Let me be the first to say it: As years go, 2010 was Bingo Night at the retirement home lame. It was like the Millard Fillmore of years. It was like lumpy, tepid oatmeal, with no brown sugar or cinnamon. It was like playing Crazy Eights with your parents on Friday night. In fact, it was so uneventful, I couldn’t even come up with a Top Ten list for it. Seriously, I got to like four and just gave up.
Admittedly, there were a few highlights sprinkled throughout the year. Lady Gaga set a new record for video views, an honor previously held by that Numa Numa guy. Companies learned that if you slap the word “green” on any product people will pay two and a half times as much for it. And, there were only about seven vampire-themed movies released this year - one of which was a spoof of vampire-themed movies. So, there’s that.
But overall, relatively speaking, 2010 was pretty much a snooze-fest.
2010 was no 1969, or 1945, and 2010 couldn’t hold a candle to 1988. Or 1993. I was there in ‘93, I remember ‘93, and 2010 was no 1993.
Census figures were released in December, and the quote, unquote big news was the so-called “red shift” - that is, people moving from traditionally Democratic states to ones which tend to vote Republican. Whoop-de-do. They also revealed that only one American in seven knows their state’s two-letter postal designation (and three out of five thought Michigan’s was MN).
In science news, someone apparently discovered the “shocking truth” about something called the Acai berry. On the technology front, the most popular smart phone app for 2010 is one which makes flatulence sounds, and in pop culture news, there seems to be some unspoken agreement that all “tweener” instant celebrities must go to rehab at least once before they turn 17. Ho. Hum.
Twenty-ten, as it was clumsily labeled, was about as lukewarm and humdrum as it gets. It was so pathetic that an estimated 18.500 people actually died from sheer boredom. It was a fatally soporific year. It was like sugar-free gelatin and vanilla wafers. Like Fraiser re-runs. Like the Detroit Lions.
Yep, in the annals of incredibly tiresome years, I predict 2010 will be tucked in there between 1976 and either 2003 or 1954. But, what’s done is done. So, bring on 2011, I say!
And let’s turn out the lights on this denim jacket wearing, minivan driving, PTA meeting of a year.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Letter to My Sons (and Daughter)
With apologies to those who have much more eloquently poured out their hearts to their children in books and poems and letters over the years, I humbly submit my letter to my sons and daughter. Such as it is:
Time has stolen many memories, but some linger. That of a child parading through the house in Daddy’s boots and hat. Another, in full military garb, guarding the back yard perimeter; still another, dutifully putting his Matchbox cars away or carefully writing down his “Blue‘s Clues“. The birthdays and other special occasions are foggy, and for that - that I can no longer retrieve those memories at will - I am truly sad. Rather it is the everyday moments I still recall glimpses of, and not all of those pleasant. The look of disappointment when I was too tired to play catch, or too busy to look over your math homework. The resignation in your voice when I had another call coming in that I had to take.
I knew the day would come when you would figure out I wasn’t Superman (or the Incredible Hulk, or the handsome prince, or Johnny Cash). At some point, you saw that I was flawed and vulnerable. I dreaded that moment when I was younger; now I find it liberating.
I know I’ll never be nominated for Father of the Year - it was never my goal. My intention, rather, was to instill in you some of what’s in me; some of that imparted to me in love, more learned along the way, occasionally at a horrific price.
And so, while I have no silver or gold, or deeds or titles to pass along to you, I give you this, such as it is:
As you grow older, you’ll learn that the most important things in life are not how much money you make, or how many friends you have, or how big your house is. It’s whether or not you can look yourself in the mirror every morning, without turning away in shame.
It’s knowing that you can - and should - put other people’s happiness ahead of your own, and expect nothing in return. It’s knowing that - in the end - we have but two choices in life: To be hard-hearted or broken hearted. And knowing that hearts can be broken again, and again, and again. It’s forgiving yourself for being human, and fallible. It’s realizing that nothing lasts forever, save for the recording of our deeds in the memories of those we hold dear.
You’ll learn that happiness really is a choice, and that misery and self-pity will age you prematurely, and alienate those around you. You’ll learn that it’s okay to cry, and - okay if you don’t.
You’ll question yourself. You’ll wonder if you’re on the right path; if the price is too high, or the alternative too dreadful. Like me, you’ll wonder where we came from - and where we’re going. You’ll doubt yourself, and you’ll marvel at the injustice and coldness and inhumanity you’ll encounter along your journey, but also in the warmth and beauty and heroism and unfathomable love. In times of tragedy or dire need, you’ll surprise yourself by what you’re capable of.
You’ll tuck your own children in, and tip-toeing away, be haunted by thoughts of things you meant to do for them that day. And, in those moments, you will feel very small. And you will silently vow to do better.
You’ll look back in anger, and forward in determination. You’ll live, you’ll laugh, you’ll love, and one day - as must we all - you’ll die.
But know this: None of you have ever shed a tear that I wasn’t aware of, or ever felt pain that I didn’t feel. And - as long as there is breath in me - you will never take a breath without my love.
Such as it is.
Time has stolen many memories, but some linger. That of a child parading through the house in Daddy’s boots and hat. Another, in full military garb, guarding the back yard perimeter; still another, dutifully putting his Matchbox cars away or carefully writing down his “Blue‘s Clues“. The birthdays and other special occasions are foggy, and for that - that I can no longer retrieve those memories at will - I am truly sad. Rather it is the everyday moments I still recall glimpses of, and not all of those pleasant. The look of disappointment when I was too tired to play catch, or too busy to look over your math homework. The resignation in your voice when I had another call coming in that I had to take.
I knew the day would come when you would figure out I wasn’t Superman (or the Incredible Hulk, or the handsome prince, or Johnny Cash). At some point, you saw that I was flawed and vulnerable. I dreaded that moment when I was younger; now I find it liberating.
I know I’ll never be nominated for Father of the Year - it was never my goal. My intention, rather, was to instill in you some of what’s in me; some of that imparted to me in love, more learned along the way, occasionally at a horrific price.
And so, while I have no silver or gold, or deeds or titles to pass along to you, I give you this, such as it is:
As you grow older, you’ll learn that the most important things in life are not how much money you make, or how many friends you have, or how big your house is. It’s whether or not you can look yourself in the mirror every morning, without turning away in shame.
It’s knowing that you can - and should - put other people’s happiness ahead of your own, and expect nothing in return. It’s knowing that - in the end - we have but two choices in life: To be hard-hearted or broken hearted. And knowing that hearts can be broken again, and again, and again. It’s forgiving yourself for being human, and fallible. It’s realizing that nothing lasts forever, save for the recording of our deeds in the memories of those we hold dear.
You’ll learn that happiness really is a choice, and that misery and self-pity will age you prematurely, and alienate those around you. You’ll learn that it’s okay to cry, and - okay if you don’t.
You’ll question yourself. You’ll wonder if you’re on the right path; if the price is too high, or the alternative too dreadful. Like me, you’ll wonder where we came from - and where we’re going. You’ll doubt yourself, and you’ll marvel at the injustice and coldness and inhumanity you’ll encounter along your journey, but also in the warmth and beauty and heroism and unfathomable love. In times of tragedy or dire need, you’ll surprise yourself by what you’re capable of.
You’ll tuck your own children in, and tip-toeing away, be haunted by thoughts of things you meant to do for them that day. And, in those moments, you will feel very small. And you will silently vow to do better.
You’ll look back in anger, and forward in determination. You’ll live, you’ll laugh, you’ll love, and one day - as must we all - you’ll die.
But know this: None of you have ever shed a tear that I wasn’t aware of, or ever felt pain that I didn’t feel. And - as long as there is breath in me - you will never take a breath without my love.
Such as it is.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Obama Challenges Kim Jong-il to Game of One-on-One Basketball
Washington, D.C. Citing a need to “calm tensions” and bring an end to the enmity between the two nations, President Obama today challenged North Korea’s reclusive leader to a game of “make it, take it, half-court, in-your-face roundball” as a way to settle their differences.
“Many of you are too young to remember”, the President said, resplendent in a Chicago Bulls “home” jersey, “but the U.S. and China achieved great strides using what was termed ping-pong diplomacy in the 1970‘s. My sincere hope is that we can repeat that success with North Korea - from the three-point line.”
While political pundits have questioned the fairness of such a competition, White House Press Secretary Robert Gibbs reminded the media that the Stalinist dictator is something of a basketball buff himself, who often watches NBA action. “We would have preferred to sit down and discuss the many issues which impact our nations in a calm, rational manner”, Gibbs continued, “but the fact is, this guy is straight-up loopy”.
While there is no reliable data on the exact height of the militaristic Jong-il - who is never seen in public wearing less than two inch heels - estimates range from 5’ 4” to 5’ 7’’. At 6’1”, President Obama would have a considerable advantage.
“He should have thought of that before he lobbed all those shells onto that (South Korean) island”, the President and Commander-in-Chief of the most powerful military in the world said, crossing his arms and “posing” defiantly. “Any neutral court, anywhere in the world. Well, except maybe Afghanistan”.
“Not that it will make any difference (where the competition is held)” Obama continued, his arms outstretched and shaking his head, his handlers gingerly urging him away from the microphone, “that nut-job will be picking basketball out of his teeth for weeks. What I mean, I’m gonna school his [unintelligible]”.
While there has been no direct response to the challenge, the North’s official propaganda outlet KCNA today did accuse “the war-mongering imperialist empire” of mining Haeju harbor, plotting the violent overthrow of the DPRK, and rigging the Celtics - Sixers game, costing the diminutive despot $200.
“Many of you are too young to remember”, the President said, resplendent in a Chicago Bulls “home” jersey, “but the U.S. and China achieved great strides using what was termed ping-pong diplomacy in the 1970‘s. My sincere hope is that we can repeat that success with North Korea - from the three-point line.”
While political pundits have questioned the fairness of such a competition, White House Press Secretary Robert Gibbs reminded the media that the Stalinist dictator is something of a basketball buff himself, who often watches NBA action. “We would have preferred to sit down and discuss the many issues which impact our nations in a calm, rational manner”, Gibbs continued, “but the fact is, this guy is straight-up loopy”.
While there is no reliable data on the exact height of the militaristic Jong-il - who is never seen in public wearing less than two inch heels - estimates range from 5’ 4” to 5’ 7’’. At 6’1”, President Obama would have a considerable advantage.
“He should have thought of that before he lobbed all those shells onto that (South Korean) island”, the President and Commander-in-Chief of the most powerful military in the world said, crossing his arms and “posing” defiantly. “Any neutral court, anywhere in the world. Well, except maybe Afghanistan”.
“Not that it will make any difference (where the competition is held)” Obama continued, his arms outstretched and shaking his head, his handlers gingerly urging him away from the microphone, “that nut-job will be picking basketball out of his teeth for weeks. What I mean, I’m gonna school his [unintelligible]”.
While there has been no direct response to the challenge, the North’s official propaganda outlet KCNA today did accuse “the war-mongering imperialist empire” of mining Haeju harbor, plotting the violent overthrow of the DPRK, and rigging the Celtics - Sixers game, costing the diminutive despot $200.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Fatalism (or, Swimming Against the Current)
As a child I ran across a Twilight Zone comic book. Among the stories was the tale of a man who was informed by a fortune teller that he would die on a certain date - we’ll say it was August 15th. Obviously traumatized, he wracked his brain to figure out a way to escape his destiny. Finally it hit him - he would charter a small aircraft, have it fly to the International Date Line, and fly right on the line (where it would be the 14th on one side, and the 16th on the other) for 24 hours, thereby cheating fate. As the journey neared it’s end, the man heard a thump from the front of the plane and went to investigate. The sound he heard was that of the plane being re-fueled, but in moving from the center of the plane he “crossed the line” onto the fateful day. You can guess how the story ends.
Technical inaccuracies aside (the International Date Line separates two calendar dates, not three), it was my first lesson in fatalism. Defined as a doctrine that all events are predetermined, that we really have no control over our destinies, I’d guess that most people don’t really believe in it. Or, say they don’t.
In observing those around us, however, you’d think some of us embrace the doctrine whole-heartedly. Take Nadine, for example. Her father left when she was a young child, and her Mother sank into a deep, alcohol-fueled depression. Nadine was left to envision a world where families stay together and love and harmony abounds, and vowed she would one day live in such a world. Fast-forward twenty years. Nadine, married at 19, sees her world slipping over the precipice, into the void of her youth. With a young child of her own, her marriage is crumbling and the future looks bleak. In spite of all efforts to the contrary, her fate is about to come full circle to that place she thought she’d left forever.
Or consider the case of Van, an over-achiever and honor roll student who became a VP at a prestigious marketing firm. With a very comfortable life, replete with family and friends and scads of money in the bank, Van was miserable. Throughout high school and college, his plan was to work his behind off until he could afford to retire, then spend his days surfing and his evenings hanging out at beachside calypso bars. But again, fate intervened. Van found that there was always another goal to attain, another check to write, another rung of the ladder to climb. Alas, Van has come to the sobering conclusion that he’ll never escape the prison he himself built, and resigns himself to his fate.
Could it be that fate is like a black hole, constantly drawing us in, but at an imperceptibly slow rate? A gravitational force perpetually pulling us away from our goals and dreams? Are we all just swimming against the current of some invisible energy form - some immutable karma?
Or, do we subconsciously sabotage our own best laid plans? Did Nadine see something in the darkness of her youth that was strangely inviting, even comforting? Did Van feel guilty, deeply ashamed for wanting what some would view as a frivolous, irresponsible existence? Are we all destined to fall prey to some strangely twisted, unspoken, self-fulfilling prophecy?
Like the airplane in the story, many of us crash and burn when we seem to hold so much promise. Those left to mourn us stand off to the side, wringing their hands, wondering what went wrong as we sleepwalk through our lives, numb with misery, and eventually self-destruct.
“It’s fate”, we say, as we resume our swim against that current.
Technical inaccuracies aside (the International Date Line separates two calendar dates, not three), it was my first lesson in fatalism. Defined as a doctrine that all events are predetermined, that we really have no control over our destinies, I’d guess that most people don’t really believe in it. Or, say they don’t.
In observing those around us, however, you’d think some of us embrace the doctrine whole-heartedly. Take Nadine, for example. Her father left when she was a young child, and her Mother sank into a deep, alcohol-fueled depression. Nadine was left to envision a world where families stay together and love and harmony abounds, and vowed she would one day live in such a world. Fast-forward twenty years. Nadine, married at 19, sees her world slipping over the precipice, into the void of her youth. With a young child of her own, her marriage is crumbling and the future looks bleak. In spite of all efforts to the contrary, her fate is about to come full circle to that place she thought she’d left forever.
Or consider the case of Van, an over-achiever and honor roll student who became a VP at a prestigious marketing firm. With a very comfortable life, replete with family and friends and scads of money in the bank, Van was miserable. Throughout high school and college, his plan was to work his behind off until he could afford to retire, then spend his days surfing and his evenings hanging out at beachside calypso bars. But again, fate intervened. Van found that there was always another goal to attain, another check to write, another rung of the ladder to climb. Alas, Van has come to the sobering conclusion that he’ll never escape the prison he himself built, and resigns himself to his fate.
Could it be that fate is like a black hole, constantly drawing us in, but at an imperceptibly slow rate? A gravitational force perpetually pulling us away from our goals and dreams? Are we all just swimming against the current of some invisible energy form - some immutable karma?
Or, do we subconsciously sabotage our own best laid plans? Did Nadine see something in the darkness of her youth that was strangely inviting, even comforting? Did Van feel guilty, deeply ashamed for wanting what some would view as a frivolous, irresponsible existence? Are we all destined to fall prey to some strangely twisted, unspoken, self-fulfilling prophecy?
Like the airplane in the story, many of us crash and burn when we seem to hold so much promise. Those left to mourn us stand off to the side, wringing their hands, wondering what went wrong as we sleepwalk through our lives, numb with misery, and eventually self-destruct.
“It’s fate”, we say, as we resume our swim against that current.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Holiday Survival Guide For the Workplace
Well, “the holidays” are here again, and if you’re like most people, there are holiday traditions which you will revel in, tolerate, endure, or suffer through at your workplace. I have therefore put together a survival guide to help you deal with all the shenanigans.
Don’t be “that guy” at the office holiday party
There was a time when it was absolutely acceptable to get completely sloshed, dance on the buffet table with a lampshade on your head, and tell the boss off at the office holiday party. Those days are gone. Believe me, everything you do and say at the party will be scrutinized by your higher-ups. And, you don’t get a free pass just because they get more plastered than you. They’re the boss, and you’re not. It’s okay to have a good time and socialize, but you don’t want to hear a symphony of hushed whispers follow you down the hall on the Monday after the party, nor do you want that photo of you doing the “YMCA” with your flashing Rudolph tie wrapped around your head looking like Bret Michaels after an all-nighter to become the most popular screen saver ever.
Put a little thought into your “Secret Santa” gift
Yes, I know, it’s a $10 limit or whatever, but if you take a few minutes to think about it, you can select a nice, practical gift. In my opinion, gift cards are perfectly acceptable as long as they’re something most everyone could use, since some Secret Santa gifts will be selected sight unseen. And, I seriously doubt that Frank (who’s approaching 60) really wants a gift card to the local tanning salon.
Avoid giving “kiss-up” gifts
Secret Santa notwithstanding, you should avoid giving gifts to your superiors unless 1. It’s an accepted practice at your workplace, 2. You give as part of his team, and 3. It’s a tasteful gift. You can kick in on that glass sculpture for his desk, but do not also give him or her anything which is even moderately expensive, or personal. Believe me, if your boss’ wife finds out you gave him that $75 bottle of after shave (or worse, vodka), things will go badly for you.
Show some restraint with the goodies
People will typically bring in homemade cookies, or banana bread, or mint chocolate bark. Before you dive in mouth first, do the math. If there are 24 of a given item, and 12 people in the office, you get two, not six.
Don’t forget why you’re at work
The holidays are not an excuse to take the whole month of December “off”. If you have the vacation time, then take it. Otherwise, there’s work to be done, and you can be assured your co-workers are not interested in taking up the slack while you decorate your cube with candy canes and paper cutout snowmen.
The holidays are not a happy time for everyone
Unfortunately, some people have experienced personal tragedies around the holiday season, and for them this time of year is not all about sleigh bells and eggnog. So, don’t try to cheer them up. If they want to share their story with you, they will.
On the other hand, some people get absolutely giddy over the holidays
And, they get annoyed when you don’t become absolutely giddy too. But, you have to work with them. The phrase suffer fools gladly comes to mind.
Don’t play Christmas music so loud everyone in the office can hear it.
If they want to hear Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer, they’ll bring in their own CD. Or, better yet, they’ll listen to it in the car on the way to work.
You don’t have to wear a “holiday” sweater every day
Really. The last day of work before whatever holiday you observe will do.
When it’s all over, it’ll be January
I’ve always hated January. The holidays are over, and all you have to look forward to is about three months of cold weather. And, you’ve still got five months until Memorial Day. But, all things must end, and the holidays are no exception. So steel yourself in advance so you don‘t come dragging in to work on January 2nd wailing and blubbering and making everyone else miserable. Look on the bright side: It’ll be at least another ten and a half months before you have to hear Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer again.
Don’t be “that guy” at the office holiday party
There was a time when it was absolutely acceptable to get completely sloshed, dance on the buffet table with a lampshade on your head, and tell the boss off at the office holiday party. Those days are gone. Believe me, everything you do and say at the party will be scrutinized by your higher-ups. And, you don’t get a free pass just because they get more plastered than you. They’re the boss, and you’re not. It’s okay to have a good time and socialize, but you don’t want to hear a symphony of hushed whispers follow you down the hall on the Monday after the party, nor do you want that photo of you doing the “YMCA” with your flashing Rudolph tie wrapped around your head looking like Bret Michaels after an all-nighter to become the most popular screen saver ever.
Put a little thought into your “Secret Santa” gift
Yes, I know, it’s a $10 limit or whatever, but if you take a few minutes to think about it, you can select a nice, practical gift. In my opinion, gift cards are perfectly acceptable as long as they’re something most everyone could use, since some Secret Santa gifts will be selected sight unseen. And, I seriously doubt that Frank (who’s approaching 60) really wants a gift card to the local tanning salon.
Avoid giving “kiss-up” gifts
Secret Santa notwithstanding, you should avoid giving gifts to your superiors unless 1. It’s an accepted practice at your workplace, 2. You give as part of his team, and 3. It’s a tasteful gift. You can kick in on that glass sculpture for his desk, but do not also give him or her anything which is even moderately expensive, or personal. Believe me, if your boss’ wife finds out you gave him that $75 bottle of after shave (or worse, vodka), things will go badly for you.
Show some restraint with the goodies
People will typically bring in homemade cookies, or banana bread, or mint chocolate bark. Before you dive in mouth first, do the math. If there are 24 of a given item, and 12 people in the office, you get two, not six.
Don’t forget why you’re at work
The holidays are not an excuse to take the whole month of December “off”. If you have the vacation time, then take it. Otherwise, there’s work to be done, and you can be assured your co-workers are not interested in taking up the slack while you decorate your cube with candy canes and paper cutout snowmen.
The holidays are not a happy time for everyone
Unfortunately, some people have experienced personal tragedies around the holiday season, and for them this time of year is not all about sleigh bells and eggnog. So, don’t try to cheer them up. If they want to share their story with you, they will.
On the other hand, some people get absolutely giddy over the holidays
And, they get annoyed when you don’t become absolutely giddy too. But, you have to work with them. The phrase suffer fools gladly comes to mind.
Don’t play Christmas music so loud everyone in the office can hear it.
If they want to hear Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer, they’ll bring in their own CD. Or, better yet, they’ll listen to it in the car on the way to work.
You don’t have to wear a “holiday” sweater every day
Really. The last day of work before whatever holiday you observe will do.
When it’s all over, it’ll be January
I’ve always hated January. The holidays are over, and all you have to look forward to is about three months of cold weather. And, you’ve still got five months until Memorial Day. But, all things must end, and the holidays are no exception. So steel yourself in advance so you don‘t come dragging in to work on January 2nd wailing and blubbering and making everyone else miserable. Look on the bright side: It’ll be at least another ten and a half months before you have to hear Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer again.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Least Favorite Christmas Gifts for 2010
Well, it appears the holiday season is upon us once again! Halloween is over and now it’s time to plunge headlong into that mindless foray of gratuitous binge-buying known as Christmas shopping! Don’t it just get your adrenalin pumping?
But, you don’t want to get that special someone just anything. And apparently, not everyone can appreciate a South Park sweater featuring Cartman spewing on a fire hydrant. So, I’ve compiled a list of gifts to avoid like that guy pan-handling down by Applebee’s:
* Festive Broccoli & Tofu Log
* Nancy Pelosi Action Figure
* Bag O’ Rattlesnakes
* Paula Deen’s Big Book of Holiday Roadkill Recipes
* Goodbye Kitty Backpack
* All-time Favorite Vuvuzela Christmas Classics CD
* Tinactin Gift Basket
* Amnesia Foam Mattress Topper
* Girls of the Tri-City Methadone Clinic calendar
* Box O’ Rocks
* Do-It-Yourself Home Colonoscopy Kit
* My Little Wharf Rat
* Funniest Moments From C-SPAN DVD box set
* Burlap boxer shorts
And the absolute Least Favorite Christmas Gift for 2010 is:
* Chia Headcheese
But, you don’t want to get that special someone just anything. And apparently, not everyone can appreciate a South Park sweater featuring Cartman spewing on a fire hydrant. So, I’ve compiled a list of gifts to avoid like that guy pan-handling down by Applebee’s:
* Festive Broccoli & Tofu Log
* Nancy Pelosi Action Figure
* Bag O’ Rattlesnakes
* Paula Deen’s Big Book of Holiday Roadkill Recipes
* Goodbye Kitty Backpack
* All-time Favorite Vuvuzela Christmas Classics CD
* Tinactin Gift Basket
* Amnesia Foam Mattress Topper
* Girls of the Tri-City Methadone Clinic calendar
* Box O’ Rocks
* Do-It-Yourself Home Colonoscopy Kit
* My Little Wharf Rat
* Funniest Moments From C-SPAN DVD box set
* Burlap boxer shorts
And the absolute Least Favorite Christmas Gift for 2010 is:
* Chia Headcheese
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
No Lindsay Lohan Sightings All Week
Rancho Mirage, CA - As perplexing as it sounds, an extensive investigation has revealed there hasn’t been a single confirmed Lindsay Lohan sighting in over a week.
“No, nothing”, reported long-time neighborhood blabbermouth Elsa Wentworth. “She ran in and grabbed some clothes”, the vodka-swilling, OCD victim said, gesturing over her right shoulder, “and a couple of paperbacks, but that was Tuesday before last. Since then - nothing”.
The development is particularly shocking considering the 24 year-old pseudo-actress and full-time rehab clinic resident’s exploits have been constant fodder for on-line and print tabloids since she first blew a “double-deuce“ after a traffic stop in Santa Monica in 2007. Ardent followers of Ms. Lohan’s often drunken, self-destructive exploits were left to sift through last week’s news, or simply speculate on what new depths the “mean girl” would visit in coming weeks.
“I heard she’s still using drugs”, offered Frieda Vogel, celebrity-worshiping, pathetic shell of a human being. “They’re sneaking it in to her. I mean, c’mon, it’s Lindsay”. “I heard she was into this new Zen yoga kind of thing”, spurted pill abusing, manic-depressive, celebrity-whore Melinda Davies without even being asked. “It’s like Tai Chi, but way cooler”.
“Somebody told me she‘s totally like, blimped-up at Betty Ford, and she‘s going to be doing like, these Nutrisystem commercials”, chimed in some guy named Trent or something, as if anyone cared. “And, she hasn’t updated her Facebook in like, weeks.”
While TMZ is reporting that someone who “looked like” and “could have been” Lindsay was spotted flashing cars on the Redlands Freeway from a Cook Street overpass night before last, as of this moment no independent confirmation has been forthcoming.
“No, nothing”, reported long-time neighborhood blabbermouth Elsa Wentworth. “She ran in and grabbed some clothes”, the vodka-swilling, OCD victim said, gesturing over her right shoulder, “and a couple of paperbacks, but that was Tuesday before last. Since then - nothing”.
The development is particularly shocking considering the 24 year-old pseudo-actress and full-time rehab clinic resident’s exploits have been constant fodder for on-line and print tabloids since she first blew a “double-deuce“ after a traffic stop in Santa Monica in 2007. Ardent followers of Ms. Lohan’s often drunken, self-destructive exploits were left to sift through last week’s news, or simply speculate on what new depths the “mean girl” would visit in coming weeks.
“I heard she’s still using drugs”, offered Frieda Vogel, celebrity-worshiping, pathetic shell of a human being. “They’re sneaking it in to her. I mean, c’mon, it’s Lindsay”. “I heard she was into this new Zen yoga kind of thing”, spurted pill abusing, manic-depressive, celebrity-whore Melinda Davies without even being asked. “It’s like Tai Chi, but way cooler”.
“Somebody told me she‘s totally like, blimped-up at Betty Ford, and she‘s going to be doing like, these Nutrisystem commercials”, chimed in some guy named Trent or something, as if anyone cared. “And, she hasn’t updated her Facebook in like, weeks.”
While TMZ is reporting that someone who “looked like” and “could have been” Lindsay was spotted flashing cars on the Redlands Freeway from a Cook Street overpass night before last, as of this moment no independent confirmation has been forthcoming.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Rearranging the Deck Chairs
I’d like to preface my remarks here with the following disclaimer: If you still believe in Santa Claus, stop reading - now.
Okay, then. To get to the issue at hand: I have come to believe that the way we elect our government officials is a lot like how we lie to our kids about Santa. At first, when they’re way young, we want them to believe. We tell them to believe in this jolly old man in a red suit that comes down the chimney (even if we don’t have a chimney), and brings us toys and stuff. Hell, we want to believe it ourselves. We want to reclaim a tattered remnant of our innocent youth. And, that‘s completely understandable.
As the kids get older, however, it becomes more difficult to sell the lie, to get them to swallow the whole jolly old man from the North Pole routine. They start asking questions. They hear things from other kids. They wonder how elves make smart phones and High School Musical DVD’s in a workshop with a hammer and nails. Eventually, you fess up: “Yes it was your Father and I all along. Don’t look at me like that - we spent enough on you to buy a new BMW 535i“.
We weren’t just lying to the kids all those years; we lied to ourselves. We wanted to believe we still lived in a world where a person’s word meant something, where character still counted, where the good guys win in the end. Where everything could be cured with gingerbread men and tree trimmings.
And every couple of years, we engage in that same fantasy, as we march out of the polling place, head held high, proudly displaying our “I Voted” sticker, believing we have made a difference. Confident we have made the “right choice” because our party, or our movement, or our platform is the best for us and our fellow Americans.
You can almost hear the sleigh bells, and smell those chestnuts roasting on that open fire.
I submit that regardless of the person or party you vote for, it is not the right choice. And, I submit that deep, down inside - you already knew that. You choose what you perceive to be the lesser of however many evils, although in your heart of hearts, you know none of them would spit on you if you were to burst out in flames in front of them.
For the majority of my adult life, regardless of the political affiliation of those in the white house (and state house, and house of delegates, and senate), several things have happened:
Millions of American jobs have been lost to other countries.
The personal wealth of the average working-class American has steadily dropped.
Housing, fuel, and heath care costs have sky-rocketed.
Our infrastructure has slowly crumbled.
Many of our streets have become increasingly unsafe to walk after dark.
Our national debt has increased.
Our quality of life has suffered, and
We can no longer seriously consider ourselves to be an economic superpower.
Yet we persist in not only tolerating, but engaging in these semi-annual dog-and-pony shows foolishly believing that the ship will be righted if only “our guy” wins. Our entire political process is about two shampoo and auto insurance commercials away from becoming a really bad reality TV show, because nothing any candidate says during the campaign has any relevance whatsoever once the polls close.
I submit that all we’re doing is rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic. We know the ship’s going down, but it is the ship we’re on, and, well - we want it to look nice. We see others rearranging deck chairs, and there’s a certain comfort in being part of a group - any group. Even if that group is about to plunge into icy, shark-infested waters. At least we won’t go alone.
And the band plays on.
Okay, then. To get to the issue at hand: I have come to believe that the way we elect our government officials is a lot like how we lie to our kids about Santa. At first, when they’re way young, we want them to believe. We tell them to believe in this jolly old man in a red suit that comes down the chimney (even if we don’t have a chimney), and brings us toys and stuff. Hell, we want to believe it ourselves. We want to reclaim a tattered remnant of our innocent youth. And, that‘s completely understandable.
As the kids get older, however, it becomes more difficult to sell the lie, to get them to swallow the whole jolly old man from the North Pole routine. They start asking questions. They hear things from other kids. They wonder how elves make smart phones and High School Musical DVD’s in a workshop with a hammer and nails. Eventually, you fess up: “Yes it was your Father and I all along. Don’t look at me like that - we spent enough on you to buy a new BMW 535i“.
We weren’t just lying to the kids all those years; we lied to ourselves. We wanted to believe we still lived in a world where a person’s word meant something, where character still counted, where the good guys win in the end. Where everything could be cured with gingerbread men and tree trimmings.
And every couple of years, we engage in that same fantasy, as we march out of the polling place, head held high, proudly displaying our “I Voted” sticker, believing we have made a difference. Confident we have made the “right choice” because our party, or our movement, or our platform is the best for us and our fellow Americans.
You can almost hear the sleigh bells, and smell those chestnuts roasting on that open fire.
I submit that regardless of the person or party you vote for, it is not the right choice. And, I submit that deep, down inside - you already knew that. You choose what you perceive to be the lesser of however many evils, although in your heart of hearts, you know none of them would spit on you if you were to burst out in flames in front of them.
For the majority of my adult life, regardless of the political affiliation of those in the white house (and state house, and house of delegates, and senate), several things have happened:
Millions of American jobs have been lost to other countries.
The personal wealth of the average working-class American has steadily dropped.
Housing, fuel, and heath care costs have sky-rocketed.
Our infrastructure has slowly crumbled.
Many of our streets have become increasingly unsafe to walk after dark.
Our national debt has increased.
Our quality of life has suffered, and
We can no longer seriously consider ourselves to be an economic superpower.
Yet we persist in not only tolerating, but engaging in these semi-annual dog-and-pony shows foolishly believing that the ship will be righted if only “our guy” wins. Our entire political process is about two shampoo and auto insurance commercials away from becoming a really bad reality TV show, because nothing any candidate says during the campaign has any relevance whatsoever once the polls close.
I submit that all we’re doing is rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic. We know the ship’s going down, but it is the ship we’re on, and, well - we want it to look nice. We see others rearranging deck chairs, and there’s a certain comfort in being part of a group - any group. Even if that group is about to plunge into icy, shark-infested waters. At least we won’t go alone.
And the band plays on.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
The Seven Greatest Inventions in the History of Humankind
I read somewhere that someone has decided to come up with a list of the so-called "new seven wonders of the world". These were voted on by an estimated 100 million people (or almost twice as many as last season's American Idol finale) and the winners announced earlier this month. I don't have a complete list in front of me, but suffice to say neither the World's Largest Ball of String or Rocky Balboa's athletic supporter made the final cut. These things have turned into such total beauty pageants if you ask me.
In any event, this got me to thinking: wonder, schmunder, what are the greatest inventions of all time? I mean things that someone actually had to think of, and maybe even sketch on a papyrus, or the back of a Taco Bell bag.
So, I decided to compile my own list. My criteria was simple: I started with 206,817 things and eliminated them one by one. Just a few that didn't make the final cut include the iPod, penicillin, guacamole dip, Super Soakers, and fingernail clippers. (I know, that one barely missed.)
But, I wanted to keep the list manageable (and who really wants to read The 206,817 Greatest Inventions in the History of Humankind), so here we go:
7. Microwave Oven - Ever tried to re-heat mashed potatoes in a pan on the stovetop? Good luck.
6. Legos - I have it on good authority that someone built a 1:124 replica of the U.S.S. Enterprise out of Legos. Not only does it float, it was also 2.7 million dollars over budget!
5. Zip-lock Baggies - This was an easy choice. Think about it. They're light, they're cheap, they're air-tight, and you can store enough leftovers in a single quart-sized zip-lock bag to feed 1.75 moderately hungry people. Let's see someone top that.
4. Mass Spectrometer - Okay, I admit, I have no idea what a mass spectrometer does, but the name is just so cool. Like something out of a 1950's science-fiction movie.
3. Ice Cube Tray - Ever wonder why some people call refrigerators iceboxes? Because in the early days, that's pretty much what they were. Big, ugly boxes that sat in the corner of your kitchen with a compartment underneath where you'd put a big block of ice. If you wanted a cold drink you'd have to put it in the icebox and wait. And wait. And wait. Til it was cold enough to drink. Then, the ice cube tray was invented. The early ones were metal and had a big handle running down the middle. You'd pull the handle, and one of two things would happen: absolutely nothing, or an ice cube explosion with cubes flying everywhere, most of which wound up on the floor. But, you'd salvage a few, and within minutes your drink would be cold. Or at least colder than it would be otherwise.
2. Velcro - You know you love Velcro.
1. Pocket T-shirt - Originally, all t-shirts were white and sleeveless, what some people call "wife-beaters". I prefer to not use that term, as I've found some wife-beaters find it offensive. Eventually sleeves were added, and many years later someone had the brilliant idea of adding a pocket. A t-shirt. With a pocket. You could put things into the pocket. A comb, a photograph, a bean burrito. And, now they come in different colors. You could actually wear a different colored pocket t-shirt every day of the week, and two on Sunday, and still not run out of colors. You can wear them while doing yard work, or running errands, or pretending to do yard work. You can wear them as pajama tops, or something to throw on when the doorbell rings. The possibilities are endless. And, the absolute greatest thing about the absolute greatest invention in the history of humankind is that they cost about the same as a pound of cheddar cheese.
Well, that's it for now, but coming up next month: The Seven Greatest Inventions Sold Exclusively on Infomercials on Cable TV Between the Hours of Ten PM and Four AM.
In any event, this got me to thinking: wonder, schmunder, what are the greatest inventions of all time? I mean things that someone actually had to think of, and maybe even sketch on a papyrus, or the back of a Taco Bell bag.
So, I decided to compile my own list. My criteria was simple: I started with 206,817 things and eliminated them one by one. Just a few that didn't make the final cut include the iPod, penicillin, guacamole dip, Super Soakers, and fingernail clippers. (I know, that one barely missed.)
But, I wanted to keep the list manageable (and who really wants to read The 206,817 Greatest Inventions in the History of Humankind), so here we go:
7. Microwave Oven - Ever tried to re-heat mashed potatoes in a pan on the stovetop? Good luck.
6. Legos - I have it on good authority that someone built a 1:124 replica of the U.S.S. Enterprise out of Legos. Not only does it float, it was also 2.7 million dollars over budget!
5. Zip-lock Baggies - This was an easy choice. Think about it. They're light, they're cheap, they're air-tight, and you can store enough leftovers in a single quart-sized zip-lock bag to feed 1.75 moderately hungry people. Let's see someone top that.
4. Mass Spectrometer - Okay, I admit, I have no idea what a mass spectrometer does, but the name is just so cool. Like something out of a 1950's science-fiction movie.
3. Ice Cube Tray - Ever wonder why some people call refrigerators iceboxes? Because in the early days, that's pretty much what they were. Big, ugly boxes that sat in the corner of your kitchen with a compartment underneath where you'd put a big block of ice. If you wanted a cold drink you'd have to put it in the icebox and wait. And wait. And wait. Til it was cold enough to drink. Then, the ice cube tray was invented. The early ones were metal and had a big handle running down the middle. You'd pull the handle, and one of two things would happen: absolutely nothing, or an ice cube explosion with cubes flying everywhere, most of which wound up on the floor. But, you'd salvage a few, and within minutes your drink would be cold. Or at least colder than it would be otherwise.
2. Velcro - You know you love Velcro.
1. Pocket T-shirt - Originally, all t-shirts were white and sleeveless, what some people call "wife-beaters". I prefer to not use that term, as I've found some wife-beaters find it offensive. Eventually sleeves were added, and many years later someone had the brilliant idea of adding a pocket. A t-shirt. With a pocket. You could put things into the pocket. A comb, a photograph, a bean burrito. And, now they come in different colors. You could actually wear a different colored pocket t-shirt every day of the week, and two on Sunday, and still not run out of colors. You can wear them while doing yard work, or running errands, or pretending to do yard work. You can wear them as pajama tops, or something to throw on when the doorbell rings. The possibilities are endless. And, the absolute greatest thing about the absolute greatest invention in the history of humankind is that they cost about the same as a pound of cheddar cheese.
Well, that's it for now, but coming up next month: The Seven Greatest Inventions Sold Exclusively on Infomercials on Cable TV Between the Hours of Ten PM and Four AM.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Hurtling Towards Disaster
Here’s today’s question: What has more than doubled over the past 50 years? Yes, the average split-level ranch, and just about any out-patient surgery you could name has more than doubled in price in that span. But, that’s not what I’m referring to. I’m talking about world population - or, the sum and total of us.
In 1960 - before most of you were born, and way before the internet, the microwave oven, or Real Housewives of Fill in the Blank - the world’s population was just over three billion. Today, the world’s population stands at around 6,880,000,000. That’s six billion, eight hundred and eighty million. It took us however many centuries it was to get to three billion, and we’ve more than doubled that in 50 years. The rate of growth is staggering.
Back in the Seventies, the acronym Z.P.G. was rather popular; pretty much everyone knew that it stood for Zero Population Growth. It was an idea that never really gained “traction”. Although some people seemed to take the threat of uncontrolled growth seriously, for the most part we’ve bred like rabbits doing tequila shots. And, if you do the math, we’re hurtling towards disaster, at a rate just barely within the realm of comprehension.
It doesn‘t take a genius to see the outlook is both dismal and dire. Suffice to say, our eco-system cannot hope to sustain many more of us. It has been suggested that a world population of 10 Billion will be the tipping point; beyond which an ever-increasing percentage of humankind will live in virtual squalor, literally imprisoned within a refrigerator sized plot of their own excrement.
It has also been conjectured that in the not-too-distant future, potable water will cost more than sweet crude oil, only the ultra-rich will be able to afford a 1,000 square foot single-family dwelling, and a vine-ripened tomato will be worth it’s weight in gold. Demand up, supply down, bad news all around.
Yes, we may colonize the moon sometime this century. We may even find a few other rocks floating around in space on which to plant our flag. But, right now the Earth is all we have. And we’re all getting an ever-dwindling slice of that.
I’m not suggesting that we stop reproducing, or that we could - any more so than we could stop polluting, killing each other, or Tweeting. I’m suggesting that we stop and think about what we’re doing. Before we do it.
In 1960 - before most of you were born, and way before the internet, the microwave oven, or Real Housewives of Fill in the Blank - the world’s population was just over three billion. Today, the world’s population stands at around 6,880,000,000. That’s six billion, eight hundred and eighty million. It took us however many centuries it was to get to three billion, and we’ve more than doubled that in 50 years. The rate of growth is staggering.
Back in the Seventies, the acronym Z.P.G. was rather popular; pretty much everyone knew that it stood for Zero Population Growth. It was an idea that never really gained “traction”. Although some people seemed to take the threat of uncontrolled growth seriously, for the most part we’ve bred like rabbits doing tequila shots. And, if you do the math, we’re hurtling towards disaster, at a rate just barely within the realm of comprehension.
It doesn‘t take a genius to see the outlook is both dismal and dire. Suffice to say, our eco-system cannot hope to sustain many more of us. It has been suggested that a world population of 10 Billion will be the tipping point; beyond which an ever-increasing percentage of humankind will live in virtual squalor, literally imprisoned within a refrigerator sized plot of their own excrement.
It has also been conjectured that in the not-too-distant future, potable water will cost more than sweet crude oil, only the ultra-rich will be able to afford a 1,000 square foot single-family dwelling, and a vine-ripened tomato will be worth it’s weight in gold. Demand up, supply down, bad news all around.
Yes, we may colonize the moon sometime this century. We may even find a few other rocks floating around in space on which to plant our flag. But, right now the Earth is all we have. And we’re all getting an ever-dwindling slice of that.
I’m not suggesting that we stop reproducing, or that we could - any more so than we could stop polluting, killing each other, or Tweeting. I’m suggesting that we stop and think about what we’re doing. Before we do it.
Monday, October 25, 2010
How Bored Are You?
Stepping into a motel elevator, I witnessed two obviously inebriated gentlemen laughing and "listing a little to starboard". I got the impression they were there for a convention or something; they were wearing cheap suits with name tags and all. Just as the elevator doors were closing, a young women slipped in. "Hey, look", one of the guys blurted, "It's her. She must be following us". His buddy wheeled around. Glancing back over her shoulder, she appeared to recognize the revelers, and chuckling, dead-panned: "I'm not that bored".
Which got me to thinking: exactly how bored would she have to have been to actually have been following them? Which led me to wonder further: how bored are you? At this very moment? Somewhat bored, slightly bored, bored to tears? Well, let's find out. Following are six questions to determine exactly how bored you are. Or, maybe it's only five. Who cares, really?
Finish the sentence: "Right now, I am so bored _____":
1. Not bored at all, thanks. 300 pts.
2. I've had more exciting moments. 150 pts.
3. I'm hoping a telemarketer will call. (minus) 400 pts.
My idea of an exciting weekend would be:
1. Canoeing the rapids on Snake River. 500 pts.
2. Camping in the Smoky Mountains. 75 pts.
3. Watching Matrix Reloaded for the sixth - no, seventh time. (minus) 450 pts.
It's early Saturday evening and your phone rings. You hope it is:
1. An old friend, inviting you out for a night on the town. 275 pts.
2. Any friend, inviting you out for karaoke and mozzarella sticks. 125 pts.
3. A telemarketer. (minus) 900 pts.
You win tickets to a concert for a band you don't particularly care for. You:
1. Don't even bother to go get the tickets. 400 pts.
2. Sell the tickets on eBay. 150 pts.
3. Immediately call everyone you know with the news, dig out your Led Zeppelin tee shirt from storage, and drink two whole wine coolers before the show. (minus) 5000 pts.
The most exciting thing that happened this week was:
1. Business trip to Chicago. 325 pts.
2. Ran into casual acquaintance. Shot some pool and had a few beers. 175 pts.
3. Watched Matrix Reloaded for the seventh - no, eighth time. (minus) 750 pts.
Who would you most like to trade places with for one week?
1. That one guy that does that show where they drop him out of a helicopter on some God-forsaken plot of earth with only a Swiss army knife and some freeze-dried figs. 600 pts.
2. Mark Zuckerberg. 200 pts.
3. Ticket-taker at Comic-Con. (minus) 750 pts.
Scoring:
1500+: Why did you bother to take this quiz?
0 - 1500: No one will ever refer to you as Mr. Excitement, but hey, you got a life.
Less than zero: Quick, check and make sure you have a pulse. You do? Are you sure?
Which got me to thinking: exactly how bored would she have to have been to actually have been following them? Which led me to wonder further: how bored are you? At this very moment? Somewhat bored, slightly bored, bored to tears? Well, let's find out. Following are six questions to determine exactly how bored you are. Or, maybe it's only five. Who cares, really?
Finish the sentence: "Right now, I am so bored _____":
1. Not bored at all, thanks. 300 pts.
2. I've had more exciting moments. 150 pts.
3. I'm hoping a telemarketer will call. (minus) 400 pts.
My idea of an exciting weekend would be:
1. Canoeing the rapids on Snake River. 500 pts.
2. Camping in the Smoky Mountains. 75 pts.
3. Watching Matrix Reloaded for the sixth - no, seventh time. (minus) 450 pts.
It's early Saturday evening and your phone rings. You hope it is:
1. An old friend, inviting you out for a night on the town. 275 pts.
2. Any friend, inviting you out for karaoke and mozzarella sticks. 125 pts.
3. A telemarketer. (minus) 900 pts.
You win tickets to a concert for a band you don't particularly care for. You:
1. Don't even bother to go get the tickets. 400 pts.
2. Sell the tickets on eBay. 150 pts.
3. Immediately call everyone you know with the news, dig out your Led Zeppelin tee shirt from storage, and drink two whole wine coolers before the show. (minus) 5000 pts.
The most exciting thing that happened this week was:
1. Business trip to Chicago. 325 pts.
2. Ran into casual acquaintance. Shot some pool and had a few beers. 175 pts.
3. Watched Matrix Reloaded for the seventh - no, eighth time. (minus) 750 pts.
Who would you most like to trade places with for one week?
1. That one guy that does that show where they drop him out of a helicopter on some God-forsaken plot of earth with only a Swiss army knife and some freeze-dried figs. 600 pts.
2. Mark Zuckerberg. 200 pts.
3. Ticket-taker at Comic-Con. (minus) 750 pts.
Scoring:
1500+: Why did you bother to take this quiz?
0 - 1500: No one will ever refer to you as Mr. Excitement, but hey, you got a life.
Less than zero: Quick, check and make sure you have a pulse. You do? Are you sure?
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Things Men Won’t Say
Well, it appears the truce in the Battle of the Sexes is holding and everyone is trying to get along and be sensitive to each other’s needs and so on. And, I think that’s great.
But - we will never, I repeat never - be “like your girlfriends.”
Men will always be men, and woman will always be women. We’re “wired” differently, or so it’s said. We have a different chemical make-up. Whereas the female of the species is chock full of estrogen, potassium, and that one chemical that makes their feet cold enough to shatter tungsten steel, men tend to lean towards chlorine, zinc, and trace amounts of nitro glycerin.
In other words - it’s not our fault that we can never be like your girlfriends. We have highly unstable chemicals coursing through our veins.
So - for the love of everything good and decent - please stop trying to make us like you. Seriously, how boring and inexplicably weird would it be if there were no discernable differences between us? No Yin to go with the Yang, if you get my drift.
And so it is that now - in the spirit of mutual understanding and continued harmony - I bring you Things Men Won’t Say. Ever:
“Honey, I just peeked into your closet and you don’t have nearly enough shoes.”
“Sure, you can go bar-hopping with your alcoholic, nymphomaniac girlfriends. Stay out as late as you like.”
“Darn, there’s nothing but sports on TV. Where’s the Sex and the City boxed set?”
“Why don’t we ever talk about the relationship anymore?”
“Oh, look! There’s a sale at Bed, Bath and Beyond. Grab your purse!”
“If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times: violent sports are a clear manifestation of a pseudo-ambiguous sexual urge coupled with a repressed oedipal conflict.”
“How about we just stay in and give each other pedicures tonight?”
“I get that from my Mother.”
“If one more person asks what’s up with me today, I am just going to scream.”
“Sex, sex, sex. Can’t we just cuddle every now and then?”
One more thing, ladies. We know when you throw out our ratty old t-shirts. We take out the garbage.
But - we will never, I repeat never - be “like your girlfriends.”
Men will always be men, and woman will always be women. We’re “wired” differently, or so it’s said. We have a different chemical make-up. Whereas the female of the species is chock full of estrogen, potassium, and that one chemical that makes their feet cold enough to shatter tungsten steel, men tend to lean towards chlorine, zinc, and trace amounts of nitro glycerin.
In other words - it’s not our fault that we can never be like your girlfriends. We have highly unstable chemicals coursing through our veins.
So - for the love of everything good and decent - please stop trying to make us like you. Seriously, how boring and inexplicably weird would it be if there were no discernable differences between us? No Yin to go with the Yang, if you get my drift.
And so it is that now - in the spirit of mutual understanding and continued harmony - I bring you Things Men Won’t Say. Ever:
“Honey, I just peeked into your closet and you don’t have nearly enough shoes.”
“Sure, you can go bar-hopping with your alcoholic, nymphomaniac girlfriends. Stay out as late as you like.”
“Darn, there’s nothing but sports on TV. Where’s the Sex and the City boxed set?”
“Why don’t we ever talk about the relationship anymore?”
“Oh, look! There’s a sale at Bed, Bath and Beyond. Grab your purse!”
“If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times: violent sports are a clear manifestation of a pseudo-ambiguous sexual urge coupled with a repressed oedipal conflict.”
“How about we just stay in and give each other pedicures tonight?”
“I get that from my Mother.”
“If one more person asks what’s up with me today, I am just going to scream.”
“Sex, sex, sex. Can’t we just cuddle every now and then?”
One more thing, ladies. We know when you throw out our ratty old t-shirts. We take out the garbage.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Falling Into Fall
I hate to see Summer go. I wail and bellow, and snort and stomp my feet. I cry like a child who’s just discovered Hannah Montana isn’t real. I hate it. In fact, I get so mad at Summer for leaving that I won’t return any of it’s phone calls for weeks.
Then - my eyes swollen and cheeks puffy from alligator tears - I force myself to face the grim reality that it’s over and now it’s time for Fall.
Seriously, Fall? A season so fantastic they named it after something clumsy people do. Why not just call it Nosepick? Or Bunion?
And to hear everyone go on and on about how great Fall is. “Oh the leaves are so pri-teeee. Feel that nip in the air?” Whatever.
So, I’m sucking it up and trying to look on the “bright side”. Of Fall. To come up with a few things about Fall that don’t totally gag me:
10. Football. This year, there will be 16,804 televised football games between Labor Day and January 2nd. 7,157 of them will feature an announcer using the term “rose to the occasion” far too many times.
9. Air conditioner cuts off a few minutes here and there.
8. “Vomiting” jack-o-lanterns.
7. Crappy Summer replacement shows are replaced by crappy Fall premiere shows.
6. Octoberfest.
5. Grass stops growing like it was on steroids.
4. Line at the Dairy Queen drive-thru isn’t nearly as long.
3. Neighborhood third-graders stop pushing lemonade on every corner.
2. Get to pull that sweater with the patches on the elbows out of storage.
1. Anything looks better when you prop it up next to Winter.
So. That’s it. It’s the best I can do right now, okay? I have to go. Summer’s texted me like five times already today.
Then - my eyes swollen and cheeks puffy from alligator tears - I force myself to face the grim reality that it’s over and now it’s time for Fall.
Seriously, Fall? A season so fantastic they named it after something clumsy people do. Why not just call it Nosepick? Or Bunion?
And to hear everyone go on and on about how great Fall is. “Oh the leaves are so pri-teeee. Feel that nip in the air?” Whatever.
So, I’m sucking it up and trying to look on the “bright side”. Of Fall. To come up with a few things about Fall that don’t totally gag me:
10. Football. This year, there will be 16,804 televised football games between Labor Day and January 2nd. 7,157 of them will feature an announcer using the term “rose to the occasion” far too many times.
9. Air conditioner cuts off a few minutes here and there.
8. “Vomiting” jack-o-lanterns.
7. Crappy Summer replacement shows are replaced by crappy Fall premiere shows.
6. Octoberfest.
5. Grass stops growing like it was on steroids.
4. Line at the Dairy Queen drive-thru isn’t nearly as long.
3. Neighborhood third-graders stop pushing lemonade on every corner.
2. Get to pull that sweater with the patches on the elbows out of storage.
1. Anything looks better when you prop it up next to Winter.
So. That’s it. It’s the best I can do right now, okay? I have to go. Summer’s texted me like five times already today.
Friday, August 13, 2010
The Stupid Quiz
People like to toss around terms like stupid rather carelessly. They’ll even refer to inanimate objects as stupid. As in, “my stupid car ran out of gas on my way to work”. But, as we all know, the car can’t put gas in itself. So, who in this equation would be the stupid one?
But, I digress. Personally, I think everyone should have the opportunity to prove they’re not stupid. So, I’ve invented the Stupid Quiz:
Flour is to cake as cement is to:
A. Sand
B. Concrete
C. Coal
D. Cake? Did you say cake? What kind of cake is it? Is it chocolate?
The relationship between the radius and circumference of a circle can be numerically expressed as:
A. 7/22
B. 22/7
C. (7/22) * 3.14
D. Ohhhhh, I hope it’s chocolate. Chocolate is my favorite!
Which of the following is not a type of rock?
A. Icelandite
B. Basanite
C. Pumice
D. What about the icing?!?! Is it chocolate too???
Alexander the Great was:
A. Phoenician
B. Macedonian
C. Egyptian
D. Are there candles on the cake? Is it somebody’s birthday? Is it my birthday???
The maximum speed a free-falling object can obtain is known as:
A. Event horizon
B. Blue shift
C. Terminal velocity
D. Seriously, is it chocolate?
Scoring: If you answered “D“ to any of the questions, then I regret to inform you that you are undeniably stupid. Otherwise, you’re good to go. Have a nice day.
But, I digress. Personally, I think everyone should have the opportunity to prove they’re not stupid. So, I’ve invented the Stupid Quiz:
Flour is to cake as cement is to:
A. Sand
B. Concrete
C. Coal
D. Cake? Did you say cake? What kind of cake is it? Is it chocolate?
The relationship between the radius and circumference of a circle can be numerically expressed as:
A. 7/22
B. 22/7
C. (7/22) * 3.14
D. Ohhhhh, I hope it’s chocolate. Chocolate is my favorite!
Which of the following is not a type of rock?
A. Icelandite
B. Basanite
C. Pumice
D. What about the icing?!?! Is it chocolate too???
Alexander the Great was:
A. Phoenician
B. Macedonian
C. Egyptian
D. Are there candles on the cake? Is it somebody’s birthday? Is it my birthday???
The maximum speed a free-falling object can obtain is known as:
A. Event horizon
B. Blue shift
C. Terminal velocity
D. Seriously, is it chocolate?
Scoring: If you answered “D“ to any of the questions, then I regret to inform you that you are undeniably stupid. Otherwise, you’re good to go. Have a nice day.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
President Use Big Words, Nobody Understand
I’ll cut right to the chase here. Prez Barack apparently gave a speech of some kind - I have no idea the subject of which - and it seems that everyone is in a tizzy because said president used words that were “at a 10-grade level” and - quoting here - “may have gone over the heads of many in his audience”.
Hmmm. A speech using words at a 10-grade level may have gone over the heads of many in his audience, that audience being the American public.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
The last time I checked, education - at least up to the tenth grade - was free. No Child Left Behind? How about Every Child Dumbed Down?
Well, far be it from me to judge. If the majority of Americans cannot comprehend tenth grade vocabulary, then let me translate what we have so far:
President Obama gave a speech. He talked about important things. Many people heard the President talk. Talk, Mr. President, talk. People clapped and clapped. The president would stop talking while the people clapped. Clap, people, clap.
When the speech was over the people on the news shows talked about what the president had said. Talk, news show people, talk. They said the president used too many big words. They said the president should have used smaller words so more people would know what the president was saying. The news show people used big words too. They said things like “jargon” and “academic” and “shockingly”. Some people did not understand, so they switched their TV over to watch Friends or Ace of Cakes. Some people did not clap when the president talked. They were mad because they were missing CSI. They stomped their feet and called the president bad names and said he was full of poop. Some of them threw their remote control thingy against the wall.
Back here in It’s-Called-An-Education-Look-Into-It-Land, I don’t know why I was surprised. I should have known that the average American adult cannot comprehend tenth grade vocabulary. After all, I’ve watched Are You Smarter Than a Fifth-Grader 12 or 15 times now, and I don’t think I’ve seen more than a couple of winners.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Hmmm. A speech using words at a 10-grade level may have gone over the heads of many in his audience, that audience being the American public.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
The last time I checked, education - at least up to the tenth grade - was free. No Child Left Behind? How about Every Child Dumbed Down?
Well, far be it from me to judge. If the majority of Americans cannot comprehend tenth grade vocabulary, then let me translate what we have so far:
President Obama gave a speech. He talked about important things. Many people heard the President talk. Talk, Mr. President, talk. People clapped and clapped. The president would stop talking while the people clapped. Clap, people, clap.
When the speech was over the people on the news shows talked about what the president had said. Talk, news show people, talk. They said the president used too many big words. They said the president should have used smaller words so more people would know what the president was saying. The news show people used big words too. They said things like “jargon” and “academic” and “shockingly”. Some people did not understand, so they switched their TV over to watch Friends or Ace of Cakes. Some people did not clap when the president talked. They were mad because they were missing CSI. They stomped their feet and called the president bad names and said he was full of poop. Some of them threw their remote control thingy against the wall.
Back here in It’s-Called-An-Education-Look-Into-It-Land, I don’t know why I was surprised. I should have known that the average American adult cannot comprehend tenth grade vocabulary. After all, I’ve watched Are You Smarter Than a Fifth-Grader 12 or 15 times now, and I don’t think I’ve seen more than a couple of winners.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
A Tree Grows in My Driveway (or, a Portrait in Tenacity)
There’s a tree growing in my driveway. That’s right. This is not a misprint. A sapling of some kind has attempted to take root in the harshest, most unfruitful environment imaginable: my driveway. Mind you, it’s not asphalt or concrete, but it is nonetheless the absolute least fertile ground to be found in a quarter acre in any direction. Yet, it is here that this wannabe tree has elected to stand it’s ground and pass on it‘s seed.
At first, I regarded it with a sneer, as my mower’s blades remorselessly cut it down. But, it returned - mowing after mowing, week after week - as if mocking me. A dry spell of some weeks could not dissuade it; constant trampling by neighbors, cats, dogs, squirrels, and mailmen would not snuff out it’s life. It was a determined little sapling.
It reminded me of a time when I found myself in a situation I could not envision a way out of. (Insert apology for ending a sentence with a proposition here.) I remember thinking that I was probably one of those people who didn’t know when they were whipped. I had the white flag ready, but I couldn’t find an enemy to wave it in front of. (See previous apology.) I was down for the count (insert boxing movie cliché here); I was a day late, and a dollar short (insert film noir gumshoe detective movie cliché here).
But in time, a door opened which I had not been able to see previously, and I stepped through. In time, the smoke cleared, the fog lifted (insert climactic, arpeggiated music swelling here), and I could see my destiny.
So, I took pity on the misguided sapling. I carefully uprooted, and re-planted it in more suitable environment, where it had a fighting chance to realize it’s destiny and become a tree. I opened a door for this brave little soldier. I tilted the odds in it‘s favor (insert gambling movie cliché here).
The little sapling and I have a one thing in common: we do what we do because it’s ingrained in us. It is to strive to survive. If only long enough to pass on our seed.
It’s ingrained in us.
(Update: The sapling didn’t make it. I don’t know what happened. Sorry.)
At first, I regarded it with a sneer, as my mower’s blades remorselessly cut it down. But, it returned - mowing after mowing, week after week - as if mocking me. A dry spell of some weeks could not dissuade it; constant trampling by neighbors, cats, dogs, squirrels, and mailmen would not snuff out it’s life. It was a determined little sapling.
It reminded me of a time when I found myself in a situation I could not envision a way out of. (Insert apology for ending a sentence with a proposition here.) I remember thinking that I was probably one of those people who didn’t know when they were whipped. I had the white flag ready, but I couldn’t find an enemy to wave it in front of. (See previous apology.) I was down for the count (insert boxing movie cliché here); I was a day late, and a dollar short (insert film noir gumshoe detective movie cliché here).
But in time, a door opened which I had not been able to see previously, and I stepped through. In time, the smoke cleared, the fog lifted (insert climactic, arpeggiated music swelling here), and I could see my destiny.
So, I took pity on the misguided sapling. I carefully uprooted, and re-planted it in more suitable environment, where it had a fighting chance to realize it’s destiny and become a tree. I opened a door for this brave little soldier. I tilted the odds in it‘s favor (insert gambling movie cliché here).
The little sapling and I have a one thing in common: we do what we do because it’s ingrained in us. It is to strive to survive. If only long enough to pass on our seed.
It’s ingrained in us.
(Update: The sapling didn’t make it. I don’t know what happened. Sorry.)
Monday, April 12, 2010
The New Middle Class
In today’s “good news, bad news” category, it appears the American middle class is going the way of the Oldsmobile.
(It’s a car. And, they don’t make them anymore.)
A government “think tank” recently concluded that if the recession lasts another five years, the middle class as we know it could disappear. They then concluded that they had come to a conclusion, and adjourned to dine at a grossly overpriced Georgetown restaurant, where they ran up a whopping $79,400 lunch tab. During which, the thought occurred to some of them that most of these people - whose fates the bureaucrats had stopped pretending to care about somewhere between the martinis and the smoked salmon appetizers - voted.
So, the think-tankers had to come up with a better solution. Which they did. They decided they could - and this was sheer genius on their part - they could simply create a new middle class to replace the one that’s about to melt away to nothingness like ice cream on a hot sidewalk.
Isn’t that good news! A second chance at middle class, I think they’re going to call it. And, I’ve made it easy for you to determine if you’re already a member of the New Middle Class:
Old: You have a late model SUV in the driveway
New: You live in a late model SUV
Old: You often attend fund-raisers for the less fortunate
New: You are the less fortunate
Old: You dine at five star restaurants on special occasions
New: You occasionally panhandle at five star restaurants
Old: You put big tag items on your credit card
New: You can’t remember the last time you saw a credit card
Old: You’re disappointed when your child’s soccer game is rained out
New: You strip down to your underwear, soap up, and take an open-air shower on the soccer field
Old: You’re thinking about adding a Florida room to your house
New: You’re thinking about adding an orange crate to the “Cardboard Condo”
Old: You’re climbing the corporate ladder
New: You’re climbing a ladder someone left against the side of their house to see what’s in the upstairs bedrooms
Old: You get your clothes at upscale mall clothing stores
New: You get your clothes at the Soap N’ Suds when the person goes to get more quarters
Old: You can’t decide between large-cap international or exchange-traded mutual funds
New: You can’t decide between a day old loaf of bread or a couple cans of Vienna sausages
There, wasn’t that easy! So, the next time someone asks you if you’re middle class, you can pull your tattered, flea infested coat tightly around you, push your matted, greasy hair back, look at them through glassy, bloodshot eyes and say, “Yes, I am the new American middle class. Spare a couple bucks?”
(It’s a car. And, they don’t make them anymore.)
A government “think tank” recently concluded that if the recession lasts another five years, the middle class as we know it could disappear. They then concluded that they had come to a conclusion, and adjourned to dine at a grossly overpriced Georgetown restaurant, where they ran up a whopping $79,400 lunch tab. During which, the thought occurred to some of them that most of these people - whose fates the bureaucrats had stopped pretending to care about somewhere between the martinis and the smoked salmon appetizers - voted.
So, the think-tankers had to come up with a better solution. Which they did. They decided they could - and this was sheer genius on their part - they could simply create a new middle class to replace the one that’s about to melt away to nothingness like ice cream on a hot sidewalk.
Isn’t that good news! A second chance at middle class, I think they’re going to call it. And, I’ve made it easy for you to determine if you’re already a member of the New Middle Class:
Old: You have a late model SUV in the driveway
New: You live in a late model SUV
Old: You often attend fund-raisers for the less fortunate
New: You are the less fortunate
Old: You dine at five star restaurants on special occasions
New: You occasionally panhandle at five star restaurants
Old: You put big tag items on your credit card
New: You can’t remember the last time you saw a credit card
Old: You’re disappointed when your child’s soccer game is rained out
New: You strip down to your underwear, soap up, and take an open-air shower on the soccer field
Old: You’re thinking about adding a Florida room to your house
New: You’re thinking about adding an orange crate to the “Cardboard Condo”
Old: You’re climbing the corporate ladder
New: You’re climbing a ladder someone left against the side of their house to see what’s in the upstairs bedrooms
Old: You get your clothes at upscale mall clothing stores
New: You get your clothes at the Soap N’ Suds when the person goes to get more quarters
Old: You can’t decide between large-cap international or exchange-traded mutual funds
New: You can’t decide between a day old loaf of bread or a couple cans of Vienna sausages
There, wasn’t that easy! So, the next time someone asks you if you’re middle class, you can pull your tattered, flea infested coat tightly around you, push your matted, greasy hair back, look at them through glassy, bloodshot eyes and say, “Yes, I am the new American middle class. Spare a couple bucks?”
Monday, March 22, 2010
Planting a Seed
Most of us never stop to think about the miracle that is the circle of life, given that we‘re usually preoccupied with more pressing and interesting things. We’re born, we live, we die. And in between, we plant seeds. So the entire process continues ad infinitum. An apple seed, for example. Not much larger than a match head, over time it can become a tree, towering over one’s home. And, it produces apples, which produce more seeds, which produce more apples.
We also plant metaphoric seeds; seeds of hope, of fear, of resentment, of mistrust. Often we plant these seeds without even realizing it. Until the seeds take root and begin to grow, and we are forced to become a witness to the fruit of our actions. And the vines from the things we plant climb the trellises of our personal metaphorical gardens, and intertwine with those around us.
So, we should tend our metaphorical gardens. We should uproot the things we find growing there which are the result of thoughtless and hurtful words and actions. The things that are detrimental to ourselves and others. And we should determine the extent to which these things have propagated and attempt to repair the damage our careless gardening has caused.
We should also take the time to find the good things our metaphorical gardens have engendered. We should insure those things are nurtured and cultivated, so they flourish and overtake our gardens until there is no room left for the bad things.
We should weed our gardens every day. Because whether we realize it or not, we are planting seeds. Every day.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Nation Awakens to Mysterious Aberration Called “Spring”
Washington, D.C. Millions of Americans, from Corvallis, Oregon to Owls Head, Maine awoke to a strange aberration this morning, many stumbling out of their homes, squinting and shielding their faces from an eerie glow. Emergency phone lines were jammed beyond capacity as callers reported a huge orb on the horizon, described as bright yellow in some parts of the country, to reddish-orange in others. Equally disturbing were reports of greenish vegetation where previously there was only snow and ice.
A White House spokesman addressed the nation in a hastily convened news conference, calling for calm while the government gathers data on this anomaly, and assured citizens that the military, along with Homeland Security, were “on top of” the situation.
“My igloo is gone,” lamented 11 year old Jordan Pheifer, of Danbury, Connecticut. “I was playing in it yesterday, and now it’s all gone”, he continued, before running inside where he was consoled by his Mother. Mrs. Pheifer confirmed that there was in fact an igloo in the family‘s backyard, measuring some 12 feet in diameter with walls a foot thick. “We built it back in early January. How could it have just vanished overnight?”
With much of the nation subjected to record snowfall amounts over the previous months, the sight of the huge glowing orb - which NOAA meteorologist Thad Peterssen confirmed was actually a star called “the sun” - caused considerable confusion, fear, and in at least a few cases - injury.
“I was working up near Emory, just off (interstate highway) eighty”, reported highway maintenance worker Mike Lamont. “Right after lunch, I noticed a prickly sensation on my face and forearms. Then Jake, my supervisor, said I was looking kind of pinkish. That was all I needed to hear.” Mr. Lamont was rushed to a nearby hospital for treatment, where it was determined that he was suffering from a mild case of something called a “sunburn”.
“It’s been a rough Winter for most for the country, and it appears many Americans have totally forgotten there are other seasons”, continued meteorologist Peterssen. He then noted that the phenomenon the nation was observing was simply the first day of a season called “Spring”.
A White House spokesman addressed the nation in a hastily convened news conference, calling for calm while the government gathers data on this anomaly, and assured citizens that the military, along with Homeland Security, were “on top of” the situation.
“My igloo is gone,” lamented 11 year old Jordan Pheifer, of Danbury, Connecticut. “I was playing in it yesterday, and now it’s all gone”, he continued, before running inside where he was consoled by his Mother. Mrs. Pheifer confirmed that there was in fact an igloo in the family‘s backyard, measuring some 12 feet in diameter with walls a foot thick. “We built it back in early January. How could it have just vanished overnight?”
With much of the nation subjected to record snowfall amounts over the previous months, the sight of the huge glowing orb - which NOAA meteorologist Thad Peterssen confirmed was actually a star called “the sun” - caused considerable confusion, fear, and in at least a few cases - injury.
“I was working up near Emory, just off (interstate highway) eighty”, reported highway maintenance worker Mike Lamont. “Right after lunch, I noticed a prickly sensation on my face and forearms. Then Jake, my supervisor, said I was looking kind of pinkish. That was all I needed to hear.” Mr. Lamont was rushed to a nearby hospital for treatment, where it was determined that he was suffering from a mild case of something called a “sunburn”.
“It’s been a rough Winter for most for the country, and it appears many Americans have totally forgotten there are other seasons”, continued meteorologist Peterssen. He then noted that the phenomenon the nation was observing was simply the first day of a season called “Spring”.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Free Balloons for the Kiddies!
Grand Opening Celebration! Never before heard of values! Come early for the best bargains! Pony rides! Meet the morning crew from EZ Rock 95.7! Door prizes galore! No reasonable offer refused! Hamster races! No interest for a full year with approved credit! The Squigleys perform their kid-friendly show at noon! No credit? - no problem! Face painting and balloon animals! Let Melvin the Magnificent guess your weight and shoe size! We will not be undersold! Three blocks west of Darnell’s Radiator Repair! Former ‘DWTS’ hair-stylist Logan Bottswirmer demonstrates the French Twist! Have your photo taken with life-sized Dale Earnhardt Jr. cut-out! Bean-bag Toss competition for all age groups! Visit the Cyber Petting Zoo! Try your luck on the Wheel of Cheese! No salesman will visit! Slappy the Wonder Frog will perform from 2:00 until 4:00! Free oven mitt to first 100 visitors! On Route 33, one half mile from Pine Cone Road! Miss Apple Festival 2006 will autograph copies of her book, “I Swear I Thought Africa Was a Country”! Caricature’s by Cleo! We match all competitors prices! Across from The Skate Barn! Tarot card readings! Three - count em’ - three Elvis impersonators! The boss sez “sell ‘em”! Overpaid CEO Dunk Tank! 99 cent hot dogs! Rain or shine! Bikini car wash by the Juggies Girls! Tap your feet to the banjo stylings of Red “Curly” Butterworth! Pizza on a stick! No rain checks. Three quarters of a mile south of Eakin’s Army Surplus! Safe-Kidz Sara’s Sock Puppet Review at 1:30! Hablamos Espanol! Shake hands with Lee Rudd (former roadie and bus driver for the Oak Ridge Boys)! Half-off coupons from The Fudge Hut! Prices too low to mention! Extra security on premises! Yoga demonstrations by Mystee of Cloud Nine Yoga! J93 Tee-shirt Bazooka Brigade “Blast Away” every half-hour on the hour! 90 days, same as cash! Don’t miss it!
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Ask Mr. Know-it-all
Hello, and welcome back for another edition of Ask Mr. Know-it-all. Something tells me we’ve got a lot of people scratching their heads out there, so let’s get started!
Dear Mr. Know-it-all:
Every year about this time, I have the same question: What day is Easter on this year?
Skyee, age 11
Dear Skyee:
Don’t feel bad. You’d be surprised how many people don’t know how to tell when Easter falls each year. Actually, it’s determined by a number of things like the vernal equinox and the lunar cycle. But my research staff has assured me that this year, Easter falls on a Sunday.
Dear Mr. Know-it-all:
I bought a sporty new car last week, and I love it! I’ve been driving everywhere in it. But this morning when I went out and got in it, it wouldn’t start. It just kept making this annoying grinding noise. Help! What did I do wrong?
Debbie in Des Moines
Dear Debbie:
I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it sounds to me like you got a lemon! I hope you kept your receipt, because Mr. Know-it-all thinks this puppy needs to go back to the pound.
Dear Mr. Know-it-all:
My girlfriend and I having been dating about two months. But for the past couple of weeks she seems to be avoiding me. She won’t take or return my calls. And, a friend of mine told me he saw her and another man leaving a swanky restaurant late one evening. What gives?
Seriously Bummed
Dear Bummed:
It sounds to me like your lady just needs some time to herself. If I were you, I’d give it another week. If you still haven’t heard from her, maybe you should go to her place late one evening and surprise her.
Well, that’s all the time Mr. Know-it-all has for this week, but keep sending those brain twisters my way, and I‘ll be back next week to solve all your problems!
Dear Mr. Know-it-all:
Every year about this time, I have the same question: What day is Easter on this year?
Skyee, age 11
Dear Skyee:
Don’t feel bad. You’d be surprised how many people don’t know how to tell when Easter falls each year. Actually, it’s determined by a number of things like the vernal equinox and the lunar cycle. But my research staff has assured me that this year, Easter falls on a Sunday.
Dear Mr. Know-it-all:
I bought a sporty new car last week, and I love it! I’ve been driving everywhere in it. But this morning when I went out and got in it, it wouldn’t start. It just kept making this annoying grinding noise. Help! What did I do wrong?
Debbie in Des Moines
Dear Debbie:
I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it sounds to me like you got a lemon! I hope you kept your receipt, because Mr. Know-it-all thinks this puppy needs to go back to the pound.
Dear Mr. Know-it-all:
My girlfriend and I having been dating about two months. But for the past couple of weeks she seems to be avoiding me. She won’t take or return my calls. And, a friend of mine told me he saw her and another man leaving a swanky restaurant late one evening. What gives?
Seriously Bummed
Dear Bummed:
It sounds to me like your lady just needs some time to herself. If I were you, I’d give it another week. If you still haven’t heard from her, maybe you should go to her place late one evening and surprise her.
Well, that’s all the time Mr. Know-it-all has for this week, but keep sending those brain twisters my way, and I‘ll be back next week to solve all your problems!
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Fun on the Cheap
What's that you say? You can't afford to do fun stuff anymore? No golf weekend in Myrtle Beach this year? No Bahamas cruise? Had to sell your week at the timeshare in the Poconos? Well, would you like some cheese with that whine? Don't fret, for I have come up with some - we'll call them alternative ways - to have a bang-up time! On the cheap. Real cheap.
Practical Jokes
Everybody loves a practical joke! Well, except maybe the person being pranked. But, they usually get over it. Eventually. The thing is, you have to keep it fresh. Things like putting shaving cream in a sleeping person's hand then tickling their nose, or jumping out of a big appliance box are so last century. One of my favorite things to do is call someone from a pay phone (yes they still have them!) and pretend to be a deejay from a local radio station. I tell them they've won big prizes, but - they only have nine minutes and 37 seconds to get to the station to claim them (or 10 minutes and 5 seconds, depending on the frequency of the station). Then, I go to the station and wait for them to come sliding into the parking lot sideways, jump out of the car (forgetting to put it into gear the time before last), and run inside. The only thing is, you don't want to be rolling on the ground laughing when they come out, spitting and snarling, and ready to actually hurt someone. I learned that the hard way!
Spying on Your Neighbors
The best thing about spying on your neighbors is that it's cheap. You can pick up a serviceable pair of binoculars on Ebay for $6.55, plus shipping and handling. The second best thing about spying on your neighbors is that it's easy! All you need is a morbid curiousity and no respect whatsoever for other people's privacy. I kind of fell into it by accident. You know, a curtain left open here, an "intimate" conversation overheard while crouched underneath a bedroom window there. Dressed in flat black.
The Public Library
Hah! Not one person - in all of recorded history - has ever had anything approaching fun in a public library. I just threw that one in to see if you were paying attention.
Falling on the Floor at Dennys
Is an artform. Really. I've seen it all. The "tripping on the rug in the lobby" ploy, the "sliding through the oilslick near the kitchen" gambit, even the "falling backwards off the little mushroom stool" tactic. And the thing is, the thing that'll really sell it is: Sincerity. You have to actually believe you're the victim, and not just some schmuck trying to get a free Moon Over My Hammy.
Housesitting
It used to be that housesitting was something you only did because a friend asked you, and you felt obligated {whiny}, and there was no one else to do it {even whinier}, and the plants will die blah blah this and someone will break in blah blah that. Not now. Not anymore. Now you pray to be asked to housesit. Why? Because for one week you get to pretend to live somewhere else! I mean, have you been watching the news? Whereever you're living now is probably where you'll die! You'll never qualify for a mortgage - even if your credit scores are through the roof, you have 60% to put down, and your uncle has - how should I put it - a vested interest in the mortgage company. Not gonna happen. But - when you housesit - for one week, you get to watch someone else's TV (from their sofa), sleep in someone else's bed, and rummage through someone else's medicine cabinet. I actually have an ad on Craigslist offering to housesit anyone within a 150 mile radius as long as they have Direct TV and a queen-sized or larger bed. And no more than four houseplants.
Practical Jokes
Everybody loves a practical joke! Well, except maybe the person being pranked. But, they usually get over it. Eventually. The thing is, you have to keep it fresh. Things like putting shaving cream in a sleeping person's hand then tickling their nose, or jumping out of a big appliance box are so last century. One of my favorite things to do is call someone from a pay phone (yes they still have them!) and pretend to be a deejay from a local radio station. I tell them they've won big prizes, but - they only have nine minutes and 37 seconds to get to the station to claim them (or 10 minutes and 5 seconds, depending on the frequency of the station). Then, I go to the station and wait for them to come sliding into the parking lot sideways, jump out of the car (forgetting to put it into gear the time before last), and run inside. The only thing is, you don't want to be rolling on the ground laughing when they come out, spitting and snarling, and ready to actually hurt someone. I learned that the hard way!
Spying on Your Neighbors
The best thing about spying on your neighbors is that it's cheap. You can pick up a serviceable pair of binoculars on Ebay for $6.55, plus shipping and handling. The second best thing about spying on your neighbors is that it's easy! All you need is a morbid curiousity and no respect whatsoever for other people's privacy. I kind of fell into it by accident. You know, a curtain left open here, an "intimate" conversation overheard while crouched underneath a bedroom window there. Dressed in flat black.
The Public Library
Hah! Not one person - in all of recorded history - has ever had anything approaching fun in a public library. I just threw that one in to see if you were paying attention.
Falling on the Floor at Dennys
Is an artform. Really. I've seen it all. The "tripping on the rug in the lobby" ploy, the "sliding through the oilslick near the kitchen" gambit, even the "falling backwards off the little mushroom stool" tactic. And the thing is, the thing that'll really sell it is: Sincerity. You have to actually believe you're the victim, and not just some schmuck trying to get a free Moon Over My Hammy.
Housesitting
It used to be that housesitting was something you only did because a friend asked you, and you felt obligated {whiny}, and there was no one else to do it {even whinier}, and the plants will die blah blah this and someone will break in blah blah that. Not now. Not anymore. Now you pray to be asked to housesit. Why? Because for one week you get to pretend to live somewhere else! I mean, have you been watching the news? Whereever you're living now is probably where you'll die! You'll never qualify for a mortgage - even if your credit scores are through the roof, you have 60% to put down, and your uncle has - how should I put it - a vested interest in the mortgage company. Not gonna happen. But - when you housesit - for one week, you get to watch someone else's TV (from their sofa), sleep in someone else's bed, and rummage through someone else's medicine cabinet. I actually have an ad on Craigslist offering to housesit anyone within a 150 mile radius as long as they have Direct TV and a queen-sized or larger bed. And no more than four houseplants.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Tiger Woods “Sorry”
Ponte Vedra Beach, FL - At one of the most anticipated press conferences in years, and before a hand-picked audience, a visibly shaken Tiger Woods inched to the microphone and uttered but one word: “Sorry”, he said, then cleared his throat nervously and stepped backward, his head bowed slightly.
As the attendees were notified well in advance that there would be no questions, there followed several minutes of awkward silence, punctuated only by an occasional nervous cough, or a shifting of an attendee in their seats. The phenom professional golfer and much sought-after pitchman just stood there, hands by his side, staring blankly off to a far corner of the room.
Finally, about 17 minutes into the “press conference”, Mr. Woods again cleared his throat, stepped back to the microphone and added, “very sorry. What I mean is, I’m very sorry for… everything”. He then mumbled something under his breath about Buick being an “old fart’s ride anyway”, glanced at his watch, then launched into a hearty, full-throated rendition of The Way You Look Tonight, before hurriedly exiting the room.
As the attendees were notified well in advance that there would be no questions, there followed several minutes of awkward silence, punctuated only by an occasional nervous cough, or a shifting of an attendee in their seats. The phenom professional golfer and much sought-after pitchman just stood there, hands by his side, staring blankly off to a far corner of the room.
Finally, about 17 minutes into the “press conference”, Mr. Woods again cleared his throat, stepped back to the microphone and added, “very sorry. What I mean is, I’m very sorry for… everything”. He then mumbled something under his breath about Buick being an “old fart’s ride anyway”, glanced at his watch, then launched into a hearty, full-throated rendition of The Way You Look Tonight, before hurriedly exiting the room.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Is It 2010, or 1984?
I made the mistake of watching a few minutes of “the news” earlier, and was once again treated to a sampling of what I like to call “ignorance gone to seed”. Long story short, some guy has decided that we as a society eat too much, and eat things that are not healthy for us. So, he has decided that the best way to stop this is to increase the tax on “unhealthy” foods.
I say we erect a statue in his honor.
This man has single-handedly taken on the challenge of saving us from ourselves. How noble! How altruistic! He knows what’s best for you and I!
Well, I have a message for this man, whomever he is: Mind your own business. If you want to eat tofu and bean sprouts, go right ahead. But you do not have the right to tell me what I can and cannot eat (or to artificially inflate the price of a free-market commodity in an attempt to dissuade me from partaking). If I choose to balloon up to 400 lbs., what business is it if yours, anyway? It’s my life. I can make my own decisions, thank you, and your opinion is neither solicited or appreciated.
It seems these days someone is always trying to save us from ourselves. Many of our “elected officials” have decided that no one should be allowed to smoke cigarettes in restaurants and bars. In Virginia, the law took effect last December. A certain politician reputedly referred to the introduction of the law as a “stroke of genius”.
So - just to get this straight in my own head - the decision to tell a bar or restaurant owner, who often puts in 12 - 14 hour days, and has invested his life’s savings into his venture, that he cannot allow his patrons to use a substance which is completely legal in his establishment, is a “stroke of genius”?
No, it’s not a “stroke of genius”; it’s authoritarianism. It’s Big Brother “protecting us from ourselves”.
Many politicians, in pushing smoking bans, have made the point that employees of the establishment have the right to work in a smoke-free environment. And, they do. But, 50% or more of the bars and restaurants in Virginia had already voluntarily gone smoke-free. They came to the determination all by themselves, without any government interference. Without Big Brother making their decisions for them.
Some non-smokers have hailed the move, as they prefer to not be subjected to cigarette smoke while they dine. And I completely understand why they wouldn’t. To those people I ask: what’s going to happen when the same legislators decide you shouldn’t be able to have an alcoholic beverage with your dinner? Or, that you shouldn’t have red meat? Or dessert? Or, anything else that they determine is “bad” for you?
So-called “blue laws” have also been in the news lately. Those are laws which basically say you cannot buy this or that between such-and-such hours on such-and-such days. Some years back, there were places you could not buy gasoline for your car before noon on Sunday’s. Because you were supposed to be in church on Sunday mornings, not out gallivanting around the countryside. Here we have an example of Big Brother keeping your feet on the straight-and-narrow. Can I get an Amen!
The older I get, the more Libertarian I become. The more I appreciate my freedoms, my right to make my own decisions, whether “good” or “bad” in some bureaucrat’s eyes, and the more I long for a government which is truly “of the people, by the people, and for the people”, and not one comprised mostly of millionaire ex-lawyers living in their ivory towers and dictating morality to us.
Finally, if you’ve never read George Orwell’s 1984, I highly recommend it. It’s the story of what happens when a society allows their government to do whatever the government thinks is best; to protect the citizens from themselves.
Doubleplusgood.
I say we erect a statue in his honor.
This man has single-handedly taken on the challenge of saving us from ourselves. How noble! How altruistic! He knows what’s best for you and I!
Well, I have a message for this man, whomever he is: Mind your own business. If you want to eat tofu and bean sprouts, go right ahead. But you do not have the right to tell me what I can and cannot eat (or to artificially inflate the price of a free-market commodity in an attempt to dissuade me from partaking). If I choose to balloon up to 400 lbs., what business is it if yours, anyway? It’s my life. I can make my own decisions, thank you, and your opinion is neither solicited or appreciated.
It seems these days someone is always trying to save us from ourselves. Many of our “elected officials” have decided that no one should be allowed to smoke cigarettes in restaurants and bars. In Virginia, the law took effect last December. A certain politician reputedly referred to the introduction of the law as a “stroke of genius”.
So - just to get this straight in my own head - the decision to tell a bar or restaurant owner, who often puts in 12 - 14 hour days, and has invested his life’s savings into his venture, that he cannot allow his patrons to use a substance which is completely legal in his establishment, is a “stroke of genius”?
No, it’s not a “stroke of genius”; it’s authoritarianism. It’s Big Brother “protecting us from ourselves”.
Many politicians, in pushing smoking bans, have made the point that employees of the establishment have the right to work in a smoke-free environment. And, they do. But, 50% or more of the bars and restaurants in Virginia had already voluntarily gone smoke-free. They came to the determination all by themselves, without any government interference. Without Big Brother making their decisions for them.
Some non-smokers have hailed the move, as they prefer to not be subjected to cigarette smoke while they dine. And I completely understand why they wouldn’t. To those people I ask: what’s going to happen when the same legislators decide you shouldn’t be able to have an alcoholic beverage with your dinner? Or, that you shouldn’t have red meat? Or dessert? Or, anything else that they determine is “bad” for you?
So-called “blue laws” have also been in the news lately. Those are laws which basically say you cannot buy this or that between such-and-such hours on such-and-such days. Some years back, there were places you could not buy gasoline for your car before noon on Sunday’s. Because you were supposed to be in church on Sunday mornings, not out gallivanting around the countryside. Here we have an example of Big Brother keeping your feet on the straight-and-narrow. Can I get an Amen!
The older I get, the more Libertarian I become. The more I appreciate my freedoms, my right to make my own decisions, whether “good” or “bad” in some bureaucrat’s eyes, and the more I long for a government which is truly “of the people, by the people, and for the people”, and not one comprised mostly of millionaire ex-lawyers living in their ivory towers and dictating morality to us.
Finally, if you’ve never read George Orwell’s 1984, I highly recommend it. It’s the story of what happens when a society allows their government to do whatever the government thinks is best; to protect the citizens from themselves.
Doubleplusgood.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Farewell to the Oh-Oh Decade
Well, I’m sure you’ve all heard by now that the Oh-Oh decade is officially over. What’s that you say? The what decade? The Oh-Ohs. As in, two-oh-oh-one, two-oh-oh-two, etc. You know, there were the Eighties, then the Nineties, then the Oh-Ohs.
You can call it whatever you like - I actually heard some chucklehead on one of those New Year’s Eve shows refer to it as the Digital Decade. On second thought, you can call it whatever you like, as long as it’s not the Digital Decade. I will continue to call it the Oh-Ohs, thank you.
So anyway, it’s over, and now we have the obligatory “best” and “worst” lists for the decade. Best movies, worst business decisions, most celebrity mug shots (Nick Nolte, I believe we have a winner).
But those are soooo boring.
So, I’ve come up with the Top Ten Things About the Oh-Oh Decade Which Really Blew Chunks:
10. It was 2007 before anyone could agree on what to call it.
9. The Y2K thing turned out to be a total dud; still trying to unload survival shelter in Long Pond, New Hampshire.
8. Jericho, My Name is Earl, and Growing Up Gotti were all cancelled.
7. 1,681,059 more potholes.
6. Straight-leg jeans went out of style. Twice.
5. Al Gore won a Nobel Prize.
4. No significant upgrade to Zwiggys.
3. U.S. budget deficit became so large that average American can’t tell if it’s in the billions, trillions, gazillions or just a really bad nightmare.
2. Someone learned how to clone lawyers.
And the thing about the Oh-Oh decade which blew the most chunks:
1. Kidz Bop
You can call it whatever you like - I actually heard some chucklehead on one of those New Year’s Eve shows refer to it as the Digital Decade. On second thought, you can call it whatever you like, as long as it’s not the Digital Decade. I will continue to call it the Oh-Ohs, thank you.
So anyway, it’s over, and now we have the obligatory “best” and “worst” lists for the decade. Best movies, worst business decisions, most celebrity mug shots (Nick Nolte, I believe we have a winner).
But those are soooo boring.
So, I’ve come up with the Top Ten Things About the Oh-Oh Decade Which Really Blew Chunks:
10. It was 2007 before anyone could agree on what to call it.
9. The Y2K thing turned out to be a total dud; still trying to unload survival shelter in Long Pond, New Hampshire.
8. Jericho, My Name is Earl, and Growing Up Gotti were all cancelled.
7. 1,681,059 more potholes.
6. Straight-leg jeans went out of style. Twice.
5. Al Gore won a Nobel Prize.
4. No significant upgrade to Zwiggys.
3. U.S. budget deficit became so large that average American can’t tell if it’s in the billions, trillions, gazillions or just a really bad nightmare.
2. Someone learned how to clone lawyers.
And the thing about the Oh-Oh decade which blew the most chunks:
1. Kidz Bop
Monday, January 4, 2010
After Disappointing Season, Daniel Snyder Fires Redskins Fans
Landover, MD - After finishing the season 4-12 and failing to make the playoffs for the eighth time in 11 attempts, Washington Redskin’s owner Dan Snyder has “cleaned house”, firing all of the team’s estimated 1,493,612 fans. Although many NFL analysts predicted the bloodbath weeks ago, the news came as a shock to some. “I knew I shouldn’t have missed that week eleven match-up with the Cowboys”, lamented Connie Abbot of Fairfax, Virginia. “Had I been there, maybe our kicker would have made one of those two missed field goals, and we’d have won”, she said, wiping away a tear. “Of course, it was an away game, and my daughter’s baby shower was that weekend, but still, a true fan makes the sacrifice.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do”, said Kyle Stafford, a life-long Redskins fan. “I mean, I know it’s my fault. I didn’t cheer myself hoarse at every game. And that one time, I forgot to bring my pig nose”. Then, shaking his head continued, “maybe I’ll become a fan of the Ravens or Steelers. If they’ll have me”, his voice trailing off to a whisper.
The mood was somber at O’Brians Pub down the street from FedEx Field, where several dozen recently fired fans gathered to take whatever solace they could from each other and a pint of Guinness. “Truly, it is a sad day for Redskins fans”, mused “Kitty” Travers, clutching her autographed John Riggins trading card. “What will become of us now?”
While some have suggested that the blame should lie with the coaching staff, the players themselves, or even Snyder’s mercurial nature, general manager Bruce Allen brushed off these opinions. “It’s the fans”, he said in a recent phone conversation. “They didn’t give one hundred percent. Sure, some of them had to take second jobs to pay for their season tickets, but if you can’t buck up and do whatever it takes to win, we can’t use you.”
Snyder could not be reached for comment.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do”, said Kyle Stafford, a life-long Redskins fan. “I mean, I know it’s my fault. I didn’t cheer myself hoarse at every game. And that one time, I forgot to bring my pig nose”. Then, shaking his head continued, “maybe I’ll become a fan of the Ravens or Steelers. If they’ll have me”, his voice trailing off to a whisper.
The mood was somber at O’Brians Pub down the street from FedEx Field, where several dozen recently fired fans gathered to take whatever solace they could from each other and a pint of Guinness. “Truly, it is a sad day for Redskins fans”, mused “Kitty” Travers, clutching her autographed John Riggins trading card. “What will become of us now?”
While some have suggested that the blame should lie with the coaching staff, the players themselves, or even Snyder’s mercurial nature, general manager Bruce Allen brushed off these opinions. “It’s the fans”, he said in a recent phone conversation. “They didn’t give one hundred percent. Sure, some of them had to take second jobs to pay for their season tickets, but if you can’t buck up and do whatever it takes to win, we can’t use you.”
Snyder could not be reached for comment.
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