Every now and then, more often then a blue moon, less often then a somewhat cataclysmic ice age, I get this feeling inside. And no it’s not indigestion or gas, not even heart burn, although it might be heart related, I’m not really sure. Not heart related as in an artery clogging LDL plague like goo sort of way, but more of a spiritual soul driven, a dream is a wish your heart makes sort of way, without the singing rodents.
You may be reading this thinking; okay he must have just had one of those soul shaking episodes and now feels compelled to litter the information super highway with his somewhat self-absorbed pseudo-shrink-wrapped egotistical insights that should be overwhelmingly obvious to a hula hoop let alone a person of reasonable intelligence with a size 13 shoe. But hang in there I may come up with some pithy conclusion that will shock and amaze you and if not I’ll at least most assuredly take the scenic route to get to our final destination. And isn’t getting there more then half the fun? I thought so too.
I guess I should explain one of my many life credo’s, and that is ‘If you’re not growing your dying’. This doesn’t mean that you should gain a pound every week or you’ll die, that’s just crazy talk, everyone knows you need to gain 3.2 lbs a week in order to substance life. No, what it means is that while we are still upright and taking up precious resources here on this spherical moist rock we call Earth why not learn something. No one knows everything, and contrary to what some people think, they could use some improvements.
I basically think no one is done cooking, we’re all handyman specials, fixer-uppers if you will. So instead of believing that you are good enough at this moment, why not open yourself up to the possibility that there is more growing to be done. I realize you can’t always do this and life has plenty of distractions along the way, some of which are really cool distractions, (I too like the ladies). I also realize some of life’s distractions are a lot more serious, like money, properly raising children and those Sudoku number puzzle do-a-ma-hickies. But in-between life’s fun little hurdles I try to learn something that might improve my quality of life or at the very least fill my head with fun filled factoids that may prove invaluable if when trying to enter the Pearly Gates it turns out St. Peter has switched to more of a game show format. We’ll see.
Anyway, I have this feeling that I need to grow again, maybe it’s a feeling of restlessness, maybe it’s a feeling of being stagnant, maybe it really is gastrointestinal, whatever the cause, the feeling is there. One of the problems is that I don’t know what it is I’m looking to learn, I just feel like my soul isn’t satisfied with life and I need more.
It’s not that I have too much time on my hands either. I have no time on my hands, none, zilch, nada, empty bottle of time, booked up, rundown, dragged out, bell has rung, no time. And yet I still find a way to write this. I’ve got nothing. But it’s true, no time. You see time is a precious resource more rare then a singing aardvark wading in a pool of chocolate milk & foie gras; and that my friend is rare.
Maybe I need to travel, get away for a while, go on holiday. I love to go to places I’ve never been and see things I’ve never seen. Traveling is great, well except the traveling part, I hate the traveling part of traveling, that’s what sucks. Well that’s not even true, that wasn’t it at all, what I really hate is mass transit. That’s the part of traveling that really sucks the monkey’s big toe. All mass transit is a big monkey’s toe suck job. It’s true. Think about it. Lets not focus on cabs, busses, trains, boats or rickshaws lets go right to the big mac daddy of all mass transit, air flight.
Airport check-in sucks, baggage check sucks, boarding sucks, not being able to stretch out sucks, dealing with other cranky people sucks, delays suck, turbulence sucks, getting lied to by everyone who works for the airline industry sucks, baggage claim sucks, airport traffic sucks, that crappy recycled air sucks, being treated like veal sucks, strip searches and anal probing sucks. Oh don’t act like you’ve never been searched for narcotics before. I can smell it on you like cheap perfume, you are a mule. It’s a suck fest of epic proportion with or without the monkey toe. But we do all this to get to our final destination.
Hey I think this is all coming together.
Life’s a trip most of us are traveling on in coach without a Sudoku puzzle listening to the comb over in 15b complain about the price of foie gras. But here’s the thing, we can make the choice to move our seat, stop at the newsstand, order pizza instead of fatty liver or get off the plane at the next stop over and jump a flight to Hawaii first class. And first class has legroom baby, lots of legroom. And by the way, first class doesn’t cost any more then coach, you just have to know how to travel.
So now I just have to figure out what flight I want to get on and make sure no one packs my bags for me.
Simple huh?
Wednesday
I Have a Pudding Question.
Some people hate pudding skins, I love them.
I always thought they were pretty cool. Peel them off the top of the pudding and you have a rubbery flavor thingie that you can also use as an editable Frisbee. What more could any kid ask for? Of course I don’t care too much for the name given to it, skin. Skin should be reserved for … well … skin. Not food, people don’t want to eat skin, unless your plane crashes in the Andes, and even then it’s more of a survival thing then a gourmet preference.
People are funny, when it comes to food, especially in America. We really don’t want to know anything about our food, in fact we prefer to disassociate our food from the original source as much as possible. We’ve become a society of Nancy-pants culinary school girls.
We prefer food that has been sliced, diced, chopped, filleted, processed, dyed, flavored, homogenized and preserved. No fish heads, no pig snouts, no turkey necks. It’s getting to the point where we don’t even want to know it was once on a bone. It’s true, have you seen the boneless spareribs? Think about this one for a second. People want a rib but no bone. Am I the only one who sees the problem here?
Seriously. I think the words have taken on other meanings in out brains. Familiarity with food terms leads to Meatsticks who don’t know what meat is. It’s a complete loss of connection. As if food is made in a machine from partially hydrogenated artificially flavored preserved generic stuff. And that’s just nuts. Isn’t it?
I think calling it meat may have been the start of it all. Meat is nothing, it’s not chicken, it’s not pig, it’s not cow, it’s just meat. Meat should be called by its origins. Sure we can call it beef or pork, which is at least more accurate then just meat, but how about cow meat or pig meat. We don’t do that because people needed to distance the animal from the product. It’s all marketing, even if it’s a meat market.
Meat doesn’t run and you’ve never seen beef walk or pork stroll, it’s just pork; but pigs squeal and cows moo. We don’t want to think about that. You know who does think about it, hunters, people who eat deer and call it that. Sure a few restaurants will serve venison but hunters eat deer meat, they’re not afraid to get their hands dirty. Hunters embrace the food chain and eat meat off the bone.
It’s true. Hunters realize that we are animals, killers. Even if we aren’t the ones doing the killing, we must kill to survive, that’s how we were made. We don’t photosynthesize, so we must kill a living organism in order to live. There is no getting around it. And still if you come out and say I eat deer meat, people look at you like you farted in the fruit punch. How dare you, you murdered Bambi’s mom?
I’d like to take a moment to address the Bambi issue for a moment. The name Bambi is best associated with a male Disney cartoon deer and female strippers, HUH? How did this happen? Between Chip & Dale, and Bambi I just don’t get it. Why are Disney characters in the porn business? Who made this connection and why? It’s almost as unsettling as flower ovaries, but I’m not going down that road again today. Speaking of flower wasn’t that Bambi’s pet skunk? My brain hurts.
OK people, we’re walking, we’re walking.
So we can agree, that we Americans have some weird food issues. Most likely propagated by those slick bastards on the avenue called Madison who make lots-o-cash to convince us that a submarine, hoagie, wedge, grinder sandwich is a healthy lunch made from something called cold cuts. (For those keeping score, subs in my neck of the woods) The truth is, food isn’t pretty, but we sure as hell do are best to make it that way, even if it takes a truckload of dow chemicals to do so.
I understand the conflict. I really do, it’s about food appeal, like sex appeal only Victoria Secrets doesn’t have a catalog for bacon; cheesecake maybe, but not bacon. And if I haven’t gone off topic enough today, WHO on Earth dubbed hot women cheesecake? The analogy makes me want to swallow that nasty stuff that rises to the back of my throat after a shot of tequila. Which by the way is one nasty ass drink. But I digress.
What have we so far… (you may want to take a deep breath before reading this next sentence)
Victoria Secrets models don’t eat bacon cheesecake but maybe pudding skins and don’t fear crashing in the Andes because they are super angels, who although in the sex industry, would never go by the name Bambi but dig The Motor City Madman Ted Nugent because he knows his place in the food chain even if they support PETA which is an insane group with really good Madison Avenue marketing guys who learned a thing or two from Walter Disney who may or may not be a very well preserved frozen Meatstick with a pet skunk named flower who does shots of tequila to forget about the fruit ovary thing.
Oh and my pudding question. Does anyone have any extra pudding skins? I’m really in the mood.
(Well in this highly processed world in which we live in, how else would you have me ask?)
I always thought they were pretty cool. Peel them off the top of the pudding and you have a rubbery flavor thingie that you can also use as an editable Frisbee. What more could any kid ask for? Of course I don’t care too much for the name given to it, skin. Skin should be reserved for … well … skin. Not food, people don’t want to eat skin, unless your plane crashes in the Andes, and even then it’s more of a survival thing then a gourmet preference.
People are funny, when it comes to food, especially in America. We really don’t want to know anything about our food, in fact we prefer to disassociate our food from the original source as much as possible. We’ve become a society of Nancy-pants culinary school girls.
We prefer food that has been sliced, diced, chopped, filleted, processed, dyed, flavored, homogenized and preserved. No fish heads, no pig snouts, no turkey necks. It’s getting to the point where we don’t even want to know it was once on a bone. It’s true, have you seen the boneless spareribs? Think about this one for a second. People want a rib but no bone. Am I the only one who sees the problem here?
Seriously. I think the words have taken on other meanings in out brains. Familiarity with food terms leads to Meatsticks who don’t know what meat is. It’s a complete loss of connection. As if food is made in a machine from partially hydrogenated artificially flavored preserved generic stuff. And that’s just nuts. Isn’t it?
I think calling it meat may have been the start of it all. Meat is nothing, it’s not chicken, it’s not pig, it’s not cow, it’s just meat. Meat should be called by its origins. Sure we can call it beef or pork, which is at least more accurate then just meat, but how about cow meat or pig meat. We don’t do that because people needed to distance the animal from the product. It’s all marketing, even if it’s a meat market.
Meat doesn’t run and you’ve never seen beef walk or pork stroll, it’s just pork; but pigs squeal and cows moo. We don’t want to think about that. You know who does think about it, hunters, people who eat deer and call it that. Sure a few restaurants will serve venison but hunters eat deer meat, they’re not afraid to get their hands dirty. Hunters embrace the food chain and eat meat off the bone.
It’s true. Hunters realize that we are animals, killers. Even if we aren’t the ones doing the killing, we must kill to survive, that’s how we were made. We don’t photosynthesize, so we must kill a living organism in order to live. There is no getting around it. And still if you come out and say I eat deer meat, people look at you like you farted in the fruit punch. How dare you, you murdered Bambi’s mom?
I’d like to take a moment to address the Bambi issue for a moment. The name Bambi is best associated with a male Disney cartoon deer and female strippers, HUH? How did this happen? Between Chip & Dale, and Bambi I just don’t get it. Why are Disney characters in the porn business? Who made this connection and why? It’s almost as unsettling as flower ovaries, but I’m not going down that road again today. Speaking of flower wasn’t that Bambi’s pet skunk? My brain hurts.
OK people, we’re walking, we’re walking.
So we can agree, that we Americans have some weird food issues. Most likely propagated by those slick bastards on the avenue called Madison who make lots-o-cash to convince us that a submarine, hoagie, wedge, grinder sandwich is a healthy lunch made from something called cold cuts. (For those keeping score, subs in my neck of the woods) The truth is, food isn’t pretty, but we sure as hell do are best to make it that way, even if it takes a truckload of dow chemicals to do so.
I understand the conflict. I really do, it’s about food appeal, like sex appeal only Victoria Secrets doesn’t have a catalog for bacon; cheesecake maybe, but not bacon. And if I haven’t gone off topic enough today, WHO on Earth dubbed hot women cheesecake? The analogy makes me want to swallow that nasty stuff that rises to the back of my throat after a shot of tequila. Which by the way is one nasty ass drink. But I digress.
What have we so far… (you may want to take a deep breath before reading this next sentence)
Victoria Secrets models don’t eat bacon cheesecake but maybe pudding skins and don’t fear crashing in the Andes because they are super angels, who although in the sex industry, would never go by the name Bambi but dig The Motor City Madman Ted Nugent because he knows his place in the food chain even if they support PETA which is an insane group with really good Madison Avenue marketing guys who learned a thing or two from Walter Disney who may or may not be a very well preserved frozen Meatstick with a pet skunk named flower who does shots of tequila to forget about the fruit ovary thing.
Oh and my pudding question. Does anyone have any extra pudding skins? I’m really in the mood.
(Well in this highly processed world in which we live in, how else would you have me ask?)
Thursday
Melon Baller
Melon Baller.
Yup, melon baller.
Weird words, weird device, weird thing to do to food.
I mean, really, why do we need fruit balled to begin with? Or is melon a vegetable?
I just checked or at least I tried to check; I just found a very interesting definition of fruits and vegetables. Botanically speaking, fruits are the mature ovaries of a flower, while vegetable is a term used by grocers and are parts of the plant (presumably not the ovary). Are you confused yet? I think or at least I thought the difference was a legislative issue, government, taxes, imports, that sort of thing; not an ovary thing. But then again I had no idea flowers had ovaries, so maybe my two cents should be spent elsewhere. Honestly this whole thing is freaking me out.
Okay melon is a fruit because the seeds are inside the ovary. Are you with me? Did I mention I really hate the idea of eating ovaries? I curse this day and the words of which I laid my eyes upon. Well I would curse this day if I knew how to throw a curse on the day, but I don’t even know how to do a proper
Do you see where this is going?
Melon is an ovary and you can walk into any Williams-Sonoma and purchase a devise to ball it. Am I the only one who thinks this is kinky as well as borderline illegal? I mean what sort of nut job balls fruit? Don’t answer that!
Let’s move on.
Forget about ovaries, even though I can’t seem to; and forget about that twisted botanist who really needs to spend more time in the Red Light District of Amsterdam. And lets think about the need to take fruit and change it’s shape.
First question: Why?
Second question: Why?
I’m sure Martha Stewart is behind this in some way.
Yea, yea I know, you’re thinking, ‘people have been balling fruit long before Martha thought it was a good thing’. But I still think that meddlesome chippy is behind all this, she must be. Seriously, fruit in an orb like shape is not easy to eat. It can roll. Rolling fruit is not easy; non-rolling fruit - much easier. Yes I realize melons are already round, but that just makes it more ridiculous. Why turn a big sphere into a littler one? More balls to chase; it just doesn’t add up. Does anyone know how to get in touch with Martha? I have a bone to pick with her.
Balling melons – the nerve!
It’s a plot I tell you, it must be. Cooked up by Martha Stewart and some Madison Avenue, suit wearing, partially hydrogenated, marketing numb-nut, to get us to spend our non-fruit balling money on fruit balling devices. It’s sick! Could you imagine if they went to some tribal community in South America’s Amazon basin, like the Yanomama and tried to sell them a melon baller?
Yanomami Shamen: Nice to meet you Martha, but we don’t need to ball our flower ovaries before we eat them.
Martha: When you are entertaining, it would provide the perfect ambiance a fun and stylish …. Ummm excuse me, do you need a tissue?
Yanomami Shamen: No.
Martha: You sure? Here have a tissue, you have a little …
Yanomami Shamen: I don’t mean to be rude Ms. Stewart, but I don’t need a tissue and what sort of crack pot balls melons?
Martha: But there’s some green stuff hanging, right under your nose.
Yanomami Shamen: Good day Ms. Stewart.
See, it just wouldn’t work.
Of course you’d need a translator, but that’s exactly how it would go.
The Yanomama don’t ball fruit and neither should we.
Mellon Baller Indeed.
Monday
The Somewhat Dear John Letter
Funny thing happened last week. Not funny a ha ha ha, and not funny as in, the fish tastes funny sort of way, more of a Marvin Gaye ‘Ain’t That Peculiar’ sort of way. But nothing to do with love, less harmony, and without the power of Motown behind it.
I lost a friend. And not in a misplaced, where the hell did I leave them sort of way, and not in the pushing up daisy sort of way, but more of the, I can’t be your friend sort of way. Weird isn’t it? I agree.
That’s never happened to me before, and never in a Dear John sort of way, not that my name is John … maybe that’s why I’ve never gotten one? I wonder if all you poor bastards named John get sad letters on a regular basis? That would suck the proverbial toe jam. Today I’m happy to not be a John. Anyway, I’ve never received a letter before, ending a friendship, and as courteous as it sounds, it was more like a Burgess Meredith, Twilight Zone experience. But I guess stranger things have happened.
Oh, you want to know why, fair enough.
I have(correction) I had a friend, that is a girl, female of chick proportions who’s dating a guy, a male of Assholian proportions. Now to be fair, I really don’t know him all that well and have never seen his papers, but it’s a pretty safe assumption that he is indeed a card-carrying citizen of Assholia. We all know them when we see them, and you couldn’t miss this chump if you were 1 week from cataract surgery and 2 payments behind on your healthcare.
Enough about the origins, lets get to the meat of the story. I was dumped as a friend, as was every other male that may be friends with this chick, because we have… umm how do I put this without being too rude? …. Junk. Stuff, bits & pieces, hammer & nails, bait & tackle, rod & reel, frank & beans, cherries & stem, staff & subjects, pole & bag, meat & potatoes, in short (or long), genitalia.
That’s right, it would seem the very exclusive club that I am a member of (about half the population at last count) has been ousted, banished, removed, expelled, exiled (on & off main street), cast out, thrown out, stomped out, ejected, rejected, evicted, sacked, discarded, disposed of like a superfluous tail, deleted from the cell phone, names stripped from all literature, in short excommunicated. All for the reason that he, her beau, the Assholian Meatstick doesn’t want her talking to people of the opposite sex for fear that we all will have our way with her when he is looking the other way.
And it doesn’t matter if we, the banished ones, are single, attached, married, gay, friends, co-workers, church goers, waiters, or just happen to be crossing the street when she walks by. We are all secretly lusting for her and the very second that he bends over to tie his own shoe we will have already planted our seed and made her our vessel to sire our next of kin. That’s right the whole lot of us want nothing more then to rock her world at any given moment. To be honest I can’t help but wonder why he hasn’t already installed a chastity belt. Maybe too much chaffing, who’s to know?
At least that’s the way he sees us, (those that stand up in rest rooms). Truth be told, not every guy on Earth wants to sleep with her. She’s really cool and all, but every guy? Not even Angelina Jolie can boast such numbers, so without, in any way shape or form, insulting my now friend-once removed, ARE YOU KIDING ME?
By the way did I mention that he is pushing 50? I don’t think I added that tidbit. And although I’ve always believed years on this Earth does not automatically grant you maturity, growth or even a little bit of common sense, I have to scratch my head with this one. I understand the jealous thing, I understand insecurity, I can even be somewhat be on board with the idea that you love someone so much you can’t help but think everyone else would be crazy not to want them, but this brings sick to a whole new level.
Have I also mentioned that although she is a friend, it’s someone I see maybe once or twice a year, and talk to maybe once every other blue moon? We don’t live anywhere near each other for the drop by, and our lives travel in completely different directions, but she was someone that was worth talking to when we had the time. And even I got the ‘Letter’, could you imagine all the guys she sees on a daily basis? Thank God for broadband, that’s a lot of email.
So to sum this up, he laid down the law, there is to be no more contact with any guys on the Earth, and as crazy and impossible as that sounds, and is, she agreed. And although she knows this isn’t rational behavior she made the choice for love. I have another theory, which can be summed up in one word. Loneliness. But I could be wrong, I have been before, and who am I to pass judgment?
I wish people didn’t feel there was nothing else out there just because we can’t see beyond the horizon. I wish people could break their bad habits and routines long enough to realize they are prisoners of their own devices. I wish my friend all the happiness in the world, even though I know she isn’t going to find it where she is now.
I wish I had better answers.
Oh well, sing it Doris Day …. Que Sera Sera, what ever will be will be, the future’s not ours to see Que Sera Sera.
***********************************************************************************
** UPDATE
As fate would have it, last night I got an email from my friend once once-removed, meaning no longer removed, saying that things didn't work out and they broke up again. She felt like a shmuck for writing and sendind the 'Letter'. I of course made fun of her and said I was sorry things didn't work out and I knew I'd hear from her again, but even I thought it was going to be longer then a week.
She's going to be alright, even if she doesn't know it yet. Relationships are hard, but impossible ones are ...well... impossible
I lost a friend. And not in a misplaced, where the hell did I leave them sort of way, and not in the pushing up daisy sort of way, but more of the, I can’t be your friend sort of way. Weird isn’t it? I agree.
That’s never happened to me before, and never in a Dear John sort of way, not that my name is John … maybe that’s why I’ve never gotten one? I wonder if all you poor bastards named John get sad letters on a regular basis? That would suck the proverbial toe jam. Today I’m happy to not be a John. Anyway, I’ve never received a letter before, ending a friendship, and as courteous as it sounds, it was more like a Burgess Meredith, Twilight Zone experience. But I guess stranger things have happened.
Oh, you want to know why, fair enough.
I
Enough about the origins, lets get to the meat of the story. I was dumped as a friend, as was every other male that may be friends with this chick, because we have… umm how do I put this without being too rude? …. Junk. Stuff, bits & pieces, hammer & nails, bait & tackle, rod & reel, frank & beans, cherries & stem, staff & subjects, pole & bag, meat & potatoes, in short (or long), genitalia.
That’s right, it would seem the very exclusive club that I am a member of (about half the population at last count) has been ousted, banished, removed, expelled, exiled (on & off main street), cast out, thrown out, stomped out, ejected, rejected, evicted, sacked, discarded, disposed of like a superfluous tail, deleted from the cell phone, names stripped from all literature, in short excommunicated. All for the reason that he, her beau, the Assholian Meatstick doesn’t want her talking to people of the opposite sex for fear that we all will have our way with her when he is looking the other way.
And it doesn’t matter if we, the banished ones, are single, attached, married, gay, friends, co-workers, church goers, waiters, or just happen to be crossing the street when she walks by. We are all secretly lusting for her and the very second that he bends over to tie his own shoe we will have already planted our seed and made her our vessel to sire our next of kin. That’s right the whole lot of us want nothing more then to rock her world at any given moment. To be honest I can’t help but wonder why he hasn’t already installed a chastity belt. Maybe too much chaffing, who’s to know?
At least that’s the way he sees us, (those that stand up in rest rooms). Truth be told, not every guy on Earth wants to sleep with her. She’s really cool and all, but every guy? Not even Angelina Jolie can boast such numbers, so without, in any way shape or form, insulting my now friend-once removed, ARE YOU KIDING ME?
By the way did I mention that he is pushing 50? I don’t think I added that tidbit. And although I’ve always believed years on this Earth does not automatically grant you maturity, growth or even a little bit of common sense, I have to scratch my head with this one. I understand the jealous thing, I understand insecurity, I can even be somewhat be on board with the idea that you love someone so much you can’t help but think everyone else would be crazy not to want them, but this brings sick to a whole new level.
Have I also mentioned that although she is a friend, it’s someone I see maybe once or twice a year, and talk to maybe once every other blue moon? We don’t live anywhere near each other for the drop by, and our lives travel in completely different directions, but she was someone that was worth talking to when we had the time. And even I got the ‘Letter’, could you imagine all the guys she sees on a daily basis? Thank God for broadband, that’s a lot of email.
So to sum this up, he laid down the law, there is to be no more contact with any guys on the Earth, and as crazy and impossible as that sounds, and is, she agreed. And although she knows this isn’t rational behavior she made the choice for love. I have another theory, which can be summed up in one word. Loneliness. But I could be wrong, I have been before, and who am I to pass judgment?
I wish people didn’t feel there was nothing else out there just because we can’t see beyond the horizon. I wish people could break their bad habits and routines long enough to realize they are prisoners of their own devices. I wish my friend all the happiness in the world, even though I know she isn’t going to find it where she is now.
I wish I had better answers.
Oh well, sing it Doris Day …. Que Sera Sera, what ever will be will be, the future’s not ours to see Que Sera Sera.
***********************************************************************************
** UPDATE
As fate would have it, last night I got an email from my friend once once-removed, meaning no longer removed, saying that things didn't work out and they broke up again. She felt like a shmuck for writing and sendind the 'Letter'. I of course made fun of her and said I was sorry things didn't work out and I knew I'd hear from her again, but even I thought it was going to be longer then a week.
She's going to be alright, even if she doesn't know it yet. Relationships are hard, but impossible ones are ...well... impossible
Friday
Readers & Reunions
Had a weird thought.
I recently decided I’d try to write more and although only a small percentage of what I write ever sees the light of day it just dawned on me, like the repetitive use of luminous metaphors that someone actually might read them.
And I don’t mean someone per say, what I mean is, someone who knows me, more accurately someone who knew me. Someone from my past, I was just thinking it might be weird if someone from my past looked up my name and found this blog and started reading. And before you think I’m a total egotist, there is a reason for this thought.
It’s 2007.
And I’ve got mail.
I did, I got mail.
The kind of mail that makes you think, makes you reflect, makes you praise the heavens you’ve still got your hair. Yup, the high school class reunion letter. As the Beatles once said, ”It was 20 years ago today…”
That’s right 20 years and nothing about it feels like 20 years. Age wise I feel like it was a couple of years ago. Time wise it feels more like 145 years ago. But either way I got the letter so it must be 20 years. Okay, feeling old now.
I have to say I’m not a fan of class reunions, I didn’t go to the 10 year, and I’m very much leaning towards not going to this one. Although I am curious as hell about some people, mostly girls, not so much the guys. I have to think that’s normal though, then again maybe not.
There were a lot of cute girls in my class, at one time or another I probably had a thing for at least half of them. Some more then others, some were very short lived, others would come and go, and still some seemed to last forever. I like girls what can I say? I’m a guy. Some were based on looks, others personality I didn’t discriminate. Some I wish I had let known, others I’m probably happy they never knew. That’s the problem with high school, it’s not like a bar where no one will ever know. In high school you ask a girl out, yes or no, everyone finds out… it’s a rough world.
I guess it’s rough now too. I mean lets face it, people go to high school reunions and judge people, measure them up, see how they did in life, how they held up, did they gain weight, lose their hair, marry a super model, end up on the wall in the post office? So many choices and nowhere to hide.
To be honest, I don’t really care what people do for a living, I never understood summing a person up by the way they make money. Just doesn’t make sense to me, but we all do it. All this time on the 3rd stone and we still haven’t found a better way to ask what you’ve been doing for the last 20 years. People suck at ice breaking conversations. Guys fall back on sports, girls compliment each other on their shoes. And I don’t know crap about either.
Ummm, err, hey, how have you been? That’s nice. So what do you do for a living? Any kids? Did you marry a supermodel?
Pathetic isn’t it?
But really what do you say to someone who last time you saw them you were popping zits and drinking way too much Budweiser, yea I know I once said you smell like fumunda cheese but my brain wasn’t done cooking, please don’t hold it against me. Hey is your wife a supermodel?
Yea, brain still isn’t done, sad really.
But isn’t that the point of life, to grow, learn, walk the path, make mistakes, put your foot in your mouth, go to class reunions, stop using terms like fumunda. Honest I really have. Not that you can prove it by this. See growth! It’s a beautiful thing, it might not get me to the reunion but it might give me something to write about.
I recently decided I’d try to write more and although only a small percentage of what I write ever sees the light of day it just dawned on me, like the repetitive use of luminous metaphors that someone actually might read them.
And I don’t mean someone per say, what I mean is, someone who knows me, more accurately someone who knew me. Someone from my past, I was just thinking it might be weird if someone from my past looked up my name and found this blog and started reading. And before you think I’m a total egotist, there is a reason for this thought.
It’s 2007.
And I’ve got mail.
I did, I got mail.
The kind of mail that makes you think, makes you reflect, makes you praise the heavens you’ve still got your hair. Yup, the high school class reunion letter. As the Beatles once said, ”It was 20 years ago today…”
That’s right 20 years and nothing about it feels like 20 years. Age wise I feel like it was a couple of years ago. Time wise it feels more like 145 years ago. But either way I got the letter so it must be 20 years. Okay, feeling old now.
I have to say I’m not a fan of class reunions, I didn’t go to the 10 year, and I’m very much leaning towards not going to this one. Although I am curious as hell about some people, mostly girls, not so much the guys. I have to think that’s normal though, then again maybe not.
There were a lot of cute girls in my class, at one time or another I probably had a thing for at least half of them. Some more then others, some were very short lived, others would come and go, and still some seemed to last forever. I like girls what can I say? I’m a guy. Some were based on looks, others personality I didn’t discriminate. Some I wish I had let known, others I’m probably happy they never knew. That’s the problem with high school, it’s not like a bar where no one will ever know. In high school you ask a girl out, yes or no, everyone finds out… it’s a rough world.
I guess it’s rough now too. I mean lets face it, people go to high school reunions and judge people, measure them up, see how they did in life, how they held up, did they gain weight, lose their hair, marry a super model, end up on the wall in the post office? So many choices and nowhere to hide.
To be honest, I don’t really care what people do for a living, I never understood summing a person up by the way they make money. Just doesn’t make sense to me, but we all do it. All this time on the 3rd stone and we still haven’t found a better way to ask what you’ve been doing for the last 20 years. People suck at ice breaking conversations. Guys fall back on sports, girls compliment each other on their shoes. And I don’t know crap about either.
Ummm, err, hey, how have you been? That’s nice. So what do you do for a living? Any kids? Did you marry a supermodel?
Pathetic isn’t it?
But really what do you say to someone who last time you saw them you were popping zits and drinking way too much Budweiser, yea I know I once said you smell like fumunda cheese but my brain wasn’t done cooking, please don’t hold it against me. Hey is your wife a supermodel?
Yea, brain still isn’t done, sad really.
But isn’t that the point of life, to grow, learn, walk the path, make mistakes, put your foot in your mouth, go to class reunions, stop using terms like fumunda. Honest I really have. Not that you can prove it by this. See growth! It’s a beautiful thing, it might not get me to the reunion but it might give me something to write about.
Thursday
The Bald Eagle yells FREEDOM!
The Bald Eagle is coming off the endangered list, now if we could just set up a Federal Program to get them Rogaine.
According to the news today, there was about 417 breeding pairs of Bald Eagles in the US in 1967, now they say there is about 10,000 pairs… Sounds like the Eagles have been busy getting their funk on. Makes me happy to see the follicly challenged, winged symbols of freedom doing well.
Haliaeetus leucocephalus alascanus to some PhD’s who are picky about such things, but much like the Humerus bone, I don’t care for technical jargon, so I’ll stick to the layman’s terms; how else could I tickly your funny bone with the hair replacement jokes.
To the best of my recollection, the only time I remember seeing these majestic birds up close and in person was in the Philadelphia Zoo, his name is Ritz. Made me sad.
It really did, I laughed of course at the irony of it all, as I read the plaque that was in front of Ritz’s cage. It mentioned everything you would imagine about being the symbol of America, I read along as I looked up at Ritz in the cage in the birthplace of the Constitution and our Declaration of Freedom.
At least we weren’t in New Hampshire, or I suspect I would have seen Ritz with a pistol in his mouth. I’ve always admired New Hampshire and their convictions. For those of you who are not so familiar and haven’t seen one of their license plates in awhile, they have, by far, the coolest state motto in the lower 48 and the detached 2, (I’m not even going to address the inaccuracies with that one).
Live Free Or Die, (for those who aren’t up on New Hampshire or state mottos). Pretty cool huh? Of course with the new Bruce (moonlightning, mclaine, yippy ki ay, mother f’er) Willis movie coming out, New Hampshire might be a tad miffled, although I doubt the movie has anything to do with New Hampshire, the Revolutionary War, or even Eagles. But still General John Stark should be honored that his quote was bastardized to make a promised block buster movie for the summer of aught 7.
Which brings me to another subject I’ve been dying to address. I waited many years for the new millennium just so I could say it’s aught 6, or back in aught 2. I first heard the term when I was a kid watching The Music Man on TV. For those of you who have never seen it, it’s about a future Victor Victoria transvestite salesman who falls in love with Mrs. Partridge (before she met Rubin) who’s son, Opie Cunningham the self imposed mute child learns to play 76 trombones, and in doing so gets the confidence to talk to Fonzi who helps him ship the oatmeal dude into outer space. I know, it’s complicated, but a fun musical for the family, especially if you like misquoted phraseology.
Where was I?
Oh yea, aught 1 though aught 9, we only have 2 and half aughts left and no one is using it. It may be passé but I like it and I want to use it. Sure you’ll all look at me like I’m nuts, but I’ve sort of come to expect that, especially after writing things like that synopsis of The Music Man. Who am I kidding? No one is reading this and even if you are you can’t see me. Okay fine you can see me, but I can’t see you seeing me, not yet anyway but if you move a little to the right… Good, that’s better. Now fix your hair.
Again where was I?
The second half of “Live Free Or Die” is “Death Is Not The Worst Of Evils." Wearing a really bad toupee is.
That’s right, it’s better to be pushing up daisies then walking around with a rat cap on you head. Otherwise a Bald Eagle might swoop down and grab it while you’re on your way to the movies. After all there are over 20,000 of them flying about these days, and 1 in a cage, watching Braveheart, doing his best impression of Mel Gibson, yelling FREEDOM.
According to the news today, there was about 417 breeding pairs of Bald Eagles in the US in 1967, now they say there is about 10,000 pairs… Sounds like the Eagles have been busy getting their funk on. Makes me happy to see the follicly challenged, winged symbols of freedom doing well.
Haliaeetus leucocephalus alascanus to some PhD’s who are picky about such things, but much like the Humerus bone, I don’t care for technical jargon, so I’ll stick to the layman’s terms; how else could I tickly your funny bone with the hair replacement jokes.
To the best of my recollection, the only time I remember seeing these majestic birds up close and in person was in the Philadelphia Zoo, his name is Ritz. Made me sad.
It really did, I laughed of course at the irony of it all, as I read the plaque that was in front of Ritz’s cage. It mentioned everything you would imagine about being the symbol of America, I read along as I looked up at Ritz in the cage in the birthplace of the Constitution and our Declaration of Freedom.
At least we weren’t in New Hampshire, or I suspect I would have seen Ritz with a pistol in his mouth. I’ve always admired New Hampshire and their convictions. For those of you who are not so familiar and haven’t seen one of their license plates in awhile, they have, by far, the coolest state motto in the lower 48 and the detached 2, (I’m not even going to address the inaccuracies with that one).
Live Free Or Die, (for those who aren’t up on New Hampshire or state mottos). Pretty cool huh? Of course with the new Bruce (moonlightning, mclaine, yippy ki ay, mother f’er) Willis movie coming out, New Hampshire might be a tad miffled, although I doubt the movie has anything to do with New Hampshire, the Revolutionary War, or even Eagles. But still General John Stark should be honored that his quote was bastardized to make a promised block buster movie for the summer of aught 7.
Which brings me to another subject I’ve been dying to address. I waited many years for the new millennium just so I could say it’s aught 6, or back in aught 2. I first heard the term when I was a kid watching The Music Man on TV. For those of you who have never seen it, it’s about a future Victor Victoria transvestite salesman who falls in love with Mrs. Partridge (before she met Rubin) who’s son, Opie Cunningham the self imposed mute child learns to play 76 trombones, and in doing so gets the confidence to talk to Fonzi who helps him ship the oatmeal dude into outer space. I know, it’s complicated, but a fun musical for the family, especially if you like misquoted phraseology.
Where was I?
Oh yea, aught 1 though aught 9, we only have 2 and half aughts left and no one is using it. It may be passé but I like it and I want to use it. Sure you’ll all look at me like I’m nuts, but I’ve sort of come to expect that, especially after writing things like that synopsis of The Music Man. Who am I kidding? No one is reading this and even if you are you can’t see me. Okay fine you can see me, but I can’t see you seeing me, not yet anyway but if you move a little to the right… Good, that’s better. Now fix your hair.
Again where was I?
The second half of “Live Free Or Die” is “Death Is Not The Worst Of Evils." Wearing a really bad toupee is.
That’s right, it’s better to be pushing up daisies then walking around with a rat cap on you head. Otherwise a Bald Eagle might swoop down and grab it while you’re on your way to the movies. After all there are over 20,000 of them flying about these days, and 1 in a cage, watching Braveheart, doing his best impression of Mel Gibson, yelling FREEDOM.
Wednesday
The path of theFortune Cookie
Today’s fortune: Do not follow where the path may lead. Go where there is no path … and leave a trail.
Lucky Numbers 12,20,37,44,36,8
Learn Chinese- Painter Hua-jia
You really get a lot of bang for your buck with fortune cookies these days. I like it. More product pushing companies should follow suit. Unless of course the suit is being worn by a middle-management ass hat in which case thou shalt not follow. So sayith the shepherd, so sayith the flock.
America seems to honor those who blaze a new trail; if the trail leads to greener pastures, if the trail leads to Death Valley, that’s a horse of a different color that you can’t lead to water. I equate this with people who have a gambling problem, and gamblers who are successful. Turn on the TV and watch The World Series of Poker, those are guys who gamble for a living, they have no problem, now take the guy who’s betting himself into bankruptcy, he has a gambling problem. At least that’s what ‘They’ say. I say his only problem is that he doesn’t win; no one has a gambling problem when they win. He HAS a losing problem, that’s what he has. But I stray.
As a whole we’re a messed up bunch, we expect success, we also admire those who went against the odds and came up winners, but we sneer at those that want to try. We pummel dreams of others when they tell us of their goals, Dream Pummelers, the lot of us.
I disagree with this, but those wiser always defend themselves by saying, we just want the best for them, we don’t want to see them fail. I’ve learned a few things in my tenure on the big blue rock we call mother Earth, and one of them is, that line of crap never accomplished anything in life that is admired. No one admires the common, it’s the uncommon that gets recognized, paid, and glorified. Common is best associated with peasants and colds, neither of which seems the place to hold company.
So in an effort to stay out of a hovel with a stuffy nose, go out and eat a cookie or go for a walk in the woods and stomp on vegetation, that should make the world a better place. Just don’t tell anyone until you’re done, they’ll Dream Pummel you in less time then it takes to say moo goo gai pan.
I’d like to take a moment to thank my R&D team for the term ass hat. It’s a good one.
Okay moment over, carry on.
Lucky Numbers 12,20,37,44,36,8
Learn Chinese- Painter Hua-jia
You really get a lot of bang for your buck with fortune cookies these days. I like it. More product pushing companies should follow suit. Unless of course the suit is being worn by a middle-management ass hat in which case thou shalt not follow. So sayith the shepherd, so sayith the flock.
America seems to honor those who blaze a new trail; if the trail leads to greener pastures, if the trail leads to Death Valley, that’s a horse of a different color that you can’t lead to water. I equate this with people who have a gambling problem, and gamblers who are successful. Turn on the TV and watch The World Series of Poker, those are guys who gamble for a living, they have no problem, now take the guy who’s betting himself into bankruptcy, he has a gambling problem. At least that’s what ‘They’ say. I say his only problem is that he doesn’t win; no one has a gambling problem when they win. He HAS a losing problem, that’s what he has. But I stray.
As a whole we’re a messed up bunch, we expect success, we also admire those who went against the odds and came up winners, but we sneer at those that want to try. We pummel dreams of others when they tell us of their goals, Dream Pummelers, the lot of us.
I disagree with this, but those wiser always defend themselves by saying, we just want the best for them, we don’t want to see them fail. I’ve learned a few things in my tenure on the big blue rock we call mother Earth, and one of them is, that line of crap never accomplished anything in life that is admired. No one admires the common, it’s the uncommon that gets recognized, paid, and glorified. Common is best associated with peasants and colds, neither of which seems the place to hold company.
So in an effort to stay out of a hovel with a stuffy nose, go out and eat a cookie or go for a walk in the woods and stomp on vegetation, that should make the world a better place. Just don’t tell anyone until you’re done, they’ll Dream Pummel you in less time then it takes to say moo goo gai pan.
I’d like to take a moment to thank my R&D team for the term ass hat. It’s a good one.
Okay moment over, carry on.
Thursday
Thanks Bob Barker for a less sucky sick day
I’m not a big fan of daytime TV, in fact I sort of loath it. Soap Operas make me want to stick burning hot skewers into my frontal lobe and talk shows make me want to hang Oprah by her pinky toes over a high flame. I’m not a big game show watching kind of guy, but there was a time when I was a kid, when they would pass for mind numbing candy to pass the time, especially when I was home sick.
Remember those days, home from school, feeling pretty crappy, nothing to do but sleep and watch TV. Mom had a few stock meals depending on what ailed you; toast, Jello, toast, College Inn Chicken broth with tiny little pasta thingies, toast, ginger ale to wash down the toast, and if you were close to the end, a grilled cheese sandwich on toast. She always brought it to you with love and a smile and then cleaned up afterwards. It was the only time growing up we had personal maid service, didn’t have to do chores and we got to control the TV, except for the being sick part, it was a pretty cool day.
Controlling the TV wasn’t what it is today, we didn’t have remotes, you had to get up and actually change the channel, and there were no buttons, just one big dial that had a very hard click to it. Well actually 2 big dials but I still haven’t found anyone who ever watched UHF channels. And there weren’t many channels to watch; 2,4,5,7,9,11 & 13, that’s 3 networks, 3 locals and PBS that’s it. But on one of those channels every weekday for one hour was Bob Barker and The Price is Right.
Now I’m not going to defend this show (or maybe I will), it’s as stupid, tacky and obnoxious as it gets but somehow, someway it feels right. It has all the glitz and glamour that a 70’s show could muster up and to this day seems to have never lost that feel, and damn it, there’s something about that, that I love, I can’t help it I just do.
The premise is easy enough, guess the price of an item, any item, but have really sexy women wearing bikinis to display the merchandise. Boats, RVs, dinning room sets, luggage, Turtle Wax, it didn’t matter just as long Barker’s Beauties were there with a smile and a short skirt, what’s not to love? I had such a thing for Holly Hallstrom, still makes my blood pump just thinking about her.
…
Sorry, my mind just wondered off for a minute. Now where was I?
I honestly don’t remember.
Damn she still has that effect on me.
Anyway, my point is or was something about Bob.
Oh right, Bob is like that Uncle you have that you don’t always get to see and you probably take for granted but you feel a certain amount of comfort just knowing that he’s there when you need him. And that’s a nice thing to have. An Uncle Bob.
Now that I’m an adult not living with mom, I no longer get soup and crackers or ginger ale, or even toast. I don’t get waited on, no one is there to bring me an extra blanket when I’m cold, no one is there to kiss my forehead, but if I turn on the TV to channel 2, Bob is there with his games, girls and Turtle Wax and I still get that same old comfort feeling to wash over me. That is up until now.
Bob has decided to call it quits after 35 years on the Price is Right. Not a bad run if you ask me, he earned his retirement but still the selfish part of me wishes he’d keep on going forever. And what makes it really selfish is I never watch the show. I’m almost never home and when I am, I still don’t make the effort, except but for once in a blue moon, when I’m feeling like a truck hit me and there are 75,000 tissues scattered about my floor, 89 blankets on top of me, a cup of tea with honey almost gone and a remote control in my hand. Then I click to CBS and that feeling hits me, I’m 10 years old again and someone is there keeping me company. I figure at any given time there must be hundreds of thousands of sick people home watching Bob and smiling at the girls who always smile back, and that’s a lot of smiling, especially for sick people.
I’m going to miss Bob, I’m going to miss Barker’s Beauties, I’m going to miss the golf game, and the Alpine Guy who tumbles over the mountain when he goes to high, the Plinko game and the big wheel which I never got to spin. I’m going to miss him telling me to ”Help control the pet population, have your pets spayed or neutered” I’m going to miss it all, and I’m really going to miss that comfort feeling that came with it.
It seems the older you get the more things you have to give up and say good bye to, things that make the world a little more bearable, that make you feel like it’s your world, your home. You could call it growing up, I just think it sucks.
Thanks Bob for making sick days suck a little bit less. And as a tribute I think we should all go out and get someone we love spayed or neutered. Come On Down…
Remember those days, home from school, feeling pretty crappy, nothing to do but sleep and watch TV. Mom had a few stock meals depending on what ailed you; toast, Jello, toast, College Inn Chicken broth with tiny little pasta thingies, toast, ginger ale to wash down the toast, and if you were close to the end, a grilled cheese sandwich on toast. She always brought it to you with love and a smile and then cleaned up afterwards. It was the only time growing up we had personal maid service, didn’t have to do chores and we got to control the TV, except for the being sick part, it was a pretty cool day.
Controlling the TV wasn’t what it is today, we didn’t have remotes, you had to get up and actually change the channel, and there were no buttons, just one big dial that had a very hard click to it. Well actually 2 big dials but I still haven’t found anyone who ever watched UHF channels. And there weren’t many channels to watch; 2,4,5,7,9,11 & 13, that’s 3 networks, 3 locals and PBS that’s it. But on one of those channels every weekday for one hour was Bob Barker and The Price is Right.
Now I’m not going to defend this show (or maybe I will), it’s as stupid, tacky and obnoxious as it gets but somehow, someway it feels right. It has all the glitz and glamour that a 70’s show could muster up and to this day seems to have never lost that feel, and damn it, there’s something about that, that I love, I can’t help it I just do.
The premise is easy enough, guess the price of an item, any item, but have really sexy women wearing bikinis to display the merchandise. Boats, RVs, dinning room sets, luggage, Turtle Wax, it didn’t matter just as long Barker’s Beauties were there with a smile and a short skirt, what’s not to love? I had such a thing for Holly Hallstrom, still makes my blood pump just thinking about her.
…
Sorry, my mind just wondered off for a minute. Now where was I?
I honestly don’t remember.
Damn she still has that effect on me.
Anyway, my point is or was something about Bob.
Oh right, Bob is like that Uncle you have that you don’t always get to see and you probably take for granted but you feel a certain amount of comfort just knowing that he’s there when you need him. And that’s a nice thing to have. An Uncle Bob.
Now that I’m an adult not living with mom, I no longer get soup and crackers or ginger ale, or even toast. I don’t get waited on, no one is there to bring me an extra blanket when I’m cold, no one is there to kiss my forehead, but if I turn on the TV to channel 2, Bob is there with his games, girls and Turtle Wax and I still get that same old comfort feeling to wash over me. That is up until now.
Bob has decided to call it quits after 35 years on the Price is Right. Not a bad run if you ask me, he earned his retirement but still the selfish part of me wishes he’d keep on going forever. And what makes it really selfish is I never watch the show. I’m almost never home and when I am, I still don’t make the effort, except but for once in a blue moon, when I’m feeling like a truck hit me and there are 75,000 tissues scattered about my floor, 89 blankets on top of me, a cup of tea with honey almost gone and a remote control in my hand. Then I click to CBS and that feeling hits me, I’m 10 years old again and someone is there keeping me company. I figure at any given time there must be hundreds of thousands of sick people home watching Bob and smiling at the girls who always smile back, and that’s a lot of smiling, especially for sick people.
I’m going to miss Bob, I’m going to miss Barker’s Beauties, I’m going to miss the golf game, and the Alpine Guy who tumbles over the mountain when he goes to high, the Plinko game and the big wheel which I never got to spin. I’m going to miss him telling me to ”Help control the pet population, have your pets spayed or neutered” I’m going to miss it all, and I’m really going to miss that comfort feeling that came with it.
It seems the older you get the more things you have to give up and say good bye to, things that make the world a little more bearable, that make you feel like it’s your world, your home. You could call it growing up, I just think it sucks.
Thanks Bob for making sick days suck a little bit less. And as a tribute I think we should all go out and get someone we love spayed or neutered. Come On Down…
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