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’.

Mars and Venus

Fortunately when I was a young pup, my parents taught me the value of reading along with eating so with every Pop Tart consumed, also too was a paragraph on high fructose syrup and preservatives. I soon developed a rather extensive vocabulary in all the ingredients crammed into Lucky Charms beyond the oats to make them ‘magically delicious’.  This early education came in handy later when I finally ventured out on my own in the world by 50 years of age looking for things to read, eat, and eliminate all at the same time.

Naturally at least part of this skill has proven helpful in navigating the ways of the world especially when I travel. No it is not often I find a full place setting in restrooms or an edible morsel that has not already been passed over by vermin, but frequently in foreign lands it is important to read and enter the correct gender door to the toilet. With this in mind, why then is it so difficult to mark doors properly and legibly so that anyone - blind, dumb, or confused (or all three like me), can determine their gender and choose an appropriate loo to lounge in?

While I have accepted the dull lanky stick figure form of the male, and equally uncreative female stick icon in a dress as the representative placard for restrooms in America, it is not necessarily so overseas. Other countries prefer to reflect the fact that people often have tiny heads in comparison to their bloated bodies, and depending on how much spicy curry slurry they’ve consumed they might be in a blurry hurry to find the right water closet fast. So if this is true, why are their icons so confusing to my uncreative mind. Is the restroom for males the ‘fat running blob in a hat’ or is it the ‘jumping blob with a sack’ – and who knows which room is outfitted for babies since by definition all babies look like blobs?

Forget this Mars and Venus stuff since nobody really knows the gender of any planet. I don’t really care what the RIGHT symbols look like as long as if we can just agree on choosing ONE universal standard to read that applies to the appropriate gender in question. I’m not really worried though if I wander into the wrong toilet as I reach advanced age as long as I only travel in Spanish speaking countries. Because at least there nobody’s offended if we geezers misread the signs between the Senor or Senores, because when you gotta’ go any port in a storm is OK, when you have a ‘SENIOR movement' !

In Depends Day

Ok I admit it I am a bit of a ‘pyro’ pirate at heart so Independence Day always enlightens my life and makes me long for a fuse more days a year to love the smell of gunpowder in the morning. I do miss my old black powder musket and eye patch that made opening a safety deposit box at the bank, or boarding a Caribbean cruise ship so much more fun on Halloween. The sad thing is that as I have gotten older, my younger trailer-neighbors have a certain expectation that we ‘geezers’ aren’t to be trusted with matches around a BBQ heaping with oily charcoal, much less bottle rockets, smoke bombs, and firecrackers to light up the night sky. 

Hey I still know what ‘Lady Fingers’ are REALLY for, so that’s why I never object to the wife lighting my fire especially under the water heater or those silly pump-up camping stoves. Just because I happen to have the initials B.C., enjoy fatty Caesar salads and dine nightly by exploding candles doesn’t mean I was born in ancient Rome. No I'm not so ‘Nero’ to death yet; I’m lucky to have been hatched in more civilized times where ‘stabbing someone in the back’ or blowing up pressure cookers in ‘Publius’ only happens in the bad' sections of our bottom of the bird-worthy news rag.

So now at July 4^th celebrations, all the young whippersnappers get to goose the good stuff while I  guess I’m the gray geezer relegated to portray the lunk with the pre-lit punks for everyone else’s ‘double-FLINT’ pleasure. You would think that oldsters as ripe as me would benefit from bathing more often in a ‘Fountain of Youth’, though showering under sparks regularly wreaks havoc with my grizzled sideburns, nested nostril, and wild eyebrow hair. Apparently the younger set believes no open flames equals ‘no harm’, though from personal experience, being branded by hot fudge or shot with an air gun south of the equator would change their tune up an octave or two. 

Anyway, what do today’s coddled kids, and even their parents REALLY know about our nation’s fiery history and the prideful heritage of our Incontinent-al Congress.  I bet none of them have ever had to even make fire when the chips are down or wherever else gravity takes ‘em in a pair of elastic plastic old people pants.  All I know is at my age you get pretty good at going independently about your business all day long so lighting matches becomes second nature, even though it DEPENDS if the nosy neighbors are nearby or not.

Bread stink instinct!

I wonder who the big bag of gas was that came up with the idea that money should be referred to as ‘Bread’! It wasn’t any of my corny ilk since when you live under a troll toll bridge, there are too few opportunities to make cash except from recycling cans, and overnight reclamation of the neighbor’s copper plumbing. The only REAL bread that I ever see and retrieve on a daily basis is those charity crumbs that the pigeons and furry vermin choose to leave behind.

Who really associates cold hard cash with a yeasty smell, flour, warm water, and a pinch of salt anyway? Isn’t all that stuff more akin to the luxuries of prison life rather than the genuine glow of wealth and prosperity? On second thought, I forgot that I usually have to take out a loan to purchase any of those ‘artisan’ bakery loaves offered at every overpriced organic snobby suburban market’. Gee, if Americans aspire to acquire so much ‘bread’ in their daily lives, I am curious what other kinds of dough the rest of the world rolls in and informally calls their currency?

I guess the English probably would name their scratch, ‘Muffins’, though if you pile them high enough they will most certainly add up to a few POUNDS on their buns. The Israelis might shuck their shekels in favor of the more valuable and ‘hole-ier’ Bagels, and the poor Italians end up with those throwaway triangle 'crust-backs' bonded to the bottom of greasy pizza boxes. What do you call those things anyway – maybe ‘I-SAUCE-n’-cheese’ is a good fit that will STICK?

Hmmm, come to think of it, except when I’m ‘Puttin’ on the Ritz’, I guess  savory ‘bread’ is a better money metaphor than any flaky biscuit or cracker will ever be. After all I would much rather be a hard n’ crusty ‘breadwinner’ instead of just any ol’ oaf sitting on his soft-sofa loaf! Regardless, instinctively I have learned to keep my opinions and SOURdough personality to myself, because when too much of my hot air escapes rapidly in public, people have a tendency of LEAVENING me alone.

My read on REEDS

Who decided that bagpipes should become associated with classy ‘American’ pomp, processionals, and memorable occasions? When I was young, I don’t recall legions of long legged and skirted men parading around their instruments except if I frequented West Hollywood Halloween parties. Now if I lived in Scotland or some other European culture that shuns pants I might understand, but didn’t my family forerunners sprint for the sea long ago to cover-up their bell-bottoms and avoid the blare of these bloody bleating bags o’ pipes?

After all who can listen to an instrument where its fundamental parts consist of a ‘Bag’, ‘Drone’, and a ‘Chanter’? In practice, any ONE of these words swirling around your dome for a short time will give you a headache, but together in concert they will always lead to serious migraines and ultimately formal funerals. Hasn’t America already suffered enough HARMonium at the hands (or slobbery chops) of obnoxious accordion and harmonica ‘windbags’, with their wheezing reeds and congested nasal nuisances?

Amazingly, not all REEDS rub me the wrong way unless they have to do with swamps, Hobbits, or irritatingly inane teenage Vampires. Musically, English horns and clarinets played well can be curiously captivating and who isn’t a fan of good SAX whenever they can get it?  Also remember to make it a double when it comes to my orchestral fave-flavs, the swoon of a bassoon expertly blown, or its baby bro, the oboe - even if played just ‘so so’. 

A few of you critical canines  might now howl in protest when I croon a tune at Karaoke or have the brass to‘bag’ on your beloved pipes n’ reeds without heed. Hey relax, I was hatched into a hill family of pro musicians and played trumpet too, so blowing-off fellow belIowers is just a form of tooting my own horn - right! Anyway I must admit, I’ve never looked very sophisticated while pants-less with my bagpipes showing. So I had better stick with the CLASSY instruments that I know and love - the hobo-band ‘chug jug’, slide whistle, and ubiquitous saliva-soaked jaw-harp!