More About Big Beautiful Things

It was a master stroke of BS to call a crap-bag of laws a big, beautiful thing (BBT) so it got me thinking of other BBTs, not to be confused with BLTs. The list is subjective, biased, and often fictional so if you have a complaint, stuff it in your big, beautiful arse.

And there is the first BBT: Irish/Welsh/Scottish movie dialogue. Not having been to any of those areas, I can’t confirm they talk the same in their natural settings as they do in movies, but they have a wonderfully melodic way of ambling around a thought, not expressing it directly, and yet putting more meaning into it than a shorter, succinct sentence. The Gift of The Blarney Stone? Google it. I dare you, you fecking shite. And watch The Snatch, a 2000 Brad Pitt movie with the most enjoyable, unintelligible English dialogue ever. BBT! Ooh, closed captioning, another BBT!

Shopping on a budget? You should be. Several stores in my area say they want my business but only one meets my budgetary, hours of operation, and proximity requirements. No, I won’t say who it is. I visited one of the stores on my “too high a price list” the other day, however, and was pleasantly surprised, twice. First, they had a yellow tag on muffins in the bread aisle. That usually means “BOGO”, or Buy one Get One free. BBT! Without putting on my glasses I grabbed two packages and headed for the self-checkout. Sadly, even with my glasses and 9-digit membership/phone number the machine still tried to charge for two, instead of one. It is an age-old grocery trick: leave the yellow tags on AFTER the sales end and see what happens at check-out. Some people pay the regular price rather than make a scene. As the steam rose in my brain a sweet, older lady approached to see if I was about to faint. Before I could sputter my anger, she said this: “Oh, honey. Those are buy one get TWO free. You need to ring up three and the price of two will be credited.”: What? WHAT!!!? She did it manually while I ran for a third package. When I returned, wow, another BBT!

As a senior, enough small things go wrong on a daily basis so when things go right, we are surprised into thinking they are BBTs. They’re not but here are a few examples of lesser, aspirational BBTs nonetheless. After the second hip surgery last month a walker became my constant companion for several weeks, along with an accessory I call “Reacher”. For the last two weeks I’ve dropped things on purpose just to enjoy the use of Reacher. My name is Robert and I am an addict.

Senior eyesight seems to get better and then get worse and then get better and then get worse…but it always gets better the day of my AMD shots**. It’s a BBT to see me ace those eye charts as a 73-year-old. Maybe one of the nurses will be impressed and ask me out…

My old (both old and former) girlfriend has reached “perfunctory response status” in regard to my texts and updates. Perfunctoriness (sic) leads to humorous responses. My text said some medical tests were positive but one was bad and needs more testing. Her response was “Good news!” BBT? I’ll accept the judge’s ruling.

Recent conversations have been about how many voices there are in our heads. It’s a BBT thing because I know, now, mine is not the only skull inhabited by more than just a Big Beautiful Brain. Or is it Ai speaking?  And how could I forget Thurber’s character, Walter Mitty? Or the movie “Inside Out”? Crap. I need to remember remembering is the first thing to go.

And then there is the Air Fryer. A YUGE*** BBT. As a man who loves to cook and hates to clean, my $24 Air Fryer from Walmart has raised the gastronomic level of life. Men living alone, pay attention: grilled cheese, day old chicken, two day old pizza, left-over hamburgers and hot dogs from July 4th, toast, and more, all done to perfection with minimal clean up, no butter, no saggy microwave structure, a wonderfully crisp, like new

I went away for a few moments. Don’t ask, just go get an Air Fryer.

** Do not google this procedure if you have a weak stomach. It happens to people like me every three months.

*** Thanks, Donald, for the new word. BBT!

As Luck Would Have It…

One of the awesome and unfathomable aspects of life is Luck. Fate. Chance. It begins at birth and never really ends. It is the luck/fate/chance of genetics which first forms us and sets us on a path to whatever it is we are supposed to do.

The first, Genetic Luck, we have no control over, as it is determined by the luck/fate/chance surrounding the lives of our parents, which illustrates the duality of luck and its partnership with context/perspective. I am unlucky to not be 6 foot 6 inches and earning millions of dollars playing basketball in the NBA.

But I am lucky to not have genetic irregularities like blindness and deafness, or deformed extremities, or even no extremities.

So am I lucky or unlucky? Let’s use the slot machines at Turning Stone Resort and Casino (TS) to find out.

When I first moved to upstate NY, I frequented TS about twice a week, and earned measurable rewards in playing a certain Japanese slot machine. Good luck, right? Shortly after I started playing it, the machine was removed. Bad luck?

Since then I’ve searched for another machine at TS that allows 25 cent bets, so my $5 bankroll would last a little longer. But it was like looking for a unicorn, as TS management removed low income machines and replaced them with greedier ones. My $5 now lasts about 10 plays on a 50 cent machine, unless it “lets” me win another 50 cents, then its 11 plays. Bad luck?

It was so disheartening I stopped playing. Good luck?

My recent hip replacement (VERY good luck!) kept me from TS for 4 weeks. I use the Fitness Center at TS, by the way, which is why I visit so much, and had to stay away until after recovery.

When I returned, it was hard to find even 50 cent machines. That is, on the gaming floor, not the Fitness Center. But I did find one gathering dust in a corner off a side hallway. Luck? It hurt, but I played out my $5 without winning a cent and got up to leave, unhappy as can be, and down $5. Unlucky?

So there I was pissed, as well as unlucky, and said to myself, “Screw it, blow another $5. It’s Christmas.” It was and why that mattered, is irrelevant, maybe. When I slid the new, crisp $5 bill into the slot of the slot machine, I could feel myself slowly going over the precipice of recreational gambling and falling into the deep, dark abyss of addiction. I immediately promised: “One play. Just one”. (Where we at on lucky, unlucky? Lost track.)

It doesn’t matter. The machine lit up like a Christmas Tree (irony?) and started making sounds and sights only ever associated with “Jackpot!”. When it was done jingling and sirening (sic), I kept my promise and cashed out after one play. Lucky.

I stuffed the winnings into my wallet and walked to my car a happy man, and let Luck have some credit, too: with apologies to Lou Gehrig, I am the luckiest man on the face of the earth. For now.

And the $24.35 I won will help with medical bills in the New Year.

Remember: context/perspective.