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Snow news is good news. (Not.)

February 3, 2014 /

It isn’t any clearer now than before watching the forecast on the TV news. I’ve already scoured the internet looking for tips on what to expect in the morning. Talk about confusing.

As I read the thing, there is a 40% chance of sleet after 1am and a 90% chance of sleet before 7am. Really? What does that mean, exactly? The chances for sleet increase, I guess. But then, there’s this other snow part that talks about the percentage-possibility of snow during that same time frame.

Sounds a lot like hedging bets to me.

Maybe they aren’t too sure how it’s going to work itself out. And that is exactly what I need to know.

If it is a less than 50-50 chance of snow and sleet, maybe I better be bedding down instead of sitting in front of the tube trying to understand the forecast, so I can get back to the shop early to peel potatoes and carrots and get the lunch service ready – in case there is no snow. Isn’t that what a 50-50 chance means? Maybe it will. Maybe it won’t.

Snow.

Maybe the 50-50 means no. Nah. No snow. Or just a dusting. In which case, I need to be prepared.

On the other hand, if it is as dire as they seem to imply – what is the point of cooking up Irish stew and potato soup and hand-mashed potatoes when only those with monster-trucks, snowboards, and tennis-rackets strapped to their feet will be able to make it through?

And those folks likely won’t be looking for Irish Bistro carry-out. Probably a Reasor’s-run for Coors Light.

I can jump in behind the wheel, head to the bed, and find myself buried in tomorrow morning. Or I could make a pallet on the floor here at the shop and be ready, however it works out. (Not a comfortable sleep, I’ll admit.)

It reminds me of an afternoon I was working the microphone and had just delivered a weather forecast. Wrapped it up and took off the headphones. The phone rang.

Person on the phone: You just said there was a chance of rain on Saturday.

Me: Uh-huh.

Person, nervously: Well, I’m having an outdoor wedding on Saturday and I need to know if it is going to rain or not. And if it is, I need to know what time it is going to start and how long it is going to last.

Me: Uh. I think you’ve dialed the wrong number. The person in charge of the rain starting and stopping isn’t here.

So there it is. I’m supposedly older and wiser, and here I am hoping for the same sort of exact information that my caller demanded for her wedding all those years ago. She seemed silly to me at the time. And now, here I am looking for the same precise weather-tips. But, hey! Hasn’t technology advanced just a little since those old days?

Isn’t there a radar that can clue us in this techno-age?

Nah.

It’s just sit and wait. Watch and listen. Look out the back door. Look up at the sky. Wait a while. If it does start snowing, imagine if it is the kind that will keep on and on and will fill the streets and intersections beyond recognition. Sniff the air. Might it end after six or seven minutes?

It is beyond the mere mortals.

I can only try to imagine who will be out tomorrow in what might be a cold and snowy midday, wanting Irish stew on a Tuesday lunchtime in February.

Hmmmm. Come to think of it, the stew IS tasty stuff. Could bring a crowd.

Maybe I’d better break out the peeler and chef knife. Chop Chop!

Come visit! (If the meteorologists give the A-OK… like that would ever happen. WHEN the meteorologists give the A-OK, then…)

McHuston

Booksellers & Irish Bistro
Rose District
122 South Main St. Broken Arrow OK!

Tell her that I’m well…

February 1, 2014 /

It’s almost a shame to hear them apologize for being clean-cut, fun-loving musicians who enjoyed their time in front of an audience.

There are so many acts that are angry and that’s their stage presence.

I always wonder why they couldn’t have a little fun while everyone else was doing the same.

Just watched a program with Herman’s Hermits. (Even if you Google them, you won’t get it, because Google can’t take you back in time. You have to have been as old as me, and remember what it was like waaaaaay back then.)

The whole thing was still new and fun – music. Well, not exactly. Music has been around since humans pounded on a hollow tree (or a hollow head). But, music in the late 1960s was still in a state of evolution. Some would call it Revolution.

Peter Noone was the singer for Herman’s Hermits, an English band that crossed the Atlantic and found success – and had fun. You could tell watching them (and recalling through the old PBS video clips) that performing in front of an audience was as entertaining for the band as it was for those they faced.

In later years, particularly in the years my son discovered music, I noticed how angry the performers were. They seemed to be on a mission to deliver a serious MESSAGE. You know, like JEREMY SPOKE IN CLASS TODAY. The still-musical MTV pushed the video in 1993 and made a hit of it.

Granted.

Jeremy is worlds apart from Mrs Brown You’ve Got a Lovely Daughter. But many bands released a variety of songs. Some of which were eligible for entertainment. Like – as in, Fun. A fun song, a fun video.

Mr Vedder once said (I recall it pretty well although through brief research, I can’t produce an exact quote) that he didn’t want anyone over thirty years old to listen to his music. Well. Mr Vedder will be 50 this year. Fifty. Things were a lot more fun the year Mr Vedder was born.

Singers smiled. Even the background vocalists. They enjoyed what they were doing. (Oh. Okay. There are those opera people. Those serious If-I-had-a-Hammer folk singers who seriously wanted to Hammer in the Morning all Over this Land. Man. Give it a folk-rest.)

Cause I’m Leaving on a Jet Plane while singing Do-Wa-Diddy-Diddy-Dum-Diddy-dee. (Can you frown during that one?)

It was just surprising, how many songs by Herman’s Hermits I could sing along with. Without hesitation. I never once bought a record album (primitive MP3 or streaming audio) by the group. Their songs were simply – popular.

Not like in a Justin Beiber sense. These fellows were clean-cut, foreign-born, fun-loving, clean-living, singers and guitar players. (And drummer.) When music went south, like Beiber in Florida, these fellows found another way to entertain themselves. (And others.)

Watching the PBS special (which in and of itself reveals my relative age), I was thrown back to a simpler era and a more naïve time. That’s probably the intent of PBS, to loosen up the spending for the whole fund-raising process. There was no talk of crack-cocaine, or meth-labs, serial killers, school shooters, political party wars, or wars in Afghanistan, Iran, Iraq, or – back then – Vietnam.

I don’t want a time machine to head back to that simpler time.

It would be nice, though, if some of those simpler and honest values could push forward to this day and age.

Oh. Wait a minute.

I have history books here in the shop. I’ll just read up on how things used to be.

Come visit!

McHuston

Booksellers & Irish Bistro
Rose District
122 South Main St. Broken Arrow OK!

I promise. It’s me.

January 18, 2014 /

I’m hoping you’ll recognize the typing. It’s me, even if my identity isn’t clear. You see, my identity was stolen. But hey! I’m still me! You’ve gotta believe it!

The tip-off was a call from a Chicago police detective.

“That’s me,” I replied. Normally, I wouldn’t answer an out-of-state call. Nobody out of state who calls really wants to talk to me. They normally want to sell me something. Detective Bryant wasn’t selling anything.

She was very matter-of-fact, and it was impossible for me to keep visions of SVU and CSI out of my mind. I’ve seen enough of the TV shows and I’m pretty sure I’d seen my own personal episode, even if I can’t remember who was playing my part.

The victim.

Detective Bryant even asked me if I wanted to be listed as such.

“Yes,” I answered. But at that moment, I really wanted something much stronger than just admitting I was in that state. I want to be standing within three feet of Mr Coleman and… Well. Suffice to say, I wasn’t hoping slap up a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for him. Or smack his back in congratulations. Certainly, not his back. And probably not a slap. But that’s neither here nor Chicago.

The guy named Josh Coleman was apparently sitting across the desk from the intrepid detective, claiming that he had found the credit card with my name on it some three years ago. It was a credit card from a home improvement store. I’ve never had one from such a place.

“That’s a lie,” I told her.

“Do you live in Calumet City?” she wanted to know.

“No,” I said. “No, I live in Broken Arrow, Oklahoma.”

I have a good imagination, and right about now, I’ve got a pretty good image of this guy sitting in handcuffs, charged with fraud and identity theft, sitting on the other side of the desk from the woman on the telephone with me.

She explained that she had called me on her personal cellphone (which explained why her name came up on my caller-ID instead of the Chicago Police Department) but she would be happy to answer any questions I might have if I wanted to call the Chicago precinct. She gave me the number.

Before she hung up, she quickly answered my last-second flurry of questions: How did he get my information? Will charges show up against my personal credit? How did she find my number to call me?

The detective advised me to contact the credit bureaus and provide a “fraud alert” and request a credit report to determine if there are other credit cards that have been issued in my name that I don’t know anything about.

Man.

I can’t help feeling a little abused. A little victimized.

Don’t know why, but I sort of want to take a shower. I feel – dirty – economically, and that’s a weird thing, I’m telling you. Money laundering, I don’t need – ‘cause I don’t have anything to clean up. I’d LOVE to be laundering money. (I don’t mean ILLEGAL money laundering. I’m thinking it might just be fun to scrub up some dollars.)

I wish someone would scrub up Mr Coleman with a stiff bristle brush and some really hot water, maybe from a high-pressure hose. Then, I might come away feeling a little cleaner about myself.

Then again – I’ve never been a top-scholar about math and ciphering, laundry, the weekly wash, and the bottom-line-bank-account balances. I’m a reader.

Detective Bryant? Read him his rights.

Bookmen are inherently honest, even as regarding credit card transactions, cash tendered, consignments offered, and explanations put forward. Don’t be concerned about who I am. My identity – even borrowed or stolen – is always above board and honestly offered.

Come visit!

McHuston

Booksellers & Irish Bistro
Rose District
123 South Main St., Broken Arrow OK!

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