Maybe you've said to yourself, "I know there is a specialness about March 31st, but I can't quite put my finger on it." Maybe you even said it today, on March 31st. For instance, did you know that on March 31st, 1889, the Eiffel Tower opened? Or that in 1918 Daylight Savings Time went into effect for the very first time in the US? Those were exciting times, I'm sure. Did you also know that Franz Joseph Haydn died on March 31st in 1809? As did Knute Rockne in 1931 and Jesse Owens in 1980. Those were sadder days, if you were around for them. Cesare Chavez was born on March 31st, as were Al Gore, Rhea Pearlman, Herb Alpert (but not the Tijuana Brass), Liz Claiborne, Christopher Walken, Barney Frank, Patric Leahey, Rene Descartes and a couple of Popes, Benedict IXV and Pius IV. Oh yeah, and me, in 1950, if you were curious. I think I've lived through the greatest period in history. Maybe everyone (except the Popes) thinks that, but look at the evidence. When I was born, almost no one had a TV, radio was the medium of the day. Cross-country travel was mostly by train. Everyone got their news via CBS, ABC, NBC or the newspapers. Black people were not permitted to eat, sleep or go to school with white people. Now a black man is president. Women were mostly moms, now we don't bat an eye at a woman in any job or career. When I first started out at Tedious systems, we had men's jobs and women's jobs, black jobs, Hispanic jobs and white men only jobs. I went from having a boss in 1969 who said that he would never having a "N" working for him, to have a black man as my boss. Times changed for the better, for sure. I was privileged to see Martin Luther King and the other heroes of the civil-rights movement fighting for equal rights for all our citizens. And Cesare Chavez fight for the rights of migrant workers. Fast food? We didn't have no stinking fast food. In fact, in the middle fifties right here in Hooterville, some guys opened a carry-out chicken place and the locals predicted that no one would actually drive somewhere and get out of their cars to get their own food. That restaurant, Lucky Wishbone, is still thriving. In my lifetime the average life span in America has gone from 69 years to 78 years. If I live long enough, I may never die. The world has seen life span increase from 46 in 1950 to 66 in 2001. Truman, Eisenhower, Kennedy, Johnson, Nixon, Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush I, Clinton, Bush II and Obama have all been president during my life. That's over 25% of all the presidents that have served. I've seen a president assassinated and another forced to resign. Two guys were never elected president, but became president anyway. Three vice-presidents served without being elected. When I was in grade school we sent a man into orbit and then to the moon and back. Polio was vanquished, along with small pox, measles (mostly), chickenpox, whooping cough and a host of other childhood killers. Cancer is no longer a death sentence. My sister Cathy died of an infection that she could easily survive today. The Black Phone Empire was dismantled and we have had a technological explosion. One that allows me to type this inane post. Ipods, Kindle, Blackberry, Iphone, PC, Mac, you name it, the break up of At&T provided it. So far, it has been an interesting time to have lived. Emphasis on the 'so far' part. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

Well, the garage door is back in business. For a mere $190, a fellow came right over and changed both of the springs. I had the option of changing out just the broken one for $140, but it seemed worth it to do both at the same time. As I mentioned yesterday, a garage door torsion spring is nothing to mess with unless you have the tools and experience to do it right. Otherwise, you are asking for a trip to the ER, if not the morgue. The spring is under tremendous tension when installed. The internet is loaded with helpful videos about how guys installed new springs and saved themselves big money. Most of them just prove the old axiom that it is the cheapest man who spends the most. The springs for my door, if you can find someone who will sell them to an idiot homeowner, cost $98 per pair. That means I paid the door guy about $90 to do a job in an hour that would have taken me three hours, assuming I didn't kill myself in the process. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

"Gather ye rose-buds while you may~ old time is still a-flyin'~ and this same flower that smiles today, tomorrow will be dyin'...." Robert Herrick. Herrick must have known about the Arizona summers, but for now the roses love spring. Speaking of spring, this spring is what opens our garage door. The gap isn't supposed to be there. The spring broke in half. I went to open the door, only to discover it wouldn't open. It's always something. A garage door spring is one of the things around the house that can kill or maim you in an instant. A broken spring is a matter for a professional, so first thing tomorrow, I'll have to call one. I hate to pay someone else to fix things, but I hate being maimed trying to do it myself even more. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

Many people have been wondering just how handsome Merle Wayne Sneed was in high school? It would be unseemly of me to judge that, but many people have commented that "damn handsome" is not an overstatement. Who am I to call people wrong? Clearly, the ravages of time have not been kind, though. The longtime reader may recall that I habitually read the obituaries in the Hooterville Daily Dish, each morning. I have observed that many people are uncomfortable with the concept of deadness. It shows up in the many euphemisms that people substitute for dead, in announcing the death of a loved one. No one wants to face the real possibility that this is all there is, even if Peggy Lee made it quite clear. In a perfect Merle Wayne Sneed inspired obituary, the opening sentence would read, "Joe Smith died March 25th." Succinct and to the point. Most people seem to prefer the phrase, 'passed away'. I can live with that I suppose. It does seem less abrupt, than died. They didn't abruptly stop living, they merely pssed away to somewhere else. Some people even feel the need to modify 'passed on'. Many folks pass on peacefully or in the company of their family. Some after a courageous battle with what ailed them. They passed on, but there was more to the story than that. According to the obits, lots of people are called home and some are even welcomed into the arms of Jesus or their loving Father. One woman's obituary went as far as to describe the scene as she was welcomed into heaven. It seems the gates were thrown open when she was welcomed in. Lots of people feel it important to speculate on the what the deceased person is doing after death. These are some examples of things that people really wrote. ...was suddenly called home to join his beloved family in heaven. ...left this Earth... ...was chosen to be an angel... ...went to heaven in a serenade of music... ...entered into the next phase of her journey... ...ran into the loving arms of our Father God and danced before Him. Passed away on March 8, 2009, to follow the footsteps of his beloved wife... ...and he is playing drums in heaven. And my favorite, ...she is happy up in heaven with her sister, drinking coffee and talking about the novellas. (Spanish language soap operas.) So there you go. As enticing as those speculations seem, I plan to go on living for the foreseeable future. Of course, when it comes to dying the foreseeable is just now. bummer. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

Today was golf day with the Seafood King, Some Guy Named Bob and The Farmer. We had a 5th today because someone's folks went out of town and left said someone with me. I was faced with the dilemma of staying home or taking him along. I was worried that he might get bored, but he didn't. In fact, he was disappointed when we finished and had to leave. Noah brought his 7-iron and Sponge Bob Square Pants golf balls and played along. According to him, he beat me 11 to 9, in some strange scoring system. He was disappointed to find out that we didn't have trophies for the "winner". Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

I wish I had internet access at work. Of course, we don't because the authorities are afraid we would misuse it. The boss has access up in her office, but that's it. Same for long-distance service on the phones. If I had internet access I could find answers to questions that I can't answer. Today a guy asked me about a type of fuse. What does type TL on fuse mean and how does it differ from a type T, he wondered? It was important to him because he had burned out a tye T and all we sell are type TL. I didn't know and couldn't find out until I got home. There are tons of things like that in the course of the day or week. Someone wondered today about a fertilizer. It would have been nice to be able to look it up. The people in charge rarely trust the little people, to their own disadvantage. Few bosses are innovators even though most think they are. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

Our front yard is undergoing a transformation. Gone are the Desert Willow tree and the Lantana bushes. Both had proved too big for the space. In their place I have planted a variety of drought-tolerant flowering bushes. Hopefully, they will provide a multicolored feast for the eyes in the years to come. Right now it looks a bit barren. Especially, if you live in a place where grass in the front yard is normal. That would be about anywhere but here, I guess. The centerpiece thus far anyway, is this lavender. It was planted last summer an is taking off. While I was taking the picture, I was startled by someone hiding on the far side. Luckily, he didn't shoot. He says that he's a Jedi Knight and is on the trail of some Storm Troopers. Fortunately, they must have seen him coming and left the area. A guy needs a good Jedi Knight from time to time. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

This is one of the items that has turned up recently in the family Facebook group my first cousins started. It is a Christmas card my folks sent out in 1955. That's me with my hand on my dad's leg. My old dad looked a lot like Humphrey Bogart. Terence Corcoran, wrote an article called, Is this the end of America?, for the Canadian paper, Financial Post. In it, he made this observation; The AIG bonus firestorm is a diversion from real issues, but it puts the ghastly political classes who make U.S. law on display for what they are: ageing self-serving demagogues who have spent decades warping the U.S. political system for their own ends. We see the system up close, law-making that is riddled with slapdash, incompetence and gamesmanship. Merle Wayne Sneed has been inarticulately trying to make the same point. Our system is so rife with corruption and quid pro quo legislation, it is sickening. Enough about that though. Perhaps you have been in suspense, wondering about Dave's door. Well, Dave didn't show up today, even though I thought I had finished the repairs. Thought is the operative word, because just when I thought I was done, I broke the door latch. Technically it was already on its last legs, but I was on the scene when it broke in half. So, now I have to go to Lowes or Home Depot to see if they have the right latch, since we don't. It's always something. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

When the US invaded Iraq, we didn't find any nuclear, chemical or biological weapons, but we found something more fearsome than any of those. We found that Saddam had amassed packs of these beasts and was preparing to unleash them on our homes. One of the problems with working in a hardware store is that your friends ask questions, or worse yet, ask for favors. Since I am a customer-focused kind of guy I don't mind favors, unless thaey are unreasonable requests, masquerading as favors. A couple of weeks ago a guy named Dave came up to me at bowling and said that he understood that I worked in a hardware store. He wanted to know which one. A couple of days later, Dave showed up in the store and asked that someone come outside with him and carry in his screen door. Dave has medical issues tha make carrying the door impossible. Dave has a beagle puppy, which if you've ever owned one, you know, is a weapon of mass destruction. Our former dog, the terrible beagle Sadie, could hear water running in the irrigation pipes and she would dig them up and chew holes in them. Dave's dog destroyed the screen in his door and broke the rollers of it by repeatedly bashing into it. She firmly believes that she is an inside dog, 24/7. Poor Dave can't leave her in unattended because she destroys whatever she come across. As a side note, the dog ate Dave's shoes while he was bringing in the door. Dave wanted us to rescreen his door and put on new rollers. Then he hit me with the favor part. Figure out a way to keep the mutt from ruining the door again. Several things occurred to me immediately, but Dave neither wanted to give away the monster or shoot it. I showed Dave some grills that can be attached to the door to protect the screen, but they were too small. Beagles are leapers. Put an obstacle in their way and they will jump to evade it. Anyway, long story short, I have been wracking my brain for the last two weeks trying to solve the problem. I even went to other stores looking for inspiration, to no avail. Finally, I think I have an idea. Hopefully tomorrow I will finish the damn thing and Dave can get it out of my life. My coworkers were full of helpful suggestions like, don't do favors, just say no and tell him it is impossible. They all were eager to tell me how they would have handled it. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

I wish we had a government of the people instead of this permanent ruling class that we are stuck with. I suppose that is part of Obama's appeal. He isn't just another privileged knucklehead taking his rightful place. The more they unpack this financial mess, the more it becomes apparent that rich and powerful that we elected to represent us, have spent considerable effort greasing the skids for the rich and powerful in the big financial firms. At the same time, the latter has provided mucho dinero to the former, in exchange for their favorable treatment. Gets old, doesn't it? The golfing trio of The Seafood King, Some Guy Named Bob and me, have temporarily become a foursome, with the addition of a winter-visiting farmer from Iowa. One Thursday, earlier this year, The Farmer was waiting around the course for an open spot and since we are just three, the guy in the pro shop told him to join us. One thing lead to another and he has become a regular. The Seafood King and I have appointed The Farmer to keep Some Guy Named Bob company, and out of our hair. Some Guy Named Bob is a wonderful man with many good qualities, but he can be maddening. Every golf shot he hits is followed by the question, "Did you see my ball?" Ironically, Some Guy Named Bob has excellent ball-dar, except when it comes to finding his own ball. He seems to feel the presence of lost golf balls and wanders all over the course, searching for them. He has hundreds of golf balls gleaned from yard sales, bargain bins and thrift shops, but there is always room for that one more. Then there is the matter of his golf cart maneuvering skills. The Seafood King and I walk the course and carry our bags. Some Guy Named Bob rides a cart. If he rides alone, bad things have happened. I'm not kidding when I tell you that he once ripped the top off a golf cart because he underestimated how low a tree limb was. The Farmer has handled the job of Some Guy Named Bob's navigator. Near-misses are way down. Alas, after next Thursday, The Farmer will head back to Iowa leaving every man for himself. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

My boss hires high schools kids to do the janitor work in the store. During the time I've been there, we have had three of them. They eventually either get fired, or promoted to cashier and replaced by the next. Our latest, is a kid named Ben. Of the kids the boss has hired, Ben is the best. He is smart, a hard worker and a bit of a smart ass. He has also become my little buddy and loves to give me a hard time. Last week he came in on Wednesday and told me that he noticed that I was wearing the same shirt that I wore on Tuesday. He said that he found that odd. I told him that I was worried about his attention to my apparel, but I explained my labor saving shirt strategy to him. I work two days in a row, then I'm off. Since I work inside and wear a stupid red vest at work, I see no need to put on a clean shirt everyday. So, I wear the same shirt Tuesday and Wednesday, then I wear a different one Friday and Saturday. That's two shirts a week that I don't have to wash and dry. Simple. He still thinks it's odd, but it's a kid thing. He'll appreciate the Merle Wayne Sneed wisdom one day, maybe when his mom stops doing his laundry. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

A guy came into the store today wearing this tee shirt. I have always been amused by the absurd and this just cracked me up. I don't know how or even if you celebrate St. Patrick's Day, but it seems to me that it is losing its popularity. Only a few customers seemed to be wearing green or things St' Pats. a couple of people mentioned it, but I just asked, "Oh, is that today?" We have a guy in the store who claims to be of Irish lineage, and at least once a day I hear him telling someone an "Irish" joke, usually followed by the explanation, "I can tell that because I'm Irish." I was expecting the worst from him today, but he was unusually subdued. I did hear him say that only an Irishman was too lazt to celebrate St' Paddy's Day, apparently in response to a question about his low-key nature today. In big news, though, my arch nemesis, "Double Starbucks Mocha, Don't F*ck with My Break" is quitting in either April or May. She's getting married, or so she claims. Woo-hoo! Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

The roses are starting to bloom. It's a nice time of the year. Our highs are in the 70's and lows in the 40's. Hard to beat. It was a busy weekend and missed posting for a couple of days. You're welcome. I read in the paper that my 9th-grade algebra teacher died a few days ago. Mr. Thorp was a wonderful teacher, who did the best he could with me. As far as I know, my record was never held against him. I'm nearly four times as old now, as when I had Mr. Thorp in high school. He was only twice as old when he died, as when he was my teacher. If I had more attention in class, I might be able to explain how that is possible. What the heck, as a final tribute to Mr. Thorp, I'll give it a shot. If X equals my age in high school, my current age is approximately, 4X. If Y equals Mr. Thorp's age in 1965, his age when he died was 2Y. Since both are divisible by 2, we can simplify the terms to Y=2X. I will be 59 in a couple of weeks so, 2(59)=118. Mr Thorpe was 118 when he died. Man he sure lived a long life. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

Longtime readers may recall that the Lovely Mrs. Sneed earned her Masters in Marriage and Family Therapy this past May, culminating something like four years of hard work. All while still being a full-time, no, more than full-time, pediatric nurse. The next step on her road to becoming an actual therapist involved getting a license from the State of Arizona. In order to get her license, she had to take an assessment to be sure that those long years in school weren't spent just hanging out, drinking beer and cutting class. Evidently, learning is high on the State's agenda. Throughout this process, I have been especially supportive, even if I say so myself. How specifically, you might ask? Well, let me tell you. During the school phase of this process we had about one million conversations like this: Her: I can't do this, I don't want to do this, I'm quitting. Me: Yes you can, yes you do, no you're not. Then came the run up to the test. Months and months of studying, day and night. Her: I am going to fail this test. Me: No you're not. Her: How do you know? Me: I know. Her: You have no idea. Then, she took the test. Her: I probably failed. Me: No you didn't. Her: That's false reassurance. Me: That's psycho mumbo jumbo, you passed. Anyway, she passed with flying colors. She got the letter today. Mrs. Sneed is the smartest and most determined person I know. Congratulations to her! Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

Some thanks are in order. First of all, thanks to Mouse for the Fats Waller link. How do you not love that guy? I'm not sure that the derby was the best hat choice given the size of his head, but he was spectacular. Thanks, Kimy. Secondly, thanks to all my friends for all the fine links for people with giant feet. Unfortunately, my problem is not where to look, but the garish collection of freak wear that I find when looking. Not to mention that the current crop of youngsters has the fashion sense of barbarians. Everything available is just plain butt ugly. So, the search goes on. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

Shoes

Herman looks distressed because I apparently have stolen his feet. Many people think of me as a genial, old, golf-playing chimp. But, when it comes to shoe buying, I'm Herman Munster. If the average American man wears a size 10 shoe, as has been reported and the standard deviation on a Bell curve is two, I am at the teeny part of the right hand edge of the distribution, over two standard deviations out. You know, where only the freaks dare to tread (pun intended)? For a guy with my foot issues, buying shoes in an actual store is nearly impossible, at least in Hooterville. My shoe buying is relegated to the internet for the most part. The downside of the internet is that you can't really tell what a shoe will look like on your foot, or if will even fit, for that matter. I remember one time buying, what I thought was a passable shoe from an online retailer, at least based on the picture. I like them so much that, I ordered a pair in brown and another in black. When they arrived, they looked like something that you would bring to Godzilla's baby shower. Big, shapeless baby shoes. They stayed in their box for years until I gave them to Goodwill. So, what I do, is order what I know. For casual wear, basically anytime I'm not at work, I wear these. Van's Classic slip-ons. I buy one pair of blue and wear them out. Then, I buy one in black and wear them out. Recently, Mrs. Sneed said to me, "Herman, if you didn't buy crappy canvas shoes, they wouldn't wear out so fast." Interesting. So, I have been on a quest to find an acceptable shoe in size 15 or size 14 in a pinch. And 14s do pinch. By acceptable, they must be slip-ons because I can't be bothered to tie my shoes every time I put them on. Is it too much to ask that a guy can buy a damn pair of shoes? Apparently, it is. Something like this would be quite nice, but Sperry only makes this shoe up to size 13. Puleeeze, I wore a 13 in high school. What we have here is blatant discrimination against the otherly-footed, namely me. Something has to be done and soon...my Vans are falling apart. If you would like to help stamp out (pun intended) this unjust situation, please take a minute to write to your congressperson. Ask them to introduce legislation to right this wrong, once and for all. Even a big-footed, genial, old chimp deserves the right to a good fitting pair of shoes. This is still America, after all. Vote for change, and remember, its for the children...and me. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

I love flowers. What's not to love? It' easy to maintain flowers in the spring, but come summer, it will be a real chore. A couple of questions have come up with respect to recent posts. First, Hooterville is a metro area of about a million. e wondered. Someone asked what a thief would do with single yard light? Smash it in the street if history is any indicator. That's where I found the one that was stolen before the current theft. For the most part it is just mindless vandalism by kids. Now on with the show. For the past couple of months we have had a lady come in on Monday's to clean. She is a very nice Mexican-American woman who cleans houses as a profession. She makes twice per hour as I do working in the hardware store. Of course, she works twice as hard and is actually competent. Normally, I race home from lunch with my friends to be sure that I'm here to let her in. Today was no exception with respect to the racing home part, but it was exceptional in that she didn't show up. After a couple of hours it occurred to me to check the voice mail. She had left a message asking that I call her because she was not able to make it and wanted to make an alternative arrangement. When I called her cellphone she told me that she was on her way to Sahuarita, a town 20 or so miles south of Hooterville, to bring identification to her husband, who had been detained by the Border Patrol. He was working in Sahuarita and had no ID on him, and no way to prove that he is an American citizen, which he is. What a pain in the butt, that must be. I'm not sure how you preserve the borders and protect people's rights at the same time. I wouldn't want to have to carry ID at all times, lest I be arrested, but I also get that it has become an unfortunate necessity for people who look like they might be illegals. Americans are demanding border enforcement and this is a byproduct of that effort. If this was happening to white Americans, there would be outrage. I also noticed in the paper today that a new survey shows that about 15% of Americans profess no religion. Of course that means 85% profess a religion. What do you make of that? I think that about half the 85% are lying. For the past Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

My old dad would have been 85 today. He died in 2005, from lung cancer, ironically, 25 years after he quit smoking. I guess the damage was already done. This is a photo of Mom and Dad taken in 1948. They were probably 25 when this picture was taken and I'm fairly sure it was before they were married. My dad served in the Navy during WWII. He was discharged at the war's end in 1945 in Los Angeles, as the story goes. He told us that he attended college there for a time. With my old man, there was never telling whether he was making stuff up or not. Unlike me, he issued no disclaimers on his stories. In 1947 the Department of the Air Force was created and the old man, a kid of 23, decided to go back into the military. He reentered with the rank of E-5 (Staff Sergeant), apparently the same rank that he had achieved in the Navy. My dad was stationed at MacDill AFB, in Tampa, Florida, when he met my mom, who was a waitress and living with her sister. My mom was one of seven sisters. Dad is a Staff Sergeant in the photo. He eventually reached the rank of E-8, Senior Master Sergeant, in 1959, but his career stalled after that. He drank too much and pissed the wrong people off. As I have posted many times, my dad was a hard guy to be around until he quit drinking in his fifties. After that you couldn't find a better man. I'm glad my kids only knew the better man. I miss the old guy. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

Well, the lovely Mrs. Sneed is back from her conference, so the party is done. I was able to get things put back in order just in time. Speaking of things being out of order, some hooligan ripped up one of my landscape lights and made off with it. This is what it is supposed to look like. This is what I discovered this morning. A mindless act of vandalism. The former Merle Wayne Sneed would have had a fit about this, but the kinder, gentler Merle Wayne realizes the futility in having a fit. Unless you can actually catch the little bastards in the act. Anyway, a trip to Home Depot and all was well again. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

Billy Preston says it all. As an employee of the hardware store, I get 20% off most of my purchases from them. So, this morning before work when I tried to buy an $80 power tool, I was surprised to learn that I get no discount on most power tools. Supposedly, the margin is too low on them. This pissed me off because it is bullcrap. I actually checked and found that the store pays $62 to get the item on the shelf, so that means that there is an $18 profit on it, about 30%. Even if they gave me 20% off, they would still make $2 on the deal. They can't stay in business making a 3% gross margin on every sale, but sales to the employees are gravy to them. What difference does it make if you are only making 3% on employee purchases? Since I didn't have to be at work until noon, I went to a nearby Lowes to see what the tool cost there. It was $64. I'm sure that Lowes pays less to the manufacturer than my store, but still, that's a big difference. Later, when I got to work, I asked the boss about the deal. She gave me the low margin story, too, until she looked it up. In the end, she offered to give me the 20% off, but knowing what the store pays, I made a deal for 10% off. That struck me as fair. I don't mind paying a bit extra to support my employer, but I resent being stiffed. This is what I don't get and why the Billy Preston song sprang into my head. If you have an item and can sell it for more than you paid, you've made money on the deal. But if you are stuck on making a particular margin, to the point of letting sales walk away, you have made nothing. Noting from nothing, leaves nothing. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

The lovely Mrs Sneed is off to Phoenix for some conference and won't return until Saturday evening. I think we all know what that means...p-a-r-t-y!! So far the partying has gotten off to a slow start. I'm the only one who has shown up, but things should be picking up soon. In the meantime, here's a story about glass. Sort of. When I was seven or so, we lived in Guam, the largest and southernmost of the Mariana Islands, in the Northern Pacific. In the days before the Japanese bought every available square inch of real estate, Guam's main industry was the US military, which was why I was there. My old man was a Master Sergeant in the US Air Force and was stationed at Anderson AFB from May 1956, to June 1958. Anderson occupies the northern end of the island. Our home was off the base and down the highway toward the capital city of Agana, as it was known then. It was renamed Hagatna to root out the Spanish influence and bring back the traditional name. Down the road from our house, within walking distance, was a market run by a local family. The locals were called Guamanians by most folks, but they refer to themselves as Chamorrros or Chamorrus too. Chamorro are the native people of Guam, prior to their various conquerings. The Chamorro people have been conquered politically, economically and militarily by the Phillipine, Spanish, American and Japanese governments in recent history. Like native Hawaiians, it is rare to find a Chamorro who isn't of mixed heritage because of all the interlopers hanging around making eyes at the locals. Anyway, a neighbor family took me along to the market one day, and as boys will do, my friend and I began to horse around in the store. Sometime during the horseplay, we knocked over a giant pyramid of one-gallon bottles of soy sauce. Who thinks making a pyramid of glass bottle of soy sauce is a good idea is beyond me, but the owner did it and we broke about ten bottles of the stuff. Ten gallons of soy sauce doesn't smell that good, and is made even more unpleasant by the owner of the stuff yelling about who is going to pay for the mess. There was a lot of he said/he said with respect to who did the actual breaking and in the end, my old man had to pony up about ten bucks to get the owner of the store off his case. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

I planted some of these in my newly irrigated front yard. They are commonly called Kangaroo Paws and are native to Western Australia. They are drought tolerant, which helps around here. I've had one in a pot since last summer and it is doing beautifully. Tuesday and Wednesday are hard days in the life of Merle Wayne Sneed. They are the days that I work all day at the hardware store. Plus, Tuesday is when our merchandise is delivered. Hard work if you are an older guy. We sold so much stuff at the big sale Saturday ,that our shipment today was massive. It will be around all week, before we get it stocked. I nearly had a blow up today with one of the coworkers that I usually try to avoid. Some people are best avoided and she is chief among the some. Luckily, she works on the opposite side of the store and I am mostly successful in my avoidance strategy. I say nearly had a blow up because I had to resist the urge to tell her to eff off this morning. By law in Arizona employees are required to have two ten minute breaks, plus a half-hour lunch each day. I don't much care about breaks one way or the other, but some people take them very seriously. So, I was taking my morning break this morning, when the aforementioned coworker burst into the break room, a Starbucks Mocha in each hand (yes, she drinks two at a pop). She took one look at me, heaved a huge sigh and announced in her loudest martyr voice, that she would finish her break later. Then she instructed me to let her know when I was done, so that she could finish her break. I immediately sensed that something was amiss, being a perceptive guy and all. I said to myself, "Merle Wayne, she thinks she's on break too." When I asked her what was wrong, she said that she had announced over the store's radio system that she was taking her break now. Poor darling. I would have just waited a few minutes, but that's me. This is what's wrong with jobs. There are too many people at them. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

For the third Monday in a row, I spent the day working on an irrigation project in the front yard. A number of months ago, the irrigation line serving the front yard broke under the driveway, in a location that made it impossible to repair, short of jack hammering up the driveway. The reason the line was under the driveway is that a knucklehead named Kenny was trying to save a few bucks. Who is Kenny, you might ask? Kenny was a guy who worked for the contractor who built out house. Kenny was a landscaper in the most liberal use of the term 'landscaper'. Kenny was a guy with a truck and he worked cheap. As I recall, in 1995 Kenny was awaiting sentencing for his umpteenth DUI conviction. Any conversation with Kenny invariably contained the phase, "I will probably be in jail". The boy had things on his mind. Rather than putting the front and back yards on their own valves and timers, Kenny decided to save the cost of one timer, maybe $20, by running the front off the backyard timer. This meant running the line to serve the front, under our driveway. One of the Merle Wayne Sneed tips for better living is to always think of the worst case scenario when making a decision. In Kenny's case, he should have asked himself, what the plan would be if the line under 16' of pavement broke. The main water service line to house is also under the driveway, but the plumber who installed it, put in in a chase, so that should it break, it can be pulled and replaced without tearing up the driveway. I'm sure it never crossed Kenny's booze-addled brain that what he was doing could cause a mess down the road. My potential problems, were the least of Kenny's for real problems. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky

Me and my posse. We may be in the grips of the worst recession since the Great Depression, but you sure couldn't prove it by the hardware store yesterday. Twice yearly, Ace runs a "Bag Sale", where supposedly anything you can fit into a paper shopping bag is 20% off the regular price. In reality, the 20% applies to anything in stock, whether or not it actually fits into the bag. There are a few things that are limited to 10% off because of the low margin on them. The expectations were low for yesterday's Bag Sale, with the recession going on and all. According to news reports the US work force is divided into two categories, those who have lost their jobs and those scheduled to lose them this week. So we didn't expect to break any records. When I showed up for work at 6:30 a.m., yes you read that right, 6:30, there were five customers waiting for the store to open at seven. It was kind of bizarre because our prices are a tad higher than the big stores anyway, so you can go to Home Depot and Lowes and get our stuff on sale everyday. But there they stood in the cool early morning darkness, waiting. The first two women in the door at opening, provided the answer. We were giving reusable grocery sacks to the first fifty customers in the door and they were lined up to be sure that they got one. These are the same kind of bags you can get for a buck in any grocery store. Go figure. Anyway, we had over seven hundred paying customers yesterday, about forty percent more than an average Saturday. They spent about three times the amount of a normal Saturday, so it was a rousing success and quite a surprise to the management. In a surprise to the little people, they are giving us an 8% bonus for February. Not bad. Things in this blog represented to be fact, may or may not actually be true. The writer is frequently wrong, sometimes just full of it, but always judgmental and cranky