Showing posts with label mormons. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mormons. Show all posts

Friday, April 22, 2022

My Favorite Mormons

A Mr. Cranky's Neighborhood Story.  

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids — the Stickies — eventual selves to advise them and haunt them after they've become grups and/or I'm deleted. Best perused on a screen large enough for even your parents to see and navigate easily.   

Trigger Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, or grups may result in a debilitating meltdown.  

Featuring Dana: Hallucination, guest star, and charming literary device  

"Old age and treachery will always beat youth and exuberance." -David Mamet

Dear (eventual) Grandstickies and Great-Grandstickies (and Gentlereaders),

My favorite Mormons (no connection to the early sixties sitcom) live in the house next door to Casa de Chaos. I've mentioned them in previous episodes of Mr. Cranky's neighborhood. Both Mr. and Mrs. Morman are 80ish. Both, as you might expect, suffer from a health problem or three. 

The weather in early spring in the Hooterville metropolitan area is often a study in sharp contrasts. You can wake up to snow and 15 degrees one morning and the next day the high temp can shoot up into the sixties. 

Recently, the temperature remained in the civilized zone for a few days before a blast from Canada came through and reminded me of why I'm glad Tricky Dick ended the Vietnam draft just before I might've been forced to decide if I wished to become a Canadian citizen. 

I happened to glance out of our kitchen window and saw Mr. Mormon tinkering with his Can-Am Spyder, an extremely cool-looking three-wheeled motorcycle, gently throttling the engine up and down. Unlike a certain brand of motorcycle that shall remain nameless, the Can-Am's motor is as quiet as its competitor's motor is loud, a gentlepersons sort of motor. 

{You've also made mention of this old dude's bike in other Mr. Cranky's neighborhood episodes. What's your point?}

I have two points actually. First, my big brother Eddie taught me a long time ago that in the case of non-birthing persons over the age of 30, with (temporary) exemptions for men caught up in a midlife crisis, the louder the motor, the smaller the penis is likely to be. You can look it up. 

{Are you trying to get your butt kicked?}

Second point. I was completely unaware that Mrs. Momom had ever/would ever awkwardly and carefully climb onto the back seat of the trike and join her partner of multiple decades for a spin around the neighborhood, neither of them wearing a helmet. 

When I expressed my surprise to my daughter, who's always much more in tune than me with what the denizens of our hood are up to, she told me I was reporting old news and that the two of them taking a spin was not uncommon. 

When I pointed out they weren't wearing helmets and they're even older, much older, than I am, she helpfully pointed out that they, like most people, aren't actually that much older than me. And given that it has three wheels, that he doesn't go very fast, and they don't go very far, they were both likely to survive the journey. 

I'm happy to report that they survived and that the next day I saw Mrs. Mormon awkwardly and carefully descending her porch steps while grasping the handrail with one hand and the hand of a toddler, one of her many grandkids, with the other. 

I still take a daily walk around my neighborhood most mornings; you need to keep moving if you want to keep moving, which brings...

{Wait-wait-wait, I wanna write that down.}

Which brings us to dogs and canes.  

{Well, obviously.}

I use a HurryCane, the preferred cane of cool kids everywhere, because I suffer from something called lumbar spinal stenosis and osteoarthritis. Actually, suffer is too strong a word, I'm somewhat inconvenienced by both conditions, but I refuse to have back surgery if or until it's absolutely necessary (right, Ben?).

I give my cane full credit for enabling me to walk away from a recent encounter with a Pit Bull unscathed. Fellow geezers and geezerettes, if you use a cane, or perhaps even if you don't, and regularly walking is part of your fitness routine...

{Maybe even the only part.}   

And if you prefer walking around your neighborhood to walking around your local mall...

{I hear that's a good way to meet chicks.}  

Get yourself a cane like the HurryCane, one with three or four, stabilizers(?) on the bottom. Something a barking, growling, drooling beastie can't fail to notice when you point it at its face while slowly inching sideways towards safety, never taking your eyes off of the little furry little... 

{One of them babies with a large, four-pronged frame on the end would be great. You could have a prong with a point added in the middle that's shorter than the others so it wouldn't touch the ground. Then...} 

Because even if Cujo's owner comes running and begins screaming at the dog because it seems reluctant to pass on a chance to have fresh human for breakfast, you might still have a chance if it chooses to be a bad doggie.

{Do they still make sword canes?}  

Poppa loves you,
Have an OK day

P.S. No canines or writers were injured in the course of the events that led to this column being composed. However, I must confess that I (only briefly, of course) fantasized about reenacting the Caning of Charles Sumner with the assistance of the dog's owner who mumbled a brief, insincere sounding apology in my direction while screaming at his dog to go back to the house.

I noticed he didn't attempt to grab it by the collar (no chain in sight); he must have been smarter than he looked.    

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Saturday, September 5, 2020

Fall Is Falling

A Mr. Cranky's Neighborhood Episode

                                                Image by JamesDeMers from Pixabay            

This is a weekly column consisting of letters to my perspicacious progeny. I write letters to my grandkids and my great-grandkids — the Stickies — to advise them and haunt them after they become grups or I'm deleted.

Warning: This column is rated SSC — Sexy Seasoned Citizens — Perusal by kids, callowyutes, and/or grups may result in a debilitating intersectional triggering



Erratically Appearing Hallucinatory Guest Star: Dana — A Gentlerreader

"Fall is my favorite season in Los Angles, watching the birds change color and fall from the trees." -David Letterman  

Dear Grandstickies and Great-Grandstickies (and Gentlereaders), 

This morning, as I was perambulating about my neighborhood, fall fell.

Well, not so much fell as subtly slid in and sat down like a locally well-known sinner slinks into church after a soul-searing Saturday night, late yet again, and sits close to the door he/she/they just gently closed in order to effect a quick exit.

[Alliterate much? What on Earth are you on about now?] 

As much as possible, and what I'm on about is that although (hopefully) brightly colored leaves and frosty morns are still a ways off... 

["Frosty morns?" Gimme a break!]

I'm waxing poetic, Dana, you unrefined philistine.


Well said. Anyways, although the window air conditioners that randomly sprout from the walls of Casa de Chaos like acne vulgaris on a callowyute are still gently humming...  

[For the love of...]

Leaves, hither and thither, have begun to turn and fall.

[Crab apples on the ground have started to rot. Fruit flies gather 'round 'cause they like 'em a lot.] 

I heard a handful of hovering, honking geese approaching and my heart was hardened by hoar frost. 

[Oh please! It was 71 degrees!] 

Well, yeah, but nevertheless I did have a mild panic attack. You know how much I hate winter. I was rooting through my little grey cells and trying to remember if I had any valerian tea at home when they flew over. A half dozen geese in a half V formation (\), headed northwest.

Phew. It's just the boys/girls/um, gang? getting the band back together and working out the logistics for their annual Dixie tour. I've still got time to stock up on hot chocolate, check the blanket inventory, verify if there's enough rock salt in the mudroom, investigate the disappearance of the snow shovel, verify that no one drank the emergency brandy, install plastic sheathing on certain troublesome windows, etceterows. 

[You realize, of course, that the word Dixie might cause you to run afoul of the Intersectional Inquisition?]

Oh well, too late now. 

The Stickies have returned to school in meatspace and cyberspace. "Poppa the printers out of ink again." School busses look like they're transporting surgeons that don't get along.

Wait... you Stickies have returned to school? Now that I'm officially pushing 70 I sometimes get confused. Technically speaking I'm writing to the Stickies, well, mostly I'm writing to their future selves, but...

[We've talked about this. Mostly you're writing to/for your gentlereaders so for the sake of simplicity you... Get a grip and take your pills. Next thing you know you'll be known around the hood for screaming, "Get off my lawn!" at feral cats when you go out to get the mail.] 

Let's hope not, I'm...

[While we're on the subject, some of the neighbors have noticed you spend most of your waking hours in comfortable robes.]

Only because people would think I was weird if I wore one of my togas or kimonos. My slippers have sturdy soles in case I need to go outside and I wear clothes when I go walking or have to go (shudder) shopping. 

[So far at least.] 

Speaking of the neighbors, my favorite Morman (my 80-year-old next-door neighbor, not the sixties sitcom) just bought himself a trike to celebrate his recent retirement. Not one of those three-wheeled bikes with a basket on the back, I'm talking three-wheeled motorcycle.    

He's given up driving truck once or twice a week to maintain his driving chops and I guess the thrill of being the owner/operator of two enormous riding lawn mowers is gone so he got himself a Can-Am Spyder. 

Rock on Harlan. 

I've heard that birdwatching has enjoyed a renaissance of sorts because of the Wuhan flu lockdown. I've had a growing fascination with the last of the dinosaurs for a while now but so far it's one of those many things I keep threatening to do more about than I'm actually likely to do. 

In the course of the morning segment of my (theoretically) twice daily walks I often find myself walking down a certain street that's saturated with starlings. I swear the flock gets a little larger with each passing week.

Shades of Alfred Hitchcock.

I went a-googlin' and discovered that the distant ancestors of modern birds had teeth and that Ohio's starlings are infamous for their rapacious and aggressive behavior. 

What if some of 'em have mutated and now have teeth from eating genetically modified food? If you come across a headline like Ohio Man Killed by a Murmuration of Murderous Starlings it might not be clickbait. Gotta go, I'm working on a movie script.

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

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