Urine Nation

Someone approached me the other day and caught me off guard with this: ‘I’ve been reading your blog.  You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you?’

‘Huh,’ I replied, thinking that pretty much answered her question.

‘What I mean is I like your blog.  You can be pretty funny at times.  It seems like you can write about almost anything and make it sound humorous.’  I’m beginning to like this lady.

‘Yes, I guess it’s one of the few things I do pretty well,’ I replied rather sheepishly, thinking that two other things I do pretty well are solving math problems in my head and drinking vanilla milk shakes really, really fast.  Not that anyone could give a rat’s a** about either one. 

Then she threw down the gauntlet.  ‘I bet you can’t write something humorous about EVERYTHING,’ she said.  ‘Urinals, for example.  Let’s see you make THEM funny.’ 

‘I’ll tell you what,’ I said.  ‘If you allow me to embellish (white lies!) my story three times, I can write something about urinals that will make you laugh out loud.’

‘You’ve got a deal,’ she said, not realizing who she was messing with. 

So what you’re about to read is not only going to prove Ellen DeGeneres wrong; it’s also going to shed a new light on the concept of semi-public urination. 

First of all I want to put it out there that I have no problem using a urinal in a public restroom.  I know there are some men who prefer to lock themselves in a stall to achieve the same results they could get from using a urinal, but I’m not one of them.  I’ve always thought of men using stalls to urinate as having a variation of performance anxiety; perhaps even stage fright.  These men are also missing out on things; things like I’m about to tell you about now (right after I get back from the restroom because all this talk about urinals is making me have to pee). 

In the early 1970’s my best friend and I were HUGE Alice Cooper fans when we were in high school.  It’s not like we painted our eyes in black Alice Cooper makeup (excluding the two or three weeks immediately after seeing them perform in concert during our junior and senior years) or had a pet boa constrictor like Alice (that wouldn’t happen until we started college), but we love-love-LOVED his music.  One time my friend and I found out at which hotel in Jacksonville, Florida the Alice Cooper band was staying the night before a performance.  When we got there we found Alice Cooper in the flesh (literally, excluding his polka dotted pajama bottoms) playing cards by the pool with his bass player and Flo and Eddie (the second generation of The Turtles and Alice Cooper’s opening act).  We spent some time with the musicians, mostly talking and just the right amount of drinking.  With drinking comes the need to use the bathroom, so at some point I made my way to the restroom in the hotel lobby.  I hadn’t realized Dennis Dunaway, Alice Cooper’s bass player had followed me into the restroom and was using the urinal next to me, only he wasn’t using it to urinate.  He was using it to do something he absolutely needed to be using the stall for (no, not poo).  I pointed Dennis in the right direction (‘gee, thanks MANNNNNNNNNN…how did I get so WASTED???’) and went back for my friend and drove home (no choice, it was a school night).  It was the first (and only) time someone barfed on my shoe as well as the first time I saw someone vomit that didn’t make me vomit as well.  Also, many years Dennis wrote an autobiography and didn’t mention this particular incident and I thought if I reminded him about it—assuming he reads this, of course—he’ll include it in a future edition of his book, perhaps as an ‘exclusive.’         

In the early 1980’s my wife and I took a cruise to the Bahamas.  There was a celebrity guest on the ocean liner we were sailing on: Bert Convy, the charming and witty host of the game show Tattletales.  One day I was using one of the public urinals on the ship when I looked to my left and saw standing in front of the urinal next to me none other than Mr. Tattletales himself.  I looked at him and said ‘you’re Bert Convy!’ to which he replied, ‘you don’t say.’  (I told you he was charming and witty.)  I found his comment a little strange because Tom Kennedy was the host of a rival (and much more entertaining) game show by that very name: You Don’t Say.  I could tell Bert and I made an instant connection because seconds later we were washing our hands in adjacent sinks, not to mention sharing a mirror.  Strangely, I never saw him again during the entire cruise.  But I feel confident I made a lasting impression on him and I’m certain we would have been the best of friends had we stayed in touch over the years.        

In the winter of 2015 my wife and I made the drive to Athens, Georgia to watch our beloved Florida Gator basketball team take on the Georgia Bulldogs. CBS was on hand to televise the Saturday afternoon game, and once the game was over I stopped by one of the restrooms in the Coliseum to pay a visit before making the long drive home.  I stood at front of one of the urinals and I saw CBS announcer Clark Kellogg—hard to miss at 6’9” and 225+ pounds—out of the corner of my right eye.  I turned to my left and said to the gentleman in front of the adjacent urinal, ‘hey, that’s Clark Kellogg.’  Instantly I realized whom I was talking to: Former University of Georgia football coach Vince Dooley.  I asked him if he realized how much pain he caused me in the 1970’s (Georgia had a dominating run of nine wins and one loss in a 10-year period that stretched into the early ‘80’s).  His reply: ‘I get that a lot.’  ’38 to 20, b*tch,’ was the first thing that crossed me mind, a reference to the score of the most recent Florida-Georgia game, a resounding Gator victory.  It was also the first thing that came out of my mouth, because I have absolutely no filter when verbally engaging with anyone affiliated with the Evil Empire that is UGA.  Vince Dooley wasn’t going to intimidate me; besides he didn’t look nearly as menacing as I thought he would be without Herschel Walker standing by his side.  That, and the fact he was now 83 years old.

I’ve had some interesting encounters in public restrooms over the years.  Some I’m more than happy to discuss, like the three you just read about.

Others I simply refuse to talk about for reasons I’d just as soon forget.  Maybe those men with public restroom performance anxiety know more than they’re willing to share.   

Lunching with Legends

My wife Cindy and I had the opportunity to knock two things off of our mutual Bucket List not long ago when we discovered Neil Young was going to be in concert at the Red Rocks Amphitheater in Morrison, Colorado.  Once we found out it was only a couple of days before flights were booked, reservations were made and concert tickets were purchased.  It was our first truly spontaneous vacation in all of the years we’ve been married. 

We stayed in a hotel in Evergreen the first night, about a 15-minute drive from the amphitheater.  Both the concert and the venue were magnificent and well worth the time and money spent.  The day after the concert we had the pleasure of having lunch with two of the more notable people in the world of endurance running: Marshall Ulrich and his lovely wife Heather.  Marshall’s main claim to fame--although trust me when I tell you it’s only the tip of the iceberg—is his double-digit finishes in the Badwater Ultramarathon.  Heather’s name became somewhat of a household word when she rose to prominence as Marshall’s crew chief, support, and go-to person during his 52-day, 3,063-mile run across the United States in 2008 (an adventure chronicled in a book as well as a movie).  Believe me when I tell you the four of us had a lot to talk about.

Marshall spoke about some of his more memorable adventures (for the life of me I don’t know how he was able to pare his extensive athletic resume down to a half-dozen or so) and some of the people in the world of endurance athletics that he admires before seguing into asking me about my running.  (While my experiences in the sport pale in comparison to Marshall’s, I will have you know that we’ve shared many of the same physical as well as psychological ailments over the years.  So we’re much more alike than you might imagine.)  Marshall also mentioned that the wear-and-tear of his run across the country, now almost seven years ago took a much bigger toll on Heather than it did on himself. 

Heather spoke about her experiences ‘being there’ for Marshall through the years in his quest to test his limits.  In fact she gave up a rewarding full time job so she could support her husband’s interests.  She spoke of wanting to be there to support Marshall and that when he was hurting, so was she.  While not actively participating in the event per se, she knew exactly what her husband was going through.  In other words, it was a challenge being in love with a person who willingly subjected themselves on a regular basis to the most demanding physical and psychological challenges just to see what they were capable of.  Cindy mentioned that she completely understood; after all, she married someone with the same mindset as Marshall’s.

We spent almost two hours reliving the past, dreaming of the future and talking about how much Colorado—the Ulrich’s home—had to offer.  Marshall mentioned how they had recently moved from Idaho Springs to Evergreen.  They had been living at 10,000 feet elevation and the extreme altitude was making his running more and more difficult.  (Evergreen was at slightly over 7,000 feet elevation and after my run earlier I couldn’t imagine how difficult running at 10,000 feet would be.  I don’t want to find out, either.)

Our first 24-hours in Colorado were absolutely amazing.  Cindy and I crossed two things off of our Bucket List and we got to spend some time with perhaps the most notable couple in the world of endurance running.  I also wondered how much pain and suffering I’d inflicted on Cindy over our years together as I crossed one thing after another off on my personal Bucket List of Running.  I thought about how much she’d been with me, literally and figuratively every step of the way. 

After lunch we all walked over to Evergreen Lake to take photos of Marshall and I for a forthcoming book I’m authoring and that Marshall is featured in.  Cindy and Heather placed us in several spots for ‘just the right picture.’  I asked for a shot of the four of us but the wives insisted the photo should simply be Marshall and I. 

It was at that moment it dawned on me that I had just eaten lunch with two of the true legends in the sport of long distance running.   

Marshall was pretty special, too.

For a Few Dollars More

An Open letter to Gary L. Paxton, CEO, Dollar Rent A Car

I admit I made a mistake.

To paraphrase the immortal words of Otter as he tried to console Flounder in Animal House:

‘I f*cked, up; I trusted you.’

That was my first mistake.  My second was not reading the fine print.  Not that I could see it or anything.

Let me start at the beginning.  My wife and I rented a compact car from your company, Dollar Rent A Carl at a rate of $63 a day through CheapTickets.com.  When we arrived at your branch at Denver International Airport the agent asked if we wanted to upgrade.  I recalled on the CheapTickets website the price of car rentals increased somewhere in the neighborhood of $10 incrementally according to the size of the car.  We asked how much the rental would be for a midsize and the agent said the revised rate would be $75 a day.  ‘Fair enough,’ I thought, remembering the website offering upgrades for a few dollars more.     

We agreed to the upgrade at $75 a day (I repeat the rate for a reason which you will see later) and then the agent had me follow along through a litany of documents on a barely visible computer screen as he summarized what each of them said.  ‘You agree to not smoke in the vehicle.’  ‘You agree to return the car with a full tank of gas.’  ‘You have declined any insurance coverage.’ ‘You are responsible for all traffic citations.’  You know the drill, I’m sure.  Now is a good time to mention how difficult it is to read the extremely tiny green font on those black computer screens, although I’m convinced you do it for a reason.

Once the agent got through the final document he asked me to sign, indicating I understood everything he covered.  I’ll be honest: I couldn’t read a single word on that itsy bitsy screen.  For all I know it could have been the Gettysburg Address or Volume ‘E’ of Encyclopedia Britannica.  Basing my understanding on the agent telling me the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, I signed.  I mention my signature because it would come back to haunt me four days later when I returned your Chevy Malibu, our midsize car of choice.

My wife and I returned the car with a full tank of gas, free of any and all trash and no worse for the wear—less the mileage we incurred (560, if you must know) over the past 96 hours.  The attendant we returned the car to asked if I wanted a receipt; I did, if only to spot check for any additional charges that may have found its’ way onto our bill.  If they did it would be difficult to tell, however.  Outside of the charges for the rental of the car, here’s what was on the receipt:

·      RNTLVEHSRG 4 days @ $2.00

·      OMB $1.49

·      FACYSEFEE 4 days @ $2.15

·      APCONRGFEE $61.49

·      STATE TAX $70.15

·      SOT $6.47

·      VLF $2.56

Like I would know what the hell any of these were, or if they were even legitimate.

However, what caught my eye was this little gem:

·      4 DAYS @ $63.00 followed by

·      4 DAYS @ $75.00

The total charge amounted to $710.76, about $300 more than I expected to see.  I showed the receipt to Cindy and said apparently the agent left the original rental vehicle on my bill, so in essence I was being charged for two vehicles.  ‘Simple, we’ll go inside and get this straightened out before we get on the plane home,’ I said; a statement qualifying me for one of those Darwin Awards or at the very least Dumbass of the Year.

One inside I gave the receipt to one of the agents behind the counter and pointed out their mistake.  He quickly corrected me: The mistake was all mine.  Apparently the upgrade from compact to midsize was an additional $75 per day, a little bit of information that could have been made a lot clearer had the original agent SIMPLY TOLD ME THAT WHEN I ASKED HOW MUCH THE UPGRADE WOULD COST!  Maybe when I asked ‘how much for a midsize’ he could have said ‘$75 a day…MORE.’  Yes, that little adjective at the end would have made a world of difference because there is no way in hell I would rent a Chevy Malibu for $138 a day. 

He asked for my original receipt—as long as the height of my six-year old grandson—and pointed out the signature at the bottom.  ‘Is this your signature?’ he asked.  I nodded, bracing myself for what would be coming next.  

‘See, you signed your name!  There’s nothing I can do about it now!’

I couldn’t help but notice how much satisfaction and joy he was getting out of my misfortune.  If I didn’t know better I would have thought he had just pulled off the Con of the Century…probably because he did.  I also noticed how emphatically he spoke when he mentioned I had signed my name.    

I asked to speak to the manager on duty.  ‘Sorry, she’s in a conference call,’ said the agent.  ‘Fine, I’ll wait,’ said the Conned of the Century. 

It wasn’t long before the manager on duty—now a ‘he’ and not a ‘she’—called me over to the counter to discuss my predicament.  Ten minutes later I was back to Square One.  Long story short it came down to this: ‘See, you signed your name!  There’s nothing I can do about it now!’   

I couldn’t help but notice he had the same aura of satisfaction and joy as the agent I spoke to earlier.  If I didn’t know better I would have thought they’ve pulled this same Con before, especially since they used identical verbiage.  This couldn’t possibly be the first time this happened: Their shared dialogue and delivery were too—for lack of a better word--rehearsed.  There was no way this was their first time around the block, if you know what I mean.

While Cindy and I were waiting at the gate for our plane to begin boarding I called the toll-free customer service number (I won’t print the actual number, but if there was any justice in the world you should consider changing it to 1-800-GET-FUKT).  After the requisite 10 minutes of listening to a recording stating ‘due to the high volume of calls’ after which all I heard was ‘blah blah blah’ which could have been the same message being repeated or perhaps elevator music because at this point I really wasn’t expecting anyone to actually answer, a REAL LIVE OPERATOR came on the line.  I explained my dilemma after which she only had one question for me.  It was at this point I knew everything I needed to know about Dollar Rent A Car:

‘Did you sign the agreement?’

In my mind I pictured all of the words exchanged between your three employees and I swirling around a flushed toilet bowl and eventually going down the drain…only those five words—‘Did you sign the agreement?’—floating to the surface. 

So once again I admitted I made a mistake: I trusted Dollar Rent A Car.

I trusted your company to provide a decent service at a fair price.   

My mistake.  I won’t make it again.

Fool me once, shame on you.

Now trust ME when I say:

 You won’t fool me twice.  

 Warmest regards,

Scott Ludwig, Rental Agreement #217673691

Losing My Marbles

I knew the day would come.  I just didn’t know it would be this soon.

Or that it would hit me with both barrels. 

The day I’m referring to is the day I realized I was starting to lose my marbles. 

Allow me to give you both barrels so you can judge for yourself.

Barrel One:  I spent the better part of 10 minutes looking around the house for the keys to my car.  I finally found them…snugly in the palm of my right hand where they had been for the entire time I spent looking for them.  While only the tip of the iceberg, there have been enough incidents such as this one that have in no uncertain terms highlighted the fact that I’m losing it, whatever ‘it’ may be…or more accurately, used to be.    

Barrel Two:  My grandson has discovered my marble collection in the two-gallon glass aquarium in the guest bedroom.  He considers the marbles to be his, seeing as he occasionally sleeps in the guest bedroom, has some of his clothes in the dresser in the guest bedroom and the majority of his toy dinosaurs reside in the guest bedroom.  Ergo, the marbles are his. 

Back to Barrel One: I’ve sensed this coming for the past several years; this slow-but-ever-so-sure deterioration of what used to be a pretty keen mind.  It seemed like only yesterday I was able to tell whether or not I had a set of keys in my hand.  Boy has that ship sailed.   Now I can’t remember names, have trouble driving after dark and it takes me 10 minutes longer than it used to getting ready for work in the morning.   

Back to Barrel Two: I’ve taught Krischan how to play marbles…the old fashioned way.  You may remember: Pick a shooter (preferably one of the larger marbles) for yourself, put the rest of the marbles inside of an imaginary circle (a better option is to play in the dirt and draw a circle in the dirt with a stick) and take turns shooting at the marbles by flicking your shooter with your thumb and claiming any marbles that are ‘hit.’  Is Krischan any good?  Let’s just say where there’s a will there’s a way: If he decides he wants to hit a particular marble, one way or another it’s going to happen.  For example he may call for a ‘do-over’ if one of his flicks doesn’t hit a marble, drop his shooter directly on top of his intended target or simply tell me he hit a particular marble when the truth of the matter is he missed it by at least a foot or more.  

My marble collection has been with me for many, many years. To say that it is one of my pride and joys would not be far from the truth.  In that aquarium are marbles that once upon a time belonged to Pappy, my mother’s father; Robert and Don, my wife’s two older brothers; and a lot of my friends because I won them playing ‘keepsies’ when I was Krischan’s age.

I had names for some of the marbles: Steelies (made completely of steel), puries (you can see completely through them), boulders (the oversized ones that Krischan likes to shoot with), cat eyes (if you saw one you’d know why) and some really old marbles made of wood I never knew what to call.

I guess you could say my marble collection is very near and dear to me.  They represent several generations of family, a multitude of memories and how simple it was many, many years ago to have fun.   

Once more for Barrel One: I’m going to hold onto whatever I’ve got left for as long as I possibly can.

Once more for Barrel Two: One day Krischan will own my treasured marble collection.  I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have it after I’m gone.  These marbles I won’t mind losing.      

However, I can’t say the same for the ones over in Barrel One.