Untitled

  • by Drew

I may not know how to beat a traffic ticket.
I may not know how to reduce belly fat.
I may not know how to be a famous rock star.
I may not know how to distill my own bourbon.
I may not know how to drive stick.
I may not know how to finish semi-fictionalized 30-something year old’s pseudo-memoir.
I may not know how to draw comic book heroes.
I may not know how to code php.
I may not know how to start my chainsaw in the winter.

But I tell you, I do know how to make a killer sauce. You need some kick ass spaghetti? Like, spaghetti that makes a fantastic bottle of red like Trefethen or BR Cohn work to keep up with? I’ve got you covered.

a moment of robot talk

  • by Drew

Situation report. Rain outside. Slippery road. Car go fast. Slide in rain. Almost hit me. Skidding car. EZ Pass fall. Cloth shopping bag tornado. Coffee spill. Front seat shambles. Pulse race. Blood pressure rise. Perspiration. Face breakout inevitable. Need tool remove blackhead. Need run and hide from public. Why car go fast in rain? Why such rush. What is hurry? What so important? Does not compute. Does note compute. Does not compute. System shutdown.

Maybe tomorrow stream of consciousness Dylan style. Hibernate now.

Powerless

  • by Drew

So, the Subaru… We didn’t drive it for a couple of days. Then one morning, we turned the key in the ignition and nothing happened. Shouldn’t have been a surprise, I guess, since the dome light was off and absolutely nothing on the dashboard lit up for the effort. Dead battery you say? You say wrong.

Nope, I tried a jump and while it git the instrument panel to temporarily light up, the engine wouldn’t turn over. So I called teh dealership and since it is well within warranty, he said we need to get it towed in. I already screwed around with the fuse box looking for something blown with no luck, but I asked if there wasn’t something he could suggest. No luck. Get it towed.

So I called our roadside assistance number, the roadside assistance you get as part of the warranty, and after being hung up on twice by the computer, I was told that call volume was extreme. So it snowed for three days, big deal, right? The anticipated wait this morning was more than 8 hours. Actually, I think more than 8 hours is the longest delay the computer can offer, so for all I know it is more like two weeks.

Since we have another car – the unsinkable Toyota Corolla – I’m not too worried and figured I would wait a day for the call volume to subside rather than listen to the muzak light sounds of the 70s for “more than 8 hours” waiting for the next available operator.

But what if I was on the road, in the cold, with my kids, and a fading cell phone battery that I couldn’t charge because the power system in my car is completely dead. What then Subaru? It’s not like I’m looking for something complicated here like rv repair or jet turbine adjustment or help pairing wine with dinner. I just want a freakin’ tow.

Thinning

  • by Drew

Since my most recent post may make me sound like a real bald-hater I should point out that I, too, am somewhat follicle-challenged. I mean, I’ve always had a high hairline, even when I had hair down to my butt. And now I’ve discovered something else. After an ill-fated attempt to grow my hair out a year or so ago, I found that I have a thin patch in the Friar Tuck region. Damn. Goodbye rock star locks and hello Deadhead pony knob. Well, I think not. Back to corporate short, I guess.

So, I have hair issues too, so I’m not really picking on bald men. I’m picking on vain nimrods who blow all sorts of cash on hairpieces and Hummers to try to impress 18 year old girls. And who wants to impress 18 year olds anyway? I mean, I remember a time when 18 year olds were slim and sassy, and even the dimmest bulbs were fun to talk to. But now, it seems that wherever you look, two out of three teens are chunked up. Seriously, when I look better in a halter top than half the high school girls out there…this is why pay per view porn is such a big business.

The thing about baldness that gets to me, though, is the handful of areas that are not afflicted. For example – ears. I am pretty safe in this region. I have an occasional sprouting of fuzz on an earlobe that needs plucking, but it’s not too bad. My nose gets a routine plucking too, but mostly for what seems to be a handful of persistent hairs that corkscrew out.

I won’t even go into my back…but if they start doing effective back-to-Tuck hair transplants, my pate will be well-sheathed in coarse black wiry fuzz. and I used to pluck between my brows every once in a while, but it’s been years since I needed to. Weird. I never approached a mono-brow or anything. I just used to have a few stray hairs that would show up once in a while. But no more. Do you go bald on your brow line too?

But this brings me to my last area of hair-tastrophe. I have this one hair that appears in the middle of my left eyebrow every few months. While the bulk of my brow remains chill and trim, this one hair grows to the beat of its own drum. For real. It twists and turns for weeks before I notice it (contrary to what this post might suggest, I don’t actually spend too much time looking in the mirror…I mean, I do love rooms with tile flooring and all, but I’m not that bad). when I notice the mega-hair, I grab the tweezers and usually pluck something that approaches an inch in length. What is that all about? What is this one rogue hair doing? Why can’t we clone that little bugger and sell him to the vain, bald, Hummer driving, chunky-loving male masses? We could make a mint!

‘Tis the Season…

  • by Drew

As we plunge headlong into the holidays, I know thoughts of plasma screens and wall mounts and Wii games are jousting with the remembrance of acts of mercy and redemption…and there’s that 24 hour Christmas Story marathon to think about… But there’s something nipping at my nose and it ain’t Jack Frost. I keep hearing all this nonsense about anti-Christmas sentiment, and it is getting on my nerves. I’m not going to get into the religious, mythological, sociological or simple cultural “reasons for the seasons” because let’s face it, there is single satisfactory response. I mean, you may think there is, but there’s not. This holiday seasons has roots that extend back many thousands of years, and no single race, creed, religion, belief system, or soft drink can claim full credit.

All that aside, I want to focus on something way more substantial than whether people say “Merry Christmas” versus “Happy Holidays” or something along those lines. First of all, if someone chooses to say something other than Merry Christmas, it does not mean that they hate Christmas or hate your religious beliefs or are persecuting you in any way. It may simply mean that they don’t know if YOU celebrate Christmas and are being sensitive to your potential cultural differences. Maybe you should take that as an object lesson.

Here’s something else to consider. I know a lot of people who celebrate Christmas. They are religious and kind and wonderful, but they do not say Merry Christmas for one simple reason. They do not feel joy at this time of year. They are not haters. They just have dealt with losses like a death in the family, and the holidays bring up sad memories. So, they are not feeling particularly joyous. Maybe all those good Christmas lovers should realize that their insensitivity is just making it more difficult for others.

Here’s another thought – many of the people who do not say Merry Christmas at this time of year also do not regularly say “Please” or “Thank you” or “Excuse me,” and most of them probably don’t use their turn signals. I am WAY less concerned about the seasonal greeting and way more interested in experiencing some common courtesy. How ’bout you?

Silent Night

  • by Drew

See if you can follow this wacko train of thought…

All this truck talk got me thinking about NASCAR. I don’t know, I just associate the big rigs with racing. Is that so wrong? And then I started thinking about this guy Earl who was on of the bosses in the dining hall when I worked there in college. Earl was a big NASCAR fan, and he told me a detailed anecdote about an Eddie Rabbit performance…about 15 years ago. So I thought about the modern performance roster at a race, and realized that a good candidate might be Jessica Simpson (when she takes a break from hawking acne treatments) which reminded me of Christmas a few years back.

It was 2001, the first Christmas after the towers fell. There was a big thing at Rockefeller Center and all sorts of people performed. There was Liz Phair in a tragic performance that involved bad microphones and…well, not the best. And there was that Fireman who did a kind of opera thing.

Then Jessica came out and did Silent Night. And when I say she “did” it. Well, maybe “did it” is the proper way to quote it. I mean, she was pale and blond with massively pver painted lips and she more or less fellated the mic. Maybe this sells records to the good Christian boys and girls, but man, it was seriously tasteless. Yeah dude, good times.

Towed

  • by Drew

I was on the highway  the other day and saw something I haven’t seen in a few years. It was a tractor trailer without a cargo trailer. Instead, it was pulling a second tractor trailer, backwards. Like, towing it. I don’t know if there was something wrong with the second rig, or if maybe they were traveling together to save fuel or something. who knows, right?

But it got me to thinking about specialized tow trucks. I mean, are there tow trucks specifically built for towing big rigs? Is there a market for these things. And what about, like, towing small aircraft, or rv towing, or limo towing. Think about those crazy Hummer limos. Wouldn’t you need a specially made vehicle of some stripe to pull one of those monstrosities. Actually, considering that your standard Hummer gets about 6 miles to the gallon or so, it might make more sense to tow it.

Pre-flight Cocktails

  • by Drew

Ok, so maybe my last post was a little harsh. I mean, I shouldn’t disparage the elderly as a whole becuase of a couple of particularly nasty travelers. In fact, I tend to like old ladies a lot better than most people, including other old ladies.

And in truth, the trip wasn’t that bad. Yeah, there were some delays and the regular annoyed and thus annoying travelers in their wrinkled suits and rumpled demeanors. I actually enjoy the airport. Delays and such are always a drag, but the people watching is really good. Second only to those days in High School when my buddy Adam and I would hang out on the Grand Central balcony over the Pan Am Building escalator and watch the girls come in from Connecticut and Scarsdale wearing black and putting on their “cool” face. Good times.

And speaking of good times, can you just imagine the time when you could actually carry a bottle of booze with you, when you could get liquored up and enjoy your travels in a half blind stupor? I’m not talking about the little 50 ml mini bottles I stash in my quart sized plastic zipper bag stuffed with under 3 ounce containers of toothpaste and shampoo. I’m talking about real bottles, when people called their bottle a quart and metric measure had no place in the American booze market. I mean, in those days they could practically roll stainless steel drums of vodka past the security folks and hang out at their departure gate with a paperback and an extra large crazy straw.

Ahhhh, the golden age.

…and boy are my arms tired

  • by Drew

I just flew back from the corporate home office and my arms are really tired. No, that’s not a really bad joke. Well, actually, it is a really bad joke, but I’m not making the joke. My arms really are tired. Yesterday was a day of minor wind delays. Not major delays or cancellations, just minor delays. But that made it a good day to try and jump on an earlier flight that had been delayed, in anticipation of my regularly scheduled flight also being delayed. I was able to pull this off on the first leg of my journey, but the connection…well, the guy was being a schmuck, so I had to wait.

The thing is, I was running around airports, particularly the ever-lovin’ hub in Philadelphia, with my one stuffed carry-on in hand, checking flight status on the good old iPhone. That bag started getting a little heavy, and thus…tired arms.

Anyway, all that running raises in my mind a question. Maybe you have an answer, dear reader, maybe not. But here it is – why do the old ladies always step in front of me in tight squeezes so I am forced to cut my speed to a quarter of what I desire it to be. And I’m not talking about spry old ladies in their big hats and Hawaiian shirts. I’m talking about those spindle legged old crones with Santa bellies, wobbling between a cane and a rolling suitcase that no airline is going to let her carry on. I mean, suck it up and pay the fee and stop reminiscing about two-seater biplane rides. I don’t want to be standing behind your argument with the flight attendant with the “I never heard of such a thing” and “this is the last time I fly this airline” nonsense. Let’s face you nasty old social security disability biddy, this is probably the last time you fly any airline, anywhere. Period.

Pronounced wah-fur

  • by Drew

Seriously, as we rocket toward the holidays, going out in public is like an appetite suppressant. Everywhere I look I see angry large people. And that means a lot coming from me. Look, I’m just under 6 feet and my weight hovers between 230 and 235. Now I have broad shoulders and a wide frame, so I don’t look huge or orca fat or anything. I mean, I have the  little belly and love handles I’ve always had, but I actually wear smaller waisted pants than a portion of my teen years.

So I’m not just casting stones here. I know that I could easily lose 20 pounds without any fear of being dangerously underweight. Still, the amounts of excess flesh on display these days is sickening. I mean, if your arms are bigger than my thigh, please don’t go sleeveless. If you have to cram your body into jeans, and there is a rippling swell of blubber spilling over the top like thick tasty hot fudge, please avoid halter tops.

If you are overweight, I don’t care how old or young you are, please, for the love of God, do not tie your t-shirt like a Hooters waitress. It may make your boobs look bigger, but come on…don’t you have a mirror in your trailer?

Okay, I’m starting to sound mean but I didn’t get much sleep last night, so I’m cranky. And anyway, according to the charts of weight and height I am morbidly obese. Seriously, according to the standard published material I am one cupcake away from explosion.

Or maybe one Meaning of Life biscuit…it’s wafer thin.

© 2026 Drew Bancroft. All rights reserved. Totally.