Flu reviews

So there I was Wednesday night, sitting contentedly in seat 8-A on my flight home to Florida when – OH. MY. GOD. – I realized I was about to be sick. (Warning to the squeamish: You might want to skip to paragraph 5.)

Not just sick, I was gonna vomit and it wasn’t going to be something subtle I could hide from my fellow passengers. I was about to release a stream of projectile vomit so forceful the doors of the cockpit would blow open and the pilots would be sucked out the windshield like the bad guy in Goldfinger.

Somehow, mercifully, I managed to hold it off until the plane landed.

The minute I walked out of the terminal I started hurling, pausing only to come up for gulps of air before the heaving began again. This went on for what seemed like five minutes as travelers who had just landed in Florida, thrilled to be among the palms and eager to start their vacations, ran away screaming. I owe the maintenance staff at Southwest Florida International Airport my sincere apologies along with a large tip. (See? I told you to skip to the fifth paragraph. You have nobody to blame but yourself.)

The stomach flu. I’ve been sick ever since but am happy to report I’m feeling somewhat human today.

I broke my reading glasses on my trip so couldn’t read during my convalescence, but I did the next best thing: I binge-watched TV shows and movies on Netflix and HBO.

Here, in case you ever find yourself lying in front of a TV for 72 hours straight, are my reviews to help you decide what to watch.

Anthony Bourdain: Parts Unknown: I watched eight episodes of this CNN series, a combo travelogue/food show featuring chef, author, bon vivant and traveler Anthony Bourdain. A better name for the series would have been “Hearts Unknown.” Bourdain travels the world, bonding with locals over plates of revolting food including goat hearts in Colombia, chicken hearts in Myanmar, sheep hearts in Libya, pig hearts in Peru, eland and beef hearts in South Africa and goose hearts in Quebec. Luckily I had nothing left in my stomach by the time I discovered this series or I would have been sick all over again.

Hope he packs a bottle of Scope in his luggage along with an ample supply of Imodium A-D.  

Rich Hill: This powerful documentary follows a year in the lives of three poverty-stricken adolescent boys in tiny Rich Hill, Mo. Harley, who refuses to go to school, is being raised by his grandmother. His mother is in prison – we find out why toward the end of the movie. Appachey, who is taking meds for ADD and bi-polar disorder, lives in filth with his Mama June-lookalike mother whose vocabulary consists of various ways to order him to shut up. Andrew is an intelligent, sensitive soul. Unlike his father, a drifter who dreams of becoming a country singer, he is realistic about the lousy cards life has dealt him. He says he believes in God, knows He must be busy with lots of things and is confident that someday He will have time to give him some attention.

I grew up in a Missouri town the size of Rich Hill during the 1960s and knew kids from impoverished backgrounds who triumphed over their disadvantages but I fear these kids won’t be able to. Back then, before big box retailers drove the local businesses and manufacturing facilities out of small towns and out of the country, there were jobs to be had. Nobody had heard of crack, meth or whatever it is the people who surround these kids take to escape their miserable lives. (Harley’s mother, 33, has no teeth.) Townsfolk saw each other every day at the businesses where they shopped and worked, so they knew what was going on in their neighbors’ lives and could intervene if help was needed but today the downtowns that housed those businesses are by-and-large abandoned. Residents have to commute to larger towns for jobs and to shop so they don't have as much time to interact. While tiny towns in the heartland still come together for celebrations like the Fourth of July, as Rich Hill residents do in this documentary, there are no longer the safety nets woven by a sense of community there once were to keep kids from falling so deeply through the cracks that they can’t claw their way back out. Nobody in Rich Hill, other than a guidance counselor who does his best to convince Harley to stay in school, apparently gives a shit about these kids.

Rich Hill offers no answers, only a sobering insight into the hopeless poverty that has transformed life for kids in many small towns into a living hell Norman Rockwell couldn’t envision in his worst nightmare.

Addicted to Rehab:  I’m a long-time fan of this reality series featuring Minneapolis realtor Nicole Curtis, a ringer for Cheryl Ladd back in her Charlie's Angels days, who buys and rehabs turn-of-the-century houses. Over the seven or eight episodes I watched she purchased an about-to-be-demolished house for $1 and did to it what she does to all the houses she has ever rehabbed on her show – pulled up linoleum to reveal hardwood floors, applied Minwax stain to the built-in oak buffet in the dining room, built a new mantel, converted an old chest of drawers into a bathroom vanity and retiled the shower with white subway tiles. Her upper Midwest e-uck-cent grates but that’s a small price to pay to watch someone who is otherwise adorable in every way.

Munich: This Spielberg thriller is based on the true story of a team of Israeli agents who tracked down and, one by one, picked off the terrorists who slaughtered 11 of the country’s athletes at the 1972 Munich Olympics. Bully for Israel. And kudos to Spielberg for being brave enough to make this movie. It made me proud to be Israeli.

Wait a minute, I’m not but would be honored if I were.

Barbecue: This French (subtitled) comedy is about a 50-year-old man who has a heart attack, a wake-up call that makes him realize the friends he has hung with since college, with whom he shares endless meals and bottles of wine in each others’ backyards, are annoying, so he purposely alienates them. Predictably, he realizes toward the end that man does not live by baguette alone – you’ve gotta have friends – so he wins them back. He shouldn’t have. These people are exceptionally annoying. So is he. Come to think of it, they deserve each other. (Question: Why do French men – most European men for that matter except the Brits – wear sweaters draped casually around their necks like women’s scarves? Are they terrified a sudden chill might descend and they’ll catch cold? They look ridiculous.)

Property Brothers: I watched six episodes of this HGTV reality show in which twin brothers – one a realtor, the other a contractor – help couples obtain their dream homes.

Every show follows the same formula. The couple rattles off all the features they want in a new house and tells the brothers how much they can spend. The realtor bro shows them a house with all the bells and whistles they want, then informs them it’s way over budget. The couple pretends to be bummed. He then shows them two houses that need rehab. The contractor brother lays out renovation plans, promising he can rehab a house to deliver everything they want within their modest budget. The couple chooses one, the realtor bro negotiates the deal, the contractor bro hands them oversized hammers to demo the kitchen or bath, then oversees the renovations. Five weeks later he admits the couple to their new home which always – always -- includes an open concept kitchen/family/dining/living room with a quartz-topped center island that seats four, new hardwood floors and a gray L-shaped sectional sofa (but nothing else that was on their must-have list, a fact the show conveniently ignores). The wife weeps, “I can’t believe this is my house,” as the husband flashes a jack-o-lantern grin.

My take is that the Property Brothers have only renovated one house and keep passing it off to new clients but what do I know?

The Unbelievers: This documentary follows two scientists as they travel the world holding public forums in venues like the Sydney Opera House, claiming science trumps religion, a premise I happen to agree with which is why I watched, but the movie, consisting primarily of clips from those forums, doesn’t pay it off. Telling a convocation of atheists they shouldn’t be afraid to hold believers in open contempt does nothing to advance rational dialogue one way or the other. As the closing credits roll viewers are treated to perspectives from such noted scientific authorities as Cameron Diaz, Bill Pullman, Ricky Gervais, Woody Allen and Sarah Silverman who reveals she visited Israel and went to the Wailing Wall but didn’t feel anything except anger because there wasn’t much space for women, a contention that has little relevance to the subject matter but made for a good sound bite.

Cast Away: Tom Hanks is a FedEx employee who washes up on a deserted tropical island after his plane goes down, leaving him to spend the next five years with nothing but a volleyball named Wilson for companionship. When he is finally picked up by a freighter, he returns home to find out that Helen Hunt, his fiancé, has married a dentist and has two kids.

After three days flat on my back with the flu watching TV (except for bathroom runs), I now look like Hanks when he was rescued and have lost almost as much weight. 

Pregnant Zone

I shouldn't have moved this pot but I did and now I'm on Pregnant Zone.

There are eight enormous planters on our lanai, each of which weighs approximately as much as the collective poundage contestants on The Biggest Loser shed each season.

I moved one of them 10 feet Wednesday so the newly-planted bromeliad in it would get more sun.

Cue the Dragnet theme song: “Dumb, dumb-dumb-dumb.”

The next morning my lower back was hurting. Slowly but surely the pain intensified throughout the day. 

Friday morning I couldn’t get out of bed. My wife had to pull me up, plant my legs on the floor and dress me. Every move was excruciating, as if someone was plunging an ice pick into the small of my back. I called the doctor and the receptionist said to come right in. It took my wife 10 minutes to fold me into the car and 10 minutes to unfold me when we arrived.

The doctor asked how it happened. I told her. “What’s with you old men?” she asked. “At least once a week I see a man your age or older who has hurt his back trying to lift or move something he shouldn’t. Don’t you men realize how old you are?”

“Don’t patronize me, ” I wanted to say but held my tongue because a) the tongue is a muscle so it would have probably hurt to move it and b) I knew she had the power to prescribe meds to relieve my agony and didn’t want to waste one more second than was absolutely necessary until I had them in hand. I know full well how old I am. I’m a grandpa for Chrissake. It’s just that I don’t think of myself as that age. For the last 50 years I could have easily carried that planter from here to Miami and back with no consequences whatsoever. Now I’ve been told I shouldn’t lift anything weighing 25 lbs. or more for the next month.

The doctor called in prescriptions for a muscle relaxer along with a drug I could have sworn she referred to as Pregnant Zone (which, when I picked it up at the pharmacy, turned out to be Prednisone, a steroid) and said to take Extra Strength Tylenol as needed. I writhed in pain the rest of the day, couldn’t sleep Friday night and the pain continued until the middle of Saturday afternoon when – magically – the meds kicked in and I could move again. This morning I was even able to pick up our dachshund, Billy Ray. (Note to those prone to back problems: Do not surround yourself with needy six-inch-tall dogs who insist on being picked up every five minutes.)

And today, despite mild pain whenever I shift in my chair, overall stiffness and a weird tingle that shoots up and down my leg every few minutes I pretty much feel like my 25 63-year-old self again. I’m sitting on the lanai as I write, where I can see that the planter I moved is getting too much sun but there’s nothing I can do about it even if I wanted to, which I don't.

For the last 40 years, my mother, who will be 102 in April, has been telling me that getting old sucks and you know what?

She might be on to something there.

Civic lessons

Spring 200l. Ben and the Civic
en route to the Senior Prom.

It is said you should never love anything that can’t love you back but I love a 1997 red Honda Civic coupe that isn’t even mine. It belongs to my oldest son, Ben, who will turn – Oh God It Can’t Be – 32 next week.

It was purchased from a used car lot in Danbury, Conn., on a snowy Saturday 15 years ago. For months Ben had been claiming he was the only kid in his junior class who didn’t have his own car. I didn’t buy that story – surely at least one of his 200-plus classmates was equally deprived and had to take the school bus – but I did break down and buy him the car which was three years old and had only 11,000 miles on it. 

Ben immediately accessorized the car with four lighted valve stem covers that made the wheels appear to glow as they turned – perfect for an inner-city pimp but not for a boy in a town like Wilton, Conn. He kept them on the car for, maybe, a week. His second purchase, on which he spent every penny he earned working that summer, was a stereo system so elaborate it took up most of the car’s already limited trunk space.  

One Spring afternoon his senior year he was driving the car home from school. His friend Fred was in the passenger seat and our youngest son, Stuart, was in the back when an enormous buck ran out of the woods and onto the road ten feet in front of them. Realizing he was about to be hit, the buck decided to leap over the car but didn’t make it. He crashed through the windshield, his head landing on the console between Ben and Fred. None of the boys were hurt but the deer, who was still kicking, had to be dragged out of the car and shot by the police. My wife’s knees buckled when we went to see the car that night. The front end was smashed in, the windshield – thank you God for safety glass – had shattered into a million pieces but held, and both the exterior and interior were drenched in deer blood and covered with deer hair. The insurance adjuster said he could either declare the car a total loss and Safeco would write a check for its value, or we could see if the car could be repaired. Ben wanted it repaired. And it was.

Three months later an elderly driver sideswiped the car. Once again, the Civic was nearly totaled. Once again, Ben opted to have it repaired.

Ben started college at the University of Michigan in the fall of 2001. Michigan didn’t allow freshmen to bring cars, so the Civic sat in our driveway for a year until our youngest son got his license. Ben ultimately decided he didn’t need the car at all in Ann Arbor. He said it would be a hassle not to mention expensive to find parking, so Stuart drove it until he went off to a college that also didn’t allow freshmen to bring cars.

In 2005, Ben started law school in Philadelphia. It would have cost a fortune to park the Civic in Philly. He didn’t need it there anyway so it stayed in our driveway.

My wife and I bought a Florida vacation house the same year, so we commandeered the Civic for use as our Florida wheels. The car had lost its hubcaps, so I went to Wal-mart and paid $9.99 for a set of four plastic ones.

One night we met friends for drinks, then followed them to an upscale Naples restaurant that offered valet parking. Attendants rushed to open the doors of our friends’ Jaguar but ignored us. After waiting several minutes for someone to at least acknowledge us, I parked the car myself and saved $5 in tips.

In 2007, we sold our first Florida house and bought a new one in a country club community that required residents and guests to pass through not one but two sets of manned gates. When we showed up behind the moving van, the guards refused to believe that anyone driving a ’97 Civic with Wal-mart hubcaps – two were missing by then – could possibly afford to live there and treated us shabbily. We complained to the management company which instructed the snooty guards to let us in, but for months we were constantly being stopped by the “Privacy Patrol” whose members assumed that anyone driving a car like that didn't belong in the community.

Ben graduated from law school in 2008 and reclaimed the car, taking it with him to Washington, D.C., where he had accepted a job. He got married two years ago and last March, he and his wife, Heidi, became the parents of a baby boy. Ben drove Heidi in the Civic to the hospital, where their son, Teddy, was safely delivered five weeks early.

That night Ben and Stuart, who also lives in D.C., were at Ben’s house smoking celebratory cigars when Ben received a call that Teddy had been rushed cross-town to a children’s hospital with respiratory problems. The doctors weren't sure he was going to make it. Ben jumped in the Civic and headed for the hospital. Not being sure where it was, he got lost along the way – a story that brought a lump to my throat when I thought about my boy driving around a big city at midnight, lost and frantic with worry about his own boy.

Spring 2014: Ben brings
Teddy home from the hospital in the Civic.

Three weeks later Teddy came home from children’s hospital in the Civic.

Today, the Civic spends 99.9999 percent of its time outside Ben and Heidi's Washington townhouse in a parking lot it shares with two Mercedes, a Lexus, three BMWs, two Cadillacs and an Audi.  Only one hubcap remains and it’s pretty much disintegrated.  The “University of Pennsylvania Law School” sticker on the back window has faded. Nobody following the car would believe an Ivy-educated lawyer could possibly be behind the wheel but he or she would be wrong. Ben has always been practical and unconcerned about what anyone thinks. He says says it's perfect for the occasional trip to the supermarket or Home Depot, which is all they need a car for in the city.

Heidi picked my wife and me up at the D.C. airport yesterday in the Civic. Teddy was in his car seat in the back. There’s a “Baby On Board” sticker in the window just like the one we had on our Volvo station wagon when his daddy was a baby.

I drove Ben and Heidi to the airport in the car this morning. They're taking a weekend vacation for the first time since Teddy's arrival. We’re having a wonderful time with our grandson. He especially loves the little red car Santa brought him that lights up and plays songs.

I‘ve told Ben I hope the Civic will someday be Teddy’s and you know what? It just might. At 18, it only has 75,000 miles on the odometer; the body and interior are in decent shape (the upholstery was replaced after the collision with the deer), and the transmission shifts as smoothly as it did the day we drove it home from Danbury.

For 15 years that little red Civic has provided safe passage through the world for the people I love the most and I can't help but love it for that.

If that sounds strange, so be it. 

Teddy behind the wheel of his little red car.

Another day in Spamalot

This morning, as usual, I checked my email. Here are some highlights:

The Executive Governor of the Central Bank of Nigeria writes that, “John T. Kehoe of 122 Fitch Way, Sacramento, CA 95864 visited this bank yesterday with a power of attorney given by your good self, granting him the benefit to process and claim your inheritance of $7,000,000.00 (Seven Million United States Dollars) for personal reasons.”

I’m thrilled my Nigerian uncle remembered me in his will – he always promised he would – but write back that I have never trusted that bastard John Kehoe and that any power of attorney he is presenting was obtained by fraudulent means. I send him my bank information -- Swift code, routing number and account number -- and tell him to wire it directly to Wells Fargo.

My local Infiniti dealer writes, “Thomas, don't forget your Infiniti may be due for service!”

I reply, “Actually, it’s past due but I won’t be visiting your dealership again. Last time I took the car in for an oil change I received one of those email surveys asking me to rate the ‘experience.’ I gave you an ‘outstanding’ in every category – even snacks, which was a lie because offering Tostitos at 9 a.m. doesn’t rate as outstanding in my book; I would have preferred a Krispy Kreme or something more time-appropriate. Within an hour of sending the survey I received a vitriolic email from your service manager berating me for not assigning a ‘Truly Exceptional’ rating to every question. So from now on I’ll be taking the car to Valvoline which doesn’t send bogus surveys”.

2@jobhleping.pl writes, "Prosze o mozliwosc przeslania informacji o kredytach dia firm, bez zaswiadczen z ZUS, US, Kredyt wyliczany na podstwaie dochodo, lub przyodua."

How gullible does he think I am? I reply, “請，能夠發送有關貸款業務信”

A message from Ropes & Gray headlined “Court Notification” gets my attention:  “Please take notice that you have to come to the hearing of your case that will be held in the Arkansas court of Appeals on January 23th, 2015. The subject of the hearing – illegal use of software. Your attendance is required. You may download the detailed pretrial notice, you are highly recommended to study it thoroughly in advance.”

I call American and Southwest but there’s no way I can get to Arkansas today – all flights are sold out.  I call my Arkansas counsel, the Rose Law Firm, and learn that my regular attorney, Hillary Rodham, isn’t in. I write back that I plan to petition the court for a continuance. 

Rural King, the big box retailer that sells windmills, tractors and other farm-related stuff, recently and inexplicably opened a store in my suburban tropical neighborhood -- I was the only customer last time I stopped in for free popcorn. They've written to notify me about a "FLASH SALE: Titanium Drill Bits 50% Off Today Only!" 

I reply that I don’t know what a Titanium Drill Bit is but thanks for thinking of me.

Twitter -- I signed up for an account years ago but only used it once or twice because it’s even dumber than Facebook -- keeps trying to get me interested in using its service by sending email about Twitter messages that are “popular in your network” (whatever that means. I don’t have a network). Today’s is from the Rev. Al Sharpton who tweets, “Meeting in NYC with LA Clippers Owner Steve Ballmer (Microsoft confounder) on diversity in sports/tech industries.”

Al, if you tweeted you were meeting with Ballmer to see if he’ll lend you the money to pay the millions you reportedly owe in back taxes … that you are sorry your race-baiting led to the suicide of a white policeman you accused of raping Tawana Brawley who later admitted she made the whole story up … or that you have realized the cable news channel on which you appear every night is America’s version of Pravda … all of those insights might be newsworthy. Until then, you can delete me from your “network.” I would have said all of that and more but couldn’t say it in 140 characters or less which is why I don't use Twitter in the first place.

Larry Edelson of Money & Markets has written an urgent message inviting me to watch his latest video, “When the Dow hits 31,000+ in 2016, How Rich Will You Be?”

I write back that I have no idea how rich I’ll be when the Dow doubles. All I know for sure is that I’m about to be $7,000,000 (United States Dollars) richer thanks to my Nigerian uncle.

Top Secret!!! A Memo from John Kerry to President Obama

To: President Obama

From: John Kerry, Secretary of State

Yesterday was a kick-ass day in the history of American diplomacy – the day I brought James Taylor to Paris to sing “You’ve Got a Friend" as a means of showing the people of France how much we love and support them after that terrorist attack. Rolling Stone called it “Brilliant.” Billboard says it demonstrated “out of the box thinking.”

Anyway, it gave me a great idea. You know how Republicans are always bitching about the budget? Well, here’s a way to save billions. Let’s shutter our embassies worldwide ... fire the employees ... and, while we’re at it, convert the State Department building in D.C. to condos. All we really need to do when we want to communicate with other countries is send an e-song! I’m not kidding. You can send a song as a gift on iTunes for $1.29, which is certainly cheaper than maintaining an embassy and staff.  What a Wonderful World It Would Be (LOL) if EVERY country would follow our lead and take up musical diplomacy!!!!

Here’s a list of songs I had my assistant compile for special occasions. This is just the tip of the iceberg (a phrase that brings to mind the theme song from Titanic, "My Heart Will Go On and On," by Celine Dion). There are thousands of others we can choose on a case-by-case basis. When something happens or is about to happen that requires diplomacy, the one remaining staff member at State can simply email the song!

With or Without You (U-2): This would be a great song to send to a country that refuses to cooperate with us. For instance, we could have sent it to Pakistan when they weren’t helping us search for bin Laden.

I Can’t Go For That (No Can Do) – Hall & Oates: When those stupid Israelis – we really should have a chat about them one of these days -- start shelling the West Bank again (and they will!!!!), this will let them know we are totally FED UP!

Tragedy – Bee Gees: The “go to” song to send to any of our allies that have experienced something bad. (Think South Korea when that ferryboat full of schoolkids sunk.) I actually thought about bringing the Bee Gees to Paris to perform this yesterday but then someone told me that two of them are DEAD!!

The Arms of an Angel – Sarah McLachlan: What a loving way to comfort the people of a country whose leader has died. (“Tracks of My Tears” by Smokey Robinson would be another good choice!) 

We Gotta Get Out of this Place –The Animals: You’ve been wanting to let Afghanistan know we don’t want to keep troops there anymore. Send this song!

Stand By Me – Various Artists: This'll do the trick when we are trying to enlist the help of a country to pass a UN resolution. I like Little Milton’s version best but Maurice White’s is pretty darn good too!!!

All Night Long (All Night) – Lionel Richie: When we are about to bomb ISIS, al Qaeda, Canada, etc.,  we can let them know it’d be easier if they’d simply surrender by sending this song as a clue about how long we plan to bombard their sorry asses!

Disco Duck – Rick Dees: I can’t think of an appropriate occasion for this one but I’m sure I will – it’s Teresa’s and my fave song!!! Maybe we can send it to Kim Jong-un of North Korea next time he conducts a nuclear test???? Whatever!!!!

Please give my love to Michelle My Belle (LOL) … and thanks for reading!!!! 

Kindest regards,

JK

A personal apology to the people of France

Remember the outrage when, in 2003, the French government refused to endorse America’s invasion of Iraq? One on-the-ball member of Congress, Republican Bob Ney of Ohio (who later resigned and spent time in the slammer for corruption) even proposed that French fries, a staple of the American diet, should be renamed “Freedom Fries” in protest.

Well, after today, France has earned the right to put the "French" back into "Fries."

Last week's attack by Islamic terrorists on the Parisian satire magazine Charlie Hebdo resulted in the deaths of 10 staff members and two policemen. On Sunday a group of world leaders converged on Paris to show their solidarity and sympathy. But the US, instead of sending the president,VP or Secretary of State John Kerry, sent only its ambassador, which many French citizens considered a thumb of the nose. 

Today, Kerry came to Paris to make amends and demonstrate that the US stands firmly with the people of France against terrorism. What did he bring with him?  Guns? Tanks? Intelligence?  

No, he brought James Taylor to sing You’ve Got a Friend.

Sweet Baby James got up there on stage and sang his heart out:

When you’re down and troubled, and you need a helping hand.

And nothing, whoa, nothing is going right.

Close your eyes and think of me,

And soon I will be there.

To brighten up even your darkest nights.

I've seen fries and I've seen rain but I never thought I'd see anything this stupid.

People of France, I know I'm speaking for millions -- tens of millions -- of my countrymen when I ask you to please accept my personal apology for the imbeciles representing my country who, apparently, have the judgement and mentality of junior high-aged girls.

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Held hostage by technology

We moved into a new house last month. 

OK, it’s not new but it’s new to us. It was built in 1993 which, in this part of Florida where new homes are being slapped up on every square inch of buildable land, would qualify it for inclusion on the National Registry of Historic Places. But it’s as good as new. The previous owner, a German engineer, maintained the house like Air Force One. The roof is new. So are all the appliances, which are designed for use by people with PhDs in engineering and/or computer science and/or who were born after the first Bush administration.

Take the master thermostat. It supposedly controls the temperature and humidity. I say “supposedly” because the only way it would actually control them is if I could figure out how the hell to program it. It insists I tell it how hot/cold/humid I want the house to be when I wake up, leave for work (I’m home all day but that isn’t an option), return home and go to bed every single day of the week. (Hmm, on Mondays I like to drift off to dreamland at 73 degrees with 65 percent humidity. Tuesdays I prefer 317 degrees with 100 percent humidity. How stupid.)  These features ostensibly save energy and money, but having the ability to turn the damn thermostat on and off when I want would save even more, not to mention save money I have to spend on blood pressure medication when mine soars due to frustration. Here’s an idea for you, Honeywell. How about a thermostat with three settings – Cool, Heat and Off, and a dial I can turn to the temperature I want?

The washer and dryer sing ditties when their doors are opened. (If I wanted to listen to music, I’d turn on the radio.) The washer’s computer decides what type of fabrics have been loaded, how dirty they are and for how long and at what temperature the clothes need to be washed. Once the cycle starts, it locks the door so I can’t throw in socks I found under the bed. The dryer also analyzes the fabric type then determines the temperature and time needed to dry the clothes. Screw you, Maytag. How about a washer that washes clothes in my choice of hot, medium or cold water for the number of minutes I want and that lets me open and close the doors mid-cycle, along with a dryer that lets me decide how long I want the clothes to dry? I believe you last made what I’m describing sometime in the 1970s. Do you have any of those in a warehouse somewhere? I’ll trade you.

The refrigerator’s computer announces, when I use the water dispenser, how many ounces it is pouring into the glass. There is a button that tells me what percentage of the water filter’s life is remaining along with a keypad I’m supposed to use to enter what types of groceries are being placed in various compartments so it will know the precise temperature at which they should be kept. Kiss my ass, KitchenAid. I want a fridge/freezer with two settings – one for the fridge temp, one for the freezer temp. I don’t care how many ounces of water I’m putting in a glass, and don't want expensive water filters that need changing regularly. 

The dishwasher’s computer has more options than Baskin Robbins – steam, power wash, scrub, regular, pre-rinse, rinse, post-rinse, pots, pans, crystal, normal, super normal, abnormal, paranormal, etc. It runs so quietly it can’t be heard yet takes two hours to wash the dishes during which it flashes a laser beam as a warning not to open the door mid-cycle lest one be par-boiled by the steam cycle. Bite me, Bosch. How about a dishwasher that washes the dishes quickly? If you really want to provide useful technology, how about a dishwasher that sucks dirty dishes out of the sink, loads them into the proper slots, washes them, then puts the clean dishes away?

The security system is more complicated than anything they could possibly have at the Louvre. I have a code. My wife has a code. The dachshunds have codes and they can’t even reach the keypads. There is a code to enter if we are being held at gunpoint (as if I can tell my captor, “Excuse me, you'll have to untie me from this chair because I need to get up to enter a code that will let someone at a monitoring station in India know you’re holding me hostage”). There’s probably a code to enter if someone is using a bow and arrow instead of a gun. How about an alarm that has “off” and “on” buttons and that summons help if someone breaks in or if one of these sophisticated appliances shorts out and catches fire?

All of this technology is supposed to make life easier but it doesn’t.  These computer-controlled devices are toys just waiting to break at which point I’ll have to shell out money to repair features I never wanted, needed or understood in the first place.

Digital technology has resulted in better TVs, telephones and many other electronic devices but there is no point of putting it into things that performed just fine without it. Many of the appliances and household gizmos we use every day were easier to operate 40 years ago and worked just as well if not better than the ones they make today.

Don’t you agree?

12 rules for home buyers and sellers

As I have learned, having done it twice within 15 months, buying and selling real estate, and moving from one house to another, is stressful. There are, however, a dozen hard and fast rules you can count on to help take the uncertainty out of the process.

1.     The day you find your dream house and decide to make an offer, your realtor® will announce the market has heated up suddenly and that, if you really want the house, you’d better come in as close to the seller’s asking price as possible or, to be on the safe side, because there are sure to be multiple bids, over it.

2.     The day after your offer has been accepted and you sign the papers to place your current house on the market, the same realtor®, who assured you your home was so desirable it would sell instantly, will inform you the market has suddenly dried up (“This Ebola scare has people panicked”) and you need to list it for substantially less than he or she said you would get for it.

3.     The week you list your current house for less than you had been told it would fetch, three other houses on your block will go on the market, making potential buyers think there is something wrong with the neighborhood and scaring them away.

4.     The expert you hire to inspect the house you are buying will find two or three picayune issues the seller needs to take care of before the contract becomes official such as “loose closet doorknob” or “water spigot on north side of house shows signs of rust.” The seller’s out-of-pocket cost to bring the house up to snuff so you can proceed to closing will be approximately 1/546^th of one-tenth of one percent of the purchase price.

5.     The week before you close on your new house (even though you haven’t even had as much as a nibble on your current one), you will learn that it is customary, according to the Board of Realtors in the jurisdiction in which you are buying, for the buyer to pay the cost of title insurance and you will have to cough up $5,000 you hadn’t expected to spend.

6.     The day you take possession of your new house, at least one major appliance that was working perfectly the previous day during the final walk-though – the A/C compressor, furnace, water heater, fridge, washer, dryer, oven or dishwasher  – will fail. After spending $500 to have a technician tell you it can’t be repaired, you will have to buy a new one.

7.     The week after closing on your new house, you will receive in the mail a notice from the county that your property taxes have gone up 25 percent and, if you live in a planned community, a notice of a special assessment.

8.  When, nine months later, having reduced the asking price of your current house three or four times, you finally receive an offer, the inspector the party buying your house hires will find things like “dangerous levels of cancer-causing radon gas present throughout house” or “sewer line has been compromised by tree roots.” (The beautiful tree in question, that you will learn needs to be removed in order to repair the sewer line, will be one of the primary reasons the buyer cited for buying your house in the first place.) You will have no choice but to agree to lower your price even more in order to proceed with the sale and to mitigate (a word you will hear over and over which basically means spend money) whatever’s wrong with the house. 

9.     After you have signed a contract to sell your current house and agreed to make the costly repairs the buyer’s inspector noted, but before the closing date, at least one major appliance – most likely one that is built-in and matches your kitchen cabinets -- will become inoperable. You will call in a technician who, after charging $500 for labor and parts in an attempt to fix it, will announce it can’t be repaired. You will have to purchase a new one for your buyer and hire a cabinetmaker to replicate the woodwork that covered it. After several days of attempting to match the stain, the cabinet maker will announce it is impossible, so the cabinets need to be sanded and restained -- reducing your take even more.

10.  The week before you officially close the sale of your current house, you will learn that it is customary, according to the Board of Realtors in that jurisdiction, for the seller to pay the cost of title insurance, reducing your take by another $5,000.

11.  There will be rain (and/or snow and/or hail and/or heat and/or cold) of Biblical proportions the day you move.

12.  The movers will gouge the walls and floors of the house you are selling as they move out, and you will have to write a check to the purchasers to pay for repairs. If you had improvements made to the new house before you moved in, such as new flooring or painting, the movers will gouge the floors and walls in that house as well.

The boy who said "Ba"

Until he was three, our son Stuart's vocabulary consisted of one word – “Ba,” short for “bottle.”

We spent thousands on speech therapists and specialists. All said there was nothing wrong and that, like Mr. Ed, he’d speak when he had something to say. But we worried ourselves sick nevertheless.

Shortly before Christmas, 1989, my wife, Judy, sat down and wrote the following story that turned out to be more than a worried mother's gift to her son who, I’m happy to report, grew up talking just fine. It's a gift for all children who are different and to the parents who love them. 

The boy who said “Ba”

There once was a boy who could only say “Ba,”

Much to the dismay of his mother and pa.

He said “Ba” for his supper and “Ba” for his blocks.

He said “Ba” for his spoon and his toothbrush and socks.

If he wanted his wagon or wanted his sled,

The single word “Ba” was he one word he said.

His parents were worried for they’d never heard

Of a vocabulary of only one word.

So they tried all solutions: They took him on trips.

They read him fine books, and they tickled his lips.

They fed him rich custards of ripe ba-na-na.

And he thought it all over, but still just said “Ba.”

They went to the doctor who shrugged as she said,

(After looking him over from toe up to head),

“Don’t worry, don’t scold him. He mustn’t be shushed.

He’ll speak when he’s ready, he cannot be rushed.

This isn’t an illness, no strange mania,

You just have a healthy young boy who says 'Ba.'"

But people would shake their heads, “My what a shame,

There’s the boy who says ‘Ba’ instead of his name.”

And mean kids would snicker, they’d giggle and ha

At the funny young boy who would only say “Ba.”

Which made the boy sad and he sometimes felt blue.

But a boy’s gotta do what a boy’s gotta do.

So all that he witnessed and all that he saw

He only expressed by the single word: "Ba."

And then one December, before Christmas Day,

The boy’s church put on a Nativity play.

Each child had a costume. Each child learned a part.

Each child had a message that came from the heart.

But the boy (yes, you guessed it) was cast as a sheep.

And because of his “problem” was told just to sleep.

“Until,” said the teacher, (who choked her guffaw),

“At the end of the play, Sheep, you have one line: 'Ba.'"

For days they all practiced each child’s special line.

And at last, they were perfect, with polish and shine.

But the boy who said “Ba” never practiced, it’s said.

(After all, why rehearse the one word in your head?)

And there, almost off-stage, beneath all the straw,

Crouched the sheep-costumed creature,

The boy who said “Ba.”

Well no one knows why, on Nativity Day,

But an air of disaster encircled the play.

The angel forgot what had once been foretold.

A wise man unwisely spilled out all his gold.

One shepherd got clumsy and tripped on his staff.

Another got nervous and started to laugh.

The doll in the manger fell out with a thud.

The cow stubbed his toe and it slowly drew blood.

Joseph’s eyes watered, he started to sneeze

Sending Mary’s veil flying, struck broad by the breeze.

The donkey got hiccups and started to hic,

And the innkeeper rushed from the stage, feeling sick,

Somehow catching his robe on the stable’s front door,

That made the whole structure crash down on the floor.

And there in the midst of this massive faux pas

Came a voice loud and clear – one sweet glorious “Ba.”

And slowly it swelled like a thunderous hurrah,

As the young boy stood stage-front and sang out his “Ba.”

And then, if by magic, the sweet “Ba”-ing grew.

It swelled from the rafters and shook every pew.

Each flickering flame on the candelabra

Felt the pulsating note of the little boy’s “Ba.”

And each person present remembers the chills

As the sound bounced through windows,

Across fields and hills.

It’s said they could hear it from Alaba-ma,

Way up to the snowbanks of Minneso-ta.

It jiggled the racecars in India-na.

And startled the lizards in Arizo-na.

It melted an iceberg up in Alas-ka.

And slivered the cornhusks out in Nebras-ka.

And down in the jungles of Argenti-na

To the uppermost province of north Cana-da,

(And even, it’s whispered, down in Austral-ia),

They could hear the faint echoes of one heartfelt “Ba.”

The young boy smiled broadly. Today was his day.

For the first time his “Ba” was the right thing to say.

And imagine the pleasure, just think of the awe,

For the one child who knew his lines:

He who said “Ba.”