Back To Work

Back to Work By Larry Day I finally got a job. I work for my wife now. Clint, our new financial adviser, set it all up for us after I told him that as a retired person, I felt more like an employee than a spouse. “What do you mean?” he had asked. I told Clint that after I became a FIG (Fixed Income Geezer) I tried to supplement our income. I applied for half a dozen jobs for which I had tons of experience, and didn’t even get an interview. But, I told him, I didn’t have time to sit around feeling depressed. My wife, Emmaline saw to that. Her daddy was a preacher when she was younger. His favorite saying was “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.” Emmaline took that as gospel. So now that I’m home all the time, she sees that I my hands never get anywhere near Satan’s workshop. I told Clint my schedule: On Monday I vacuum and dust the whole house after I do the morning dishes. Then I polish the silver and re-arrange the knick-knack shelves. Tuesday I mow the lawn and trim the hedges, and pull weeds. One day a week is “fixit” day-the toaster, the humidifier, the aquarium tank, stuff like that. There’s one day for running errands, and taking stuff back to the stores, or filing out forms and sending stuff back to catalog companies. Then there are a couple of days Emmaline makes me available to do odd jobs for friends and neighbors. She says it’s good public relations. As I was telling this to Clint, he looked pained. I thought it was an expression of compassion and empathy. But Clint was thinking. For him, it’s a painful process. Suddenly the pain was replaced by a look of joy. “I’ve got it!” he shouted. “What have you got?” I asked “I’ve got you a job!” Great.” I said, “Where am I going to work?” “Right here,” he said. “Here at home?” I asked. “I don’t think I’d be good at phone sales.” “Not phone sales. You’ll be working full time for Emmaline,” he said excitedly. “I just told you I already work full time for Emmaline. That’s my problem,” I said. “But you don’t get paid,” he said. “That’s why I’m trying to find a job, dopey. We can’t afford to pay me. Emmaline and I are Fixed

Income Geezers. We can’t afford to hire me. “Look,” said Clint, “All we have to do is organize a corporation with Emmaline as CEO and you as the only employee. We take your pension check and your social security payments and convert them into company funds. Then we give the money back to you in the form of a pay check.” “What good will that do?” I asked. “We still have the same amount of money to live on, which isn’t enough to live on. THAT, I repeat, is why I’m looking for full time employment.” “I know,” said Clint, “but if you are a corporation, I can file forms GS477-332-1 and SWUS-336-557/2, and everything will be deductible. You won’t have to pay taxes. Then because the CEO, Emmaline, is a woman, the company will qualify as a WJ-4489/6 minority owned corporation. You’ll be eligible for a bunch small business loans.” “WHOA!” I said. “You’re supposed to be helping us get OUT of debt, not put us deeper in debt.” “But you won’t be deeper in debt because you won’t have to pay the loans back,” said Clint. “That’s the beauty of it. After you get loans to provide operating capital for your business, I’ll file a WH-666/6 form that gives you loan forgiveness because the corporation does seventy five percent of its business with senior citizens.” “Simpleton,” I shouted. “Emmaline and I would be the only customers.” “That’s even better,” said Clint. “That’s means your business qualifies for a $5,000 Service to the Senior Community Bonus because 100 percent of your endeavors are in behalf senior citizens.” “Geez,” I said, “That sounds as fishy as the term “compassionate conservatism.” “Now you’re thinking,” said Clint. “Now you’re getting the picture.” Then he said something that froze my gizzard. “Trust me,” said Clint. Whenever you hear a character in a soap opera say, “Trust me,” you know that the person to whom he says “trust me” to is going to wind up folded, stapled and spindled. “No way, Jose,” I told Clint. “No. Nyet. Nein.” But cooler heads prevailed, namely Clint’s and Emmaline’s. Clint put through the paper work. Emmaline sailed through several interviews with local, state and federal worker bees, all of whom had a vested interest in getting her application approved so they’d meet their quota. Good dedicated, hardworking folk, every one of them. So now I work for Emmaline, and our financial situation has improved greatly. I do all the housework and the yard work, the take-out-the-garbage-work, walk-the-dog-work. In short, I do all the things that fourth tier corporate managers do. As CEO Emmaline does the heavy lifting, corporationwise. She handles the budgets and oversees capital expenditures. She’s in charge of product acquisition (Dillard’s and the Jones Store, being major suppliers) and distribution (The Thrift Store and the Clothing Consignment Stores being primary distributees). She also guards against hostile takeovers. Emmaline works long hours–executive hours. She’s gone a lot. I’m usually asleep when she comes to bed. Things have been going well so far, but I keep my fingers crossed, since I found out that Clint used to work for a giant corporation that went bust after the government pointed out to its top management that they were supposed to be executives, not chefs.

But, like any good loyal employee, I leave those things to management. I keep my mouth shut and do my work. And I do have some fun. The other day I was out working in the front yard near the curb when a snazzy sports car cruised up. The driver rolled down his window. He looked like one of those thirty-something success stories you read about. He called to me. “Hey Pops,” he yelled, “How much do they pay you?” I looked up respectfully and said, “Oh sir, they don’t pay me anything. But the lady who lives in that house lets me sleep with her,

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Letongaloosa Goes to a Bowl Game©

Decades ago families used to gather on New Year’s Day in front of a 12-inch television screen to watch the Rose Bowl Parade and the Rose Bowl football game. In the early days there were only a couple of other bowl games. Now, news reports say, more than 40 bowl games are played during the holiday season.
The 2017 Letongaloosa Community Junior College Leopards had their best season in the last 10 years. They won five games, lost five, and tied one. That record earned the Leopards an invitation to play in the Marginal Bowl against the Sand City Bison.
Many home towns submitted applications for a chance to host the Marginal Bowl. In their applications the cities reported their plans for the bowl parade and the number of seats available at their stadium. Applications routinely mentioned what treats and activities were planned for members of the Marginal Bowl Committee.
Some cities that weren’t selected to host the bowl complained of favoritism on the part of the Marginal Bowl Selection Committee. No wrongdoing was discovered, but to remove any hint of favoritism the committee decided to select the host city by a random process. As the cities’ applications came in, each was assigned a number. The number of each applying city was written on ping pong a ball. The balls were dropped into a rotating plastic bin. The city whose number was selected from the bin, won the opportunity to host the Marginal Bowl.
Thus it was that Pigeon Creek became host city for the 2017 Marginal Bowl. The Pigeon Creek Marginal Bowl Committee had promised to mount a parade that included at least 18 floats. The Marginal Bowl Queen and her two attendants would ride on a beautifully adorned float. Marginal Bowl Committee members would ride in an equally beautiful float directly behind the queen’s float. Nature smiled on Pigeon Creek the day the Marginal Bowl game was played. The sky was clear at game time. The temperature was 41 degrees which was high for Pigeon Creek at that time of year. Still, cheerleaders for both teams wore tights with their short skirts.
Days before the bowl parade, Pigeon Creek citizens placed folding chairs along Main Street to assure themselves of a spot to watch. Grocery stores and other businesses stocked up on merchandise in anticipation of a flood of out-of-town spectators.
It was a classic bowl game. The score was tied 7-7 at half time and the defenses of both teams continued to prevail in the third quarter and the beginning of the fourth quarter. Then the Bison scored and took a 14-7 lead.
After that neither team could make a first down. As time ticked away the Bison team punted and the Leopards got the ball on their own 17-yard line. Somewhere in their heads they heard a bugle sounding “Charge!”. And down the field they went executing running plays and short pass plays to perfection.
The Leopards were first and ten on the Bison two-yard line when the rally ran out of gas. The Bison line held against a run and two pass plays. It was fourth and two. A field goal would do the Leopards no good. The officials called time out. The exhausted players on both teams grouped around their coaches.
Play resumed. “Hut two, hut two, hut, hut, hut.” The Leopards tried a quarterback sneak. The Bison line held. The drive had died. Time ran out. The game was over.
But before the Bison crowd could rush onto the field, the crowd heard a referee’s whistle.
All activity stopped. The teams froze in place. Officials conferred on the sideline. Then the head ref signaled a violation against the Bison:
“Defense. Twelve men on the field. Replay the last down.”
The Leopard quarterback threw a pass to his tight end.Touchdown!
At the victory parade on Main Street, two of Letongaloosa Community Junior College’s most ardent adversaries: Irma Farseer, the hardnosed dean of the Department of et. al. et. al., and the Leopard’s “Please don’t make classes so darn hard for my atha-letes” coach, stood side by side and smiled.
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Dr. Larry day is a retired J-School professor turned humor writer. His book, Day Dreaming: Tales From the Fourth Dementia is available for purchase via his website: http://www.daydreaming.co

Emmaline Speaks Up ©

Hello & Happy New Year, Everyone!!

Here is my first column of 2017. It gives a nod to my significant other and her love of college sports. She gets rather excitable to it politely and  it is that energy that makes me love her so…enjoy!!

My wife Emmaline loves watching sports on television. People who watch sports
with us call Emmaline an “energetic” fan. She involves herself in all aspects of the
games. She expresses her opinion forcefully about the fans, the players, the coaches,
and especially about the referees.
Emmaline was never a typical “sports widow.” On the contrary, I have always
watched TV sports so I could be with her.
When she was a girl living in a small town in Utah, all of Emmaline’s friends were
New York Yankee fans. Emmaline always supported the Brooklyn Dodgers. Emmaline
and her friends used to listen to the World Series every year on the radio—often skipping
school to do so.
As they listened, Emmaline’s friends ridiculed the “Bums” from Brooklyn and tried
hard to get Emmaline to forsake them. But even during the years in which the Yankees
built its World Series dynasty, Emmaline remained loyal to the Dodgers.
Her loyalty was rewarded in 1955 when the Brooklyn Dodgers were matched
against the Yankees in the World Series. The Dodgers won that epic Series in the
seventh game. The win gave Brooklyn its first and only championship in the franchise’s
history. After the 1957 season the Dodgers moved to Los Angeles.
Emmaline continues to be vocal sports fan. Every time the Letongaloosa
Community Junior College team plays Emmaline can be found in front of the television
set watching the game. She cheers enthusiastically for the players. She bemoans their
errors. But more than anything else, Emmaline vehemently denounces bad calls made
by the striped-shirted referees.
The phrases Emmaline uses to denounce the refs are the kind of made-up phrases
spoken by 1950s cartoon characters like Pogo Possum. She yells things like “Blagstag the
blag-stagging blaag staggers.” Emmaline avoids the kind of expletives and curses that
one often hears at a bar when a game is showing on TV. Emmaline is often vehement,
but she is never calumnious.
She is also a full service television sports fan. She gets physically as well as vocally,
into the competition. When games are close and badly officiated, our dog abandons
her place on the couch between us and lies down on the carpet across the room. I
remain on the couch, beside Emmaline, but I often place a thick winter cap on my
thigh.
One day recently, when a game was in the early minutes of the first quarter, the
doorbell rang. Our new pastor had come to call. He was making a “meet and greet”
visit. I answered the door, and Pastor Mark, who is a large, ebullient individual, grabbed
my hand, strode through the door and was in the living room before I could get the
words, “Perhaps another time, Pastor,” out of my mouth.
Emmaline’s jaw dropped, but she was true to her mother’s teachings about
hospitality.
“Please sit down, Pastor Mark,” she said. “Would you like some warm apple
cider?”
“Don’t trouble yourself on my account.”
“It’s no trouble at all.”
Emmaline had neglected to turn off the television, and by the time she got back
with the hot cider, Pastor Mark was sitting in our overstuffed chair gazing fixedly at the
game.
“This is wonderful, Sister. Thank you,” he said. Then, “I love basketball. I played
college ball myself before I went to the Seminary. Wow, what a game!” Then he took
off his coat and leaned back, his eyes fastened on the TV screen.
It was a very close game, and for the next hour and a half Emmaline raised her
voice only slightly, saying things like “Go team.” and “Oh, no, don’t do that!” Pastor
Mark used the same tone and the same phrases.
Then in the last seconds of the game, with LCJC ahead by two points, the other
team shot and missed a three-pointer. A ref called a foul on one of our players.
“Dammit! That wasn’t a foul, you blooming idiot,” yelled Emmaline.
Horrified, we both looked at Pastor Mark.
` “Thank you, Sister Emmaline,” he said. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
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Dr. Larry day is a retired J-School professor turned humor writer. His book, Day Dreaming: Tales From the Fourth Dementia is available for purchase via his website: http://www.daydreaming.co

The 50-Foot Turkey Goes To Hollywood ©

Dexter Dolby had to confess. When he started writing the screenplay for Attack
of the 50-Foot Turkey he never thought he would end up here. How he got from
his own red carpet premiere at the Letongaloosa Fall Film Festival to being stuck
in bumper-to-bumper traffic along the Pacific Coast Highway was a blur. One
day he’s a writer and movie critic for the Letongaloosa Register-Journal-
Challenger-Sun Chronicle. The next, it seemed to him, he was here sitting behind
the wheel of his old blue Wrangler, a week before Thanksgiving, staring out at
the turquoise waters and waiting to begin life as a Hollywood screenwriter.
How a film gets made had always been incredibly important to Dexter. As a kid
he’d sit for hours absorbing every detail of every plot line, camera angle and
costume in movies like The Giant Claw, Dementia 13, and The Terror. He wanted
to be a film writer, and he knew if he was going to be taken seriously he had to
pay attention to every detail of the production.
It was that attention to detail that caught the eye of Paul Peterson, the CEO of
Talking Pictures Productions (TPP). The way the camera captured the detail and
movement of a giant 50-foot turkey as it toppled the tiny country town made
the hair stand up on the back of Paul Peterson’s neck. He prided himself in
being able to spot creativity and talent wherever he saw it—even in a
backwater town like Letongaloosa. Peterson wanted Dexter working for his
company.
For Dexter, thinking back to the events of that fateful night after Halloween was
better than a prize-winning movie. Incredibly, Dexter had said goodbye to the
small circulation newspaper and to small-town life. The turkeys at the wildlife
conservatory had changed is life and provided him with the future he had
longed for. With a firm offer of a job, Dexter bid goodbye to friends and family,
packed up his Revere 8Mm, and headed for Hollywood.
The weeks following the movie premiere had passed like a whirlwind. After “Mr.
Hollywood,” Paul Peterson showed up that night outside of the Cineplex, the
people of Letongaloosa had treated Dexter like a celebrity. The managers of
the burger stand told him he’d never pay for a burger and fries and shakes
again. The manager of the movie theatre assured him he’d have free movie
tickets. The president of the Wild Life Sanctuary presented him a certificate that
made him a lifetime member. He could visit the turkeys that turned him into an
up-and-coming filmmaker any time he wanted.
All of the attention at first mystified, then , humbled Dexter. He was delighted
that people liked his work. He was ecstatic about the attention Paul Peterson
paid him in the following weeks. They became friends.
The two discussed everything from to do with the creation of films and
screenwriting, to the nitty gritty of post- production editing. One day Paul talked
to about turning Attack of the 50-Foot Turkey into a one-day classic for the big
screen. All of those conversations resulted in an offer for Dexter to go to
Hollywood and make movies for TPP Productions.
I was a dream come true! Dexter loved his job as writer and movie critic in
Letongaloosa, but he was thrilled with his new life, even when he had to sit in this
traffic jams on his way to write and make movies. Slowly, the sea of cars began
to inch forward. Dexter felt a warm breeze on his face. He was on his way to
HOLLYWOOD. He was going to make movies. The cars started to move and
Dexter felt the Wrangler roll. It moved closer and closer to his future as a
Hollywood filmmaker.
In front of the offices on the TPP Studio lot, noted the palm trees. He sat and
marveled for a moment at the studio’s white stucco façade. Then he stepped
out of his sturdy old vehicle, grabbed his Revere 8Mm, and walked confidently
toward the studio. He was no longer that kid from a small town in the Midwest.
He was Dexter Dolby, Hollywood screenwriter and filmmaker.
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Dr. Larry day is a retired J-School professor turned humor writer. His book, Day Dreaming: Tales From the Fourth Dementia is available for purchase via his website: http://www.daydreaming.co

I Love A Parade

Emmaline loves Letongaloosa, but she isn’t from here.  She was born in Wyotah, a state way out West in the Rocky Mountains.

According to history, The Great Western Colonizer emigrated to the Wyotah valley from the East with a bunch of pioneers in 1846.  He was leading a band of social liberals who wanted to exercise their Constitutional right to become conservatives.  The Wyotah pioneers crossed the plains, climbed the Rocky Mountains, and stopped when they came to a desolate-looking valley.  There, according to legend, The Great Colonizer said, “This may be it,” and they decided to settle down.    That was July 24, 1847.

After much hard work the Wyotah pioneers made the desert blossom as a rose, and the Great Western Colonizer ordered settlers to spread out to the north and south.

Emmaline’s great grandparents moved south, and she was born in Buckboard,  asmall town a hundred miles from the capital of Wyotah.  Emmaline lived in Buckboard until she married me.

Now, five decades later, we still go to Buckboard to participate in the 24th of July festivities.

Up in The Place, Wyotah’s state capital, they mount a huge celebration on the 24th of July. There are concerts, fireworks, a marathon, a 10K race, and a hugely popular, miles-long parade.  The parade features beautifully decorated floats, dignitaries riding in new and antique convertibles, marching bands,  horse clubs, trained dog acts, stilt walkers,  flag-waving school children,  and a ton of sign-bearing church groups.

Buckboard has celebrated the 24th of July for almost as many years as The Place has.

The big events on the 24th are The Parade and The Demolition Derby, and The Fireworks.

The Parade has always been my favorite, but I was a bit disappointed in both The Demolition Derby and the Parade this year.  I was disappointed in the Demolition Derby because there is a dearth of 1970 and 1980 clunker automobiles in which helmeted contestants can drive around the rodeo arena and bash into each other

On the 24th , Main Street is lined with folding chairs,  some of which have been in place for several days. The celebration begins at 6 a.m. with the BOOM. That’s when the Buckboard Volunteer Firemen set off a blast that rattles windows all over town.  Then they drive the fire truck through town, its horns honking and its sirens blaring. At 7 a.m. everybody walks down to the city park for the annual Firemen’s Breakfast—pancakes, bacon, ham, eggs, pan-fried potatoes–served at picnic tables.

Emmaline and I watch The Parade from folding chairs on the steps of the Town Hall. By the time the honor guard marches by with the flags, Main Street is lined five and six deep with spectators.

The Parade begins at 10 a.m. and travels down Main Street from north to south.  My disappointment with this year’s 24th of July parade centered on quality, not quantity.   This year’s parade lasted longer and had more participants than ever before.  The problem was, there weren’t more floats, nor more bands,  there were just more vehicles.

The float on which “Miss Buckboard,” and her attendants rode was beautiful, as were the floats of “Miss Lakeville,” and “Miss Mount Oakdale,” from two nearby towns.

But after that it was vehicle after four-wheeled vehicle, mostly black, mostly newer SUVs, carrying advertising signs. The signs touted  everything from chiropractors and podiatrists to optometrists and dental hygienists. I counted five vehicles with “get out of debt” or “payday loan,” signs on them. Many of those opportunists threw handfuls of  candy to scrambling kids on the street.  One woman, pushed a big antique baby carriage, that had a sign advertising her child care service.  I didn’t mind that—at least she was walking.

Next year on the 24th ,  I’m going rent a big black SUV and  put a sign on it that that reads:  “ Infernal Revenue Service.”   I’m going to wear a dark suit, white shirt, a power tie, and dark glasses.  I’m going to stand, with a pen and notebook beside the SUV at the end of the parade route. I bet no one will notice the typo.                                                     -30-

Dr. Larry day is a retired J-School professor turned humor writer. His book, Day Dreaming: Tales From the Fourth Dementia is available for purchase via his website: http://www.daydreaming.co

How I Became A Writer, Extended ©

Hello, All!!

I came across the following.  I’ve probably sent it to you before.  But it’s a humorous bit of writing that fits into the GENERAL theme of how I got my start as a foreign correspondent and ended up an ol’ humor writer.

Miss Bunker  (I can’t remember her first name)  was principal of East Side School in Idaho Falls, Idaho, circa 1945,  when I was in Miss Melton’s (I can’t remember her first name) fourth grade class. Dean Larsen, who sat in front of me in Miss Melton’s  class, wrote a smart aleck note and passed it back, unnoticed, to me.  I wrote “Screw You!” on another piece of paper and passed it back.  Miss Melton saw me pass the note back to Dean, and told me to bring the note up and put it on her desk.  She went on with the class.   I forgot about the incident until the next day when Miss Melton told me to go see Miss Bunker.  In the Principal’s Office, Miss Bunker had the note in herhand.
Miss Bunker: “What does this mean?”
Me: (scrubbing my foot on the floor and looking down) “I don’t know.”
Miss Bunker:  “What does this mean?”
Me:  “I don’t know.”
Miss Bunker:  “I’m going to call your mother on the phone.”
Me: (in desperation) “It’s the title of a story.”
Miss Bunker: “A story?”
Me:  “Yes.  I’m writing a story about a boy who gets a tool box for Christmas.”
Miss Bunker:  “I want to read that story.  Bring it to my office by the end of the school day or I’m going to call your mother.”
That’s how I became a writer.  From that time to the present I’ve written a lot of fiction. Some of it was written for  newspapers and international new  services.  I’ve reported for the Idaho Falls Post Register, The  Deseret News (Salt Lake City) The United Press International  (from Buenos Aires), the Minneapolis Star and Tribune, The Miami Herald, the Kansas City  Star, Universal Press Syndicate. Everyone knows that newspaper stories aren’t supposed to be fiction. But  with tight deadlines, and because  journalism is more art than science,  a  lot of  creativity is involved in covering the news.
I’ve written news stories from the United States, Latin America and the Caribbean (including Cuba), the Sudan (Africa) Botswana (Africa) (the old) Yugoslavia, England, Hong Kong, and Letongaloosa (a fictional  town in the U.S. Midwest).  Many news stories, carrying my byline,  were actually published by newspapers or by news services.
For the past dozen years I have been writing  humorous fiction for the Kaw Valley Senior Monthly of Lawrence, Kansas.  Do I notice a difference between the fiction  writing I do now and the news writing I did as  a journalist?  Yes, I do.   Fact checking is more rigorous on the Kaw Valley Senior Monthly than  fact checking  was during the days when I  covered coups and earthquakes in Latin America.
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Dr. Larry day is a retired J-School professor turned humor writer. His book, Day Dreaming: Tales From the Fourth Dementia is available for purchase via his website: http://www.daydreaming.co