I’ve been fascinated by outdoor fireplaces for years, chimineas in particular. I’ve experienced a few, though, and in most instances I wasn’t too impressed. The big problem has always been smokiness. Too much smoke in fact. But anything that had an approimation of a chimney seemed to be at the forefront, performance-wise.

Last week I finally found a decent looking chiminea and decided to go for it. Part of my motivation was that I had promised to do a backyard camp out with the boys and it seemed a pretty easy and safe way to get the s’mores on.

We did it again tonight. Not the campout, just the s’mores, and man I love it. I’m really looking forward to cool Autumn nights toasting anything from marshmallows to my toes, sipping a glass of wine and…just hanging out. Oh yeah.

Are you familiar with rapid detox? The concept is to get someone off opiates in a matter of hours, as opposed to days. And by this I mean to help the person get over the physical addiction to the opiate. All that great withdrawal footage in movies? A thing of the past. It seems the procedure is done by an anesthesiologist and allows the individual to more or less sleep through the worst aspects of withdrawal.

Of course, removing the physical addiction is only a piece of the puzzle, the psychological addiction is surely as bad if not far worse. Ever tried to quit smoking? You know what I mean. even weeks, months or years after you last butt, long after the nicotine is out of your system, the urge is still there.

I’m not usre how I feel about this whole thing, though. I mean, think about it. Two great TV shows, The Sopranos and Breaking Bad have important episodes that center around old school rehab center. If the treatment and such is handled in a matter of 5 days…I don’t know. Where’s the drama?

When I grow up I want to be a wholesaler. I don’t know, necessarily, what I want to wholesale, but it sounds good. Maybe I good sell wine. Or maybe comic books. Maybe I could sell very fancy shoes for puppies, tiny little shoes, made to order in Italy. But maybe not. It might be too confusing. I mean, people are used to buying pairs of shoes, not 4 shoes. Would I sell them as double pairs? Or quads? Maybe there would be front pairs and back pairs, like boots and gloves. It would work in the winter, sure, but what about the summer? What if you wanted flip flops to take your dog to the beach? It brings you right back to the quad problem. I mean, unless you wanted flip flops in back and a sort of pail and shovel thing for the front paws. But what if the dog developed a limp and I got blamed? Before you know it I’d have to all on my sword (not in the literal Chinese lead paint baby toy CEO manner but more in the figurative “I have a sex addiction and it’s not my fault” manner of the modern mega-church preacher). I don’t know, maybe wholesale isn’t for me.

I have nothing against tattoos. I have  a number of friends who are inked, and many, if not most, have something going on. I mean, thoughtful, creative, colorful expressions of self. And that’s cool. I’m all about that.

I, personally, remain unmarked. I’m not a needle wuss, I actually don’t mind them at all. Partly it was something of a committment beyond what I was ready to consider back before mortgage, marriage and parenthood (in that order). Now it seems a little frivolous…I mean, at my age… But to be brutally honest, the main reason I’ve never seriously considered getting inked is that I’m hairy. Yup, chubby and hairy. There is really no reasonable spot of flesh on my body that is not so covered in hair that a tattoo would require regular shaving. And that, like back waxing, is a relationship I just can’t see myself entering into.

So, it’s not for me, but it works for some people. The thing is, lately, I’ve been seeing some seriously bad work. SERIOUSLY bad work. There has always been way too much flash on the chunky trailer girls and their 90 pound boyfriends (with those wispy starter mustaches and trucker caps) but I’m talking about something altogether worse. The names of children and boyfriends and girlfriends and spouses on necks and wrists and other overly visible spots is not really that endearing to me. It’s up there with memorial t-shirts for deceased children in my book. Just not very original.

But to each his or her own. I won’t judge. If you want to have the names of your children written in script down your boob, that’s your prerogative. Although I suggest you plan better than this one woman I saw who had three names on her left boob and one on her right. It appears she was cataloguing her offspring on lefty, and then she ran out of room. Maybe number four was a bit of an oopsie, so I guess we should give her a high five for getting him on there somewhere. What a mom.

The disturbing trend, in my mind, is the really wretched work I’ve been seeing. Did Walmart start selling home tattoo kits and no one told me? I was on line at the store the other day and I saw a young woman buying prenatal vitamins, folic acid, and assorted creams and powders. What was most noticeable to me, was the tattoo on her arm. She was sleeveless, so it was very clear. It said ANN. All caps, written in a thin line that looked like pencil. There were 8 or ten lines drawn away from the name. Kind of like how a little kid draws the rays of the sun. It looked, in fact, like a little kid had written it. Shaky handwriting, sun rays looking a little bit like Sunday comic stink lines.

Who puts this on their arm? It was hard to believe it was real ink, but it was. Don’t you need some sort of training or certification to be a tattoo artist? Don’t you at least need to show photographs of past work or something? Maybe she was some dude’s first try or something, because this was pathetic.

Oh, and the funny part. It wasn’t her kid’s name or her girlfriend’s name or her mom’s name or sister’s name. How do I know? Her companion, another young lady, used her name several times while they chatted online.

Yup, Ann had ANN tattooed on her arm, apparently by a second grader with poor penmanship. What is this world coming to? How much Cisco did she have to drink? My girl is lowering the bar for white trash ink the world over.

Sigh.

Suddenly Calvin (from Calvin and Hobbes) peeing on a 24 seems a hell of a lot more clever than it did a year and a half ago.

Hey, while we’re stripping oil from the undercarriages of heavy liftters, what about taking a look at some phosphacore reviews. Alright, maybe not the best option, but bellies are an issue. Seriously. To quote my second grader, “I don’t want to sound mean, but…” there’s a lot of big belly-age going on.

Now, I know I’m not one to point the pudgy finger. I’ve got my share of extra pounds after all. But I’ve noticed a disturbing trend in the arena of excess belly fat – in guys who used to be the slim muscular types. It concerns me, seriously. I know a bunch of these guys very well, and I know they get a reasonable amount of natural exercise in their every day work life. No, they’re not jogging or doing pilates, but they’re also not sedentary. Shouldn’t we be concerned that people who have relatively active occupations are displaying that particularly unhealthy frontal beer belly?

Hypertension, here we come.

Speaking of the late great Mr. Welles brings to mind a few great quotes…or, paraphrases maybe, because it has been quite a few years since I took a legit film class. But there were many. Many, indeed, and I used to actually think that these anecdotes made me interesting to the opposite sex. Of course, now I know better. Ask my wife…I barely ever ramble on about this stuff.

That’s my story and I’m sticking with it.

Anyway…things he said:

• I’m not very fond of movies. I don’t go to them much.
• I hate television. I hate it as much as peanuts. But I can’t stop eating peanuts.
• I started at the top and worked down.
• I don’t pray because I don’t want to bore God.
• My doctor told me to stop having intimate dinners for four. Unless there are three other people.

That last is a favorite knowing how he blew up late in life. I don’t even think glucomannan could have stopped this guy. His regular dinner? Two steaks, rare, and a pint of scotch.

And I read somewhere that he actually put on weight for Touch of Evil. Wooo-hooo. No meat and potatoes for this bed and breakfast man…just meat and meat. And booze. And meat.

On the relatively recent subject of plows and plow drivers – they’re nuts, right? I mean, as a generalization. They’re pretty much totally wacko. Yeah, I know there are a few normal ones out there, but the majority of guys who plow must be bat-poop insane.

This is excluding the guys who plow with back hoes and other heavy machines. They are often in a whole other class. And, of course, anybody who puts a plow on the front of a four wheeler atv. Half of those guys are cowboys, the other half are in the market for tweed sport coats and mac memory.

No, I’m talking about the standard winter sight of rusted out pickup trucks with even more rusted plows, flying out of driveways with no heed for oncoming traffic. They slide around and do donuts in the middle of the road. They bounce off trees, and in large parking lots, sometimes off each other.

I’ve know a few guys who’ve done heavy winter plowing and man, their attitude borders on a death wish. Seriously. I even knew this one guy who wouldn’t plow with any less than a half pint of vodka in him. Often more. He said it kept him loose when there were impacts.

“Impacts?” I asked. “You mean when you hit a pile of snow?”

He just laughed at that, shaking his head at my naivete.

The exciting adventures of the man with the action packed expense account, America’s fabulous freelance insurance investigator, yours truly, Johnny Dollar.

Expense account submitted by special investgator Johnny Dollar. Following is an account of expenses incurred during my investigation of the chunky affairs matter.

I shaved, showered, put on a clear shirt and tie and spent item one, $1.35 on a cab to Teddy Lightweight’s office.

Item 2, $27 for a cup of Starbucks coffee and a copy of The Big Barista Picks Sambas to Get Caffeinated With on compact disc.

Item 3, $18 for the best eye cream in Hartford, CT to mask my hollow, sleepless eyes.

Item 4, $1 toll for the Kingston Bridge toll back to this side of the river, the side of the river where she lives. The lady in question. The cold, calm and calculating female who is invariably more deadly than the male.

In the parking lot of the Grocery Store I realized the need for items 5 and 6, $18 for a 12 pack of Twisted Tea and $4 for a metal nail file, just right for a lady’s purse.

Item 7, $3.50 for the generic brand adhesive bandages I used to stop the bleeding after shotgunning half a dozen malt beverages and stabbing myself blind. Don’t judge me. If you saw those behemoths making out on the dropped bed of that rusted out Ford pickup. All that writhing flesh. The guy with a plumber crack large enough to warm one of my 12 ounce tasty bevvies. The she-beast with parachute-sized bikini panties showing, a tramp stamp larger than my head.

Item 8, $45 emergency room copay. Hey, it’s a good thing I’m an insurance investigator and actually have health coverage.

What, am I the only person left who listens to Old Time Radio?

Se we ran into the grocery store for a gallon of milk and a few other things. I was walking with the boys, one on each hand while Mom had the baby in a shopping cart and was doing the real work. And that’s when I witnessed it, something truly gross.

Believe me when I tell you, I have a cast iron stomach most of the time. It is fairly difficult to gross me out. I can handle a lot. But some things are just…unecessary. I will set the scene.

Two oversized girls. Very oversized. One with the undersized hoodie and jeans on a butt so large it is collapsing back in on itself in a sort of unholy flattening. The other was a sassy chunker. She had a shearling lined suede coat that affected a look of trim tailoring, though it did more of a Hindenburg than an hourglass. She was overly made up and walked with a hand up, pinky out. Like Nathan Lane in the Bird Cage pretending to be feminine. Very much like that.

Anyway, Large Subject A, in the hoodie, was talking on her cell phone, a bit over enthusiastic for the Stop and Shop produce section. She was handling the cucumbers, perhaps looking for just the right one. She was also leaning over the cucumbers. Leaning against them, or even into them, really. So much so that when she drew back, her belly pulled a half dozen off the pile. They fell, unnoticed, to the floor.

So the cell phone call is getting heated and there seems to be some big flirting going on (no pun intended that time) judging by the volume and cucumber proximity. Then she did it. She took the two cucumbers she held in one meaty fist and put them under her arm. Right in the stinky pit, like a Hogan’s Heroes Nazi with a riding crop. She switched phone hands, wrote something down, giggled with her friend, and then de-pitted the cukes and returned them to the pile.

Back into the fray, my friends. From that clammy spot under the (larger than my thigh) arm, and right back to the pile. Yummy yummy yummy.

Now I’m trying not to sound reactionary here. I know most people are going to peel their cucumbers. And anyway, they’re so over waxed by the factory farmers that it’s like a Yankee Candle unscented veggie force field. And I know that’s not like they were Avo Cigars or unwrapped bendy straws or whatever, but its a grocery store, not your kitchen with the fridge door hanging open. Can I please appeal to the better taste of all people, large and small, short and tall – please please please do not carry the produce in your armpit. It’s just not right.

Saw another confusing vanity plate tonight.

RR CORKS

I couldn’t figure it out. Railroad Corks? Maybe a guy who digs vino when he plays with his Lionel trains? Or how about Double R Corks…who knows what that could mean. Double D and we’d have something to talk about but two Rs? Russian River Corks? Somebody who likes the region, maybe a Chardonnay guy?

Then I thought maybe it was RR like Arrr, like pirate speak. Maybe it’s a real life buccaneer who likes to kick back with some California Cab when his ship is in its home port. Like, you better be checking for life insurance quotes when you see this guy in your sailboat rear view mirror. Maybe when he’s done plundering the high seas, he gets his Kenny G on in his bonded leather rocker-recliner with a big glass of red and a skull and crossbones grin.