Teeter Totter Math

I have to be honest, I was not too worried about the recent hurricane threat because who on earth has ever been beat up by somebody named ‘Sandy’. I mean even ‘Sanford & Son’s’ namesake, Fred would frequently wave his fist around and mouth off a bit,  but who actually saw him punch anyone. So why should I expect this big billowy blow-hard with a wimpy name to raise some cane this time around?

Anyway isn’t it a pre-requisite for everyone born in the warm waters near the Bahamas to be kind of laid-back, mellow and in a generally sleepy Caribbean Cannabis haze? I am not sure what happened when the bright bulb weather-geeks named this hurricane, but I would prefer if in the future they would find inspiration somewhere other than tough biker bars. Gee how about giving us a havoc heads-up, or at least a clue with a more appropriate ‘S’ name like  ‘Slash’, ‘Sue-nami’, or my personal favorite, ‘the Subjuganator’.

Aside from me being powerless (literally) to fend off this sandy jab from a weather crab, I was saddened to see that New Jersey was hit so hard too. Not only had I recently spent a nice couple of days there across from Manhattan, but I was really hoping to do some trick or treating in the garden state before the Governor cancelled Halloween! I wait all year to legitimately don my thriller of a ‘Goriller’ suit and chase kids in a high-brow high-rise and one stupid storm’s eye pokes me in mine. Yes  my monkeyshine whines are tiny as compared to the trials and tribulations of many after the weather has played a nasty trick this Fall. 

But despite my levity, from personal experience, no matter how low spirits go, it might take time but things will truly get better. There is never a proper name for pain or a good time for tests of mettle; but consider these moments as the counterweight to life’s joy on the other side of the equation. Without the lows, there can be no highs and despite the costs, losses, and challenges, life’s quirky teeter-totter math will eventually balance out in all things.  Just look at my newfound respect of everything ‘Sandy’ – I’ll never look at that irritating stuff between my toes and in my swim shorts the same way again!

Wrinkled ‘Weener Revelations

As I age I notice that I have grown more impatient with the mundane daily tasks of life. Why does society burden oldsters like me with irritants like depending on our Depends to stay leak-free, shaving daily, or talking to OTHER people when I am already perfectly happy to talk to myself? It’s not that my faculties are failing, it’s just when your eyebrows and ear hair turn wiry and grizzled I thought you were supposed to get a gold badge , bible verse, or ‘Get out of Jail card’ that lets you act menacingly even if it isn’t Halloween?

Yes the young and dumber demographic wait all year for October 31^st to wear sagging wrinkled expressions and baggy faces when I can do THAT any day of the week! Since the world is now so politically correct and sensitive to the needs of every cause and oddball group of goofs, why aren’t glaring-geezers greeted to a little extra consideration too? Why don’t WE, the ordinarily drooling, oozing, and oft irritating elders get one day a year of OUR OWN to emulate mindless and sophomoric tweens?

Maybe for just one day a year I want to be lightning fast on video games, or if that is too much to ask, at least be reasonably proficient with my own personal daily game of ‘Call of DUTY’! I like candy as much as any greasy kidlet, yet every October society panders to our chunky youth by luring THEM to our neighborhoods with the promise of bags and bags of free calories. I think we, the bald and breathless, deserve equal time, but since a breakout of acne might kill us I want every school kid to provide me fee-free, Fish Oil caplets and calcium enriched Milky Amnesia-goo.

I have lived a reasonably clean and moral life so why can’t a curmudgeon of my experience & efforts get a break, beyond a hip or a rib? Of course my hairless and hoary bretheren are impatient when every day we put up with stupid voice-mail menus sporting choices of Spanish or English, when in actuality we only want to answer that question at Denny’s for our omelets and muffins. Yes it’s time for my graying ilk to raise our liver- spotted former fists in arthritic unison and demand equal wrinkled Halloween rights – if for no other reason than for ‘Old TIMERS sake’!

My BIG BIRD Buzz

Given the recent wing flap over public television’s corpulent mellow yellow canary, I think it’s important that I also SEED the debate with the fact that I love big bulbous birds! Oh sure tiny Hummingbirds can be fun too when gently juiced-up and riding the RedBull rush, though ask any hornet - generally the bigger the winged-thing, the bigger the buzz. Yes, I’ll always be a fan of the prodigious Peregrine or Pelican, but will never go for a little Lark, Thrush or Finch, except of course, in a pinch.

You can leave your wimpy wild feed and sunflower seeds for the Chickadees and benched ball players please. You see I am a blimp-sized color-blind birder without a hidden agenda or a politically correct hungry hollow bone in my body. I along with my favorite bulky feathered brethren are meat-eater ‘beakers’ happily hatched to strut our stuff far better than those skinny itty-bitty girlie-birdies sitting pretty in my palm.

 

Real tough and rough around the rump Pterodactyl Bills like me obviously don’t eat quiche quietly. Yes me and my RAVENous routines may ruffle a few rectrices now and then when I stalk my birdie brood. So tell me why it’s wrong when I pull my porky plumage to the side of the road and gawk at Hawks as they menace mousey mice or ogle at Eagles retrieving meaty beagles for brunch.

Since it’s obvious that I’m part Turkey and, more often than not, a little Chicken too, my basted and baked-in opinion of brawny birds of a feather should not be misconstrued. I am actually an equal opportunity bird-brain of PREY (though not religious) that believes size does matter and bigger is indeed better. Principles aside I do make one exception to this rule though. While those classy monster Geese, Flamingos, and Swan are dandy art when plastically perched upon my lawn, when it comes to their REAL beak-breather bros – if they fly over to DECORATE my car, my preference tends to the tiny!

Yellow ‘X’ marks the spot

After a long dustbowl of a summer I can’t believe I’m thinking it, but I’m looking forward to some igloo weather and dare I say it, even a few fleeting flakes of glistening pristine snow. This is understandable of course when your body breaks a sweat just by licking self-adhesive postage stamps, or jerkin’ that last gherkin from the pickle jar. I don’t look forward to the bulky winter garb though because when it comes to ‘layering’ I always want it to be more about a triple decker hoagie rather than looking cucumberly ‘COOL’ like Bogie.

Whether it’s trenchy coats or those Michelin-Man marshmallow soft ski togs, my nose for sweaty high-brow winter style, or designer Kleenex, has never been up to snuff. You see dandy duds like wooly scarves, Bald Knobber beanies and dexterity dependent, knitted mittens tied-together forever still give me fits. I just don’t appreciate stuff like sweaters and vests that are louder and brighter than me, so my outerwear tends to fair, dull and lifeless like my lobotomized stare.

As for what’s growing and going on underneath my steamy ‘TUMdra’ and girth of winter garb, I cannot surmise with any certainty as to the rumors of rapid colonization. But being bundled and bound into a hot downy ball may be boffo for delicate ducklings, but for ‘full grow-tund’ roosters like me it’s akin to being brown-basted to a briny shine.  All I know is when I finally unwrap and unstrap in the spring, one thing is for sure, my ‘Long Johns’ may be lightly glazed, but they almost NEVER smell like maple or chocolate. 

Never fear though since there is genuine fashion hope for me this season, because I’m planning to deploy a genuine pair of snow shoes just like what polar bears use except without the high calorie claws. I have never cruised the trails to the corner 7-11 with such contraptions, so I will start slow and rely on Devine intervention until I get used to the gear by walking on something soft first - like water. Granted, I probably still won’t make the winter edition of that iconic whale blubber fashion mag ‘Eskimo Quarterly’ as a studly stepper especially with a bounty of Big Gulps in hand. But should I get my winter wish for a sprinkle of snow this season, surely with a quick zip in stride and my admirably giant ‘FEATS’, I might truly leave my mark on society ... or on something.

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!