tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56695202592736582752024-03-25T07:05:45.179-07:00Too Far, JerryMusings and missives from the mind of Jerald L. Ford, the author of "A Bunny Screaming" and "The Goody Phelps Papers".Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger203125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669520259273658275.post-55211570190718121012019-01-03T17:40:00.003-07:002019-01-03T17:40:41.336-07:00Learn To Be Funny With These 742 Easy Tips!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Public speaking is a racket. I am nearly certain that the very instant a certain particular breed of human being overcame their innate and rightful fear of standing up and talking in front of large groups of strangers, the vocations of politician and comedian were born, forever changing the manner in which the vast majority of our species would be led and/or entertained. And for those who had neither the ability to lead nor make people laugh, but still had a knack for orating without fear, the more mundane avenue of informative public speaking began to claw its way into being.<br />
<br />
Be it religious caterwauling or the latest symposium on the current influx of the dung beetle into the ecosystem of the Great Plains, public speaking has found a comfortable niche in society, filling a certain void left by a shortage of decent comedians, silver-tongued politicians and quality summer re-runs on the television.<br />
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Before profitable public speaking made its way into the mainstream, it cut its profitable teeth on the college circuit, with universities in the glory days of College Public Speaking paying big dollars to aging film icons, such as Groucho Marx, who had gained a late-life resurgence in popularity, to take the stage, share witty anecdotes and field questions from stoned college-aged fans.<br />
<br />
Mark Twain famously used a series of public speaking engagements at the turn of the century to not only bail himself out of extreme financial hardship caused by horrible business investments, but to also facilitate a few weeks of relaxing travel on a luxury intercontinental steamship. Savvy. So it began.<br />
<br />
But I digress. Now, it has blossomed into a cottage-industry which seemingly has no bounds in terms of subject or audience.<br />
<br />
Recently (well, last year - perhaps the year before... Time passes so quickly these days), I had the opportunity to attend an hour and a half presentation on storytelling. It was aimed for salespeople and business folk that would perhaps appreciate a little insight on the art of conversing with a client or colleague in a delightful, colorful manner. It was all fine and dandy until the jacket and tie-wearing huckster threw out the nugget that <i>being funny could be taught</i>. I was roused from the semi-doze to which I had succumbed, mentally fatigued from the internal battle that was being waged in my brain on whether I would have a salad for lunch, or drive over to Wendy's for a Single With Cheese, Fries and a small Frosty (after all, I'm not an animal - a large Frosty would be nothing more than a deep-knee-bend curtsy to my lizard brain). <i>Wait, </i>I thought. <i>What's that you say? Funny can be taught?</i> Well, this was a preposterous notion as far as I was concerned and I had to restrain myself from bursting out with a hearty "the fuck you say!" After all, he was being paid a courtly sum to lecture us on public speaking and I was but a non-paying, presumably appreciative attendee.<br />
<br />
But this curveball wound me up inside in a manner that made me feel most uncomfortable. Not only could funny be taught, you could purchase his thin, overpriced, self-published paperback (and I know thin, self-published paperbacks), which would show you in a few easy, repeatable steps how to be a fully-functional, witty, public-speaking smoothy, entrancing audiences around the country - nay, the <i>world </i>- and be highly paid to do so.<br />
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I looked around me and observed that no one else in the room was engulfed in a similar outrage to my own - in fact, most seemed relatively engaged and some even nodded their heads in agreement with this outlandish notion. I folded my arms in front of me and smoldered for the rest of the session and left as quickly as I could, turning my nose up at the table of thin, overpriced, self-published paperbacks. I returned to my place in front of my computer monitor with its colorful spreadsheets and documents, but I felt distracted. I turned to my co-worker across the aisle, who was not distracted and had resumed whatever tasks that consumed her day with apparently no lingering disgust at the idea that funny could be learned.<br />
<br />
I was not to be distracted alone, so I intruded into her business with the question, "Do you think that being funny can be taught?" She shrugged. "Why not?" "Why not???" I asked. "Well," she said. "I think most things can be taught, right?" She outlined her opinion that one could be taught how to tell a joke. "You could write the joke, teach them where to pause and they could learn how to tell the joke in a funny way..." I highly disagreed.<br />
<br />
There are formulas in humor. Gags can be written around the classic triad - something repeated twice, to establish pattern, with a twist thrown in on the third repetition. Hilarity ensues - everyone feels smart at the expense of our comedic foil. There are setups, situations and payoffs. Comedy can indeed be written, in fact some of the best comedy performances are written by someone other than the performer.<br />
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But there is a reason those writers aren't performing the acts in most cases- because the funny people are. <i>Funny is in the bones</i>. Funny is in the manner with which the performer elevates the written material, transforms it into something relatable and ironic. A facial expression, a tone of voice, a quick trigger that allows the audience into the mind of the performer and transforms a written sentence or an improvised thought into comedic gold. For that one moment, often built on a flimsy idea or flight of whimsy, the thought turns <i>funny</i>.<br />
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Personally, I have had the tremendous good fortune to know a handful of people with funny bones. These people have left my stomach sore and my jaws aching from hours of unbridled joy and laughter. Their turn of phrase and ability to take the most inane of conversations and turn them into a colorful, often ribald tale of misfortune, blasphemy or outrageous consequence have given me hours and hours of wonderful memories.<br />
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Funny is in the bones and if I had thought of it, I would have followed our intrepid speaker to the parking lot and given him a humorous thrashing for insinuating otherwise. So, my conclusion is this - funny cannot be taught. A person is funny or they are not. There are those that fall somewhere in the middle and they mostly host parties in their homes. But if funny cannot be taught, I'll bet there is a handsome living to be made traveling around the country - nay, the <i>world </i>- talking about it. Hopefully by someone with funny bones.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com207tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669520259273658275.post-55238615651390820062016-08-12T11:56:00.002-07:002016-08-12T11:56:48.895-07:00When I Am King (for sure...)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Well, it is that time again. Time to write in yours truly, Jerald Ford for King of America. With the filthiest, most polarizing Presidential campaign in recent memory currently underway (although, as yet neither of our candidates have accused the other of cannibalism, as John Quincy Adams fervently declared of Andrew Jackson in 1828 - then again, the campaign is still young), I feel it only fair that I throw my hat into the ring. Not as President, however. As King.<br />
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As a kind and benevolent King ("Monarchy results from the wish of a society—be it a city population, tribe, or multi-tribal people—to groom an indigenous leader who will properly represent its historical goals and advance its interests." - that's me), I would like to continue the use of the Presidential office to run the day-to-day matters of our country, with all major decisions, of course coming across my elegant, palatial desk for the Royal Thumbs-Up. <br />
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While my President keeps the trains running on time, the budget in order and the foreign policy fair and equitable, I will turn my Kingly attention to the really important things, like restoring music and art programs to our public schools, making a secondary education affordable for all the Kingdom, keeping the youth of our great nation aware of the importance of welders, mechanics and carpenters to the economy and paying them in kind. We (being the Royal "We") will immediately enact a Kingdom-wide law swapping the salaries of lawyers and teachers and another for the mandatory installation of cell-phone blockers into all automobiles. <br />
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Motorcyclists will no longer be able to pass between lanes of traffic and all automatic weaponry will be turned in to police and government agencies (because, <em>seriously</em>?), once again giving law-enforcement (all branches of which will be subjected to a rigorous, consistent nationwide training program) the upper hand in the pursuit of justice. Black market sales of these weapons will be harshly punished to the point that the weapons will be unaffordable for insane people with limited budgets. It's a start. Don't worry about cost - it will come from the cutting of legislative salaries. Senators and Congressmen will be paid the same as lawyers. And term limits, because fuck that. Marijuana will also be legalized, because <em>seriously</em>?<br />
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As the King, I will strictly oversee the election of our President. Campaigns will concentrate solely on the platforms of the candidates. We will hear what their intentions are, how they will be carried out and the expected results of these policies. The polices and platforms will then be explained so that every citizen can understand them. That should take up most of the campaign time. Any mention of any other candidates will be forbidden. Candidate A is not Candidate B's business. Ever. If Candidate A calls Candidate B "a tit", Candidate A is immediately removed from the race and his salary immediately gets cut to that of a lawyer. There can be up to five candidates, because 5 is my favorite number. If Candidate D suggests that Candidate A is a cannibal, Candidate D will be slaughtered, butchered and prepared by his staff (whose salary will immediately be cut to that of a lawyer) and served up at a lawyers meeting. That should put things in order pretty quickly.<br />
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I may have to run things on my own for awhile, until I can put my new Royal Policies into place, but expect quick results once I get rolling. It's a write-in vote, so print legibly and remember - have your pet spayed or neutered, just for the fun of it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com171tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669520259273658275.post-78297822429052238572015-12-30T11:21:00.003-07:002015-12-30T11:21:49.306-07:00The Birth of Arbitrarianism<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This is the logo for my new religion. I call it Arbitrarianism and it operates under the assumption that life is arbitrary and death is even arbitrarier. I will design some fancy robes, arbitrarily and find an arbitrary fancy hat. People can donate money to support the cause, arbitrarily, of course and I will receive many arbitrary tax breaks. 2016 will be The Year of the Arbitrary. Mugs and tee-shirts adorned with the logo will be forthcoming.<br />
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You see, I truly believe that life is indeed a series (some series longer than others, of course) of arbitrary events strung together. It is these events that give us our memories and our hopes and help us make the seemingly logical choices we make. At the end, or sometimes in the middle (it's up to you - it's arbitrary), we can try to make sense of it all and provide logic and lineal thinking and sum the events up in a handy fashion in a document, or a film, or just in our minds - the options are endless - and remove the arbitrariosity from them to create a timeline that makes utter and irrefutable sense. This makes us feel sane and secure and safe from the Winds of Arbitrarity.<br />
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As far as a physical church, I have not made a decision on the means of worship. Worship is a little strong - I prefer "discussion". We can talk about whatever. Whether to do it online, via blog or in a physical building, like a coffee shop, saloon or maybe a comedy club, I have not decided. Maybe I'll flip a coin. If it does turn out that we will be meeting in person in our colorful robes and hats, I guarantee we will not drink cheap wine and eat stale crackers during the process. We will eat Keebler's Fudge Stripe cookies and drink Blue Moon beer, with an orange garnish. And they will not symbolize the body and blood of the savior, they will represent instead, cookies and beer.<br />
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We will still celebrate Christmas - we're not animals, after all - but some years we will call it "Gift Day". And Easter will be renamed "Zombie Jesus Day" regardless. Passover seems too complicated - we may just call it "Meh". I have come up with a list of 11 (the number was pulled out of a hat) Arbitrary Commandments, listed below in no particular order, of course:<br />
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6: Try not to kill each other.<br />
9: Eat Cake.<br />
4: Don't dismiss the ideas of others.<br />
1: No hitting.<br />
10: Drive fast, but safely.<br />
7: Be kind to animals.<br />
2: Don't rape. Ever. That's what makes Bill Cosby suck.<br />
8: Be nice to kids when possible,<br />
5: Laugh.<br />
3: Make decisions.<br />
11: Some things go to 11. Not all, don't judge.<br />
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I am sure I need some sort of organization, but really, what's point? I welcome you all to embrace The Arbitrary and climb aboard. Remember to write-in vote Jerald Ford for King in the upcoming elections. It would be the arbitrary choice to make. <br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com201tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669520259273658275.post-32509565820177482442014-10-09T18:14:00.001-07:002014-10-09T18:14:17.862-07:00John Lennon - the Skinny<em>Happy birthday, John Lennon. You would have been 74 years old today and that would have been a delight. At least I hope so. Little Paulie has had a couple of good moments since 1980,the year you died, though admittedly most of his greatest solo moments had come long before 1980, most notably "Band On the Run". Ringo's last good album was 1973's "Ringo" (most imaginative album title ever), which contained some of the most impressive sales numbers of any of the post-Beatle Fabs and George only hit paydirt with The Traveling Wilburys in the mid-80's many years after his "All Things Must Pass" accolades the year after the Beatles called it quits.</em><br />
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This brings me to John Lennon's solo career. I was quite sad when Lennon died in December, 1980, along with a few billion other fans. We were indignant that our acerbic little Beatle had been taken from us in his prime, post-Beatles, eager to explore the musical harvest that was his to take.<br />
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That said, John Lennon's post-Beatle work had thus far proven inconsequential and of little excitement. "Imagine" had been a pretty song, relaying political catchphrases in a melodic manner that lulled us all into a giddy musical effervescence, thinking that perhaps the thoughts of peace might bring about a world of peace. A great 1971 hippie anthem. Nothing ever came of it, however, but John persevered with "Mind Games", shouting the "Mind Guerilla" from the mountaintops. Not a chart topper, but well-meaning, if lazy songwriting. Three chords, til death do us part... I personally enjoyed "#9 Dream" with its "ABOWAKOWA-POSE POSE" refrain but again, I could write a hit song if all that mattered was a melody and some mumbled Apache paraphrasing.<br />
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After a brief hiatus, John reemerged with "Walls and Bridges", which was also an exercise in medicocrity, save for "Whatever Gets You Through The Night", the sole chart breaking number, featuring the red-hot Elton John kicking the keys and providing the energy needed to propel this lively dirge to the top of the charts. At this point, we were so hungry for any new Lennon material, we would have sent "Oh, Yoko" to the top ten. <em>(Just kidding!)</em><br />
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Lennon took a much-needed break after Walls and Bridges and spent the next five years raising his son Sean, baking bread and smoking French cigarettes. When he finally emerged from his seclusion in 1979 to record "Walls and Bridges", the world was once again eager and hungry for new Lennon material. He delivered a 50's retread in "(It's Just Like) Starting Over" and the ballad "Woman", a bit of treacle written for the shrew who had <strike>stolen</strike> been his muse since 1969. We lapped it up greedily and all too soon thereafter, he was taken from us forever by a crazed douchebag who many wish would be set free on the streets for our own cathartic target practice.<br />
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I would like to think that Lennon's work would have matured and been an inspiration to us all and live up to the high praise that the artist, gunned down in prime has garnered. However, using a complicated math theorem and some calculus, paired with some kickass analog stereo gear and a set of vintage BOSS headphones, I have come to the conclusion that John, of all the Beatles, would have had the most disappointing solo career of all. <br />
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McCartney went on to produce "Band on the Run" and George became a spiritual icon, a humble rock and roll statesman admired by all, producing some great work as well as Monty Python's "Life of Brian", which gave him everlasting sainthood amongst those who cared. Ringo had his hits early and cashed out and at one point would be noted to being willing to "attend the opening of an envelope" for a free drink and a press clipping. Lennon, however burdened and martyred by the presence of Yoko Ono and four inopportune bullets, had never lived up to the potential of "I Am The Walrus", "Strawberry Fields Forever" or even "In My Life" and I see nothing in his solo work to indicate that he might have done so.<br />
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I am not saying that he was shot because of his lack of musical inspiration in his later days, but if I was the attorney for the dildo who shot him... Just sayin'. We'll never know. Happy birthday, John - I wish you'd been around for the ride.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com201tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669520259273658275.post-83888764063838339232014-10-06T16:50:00.002-07:002014-10-06T16:53:23.624-07:00Sleeping Like A Baby - The SkinnyI used to envy folks who said they "sleep like a baby", until I realized that I, too sleep like a baby - nearly every night. Which means that I sleep like an actual baby, Tossing and turning and waking up every two hours crying, possibly wetting myself and in a real bad fit maybe even soiling up the place. I am normally awake at least two hours in the middle of the night, usually sometime between 2 and 3 until 4 or 5. It's a gift. A fucked up, useless gift, but a gift nonetheless. Like my overdeveloped sense of smell, it is another one of those things where I believe I got short shrift. These are probably two of the lousiest super-powers ever: I am able to smell the odd, sweet and disgusting from distances normally reserved for bloodhounds and delicately-calibrated, sensitive science equipment. That and the ability to wake up in a completely rested state in the middle of the night and solve many of the world's problems, write songs and stories and wrestle with the most complicated issues of our times. Useless.<br /><br />When I eventually do fall asleep for the remainder of the cursed night, I awake in the morning feeling as if I have been beaten in the head with a burlap sack full of quarters and force-fed six quarts of Prohibition-Grade Bathtub Gin. I am growling, bestubbled zombie with bloodshot eyes and a disposition to match and do not usually fully gain consciousness until nearly noon most days. Except for weekends - I feel a little better about those and approach the tired mornings with a bit more zeal... Ironic, huh?<br />
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I should be severely disciplined for the way I treat my frazzled bedclothes. The sheets are usually wound and twisted as if I were taking part in a third-story prison escape and my pillows look like they have been put through a wood-chipper. I may even be trying to eat the Goddamned things - I have no idea. This type of behavior should not be tolerated and it might be a good idea if someone came over every night and darted me with a tranquilizer gun.<br />
<br /><br />
I sleep in five basic positions: 1) On my back. I don't know if this is good for me or bad, but it breaks up the monotony of the other positions. 2) On my left side, fetal position, right arm tucked under the pillow, left hand gather up some twisted sheets and shooting between my knees. 3) On my right side, same exact configuration, only reversed. 4) Face down, head left, left leg brought up at an angle so that my legs resemble the number 4. Right arm under pillow, left hand somehow supporting my head so it doesn't suffocate its stupid self. 5) Face down, head right, otherwise reversed. The legs now resemble the number 4 reversed. I don't know what any of this means, but I'm nearly certain it means something and even more certain that this something can't be good.<br /><br />I have tried over-the-counter sleep aids - in fact, one package I bought was labeled simply "Nighttime Sleep Aid". Fair enough, I thought. Even though this particular brand boasted that it "DOES NOT CONTAIN PAIN RELIEVER", I figured I'd give it a shot. Pain reliever would have been a bonus - I usually have some sort of pain somewhere too, but beggars can't be choosers.<br /><br />I took a few of the Nighttime Sleep Aid tablets - the instructions said to take two, but since there was no pain reliever and I had no Scotch, I upped the dosage to a more sensible level- it was just good science. After all, I was trying to combat a low-tier Super-Power. I fell asleep easily enough, which was misleading because I fall asleep easily enough every night. The real test was going to be when the bells chimed two.<br />
<br /><br />
I woke up sometime around the usual time - I couldn't be sure, since the Sleep Aids were trying to fight my late-night wakefulness. So I was awake and very drowsy. I could not solve the world's problems, nor was the late-night concerto I was working on given any real consideration. I just lay there awake and very drowsy. I mumbled some in a language that might have been picked up on a radio broadcast and somehow stored in the back of my mind for just such an occasion and might have laughed aloud at a joke I told in this foreign tongue that would have made no sense at all in our language. It is probably the same language that considered the reversed number 4 of my face down, head-right sleeping position an actual official number.<br /><br />I am anxious to see how this all shakes out. I have heard that exercise might help me sleep, but the few times I have tried this, I have usually pulled something and wished for Sleep Aids with a generous dose of pain reliever included. I may try this again, but only as a last resort. I have heard of some exotic vegetables and the magical power of turkey's tryptophan. I may try the veggies, if they don't look too weird or taste bad and who doesn't love turkey?<br /><br />My point is, if someone says they sleep like a baby, offer to dart them with a tranquilizer gun.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com206tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669520259273658275.post-56763702146998893732014-05-24T11:07:00.002-07:002014-05-24T11:36:53.529-07:00Discovering The Bear Ghost<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I looked at the clock. It was 10:30pm. It was also Thursday
– a school night. I shook my head, gathered up my car keys and headed to the
car. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’s awfully late</i>, I thought,
but it was time to leave to go see the Bear Ghost and late was no longer
relevant. I knew what I was in for – I would be the oldest guy in the place,
sitting at a bar surrounded by hipster kids with tattoos and gauged earlobes
who drank PBR from an oversized can. And since I was driving, I would myself be
drinking soda instead of a Scotch/Rocks to take the edge off, which was a
tragedy, plain and simple. You see, Bear Ghost is a terrific young band made up
of twenty-somethings with a keen sound and an energetic act that makes you
smile and tap your foot at the same time. I may be fifty-plus years-old, but I
like to smile and my toes tap like a sonofabitch. So, off I went, just a tiny
bit ashamed of myself.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Let me explain how it came to this.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I cannot possibly express the level of disappointment I felt
when I learned that my beautiful, intelligent, witty, tattooed, gauged-earlobed
daughter was dating a guitar-player. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Karma</i>,
I sighed to myself, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is one motherfucker</i>.
I didn’t meet the lad for a month or two, until I was bushwhacked at a gig I
was playing myself, at a small local music venue called The Rogue, strumming my
acoustic guitar and warbling tender, antiquated love songs to at least a
half-dozen semi-interested patrons, who fiddled with their change and consumed
well-drinks as quickly as their livers would allow.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Hi Dad,” my daughter Logan said, coming out of nowhere as I
headed toward the bar for a much-deserved well-drink that I wanted to consume
as quickly as my liver would allow. “This is Ryan…” A thin, hyperkinetic young
man with a smile that took up at least half of his face and a head of unruly
hair thrust out his paw and I shook it. I was sweaty and still a little weepy
from singing an Everly Brothers tune and was caught off-guard. “Hi,” I
muttered, signaling the barkeep.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ryan proceeded to gush enthusiastically about how much he
enjoyed my warbling, then darted off, presumably moving on to spread a shitload
of positive energy elsewhere. I watched him leave with a suspicious eye, then
turned to my daughter. “Is that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">him</i>?”
I asked. “The guitar player?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She nodded and smiled. “Isn’t he a dork?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I nodded. “Devilishly handsome fellow.” I collected my
drink, drank half and raised an eyebrow. “Was he pulling my chain?” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">She shook her head. “No, he’s always like that… Disgusting,
right?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I nodded again. “Because I’ll kick the hell out of him if he
was pulling my chain,” I added. Logan laughed.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A few months later, Logan gave me a CD put together by her
boyfriend’s band, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Bear Ghost</i>. I
smiled indulgently and promised I’d listen when I could, at the same time
throwing out some witty retorts about the perceived value of a band called
“Bear Ghost”. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then I listened. And I enjoyed. And another few months
later, I was cajoled and shamed into showing up at an all-ages show at a local
music hall to hear the band live. An hour later, I had pushed my way to the
front of the audience through the sea of 16 year-olds and was dancing with my
hands over my head like a chubby, bald dancing bear. I was now officially a
fan. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What the hell</i> - <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">how did this happen?</i> I asked myself. I
shrugged to myself in answer and continued dancing like a foolish, retarded
jester.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I saw them at a mall. And I dragged a friend – a musician,
who was even older than me. I saw him smiling and tapping his foot. I nodded to
myself – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hooked, </i>I thought. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Well done, Bear Ghost</i>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I saw them at the same music venue again for the release of
their CD “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Your Parents are only marginally
disappointed in your musical taste”. </i>I dragged a couple of more oldster-friends
long familiar with the local music scene, from back in the halcyon days of the
90’s. More smiling and toe-tapping. I grinned and sighed to myself. I was
fighting the good fight.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Each show was equally-energetic and equally entertaining.
Bear Ghost actually looked like they loved every minute they got to spend on
stage. And the music was incredibly tight, with them pulling off the intricate
songs from their CD as well as covers by Queen and The Tubes and a song from
“The Jungle Book”. I knew how much hard work it was to sound that tight and to
look like they were having so much fun. “Ryan’s band is really good!” I gushed
to Logan. “I know,” she said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-J-1nFk_JMJQ/U4DfHcW-_sI/AAAAAAAAEwg/eVFxfEHnmU4/s1600/420556_379124712101197_1397071117_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-J-1nFk_JMJQ/U4DfHcW-_sI/AAAAAAAAEwg/eVFxfEHnmU4/s1600/420556_379124712101197_1397071117_n.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em>Equally Energetic, Equally Entertaining</em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em></em> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now, here I was, a fifty-something year-old man, climbing
into my car at 10:30 at night on a Thursday to drive to Scottsdale to see Bear
Ghost at the Rogue, where I had first suspiciously eyed my daughter’s
boyfriend. I stretched my tapping-toe in the car – it would be simply awful to
pull a muscle tapping my toe at my advanced age – and I braced myself for the
throng of smiling, toe-tapping hipsters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It’s okay,</i> I thought to
myself. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">One day I’ll be able to say “I
saw them at a mall…”</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Find Bear Ghost on Facebook:<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=224162450930758" target="_blank">https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=224162450930758</a><br />
<br />
"DoTab" on SoundCloud:<br />
<a href="https://soundcloud.com/bearghost/dotab" target="_blank">https://soundcloud.com/bearghost/dotab</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com200tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669520259273658275.post-695186390962417922013-12-07T17:19:00.001-07:002013-12-07T17:33:14.234-07:00A Return to Cottage Grove<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LMgkFrqxpzw/UqO34Hb3CAI/AAAAAAAADvA/SCYghDdVIGc/s1600/Keaton+Hotel.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" closure_lm_613839="null" eua="true" height="184" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LMgkFrqxpzw/UqO34Hb3CAI/AAAAAAAADvA/SCYghDdVIGc/s320/Keaton+Hotel.JPG" width="320" /></a><em>Buster</em> <em>Keaton’s</em> <em>silent</em> <em>masterpiece</em> <em>The</em> <em>General</em> <em>was</em> <em>always</em> <em>one</em> <em>of</em> <em>my</em> <em>favorites</em> <em>and</em> <em>the</em> <em>bridge</em> <em>collapse</em> <em>and</em> <em>locomotive</em> <em>crash</em> <em>in</em> <em>the</em> <em>climactic</em> <em>scene</em> <em>at</em> <em>the</em> <em>end</em> <em>of</em> <em>the</em> <em>film</em> (<em>and</em> <em>the</em> <em>single</em>-<em>most</em> <em>expensive</em> <em>shot</em> <em>in</em> <em>the</em> <em>history</em> <em>of</em> <em>silent</em> <em>film</em>) <em>had</em> <em>always</em> <em>intrigued</em> <em>me</em>.</div>
<br />
<em>The</em> <em>film</em> <em>had</em> <em>mostly</em> <em>been</em> <em>shot</em> <em>in</em> <em>the</em> <em>small</em> <em>Oregon</em> <em>town</em> <em>of</em> <em>Cottage</em> <em>Grove</em>, <em>and</em> <em>though</em> I <em>had</em> <em>never</em> <em>visited</em>, <em>when</em> I <em>was</em> <em>researching</em> <em>the</em> <em>story</em>, <em>the</em> <em>local</em> <em>library</em> <em>was</em> <em>kind</em> <em>enough</em> <em>to</em> <em>send</em> <em>me</em> <em>photocopies</em> <em>of</em> <em>some</em> <em>of</em> <em>the</em> <em>town’s</em> <em>newspaper</em> <em>coverage</em> <em>of</em> <em>the</em> <em>filming</em>.<br />
<br />
A <em>Return</em> <em>To</em> <em>Cottage</em> <em>Grove</em> <em>was</em> <em>read</em> <em>aloud</em> <em>and</em> <em>displayed</em> <em>at</em> <em>the</em> <em>2007</em> <em>convention</em> <em>of</em> <em>The</em> <em>Buster</em> <em>Keaton</em> <em>Society</em>, <em>which</em> <em>took</em> <em>place</em> <em>at</em> <em>Cottage</em> <em>Grove</em>. I <em>was</em> <em>told</em> <em>they</em> <em>enjoyed</em> <em>it</em>.<br />
<br />
For years afterward, the train lay at the bottom of the river where it had come to rest after the bridge collapsed. Their curiosity aroused by the stories, people often hiked to the isolated spot, where they would stand silently and point at the wreckage, imagining the sound of the steam whistle hissing angrily as it struck the water. After all, they had seen the wreck dozens of times before in the movie.<br />
<br />
I sat on the narrow bank of the Row River, some seventy years after the locomotive The Texas sank violently to the bottom of its waters and tried to recreate the scene in my mind. I could hear the sounds of the whistle screaming, of the timbers bending and snapping as the bridge collapsed, of the metal grinding and twisting, the train falling to its death.<br />
<br />
The shallow waters of the Row ran smoothly, silently, flowing downstream around a gentle curve where the Oregon National Guard, dressed as Civil War soldiers had staged the greatest battle Cottage Grove had ever seen. Of course, the wreckage of the train was long gone; the scrap iron drive of the Second World War had claimed most of the usable metal and a junk dealer had taken the rest years later. The tourists had also faded with the passage of time and most of those who had actually been present had gone the way of The Texas, leaving only those of us who had heard the story to carry on the memory.<br />
<br />
My grandfather had been eight years-old when Buster Keaton checked into the Cottage Grove Hotel, in town to film his silent epic “The General”. Like most of the citizens of Cottage Grove, young Vilas Samuals had gotten caught up in the excitement of having a real-life movie star come to his town to film a motion picture. He found himself hanging around the hotel, hoping to catch a glimpse of the famous film comedian and at one point even had the good fortune of obtaining Keaton’s autograph on a scrap of paper. The first thing that a person notices upon arrival to Cottage Grove, Oregon is the weather. Located in the heart of Northwestern lumber country, the air is crisp and clear and even on summer mornings there is often a light dew covering the grass. It was the weather and the beauty of the countryside that lured the Keaton Studio to Cottage Grove and I imagine that it was some of these same qualities that kept my grandfather in the town for all of his seventy nine years.<br />
<br />
I drove to Cottage Grove after my grandfather’s death. It was late evening when I pulled up to the clapboard house where he had lived his entire life and the place I had spent most of my childhood summers. The old house was quiet and stuffy, so I turned on the lights in every room and opened the windows. It was warm and familiar, like the comfort of an old sweater, but at the same time, each room seemed empty without Grandpa Vi.<br />
<br />
I saw bits and pieces of his life in every corner. There were the orange work caps with the soiled brims that he had worn to the mills. The pipes on the mantle still smelled of Prince Albert smoking tobacco and hung in the hallway was a yellowed piece of paper with Buster Keaton’s autograph, framed with a grainy 8x10 photograph of the dour-faced clown. Grandpa had often told me how they let school out the day Keaton filmed the great train crash at the Row River—the single most expensive shot in silent film history, they said. He said many people walked the entire twenty miles to the river’s banks to watch the filming. There had been an exciting, carnival-like atmosphere surrounding the event, with everyone watching in awe as Keaton put his guardsmen through their paces. Grandpa Vi and his brother Virgil had watched from the bank as the bridge was set on fire. The nervous hum of the crowd grew tense as people strained to see every movement on the bridge below.<br />
<br />
Grandpa loved to describe the locomotive as it began to slowly crawl along the tracks. The bridge began to creak and moan. “Someone’s on the train!” a man screamed, pointing toward the bridge. The onlookers grew uneasy and Grandpa Vi watched—there was someone at the throttle! The Texas moved through the flames that licked at its sleek, shiny engine. Suddenly, the bridge collapsed with a thunderous roar and the crowd screamed as one, terrified for the unfortunate engineer manning the helm. The whistle’s tortured cry echoed through the surrounding forest as the bridge tumbled down around the fallen locomotive, steam spewing out of the churning water.<br />
<br />
My grandfather used to take me to the place where the locomotive had fallen, to fish or picnic. Each time, I would beg to hear the story and each time he would oblige. When I was sixteen, Grandpa checked out a 16 millimeter copy of “The General” and a projector from the library and we watched quietly as the black and white images danced silently across the screen. As the flickering Texas fell into the water, my stomach flip-flopped and my mind imagined the death screams of the train’s whistle and the terror of the spectators just beyond the camera’s range. Of course, my grandfather explained, there had been no one aboard the locomotive—it had been a dummy that went down with the train. Nevertheless, I was thrilled to see the picture that had played such a memorable role in my grandfather’s childhood. I stole glances at him as he watched the screen intently, smiling as if he were viewing the film for the first time.<br />
<br />
The night I arrived in Cottage Grove after his death, I slept in Grandad’s bed and thought of his life as the streetlights played shadows on the wall. He had worked in the sawmills until he was in his mid-sixties and based most of his attitudes, beliefs and needs on the cycles, history and activities of his community. He was a simple man from a small town who was never too busy to help a neighbor shingle his roof, or listen to a joke, poorly told, by a passing friend.<br />
<br />
I could smell my grandfather in the room and could almost hear him whistling in the hall—but softly, as not to wake Grandmother. As I began to drift off to sleep in the security of his home, I suddenly missed Grandpa Vi deeply, not certain how to cope with the unsettling feeling of irreplaceable loss. Now, sitting on the bank of the river Row, I watched the water ripple over a rock, creating a whirlpool. For a moment, I thought I glimpsed a piece of rusted metal beneath the swirling current. I looked closer and it was gone, an illusion. Gazing at the river it was difficult to picture the bridge, the locomotive or the two thousand men marching its banks. But in the next moment, when I closed my eyes, I conjured up the picture my grandfather had drawn a thousand times.<br />
<br />
It was a scratchy image, a black and white world with subtle shades of gray adding texture to the silent rumblings of the great locomotive. Buster Keaton, sad-faced and mournful, staring over the throttle of a steaming engine. My grandfather gazing longingly at the water, picturing the ghost of a memory passed, a memory forever alive in his heart.<br />
<br />
The whirlpool twirled in an endless cycle, flowing gently over the rock and I found that if I squinted, I could see a rusted piece of The Texas. And if I cleared my mind, I could see the bridge, the men and the glorious battle of Cottage Grove. But the memory I could draw most vividly was the image of Grandpa Vi, smiling warmly, sitting on the bank of the Row, telling a young boy once again about the summer Buster Keaton came to Cottage Grove.<br />
<br />
As the sun set over the Row Rover, I gathered myself up and prepared for the hike back to my car. I breathed a heavy sigh and looked out over the peaceful water. Just as the memory of a summer’s day seventy years ago had been etched into my Grandfather’s mind like a cherished photograph, I could never be without Grandpa Vi, the memories he had passed on to me, or our shared moments at the final resting place of The Texas.<br />
<br />
<em>From the book of short stories "Grainy Memories", available at lulu.com</em> Unknownnoreply@blogger.com201tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669520259273658275.post-90173918152412437622013-10-22T20:33:00.002-07:002013-10-23T05:48:18.475-07:00Gilligan's Island<div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wTLQdwToaO8/UmaK1gMlh3I/AAAAAAAADLo/MiEbah8YQnI/s1600/breaking-bad-rv.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" closure_lm_940227="null" height="225" isa="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wTLQdwToaO8/UmaK1gMlh3I/AAAAAAAADLo/MiEbah8YQnI/s320/breaking-bad-rv.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
In the 70-odd years since the manufacture of the first cathode ray tube television sets, there have been but two Gilligans to have impacted our society via the television waves. The first was the bumbling first mate of the SS Minnow, Willy Gilligan; the other is the creator of the TV series "Breaking Bad", Vince Gilligan. While one Gilligan led five passengers and his skipper on an infamous "3-hour tour", ultimately ending in light-hearted disaster, the other led us all on a 5-season tour-de-force that has left a nation feeling empty and clamoring for more, yet ultimately satisfied with its inevitable conclusion.<br />
<br />
I have observed that there are many similarities in these Gilligan shows, and fittingly, just as many differences between the two. For instance, the crew and passengers of the Minnow were stranded on a deserted island, with no connection to the outside world, no possibility of rescue and had to count on their wits to survive. They built a rudimentary generator invented by the ingenious professor, powered by a stationary bicycle fashioned out of bamboo, coconuts and palm fronds. Walter and Jesse, the methamphetamine manufacturing "protagonists" from Breaking Bad, also found themselves high and dry, only this time in the desert wasteland outside Albuquerque. Walter, also a dyed in the wool professor genius-type, made a battery out of nuts, bolts, sponges and carbon shavings.<br />
<br />
While First-Mate Gilligan could often be heard shouting "I'll go tell the others!" while racing off into the teeth of adventure, Walter's "first mate", Jesse Pinkman could often be heard shouting "Yo, BITCHES!" while bumbling into his own share of mishaps, usually with wildly different results than the sitcom hero.<br />
<br />
Gilligan had a fondness for coconut cream pie; Jesse for crystal meth. Gilligan constantly overlooked his chances to sleep with Ginger and Maryanne; Jesse triggered a relapse and subsequent overdose that allowed Jane to choke to death on her own vomit and gets Andrea shot in the back of the head by evil Todd (referred to by Vince Gilligan as "Opie Hitler"). First mates: not too smooth with the ladies.<br />
<br />
On the other hand, on Gilligan's Island if you suffered massive head trauma (a coconut falling from above, or perhaps being smacked with a club or running into a tree), a character would usually lose his or her memory, but would fully regain the memory with a subsequent and equally traumatic head trauma. However, in Breaking Bad, if say, an ATM machine fell on a character's head, they were killed instantly, with lots of oozing blood and maybe a little twitching.<br />
<br />
Both shows had colorful supporting characters with their own endearing hallmark phrases: Gilligan's Island with Thurston Howell III ("Lovey!!!") and Breaking Bad with Walt Junior ("Mom, that's BULLSHIT!") Both had annoying shrews in the cast: Gilligan's Island had the ever-irritating "Lovey" Howell and Breaking Bad had that shrill harpy Marie. I wished on many occasions that Lovey would stumble, fall or be flung into an active volcano or get herself chewed to death by a cartload of angry rabid chimps while taking some sun. Similarly, I often hoped Marie would have a gruesome, bloody accident while cleaning Hank's .45, or get in a gruesome, bloody accident involving a bus or an oil truck and lots of fire.<br />
<br />
Coincidence? I think not.<br />
<br />
Whatever the case, my childhood would not have been the same without the antics of the zany castaways in one of the worst shows ever produced, and I cannot deny being affected by the dizzyingly wild ride of Breaking Bad, questionably one of the best. They are, in my opinion, the all-time Gilligan Yin and Gilligan Yang of television and for that, we thank you Gilligans. And Yo, bitches, I'll go tell the others.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com200tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669520259273658275.post-10109777436486836122013-08-17T18:35:00.003-07:002013-08-17T18:38:25.138-07:00The Best Defense is a Strong OffenseFADE IN:<br />
<br />
INT. JERRY'S CAR (Nighttime). Colored lights swirl in the rearview mirror. Jerry has been pulled over by the local constabulary.<br />
JERRY<br />
(Looking in his rearview mirror at the pretty lights. Slurs) Goddamn it...<br />
<br />
A POLICE OFFICER shines his flashlight into the driver's side window. Jerry squints and smiles.<br />
<br />
JERRY<br />
Good evening...<br />
<br />
OFFICER<br />
Do you know why I pulled you over, Sir?<br />
<br />
Jerry blinks and squints and thinks for a moment.<br />
<br />
JERRY<br />
To tell me the winning lottery numbers, lest I neglect to check on my own?<br />
<br />
OFFICER<br />
May I see your license and registration, please?<br />
<br />
JERRY<br />
Of course. (Rummages through his glove box for the materials)<br />
<br />
OFFICER<br />
Your car smells like a brewery, sir. (He takes the paperwork in hand)<br />
<br />
JERRY <br />
(Nods) Yes, sir. We were brewing beer in here earlier. Tomorrow, we are stomping wine grapes. It's part of a reality series on mobile distilleries.<br />
<br />
OFFICER<br />
Your eyes are red and your pupils are dilated.<br />
<br />
JERRY<br />
(Nods) I am part albino. It's a curse, truly.<br />
<br />
OFFICER<br />
(Nods) I see. (Shines his light into the back seat - a blow-up sex dummy waits invitingly, mouth wide open, either in surprise or welcome) Is this part of your reality series?<br />
<br />
JERRY<br />
(Nods) Yes sir. That's Rita.<br />
<br />
OFFICER<br />
(Shines his light onto the floorboard, revealing a WWII-era flamethrower)<br />
And that?<br />
<br />
JERRY<br />
Yes sir. It helps with the distilling process. It's pretty technical.<br />
<br />
There is a banging noise from the trunk.<br />
<br />
OFFICER<br />
What's that?<br />
<br />
JERRY<br />
Search me... I think I need to speak to my lawyer...<br />
<br />
Jerry hands the officer a well-worn business card.<br />
<br />
OFFICER<br />
(Shines his flashlight on the card) Gerald Gavin, is it?<br />
<br />
JERRY<br />
(Nods and smiles) Esquire.<br />
<br />
OFFICER<br />
I'll be right back... (The officer goes back to his car to call the attorney)<br />
<br />
The thumping continues.<br />
<br />
JERRY<br />
(Shouts) SHUT UP, TAGGART, OR WE'RE ALL GOING TO PRISON!<br />
<br />
The thumping stops.<br />
<br />
The officer walks back to the car.<br />
<br />
OFFICER<br />
(Hands Jerry the card) I'm afraid your attorney is in jail, sir...<br />
<br />
JERRY<br />
Jail?<br />
<br />
OFFICER<br />
Custody, yes...<br />
<br />
JERRY<br />
(Sighs and shakes his head) Fuck.... Again?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com201tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669520259273658275.post-70982636266893085222013-07-10T12:08:00.001-07:002013-07-10T18:28:52.534-07:00Next Stop - Assisted Living!<div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-c8AcrQH_RYw/Ud2p-YcpsVI/AAAAAAAACZE/gf8S0WjaI-Y/s1600/old-toothless-man-laughing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="314" nya="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-c8AcrQH_RYw/Ud2p-YcpsVI/AAAAAAAACZE/gf8S0WjaI-Y/s320/old-toothless-man-laughing.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I turned 53 years old yesterday and obviously, most of my better days are behind me. Now I can look forward to easing gracefully into my golden years with a colorful vocabulary and a keen eye for the absurdities in life, both finely-honed after decades of diligent observation and commentary. This may or may not serve me well.<br />
<br />
Assuming that I will most likely serve out my final years alone, given that I have yet to find a female on earth who has proven hearty enough to endure me for more than a cursory cup of coffee (the latest next-ex-Mrs. Ford has proven durable, but this can most-likely be attributed to the fact that we have spent most of our marriage in separate countries), I am gnawing at the bit for the day when I can finagle my way into assisted living.<br />
<br />
I know that most old-folks put up a fuss, fighting this move with every fiber in their elderly being, declaring loudly, if not lucidly, that they "WILL NOT GIVE UP" their independence. Pffffffft, I say. Have at it - I have long since come to terms with the realization that I am at best a horrible manager of my independence and would prefer to have someone else do it for me, as well as make my bed, do my laundry, change my diaper and fill my sippy-cup with cheap Scotch. This will give me more time to concentrate on crossword puzzles, internet porn, Matlock reruns and the perfect, delicate balance of tasty cheese, meat stick and cracker.<br />
<br />
I would delight in never having to mow another lawn, skim another pool, fold another load of laundry, replace another fuse, gasket, fixture, bulb or nozzle of any kind for the rest of my life, unless it fine-tunes my sippy-cup to optimum sipping-power. My schedule would work as follows:<br />
<br />
5:30 AM: Rise early, log into the internet, write some if feeling up to it. If not, read news and figure out which nuggets might be skimmed and blogged about in appropriately crusty fashion. Really just killing time until 5:50.<br />
<br />
5:50 AM: Take care of business. My digestive system has been reliable for over 5 decades and at this point, I do not anticipate any change in the "Twenty Minute Rule" in the near future, unless I suddenly inexplicably become addicted to pain killers or some other substance that might cause unanticipated and unprecedented unruly constipation.<br />
<br />
6:00 AM: Stroll to the common area to see if any of the ladies are up and about, stop by the kitchen to see what's cooking and when it will be ready to eat. Browbeat the staff as needed.<br />
<br />
6:30 AM: Claim place on the common area couch and commandeer the television remote. Search through the 500-plus channels that I am no longer forced to pay for and see if Matlock is on anywhere. If not, find suitable news or sports channel. Nap until breakfast. Sit on remote (literally) while napping to make certain none of those other sneaky sons of bitches try to get at it.<br />
<br />
7:30 AM: Eat quickly and efficiently. Take any meds that require food and drink plenty of juice. Remember that I am not responsible for buying the groceries, so eat seconds whenever possible, as long as it doesn't interfere with getting back to the common area couch before the others. If it looks as if there might be a challenger to the lead seat on the common area couch, create a diversion by sweeping plates onto the floor. Feign a seizure or dementia as needed.<br />
<br />
8:00 AM: Challenge all comers to an invigorating game of Risk, working down the board-game food-chain in the following order: Monopoly, Life, ScatterGories, Chutes and Ladders and finally Tic-Tac-Toe. Make sure games are on hand and plenty of soft-leaded pencils. Crush competitors. If challenged for a victory, sweep games onto the floor. Feign a seizure or dementia as needed.<br />
<br />
9:00 AM: Tune in to "Matlock", advise all others in the common room that there will be a quiz after the episode. Chuckle, guffaw or smile knowingly as appropriate and use these key moments to make eye contact with the most attractive ladies in attendance. Keep an eye out for any chippy would-be rivals. Note their room locations. Bribe orderlies as needed.<br />
<br />
!0:30 AM: Take a walk around the well-manicured grounds with the most feisty of the ladies on hand at the Matlock viewing. If there is a walker involved, make certain the little lady has fresh tennis balls on the feet of the contraption. Safety first. Ask her to meet after dinner in the Rumpus Room.<br />
<br />
10:32 AM: Turn back for the safety of the common area, take oxygen as needed and visually identify the location of the remote. After re-invigoration, sit next to the person with the remote. During a commercial break, snatch the remote away from the usurper. Wrestle the device away if necessary. Use teeth, feet and elbows to obtain the remote. Feign seizure or dementia as needed.<br />
<br />
11:00 AM: Nap on couch, again sitting on the remote. Those wily sons of bitches are ruthless. Like zombies with dentures.<br />
<br />
12:00 PM: Eat lunch, again with efficiency. Hide remote in underpants throughout, No need to rush - enjoy lunch. It's the most important meal of the day. Have seconds whenever possible - remember, the grub does not cost extra.<br />
<br />
1:00 PM: Take note of the ladies who do not immediately fall asleep after lunch. They will be the feistiest later. Use the soft-lead pencils.<br />
<br />
1:15 PM: Nap in the common room. Put on an old-timey movie if possible and cozy up to a feisty Betty if possible. This will pay off in spades later.<br />
<br />
2:15 PM: Take meds, drink some juice and begin asking for the Scotch Sippy-Cup. Bribe orderlies as necessary.<br />
<br />
3:00 PM: Volunteer to lead afternoon activities. Suggest "Spin The Bottle", "Seven Minutes in Heaven" and "Strip Poker". Settle for a lively round of "Twister" and break out the baby oil. Bribe orderlies as needed.<br />
<br />
3:15 PM: Go to room for refractory period and take a nap. Take a lively Betty, if possible. Use as capable.<br />
<br />
4:30 PM: Dismiss the lively Betty and shower up for dinner. Don't forget to use soap and be vigorous.<br />
<br />
5:00 PM: Dine with the group. Have extra helpings of dumplings, gravy, cornbread and/or cobbler as available. These increase vigor - it's been studied and documented.<br />
<br />
6:00 PM: Break out the ukulele and lead a singalong of old-timey favorites and bawdy sea-shanties and encourage synchronized dancing. Try to include those with walkers - they tire quickly and will sleep well afterward. Consider it a gift.<br />
<br />
7:00 PM: Sneak a re-fill of the sippy-cup. Meet Betty in rumpus room. Bribe orderlies as needed. Use time wisely, then take a short nap.<br />
<br />
8:00 PM: Take television remote out of underpants and find a suitable movie for evening viewing. Something recent and topical, like "Tootsie", "Escape From New York" or "Rocky". Once the movie is chosen, give up the remote and shout for popcorn and more Scotch. Fall asleep as needed.<br />
<br />
9:30 PM: Allow transportation to room by orderlies - make eye contact with feisty Betties along the way - you never know, Sleep well and dream of jangly, three-chord pop music with tight harmonies.<br />
<br />
Repeat until called to live with Jesus.<br />
<br />
Bring it on!<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com129tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669520259273658275.post-82728412020474743932013-07-06T14:25:00.001-07:002013-07-06T14:25:46.768-07:00Stuff It Up Your *ss.<span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Anyone who has ever watched "Inside the Actor's Studio", with its creepy host, James Lipton, is familiar with the questions based on the "Proust Questionnaire" that Lipton lobs to his guests at the end of the show. "What turns you on?" "What turns you off?" "What sound or noise do you love?", etc. Blah, blah, blah... I don't care if Dustin Hoffman loves the sound of his own self-important voice rattling around in that huge, self-important head of his. </div>
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The question that always grabs my attention is "What is your favorite curse word?" Of course, since the show is on Bravo, the curse word is generally bleeped out anyhow, leaving the answer limp and ineffective. I am not a good lip-reader, so unless the person in charge of the bleeping is talented, I usually have no clue. The talented bleeper on the other hand, can make the bleeped out curseword as apparent as if it had not been bleeped at all. Instead of hearing **** off!, one hears *uck off! - much more exciting.</div>
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But I am not writing today to discuss bleeping out cursewords, or even to dive into the Actor's Studio. I am writing to discuss my own newest, favoritest curse word. Actually, it's a phrase. My old favorite was "horsesh*t", followed closely by "sh*t*ss". That's how they would be bleeped by a talented bleeper. It seems I have a thing for fecal-based cursing. Along those lines, my new favorite curse-phrase is "Stuff it up your *ss". I have made it a point to bring this up to several colleagues, friends and co-workers, resulting in varying degrees of uncomfortable conversation, depending on the person with whom I conversed. What the *ell, I thought they needed to know...</div>
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My reasoning for "Stuff it up your *ss" is simple. It is an elegant, powerful statement. If you tell someone to "stick" something up their *ss, it almost seems like asking them to shelve a book for you, or hand you the salt. To "shove" something up one's *ss is a bit more powerful, but in the manner of being a sudden shock, like dipping one's toes in icy water. On the other hand, if you "stuff" something up your *ss, you've undertaken a project that is going to be long, painful, strenuous and perhaps impossible.</div>
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And I like that thought, because if I am angry or annoyed enough to tell someone to "stuff your attitude up your *ss!", I want them to take awhile to work on it and know it's there when they've finished. When telling someone off and tossing out the suggestion thatthe argument should ultimately end up in your listener's *ss, there is a delicate balance between being dismissive ("stick it up your *ss.") and overly forceful ("ram it up your *ss."). Which is why "stuff it up your *ss" is such a beautiful send off. It is the perfect blend of contempt and power. </div>
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I have been bandying the phrase about with abandon, enjoying the way it rolls off the tongue. While watching "Tombstone" lastnight on television, I noted that one of the lesser Clantons told Wyatt Earp to "stuff it up your *ss!" I was amazed at the young man's moxie, but also knew without a doubt that his time on earth was now limited. One must be wary to whom you levy the "stuff it up your *ss". It is a fine rejoinder, but should be used with caution.</div>
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James Lipton: "What is your favorite curseword?" Jerry: "Stuff it up your *ss."</div>
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James Lipton: "What sound makes you happy?" Jerry: "The sound of you stuffing your questions up your *ss."</div>
</span>(From February, 2011)</span><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com196tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669520259273658275.post-26825498131462127132013-06-27T15:34:00.001-07:002013-06-29T15:39:27.727-07:00"Hand me a Tums - I think I'm going to barf."<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I was asked to settle a distpute this morning. A co-worker asked me what a single antacid tablet from the "Tums" bottle is called - a "Tum", or a "Tums"? <br />
<br />
I thought for a moment and said, "A Tum." She frowned. "But it's a brand name," she said. I frowned, too. She is pregnant and I didn't want to make a wrong turn here and send her into a crying jag or an angry pregnant frenzy. "Good point," I said.<br />
<br />
My mind went to work. "Did you Google it?" She hadn't, so I did. I turned to the World Wide Web, which told me that one should not singularize a brand name. I continued to frown. Though it proved her right - and I agreed in principal - it did not feel right to me. "Would you say 'hand me a Tums'?" I asked. "Yes," she said. "That's what I say." <br />
<br />
I nodded.<br />
<br />
Some things lend themselves to leaving the "S" intact without question. Like Schnapps. One would not ask for a shot of Schnapp. One would be summarily slapped by any bartender worth his salt - especially if the bartender was German. Aside from Schnapps, I cannot think of many trademarked brand names ending in the letter "S" that sound anything less than silly when spoken aloud when asking for a single item from its package. To whit:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>"Yeah, buddy, a Fig Newtons sounds fantastic right about now..."</li>
<li>"My ear is clogged - hand me a Q-Tips, stat..."</li>
<li>"My Twinkies is a little light on the delightful cream filling..."</li>
<li>"The baby has shit himself - hand me a Wet Wipes! And get me a fresh Pampers!"</li>
<li>"I would like a Skittles, please - just one..."</li>
<li>I dropped an M&Ms - the rest are in my belly..."</li>
</ul>
I would like to think that my initial call was spot-on - World Wide Web and its grammar police be damned. As I have said many times, this is a time of change. Revolt is in the air - rebellion imminent. When I am duly elected King (again, apparently not eligible for Pope), we will have grammatical rules based in common sense, which is apparently not so common. While I do not wish to be slapped silly by a surly German bartender, I am equally adverse to sounding like an ignorant hillbilly when I ask for someone to hand me "a Wet Wipes". <br />
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Singularize when applicable, I say. And stay strong on the Schnapps. Unknownnoreply@blogger.com200tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669520259273658275.post-44517158467317260012013-06-07T08:32:00.001-07:002013-06-08T06:49:36.494-07:00The Big, Colorful Typewriter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I once considered the computer to be nothing more than a big, colorful typewriter. Then, at some point it became the powerful magic box that through a series of mystifying keystrokes, aided by swift, assured mouse-clicks and atonal humming on my part, had the ability to find any piece of information in the known universe. With photographs, if desired. The computer, and <em>its</em> associated universe – the internet, is the modern-day equivalent to the old, stately home of knowledge, the Encyclopedia Britannica. The internet is an endless storehouse of information, which if printed, bound and stacked as actual books, would stretch from here to the third moon of Jupiter. Twice. This is a fact; I checked on Google.<br />
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On my big, colorful typewriter, I can also watch television, listen to music, pay my bills and type instant messages to friends and family across the land. It was one of the watershed moments of my life when I realized that I might never need lick an envelope again, rating right up there with the invention of the self-adhesive stamp, which eliminated the need to ever lick a stamp again. Licking paper was one of the banes of my childhood. <br />
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But I digress.<br />
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The big, colorful typewriter has evolved into a small colorful typewriter and then a handheld colorful typewriter with tiny little perfect keys. Then my telephone disappeared and was replaced by an even smaller colorful typewriter on which I could now telephone my friends and family across the land, as well as send them succinct text messages with complete sentences and flawless spelling and grammar. I have read that my telephone has more power than the computer that NASA used to send the Apollo astronauts to the moon. That makes me giddy. Soon, I imagine I will be fitted with a miniscule chip that will enable me to accomplish a multitude of tasks using little more than thought.<br />
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I have watched my children grow up as the computer has developed and adapt to the move into technological savvy and now see a new generation of users that know no different. There is a video on YouTube (I watched it on my computer – the small one) of a baby swiping at a magazine as if he could make the picture on the cover larger by placing his fingers on the page and moving his thumb and forefinger apart, as he would on an IPad. The baby didn’t know to turn the page, which I considered not only a senseless tragedy, but a true sign of the times. <br />
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I come from a simpler age and must admit that I miss the sound of the typewriter clacking away and trying to get to the television to change the channel with the telephone cradled between my shoulder and cheek while stretching to the very end of the phone’s cord to reach the knob. My kids will never have to do this. Nor will the babies with their IPads. I could rant a little bit about things “the way they used to be”, but I realize that I never had to chop wood to cook my meals, shoot, grow or pick my food or ride a horse to work. It’s called progress and at my age, it’s “put up or shut up” and we must roll with the changes or be left behind in a cloud of… Well, a cloud of information, because according to Google, that’s where the information lives<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com202tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669520259273658275.post-3778140583714168372013-06-03T07:05:00.003-07:002013-06-03T07:13:52.748-07:00My Baby Name List Is Cooler Than Yours.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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A friend and colleague at work is having a baby. It's going to be a boy when it emerges and I have, for several months now, made various suggestions as to the moniker of the little tyke, most of which have been met with disdain.<br />
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Since the choices I have offered up to this point have been mostly whimsical, I have decided to pen the ultimate Baby Name List, using logic, history and phonetics to come up with the coolest male baby names from which to choose. Girl names are easy - simply avoid names like Edith, Gertrude and Eloise. And stripper-names - avoid those, too.<br />
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The surname of the family with which I have to work is of an excellent naming base. Two syllables, both hard stops - as if it has been clipped neatly from the name-tree. "Richards". This is a fine name for pairing one, two or three syllable first-names, which gives us a broad canvas on which to paint. But let's talk first about the basics of baby-naming.<br />
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It seems to me that baby names fall into two logical categories: <br />
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<strong>"Names Which Ring True" </strong>Names Which Ring True are names that elicit reaction as they are spoken, and these fall into several sub-categories, such as "Phonetically Pleasing", which are names that just seem to roll off the tongue in a pleasant fashion. Dana Carvey, Helen Hunt and Mickey Mantle are examples of these. Easy to say with a smile on your face. These names ring true at a visceral level.<br />
"Historically Noble" is another sub-category. Names that are culled from history, such as Alexander, Jesus, Noah and Christopher are practically torn from the pages of history and each name brings a historical figure immediately to mind. This can backfire, however, with names like Adolf, Saddam, Lee Harvey and Milhouse. Make your historically-based choices carefully.<br />
"Sports Figures and Other Celebrities" is the last of the major "Ring True" sub-categories and is probably one of the most popular. Movie stars, characters from movies, books and TV as well as cultural icons all fall under this umbrella. How many babies have been named "Britney", "Justin" or "Lindsay" in the last 15 years, anyhow? You get the point.<br />
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<strong>"Names of Predisposition"</strong> Names of this type are the most dangerous of all. Stripper names fall into this category. "Destiny", "Angel", "Candy", "Raven", "Houston" and "Anastasia" should be avoided at all costs. Since this is a male-based name search, we will leave it at that. Predisposition is almost like a science experiment. Names chosen in this fashion nearly guarantee the profession and life-course of the child. The names "Peabody" and "Poindexter" will most likely make you the proud parent of a librarian or civil engineer. "Jerry Lee" anything will provide your offspring with the likeliest chance of living in a trailer, owning a cache of firearms and taking a potshot at a political, religious or equal rights public figure with the firearms. <br />
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Now, down to work on Baby Richards.Here is a logical list, based on our criteria, broken down by group:<br />
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<strong><em>Names Which Ring True</em></strong><br />
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<em>Phonetically Pleasing:</em><br />
<ul>
<li>Kent Richards</li>
<li>Blair Richards</li>
<li>Brock Richards</li>
<li>Phillip Richards</li>
<li>Bradley Richards</li>
</ul>
These names just sound nice - people would enjoy saying them and might always choose to use both first and last names when addressing your son, which is the ultimate show of respect in some countries.<br />
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<em>Historically Noble:</em><br />
<ul>
<li>Grant Richards</li>
<li>Beauregard Richards</li>
<li>Sherman Richards</li>
<li>Lincoln Richards</li>
<li>Kennedy Richards</li>
<li>Sampson Richards</li>
<li>Aristotle Richards</li>
<li>Einstein Richards</li>
<li>Washington Richards</li>
<li>Crispus Richards</li>
</ul>
These names are regal. Any man would be proud to sign "Beauregard Richards" to any legal document. In fact, I may start doing so immediately.<br />
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<em>Sports Figures and other Celebrities:</em><br />
<ul>
<li>Cassius Richards</li>
<li>Babe Richards</li>
<li>Frazier Richards</li>
<li>Rocky Richards</li>
<li>Clooney Richards</li>
<li>Pitt Richards</li>
<li>Bourne Richards</li>
<li>Marlowe Richards</li>
<li>Bogart Richards</li>
<li>Cary Richards</li>
<li>Orson Richards</li>
<li>Dino Richards</li>
<li>Huck Richards</li>
</ul>
You get the idea. This is probably the most fun category and I really like "Pitt Richards" - that boy will be an adventurer for certain. Good looking kid, too, most likely.<br />
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As a footnote, any Earp is a keen baby name: Wyatt, Morgan, Virgil... All will kick ass and grow a fantastic mustache.<br />
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I don't want to get too in-depth on the predisposal - I think this category is a powder keg. That said, if you would like your child to grow up to be a flamboyant piano player, go with the name "Elton", or "Liberace" - "Lee", for short. Or, you could utilize the baby-name double-tap and name the child "Elton Liberace Richards" - this would guarantee for certain that your son will grow up with a penchant for feathers, plumes, capes and gaudy jewelry. And a wicked talent for "tickling the ivories", so to speak.<br />
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I hope this helps, or at least gets you started. Jerry Ford, here to help.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com202tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669520259273658275.post-84026349918105258542013-05-30T04:14:00.002-07:002013-05-30T06:25:16.338-07:00Thoughts At Three (Episode 1)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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3am is my own personal, hellish witching hour. All the ghosts, goblins and things that go bump in the night must be already turned in for peaceful slumber after the standard 12am witching hour, because things always seem to be pretty quiet at 3am. Although this morning I had the pleasure of hearing two cats going at each other viciously somewhere close by. With my luck, they probably found a way into my car and that's where are the cat-piss and fur from the bout will be found come sunrise. I have personally never used my car as a boxing ring, but then again, I am not a cat. I'm sure it would make a dandy one - especially if they figured out how to turn the radio on. I usually have the radio set to a station that would play perfect music for catfight accompaniment. I seem to hear "Eye of the Tiger" monthly, which usually gets my blood running and leads to me being pulled over and either warned or ticketed for speeding. <br />
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But I am not sitting at my desk at 3:41am to talk about catfights - unless there is a filmed version of a Sophia Loren/Raquel Welch offering from the mid 60's, then by all means, I shall review.<br />
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<em> "The Battle of the Super-Vixens" - Fight of the Century - Meow!</em></div>
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I am hear to talk about The Beaver. No, not Jerry Mathers and certainly not the much sought-after area of the female body that has lovingly been dubbed with that moniker. I am talking about the beaver that lives in the wild, building dams, swimming playfully in the world's rivers and slapping beaver-messages to their friends and family on the surface of the water with their tails. <em>That</em> Beaver.<br />
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In Belarus, a man died after being attacked by a beaver, which made me kind of sad. I thought, "So, in Belarus, it's come to this..." Then I read further and it was revealed that the beaver had attacked the 60 year-old man after he had grabbed the animal in order to have his photograph taken with it. I had always thought of the people of Belarus as kind and gentle, wise in the ways of the world, with impeccable taste. After all, according to my statistics, folks from Belarus have read my blog, presumably using the translating function that I made available for my foreign readers. However, I must amend my position on the Belarusiusians after reading of the beaver attack and subsequent death. I now know that they simply have impeccable taste - if only in their chosen reading materials.<br />
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Here's my thought: Why in God's name would you want to have your photograph taken with a beaver so badly that you would <em>grab</em> it? Though the beaver spends most of its time in the water, I still can't imagine that it smells very nice. And who knows what unpredictable mood the beaver might be in when you paw at it? Perhaps (and obviously, in retrospect), beavers do not enjoy the human touch and perhaps (and obviously, in retrospect), it might even agitate them to the point of attack - so why bother. Take your photo from a distance, perhaps poking your head, or a pointing finger into the frame, and get back in your little Belarusian car and keep moving.<br />
<br />
Even this city boy would balk at grabbing a beaver. Any wildlife, really, but beaver in particular. <em>They chew down trees</em>. This would be akin to accosting a three-foot long, 60 lb., deliciously furry chainsaw, equipped with a speedy tail that could slap you to the other side of Tuesday. My message here is simple - stay away from the beaver. All wildlife if possible, the beaver in particular. Also, go back to bed and get some sleep - what in the fuck are you doing up at 4:15 in the morning, anyhow? Sweet dreams... <br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com200tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669520259273658275.post-46046614820385493612013-05-18T08:01:00.000-07:002013-05-18T09:29:34.413-07:00Winning the Lottery, or "Money Runs From Me."<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I was rifling through Yahoo News at a blistering pace, given my Speed-Reading ability and God-given talent for sifting through treacle for the juicy nuggets, when I came across an article titled "5 Better Investments Than the Lottery". <em>This sounds boring</em>, I thought. The lottery itself is naturally disposed to being a fantastic topic for a variety of reasons, none of which is "what are 5 better investments?" <br />
<br />
Among the most awesome lottery topics, in my opinion would be "Lottery Gone Bad", "The 5 Greatest Lottery Hoaxes of All Time", "How to Squander 60 Million Dollars of Lottery Bounty in 30 Days", "Sex, Drugs and Really Fast Cars - My Lottery Adventure", or "How The Lottery Bought Me an Island, My Own Cable Network, Three Midget Manservants and Raquel Welch In A Bikini".<br />
<br />
Certainly not "5 Better Investments Than the Lottery". <br />
<br />
But I'll bet you're wondering what the investments are... Here's what they <em>aren't</em>:<br />
<ul>
<li>Jerry's Alligator and Reptile Emporium</li>
<li>Bed, Bath and XXX Beyond</li>
<li>Iron Man Suits, LTD.</li>
<li>The Benjamin Button Traveling Roadshow and Circus</li>
<li><em>The Feces</em> - The World's First Human-Waste-Powered Automobile</li>
</ul>
No, believe it or not - not a single one of these world-class investment opportunities even cracked the top 100 Better Investments Than the Lottery. The Reason: They are my brilliant ideas and would most likely prove financially devastating for any investor. Why? <em>Because money runs from me.</em> I was having a lively conversation with Michael Lyon the other day and I was detailing the latest of my financial implosions, prattling on about some legal fee, or overpriced auto repair or ruthless collection agency, underhanded hooker or convincing panhandler, and he shook his head and said to me, "Money runs from you, doesn't it..." I nodded vigorously. "Like I was chasing it with a poleaxe," I said, solemnly. <br />
<br />
Later, we were IMing (on my lunch hour, of course - I would never think of wasting company time discussing my financial ineptitude on company time) and the phrase came up again - <em>money runs from you doesn't it... </em>I understand that he was trying to undercut my generally indefatigable self-esteem, which is a laughable and largely fruitless waste of his time, but still - it cut to the chase. "Yes, it does," I replied. "Like I was carrying a torch and a pitchfork... Like I was the Last Train to Dachau... Like I was carrying a see-through bag of kitten-heads... Like I had my dick out... Like I was spraying it with a fire-hose of sewage, with a dusting of the HIV virus and some crushed and finely-ground kitten-heads..." He had made his point and I had made mine. His point was that I was financially challenged. Mine was that I don't like kittens.<br />
<br />
That said, even my extreme, unequalled inability to manage a freshly-minted dime does not prevent me from dreaming of what dazzling changes of life might be in store if I were to actually win, inherit, or earn from forward-thinking circusery some staggering windfall that even my lusty mismanagement could not deplete. The automobile run on human excrement notwithstanding, I think I could come up with a few genuine services to humanity to bankroll that could possibly win me a Pulitzer Prize, or Nobel Prize, or some lesser prize that could be purchased through generous donation. The FartVac comes to mind - a hip-pocket device that detects flatulence and sucks up the odor and repurposes it in the scent of Halston Z-14 Cologne. The list of ideas is endless and in fact, I cannot wait to win the Lottery so that I can begin work on this and other worthy prototypes. Start dusting a shelf above the opulent fireplace of my yet-to-be-purchased mansion in Malibu for Mr. Pulitzer.<br />
<br />
Oh, here are the "5 Better Investments Than the Lottery":<br />
<ul>
<li>Pay down credit card debt</li>
<li>Boost your 401(K) contributions</li>
<li>Open a Roth IRA</li>
<li>Increase mortgage payments</li>
<li>Invest in a taxable account</li>
</ul>
I don't know what most of things even mean and even the simple act of typing them out has given me a robust and angry headache, but I feel as if I have now done my civic duty in providing you with the information. <br />
<br />
That said, I am off to the store to buy several hundred dollars worth of tickets for the monumental lottery drawing this evening, which I am nearly certain to win. Take that, poor money management - that will show you... Until then, if you want to invest in my FartVac prototype and get in on the ground floor, I am willing to take you along for the ride.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com201tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669520259273658275.post-18084265873082938742013-03-09T21:22:00.001-07:002013-03-09T21:22:07.433-07:00Currey the Gent, Part 2 (an excerpt from "Mangiafico's")
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.2in;">
Currey awoke
that afternoon with a head that felt like it had been beaten with a bag of
quarters. He was naked in his own bed and at first didn’t recall that he had
spent the better part of the morning driving home from the West side with a
stolen lamp buckled into his passenger seat. In the painful, stock-hangover
period of pre-wakefulness that lends itself to neither lucid thought nor fast
action, his ravaged body fought to keep the memory banks foggy. For those few
waking moments, before the headache overwhelmed him and the memories of the
morning’s drive came flooding back into his mind, it was nearly possible to
believe that he had merely consumed too many cocktails and made his way safely
to his own home and bed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.2in;">
“Lamp…” Currey
forced open his eyes—the afternoon light was painful. He felt like a vampire
that would surely turn to a pile of useless dust any moment. He hoped it would
happen soon, if it would rid him of the next few hours’ misery. “Lamp…”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.2in;">
Currey sat up in
bed and groaned, still not certain why he was mumbling the word “lamp”. Then,
he sniffed and smelled her. Her smell was on him—not just her perfume, which
lingered on his skin, but the smell of sex. Sweat, perfume and sex. “Oooh,
yeah…” He nodded, a slight smile tracing his lips. Then it all came back to
him—the dark hair, the drive home, the<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">
lamp</i>. It had been a big son of a bitch, that much he remembered for sure.
He couldn’t recall her name, however. Or her face, really—the night was a blur.
He vaguely recalled sex, mostly by the smell, and wondered if it had been any
good. He had never had any complaints, but then again, he was rarely around
long enough afterward to hear them, were they to come.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.2in;">
He hoped she had
been pretty. If he picked up an ugly girl at Ton 80, he would never hear the
end of it. Raje wouldn’t give a shit—Currey thought that mostly he thought
nothing at all of women. To Raje, women were there to have his children,
nothing more, nothing less. If they could accomplish this and keep their mouth
shut at the same time, their jobs were secure. He cared only about bringing his
Indian Mafia to its imminent grand magnificence. Aaron and Raje’s cousin Yogesh
were another story; these two drooling puss-hounds would needle him to no end
about going home with an ugly girl.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.2in;">
Currey ambled to
the bathroom, his eyes still half-closed, and stood over the toilet for a good
two minutes emptying the reservoir that had accumulated over the course of his
morning slumber. He thought again of the girl, wishing he could remember her
face. Perhaps he should have sneaked to the other side of the bed and stolen a
glance, but he had been too concerned with finding his clothes. Escape was
always at the top of the agenda and there was usually no time for such trivial
luxuries such as glances.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.2in;">
He yawned and scratched
his arm and wandered to the kitchen for some juice—juice of any sort usually
helped wash away some of the residual pins and needles and help replenish his
spent electrolytes. Then he spotted the lamp. He had apparently set it on the
kitchen table upon his arrival—as it turned out, there was no other table in
the apartment that would accommodate its massive elegance. It had transformed
the otherwise drab and nondescript kitchen into a kind of impromptu shrine to
the beautiful lamp. Where one would have never pictured a stunning piece of ceramic
beauty in the room, it now seemed perfect. The lamp had taken ownership of the
kitchen, if not the entire dwelling.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.2in;">
Currey sat down
at the table, his juice for the moment forgotten, and stared at the lamp,
occasionally reaching out to stroke one of its delicate curves. It had been a
valuable find and Currey smiled to himself, his headache abating, the hangover
becoming less brutal by the moment. He loved his new lamp. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.2in;">
He turned back
to the window, his hand still resting on the comforting base of the lamp. A
Ryder moving van backed up to a curb in the parking lot and two strapping young
men hopped out of the cab and opened the back roll-up door of the truck. It was
packed full of belongings – Currey could see end tables and couch cushions, a
floor lamp, some moving boxes and laundry baskets stuffed full of linens,
clothing and knick-knacks. He wondered what the story was of the people moving
in. A relationship ending, perhaps? Maybe one beginning. Someone moving out of
a house, or moving into an apartment while his house was being built. Single
lady, or man, or a couple with kids. Currey finished his juice and searched the
back of the truck for clues as the two young men loaded boxes onto a dolly.
Maybe they were roommates, he thought. Or gay. Currey shrugged and gave the
lamp a loving pat and got up to rinse his juice glass. He hoped it was a single
woman. Then he resolved to sit at the table while the two men unloaded the
truck to see if he could puzzle together the answer to the mystery of the new
neighbor. And he would keep his eye out for a companion piece for his new lamp
– just in case.<o:p></o:p></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com160tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669520259273658275.post-24435744929566669502013-03-09T21:08:00.002-07:002013-03-09T21:11:13.387-07:00Currey the Gent, Part 1 (an excerpt from "Mangiafico's")
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.2in;">
Currey was
startled awake when the hair began to move. He opened his eyes and glanced
anxiously at the mass of black on the pillow. It rustled and turned and when
the moment was right, Currey slipped his arm from beneath the rustling body and
sat up in the bed. He rubbed his arm and pins and needles shot through it as
the blood began to rush back into the limb. Currey grimaced and continued to
rub the arm. He looked at the shape beneath the covers. She was a small woman,
not too big around. The view of her was much better from this angle and he
began to become aroused. He looked away, trying to stick to the business at
hand, which was finding his clothes and getting out before she awoke. He
wondered if his car was outside. He hoped so. He had no idea where he was or
how far from home and he still had a shitty taste in his mouth and no
toothbrush, so the car would be a very nice thing to have close at hand. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.2in;">
He spotted his
pants in the corner. His boxers were close by, and his socks, but his shoes and
shirt were no where in sight. Feeling was returning to his arm and Currey was
relieved that there was no apparent lasting damage. He glanced again at the
sleeping form as he slipped from the bed. For a moment, Currey considered
slipping back under the covers to see what the body beneath felt like now that
he had sensation again. <i>Always with the arousal</i>. Currey shook his head. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Focus, </i>he thought. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Focus, Damn it!</i> He slapped his penis for being a nuisance. The girl
in the bed stirred—probably the sound, Currey figured and smiled to himself. He
eased out of the bed without incident and got his boxers on, then his pants. He
gathered up his socks and stuffed them in his pocket.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.2in;">
He made his way
to the living room, where his shirt lay on the floor by the front door. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Didn’t waste too much time, apparently,</i>
Currey thought, gathering up the shirt. Luckily, his shoes were draped over by <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the shirt, so he scooped those up as well and
sat on the sofa to put them on. He gazed about the room in a half-sleepy daze
and smiled. It was a pretty house, nicely decorated, with big lamps on the
end-tables. Big round lamps that were a deep burgundy with tan shades. Currey nodded—very
classy, he thought. Currey liked lamps. He had small lamps at his own place. He
pulled the blinds back on the window behind the couch and saw his car was
parked—albeit at an odd angle—in front of the house. He slipped his shirt on
and walked toward the front door. Then, he paused and went back to look at the
lamp a bit closer. It really <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> a
very nice lamp. After no more than a moment’s thought, Currey unplugged the
burgundy lamp and lifted it from the end-table. It was surprisingly heavy,
Currey thought, but then again, it was a very large lamp.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify; text-indent: 0.2in;">
He opened the
door quietly and closed it even more quietly behind him as he left, lamp in
tow. Ten minutes later, he had found his bearings—he had made his way all the
way to Glendale from Scottsdale, which was an impressive feat, considering how
much he had apparently had to drink—and bought a coffee at a Circle K on the
corner. Then, he was on his way back home for a much needed nap, with the huge
burgundy lamp belted in the passenger seat—after all, he would hate to break
such a magnificent lamp in a routine stop at a traffic light.<o:p></o:p></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com106tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669520259273658275.post-14940351215399425882013-02-22T16:28:00.001-07:002013-02-27T10:37:32.414-07:00"Dude Rules" - A Life Lesson<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AZjrG0BWZp0/USfyqOGOa1I/AAAAAAAABlU/wC4-4TAMB2s/s1600/jackie-cooper4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" mea="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-AZjrG0BWZp0/USfyqOGOa1I/AAAAAAAABlU/wC4-4TAMB2s/s320/jackie-cooper4.jpg" width="264" /></a></div>
I was speaking with a friend today and the idea of "dude rules" came up in the conversation. Her son had a set of rules - a code to live by - which I thought was admirable, since he's only seven. I did not have a code until I hit my teens, and even then it was at best questionable and mostly based on one day getting laid. "What kind of rules?" I asked. "Don't yell across the house at your mother," she said. "That's a start...Your rules, or his?" I asked. "Open doors," she said. <em>Hers,</em> I thought. This made the rules slightly less admirable. The fact that he was willing to embrace the rules at all at his age was still rather remarkable - when I was seven, all I wanted to do was play with dirt and pee out of doors.<br />
<br />
When I was a younger man and had yet to enter the caged octagon known as "Fatherhood", I imagined that all I ever really wanted in a child was someone I could cuff in the head when they were stupid and to teach how to master throwing and hitting a hanging curve ball. And to impart all my fatherly wisdom, especially when it came to things like common sense, etiquette and the delicate heart-shattering minefield known as "the fair sex". When I was in turn blessed with not one, but two lovely girls as my only offspring, I figured all the grand knowledge and man-wisdom that I had accrued over the decades would most likely go to waste, which was a grand tragedy, pure and simple.<br />
<br />
Then, blogs came along.<br />
<br />
I now have a way to share my wizened perspective with others and I try to do so at every opportunity. When I am not busy writing about Doomsday, the dangers of wildlife, the sea and circus clowns, or taking an introspective look at my digestive system and its seriously faulty wiring, I try to offer helpful tips and common sense strategies for maintaining a civil society. This includes being a decent human being and not a savage - which is more difficult than it sounds, apparently. I read every day about rape and murder and senseless assault in our own backyard and around the globe and I wonder what in the name of Jehoshaphat is going on here? <br />
<br />
Then I realized: <em>We have no distinct moral compass - no code. </em>In a world that is now based on instant gratification and an obsession with worldly goods and money, there is seemingly no room for common sense and decency, nor the time to teach it. Kids are learning their grammar by texting, their manners from cartoons and their ambition from video games. <br />
<br />
I began to think about rules and codes to live by and figured that I had ought to try to sit down and write a set - a sort of Constitution For Boys, to give a road map for behavior and perhaps provide some much-needed guidance for the wastrels that are growing up like stringy, half-witted weeds all around us. The youth of our nation weighs in the balance.<br />
<ul>
<li><em><strong>Keep your junk clean. </strong></em>Clean junk is the only kind to have - it makes you feel better, it doesn't itch as much and you never know when an emergency might come up and you might need it to save a life.</li>
<li><strong><em>Put the lid down.</em></strong> This might not save a life, but it's just good form, like chewing with your mouth shut and taking your hat off at the dinner table. </li>
<li><strong><em>Don't scratch your nuts in front of others. </em></strong>We're not animals, after all. Find a counter, or a couch to stand behind, then take care of the business. You'll look retarded, but you won't look like a savage.</li>
<li><strong><em>Spit only outside. </em></strong>Unless there is a sink or garbage can close by, try to refrain. Same goes with covering a nostril and blowing snot out the other - you never know where it's going to go. Just do it outside.</li>
<li><strong><em>Don't call women "bitches" or "ho's". </em></strong>Especially around women. Have a little respect.</li>
<li><strong><em>Remember, your friends' nuts have feelings, too. </em></strong>That's right, calm the fuck down. Until you've been kicked there yourself, keep your Keds on the floor.</li>
<li><strong><em>The Vagina is magic - treat it with reverence. </em></strong>But do not make eye contact.</li>
<li><strong><em>Baseball is as fun as football, simply more subtle and less violent. </em></strong>Learn baseball and you learn life.</li>
<li><strong><em>Don't fart when there are girls around - unless you are absolutely certain that it will be silent. </em></strong>Even then, make sure there is a dog handy to blame it on.</li>
<li><strong><em>Breasts are fun - treat them with reverence. </em></strong>But again, don't look them in the eye.</li>
<li><strong><em>Learn to palm a quarter - it will eventually get you laid. </em></strong>This is a throwback to my teenage code, but it has served me well, lo these many years.</li>
</ul>
I believe that this is enough for part one of this ongoing series. Stay tuned, learn and share. This knowledge is too valuable not to pass on.<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com202tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669520259273658275.post-22351729525231408462013-02-17T18:56:00.001-07:002013-02-18T09:42:10.617-07:00Jerry In Stir - A Life Lesson<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VvCiCfJlbTU/USF1OE31oHI/AAAAAAAABkg/GBGcG2ogtiE/s1600/Buster-Keaton-jail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-VvCiCfJlbTU/USF1OE31oHI/AAAAAAAABkg/GBGcG2ogtiE/s1600/Buster-Keaton-jail.jpg" /></a></div>
I just spent two days in Sheriff Joe Arpaio's Tent City for making the questionable decision to operate a motor vehicle under the influence of the demon rum and its sundry sister ales. There has been ample written about the facility and much fear served into the hearts of would-be miscreants who would dare dream of driving while inebriated. Unfortunately, when one is impaired, one is not usually thinking of these articles, or available videos and billboards - one is simply attempting to maneuver their way safely and without incident to their point of origin. Or a brothel, or another dram house. I am not one to judge - my point is this: If one is not prudent in these choices, one will pay the price in dollars and cents for legal advice and fines, extra fees for counseling (whether it is your bag or not) and assorted other fancies such as a monthly charge for an interlock device (or Car BJ, as it is known in the business), towing and reclamation of your life in the name of King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella of Spain. A costly affair.<br />
<br />
Tent City, in itself, is not bad in February. I have made a vow to myself that I fully intend to honor, that I will confine all of my criminal activities to the winter months. The nights are a trifle chilly, but nothing that can't be managed with four of the sheriff's pink blankets and a sturdy pea-coat. I imagine it is unbearable in the summer. The process of submitting one for incarceration is a seemingly simple one that is drawn out to take hours of time and years off the processee's life. I am nearly certain that I could streamline this clunky assembly line with little more than a decent project manager, two data entry individuals and a fully-charged tazer. It took me 12 hours from the point of recognition by authorities to the time when I was delivered, issued two blankets and cast into the shallows of Tent City. 12-Hours. That's three holding cells, a van that has no "off" switch for the heater and forty-five minutes of tap-dancing by the staff to tell me where the toilets are and to not put my penis through the fence for the delight and satisfaction of the female inmates on the other side. Seriously.<br />
<br />
I was warned by my counselor not to touch the food issued and upon espying the vittalia decided that he was spot-on in his recommendation. I ate 7 grapefruit from the lunch sacks in two days, forgoing all other options, augmented by two RC Colas and a bag of peanuts and some cheddar pretzels from the "Commissary", which consists of six vending machines in a tiny room. I was told that all items - from the striped uniforms worn by those in the "General Population" to the lunches in the bags and the snacks in the vending machines are donated by others and that the proceeds from the commissary are handled by Sheriff Joe's daughter who has, incidentally, been arrested. I am not one to complain - America was built on this kind of opportunity. Sounds like a fantastic gig.<br />
<br />
I met and organized a posse while in the holding tanks, mostly made up of young men - aged 19-28, who appreciated my take on the situation and my random suggestions for improvement. They called me "Boss", which I appreciated and each other "homeboy" or "homey". I nicknamed them, respectively, "Speedbump", "Kickstand", "Play-Doh" and "Bric-A-Brac". They seemed to enjoy these names and took to call each other by them, an act for which I took great pride. They asked me how jail was run in the Civil War and I obliged them with lofty tales of intrigue and espionage and they in turn filled me in on pills - narcotics, uppers, downers, muscle relaxers and speed, for which I had no intelligent reply. They did not hold this slack-jawed confusion against me and brought me goods from the commissary, so that I need not risk "breaking my hip". Cute little bastards...<br />
<br />
There was a tall, soft-spoken black man who looked <em>exactly</em> like Larry Holmes, minus the space in his teeth and the lisp who had been "in the system" since he was eighteen and dispensed infinite wisdom, free of charge, about the court system, jail, release, protocol and cautions throughout my stay. I declared his knowledge so valuable that he should have an "ESQ" after his name. Henceforth, he was known as "Esquire". A seedy little fellow, with a huge nose and large brown, shifty eyes darted about the tents trying to sell cigarettes (not allowed on premises) for $2 each and claimed to be dealing in the pill trade with which the youth seemed to be so indoctrinated. His Modus Operundi was to sell a cigarette for two dollars, then bum a puff off the person to whom he had sold the smoke. "No way," Kickstand told him in no uncertain terms. "You've got a sore on your lip." He was called "HERPES" from that moment forward. Herpes later got his ass kicked by another individual in the lockup for attempting to shave some ciggie-money. I heard about it later. So it goes for thieves in the stir.<br />
<br />
If there was a single horrific aspect of being confined to the tents, aside from the affected assholishness of the staff (who did nothing that I could see, aside from berate those below via the loudspeaker and scoff at those who addressed them face to face) was the stink that enveloped the premises late at night. Located near the landfill, I had assumed that the smell was methane escaping from the chimneys that pocked the fill to allow for the lethal gas's escape. I was told, however, that the stench was that of animals being incinerated by the humane society. I pulled the blanket up over my nose every night to escape the noxious aroma and thought about the pets facing their final solution. It was in the air and inescapable and thoroughly disgusting.<br />
<br />
I approached Mark Grace (Former Cub/Diamondback first baseman), who happened to be starting his four months in the joint the weekend I was there and he couldn't have been nicer, I introduced myself as "Jerry Ford" (which always gets a second look), told him I was a big fan and told him that if he needed anything, he should simply ask my boy, Bric-a-Brac. He nodded politely. I then told him that I had lived in Chicago for ten years and had followed him for most of those. "I am so sorry," he said. I went on to tell him of the saloon on Rush Street that we had visited from time to time which had a poster-sized photograph of Mark Grace mounted on the wall. It was one of those pictures that was taken with the horizontal lines longer than the vertical ones that pictured Mark Grace stretched out to gather in a throw from first base. He was stretched into splits worthy of Nadia Comeneche, with his nutsack nearly dragging in the infield dirt, his glove reaching out to accept the toss from the first baseman or the short stop. That in itself was poetic, but the look on Gracie's poster-face was nothing less than magical. Never had I seen such a serene character, simply smiling and waiting for the throw. It was majestic and we spent the rest of the evening in the tavern trying to figure out a way to steal the poster to mount in our home. We ended up leaving emptyhanded, but with a keen buzz and I might have turned something over on my way out in my frustration. It is my way.<br />
<br />
"I can't even stretch to tie my fucking shoes," Grace told me after the story. I thanked him for his time and walked away and called Bric-a-Brac off from shanking the former major leaguer when the lad thought he had been disrespectful. "It's okay," I said. "He's gotta spend his whole life being Mark Grace - this has to be tough..." Bric-a-Brac watched Grace fold himself into his blankets early and nodded. "I suppose so," he said. I wondered if he understood. Bric-a-Brac and his kind were a bloodthirsly lot.<br />
<br />
The rest of the weekend went smoothly and it took six hours for release. Again, I made mental notes regarding the necessity for a good project manager and scribe. The rest could be upgraded by force and rechargeable tazers. <br />
<br />
<br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com200tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669520259273658275.post-39081157201983377132013-02-11T14:48:00.002-07:002013-02-11T14:55:26.757-07:00JERRY FOR POPE!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-resQ6hdO_cU/URlH6VP00XI/AAAAAAAABi4/DBFe1A9tpqk/s1600/400194_4771927736646_176246895_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-resQ6hdO_cU/URlH6VP00XI/AAAAAAAABi4/DBFe1A9tpqk/s320/400194_4771927736646_176246895_n.jpg" uea="true" width="320" /></a>Pope Benedict XVI, otherwise known as <em>"Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Primate of Italy, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman Province, Sovereign of the State of the Vatican City, Servant of the Servants of God"</em> has decided to retire. This is unfortunate - I had always been told that "God Hates A Quitter" and personally, I think the Pope, if anyone, should be leading by example. That said, I have often thought that I would make a fine Pope and could enact some much-needed change in the beloved, if rather stale and dowdy global enterprise known as The Catholic Church. And now is my chance.</div>
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When I have brought this thought up in the past to my wife, who is from Mexico and raised a staunch Catholic, the idea was always meant with a hearty "NOOOO - you can't be the Popa!" I would pout, mutter to myself and go back to minding my own business. Apparently, my run at the office of Pope would have to be mounted a bit more surreptitiously than via a broad proclamation. There would apparently be some opposition, what with me being neither a Cardinal or a Bishop, or even a Priest, for that matter. Hell, I'm not even Catholic and don't believe half the fairy tales in the bible and generally scoff at the idea of an omniscient God that rules over the world of man. That could be a problem when running for head of an organization built around propagating the tales of the bible and all. Or half of it... Or whatever.</div>
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However, when I typed in "do you have to be Catholic to be the Pope" into my Google Search, this answer came up: <em>"The Pope is elected by the Cardinals, who are the top officials of the Catholic church. Under the rules, they could elect anyone they wanted to as Pope. And there have been some cases where the person who was elected as Pope had no religious or priestly background. It appears that they purchased the office (something called Simoney)."</em> I considered this a promising start. I could find a way to tapdance around the atheism and bible-as-fairy-tale-thing when the time came, like any good preacher or politician. </div>
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This also from the internet: <em>"While it is possible that a non-Catholic could be elected Pope, it is very unlikely. Consider the power that the Pope has today in the Catholic church and over the world, it would make no sense for the Cardinals to elect someone who was not in agreement with their beliefs, agenda, etc." </em>Okay, a little stumbling block, but I think that with a couple of strategically-greased Cardinal-palms and a thinly-veiled threat to some Cardinals with the world-renowned and much-maligned Skewed Moral Priest-Compass, I believe I could at least get a foot in the door. After that, I would have to rely on my natural charisma and unerring sense of right and wrong to convince the rest of the Cardinals that I was the man for the job, in spite of being married (for the third time) and an atheist.</div>
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I would bring change to the Catholic religion - amongst the changes I would enact:</div>
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Change the hat. Too gaudy - go with an elegant fedora. The look is timeless.</div>
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Increase attendance to the Catholic church mass worldwide, by offering a refund of money previously donated to return visitors. But how will the church make money, you ask? Volume. And by selling off some the ostentatious candlesticks and jewels. They are often referred to as "priceless", but give me a week and a secure Amazon account and we can clean up this decorating disaster in a hurry.</div>
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Upgrade the Pope-Mobile. I want a car like the Batmobile for parades and such. It looks cooler and makes for a quicker getaway in case I'm attacked by rabble.</div>
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No more of the up and down during the course of the mass. Have a seat, get comfortable. I would also add a sports segment - a lot of good events happen to take place on Sunday and I believe that worshipers would appreciate an update. Another positive, along with the dollar beer and free popcorn, that is guaranteed to drive attendance. </div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wxhxBp7gyX4/URlm2kr5eEI/AAAAAAAABjs/Ay-YkpiVKzg/s1600/frank-sinatra1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wxhxBp7gyX4/URlm2kr5eEI/AAAAAAAABjs/Ay-YkpiVKzg/s320/frank-sinatra1.jpg" uea="true" width="239" /></a><em>The fedora - elegant and timeless. And perfect for Pope Jerry I</em></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com61tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669520259273658275.post-4145474434246085432013-02-09T10:28:00.000-07:002013-02-09T10:33:06.973-07:00Kinkajou - A New Name For Terror<div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LSCSwZLbKrQ/URPwN6B1pDI/AAAAAAAABhg/4_bWCUAJYfU/s1600/Kinkajou.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="313" jea="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LSCSwZLbKrQ/URPwN6B1pDI/AAAAAAAABhg/4_bWCUAJYfU/s320/Kinkajou.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
Meet the kinkajou. While it appears to be a devilish, lively cross between a ferret and a monkey, the kinkajou is actually from the same vicious nocturnal family tree as the raccoon. I, for one, have never heard of the kinkajou before this week, when an article appeared in the news about one of these feisty creatures causing trouble while rooting around on the rooftop of a family home in rural Texas. While the animal was eventually captured, it was only after it had bitten a deputy through a bite-proof protective glove. Once captured, the little bastard also escaped and terrorized a group of housecats and had to be re-captured. There is no word on whether anyone was bitten during the second capture. Apparently, lots of other people have heard of this animal and some have even raised them as pets.If you are at all familiar with my irrational fear of animals, nature, the sea, out-of doors, circus clowns, certain types of wood and children with two different-colored eyes, you probably realize that this wily little biter is simply another one of God's creatures that will torment me in my dreams. It has claws and raccoon-like fingers (which have always seemed creepy to me), sharp little teeth and quite a temper when riled.<br />
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How is it that there are new animals (mostly vicious) that keep coming into the picture that I have never gotten wind of before this? Where the hell have they been? I have a feeling that they have always been around and that they are being doled out one at a time to keep us on our toes. I read about new types of bear, monkey, rodent. spider, sea creature, Sasquatch and deadly new varieties of fire ant and honey bees that can decimate entire civilizations. Perfect.<br />
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I have given everyone fair warning that we need to start thinking about defending ourselves against these creatures - and I don't mean simply capturing one or two and tossing them into a cage at a zoo or loosing them in a "wildlife preserve". I say if they are not needed to provide me with prime rib, chicken tenders or pork chops, get rid of them altogether. Do you really think that there is a purpose for the kinkajou, other than to bedevil me in my dreams? I say feed the kinkajou to the fire ants - maybe if we can fill their ant-bellies with kinkajou meat, they will become logy and easier to exterminate.<br />
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I understand that there are do-gooders out there who want to make certain that no species of life on the planet goes extinct and I have a solution for them as well: Throw them to the kinkajou and the honey badger. When they get<em> their</em> bellies full of do-gooder, perhaps they too will become logy and the fire ants will be on them that much quicker. Circle of life, you know? Only to my own comforting end. Away with the badger and the sloth, the kinkajou, its raccoon cousin, rats, the smaller mice-rats, bears (unless they are tasty - I have never eaten bear), spiders of all ilk - especially those that fly, snakes, armadillos and hedgehogs. And I know they're teeny and seem harmless, but let's get rid of the mole. They are creepy, eyeless and hairless. Fuck them. And fuck the big cats and wild dogs while we're at it. They're mean and carnivorous and need to have the African Honey Bees set upon them.<br />
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Basically, what I am proposing is a world populated by people (us), their domesticated pets (reptiles excluded - fuck them, too) and friendly, docile animals that are tasty when served with potatoes or a green vegetable of choice. If ranch dressing or ketchup is needed to make the animal palatable, then we need to consider setting the fire ants to them. Once we have suitably dealt with these beasts, vermin, varmints and pests, we can get to work on the circus clowns. We just need to be sure we have some fire ants and honey bees left. It pays to be judicious when cleaning up a planet.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com199tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669520259273658275.post-49549184770702944612013-01-23T07:46:00.000-07:002013-01-23T07:46:16.791-07:00Happy Sweetest Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MD39_2h-Ktc/UP_seIrpz6I/AAAAAAAABdU/sPm-QLifTpE/s1600/Happy_Sweetest_Day_01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" oea="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-MD39_2h-Ktc/UP_seIrpz6I/AAAAAAAABdU/sPm-QLifTpE/s320/Happy_Sweetest_Day_01.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I believe at some point, I was already aware that there was a holiday called "Sweetest Day". I was reminded of its existence yesterday and offered, "yes, it's called 'Valentine's Day'." <br />
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"No," I was told, "it's a separate day - a day to give cards and candy to loved ones..."<br />
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"Well, that's fine," I said, "except for the fact that I already do that on Valentine's day <strike>mostly</strike>..."<br />
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"This day is in October," my friend replied.<br />
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"And Valentine's Day is in February, <strike>I think</strike>," I said. It seemed we were at a stalemate. "I don't need two days, strategically planted around my calendar year to remind me to buy cards and candy for my loved ones. I should be able to do it any day I want, without a government mandate. Where are we living, anyhow - in a gulag?" I wasn't certain if a gulag was the correct term for someplace with a heavy dose of government mandate, but it was the first thing that came to mind, so I went with it. It earned me a "harumph" and a haughty dismissal. I pouted for a bit, then dove into the World Wide Web to research this apparent secondary Valentine's Day deemed the Day of the Sweetest. I was shocked at what learned.<br />
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Sweetest Day was not meant for loved ones at all, originally. It was planned by a "committee of 12 confectioners chaired by candy maker C.C. Hartzell" as an "opportunity to remember the sick, aged and orphaned." The "<em>Sweetest Day in the Year Committee" </em>distributed over 20,000 boxes of candy to "newsboys, orphans, old folks, and the poor" in 1922. This from Wikipedia.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YAUj2bFaWKU/UP_z64ZrRGI/AAAAAAAABeI/FIB5evI34Ao/s1600/Cleveland_Committeemen_Who_Arranged_the_Details_of_the_Sweetest_Day_of_the_Year_and_Planned_Its_Success.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="91" oea="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YAUj2bFaWKU/UP_z64ZrRGI/AAAAAAAABeI/FIB5evI34Ao/s400/Cleveland_Committeemen_Who_Arranged_the_Details_of_the_Sweetest_Day_of_the_Year_and_Planned_Its_Success.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<em>The Sweetest Day in the Year Committee - lousy with candy-makers. Coincidence?</em></div>
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I would like to note that I am delighted that the committee included newsboys in their somewhat strategic outburst of confectionery good will - I think newsboys are often given short shrift when it comes to being compensated for their historically somewhat impoverished line of work. Standing on a street corner shouting "EXTRA, EXTRA, READ ALL ABOUT IT!" and doling out newspapers for a dime is honorable work with long hours for little pay and we as a people should do more for our newsies. But I digress.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cpGm1wzeZmI/UP_0MHf_4FI/AAAAAAAABeQ/fgNphfCiOgo/s1600/newsboys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" oea="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cpGm1wzeZmI/UP_0MHf_4FI/AAAAAAAABeQ/fgNphfCiOgo/s320/newsboys.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<em>Candy for our newsboys - a shot in the arm for the morale of our nation.</em></div>
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Whatever the good intentions for providing a sugar-high for the sick, aged, orphans and newsboys, it seems that at some point, in a sly move by the confectioners, "friends, relatives and associates whose helpfulness we have enjoyed" were added to the list. Eventually, the elderly, infirm, orphans and newsies were phased out of the program altogether in a move that left these unfortunates to fend for themselves for obtaining sweet relief from their sugar-jones, leaving only loved ones to enjoy the chocolate-covered goodness of what has been deemed by many as a "Hallmark Holiday". I submit that this was the plan all along and that the orphans and newsboys were mere pawns in a calculated candy-money-grab for the pre-Halloween wallet share of our nation. I, for one am ashamed. And I vow that I will <em>never</em> celebrate Sweetest Day, unless it is to drive a U-Haul full of Baby Ruths to the local orphanage or old-folks home. And I plan to deliver my news to the masses via this blog, which is the electronic version of the newsboy from our past. So, EXTRA, EXTRA, READ ALL ABOUT IT! And spread the word.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com201tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669520259273658275.post-36752238538967146242013-01-09T18:21:00.001-07:002013-01-09T18:21:48.617-07:00Russia - Land of Genius<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nQPf6JGh4TE/UO4CRZ3fqSI/AAAAAAAABbA/9WEnSby6vaI/s1600/zorb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nQPf6JGh4TE/UO4CRZ3fqSI/AAAAAAAABbA/9WEnSby6vaI/s1600/zorb.jpg" /></a></div>
This is called a "Zorb", which I imagine translates to "Rolling Coffin" in another language, probably Russian. Let me begin by reiterating yet once again that I am by no means a thrill-seeker. And by "no means" I mean "no fucking means on Earth or surrounding planets capable of supporting life". I do not mount roller coasters, wild animals, vehicles with tires taller than my children, flying apparatus that rely on the whim of the wind, or women with that crazy gleam in their eye. Thrill-seeking behavior, the mounting of any of these and of which I want no part. That stated, I would like to add "Climbing into an inflatable rubber ball and being pushed down a grassy hill, abandoned mining road or icy slope". This is the purpose of the Zorb. It is made to accommodate human beings for any number of activities, including being placed on a body of water, so that the man or woman inside can walk on the water, much like a hamster propelling one of those hamster balls that hamsters use to walk around in when their human captors do not trust them to move about freely on their carpet. Not only do I consider these giant, inflatable contraptions unsafe at any speed, I would be concerned about suffocation. And claustrophobia. And hamster dander.<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-as4BucntQmM/UO4NsGl-DLI/AAAAAAAABbk/ewStDycC940/s1600/hamster-ball-2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="190" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-as4BucntQmM/UO4NsGl-DLI/AAAAAAAABbk/ewStDycC940/s320/hamster-ball-2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<em>Human Hamsters. On water. Two kicks for the price of one.</em></div>
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Now, let's bring Russia into the picture, shall we? While we Americans are busy using these Zorbs to crawl around on water and push each other down golf course fairways, The Russians are putting these rubber man-movers to good use by rolling them down icy mountainsides. Recently, the Russians outdid themselves by running the Zorb not only down a frozen slope, but over a cliff as well, killing one of the occupants of the ball and sending the other to a Russian hospital in critical condition. Well done, Russia. You would have thought that perhaps at least one of the gents climbing into the ball would have looked over the proposed route of travel and asked, "Vait - zat ees cleef?" </div>
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And they always seem so smart. </div>
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They got to space before us, after all, and I've seen all those movies with Russian spies that are always one step ahead of their overly-cautious American counterparts and <em>everyone</em> got a glimpse of the superior Russian technology in Rocky IV, when they were training Drago and measuring his punching power power by LBS PSI. Impressive, to say the least, especially with all the clinical lighting and such, which only added to our sense of dread for the beloved pugilistic protagonist. And as Michael Lyon so adroitly pointed out, after reading the story of the Zorb plunging over the edge of the cliff, "This is what happens when you live in a place without injury lawyers". <br />
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I cannot think of one other place on the planet that would build their ice-Zorb-track on a mountainside with a cliff on it. Before I read this story, I wouldn't have thought the Russian people capable of that kind of dumb, either. It only shows that you can never tell. . Just remember that the "come hither" look in the lovely lady's eyes at the Stumble Inn might actually be batshit-crazy-dulled-by-alcohol. Some things are simply unpredictable</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com116tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5669520259273658275.post-51823901856841562072012-12-15T11:10:00.002-07:002012-12-15T11:10:54.818-07:00The Los Angelesation of Steve Nash<div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-FE_O4mGpvmc/UMvcxJDiL9I/AAAAAAAABSY/tyL5RVadS2Y/s1600/nash+leek.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br /></div>
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Meet Steve Nash, He used to play point guard for our Phoenix Suns. He was really good, even though he usually looked as if he had slept in his locker. I have always thought that the beloved two-time league MVP resembled Kelly Leak from <em>"The Bad News Bears".</em> Jackie Earl Hailey, who played the foul-mouthed ball player was not a handsome kid and grew up to be, not surprisingly, not a handsome adult. Poor Steve Nash unfortunately fell prey to the same heavy-handed hammer of God when his face was pasted to the crown of the 6-foot three, One hundred and seventy eight pound athletic machine blessed with the reflexes and musculature usually reserved for animals of prey.<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hSR4YsYVQns/UMy6EeOx9LI/AAAAAAAABUQ/YsQxBqeaqEg/s1600/jackie_earle1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hSR4YsYVQns/UMy6EeOx9LI/AAAAAAAABUQ/YsQxBqeaqEg/s320/jackie_earle1.jpg" width="254" /></a></div>
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<em>Jackie Earle Haley - the 5'5", non-athletic version of Steve Nash.</em></div>
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However, since being traded to the Los Angeles Lakers, the long-time "glitziest franchise in sports", Nash has transformed himself from a frumpy, tousle-haired, quiet-spoken optimist to a GQ coverboy, worthy of the attentions of the Laker Girls. All of them.</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7cdBGgbpnm0/UMy7h_HTgoI/AAAAAAAABUY/s7KfUJvuhrs/s1600/Nash+Conan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="244" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7cdBGgbpnm0/UMy7h_HTgoI/AAAAAAAABUY/s7KfUJvuhrs/s320/Nash+Conan.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<em>Cover Boy.</em></div>
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Now, Nash looks more like Conan O'Brien with his trendy haircut and upswept pompadour.</div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Vr3jXdrMyDM/UMy8TIbadCI/AAAAAAAABUg/TanoH9-172w/s1600/conan-o-brien-tickets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Vr3jXdrMyDM/UMy8TIbadCI/AAAAAAAABUg/TanoH9-172w/s200/conan-o-brien-tickets.jpg" width="195" /></a></div>
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<em>The Red-Haired, funny Steve Nash.</em></div>
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What happened to our old Steve Nash? Worry not, sports fans - I'm certain he'll be back, as soon as he heals up. I'm sure he'll be the same old self-deprecating, likable fellow that we've all grown to know and love, just with a better tan and haircut. After all, live in Rome, do as the Romans do. We'll miss you, Stever. Just like we miss Kelly Leak.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com200