Tom's Lead Balloon of Writing

Exploring the heights of literary and personal failure

Author: Tom

  • Slow Problem Solver

    What a hot, sweaty mess. It was my job to take our two recently-adopted chihuahuas for a noontime walk. I enjoyed being with them, getting outside, and taking a break from work. I didn’t enjoy getting overheated.   

    We would begin our walk with an ascent up a long, steep hill. After 1½ blocks, my hair would be soggy with sweat. Yes, it was summer and warm and bright outside, but I was dressed for it–wearing shorts, a short-sleeved shirt, and a baseball cap. 

    After a number of overheatings, I finally narrowed the source of the heat to my cap–it was a navy blue, fitted, acrylic and wool cap. The color absorbed heat and the material didn’t breathe. 

    During the walks, I would briefly think to myself, I need to wear a different hat, but then the thought would evaporate from my steamy head, and I would return home, and do nothing about it. The next day, the pattern would repeat itself.

    Not wearing a cap was never a realistic option. That would require taking a shower and combing my hair, which would defeat some of the practical perks of working from home.

    I finally resolved to devote serious thought to a viable headwear solution. Progress was glacial. First, I thought, What about a white baseball cap? I tried that, but my white, adjustable, acrylic and wool cap didn’t breathe, and produced the same sweaty outcome. 

    Then a few days later, What about a white cap made of lightweight, breathable material? Hmm, that’s a good idea. What kind of cap would that be? Every few days, I would return to this pressing question and inch closer to a solution.

    What about a white jobbers hat from the 1980s? No, those have been out of production and out of style for decades.

    What about a white painters cap? No, they’re not really used for physical activity.

    What about a white cycling cap? That could work. I was getting closer.

    What about a white golf hat or a white tennis hat? They’re good for physical exercise. I felt like I was on the right track here.

    What about a white running hat? You know, like the two you already own and have downstairs, along with the rest of your running gear.

    Wow! It took me a month to arrive at such an obvious solution? A month to realize that I already had the remedy in my possession? Good job, Sherlock. I felt triumphant and stupid at the same time.

  • Trustworthiness Has No Dramatic Appeal

    “Whatever you do, don’t look in that box.”

    “OK.” And then I don’t look. End of scene. 

    CUT! Wait, what’s going on here? That’s not supposed to be the end of the scene. That’s not how it works in film and on stage; there’s no tension with that. No, you’re supposed to devote a lot of attention to the box, tie yourself in knots, and think, Oh my God, what could possibly be in there? I know I was told not to look, but I have to know. The intrigue is eating me alive. That’s the setup. Then, of course, you look inside the box, and the action and problems begin.

    Or not. I was told not to look, ostensibly for a good reason, so I don’t. I respect the requestor’s judgment. In addition, whatever is in the box is probably not that interesting. Or there’s something about the contents that I’m better off not being privy to. Or the contents involve someone else’s personal problems, which I have no interest in being a part of. 

    More succinctly, I don’t care what’s in the box. There are better things to expend my psychological energy on. More likely, my response will be: “Can we just get rid of it, so we’re not adding to that pile of stuff?”

    Another classic: “If I tell you something, you have to promise not to tell anyone else, OK? You have to promise.” Even though this person was most likely given the same directive, broke their pledge, and now, with no hint of irony, is asking me to faithfully maintain secrecy.

    “OK.” And then I don’t tell anyone.

    CUT! EVERYBODY TAKE FIVE! What are you doing here? Why are you going off script? Doesn’t that make it more difficult for you? 

    No, not really. It’s usually a combination of the following: I don’t know the person involved very well, the secret isn’t that juicy, and I don’t know anyone else who would be remotely interested in that information. My underwhelmed reaction to the secret sharer is typically, “That’s it? Who cares?” Why would I waste my breath passing that on? That’s not even worth remembering. Hell, I have a hard enough time remembering things that are important. Yes, your secret is safe with me. Mostly because I don’t care and will forget within a few days, due to extreme indifference.

    OK, EVERYONE BACK ON STAGE! AND BRING IN THE UNDERSTUDY!

  • Going Bananas (Part 1)

    There is no secret or news flash about the Savannah Bananas. They are one of the hottest tickets in sports right now. The Bananas have drawn crowds of 70,000, 80,000, and 100,000 spectators. For baseball! 

    In the spring of 2024, as a new baseball season began to blossom, I looked into the possibility of seeing the Bananas play in our region. Too late, they had already come through. Later in the year, I looked into the possibility for 2025. Nothing doing, they weren’t coming to our area, but the Bananas were making a tour stop in Anaheim, California in May 2025, so I entered their lottery for tickets. 

    One fine day in March 2025, I received the lukewarm good news that I got lucky enough in the lottery to be eligible to purchase tickets, albeit on a stand-by basis, if tickets were still available.

    This came just two weeks after I received the unequivocally bad news that my job was being eliminated, due to cuts in federal spending for research. My steady source of income had suddenly evaporated. Which put me in a quandary.

    Given my new economic circumstances, do I do the fiscally responsible thing and forego purchasing a ticket or do I go bananas and go see the Bananas? The former option is the prudent, mature, responsible option; the no-fun course of action that I’ve taken most of my life. And look where it has gotten me.

    Fuck it! I’m going bananas! I’m going to try to make this work.

    At the time, I didn’t know how long I would be without a steady stream of income and I was reluctant to deplete my savings. But I do have planning, cheapness, and resourcefulness in my favor. My superpower is being cheap. Pinching pennies, finding deals, and consistently resisting the urge to buy stupid shit that I don’t need are my specialties. 

    Utilizing this superpower, I could make it work. Not on a shoestring budget, but on a shoeless budget, as follows: 

    • Baseball ticket: $40 (For cheapest seats.)
    • Plane fare: $11 (I used points on Southwest.)
    • Public transportation to airport: $15.50
    • Lodging: $0 (I crashed with my parents.)
    • Parking: $0 (I parked on the street and walked in instead of paying $40 for stadium parking.)
    • Stadium food: $0 (Are you fucking nuts? Never.)
    • Merch: $0 (Same as above.)

    Aggregating these direct expenses, I spent less than $70 to fly to and attend an out-of-town sporting event. Where there’s a cheapskate, there’s a way.

  • Going Bananas (Part 2)

    “We were told it would fail. People said they would never come to it because it’s not real baseball. We’ve been criticized every step of the way. But you know what I remember, what I focus on is the fans that love it.”

    –Jesse Cole, Banana Ball owner, excerpted from ESPN interview

    The Banana Ball game I attended, almost exactly one year ago, was sold out. That’s a given, the Bananas always sell out. They even sell out football stadiums.

    There is a limited supply of games during a season or “tour” (their term). Banana Ball teams only visit cities for one to three days, then they’re gone for the rest of the year. They also make tour stops in smaller cities. Both of which give Banana Ball games the feel of special events, which in turn, drive up interest and demand.

    Fans filled Angel Stadium and kept it filled until the end of the game, which isn’t difficult to do since Banana Ball games are two hours long, max. Compared to Major League Baseball, the pace of play is much quicker. The time spent between pitches is extremely short, without the need of a pitch clock.

    Highlights from the game–correction–the “show” (also their term, used very deliberately) included the following:

    –Players are allowed to modify and have fun with their uniforms: cut-off sleeves, bandanas, backward caps, cowboy hats, even a cape.

    –Players perform group dances and songs several times throughout the game.

    –Trick plays in the field are encouraged. There were a few botched trick plays during our game, but they are nonetheless encouraged.

    –Umpires make calls with flair. The home plate umpire danced throughout the game and busted out a dance routine to “Stanky Legg” after calling out a batter on strikes. The man was clearly having too much fun.

    –Celebrities and former hometown athletes make surprise entrances into the game. Ham Porter from the movie The Sandlot came up to pinch hit in our game. His face looked the same!

    –In addition to the baseball itself, there are dances, sing-alongs, and diverse other entertainments and gimmicks throughout. They help kill the downtime and also add to the fun.

    Banana Ball brings back the joy of baseball or anything else you played as a kid, just for fun, on a voluntary, unorganized basis, and without adult intrusion. 

    It’s not for everyone, such as the purists, traditionalists, and grumpy, old grandfathers who only like things the way they were, back in the good old days.

    The baseball game itself was competitive and the Bananas beat the Firefighters that night, 5-3. But that wasn’t the main takeaway. The game wasn’t primarily about which team won or which players performed well.

    The emphasis was and always is on fans. The Banana Ball owner and the Banana Ball marketing are very clear about that. And for the express sake of the fans, Banana Ball prioritizes fun, energy, and entertainment.  

    I had a good time and enjoyed the show. In retrospect, I’m glad I went and experienced the spectacle, first-hand. I made the right decision.

    “What makes us different. We are not your typical baseball team. We take chances. We bend the rules. We challenge the way things are ‘supposed’ to be…”

    –From the Savannah Bananas website

    The Savannah Bananas are doing something different and are injecting fun and new life into an old game. I love that spirit and am trying to embody it more, myself. I could take some cues from the Bananas.

  • Hitting Stationary Objects

    Having a car collision with a moving object? That can happen to anyone. That actually might not be your fault. Where’s the distinction and glory in that?

    I’ve hit a number of stationary objects with my car. That’s all I hit, that’s my specialty. The thing I like best about it is there’s no doubt who is to blame; it is unquestionably 100% my fault and it helps solidify my status as a crappy driver. 

    Trees, bush branches, dumpster, bench, brick wall, concrete post, fenders of other parked cars (at least three), the side of my neighbor’s parked truck. I’ve played bumper cars with all of them.

    I proudly remember one particular occasion, eons ago, in which I was backing up my car in my apartment building parking lot. It was a small outdoor lot with five diagonal spaces. Difficulty level 1.

    Initially unbeknownst to me, because I was laser-focused on the driving task at hand, my driving ineptitude was on full display for a very interested audience. An older guy–our widowed landlady’s “gentleman friend,” an old, crusty, New England type–completely stopped his yard work to watch me maneuver my vehicle.

    In an effort to avoid contact with several cars on the passenger side, I swung out wide and made contact with several bush branches on the driver side. It made a terrible scratching sound.

    After watching this pathetic exhibition, he said, “Be careful, you’re going to scrape the paint off the bushes!” and then started cracking up at his own joke. 

    Good one, sir. You got me. I’m glad I could provide you with such cheap amusement. I’m useful for more than just the rent.

  • Dart Machine Pick Up (Part 1)

    The house my wife and I bought came with a small, unfinished room downstairs. I remember the realtor trying to market it as a potential home office. Fuck that! We’re not going to waste it on work. This room is going to be used for fun. We’re going to turn it into a game room.

    For our first big purchase, I found a listing for an old-school, stand-up, electronic dart machine on Craigslist. 

    YEEEAAAHHH!!

    I contacted the seller, agreed to purchase it, and to pick it up at his house, about 120 miles away. His story for wanting to sell it? He had a wife and baby and needed to spend money on other, more important, more mature things.

    I borrowed an SUV from a relative and drove out to his house. The dart board owner was working and not home, so I dealt directly with his wife.

    She welcomed me inside, walked me over to a designated area, and I see he has his own game room with six big stand-up arcade games in it. I got the real story from the wife: he wanted to get a new game, so he had to get rid of a current game. Interesting. Either way, works for me.

    Turning to the dart machine–it’s extremely heavy (over 200 pounds), tall, and unwieldy. I wasn’t sure how I was going to move it out of the house to the SUV. The wife offered to drive me to a big-box store nearby and have me purchase a hand truck, which was very thoughtful, trustworthy, and unexpected. 

    She loaded up the family minivan with the baby and a complete stranger. I made the purchase, as suggested, and we returned to the house to properly load the dart board with this fine, new piece of moving equipment.

    On the first attempt, I somehow loaded the machine onto the hand truck improperly. We both watched in horror as it fell forward and crashed onto the carpeted floor. Fuck a duck! Did I just break this machine after buying it and after spending $50 on a hand truck that I might not now need?

    We picked up the machine and plugged it in to make sure it was still operable. It was. The next loading attempt was successful and less eventful. I wheeled the hand truck and dart board out to the street, next to the parked SUV .

    We both said, “Thank you.” She walked back into the house and closed the front door.

    Cool. Then about 15 seconds later I realized that I’m on my own and I don’t know how I’m going to pick up and load this heavy fucking machine into this SUV by myself.

  • Dart Machine Pick Up (Part 2)

    So there I was, totally self-screwed. I looked up and down the block, searching for possible ideas. Across the street and a few houses over, I saw a young man and woman talking. They were both smiling widely and had unmistakable stupid-in-love faces.

    As a side note, she was visibly pregnant. I wasn’t sure if he was the biological father-to-be; either way, he ain’t getting her re-pregnant. Well played, young Romeo.

    I thought to myself, Oh, this is going to be easy. Not even like taking candy from a baby, but like giving candy to a baby.

    So I approached them–him in particular–with something along the lines of: “Hi, I’m sorry to interrupt. I have a big machine over there that I’m trying to get into that SUV. It’s really heavy and I’m looking for someone REALLY STRONG to help load it in there. Do you think that is something you could help me with?”

    Kind reader, I was giving this young man the opportunity to display his strength and graciousness to his lady friend. I was actually doing HIM a favor. What else was he going to say?

    As a two-man job it was easy-peasy. Especially with someone much younger, stronger, and with better motivation. 

  • I Cracked the Code

    I made a great find at our fancy neighborhood market. Among all the single cans of fancy beer in the refrigerated section, I found one for $1.99. The only one priced as such. It was a good deal, about the same unit price as in a 6-pack. So I bought a can.

    A week later, the deal still existed, so I bought two cans.

    On another subsequent occasion, I bought two more cans, and sat out on the parklet in front of the market, on a sunny afternoon. I had created my own Happy Hour for the low price of $4.36 (after tax, etc.) and I was perfectly content. It felt almost too good to be true. It felt like I had beaten the system or uncovered some loophole or cracked some code.

    The next time I returned, the price had risen to $2.99 per can, the same as most of the other fancy beers sitting adjacent to it on the shelf.

    My little scheme was over.

    I imagine the precipitating conversation among employees transpired as follows:

    “You know that cheap guy who comes in here every now and then?”

    “Which guy?”

    “You know. The loser who comes in, looks at a few items, winces at the prices when he thinks we’re not looking, and then leaves without buying anything.”

    “Oh, THAT guy. Yeah, I hate that guy. What about him?”

    “Well, it’s the strangest thing. The only thing he ever buys are cans of the $1.99 beer. And among all our customers, he’s the only one who buys them. No one else, just him.

    “That’s odd. I’ll look into it.”

    Ten minutes later…“So, it turns out the $1.99 beer was mispriced. It should have been $2.99 a can, just like most of the other beers. Our guy is probably having delusions and fantasies about being a clever, covert code cracker, while he’s really just a miserable, old cheapskate. All he did was bring attention to an obviously mispriced item. So thanks, dumbass.”

  • 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