HAPPY ST. PATRICK’S DAY

I just read this. Words fail me.

OK. It’s May 16th, and it looks like a damned blizzard outside. The 30-mile ride home was a rare treat, particularly the part where Putz Boy in front of me decided to use both hands to comb his hair while driving 40 mph down a slush covered, slippery highway.

Tomorrow morning I will be snow blowing again. Who knew?

I just had a couple nice drinks of Crown Royal to warm me up and to get me perpendicular to the center of the earth. This may be it for Jimbo tonight, Sports Fans.

Update: Here’s the deal on the “May” thing.
1. I am generally lousy with dates. It must be a wiring thing. I have actually booked flights and reserved cars for the wrong month, requiring me to make a mad (and sometimes expensive) scramble at the last minute to strighten things out.

That said,…

2. I may (there’s that word again) have been fantasizing “May,” as I watched the March snow drifts form on the deck.

3. It may be that the Crown Royal screwed up with my already flawed sense of time and place.

Finally, to remove any doubt about what a doofus I can be, I thought the comments were referring to the “may” that appeared in the final sentence of the Post and were questioning whether a couple gentlemanly Crown Royals (neat) would absolutely prevent my return, which we all should know could never happen.

OK, so now it’s June 17, right?

About a year ago, I wrote a piece lamenting the closing of a local pharmacy, following its having been gobbled up by a huge “drug store” chain. From that point on, I would have to have my prescriptions filled by one of the huge pharmacy chain stores that I did not mention at the time.

Well, now it’s time to mention it. It was Rite Aid.

My experience over the last year with Rite Aid has been less than satisfactory. On more than one occasion, I was told that the store was “out of” the prescribed medication. This is a store that has more than 100 kinds of shampoo, but they are out of the medicine I needed? (It was not some obscure medicine used to treat rare disease. It was more like a deli running out of cheese.)

On other occasions, I had to patiently wait while the pharmacist struggled to find me in the store’s mammoth database. This, of course, required me to give my name, address and phone number a half dozen times.

In addition, there are the “Big Store Rules.” According to the Rules, one has to drop a prescription off at one counter (the “Drop Off Counter”) and pick up a prescription at another counter (the “Pick Up Counter), which is about fifteen paces away.

One time, before I was aware of the “Big Store Rules,” I walked up to the Pick Up Counter and said to the lone pharmacist (a young woman who appeared to have graduated from pharmacy school earlier that day) and said that I wanted to have a prescription filled. When I tried to hand her the prescription, she told me that I had to go to the other counter (i.e. the Drop Off Counter). Mind you, there was no one else either dropping off or picking up prescriptions. So, I walked fifteen paces to my right, and she walked fifteen paces to her left so that we could meet at the “Drop Off Counter”. Then and only then would she accept the prescription. This could have been a Monty Python skit.

Today may have been the clincher.

Before proceeding to work this morning, I was at the doctor’s office for regular visit. At the conclusion of the visit, I received a prescription. The Doc’s office graciously offered to call the prescription in to the pharmacy so that I could go directly to work from the office and pick up the prescription at the end of the day. Great idea.

After work, I proceeded to the gigantic Rite Aid pharmacy to pick up my prescription. Knowing the Big Store Rules, I walked smartly up to the “Pick Up Counter.” I told the teen-aged looking pharmacist that I was there to pick up a prescription that had been called in by Doctor So and So earlier that day. She proceeded to the alphabetical bins in which the finished prescriptions are placed. I could see that the bin that bore the first letter of my last name contained only one white bag. I knew that there was trouble when the child-pharmacist picked up the lone white bag, examined it and then went to speak with the other pharmacist, who must have been at least six months older.

Pharmacist Number Two looked at the same bag (as if the name on the bag had changed in the interim) and then asked me, “You said that your doctor called this in?” I replied in the affirmative. The kiddy-pharmacist then asked, “When?”

I replied, “approximately 9 o’clock this morning.”

Ms. Cabbage Patch Kid Pharmacist inquired, “Are you sure?”

I replied that I was quite sure. (I know this to be true because the person in the Doc’s office who actually called the prescription in is a friend of mine — one of the Usual Suspects who happens to work in the Doc’s office.)

“What is the prescription for?” she asked, expecting, I assume, that I would tell her something like, “Them’s the pills for my epizoodic.” I fooled her by giving her the name of the drug and the dosage.

Then we did the name, address, and telephone thing.

She clicked away on the computer and finally turned in my direction and said, “I have bad news.”

I was wondering what kind of bad news pharmacists are called upon to deliver, when I asked, “What is the problem?”

The barely post-pubescent pharmacist said, “They called the prescription in to the other store.” (That would be the other gargantuan Rite Aid store on the other side of town.)

I really didn’t feel like driving to the other side of town during the rush hour, so I asked ”Can you fill the prescription here?” It seemed like a no-brainer to me. Hell, it’s the same chain, and both stores have all my information in the same database.

“Well, sir. You’ll have to wait, and it will take a lot of time, because we have to call over to the other store and have them cancel the prescription and then we would have to fill it here. By the time we do all that you could drive across town to pick up the prescription.”

I grumbled, “Are you serious?”

“Yes sir, the other store already ‘billed out’ the prescription, and all that has to be canceled. It takes lots of time.” Obviously, she did not want to be bothered, even though there were no other customers at either of the counters.

When it was clear that I was schnitzled, I turned to go. At that moment, the teeny-bopper pharmacist said, “Oh, and when you are ready to have this refilled, you should call over to the other store and ask them to transfer the prescription to this store, and we will be able to take care of the refill.”

I thought as I plodded out of Rite Aid Number One to my car so that I could drive to Rite Aid Number Two to pick up my Rite Aid prescription, “What? I should call to the other store and arrange to transfer my prescription? How screwed up is that? Isn’t this something that Rite Aid can and should take care of?”

I guess it hasn’t occurred to the dipshits at Rite Aid that I am the customer and not one of the blue smocked schmucks who work in the shampoo palace that masquerades as a pharmacy.

None of this ever happened to me when Mr. Nestor and his daughter ran the real drug store in town – the one that vanished about a year ago.

I find that I sometimes become preoccupied with other things, and I neglect to pay enough attention to the events that swirl around in the Garden State. After all, one can only read so much about corruption and governmental ineptitude.

Fortunately, I know that, in order to keep abreast of the indictment of the week and similar Jersey stuff, I can always take a look at Roberto’s Dynamobuzz. He’s a fellow Jersey blogger who keeps a pretty close eye on the adventure that is life in the Garden State.

The really good news is that he doesn’t just write about things Jersey, so you might want to take a peek at his site.

There are certain kinds of events that I am gleeful about seeing certain people participate in, because I just know that the experience will give rise to something interesting or comical. Along those lines, think “Garage Sale” and “Topdawg” from Two Nervous Dogs.

Yes, Topdawg was a seller at the Topdawg Garage Sale where he (or is it “she?” Sorry. I honestly am not sure whether Topdawg is a boy dog or a girl dog) reports experiencing “high entertainment in the spectacle of watching people pay money for things I am about to unceremoniously shitcan anyway.”

I would have been willing to pay money (considerably more than was brought in by the sale of the “White Plastic Hamper Chock Full O’ Rags”) just to have been able to watch it all happen.

I wonder if I can get it on VCR.

Saturday, Saaaturday
Saturday, Saturday, Saaturday
Saturday, Saturday
Saturday, Saturday …

Catchy lyric, that.

“Sir” Reginald Dwight…feh.

The No-Content Jitters (hereinafter, “NCJ”) strike at times when I realize that much of the day has gone by and I haven’t given a single thought to what I might write about. The onset of NCJ is fairly subtle and only mildly disconcerting. However, as time passes the symptoms (i.e. the unsettling feeling of being doomed to spending the rest of my life without ever having a single thought that’s worth a damn) become more and more unpleasant.

I find that this often happens on days when, for reasons dictated by Life 101, I forego my morning walk. It has been my experience that it is during that hour-long sweaty strut that the electrochemical soup in my cruller sometimes gives birth to an idea or two. Today there was no walk, ergo, no sweat-spawned ideas.

As prime writing time approaches, one looks for excuses explanations for what is perceived as the beginning of the end of one’s ability to be anything even remotely resembling creative or interesting: “I was too busy today with other things that are necessary for me to think about in order to avoid miss-a-meal colic.” Or, “My mind was occupied with the news of the day, which is often too awful or too aggravating to constitute subject matter I care to write about.” Or, “The news is interesting, and is something I want to write about, but I surely could not do it justice. Other people are much better at that.” Or, “I’m just too tired to be thinking of goofy shit to write, and besides, all this writing stuff is a waste of time anyway.”

I think you get the picture.

Welcome to NCJ Anonymous.

Me: “My name is Jim, and I have NCJ.”

Group: (in unison) “Hi, Jim.”

Me: “They say that the first step to successful treatment is recognizing and admitting the problem, and that’s why I am here.”

(applause from Group)

Group: (in unison) “That’s right, Jim.”

Me: “I don’t have anything to write about today. I didn’t take my walk. I was busy at work. The War on Terror and the presidential campaign have occupied my mind.”

Group: (in unison) “You’re blocking, Jim.”

Me: “No. I swear. That must be it. It’s not that there is nothing to write about. Hell, there are an infinite number of things that people can write about. There’s a whole Library of Congress full of stuff that people have written about. It must be that I’m just too busy thinking about other things. I’m tired too. That’s gotta be it.”

Group: (in unison) “You’re still blocking, Jim.”

Me: “No, I’m not. You people don’t understand.”

Group: (in unison) “You’re full of shit, Jim.”

Me: “I’m full of shit? What kind of Support Group is this anyway?”

Group: (in unison) “It’s a No-Bullshit Support Group, Jim.”

Me: “I’m not full of shit. I’m tired and really busy with other things. It is you people who are full of shit.”

Group: (in unison) “You can’t bullshit bullshitters, Jim.”

Me: “I’ve about had it with you. I’m tired. I’ve had enough of this silliness, and I want to get out of here and do other things.”

Group: (in unison) “You’re getting warmer, Jim.”

Me: “Now, you are being ridiculous. What the hell are we doing here? Playing huckle-buckle-beanstalk, for Chrissakes?”

Group: (in unison) “Why don’t you just admit it, Jim?”

Me: “Admit it? Admit what?”

Group: (in unison) “Why don’t you admit that you just don’t feel like writing today, Jim?”

Me: “That’s not true.”

Group: (in unison) “Jim, …. Jim, … Jim – You cannot bullshit us. You must not bullshit yourself.”

Me: “I can’t admit that. I can’t.”

Group: (in unison) “Yes you can, Jim.”

Me: “I d-d-d-don’t think I can do that.”

Group: (in unison) “Yes you can, Jim. You must, Jim. Try it. You’ll see.”

Me: (following a long, emotion-packed pause) “I …don’t….feel……… I CAN”T!!”

Group: (in unison) “You’re being an asshole, Jim. Just admit the truth, Jim. It will set you free.”

Me: (following an even longer pause) “O.K., I…don’t….feel….like….writing….today.”

(raucous, enthusiastic applause from Group)

Me: “Are you happy now?”

Group: (in unison) “Are you happy now, Jim?”

Me: “I’ll be blogging this tomorrow.”

Please welcome to the blogosphere a brand new blog entitled, “Road Warrior Rules for Survival.” I am always pleased and flattered by being included in someone’s blogroll, but there is something particularly pleasing and flattering about being listed (along with some truly excellent bloggers) on the blogroll of a brand new blog.

Thanks, Tammi. And, good luck to you.

Take a look at the letter to John Kerry from Colonel Glenn Lackey, U.S. Army, Retired. Colonel Lackey did combat tours in Vietnam, Somalia and the Gulf War. He, like most veterans I know, does not consider himself to be among Mr. Kerry’s “Band of Brothers”.

The letter was originally published by Jay Bryant at Townhall.com. I found it over at doubleplusgood infotainment.