Tom's Lead Balloon of Writing

Exploring the heights of literary and personal failure

Given the horrific catastrophe I was expecting, I would actually consider this a small success. Huzzah!
“Given the horrific catastrophe I was expecting, I would actually consider this a small success. Huzzah!”

  • Hello, Kind Reader

    Thank you for joining us this fine day.


    So what the hell is this shit?

    Excellent question. Thank you for asking. My only ambition in life is to have you ask more questions and to read on.


    What are you going to write?

    Humorous anecdotes and vignettes.

    Short and light.

    Hopefully well-written. 

    Hopefully funny.

    Many based on personal gaffes.


    For whom are you going to write? Who is your audience?

    The immaturati.

    For example, immature people who enter dirty words into Wordle for cheap, sordid laughs and who are completely beneath contempt.

    I.e., my kind of people.


    Why are you writing this?

    To keep my brain active and to give myself something productive to do in my abundant, unstructured free time.

    To amuse myself. 

    To take a leap with something new and see what happens.


    Should I waste my time with this shit?

    That is entirely up to you, but be forewarned, “waste” is likely the correct and operative verb here. Do any of the following describe you?

    • Time to kill
    • Easily amused
    • Immature sense of humor
    • Low expectations of others

    If so, welcome! Please feel free to sample the current offerings on the blog.

    And if you know other immature reprobates that might enjoy this, by all means, please send them over. Bless you and their dark souls, in advance.

    My current plan is to post new shit every Friday around 12 noon, Pacific.

  • Almanac Guy

    I was an almanac-carrying member of the nerd club for many years.

    I wasn’t always a nerd, only since I learned math. I thought math and numbers were sorta fun. Numbers made sense to me. They were useful, they were objective facts. Obviously, a lot of other nonnumerical things are facts, too, just boring facts.

    The World Almanac and Book of Facts included both types. It contained current and historical statistics and facts on government elections, education, economics, entertainment, sports, and…I need a cold shower.

    The almanac was (and still is) a very handy reference book: one single, dense, handheld book, 1,000 pages long, with tons of information at one’s non-digital fingertips. A new updated edition was published every year. The almanac provided a convenient, affordable, and space-efficient way to stay up-to-date with current information and recent events, year-to-year. 

    The almanac existed long before the internet, Google, and Wikipedia. I kept buying it after the advent of those things. That’s something a nerd would do. In December, soon after it was published, I would purchase the almanac for the upcoming year, because I couldn’t restrain myself until January. Why wait needlessly for the good stuff?

    Adding to the anticipation, the color of the cover varied each year among three or four basic colors. I was always curious about the color for the upcoming edition. White! Oh my God, that’s amazing! Who can I tell that will also be excited? Umm, no one. So what? I’m going to tell everyone, anyway!

    One particular December, I walked into our local, independent bookstore while the owner was working. She was engaged in a conversation with another customer. 

    Upon seeing me enter, she said, excusing herself, “Wait a minute. I know exactly what book he wants.” Mind you, I had not uttered a word up to this point. She then walked over to the Reference shelf (which no longer exists), picked out, and handed to me the current copy of The World Almanac and Book of Facts. Sadly, she was 100% right. That’s what I’m known for. That’s my profile–Almanac Guy. I took the book and said, “Thanks.” 

    She returned to her previous conversation and said, “Do I know my customers or what?” Yes, you do, at least the nerds.

    Alas, at some point I had to make practical decisions about my slowly, but perpetually expanding collection of almanacs. The old editions were stored in boxes or desk drawers at work. I checked eBay to see if they carried any monetary value, but they didn’t. That was dispiriting to find, but the almanac was a mass-produced book, reasonable in price, updated and published each year, with each edition soon becoming out-of-date and less useful.

    So, over the course of two emotional donations, I reluctantly bequeathed my collection of almanacs to our local trash and recycling company. 

    For a few years thereafter, I would buy and retain just the current edition, on a desk, at home. But eventually, I would ask myself, Do I really need to repeat this cycle of buying a new copy and recycling it, after just one year? No. So, I finally weaned myself from the almanac.

    Almanac Guy, you had a good run. You’ll have to find other ways to fulfill and define yourself. I don’t know what that will involve, just promise not to subject other people to your writing.

  • The Ole Switcheroo

    Our two senior chihuahuas, Russet and Yukon, had very different appreciations of food. Up until about a year ago, Russet used to be a very picky and selective eater. He would often balk at the food appearing in his dish or skip meals entirely. Not content with his own food, Russet would often be more interested in the EXACT SAME FOOD in Yukon’s dish. Damn! Why does that dog get all the good food?

    On the other hand, Yukon, despite having no teeth, was a very enthusiastic eater. Upon being served, she would sprint to her food dish, eat whatever was offered, and lick the dish clean.

    Frequently, after finishing the food in her dish, Yukon would check out Russet’s dish for leftovers. But she was a clever dog. She wouldn’t go over and blatantly eat his food in our presence. She would look around and see who might be paying attention to her scheming. For example, after the last feeding of the day, right before bedtime, she would kind of hang back before making her way from the dining room to the bedroom. Yeah, don’t mind me, I’m just going to…uhh…get a drink of water…and uhh… admire the hardwood floors. Go ahead without me, I’ll meet you in the next room shortly.

    And on a couple of occasions, Yukon played the following game: She would eat all the food in her dish, save for a few crumbs or remnants. (I’m not sure if this was 100% intentional, but I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt.) Russet, after balking at the food in his dish, would walk over to hers to enjoy a taste of the good food.Yes! And while being distracted by the good food, Yukon would sneak back over to Russet’s dish and enjoy a second serving from his full bowl. 

    Russet, the unwitting mark, took the bait and ended up falling for the ole switcheroo. Poor Russet was playing checkers, while Yukon was playing chess. Pawn to decoy, queen to full food dish. Checkmate!

    Russet and Chess Master Yukon, in action, on the board

  • Course Support

    My wife has always been supportive of my running hobby. She has provided encouragement and crowd support for each long distance race I’ve run, even when it involved traveling out-of-town. She has endured bad sleep at a noisy two-star hotel room as well as at a nice hotel room with our restless dog.

    In December 2013, we traveled to Sacramento for a race. There are four things I still remember vividly about it. 

    First, at the 7:00 am start, it was 28°. Granted, the race was in Sacramento, California in December, which is undoubtedly much warmer than Sac City, Iowa in December, but that’s still cold. Due to the cold conditions, the first water station unexpectedly turned into a safety hazard. As runners grab and dispose of cups at water stations, water gets spilled and falls to the pavement. This happens at every water station at every race. But it was below 32°, so the water on the ground froze into a sheet of ice, which required runners to quickly react and adjust their footing.

    Second, at around mile 20, I intentionally and stupidly made two high back kicks (heel-to-butt), to see how my legs were doing, and instantly injured the piriformis muscle and sciatic nerve in my left leg. I felt decent enough to finish the race, but my pace dropped over the last six miles. Over the next few weeks I could feel that something wasn’t right–it turned out I had injured my piriformis muscle.

    Third, despite that, my finish time was decent enough that I first entertained the idea of making a serious attempt to qualify for the Boston Marathon.

    However, all of this is just backstory. The most enduring and entertaining thing I remember about the race involved a pair of spectators, one of them being my supportive wife.

    As a participant, I had done my planning for the race. As a spectator, my wife had also done some planning for the race, with some input from me. The general plan was for my wife to meet up with an old high school friend and watch the race and cheer on runners together. They would be stationed at a specific street corner along the race route, very close to the friend’s house, around mile 22.5. 

    I was familiar with the route, I knew where to look for her.

    She knew where to look for me, but I also wanted to let her know when to look for me.

    So, given her precise location and its point along the route, I did the math, factoring in the start time for my corral, my target pace, the total number and duration of water stops, etc. I came up with a specific five-minute time window within which she could expect me to pass by: 10:10-10:15 am. 

    The field of 6,000 would be spread out by that point, so I should be easy to pick out of the moving crowd. In retrospect, however, I should have taken a picture of myself in my running gear to visually show her and her friend exactly what to watch for.

    For my part, I had run the race according to plan (with one huge exception, noted above), maintained my target pace, and was about to pass my two dedicated spectators within the calculated time window.

    As I approached, I saw my wife and her friend. However, I also saw they weren’t actively watching the runners, and they clearly didn’t see me approaching. Rather, they were swept up in conversation, busy chatting away, which wasn’t entirely surprising since they are both good talkers.

    In order not to be missed, I had no choice but to interrupt their verbal marathon. To get their attention, I waved an arm above my head and shouted, “Here I am! Cheer for me!” which they did, so the plan worked out, with only a small piece of impromptu directing.

    For her part, all my wife had to do was watch the clock, and at 10:10 am, pay attention for five minutes. That’s it. I delivered on my part of the bargain–I ran continuously and steadily for 20+ miles, to be on time, at the pre-arranged location, as planned.

    To be fair and truthful, that’s not all my wife had to do. She also had to give up her weekend, wake up early Sunday morning, check out of the hotel, scrape ice off my back car window, and drive 25 miles to meet me, at the rendezvous point, at the designated time. 

    And for what? To stand outside in the cold and see her husband, whom she sees all the time anyway, for 20 fleeting but shining seconds. That is support.

  • Dying on the Floor of Penny Heaven

    Here I find myself, a grown-ass man crawling on the dirty floor of a casino. I’m supposed to be enjoying vacation. How did this happen? It wasn’t in my horoscope, I would have remembered this part.

    Each summer, my wife and I take a one-week trip to a popular travel destination. During our trips, we sometimes visit local casinos for some low-stakes gambling. 

    When we do, we visit the low roller casinos, and within those, we gravitate to the lower roller sections–the sections of the casino floors reserved for the ultra-low rollers, ingloriously tucked away, to hide the shame of the casinos and the shame of the gamblers found therein. They feature $1 tables and 1¢ and 5¢ slot machines.

    During one evening visit, my wife and I exchanged funds for a plastic bucket of nickels and headed over to the slot machines in the section appropriate for us. I believe it was called Penny Heaven. But looking around, it was not exactly the picture of heaven that one most likely has in mind.

    Rather than play simultaneously at two adjacent machines, we picked one machine, and took turns playing. Since we shared the same machine, we also shared the same stool. One of us would sit on the stool, play a few rounds, and then would we switch.

    Our stool for this evening was a bar stool with four tall legs, a high seat (about 3 feet high), and a small backrest, which my wife draped her purse strap over. 

    During one particular seating switch, my wife jumped off the stool and I, not looking back, started to climb onto it. I lifted up one knee, got my butt horizontal with the seat, and started leaning my upper body backwards. 

    At precisely the same moment, my wife pulled at her purse strap, which you may recall, is hooked on the backrest of the stool. This pulling action caused the stool to fall over.

    Of course, I didn’t see any of this. (If I did, I wouldn’t have a fun story to share.) I kept leaning back…and leaning back…unexpectedly falling through space and time, until…THUD!!! I landed on the most undignified section of the casino floor, back-first, like an overturned turtle. 

    As my body made impact, so did the bucket of nickels in my possession. Those went flying everywhere, making a tremendous clinking sound. That only brought more attention to my body on the floor, and the fact that I am outdated and cheap, still playing with actual nickels. 

    It also created the appearance that I fell off the stool because I’m sloppy drunk.

    My wife apologized to me repeatedly as I turned over on all fours and started scooping nickels back into the bucket. A few very nice, considerate low rollers came over and helped me gather the nickels strewn about the floor. They also asked me if I was OK. I had the wind knocked out of me, so I couldn’t verbally reply at the moment, but I appreciated their concern as I crawled around. And thankfully, with such miserable low stakes, no one bothered to pocket any of my errant nickels.

    There was no way to gracefully play off my fall, so I didn’t even try. I just stood back up and watched my wife play, looking like the clumsy loser idiot that I am. Not concerned about any side glances or murmuring that may have been occurring. “I hope drunk guy is OK. You should have seen him fall, dude. Crashed like a ton of bricks. That guy over there. Yeah, him.”

    I will say, that was much more excitement than I bargained for in Penny Heaven. Thank you for providing such an inexpensive and memorable evening. I got a lot of bang for my nickel.

  • Help with Chips in Bowl

    I still get derisively reminded about this pathetic incident, and rightfully so. It also, unfortunately, serves as a really good metaphor for my literal-mindedness.

    Several years ago, on an otherwise glorious Super Bowl Sunday, my wife and I were setting up the house in anticipation of guests arriving for our annual Super Bowl party. Among other simple requests, my wife asked me to put a bag of chips in a bowl. As a dutiful husband, I did.

    What I actually did, I should clarify, is place an unopened bag of chips upright in the designated bowl. Using a strict interpretation of the request, I did what I was told.

    A few moments later, my wife passed by and saw the result of my effort. I think her heart dropped and her soul died a little. 

    With heavy resignation, she says, “I can’t believe I have to tell you to open the bag and pour the chips into the bowl.” I looked at the still life, realized my mistake, but still responded both defensively and pitifully: “But you told me to put the chips in the bowl.” What a fool, truly in need of pity.

    Be thankful, kind reader, that you don’t rely on me for help. On one hand, I do what I’m told. On the other, I do EXACTLY what I’m told. For any given task, my “help” can actually be helpful and appreciated or it can be bewildering and exasperating. As you may have presumed, this crapshoot gets old very quickly.

  • Help with Name of Actor

    During one quiet, boring, and blissful evening of married life, my wife and I were home, watching Netflix, and in particular, a series called Ballers, starring The Rock as a financial manager of NFL players. 

    About ten minutes into the first episode of the series, I focused on one of the young actors and said, “I think we’ve seen him before in something. He seems familiar.” 

    No response from my wife. Fine.

    We kept watching and about five minutes later, I paused the show and said, “We’ve seen him in something. I don’t remember what, but we’ve seen him in something.” 

    Again, nothing from my wife. She remained unresponsive and expressionless.

    After about twenty minutes, it finally clicked. I paused the show again and proudly exclaimed to my wife, “I got it! I figured it out. He sounds like Denzel Washington. That’s who he reminds me of.”

    My wife casually says, “Oh yeah, that’s his son.” It was; the show also stars John David Washington. 

    Well, thanks. Thanks so much for belatedly sharing that relevant information. You saw me sitting there struggling, racking my brain. I paused the show multiple times. You knew all along who he was, and yet, you couldn’t tell me who he was or help me out? You couldn’t even throw me a bone?

    However, not long after this exchange, I recalled some informal marital advice from an old family friend: “This is what you argue about? If this is what you argue about, you’ve got it made.” While the discussion above, between my wife and I, wouldn’t properly be classified as an argument,  the advice, as I’ve accepted it, still applies.

    So apparently, my wife and I have it made. This is what it feels like? Who knew? Yay for us, I guess.

  • Help with Name of Pet

    Oh, this is another absolute beauty. Many years ago, my wife was regaling me with a story about one of her fellow co-workers, after having seen her bring her two cats, Thunder and Lightning, into work over the weekend.

    Fast forward, perhaps five years. My wife and I were at a social gathering and a particular individual mentioned they had a dog named Thunder. I shot straight up in my chair, turned to my wife, and asked, “Wait, don’t we know someone else with a dog named Thunder?”

    “Nope.”

    “Really? Are you sure? That name sounds familiar.” It was a very trivial matter, and as such, my trivial brain wouldn’t let it rest.

    A few days later, I persisted with the line of questioning. “Are you sure we don’t know someone with a dog named Thunder? Or maybe it’s a cat. I don’t know. I remember that name from somewhere. It’s not a common name for a pet.”

    “Nope. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

    But I know we do, I fucking know it. And I know none of this is important, but it’s bugging me, and I can’t let it go. A few days later, it finally came to me. “Wait a minute! I got it! It’s a cat! No, it’s two cats! Didn’t you tell me a story about someone who brought their cats Thunder and Lightning to work?”

    “Oh yeah. Thunder and Lightning. Those are my co-worker’s cats. She brings them into work on the weekend.

    “Jesus Christ, I knew I wasn’t crazy. I remembered them from a story you told me. Why didn’t you also remember them? They’re from your story.”

    “You were talking about them, but that didn’t help me remember. I had to see the visual picture of them in my head.”

    “But I’ve never seen any of them in my life. I only know about them through a story you told me. It was your story, but I’m the one who remembered. I can’t believe we just went through all of this.” 

    And for what? I put both of us through this excruciating memory exercise just to make the connection between the names of other people’s pets. Then I remembered the advice from our family friend and calmly reminded myself that we’ve got it made.

  • Charleston Antique Shop

    On the eve of Christmas Eve, many years ago, my mom and I took a short trip to Charleston, South Carolina. While in town, my mom asked to visit a local antique shop. 

    While inside, casually perusing, I came across an expensive, but otherwise nondescript wooden coffee table. Is that really the price? Why so expensive?

    Granted, I didn’t know anything about the maker, wood, style, vintage, or history of the table. Did The Honorable John C. Calhoun stack his “gentlemen’s magazines” on it? I don’t know. All I saw, directly in front of me, was an old coffee table. 

    “Hey Mom, did you see the price on this coffee table?”

    “No. What is it?”

    “Eight.”

    “Hundred?”

    I gave a quick head shake, to imply the presence of another zero.

    My mom quickly reevaluated our presence in the shop: “We need to leave. We don’t belong in here.”

    No, we don’t, and that we did–we left. No discussion, no hesitation, just legs moving. We didn’t need to buy anything in that shop and we sure as hell didn’t need to break anything.

    One of my simple pleasures in life: honesty. I love honesty. Thankfully, my mom and I both understand and speak honesty fluently.

  • I’m Not Worried About Al Taking My Job

    Al is coming to take my job and all the jobs. That’s what I hear. I’ve heard a lot about Al in the news lately. Every day, there are new articles, which feel like they are generated automatically, appearing across a wide variety of media outlets.

    In addition, a lot of people tell me, firsthand, they are worried about Al taking their jobs. Not me. I’m a writer AND a graphic designer, so I’m safe. Absolutely golden.

    I’m not sure why Al has so many people worried. I mean, how much damage can one guy do? How many jobs can one guy take? What’s he going to do, pull a triple shift and work weekends?

    Let’s not be mistaken about this. For example, Linda McMahon, the highly esteemed Secretary of Education–by way of professional wrestling, naturally–recently mixed up Al with A1. What a moronic blunder! Get it right! It’s not A1, it’s Al. As in Big Al, or Little Al, if that’s the case. I don’t know, I’ve never seen him. Therein lies part of the problem–I don’t know what he physically looks like. In fact, I think he’s ducking me. Gutless coward! There used to be a time when he and I would take it outside and settle our differences, like real men.

    You think you’re going to take my job, you sneaky bastard? I’ve got news for you, Al. I’m going to take your job! I’m going to visit your workplace, talk to your manager, and offer to work more hours for less pay. You don’t stand a chance. You’re going down, way before I am. Face it, Al, there’s no future for you!





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