Tropical storm me.

I heard that Erika had passed through the south, dumping a bunch of rain and stuff on the southern states. But they're made of tough stuff down there---as witnessed by this, courtesy of MemeGenerator.net:

But now I'm informed that the next storm coming up could be Hurricane Fred!

NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

The last thing I want is a tropical storm named after me, except maybe a tropical storm that turns into a Category Five hurricane after me. NOOOOO!!!!!

Do you know how horrible life became for girls named Katrina after Hurricane Katrina hit ten years ago? I'll tell you: Horrible!

If it had been a more common name, like Cathy or Mary, there could have been strength in numbers. If you're Mary and a Hurricane Mary causes massive destruction, well, they could use it to make fun of you, but the impact is watered down because there are four other Marys in the same grade, two in the same class. If you're the only Katrina in the school and a city is destroyed by Hurricane Katrina, you get to shoulder the abuse alone.

Even worse if you are a Katrina from New Orleans. That would be very bad.

What am I going to do if this storm Fred wipes out Miami and kills thousands of hip people? There aren't that many Freds around anymore. I'm going to get blamed for this. I'll get the heat for flattening poor Cuban neighborhoods and drowning a bunch of trailer parks. It'll be my fault if Circ X is destroyed, like I'm an avenging weather god who hates naughty people having fun. If a bunch of rich people get swept out to sea off Gables Estates, it'll all be on Fred.

I need this?

The World Meteorological Organization is the one to blame here, not me. They singled me out. I had nothing to do with this. I was just standing there. The WMO picked my name. I'm the victim here.

Good luck, South; get your plywood and toilet paper and water and canned goods; tape up the glass and put away the surfboards; sit tight and don't do anything foolish. And remember, Freddy is your pal, not your enemy. The WMO is your enemy. Boo, WMO!

Craptiques Roadshow.

We were watching Antiques Roadshow last night on PBS---yes, while we were sipping fair-trade espresso and nibbling artisan plaquettes de chocolat---when my lovely Mrs. expressed a desire to see someone come up with something that was just a piece of garbage.

"My great-grandfather bought it off the streets of Queens for a nickel in 1902."

"I'd say at auction this might fetch as much as... a dime. So it's doubled in value."

"Just a dime? Why, is it fake?"

"No, it's just a piece of crap. It's ugly, it's useless --- this may be the least collectible object we've ever had on the Roadshow."

I love the people who think that, because one of the experts have brought them over to sit in front of the cameras, the kids' college and their retirement are all set. Almost any figure the appraiser mentions is disappointing.

James Wrorthringtron, Wrorthringtron & Wrorthringtron Collectibles, Boston: When I saw you in line with this item, I simply had to have a look at it. Tell me what you have here.

Moe Schlobotnik: It's been in the family since my father bought it in the early seventies on a trip to New York. He brought it home to me and my brothers, and we kept it in the living room. When he died, I wrested it away from the jackals in the family. I've treasured it ever since.

JW: We see a lot of foam fingers in our boutique, but this is a prime example of the very first middle-finger variation, known in the trade as the Frankenham University F.U. 

MS: It's pretty impressive. Great conversation piece.

JW: These were made by the Glapmurtz Novelty Company for sale on the campus starting in August 1972, and ceased in September 1972 when the college confiscated them all and Glapmurtz went bankrupt. A precious few survived the purge.

MS: Kinda... rare, then, would you say?

JW: Oh, yes, possibly no more than fifteen others around of the hundreds manufactured. And you see there's very little damage, just some cracking here around the edges, and a little discoloration. It looks like someone's had it in a barbecue smoker for a month.

MS: Nah, Dad just loved his Old Golds. 

JW: That's a typical patina for this sort of thing. 

MS: So, er, what...?

JW: Is it worth? Well, I have to say, the market for these is very hot right now.

MS: It is, huh? [smiling]

JW: Yes, I've seen one go at auction just a couple of months ago for forty dollars!

MS: Forty... Dollars? [not so much smiling]

JW: Yes, and who knows? Sports collectibles being what they are, it could reach a hundred within a few years. 

MS: Oh.

JW: Thank you so much for bringing this in; it's a great piece of Americana.

MS: Right. 

Focus on foam finger. Across the bottom of the screen: 1970s Frankenham University Naughty Foam Finger: $40-$100.

I think there are some long, quiet drives home from the Roadshow.

Repost, reschmost.

In the writing game, you occasionally you get e-mails like these:

Dear Fred: Why aren't you on Facebook? We fans could keep up with your stupid life much more easily if you were on FB. You could write about your problems with work, and the dog, and every thing else no one cares about. So get on FB! P.S: Your books suck butt too.
Love, I. P. Daley

Well, Ms. Daley, you sure make it sound tempting! I have been on Facebook in the past, though, and found the experience less than rewarding. It seems like a forum in which high-strung people who cannot tolerate being jabbed like to run around poking people. Didn't seem to make a lot of sense to me.

But I think the thing that frustrated me the most were serial posts like these:

MY DAD'S THE BEST! REPOST IF YOUR DAD'S THE BEST! 

Kind of diminishes the award, doesn't it?

A BILLION BRONTOSAURUSES DIE EVERY DAY BECAUSE NO ONE CARES ENOUGH TO REPOST THIS

Sorry.

WRITE "AMEN" IF YOU SUPPORT THE RIGHTS OF DUMB PEOPLE

I'm too dumb to spell anem.

See what I mean? It's like people are always telling me to do things and if I don't do them I'm a bad person. In the early days of e-mail I used to get demands like that once in a while, with exhortations about the wonderful things that would happen if I spread this blessing to seven friends or the horrible curses that would befall me if I broke the chain. I never got that many chain e-mails, and I was happy to ignore them. But Facebook's news feed is like an endless list of chain e-mails, alternating with needy trolling for likes. It makes even the least demanding of my friends and acquaintances look like a wheedling salesman with low self-esteem.

So that's why you won't find Fred on Facebook. I haven't ruled out Twitter, but as you can see, I'm not capable of complaining in short form.

Stupid guilt.

I feel guilty about things that would barely rise to the level of acknowledgment for other people. Sure, we all feel guilty about some little things---badmouthing a co-worker, dropping trash on the street, foreclosing on a sickly old widow---and well we should.

But I suffer stupid guilt, about things other people probably wouldn't even think about. Here are five examples.

1. Renting a Redbox movie and failing to watch it. Not because I blew the $1.25 plus tax, but because someone else may have had their heart set on watching Scooby Doo! Meets KISS and I ruined his Saturday night for nothing. If I'm going to ruin someone else's night for my selfishness, by depriving him of seeing the long-awaited teaming of Scoob and Doctor Love, at least I ought to get something out of it.

2. Doing something naughty in a dream. I know I don't have any control of the programming; as a fellow I knew once said, "The things in your head are for entertainment purposes only." But I always kind of think that the evil thoughts I've piled up lead me to dream of doing wicked things. Frankly, though, even in my dreams they're pretty tame. But I still feel guilty.

3. Taking an elevator to the second floor.

Seriously, I got legs. What the hell's wrong with me?

4. Taking the last cookie. Or brownie, or whatever was put out at the office. Yes, it's the Piece of Shame, an appellation that would indicate that taking it ought to bring one shame and guilt, but when I take it I tell myself I am rebelling against tribal groupthink. But I make sure to take it when no one is looking.

(Don't get me started on throwing away food; I was the kid who actually wanted to put my leftovers in a box and mail them to starving Third World countries.)

5. Not playing with apps. I have a crossword puzzle in progress! The Languinis need me! That Candy won't Crush itself! Who gives a damn? I do!

I don't think counseling will help me. I need to be persecuted; it's the only way to relieve me of my guilt. But I'm a white male American Christian; I'm supposed to be the guy doing the persecuting. And I know that billions of people would like me to feel guilty about that.

Let the builder beware.

Key's keys.

Ever come across one of these?

Yep---mystery key.

Why does this keep happening??!?!?

Is what I'd have said as a youth, when the junk drawer in our ancestral home kept filling with keys to which there seemed to be no locks. I thought it was fate, mocking our family name, but eventually I discovered that it happened to every homeowner. 

A key without a lock may seem like a spirit separated from its body, and yet it's not as bad as a lock without a key. That could get you in a real jam. A lock without a key is a problem; a key without a lock is a nuisance. 

Why is a solo key a nuisance? My example is the one above, which I found in a very little-used drawer. It's a Kwikset; that's my only clue. The tag was blank. I know we've replaced several locks---was this one? 

I basically have three choices: 

1) Throw it away and hope it doesn't fit a lock where it might come in handy (even though that clearly has not happened in more than a decade); 

2) Try every lock in the house and see if it works on any of them, and if so, label it correctly; 

3) Put it back in the drawer and forget about it for another 10 years. 

Give ya one guess!

And there it shall probably sit, until I lose something again that brings me to the Mystery Drawer of Hidden Delights, or until we move, whichever comes first. If we move I will probably be forced to check every lock in the house with the key as a service to the new owners, and then throw it away because we got rid of its lock twenty years before. 

Dog day was ruff!

Yesterday was National Dog Day, an actual sponsored event (unlike, say, Sneak Some Zucchini Onto Your Neighbor's Porch Day) dedicated to the celebration of our little hairy canine chums. And celebrate him we did.

Not everyone does, though. I think I have mentioned that Tralfaz is a really big dog---well over 100 pounds---but friendly to a fault. Really, too friendly; we have to make sure he doesn't run across the street to stand in front of joggers, his face all like, "Hi! You smell like sweat! I'm your new best friend forever!"

The other day I was waiting for a man who was coming to give us an estimate on a job; he hadn't been to the house before, so, it being a nice morning, I sat on the porch with the dog. This way I could greet the man when he arrived, and he'd know he was in the right place. Soon a big pickup came along, and a huge man got out of it. When Tralfaz and I came down the porch steps, Tralfaz on a leash, the guy stopped cold---he looked terrified. I had to put the dog in the house before he'd come up the walk.

Now, some people are badly allergic to dogs, and that can be scary enough. But some people have a phobia, or have had terrible experiences with dogs. I'm not discounting anyone's fears. I just feel bad that the world's friendliest dog (mine) is an unintended victim of them.

What I decided to do was borrow the theme from the old Caspar the Friendly Ghost cartoons and write up a little song we can sing when people come to the house:

Tralfaz the friendly pup
The friendliest dog you know
Though some folks might look at him with fright
The rest of us love him so!

There's no reason to fear
'Cause he's really glad to meetcha
Except for skunks and deer
He's kind to every living creature

Some folks don't understand
And think that he'll eat them up
But we all know and we love him so
Tralfaz the friendly pup!

Maybe it will help.

By the way, Sneak Some Zucchini Onto Your Neighbor's Porch Day was August 8. You missed it. Don't try to do it now, especially if you live near me.