Category Archives: Fun & Humor

I Want To Be Jack Nicholson

Posted on by
8

Visit to the optometrist

The eye doctor told me I needed new reading and distance glasses. I thought I’d have to buy two separate pairs, but she told me I could get one pair with “progressive” lenses that covered all distances. Sounded great. Not sure how the magic works, but I love saving money.

Here I am wearing the glasses in question. Finally, no bag over my head, though I'd look better with one on.

To prevent a fashion faux pas, I brought my wife. And after trying on a dozen styles, she helped me choose a pair of tortoise-shell Nike glasses with a green inner frame, which was a hip, youthful touch. They seemed okay, but I didn’t have lenses in them so I couldn’t get a clear image of how I looked. But my wife told me they looked good.

After the frame was picked, the sales guy tried to sell me every 80 dollar add-on I didn’t need. I gave in for the glare protection because that feature might help at night. Even with insurance I got pounded for over 250 dollars.

A week passed and I picked up my glasses. Looking in the mirror with them on, two things happened. First, I realized that I looked like Robert De Niro at the end of Casino when he wore huge old-guy glasses. Second, I couldn’t see clearly because of the progressive lenses, which require you to look out of certain parts of the lens to see close up, medium or far distances. Oh, #!$* me.

The sales guy told me not to worry because it takes a week to get comfortable using them, but not to walk down stairs or drive with them yet. What the? Do I have to visit a mall parking lot like I did at age 15 and learn to drive again in these things? Are you kidding me? How did I go to eyeglass hell and not know it?

I was pretty upset at that point. I looked 80-years-old and couldn’t see well (that is probably how I’ll be at that age if, by some miracle, I outfox CF). Yet, the coup de grâce was still on the way. When I got home, I asked my wife if she thought the glasses looked good on me. She shrugged her shoulders and said something like “I thought they did.” Oh, being married some days. Argh, argh, argh. You thought they did? Past tense? What about now, at this moment?

The real blow to the head came when I tried to use them while doing computer work. Impossible, as they had no sweet spot that allowed me to focus clearly on the computer monitor. I could eek out a “less-blurry” image if I tilted my head sideways at just the right distance, and held one leg in the air, but I wouldn’t be able to maintain that pose for the 10 to 12 hours I spend looking at three monitors.

Give me a new pair and I'll let you live. Maybe.

I hate situations like this where I feel like I got hosed. I wish I were Jack Nicholson with his unlimited funds and volcano temper and I could stand in the middle of the optometrist’s office, with the joker who sold them to me sitting there, and the doctor who told me progressive lens were the way to go looking on, and throw the new eyeglasses to the ground, then jump on them until they became a mass of pulverized Nike plastic.

I’d calmly say: “Now how about selling me a pair of glasses I can see out of and use for work without tilting my head like a curious dog waiting for a treat – a pair that doesn’t make me look like I accidently walked out of the nursing home during a game of bingo and can’t find my walker or my way back?”

Is there anyone here who can do that? Is there anyone here who knows what the *$&# they’re doing?

Of course I’d take a 9-iron to the racks of crappy glasses on the walls, destroying them all. Then I’d drop my credit card on the counter and say, “I didn’t see anything I liked today. Call me when your new inventory arrives.”

Oh, how I wish I could do that. Instead, I have to go back and see how much it’s going to cost me to get new ones. I can’t wait to take it in the shorts – again.

I’m living proof some of us don’t get smarter as we grow older. We just get fuglier.

Stay well.

25 years with Mrs. Unknown

Posted on by
9

I laughed out loud when I started to write this post. I’m serious; I did, literally. Let me explain.

25 years in the best bankrupt state in the union

This August it will 25 years since I met my wife.

I laughed when I thought of that because I have no idea what she was thinking when she started dating me, let alone marrying me. I was/am/will always be a mental case. I can say with 100 percent certainty that I got the better end of the deal.

Her work ethic inspired me to go back to achieve the goal I couldn’t on my own – getting a college degree. I’ll always be in her debt for that one alone, not to mention the way she’s supported me over the years. I can’t imagine that I would have made it this far without her.

We’ve been married for how many years?  . . . do the math . . . wait for it . . . wait for it . . . thinking . . . thinking some more . . . I use words, not numbers . . . here it comes . . . 18 years. Yeah, 18 years, I think. Close enough. Wow, married that long? It’s a blink. I’ve never in all of these years asked her if she had doubts, or how she put the CF aside, or was she worried or afraid? Or, if I did, I’ve since blocked out the conversations. Best not to question another person’s temporary insanity.

I will share where I asked her to marry me, which is pretty corny, but I was an English major and probably deep in a book with lots of overt symbolism, plus I was young and . . . brighter than I am now. Hey, that doesn’t make sense.

I love Dairy Queen and my wife. I especially love taking my wife to Dairy Queen, when we can find one.

Anyway, I asked mi esposa to marry me at the top of the first hill on a rollercoaster at Magic Mountain. The Viper, I think. Just before the car went down the crazy-steep first drop, I asked. And it took the entire ride of screaming and holding on tight and the coaster returning to the station for her to say “yes.” Amazing that she did say “yes,” which may have just been a response to me asking “great ride, huh?” Again, I don’t question it. I don’t understand it, and I don’t question it.

I wonder what she would do if she had a time machine now, would she still say yes?  I know the answer, as my daughter pretty much means she won’t mess with anything that would affect that timeline. So, I’ve safe. Or, my past is. My future? Hard to say. I don’t take it for granted.

What kind of courage does it take to marry someone with CF? I’d guess a lot. And when that CF someone is self-absorbed and the equivalent of a day at a rainy beach with the wind blowing sand in your face, I’d say extraordinary courage is required.

A writer friend of mine, who has since passed, once told me it’s best not to analyze love. I’ve taken that advice to heart and never examined it with a microscope. Shakespeare pretty much covered the subject for all of eternity anyway.

So, 25 years have passed. I know they’re not all marriage years, but with CF, I’m counting them that way. I have to figure out something nice to get her. I know that 25 years with me has been gift enough, but a trinket might be in order. She doesn’t like to spend money and doesn’t like jewelry. I’m at a loss. Hmm, what could I buy for myself that I’d be able to say is really for her? I’ve done that many times over the years.

How can I repay her for the 25 years? I’ll have to think about it. It’s not an easy question to answer.

To be continued.

Random Notes and Photos Related to Past Posts

Posted on by
Reply

The front page of today’s L.A Times includes a section and articles under the heading, “The Future of Reading.”

http://www.latimes.com/business/la-fiw-0718-reading-20100718,0,2712081.story

Here’s an L.A. Times link with a podcast discussion of books and how they are evolving thanks to technology.

http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/readers/2010/07/future-of-reading-publishing-ereader.html

I include these links because of my recent post on the iPad. There is a lot of discussion going on right now regarding how technology will evolve the book, and whether eReaders will kill the physical book itself. Books have been around 100’s of years and have outlasted many past claims of their death. Yet, it’s exciting to witness this latest major transformation. My daughter may miss most of it because she may not remember what it was like before books transformed into digital files, though she’ll see plenty of reminders in the house.

Here are some random photos I’ve taken related to past posts.

Blind Pig on a Stick

This pink pig sits on a pole in Topanga Canyon. It must have been the figure head for a business at some point, though no business remains, or I missed it if it does. Now the pig stands guard as an oddity and mystery of old Topanga.

Fly little pig, fly

I decided to free the pig from its painful perch atop the pole. Thank you, Photoshop. I hope the lucky pig finds a new home now that it can fly away.

McDairy Queen or McDonalds?

When I saw the banner for smoothies at McDonald’s I almost crashed my car. I have yet to find out the ingredients and caloric count of these, but I suspect a plot of some kind. Healthy smoothies at McDonalds? Hmm, why am I suspicious?

Perhaps I am suspicious because “McDonald’s” isn’t printed on any of the advertising. Check out their web page and you’ll notice the use of “McDonald’s” is downplayed. “McCafe” appears more often. Interesting. Name change in the works?

Why do I feel like ordering a Frappe?

I believe subliminal advertising works. I’m not sure if this qualifies as subliminal, but it’s either brilliant marketing or overkill. How can you get through the line without noticing these on a conscious or unconscious level? The drinks look more tempting than anything else you might eat in your day. Let’s just eat desert all day long. No wonder my daughter wants treats all the time – the world works her over with tasty images of high caloric treats. Who can resist?

That’s it for today.

Stay well.

Saturday Funhouse – My Ideal Hospital Room

Posted on by
8

[Adult language]

My good pal @seanset, http://seanset.posterous.com/, wrote a comment here moaning and groaning about me not writing a Saturday Funhouse for awhile. How the hell did that happen?  Thanks, mate, for reminding me. Here you go. This one’s for you. And yes, I know it’s Sunday Funhouse where you live.

My Ideal Hospital Room

No jumpers, please. The first thing I’d add to my room is a balcony. I’d like fresh air each day without having to gear up with a mask and gloves and endure the fearful looks from people in the elevator (yes, idiot person who moved to the back, as if that will really help, I have the Bubonic plague, but they let me roam the hospital to drive up revenues with fresh patients).

Each morning I want to pop out of bed, I.V in tow, and take three steps to the great outdoors, yelling: Hello, World, I’m still here, ha ha ha ha ha ha, the joke’s on you.

Imagine cooking outside your hospital room. Rocking. How do you like your steak cooked, Fox?

How nice would it be to sit on the balcony in the morning reading while doing treatments? I could wave to my fellow CFers on their balconies. We could have a contest to see who could make the funniest voice with the vest turned to max. Then we could see who could spit farther, which might be the reason they don’t have hospital balconies in the first place. Not exactly the image the hospital wants to promote with a bunch of us sitting in our underwear spitting on the roof or gardens below.

Imagine people driving up to the hospital watching patients on the balconies doing nebs. Might be too much for them to take. Not us, cause we’ve been to places no one should have to go. So there. Roll up your windows when you drive by, people. BTW, I’d hang some laundry on the railing just to give it that old apartment-building look. And I want the BBQ in the picture.

You can’t make me go in there. I don’t take showers in the hospital. I look at that dark, nasty chamber and connect it to the thought of how lazy the cleaning staff can be. You’d need a team of football players to force me in there (or two drunk Victoria’s Secret supermodels). The shower is bacteria heaven.

Let's torch some bacteria, friends.

I read that some gas stations, or petrol stations in England (you’re welcome for that translation, Sean), have self-cleaning bathrooms. Perfect. That’s how I want my hospital bathroom to work. I want to be able to press a button and watch the entire bathroom sprayed down in bleach. Then I want flames to light it up like the “Backdraft” tour at Universal Studios, killing everything the bleach missed.

Finally, I want test swabs done to make sure nothing is living in there that I don’t want living in me. After all of that, I’ll take my shower with confidence. Girls, show me that pose from page 27 again.

Trying living in the Material Girl’s laundry basket: I want a room bigger than Madonna’s smallest walk-in closet. It’s amazing what a difference an extra 20 square-feet makes when it comes to your mood and health, and where you put all of your shoes if you’re a woman. How about designing a CF room that doesn’t make me feel like a caged animal gone mad during two weeks in the hole?

Come on, hospital bed, let’s do the wave. Have you ever awakened covered in sweat because of the plastic hospital mattress? Plastic doesn’t make the best material for temperature control. However, and this is true, when I was 16 I got a waterbed. And it rocked – and rolled. It was AWESOME to sleep on. It had a plastic mattress with temperature control and heated water. That was the trick. In Winter I was warm and cozy and could sleep with only the top sheet of my Spiderman bedding.

Now this is a waterbed fit for a hospital

Now as there are a ton of needles in hospitals, waterbeds may not be the best idea. Can you imagine pressing the “I want my nurse now“ button and saying, “my water bed just popped. Oh, and can you bring in some towels and fresh scrubs because my wife and I are soaking wet.”

Let’s hang in Unknown’s room. I cannot tell you how many times I have come close to going “rock star” on the crappy TV with no good channels and fuzzy reception. I came this close to ripping it off the bracket at Cedars-Sinai once and tossing it out the window. Had I been a rock star, they would have just billed me. If I had done it, I would have been fighting back the cons in the L.A. Jail. So, for us time-share hospital patients, let’s load up the room with the finest entertainment center available.

I want a 52-inch HD, 3D flatscreen with every f***ing channel in the world. That’s right, in the world. I’ll even watch those crazy-ass soap operas from Brazil. I won’t understand what they’re saying, and won’t care because everyone looks tan and pretty.

I should have taken a photo of the remote last time I was in. Here's one that looks and functions just like it.

Don’t forget the sound system. I need to block out anyone yelling “nurse, nurse” from the other room. I want people to think there’s an earthquake and it sounds a lot like the battle scene in Avatar.

Lastly, give me a remote control that selects channels up and down and that doesn’t make me want to inject Drano in my IV because I just passed the channel I wanted and now I have to go through 20 crappy channels to get back to the one I passed. Whew, that’s a mouthful.

To the joker who invented that piece of shit remote, I’m still looking for you and will one day take the reverse gear out of your car. They’ll be no backing up for you after that.

Some of us work for a living. I’ve said this many times – give me a desk and chair. I work when I’m in the hospital. This ain’t no holiday, people. I have a family to feed and insurance to keep. Help me keep it, hospital room designers. That way I can come back and use my insurance again, as opposed to doing my IVs while pushing a shopping cart on the streets of downtown Los Angeles.

Design a desk and have it pull out of the wall like a Murphy Bed or something. Get with the program of the digital world we live in – the one that doesn’t go away just because you’re in the hospital.

Here’s one from Fox: Thanks, Unknown, for giving me one, you generous bastard. Fox here. Look, my fox friends, nurses have heard every line you’ll ever come up with. There is nothing you can say with your golden tongue that is going to catch one of these intelligent, caring women. Even though they wear pajamas to work, which is cool, you have zero chance of getting them to change into something more comfortable – they’re already comfortable in their nurse PJ’s and Crocs. So, you have to trick them in a different, more subtle way.

This is what I look like without the bag over my head

The water bed is a great first step. Nurses love water beds and will want to test it. When she gets on, bump up the wave action and wait for the fun to begin. You say: “Look who fell into my arms. Que romantico. My name is Fox, and I come from an exotic land called Brazil. I will kiss you now.”

Second, and this is the bait of all bait, put a stripper pole in your room. Always say it’s for exercise and the docs won’t barf all over the idea. When the doc is gone, the patient will play. No nurse can resist a pole in the room (except the one in Louisiana who’s going to write Unknown a nasty comment for this post).

Now gents,  you have to stay cool and subtle and say it like this: “What’s a little spin around the pole going to hurt? It’s a great way to get over the barf storm Mr. Wilson just coughed up all over his room?” Be encouraging. “There you go. That’s it. I’ll just be sitting here reading on my iPad. You go ahead and get crazy. Oh, yeah. Wait, let me crank the AC/DC on this awesome sound system. That’s it. Did they teach you that in college.” [the rest of Fox’s post was censored because, well, you can only imagine what happened next – out came the beer and dollar bills. Then all hell broke loose when the nurse twins came in. Oh, my, Fox. What am I going to do with you?]

Last words . . .

I’ll be playing the lottery tonight, hoping I win big and can have my hospital build a wing just for us. We’ll party like it’s our last and live the rock star lifestyle with IV’s in our arms, a neb in our mouths and a cold beer in our hand. It will be the hospital of choice for those of us who value partying. Let’s drink shots from our Flutters. What the worst that can happen? We’re in the hospital, damn it. Code Yellow, drunk fox peeing off the balcony again.

Live the high-rise life.

Fox’s Adventures in Los Angeles: Malibu

Posted on by
3

Fox here.

I have some very hip friends in Malibu who invited me over for a Fourth of July BBQ. Here are a few pictures of the day.

For those of you who think California is warm in the Summer, it’s not. Well, it is and it isn’t. The day I went to Malibu was a “it isn’t” day. I froze my tail off. You can see from the pictures that it looks like a winter day. However, it’s July.

Some of the warmest beach days I’ve enjoyed in Los Angeles have been in October and November. Go figure.

Clouds fill the sky and turn the day gray

In the picture above, notice the rocks. The beach in this location washed away. The rocks protect the houses and will help bring the beach back – they hope.

The view of the south shows the bluff and Zuma beach to the left

The water was freezing cold to humans. My chocolate lab pal had no trouble with his oily coat.

Lunch for a Fox

There’s nothing I love more than free food and beer. My friends provided the beer and I caught the food. I ate three of these seagulls. They’re quite tasty with a rum marinade and Cajun seasoning.

Who got crazy with a paint brush?

The lifeguard shacks in L.A were getting run down. Kudos to the people who gave them a bold makeover.

Let's roll on down to the surf shack, dude!

Now this mailbox tells me someone with imagination and a love for life and the beach lives here. Nice choice, Malibu person I don’t know.

Living on a hillside overlooking the ocean is the high life. Reminds me of someone I know in England.

Here’s a shot of the hillside and some homes. There are a few gems up there I would like to make my habitat.

At night, the dolphins return to the ocean

Even the gas stations in Malibu sport artwork with an ocean theme. The Chevron near my house has a bus bench with graffiti on it, not spitting dolphins.

That’s a quick look at Malibu.

Party like it’s your last.

Fox out.

Fox’s Adventures in Los Angeles – Theatricum Botanicum

Posted on by
6

Handsome me hunting in the theater's garden

Fox here.

A magical outdoor theater hides in the hills of Los Angeles. Though well-cloaked by the woods of Topanga Canyon, and unknown to many who live in L.A, Theatricum Botanicum thrives as a gem of artistic freedom and expression.

This outdoor theater hosts outstanding plays and music in the summer and fall. The area where it’s located is home to artists, writers and other successful L.A. humans. Foxes like me live throughout the surrounding hills, along with other mythical creatures who show up at night.

Here’s the web link.  http://www.theatricum.com/

I recently grabbed UC and his family and treated them to a performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. For a few hours, cystic fibrosis and the challenges of life faded away, and fun and mirth was had by all.

Thank you, Mr. Will Geer and Family. Thank you for maintaining this wonderful place and for sharing great art.

(CG, I hope to see you here one day with that crazy cat of yours. It’s your kind of place.)

Here are some photos from the day.

The year was 1973 and Theatricum started rolling. It gets better each year.

Buried deep in the woods, T.B. is a must see in L.A.

Strange creatures live here and hide themselves in plain sight during the day. At night, this gas meter man comes to life and roams the canyon, hissing and smelling of rotten eggs.

While you're sleeping, I'll be standing outside your house measuring your gas usage

Here is the man who started it all.

The great man himself. AKA Grandpa Walton. At night, he comes to life and tells great stories to the wildlife.

Theatricum has introduced thousands of kids across L.A. to live theater. They give back to the community. Here’s a small performing area for kids to practice. It includes this cool bridge.

A wood bridge in a smaller theater for kids

Botanicum refers to the nature that surrounds the place, including the special garden where the bust of Will Geer and other native plants live.

Arrive early and you can picnic in the garden or other hidden nooks.

All kinds of amusing and interesting things hide in plain sight here and fill one’s imagination and heart. Where does this staircase go? No one knows because all who have gone up it have never been seen again.

Do I hear Led Zeppelin playing?

Here’s the stage in all of its glory. I would have loved to show you the actors on stage, but they frown on that. Plus, I drop the camera a lot trying to hold it my paws. My pal, Josh, tells me it has something to do with me not having opposable thumbs. At least my middle one still works.

All actors are invisible to the camera lens. That's how magical they are.

Here’s where the forest creatures hide during the day. Notice that there is no door.

Only at night does a door appear. They say those who see look too closely at the creatures become a creature

What exists at the top of the hill is unknown. Clearly, this is a sign a fox can ignore. And I did. However, I cannot speak of what I saw.

You do not want to know what's up here. Trust me, I'm a fox.

That was my adventure in Los Angeles. If you live here or are visiting, Theatricum offers the finest entertainment and acting. Not only that, your worries and troubles will gently be absorbed by the surrounding nature and the wonderful performance. You’ll leave smiling and relaxed.

Fox out.

Don’t take pictures inside Chipotle

Posted on by
14

A mirage in the distance on a hot day

During my business trip this week, I visited Chipotle to eat great food and snap pics for Nanos – because god knows she hasn’t see enough Chipotles and burrito bowls in her life. Oh, well, what’s one more? Plus, I snapped a cool picture of the Chipotle truck, which was like photographing Bigfoot or the Yeti.

However, I didn’t quite expect a crazy experience when I took a picture inside Chipotle.

Nothing happened when I took an exterior shot above, which is the Rancho Cucamonga location in all of its sunny glory.

The secret spy shot that Chipotle wants everyone to see

The reasons I eat Chipotle are on the menu board (shown to the right). They choose quality food suppliers, which is better for my health. I’ll support any restaurant that does this because I prefer that my antibiotics come from an I.V., not a cow or pig.

Now when I took this shot of the menu board, you would have thought I was spy. A woman who worked there, a manager, perhaps, came unglued. She started speaking Spanish in a very angry tone to her co-workers. I speak some Spanish, but irritated Spanish kills my comprehension.

Arms waving, she looked and pointed at me, and I kept hearing “menu board.” Meanwhile, I’m standing in the burrito assembly line, thinking at what point is this going to get out of control and they’re going to ask for my camera? She kept heating up, though the other employees acted very calm about me taking a picture of information one can find on Chipotle.com.

I don’t think Chipotle wants to keep their selection of quality food a secret. I’ve seen youtube videos of their stores. What’s the big deal?

Godzilla would eat the entire truck

I paid, grabbed my plastic utensils and left.

I get outside and who do I see following me? You guessed it. I thought about taking a picture of her, but I’m sure that would have put her over the edge. As I can’t run with CF lungs, surely she would have killed me in the parking lot.

And, if not for the fact I’m full of antibiotics, she would have served me in the next day’s chicken burrito bowls.

So, Nanos, this post is for you. I’m glad I lived to eat my pork burrito bowl.

Three cheers for Chipotle. BTW, I don’t recommend taking pictures at this location. You’ve been warned.

The Who’s Roger Daltrey Microphoned Me – A Fox Tell-all

Posted on by
8

[Not a post for a kit]

I'm never going back again. Creative Commons, Ulybug

It’s Saturday night. I’m having a shit time at the Hard Rock in Vegas, and down over 200K. The dealer’s treating himself to 21’s like Ginger’s been treating herself to hotel shampoos, soaps and robes – one for me, none for you, Fox.

Dealer Jack from Montana is beating the crap out of me with every faceless card in the shoe, 3’s, 6’s 2’s. I’m thinking, you better, you better not bet, Fox.

I sign for 100K in chips. I’m feeling angry. Ginger’s counting cards in her crazy nurse way, whispering 100ml, 5cc, 50mg. WTF? How does she do it? I don’t know.

Dealer man thinks she’s nuts, not the PhD she really is. But her method works. She’s up 70 or 80K, which only makes it worse that my lucky lady is showing me up. I know she’s smarter than I am, but don’t Einstein me in public, Kid. The real me is sensitive.

It’s another tricky day all the way around – my fox ego pounded and dying on the floor. I’ve had enough.

Who's next for a beating?

But guess who sits down at my high-roller’s table? Baba O’Riley himself, the thunder-god of Rock n Roll, Roger Daltrey. My pal CG would have jumped him right there cause she hearts aging rockers; and Unknown would have wet his pants like the yellow lab pup he is.

So, Roger D sits down in the last position with Ginger sandwiched between us. The dealer flips me two 8’s, Ginger a Blackjack, and Roger a 16. Dealer Jack shows a 5.

Roger’s making all cute and cuddly and using his rock-star lucky charms with nurse Ginger, who is jumping up and down yelling “code blue to you, sucka” at the dealer thanks to her big win. Woo F’ing who, I’m thinking. I’m playing cards here, not the dating game.

I slide another 50K forward with my paw, all cool and fox-like. No words needed. Happy Jack knows I’m splitting 8’s. The two 10’s he drops turn my 8’s to 18’s. It’s about F’ing time. Let him chat it up with Gin if he’s turning coal to platinum.

I look at his 16 and pray to Athena that he makes the right move and stays at 16. But wrong, I am.

I don’t know how they play blackjack in the UK, but the way we friggin’ play it here is the US of A is when you’re last position, and dealer Jack is showing a 5 to your 16, you plant your ass on your rock-star hands.

But no, that’s not what Sir Who does. He scratches his finger on the table and calls for another card.

I can’t get the words “Fuck no” out fast enough. Dealer Jack tosses him a queen of spades, clubbing my beating heart, and turning his 16 to 26. He busts, then laughs about it cause he owns mansions made of gold.

I can see for miles what’s coming next. Dealer Jack flips his hold card and shows 15. The 10 that Tommy Boy just asked for, that cost him 100K of his walking-around money, was supposed to go to the dealer to bust him. He took the dealer’s 10, damn it.

Tommy himself

Now Jack from Montana looks at me, the corners of his mouth raise like an alley cat’s, all wicked-like. Even he is clairvoyant enough to see my bad luck coming. He’s chuckling inside, knowing what Princess Pinball Wizard just did.

But I’m too late. Here comes the trick of the light, as the four of diamonds falls flat, giving the dealer a 19, beating my two 50K 18’s. I’m crushed by the man who sang Sister Disco.

That’s about when I hear Who Boy start singing “mama’s got a squeeze box, Daddy never sleeps at night” to Ginger.

One of the remaining Who geezers is singing the creepiest of songs to Gin thinking it’s the magic bus to her heart. He slides his room key across the felt all-stealth and old-guy creepy like.

I only know what happened next because the police were playing the tape when they paw-printed me. Laughed their asses off, they did.

In the video, I jump on the table and go mobile. I nail Roger right in the nose. After that, there’s five minutes of me hanging on to his face as he tries to shake me off. Tables, cocktails, everything goes over. He’s screaming just like he does in concert. Then he grabs my tail and uses his microphone twirling skills to whip me across the casino. I land against a Wheel of Fortune slot machine, where security takes me down.

I have blue eyes that are sad. Where's my billion dollars in royalties?

Ginger has seen this show before. I yell out that she led him on and there goes my bail money. She says she won’t get fooled again and runs out.

In court, he judge says, “Who’s next?” and looks like he’s ready to give me life. I want to give him the slip, Kid. I can’t explain my actions, but I can tell him what Sir Behind Blue Eyes did. And after hearing the story, the judge dismisses all charges. He agrees that’s it’s illegal to hit a 16 when the dealer is showing a 5. It’s a crime, he says, and lets me go.

I’m free.

That’s my side of the story. Ginger won’t return my calls. Unknown sits in a hotel room somewhere. I look in the mirror tonight and wonder, Who are you, Fox? Who are you?

Fox out.

Fox’s Communications Tips: Speaking to RTs

Posted on by
12

Grrrrrr,

Dreaming of Princesses

Fox here. I’m hung over and irritable because I loaned my nurses to a blogging buddy and he’s not returning my calls. I hope my team comes back in time for my midnight dose.

I’ve spent the day deep in thought about Unknown’s problems in the hole last week. I’ve boiled it down to communications, meaning crappy verbal skills on the part of Unknown.

So, I thought I might share a lesson I gave his highness on how to communicate better with RTs. Here are the role-plays I designed for him.

Lesson 1: “It’s all in the wrist”

RT gives you a med you don’t take

RT: Hi. I’ve got your Pulmozyme.
Fox: I’ve got your Pulmozyme, too.
RT: What?
Fox: Yeah, I got it right here.
[Fox sticks paw in pocket. Pulls paw out flipping the RT the bird]
Fox: See, here it is, and it says F U Pulmozyme on it.
RT: How dare you.
Fox: How dare you, SIR, for bringing me a medicine I don’t take.
RT: It’s in the chart.
Fox: That chart needs to go up the person’s ass who added Pulmozyme to it.
RT: There’s no need to speak like that.
Fox: Since when is “ass” a bad word?  Is it because there’s a chart sticking out of the ass? Does that make it bad? It’s because of the image it creates, isn’t it? Chart hanging out of ass, that sort of thing. Would it be better if the Pulmozyme was sticking out of someone’s ass?
RT: [leaving quickly] You’re crazy. I’m leaving.
Fox: You go ahead and do that. I’ll be here hyperventilating because you almost killed me with the wrong medicine.

Lesson 2, version A: “Liar Liar, pants on fire”

RT shows up late with your morning meds and you’re caught red-handed doing your own

RT: You’re already doing your meds?
Fox: Yep.
RT: Where did they come from?
Fox: [lying] The other RT brought them
RT: The other RT?
Fox: Yeah, the other one. He looked like you, but different. He was bald
RT: When was this? Bald?
Fox: Not too long ago. No, he had blonde hair.
RT: You said he was bald.
Fox: I was wrong. He had black hair.
RT: What? Did you get his name?
Fox: Whose name?
RT: The other RT.
Fox: What other RT?
RT: The one that just brought you the meds.
Fox: Oh, that one. I don’t know. I don’t work here. Don’t you guys know each other?
RT: I don’t know who it could be.
Fox: He had a limp.
RT: A limp? We don’t have anyone with a limp.
Fox: [holds the neb away from his mouth like poison] You have me worried now, man! This could be rat poison delivered by a bald guy with one leg. Who brought me these meds? Was it a real RT? Are these the correct meds? I’m feeling light-headed.
RT: It’s okay. No need to panic. I probably missed it in the chart.
Fox: Oh, okay. Yeah, it’s probably in the chart.
RT: I bet it’s in the chart.
Fox: Charts are never wrong. [crying] Would you mind leaving me alone now? This has been very stressful.
RT: Sure. Sorry about the confusion.
Fox: Okay. I probably won’t file a complaint this time.
RT: Thanks.
Fox: [stops crying] Do me a favor, would ya? On your way out, slide my beer keg against the wall. People keep bumping into it. Thanks. You’re the man.

Lesson 2, version B: “Message from a friend”

RT shows up late with your morning meds and you’re caught red-handed doing your own

RT: You’re already doing your meds?
Fox: No.
RT: What?
Fox: [throws the covers over his head and tries to hide]
RT: [pulls the covers off] You’re doing your meds. I see you.
Fox: No, I’m not. And you don’t see me.
RT: You’re not? But I’m talking to you?
Fox: I’m not and you’re not talking to me.
RT: What are you doing?
Fox: Being invisible.
RT: But you’re still inhaling meds.
Fox: You call them meds. I don’t.
RT: Aren’t they?
Fox: No, it’s beer.
RT: You’re inhaling beer?
Fox: Yep. Yes, I am.
RT: Are you kidding?
Fox: Nope. Would you like some? I’m seeing two of you right now.
RT: You can’t inhale beer.
Fox: I can’t. Sure tastes like Old Milwaukee to me.  Ring, ring, ring. Hold on, someone’s calling. [pretends to pick up and answer an imaginary phone with his paw] Hello, CG. Yes, the RT is right here. [to the RT] It’s Cystic Gal.
RT: Who?
Fox: Cystic Gal. And she has a message for you.
RT: What message?
Fox: She says, “Suck it, UPS driver. Suck it.” That’s classic, CG, Dude. What a mouth she’s got when she’s pissed. And she’s pissed at you, lucky fella. [laughs his fox ass off]

I'm CG's cat and I say "Meow it."

That’s it for tonight. These examples should help old Unknown communicate better the next time he blows a gasket.

Party like it’s your last.

Fox out.

Fox’s Adventures in Los Angeles – Concerts on the Green

Posted on by
5

Hello,

Fox here. Unknown is on my shit list again after yesterday’s “I’m lucky” post. I asked him if he wanted to write another one of those sugar fests while he’s coughing up a lung doing his treatments. Judging by the two birds he flipped and red face, he’s not feeling so happy-go-lucky right now. My turn to write a post.

I attend concerts because that’s the kind of thing I do. I grab my nurses and roll to where good music is playing.

Each week the Valley Cultural Center hosts a free concert in Woodland Hills. Desperado, an Eagles tribute band, played and rocked the house, and we danced like animals.

The band played one of my all-time favorite songs: “Hotel California.” Here is the Eagles’ original version on youtube.com. Feel free to play it while you look at the pictures. You’ll feel like you were hanging with us.

It was a packed house tonight, which meant I signed a lot of autographs.

Lots of people, great music and great fun

I seek out places where hunting is easy. This park has one of my favorite places to eat. As it reads on the side of the trailer, “All American Cooking.” That pig looks like he doesn’t turn away until his plate is cleared.

A truck full of meat. It doesn't get better than this, my friends.

Here’s my tri-tip sandwich. Meat and bun. Simple for a fox. Not too much fun for a vegetarian, but they do have grilled corn on the cob to chow down.

Juicy meat I didn't have to chase down and skin. Loving it.

This place has strange places to visit. You couldn’t pay me enough to go in the tiger’s mouth. Kids went in, but they didn’t come out.

You can consider yourself tri-tip for the tiger when you walk in its mouth.

The event got out of hand when a giant rat ran through the park. I chased him off.

Nothing creates havoc like a giant rat with a cheese belt

When I hang in public, I get attention. People don’t see many foxes. The cameras come out and autograph hounds run over to visit and talk. Some even sketch a picture of me. Here are two of my favorites of the night.

I love the taste of hen. It really does taste like chicken.

Here’s another one done by a young fan. She just sat there and stared at me like she’d never seen a fox before.

Fox is popular with young fans, too. They know I'm a gamer and hold the record in Super Mario.

Here I am. The most handsome of foxes.

I am more handsome than you are - by far. No comparison. And I'm 100 times better looking than Unknown. No need for a bag over my head. I'm foxy.

That’s my adventure in Los Angeles.

A quick shout out to Josh at Welcome to Joshland. He’ll know why. 🙂

Party like it’s your last.

Fox out.