I just received the following e-mail, in which the sender appears to be trying to sell me a watch:

Good day to you sir,

Precision crafted timepieces are perfect gifts.

All REP LIKAS have alike look N feel of original product.

These REP LIKAS are more like the originals than any others available.

Offer expires soon! Visit our site to g rab the 0ff er.

I’ve been searching far and wide for a watch that has alike look N feel of original product. I think I’ll order a dozen.

I had to go to the New Jersey Division of Motor Vehicles today to have my non-photo driver’s license upgraded to one of the fancy-schmancy holographic ones. New Jersey, to its credit, now has stringent requirements for proving one’s identity and current address in order to receive or renew a driver’s license. As such, I had to dig out my passport, military separation papers, social security card, and a recent utility bill showing my address in order to properly prepare for what I expected to be a painful ordeal.

To make matters worse, Mrs. Parkway had to go as well, because it seems that the social security number in the Motor Vehicle Agency’s database did not match the one provided to the Agency by the Social Security Administration. The notice she received made it clear that, until all that was sorted out, her license would not be renewed. She also had to dig up a pile of papers to prove her identity.

I have had many experiences over the years with the State’s Motor Vehicle Agency, and each time it was about as pleasant as being forced to spend a couple hours in the Port Authority Bus Terminal Men’s Room while people holler at you. This time needing two license renewals and having to grapple with a disconnect between the Social Security Administration and the State Motor Vehicle Agency, I feared an impending double dose of bureaucratic bludgeoning.

I had heard people say that things have drastically changed for the better at the Motor Vehicle Agency, but, being a native of New Jersey, I wasn’t buying any of it. After all, it was Jim McGreevey’s nightmare of an administration that supposedly straightened things out at the Agency – all the more reason to be skeptical.

We walked through the door fully anticipating to spend the next few hours in something like the Third Circle of Hell.

It wasn’t like that at all.

In fact, as compared to my prior experiences with the Agency, this visit was like entering the Magic Kingdom at Disney World. There was a reception desk staffed by three smiling people who asked the purpose of the visit and then dispensed the proper form to fill out, along with a number. I was instructed to complete the form and take a seat to wait for my number to be called.

My number was called before I even finished with the form. No waiting!

I sat down across from a very pleasant woman who examined all my forms of identification, clicked away at her computer and directed me to another equally pleasant woman to have my photo taken. I wrote a check, had my photo taken, and was directed to take a seat to wait for the delivery of my new license. In what was probably less than three minutes, the very pleasant woman produced my new license.

Mrs. Parkway, even with the extra stop she had to make to sort out the Social Security glitch, had her picture taken about the same time as I did. We were delivered our licenses at the same time.

We were in and out of there in approximately twelve minutes, and everyone was nice.

I spent the next few minutes in shock.

I am not shy about complaining about politicians and bureaucracy in New Jersey, but I have to give credit where credit is due. Things really have changed for the better at the Motor Vehicle Agency.

I am, however, still in shock.

Jersey Blogger, TigerHawk, has given plenty of thought to the matter, and it’s well worth your reading time.

First off, let me say that if I carried a camera with me on my walks, this post would consist only of a photograph. I will, however, do the best I can to describe the picture I would have taken if I could have taken one.

The owners of one of the houses on my normal route must be very fond of those big inflatable lawn things. I have written about these inflatable things before (e.g. Santas and Ghosts). Towards the top of a small, sloped front lawn was a very tall inflatable Santa. On the lower portion of the sloped lawn (closer to the sidewalk) was an inflatable Grinch, wearing a Santa hat.

When I passed this morning, the two characters were in a state of mid-deflate (mid-inflate?) and were bent all the way forward at the “waist”. Santa’s nose was right up the Grinch’s ass!

A most troubling image.

During this morning’s walk I found myself thinking of relatives who are no longer with us. It probably has something to do with Christmas and our ever-shrinking Christmas Day guest list. Of course, most of my thoughts were about my parents, about whom I have written a bit in the past and about whom I suspect I will write more in the future.

About halfway through the walk, I thought of Buggy’s Onions, and it made me smile broadly enough that passers-by may have thought me to be some kind of nut.

Anyway, “Buggsy” was my uncle (my mother’s brother and Cousin Jack’s dad). Back in the Stone Age when I was college puke, Uncle Buggsy goaded me into a softball challenge. I was to assemble a team of my cronies, several of whom were also college pukes, and he would form a team comprised of other uncles, some guys from his American Legion Post (Buggsy was a WWII Navy Vet), and the “kids” in the family (i.e. the younger cousins, including Cousin Jack).

Uncle Buggsy had a distinct knack for keeping a straight face, while riding one’s ass. At the time he said stuff like, “Look, I don’t care that you guys are all in college. My guys will clean the floor with your guys.”

Of course, being a dumbass college puke, I absolutely could not permit a bunch of “old guys” and “kids” whip our asses, so I even went so far as to recruit a couple ringers. Hell, one guy I recruited, a brother of a friend, could hit a softball about a mile.

Game day came, and the better part of our family showed up, as did a dozen or so of my friends. The plan was that the game would be followed by a cookout.

I know … I know … What about the onions? I’m getting there. It was a long walk today.

So, the teams assembled. My team was ready to rock, having been subjected to some pre-game trash talk (all G-rated) by Uncle Buggsy.

Once we determined which team would bat first, Uncle Buggsy gave the cue, and everyone on his team produced a white T-Shirt on which were stenciled stars surrounding the words “Buggsy’s All Stars”. It was quite a sight to see Buggsy’s Legion Post buddies and the “kids” all don their homemade team shirts and take the field. An effective psychological ploy, I must say.

The game itself was a riot, with Uncle Buggy’s team bending, stretching and sometimes outright breaking, the rules, much to the delight of the spectators and the exasperation of the “umpire,” who was another friend’s dad, who thought that his job was to be a real umpire.

OK, Jimbo, so what about the farookin’ onions?

Relax. I’m getting there. I’m on a roll here.

At one point in the game, I hit a ground ball to Uncle Buggsy’s friend Huey, who was playing second base. Huey was also a WWII Navy Vet. Huey must have figured, “There is no way that this college puke is going to beat me to first base. I’m a gottdamned veteran.” At the same time, I figured, “There is no way that this old guy is going to beat me to first base.” So each of us put our heads down and ran for the base as fast as we could. Unfortunately for both of us, we arrived at the base, full-speed at exactly the same time. CRASH! Huey and I collided full speed and knocked each other ass over teakettle. When we finally dragged ourselves off the ground and inspected for broken bones, the spectators were still howling.

It was a crazy game, but in the end, we beat Buggsy’s All Stars, as I suspect he knew we would. We may have scored more runs, but in terms of making sure the game was a hilarious bit of fun, he and his team were the winners.

After the game, Buggsy had another surprise. He presented me (as the Captain of the College Puke Team) with a homemade trophy. It was a softball that was spray-painted gold and affixed to the top of some kind of fancy black cylindrical perfume bottle, all of which was mounted on a black spray-painted piece of wood. I proudly displayed that thing in my parents’ house for years.

Yo, Jimbo! Heartwarming story, but when are we going to hear about the onions?

Sheesh! OK, here’s the part about the onions.

After the game, Buggsy manned the grill. The fare was the usual hot dots and burgers. However, he also had a pot on the grill in which were thinly sliced onions that were for use on the hot dogs. They were in a reddish-orange sauce, and they were delicious.

One of my friends and band mates, Tatsy, who was fully nine years older than I and already had graduated from Cornell and completed a four-year stint as a Naval officer, absolutely LOVED the onions.

He approached Buggsy and said, “Buggsy, these are absolutely the best onions I have ever tasted. Would you tell me how to make them?”

Buggsy, with his trademarked straight face, said, “I’m very sorry, but I can’t tell you that, because the recipe is a well-kept secret.”

Tatsy, being older than all of my cronies and more of a gentleman, thanked Buggsy and stated that he understood why Buggsy would not want to reveal a secret recipe.

On several occasions after that, Tatsy raved about “Buggsy’s Onions” and tried to duplicate Buggsy’s secret recipe, with very little success.

Several months after the game, I had occasion to be sitting around with Uncle Buggsy, and I asked him what the story was on his “secret recipe” for onions. He laughed and said, “I don’t have a secret recipe. Those were a jar of Sabrett’s onions that I bought at the supermarket.” Sabrett’s was a brand of hot dogs that were widely available back then and were often sold by pushcart vendors. They were often served with a reddish-orange onion sauce. The hot dogs and onion sauce were so popular that the company marketed them to supermarkets.

Fast-forward more than thirty years.

A couple years ago, I saw Tatsy for the first time in more than thirty years when we all assembled in Colorado for the Band Reunion. We were grilling hot dogs and burgers, and Tatsy was inside working feverously over a small pot. He brought the pot outside and proudly displayed its contents to me saying, “Taste these; they’re ‘Buggsy’s Onions.’ I think I finally figured out how to make them.”

I tasted the onions. They were quite good, and I said, “Congratulations. I think you’ve finally gotten it.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth.

Uncle Buggsy, who passed away about three and half years ago, would have pissed his pants laughing at it all.

Epilog: Apparently Sabrett’s has sold out to a larger company or has gone out of business. However, it is obvious that Tatsy was not and is not the only one trying to figure out how to make “Buggsy’s Onions.”

**Photo of Buggsy lifted from Cousin Jack’s Blog. I figure that neither he nor Uncle Buggsy would mind.

“Like a banana, it is on the sweet side, but don’t let the fruity taste fool you into uttering the famous last words, ”Ooooh, this is delicious. I could drink these all night.” Try it, and you’ll be flat on your arse, because this stuff packs a 99 proof wallop.”

I Didn’t Heed My Own Advice.

Yesterday, daughter TJ came by to help with the preparation of the Christmas golabki gwumpkies, one of the items that can be prepared in advance and frozen. After that, she helped with other Christmas preparations that have reached critical mass here at the House by the Parkway.

Then the trouble started. We decided that a bottle of champagne sparking wine would be a good idea, and we made short work of a bottle. I then said, “Hey, would you like to try so 99 Bananas?”

“Sure” was her response. That’s my girl.

After TJ called her husband to inform him that she would be staying the night, we tossed back a few icy cold shooters and then began “experimenting”. Wound up mixing the 99 Bananas with Kahlua and milk on the rocks and topping it off with a sprinkle of nutmeg. Delicious. So delicious, in fact, that before I knew it, it was 1:30 in the morning and the Kahlua was gone and there was barely a shot or two left in the bottle of 99 Bananas.

This morning, TJ looked normal and was, in fact, quite chipper. I, on the other hand, looked like warmed over shit and felt worse.

Yoot. There’s no substitute.

I was making one of my regular visits to Two Nervous Dogs and saw that Dogette, as part of a pet store adventure, bought some something called Cat-B-Gone, which is granular stuff that you pour in places where you don’t want kitties making kitty doo.

That got me to thinking about how wonderful it would be to have a product called Asshole-B-Gone. I would like it to be in liquid form that could be packaged in a pocket sized spray can. Wouldn’t it be great if, when you’ve had just about enough of a particular Asshole, you could spritz him and instantly banish his sorry ass to someplace like the Phantom Zone? Once spritzed, they would get all meta-flaky, just like people did on Star Trek just before they were teleported off the spaceship.

Say you’re sitting in a doctor’s waiting room and the guy across the room insists on treating everyone to his half of a long, loud cell phone conversation. You could pop your spritzer out of your pocket and give the Asshole a squirt. “Adios, Asshole!”

Or, how about the guy in the seat in front of you in economy class on a packed plane who decides that he absolutely must have his seatback in your face for six farookin’ hours? Wouldn’t you love to pull out your little spray can of Asshole-B-Gone, reach over the top of the seat and SPRITZ!! “Buh-bye, Dipshit.”

Ahhh, then there’s the person in front of you at the checkout counter who stands there for five minutes while the checkout person scans in all the purchases and renders a total on the register, and ONLY THEN does the Asshole reach for his/her wallet/purse and begins rummaging around for money or a credit card . “Yo! Did it come as a complete surprise to you that at the end of this process you would have to pay for your purchases?” SPRITZ!! “See ya, Asshole. No charge.”

I hope Santa reads this post and leaves a year’s supply of Asshole-B-Gone under my Christmas tree.

I took a vacation day today. What the hell every happened to using vacation days to actually spend the day taking it easy?

The day began quite normally, with a morning walk, although the temperature was a bracing fifteen degrees, and with the hawk biting, I actually had to pull my watch cap over my ears. It was still good though – except for having to constantly watch the ground directly in front of me to keep from stepping on the ice that was all over the farookin’ place.

The next six hours was spent schlepping around a shopping mall. The crowds were tolerable, but it would not have been my first choice for things to do while on “vacation.” But, ya gotta do what ya gotta do. Fa la la la la.

Next stop was, yes, the mondo liquor store to lay in the Christmas supplies. I also had to pick up some stuff for the Post. All together, it wound up being two shopping carts worth. They know me well at the mondo liquor store.

As promised in yesterday’s post, I picked up another bottle of 99 Bananas, and one bottle each of 99 Apples and 99 Blackberries (the store did not have 99 Oranges). I tried the 99 Apples, and it is more apple-y than the apple flavored vodkas I have tried (e.g. Friis, Smirnoff), which, again, could permit it to masquerade as something milder than apple-flavored vodka, when, in fact, it is higher in octane (99 proof) than typical vodka (80 proof). I like it fine.

Nothing like a restful “vacation” day.

I have said in the past that my four favorite places to shop are: bookstores, record stores, musical instrument stores, and, yes, liquor stores.

Each time I shop at my local mondo liquor store, it is an adventure – an expensive adventure, but an adventure nonetheless. In addition to trying to always keep my rather impressive stock (if I must say so myself) up to date, I always buy something new to try. Sometimes its goofy, and sometimes it’s not. Sometimes it turns out to be a good move, and other times, it’s a stinker, but it’s always fun.

My most recent goofy choice that turned out to be quite a treat was a bottle of “99 Bananas”. It is banana-flavored schnapps. I take it directly from the freezer and fill a tall shooter glass. Throw that right back, and it’s like having a mouthful of icy cold, liquefied bananas. Like a banana, it is on the sweet side, but don’t let the fruity taste fool you into uttering the famous last words, ”Ooooh, this is delicious. I could drink these all night.” Try it, and you’ll be flat on your arse, because this stuff packs a 99 proof wallop.

I wound up tasting my way through the entire bottle (over several days) and never got around to trying some of the mixed drinks that one can make with the stuff, which are listed here. The three that caught my eye are: the “Screaming Banana,” the “Banana Cream Pie,” and, perhaps the most interesting and even a bit unsettling (at least in terms of its name), the “Flaming Cock Smack.” OUCH!!!

I’m definitely in for another bottle and a bit of experimentation. In fact, while I’m at the store, I will also pick up one bottle each of “99 Apples,” “99 Blackberries,” and “99 Oranges.”

I’m particularly pleased with these latest finds, because they contain absolutely no cholesterol, and, besides, Doctor Doctor said I should eat more fruit.

Developing …

I’ve seen this meme floating about the ‘sphere, and sho’ ‘nuff, I was tagged. There’s tagging, and then there’s tagging. I have been tagged by everyone’s favorite soldier, Sgt. Hook. I have spent enough time in the Army to know that when a Sgt. Major tags your ass, it’s time to get your sorry ass in gear.

It is, therefore, with great pleasure that I respond to the Sgt. Major.

As much as I would like to think that I have no habits, particularly quirky ones, it took me all of about ten seconds to think of five. I probably could list a dozen more, but five will do. Here we go.

1. Hair Twirling. When I am bored, deep in thought, or nervous, I twirl my hair. I have done this since childhood. Strangely enough, it is a neurological bi-hemispheric phenomenon. What that means is that when I’m bored or deep in thought, I twirl with my left hand, but when I am stressed or very nervous my dominant hand (the right hand) kicks in to execute the right-handed twirl. (Bad for poker playing) Daughter TJ also twirled her hair when she was a squirt, damned near to the point of giving herself a bald spot. Nature? Nurture? Damned if I know, but I had to explain it to her pediatrician, who thought it all quite interesting.

2. Pen Testing/Flicking. It seems that I can’t write anything with a ballpoint pen without first testing it on a piece of scrap paper to ensure that it writes without skipping. In addition, if I pause while writing something with a ballpoint pen, I fill the pauses with slight, but still perceptible, pen flicks as if I were shaking the ink down to the point. I am conscious of the test-writing thing, but the pen-flicking quirk was pointed out to me, much to my embarrassment.

3. Teeth Clicking. While walking, I will often click my back teeth in counterpoint to my footsteps. It’s some sort of a rhythm blessing/curse, methinks.

4. Table Drumming and More. This one is related to Number 3. While listening to music, I will quietly (unless zippered – then it’s not so quiet) tap out the drum part on whatever horizontal surface I might be near. I like to think that most people don’t notice. However, what I am sure that nobody notices is that I am also working an imaginary bass drum and hi-hat with my feet under the table. Again, it’s the rhythm blessing/curse.

5. Playing Chords on the Steering Wheel. While driving and listening to music, I will often “play” the chords to the tune on the steering wheel with my left hand. I have learned to play many a tune this way.

As you can see, I have absolutely no goofy habits, and I’m a Gott-damned pleasure to be with.

Now, I am supposed to “tag” five peeps to get them to share their habits. I think I will pass on the tagging, but rather I hereby invite anyone who reads this to partake (and I hope some of you do), either in the comments or on your own blog.

(I’ll be damned if I didn’t catch myself twirling my hair — left handed twirl — thinking about whether this was ready to post.)