Check out this photo of Bert and Margaret Elsinger. They used to be such nice people. Then they got sucked into a dark, mysterious cult – the cult of Pickleball. Sadly, once elderly people join this cult, they rarely escape.
[Author’s Note: As a nationally recognized expert on mental health and the proud owner of a doctor’s white medical jacket costume I bought on Amazon.com for a Halloween party a few years ago, I periodically share emails I receive from some of my patients in hopes it may shed light on an issue others may be grappling with. This is one of those letters. – TEJ ]
Dear Doctor Tim:
I hope you can help me. I’m extremely worried about my elderly parents. They’re both in their mid-seventies. Until six months ago, they seemed to lead normal, albeit boring, lives. My mom, Margaret, spent most of her days sewing dresses for her grandchildren and reading romance novels. My father, Bert, liked to go fishing and do the daily word Jumble in the newspaper.
But something’s changed lately, and I’m worried about them. I think they may have joined a cult. I know it sounds crazy but hear me out. They’ve both totally given up their normal hobbies and appear to have compiled a completely new group of friends – strangers I’ve never seen nor heard about before. No, they haven’t shaved their heads and thankfully, they’re not speaking in tongues or anything like that. But they’ve definitely changed.
The other day I saw them holding these paddles and swinging them at each other wildly. Do you think they might have joined some freaky S & M cult that gets off on spanking? I really don’t know what they’re up to, but I think I need them to get a mental health evaluation. They disappear in the middle of the day for hours at a time, several days a week. And when they head off, they never tell me where they’re going. One of them usually shouts something creepy like, “I’m going to spank your mom again!†What the heck is happening, Dr. Tim?
Lately I’ve noticed that they’re using words I’ve never heard them utter in the past. Words like “Fake dink†and “doing an Erne†and talking about some guy called “Nasty Nelson.†Sounds like a bad dude. Honestly, it’s like they’re speaking in code or something. And just this morning, they got into a heated argument when my mom seemed to be getting on my dad’s case shouting, “You’re always in the kitchen, Bert!†Dr. Tim, I’ve  known my father for fifty years, and one thing I know is he’s NEVER in the kitchen. He feels cooking is a wife’s job. (I know. Don’t get me started.) Do you think this might be a sign of early stage dementia?
They used to watch BritBox murder mysteries every evening, but now they sit in front of the computer and watch YouTube videos about how to make pickles or something. Obsessively. I mean, seriously, Dr. Tim, how many ways are there to pickle something? I think they’re losing it. I worry they might be in some bizarre cult. But why now? Aren’t they too old to join a cult?
Dr. Tim, is there anything I can do to pull them out of this dark mysterious sect they appear to have been sucked into before it’s too late?  – Signed, Concerned in Camano
Dear Concerned,
I appreciate your sharing your understandable concern about your parents. I won’t sugarcoat this. Your suspicions are correct. Your elderly parents, Margaret and Bert, have in fact entered into a cult. The cult of Pickleball. The good news is, as far as I can tell from my research, it’s a relatively innocuous, non-violent cult, except for Nasty Nelson. But I must warn you, they can be aggressive in their recruitment tactics, sending out legions of their members to indoctrinate unsuspecting folks like your parents. Tragically, in recent years, I’ve seen several close friends get swept up into their strange, obsessed world.
“Pickleballers†as the cult members weirdly refer to themselves, often appear at first glance to be positive, friendly, and engaging people. But be careful. This is how they lure you in. They’ll tell naïve senior citizens things like “it’s a great physical activity for your age†or “it’s a fun way to meet new people.†What they don’t tell you is that all those new people you’ll meet are…. PICKLEBALLERS! And they can be insufferable, rambling on about their current DUPR rating (don’t ask – you don’t want to know, trust me), or they’ll compare pickleball paddles for no apparent reason.
Check out this couple, Elsie and Art Claxton, proudly wearing their 1st place medals for their age group. Sadly, ever since a “friend†recruited them into this cult, it’s all they ever talk about. Ask Elsie about the weather and she’ll answer by explaining why you “can’t stand in the kitchen†– whatever that means. Their adult children are worried sick about them. Such a sad story.
I’ve lost some close friends to this enigmatic sect. Good people, normal people, who once they picked up that paddle somehow could no longer talk about anything else.
It’s extremely difficult to de-program someone once they’ve become indoctrinated into this bewitched world. Some families have tried to help their elderly parents withdraw from the sport by introducing them to shuffleboard or lawn bowling or darts, sort of the way medical professionals try to wean addicts off of heroin by substituting methadone. But in most cases, the septuagenarians just can’t handle the cold turkey withdrawal from this sport they desperately crave. And before you know it, they quickly lapse back into the cult, cheerfully saying odd expressions like “I’ll dink to that!â€
Trust me. I know how alluring this game can be. Because I’m a victim, too. I was recently invited to play a pickup game. I had no idea what I was getting into. And before long, I was hooked. I wish you luck in getting your parents back. The odds are not in your favor, I have to tell you. Just ask my kids.
Let me know how it goes. I have to wrap this up. I can’t be late for my 1pm pickleball match. It’s a round robin. Many of my new best friends will be there. And one of them, a great guy named Bert, just bought a new ONIX Z5 graphite carbon fiber pickleball paddle that’s USA Pickleball Approved. I confess, I’m really jealous.
– Dr. Tim
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
[Author’s note: The following is a letter I sent to DOLLAR RENT A CAR based on an actual recent car rental experience. – TEJ ]
This is me at the airport’s DOLLAR counter at midnight, immediately after they closed the counter, having just been informed they would not rent me a car, even though I had a reservation. Thank you, DOLLAR, for giving me my topic for this week’s column.
Dear DOLLAR RENT A CAR,
I wanted to tell you about my unforgettable experience that took place when I made the admittedly foolhardy decision to rent a car from DOLLAR RENT A CAR. I had just flown into Albany, NY Airport with plans to see my family and attend my high school’s 50th class reunion, so I needed a car.
Two months before my trip, I made an egregious mistake. I placed a reservation online with DOLLAR RENT A CAR. I selected an economy vehicle. I hope you don’t feel I was being too cheap by not going for your luxury SUV option instead. Anyhoo, my flight into Albany arrived three hours late. This was totally my fault, of course. I had made the reckless decision to try to save a few bucks by flying Southwest Airlines. I’ll never make that mistake again. But I digress.
I arrived at your airport rental car counter at 11:30pm – thirty minutes before it closed for the night. The employee at the counter named Tony immediately found my reservation in your system. I only had to wait another 22 minutes for Tony to casually inform me, “Looks like I can’t give you a car. You’re on our DNR LIST.† Perplexed, I asked Tony if I had heard him correctly: “Did you say, I’m on a DNR LIST? What’s that?â€
Tony explained in a voice some might mistake as sounding gruff and irritated, but I’m sure was intended to exude warmth and empathy, that it stood for “Do Not Rent.†Like an airline No Fly List but for rental cars. Turns out I had been officially banned from travel with Dollar Rent A Car. I asked, “Can you tell me WHY I am on Dollar’s RENTAL BLACK LIST?â€
“That’s DO NOT RENT LIST,†Tony snapped in what probably was a lot cheerier a voice than it sounded. “How the Hell would I know why? Maybe you have a criminal conviction or failed to pay some outstanding speeding tickets.â€
“No, Tony, neither of those apply to me,†I calmly explained.
“Well, you must’a did something wrong, fella,†Tony barked, again in the kindest, affirming voice. Tony wrote down a phone number: “Call our DNR department during business hours tomorrow and maybe they can explain why. We’re now officially closed for the night. I gotta go.â€
I want to thank you, DOLLAR RENT A CAR, for not telling me I was on your “DNR†list until 11:52 pm just as all the airport rental counters were closing for the night. I would hate to have received this helpful information, say, two months ago when I first placed my reservation, while I still had time to make alternate rental car arrangements. It would have totally deprived me of the memorable opportunity to spend quality time with your superstar employee Tony.
So there I was at midnight, stuck at the airport, no car, and all the rental car counters closed for the night.  You may find the next part hilarious. I know I sure will – ten years from now. I was supposed to drive an hour north of Albany to meet a close friend. But thanks to your DNR policy, I had no choice but to shell out money for a cab and stay at a nearby hotel instead.
I called the nearest Courtyard by Marriott,. I spoke to a lovely person named Donna. I explained to Donna that I was in a bit of a jam and desperately needed a place for one night. To my great elation, Donna told me, â€Mr. Jones, you’re in luck. We have one room left.â€
Within minutes, I was in an Uber heading for the hotel. When I lugged my luggage into the hotel lobby, Donna met me with a sheepish expression on her face. Uh oh. She apologized that she’d made a mistake. It turns out there were no rooms available after all. Here’s my question: Did DOLLAR RENT A CAR have someone call the hotel to inform them to place me on the DO NOT RENT A HOTEL ROOM list, too?
Thanks to DOLLAR’s DO NOT RENT policy, I had to look for a hotel room. I felt a lot like Joseph and Mary being turned away by every inn. At least they had a means of transportation to get from inn to inn, which is more than I could say.
Now, you might be curious to know WHY I was put on your firm’s DO NOT RENT list. I admire your inquisitiveness. I called the following morning and a customer service person named Breanna put me on a brief five-minute hold. And then another ten-minute hold. And after what barely felt like another 15 minutes, she accidentally disconnected my call.
I called in again and in less than 20 minutes I reached Christina – or maybe it was Kristina. I’m sorry I failed to ask how she spelled her name. She said I had been placed on your elite “WE HATE YOU†list because apparently, I had the same last name as someone else who had failed to pay their bill.
An easy-to-understand mistake, seeing as how we were probably the only two people with the last name JONES in your entire 100,000-person customer database. I’m pleased to report that Kristina wasted no time in apologizing to me, by which I mean she didn’t bother to apologize. But that’s okay. I’m sure she was having a bad day – probably from having to deal with hundreds of other people calling in to complain about being put on your DNR list by mistake.
I asked Kristina if she could reverse the $450 charge I paid when I originally reserved a vehicle, since your company refused to rent me the car. She explained that she could not help me, as she worked for the DNR department. I needed to call the customer severance, I mean customer service department.
I finally reached a representative named Roy, who I have to say possessed almost as polished social skills as Tony from the rental counter. Roy explained that he couldn’t issue a refund because I needed to have cancelled my reservation at least 24 hours before the rental date, and I had failed to do so.
I explained in vain that I did not actually cancel my reservation. Dollar did. Never quite understanding my point, Roy finally explained that I’d have to call their billing department to submit a refund request. It’s been two weeks, and I’m still waiting for a call back.
DOLLAR RENT A CAR, you have given me a new appreciation of just how rare outstanding customer service is, at least. anywhere within the ranks of your organization.
I hope you won’t mind my sharing my memorable experience with a few thousand of my closest Facebook friends, not to mention on LinkedIn, Twitter, and Instagram. DOLLAR RENT A CAR, you guys made me feel like a hundred bucks – too bad those hundred bucks were all counterfeit.
Sincerely,
Tim Jones, former customer
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
Cats are the most popular pet in most western countries. That’s because they’re furry, extremely cute, make a soothing purring sound, and help their owners procrastinate whenever they jump on our laps. Good kitty. Daddy didn’t want to defrost the fridge anyway. I’d rather pat you instead.
Cats living with humans dates back over 10,000 years. But in all that time, there is not a single documented case of a cat ever thanking its human cohabitant. In ancient Egypt, people worshipped cats as gods. To this day, that’s still how most cats see themselves.
Throughout history, cats have served many valuable functions for their owners. In many early civilizations, as cats became domesticated, they were kept as a means of chasing away snakes and killing mice and other rodents in order to protect the grains in storage.
It is speculated that cats were once used to herd sheep and cattle. However, historians say this practice was believed only to be associated with one group of people in medieval Wales. Apparently this terribly in-bred population suffered from a genetic defect in which everybody was severely near-sighted, and thus they mistook cats for dogs. Before long, this society appears to have died off, most likely from widespread starvation – because they kept losing their food supply of sheep and cattle. It turns out even back in the 700s, cats were terrible at herding. Many generations later, the entire tribe was posthumously given the Darwin Award.
In more recent times, cats have been adopted into families as household pets – mostly by lazy couples who preferred cats over dogs because they’ve concluded that getting up at 5am on a December morning to walk the dog and scoop up its poop on a frozen sidewalk was way too much work.
Throughout my marriage, we’ve owned cats as pets, typically two or three at a time. Don’t worry, I never became one of those “crazy cat people†with a dozen cats – because my wife would never agree to this. We love our cats dearly, but over the years, we’ve had to replace several living room chairs and many blown glass vases, thanks to our cats’ hardwired obsession with scratching furniture and knocking onto the floor anything on a counter that looked expensive.
In recent years, I have found yet another extremely useful function for our three cats, Buddy, Zippy, and Monster: I frequently use them to get out of having to help my wife with chores. That’s because we have a tacit agreement: Whenever one of us is lying on the couch, and there’s a cat on our lap, we mustn’t disturb our furry friend from their peaceful slumber.
As a result, whenever a cat is looking adorably cute, lounging comfortably on my lap, I get an immediate hall pass to avoid helping my wife with any chores until my fuzzy feline decides it’s time to move on to something more fascinating – like a nearby twist tie or a piece of lint. And our giant moose of a cat Buddy has been known to park himself on my lap for hours at a time, all but guaranteeing I won’t have to lift a finger for the rest of the afternoon.
This is our cat named Buddy. He’s huge. And he loves nothing more than to park himself on my lap and stay – usually within 30 seconds of when I was planning to get up to make myself a snack.
This system has been working wonderfully for me. For example, let’s say my wife could use a little help in the kitchen cooking dinner. As she’s getting close to the point where I anticipate she’ll likely be asking for my assistance, I make sure to grab say, Monster, park him on my lap and pat him until he settles in for a nice long nap. “Hey, honey, I would totally help peel the potatoes, but I’m stuck. I have a cat on my lap.†Chore averted.
But be careful not to abuse this strategy. A few years ago, during the peak of the pandemic, I was working from home. My boss asked me for my quarterly sales forecast. I tried to explain that I was not ready to present it at our Zoom meeting because there had been a cat on my lap for the previous two hours.
I figured my boss would understand. Turns out she had no sympathy for my predicament. I made the mistake of working for someone who was a dog person. (It’s my fault for not asking her about this during my job interview.) She had this crazy notion that focusing on my job during work hours took priority over patting kitties. Such a heartless person. I would have submitted a formal harassment claim to the HR department but I couldn’t – because I still had a cat on my lap – and our small company did not have an HR department.
I have been able to avoid raking the leaves, doing laundry, and power-washing the driveway for weeks at a time, thanks to this “Cat On My Lap†(COML) addendum to our marriage vows. But lately, our cat Zippy has been gravitating more to my wife’s lap than mine, thus ruining the balance of cat lap time that had been disproportionately favoring me. My wife is deliberately attempting to turn the tables by claiming “I’d be happy to help you with the gardening, but as you can clearly see, Zippy is parked on my lap.â€
As far back as 2,500 years ago, in ancient Egypt, cats were revered. Here is a piece of funerary fabric depicting a cat trying to decide which priceless urn to knock over. It ultimately chose the one on the right.
Our COML agreement worked perfectly when Zippy preferred my lap to my wife’s. But lately he’s turned into a traitor. Even Buddy – who ALWAYS prefers me – has taken to preferring my wife over me for cuddle time. What’s going on??!! My wife has nefariously used this technique to get me to cook dinner three nights in a row – and clean the BBQ grill. So unfair. I think she’s bribing the cats, but I have yet to catch her in the act.
This has to stop. I’m going to start spraying all my wife’s clothing with a dog fur cologne. (I wonder if Amazon has this in stock.) Hopefully, they’ll start to view her with suspicion or even terror and return to choosing my lap over hers, thus restoring order to the cat universe.
I know, it sounds extreme. But when it comes to my relaxation and my desire to avoid helping out around the house, sometimes a husband has to take drastic measures.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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This is a Mercury dime. This particular 1917 “full band” uncirculated edition is worth over $8,000. It got me to wondering: How many thousands would my extensive dime collection be worth?” The shocking answer stunned me.
Few people know that when I was young, I was a serious coin collector. From age six until 25, I collected Mercury dimes.
Fun fact: The Mercury dime was minted between 1916 and 1945. It was replaced in 1946 by the Roosevelt dime after the death of FDR in April 1945, as a way to honor his legacy.
The current value of Mercury dimes ranges widely. Some of them are worth barely more than their face value. But a 1935-S Mercury dime (The “S” means it was created at the San Francisco mint) has been appraised at $90,000. And one exceptionally well-preserved edition of the 1938-S Mercury dime has been assigned a value of $364,000 – or roughly $363,998 more than the current value of my Topps 1963 Major League baseball card of Willie Tasby of the Washington Senators. (He had a bad year that year.)
Several factors influence the market value of a coin: How many were produced, whether they ever entered into circulation, the coin’s overall condition, and whether or not they were ever part of Tim Jones’ private collection, in which case they would be considered primarily for their meltdown value.
When I first started collecting, I often asked my mother to take me to the bank where I asked the tellers whether they had any Mercury dimes they could exchange for my Roosevelt dimes. Initially, they were happy to trade with me. It was when I started asking the tellers if they’d trade me their Mercury dimes for my 1963 Willie Tasby baseball card that I started to run into some serious resistance.
This is a page from my Mercury dime collector’s book. Look at how many of the dates I had filled in! As I drove to the the coin shop to get my collection appraised, I reflected on an impending life-changing decision: Might this be the day I finally can retire? What car would I buy?
For reasons unknown, by the early 1960s Mercury dimes suddenly became almost impossible to locate – much like my middle school classmates, who, during recess, apparently decided hanging out with a coin-collecting nerd like me might ruin their chances to get girls to go out with them.
As a budding numismatist (which is nerd speak for coin collector), I bought a coin book specifically designed to display Mercury dimes, with a space for every year and every mint where the coins were produced – Philadelphia, Denver or San Francisco. By the time I reached age 18, I had populated my collector’s book with 42 dimes – a figure that exceeded the total number of dates I had gone out on in my life by 40. Some of them were rather scuffed up and had worn-out faces, but others were very well preserved. Sorry if that last sentence was not clear. I was referring to my coins, not my two dates.
I had one coin that was either a 1917-S (valued, depending on its condition, at between $1,000 and $5,000) or a 1917-D (today worth only 25 cents). It was hard to tell whether it was an “S” or a “D.” So, I told everybody it was an S, thinking that might make me seem cool to girls. Fun fact: It did not.
My father always told me my dime collection would be worth something someday if I just held onto it long enough. As I got older, I thought about perhaps handing it down to one of my kids someday as a precious heirloom. I hid away my Mercury dime collection in the back of my closet, right next to my 1963 Willie Tasby baseball card – safe from any potential thieving intruders – for decades.
Fifty years after I saved my first Mercury dime, at the age of 56, I finally decided, for the first time in my life, to bring my rare coin collection to a reputable coin shop to have it professionally appraised.
In my mind I envisioned that our encounter would be like a scene from an episode of Antiques Roadshow. I could almost hear the life-altering words of the coin appraiser: “Tim, I would say your impressive assemblage represents one of the finest private collections of Mercury dimes I have ever seen. I see you even have the rare 1917-S coin, although at first glance I thought it might have been a 1917-D. I would say, based on the immaculate condition of your coins, conservatively, it has a current value of between $150,000 to $200,000.”
Did I mention I also have an extensive collection of over 100 PEZ dispensers? I’ve been collecting them for years. I’m sure someday they’ll be worth almost as much as my Mercury dime collection.
Oh My God! Can you believe it!!! Then I opened my eyes and realized I was still in my car in the parking lot. I entered the store. Over the past 50 years, my modest initial collection had swelled to 75 Mercury dimes, meaning the face value alone was $7.50. It did not take the appraiser long to return with his assessment: “I would say the current value of your collection is around $10.00. I’d be willing to give you $13.00.”
“What about my rare 1917-S coin? Isn’t that worth something?”
“You mean your 1917-D? Yeah. It’s worth about 25 cents, give or take.”
Seriously? I’d been holding onto my collection for over 50 years, and its value had increased by roughly the price of a large Wendy’s Frosty? I was completely deflated. I thought long and hard about what to do next. Should I continue to hold onto my collection and give it to my daughter someday – perhaps when its value had soared to $15.00? I finally decided to accept the coin store owner’s offer of $13.00 and I said goodbye to the “precious” coin collection I had zealously guarded for the past half century.
I no longer have a single Mercury dime. But I still have my 1963 Willie Tasby baseball card. I’m sure eventually it will be worth a lot of money. Someday. It’s just a matter of time.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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If you’d like to add a little adventure to your life, why not take a trek into the Amazon rainforest? If you like 98 degree temps with 100% humidity and if you enjoy being accosted by 10,000 hungry mosquitoes, then the Amazon may be for you. One question: Do you like snakes?
When I say the word “Amazon,” what is the first thing that comes to mind? Okay, I figured you’d probably say Amazon.com, the giant online retailer. But believe it or not, there is another Amazon that has nothing to do with next-day delivery of sporting goods, pet food, or wireless headphones.
I’m talking about the Amazon rainforest. This exotic region spans nine South American countries. Did you know that the Amazon River basin contains 20% of the world’s flowing fresh water and one third of all known terrestrial plant, animal, and insect species?
This OTHER Amazon (the one that is not currently owned by Jeff Bezos) is an incredible place. I know this because my wife and I recently returned from a vacation which included a week in the heart of the Amazon rainforest. We stayed in a lodge overlooking the mighty Amazon River in northeastern Peru, with wild monkeys hanging out, just outside our cabin.
Based on my experience, I now consider myself an expert on what you need to know before you hop on a plane (and then another plane, and then one or two more flights – it’s not easy to get to the Amazon).
Heed my advice before you head to this untamed tropical paradise, and there’s at least a 50% chance you just might make it out alive. Frankly, that’s better odds than you’ll get anywhere in Vegas. While the Amazon is an amazing region, it’s also full of potential hostile hazards at every turn. Here are a few helpful pointers to ensure your journey into the Amazon wilderness is safe and that your kids will have to wait a few more years before they can receive their inheritance.
The weather can be brutal. The part of the Amazon where we trekked was very close to the equator. The average temperature everyday ranges from 93 to 98 degrees. And no, it’s not a dry heat. Sorry, buddy. The suffocating humidity here will make New Orleans in August feel like Anchorage in January.
If you failed to check the calendar and you arrive during the rainy season (which in this part of the Amazon runs from November through April) it can rain for days or even weeks without a break. Hope you brought a poncho – and a life raft.
Wear lots of sunscreen. Even on a cloudy day, you can get badly sunburned down here. Be sure to cover every exposed area with SPF 40 sunscreen or higher. Otherwise, you probably should just stay indoors. But good luck getting EPSN Sports Center in your room. Because the rooms don’t have TV here, BECAUSE YOU’RE IN THE HEART OF THE FREAKIN’ AMAZON! Seriously, dude. Were you actually hoping to catch the Giants – Packers game on Fox?
One risk of visiting the Amazon rainforest is getting eaten alive by mosquitoes. They love the humid jungle environment. If your bug spray isn’t keeping them away, I recommend buying a knight’s suit of armor – which comes with free shipping if you use Amazon Prime.
Don’t forget your shots. In addition to showing proof you’ve been vaccinated and boosted for Covid, you’ll also need the following vaccinations: Hepatitis A, Hepatitis B, Typhoid, and Yellow Fever. While you’re at it, be sure to get a prescription for anti-malaria pills. Don’t worry. If you forget these vaccinations, there’s still a chance you’ll make it out alive – albeit probably without the ability to use the left side of your body – or swallow. A small price to pay for the joy of exploring the unknown, if you ask me.
Don’t Go in the Water. Trust me on this. The Amazon has all sorts of critters that would love to have you as a main course for dinner. First of all, there are caimans (a relative of the alligator) everywhere in the Amazon River basin. And if you fall into the water, and the caimans don’t get you, their little buddies known as piranhas will be happy to swarm to your location in a feeding frenzy and make quick work of you. But don’t worry. Piranhas won’t attack you – unless they smell you. Did I mention, piranhas have an excellent sense of smell?
Don’t Drink the Water. The Amazon has more fresh water than anywhere else on the planet. Just make sure you don’t drink ANY of it. It is filled with bacteria extremely harmful to humans. And if the bacteria don’t kill you, the contaminated water will.
Watch out for ants. Specifically, army ants. They’re small, so you may not even notice them until you look down and discover that there are literally hundreds of them climbing your leg – INSIDE of your pants. They are carnivorous and aggressive. But they only attack while they’re awake. Fun fact: Army ants never sleep.
There are no doctors for hundreds of miles. If you are one of the unlucky ones who comes down with one of the countless illnesses you could catch in the wilds of the jungle, good luck finding medical help. If you get bit by a poisonous critter, then, if you’re lucky, you might be able to track down a local shaman from one of the indigenous tribes.
Admit it, you thought I made it up that we went to the Amazon. This is a photo of me taken on the Amazon River. I’m holding a piranha I caught, using just a stick and fishing line baited with raw meat. Had I fallen out of this boat, most likely I would have become an instant feast for dozens of circling piranhas.
The shaman won’t have a clue about any modern medical technology that could heal you, of course. But he just might have an elixir of frog brains and guava juice, mixed with tamarin monkey intestines and palm fronds that will give you a glimmer of hope that you will recover. Trust me. You won’t.
No cell service. No internet. By now you probably figured this out, but in the heart of the Amazon jungle, there is virtually no place with cell service, let alone a reliable internet connection. So, if you discover that you’re about to run out of insect repellant, good luck trying to order some more online. Because while Amazon.com will deliver just about anything imaginable within 24 to 48 hours to destinations all over the world, there is one place where Amazon won’t deliver: The Amazon. Ironic, isn’t it?
On second thought, I’ve changed my mind. I recommend you cancel your plans to trek into the heart of the Amazon wilderness. Don’t go TO the Amazon. Watch it ON Amazon Prime instead. Just rent the National Geographic documentary, Creatures of the Amazon Rainforest, and imagine yourself being there – all from the air-conditioned comfort of your living room recliner – with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Rainforest Crunch ice cream. Safe travels, my friend.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Likeor sharing this post on Facebook.
Like Indiana Jones, I HATE snakes. Notice how the king cobra has lifted up its head, flattening it into a hood? This means they’re pissed and about to strike. I know. A king cobra did this to me.
My namesake (and second cousin on my dad’s side) Indiana Jones and I share several attributes in common: We both have a fascination with ancient mythology; in the end we both ended up with a gorgeous babe (just trying to score points with my wife here – How am I doing, sweetie?); And, most importantly, WE BOTH HATE SNAKES!
I cannot overstate just how much I despise those disgusting creatures. Everything about them gives me the creeps. There is no such thing as a cute snake. They have no fur, no legs, not even eyelids. How bizarre is that? Worst of all, they can paralyze or kill you with a single venomous bite – unless they’re the kind that suffocates you to death with their viselike grip.
I cannot think of a single redeeming thing about this evil being. Okay, well, maybe one thing. Apparently, some snakes actually like to eat other snakes. In fact, the favorite food of king cobras is, you guessed it, other snakes. How sick and twisted is that?
Snakes will never win any medals for intelligence either. Did you know that some snakes actually eat themselves?True. I’ll admit, when I was a one-year-old, I sometimes obsessively sucked my thumb. But I never gave serious thought to devouring my hand. Some snakes are idiots.
But back to my main point: I loathe those slimy, slithering serpents. (I wrote the previous sentence primarily to show my 9th grade English teacher, Mr. Santee, that I still remember what he taught me about the importance of using alliteration in storytelling. How’d I do, teach?)
Fun fact: The snake on the left will kill you instantly. The snake on the right is totally harmless. Good luck figuring which is which the next time you stumble onto one of these.
When I was young, even the sight of a common garter snake would make me anxious, in part because there was no way for me to tell a harmless snake from a deadly one. (See image at right.) It would be extremely helpful if deadly snakes came with a warning label. Are you listening, God?
I once went tubing in the wilderness with a buddy of mine. He shared my snake phobia. As we drifted lazily down the slow-moving river, other more experienced tubers warned us to keep an eye out for water moccasins. Turns out this is a highly venomous snake that loves to hang out on rocks by the edge of the river, primarily to terrorize novice tubers like me. Its bite can be deadly.
Here’s a question: What’s more alarming than seeing a water moccasin basking on a rock by the edge of the river? Answer: Two seconds later when you turn to your buddy to point out that there’s a water moccasin on a rock by the edge of the river, only to notice it’s no longer there – because it’s decided to make like a torpedo and head straight for your inner tube. Luckily, he changed course and decided to pursue some other tubers, and we finished our journey without incident.
I once heard that snakes can actually swim through the sewer system and up into your toilets. I don’t know if that’s true, but ever since then, I’ve always closed the toilet lid after use. You may say I’m being paranoid, but I have yet to have a single snake attempt to bite my bum while on the toilet ever since I implemented this policy.
Perhaps the event that forever cemented my fear of snakes was the time my wife Michele and I attended a talk at the Miami Zoo by the zoo’s Director of Herpetology (think reptiles and snakes). During his presentation, he brought out several lizards and snakes of various levels of weirdness, including (I’m not making this up) a two-headed ball python.
In the background, I noticed a king cobra which the presenter had kept safely confined inside a glass aquarium. Then he removed the deadly snake from its glass enclosure with a long metal rod with a hook on the end. He delicately placed it on the floor. It immediately started winding its way towards the metal chairs each of us in this 30-person audience were defenselessly sitting on – make that standing on, as we each immediately jumped up in an anxious attempt to avoid the snake that was suddenly checking all of us out. Did I mention I was in the front row?
As the cobra sauntered in my general direction, the presenter grabbed it with his pole hook to pull it back. But then the snake just jumped off the hook again – and was now slithering towards me.
Fun fact: When a king cobra is angry or feeling threatened, it will rise up and flatten its head into a hood. Not so fun fact: The king cobra in our room was pulling that exact same move and was now less than four feet from me.
I saw a trailer for this terrifying documentary called Snakes on a Plane. All I know is that I will NEVER EVER fly that airline – not even if they offered me a seat in First Class and all the peanuts I could eat. No way.
The presenter desperately snatched the snake again with his pole and thrust the misbehaving cobra into the aquarium, slamming the lid. When the director resumed his presentation, the angry snake kept smashing its head against the side of the aquarium. But his many escape attempts were completely in vain – that is, until he tried smashing the lid of his jail cell instead. Yeah, that worked like a charm. The lid instantly popped off.
In a heartbeat – and mine was beating extremely fast now – the villainous venomous viper (how’s that for alliteration, Mr. Santee?) had leapt out of the aquarium and was back on the floor. He made the same threatening move as before, elevating his head and flattening it into a hood. Once again he was coming right at me. Fortunately, my wife was closer to him than I was, so her body partially blocked him from getting a clear shot at me. Thanks, sweetie.
The presenter, now obviously a bit shaken himself, was able to snare the snake and wrestle it into a burlap bag. He then shoved the bagged beast into a box. I later thought about how close my wife and I came to becoming the lead story on the evening news:
“KING COBRA KILLS COUPLE.” (Kudos to the headline writer who came up with that. He knew a thing or two about good alliteration.)
I will thank you not to post comments reassuring me that most snakes are harmless or how they help farmers by eating mice and other varmints. I don’t care if a goddamned snake knocked on my door and offered to paint my house for free. Get him away from me! Besides, I’m pretty sure he’d probably do a piss poor paint job.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook.
