2:19 on a Thursday – not a song but you can hum along with

FRIDAY, MAY 21, 2010


2:19 on a Thursday – not a song but you can hum along with

The King of Cheese does not reside in Wisconsin! Or even some remote region of France where the goats are delicious and the sheep are nervous.

NewsFlash……. And the dot de dot noises. Wired Magazine has crowned the new King of Cheese. This is old news to some of us. For me I am still looking for the magazine.

I really should start making the salads because a promise is a promise but it’s like I’m doing a Google search and feeling lucky. I have an anticipated arrival time and I do want to have dinner ready when somebody gets home. The one buying all the food shouldn’t have to prepare all of it for consumption. Some of you know what it is like to have thoughts running around in your head until it feels like it will explode or start spinning around like in a movie that has not yet suffered the indignity of having a clone or clone II.

I hope the guy is not sitting on the porcelain throne because I think Dakota Dawg is thirsty again... The King of Cheese is Ben Huh. That is what I thought at first, HUH? I was trying to read something that I am sure is in some pile somewhere in the house but instead I was sitting in the Public Library reading a worn out magazine. My mother used to warn me about things other people touched. I had to go to the Public Library to do research because I did not have my computer handy. People really do still do that (go to the library) although it is harder and harder convincing those folks that write the checks to sign some.

I was not sure if I had misplaced, misfiled, thrown away or just lost my old Wired magazine. It could be at the old folks' home or even my doctors’ office because I have taken to dropping off my old magazines at the hospital and such places instead of just sending them to the recycling center for burial at the landfill. Maybe I recycled it or thought I did and they didn't. I know it is kind of a lost cause hoping that the next time I go to the doctor it will still be there for me to reread. Besides I am not sick enough right now to go to the doctors to check unless you count mental illness as a disease and not an asset.

I think all of the notes I was going to review in the paper devil I call a notepad or in the margins of that magazine are probably safely stored in a remote drawer. But the inexorable need to have immediate access followed the need that got me to the library in the first place. Yup, Huh.

Before I started my vain attempt to gather notes and have another pen run out of ink just as I needed it most, I was in the Post Office. Why was I there yet again? I had already been there once and had gone thru all of the mail that was addressed to the dead guy that used to have that particular PO Box... And all the other junk that was addressed to Y.A. sounds like a terrorist’s last name. I have given up on the placing that stuff in the misaddressed mail slot with pleasant notes to my friendly and helpful Postal employees including the fact that this guy has been dead MORE than six years now.

I decided not to try to send it back to the senders because that would almost be like opening the email and then confirming to the spammer that it was a valid address. These guys would probably start just putting my name on the letters and sending that junk to me. Not one to stop the stimulation and enrichment of our economy and now privately operated postal service; I decided to just start throwing it out. I am not going to ask my friendly Postal Inspector if I am doing something illegal. I am just going to take the consequences (if they rear their ugly heads) and charge me with something I was ignorant of. For serenity I would just rather be bliss and continue to fill the landfill since I don’t think they are shredding and recycling the stuff in the garbage cans at the PO. Not that this wouldn’t be the topic for another rant.

So as I was in the middle of my second visit to the PO after confirming what I thought to be true. That old key that had the raised copy cast into the brass key blank that informed me that I did not own it complicated matters by opening my own mailbox. I can’t remember why I would need two keys since I was the only one that ever opened that PO Box since I rented it unless the dead guy or Y.A. still had a key and were opening up the bills I got there and carefully resealing the envelopes. If so, they certainly were not collecting their mail.

So I stood waiting in the line under the sign that informs me that it is their objective to serve me within ten minutes.

I had gotten to the point where I was figuring ten minutes must have passed a long time ago. I couldn’t be sure because the digital clock on the wall was blinking and some nutjob installed it where they will need to get a dolly lift down the stairs or around the handicapped ramp and behind the counter so someone can reach it to reset the time. IIRC that thing has been blinking for years… oh and since I gave up wearing watches and left the cell phone in the car I am uncertain if I might even determine what day it is, let alone the time.

Wait, American Idol elimination round was on last nite at nine so it’s gotta be Thursday. (Damnit, gotta and Damnit are correct spellings or is it Dammit? – Apparently not according to WinDoze). And especially since I have not one clue as to when I started standing in line; how the heck would I know if I had already been there for ten minutes? I guess I could have asked the lady in front of me (with that plastic basket filled with registered mail she is going to post) what time it was when I started asking her other inane questions. I think this is the true definition of the sign that reads: "YOUR LACK OF PLANNING DOES NOT NECESSARILY CONSTITUTE AN EMERGENCY ON OUR PART."

Well, anyway; I started dancing. Not just a little Irish Jig like grandma used to pull off once in a while with Aunt Liz and Mary. No, this was a full blown Whirling Dervish kind of thing (thanx for that one mom). I was standing there dancing in place because I desperately needed to find a public restroom in a hurry. Before the ten minutes had expired I realized there was no public restroom in the Post Office. There was one however at the Public Library. I finally got to talk to an agent and got the sad news that to get the refund on the key I had to close my account and give up my box. He was kind enough to come from around the counter with my (or their) key in his hand and go to the box to confirm what I already knew. The key opened the box. He explained how the refund deal worked. I made an executive decision not to close the box to get the one buck refund for the key since I would have to give up the box and the other key I had that fit it. Besides I would then have to get on the waiting list to get another box, new keys and more deposits.

I would likely get another box that got different people's mail because the forwarding information was improperly entered on the 3x5 card that was used to inform them that the old tenant was not receiving mail at that box any more.

I rushed to the car and headed straight to the Public Library. The Public Library is an excellent place to relieve yourself because it is frequently clean and unlike many of the fast food joints the employees at the Public Library kept their soap dispensers full. Usually too, there are paper towels at the library and not some wall mounted toaster that blows hot air. I also needed to avail myself of the clear liquid refreshment because I had somehow forgotten to bring with me the special stainless steel water bottle I keep in the refrigerated safe in the kitchen.

SCORE, I thought as I punched the button to open the gate and ran up the steps of the library though the door. I decided to skip the handicapped ramp since the one foot long per inch of rise above grade meant that the entrance to the ramp was somewhere in the next county. I wondered why the library had to be where it was and was it really the ground floor I was finally standing on after climbing all of those stairs.

I raced in and around the corner to where I knew the restrooms were hidden. Down the little hallway I did not see any warning signs indicating that I might slip on the wet floor. I did however notice a janitor's cart just outside the door as I put my shoulder to the door to avoid contact with places where people might have left life threatening bacteria. It was then that I noticed the sign on the cart that the restroom was being sanitized. I had visions of strips of paper across the toilet seats and my grandfather who used to put them on the toilet seats at the Ola Beach Motel at 4816 N Orange Blossom Trail or US 441 in Mount Dora, Florida. At some point all of this stuff will become clear to the reader. No promises, but I am pretty sure.

In the same vain as I put my shoulder to the door to get into the bathroom I had mashed the door bell at the entrance to the library that was illuminated and labeled Handicapped entrance. If you push the buzzer the door magically opens. I always try to avail myself of these additional services because I enjoy burning up as many kilowatts as possible especially if I think I might not be the one that is paying for their usage.

I did not see a sign noting an objective to serve me in ten minutes but still hoped that the sanitizing would take slightly less time than ten Post Office minutes. I really had to go!

I eased pressure off of the door and decided I was not yet out of breath and had good stamina and could dance a little longer in the hallway until the cleaning was completed. When I got to the point that I could dance no longer I decided it was 50/50 as to whether the sanitizer was male or not and put my shoulder to the door again. FAIL. It was a woman and she was in the handicapped stall.

The most courteous sanitizer stated that she would only be a moment. I told her I did not have that long unless she wanted extra things to clean up as I waited outside. The thought entered my mind that maybe I could use the women's restroom like the ladies do when they use the men's facilities at the civic center. I immediately crossed that idea off the list and began negotiating. I asked if it would be alright if I just used the other stall since it had a door on it that I could close. I was sure she could not be in the little stall too since she could not be God and be in two places at once. Her voice was clearly coming from the stall that was bigger than my living room.

She did not seem wild about my proposal and asked me to wait outside once again. I mumbled something as I slipped into the little stall... and I mean little. I heard her leaving the restroom. I was pretty sure it was not some other woman that was in the men's room because the women's toilet was just too crowded. I never even considered that she might be offended by the sound of tinkle. I shouted that I would only be a moment and wondered if I should ask my doctor if I ought to be on some kind of prescription so I didn't have to dance so often. And, if my insurance would subsidize the drug usage so I did not have to go so often. Was I old enough to qualify yet? I knew that kind of stuff was out there because I noticed the commercial on a Monday night right before Buzz was kicked off 'Dancing with the Stars'. I am trying now to remember if Depends also used to sponsor that show.

I was a little startled when the friendly sanitizer lady pushed open the door and asked if I was done. I always found it awkward talking to someone over the metal walls of a stall and managed in my best Elaine voice to just say, "In a minute." Fortunately, I did not have to ask her if she could spare a square. The courteous sanitizer lady was waiting patiently outside the door as I managed to open it with the paper towels our government was nice enough to provide. In a flash I deposited those same paper towels in the garbage can that should have been just a little closer to the door than it was. Since she had stopped tapping her foot I decided to ask her if she knew the location of a water fountain. She unfolded her arms, pointed and grunted.

I drank like a camel finishing up after a hard day that ended with an overnite at the oasis. Although the restrooms location and directions to them had been marked; there was only one sign over the water fountain. It did not identify the big stainless thing hanging on the wall as a water fountain. Did I mention I used to make signs?

I may not have intended to read anything when I first hit the buzzer to open the door to the library but since I was so close to the elevator and the LED light indicated it was on the ground floor ready for launch, I decided to use a little more free electricity. I punched the illuminated button and the doors flew open. I would not pretend I was a homeless Luddite and leave right after my sink bath. I was a little relieved when I heard someone shout; "Hold that!" as I stuck my arm out to notify the infrared sensors that they should open the doors before they crushed my arm.

I gave up on the idea of using a computer as I noticed how many people were waiting to burn up their 15 allotted minutes. If it was Post Office time the guys on the machine had nothing to worry about. I decided instead to search in the stacks for that issue of Wired magazine that I guessed was likely correctly cataloged and filed in its proper place (unlike the mess at my house). This was something that was very high on my A-D-D addled priority list. I was pretty sure I remembered the artwork on the cover because I take note of those kinds of things and I did not remember too much other cover art because I usually just read Wired online. I had purchased that issue of the magazine to read on one of the trips to visit the father in law. It had an adjustable wrench on the cover and the article was in that magazine, likely listed somewhere in the table of contents.

For some reason at that very second I came to the realization I was in the library so I probably ought to put the cell phone on vibrate. I was pretty sure the Orchestra was not going to make an appearance and that a ringing phone might cause the cymbalist to wake from his coma and crash things together at the wrong time... possibly though the tunes coming out of my phone might interfere with others' quest for knowledge. More on this later.

I then awoke to the fact that there was a time limit on my visit since my car was in the gated corral outside. Unless I wrapped it up in less that one hour I would have to pony up with some cash to help pay toward the attendant's retirement account. I opened my cell phone again to check the time and figured there was at least enough left to locate the magazine. As I headed to the stacks I became aware that there were analog clocks everywhere. This confirmed my suspicion that I was not in Las Vegas or on some Indian Reservation in the casino. All those books seemed to support that hypothesis.

I knew I had to hurry because I was on a mission and the free parking was only for an hour. I had left my money at home. I did not know either what the upcharge was or when more money was added and in what increments. I had a quarter in my pants but doubted that there was any change safely hidden in the glove box. Around my town we have to hide excess change from sight because if it is in the cup holder there is a good chance some crack head will break the side window or windshield to get it. I knew I did not want to have to call home for someone to come bring bail money to get the car out of parking lot jail. Also, I was not sure if I had a magic marker and some spare cardboard to start a panhandling career. Make a note to put magic marker and cardboard in car.

I found the magazine and the article so I could start entering the salient facts about Huh there in the trusty notebook in my top pocket. No sense writing in the columns here in the magazine since that was likely against some of the small print in some state or local statute and/or against Public Library usage policy.

I found a table that I did not have to ask permission to share and sat down. So his name was Huh. I found that right off the bat and that he was the King of Cheese. Great. It would be easier for me to find all of the details about Huh in this printed wired than information that I might have wanted back when I was in college and found the issue of the Braille Playboy on top of the garbage can when I was in New York near Gramercy Park. Huh? Yup. They really did make a Braille Playboy. They made it for all the blind guys who really wanted to read the articles. I am sure the year was 1967 if you doubt me on this. Long before the Americans with Disabilities Act was passed into law.

As I was searching for the facts in Wired that I was willing to have my car towed over; I found a lot of useless stuff (kind of like what you are reading now), several obviously posed pictures, some informative graphs, who wrote the article and the name of the photographer. What seemed to be missing was: the find on this page option or a Google search box. Even Bing or Yahoo would be better than trying to read every sentence and then hand notate what I though I just had to have in a notepad I would likely lose track of.

Yep, a Web Phenomena gone mainstream (I remembered that much anyway from the first time I read the article). I was starting to fear this was going to be yet another exercise in Post Office Déjà Vu. If you wanted another piece of useless information: A search for “post office déjà vu” on Google yields - About 35,900 results (0.45 seconds). Cheezburger? ™… (and is that © too?) and this child wears Andy Warhol replica sunglasses... with his money he could likely but the real deal. Jeans and tee shirts... also redundant because I could see that in the pictures. I started to at least get curious about Kiki Kane. I will not be a stalker if I just Google "Kiki Kane". Maybe I could check her out on FaceBook. Since I had gotten thru maybe a couple of paragraphs did I have enough time to decide something besides the Wired editor did not mind run on sentences. So: "Where's the Beef?". At this rate BlueBird was going to an impoundment yard.

As I got up to leave, someone's phone started playing the Piano Man. A guy that obviously had also used the public facilities started talking in some kind of code more complicated than Enigma could break. Way more complicated than the stuff I remember from when I had a CB. So I picked up the pace figuring that Lee probably still had the old issue. I was somewhat doubtful though since Lee has not lived in her house nearly as long as I had lived in mine and Lee recycles. Hopefully she hadn't loaned it to Bob.

Besides Lee is in IT and keeps most of her really important stuff on her iPhone or in the cloud courtesy of some free App and 3G. I ran back to the table to make sure I noted at least the year and month of the magazine since Lee might remember things differently than I did. I flipped back to the article and noted pages 053-055, February 2010. I went with my original decision and put the magazine back on the table due to time constraints and the desire to spur the economy by making sure the library kept employed someone to put things back in the stacks.

I was sure that they would not allow the sanitizer lady or the contract OPS Security man overtime and make that part of either’s job description unless they could figure a way it would not cost them extra salary or benefits. I cruised up to the water fountain when the elevator doors opened on the star floor. Although I could not read the Braille tags in the elevator I was pretty sure that ★ meant #1 or the main floor. Proudly above the water fountain was a sign installed with some quality scotch tape. It read: “GET YOUR GREEN ON!” It was printed on plastic material. No where on the sign was there a recycling symbol that if translated would identify what king of plastic the sign was made of or what kind of paint was on it. It did not have any Braille on it nor was it in location prescribed by law by congress for ADA signs in a public building.

I looked around outside as soon as my eyes became accustomed and I saw that the Gate Keeper Attendant was not in evidence. The gates were all open. SCORE… damn budget cuts. I noticed the gate that was the most convenient exit for my way home had a sign next to it that said “NO ENTRY” with the international symbol on a light reflective aluminum blank. I wondered for a second if that also meant ‘NO EXIT”. I decided not to chance it but would make a note to stop on the way home and buy a lottery ticket anyway. It is part of my financial planning before retirement.

As I walked further toward BlueBird in the scalding sun I knew that it would be a furnace inside when I opened the door. I was humming “Piano Man’. And, I don't want to be humming that in the AM.

More useless information... so now, I am sitting here on my laptop and part of a wireless network and the targeted search: ben huh can I haz cheezburger "wired magazine" article = Advanced search About 359 results (0.32 seconds) AND the first result is the article. I am so wired.

Curse you Google! Since we have no Tonic in this downtown historic urban forest neighborhood abode I may as well stop pounding these keys, fighting with the SpEElchecker and mashing the backspace key. Curse you too Billy Joel… I hope I can get the lyrics outta my head before it impacts with the pillow.

I sure hope I don't have to pee again when I am checking my mail. Lee: Can I hold that iPhone again for a few?