The BIG SLIPPER

Unlike most folks who have their faces crammed into the leaves of People magazine and salivate at salacious gossip and celebrity turmoil, I like stars too but with a tad more Celestial seasoning for flavor. It is not unusual for me to creep around in the still of night peering out windows with binocs, or a telescope sporting a twinkled eye for stimuli. Far past the neighbor’s hushed huts and crisp night air, there is always a good show to be had when searching for Orion’s belt, the Big Dipper, or if it’s unusually cold out - the LITTLE dipper instead.

Obviously that means I spend an inordinate amount of time skulking around this shovel-ready shed in a pair of clown-sized sloppy slippers. I would prefer to tread lightly nightly to the poop deck in just a pair of wooly socks, but that would require negotiating our waxy wood hallways with training wheels and a mandatory field sobriety test. So unless I stay true to my SOLE-less reputation or lash on some leathery overdone rubber steaks to my feet, I have no chance against frictionless surfaces and earthbound gravity.

Actually on bare wood and slick surfaces my naked feet too of are no use anymore, since like my heart they have become enlarged, calloused and hardened to all true feeling. Oh don’t worry I can still run when necessary to the facilities, but fortunately both the geezer buffet and bingo parlor are of ample size and fully carpeted.  Otherwise my fat flat feet-skis are just permanently attached skates which are admittedly convenient, since I’m always on thin ice with my wife and penguin fishing buddies for hogging the krill.

Oh well with all the telescoping tumult in the universe, there are probably a lot worse things than being bound forever to an indefatigable future of furry fleecy footwear and spying on strings of strung-out stars. I guess since I can’t beat ‘em (‘cause it’s illegal), I will join most of Hollywood’s ‘ditz and lameness’ by stepping  down a notch in the animal kingdom, off my sand-box into cat litter for better traction. If nothing else it will make the den smell a tad a better, absorb incessant drooling, and if I am lucky - help me avoid falling on my ‘Ursa Major’ ASTerism!

Bottle Cap Intelligence Test

Whether I am drinking Diet Coke or eating Froot Loops for breakfast (only rarely at the same time), it seems that a new marketing trend has invaded my cupboard along with the weevils. The packaging of many common products are adorned with ‘points’ or some kind of reward coupon. If you save up enough of these bottle caps, hunks of cardboard, or torn wrappers, you can bundle them up and send off for, as the game shows say, ‘gifts and valuable prizes’.

Generally I am all for the idea of promoting brand loyalty and giving your ‘best’ customers something back. So while yes I’m appreciative of the chance to get something free, I am less excited about saving up little bags of trash and rebate forms all over the house. It is not that I am too ‘good’ for such activity, it is actually just because that extra stuff confuses me while wading through my normal household garbage in search of my car keys and wallet.

Now days, it seems that every recreational outing with the family ends up being a fishing trip for these stupid bottle cap points. For some odd reason my daughter seems embarrassed to be seen with me as I stick my head in garbage and tear up soda cartons like a mental midget. Amazingly, along with the soda cap points, there are LOTS of uneaten goodies in those trash cans, so I am kind of shocked it took so long for this trend to go main-stream. After all, didn’t every ‘Baby Boomer’ grow up with Dubble Bubble gum with collectable comics? I also used to have a pretty decent assortment of those Cracker Jack ‘spit’ tattoos where you would lick your arm and transfer that stinky-ink prize on to your skin.

At least now, prizes have moved past THAT valueless junk to some really great stuff like a cereal promotion that offers first-run DVD’s for your repeated patronage. The problem is, that ‘blockbuster’ movie literally is about construction people crushing rocks! Also, after saving Coca Cola points for months, you can get great magazine subscriptions to popular favorites like ‘Reader’s un-digested’ or “NewsWEAK”. If I’m lucky, I only need to drink another $80 worth of soda to get a colorful branded beach ball prize for only the cost of ‘shipping and handling’. One side of that ‘peachy’ ball demands in big letters - ‘Drink a Coke’ and on the other side, it says - ‘THINK, u Dope!’ Oh, don’t worry, isn’t it obvious – I’ll continue to do BOTH religiously!

Don’t Sweat it!

I feel badly sometimes that I am not providing adequately for my family. No I am not worried about money since I have my own printing press. We also wisely swore off red ink after that unfortunate incident with the Russian squid on Ritz, and the canned squeeze cheese. Especially with these dog days of excessive heat and humidity, I am more concerned about my lack of laundry prowess with stains, ‘whites and colors’. I don’t mind my well deserved ‘hobo-sapien’ image, but I particularly hate for the wife and kid to have to play ‘rag tag’ too, when they skulk among the general population.

Now this really is not my fault because my mother sent me off to college ill-prepared when it came to laundry. I remember only a single lecture on the subject - all of 26 seconds of it as we approached my dorm. My parents slowed the van just long enough to shove me out the door into the REAL world with a single pink laundry basket and a sample pouch of Woolite. My folks had no sage advice about laundry care except to hang my duds IMMEDIATELY when they come out of the dryer or face the public shame and humiliation of a slow and wrinkled death. I was the only kid in college who was paranoid that my twisted-skivvies would be rendered functionally unusable, if the dryer stopped and I wasn’t instantly present to free them from their hot and airy bondage.

It is not that my parents were holding out on me – they just didn’t know any better. In fact to this day, my mother’s washing machine has a timer with a hot and cold button. The dryer has a timer and a start button – that’s it. No pretty windows or fancy LCD lighted panels to tell ideal temperature settings for varied articles of clothing. No buzzers or bells to tell you when things are done because the machine just stops when it’s finished – isn’t that weird? Who would have ever thought that when a machine was DONE with its work it just turns off? Somebody had better tell my stereo and television about this news flash, because I don’t think they got the memo.

Machinery aside, I think my laundry problem is mostly due to the generic Dollar store detergent that we use. You know the stuff where you get a barrel of Smurf-colored syrup for $3.99, when a 4-load ‘ultra concentrate’ bottle of the major brands require a loan (with references) to purchase. My whites just always look kind of gray and the colored clothes always end up as some form of a hippie rainbow, tye-dye thing. I do try to use those fabric softener sheets but I am too cheap to use more than one at a time. So as soon as I open the dryer, the hot clothes, all cooped up and hyper-charged with static, leap from the dryer and cling to me like stink to a French fishmonger.

It’s obvious, my family is doomed to an eternal life of ‘pit-perspiration’ persecution and neck-ring ridicule. As long as we must endure these hot, humid summers , we too must face the fleeting glances of society’s disgust at our pitiful and poorly laundered plight. Like Hester Prynne and Pearl, my wife and daughter should learn to accept their permanent stained existence … or just simply ‘DON’T SWEAT IT’!

'High Five' things I miss about the oil spill

Actually there is nothing I really miss about the oil spill down in the Gulf. But in the interest of making lemon flavored water out of Lemonhead candy – uh well you get the point … I did assemble a list of the 5 things I will miss most about this front page story.After all, even in blogging, “you should never let a serious crisis go to waste” right? Although, after a scary 4 months, this news is older and riper than Homo Erectus and his petrified black banana.

COUNT 'EM DOWN FOLKS ...

FIVE ) I do love those big hotel and rental car discounts at the Gulf beaches. There is nothing like a stroll along a vacant white sand beach, alone with your thoughts, red temporary fencing, and a big ol' bag full of tar balls.

FOUR ) Oh how I will miss the last month of the President’s frequent open collar walks along the Gulf coastline, reflecting the concern of every average Joe and Joetta. Yeah closing airports, airspace, all boat traffic, and delaying thousands of workers from trying to contain the mess again and again is a double-darn dandy idea!

THREE ) Sadly I have to admit that I will miss myself, my equally naïve friends, and family all sitting around playing our favorite second-guessing game called “Just plug that hole”. Hey I use a garden hose all the time – I’m sure that oily 'ZIT' is no different a mile below sea level with 7000 pounds of pressure behind it right?

TWO ) Won’t we all miss those shots of turtles and sea birds experiencing a luxury oil dip treatment at the Gulf's BP spa? You could just see how relaxed they were after they got their final scrub down, wash and wax. I never thought about it before but for animals do they get a pedicure or a ‘critter-cure’?

And the number ONE thing I will miss from the Gulf oil spill is …

I may be an immature and juvenile ‘Slumdog’, but I’ll never get enough of listening to America’s first Indian Governor, Bobby Jindhal speak with a decidedly Louisianian accent. I mean I still have trouble with the locals here on how I say 'Missouri' (or MizzouRAH), yet this guy is apparently fueled by Gulf shrimp-water in his veins.

So there you have it. Give yourself a 'High Five' if you suffered stalwartly without skipping straight to number One. Hopefully the spigot stays shut, and the Gulf oil spill, along with this post, will soon be just a distant memory. Let's hope so,'cause the truth is folks, if it happens again, as far as funny goes - I'm tapped out.

Exotic meat me in St. Louis

I have to admit it, we are a family of meat eaters. Actually we don’t consume animal flesh any more or less than other kinds of food but the point is we DON’T exclude the stuff. Yes, it takes work to keep up with the caloric load required to write a blog, so pretty much I am an equal opportunity eater. Yeah you guessed it , as a famous lawyer once said (almost) about my big mouth … “if the food fits you must INGEST”!

So keeping that ‘craw-motto’ in mind, one of our more favorite things to do when we wander far off to exotic places, like East St. Louis, is try different and interesting foods. All kidding aside, there is a little place there that a lot of downtown business folks flock to for crispy pig snout sandwiches in BBQ sauce. I have never seen them but I guess I could eat almost ANYTHING if it has enough bar-b-que sauce on it?

My daughter has always seemed to have inherited my ability to consume all types of foods. When she was very young, her favorite thing was to munch lemon wedges that are served with water. My family would wince as she’d suck the things dry with nary a shutter and no sugar. It also took awhile to train her to stop eating roasted peanuts, SHELL AND ALL, like they were candy. It was weird to watch and the incessant crunching disturbed the other inebriated patrons at my favorite pub.

All of us here have eaten elk, reindeer, and turkey sausage. Honestly once you mix in all of the same spices and smoke the stuff, like beef jerky and sticks, it all tastes good and is very edible even for those with less adventuresome palettes. We’ve eaten all the normal meats but less popular in Western cultures, like duck, lamb, Ostrich, Frog Legs, Gator, Fish Cheeks, eel etc. My Uncle during the Marines survivalist training, had to capture and eat raw monkey rump which when skinned looks a little too human baby-like for my taste. To this day, he says it did not affect him, but I swear I’ve caught him, MORE THAN ONCE, eating a banana and clanging little finger cymbals together over and over again.

Despite the disgust that many might feel, I too would truly like to sample dog, tiger, snake, and yes even monkey as long as they were grilled up with maybe some onion, bell pepper and a side of Chianti and yes - you know you want to say it … (ffffaaavaaaa beansss). Feel free to provide your own ‘Silence of the Lambs’ succulent sound effect as long as you get the point - I’ll try any exotic meat. The only thing is, I hope that I do not run into some BIGGER animal who feels the same way – now that is a concept I just cannot get my head around?

Extension Cords - Prime 9 uses

I recently wrote about all the reasons that extension cords and I do not get along. I kind of got a lot of pushback hate mail from extension cord fans (along with other small appliances too) who seem to really benefit from the mobility that longer cords bring. So in the interest of fairness and equal time. I now submit for your approval, the Prime Nine alternative uses for extension cords:

1) An anchor line for an Electric boat

2) The business end of a really REALLY big string trimmer

3) Dental floss for the Mountain Dew drinkin’, gap-toothed smilin’, Deliverance folks

4) Fishing line for stupid fat catfish of the evening who’ll ‘noodle’ ANYTHING, even fingers

5) For a high-powered 120 volt Electric Fence (Ha - Too Easy)

6) Hanging that really gauche black felt artwork with the real working car headlights

7) A modern swinging vine for a high tech Tarzan & his blue tooth connected chimp, 'Cheeta'

8) Use as a lasso by Robert Redford’s Electric Horseman to electrocute Jane Fonda

9) A clothesline for only SHORTS & wind BREAKERS (the JACKETS … nothing else)

There you have it - my ‘prime 9’ homage to alternative uses for stupid electrical extension cords. I am sure you have a few clever ideas of your own so do feel free to enLIGHTEN us all. Whatever you do though don’t get distracted from this post to do something else. Because if you do that is a clear sign you probably have ‘Extension Deficit Disorder ‘!

Sole Man

Honestly I know I should eat more fish. While I do not eat much red meat these days, our crew around here eats a lot of turkey and chicken instead. On occasion when my daughter is complaining that she needs iron before giving blood, we will venture out for some ribs or a burger. But even then, at nicer restaurants, I am more of a ‘chicken man’.

Wow I really do not like the repressed memories called up from being a ‘chicken man’. Horrible images come to mind while I was a child when my parents would taunt me with an Easter card that featured a bright yellow chicken with a blood red beak. My folks will swear that I have it all wrong, but secretly my Dad tries too hard to hide a ‘ knowing smirk’ when this subject inevitably surfaces every Easter.

Hard to believe, when I was an adult, we kept a chicken as a pet for a few years. OK, I liked the egg production but beyond my responsibilities to begrudgingly feed and water her, that red chicken never ‘beaked’ my interest. It didn’t matter, the little red hen bonded more with my wife anyway. Yeah the tricky chick got its kicks by following my wife anywhere around our property, just like a dog.

Gee all this chicken talk REALLY makes me want to eat more fish so I can change my official food classification to ‘Sole Man’. I don’t mind seafood’s flavor at all especially when other people prepare it in THEIR kitchens. It seems though whenever I make fish at home … well the house REALLY STINKS? But I have to admit it’s worth it; there’s nothing like frying up a pile of those bite-sized 1200 milligram fish oil pills with a roll, side of rice, and a little garlic butter. Mmmmm – now that’s a meal with SOUL!

That name STINKS!

Do you ever wonder how some products get their name? I was looking at a recipe for some Cajun flavored rub and it called for some ‘Old Bay’ seasoning. Really is this the best name for anything associated with food? When I think of an old bay, I think of rotting wood and stinking fish parts far past their prime. Especially with all the troubles in the gulf, can you imagine if I started marketing ‘Oily Bay’ Louisiana hot sauce – who would buy it?

Look at the board game ‘Yahtzee’ - it has a pretty unusual name. If you think it sounds like some sort of high-brow expletive, your guess would not be bad. In fact the game’s origins are traced back to a wealthy Canadian couple’s diversion aboard their yacht in mid 1950’s. The game was originally known as the “Yacht Game” until the toy maker E.S. Lowe purchased the rights (followed by Hasbro)and marketed the game nationally under the brand name ‘Yahtzee’ in 1956.

Probably one of the more famous names that everybody has heard of but nobody knows what it means is ‘WD 40’. Yes the oily spray is probably at least a part of your home and car maintenance arsenal. The name translates literally to “Water Displacement , 40th attempt” and comes straight out of the chemist’s lab book in 1954. The stuff is believed to be derived mostly from fish oil and amazingly has an indefinite shelf life. As the name implies, WD-40 primarily repels water and hence inhibits rust, but its properties have proven to be a fairly effective cleaner as well.

Gee Yahtzee and WD-40 invented in the same year – no wonder the 50’s are remembered as the ‘happy’ days. No sorry, like a dead fish, that Old Bay secret mixture has been seasoning crustaceans for around 70 years or so. I think that is more than enough time to come up with a more palatable name … if not one that at least SMELLS better.

30 years of “CANOEconomics”

One of our earliest big-kid acquisitions when my wife and I were still in college, was an inflatable and back-packable canoe. Now that may seem like a totally irresponsible thing to buy while we were still significantly short of cash, space, and common sense. The truth is, the idea was probably goofy and did not make economic sense. However we have never regretted the purchase, and amazingly still own and use that boat today.

Now this is not a testimonial into being rash or throwing caution to the wind. No, we thought about this purchase carefully as it was a fairly expensive given our limited recreation budget at the time. No doubt, we knew that this ‘fun’ purchase would cost income and opportunity (the foundation of basic economics) and therefore necessitate a reduction in our demand of other recreational pursuits. However we surmised, we lived close enough to the ocean and led an active enough lifestyle so that a portable canoe might increase, not limit, our recreational opportunities at a lower overall cost.

As convoluted as it all sounds, it worked out. No longer did we have to rent a small fishing dinghy to fish in the bay or tour the marinas. We could set-up that inflatable canoe in less than 15 minutes and put-in any time of day or night. There is something absolutely eerily exciting about silently gliding a marina, a foot above the water in a thin layer of moonlit fog. You only speak in hushed tones and pretend you are an international covert operative up to no good. That same little vessel has paddled on so many insignificant rivers with so many stories, my life is immeasurably richer for the meager initial investment.

We took this canoe into pitch black wet caves on the island of Kauai and deep up the Waimea river beyond where the tour boats chug with paying passengers. Locals and tourists alike would wave us on with encouragement. We’ve paddled the coast along Oahu and tried to catch waves along side seasoned surfers. We never were the envy of any of them but we also never sank so we were prideful all the same. We’ve cruised the quiet back waterways of Lake Powell and the ocean of fresh water known as Lake Tahoe. That 11 foot inflatable canoe will celebrate its 30th birthday soon and other than a patch or two, it is ready for another 30 more years of memories. I’d say with all things considered, in “canoeconomics” - we got our money’s worth!

Tangled Wire Tango

I have come to accept that we all live in a wired world. Even with a cell phone in every pocket and a WIFI McDonalds on every corner, life still runs mostly on wires, cables, and a lot of pulled strings. Now the wild ways of wires, like dancing, confounds me a bit. Because no matter where I am or what wired thing I am using, it will always get TANGLED.

Ok, mock me if you want, but think about it a minute. Have you ever pulled out a pair of headphones to your phone or computer and then set them down even for a microsecond? They will instantly come up in a tangled mess. This is especially true of those ultra-light tiny ear buds. If you accidently move or swing them carelessly, they will TWIST and WRAP faster than ‘Chubby Checker’ and ‘Lil Kim’ in a tetherball tourney.

In my entire life I have never mastered how to dance with the desk-phone handset’s coiled wire, yet keep it from twisting back on itself like an irritating ball of amorous snakes. I cannot remember how often I have gone to answer the phone and that now short coiled ‘rats-nest’ pulls the WHOLE stupid phone to the floor. Vacuum cords try to help with that convenient clip that lets you take off the whole handful of looped power cord at once. But again as soon as you start to tug on that pack, it will bind and pull the whole vac over before the plug reaches the wall outlet.

Outside there are a host of things that may not be wires technically but they are functionally just as prone to the tangling two-step. No matter how I try to cast or reel in fishing line, it will find a way to bunch up on the reel in knots. To make matters worse the line’s slimy and will drag up some fungi or other random flotsam to ensure dirty dancing and complicate recovery. Hose reels, Pressure washers, extension cords, cable, string, and even CHAIN – you name it … all of them are out to get me and will coyly test my coiling cognition. So until wireless TRULY takes over the world, WIRED life will still rule the roost. However, speaking as one who frequently trots in lock step to the ‘tangled tango’, I can assure you my dance card is full!