again!”).
Finally, we arrived at the target room where an equally gracious young woman – masked, of course, and fully armed with her trusty syringe – welcomed us warmly, and told me to choose which arm she should puncture. Having only two to choose from, I was able to quickly demonstrate my exceptional decisiveness. “The left.” I announced, stoically. I was about to explain why my left arm was the one chosen to be so lucky, when I heard, “All done! You just had your Pfizer vaccination!”
Still congratulating us, she presented me with my little card with stickers on it, and ushered us out into a hallway lined with more of the magical circles and another line of congenial guides leading us to a huge reception area full of other shot victims. One of the guides kindly rushed to swipe disinfectant on a bench so Lisa and I could sit down and “wait”. During that time, we were under observation to make sure (1) that we would continue successfully working on our crossword puzzle; (2) that we didn’t sneak out before 15 minutes were up; and (3) to ascertain that I didn’t go into cardiac arrest as a reaction to all that convivial hospitality.
It turns out nearly everybody working the line – the pleasant guides, the actual shooters, and all those conscientious observers in the waiting room – were VOLUNTEERS! And many of them hadn’t even had their own turn to be vaccinated and were exposing themselves for our safety, not their own. True kindness and philanthropy in action!
Thank you to all those heroic folks who made it such an efficient and comfortable experience. I hope that you – and they – will soon enjoy a similar one. And thanks, too, to Kaiser Permanente, for including me among the early lucky patients they’ve been busy shooting!
Finally, a word about my “reaction” to the Pfizer vaccine. My son Matthew and Lisa both had a couple days of temperatures, chills, lethargy following their Moderna shots. Nothing like that has happened to me yet, but if I find out it got me pregnant, I suggest you stay away from the Pfizer vaccine at all costs!
It’s getting to be that time again – to render unto the Internal Revenue Service the ransom necessary to keep ourselves out of jail.
I try not to crab about paying taxes, but as the former TV host Arthur Godfrey (or his press agent) once put it: “I am proud to be paying taxes in the United States. The only thing is, I could be just as proud for half the money”.
Due to my competence level and the desire to avoid spending time in the stir, I don’t actually “do” my taxes. For years, they’ve been “done” for me by a person named Gayle whom I have never met, nor spoken with. I communicate with Gayle via her internet address and, so far, she has steadfastly kept me free from doing redemption at Shawshank prison, and since she has access to my accounts, I, of course, live in the blind hope that that isn’t her personal place of residence.
Me, doing what I do best, accounting-wise
Gayle can’t “do” it all, though. All she gets to work with are the sums I give her. I myself play a important role in the “doing” of the taxes: the Preliminary Paperwork. I seem to be very good at it. It seems obvious to me that one of my previous lives was spent as a gerbil. Unfortunately, maybe anyone who believes that anything-worth-doing-is-worth-doing-to-excess shouldn’t be allowed to do paperwork! The role of all those stapled-together piles of paper are to prove that the numbers I enter on my “packet” to Gayle are the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, but sadly, included in that mountain of paper should be the receipts for the rental of the warehouse to store them in.)
I haven’t been accepted to appear on Dancing With the Stars yet, but I still hope I’m qualified to offer you a valuable tax dancing tip. The IRS says you only have to save your personal receipts for three years. DON’T YOU BELIEVE IT. Save them for at least ten years. Or even twenty if you happen to own a large storage facility.
And here’s why. Remember that the closer your deductions get to zero, the less you pay in income tax. Regrettably, the IRS has a different definition for the term “deductible” than I do.As far as I’m concerned, everything I spend is “deductible” from my income. But our Internal Revenue Service doesn’t seem to agree. They don’t seem able to consider Cause-and-Effect relationships.
Consider your Medical deduction, for example. You are free to deduct the cost of your broken leg, but NOT the cost of the skis, your Snoqualmie day pass or the ski lift fees that were the direct cause of the broken leg effect. Now, is that fair, I ask? Certainly not.
Last year, I managed to pay for 3 dental implants thus qualifying for a Dental deduction. Doesn’t it seem reasonable that I should also deduct the annual costs of all those Snickers bars and Costco Macadamia Nut Clusters which directly caused the need for the deduction?
There’s always hope, though. Someday, the tax collectors will surely realize their ineptitude. They will understand that the deductions they’re so proud of need to become more project-oriented and user-friendly. Today, you can deduct the cost of getting an energy-efficient hot water heater. But in the future, maybe you can include the annual cost of your mortgage payments, because why would you need an energy-efficient hot water heater if you didn’t have a house to put it in? Makes sense? It’s no wonder Mr. Spock found earthlings to be illogical — he was surely working on his Form 1040 at the time.
In the distant future, once the IRS comes to its senses, you’ll be happy you saved all those receipts for 10 or 20 years, because – what if the new rules are RETROACTIVE? We’ll be rich! The treasury department will owe US money! The only troublesome downside is that the government will be reduced to living in poverty. It will be forced to scratch around to make ends meet – just like the rest of us do. Then, if any of us happen to get audited, the script might run along these lines . . . .
Auditor: “Mrs. Ford, thank you for neatly stapling together in date order for the past 10 years all your cash register slips from Costco and from Safeway, but I see here a serious discrepancy. Our records show that on May 5th of last year, you did forthwith purchase in its entirety one dozen eggs at Safeway for $1.85. The cost per egg was 15 cents. But our records further show that on that same day, Safeway was featuring a sale for cartons containing 18 eggs for $2.16 and thus, each egg therein was individually priced at 12 cents per unit, a savings of 3 cents per egg. That 3 cent per egg difference indicates to us that you did deliberately and with malice aforethought squander 54 cents of the Tax You Owe us on Line 37 of your Form 1040. How do you explain this?”
Fortunately, because of my foolproof Don’t-Leave-Behind-Any-Surviving-Receipts formula, I would be able to respectfully explain: “Mr. Auditor Sir, I wish to offer into evidence this note presented to me by the Safeway Store Manager, indicating that my product of interest was sold out so he was attaching for my future shopping enjoyment, a rain-check for one carton of 18 eggs – either white or brown – but only from chickens, not ducks or ostriches, and maybe not cage-free, or actually fresh, but generously priced at $2.16.”
I hope all this has inspired you to get to work on the receipts you need to “do” your taxes. I always forget how to get started and thus, was relieved to see a folder on my desk labeled “Priority Action Items”. Regretfully, it only contains last year’s losing lottery tickets, a jury summons from 2017, and a recipe for beer-battered fried avocado wedges. I’ll file it away till next year.
I guess I’ll just get started on Quicken in order to reconcile the last 10 months of my accounts. Which reminds me, why do my debits and credits expect to be “reconciled” when, obviously, I’m not a marriage counselor? How am I supposed to resolve their differences for them? I’m just a Preliminary Paperwork Tax Expert.
After Adam and Eve got ejected from the Garden of Eden, I wonder what kind of a dwelling they constructed to hang out in. A cave, a grass hut, a cozy teepee? And after the boys were born, did they all move to a bigger shanty in a nicer neighborhood? Or did they stay in their starter home and added on a couple of hammocks? Maybe a more convenient covered walkway to their luxury outdoor plumbing?
After the sons hit teenage their living arrangement must have gotten more complicated. They all had important work to do, you know. They had to start begatting the human race. Us!
For parents Adam and Eve, shacking up was a pretty simple affair. They didn’t know how to make fire at the time, so sharing all that body heat huddled in some mini-habitat can easily explain how Cain, and then later, little brother Abel, got begatted. But what, you may ask, ensued once those two got to be teenagers, and it was time for them to start begatting?
There were no girlfriends in sight, no dating hotline they could log onto. The only dolly running around – covered in her modest but stylish fig leaves – was their Mama. (Ahem.) You can see the problem here. And I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but, yes, you are a product of incest.
Now, unless Adam had been eaten by dinosaurs by then, we have to wonder where these illicit affairs were consummated. Watching his lifelong mate doing the hanky-panky with their sons probably wasn’t very high on his bucket list. No, there had to be more than one hideaway residence occupied by then. Designed and fabricated by Cain & Abel Construction, LLC. Think of it as the official launch of the building construction business as we know it today. Sadly, as the predecessor of Jimmy Hoffa, Abel had to show the way by getting whacked, but that seems to be the price of progress in creating Better Homes and Gardens of Eden.
Speaking of which, I am planning to move to a new domicile myself in a few months. Well, not new exactly, but re-tooled and retrofitted to accommodate my son Matthew and me. We are getting ready to give my lucky son-in-law Curt the special privilege of having us move in on him and my daughter Susy. I like to think that sharing their home with in-laws has always been his life-long dream.
The construction company we engaged to do the whanging and banging to get the place in shape for its immigrating residents-to-be is K&B Masters, LLC. The father and son team – Dan and Daniel – certainly know their way around a power saw, and so far the work done has been a four-star success! They’re hearing lots of “Oohs and Aahs!” More about their progress soon.
Last week, Dan and Daniel finished pouring concrete for a ramp and sidewalks for Matthew’s wheelchair. It got me thinking. Skilled construction artisans must be looking ahead to the future with some trepidation. It’s time we all better head back to school, boys and girls, and get ourselves prepared for what may be the biggest construction breakthrough in history: the 3D printer.
Until now, the style of the 3D printed homes I’ve peeked in on have been a tad bizarre: igloo-shaped, or looking a bit like a hive. Not anymore though. In case you didn’t see the news last week, the first 3D printed residence has gone on the market in New York. Here’s the realtor’s website to describe it. You can take a tour of it here to see some more photos and the interior.
In case the house is sold by the time you’re reading this, here’s a screenshot from the video tour. You can also see more on Zillow. It’s offered at $299,000 and has 3 bedrooms, 2 baths, 1400 Sq Ft and a 2.5 car detached garage.
What seems so spectacular to me is the way they’ve incorporated traditional construction with the 3D printing. Only the walls and foundation were printed; the roof, floors, doors, electrical, plumbing, etc. were cranked out with hammer and tong just like we’re used to, because the technology isn’t grown up enough for that yet. And the walls don’t emphasize the usual “sausage-roll” surface of the printers. Within the next ten years or so, lots of home building will be done like this, – and, soon, the cost is predicted to be less than half what we’re paying today.
A 3D printer can use any moldable material such as the concrete used for this house, and that may explain my intense interest in the 3D printed homes. Concrete supported much of my family in the midwest. My brother-in-law Tommy was a concrete contractor, as were all his brothers; and even his sons worked side-by-side with him doing the same work that the 3D printers are doing today. My relatives could be doing the same work soon, but instead of using their brute-force, intense, back-breaking manual labor, they would be programming and monitoring a huge robotic printer doing the same work in a fraction of the time, at half the cost.
Here’s a video on some of the nitty gritty of the printing process:
My niece Denise once described on Facebook a concrete backyard patio she had just completed by herself. She said it made her realize how satisfying her dad’s work must have been to him. Other women will be figuring that out too, and maybe more of them will be entering the building trades. Let’s face it: it probably doesn’t take upper body strength to wrangle a 3D printer. Just brains and imagination. And maybe a bossy attitude. Okay, also maybe a degree in architecture or engineering.And, to get started, possibly a whole lot of capital.
The reason all this technology developed so fast may be largely due to all the research that’s been funded in order to figure out how to crank out habitats on Mars without needing to transport traditional construction products. We can’t set up a colony on Mars till we know how to build the habitats. Instead of concrete, they’ll likely be using debris from the surface of the planet, and it looks like the structures are going to be the igloo or hive-shaped ones to better withstand the fierce wind and dust storms of Mars, and because – oh, well – the printers don’t know how to do roofs and bay windows yet.
Of course, Mars won’t be a dream home for anybody. Think about the most horrible living situation you can imagine and then multiply it by some far-out number, and that’s the kind of environment awaiting the hardy explorers who may be capable of surviving it. It’ll be like getting kicked out of Eden. It has to be done though. It’s our only current hope of establishing a launch site to allow the exploration of farther distant planets. Hopefully, one of them will be friendly to human life. Then if we mess up our planet Earth beyond hope, or blow up too much of it with nuclear wars, or get hit with a mighty asteroid, well, hey! Welcome to Planet Ziroxx!
And if only two of us can make it there, we can only hope that one will be a male and one a female. It would definitely be time for Equal Opportunity. Maybe their names will be “Adam” and “Eve”. For them, it’ll be a kind of rerun of getting thrown out of paradise, but, at least, they’ll be going into it with on-the-job experience.
Finally, in case you haven’t had enough yet, here’s a good 10 minute video describing 3D printing developments last year. (There’ll be some ads interspersed.)
I signed up for an Evelyn Woods Speed Reading Course in the 1970s. At the time, my working life involved lots of slogging through formidable technical instruction. I was hoping to improve my speed and comprehension of gobbledegook.
I wish I could say I achieved my objective. I didn’t, but I did come away from it with two useful impressions:
1. Anyone who believes it is possible to “speed read” technical manuals – like how to write Unix computer code, for instance – is a deranged nutcase.
2. The second impression was made the very first night of the class. The instructor asked each of us to describe what we hoped to get out of the course. One of the attendees was a young man (who for some inexplicable reason was wearing a Civil War uniform). When it was his turn to say why he was there, he explained it this way: “I have an addiction to reading and it’s a habit I couldn’t otherwise afford to feed – without this”. Raising his hand, we saw that he was holding his public library card. “Besides time, this is all I need”, he said.
When I cleaned out my purse last week, I was handling my Seattle public library card and got to thinking about that incident, and about the effects that dog-eared card has had on my life. Not just because of my reading enjoyment or education, or entertainment but because of how much money it saves me every year.
Public libraries in America are dedicated to a crazy common purpose: they want us to take advantage of them. When they find out you want to find and apply for a job, or there’s something you want or need help with, or need to know, or a skill or activity or language you want to learn, they will walk through fire to see that you can achieve it. All for FREE. As long as you have a library card, ALL YOU NEED TO DO IS ASK!
First, naturally, we have to talk about BOOKS! I haven’t stepped foot in a library’s physical location for a few years, but I’m online, constantly downloading to my Kindle up to 25 books at one time and it’s easy as pie. I can have 25 reserved and the system lets me know when each is available. I’ve read 640 books since 2016, and the reason I know that is because I use the option of letting the library save my “history”. It’s a list I can sort (and print if desired) in the order of title, author, or the date I checked it out. If I forget what one of the books was about, I can still check out the book’s “details”. If I don’t like one I start, I just return it and turn off the history flag.
In my last post, I mentioned how the library helped me get a job. Today, you can always reserve time at a computer with internet access. You can use copiers at the library too, but you’ll have to pay a little for each copy you make.The job, employment and career opportunity resources for job seekers today – including computer use and internet access – are one of the library’s most vital contributions to our community.
My husband and I subscribed to magazines for years, but today I can read them for free online, on the “Newspapers and Magazine database. Time, Cook’s Illustrated, Vogue, Better Homes and Gardens, The New Yorker, and oodles more. Not just current issues but archived ones, too. They’re just as interesting and inviting on an iPad as they are in print.
As for newspapers! As one of the last hardcore antiquarians, I still subscribe to actual printed copies of our daily newspaper, the Seattle Times. Including the paper copies delivered to the house and my digital subscription, I’m spending $696 per year for it. I’m still doing that because I’m afraid the minute I stop, they’ll go bankrupt (plus I won’t have anything to wrap the yard waste in!) This is in spite of the fact that I could read it for free on the library’s online database every morning. (I do sometimes use the database though for combing back through years of archives searching for an article, or somebody’s obituary, or a feature piece.) When we move to Enumclaw soon, I’ll be cancelling the subscription and from then on, we’ll just read the library’s online copies, like any sane person should do.
The library’s newspaper database includes lots more though, including all five of the leading metropolitan papers: the New York Times, Washington Post, Los Angeles Times, the Chicago Tribune, Wall Street Journal Eastern Edition, and more. You can read today’s issue, or search through archival ones – and all for free!
Last month, when “The Queen’s Gambit” started streaming on Netflix, I was thinking a lot about my brother Jimmy who was an active chess competitor during the era of the movie’s story. I was trying to remember what his chess ranking was. You don’t even need a Cedar Rapids Public library card to do this, but I logged onto the archival database of what was our hometown newspaper – the Cedar Rapids Gazette – and searched – for free, of course – the 1950’s which was when Jimmy was the most involved in chess. Amazed, using refined searching, I found (and printed out) 21 articles about when he gave lectures, or his placement in tournaments, or when he played 30 people at a time in simultaneous play. (In simultaneous play, the expert plays against up to 30 players with his opponents facing him. He walks from board to board making his moves at his own pace.) Sadly though, also found in my search are two news articles that reported on the catastrophic two-car accident that took his life. And a dreadful photograph of the mangled wreckage of the car he had been driving.
Jimmy Gorman
I know Jimmy was Seoul, Korea’s chess champion one of the years he was stationed there in the army. I might be able to read about it if (1) their major newspaper would let me use their online archival database, and (2) if I could read Korean. Then I could do the same thing I did by refining my search on the Gazette at the Cedar Rapids Library. (Or in other words, if I had some ham, I could have some ham and eggs — if I had some eggs.)
Another of the Seattle Public Library’s databases I use is one called The Consumer and DoItYourself. Recently, for instance, when our freezer was in its death throes, I accessed Consumer Reports to get their reviews, rankings, and expected prices on replacements. If I didn’t have son-in-law Brad next door, that’s also the database I’d go to for step-by-instructions for how to re-roof the house, or how to flim flam the jim joints on the spray-flex thingamabob.
A few years ago, my niece and nephew-in-law Chris and Mark were researching genealogy info about one of Mark’s predecessors who lived in the Seattle area. If we had only known about the library’s Genealogy database, we might have saved a lot of time. We could have even scheduled a half hour consultation with a real live genealogy librarian.
Our Seattle library has been mostly closed during the pandemic, but you can still get “curbside service” to pick up some hard-copy books. Online though, activities are booming. Lots of virtual classes are available. For example, I’m signing up for a free class on Lynda.com to learn to better exploit my Mac’s Photos app, but there’s much more I wish I had time for.
We found that our public library was a treasure mine for our kids and teenagers when they were growing up, but today, I read there’s also an early literacy program to help tiny persons prepare for school, homework help once they get there through resources like Tutor.com to connect with a virtual tutor online, after school study programs for all ages, practice prep for SAT or ACT, interactive learning experiences, technology “petting zoos” where they can get their hands on devices or try out apps, etc., etc., etc.
Another singular advantage of having that library card: our actual use of a public library’s physical building.
You may already know that your public library probably allows you to schedule the one-time or monthly use of a meeting room for free. As long as your group is for non-profit and is open to the public, you can arrange a comfortable, secure, well-lighted area. Most are equipped with tables, chairs and whiteboards, A/V connections, free Wi-Fi. You can bring simple snacks and coffee to serve, and some even allow alcohol as long as rules are followed and insurance is purchased.
You can expect perfect accessibility in every public library, decent parking, and I’ve never known of one that didn’t have a city bus stop right out in front.
Let’s say your Toastmasters group, or your bridge or chess club, or a class you want to teach needs a venue, your public library or one of its branches may be able to offer it for your free use. Even if you just want to reserve a room for some quiet study or conversation, or even a sound-proof room to compose or practice music – you can likely find such an oasis waiting for you.
For reasonable rates, you can also schedule special events such as weddings and receptions at public libraries. Here in Washington State, some of our libraries are downright gorgeous and offer spectacular views that are perfect for wedding venues.
In 2005, my granddaughter Elizabeth and her fiancé Sean were married in a public library. Elizabeth has always been a devoted bookworm (she used to prop a book on the window sill so she could read while washing the dishes!) So it seemed fitting when she and Sean said they wanted to be married at the Edmonds Public Library.
Edmonds Public Library
Plaza Room’s Patio
It turned out to be the most charming, creative and comfortable wedding I ever attended. I didn’t want it to end. The library’s pleasant Plaza Room and its beautiful outdoor patio with breathtaking views of Puget Sound were perfect for a wedding! All for under $1,200 (including taxes and insurance because beer and drinks were served), and for 12 hours of usage for a guest list of 120.
Your own library may have such venues available. Here’s the URL for the library Elizabeth and Sean used if you want to compare today’s prices with what it was then. The library is listed as “Edmond’s Plaza Room.”
The average cost of a wedding at that time – it was 2005 – was $25,000. Thanks to the cost of the venue, and their wish to have it be an informal event, Elizabeth and Sean’s wedding was exceedingly modest. The buffet dinner was $2,000 – and included the best Caesar salad I ever tasted. (Sadly, the catering service closed in 2011, darn it.)
In case you’re interested in other economies of the event, here’s a few:
The ten wedding cakes
A feature to be remembered were the 10 CAKES! Here’s how Elizabeth explains it: “We found the cake designer though Pavé Bakery; she designed specialty cakes, and I think she operated out of the Pavé kitchen at the time. She called herself “Catherine the Cake Lady”, and I have since tried several times to track her down online, but I haven’t found any sign of her. We met with her to taste some different cake and frosting flavors to decide what we wanted. We loved everything and had such a hard time deciding on our favorite flavors during the tasting! We ended up deciding to have 10 cakes that we custom-designed with different flavor combinations. She decorated them all with white frosting but with slightly different designs. The 10 cakes were $300. It was SO much fun to design flavor combinations with her. I am sure that was Sean’s favorite part of wedding planning. Sean’s masterpiece was the “triple banana”: banana cake with banana chunks and banana buttercream.”
Elizabeth and Sean
Another reason for the economy of that wedding was its informal simplicity: Elizabeth’s bridal gown was designed by her and made by me; her wedding bag was made by her first-cousin-once-removed Chris from the fabric of HER wedding gown {the same gown Elizabeth’s mom Susy borrowed from Chris to wear at HER wedding); her blue shawl was crocheted by her Aunt Lisa; her lavender bouquet and all the wedding flowers were grown and arranged by her Aunt Judy; and the DJ was her brother Neil. Besides funding the event, Elizabeth’s parents Susy and Curt did most of the planning, organizing, decorating and cleanup, and according to Elizabeth “There was a huge group of our family members (aunts, uncles, cousins, etc.) and friends who helped with setting up, decorating, cleanup, etc.”
My granddaughter Gretchen told me she especially remembered “All the special touches, like the music playlist that the bride and groom created of their favorite songs, that her sister Josie and I got to choose the clothes we wore, and that all of us in the wedding party got to wear flip-flops. And the gorgeous view from the roof of the library!”
There was too much to tell you about! Thanks to the public library, it was the perfect place for such a joyful event!
With Elizabeth’s parents Susy and Curt
Elizabeth with sisters Gretchen and Josie
These are just a few of the personal reasons why I’m an addicted fan of the public library. Like they say, “The best things in life are free”. And many of them are at the public library.
Or as the young guy in the speed-reading class put it when evaluating his treasured library card, “Besides time, this is all I need.”
When I was 7 years old, I thought I’d found the pot at the end of the rainbow. It was the Cedar Rapids Public Library.
Cedar Rapids Public Library
The building itself was dark and uninviting, like it had to keep its treasures hidden from view. That didn’t stop my sister and brothers and me. We explored every inch of the children’s section on Saturdays choosing our limit of books, taking turns with a stereoscope so we could see faraway places in 3D, listening to librarian-read stories, and checking out the bulletin boards for more free goodies. Example: we learned to play the ukulele when my sister saw a notice on the board for free lessons at the nearby Coe College.
We also learned the value of pestering the librarians. (The real name of one of them was Miss Story – it was, honest!). From them, I was able to figure out this little gem of wisdom: librarians want you to ask questions, and they will walk through fire to help you. Even if you’re a grubby little kid. Remember that! It may serve you well some day – whatever age you’re at – when you need it most.
When I was 14, I got a job as an elevator operator at a hospital near my home. I worked 20 hours a week during the school year, and full time during summers and Christmas vacation so I didn’t have time to haunt the library as much. I didn’t mind though, because I loved having a job, and I thought I was getting rich. I was making 40 cents per hour.
I was nearing the end of my sophomore year in high school when one day, Sister Eileen, the Superintendent of the hospital got on the elevator. I was concentrating on my Otis elevator-ing skills to get to the floor she wanted when she said, “Patty, as soon as you learn to type, I’m going to promote you to a job in Information Services. Would you like that?”
Would I like it? Would I like a swanky dream job as an information clerk? It may not be customary for an elevator operator, but I was floored! Dazzled! Dumbstruck! Delighted!
Dazed, I failed to realize till much later that Sister intended it to be when I was in 12th grade – the year kids in my school were allowed to take a typing class. But blissfully ignorant, I thought she meant NOW! As soon as I could learn to type! . . . And I knew just what to do.
After my shift ended, I couldn’t get to the library fast enough. I headed straight for the Business section and breathlessly told the librarian, “I need to learn to type! Do you have a book like that?”
Library book
Following what seems to be the custom of all librarians everywhere, she dropped what she was doing and steered me to a shelf of books. Together, we picked out a tall manual that included lessons, exercises and typing tests. Then she set me up for a reserved hour at an available typewriter and helped me get started. I hunted and pecked at the keys till my time was up. Before I left, she told me how I might be able to rent a typewriter from an office supply store so I could practice at home whenever I wanted. It’d be perfect!
The next morning, I called Sanford’s Office Supply store and was able to rent an Underwood office typewriter for (gasp!) $5 but for one whole week! They delivered it to our house the next day.
The next seven days and nights were an unholy marathon. I learned to drink black coffee that week. I remember my family seemed to be tiptoeing around me and my mother kept bringing me toast. Every available minute of that week found me feverishly attached to that typewriter. After the first basic lessons, the library book was designed to be stood up erect on the table so I could practice my feeble typing attempts. It wasn’t long before I realized where the expression “working one’s fingers to the bone” came from. I’m certain it came from Skill Building Typing Exercises. At the end of each exercise, I fearlessly took a “typing speed test”. Over and over. Creating a blizzard of paper which was typed on both sides.
By the end of the week, I was probably touch-typing about 20 words a minute – feebly – but with what I hoped was reasonable accuracy. The time had come to report back to Sister Eileen on my progress. Atremble, I went to her office to tell her, “Sister, I just learned to type, so I was wondering if I could start the new job now.”
After what seemed like a long pause, Sister said, “Are you saying that you didn’t know how to type last week, but that now you do?” So I explained it. I think there was another very long pause, and then Sister stood up. “Show me, Patty,” she said.
She led me down the hall to the Information office. Two women were busy at work but when Sister Eileen said why we were there, one of them carefully rolled one of their 3-part forms with carbon paper (!) into a typewriter and positioned it for me. Horrors! I had only practiced on plain typing paper. And what Sister wanted me to type wasn’t even words like “The quick brown fox.” It was somebody’s name, address, employer, insurance. And NUMBERS! Which I hadn’t even practiced!
All I remember of that nightmare scene was that the very first name I typed had an error ! ! ! Which I had no idea how to correct. I think I mumbled something like “Er, I don’t think the book explained about correcting carbon copies”.
“Continue!”, said Sister firmly. I did, all the while sure that the three people observing me were snickering at my progress, or lack of. Mercifully, that one form was the only one Sister asked me to type.
When the ordeal finally came to an end, Sister took the form out of the typewriter and studied it. “That’s it for now, Patty. Come see me tomorrow and we’ll talk about it”.
And I did. Actually, I got the job! At the time, I hoped it was – maybe – because the form didn’t look so wretched, after all. Looking back though, I think it more likely that Sister just felt guilty that I had misunderstood her offer. She had intended it for an 18 year-old successful typing student, but since I had gone to such effort “learning to type”, she followed through with what she had haplessly offered that day on the elevator. She gave me the job.
For the next two years, I must have been the happiest information clerk Mercy Hospital ever employed. And the worst typist. When I was a senior in high school, I was promoted to be a registrar in the Admissions office, but I never forgot my original good fortune — and I knew it was due to that librarian. For her interest and encouragement in helping such a naive, knotheaded kid! Who to this day has never taken a proper typing class.
That was the first – but not the last – time an encouraging librarian helped me get and keep a job. An important work carried out in our public libraries today is that very activity — helping people find work. That’s one of the tasks librarians do! Ask a librarian for help, and you’ll get it. But there’s WAY MORE GOLD THAN THAT WAITING FOR YOU AT YOUR PUBLIC LIBRARY. . .
I faced one of my personal demons today. Successfully. And it was almost painless. After weeks of dread, I took a deep breath, rolled up my sleeves, prayed for strength and tackled a fearsome task head-on. Yes, I did it. I finally cleaned out my purse.
It wasn’t a pretty task. I didn’t find anything alive in there, unless you count the mold on a half-eaten package of peanut butter cheese crackers, but it was teeming with semi-prehistoric artifacts destined for the garbage or recycling container.
Lots of cash register receipts were in seclusion in there as were expired coupons, expired credit and membership cards, a comb for when I used to need one, half of a semi-petrified Snickers bar, a stick of what might have been chewing gum, a container for missing sunglasses, a photo-copy of my driver’s license before it was confiscated by the Washington State Department of Motor Vehicles, a collection of free toothbrushes, dental floss samples, and other paraphernalia hopefully forced on me by my dental hygienist, and my Ivar’s Fish card entitling me to free fish and chips every year on my birthday. I could ramble on but I don’t want to run out of ink.
Once I had identified and shoveled aside the debris, I cleaned up the purse, and then pondered what to put back inside. The following are some recommended items Google suggests. (If you are the parent of young children, you might include the same items, but as you’re well aware, it’s no use putting them in a purse or other satchel unless it’s the size of a duffel bag big enough to hold the additional supplies and furniture you have to cart around.)
So here’s the suggested minimum basics from sites like Money Talks, Discover, etc.
FOR YOUR WALLET:
$200 or less in cash (in $20’s and $5’s) to handle a basic emergency, or where a credit card isn’t an option.
2 credit cards and 1 debit card
Driver’s license or ID card
Your address and/or phone number (in case you leave the purse somewhere and would like to get it back).
Emergency contact info
Health and auto insurance cards
Written reminder of your car’s license number for when it gets stolen or you can’t remember where you parked it.
It’s also recommended that you make a copy of the stuff in your wallet and keep it at home.
FOR THE REST OF YOUR PURSE:
Handkerchief or tissue
Hand sanitizer
Masks and gloves
Keys
Phone and portable charger
Pen and some kind of paper or notepad
Sunglasses for those days we get sunshine
Medications like aspirin or allergy relief pills
What we’re NOT supposed to have in our wallets or purses are social security cards, more than 2 credit cards, blank checks, lots of cash, passwords or PINs, and of course, your winning Mega-ball lottery ticket.
Which reminds me – what I’d like to know is this: how does somebody like Queen Elizabeth fit all that into her purse? Or what exactly is it that she puts in there? What could she possibly need a purse for — but she ALWAYS HAS ONE.
Thanks to some more internet snooping, I found out that what Her Highness stores in her purse are treats for her Corgis, her reading glasses, a handkerchief, mints, a fountain pen, a small mirror, lipstick and a metal makeup case (which was a gift from Prince Philip). It was also reported she carries good luck charms such as miniature dogs and horses, some family photos and a portable hook used to hang her bag under the table.
The photo above shows 3 images of Elizabeth. In each, she’s hanging onto her favorite purse: a small practical black patent-leather handbag. When it comes to her accessories, she keeps things simple. Almost every single time the queen appears in public, you’ll see it hanging off her left arm. She reportedly owns 200 purses, costing about $2,000 each, and all of them are made by London-based leather goods company Launer. She probably doesn’t keep any sales slips or coupons in there. Or any feminine hygiene or birth control products. Or an Ivar’s Fish birthday card.
Well. I’m happy to tell you that my purse is now neat and tidy and weighs less than the recommended maximum limit of 10 pounds.I won’t have to tilt to the side when I’m carrying it any more – at least till the next time it gets packed to the brim.
Gene’s South African wallet
Husband Gene
During the last years of his life, my husband Gene carried a wallet that he was exceedingly proud of. He had purchased it one time when he was in South Africa for a wine conference. It was made of crocodile leather and at one time it was quite respectable looking, but hey, time marches on! Every year, it was getting to look more derelict. As time went on, everytime he hauled it out to pay for something, I was MORTIFIED. After several years of use it had become pitifully bedraggled, but he couldn’t part with it – as I suspected – just because it came from South Africa.
Son Matthew
One day, Gene and our son Matthew were riding in the car after a visit to Home Depot, where the wallet had once again been flashed in all its run-down glory. I was in the backseat jawing about when on earth was he ever going to replace that sorry looking piece of leather.
Looking for an ally, but figuring I couldn’t count on anything, I said, “Matthew. Look at this! What do you think of this South African wallet your Dad is so proud of?”
“Well”, said Matthew, solemnly. “It looks like it’s coming apartheid”.
The wallet never did get replaced. I still have it to this day, and it’s become one of my treasures of Gene that I’m deeply grateful to have.Life is strange, isn’t it?
Among the life experiences I’ve somehow missed is having a mammogram. I have always had excellent reasons for this:
I’m too busy.
Breast cancer doesn’t run in my family.
I haven’t noticed any problems.
I’m a sniveling yellow-bellied medical coward. And, finally. . .
As was fondly described by my bridge club partners through the years, I wanted to avoid the experience of having a refrigerator door slammed shut on my boobs.
Recently, one of my daughters casually mentioned that she had an appointment for a mammogram the next day. I was shocked. My child was facing the crisis I had spent 89 years cleverly and successfully avoiding. What could I possibly say? “Go for it, girl!” would have to be followed by “Quick, head for the hills!”
Obviously, I should have pretended to be an adult and congratulated her on her wisdom in taking care of her health and getting scheduled for such a preventive test. A test, however, where some evil brute was going to viciously slam a refrigerator door shut on her boobs. And if he did, her mother would have to show up there and break both his legs.
I know. I know what you’re thinking and I agree with you entirely. Either my brain is the size of a sesame seed, or my maturity level got arrested somewhere back in Kindergarten. Or maybe at the bridge table.
My arrested development may partly explain why I never had a mammogram. Even during the ten years I was pregnant, no doctor ever suggested I should have one. It just never came up. For many years, I thought it was because – size-wise – they were waiting till I grew out of my training bra. Meanwhile, I wasn’t about to inquire about or volunteer for any sadistic procedures featuring a refrigerator door and sensitive mammary glands, specifically, not mine.
In the olden days when you went to the doctor, you used to have to take off your clothes. Not any more though. Today, all you have to do is hand the lab tech a little bottle of your urine, and then they proceed – hopefully after washing their hands – to start sucking your blood out. This is followed in darkened rooms where penetrating deadly radiating beams are focused on your selected organs creating images which you may not want to feature on Facebook. Apparently, all this information is carefully stored in one of their popular refrigerators or possibly forwarded to your doctor for pasting into his treasured memories album.
If the doctor ever does ask you to take off your clothes, it’s very serious. If it happens, you can be sure of two things:
You’re about to be sexually assaulted, or,
The doctor has reason to believe that you have an incurable disease, and he has to go in to visually ascertain whether you have any body parts worth salvaging for the organ bank.
Going to the doctor was never one of my more popular activities. Once I wasn’t harvesting a new baby every year, there didn’t seem to be any good reason to keep showing up for medical appointments. It seemed like a good way to stay out of trouble and to avoid having a you-know-what-which-starts-with-the-letter-M.
In 1989, I was getting ready to retire from my job at Children’s Hospital to start up a video business. I was getting the worrisome notion that before my medical insurance expired, maybe I’d better schedule a tune-up at Group Health. That way, if I needed any expensive repairs, maybe they wouldn’t result in my husband and me spending our retirement in a donated yurt, dining on gruel and moldy bread.
Unfortunately, right after I scheduled the appointment, I got a heart-stopping letter in the mail. The first of several. From Group Health. Letting me know that they were engaged in a national study for breast cancer, and they would like all their women members of a certain age – to participate. And each letter started out, “Dear Mrs. Ford.” Not “Dear Member.” Not “Dear Subscriber”. In other words, THEY KNEW WHO I WAS. THEY KNEW MY NAME.
The timing was terrible. Having been identified, they must also know I was coming in there for an appointment. I was trapped. They wanted to study my knockers! Using, no doubt, unbridled employment of the M-word technology.
By the day of the appointment, I was a train-wreck. I have no idea how I managed to arrive at the doctor’s office, or, for that matter, exactly how the appointment transpired, but the following is what I remember.
After the nurse recorded my body heat with her thermometer, she permanently disabled her blood pressure apparatus by pumping up the cuff on my quivering arm. Of course, it had gone into systolic range shock! What else could you expect of a terror-stricken victim who was about to become a test subject of breast cancer research?
Finally, the doctor entered the room. By then, I think I was managing to convey an attitude of casual nonchalance — at least, I’m pretty sure I wasn’t sucking my thumb.
Right off the bat, the doctor announced: “Mrs. Ford, I’m happy to be your physician, but in the future, I urge you to come in for your checkups oftener than every 15 years. Do you think you can do that?”
“Well, sure!”, I said, smoothly. (I’ve always been a fluent liar.} “Are we done yet?”
Well, she wasn’t. Following the sticking of the thing in my ears, knocking on my back like someone would be answering the door, and then listening intently to my innards with her stethoscope, she said, “Now, I’ll do a pap smear.”
Oh, no! I had forgotten about pap smears. It was just as barbarian and ignominious as ever, but expedited by the handcuffs and four-point restraints the nurse used to shackle me to the table.
After she completed the procedure, the doctor said she wanted to take my blood pressure again to see if it was still high as when I first arrived for the visit. She asked if I was just understandably nervous seeing a doctor after such such a long stretch of time. I decided I’d better make a clean breast of it (you should pardon the expression).
“Well, no, Doctor”, I said. I’m just worried about having to be in the breast cancer research study.”
“Really?” said the doctor. “But they wouldn’t even accept you for the study!”
What did she just say? They wouldn’t accept me? I wasn’t acceptable???
I stammered, “But they sent me letters. They said they want Group Health women members between the ages of 59 and 64 years old to participate.”
“That’s correct”, said the doctor. “But they wouldn’t accept you into the study because your mother didn’t have breast cancer and because you had so many pregnancies. It’s possible that women like you who had ten pregnancies may be less susceptible to breast cancer.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. “You mean I’d be rejected?”,,
I should have been relieved but it really kind of hurt my feelings. I was offended. They didn’t think I was acceptable. I wasn’t WANTED, and look here, everybody wants to be WANTED. (Well, maybe not on-the-lam bank robbers or ax murderers). They didn’t think I was GOOD ENOUGH for their study. How could they be so unkind? How would YOU feel about it?
Well, anyway, that’s how it happened that I never had a mammogram.
As a Reject of a breast cancer research study, my advice may not be something you’re holding your breath to hear, but I’m offering it anyway. Here goes:
In case you’re the owner of female type bazongas, and you want to steer clear of getting breast cancer, take one or more of the following actions:
1. Avoid getting born to a mother who plans to get breast cancer.
2.Get pregnant as many times as you possibly can. This will qualify you for permanent residence at the nearest funny farm and will spare you the wear and tear of having to raise all the children you produce. (You’ll be kept under restraints, of course.)
3. Grow up and do what your doctor tells you to do. If he or she tells you to get a mammogram, DO IT FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE. PLEASE.And all the other stuff they tell you!
I’ve never liked horror shows. Like, for instance, the one we just witnessed on Wednesday, January 6. I wish we could erase it. Especially some of the wearing apparel.
The trouble with the assault on our Capitol Building, at least as was suggested to us by the White House, was that it was executed by “American Patriots”, and that “we love them”. I couldn’t stop watching them. I must have watched about 28 hours of television that day, and if that’s what “patriots” are, I wish they would move to Mar-a-lago where they would be more welcome. Or to jail.
When you enter the Holocaust Museum – not that far from where the riot took place in Washington D.C., – you see an inscription carved into marble. It reads, “You are my witnesses”. And we were.
“You are my witnesses”, saith the Lord.
These are some of the unforgettable images we witnessed that day. Not just of the defilement of the Capitol but of what some of the perpetrators were wearing and carrying. They wanted to share that ugliness with us, and to remind us that we still tolerate it.
The following isn’t a fashion show Heidi Klum or Tim Gunn em-ceed, but it’s worthy of attention.
“Neckwear . . .”
I didn’t see any white Ku Klux Klan robes or hoods on display but apparently we were to be explicitly reminded of their presence . . .
“. . . for fashion-conscious victims”
This rioter proudly showed up as The Marvel comic anti-hero The Punisher, adopted in recent years by white nationalists and neo-Nazis (to the dismay of its creator).
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Another “American patriot” was a man with an anti-semitic sweatshirt that said “Camp Auschwitz,” a reference to the Nazi extermination camp during the Third Reich’s genocide campaign against Jews during World War II. Not only does it feature the SS ‘totenkopf’, the Nazi’s death-head symbol, but an English translation of ‘Arbeit Macht Frei’ a German phrase meaning “Work sets you free”. The slogan is known for appearing on the entrance of Auschwitz and other Nazi concentration camps.The back of the shirt reads “Staff”.
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Proud Boys carrying “Don’t Tread on Me” flag
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These Proud Boys, as instructed, were “standing by” and one was offering us the white supremacist “Okay” symbol . . . .
Sickening shirt
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And this Proud Boy was showing off his 6MWE shirt. It stands for “6 Million Wasn’t Enough”.Meaning that putting 6 million Jews to death wasn’t sufficient for monsters like him.
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There were lots of Nazi accessories on the scene. Such as this neo-Nazi group NSC-131 membership card. NSC stands for Nationalist Social Club and has small regional chapters in the United States and abroad. The 131 division is from New England.
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The Crusader Cross has become popular with other far-right ethno-nationalist groups. It’s meant to relate back to an era of white, Christian wars against Muslims and Jews.
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Below is an image of the Associated Press camera equipment destroyed by the rioters. Note the enlargement of the badge on the sleeve of the man on the right. It’s the logo for the National Anarchist Movement, a far-right, anti-semitic group advocating for racial separatism.
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And speaking of war, check out these MAGA Civil War “patriots”.Apparently, they were having a grand timecelebrating their effort to overthrow the government.
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There was lots of flag waving going on. Confederate flags to remind the world of our ugly history of slavery, and others such as the Gazden flag “Don’t Tread on Me”. And there were more . . . . . .
Yellow flags with coiled snake “Don’t Tread on Me”
Confederate flag inside the Capitol building
. . . This one featured Trump as a heroic armed Warrior. (The bone spurs on his feet must have healed.)
Of course, QAnon was busy slithering around everywhere . . . .
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Many of the participants seemed like they might be intellectually-challenged, such as this woman. Behold! The Statue of Liberty!Here to save us!As long as we’re not Jewish, Black, Indian, Muslim, Latino, Democrat, etc.
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. . . Or check out the Three Stooges shown below. The nitwit on the right showed up to commit a federal felony wearing his employee ID badge. As soon as the photo appeared, the company he worked for promptly fired him, just in time for him to (hopefully) spend 10 years or so in jail.
Man on right (in black) wearing his employee ID badge
Well, this concludes our fashion show. I’m exceedingly ashamed of it. It wasn’t our nation’s proudest day, for sure. The worst thing about what we’re seeing is having to face our own ugliness in tolerating it.
There’s another inscription in the Holocaust museum. Everywhere in that building people only speak in whispers. But at that plaque, everybody seems to stand silent.
It was written by a former Nazi sympathizer in World War II, a Lutheran pastor named Martin Niemöller.
It reads:
First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—because I was not a socialist.
Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out— because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.
Every New Year we get a chance to start over. And to look forward to new possibilities, such as getting shot. Twice. Can’t wait!
As soon as everybody gets vaccinated for Covid, just think what’s on the not-too-distant horizon: scarfing down McDonald’s quarter pounders, going to church, getting hugs, holding babies, taking a bus, seeing a play in a theater, potlucks with family, going to Costco, a farewell to Instacart markups, wearing fog-free glasses, and using masks only for avocado-based facials or when robbing banks.
Of course, there may be some adverse reactions to the vaccine itself. And we’ll have to get all the Amazon cardboard boxes recycled, get a haircut, clean up the house for civilized company, and stop living like a slob, but such is the price of salvation from the biblical-like plague we somehow survived.
Jesting aside though, don’t know about you, but during the 2020 year just concluded, my family lost some loved ones and that pain can’t be blamed on the pandemic or politics or on our fears for our climate or our country, but it still underlined how unfriendly a year can be. I wish I could think up something profound to say about it and I would if I could but, regretfully, profundity never found a place in my toolkit.
Let’s look forward to our brand new 2021 year and do all we can to make this one a big winner. I hope yours will be healthy and full of peace and joy.
Meanwhile, when looking back at 2020, how about joining me in the world’s best therapy: LAUGHING. Every year the intrepid humor writer Dave Barry concocts his annual Review of the Year that appears in various newspapers. Some you can read without a subscription, and some you have to sign up for a few days of free reading prior to subscribing. This is his recounting just posted for 2020 as it appeared in the Miami Herald. It also appeared in the Washington Post and in the Telegraph Herald in Dubuque, Iowa so, alternatively, you could try either of them. Here’s the URLs to the both the Miami Herald’s and the Washington Post’s feature.It’s worth the trouble to chase it downevery year!
It’s never too late to become who you want to be. I hope you live a life that you’re proud of, and if you find that you’re not, I hope you have the strength to start over.” —F. Scott Fitzgerald
I am quite sure that in the very near future, the American Heart Association may attempt to bring an end to your previously successful writing career. Instead of generating your award-winning suspense novels, you may be reduced to scribbling off sensitive, meaningful, heart-felt prose for Oprah, rutabaga recipes for Martha Stewart, or user guides for how to assemble flat-pack IKEA furniture.
IKEA chair “assembled”
The AHA is certain to realize they have to come up with some new guidelines for maintaining the heart health of all current and future heart patients in America, like it or not. Among the substances that must be avoided will be sodium, cholesterol, alcohol, anything that tastes good, like popcorn, maybe even coffee-drinking, and all 25 of your Jack Reacher novels.
As a habitual reader of your books, I can testify that, while painful, such action will be justifiable. Being 89 years old, I am keenly aware that by following Jack’s adventures closely, I am putting my life in danger, and that a heart attack is imminent, but I keep reading them anyway. Such is the behavior of a Jack Reacher addict.
Because you can’t write the books fast enough to suit some of your more blood-thirsty readers, we are forced to spend the wait time by re-reading the already published ones. I just finished re-reading “Die Trying”. Now, one might assume that a second reading might be a bit repetitious, and a much calmer experience. But, no. It was just as hair-raising, heart-palpitating, stroke-inducing as the first time around. My heart may not withstand a second tour of the 24 other books. If I kick the bucket during that time, I’m going to hold you personally responsible. And be prepared. My family is going to expect an apology from you at the funeral. And maybe a nice floral arrangement.
Think about it. Your books may have killed off almost as many people as Jack has. In Jack’s case though, the 10 or 12 people he does away with in every book are despicable bad guys – never women or children – and certainly never nice little old ladies whose only crime is their taste for violent literature. On the other hand, I guess I should mention, Sir, your choice of whom to kill might be considered by some of the ladies as misogynistic. As an Equal Opportunity author, maybe you should try to have Jack kill off just as many of your female characters as guys. Try to be fair. I’ll let my bridge club know.
I am glad to hear that the new Jack Reacher movie series will feature an actor other than teeny tiny Tom Cruise. I was unable to face watching the first two feature films. May I remind you that Jack is 6’5” and weighs over 210 pounds? And even aside from his body size issues, personality-wise, Tom Cruise is – and I say this with the utmost respect – a twerp who jumps on sofas. Jack, on the other hand, has dignity.
Alan Ritchson
We can only hope that this new person – Alan Ritchson – can muster up a portrayal of not just our hero’s brawn, but his smarts as well. It would really help if before the first rehearsal of Killing Floor, the actor would sit down and actually read the books! Could you insist on that, please? Otherwise, I will have to take some kind of action, such as crossing you off my Christmas card list.
Unfortunately, I just looked up some images of the actor, and I’m starting to worry. In many of them, he’s wearing itsy-bitty shorts – kinda beefcake-y – flexing his muscles, and lathered in what seems to be olive oil, like he’s ready to be sautéed in a non-stick frypan. Jack would be MORTIFIED. He wouldn’t be caught dead in an outfit like that. And where would he put his Glock? And his folding toothbrush? I really wish you would have consulted me before you signed that contract.
Well, Mr. Child, even if the the movie versions don’t pan out, I’ll keep looking forward to the next book versions. If you feel you could benefit from any more of my advice, please feel free to contact me at any time and I’ll be glad to help out. Unless I’m busy reading.
