Author: Pat Cashman

As I write this I am sitting at Sea-Tac airport. I want to catch some sleep—so I’ve decided to climb into a plane’s cargo hold. It’s apparently the thing to do when you need a quick nap. Once you awaken, just bang on the wall and someone will turn the plane around and deliver you right back to the airport. Try it. It’s trending.

In the terminal, it’s hard not to notice the recycling bins everywhere. Other major U.S. airports are considered tops for on-time flights, reliable baggage handling and modern efficiency. Sea-Tac is considered the tops in trash—and the collecting of it.

The fact is arriving travelers at Sea-Tac are simply getting a preview of what’s waiting for them in the town itself. Mandatory composting rules took effect here back in January—and life as it was once known changed forever.

Experts say that understanding all the new rules is easy as pie. Pie may or may not be compostable—but pie pans are. Certain pies should simply be tossed into the garbage. Like the one I made for the neighborhood Super Bowl party.

Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that understanding all the new composting rules is as easy as quantum physics. But Seattle residents aren’t required to understand quantum physics—except for quantum physicists. Composting is just something everyone’s supposed to do—including quantum physicists, who seem busy enough already.

No one is quite sure when the practice of recycling began. It may go back to caveman times when guys like Og recycled jokes that Trog had told around the fire the night before.

Of course in ancient times composting wasn’t something people did. It was what they had for dinner.
But today in Seattle, we’ve got until just the end of July to get compliant. If residential composting violators are discovered after that, they will immediately be sent to prison without the possibility of parole.

I hope the preceding sentence got your attention. It is baloney, of course—but I thought it looked pretty impressive in print.

However—come July—whopping fines of one dollar will be added to your utility bill if more than ten percent of items in your garbage have been misplaced. Like you, I’m wondering how and who will make that determination:

WASTE MANAGEMENT GUY #1: “Hey, Carl? You done sorting through these people’s can?”
GUY #2: “Yea. I’ve done it twice, but I’m only coming up with nine percent. Wait! I just found a pie tin! Fine ‘em!”
Readers have sent me some questions regarding recycling and composting. I am not an expert, but I play one in this newspaper.

Q: Can I dump Styrofoam peanuts into my recycling cart? —Trudy in White Center

A: You sure can, Trudy—if you want a one dollar fine (50 dollars for businesses and apartment complexes). However, there are a few places that will recycle the peanuts for free—eventually making them into Styrofoam peanut butter.

Q: What’s that thing on your lip? You should see a doctor about it.—Aaron in Des Moines

A: Never mind that. Do you have a question about recycling or composting?

Q: No, just the lip thing.

A: Let’s move on to the next question.

Q: I understand that shredded paper is recyclable. What about shredded wheat?—Susan in Burien

A: Good question, Susan. And thanks for not mentioning the thing on my lip. Shredded paper is recyclable because it can be turned back into new paper. Shredded wheat cannot currently be turned into new wheat. Incidentally, shredded paper soaked in milk and sliced bananas is not recyclable.

Q: What about CD cases? Can they be recycled? —Yasar in Redondo Beach

A: No, they go into the garbage. The Greatest Hits of Michael Bolton is already recycled material.

Q: What if I refuse to pay my one-dollar fine? —Gene in West Seattle

A: You will immediately be sent to prison without the possibility of parole. (Still impressive in print).

Time for one final question:

Q: I think that thing on your lip could be a herpes. —Dr. Leonard in Normandy Park

A: Could you put that in the form of a question, doctor?

Q: Sure. I think that thing on your lip could be a herpes?

A: What can I do for it?

Q: Could you put that in the form of an answer?

A: Yes.

A friend and his wife loaded their stuff into a big U-Haul some days ago—and I was their somewhat willing accomplice.
They were moving to southern California. Some people think a move from this part of the world to that part is sort of like trading a gentle scalp massage for a whack on the head with a garden rake. That seems unfair. A small shovel should do the job.
The good news is that the loading of the furniture, appliances, clothing etc. went really well . Nothing got broken, scuffed, soiled, defaced, warped, squashed or wrinkled. Nobody either.

Sure, a world of horrors could await when that couple finally rolls that U-Haul door open again a thousand miles from now. But by then, I am not responsible. Like they say in the TV transmission business: “Everything looked fine when it left this end.”

They also say that in the meat grinding business.

Everyday in this country, there are thousands of such moves—where good friends are helped by better friends to load or unload their worldly goods. It can also be one of the most harrowing tests of any friendship. In fact, statistics show that moving is one of the most stressful of life experiences—right behind divorce, losing a job and getting a bikini wax. And the same holds true for women.
As I watched my friends pull out of the driveway—heading off on their “Adventure in Moving”, I heard a mournful cat-like wail coming from the truck cab. Turns out it was coming from a mournful cat—theirs—complaining at the top of its lungs from within its carrier: “ME-OW! ME-OW! ME-OW!” In cat language that translates to: “Let ME-OUT! ME-OUT! ME-OUT!”

But the cat’s owners knew the screeching was just temporary and the feline would quiet down by Redding.

Since I have helped dozens of friends with their moves over the years—and been the recipient of such kindness on other occasions, let me pass along a few basic, hard-learned tips:
Sometimes, people wishing to cajole their friends into helping them move will say: “We’ll supply plenty of beer.” Big mistake. The last thing you need is a staggering, beer-soaked guy carrying a box of your best crystal up or down a wobbly van ramp. In other words, the beer shouldn’t be offered at the starting gate. Save it for the finish line.

If you are helping friends move, never, ever make a negative comment about any of their possessions. You will only hurt their feelings. No matter what you may privately think, say only nice things out loud:
“A bean-bag chair like this never goes out of style, Bert.”
Or, “I can’t believe this isn’t an actual Red Skelton clown painting—-it looks that
good.”
And, “This sure a nice shrunken head collection, Carl.”

After an object has been placed into the moving van, NEVER say: “Well, that baby (object) isn’t going anywhere (is securely in place).” That remark is a guarantee that not only WILL that baby go somewhere—but also will probably fall over and break three other babies as soon as the van pulls out.

Put the things you will want to get at FIRST (upon arrival at the final destination)—into the van LAST. In other words: Your TV set, telephones, dishware and clean underwear.

As my friends rolled out the driveway for the final time, I handed them a bottle of Evian. “You’re going to need this badly in southern California right now,” I said. “Save some for your lawn too.”
I got a call yesterday. Those poor schlubs have been traveling for three days. They’re doing just fine, but aren’t making very good time. Apparently the woman voice on Google Maps has been fooling with them. That’s why they’re just outside of Vancouver. B.C.
At their current pace, they figure to make their destination sometime in mid-August.
And that cat’s going to need a throat lozenge in the worst way.

The ”Year of the Goat” began on the Chinese calendar a few weeks ago. Yet, I still habitually find myself writing ‘Year of the Horse’ on my checks.
Back during the Year of the Rat, The Wall Street Journal—a newspaper that costs substantially more than this one—ran a story on how rats are becoming a popular food item. Maybe not in West Seattle so far, but vermin is good eats in places like Vietnam and Thailand right now. In fact, rat recipes go back 150 years in Vietnam’s farm country, and have been passed down for generations. In this country, it would be harder to imagine:

Mom: “Maggie, I want to give you this recipe for Rat Pot Pie.”
Maggie: “Gee, Mom, you shouldn’t have.”
Mom: “My aunt gave it to me, so now I pass it on to you.”
Maggie: “Isn’t that the aunt that died of food poisoning?”
Mom: “Bad fish, bad rat. It could have been anything.”
While rat used to be mostly eaten in rural Vietnam, it’s now starting to catch on in the big cities too. However, bear in mind that Vietnam’s big city restaurants also specialize in serving snake.
Diner: “What is your catch of the day?”
Waiter: “You have to choose between either rat or snake.”
Diner: “I KNEW there was a catch.”

But rat and snake seem like sensible fare compared to some of the other stuff people eat around the globe. A guy named Anthony Zimmern does a TV show where he travels the world eating the weirdest stuff he can find. But even he won’t touch lutefisk.

In Indonesia, deep-fried monkey toes are very popular—although not with monkeys. I mean, c’mon! Deep-fried monkey toes? Every foody knows that monkey toes should always be steamed to keep in that yummy monkey toe taste.
Indonesian people will also eat bats. Not the baseball kind. Termites eat those. Apparently bat wings taste pretty good, but the drumsticks are kind of skimpy.

In a pinch, when those other dishes aren’t available, people in Indonesia will settle for chicken. It is said that chicken sort of tastes like bat.

Brains are eaten by people who apparently don’t have any of their own. Pig brains, sheep brains, cow brains—you name the brain, somebody will eat it. (Light-eaters prefer mouse, hamster and goldfish brains.)
Headcheese is not actually a cheese, but something made from the brains of sheep or calves. (Cannibals have been known to eat head-cheeses of companies, but that’s a different matter.)

It is said that camel is a delicacy in China, but only on ‘hump day.’

Jellied cow’s foot is a savory selection in Poland. While the idea of eating a cow’s foot might normally be appalling to some people—if it’s jellied, we should give it a try.

Centuries ago, somebody in Scotland—probably the same guy who came up with the kilt—invented ‘haggis.’ Haggis is a sheep’s stomach, stuffed with oatmeal and then steamed. Yum!
Haggis TV commercial: “Hey, Mom! Having trouble getting your children to eat their oatmeal? Simply cram it into a sheep’s stomach and watch the kids gobble it down!”

Southeast Asians have been known to ‘wok’ the dog, from time to time. And supposedly Newfoundlanders have been known to fix up a dish called ‘Seal Flipper Pie.’ That’s because Newfoundlanders know that the flipper is the best part.

Tribal peoples in Africa and South America think nothing about eating bugs. As it turns out, bugs are loaded with protein. So when you drive to Spokane during a hot summer day—that stuff that winds up on your windshield? It’s protein.

Meanwhile, lots of kids in the U.S. eat gummy worms—which are not real bugs, but are real nauseating.
The truth is, before we Americans get too cocky about our supposedly more refined tastes, it’s worth noting that we invented ‘Spam’—the luncheon meat that comes in tins. We also treasure bleu cheese, which is a bacteria-infected mammal secretion. You must admit, a salad is rather bland without some bacteria-infected mammal secretion poured over it.

Better wrap this up. My wife is calling me to dinner. She found a great recipe on the Food Network for monkey fingers. She says they taste a lot like toes.

I was walking around a couple of days ago when someone shouted from over a block away. I turned and saw a distant figure waving wildly and running my way. It was an acquaintance I hadn’t seen in years. “Cashman!” he yelled, as he got closer. “I knew it was you! I’d recognize that dumb walk of yours anywhere!”

I too recognized him immediately. I’d know that tactless, insulting boor anywhere.
But he was right. I do have a bit of a dumb gait. It’s not quite similar to a chicken, but rather more like a duck.

My feet tend to flare out at slight angles when I stroll. If they were hands on a clock (or, in this case, feet on a clock) they’d point at ten o’clock and two o’clock. So I’m about twenty minutes short of a normal stride.

Worst of all, I’m also somewhat knock-kneed—which also affects my sauntering. As a kid, I didn’t know what ‘knock-kneed’ meant. Then I heard a comedian tell a joke on a TV show: “Yesterday I saw a knock-kneed woman telling a bow-legged man to go straight home.” The audience guffawed—but I didn’t get it.

My dad tried to explain: “It’d be like you telling your friend Tim Rutherford to go straight home. It’d be absurd, because neither one of you can go straight anywhere. He’s bowlegged—and you’re knock-kneed. Get it?”

I didn’t.
Later, my mom comforted me by saying, “You know, Superman is knock-kneed too. Watch the beginning of his TV show sometime—when he’s standing with his hands on his hips in front of the U.S. flag. He’s SUPER knock-kneed. Yet he’s more powerful than a locomotive.”

She was right. But he was also faster than a speeding bullet, so it wasn’t as noticeable.

In my teen years, after I realized that I had a somewhat dorky ambulation, I decided to consciously change the way I walked. I practiced in front of a mirror. I tried to imitate every
cool walking style I’d seen from TV or the movies. But my attempt at John Wayne looked more like a limp; my Robert Redford came across as pigeon-toed—and my Clint Eastwood
was better suited to a fire walker.

My best imitation was Audrey Hepburn, but I knew if I adopted that one it would blow my chances of making the football team.

I finally gave up and decided that one of the freedoms we enjoy as Americans includes the right to walk the way we each naturally do. It speaks to our nation’s pluralism of ideas, values and sashays.
But as I studied this subject more closely, I found that apparently one civilization—the ancient Japanese—spent more than a little time thinking about how to strut—and they thought everybody ought to do it the same way.

Back then, virtually all Japanese were taught to walk in a style called the “namba”—in which the left leg and left arm swing forward at the same time, and then the right leg and right arm swing forward at the same time. And so it would continue.

If you don’t think that’s hard to do, give it a try. It creates a sensation that is not unlike taking an amble after riding the Tilt-A-Whirl for an hour.

The story goes that the Japanese not only taught their kids to walk like that—but also their horses. Apparently the ancient Japanese didn’t bother with the far more time-consuming task of making centipedes comply.

Nowadays, scientists say that westerners generally all walk the same way—with the occasional exceptions due to knock-knees and the like. But even though ‘namba’ is no longer in vogue, the modern-day Japanese walk with lots more variation than the rest of the world. Some swing their arms; some keep them at their sides; some walk on their toes; some on their heels.

And perhaps some walk like my old school chum, Milton Bowman. Milton always walked as if he were going uphill—sort of stepping high and leaning forward.

At a class reunion a couple of years ago, I spotted Milton. But now, he looks like he’s walking downhill. We chatted for a while and then he said, “I gotta joke for you. Did you hear the one about the knock-kneed woman telling a cross-eyed man to go straight home?’

I looked at him for a moment—and then said, “No, I haven’t. How does it go?”

Valentine’s Day is named for a man: Saint Valentine. That was his name. Valentine. When he was a kid, he got beat up a lot.

He wasn’t Saint Valentine at first, of course. He would have gotten beaten up even more often if he were. No, the “Saint” part always comes later—and unfortunately long after the canonized one is dead and gone.
Although I know a guy whose first name IS actually Saint. His parents obviously had high hopes for him. He grew up with three siblings: Angel, Pious and Spotless.

Years later, Saint’s parents must have had a change a mind when a fifth child came along: Beelzebub. He turned out to be the nicest kid in the family, so you never know.
But what a great first name Saint is! It sure would look good on a job resume.
INTERVIEWER: “So it says here that you’re a saint?”
SAINT: “Yea, I am. But that doesn’t exactly pay the bills.“
INTERVIEWER: “Well, we’ve got an opening in our sales department. You interested?”
SAINT: “I’ll give it a try—just don’t expect miracles.”
INTERVIEWER: “Hmm. Some saint.”

According to legend, the Saint Valentine that the holiday is named after lived way back in the third century—or, as people in the fourth century called it, “The Good Old Days.”

Valentine was a priest living in Rome—a magnificent Italian city that was considered to be the Des Moines of its time. Unfortunately, its ruler was a guy named Claudius the Second. He was considered to be the Enumclaudius the Second of his time.

Claudius was not beloved. Not at all. In fact, behind his back, his enemies called him “Clod, Jr.” When Claudius found about the name-calling, he was philosophical: “Sticks and stones may break my bones, “ he was heard to say. “But words will never hurt me.”

Then he broke his enemies’ bones with sticks and stones.

Pretty soon he became known as “Claudius the Cruel.” By then, the people of Rome were really starting to miss his father, “Claudius the Soft Touch.”

You’re wondering what all this has to with Valentine’s Day? Hang on. It’s coming.

Claudius—the Cruel—decided that he wanted Rome to get involved in as many bloody
and unpopular wars as possible. Problem was, some Roman men didn’t want to go off and fight—preferring instead to stay home, drink wine coolers and make out with their girlfriends.

Even with recruitment posters plastered all over town (“Uncle Samiticus Wants You!”), the men weren’t signing up.

So Claudius raised the cruelty bar a little higher. He canceled all weddings and marriage engagements in Rome. He figured that if Roman guys couldn’t get hitched—they’d go for a hitch in the army instead.

But that’s where Valentine enters the picture. As a priest, Valentine started secretly meeting with couples—and performing private wedding ceremonies—all strictly against Claudius’s decree. Things went along smoothly until one of Claudius’s informants noticed a couple signing the bridal registry at Bed, Roman Bath and Beyond.

Valentine was busted, tossed in jail for months—although occasionally taken outdoors to be whipped. At least Claudius was consistently cruel.

But during his time behind bars, Valentine became pals with his jailer—and left a farewell note for the guy’s daughter. He signed it: “From your Valentine.” It was as simple as that.

It didn’t include earrings from Walmart. No applets and cotlets. Not even flowers from Albertson’s. Just the note.

Then, Claudius decided it was curtains for Valentine. And not the kind you can get for 30-50% off at J. C. Penney.

That’s why in the year 496, Pope Gelasius (which is Latin for ‘petroleum jelly’) set aside February 14th to honor the martyred Valentine—the patron saint of lovers.
The pope also set aside a day to honor Saint Labor, but that’s another story.
When you think about it, Valentine seems like the perfect name for a holiday about love and romance. It just sounds right, doesn’t it?

But what if Valentine had a different, less romantic-sounding name? If so, nowadays we might be exchanging Floozbonger Day cards: “Won’t you be my Floozbonger?”

Candy stores might be selling heart-shaped boxes of Muckenfusser Day chocolates.
And perhaps school kids would be reading about the infamous St. Bunklewort’s
Day Massacre.

Sometimes it’s nice the way things work out.

One of the big news stories in recent weeks—and I know because all the network newscasts lead with it—was the alarming return of measles. People figure it’s a long-gone malady—like the black plague, smallpox and prickly heat—and aren’t being diligent about getting their kids immunized.
There was an outbreak in Disneyland recently. People noticed that Goofy looked kind of blotchy. Even Dopey knew it was time to get vaccinated.

A few years ago, measles was considered eliminated—like the 49ers from the playoffs. [alternate sentence based on Super Bowl outcome: —like the Patriots in the Superbowl.] But the measles are creeping back like a drunk uncle looking for the liquor cabinet. Measles is not measly, as it turns out.
Grocery stores like Fred Meyer’s and Albertson’s offer shots in their pharmacy departments for everything from the flu to shingles—and, yes, measles. But my local supermarket doesn’t have a pharmacy, so I went to the meat department for a flu shot.

After filling out a questionnaire, I assumed the position for my inoculation. That’s when the butcher said, “You can pull your Dockers back up, sir. We give flu shots in the arm these days.”

Back in my grade school days—long, long, long ago, when dinosaurs ruled the earth—inoculation day was a time of great dread. And the loudest, most baleful wailing would always come before the shot had even been administered.

The anticipation was excruciating. My knees would knock together like a set of cowardly castanets. Impressed, the school music teacher invited me to join the marching band.

Part of the fear was because of the incessant rumors that would circulate throughout the school. There was talk about how the needles were going to be at least a foot long.

There were more mutterings about how a kid’s arm would become useless for a year following a shot.
There was even hearsay about how some kids were going to get their shots directly into their eye. I fainted when I heard that one.

After getting her shot, a girl in my class spent the next hour dragging her leg around—even though her shot had been in the arm. Her explanation sounded rational—something about “referred pain.”

When I was in the third grade, a grizzled eighth grader told me that eating chicken caused chicken pox. I wondered how many times Colonel Sanders must have come down with it. I finally figured out that the eighth grader was bogus when he also told me that German measles was caused by sauerkraut.

But all inoculation terrors were nothing compared to the actual horror that happened to my cousin Tony.
When he was around 12 years old, Tony somehow managed to sit on his mom’s sewing pincushion. The cushion wasn’t the problem—it was the multiple long and incredibly sharp needles that resided upon it.

The cushion had the look and size of a bright, red tomato—but it didn’t feel like one when Tony planted himself on it. The scream that emanated from him was so high and shrill, dogs in the neighborhood began to howl in empathetic pain too.

Perhaps a dozen needles, with faux tomato attached, were situated so firmly into Tony’s rear section, that he had inadvertently received—in the worst possible way—Buns of Steel.

While Tony caterwauled, his dad walked him gingerly out to the family station wagon for the quick drive to the emergency room. Tony knelt forlornly over the backseat of the car, his hindquarters on high.
He looked like a four-legged rump roast—with a tomato garnish.

Ten minutes after arriving at the hospital, with needles and cushion extracted by a doctor, Tony was eager to head home. After all, in less than 30 minutes, he had undergone a lifetime of do-it-yourself acupunctures.
But there was one more indignity: a tetanus shot. The doctor thought it was a good idea just in case Tony’s mom sewed with rusty needles.

When he arrived back home, Tony’s mom made him some comforting hot soup. Tony was grateful, but preferred to slurp it while standing. He was also grateful it was not tomato soup.

Three days later he came down with the measles.

Some years ago, the doorbell rang. It was nighttime, so I did a quick glance at the calendar to make sure it wasn’t Halloween. It wasn’t.

At the door, were two girls in their late teens. “What can I do for you?” I asked.

One of the two spoke in a vaguely Israeli accent. “We are students going to art school in Jerusalem—and we are selling some paintings we’ve done to make money so we can return to school next semester.”
If they were looking for a sucker, they’d come to the right place.

“Come on in, “I said, in vintage rube fashion. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
My wife started rolling her eyes like a pair of roulette wheels.

“This is a scam,” she whispered to me. I whispered back, “Yea. That’s what you said about the guy who sold me the boat.” She whispered even louder, “You mean the boat that sank the next day?”

So using my canniest resolve, I wound up buying only one painting from the “students.” I bargained hard—and got it for a mere forty dollars.

After pocketing the cash, the duo beat such a hasty retreat to their car—and down our driveway—I figured Kasey Kahne was at the wheel.

The next morning, I proudly showed off my newly acquired masterpiece to a neighbor. Then he showed off the one he had also bought from the very same “students.” It was identical.
Those young people were artists, all right—scam artists.
“What did you pay for your painting?” I asked.

“They must have seen a sucker coming when they saw me,” my neighbor said embarrassedly. “I paid thirty bucks for this thing. Can you believe that? What a doofus, I am!”

Nowadays, it’s easy to think that everyone who shows up at your door is pulling a scam—and I’ve become suspicious of everyone since purchasing that “one-of-a-kind” painting.

A few years ago, an older man and woman showed up at our door—claiming to be my wife’s parents. Sure, they looked exactly like them—answered all of my questions—and my kids called them Grandpa and Grandma—but I still thought they were up to something.

I turned them away.

But just three nights ago, our two dogs starting barking crazily. My wife went to the front door and peered out. She saw a very sketchy guy getting out of a car carrying a couple of boxes he had taken out of cooler.
“There’s a creep coming to our porch,” she said to me. “He’s either a murderer or a pervert. Go to the door.”

“Sure, “ I said. “And thanks for thinking of me as your delegate to do that.”

I opened the door just as the man of mystery was coming up the porch steps. He seemed quite amiable for a murderer-pervert.

“How ya doin’?” he said in friendly fashion. “Do you like seafood and meat?”

Sure do, I thought. And I always prefer to buy my seafood and meat from a guy who comes to the door at 9:30 at night.

“What kind of meat do you have?” I asked.
“Animal, mostly.” he replied.
“My favorite,” I said. “What kind of animal?”
He thought for a moment and then said, “Cow.”
“What about beef? Do you have that too?”
“Yea. Both.” he said. He kept looking over his shoulder nervously. I was beginning to enjoy this.
“How about your seafood?” I wondered. “Whatcha got?”

He didn’t seem too certain. “Uh, well, take a look for yourself.” He opened the seafood box and I peered inside. “Are those sea horses?” I asked, pointing at some frozen shrimp.

“I’m not really sure,” he replied, increasingly twitchy.
“I don’t generally buy them if they don’t come with the tiny jockeys,” I said.
The guy just stared.

I finally said, “You know what? I’ve got a hankering for some jellyfish! You ever had a peanut butter and jellyfish sandwich? So good!”

He seemed to sense things weren’t going well.

Then I asked, “By the way, do you have a business license?”

He looked stricken—and then sputtered, “Uh, sure. It’s in the car. I’ll be right back.”

He rushed to the car so quickly—he mistakenly left the box of seafood behind.

He laid so much rubber down the driveway, he must have been driving on rims by the time he hit the street.

I felt a bit bad that he’d left his box of seafood behind. I figured I should have at least given him something for it.

Like a painting I have in the closet.