i have been away for a while. But yet another senseless attack on customers /clients/patients has been looming large in my mind.

i have purchased a number of items at stores and on-line recently while simultaneously going to a bunch of medical appointments (the price and bane of this old man aging). Almost every one of these has produced a request for me to fill out a “feedback” form (they used to call them customer feedback forms). i could have spent the bulk of my days filling in numbers, describing my experience in several ways.

This hacks me off. if i want to give a business (and they are all businesses now because money is involved) feedback, i will do it vocally, my own email, or a letter. It will not contain endless charts for selecting numbers from 1-10 or 1-5 or whatever. i will let them know if there was something or someone i especially liked or or something or someone i thought could be improved. A stronger description might be used for a super star or, on the other end, a employee that was awful. The reason would be included.

i now delete any such requests. You don’t want me in your data bank. And i don’t want to be there.

the second mate
heard steps on the creosote pier
it was six bells on
what would have been the midwatch
on the ketch;
all hands were on liberty;
 the mate was the only soul on board;
the steps continued up the gangway,
across the quarterdeck
to the hatch of the mate’s stateroom;
there were several knocks on the hatch;
the mate did not go to the hatch;
the mate didn’t open it:
“you can’t come in;
“i’m not ready to go;
i have things yet to do,
places to see,
people to meet,
and
i must sail several more seas.
the mate heard steps again
but
they were fading across the deck;
the mate heard them leaving,
walking down the gangway
and
off the pier.
the mate breathed a sigh of relief:
in a fortnight, the ketch
would go to sea again.

No, this isn’t about this old man. It’s a really old joke, one of my favorites. i do not recall who told it to me, but i’m pretty sure it was on my first ship, the USS Hawkins. i have this dim recollection of it being told to me in the most aft port stateroom in after officer’s quarters, which i shared with two other officers.

Charlie was in his late thirties when he began to have terrible migraine headaches. When they became more frequent and lasted longer, he went to see his doctor. The doc tried several prescriptions and recommended several routines, but over a couple of months, nothing worked. The migraines continued.

The doc finally told Charlie that the only thing they could do to get rid of the headaches was to castrate him. Charlie was shocked and refused. But he went home and the headaches became unbearable after a few weeks. He went back and agreed to be castrated.

After the procedure, Charlie’s migraines were completely gone. He was elated. But several weeks after the castration, he began to be depressed, deep depression.

After several weeks of this, his wife Louise told him that she often became depressed at that time of her month, and it always cheered her up to go shopping for new clothes. She suggested Charlie try it.

So, Charlie found a good men’s store in the phone book and went there to shop. The clothes salesman greeted him as he came through the entrance.

“What can I do for you?” he asked politely.

“I want a complete new outfit, suit, hat, shirt, shoes, etc.,” Charlie replied, and added, “Where do you want me to stand to get measured?”

“Well, sir,’ the salesman responded, “I’ve been doing this for quite a while, and I have become pretty decent as sizing men for clothing. For example, you should wear a size 40 regular jacket with a 36 inch waist and an inseam of 32 inches.”

“Wow,” Charlie responded, “That’s remarkable. It’s exactly what i wear.”

The salesman nodded. “As for shoes, you should wear a size 10, medium width, which would mean you need size 10 socks.”

“Right again,” Charlie said, amazed at the guy.

The salesman continued, “You should wear a dress shirt with a 15-inch neck and sleeve length of 34 inches. How about a hat?”

“Sure, the stunned Charlie stuttered.

“That would be a size 7 1/8. How about underwear?”

Charlie nodded agreement.

“Your undershirt should be a medium and your underpants should be 36-inches.”

“Aha, I caught you,” Charlie said excitedly, “You finally got something wrong. I’ve worn size 34 underwear since i grew up.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t, the salesman exclaimed with alarm.

“If you wear 34-inch underwear, it will squeeze your balls and cause migraine headaches!”