The Time I Personally Insulted a Very Angry Man I'd Never Met

Say hello to the little friend who
inspired one of my catchphrases.

Those who know me to a certain degree are quite aware that among my many idiosyncrasies is my habit of lodging a phrase — based on something I've read or viewed — into my head and repeating it, uh, repeatedly, only to abandon it abruptly and latch onto some other series of bon mots that are not all that bon.

Then, years later, I'll run into a former college classmate or co-worker from one of my many previous locations of employ and he'll ask me if I still say, for instance, "Pork chop sandwiches!" And sometimes I'll forget that I ever said "Pork chop sandwiches!" even though this particular person's mnemonic device for "Anthony, with whom I used to work" is PORK-CHOP SANDWICHES.

For unknown reasons, I suddenly thought of one of those long-abandoned phrases I used to say. To explain the reference I will touch on one of the most enjoyable films of all time, early gangsta rap, and my college-magazine experience.

And a good chunk of what follows is probably Not Suitable For Work, but that probably doesn't matter. You ready?

The Time a Somewhat Drunken Crazy Lady Jumped Into My Car

I'll have to hitchhike with the other hand.

I didn't post last week. My niece stayed with us for a week and I didn't have much time to do much of anything. Right now I'm blogging shortly after the first of what will be two surgeries for my carpal tunnel syndrome. There's really not much to say about the surgery other than it seemed to go well, and I have to type this post with just one hand.

So, I'll return to blogging with a brief anecdote about my only notable experience with a hitchhiker.

Though I haven't read any data on hitchhiking, I'm guessing that the practice has been in steep decline over the past several decades, along with other pastimes like playing with Tinkertoys or making 8-track mixtapes. There are two memories from my childhood related to hitchhiking:

Like the Most Memorable Scene in "There's Something About Mary," but Not Really

I know I used this image before, but it's an
accurate representation of what my
groggy state felt like in the morning.

Here we go with the thrilling conclusion to my three-part series, "The Anthony Show Goes to the Sleep Center." I've discussed my arrival, being wired to a machine, and an evening that included one of the craziest dreams I've even had.

Today I'll tell you all how it ended.

After being roused by my caretaker, Harold, he quickly went to work removing the wires that were attached to my head, chest, and legs, as well as whatever it was that was wrapped around the front of my face and protruded into my nose, and the red light that was taped to my finger.

"How'd you sleep?" he asked.

"I don't know," I replied. "I guess you'll let me know in a week." Harold chuckled softly.

I Hope the Sleep Study Can't Record My Dreams!

What Steve-O of Jackass
will look like in 30 years,
if Steve-O lives that long.

When I previously blogged, I was dealing with a somewhat fitful night of slumber at the sleep center. I'd already woken up a couple of times and had to summon my caretaker, Harold, to unhook from a machine all the wires attached to my head, chest, and legs so I could take a leak.

Eventually I fell asleep again, and then I had The Dream, which I'll try to explain in as much detail as possible.

Keep in mind that I didn't "write" this dream, so I can't necessarily be held responsible for the weirdness that was crafted by my subconscious. I'm sure you've all had crazy dreams, too, dreams that are rendered crazier when you're sleeping in a strange bed.

So anyway, here it is...

You'd Think a "Sleep Study" Would as Easy as, uh, Sleeping

Home sweet home!

This is a busy month for me, healthwise. At the end of July, I'm having the first of two carpal tunnel syndrome surgeries, followed by the removal of a non-working vein in my leg. Since I've turned 40, I've started to address some of my lingering ailments.

Sunday night I continued the process of dealing with what could possibly be sleep-related issues. I always feel tired, but I'd chalked that up to having children in the house and my late bedtimes, which routinely exceed midnight. But Mrs. The Anthony Show has noted that I occasionally snore (and by "noted" I mean "would smother me with a pillow if she weren't so groggy because of the fact that"), so I made an appointment with a sleep specialist, who, after hearing my response to a number of questions about my sleep habits, suggested I go to the sleep center for a study.

And I Never Learned Mister Softee's First Name

My second father.

All that blogging I did for Tuesday's post about ice cream, combined with Father of the Anthony Show's birthday yesterday, brought back some summer memories that involved the ice cream gentlemen who roamed my neighborhood.

The main guys who worked the territory were Mister Softee, who usually showed up in the early afternoon, and the Circus Man — I still don't know what circuses have to do with ice cream — who'd swing by after dinner.

When my brother and I were young, too young to have any money of our own, the only truck we were allowed to patronize was Señor Softee. Dad's logic was that Monsieur Softee sold actual ice cream, not the "candy and junk" that the Circus Man offered. Back then, a basic soft-serve cone cost only 50 cents, so Dad could send us out of the house with a buck and we'd be rather satisfied for the next 20 minutes.

My brother and I never went to camp, except for one horrendous two-week experience that I'll probably blog about at another time, so the ice cream man appearances helped us know what time it was during the summer.

We All Yell for Homemade Ice Cream

Oh yes.

Where most guys get the craving to build a man cave or tune up some kind of automobile engine or climb a mountain backward or jump off a bridge while on fire and tied to a large rubber band, I'm always seeking my next culinary accomplishment.

A couple of months after splurging on my Zoku ice pop maker, I found myself itching to make homemade ice cream; it's not quite my "climbing Mount Everest" ambition, it's probably up there with Mount McKinley.

All I needed...

Swapping Heads for Convenience and Profit, or: United Media Memories, Part 4

No chapter on how cartooning causes
a lapse into despair and madness.

My previous "weird" United Media tale concerned one of my co-workers. Today's is about one of the cartoonists whose work we syndicated.

I should begin by noting that to be a syndicated cartoonist, even if you're not a licensing machine like "Dilbert" or "Garfield," is to be in very exclusive company. Back in the mid-1990s, when I worked at United Media, I saw the contract for one of our lesser cartoonists ("lesser" not in quality but in the sheer numbers of newspapers carrying his strip) and the guy was making like 65 grand to draw funny pictures.

So it's not a bad gig, considering a cartoonist is probably getting paid for other illustration work, or whatever he's doing to fill the several hours that he's not drawing comics for United Media.