Need to Know

That's a phrase to strike fear and loathing into an inquiring mind. Need to Know. It implies you are somehow not qualified to know something of presumed importance. At least you think it's important to know and some sinister force is preventing you from knowing it.

I have my own personal uses for “Need to Know” and it's more a source of amusement than an annoyance between me and my wife.

For example: If she's going into great detail in a story about a friend or mutual acquaintance, I'll say, “more than I need to know.” She takes this in good humor and as a result she now tells me only what I need to know. I like that.

In fact, some of our friends have adopted the practice, telling their immediate audience only what they need to know, including us.

That's all you need to know.

Fading Athletes, Fading Memories

A staple of sports literature is the tale of the professional athlete who’s coming to the end of his or her career. Sometimes it's a heart warming story, sometimes sad.

But, this is about us, an aging group of tennis players (read hackers) whose sole claim to fame is that we've been playing together for more years than we can remember. That's if we can remember anything, which is why I'm telling this story.

One of our colleagues is our de facto “captain,” meaning he arranges our playing dates, times, locations and makes sure there are four of us available to participate. He also tells us who is playing with whom when we take the court. We never dispute his choices.

At the end of each session, we discuss our next playing date. During the week, our captain will email us to confirm the details. Sometimes he will project a week or two in advance to see who's available on what dates.

This week he sent an email that he was pleased to advise us he reserved a 10 a.m. court for Friday, Oct. 21, (today) at an indoor facility we normally use during the cold months. We all liked that because we could sleep a little later. We usually play at 8 or 9 a.m.

So we gathered at the facility to pay for our court time and the attendant, who knows us from previous years, says: “What are you doing here today? You booked the court for Saturday.”

Much embarrassment ensued. But we took it in stride and booked a court for next Friday at a convenient time for all. Then, since we still wanted to play, we drove to nearby outdoor courts and had a spirited set of tennis. By spirited I mean my partner and I made a few less mistakes than our opponents.

We won in a tiebreaker, 7-5.

“One Came Back,” etc. Part Two (conclusion)

Previously on “One Came Back: The Saga of the Missing Sock” we learned that I became obsessed with a missing anklet. Two-by-two they entered the washing machine but only one came back.

Where could it have gone?

Weeks went by. I was resigned to never having a mate for the surviving white anklet. At best I would have a spare in case another one went missing. There was no worst.

THEN, as I was getting ready for bed one evening, changing my day clothes for my pajamas, I glanced at the floor. AND THERE, TUCKED INTO THE CROTCH OF THE BRIEFS I HAD JUST REMOVED, WAS THE MISSING SOCK!

Had it been there all this time? Who knew? I never felt it. I never saw it until that moment.

Incredulous, my wife said: “You mean to say you had that sock in your jockeys and never knew it? That beats all. Throw it in the wash. Who knows what hell it's been through.”

The End.

“One Came Back: The Saga of the Missing Sock” Part 1

Forgive me, but it wouldn't be a saga if it had only one part.

It started last Spring when my wife insisted I wear those mini socks (I guess you'd call them anklets) when I play golf. She thought my lower legs looked funny because they were so much whiter than the rest of my sunburned limbs.

So I bought several pairs and wore them throughout the summer and she was happy with my fully sunburned legs.

Then one day we were sorting our laundry and one of my white anklets was missing. Hey, that's not uncommon. Everyone goes through that once in a while. It must have missed this wash. It'll turn up in the next one.

Well, it didn't. We looked around the washer and dryer and behind each as well. No sock. Not to worry, I had plenty of others but it nagged me.

Where could that sock disappear to? For weeks, with every wash we expected it to appear. But it did not. The mystery deepened until it became an obsession. Actually, it became this saga.

Which I will conclude next time.

Stay tuned.

I Can't Believe I Wrote The Whole Thing (Almost)

A few days ago I offered up the title “The Ego Pit” for your amusement and possible use as a story line. Thing is, I forgot that some time ago I actually created a cast of characters for this morality play. I hope you'll pardon the cynicism. It was well earned.

So here's how I see the staff of local station WEGO-TV, in no particular order:

The City Editor who has nothing but contempt for the pretty faces that pass for on air talent.

Assignment editor amused by his bosses' temper tantrums; has to smooth ruffled feathers to get anything on the air.

News Director totally cowed by the General Manager.

General Manager cowed by the Division Veep.

Executive Producer looking for his network break.

Anchorman: smooth, articulate, able to speak fluently for hours without knowing what he's talking about.

Handsome co-anchor on air for women to lust after and men to admire his wardrobe. Never covers a story.

Hot shot young reporter knows how to put together a dynamite package of pictures for a story with no substance.

The Girl: Looks great on camera; can't tell a news story from a spelling bee. Or when a spelling bee becomes a news story.

Minority reporters: Black, Hispanic, Asian, whatever. Have to keep the quotas up for license renewal.

That's how I saw it then and frankly I don't see much difference now.

I warned you I'm a cynic.

Titles For You, con't: “The Brisket Crisis”

There are two Jewish holidays where brisket dominates the traditional meal, Rosh Hashanah and Passover. Brisket is optional on Chanukah.

Of course you can eat brisket any time but on these major holidays brisket is a “must have.” Therein lie the potentials for crisis.

The brisket buyer faces two key questions: When to buy it (meaning when will it go on sale) and how much do I need?

The first question requires keeping a keen eye on the weekly supermarket fliers. Buy too soon and you will over-pay. Wait too long and there might not be any left. Hint: brisket usually goes on sale the week before the holiday. That's when you pounce.

How much you buy depends on how many you're feeding. Remember, you can never have too much brisket. Here's a story to illustrate this point.

It's pre-Passover and my wife and I are in the supermarket shopping for our brisket. We come across a young woman, brisket in hand, asking the butcher if this would be enough for her table. My wife, ever helpful, asks the woman how many guests she is having. Once told, my wife says you better take another one. She does. Crisis averted.

Wait, there's more. They start talking, get around to where we each live, etc. etc. It's a classic case of Jewish Geography. It gets better. We tell her we live in Verona and she says her husband used to live there. Not only that, turns out he used to live in our house. She's married to the son of the couple we bought our house from.

We wished her a great Seder. Never saw her again.

Our brisket was delicious. And we had leftovers.

Coming soon: "One Came Back: The Saga of the Missing Sock."