‘Couch Potato’ = Unfair Profiling

When paired together, the terms ‘couch’ and ‘potato’ become extraordinarily worthless in popular vernacular, but that seems strikingly unfair to the individual objects themselves. I mean why should couches feel bad for being luxuriously comfortable – I thought being SAT UPON was their job right? And why should potatoes feel even a moment of remorse for their starchy carbs of goodness. They are food and provide energy and sustenance – why all the hate?

What are we to do, outfit our homes with hard church pews instead of fluffy couches and recliners. That’s going to make it more difficult to fall asleep while watching TV sports, guzzling soda, and fingering Fritos? I thought relaxation and rest were what we all aspired to after working hard all day? And how about eating … didn’t our little tuber friend, the potato, practically feed feudal nations, single-handedly and without complaint until one tiny Irish blight? I don’t remember any haughty stalks of celery or those snobby organic carrots doing anything all that impressive in their recorded history?

So what is it then? Do couches and potatoes just ‘look’ different so we automatically profile them as fat and lazy, because they are various shades of brown instead of a leafy green or vibrant orange? Yes, Americans still secretly crave their white sugar and salt, but when it comes to terms of derision they immediately turn to their age-old recipients of hate, tan skinned objects for their outward wrath.

This trend is even obvious in the language itself. The carrot and Pumpkin lobby ‘conveniently’ ensure that nothing rhymes with Orange. But amazingly all things Brown just happen to rhyme with ‘Frown’, ‘Clown’, and ‘noun’ – all words that have been linked to things of negativity and objects of ridicule. Americans of action, need to stand together and fight this ridiculous unfair profiling of inherently good, ‘brown covered’ objects. All true believers of couches and potatoes as respected individualists, should protest … no better yet, organize, a Washington D.C. mall ‘SIT IN’, to show unified outrage toward ‘Spud-cushion’ profiling. Just make sure you don’t sit together though, because in Washington you may be confused with the REAL lazy ‘time-wasting’ couch potatoes - (Politicians)!

originally appeared 5/3/2010

Revolving Resolutions

Though New Years already has enough alcoholic baggage with it to make it my least favorite holiday, the expectation of realistic resolutions always makes it feel like it comes with homework too! You mean I have to wish for world peace, bacon flavored Pop Tarts, and robot servants and really mean it? I thought they taught us in school that clichés will take care of all ills simply by ‘dreaming big’ or ‘standing strong’ to achieve anything right?

Clearly that’s why there is little motivation to be the first one out of the gate in a confetti-driven stupor to resolve to do much of anything other than get out of bed and scratch - which I am rather good at by the way. If only the world would truly revolve around football, food, and parades, then all of life’s toughest problems could be figured out and dealt with on every January 1^st.. That would leave the rest of the year left just to goof off and make / re-break the non-essential goals and impossible dreams that relentlessly recur and face us all in daily life.

Generally my resolutions fall into two categories – ideas that I am cursorily interested in but for only 5 minutes or less, and goals that I want to do for a lifetime but sadly will also do for less than 5 minutes as well. Oh sure every year I commit to ‘getting into shape’ but that’s NOT the type of resolution I should be making. The real mystery is whether my skin-sack's shape should resemble something akin to a tall n’ tan steak fry rather than the UH-oh-so familiar soft, ashen couch potato.

Honestly though, I don’t get melancholy over the relentless passage of time and the unfulfilled dreams of the previous year, since tomorrow’s literally a new day and change always happens. That is the one revolving constant that makes not just New Years, but ANY day just as good as any other for taking chances, making goals, and even missing marks. So for as many days as you keep on breathing, raise a glass, smile, and keep reaching for stars no matter how far away they may appear. Because I resolve one thing is certain – just like me, you’ll be making the same toast and jelly all over again - in just 364 and a quarter days!

Royal Baby WAIT

Yes the civilized Brits are excitedly waiting with Branston baited breath to see the birth of a new Royal runt soon, but c’mon I don’t get all the colicky fuss. Let’s face it no matter how you revile the tiles, unless the Scrabble babble turns into a ‘battle royal’ your word-score is still only gonna’ be  9 points. Only if the tot’s got three 6’s on its soft spot, regardless of sex or how much royal treatment it garners, it’s STILL just a goo-goo goop-machine to me.

So soon enough the Duke (formerly known as Prince) and Duchess are going to be in need of a few HUGgies when they heir their dirty laundry in public for the first time. Since the arrival of this blue-blooded famous fetus is so highly anticipated, I assume nobody wants the tot delivered by Royal Mail since at best it will be very late or at worst never arrive at all. Stateside the only truly rich ‘Royals’ happen to be a lackluster hapless n’ bat-less baseball team and a box of tasty choco puddin’ - both of which can be easily BEATEN with milk. 

Hey but I too was gifted with a high brow heritage and un-earned praise from loving parents who knew my true future claim to fame would be the ‘royalest’ of pains. I’ve tried like the ‘Dickens’ to live up to my folk’s Great Expectations but unfortunately  despite my love of the theater, red velvet, and fab Freddie’s  Mercury I’ll never become Queen Latifah.  Luckily I still have a little lyin’ left in me and an outside shot at King; but it all really depends on if I’ve got the royal jewels to snag a catsup-covered cardboard crown from a burger joint and ‘double decker’ all my checkers. 

Oh who am I kidding nobody except for my wife cares that I habitually stick out my pinkie finger when I say ‘Howdy’ to high tea or a highball. Clearly no matter how much I try, I’m still ignorant of long standing old world traditions across the pond, probably because I primarily make it my mission to sit most of the time. You see around my dungeon-less crab castle after I’m dealt a big chili-mac snack and draw a deep desire for a royal flush, it’s smarter to have fewer people waiting in line for the throne rather than a full house! 

Witless and Wrapless

I cannot seem to get into the swing of Christmas this year. No I am not depressed or stressed over time or finances. In fact I have a pretty easy life except for that getting up out of bed and having to feed and drive myself around thing. If I could solve those last couple of issues, I could finally achieve a total slovenly existence like Santa for 364 days a year.

I guess I have reached the age where I really don’t need anything, so wandering from store to store looking for gifts is less than thrilling. I used to love looking at all the ads in the newspaper and now whenever I look at the newspaper its physically diminutive size distracts me from the pleasure of the Christmas ads. That little type in newspapers is ALREADY too small – why do they continue shrinking the newspapers?

Wrapping gifts also used to be a real treat for me. I would spend hours trying to find ways to hide goodies in unsuspecting everyday objects. I once sawed a tomato soup can in half after steaming off the label. I proceeded to scoop out the goop, fill it with a gift card, sand, and padding to the EXACT weight listed on the can, and re-glue the label. That takes a lot of work and artistry for a gift which will spend only a fraction of its life under wraps and in the food pantry.

Just to see if I could, I made a three layer postcard with the center layer cut out for a dollar bill. When the whole thing was sandwiched together, ironed and trimmed, it just looked like an ordinary postcard. I mailed it off to my family. They received it fine, but were unwilling to destroy the card to retrieve the hidden money in the interior of the card. I should have used a three layer cake instead - funny how everyone seems to tear those apart without remorse?

These days I am lucky if I even want to mess with decorative wrapping paper since I hate storing the stuff for every specialized holiday. I think it would be just easier to get some barrio taggers to spray paint all over gifts before I give them to the recipients. I recently decided that a dark RED plastic Target bag was so opaque, it would prove BETTER than any old flimsy wrapping paper. So I cut it up and dressed the Christmas booty in it. Except for my Dad’s Christmas honoraria, wrapped in crossword puzzles and funnies – I think those Target-bag wrapped gifts are sure to be better READ than anything from our scrawny rag of a newspaper!

Greet This!

In one of my weekly treks I ventured into a Wal Mart where I was happily waved at by one of their door greeters. I am curious about this job on a number of levels. Do you have to have any kind of training to be a greeter or is something that you are just ‘born’ with? Is the ‘Greeter’ position a coveted job or is it like the leftover job that nobody wants and has to draw straws for at the beginning of a shift? I think it is a job that takes a LOT of experience because everyone I ever see doing it has been around since the war … the CIVIL war.

Now don’t get me wrong, I am not trying to be a greeter snob or ‘uppity’ in any way. In fact I tried to imagine myself as a greeter but I doubted if I would make the grade. Not only am I about 60 years too young, but Wal Mart likes to maintain a friendly atmosphere. Though I try to be nice and happy most of the time, my face always seems to be scowling. I think it is a birth defect or something.

Yeah I figured my melon-head had more soft brown spots on it than the typical ‘normal’ baby banana does. I think when I was born, my parents must have inadvertently pinched my face into a permanent frown while reaching for cigarettes and alcohol. I didn’t know it then but my life surely had limited job potential as a joyful party clown, or worse, a Wal Mart greeter.

I always wonder if the ‘Greeters’ are actually like super secret store detectives watching every patron’s move, looking for shoplifters and hooligans. They probably have sophisticated electronic surveillance gear hidden underneath that wheel chair or behind that little podium. They seem all warm and fuzzy on the outside but I am guessing that is because of all the shawls and doilies they are wearing.

I actually think they are secretly probing and scanning me as I walk in and out of the store. Too bad that I will never know the pleasure of having such awesome power and responsibility as the dutiful blue-vested Greeter. The only thing I ever get to probe freely is a stopped up toilet or maybe a waxy orifice or two. If I play my cards right, at least I still have a chance at becoming a parking lot ‘shopping cart collection dude’ someday – those folks ALWAYS have a frown on their face!

Roomba Rhumba

The last few days I have been engaged in a genuine dance of love. I know what you’re thinking, even If it sounds romantic, it must have something to do with robots right? Well I guess I am so thin-skinned that you can see right into my small and dehydrated grayish CPU because you are right.

Yes I have been doing the Roomba Rhumba, which since this is one of those self-propelled robotic vacuums, it must mean my techno ‘jig’ is the direct opposite of ‘dirty dancing’. Though not perfect by any means (here is a formal review), I am genuinely impressed with these fun and flat little dust suckers. They are only about 4 inches tall and the width of a normal beater-bar (as opposed to a biker bar) vac head, so they can go anywhere – EVEN completely under couches, tables, and recliners.

While these devices are literally like having a housekeeper with an extra set of hands around, at best this little ‘micro-maid’ is still a bit mentally challenged. So if you cannot stand the random roaming of a bump n’ grind ‘robo-mop’ running into chair legs, reversing course slightly, and then doing it again – DON’T get one of these bots. But particularly if you have hardwood or tile floors, they are pretty amazing at doing a very respectable job at sucking up crumbs and devouring dust bunnies.

The rechargeable battery runs for about an hour on plush carpet and nearly twice that long on hard floors. Unless you have a mansion, the beast can clean 2 to 3 rooms on a single charge and get this, be programmed to clean floors then recharge itself when needed. It came with a remote control too but, other than to chase your pets, I think if you are going to ‘guide’ a vacuum, why not grab the REAL upright plug-in and help the Roomba suck-it-up faster? Maybe I should invent an all-purpose robot that cleans literally ANYTHING in and around the toilets. Now that is what the world REALLY needs … I’m thinking of calling it the “CAN-DOO BOT”

Fermentation is in Bad Taste

My house really stinks lately. Ordinarily I would tell you that it is not my fault, but this time I have to take most of the blame. No I did not run through the yard after a deer migration, or bloat up on a double bean burrito. Actually the problem around here lately is purely a matter of first-degree felonious fermentation.

Recently with the garage sale acquisition of a rather large variety of beer making buckets, pots, and bottling paraphernalia, my wife and I whipped up not only a batch of brew but some sarsaparilla too. The problem of course is that each recipe fills the house with its own distinctive scent. While the sarsaparilla smells sweet and ‘rooty’, right out of the vat, the ale permeates the air with the odor of ‘damp earth’ and malt balls without the chocolaty goodness of candy varietal.

Though I am not a fan of beer in the least, I’ll line up for a chilly sarsaparilla over a ball of ice cream anytime. The ‘rilla’ likes a warmer final resting place so the bottles are banished to the upstairs bathroom to ferment. The beer likes it cooler so its potent grainy fragrance gets bounced to the basement bathroom. Sadly, I am quickly running out of bathrooms to stink up on my own.

If you don’t find that a ‘gas’ then how about the fact that today I also discovered a DEAD mouse on yet another level of the house. I don’t mean to get ‘CARRION-ED ’ AWAY, but what in the heck is going on in this stink-hole? Between my blog, a rotting Mickey, and the literally BILLIONS of yeast molecules ‘out-gassing’ around here, I feel like I’m living inside a BLIMP instead of a public dump. Oh well, fermentation I’m told, should temper bitterness. I sure hope so, because after smelling and stewing in my own juices this week, I am starting to get a REALLY bad taste in my mouth!

Make your OWN 'Gump' Fate!

I know it is kind of past its prime but one of my daughter’s favorite movies is Forrest Gump. I am assuming she appreciates Gump’s incredible good fortune despite his limitations, and is hoping that someday Forrest’s 'luckiness' will similarly befall her? Now I don’t know if she noticed, but the 'tree'd one' has his share of bad luck as well, so I hope she’s ready for life’s little unexpected surprises. Maybe it is just me, but also did anyone else notice, that 'Forrest' guy is not really ‘Mensa material’ and cannot seem to see HIMSELF through the trees even if he had bionic vision?

And what’s the deal with Forrest’s Mom, Sally Field, and the chocolates? I don’t think ol’ Gumpy’s mama would not have had a problem with her confection confusion if Forrest had given her a Whitman’s Sampler and maybe a bottle of Boniva. Doesn’t Whitman’s have a guide or something on the box lid of their chocolates? And let’s face it the little flat ‘Stanley’ Whitman messenger guy in the middle, doesn’t everyone really know that can ONLY be milk chocolate? I mean there are no lumps or swirls on it indicating chocolate-covered fruit or nuts - so truly, if you choose the ‘Delivery guy’ - you know EXACTLY what you are going to get.

So what’s the point of all this you might ask? Well the answer is that more often than not, if you work at it a bit, you often can ‘make your own’ fate instead of being subjected to it. With another uneventful Friday the 13th, I usually chuckle that some folks stress over ‘bad omens’ and black cats, yet get excited over horoscope hoopla or positive fortune cookie predictions. Yes, Forrest often literally stumbled into some of his good fortune, but in many examples throughout the film, Gump is also instrumental through his ACTIONS in making ‘good’ luck lean his way.

No I don’t believe you can magically run your way out of leg braces, or make a fortune marketing Gulf shrimp (at least for now). But I do believe that if you concentrate on putting your best ‘Gump’ forward, stay determined, and position yourself to lead rather than follow, you can make the glass MORE than half full. You have to be harder working, willing to take-on more responsibility and yes even work for LESS pay in the short term, but you’ll get noticed and remembered. The next time promotions come up or pink slips go down, your peers will complain over their unbelievable lack of luck. But you’ll know better that not only did you make and deserve the opportunity, but you made your own FORTUNE as well. Gee, I guess I can see why my kid likes this movie so much, because ‘Lucky IS as Lucky’s MADE’!

A Dog’s Life Graduation

You know that concept where you need to ‘walk in somebody’s shoes to better understand their situation’ – is that really necessary? On rare occasions (if I can get away with it), whenever I slip on someone else’s shoes at a fine Japanese restaurant, I usually just get blisters. Though I never gain useful insight into the diner’s real problems, I have learned that somebody else's high heels are a not fun to run in.

I was driving home and I noticed a fire hydrant painted in a very attractive shade of yellow with a tad darker reflective yellow caps . Gee no wonder dogs love these things, as that unique hydrant made even me want to pull over and inspect it thoroughly. It looks nothing like your typical street light stanchion, tree, or telephone pole, so naturally all the coolest dogs in town want to hang out at this hip hydrant.

Yep, that fire plug looks like some kind of knobbed alien land mine with its domed shaped exterior and bolt-ridden skin. How many things in nature are domed except for turtles and THAT big hunk of granite in Yosemite, and even it is only half-domed? From a dog’s perspective, nearly everything which helps make your ‘mark’ in society, is either an endlessly tall cylinder, or some un-washed rectangle like a sign, building, or a hobo asleep in a cardboard box.

So don’t make our four-legged friends chase their tails any longer. Just spend a few minutes like I did and snoop around to get to know the way doggy’s think, act, and REALLY smell. That way the next time you ‘walk IN their paws’ you’ll know that ‘yelp’ will be one of joy instead of blinding pain. You’ll learn better to trust and appreciate your dog’s nasal prowess, and know when to seat ‘Grammy’ on the plastic covered couch. Yep, when your pup gives you the high-sign that it’s the right-time for a new set of Depends, you’ll know that the ‘dog-bond’ is nearly complete. Once you have successfully mastered your inner-doggy, graduation day always takes place with a ceremonial off-leash walk to your dog’s favorite hydrant watering hole - the famous domed classic, “Old Yeller”.

Never walk in circles

Have you ever had one of those days that you just want to rewind and start over? No harm, no foul – just everybody go back to your marks and let’s try to get it right this time. My daughter’s car would not start right away last night, so I kind of prepared myself mentally for today’s inevitable trials. You know the drill, - make an appointment at the car shop; get the car tucked in with a probe in its tailpipe; and then find a ride back home to wait it out. Then comes the tearful goodbyes as I try to spend some quality time with my money. We try to be brave, but we’ve known each other far too long to try and lie to one another. There is no way to sugar coat it, soon ‘Franklins, Grants, n’ Jacksons’ and I will be parting ways - never to see each other again. Goodbye old friends – I will miss your cocaine-laced embrace.

So today starts out as planned and I give up my car to the kid so she can get to work. After my daughter leaves, I get ready to take her car in and amazingly the beast starts up perfectly without issue. As wonderful as that sounds, I groan, because the only thing WORSE than an electrical problem is an INTERMITTENT electrical problem. I set my negativity aside and already feel a little encouragement however. If I had to have the car towed out of one of the garages, it would have been very hard to get a giant flatbed up on the apron, so since the car was on the road - things were already looking up! I motored happily along for all of 1 mile when the car suddenly shut down. I guided the 4-wheeled paperweight gently to the curb in front of a house that happened to be for sale, on an attractive suburban neighborhood street.

I was not too exasperated since I told you that I had steeled myself previously for just such good fortune. I called the Auto Club and they told me a truck would arrive within 45 minutes. I don’t believe them. In the past 45 minutes usually means they will arrive in 35 minutes on the outside. I really need to use the restroom but I am a mile from home in one direction and a mile from a park porta potty in the other. I briefly think about all the diuretics I had for breakfast, then I think about asking to use the restroom of the house that’s for sale. I ultimately decide it is not the best way to meet new neighbors, so I choose to walk instead and try to forget my dilated bladder. I can’t risk trying to get to my house and back before the flatbed truck arrives, so I essentially walk in big circles around my car.

Now despite over 275 blog stories which prove otherwise, I am not an idiot. I know it is not exactly normal behavior for a middle aged geezer to be walking in a race track pattern up and down the street, reversing course and doing it all over again … and again … and … But at the same time, I’m clearly no threat. It’s hot out and I’m sweating like a big warmed over suckling pig. I am careful not to loiter too long in front of anyone’s home so they don’t get concerned that a sweaty yeti is on the loose. My daughter’s car is a conspicuously bright red convertible and therefore a lousy 'get-away' car. It also barely holds people much less contraband or 'ham-Burglar' tools – so what’s to fear?

Well apparently quite a bit because, though I had only been walking in circles for about 15 minutes, I first noted a County police car slowly pass me and then another police car behind him. As they went up about a block they made a ‘U turn’ and headed back my way. By that time, a Paddy Wagon police truck pulled up behind me and in front of my disabled car. I kept walking calmly but knew what was coming. The first two policemen pulled behind my car and made a visit to the ‘house for sale’. By then I had rounded my race track and was walking back towards the whole gaggle of County servants. One policeman crossed the road to intercept me politely but with his right hand clearly resting on his holster.

I have to admit I was none too pleased and less receptive to public interrogation than usual. (One tiny murder spree and the police seem to hold that against you forever) I was polite but obviously curt and disgusted. Jeez, couldn’t you have waited at least 30 minutes into my walk to break up the monotony a little? Now all of the excitement is front loaded and I will be bored until the Auto Club gets here. Apparently I checked out ok because the police quickly determined I was not going to hurt the occupant of that house with the sign in the lawn. I told the cop “The house is for sale – all kinds of unknown people will be hanging around it for the next 3 months”. Thank goodness my daughter did not have some horrible outstanding warrant on the car that she had forgotten to mention. As the police officer started to walk back to his car, I told him to let the worried lady know that ‘I still would be out here skulking around until the truck comes for my car’. He glared at me and said he intended to. I don't think he liked me or he was still suspicious of my intentions. I didn't mean anything by the excessive fidgeting and wild-eyed crazed looks - remember I had to go to the bathroom!

93 minutes I trod the sidewalks until that dumb Auto Club truck came. I cannot tell you how happy I was to get away from that stupid house that was for sale. Part of me wants to take a check over for the full purchase price of that dump and TEAR IT UP in front of the owner’s face and tell her I would have bought the place until she called the cops on me. I have a better idea though. Every day for the next month or so, I am going to tow some kind of registered vehicle I own and park it in front of her house. Who knows, I may even get some illegal aliens and we will sell tacos and schnitzel there too? Surely someone around her needs a big old truckload of manure to fertilize their lawn right? I know where she lives and I know she won’t mind any of it – as long as I don’t walk in circles around her house.

America’s got talent but no time

I stumbled on to this steroidal ‘Gong Show’ redux the other night named America’s Got Talent. I know some of you are watching it because my In-laws seem to enjoy it and they are a good bell-weather for any television programming that involves ‘judges’.

I watched a few minutes of the variety acts and honestly the spirit of Ed Sullivan would be thrilled – if he had the time. Geez, this show takes forever to set-up around 8 different acts for 1 to 2 minute performances. Believe me if Vaudeville would have taken lessons from this type of entertainment, that bygone era would have been remembered as the ‘Snoring 20’s. I mean 10 ACTUAL minutes of performance time is a pretty small ratio out of an hour show of eye-candy staging and endless set-up prattle.

And then the whole judging component ala ‘American Idol’ – does anyone in Hollywood have a single original idea? Why can’t we toss water balloons at the marginal acts we don’t like or let the judges shoot fireworks at the really bad ones. Better yet, narrow down a face-off between similar acts and then after their performance, let them beat the stuffing out of each other with downy-soft pillows. I think that, is a smack-down television entertainment, win-win for the ages – Jerry Springer meets Major Bowes.

Hey now don’t accuse me of being an uppity Broadway snob as I have liked my share of sophisticated TV variety shows in the past, like that high-brow cornpone known as ‘Hee Haw’. And do you remember the ‘Nick and Jessica Variety Hour’ – now that was quality programming. HEY, don’t judge me! Yeah I admit it, I mostly watched to see what kind of ‘HOT’ revealing dresses that ‘she’ wore on stage. Oooh why that Diva, Minnie Pearl drove me so WILD I’ll never know? Maybe it was the straw hat or her unhurried yet sultry pig-call 'Howdeeee!' that sealed the deal? Regardless, to go from hillbilly to headliner - now that REALLY does take some time and serious American talent!

Cussing for Mummies

Cursing is a timeless art which traces its mummified Egyptian origins back around 2 million years as a part of early man’s most primitive utterances. The earliest recorded uses of four letter words has been credited to ‘Homo Sabilis’ a primitive yet not so distant ancestor of modern day actor Mel Gibson. Prior to this time only three letter expressions existed in language (and Mad Max movies) like ‘Ugh’ and ‘Ooo’ therefore making expletives impossible for the earliest sub-species of ‘Gibsonian’ Neanderthals.

Many scholars debate the exact time line of this incredible explosion of vile verbal expression. Some researchers believe cussing directly correlates with the advent of marriage. Others aren’t so sure and point specifically to primitive man’s most distasteful chores. Typically these might include unclogging bones caught in the tar pits, or cleaning the cave after a spirited blood–letting and peyote ‘par-tay’ with the clan.

It is unclear if the prevalence of dirty words and graphic references in modern rap music has roots in the protests of early primitives. Clearly around the ‘Dawn of Man’ but definitely before he brushed his teeth, some form of ‘Cave-ster Rap’ violently appeared in response to the pastel rock-stylings of the well known and coifed ‘Homo Manilow’ man.

Over time cussing became so prevalent in cave society that in many ways it has lost all meaning. In fact, currently there is a push in Hollywood to evolve ALL communication among hormonal and vulnerable Homo Erectus teens, into one continuous sentence of dirty ‘gutterances’ and inuendo. Modern Cro-Magnon women too have become so empowered, that they willingly debase themselves to the lowest common verbal denominator of unintelligent mouthy man (Umm?). That’s too bad,‘cause if can't trust your ‘Mummy’ to wash out your prehistoric mouth, who can you '#?$%&*' trust?

Rubber Stamp Reminiscing

In today’s new age of media we literally have EVERYTHING at the tip of our fingers. If I am writing and can’t spell a word or need a synonym, no book work required, I just look it up on-line. If I want to try out a new style of artwork or crop a photo with a heart around it - that too is as fast as graphics editor on my computer. While I love the convenience of all this stuff, I miss a few things too.

Namely I miss my address RUBBER STAMPS. Yes I know you crafty types have moved into a whole new world with custom card-making and scrapbooking that often incorporates rubber stamp graphics. When I was young, you could buy small rubber stamp graphics kits of ‘lips’, ‘interlocked hearts’, and ‘daisies’ too. However, even now as it was then, I doubt that, it is healthy for boys to go around stamping male friend’s papers and forearms with little lip-prints and pictures of flowers.

Though large fancy graphics in rubber stamps are everywhere now, they were not so common in my youth. Most of my interactions with rubber stamps were limited to words. I had a rubber stamp that said ‘VOID’, and one that said ‘Received’. I almost always had a date stamp but strangely it never got me one date? However, the most cherished mechanical marvel was my rubber stamp which would not only stamp the date, but it would automatically number documents sequentially as well. When you held this chromed stamp-stallion in your palm, you felt as if GOD himself was clicking and clacking, moving levers and ink to produce an amazingly PERFECT imprint.

I miss my ‘name’ rubber stamp that my parents gave to me for my school work. It was required that all my work must be claimed by its maker. Since my Father was a graphics artist at the time, he presented me with a handsome rubber stamp in an italic script of around 16 points. I was so proud and excited to stamp all of my FRIEND’S homework - there was no way I wanted to take credit for MY substandard work.

As time has passed, I now rarely have need to stamp anything or anyone. I still greedily hang on to any rubber stamps from my former addresses. I don’t know why, but they still work perfectly so they must be too good to throw away right? Oh well I know I can find a good use for these things since tattoos are in fashion now. Some night when my kid is deep asleep, I’m going to sneak in and stamp her face with all the different addresses that she has lived in with colored inks. I’m sure she won’t mind, as you know it will be an ‘EASY A’ in both ‘art graphics’, AND her ‘ABNORMAL psychology’ college classes.

Multitasking is Taxing

Hey don’t think I lack sophistication just because I am a lowly knotheaded blogger. No, I can ‘demi my doggy tasse’ with the best of breeds if forced to. You may find it particularly revealing that I am probably the last dinosaur in America who owns his own tuxedo that isn’t a lounge singer or Mafia Maitre D’.

Yes, I am a chameleon by nature and over the years it has served me well – at least most of the time. The truth is, that trying to fit a fat square peg into a myriad of skinny round holes all of the time can be taxing. Obviously people like myself are not specialists at ANYTHING and to even keep up with ordinary life requires a lot of perceived multitasking, and for me - whining.

The reality however is that the whole concept of doing more than one thing at a time WELL, is not very realistic. Yes you can answer the phone, watch TV, blog, do a load of laundry, make dinner, read etc. etc., but whether you know it or not, all that stuff takes you a lot more time while attempting to multitask. Your brain is wired to operate serially so every time you pause from one task to start another, no matter how fast you have trained to try, you actually are suffering inefficiencies in thought. The result is slower completion of tasks, inattention, loss of focus, and not unlike a caveman, a ‘harried’ life.

So avoid the stress and experiment for yourself by cutting down on a few of those juggling balls that you’ve got in the air. Nobody will think you have lost your ‘edge’ just because you cannot sing opera and chew gum at the same time. You can still be a sophisticated high-society ‘deb’ and a closet blogger; you just cannot do it all at the same time. I know, I’ve ruined your long established beliefs and clearly I must be possessed by the devil? So for you 'single-tasker' athiests, I have linked a great article from the Harvard Business Review which lends a little fuel to my fiery thoughts. Gee I never noticed those horny bumps on my head before – maybe that’s why I’m a knothead?

Don't Tease the News Dummies

Do you ever watch the nightly news and just kind of stare in wonderment at their news anchors who resemble talking puppet heads with mouths that move? Are these folks real or are they made out of wood? I’m guessing they are real, or by now, their noses would be too big for television? What should I expect for a business that basically focuses on endless self-promotion rather than hard news these days.

If it is not the tease for the next segment coming up AFTER the 3 minutes of commercials, it is the hook to the celebrity gossip show right after the news. Often a correspondent’s report will conclude with a lengthy explanation of how to get to the news station’s website FIRST, so you can find the web address of something they JUST hyped on their show. I guess it is just too difficult to run a crawler on the screen or better yet, let the on-air talent earn their pay and TELL you the address for whatever they are pitching. Funny that little station icon, along with some sponsor’s ad seems to float ceaselessly on the screen with no problems?

I started trying to make a reasonable guess as to how much actual news I get in a 30 minute broadcast program. I do not get cable or satellite so your numbers might be different but I’ll bet, not by much. Out of 30 minutes, nearly a third of the program is commercials. Of the remaining 21minutes approximately 1 minute is dedicated to fancy digital graphics and colorful transitions for the opening, closing and introductions to each programming segment. 4 minutes is dedicated to weather and another 4 minutes to sports. That leaves an incredible 12 minutes to actually deliver REAL news – kind of?

8 minutes of that that time is local stuff related to our area. Generally less than 1 minute of all that local tripe will have anything to actually do with fiscal issues or local civics. It is no wonder no one votes or understands what government does or (more appropriately) doesn’t do for all that collected tax booty. Yeah the ‘newsies’ will do some lame segue to nary 2 minutes of national news and less than a minute of international stuff because if it’s not in my backyard , who cares right?

That last 1 minute, well that is the most important GLUE that keeps the nightly newscast house of cards from doing a Humpty Dumpty. That is the inane chit-chat, giggles, and ‘feel-good’ mindless self-promotion that we all love so much. Hmmm, sounds a little bit like THIS BLOG! Oh no, I think I’m slipping into the media abyss of endless pap like a ‘talking head’. No, never fear, I’m not that much of a dummy!

A Toast To Truckers

I was driving around today doing some errands and I came across a local soda bottling plant that bills itself as the ‘Billion Bubble Company’ or something like that. I also noticed that hunkered up to the dock bay at the billion bubble company was a giant 18 wheeler tagged as a load of ‘Carbon Dioxide’. So if the building has a billion in it, how many bubbles do you think might be in that big truck?

So I wonder what it is like essentially being a truck driver for stuff that people ‘Burp’ all day long. In fact what is it like to truck any of that oddball inexpensive stuff that nobody thinks about? I gotta believe that there is probably a trucking hierarchy for such things mandated by a 100 page long union contract. For job protection, the old timer truckers probably get the Kleenix shipments since every place you go, there are at least ten different pastel colored boxes of this stuff. In fact in grade school now, every parent is expected to send 3 boxes with the kid and the ten-ply puffy moisturized ones are priced like gold.

The truckers that have been around a few years, well they get the paper towels. Those are mostly just used in kitchens and as napkins at BBQ joints so not as popular as ‘nose tissue’ but pretty universal still. All the greenhorn truckers get the toilet paper loads. Yeah everyone uses the stuff, but nobody really wants to admit to it much less haul it around. For most things and people in life, you gotta believe that things will end up ‘OK’, but NOPE not for toilet paper. Everyone knows that there is no future there because when the END is near, you are heading for the sewer - no doubt about it.

So here’s a toast to the truckers who move all those bubbles , rags, and seemingly worthless stuff that all of us use every day. Tonight after a big pig-rib dinner, wipe your saucy face, then smile for a nameless trucker. Blow your nose and snort a laugh or two for our cowboys of the open road. And don’t forget to raise a glass of bubbles, and bellow a belch for freedom to our tanned and hairy diesel heroes. You’ll have to move around for an hour or so and wait before you’ll be able to offer up your final trucker salute. But remember, all good things are worth the wait, so you are just going to have to ‘Grin and Bear it’!

The antiquated Library

I love books. However, the truth is that I do not read as much or as many anymore these days. I have the time mind you, it’s just that I choose to do other things instead of finishing my books. Yes I have two half-read books in process now and a couple of more in que.

Beyond my failure to stay educated, I have to laugh though at the immense racks of books that I store in my house. I have not read all of these books nor do I really know where they all have come from. Yes, I still have a few cutting-edge text books from college from a quarter of a century ago. I’m sure those will come in handy as a reference if I had a time machine.

What will I do if I have to move? Who can lift a tiny box with more than 4 books in it. Forget the idea of a normal size crate of books because it will take a crane to hoist the thing onto a flatbed. I will have to get a moving truck JUST for the plain cardboard boxes required to pack up my bounty of books. I really should clear the decks here and find some ‘lighter’ reading - maybe something like STAMPS or Alphabits cereal.

I don’t know why it is so hard for me to get rid of books. I guess they just are part of a special class as compared to magazines or even computer software. Just like the women in my life, to get the most out of them, books should be treated with reverence, care, enduring compassion. Then once you are done with them, you need to sit them down and lock them up in some dusty library – just in case you ever need them again!

Fathers Day

Well I originally intended to lampoon this “Day of the Dad” with the memories of all the horrible gifts that I had tortured my Father with over the years. Clearly as the spawn of my Father, I can never buy enough garage sale ‘rolling rulers’ or ‘extra wide’ ties to ‘thank’ him enough for my existence. How can I (or even should I) EVER pay back my Dad for his obvious indiscretion and poor choices of so long ago. Why am I responsible for my Father’s momentary lapse in judgment - after all, I did not ASK to be born.

But today I feel different. Yes, today I feel like maybe I should have put in a little extra effort beyond those unused monogrammed hankies that filled my Father’s dresser. Maybe I should have just ‘FORCED’ him to do something that he would not do for himself, but would still enjoy just the same. If only my own kid would have been around when I was a youngster, then she could have showed me the right way to honor my father.

As you no doubt have guessed, my daughter greeted me this glorious Father’s Day morning with only a declaration that I should be dressed for public and ready to go at either 10:20 or 10:25AM. I was not told any details or given any warm and fuzzy cards with hearts and kisses – just my marching orders. I pondered what was in store for me? I have been a reasonably good father. I drove the kid everywhere when she was young so that should count for something right? I embarrassed her frequently I’m sure, but what Dad doesn’t to a teenage girl – it is our JOB! You don’t think she would hold that against me do you?

My quandary was the time thing. What memorable event, other than a firing squad or slow boat to China, requires precise scheduled time with nary a five minute window. This concerned me greatly – oh why did I ever have a kid at all – this is all so stressful? I dressed and shaved and soon THE time loomed over me like – well a really BIG loom. I was really worried now because my daughter was DRIVING! What does that mean – is this my last look at the house, my life? Am I being put out to pasture so early?

If only I had bought my Dad better gifts on HIS Father’s Day, he might have warned me of this moment of treachery. But NO! He remained silent all those years – plotting and planning for my eventual comeuppance and not so hot ‘pasteurization’. Well fear not, the grass is actually GREENER on this side of life. My daughter rolled up to a theater and handed me two tickets for us to enjoy the TOY STORY 3 movie in 3-D together! I am clearly a lucky Dad – my kid LOVES me and my solid parenting has taught her to be so considerate, responsible, and … hey wait a minute – these crazy EXPENSIVE tickets were charged to MY CREDIT CARD? Happy Father’s Day everybody!

Zeus’s revenge

Don’t take me to task too much for the tongue and cheek reporting on the burning of the ‘King of Kings’ sculpture in Monroe Ohio. I did not have an axe to grind with the Solid Rock Church along Interstate 75 in Ohio but apparently somebody who had the ‘hots’ for lawn gnomes DID.

Yes sadly, the church’s 62 foot high sculpture of Jesus with outstretched arms reaching for the sky apparently ‘sparked’ some interest since it was hit by lightning and then proceeded to burn to the ground. I actually thought as Jesus sculptures go, this one was pretty good so the full-frontal torching was a bit ‘overdone’, but nowadays everyone is a critic. My only suggestion is next time give the poor guy some legs and Nikes so he can move fast to stop, drop and roll away from the flames.

I have no doubt that the church will rebuild the six story roadside landmark. What is in question is how will they pay for it? I somehow doubt that anyone would have had the guts to insure the son of god from fire and brimstone. The original statue was made of an obviously highly flammable fiberglass shell over foam and a metal armature at the cost of $250,000. No wonder Jesus was always getting picked on – he was just a softy inside. I’m thinking the next generation v.2 Messiah should be made of rock, tough stucco or maybe those space shuttle tiles. I hope this time they build a staircase up to the crown of thorns or better yet put in a big clock and make J’s eyes move back and forth with quartz precision.

After the blaze was extinguished, I was a little taken aback with that Terminator-looking metal frame though. Hey I’m sure I would feel a little ticked off after being Char-broiled too – but I’m not sure if it is appropriate for the Righteous One to be flipping the double bird to Zeus. Especially so after that embarrassing incident last year with Hera – the spouses are ALWAYS off limits. (Everyone knows those Olympians are far too touchy and competitive)

Yeah, I think the J-man needs to chill out a bit with this statue burning thing – maybe settle into a cave with a cold diet Mountain Dew and sleep on it for, oh I don’t know, let’s say 3 days and 3 nights. By then Zeus will be preoccupied with that scoff-law Poseidon and on to irritating the poor Gulf folks with a nasty hurricane or two. That’ll be the cue to bring on the Quickcrete, ‘cause in the immortal WORD of the one true ‘Prince’ - it’s time to ‘party like its RESURRECTION time again’!

Aero-sol Man

When I was just a young pup aerosol products were in high demand. Yes I can remember my pubeSCENT pride as I would wander off to shower and then suck-up a foggy toxic cloud of spray-on deodorant. Even then, with no sense of ecology or a true care in the world, I pondered ‘why is there more spray fouling the air as compared to my armpits’. (Few things WILLINGLY compare themselves to MY armpits) Who cares about CFC’s ? My ego and my public, demand that my ‘ pits’ remain fresh, dry, and relatively stink-free!

So it is no surprise that over the last thirty years or so, even non-ozone depleting aerosols have kind of a sketchy reputation. Yet oddly I was surprised to see how many things I use in my daily life that still depend on some kind of compressed air for delivery. (Not including the ‘hot air’ of course which magically keeps this blog afloat)

In the laundry room I have spray starch which I honestly think is just hair spray in a re-marked package. I rarely use this gunk for pressing shirts anymore but it is dandy stuff for dryer lint sculptures. (Oh c’mon you know you want to try it now) We also have some of that spray-on dusting stuff for furniture. It works fine I guess because the bean bag chairs and cardboard box end tables never looked shinier.

In the garage is where compressed air is still king. Like everyone we have a myriad collection of half-used spray paint cans. No kidding I’ve got this stuff in ‘Highway Orange’, ‘John Deere Green’, and even ‘Polished Gold’. They are great but they are always getting clogged and I get a little woozy from sucking those little push-button nozzle heads to keep ‘em clean. Of course I am a huge fan of silicone spray and WD-40 but I always lose that impossibly tiny straw that they sell and stick on the side of the can. Really, this is the plan to prevent loss of a tiny component – TAPE it onto a can of grease?

I have a couple of single-action airbrushes but rarely have need to pin stripe my business suits anymore - I leave that job to the professionals in Hong Kong now. I have considered fitting the thing with a special nib so I could apply Sp-40 sun tan lotion. The problem is when you get my size, by the time you spray and protect half your body, the other half resembles well-done deep-fried bacon. I have a ‘pancake compressor’ which runs air tools well, but it does a lousy job at keeping the pancakes ‘fluffy’’. The blower attachment works fine though and keeps my starfish arm ‘Swimmies’ inflated along with my incredible EGO. It might be a good idea to stand ‘up-wind’ though, you never know when that big ‘air head’ is going to POP!