Overheard during the holidays...
"Give this box of candy to your department, with my compliments. I ate all the ones I like."
"Don't pay any mind to that Christmas tree – our actual Christmas tree is in the other room."
"Remember when they made Christmas lights that could set the house on fire? Yeah, it was fun then."
"I talked to Santa Claus. She ain't buying you THAT!"
"Hey all you all all have a good ol' – all of you have a good – whatever, OK?"
"Stop that crying right now, or no more brussels sprouts!"
----------------
According to the ancient Mayans, we now have less than a year left until... something. Maybe it's a big cosmic "Go Back To Square One" card.
I've often wondered if they really believed the world would just stop and disappear, or did the invading Spanish disrupt any further carving at the Mayan Calendars-R-Us? Or maybe the carvers just ran out of room and figured that the calendar they had already was aesthetically pleasing?
My marketing idea for an End of the World Party kind'a fell through. Four words: Mayan Calendar Jello Mold. Thoughts?
In 2011 we've already sent one Doomsdayer, Harold Camping, packing to Zealot Palms Retirement Village, rubbing his temples in frustration and shame. Will he have historical company in 2012? Will we skewer the Mayans with a similarly jocular post-modern cynicism? The only difference is that the Mayans aren't around anymore, to catch their blank, humiliated expressions for YouTube.
I think we will sooner bring about an "End" with our ever-expanding, techno-ccentric distractions from actual life and each other's tangible proximity.
On that note, Happy New Year!
----------------
In the past I have made a tradition out of getting on everyone's nerves with those stupid end-of-year wrap-up newsletters. I realize you are all fainting out of building anticipation for that pithy, condensed summary of what happened in my previous twelve months. Alas, I'm out of wind.
Let's see if I can do it in a paragraph. (Big breath...) I marked my 1-year anniversary with neuropathy. My graphic art career came to an abrupt end when my employer of 20 years decided to outsource my work to somewhere on the other side of the globe. I got a Red Ryder BB Rifle for Christmas, and no, I didn't put my eye out – it's still in its packaging in the hope it will transform into a collector's investment at some point years from now.
The only meaningful change has been... YOU. The cherished friendships, old and new, have made the hugest difference in my 2011, and I'm more than sure that miracle will repeat in 2012. Happy New Year everyone! Luv yaz!
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Friday, December 23, 2011
Kids' Letters to Santa... Answered by Batman
Last year at this time, the Joker's most daring heist involved derailing a huge mail train out of New Jersey. After bringing the deranged clown of crime to justice once again, among the recovered goods was found a time-stamped parcel containing letters all marked to one addressee – a "Mr. Kringle" residing at the North Pole – all now hopelessly past their delivery date. Out of a sense of moral completion, The Dark Knight took it upon himself to personally respond to each undelivered missive. What follows is a small sampling:
I am trying to talk nice, and not say words I shouldn't say. Even if I am just repeating what daddy says all the time, it is still bad. I am very good to my sister, Hannah
- Sara, 4.
Dear Sara
I am appalled that any parent, directly or indirectly, would instill such a vulgar trait in his 4-year old child. Sounds like your dad could use a hour or so dangling at 50 stories by a batrope, staring fearfully into my angry gaze. Your call – let me know.
Season's Greetings – Batman
What type of fuel do you use for your sleigh or are your reindeers just hyper? Either way, I hope you won't miss our house.
- Matt, 11.
Dear Matt
The Penguin genetically altered his namesakes to fly once, each carrying an explosive charge to dive-bomb Gotham. Luckily, I was able to divert them into the maw of a nuclear reactor where they were each vaporized harmlessly.
Season's Greetings – Batman
I WAS AT THE MALL TODAY AND I WAS WAITING FOREVER IN LINE TO TELL YOU WHAT I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS. SO I REALLY LIKE THAT I CAN MAIL YOU MY LIST RIGHT AWAY WITHOUT LINING UP. WELL EXCEPT FOR AFTER MY LITTLE BROTHER.
- Nichole, 8.
Dear Nichole
Your little brother is indeed fortunate to have such a thoughtful older sister. I am deeply moved.
Season's Greetings – Batman
Santa, you know how it is nowadays, my parents are divorced, so please put me on your special delivery list to come 2 nights, Christmas Eve at Mom's and Christmas night at Dad's. Thank you!
- Ashley, 7.
Dear Ashley
Greed is the enemy of all free people, young lady. And you should be thankful you have parents, even crummy ones. Yes, crummy; they produced you. Do some time at a homeless kitchen and get back to me.
Season's Greetings – Batman
It is really cold here. Make sure Rudolph wears his sweater :) and Reindeer mittens.
- Donna, 9.
Dear Donna
Mittens would hinder a reindeer's hooves from sensing a need for traction and balance. They have fur for a reason. Basic biology, dear child. Science is your friend – hit the books a little harder next year.
Season's Greetings – Batman
Dear Santa, I would love all the presents I asked for but my mom deserves them more. I have been getting presents all year from my mom and she works hard to get them for me. My mom doesn't know how much I love her that's why I want her to have all my presents. Love, Victoria
- Victoria, 12.
Dear Victoria
I almost teared up over this letter – nearly had to utilize the ol' bat-hanky. Nice try – but I see through your ruse. And one of those presents would no doubt be TICKING, wouldn't it. Rest assured, Victoria, your evil plan will fail. Didn't count on ME seeing this, did you? Give it up, Victoria, a life in prison isn't worth it.
Season's Greetings – Batman
I have tried to be good Santa, but boys will be boys. You must know that cuz you are a boy.
- Henry, 8.
Dear Henry
Bring your evil to Gotham and you'll have me to deal with, mister.
Season's Greetings – Batman
Dear Santa, Did you know that people here used to think that you were a goat?
- Johanna, 17.
Dear Johanna
A goat? Actually, I'm rather unhappy with the costume design for Christian Bale's persona of myself in the second film. The cowl looks like a doberman's head from the rear. Interesting observation, young lady. Thank you for allowing me to vent.
Season's Greetings – Batman
If my brother been bad, do I get all his gifts?
- Bradley, 8.
Dear Bradley
No, technically you wouldn't want that option. Santa, according to tradition, brings a lump of coal to bad children. So if you take your bother's gift, you'll only get his lump of coal. Interesting power-play attempt, young Bradley, but next time think things through a little more.
Season's Greetings – Batman
Please make sure the reindeers eat all their carrots, tops too! becauase they're veggies are good for them!
- Tara, 5.
Dear Tara
Reindeer are naturally vegetarians. So they probably don't need much encouragement to eat VEGETABLES.
Season's Greetings – Batman
You are very good at keeping quiet on christmas eve, but I know you`re there.
- Edwina, 8.
Dear Edwina
Yes, Santa is far and away the master of stealth. Though I have never met the man, I consider him a mentor. Truly an inspiring individual.
Season's Greetings – Batman
I know that I may not get the bike because mom & dad said I had to wait until I was 9 to get a new bike.
- Brenna, 7.
Dear Brenna
Your parents said 9. Are you 9 yet? Rhetorical question; it is obvious by the undertone of disappointment in your letter that not all the necessary elements are in place in order for you to obtain a bike, according to your parents' sensibilities. I'd say you would have wasted Santa's time with such a comment – grow up.
Season's Greetings – Batman
My friends didnt beleive that I could mail Santa. This is cool!
- Mikaela, 8.
Dear Mikaela
Cool but pointless. Your letter contains no gift request, which is the most basic purpose of a letter to Santa, is it not? So you may think you have showed up your friends, but the joke is on you, isn't it. Think next time.
Season's Greetings – Batman
Thank you for thinking of me and all the other kids around the world.
- Michael, 7.
Dear Michael
I'm certain Santa would have been touched by such a comment. To me it is meaningless. But if you are ever in danger at the hands of evil, Michael – the Riddler, Clayface, or someone of that nature, rest assured I am on the job.
Season's Greetings – Batman
My Dad did the naughty/nice test and was called a little stinker. Please give him somthing he did'nt mean to be bad.
- Saoirse, 10.
Dear Saoirse
My initial impression is that your dad certainly failed the "name your kid something pronounceable" test. My sympathies.
Season's Greetings – Batman
Dear Santa, I have been I good boy this year but I have had quarrels and even fights with my little brother and I'm going to try and be better about stopping a fight instead of always picking fights with him. After all he is littler than me and I have realized it isn't fair.
- Austin, 10.
Dear Austin
I have an even better idea. How about I come teach your younger brother how to, oh, say... spin you like a top and send you head-first into a wall... or dislocate one of your shoulders with just his thumb... basically how to use your larger size against you and OWN YOUR BULLY ASS in any number of situations? I'm betting that would shut down all the "fight" problems at your house, wouldn't it. Spend Christmas THINKING ABOUT THAT, Austin.
Season's Greetings – Batman
I want everyone in the world to play nicer with each other. Mommy wants everyone to take better care of the world and Daddy just wants to read his Sunday paper in peace.
- Ellis, 7.
Dear Ellis
Your mother is likely the very reason WHY your dad wishes for serenity during his Sunday newspaper read. As you grow up, you too may find yourself in the company of a similar woman, if your mate selection instincts echo those of your father. Just a heads-up, young man.
Season's Greetings – Batman
I think I heard you in my house this morning but when I looked I could not find you.
- Candice, 9.
Dear Candice
I'm Batman.
Season's Greetings – Batman
I have tried to be very good all year, I only messed up a few times, but I tried my best, and thats what my mom and dad said counts.
- Heather, 8.
Dear Heather
Just make sure when you mess up, it's not in Gotham. That's my burg. 'Nuff said?
Season's Greetings – Batman
I help my mom with the dishes and i help my grandma and grandpa by giving them lots of hugs .......So please give them something nice too!
- Katelyn, 6.
Dear Katelyn
You could seriously injure your grandparents. Their bones are brittle at their advanced age. Try a joyous, but gentle, handshake instead. They will appreciate your thoughtfulness.
Season's Greetings – Batman
Thank you for waving at me at the mall. You really do love me!
- Marisa, 2.
Dear Marisa
If I "waved" at you, your next thought would have been "ow, that batarang glancing off my eyebrow really smarts... oh, I'm blacking out..." So it wasn't me. Sorry.
Season's Greetings – Batman
could you bring me some nail polish too, cause other kids in school have some, and i dont.and i would like to wear it cause im a girl and girls do that kind of stuff. thank you Santa
- Deryn, 5.
Dear Deryn
You're 5. Your parents have earned my wrath.
Season's Greetings – Batman
Dear Santa, I'd prefer you bring us love and happiness not only during Christmas holidays, but also throughout the whole year!
- Stavroula, 6.
Dear Stavroula
The world is a dark place. Even a Santa Claus can be overwhelmed by a world of shadows and nefariousness. That's why there's me. I'm Batman. Tell your friends, scum.
Season's Greetings – Batman
Dear Santa, I'd like the new Spiderman action figure play set. He is my favorite superhero.
- Danny, 7.
Dear Danny
Spiderman is merely a fictional character in comic magazines and cartoon TV shows. Wouldn't your parents disapprove of your living in such a fantasy world? How about instead one of the many Batman action figures and accompanying accessories? They're educational, well-made and really "cool." Reputable toy manufacturers like Mattel® and PVC® offer a wide array of posable action figures of myself and my friends, plus my "rogues gallery" of dastardly arch enemies for your playtime amusement – balanced against adequate periods for homework and chores of course. Look online, with your parents, for the best bargains – and shop early for the holidays!
Season's Greetings – Batman
(And finally this letter, unstamped, was among the others:)
Dear Santa, all the time you tell folks to be merry and joyful. I see smiles everywhere I go at Christmas. But I have a permanent smile that doesn't always reflect my mood, and all I'd like is a normal face that doesn't attract attention all the time. I'd really like to frown at something, not because I'm angry or sad, but because I'd just like to have the option. I think if I could change my facial expression occasionally, I'd actually become a nicer guy, and would be able to stay out of trouble completely... law abiding... actively involved in the betterment of my community and a boon to my neighborhood and family. Sincerely, The Joker.
You twisted fiend. Next time, you're going down for good. That's a promise.
Season's Greetings – Batman
Saturday, September 10, 2011
I'd Love To Stay and Hear the Context, But I'd Rather Keep Walking
A shirtless guy pacing his livingroom, on the phone, heard through the front window: "so... I do raspberry syrup down my left forearm. And I'm doin' slidin'. Y'know? Y'know how it is?" (Uh... yeah, sure.)
Shock-yellow mullet/mohawk combo. Fu Manchu facial hair. Tattoos on every inch of body. Sleeveless t-shirt and engineer's boots. With his spotted pit bull on a very long leash. Sitting at an outdoor coffee venue chatting up (how do these guys do it?) an attractive woman in business attire: "I go inside sometimes, but they make me feel awkward in there."
Parent, yelling across park at wayward youngster: "Brandon! Don't pet the water!"
Big guy in shorts and spats gets out of creaky 80s sedan to greet tall skinny guy in shorts and spats across the street: "Yo dawg whassup! Fugginbeautyday, isn't it?" (I'm going to try that one on my pastor this Sunday.)
Two elderly women walking ahead of me suddenly stop in their tracks, and part to either side of the walkway to let me through. Winded, but with a smile: "Sorry, we just passed our oh-shit distance."
_________________________________
HORRIFYING TALES OF... PASTRY!
In 2002 I worked at a large supermarket bakery department in Washington state. Part of my daily routine was to refill the donut case whenever it got sparse, and keep the donuts nicely arranged in pleasing aesthetic display. As time went on, I realized a few regular customers were, in effect, keeping tabs on my donut schedule. They knew about when I'd be pushing the big rolling tower-cart of fresh donuts out to the floor, to restock the self-serve case. One of them was a blind man, whose cane I could hear clicking toward me. I soon learned it meant that I should pull out two large cinnamon twists, in reserve. He'd ask if they were the best ones in the case, and I assured him they were, as I slid them into a bag for him. "I trust you, dude. The guy that used to do this would give me the cruddy ones he couldn't sell."
My favorite customer was Della, the "tall Texan lady." I loved her Lone Star drawl, as thick as boot leather. Her hair was snowy, worn long, down past her shoulders, with a streak of jet-black down the right side. Maple bars were her passion. One day she snuck up behind me. "Two big ones." I knew her voice, and by that time I knew what she meant. I found the two biggest maple bars without raising from my position, and swiveled around to present them to her. She smiled.
My other favorite old donut enthusiast was Anna. She'd put her soft little hand on my arm, and point deep into the donut case. She'd whisper, like it was top-secret. "Get me that great big chocolate thing there." I sometimes felt like I was climbing into the donut case to locate the exact treasure she desired. Once, I got for her the largest cinnamon roll the baker had made that morning, directly out of the tower-cart, rather than the case, which was technically against the rules. "My doctor says I'm not to have such things," she said, then beamed with self-assuredness, "but I'm 85 years old, and my doctor can kiss my boney butt." Rest in peace, Anna, if you are not still with us.
My least favorite was unfortunately a regular customer as well. I forced myself to forget her name, but I can picture her in my head as if she were painted by Norman Rockwell after a few stiff drinks. I recall her only as the "snicker woman." She had that classic little half-snort that she used to punctuate her statements if she disapproved of anything you said to her or did for her. A typical encounter would be her suddenly appearing at the counter with a loaf of national brand bread from the bread aisle. "What's the difference between this and the bread yer sellin' here?"
Not really having any insider bakery expertise to wield, I resorted to stating the obvious. "Well, that bread is baked at some factory and shipped here overnight. Our bakery bread is made here, and most likely fresh this morning."
"Why!!"
Why? Why exactly does a large supermarket bake its own bread (as markets have for decades), then also offer the prepackaged national bread (as they also have for decades)? I told her it was so that we could offer her all available bread options.
She decided I was getting smart with her, which I was. "Well I think yer all fulla shit," she said, with her patented snicker. She tossed the national bread in her cart and defiantly rolled on. She came in nearly every day.
But my all-time favorite bakery moment was the night Husso became indignant.
Husso was a large, blond master-race baker from Russia, who worked the night shift – he would bake specialty items like raisin-cinnamon loaf, poundcake, white and chocolate layers for the Wedding Cake Designer, and other items in quantity, that required a level of focus and discipline that just wasn't doable during a bustling shopping day. Husso considered himself a culinary artiste, and wasn't afraid to tell you so. "They just bake... but I AM HUSSO." It was pretty impressive for a guy who worked at a bleepin' supermarket!
At about 2:00 a.m., he'd clean the kitchen for the all-important Donut Man who'd arrive at 4:00 a.m. Sometimes the donut guy wouldn't show, and Husso would, without complaint, work a double shift and produce the following day's supply of donutage.
It was around 9:30 p.m., and I was in charge of closing down the front counter for the night. Husso had just arrived and was busy prepping for his shift. In the middle of the bakery stood the Mighty Donut Tower, still about a third full from a slow donut day. Day-old donuts are usually arranged in those large pink boxes with plastic windows in the lid. Always remember... pre-boxed donuts = leftovers.
Out of the corner of my eye, I witnessed Husso sneak around the donut tower, raise the cover and snitch one.
He just as quickly disappeared back into the kitchen. I wondered why he felt he needed to sneak around. He was in charge. Hell, if the donut man had gone on another bender, it's possible that Husso had even made this particular batch. They were his anyway. Bakers are allowed. It's code-named "quality control."
A few minutes later, Husso did it again. He sneaked open the cover, grabbed something, and zipped back out of sight. I paused what I was doing, in amazement, and looked to see where he'd gone. Damn, Husso, if you're hungry, don't be shy about it. Grab an armload. And toss one my way while you're at it!
About ten minutes later I had mentally skipped over it, and was trying to concentrate on getting my work done, so to leave on time – my shift ended at 10:30. Just then, Husso snitched another donut. And he looked me right in the eye as he did. He motioned me over... "Rhoberr... come." 'Rhoberr' was how he said 'Robert.' And he'd said "come" with a hint of alternate-lifestyle butch-seductress. I froze.
"Rhoberrr... come here, I show you sometink."
What have I got to lose, I wondered? I made up my mind to remain calm, remain CLOTHED, and not walk directly under the ceiling mounted security cam.
I followed Husso into the kitchen, and discovered he was not eating any of the donuts he'd swiped. He was WEIGHING them.
A medium-size apple fritter sat perched on a large shiny metal scale. "Look dis..." Husso sighed, pointing to the digital read-out. "Eight ounce." Husso never spoke in plurals... ever.
"Yeah, eight ounces. So?"
"Look how small. Eight ounce of dough, to make THAT! They waaaaaaasste." He said this like Lex Luthor. The world was about to kneel in fear at Husso's white-sneakered feet. They wwwaaaaaaaaassste... I haaaaate theeeemmmmmmm."
He swatted the apple fritter away and replaced it with another one, much bigger – about twice as big as the previous fritter. "Look... this one I MAKE."
Five ounce... er, ounces.
"Look at this one," Husso breathed, like a master chef presenting the main course at a White House fundraiser. "Only five ounce of dough, look how big, how fluffy... it good, yeah."
"Yeah," I said, unsure if he was going to make me eat something out of retribution – like the "evil" fritter that he'd just back-handed into the trashcan.
"Their fritter NO-GOOD. Husso's fritter GOOD."
For a minute I flashed on Boris Karloff in "Bride of Frankenstein."
He continued, "they waste so much here. I make twice as many donut, half the money. But no, they get bastard to make donut."
"That's a shame, Husso," said I. "Yeah, they'd sure be smart to put you on the donut shift."
"Hell no, I want to live in daylight. And I want to sing."
The conversation was taking a turn for the surreal, but I hung tough. "Oh, you sing too?"
"Yes, Husso sing, and bake expertly. Donut. French bread – a thousand loaf a day. In Russia, I bake donut in afternoon, and at night sing in club. You know, like a nightclub."
"Wow."
"Husso make donut... sing country, rock and what you call light-rock. Mellow rock."
"Ballads."
"No... donut. And I sing."
It went on like that for five more minutes, then he brought the discussion full circle. "But this place, they get bastard to make donut. I will not stoop to bastard. I am Husso."
That said it all. Husso and I were pals after that. He had allowed me into the Golden Fritter Circle of his confidence, and I felt honored as I made my way down the dark sidewalk, munching on a free cinnamon twist gifted me for the trip home.
Shock-yellow mullet/mohawk combo. Fu Manchu facial hair. Tattoos on every inch of body. Sleeveless t-shirt and engineer's boots. With his spotted pit bull on a very long leash. Sitting at an outdoor coffee venue chatting up (how do these guys do it?) an attractive woman in business attire: "I go inside sometimes, but they make me feel awkward in there."
Parent, yelling across park at wayward youngster: "Brandon! Don't pet the water!"
Big guy in shorts and spats gets out of creaky 80s sedan to greet tall skinny guy in shorts and spats across the street: "Yo dawg whassup! Fugginbeautyday, isn't it?" (I'm going to try that one on my pastor this Sunday.)
Two elderly women walking ahead of me suddenly stop in their tracks, and part to either side of the walkway to let me through. Winded, but with a smile: "Sorry, we just passed our oh-shit distance."
_________________________________
HORRIFYING TALES OF... PASTRY!
In 2002 I worked at a large supermarket bakery department in Washington state. Part of my daily routine was to refill the donut case whenever it got sparse, and keep the donuts nicely arranged in pleasing aesthetic display. As time went on, I realized a few regular customers were, in effect, keeping tabs on my donut schedule. They knew about when I'd be pushing the big rolling tower-cart of fresh donuts out to the floor, to restock the self-serve case. One of them was a blind man, whose cane I could hear clicking toward me. I soon learned it meant that I should pull out two large cinnamon twists, in reserve. He'd ask if they were the best ones in the case, and I assured him they were, as I slid them into a bag for him. "I trust you, dude. The guy that used to do this would give me the cruddy ones he couldn't sell."
My favorite customer was Della, the "tall Texan lady." I loved her Lone Star drawl, as thick as boot leather. Her hair was snowy, worn long, down past her shoulders, with a streak of jet-black down the right side. Maple bars were her passion. One day she snuck up behind me. "Two big ones." I knew her voice, and by that time I knew what she meant. I found the two biggest maple bars without raising from my position, and swiveled around to present them to her. She smiled.
My other favorite old donut enthusiast was Anna. She'd put her soft little hand on my arm, and point deep into the donut case. She'd whisper, like it was top-secret. "Get me that great big chocolate thing there." I sometimes felt like I was climbing into the donut case to locate the exact treasure she desired. Once, I got for her the largest cinnamon roll the baker had made that morning, directly out of the tower-cart, rather than the case, which was technically against the rules. "My doctor says I'm not to have such things," she said, then beamed with self-assuredness, "but I'm 85 years old, and my doctor can kiss my boney butt." Rest in peace, Anna, if you are not still with us.
My least favorite was unfortunately a regular customer as well. I forced myself to forget her name, but I can picture her in my head as if she were painted by Norman Rockwell after a few stiff drinks. I recall her only as the "snicker woman." She had that classic little half-snort that she used to punctuate her statements if she disapproved of anything you said to her or did for her. A typical encounter would be her suddenly appearing at the counter with a loaf of national brand bread from the bread aisle. "What's the difference between this and the bread yer sellin' here?"
Not really having any insider bakery expertise to wield, I resorted to stating the obvious. "Well, that bread is baked at some factory and shipped here overnight. Our bakery bread is made here, and most likely fresh this morning."
"Why!!"
Why? Why exactly does a large supermarket bake its own bread (as markets have for decades), then also offer the prepackaged national bread (as they also have for decades)? I told her it was so that we could offer her all available bread options.
She decided I was getting smart with her, which I was. "Well I think yer all fulla shit," she said, with her patented snicker. She tossed the national bread in her cart and defiantly rolled on. She came in nearly every day.
But my all-time favorite bakery moment was the night Husso became indignant.
Husso was a large, blond master-race baker from Russia, who worked the night shift – he would bake specialty items like raisin-cinnamon loaf, poundcake, white and chocolate layers for the Wedding Cake Designer, and other items in quantity, that required a level of focus and discipline that just wasn't doable during a bustling shopping day. Husso considered himself a culinary artiste, and wasn't afraid to tell you so. "They just bake... but I AM HUSSO." It was pretty impressive for a guy who worked at a bleepin' supermarket!
At about 2:00 a.m., he'd clean the kitchen for the all-important Donut Man who'd arrive at 4:00 a.m. Sometimes the donut guy wouldn't show, and Husso would, without complaint, work a double shift and produce the following day's supply of donutage.
It was around 9:30 p.m., and I was in charge of closing down the front counter for the night. Husso had just arrived and was busy prepping for his shift. In the middle of the bakery stood the Mighty Donut Tower, still about a third full from a slow donut day. Day-old donuts are usually arranged in those large pink boxes with plastic windows in the lid. Always remember... pre-boxed donuts = leftovers.
Out of the corner of my eye, I witnessed Husso sneak around the donut tower, raise the cover and snitch one.
He just as quickly disappeared back into the kitchen. I wondered why he felt he needed to sneak around. He was in charge. Hell, if the donut man had gone on another bender, it's possible that Husso had even made this particular batch. They were his anyway. Bakers are allowed. It's code-named "quality control."
A few minutes later, Husso did it again. He sneaked open the cover, grabbed something, and zipped back out of sight. I paused what I was doing, in amazement, and looked to see where he'd gone. Damn, Husso, if you're hungry, don't be shy about it. Grab an armload. And toss one my way while you're at it!
About ten minutes later I had mentally skipped over it, and was trying to concentrate on getting my work done, so to leave on time – my shift ended at 10:30. Just then, Husso snitched another donut. And he looked me right in the eye as he did. He motioned me over... "Rhoberr... come." 'Rhoberr' was how he said 'Robert.' And he'd said "come" with a hint of alternate-lifestyle butch-seductress. I froze.
"Rhoberrr... come here, I show you sometink."
What have I got to lose, I wondered? I made up my mind to remain calm, remain CLOTHED, and not walk directly under the ceiling mounted security cam.
I followed Husso into the kitchen, and discovered he was not eating any of the donuts he'd swiped. He was WEIGHING them.
A medium-size apple fritter sat perched on a large shiny metal scale. "Look dis..." Husso sighed, pointing to the digital read-out. "Eight ounce." Husso never spoke in plurals... ever.
"Yeah, eight ounces. So?"
"Look how small. Eight ounce of dough, to make THAT! They waaaaaaasste." He said this like Lex Luthor. The world was about to kneel in fear at Husso's white-sneakered feet. They wwwaaaaaaaaassste... I haaaaate theeeemmmmmmm."
He swatted the apple fritter away and replaced it with another one, much bigger – about twice as big as the previous fritter. "Look... this one I MAKE."
Five ounce... er, ounces.
"Look at this one," Husso breathed, like a master chef presenting the main course at a White House fundraiser. "Only five ounce of dough, look how big, how fluffy... it good, yeah."
"Yeah," I said, unsure if he was going to make me eat something out of retribution – like the "evil" fritter that he'd just back-handed into the trashcan.
"Their fritter NO-GOOD. Husso's fritter GOOD."
For a minute I flashed on Boris Karloff in "Bride of Frankenstein."
He continued, "they waste so much here. I make twice as many donut, half the money. But no, they get bastard to make donut."
"That's a shame, Husso," said I. "Yeah, they'd sure be smart to put you on the donut shift."
"Hell no, I want to live in daylight. And I want to sing."
The conversation was taking a turn for the surreal, but I hung tough. "Oh, you sing too?"
"Yes, Husso sing, and bake expertly. Donut. French bread – a thousand loaf a day. In Russia, I bake donut in afternoon, and at night sing in club. You know, like a nightclub."
"Wow."
"Husso make donut... sing country, rock and what you call light-rock. Mellow rock."
"Ballads."
"No... donut. And I sing."
It went on like that for five more minutes, then he brought the discussion full circle. "But this place, they get bastard to make donut. I will not stoop to bastard. I am Husso."
That said it all. Husso and I were pals after that. He had allowed me into the Golden Fritter Circle of his confidence, and I felt honored as I made my way down the dark sidewalk, munching on a free cinnamon twist gifted me for the trip home.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Mid-August Hurlings
DAMN POETRY CORNER RUNS AMOK
Thank you for a day of laughter I won't soon forget.
Thank you for an evening stroll against a gold sunset.
Thank you for your kneecap, peeking out a parted robe.
Thank you for the candlelight and its warm romantic strobe.
Thank you for an enchanting night.
Too soon was dawn's reprieve.
Thank you for having a home to go to,
I thought you'd never leave.
____________________________
If a Ferrari in the McDonald's drive-thru isn't a sign of the Apocalypse... what is?
____________________________
I was at the place where I regularly get my hair cut, this morning. An attractive Korean lady barber took me right away, no waiting. She sat me in her chair, and flung the giant bib around my neck. Just as she began clipping, my usual barber, a Korean man, strode in. "Sorry," I said, "you can get me twice next time," I joked! "Hoho, Mistah Rob," he answered, "no – last time was enough!"
____________________________
Funny how a strange weekend can make one long for the normalcy of a Monday morning, at the job you hate.
____________________________
Oh, by the way, I've given profundity the night off, in case you hadn't noticed.
____________________________
I recently saw actor John Lithgow in an incredible performance he gave about a man struggling with Alzheimer's, that unfortunately was undermined utterly by the very movie that contained it: "Rise of the Planet of the Apes." I only saw half the film, because of something that happened to me that has never before. I'm beginning to think I am viscerally allergic to the mimicked reality of today's CGI movie effects. Movies rely so heavily upon them now. They are essentially ultra-hightech cartoons, yet they are rapidly coming to replace flesh and blood. "Apes" put Lithgow, an artist of remarkable scope, in a backseat – to rest its hopes on the "emoting" of a computer-graphic; the film's actual star. The ape "Caesar" was portrayed in the original film this one is based on, by Roddy McDowell, another actor I'd watch read the phonebook, rather than "marvel" at the unreal escapades of this CGI counterpart. Anyway, I had to get up and trot to the mensroom at the 1-hour mark... to hurl. Really, I had to blow chunks. After I cleaned it up – the cinema staff were all on toke break – I decided not to return to the film. Watching all the right-brain grating just-a-bit-too-odd animation of animals not actually photographed... and so many real actors pretending to interact with them... made me physically ill. Like a rollercoaster designed by a sadist. I'll let some geek in a coffeeshop tell me how it ended, thanks.
Thank you for a day of laughter I won't soon forget.
Thank you for an evening stroll against a gold sunset.
Thank you for your kneecap, peeking out a parted robe.
Thank you for the candlelight and its warm romantic strobe.
Thank you for an enchanting night.
Too soon was dawn's reprieve.
Thank you for having a home to go to,
I thought you'd never leave.
____________________________
If a Ferrari in the McDonald's drive-thru isn't a sign of the Apocalypse... what is?
____________________________
I was at the place where I regularly get my hair cut, this morning. An attractive Korean lady barber took me right away, no waiting. She sat me in her chair, and flung the giant bib around my neck. Just as she began clipping, my usual barber, a Korean man, strode in. "Sorry," I said, "you can get me twice next time," I joked! "Hoho, Mistah Rob," he answered, "no – last time was enough!"
____________________________
Funny how a strange weekend can make one long for the normalcy of a Monday morning, at the job you hate.
____________________________
Oh, by the way, I've given profundity the night off, in case you hadn't noticed.
____________________________
I recently saw actor John Lithgow in an incredible performance he gave about a man struggling with Alzheimer's, that unfortunately was undermined utterly by the very movie that contained it: "Rise of the Planet of the Apes." I only saw half the film, because of something that happened to me that has never before. I'm beginning to think I am viscerally allergic to the mimicked reality of today's CGI movie effects. Movies rely so heavily upon them now. They are essentially ultra-hightech cartoons, yet they are rapidly coming to replace flesh and blood. "Apes" put Lithgow, an artist of remarkable scope, in a backseat – to rest its hopes on the "emoting" of a computer-graphic; the film's actual star. The ape "Caesar" was portrayed in the original film this one is based on, by Roddy McDowell, another actor I'd watch read the phonebook, rather than "marvel" at the unreal escapades of this CGI counterpart. Anyway, I had to get up and trot to the mensroom at the 1-hour mark... to hurl. Really, I had to blow chunks. After I cleaned it up – the cinema staff were all on toke break – I decided not to return to the film. Watching all the right-brain grating just-a-bit-too-odd animation of animals not actually photographed... and so many real actors pretending to interact with them... made me physically ill. Like a rollercoaster designed by a sadist. I'll let some geek in a coffeeshop tell me how it ended, thanks.
Monday, August 15, 2011
August Randomness: In which I firmly cement my literary credibility
It's especially difficult to find Houdini action figures – all those mysteriously empty bubble packs on the racks...
Last night at a Chinese restaurant I saw "Kung Fu Chicken" on the menu. I asked the waiter what it was. He said "oh, that's our dinner special... it's guaranteed to go down fighting."
At the table across from mine:
WOMAN: "Where were you?"
MAN: "The mensroom... it's just one thing after another in there."
I spent a half-hour following the YouTube meme of the song "Sukiyaki." A catchy melody, but it seems to bring out the latent weirdness in people. One encounters everything from bug-eyed Yankee drummers in Bangkok nightclubs to Urban Boyband harmonizers, even to Indonesian Everly Brothers imitators – singing in German. Not to mention Japanese Beef Hotbowl recipe videos that use the song as a background track. And the translations of the lyrics leave a lot to be desired – no two are even remotely alike. The song is apparently about both unrequited love and eternal union, long distance oaths of loyalty, and even perhaps the musical transcript of "Brunch With Der Führer." This song is a multi-faceted lullaby into insanity. It has to be the melody that attracts me, and even that played often enough may be suitable mewzak for prison camps. Who needs therapy?
Speaking of which, here's a dream I just had recently with plenty of Freudian undertones – perking up already, aren't ya?
I walk into the mensroom at work to find employees of both genders lined up for turns at the urinal. Yes, it got weird fast, but you were warned. Anyway, I take my place in line... and I see that in the corner of the mensroom is a lounge area, with a casual no-host bar, and large plush beanbag chairs for people to chat and relax while they wait. A female co-worker (portrayed here by an individual who no longer works at my place of employment) offers to let me pull up a beanbag next to hers, which I do. She informs me with a smile, that she "owes me a bowl of chili." Yeah, I know, I'm starting to squirm myself just writing this. Anyhow... I and this lady commence a discussion of favorite chili recipes while we sit sunken into our plush beanbags in the mensroom waiting for a shot at a urinal. It's then we notice there is a huge venomous snake in the mensroom with us. I turn to warn my grandmother, dozing in a beanbag behind mine, that "the snake is back." Your mind is racing trying to interpret this steeping mess, isn't it? Everyone makes for the exit, but being the gentleman my mother raised, I bravely hold the door and shuttle everyone out ahead of me... only to find myself trapped alone in the mensroom with the snake. I begin to climb out of its path... up onto a toilet tank... then higher, to balance myself straddling a toilet stall partition. I notice I am wearing thin black dress socks and rather expensive looking leather shoes... laced, not pull-on. I then decide my ruse is no good, and jump down. The snake knows I'm there and is stalking me now. I let it chase me through the door, where, once its head pokes out, I slam the door closed, decapitating the monster. The SWAT team arrives. I wave them off... got it handled, guys. Do I get a kiss thank-you from any of the ladies who were in the mensroom... whose fine little butts I saved from a painful, venom-soaked demise? No, because they're all married. AWAKE.
DAMN POETRY CORNER UNLEASHED
I just brought home a truckload of farts.
A big truckload of farts I wish weren't mine.
A truckload of farts and you'll not find better.
A whiff of corn.
A hint of cheddar.
Don't turn up your nose at my truckload of farts.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaand scene.
Last night at a Chinese restaurant I saw "Kung Fu Chicken" on the menu. I asked the waiter what it was. He said "oh, that's our dinner special... it's guaranteed to go down fighting."
At the table across from mine:
WOMAN: "Where were you?"
MAN: "The mensroom... it's just one thing after another in there."
I spent a half-hour following the YouTube meme of the song "Sukiyaki." A catchy melody, but it seems to bring out the latent weirdness in people. One encounters everything from bug-eyed Yankee drummers in Bangkok nightclubs to Urban Boyband harmonizers, even to Indonesian Everly Brothers imitators – singing in German. Not to mention Japanese Beef Hotbowl recipe videos that use the song as a background track. And the translations of the lyrics leave a lot to be desired – no two are even remotely alike. The song is apparently about both unrequited love and eternal union, long distance oaths of loyalty, and even perhaps the musical transcript of "Brunch With Der Führer." This song is a multi-faceted lullaby into insanity. It has to be the melody that attracts me, and even that played often enough may be suitable mewzak for prison camps. Who needs therapy?
Speaking of which, here's a dream I just had recently with plenty of Freudian undertones – perking up already, aren't ya?
I walk into the mensroom at work to find employees of both genders lined up for turns at the urinal. Yes, it got weird fast, but you were warned. Anyway, I take my place in line... and I see that in the corner of the mensroom is a lounge area, with a casual no-host bar, and large plush beanbag chairs for people to chat and relax while they wait. A female co-worker (portrayed here by an individual who no longer works at my place of employment) offers to let me pull up a beanbag next to hers, which I do. She informs me with a smile, that she "owes me a bowl of chili." Yeah, I know, I'm starting to squirm myself just writing this. Anyhow... I and this lady commence a discussion of favorite chili recipes while we sit sunken into our plush beanbags in the mensroom waiting for a shot at a urinal. It's then we notice there is a huge venomous snake in the mensroom with us. I turn to warn my grandmother, dozing in a beanbag behind mine, that "the snake is back." Your mind is racing trying to interpret this steeping mess, isn't it? Everyone makes for the exit, but being the gentleman my mother raised, I bravely hold the door and shuttle everyone out ahead of me... only to find myself trapped alone in the mensroom with the snake. I begin to climb out of its path... up onto a toilet tank... then higher, to balance myself straddling a toilet stall partition. I notice I am wearing thin black dress socks and rather expensive looking leather shoes... laced, not pull-on. I then decide my ruse is no good, and jump down. The snake knows I'm there and is stalking me now. I let it chase me through the door, where, once its head pokes out, I slam the door closed, decapitating the monster. The SWAT team arrives. I wave them off... got it handled, guys. Do I get a kiss thank-you from any of the ladies who were in the mensroom... whose fine little butts I saved from a painful, venom-soaked demise? No, because they're all married. AWAKE.
DAMN POETRY CORNER UNLEASHED
I just brought home a truckload of farts.
A big truckload of farts I wish weren't mine.
A truckload of farts and you'll not find better.
A whiff of corn.
A hint of cheddar.
Don't turn up your nose at my truckload of farts.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaand scene.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Sucking 20 Years Later
Oh Ross, we apologize. That day you said would come, when we'd remember your words and hang our heads, has arrived.
The year was 1992; the presidential election cycle of exactly two decades ago. America had something pretty rare happening – a 3-way race for the White House, in which the alternate party candidate was actually making the dialogue a "trialogue," and had odds-makers wondering if he might just be the dark horse who could deny both Red and Blue teams of the win.
On the right was George Herbert Walker Bush, Dubya's dad, attempting to win a second term four years out of the shadow of Ronald Reagan. On the left was a "golden boy" candidate named William Jefferson Clinton who seemed to be channeling the muse of Kennedy, appealing to a burgeoning Gen-X voter core.
In that enigmatic middle-ground stood a demure, trophy-eared monolith with a 1950s haircut, named Ross Perot – a fantastically successful business magnate and pragmatic traditionalist, who unlike the other two, claimed he came to the contest with reluctance, but for a passionate devotion. He didn't need the Presidency – it would actually represent a pay cut to him. His was a call to duty alone. He was "drafting" himself. His country needed him.
While the Red and Blue factions bombarded the nation with buzzwords and sound-bites as usual, Perot went about campaigning in a bizarrely quaint fashion. Instead of mudslinging ads and slick marketing, Perot bought half-hour chunks on network television, and methodically presented his plan for rescuing the nation from the clutches of the Politicrats... with cue-card sized graphs and pie charts that looked hot from the toner roll of his Lexmark desktop printer. He presented the vague impression of an obsessed newscaster who'd spent the afternoon collaborating with an Office Depot copier clerk.
He often punctuated his points with homespun metaphors, like "gettin' the old jalopy back on the road," and "convincing the ducks to walk in a row again." He was as magnetic as a favorite grandpa, as entertaining as a marathon Saturday Night Live skit, and most striking of all, he was utterly sincere.
And what no doubt scared his Red and Blue opponents in private, was that in his wrinkled little southern-drawled way, he made sense. He was not a shill for a mere party philosophy – he really wanted to "fix" the country. And once done, he'd return to the private sector where the pay and the perks were better.
His basic demeanor in each debate – in which Bush and Clinton were forced to tolerate his unprecedented grassroots gravitas – was a symbolic Post-it Note reading "Tired of the bullshit yet?"
He chose as his running mate a gritty "right stuff" era Navy pilot, Vice Admiral James Stockdale – a gruff old crewcut centurion who had no desire to graduate a Toastmaster's course. In a vice-presidential debate, pitted against the Red Team's Dan Quayle and Team Blue's Al Gore, Stockdale answered their eloquent over-souling with dry, stoic grunts-on-point. His most famous retort, when asked his view of Gore's economic theories, simply burped, "They won't work." Period. Silence. Not even a lifted eyebrow to signal the moderator that he was done. Beating the five-minute buzzer by 4:59.
Satirists loved him.
It ranked as the most surreal election year America had witnessed in memory. Perot's biggest obstacle, which ultimately he could not hurdle, was his image as a maverick industrialist, a CEO, rather than a diversified statesman and diplomat. What he succeeded in doing on election night, despite having been higher in the polls leading up to it than either Bush or Clinton individually, was to divide the conservatives in sufficient numbers to give the Oval Office to Bill Clinton, who carried the night with only about 40% of the vote, and who would go on to hold a full two-term Presidency.
What makes Perot suddenly relevant twenty years later, amid the election cycle leading to 2012, are his prophetic little Kinko's pie charts.
Perot's most remembered quote, was his commentary on the then-hottest political bone in the dogfight – the North American Free Trade Agreement. Both Reds and Blues touted it as the medicine America needed to make the economy boom, and argued only on its nuance, and how to go about assimilating its supposed benefits into the system. Perot instead, spoke of a "giant sucking sound." He said that sucking sound would be the nation's job market circling the toilet.
He said we would rue the day we allowed NAFTA. It would ultimately amount to a financial bitch-slap on Americans, on a galactic scale... in oh, about... TWENTY YEARS.
Dingdingdingdingdingdingding. Good answer.
Now we know. That twenty-years has passed, like a glittery parade marching south. And unlike either Bush, Clinton, Quayle, Gore and every politico and pundit of the early 1990s, Ross Perot appears to have known exactly what he was talking about.
He'd won straw polls galore, but the media lived in denial of him. He wasn't a member of either established cadre. A "kook."
This year we again have a platoon of standard agendafied, party-line towing, well-groomed shills competing for a shot at the nation's highest office, currently occupied by an individual who was carried there on a crest of national dissatisfaction with the status quo... who has proven stale, whose policies appear to have been theory-based only. Whose message of hope has been drowned out by that terrible sucking sound that Ross Perot nailed, long long ago.
The nation is falling into the trance of tribalism. To those who've woken from the Matrix, the 2012 Presidential Election will NOT be a battle between Red and Blue ideologies.
Like Perot, the lone voice in the wilderness crying out for a revolution away from Party Agendas, in the name of loyalty to country, is again confined to the Media's Deadzone. Ron Paul, ongoing straw poll champion, is ignored, because he isn't in the country club of media approval. Satirists can't figure him out. Pundits wish he'd go away.
Instead, Mitt Romney basks in the pole position, shrouded by a mysterious "front-runner" fog, based on some imagined magnetism equally as solid. And in the wings, another Texas governor, Rick Perry, in mere hours as I write this, is about to announce his candidacy. Something he denied he'd do... but was being groomed for, undoubtably. A late-entry, he somehow has every campaign strategy and accessory in place – his mighty slogan-emblazoned jet sits waiting in the hangar. He steps forward with the other combatants somehow already knowing they are defeated.
Apollo Creed. Ron "Rocky" Paul will symbolically stand alone, his wiry muscles thin but willing – while the crowd of glass-jawed posturers will pretend for a time to draw swords, but use the move to silently finesse their way toward the exits.
2012 will be a scripted confrontation, between "chosen ones." Perry and Obama share something in common that is as surreal as the 1992 election. Both inherited budgets – Obama as President, Perry as Texas Governor – from George Bush. That means that neither can pull that trump card against the other when the mudslinging starts. Interesting, huh?
The winner of 2012 will not be the just, but the better purveyor of The Message. The Matrix. The Tribal Dance.
Twenty years hence, will we again look back with a saddened, worse-bruised brow? As we realize much too late, that once more a rough-edged man who did not mold with our comfort zone had offered to reluctantly put his nobility on hold to rescue the country with tough love? Like Perot had?
If only we'd listened?
Saturday, June 18, 2011
For Father's Day
Groucho Marx once sang a song on television called "Father's Day," by the old tinpan alley man, Harry Ruby. I remember it on the Dick Cavett Show*, but I also recall he sang it on the Tonight Show once too. The Cavett Show rendition was the better of the two, for it had a comic poetry to it, that only Groucho could create – despite the song really being about something a tad ribald. Not Father's Day, but the comedic underline of "I love you dad, even if I might be a bastard."
Now, the song has a secondary punchline concerning my shildhood. No, I'm not a bastard myself... I know that much. But as a Father's Day joke, I found a recording of Groucho singing this song, on an LP – we didn't have the Internet then – and I marked down the lyrics. I drew a cartoon of my Dad, and printed the lyrics on the back of the drawing, folded it, and gave it to him as a Father's Day card. It was one of the few times in my life that I actually made the old man crack a smile – at least a smile in front of me. He really liked it.
It was 1979, and as it turned out, it was the last Father's Day we had him. He passed away less than a year later.
Let me take a paragraph to backtrack... it will help the story. My dad had been a rough-necked athiest all his life. A critical illness caused him to accept conversion, on what would have been his deathbed. His doctors had given him two years to live at most... he was at the finish line. He got up, and lived four more years just to spite them. My dad dove into the church with the same hard-edged tenacity that he'd practiced as a non-believer, but he still did things his own stubborn way, which sometimes made my Mother's eyes roll, and the minister's brow tremble, even though they knew his intentions were in the name of his own calloused-handed attempt at saintliness.
Well, here's the punchline. Bringing us back to Groucho, and the song "Father's Day." My dad liked that joke card so much... during that morning's Sunday service, he got up, asked the minister if he could take the podium, and perching his drug-store generic reading specs on his bumpy old nose like a professor, read those lyrics to the entire congregation.
As my dad, beaming with delight, stepped down, folding my Father's Day card to put it in his pocket, I saw that the lyrics' double meaning wasn't lost on the minister, who stared a hole in me from across the house. I tried to make my expression "I didn't know he'd get up and PREACH IT."
I love you, Dad.
____________________________________
*Click the blog title to watch the Cavett Show clip.
Now, the song has a secondary punchline concerning my shildhood. No, I'm not a bastard myself... I know that much. But as a Father's Day joke, I found a recording of Groucho singing this song, on an LP – we didn't have the Internet then – and I marked down the lyrics. I drew a cartoon of my Dad, and printed the lyrics on the back of the drawing, folded it, and gave it to him as a Father's Day card. It was one of the few times in my life that I actually made the old man crack a smile – at least a smile in front of me. He really liked it.
It was 1979, and as it turned out, it was the last Father's Day we had him. He passed away less than a year later.
Let me take a paragraph to backtrack... it will help the story. My dad had been a rough-necked athiest all his life. A critical illness caused him to accept conversion, on what would have been his deathbed. His doctors had given him two years to live at most... he was at the finish line. He got up, and lived four more years just to spite them. My dad dove into the church with the same hard-edged tenacity that he'd practiced as a non-believer, but he still did things his own stubborn way, which sometimes made my Mother's eyes roll, and the minister's brow tremble, even though they knew his intentions were in the name of his own calloused-handed attempt at saintliness.
Well, here's the punchline. Bringing us back to Groucho, and the song "Father's Day." My dad liked that joke card so much... during that morning's Sunday service, he got up, asked the minister if he could take the podium, and perching his drug-store generic reading specs on his bumpy old nose like a professor, read those lyrics to the entire congregation.
As my dad, beaming with delight, stepped down, folding my Father's Day card to put it in his pocket, I saw that the lyrics' double meaning wasn't lost on the minister, who stared a hole in me from across the house. I tried to make my expression "I didn't know he'd get up and PREACH IT."
I love you, Dad.
____________________________________
*Click the blog title to watch the Cavett Show clip.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Pondering randomly upon a Saturday in June
At the bank, at the teller's window next to the one where I stood (are they still called "tellers"?) was a category of person I've noticed a number of times, the Disenfranchised Philosopher. A person who looks exactly like the life he or she leads: disheveledly marching to a distant drum just a beat out of sync with all the other distant drums... a walking solo act... who never speaks but to expound... and whose only topic is inevitably an update on his or her Personal Epic. In epically worded terms. Explained downward.
"Hello... I'm presently searching, along with thirty million others. I'm wading through unfortunate circumstances in the quest for solvency..."
I think he actually just needed to transfer fifty bucks from savings to checking. But why couch his need so mundanely? I agree! Don't let a week-unwashed plaid shirt and grungy cross-trainers lead anyone to believe they see a mere pedestrian before them! Excelsior... snurfff...
––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Technology has served one other purpose – to create a whole new higher level of idiot.
A lot is said about the benefits of a sunny day, both emotionally and physically, but a rainy day that is brisk and silvery – as opposed to grey – offers its own brand of beauty and mellow inner reward.
Sitting at home, I think I should get outside and walk, and enjoy the exercise and pleasant freedom. When I do, however, I think I'd rather be at home in my easychair enjoying the downtime and pleasant freedom.
I'm constantly amazed that there are still people who go online, and behave as though the rest of the Internet doesn't exist. "Hey has anyone seen that video of the talking dog that everyone's talking about online? How can I see it??"
––––––––––––––––––––––––––
A DREAM FROM 2002
I was a major league baseball pitcher – and I was good. During a game, this loudmouth came up to bat, who thought he'd get me to crack under enough verbal abuse. But he hardly got to put that theory to test, because I had him figured out and beaned him on the first pitch, hard, in the knee. Split his kneecap. He crumpled to the ground in screaming agony – for all intent and purpose innocent, for I had not given him opportunity to provoke what I'd dealt him in preemptive fashion. I walked over, grabbed his bat from the ground and tossed it into the outfield. Then I flipped his team off. The dugouts emptied.
"Hello... I'm presently searching, along with thirty million others. I'm wading through unfortunate circumstances in the quest for solvency..."
I think he actually just needed to transfer fifty bucks from savings to checking. But why couch his need so mundanely? I agree! Don't let a week-unwashed plaid shirt and grungy cross-trainers lead anyone to believe they see a mere pedestrian before them! Excelsior... snurfff...
––––––––––––––––––––––––––
Technology has served one other purpose – to create a whole new higher level of idiot.
A lot is said about the benefits of a sunny day, both emotionally and physically, but a rainy day that is brisk and silvery – as opposed to grey – offers its own brand of beauty and mellow inner reward.
Sitting at home, I think I should get outside and walk, and enjoy the exercise and pleasant freedom. When I do, however, I think I'd rather be at home in my easychair enjoying the downtime and pleasant freedom.
I'm constantly amazed that there are still people who go online, and behave as though the rest of the Internet doesn't exist. "Hey has anyone seen that video of the talking dog that everyone's talking about online? How can I see it??"
––––––––––––––––––––––––––
A DREAM FROM 2002
I was a major league baseball pitcher – and I was good. During a game, this loudmouth came up to bat, who thought he'd get me to crack under enough verbal abuse. But he hardly got to put that theory to test, because I had him figured out and beaned him on the first pitch, hard, in the knee. Split his kneecap. He crumpled to the ground in screaming agony – for all intent and purpose innocent, for I had not given him opportunity to provoke what I'd dealt him in preemptive fashion. I walked over, grabbed his bat from the ground and tossed it into the outfield. Then I flipped his team off. The dugouts emptied.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Sound barrier, 1969!: The Apocalypse Begins!
Overheard today:
A rather fetching little siren in tank-top, shorts and way-too-big headphones, chatting up a wifi-laptop dude at the coffeeshop this morning: "See, like my vocabulary is like, awesome, but, you know..."
Methman tweaking at alternate coffeeshop, later same morning, out loud to himself: "If you wanna bring up electroshock... I'm down with that."
ULTIMATE NON-SEQUITUR OF THE YEAR AWARD:
An even stranger, more eccentric old loner than myself, traveling with his world-in-one-backpack, his beanie pulled low over his forehead... completing a journey to the other side of the crosswalk: "Sound barrier, 1969!"
These are certain signs of The Apocalypse, no?
CHURCH LETS OUT
The coffeeshop I frequent was more interesting than usual this Saturday. Lots of young people, formally dressed, marched through casually and kept the baristas from getting bored. The young men all had on ties and expensive shoes. The ladies wore... is this where church-formal has gone? I gotta start attending again. I think I rediscovered how much I love legs. Though I'm sure there were mace-misters attached to each set of swaying hips. At least this dirty old man can fain harmlessness, seated at a far-off table, hugging a coffee mug. There was a run on choco-lattés and espressos – that's what I seemed to hear repeated with every register-ring. I guess the minister had ended the sermon early, so everyone could get home in time for the Big "R," and they were starting their last day on Earth by getting their gourmet caffeine freak on. If the way those parishionettes were dressed was any clue, I'd say there's some serious after-church commandment-breakin' taking place about now. Damn.
A rather fetching little siren in tank-top, shorts and way-too-big headphones, chatting up a wifi-laptop dude at the coffeeshop this morning: "See, like my vocabulary is like, awesome, but, you know..."
Methman tweaking at alternate coffeeshop, later same morning, out loud to himself: "If you wanna bring up electroshock... I'm down with that."
ULTIMATE NON-SEQUITUR OF THE YEAR AWARD:
An even stranger, more eccentric old loner than myself, traveling with his world-in-one-backpack, his beanie pulled low over his forehead... completing a journey to the other side of the crosswalk: "Sound barrier, 1969!"
These are certain signs of The Apocalypse, no?
CHURCH LETS OUT
The coffeeshop I frequent was more interesting than usual this Saturday. Lots of young people, formally dressed, marched through casually and kept the baristas from getting bored. The young men all had on ties and expensive shoes. The ladies wore... is this where church-formal has gone? I gotta start attending again. I think I rediscovered how much I love legs. Though I'm sure there were mace-misters attached to each set of swaying hips. At least this dirty old man can fain harmlessness, seated at a far-off table, hugging a coffee mug. There was a run on choco-lattés and espressos – that's what I seemed to hear repeated with every register-ring. I guess the minister had ended the sermon early, so everyone could get home in time for the Big "R," and they were starting their last day on Earth by getting their gourmet caffeine freak on. If the way those parishionettes were dressed was any clue, I'd say there's some serious after-church commandment-breakin' taking place about now. Damn.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Enraptured
There aren't very many days left – less than a week, as I write this. This Saturday, May 21, 2011... 6:00 p.m. on the dot, yet. The Rapture.
Harold Camping, Presbyterian minister, broadcaster, media CEO and degreed engineer, says so. He's read the Bible cover to cover... several times, worked out the math on his calculator... several times, and has leveled his prediction of the exact time of The End. Several times.
First, whether you are a believer or not, there's something you need to hear. He does not speak for all of Christendom, just his little fanatical corner of it. In fact, there's another key figure in Christianity, that you may have heard of, who disagrees with Harold... Jesus Christ.
Saint Matthew records Him saying, "But of that day and hour no one knows, not even the angels of heaven." You can keep reading right up to the last page – He never adds "... except Harold Camping."
Camping's self-styled exemption to Christ's proclamation, is courtesy of his engineering degree. He's the guy who took a slide-rule and, durn it, finally ran the numbers – or at least his own wacked interpretation of them. And even Bible scholars who've based their careers on studies of the main prophetic books – Jeremiah, Daniel, Revelation, et al, are a little unsure where Camping got his numbers from. He may say it's the Bible, but... they don't just mismatch slightly, they swing wider out of sync than a poorly dubbed Godzilla movie.
Without going into Harold Histrionics, suffice it to say that he has made a cottage industry over the years of riding the evangelical merry-go-round and grabbing for the brass ring of the Apocalypse.
When it didn't happen in 1988, as Camping promised, he just shrugged, "whoops, I meant 1989." After 1989 came and went with no Rapture, he reset his watch yet again, always simply claiming "I miscounted... sorry. But next time, for sure!"
Some, astonishingly, never held his feet to the fire regarding any of his loose-cannon apostasies.
He has never, to my knowledge, apologized to the throngs of loyal followers who took him at his provenly fallible word, going as far as to gather in their Sunday formals on each of the appointed "end dates" and patiently stand by for the clouds to part on schedule.
If anyone has seriously studied the actual timeline of "Endtime" prophecy, as presented in the Bible, even a non-believing neophyte can see the disservice Camping has perpetrated – devoutly – upon the rest of Christianity; the millions leading lives of humble ardor and fidelity... some waging silent, noble battle against their inner demons in the endeavor... to follow the teachings of the Lord Jesus Christ.
And remember, the Endtime officially began after Christ's ascension, according to Paul. So we've been at the precipice for 2,000+ years now. Perhaps that's a little too open-ended an answer for some. But Jesus warned it would come when it is least expected – when everyone was over-confident that it was just a fairy-tale.
Perhaps to militant-level atheists we look foolish anyway, but Camping is proactively adding a tangible layer of validation to that image with his cockeyed zealotry. Or oily charlatanism, if it's that.
To understand the basic flaw of Camping's claims, it pays to be aware of a few things.
1. The Rapture, and Christ's Second Coming, are not the same event.
The Bible clearly does not indicate that Jesus even makes an Earthly appearance at the Rapture. In fact, the Bible doesn't even refer to it as "The Rapture," which is merely a celebrant nickname bestowed upon it by 19th and 20th century religionists. The primary Bible passage referred to, is in the Book of Thessalonians, which describes a future occurrence that – sorry, I won't sugar-coat it for fence-straddlers and doubters – reads like the world's remaining true believers in Christ being swept up in the blink of an eye, just prior to The Tribulation.
Would it really happen like that? What about some Christian piloting an airliner? Are his atheist and agnostic passengers suddenly on their own, trying to land the plane without him? What about the animals of Christian pet owners? Are they stuck locked in a house with stale water and an empty food dish? Lots of nit-picky technical questions hang like barnacles onto the Rapture's "beam-me-up-God" narrative.
Is the Rapture a physical, spiritual or merely symbolic "departure?" Does it happen in a heart-beat? The Bible says the raptured will be "transformed" in the twinkle of an eye. The Book claims, to paraphrase: We shall not all sleep, but will all be changed. The original word means "caught up," or taken away. A quick cut to the chase, as God decides He is no longer patient to sit back and wait for every last believer to grow old, die off and complete the attendance list for the Big Reunion.
An escalation of an itinerary.
Some atheistic folks have once again offered to, magnanimously, adopt all the doggies, kittahs and birdies left behind to fend for themselves after all the Christians selfishly rapture off the planet. It's an attempt to inject an element of indictment into people for certain beliefs that may be more subconsciously self-serving than spiritual.
It's nice to know the "innocent" will find shelter after all the dispassionate religious jerks ethereally jump ship.
But a person who dies leaves their loved ones to carry-on whether prepared or not. Death is part of life's way. Orphans happen. The counter-logic is just as inconvenient, to assume your survivors are completely lost without you is too the epitome of selfism. So which evil is lesser?
Should the Rapture come about, it would only serve to guarantee what is foretold to follow it. If so, it seems a kibble shortage will be the least of Lucky's problems.
2. Camping ignores the elements of the end-scenario that Jesus and the other Biblical Prophets emphasized.
According to Camping, his earlier 1988 marker wasn't the Rapture after all, but simply the opening note of the Tribulation, which has now lasted 23 years...
The Reader's Digest version of The End: The Rapture is the event that signals the commencement of The Tribulation (mankind's darkest hour, which no historian can doubt we've had many many dress-rehearsals for, over the past few decades). The Tribulation lasts approximately seven years, during which one particular world leader – with amazing magnetism, charisma and apparent acumen – graduates to prominence; the guy who may just have the ultimate answer, the "way out" of humanity's expanding quagmire.
Finally, at the 3.5-year mark, he acknowledges that he is indeed The Chosen One spoken of within the algorithm of all the world's belief systems, including even perhaps the secular Sion that atheists have indirectly suspected was due to appear, somehow. He makes it official by ensconcing himself in the newly built Temple, with its restored rituals of Mosaic Law (after the Rapture, you'll still have the Jews, Catholics and Muslims to put up with), which he suspends, in favor of having everyone aim their new age of enlightened "worship" at himself.
He wins over the staunchest non-believers with miracles that seem to mirror those of Jesus in the first century, including, the Bible says, The Resurrection. Even the Nihilists find it difficult to smirk after that neat trick. Will he really perform these wonders, or have unseen help? What epic-cool stuff did your favorite superhero do in that last movie?
The Bible indicates that the entire planet will be able to witness it all – something physically impossible when that prophecy was written. How many cable channels do you have?
In short, the 7-Year Tribulation doesn't kick-start until after The Rapture... not linger for 23 beforehand, as Camping claims is currently underway.
If The Rapture is The Rapture, that is. Some believe you'll be stuck with us through even The Tribulation – wow, you'll really hate it, then.
And no, The Guy won't ever come out and call himself "The Antichrist." Nothing is that simple.
But Jesus, the Christ-Christ, said that when you see all these things in place – though progressive and heroic they may appear, as opposed to dour or doomsday-ish... bada-bing. You missed The Rapture. You're in the Eye of the Tribulation. The blissful societal awakening is about to turn ugly, in a way that "suddenly" just doesn't quite parcel.
3. Finally, Jesus said the actual "End" would not be pre-announced in TV Guide; the very act which Harold Camping has been trying to excel at repeatedly.
When His disciples asked Him how anyone could possibly spot the Beginning of the End, He said the only clue would be the same that pre-flood folks got. "But as the days of Noah were, so also will the coming of the Son of Man be."
He's not talking about any rapture there, but the actual Second Coming. A completely different ballgame. Everyone carried on as usual, assured that the only one still believing in an "End of the World" was some kook building a big boat out in the desert.
Maybe it's a tad unnerving that Harold Camping sounds a bit like a modern-day Noah, in that light. He plans to float away while the rest of the world parties toward oblivion. But Camping isn't building an ark, he's shoring up his media branding. He's making himself, and his distracted ministry, a top search-engine term on Google. Nothing more. Nothing. More.
Sad part is, there are still alarming numbers of otherwise well-meaning, good-natured, reasonably intelligent people buying into it. No one rises in the morning with the deliberate idea of "I think I'll surrender my awareness to a cult leader today," but it happens. Ask Manson's loyal, Jim Jones's... Hitler's.
As you ramp up your mock-o-meter to eleven this weekend, and in your mind, box the rest of us Christians in with the Camping Camp as targets of your scorn, please ponder this: What has our society become, that some people might consider their only hope of escape to be a mystical occurrence they can neither fully understand nor explain, much less justify beyond potential cultural ridicule?
As a Christian, I sincerely hope that this Saturday serves as a new enlightenment for Camping's congregation – that they will come away from this empty exercise – from being "owned" again, with a fresh look at themselves. Whether they remain Christians with a new outlook, choose another path or decide to abandon the journey all together, at least it will be a birth of self-honesty within them. I would hope they realize they didn't see Christ in Harold Camping, but another opportunist claiming Christ's divine authority – just as Jesus said they would crop up more and more, as time drew near.
Lastly, my hope, and prayer, is for Camping himself. Will this be the splash that sobers you up, Harold? The drop of cologne in that razor cut on the cheek of your soul?
You are a man of intellect and calculation, Mr. Camping. Both descriptives are usually preceded by the same adjective: "cold."
Ultimately, religious people living just for The Rapture may be akin to anyone who, say, dreams of finding a mysterious suitcase on the beach, filled with $1,000 bills. All of their problems and frustrations wiped away, instantly, and without any government paperwork. You don't have to be religious to harbor that far-off hope.
But even a misplaced satchel of dirty loot comes with a list of built-in difficulties if you overthink it. You couldn't just walk into the bank with that suitcase and make an anonymous deposit, without setting off a few security bells and whistles. Or at least branding yourself. The downside of winning the Lotto is that you give up your hiding place, to claim it.
Christians are not called to twiddle their thumbs, watch QVC, have a Slurpee, and wait for The Rapture as some kind of vindictive "Gotcha" moment for the rest of the world. We are to remain diligent in our faith, until our final reward, whether it really is to participate in some incredible worldwide transformation, or simply take the Big Nap, and wait it out like everyone else throughout history.
Jesus condensed the Ten Commandments into One Big One: Love one another. Do that One, and the original Big Ten seem to fall into place anyway. And that's the real story of The End. If it takes one more weekend, or 2,000 more years, it will all fall into place exactly how it is supposed to. All pilotless airliners and housebound cats not withstanding.
_____________________________
Post-Doomsday Update...
Harold Camping's only real miscalculation may have been his own longevity.
When he first named May 21, 2011 as the new "End," it was the mid-90s, and Camping was already in his mid-70s, agewise. He probably reasoned that that was long enough to keep his followers financing his ministry, and him, until the end of his life. He didn't figure he'd live long enough to have to live it down.
_____________________________
Funny how the more you ponder something, the more nefarious it can become. Is Harold Camping evil? Probably not in a Darth Vader sort'a way. But his intentions are assuredly self-centered, and his regard for third-party consequences, small.
Think about this: Camping never cared whether or not his prediction materialized. May 21st, 2011 was the date his accountatnt told him he'd have enough cash to retire, thanks to his congregation of loyal donators. Could it be that simple?
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Random May, or May Not
I was sitting in a coffeeshop, next to two tables full of people speaking in various languages other than English. Each table sported a hand-written, block-lettered sign, designating which language was to be spoken by that particular gathering. The one closest to me read, "FRANCAIS." So it was a little disconcerting to see the individual leading the discourse at that table to be barking in German. The others stared apprehensively. Someone had become very upset at this otherwise amicable bi-lingual encounter group.
At the next table, the sign read, "ESPAÑOL." At least there they were speaking in the tongue that coincided with their sign. Then a new participant showed up; a woman blinged out beyond comprehension, with big hair and long nails, who greeted everyone in an awkward attempt at Spanish, with her volume knob turned to eleven. To make herself just a tad more insufferable, she liked to accompany her topic points with rhythmic clapping of her metal-bedecked fingers. "Mu-cho-gu-STO!" Whack-whack-whack-whack.
So we had Mega-Lung Bling-a-trix at the Spanish table, and Hermann Goering having a bunker meltdown at the French table. I sipped my coffee as inconspicuously as I imagined possible.
Then something remarkable began to happen... one by one, the non-talkers began to excuse themselves. In about twenty minutes, both squeaky wheels were down to one conversational partner at their respective tables. The loudmouth knocked it down to a respectable decibel level, and began speaking English. Meanwhile, the angry Teuton likewise reverted to The King's, and seemed a degree saner. And both seemed to default to the same topic – the colleges they'd attended, the countries they'd visited, and the advanced degrees they were hoping to earn.
The people who'd begged out of the conversations, were the native speakers of each language, who'd politely indicated they'd had enough.
Never have Americans with advanced educations made this college dropout feel so hopeless. The big-hair lady glanced at me, then smiled. I pretended I was deaf.
-------------------------
DAMN POETRY CORNER
I had an old dog dumber'n crap
Way too big to get up in my lap
Sniffed on my face when I took a nap
Dang old ugly mutt
When he was a pup I named him Blue
A question-mark stare and breath like glue
His hobby was makin' piles o' poo
Dang old ugly mutt
He died and I dug a garden plot
'Neath his old favorite shady spot
You should see now all the flowers he's got
Dang old ugly mutt
When I move on to my home in the skies
Won't be quite Heaven no matter how it tries
Unless I'm greeted by those vacant brown eyes...
Dang old ugly mutt
At the next table, the sign read, "ESPAÑOL." At least there they were speaking in the tongue that coincided with their sign. Then a new participant showed up; a woman blinged out beyond comprehension, with big hair and long nails, who greeted everyone in an awkward attempt at Spanish, with her volume knob turned to eleven. To make herself just a tad more insufferable, she liked to accompany her topic points with rhythmic clapping of her metal-bedecked fingers. "Mu-cho-gu-STO!" Whack-whack-whack-whack.
So we had Mega-Lung Bling-a-trix at the Spanish table, and Hermann Goering having a bunker meltdown at the French table. I sipped my coffee as inconspicuously as I imagined possible.
Then something remarkable began to happen... one by one, the non-talkers began to excuse themselves. In about twenty minutes, both squeaky wheels were down to one conversational partner at their respective tables. The loudmouth knocked it down to a respectable decibel level, and began speaking English. Meanwhile, the angry Teuton likewise reverted to The King's, and seemed a degree saner. And both seemed to default to the same topic – the colleges they'd attended, the countries they'd visited, and the advanced degrees they were hoping to earn.
The people who'd begged out of the conversations, were the native speakers of each language, who'd politely indicated they'd had enough.
Never have Americans with advanced educations made this college dropout feel so hopeless. The big-hair lady glanced at me, then smiled. I pretended I was deaf.
-------------------------
DAMN POETRY CORNER
I had an old dog dumber'n crap
Way too big to get up in my lap
Sniffed on my face when I took a nap
Dang old ugly mutt
When he was a pup I named him Blue
A question-mark stare and breath like glue
His hobby was makin' piles o' poo
Dang old ugly mutt
He died and I dug a garden plot
'Neath his old favorite shady spot
You should see now all the flowers he's got
Dang old ugly mutt
When I move on to my home in the skies
Won't be quite Heaven no matter how it tries
Unless I'm greeted by those vacant brown eyes...
Dang old ugly mutt
Monday, April 25, 2011
April Quickies... Not What You're Thinking
Overheard recently – you supply the context:
"She really likes karaoke, so let's not go there."
"No honey, walking behind you is an endless parade of joy."
"You could go in there, drop a pennie, and fart, and it wouldn't matter."
"It's not like you wanna bite the head off."
-------------------------
TMI + Vaudeville:
Powder blue, XL too,
Caught some accidental poo –
Some dumpster diver gets my drawers!
Can't go play, it's laundry day,
These doo-doo undies cannot stay –
Some dumpster diver gets my drawers!
-------------------------
Only a tattoo-sleeved war vet in a wheelchair can get away with saying at Denny's:
"How does a one-eyed turd sniper with false teeth and three toes missing go about getting an order of bacon & pancakes from one of you clap-magnets?"
-------------------------
From the Banana Split Room high atop the fine Hotel Crystal, it's Red Cherry and his Rainbow Sprinkles, whipping up the cream of yesterday's hits – sweet music with taste! Featuring the treacly vocals of Miss Vanilla Scoops, and laying it on thick is the 'Old Ladler' himself, Sir Upchoc O'Latt! Also singing second layer is Cara Mell, and Pia Nutz!
-------------------------
It took me 45 years to realize I'm nobody, and the world was dropping hints all along!
You just realized you're an aloof over-acheiver? Well, now you've GONE and DONE IT!
"She really likes karaoke, so let's not go there."
"No honey, walking behind you is an endless parade of joy."
"You could go in there, drop a pennie, and fart, and it wouldn't matter."
"It's not like you wanna bite the head off."
-------------------------
TMI + Vaudeville:
Powder blue, XL too,
Caught some accidental poo –
Some dumpster diver gets my drawers!
Can't go play, it's laundry day,
These doo-doo undies cannot stay –
Some dumpster diver gets my drawers!
-------------------------
Only a tattoo-sleeved war vet in a wheelchair can get away with saying at Denny's:
"How does a one-eyed turd sniper with false teeth and three toes missing go about getting an order of bacon & pancakes from one of you clap-magnets?"
-------------------------
From the Banana Split Room high atop the fine Hotel Crystal, it's Red Cherry and his Rainbow Sprinkles, whipping up the cream of yesterday's hits – sweet music with taste! Featuring the treacly vocals of Miss Vanilla Scoops, and laying it on thick is the 'Old Ladler' himself, Sir Upchoc O'Latt! Also singing second layer is Cara Mell, and Pia Nutz!
-------------------------
It took me 45 years to realize I'm nobody, and the world was dropping hints all along!
You just realized you're an aloof over-acheiver? Well, now you've GONE and DONE IT!
Thursday, April 14, 2011
No, You're Not Just Like The Rest Of Us, Mr./Ms. Politician...
Just like the rest of us, huh?
You have guaranteed travel accommodations, that we pay for. We have self-funded travel that we must budget, or even severely limit in order to make our finances stretch the month.
Your paycheck and personal security are locked in for a definite time period, regardless of what the economy does.
You have stipends and monetary allowances above and beyond your salary for additional mundane expenses. We must make one monthly sum suffice for every expenditure that arrises.
You can intentionally abstain from your job without being docked pay, much less dismissed for non-attendance.
You don't have an Employee Union because you don't need one; your "employee rights" and huge benefits are guaranteed, and irrevocable, and should you come under scrutiny for abusing them, you have a guaranteed opportunity to address matters publicly in a national forum, and then vote on them too.
You're paid to argue: to speak out and act on agendas based on your philosophies and opinions – that you can safely claim reflect the views of those who elected you. We form our opinions based on the potential consequences of your actions, speak and argue them in public at risk of alienation or even reprisal, and have to make our living doing something else perhaps unrelated, even possibly contrary to our hopes and ideals.
If your "views" parrot those of middle-management (The House Speaker or Majority Chair) you are granted unspoken permission to bend the company rules, to sabotage accomplishment.
We get the opportunity to affect your future once every two, four or six years. You get to affect our future every day.
You can vote yourself a raise, not just when you need one, but when you think it would be nice – regardless of the cost of living.
You have large, sometimes non-gratis volunteer, staffs to help you accomplish daily mundane tasks.
You have access to networks of contacts to aid you in securing your future once your employment has been terminated, in case you aren't set for life via the diligent efforts of action committees working in your best interests.
You can exempt yourself from the laws you mandate upon the rest of us.
You are given waivers, sometimes mysteriously so, from the so-called "beneficial" government programs you shill.
You get away with accumulating massive debt, then pass the burden onto a non-blood related successor. We're stuck with ours, to the grave if we can't even the balance. Then it's our children's problem.
Corporations seek out mutually beneficial relationships with you. We get sent to collections.
You enjoy guaranteed deferment from any type of duty that would place you in personal danger.
You can successfully argue that your responsibilities are merely symbolic.
The press allows you a broad forum whenever you want to speak out on something that concerns you, and proactively seeks out your opinions on current affairs. And you are taken seriously, no matter how disconnected from reality your views are.
You're the one making our country a hated enemy among the nations, and a laughing stock among their leaders. We're the ones getting shot at.
You have guaranteed travel accommodations, that we pay for. We have self-funded travel that we must budget, or even severely limit in order to make our finances stretch the month.
Your paycheck and personal security are locked in for a definite time period, regardless of what the economy does.
You have stipends and monetary allowances above and beyond your salary for additional mundane expenses. We must make one monthly sum suffice for every expenditure that arrises.
You can intentionally abstain from your job without being docked pay, much less dismissed for non-attendance.
You don't have an Employee Union because you don't need one; your "employee rights" and huge benefits are guaranteed, and irrevocable, and should you come under scrutiny for abusing them, you have a guaranteed opportunity to address matters publicly in a national forum, and then vote on them too.
You're paid to argue: to speak out and act on agendas based on your philosophies and opinions – that you can safely claim reflect the views of those who elected you. We form our opinions based on the potential consequences of your actions, speak and argue them in public at risk of alienation or even reprisal, and have to make our living doing something else perhaps unrelated, even possibly contrary to our hopes and ideals.
If your "views" parrot those of middle-management (The House Speaker or Majority Chair) you are granted unspoken permission to bend the company rules, to sabotage accomplishment.
We get the opportunity to affect your future once every two, four or six years. You get to affect our future every day.
You can vote yourself a raise, not just when you need one, but when you think it would be nice – regardless of the cost of living.
You have large, sometimes non-gratis volunteer, staffs to help you accomplish daily mundane tasks.
You have access to networks of contacts to aid you in securing your future once your employment has been terminated, in case you aren't set for life via the diligent efforts of action committees working in your best interests.
You can exempt yourself from the laws you mandate upon the rest of us.
You are given waivers, sometimes mysteriously so, from the so-called "beneficial" government programs you shill.
You get away with accumulating massive debt, then pass the burden onto a non-blood related successor. We're stuck with ours, to the grave if we can't even the balance. Then it's our children's problem.
Corporations seek out mutually beneficial relationships with you. We get sent to collections.
You enjoy guaranteed deferment from any type of duty that would place you in personal danger.
You can successfully argue that your responsibilities are merely symbolic.
The press allows you a broad forum whenever you want to speak out on something that concerns you, and proactively seeks out your opinions on current affairs. And you are taken seriously, no matter how disconnected from reality your views are.
You're the one making our country a hated enemy among the nations, and a laughing stock among their leaders. We're the ones getting shot at.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Just in time for March: April!
If Denny's gave out fortune cookies, there'd be one that says "You again?"
Enlightenment should never venture out unaccompanied by self-awareness.
You aren't crazy. I'm not crazy. We just buy different brands of Normal.
________________________________
Up next on Country Station WISC:
She went back to the party and made me independent.
He took up with a Walker, now our union's on the curb.
She's right, I'm left, it's wrong.
South of the border, down Illinois way.
She's Keepin' Madison Honest, I'm Keepin' Milwaukee Famous.
________________________________
FUN AT THE DOCTOR'S
I went recently to see my nutritionist. Every visit, they have me take off my shoes and socks, and stand on an electronic scale – a metal plate – connected to a computer, that also apparently can tally up such exotic measurements as body fat, muscle mass, pulse rate and such, while it mundanely records weight too. I hopped on, in what has become a routine, and the nurse monitoring my numbers on-screen casually danced her fingers on the keyboard with a chirpy "all done!" I put my shoes back on and followed her to the examination room, where I'd wait for my doctor.
While I sat in yawny meditation, staring at the back issues of "Shape" and "Self" magazines, my ears caught what sounded like a sudden commotion outside the door of the exam room – something a little out of the norm for a sedately efficient doctor's office. I leaned in the chair, toward the door, nudged it open a slight crack, and peeked out. Apparently, from what I heard, there was a woman wandering around the medical complex somewhere, whose numbers were so out of whack, that she was a walking emergency... and no one could find her.
Several nurses hustled about – that double-fast clip that indicates their next step is to whip out cell phones and alert security. At every turn of the corner: "Did you find her?" "No, they're looking down the hall, in the restroom..." Etc. Etc. Etc.
At once, one of them said something like, "hold it..." I think I was the only one who heard this, because nobody else sounded like they were "holding it." The nurse who had weighed me, entered the room where I was. "Robert...?"
"That's me," I said, "long time, no see." I grinned, in my usual, habitually annoying, just-made-a-funny custom.
She was looking at my scale print-out. "Oh good gawd..." This didn't sound good. "I marked you down as female." She then turned and addressed the rest of the office. "Hold up, everyone." The mysterious wandering woman about to explode, had been located. It was me. The numbers were perfectly fine, for a man. A man my size.
For the next five minutes, as she took me back to the electronic broiler plate to re-weigh me as the correct gender, I was the center of attention amid an entire office of 20- and 30-something females carrying clipboards and thermometers. I'll take what I can get.
Enlightenment should never venture out unaccompanied by self-awareness.
You aren't crazy. I'm not crazy. We just buy different brands of Normal.
________________________________
Up next on Country Station WISC:
She went back to the party and made me independent.
He took up with a Walker, now our union's on the curb.
She's right, I'm left, it's wrong.
South of the border, down Illinois way.
She's Keepin' Madison Honest, I'm Keepin' Milwaukee Famous.
________________________________
FUN AT THE DOCTOR'S
I went recently to see my nutritionist. Every visit, they have me take off my shoes and socks, and stand on an electronic scale – a metal plate – connected to a computer, that also apparently can tally up such exotic measurements as body fat, muscle mass, pulse rate and such, while it mundanely records weight too. I hopped on, in what has become a routine, and the nurse monitoring my numbers on-screen casually danced her fingers on the keyboard with a chirpy "all done!" I put my shoes back on and followed her to the examination room, where I'd wait for my doctor.
While I sat in yawny meditation, staring at the back issues of "Shape" and "Self" magazines, my ears caught what sounded like a sudden commotion outside the door of the exam room – something a little out of the norm for a sedately efficient doctor's office. I leaned in the chair, toward the door, nudged it open a slight crack, and peeked out. Apparently, from what I heard, there was a woman wandering around the medical complex somewhere, whose numbers were so out of whack, that she was a walking emergency... and no one could find her.
Several nurses hustled about – that double-fast clip that indicates their next step is to whip out cell phones and alert security. At every turn of the corner: "Did you find her?" "No, they're looking down the hall, in the restroom..." Etc. Etc. Etc.
At once, one of them said something like, "hold it..." I think I was the only one who heard this, because nobody else sounded like they were "holding it." The nurse who had weighed me, entered the room where I was. "Robert...?"
"That's me," I said, "long time, no see." I grinned, in my usual, habitually annoying, just-made-a-funny custom.
She was looking at my scale print-out. "Oh good gawd..." This didn't sound good. "I marked you down as female." She then turned and addressed the rest of the office. "Hold up, everyone." The mysterious wandering woman about to explode, had been located. It was me. The numbers were perfectly fine, for a man. A man my size.
For the next five minutes, as she took me back to the electronic broiler plate to re-weigh me as the correct gender, I was the center of attention amid an entire office of 20- and 30-something females carrying clipboards and thermometers. I'll take what I can get.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Februarandumb
I'll go Confucius one better... If a tree falls in the forest, how does it know whether anyone is listening? If you're alone in a sealed room, how do you know you're anywhere?
I was out on the sidewalk in town recently, and four men passed by me in a line; two of them were identical twins, the type who trouble themselves to dress identically as well. Only, the twins were the first and fourth men in line, respectively, as they passed – like human bookends. The experience was just a tad unnerving.
I've made this comment before, but it never ceases to amaze me how bicyclists wear all this trendy streamlined protective gear, and literally brandish their physical fitness at the rest of the non-bicycling world they navigate through... then habitually run stop signs, something no conscientiously life-savoring individual would ever do, on foot or in a vehicle. Proof that arrogance is actually an evolutionary safety valve to help keep the population down.
Whenever I go somewhere to browse, like at a bookstore, I find either beautiful women congregating, or spaced out wanderers. Never an even mixture. It makes me wonder which group I belong to – and I'm definitely not a woman.
I have about five different versions of "Clair de Lune" on my iTunes list. I enjoy listening to them in succession, like a great debate where I agree fully with all points of view.
A mental exercise I do – that I think probably places me among a very small group of human beings indeed, if I'm not in fact the only one, or certifiable – is making up lists of comically outrageous words. A few past examples would be like, "glittertwit," "rectalooza" and "crotchurion." I was a little distracted one afternoon, at a coffeeshop, engaged in this little writing warm-up... coming up with some real groaners and eye-ball rollers. I felt a presence behind me, and turned my head to look. An elderly woman with a five-or-six year old granddaughter were reading over my shoulder. "You see," said the woman to the girl, "how important it is to practice your spelling." I could only grin, like an enterbuttual.
I was out on the sidewalk in town recently, and four men passed by me in a line; two of them were identical twins, the type who trouble themselves to dress identically as well. Only, the twins were the first and fourth men in line, respectively, as they passed – like human bookends. The experience was just a tad unnerving.
I've made this comment before, but it never ceases to amaze me how bicyclists wear all this trendy streamlined protective gear, and literally brandish their physical fitness at the rest of the non-bicycling world they navigate through... then habitually run stop signs, something no conscientiously life-savoring individual would ever do, on foot or in a vehicle. Proof that arrogance is actually an evolutionary safety valve to help keep the population down.
Whenever I go somewhere to browse, like at a bookstore, I find either beautiful women congregating, or spaced out wanderers. Never an even mixture. It makes me wonder which group I belong to – and I'm definitely not a woman.
I have about five different versions of "Clair de Lune" on my iTunes list. I enjoy listening to them in succession, like a great debate where I agree fully with all points of view.
A mental exercise I do – that I think probably places me among a very small group of human beings indeed, if I'm not in fact the only one, or certifiable – is making up lists of comically outrageous words. A few past examples would be like, "glittertwit," "rectalooza" and "crotchurion." I was a little distracted one afternoon, at a coffeeshop, engaged in this little writing warm-up... coming up with some real groaners and eye-ball rollers. I felt a presence behind me, and turned my head to look. An elderly woman with a five-or-six year old granddaughter were reading over my shoulder. "You see," said the woman to the girl, "how important it is to practice your spelling." I could only grin, like an enterbuttual.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Ranuary Jandomness
Why doesn't Victoria's Secret offer senior discounts? Just curious.
I need to find a cold remedy stronger than M&Ms.
Diabetes means you must greatly reduce or eliminate most great tasting food. Neuropathy means you are now a slapstick comedian below the waist, and impotent. So basically, all I can do with a prostitute is take her to Safeway and buy her groceries.
Just thinking... if Charles Lindbergh had flown backwards from Paris to New York, and naked, he'd still have the record.
-------------------
I went with my nearsighted, partially deaf uncle, to stroll a Farmers' Market, and we came to a BBQ Rotisserie with some tasty looking chickens on the spit. "Let's get lunch," I said.
My uncle looked and said, "just a minute, I need to tell this guy something." He stepped up to the man running the rotisserie and said, "buddy, I hate to break this to you, but not only is your crank organ not making any music, but I think your monkeys are on fire."
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I did something today that very soon the DHS may consider an act of terrorism: I sat in public, writing. Not on a computer, but with a pen and paper notebook. In our new culture of instant incrimination, writing in longhand may be interpreted as subversive behavior. Because I may be... what? Taking names? Drawing a diagram for a plot? Casing the joint and taking notes? Question: wouldn't it seem more nefarious if I were typing on a laptop computer, instantaneously transmitting what I typed somewhere else via a wireless connection? Apparently no. Why is writing on paper so potentially evil? Because I'm not generating income to some third party by doing it. The pen and the paper are already mine. My thoughts are mine and remain so, even though I am releasing them into reality by writing them down. No internet portal is being accessed, no application process utilized – I'm not even draining a battery. I don't owe anyone money... that's why it must be demonized. Frowned upon. Okay, maybe that's taking it a bit over the top, but at the growing rate of technology, the top is closer all the time.
I need to find a cold remedy stronger than M&Ms.
Diabetes means you must greatly reduce or eliminate most great tasting food. Neuropathy means you are now a slapstick comedian below the waist, and impotent. So basically, all I can do with a prostitute is take her to Safeway and buy her groceries.
Just thinking... if Charles Lindbergh had flown backwards from Paris to New York, and naked, he'd still have the record.
-------------------
I went with my nearsighted, partially deaf uncle, to stroll a Farmers' Market, and we came to a BBQ Rotisserie with some tasty looking chickens on the spit. "Let's get lunch," I said.
My uncle looked and said, "just a minute, I need to tell this guy something." He stepped up to the man running the rotisserie and said, "buddy, I hate to break this to you, but not only is your crank organ not making any music, but I think your monkeys are on fire."
-------------------
I did something today that very soon the DHS may consider an act of terrorism: I sat in public, writing. Not on a computer, but with a pen and paper notebook. In our new culture of instant incrimination, writing in longhand may be interpreted as subversive behavior. Because I may be... what? Taking names? Drawing a diagram for a plot? Casing the joint and taking notes? Question: wouldn't it seem more nefarious if I were typing on a laptop computer, instantaneously transmitting what I typed somewhere else via a wireless connection? Apparently no. Why is writing on paper so potentially evil? Because I'm not generating income to some third party by doing it. The pen and the paper are already mine. My thoughts are mine and remain so, even though I am releasing them into reality by writing them down. No internet portal is being accessed, no application process utilized – I'm not even draining a battery. I don't owe anyone money... that's why it must be demonized. Frowned upon. Okay, maybe that's taking it a bit over the top, but at the growing rate of technology, the top is closer all the time.
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