Thursday, October 16, 2014

Transformer



Whenever the belt around my neck starts to get loose, I make it a practice to wander into a people-feed store and see what’s on the menu. Unlike most geezers in training, I don’t mind shopping for chow since what better way to get exercise while I stock up on nutritional staples that the wife typically avoids like cookies, candy, and waxy wheels of cheese. Anyway my doughy bone-bag bulk always benefits from a stroll through the zoo and a chance to observe slow-roll meandering oldsters in their natural habitat. 

With this year’s change of seasons though, suddenly society’s younger guns all seem to be treating me TOO a bit differently now. A furtive glare here or an innocent side-step there; yes I notice the subtle impatience and frequent over-aggressive cart incursions as I expertly ponder fiber values between the lowly pinto or more costly black bean. I check myself for oozing wounds, leprosy, or some other stinky societal woe that would deserve such disgust, but upon reflection (off my head) I appear inert and unchanged - just as I’ve always been. 

Oh sure I now prefer the smell of Mentholatum over Old Spice, but what’s it prove - that I enjoy soothing hot water bottles and old time mystery radio shows over reality TV. (coincidentally YES!) So what if I cinch my pants around my chest and my ashen translucent skin no longer is brawny and tawny like days gone by. What do you care if Velcro is the kibble of choice to feed my plush suede Hush Puppies and those threadbare baggy shirts I wear are NOT to be cool but actually to stay warm.

Though no blockbuster movie will ever be made about it, clerks seem to routinely ring-me up with senior discounts and need not see I.D. as proof of my long-toothed Silverback status. Clearly I am something of a real Transformer now – bending, creaking and soon to be leaking new useful, flexible and stickier form of productivity. Yes, long life has been seemingly compressed into seconds as I’ll soon fall completely between the cracks, and cross that invisible line of re-birth from ready steady stud to swayback saddled n’ addled,  quartered-up colt ready for a warm Gorilla GLUE bottle. 


Thursday, October 9, 2014

Click Clock



Unlike many graying creatures of the night my head must have mixed in 2 parts bat with the fat under my hat because as I get colder and older I seem to be hearing some sounds BETTER! No the television is still a mush of mumbles and breathless whispers but that is likely due more to my Pringle can amplified budget TV and the sorry state of  modern entertainment programming. Surprisingly now, high pitched clicks are becoming louder and yes, I drool even more uncontrollably at the sound of coins clacking together - which makes for some uncomfortable stares in Taco Bell’s all-tile echorest-room.

I’m not sure what’s changed but it seems now that all of the analog clocks in my house are screaming for their civil rights and ‘just want to be heard’.  Is this some kind of plot from the fancy new clock corporations to drive geezers to the brink and switch to their dinky blinky digital displays? If that’s the case, I’m determined to stand firm with my big noisy clocks, one finger in my ear and the other in a crass digital display of its own.

At Halloween I seem to hear perfectly fine, but oddly any other time of the year I have become almost completely deaf when anything else pounds on the drawbridge door asking for handouts. My wife handles my selective hearing by prefacing her requests with time-tested tricks to garner rapid attention. Drawing me in with comforting utterances beginning with ‘Ding Dong’ or ‘Pop Tart’ will get my most positive reaction, but if the wife’s pressed for time and wants me to fold-up and run like wet ink on a newspaper, she just happily snaps a 3-ring binder.

Other than the spouse, the good news is that most external distractions can be simply buried in the yard along with the bones of other telltale hearts and crafts of noisier times gone bye. But sadly when it comes to my OWN creaky joints and snapping flaps, they seem permanently attached to me so what do I do when skulking the stairs on an otherwise silent night. Clearly all I need to do is don’t whine and unwind those clickity clackity clocks and practice STOPPING time!


Thursday, October 2, 2014

Football Fantasy



As a husky kid who was the obvious love-child between a white rhino and the Pillsbury dough-boy, you would think I would have a great interest in traditional bulky black n’ blue bruiser football. But alas I was weaned to be a wet-nursed wimp as my thin skin would turn pale, and my weak knees would knock at the thought of the sport with an ovoid ball as an object of affection. Yes my pathetic athletic skills and lack of pigskin prowess have always been better suited to batting feathery shuttlecocks rather than patting leathery turf-ruffled rumps.

One of my problems is that I’m uncomfortable with the uniformity of that weird costume that football dudes have to squeeze into since I would likely perform better in a pair of Dickies overalls and chainmail. I have never looked good in tight little grass-stained knee-high pants and a crash helmet when I go to the market so why would I wear that outfit at school or on TV? Typically the only pads that I have had to deal with are in rooms at hospitals or the damp sponges I shove under my Superman night shirt to make my biceps look larger and pock-marked with virility for my wife’s delight.

Anyway what kind strategist thinks it’s a good idea to line tree-sized people up inches apart and have them snarl n’ charge at each other after a big meal the night before? I don’t think there is enough Beano on earth to prevent the multiple close-in spontaneous combustions that surely must ensue and only enrage the enemas further. Also didn’t we decide shouldering up soldiers and having their ranks slaughtered was a bad idea in the revolutionary war so why now play a game featuring that exact same strategy.

At least it’s understandable why the Europeans came up with the ‘football’ name for their game since the rule of play reserves the hands only for crowd taunting and sweaty long-hair pulling. Clearly American football confuses me as does its name since it has so little to do with feet other than an occasional kick and run and some footwear advertising endorsements. Don’t worry I’m not trying to overthrow  the NFL or drag their audience kicking and screaming towards soccer, especially since I don’t look good in those nylon rainbow shorty-shorts either.  I guess my true football fantasy is just to see a lot LESS of both these sports clogging up my TV, and maybe given recent elevator revelations a more appropriate name like ‘SOCKHER’.


Thursday, September 25, 2014

Dud Fudge Invention



I have never quite understood the whole concept of fudge since I already know what I’m going to get in a box of waxy chocolate so why mess with converting it into a BIGGER brick of chocolate cut-down to bite-sized pieces? I mean the stuff sells for $15 per pound or more and all it consists of is chocolate with a few added nuts, a train car of sugar, and some thickened yellowed Yak milk. That already sounds like my typical power lunch except I would eat it for breakfast if the only cooking involved was popping a tart in the toaster.

Typically if I am not speeding fast enough toward Diabetes I eat pralines when I need a sugar n’ nut gut injection, but I did not have a Confederate flag or any pecans in the cupboard and the ones in the restrooms won’t do. I did follow a squirrel around though and managed to dig up enough Walnuts so I could try a simple fudge recipe for fun.  Hey how hard can it be to melt up some choco goo and spread it to the corners of a buttered pan and try not to leave any recognizable fingerprints memorialized on top of the surface.

Sadly this vast candy task is apparently above my pay grade since first, everything is above my pay grade and second my fudge was a dusty dud. I know I put a bundled bag of granulated sugar in the beginning but who knew after ‘watts and watts’ of time wet cooking over a hot stove it would return to its original form except flattened and patted in a pan. Oh sure it tastes like chocolate with an occasional walnut thrown in to keep the vermin interested but who eats fudge harvested out of the business back-end of a vacuum bag?

Betty must be selling a crock because apparently when cooking to ‘soft ball’ stage she doesn’t mean literally cooking the caloric vat to regulation softball skin standards. All I know is now I have a gravel pan of marshmallow laced chocolate brown sugar that looks like something the Easter bunny dug out of the garden or that fat pink Valentine cherub kid found behind his ears. Too bad nobody has invented a sugary powder you can add to milk to make it chocolate flavored … Hmmm - I’m going to look into that!