Thoughts, Memories, Ravings of Big Daddy Graham: Counting the Minutes
Although I must admit it’s been a while since I’ve seen this type of movie or television scene, it’s always stuck with me. There’s a meeting in an oak-paneled room with about 20 men in suits and ties seated at a giant oval table, and the big boss is addressing all of them with some sort of a screen behind him with pie charts and such.
You’ve seen it. It’s right out of “Mad Men.” It’s all-male with one exception. There’s a female secretary taking “minutes.” Minutes was where the secretary would painstakingly write down who said what at precisely what time. Often at the beginning of a meeting, the secretary would go over, minute by minute, who said what, at the last meeting.
I doubt if this is done today, but therein lies the problem. In my entire life, I’ve never been to such a meeting. So how would I know? I’ve never been to one at my radio station 94WIP, and a meeting with standup comics? It’ll be good for laughs but nothing will actually get done. Good luck with that!
So, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I kept minutes of my own life all last year right up to my accident. Since I am writing this on Saturday, March 14, I picked Saturday, March 16, 2019 and then I picked Saturday, July 20, 2019 and compared the minutes between the two. Here we go!
11:02am, March 16, Mullica Hill. I finally crawl out of bed. While in the bathroom performing my morning ritual, I turn to look out the window. It’s frosted. Not a good sign. Same thing with my bedroom windows. Maybe it’s time to get new windows.
I head downstairs and open up my front door. A burst of freezing wet wind invades my foyer actually blowing off my St. Patrick’s Day leprechaun decoration right into my house. Oh, my God, it’s “wintry mix.” I despise wintry mix! It’s one of those last gasps of winter that occasionally intrudes on March. Yikes!
11:02am, July 20, Sea Isle City. I finally crawl out of bed. While in the bathroom performing my morning ritual, I turn to look out the window. Dag, it’s a gorgeous morning. My neighbors, Frank and his sons, Tommy and Brian, are back from their early-morning bike cruise on the Promenade. My next-door neighbor, Mike, is snoring on his deck. He either fell asleep when he wandered out there with his morning coffee or he’s been out there all night sleeping off a load. I’ll go with the latter.
1:05pm, March 16, Mullica Hill. At least this time I remember that the sidewalk leading to my driveway freezes over like Lake Michigan. The last time this unexpected wintry mix arrived, I had forgotten that and fell flat on my keister. There’s a sheath of ice encasing my entire car.
Why am I even going out to begin with? Get ready for this: to get gas. I had asked my wife if we had enough gas to make it to the gas station, and she replied, “I think so.” Which I know really means that there may be less than an ounce of gas in the tank. We have to go out tonight and I would much rather run out of gas in the car without her in it than with her in it.
I make it to the Wawa, where I get my gas, and there are two women wrestling each other over the last bag of rock salt. “Must be nuns,” I think.
1:05pm, July 20, Sea Isle City. The ocean is amazing. This dude with an Eagles tattoo that takes up his entire back is 10 feet away from me and yelling at his wife: “Come on in, It’s like bathwater!”
I’ve always loved that expression, because anyone who would use it obviously never took a bath at my house.
Growing up, I would have to get in the same bathwater that my brother had just taken his bath in. My generation of parents looked for any way they could to penny-pinch. This way you only had to fill the bathtub with hot water once. Believe me, the bathwater was never “hot” the second time around. Not to mention how gross this all was to begin with. When I shared this cute, little childhood story with my kids, they were filled with as much disgust as when I told them how often I wash my jeans.
Anyway, the ocean temperature was certainly beautiful. I can tell you that much.
4:35pm, March 16, Mullica Hill. I’m watching “Action News.” There’s a five-alarm fire in North Philly that’s burning down some old factory. South Jersey teachers have yet to ratify a new contract. Joel Embiid is missing the Sixers’ next game. The South Street exit on 76 West will be closed for three years. There’s a storm front coming in from the Midwest that will cause heavy precipitation in our area for the next 29 days.
And this is just a warmup. Wait till we get to “Action News” at 5 and then “Action News” at 6!
4:35pm, July 20, Sea Isle City. The Phils are wrapping up a game that we’ve listened to on Irish Kevin’s yellow DeWalt construction-site radio that’s the size of a suitcase. There’s nothing better than a Phillies game on the beach. (Well, maybe I could think of one thing.)
The game is over, and we all decide that we are going to head up the beach to a No Shower Happy Hour. All the guys start walking toward the bars, but the girls decide they need to go back to the house to “freshen up.” I could drive my car out to Route 9 and get the oil changed quicker than it takes my wife to “freshen up.”
They shout to us, “What bar are you headed to?”
We act like we can’t hear them.
9pm, March 16, Mullica Hill. I thought about going over my brother in-law’s place, but they weren’t home. I guess I’ll watch a movie and then “Saturday Night Live” if I don’t fall asleep. At least I thought about going out. Oh, well.
9pm, July 20, Sea Isle City. Every band, at every club, at the same exact time, breaks into “Hey! Baby.”
Hey, hey baby
I wanna know (ohh)
If you’ll be my girl!
Well, I think taking all these “minutes” proves one thing: Thank God the summer is here.
