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!”

  • Falling Out of the Bathtub

    Sure, anyone can accidentally slip and fall in the shower or tub. But it takes a special individual, a real overachiever, to slip and fall out of the tub. 

    Before proceeding, I don’t want to make light of this too much; slips and falls in the bathtub and shower can be serious and result in serious injuries–broken bones, spinal injuries, and head injuries. I’m simply sharing this personal story, like most others, for readers to enjoy and to laugh at my misfortune.

    This episode occurred six years ago, but I still remember it vividly. I was taking a shower, washing my own business, when the surface of our porcelain enameled bathtub apparently became very soapy and slippery. 

    At some point, I shifted or shuffled my feet (nothing unusual), and lost my footing. While slipping, my body somehow turned 90°, perpendicular to the left side of the showerhead. My momentum carried me backwards and I toppled ass-first over the rim of the tub. I grabbed the shower curtain with both hands, but still fell out, and landed on our plastic toilet seat lid, which cracked from the full impact of my 170 pounds and bare ass. It all happened in about two seconds, but seemed to take much longer as it was happening, although nothing cool like in The Matrix.

    I was fortunate the toilet broke my fall. I fell two feet onto it rather than three and a half feet directly onto the tiled bathroom floor. I was also lucky to land ass-first instead of randomly landing back-first, hip-first, head-first, etc. 

    In addition to ordering and installing a new toilet seat lid, my wife and I purchased removable bathtub appliques (non-slip pads) to prevent future slips and falls. 

    As an additional safety measure, I reduced my exposure to risk. I cut back and now shower a few times a week, with soap optional. One can never be too safe.

  • My Softball Fans Are Killing Me

    Many years ago, while my hand-eye coordination still allowed it, I played slow pitch softball in our city’s recreational league.

    I played on a team with a bunch of similarly-skilled and like-minded guys in their 30s and 40s. We played primarily to have fun. We also played to win, but it wasn’t the end of the world if we didn’t. The other main goal we had for ourselves, all kidding aside, was not getting injured. During my time on the team, I injured my knee twice (sliding and fielding), my calf (base running), and my quad (base running). 

    It was rare that our team had any spectators attend our games. On a good night, we would have one faithful spectator. I think our maximum crowd turnout was six people. 

    During one memorable game, my wife took two nephews of ours, ages seven and ten at the time, out to the old softball game, to cheer on their uncle. I can still see them, not sitting passively on the wooden bleachers, but standing in back of the chain link fence behind the first base line, shaking it with their hands, and yelling. That part was great. 

    During my at-bats, they yelled, with great excitement, “Hey Uncle Tom, do something! Do something!” That’s not exactly a traditional baseball or softball cheer, but I appreciated their enthusiasm. 

    My teammates and I, while not immature biologically, always relished opportunities to joke around and rib one another. I think that’s just part of slow pitch softball. So, of course, once the two young nephews started their cheer, my teammates chimed in. “Do something! Hey, Tom, do something!” Which is hilarious, unless you’re the one standing in the batter’s box, trying to focus on the next incoming pitch. 

    And to top it off, the catcher on the opposing team joined the mocking chorus of jokers. “C’mon, Uncle Tom, do something. Hahahaha.” I couldn’t fault or blame him for that. It’s right there, it’s too easy, he’s got to do that. The original intention of “Do something!” was to cheer me on and encourage me. Instead, it was turned against me and I was now getting razzed. See what my nephews started? They’re killing me.

    I played with the team for 13 years, alongside a small core group of guys who played for most of that period. Towards the end, as I got older, my defensive skills got weaker, and I was hurting the team with errors. I was kicking the ball around the field, which is great if one is playing soccer, but not great if one is playing softball as an infielder. At some point, I made the humane decision to retire. 

    My concern that I was a liability was promptly validated the next season. Without me on the roster, the team went undefeated and won the championship for our division. 

    I contributed to my former team’s success by walking away. For that contribution, I crowned myself the unofficial team MVP, based on the clear and tremendous impact of my absence.

  • Slow Mystery Solvers (Part 1)

    Our bathroom isn’t very interesting, it usually doesn’t provide a vibrant and sustainable environment for bugs. My wife and I will encounter a stray spider every so often. Sometimes a gnat or fruit fly, very rarely an ant, fly, or mosquito.

    However, a few years ago, we started to notice one or two little black bugs, smaller than ants, crawling around our bathroom floor and walls. We would quickly dispatch them by squishing them and removing them with Kleenex or toilet paper. A day or so later, we would repeat the observation and removal process. After about two weeks of this, a case was officially opened and an inquiry was made: “We’ve never seen these bugs before, and they keep coming back. That’s interesting.” Then the case was shelved again. No further action was taken.

    Over the next few days, the bugs continued appearing and their appearances became more frequent. Nonetheless, no further movement on the case. 

    Then the number of bugs started to increase. Rather than seeing one or two bugs at a time, we would now see three to five bugs crawling around. Something was up. Something was going on. What kind of bugs were these and where were they coming from? Quite the mystery.

    To solve it, should we split up, like in Scooby Doo? Of course we should. That’s part of the proven formula for solving mysteries.

    I reopened the case and bravely ventured into the bathroom by myself. Zoinks! This place gives me the creeps. I started looking closely at windows, drains, and any cracks to see where the bugs might be coming from. I couldn’t find any possible points of entry. A few days later, I repeated my inspection. Still nothing.

    On the fateful evening, while my wife stayed back in another room continuing some after-hours work, I went into the bathroom, once again, to search for clues.

    I knelt down on the bathroom floor and looked closely at the sink pipes to my right, where they connected to the wall. I didn’t see anything, but after being down there a while, I thought I heard something. That might be a clue. Ruh-roh!

    I gave it some more time. The sound was real. What I heard sounded like rustling. But not like the sound of dried leaves, more faint and more steady than that. The sound wasn’t coming from my right, it was coming from my left. But there weren’t any bugs visible on that side. There was nothing over there, except the door stop. It was made of fabric and assumed the general shape of a pyramid, but without sharp edges, and was a little floppy, like a bean bag.

    The door stop.

    The bugs weren’t coming from outside. They were already inside and they were coming from the door stop. I put my ear next to it to confirm that was the source and I could clearly hear the rustling coming from inside. I felt a wave of disgust flash through my body.

    I went into the other room to tell my wife of the discovery. She was also repulsed. After a few rounds of, “The door stop? Who would have ever guessed that?” I asked her what it was filled with. What were the “beans” in the bean bag?

    “Rice.” 

    Are you kidding? We put out a door stop, filled with edible contents, and then wondered why we had an infestation in our bathroom.

    I returned to the bathroom to develop a disposal strategy. I really didn’t want to touch this thriving, self-contained colony. After a few moments, my wife casually followed up with, “I think there are such things as rice weevils.” Oh, God. One quick Google search confirmed this hunch. We’re so stupid that we put out a door stop, filled with the specific food for a specific type of weevil, and then wondered aloud why we had weevils living, feasting, and multiplying in our bathroom. 

    And it only took two college-educated individuals several weeks to put the pieces together and crack this case. Unbelievable. What a display of brilliance. We were so clueless. Actually, we were worse than clueless. We had clues right in front of us, we were just too lunkheaded to recognize them. We’ll never fit in as meddling kids and be invited to ride along in The Mystery Machine and chomp on Scooby Snacks. Whomp whomp.

  • Slow Mystery Solvers (Part 2)

    “Where is that water coming from?” Good question. My wife and I were looking at a cardboard box in our basement that had somehow sustained water damage.

    This particular cardboard box, with dried drip marks running down the front of it, sat amongst several boxes, plastic bins, canned goods, and glass jars on one of those ubiquitous metal Costco shelving units.

    While passing by the shelving unit on the way to the washer and dryer, my wife and I would notice this odd sight, contemplate it for a few seconds, then forget about it completely until the next pass-by.

    After several rounds of this, we finally decided to stop and investigate. The slow mystery solvers were on the case. Grab your pillow.

    First, our basement is completely enclosed and not subjected to the elements. It is not close to any doors or windows that could potentially leak during rainfall, so it’s not clear how water would reach this spot in the basement. Additionally, the shelving unit doesn’t lie beneath any internal plumbing, so again, it’s unclear how water might have reached this location.

    We looked closer at the damaged cardboard box and touched it. The water streaks down the front had dried, but there was a corner on the top of the box that was still wet. We both touched that area and then touched the case of juice boxes sitting directly on top of the cardboard box; they too were wet. This might be a clue. We were getting somewhere.

    We moved the case of juice boxes askew and felt some exposed moisture on the side of one of the individual juice boxes. Looking at that juice box closely, we saw a small puncture, and upon squeezing the box, saw more juice drip out. This was a crime scene, not an accident site.

    The damage on the cardboard box was not water damage, it was juice damage, caused by a visiting mouse who was conveniently provided with juice boxes to drink from, and as we also discovered, a box of dried pasta to munch on. Not exactly a banquet, but something convenient to subsist upon. I’m sure it appreciated our hospitality.

    Boy, was that foolish of us to leave down there. Equally as foolish, it took the two of us a ridiculously long time to figure all of this out–to rule out water and actually consider the juice boxes SITTING DIRECTLY ON TOP of the damaged cardboard box in question. Brilliant!

  • 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.





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