Why I like dogs.

 

I like them because they're like me--they like to play.

There are other reasons too, but that's the main thing. Dogs are always up for playing. The other day I was stuck at a traffic light and watching this guy walking his dog down the sidewalk while he was totally absorbed with talking on his cell phone. The dog meanwhile grabbed a hold of the leash with its teeth and was tugging on it, trying to get his owner into a game of tug of war. And the dog wouldn't give up. He ran all over, trying different angles. Nothing worked but he never quit. If he could talk he might've said, "Get off the phone, you mope, and let's have some fun!"

And dogs are good sports about playing. They make no demands as to what sort of playing there is to be done. Like the dog with the leash. They'll create ways to play. Fetch. Winging a Frisbee as far as you can. Squeaky toys. And they're game even when we stack the deck against them. 

I used to have a Golden Retriever named Dustin, and he loved to play with a tennis ball. A tennis ball. Then one day a tennis-playing friend came over with a tennis hopper filled with maybe fifty tennis balls. Well, I spilled the hopper all over the floor and poor Dustin was overwhelmed with trying to control them all. I know it was kind of mean (but a riot to watch).

And dogs like to play with each other. I remember being at house for sale. I was looking around the house, and then at a sliding glass window I saw a playground set and a huge dog romping around. It was a Great Dane and when I looked closer I could see that it was playing with a tiny little Chihuahua! And they were having a ball, running around, chasing each other. (Eventually the Chihuahua got a little tired and hid under the slide to get a breather!) It was so encouraging to see, especially since the the Chihuahua wouldn't have been much more than a bite-size snack for the big fella.

And so that's why I like dogs. They are the most playful animal on the planet!

Why Clothes Are Dangerous

Ever since the fig leaf (and I imagine even they had problems back then too--like what if fire ants were on the fig leaf?) there have been problems with clothing being dangerous.

I was driving last night, and it was pitch black, and at a stop light this guy was crossing against the light. He was wearing dark slacks and a dark jacket. I swear I didn't see him until the last second. I easily could've hit him. So...

And what about women's shoes? Some of them are basically lethal weapons. You get your foot stepped on with some of those and you've got a hole in your foot and you bleed out.

So...

But then there's guy-specific clothing like cowboy hats. I'm from Chicago, but when a friend of mine went to college in Kirksville, Missouri, I visited. Well, it was a whole different world down there. Pickup trucks with rifles in the back window racks. People with guns everywhere. And tattoos and cowboy hats. Well, I wasn't buying a gun or getting a tattoo, but a cowboy hat? 

I took the plunge. And I was in for a rude awakening. For starters I was amazed at how big it was. When I drove home and got out of my car, it caught on the roof and fell off. I (well, the cowboy hat did) bumped into so many doors, walls and windows. I really felt like I'd lost the ability to navigate around normally. It was embarrassing. And like you really need to accessorize the rest of your outfit around the cowboy hat. Like cowboy hat + Bermuda shorts = no bueno. If you're going to wear a cowboy hat you really should wear chaps (whatever those are) and drive a pickup truck. And like it's so easy to wear a baseball cap backwards, well, with a cowboy hat, that won't be happening. 

So...

 And there are special dangers about clothing that are Covid related. Like I saw a car pull up to a convenience store, and two girls jumped out with bandanas over their faces like they were Jesse James reincarnations. I'm telling you a lot of these mask wearers look like criminals. I mean, how are the cops supposed to tell the good guys from the bad guys? 

So...

 

 

Okay, maybe that's a little extreme, but he definitely wouldn't be taken for a criminal. 

And let's not forget about the danger of wearing loose clothing around machinery. Your car's running a little hot, so you pop the hood and act like you know what you're doing, but then before you know it, your scarf is sucked into the engine and you are ground to little pieces. 

Heck, even long hair can be dangerous. My dad had this massager for his arthritis. Kind of like this thing this guy is using on his bicep.

Anyway, I told my girlfriend about it (I apologize if you're reading this) and made her lay face-down on the couch. Then I massaged her back with the thing. She was just loving it, moaning with pleasure. Gradually, I moved the massager up to the back of her neck. More delighted moans. Until...until her hair got caught in the massager's motor! She was like, "Aah!" She went from pure pleasure to intense pain in a heartbeat. (Kind of like when you wake up in the morning and you're lying there in bed all comfy and you get a charley horse.)

So...

And I'm sure you have clothes horror stories of your own. Just leave them in the comments section--and be careful what you wear!

You are loved!

Life can be scary.

It can seem overwhelming.

Sometimes the world seems like it's spiraling out of control.

And you feel so alone.

It feels like one more step could lead to disaster.

But then you notice something.

And realize there's still hope.

That you have friends.

That people will help you.

And that no matter what happens.

There will still be love in the world.

Keep your chin up! Together, we'll get through this!

Why you don't want to watch a movie with me

I know I should be writing positive, engaging things, but come on, positive, engaging things are rarely interesting. So here is why you don't want to watch a movie with me.

My attorney-friend Danny came over to watch a movie one Sunday night. Danny's an up-and-comer, married, two kids, a soon-to-be legal star cutting his teeth at a downtown law firm. I was surprised he showed up when he said he would because he's one of those maniacally busy types and also because it's maniacally hard finding a parking spot in my crowded Rogers Park neighborhood. But yeah, he was here and it was all good, right? At least it started out that way. But by the time the night was over, the whole thing was so traumatic I can't even remember the movie. But it was like most American movies guys watch together (violent).

So we got our beverages and finally settled in. The movie started, and I skipped through the coming attractions. Yeah, it was all good. Then just as the movie proper began in earnest the phone rang.

It was only set to ring three times before voicemail got it, so I let it ring. But Danny said, "Aren't you going to get that?"

I'm one of those people that when I watch a movie I watch a movie, so I said, "Nah, voicemail will." I even put the phone out in the hallway on the ironing board.

So the movie was rolling. Shootings, drugs, profanity—we were enjoying it. Then the phone rang again. (I should've put it out of earshot.) Now Danny said, "Aren't you going to get it this time?" I somewhat politely told him to just watch the damn movie.

He bristled at that for a moment, but then got back into the mayhem on the screen.

Well, you guessed it. The phone rang again. Danny was like, "You better get that. I forgot my phone at home. It could be my wife. It could be something important. An emergency."

"Your wife can live without you for as long as it takes to watch a movie, Danny," I scolded.

"But..."

The phone rang a few more times as we watched, and Danny still bristled, but he also realized my will was too strong for him.

The movie ended, and I felt bad for Danny because I could see he was uptight. I resolved there and then that next time we watched a movie together I would put my phone on silent. Danny left in a silent hush, and I went for another beer and to see if the pesty caller had left a voicemail.

Oh my.

"Gregg, it's Danny's wife Sharon. It's an emergency. The police called. Danny's car is blocking somebody's driveway, and if he doesn't run down there and move it, they're towing it."

Double oh my.

Each succeeding message was more desperate. 

Understandably, after a few minutes there was a knock on the door.

There stood Danny, his face utterly drained of color. "I can't find my car."

Perhaps pathologically a prankster, I asked, "Well, where did you leave it?"

"I thought down the street, but it wasn't there. Then I walked all around the block. It's not anywhere."

I couldn't torture him any longer. I told him about the messages.

So that's bad enough, right? But there's more.

Danny had legal briefs in his car, and the car was towed to the police pound, and no one would be there till Monday morning.

So for sure that's bad enough, right? But there's more.

Danny needed those briefs to argue a case before the Illinois Supreme Court in the morning.

Yeah, that's as bad as it gets. And that's why you don't want to watch a movie with me.

How to know where your golf ball ends up when you can't see it land

I was playing golf the other day with some buddies, and one of them (not me of course!) hit his golf ball hurtling off the golf course toward a house that lined the fairway. (People love to live on golf courses. They just don't like what happens when bad golfers play them.) So, as the ball soared through the blue sky like a white, heat-seeking missile, the four of us looked at each other and thought, Uh-oh.

The fact of the matter is bad golfers know where their golf balls land even when they go whizzing off the course and they can't see them anymore. How? Audio confirmation. So in the hopes of helping newbie golfers know where their golf balls land when they veer off the course, I've compiled a list of the sounds (and their consequences) to expect.

thrash—the ball hit some tree branches and got caught up in their leaves (You lucked out.)

thud—you hit a roof (Sure, you'll have butterflies in your stomach, but you should be okay.)

crash—uh, you just broke a window (This is not so okay. Pretend in your mind that you didn't  hear it, hurry up, hit your next shot and get on to the next hole.)

plop—the ball landed in somebody's swimming pool (You're mega lucky—buy a lottery ticket on your way home.)

aaaahhh!—you hit someone (Consider contacting a defense attorney.)

aaaahhh! and plop—a particularly nasty combination. You hit someone in a swimming pool and drowning is a real possibility (Leave the golf course immediately and make plans to flee the country.)

yelp!—you just killed the family dog (When the enraged pet owner charges onto the course, point to your friends.)

So there you have it. Newbie bad golfers now can always know where their golf balls land. Remember, though, when you hit a shot that goes off the course, you will often lose a golf ball (and some golf balls are very expensive), but it can be worse for the homeowner—having broken windows, losing pets and experiencing fatalities.

And don't forget to say, "Fore!" Happy golfing!

Sleeping is trying to kill me

Okay, if you enjoy sleeping, this is not for you. However, if you're regularly traumatized when you sleep, read on, and I'm sure you'll be able to relate.

Sleep is so wonderfully regenerative. (Hum Brahms lullaby.)

Until...a charley horse strikes!

And in an instant you go from peace to AGONY! Okay, maybe you don't die from that, but what about sleepwalking! (I've done it.) If you live in a high-rise and the balcony is missing, well, you can figure out the rest.

Or how about sleep-talking? You talk in your sleep saying something like, "Alexa, my bank account password is XXXXXXX, please share it with the world."

 
Then you wake up and all your money's gone and you kill yourself. See.

Ever dream you were falling?

Well, doing that could give you a heart attack for sure.

And then there's dreams. Sweet dreams. Not! I had a dream I was making out with Hillary Clinton!

Okay, I admit it, it was kind of fun. (She's a good kisser.) But imagine if you were a Trump fan! Muerte! You'd have a stroke and you're gone!

Honestly, I even hurt myself yawning. I Googled to see if that was even possible, and Google said it wasn't. But that's not true!

Hopefully, sleep is a wondrous regenerative respite for you. Just have a little empathy for those of us that aren't so fortunate.

My doctor is trying to kill me!

Oh, you're exaggerating, you're thinking. Well, you decide.

My doctor is old school. He definitely fits the "old" part of old school, but I'm not sure he went to school, at least not medical school. (Okay, he probably did, but you'll soon see what I'm saying.)

Not that he's not a nice guy. He's a super nice guy. And he shares this nice little office in the Chicago suburbs with a chain smoking cardiologist, so his office smells like a casino at four in the morning. But the secondhand smoke, while unpleasant, isn't the issue. The danger is much more direct.

I'll just tell you about a recent visit. I had two things I was concerned about: a boil on my chest and a little lump on my forearm. So there I was inhaling the secondhand smoke in the waiting room. I was nervous because I knew what my doctor was like. But the thing is he got things done. He wasn't afraid to do just about anything in his office. Once he cut a mole off my cheek. (I said, "Are you sure you want to do this in here? I mean, it's my face and all, so I want it to look okay." He smiled and said, "I'll make you look interesting.") Really, I think he would do anything short of a heart transplant. Or maybe he'd do that too. He'd just have the cardiologist assist him. But back to this visit.

So yeah, I was nervous. But I figured it was best to get this over with. So there I sat with my thigh bouncing like a diving board after a cannonball, and that's when I heard the first cry. It was the patient currently in with my doctor. I thought, No, I probably just imagined I heard that.

"Aaaaahhhh!" came another cry.

There was no denying that one. And the one that followed. And all that followed that. I was like, I gotta get out of here. But I sat there transfixed, second by second, my body trembling with each blood curdling cry.

Now I was next.

Using the babiest of baby steps I made my way into his office—and he was cleaning blood off the curtains! Yes, blood! He had a rag and he was wiping them down! (And his curtains were plastic, like this happened all the time!) I know, I know, I should've left, but it was too late—I was mesmerized and in his Svengali-like power.

He tossed the bloody rag (I was tempted to ask him about the bio-hazard risk but couldn't speak). Then he told me to take off my shirt and lay on my back on the exam table. What could I do? I obeyed.

Now I think it's important to point out that I like to do health things slowly. Very slowly. Some would say too slowly. Like, my typical approach would be to say to him, "let's consider this visit a consultation, doc, and maybe we'll do something in the coming year."

I barely had time to see him as he appeared over me with a lance and stabbed it into the boil on my chest.

"Aaaaaaahhhh!"

"There, that takes care of that. Now where's that lump on your arm?"

Seriously? I was so tempted to tell him it went away, but then what if he found it on his own? He'd probably amputate my arm. In abject terror, I pointed to the lump.

I could feel the cool of the alcohol prep cloth as he shimmed it over the area. Oh God. I closed my eyes. Let him do what he's going to do, but I just don't want to look at it.

Now, he was saying things like, "I bet it's a lipoma. It's probably a lipoma."

(Like I'm supposed to know what a lipoma is!)

I felt the scalpel slice into my forearm. It hurt but it was manageable.

"There. That's it," he said.

I breathed my first clear breath since I'd walked into the office.

"See?" he said.

See what? I opened my eyes.

A strange, lima bean-shaped thing was only inches from my face!

 "Aaaaaaahhhh! Get that thing out of here!"

He did. Getting sewn up wasn't bad at all, and I was in and out of there in fifteen minutes. Like I said, he gets things done. When I arrived home, I checked my phone, and there was an email from his office.

It was one of those surveys. The first question was:

"Would you recommend doctor to a friend?"

I started thinking about the people I hated.