MEAN MEDIAN

MEAN MEDIAN

“Have you been drinking?” asked the officer, politely I might add, when he stopped me on

Broad Ripple Avenue

in Indianapolis, after I had turned west from Keystone. I was on my way home from a WISH-TV remote shoot, my usual Sunday morning beat.

“Drinking?” I said with a bit more hubris than is generally advisable when addressing a law enforcement officer. “It’s 9:30 in the morning.”

“When was the last time you had a drink?”

“I don’t remember.”

“That’s not a good sign, Sir.”

“That’s not what I mean. I think I had a beer three nights ago,” I stammered. Stammering, by the way, is not recommended during a situation like this.

The officer then explained that when I made my turn I “nicked the median with my front tire,” and that in his experience as a police officer, “this usually means the person has had a few too many.”

“Officer, this is silly. I’m not drunk. I’m just a lousy driver.” As you can see, I was having trouble saying precisely what I wanted to say. Another bad sign, by the way.

The officer went back to his car with my registration.  A few minutes later he retuned to my vehicle.  “May I ask if you have ever been arrested?”

“Arrested? Look, I know you’re doing your job, officer, but other than three days overdue at Blockbuster, I’ve never been in trouble in my life.”

“Sir, I am going to let you go, but based on your careless turn, I could give you a breathalyzer test to see if you are legally drunk.”

“If it’s legal, what’s the problem?”

(Author’s note: That last line I just made up. But the rest of the story is 100% true.)

When I got home, Mary Ellen asked me why I was so late. I told her that when I made a left turn off of Keystone I hit my front tire on the median and a cop pulled me over for being intoxicated.

“You do that all the time. Why didn’t you just tell him you’re a lousy driver?”

“I did tell him that.”

Mary Ellen burst out laughing. “I was just kidding. I can’t believe you said something that to a policeman.”

I called my friend Rob Butler, who sold me my car, and told him the story….

“That’s amazing. How do these things happen to you?” asked Rob. “And the funny part is, you’re a good driver.”

“I am?”

Of course not, I was just kidding”

The more I thought about this faulty left-hand turn, the more I wondered about my driving ability. So I went back to that corner and made the same maneuver multiple times. In nine out of ten attempts, I  was successful in negotiating that pesky strip that divides the street.

If I were a baseball player in the World Series, that would be a 900 average. But it wouldn’t be for hitting. It would be for missing.

CELL MATE

CELL MATE

It’s not easy being Dick Wolfsie’s cell phone. He’s misplaced me 72 times just in the past 18 months. Of course, I was never really lost. I knew exactly where I was, but have you ever tried to get this guy’s attention?

I’m also all chewed up because his destructive dog likes to gnaw on my corners. I’ve become a cellular cookie, a mobile meatloaf, if you will. It’s not a job I’d call home about. Next time, no pets. 

Here’s my story: On Sunday, I’m at the Shrine Circus at the Fairgrounds where Dick is doing a TV show. I’m in his pocket. No, now I’m resting on top of a clown cannon. Oops! He just shoved me under his coat on a chair. I’m lost. He starts looking all over for me. Now he’s borrowing a phone. He’s going to call me. Uh oh, my battery is running low. I ring. Success.

We’re headed home. He just throws me in his briefcase and I land in a tiny hidden pocket next to a health insurance card that has been missing for the last month. He’ll never find me here. I can just peek out the tattered corner of the leather bag and see him.

Monday: I’m still in this briefcase, but he doesn’t know I am missing because he never left the house all day and most calls go to his regular phone. It’s really dark in here.

Tuesday: He’s looking for me. He’s checking every coat pocket....Oh, here he comes toward his briefcase. He peers into the abyss, but he can’t see me. Call me! Call me before it’s too late! He heads for his desk phone. I go right to voicemail. My battery is dead.

Wednesday: He heads back to the Fairgrounds to see if he left the phone there. I’m right next to him in his briefcase. Oh, the irony. No, they didn’t find a cell phone at the Circus. Back home, he searches the entire car, including where I once slid under one of the floor mats. The rest of the day he looks everywhere, including in his briefcase four more times. Boy could I use a charge.

Thursday: He’s given up. We head to the cell phone store. Time to buy a replacement. His contract is almost expired so they make him a deal on a sexy new model with a lot of features so he can get email he’ll never learn how to access, and take countless accidental pictures of his ear. He falls for it. Men! The salesperson destroys me digitally on the computer. I am cellular non grata.

Dick gets back in the car and we head home. Once in the house, he starts reading the new instruction booklet. He’s confused and frustrated. He has underestimated the power of familiarity. He’s starts pushing buttons wildly. He hasn’t had this look on his face since he bought a new toaster.

Suddenly, a flash of insight. He stares at his briefcase. He walks over and turns it completely upside down and shakes it. Out I fall. Also his insurance card. And a set of keys from his last car and his sister’s Happy 55^th Birthday card. (She’s 57 now.)

He embraces me and kisses my mangled corners.

Friday: We head back to the phone store. He tells the clerk he doesn’t want his new phone, that he’ll eat the cost. He just wants his old friend back. My circuits well up.

“Okay,” says the perplexed customer service rep, “but keep the new phone, just in case you lose the old one again.”

“Yeah,” says Dick, “like that would ever happen.”

CAPTCHAING THE MOMENT

My good friend Patty Spitler is the host of Pet Pals on WNDY-TV every Saturday morning. She asked me to join the show’s fan website where I could view photos of dogs and cats and post digital shots of my own furry friends.

I logged into the Pet Pals sign-up page and after entering some preliminary data came face to face with a CAPTCHA. This is not a breed of dog like a Shar Pei, but both are equally shmushed together.

A CAPTCHA is the security feature that requires you to re-type a series of hard-to-read letters and numbers exactly as they appear on the screen before being issued a password or given permission to access a website. It ensures a real human being is taking advantage of the various promotional opportunities. Without CAPTCHA, renegade software programs could amass a boatload of $10-off coupons to Bucca de Beppo, creating a scarcity of giant spicy meatballs right here in Indiana.

Apparently computer software programs can defeat a grand master in chess and beat the pants off the reigning Jeopardy champions, but they can’t read really bad handwriting. Deciphering chicken scratch was never a problem for my elementary school teachers, but if my printing was as bad as CAPTCHA’s when I was back in the fifth grade, I’d still be back in the fifth grade.

On the Pet Pals site I carefully hunted and pecked the curious series of letters into the box. Let’s see: was that two V’s in a row or was it a W? Was that KLo or Kb? I had no idea, so I took a wild guess. INCORRECT, the prompt berated me. Graciously, they offered me another chance.

I took out my reading glasses and peered onto the screen. I typed with only one finger to increase my accuracy. There were two words this time with a squiggly line through them. Some letters looked like caps and others didn’t, but some you couldn’t tell because they were back-to back with another figure. Some of the numbers appeared as if they were doing the tango together. Why was this so difficult? I just wanted Patty’s fans to see Toby with his adorable St Patrick’s Day hat on. I wasn’t trying to join the CIA. I made another attempt.

INCORRECT repeated the prompt. Or was it InCorRecT?

I became so frustrated that I tried the audio CAPTCHA, intended for folks with vision issues, which clearly included me. In this version of CAPTCHA you hear a cacophony of indistinguishable sounds, much like in a crowded restaurant, then suddenly a recognizable word emerges like ORANGE, then more murmuring, then another, maybe BATHTUB, just as an example.

I enunciated each word I heard into my computer’s microphone, not aware my wife was listening at the foot of the stairs:

RETREAT…ALAMO…VIOLIN…CHRYSTANTHMUMS…SWITCHBLADE

Mary Ellen was frightened by my incoherent rant.  She inched back up the steps without making a sound.

I finally got into the Pet Pals website and I also managed to convince my wife I had not totally lost my mind. How did I do that? Do I have to spell everything out for you?

SLICE OF LIFE

I don't usually have my meals delivered up here in the Geist area.

My pizza restaurant of choice is only five minutes from the house, so it's not a big deal. I figure that if I'm going to wolf down six or eight slices of pure cholesterol, I should at least get some exercise by driving a couple of blocks.

It was snowy the other night, so I parked myself in front of a roaring fire and decided to arrange for a speedy dinner drop-off.

"Hello, Donatos, I'd like to order two medium pizzas for my family. One with sausage and one with pepperoni and mushroom."

"Do you have any coupons, sir?"

"Yes, but they are all for a different pizza chain and they expired in June of '05."

"Not a problem. What major intersection are you near?"

"We're just south of 86th and Mud Creek."

"One moment, sir. I'll have to talk my supervisor about this."

Then, a long silence.

Finally, the boss picked up the phone. "Sir, this is Eugene, the manager. I've been doing some checking, and I have some very bad news for you."

"Look, if you're out of pepperoni, I can get through this. I'm tough. How about meatball, instead?"

"It's not that. It's more serious. This is difficult to say, sir, but according to Mapquest you live in a pizza dead zone.'"

"What does that mean, 'pizza dead zone'? I feel like I'm talking to Rod Serling."

"Well, there are four of our pizza chains within 10 minutes of you, but you aren't in the delivery area for any of them. Pizza-wise, sir, you are nowhere. Pizza non grata, so to speak."

"Well, of all the luck. Not only am I a liberal who accidentally moved into a neighborhood represented by Congressman Dan Burton, but now I've also been gerrymandered out of pizza delivery. What can we do about this, Eugene?"

"You could meet the truck at the edge of the Dead Zone. Do you know where the stop sign is at the intersection of ..."

"This is ridiculous. I get my newspaper delivered every morning. The Girl Scouts and the Jehovah's Witnesses never have a problem finding my front door. I even know the UPS guy on a first-name basis. If Brown can do something for me, why can't Donatos Pizza?"

"Look, sir, I can't make any exceptions. If I let you order a pizza for delivery, the next thing you know, the people next door to you will be ordering pizzas. Then the whole neighborhood will want pizza delivered from us. We don't have time for that. We're trying to run a business here."

"OK, Eugene, suppose, just suppose, I wanted to order 100 pizzas with all the toppings. Then would you deliver to me?"

"You mean, ask my employees to enter the dead zone? In good conscience, I don't think I could do that."

"Eugene, this is a subdivision in Castleton. Not the Bermuda Triangle."

"Sir, I've just called up some research while we were chatting that may explain this problem from a business standpoint. The data show that if we expanded service into your area it would increase our net profit by only 1.567 percent during the week and only 2.567 percent on weekends."

"Wow, those are impressive statistics. Is that based on a mathematical extrapolation using advanced calculus?"

"No, we just use a simple pie chart."

MY ACHIN’ BACK…

MY ACHIN’ BACK…

I pulled into the parking lot, edged into a space by the side of the building, and carefully negotiated my exit from the car. My face was scrunched from the unbearable pain as I shuffled into my chiropractor’s office.

I cautiously lowered myself into a chair in the waiting area. Now I had the dubious pleasure of perusing several charts of the skeletal system, each one a reminder of all the ways that any one of the 206 bones or 639 muscles in your body can turn on you and ruin a perfectly good weekend.

I tried to make conversation with a few other people who apparently were in great pain. “So, how did you hurt your back?” I asked one of the patients, an elderly gentleman with thinning gray hair in a pale blue cardigan.

“I’m a firefighter and I rescued a 300-pound man from a burning building. What happened to you?”

“I sneezed.”

This caused quite a stir in the waiting room. The weightlifter was amused; so was the salt delivery guy. The two women from Fay and Fran’s Piano Moving Company thought it was just a hoot.

Everyone thought I was kidding. I wasn’t. An explosive sneeze had done something wicked to my lower back and sent me crashing to the kitchen floor the day before.

The receptionist told me it was my turn to see Dr. Shpeherd. He asked, “So what happened to your back, Dick? I heard you just sneezed. Look, I have some very needy patients out in that waiting room.”

“Well, you just heard part of the story, Doc. Yes, I sneezed, but it wasn’t just a normal sneeze. It was a sneeze of gargantuan proportions. Saving a guy from a burning building, delivering pianos, hoisting bags of salt…these are not the kind of stories you can slap together for an article in the New England Journal of Medicine. I’m the case history every chiropractor wants hobbling into his office.”

He took an x-ray of my back, which he said was in pretty good shape considering I had 64,000 miles on my body, apparently a reference to my age. Coincidentally, my car also has 64,000 miles on it. To be fair, it’s been in for service a lot more than I have. But no one is offering me an extended warranty.

Just to lighten things up, the chiropractor asked if I had heard any good jokes lately. “Sure, here’s a favorite, Doc. How many chiropractors does it take to change a light bulb? Only one, but it will take him seven visits to do it.”

He didn’t think that was at all funny, so I was concerned when he slapped pads on my back to send electric current though my body.  It scared the willies out of me when I peeked over my shoulder. I’d swear there were two witnesses and a priest watching the procedure from the other room.

After being jolted, I was adjusted, which meant the doctor folded me up in a little ball and smashed all 280 pounds of himself into my side. It actually felt pretty good. And I know he thought this was a beneficial procedure because then he jumped on the adjacent table and said, “Okay, now it’s my turn.”

When I left his office, I did feel better. As I got into my car, I saw a frail old woman limping into the clinic. “This is my first time here,” she declared. “Does the treatment work?”

I tried to be honest. “It’s nothing to sneeze at.”

FACING MY BIRTHDAY

         

FACING MY BIRTHDAY*

I’d like to sincerely thank all my “friends” who last week wished me a happy 64th birthday. More than 400 people, who set their Facebook account  to notify them of birthdays, posted greetings on my homepage that said, “Hi Dick, Happy Birthday.” I did receive a few congratulatory posts that were more personal, like, “Hi Dick, have a great Saturday”; “Hello, Dick, Have fun, despite the rain”; and my favorite: “Happy Birthday, Richard. Are you interested in term life insurance while it’s still affordable?”

The big problem is that I receive an email alert from Facebook whenever anyone posts on my page, which is very annoying. Why don’t I change that setting, you might ask? I’ll tell you why, as if it’s any of your business. I haven’t a clue how to do that. Okay?

As I write this, the salutations are still pouring in, about 15 or 20 an hour. I would not even bother reading them, but I’m afraid that embedded in this avalanche might be an important message. Like a request for one of my books or a substantial inheritance from one of my Nigerian relatives.

YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

Hold on, there’s one now. It’s from Tom, who told me to have a great day and then added, “How old are you? Has your birth certificate expired, yet?” As a kid, I used to display selected fingers to show how old I was. If Tom were here, I’d select...

YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

That was from JP. He’s never remembered my birthday before. JP has owed me 50 bucks for two years. Well, at least he remembered something, that no good...

YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

Hold on, this could be important. Perfect , it’s good wishes from Meals on Wheels. I was wondering where I’d have my birthday dinner.

I searched the Internet to find a more personal approach to acknowledge a friend’s special day. One site suggested you buy your BBF credits to FarmVille, a Facebook social game that allows you to manage a virtual farm by plowing land, growing crops and raising livestock. I think I’ll gift that to my brother for his 60th. What a perfect way to say happy birthday to a Manhattan cab driver.

I’m also going to ask all of my friends to fiddle with their Facebook account and start sending me messages that will have a more direct benefit to me in my disordered existence. Thanks for helping me manage my life. Here’s your message to forward to me if your last name begins with:

A-C: Hi, Dick, quit procrastinating and schedule that periodontal exam. (April 3)

D-G: Hey, Dick. Avoid the slammer. TAXES! (April 15)

H-L: Hi, Dick. Isn’t it time to shell out eight bucks for a car wash? (May 9)

M-S: Hello, Dick. It’s your anniversary. Don’t screw it up like last year (June 14)

T-Z: Hi, Dick. Saw you on TV. Get a haircut. (Send first of every month)

One day I’ll change my Facebook configurations so they no longer show the day I was born. But for now, I’m going to go down to City Hall tomorrow and convince them to change my name and the year of my birth. I have a feeling that will be much easier.

YOU’VE GOT MAIL

Oh, shut up!

         

TALKING TRASH

“What is this?” Mary Ellen asked me the other day as she dangled a doodad in front of my face. It was small, white, plastic, hexagonal in shape, and had several grooves.  “It looks like it “goes to something,” she said.

“I don’t know what it is,” I responded, which I prayed would end the discussion, but I knew it wouldn’t because my wife just can’t leave a thingamajig alone. She has to know what it’s for.

“Put it somewhere in case we ever need it. It looks important.”

“So you want me to keep it because we don’t know what it is for?”

“Exactly.”

“Of course, if we did know what it was for, we’d also keep it. So, I guess we keep everything.”

“Don’t be silly, some things don’t go to anything. We can throw those things way. We only keep things that look important.”

I knew exactly what she meant. I have an entire drawer filled with things that look important. But I don’t think I will ever really need them.

Last week, I decided to clear out the mess that had accumulated in my office over the years.  Why not begin with Mary Ellen’s doodad. I was one hundred percent sure that nothing in our house required anything quite like that. But there was only one way to really be sure that it was not important, that it didn’t go to anything. I’d throw it away.

I tossed it in the waste basket next to my desk and listened as it nestled to the bottom and came to rest with an audible thud. I knew I had a small window of opportunity left to retrieve it if necessary: two days before I emptied the office waste basket in the garage receptacle; then another day before the sanitation department picked up all the week’s trash. That gave me some time to rescue the thing when the inevitable happened and I realized I had thrown way something important that went to something.

A few days later, I heard the familiar sound of the garbage truck pulling away. Whatever that thing was, it was now gone forever. Just a matter of time now before I found out what it was for. The next day…

“Dad, Mom wants me to mount the kitchen phone on the wall. She said she thinks you have the doohickey that does that. Do you know where it is?

“Yes, 10^th and Raymond—at the city dump.”

“You threw that away? Dad, didn’t you know that it went to something?”

Yes, I knew it went to something. I just didn’t know what it went to.”

“Great, now it went to the dump?”

I headed upstairs. I removed the drawer from my desk, flipped it over and dumped the entire contents into the wastebasket:  wooden knobs, old keys, pen tops, dozens of multi-colored plastic thingies, metal gizmos in various shapes and a rubber whatchamacallit with a hole in the middle. Within days, I would know the purpose of each item.

“What’s going on up there?” screamed Mary Ellen when she heard the thunderous clatter.

“Nothing,” I said. “It’s not important…yet”