The Lair of the Recovering Misanthrope

Turkman Dilemma

2012-02-12T10:46:00.000-05:00

Whitney Houston Dead At 48

2012-02-11T22:42:00.001-05:00

Whitney Houston died today in her Los Angeles Beverly Hilton hotel room of unknown causes. She was found by a member of her entourage, according to a announcement by the LAPD. Efforts at resuscitation were fruitless and Ms. Houston was declared dead at 3:55 PM. Foul play is not suspected. She was 48 years old.

Whitney Houston performing during the HBO-televised concert "Welcome Home Heroes with Whitney Houston" honoring the troops, who took part in Operation Desert Storm, their families, and military and government dignitaries.

Ms. Houston is well known for her successful music and movie career and is said to have sold 170 million albums and had starred in "The Bodyguard" and "Waiting To Exhale." She is survived by her mother, Cissy Houston, age 78, and her daughter, Bobbi Khristina Houston Brown, age 19.

Baby, It's (Just Not That) Cold Outside

2012-02-02T23:12:00.000-05:00

Well, it's that time of year again. Puxtawaney Phil has decreed, through his rodent rotundity, that we are to have six more weeks of winter. Fact is, we haven't had much of a winter this year and that's fine with me.

In the meantime, the wind tonight howls gracelessly. It was a dark and stormless night . . .

Tell Me . . .

2012-01-29T23:27:00.000-05:00

. . . that you couldn't just watch this for at least an hour:

Your Dreams Were Your Ticket Out . . .

2012-01-27T10:05:00.003-05:00

. . . and now that ticket has been punched.

Pictured left to right, kind of trapezoidally: Lawrence Hilton-Jacobs, John Travolta, Gabe Kaplan, Marcia Strassman, Robert Hegyes, Ellen Travolta. Where's Arnold? photo: TVWeek.com

Remember Juan Epstein from "Welcome Back, Kotter"? Robert Hegyes. Dead. Sixty. New Jersey. Heart attack.

Geez.

Hegyes was living in Metuchen, NJ at the time of his untimely death. He was born in Perth Amboy, NJ, the eldest son of a Hungarian father and Italian mother, hence, he was not Hispanic, though he would play Hispanic characters during his sparse acting career. Not like there weren't plenty of actually Hispanic actors available. But that doesn't really matter now. Not to him, anyway.

So, if you're old enough to remember catching the show, you're old enough to remember the appropriately youthful visages of Vinnie, Freddy, Arnold, Mr, Koterrr and Juan. Now, check yourself in the mirror. Holy Crow's Feet, Batman: I'm Meltingggggg!!!!!

But, at least, I still breathe. Which is a very good thing, as Martha would say.

Wishing You Were Here . . . Wait: You Are Here

2011-12-13T23:04:00.000-05:00

He Knows When You Are Sleeping . . .

2011-12-10T09:26:00.001-05:00

Why does Santa have a homeless alcoholic's nose, Mommy? Why is he looking at your ass like that? Is that Rudolph's dismembered head behind him?

Santa is PISSSSSED!

Man in Red Suit: "A Jew!"
Men in Traditional Hassidic / Amish Garb: "We don't believe in you, but Gesundheit anyway. Love the belt-buckle, by the way."

Yes, no Christmas season is complete without mischief, mayhem and a little murder. In Santa's Slay, (get it? Slay - Sleigh? Ah hahahaha!) Santa, is a demon who is also the Son of Satan, who loses a bet with an angel and is forced to spread merriment, cheer and gifts. But it turns out it's not really his thing.

Santa, like clowns of all type except mimes who aren't really clowns anyway though are sometimes included in the category of entertainers called clowns though this doesn't seem fair since there is not, I do not believe, anyone in history that was much like John Wayne Gacy and that was either employed as a mime either full- or part-time nor who pursued the art of mimery as a hobby while also burying the bodies of teenage boys under his (or her) house, is a somewhat malevolent figure. He's supernatural, like poltergeists or The Kraken, hence, immune to human suppression, should the need arise. He has a long history of breaking and entering (sliding down yer chimney, boy!), animal abuse (utilizes magical, anti-gravity reindeer for commercial purposes without any form of rest during the delivery period), white slavery (maintains an unpaid crew of workers who are apparently detained at the work-house without compensation), and invasion of privacy and stalking (he knows when you are sleeping and awake and whether you've been bad or good - however accomplished, clearly illegal.)

I recommend Santa's Slay, headlined by WWE Star Bill Goldberg (i-ron-y-?) because it will punch the whimsy right out of Christmas for you and that, my friend, is how it should be.

Driving Me To Drink

2011-11-24T00:17:00.000-05:00

As I plunge headfirst into the Hemingway segment of my life, less the marlin fishing, rhino hunting and shotgun, I have rekindled my interest in booze. Of course, it didn't help that I befriended a wine expert or that Lexapro has so many damned side effects that hootch is the preferred choice for self-medication, though not the top beverage on the liver's list. Nevertheless, after a long day of hacking it out, a sherry seems in order and is evocative of the Euroelite of old, thus enhancing the illusion of assumed class rather than marginal alcoholism.

What to do, then? My regular spirits purveyor is of little help and, although there are a surprising number of Crown subjects in my rurally immediate area, they rather seem to avoid me and so, are of even comparably lesser value in terms of discovering, selecting and acquiring a nutty, yet bright aperitif able to exceed Harvey's pedestrian offering.

Therefore, I turned to my best friend, the Internet, to seek out a proper guide to tasty drunkeness. I have discovered that Amazon understands my need to imbibe better than I do and like a good friend, wants to help. The screenshot above proves it.

Damn. I need more ice. Maybe I should turn to Port. Hmmm. It would take some time, considering the hodgepodge of imbibables I have built up. Yes, by Jove, I shall. Bottoms up!

Se ya Soon, Steve

2011-10-05T19:32:00.002-05:00

Kinda sucks that you're dead. But I feel ya. The way you worked to the last moment. I understand that.

Your way of thinking differently will be missed.

A Reason To Skip TV and Grocery Shopping Tomorrow

2011-09-23T05:39:00.001-05:00

Hey! What are you doing tomorrow? Cruising the internet? Doing your laundry? Checking your Mega Millions numbers (no, you didn't win.) Forget it. Forget it all. Instead, get off your duff, shake out the hair rollers, shave your back and head out to Smithsonian Magazine's Museum Day!

I'm so excited. I Just can't hide it. Why? Because the admission to thousands of museums, large and small, for one, plus one, is absolutely FREE! That's right - one day only: tomorrow, Saturday, 24th, 2011.

You can search for a museum local to you and get your free ticket by clicking this link. Screw the trip to Shoprite - see some frickin' ART! Yeah, baby!

I Feel The Earth Move Under My Feet . . .

2011-08-23T13:12:00.004-05:00

The National Geological Survey has reported a 5.9 magnitude earthquake in the typically non-tectonically active Northeast U.S., centred on Mineral, VA, ninety miles south of Washington, DC, but with reports of tremors being felt as far away as Boston, MA. Although I have not experienced these tremors directly, owing to the fact that my lair here at Choas Manor II is located in the far northwest of NJ and away from the Hudson Valley tectonic plain or rift or whatever the hell it's called (I'm too lazy and non-plussed to look it up right now,) I have had calls and e-mails exhorting me to report this non-event event.

If you were alive many decades ago, you might remember the hullaballoo surrounding the release of the granddaddy of disaster movies - Krakatoa - East of Java. The movie was based on the real-life disaster in 1883, when the frickin' island EXPLODED, killing about 40,000 people. Krakatoa is in Indonesia. You will no doubt notice that the poster for the movie features a total of zero Indonesians, although Rossano Brazzi might qualify as an expat considering the time he spent as the sexy French-speaking, civilian-warrior, horse-riding, plantation-owning baritone in South Pacific.

So, there you go. The world is collapsing right before our eyes. Don't say I didn't tell you so. Good thing you're not Indonesian, huh.

Oh, My

2011-08-22T18:23:00.000-05:00

I'm feeling maudlin and sentimental. No, this isn't a status update for Facebook, which I despise. It's this:

http://dearphotograph.com

Go there. Now. Sorry. Can't write. Tears . . . making keyboard slippery.

Letter To My Daughter

2011-08-11T08:54:00.002-05:00

In the midst of my ex-wife's strange and un-wonderful machinations, my daughter has been getting ready to go far, far away to college. Unfortunately, there's no actual way for her to complete her education at that particular institution without personally incurring more than a hundred grand in debt, mainly because her mother is not financially capable of stepping up to the plate, though she agreed to. Anyway, I don't want my kid to get saddled with a mortgage-sized college loan to pay back since she'll be in the arts and, unless you're especially savvy and extremely agressive, super lucky AND superbly talented, you will NOT make hundreds of thousands of dollars each and every year. Still, she's my kid and I love her very much and so, I thought I should provide a modicum of fatherly advice. So I wrote her this:

I wanted to write something pithy, something exceptional on which you could rely as a touchstone for your launch into nearly utter independence. But I find that I have so much to tell you and so much to say that could serve to fill in the gaps in your young experience, that the best I could do today was to create an extemporaneous list. Here it is:

10 Things You Must Know To Succeed As A Young Human
1. Be on time. It matters.
2. Don't eat in the dark.
3. You will feel lonely sometimes. Savor those moments instead of allowing them to pull you into sadness. Those moments will become few and far between later and will be the times when you can express your inner voice without external censorship.
4. Be curious and educate yourself.
5. Don't jump to conclusions. Don't be quick to judge or to assume, neither should you dismiss. Instead, gather those cognitive end-points as elements of observation and store them for further use. Not everything is as it first appears.
6. Get plenty of exercise. You will feel better and happiness is impossible if you feel bad. Then, sleep fully, in a regular schedule that fits your brain-cycle.
7. Always pour your own drink.
8. Never carry less cash than is equal to or more than the cabfare from wherever you're going to be to wherever you'll be returning to. Relying on someone else for transportation takes away your options.
9. Don't get conned, unless you really want to.
10. Write it down.
Okay, and just one more . . .
11. Love yourself first. You are your greatest accomplishment.
Wait, there's one last one . . .
12. Call yer Dad. He's the Swiss Army Knife of human existence, has been there, done that, and will do anything he can to help you. It doesn't matter whether it's good or bad, enthusiastically upbeat or downright embarrassing, because he is your Dad and always has your best interests at heart.
There you go. You now know everything you need to. Well, okay, you don't, but you have the capacity to discover and you have the ability to make good choices if you choose to make the good choice of making good choices. Now go out there and beat the world, you world-beater, you.

I love you very much. Don't doubt it. Don't forget it. Count on it.

I miss her so much already, it's not even funny. No. Not funny at all. Good luck kid. I'm here for you and I'll be there for you as long as I live. Amen.

Stuff I Saw Today

2011-08-10T15:20:00.000-05:00

Look, I know this isn't Facebook, which I despise, Facebook, that is, but I've been toying with the idea of producing a reality-based show surrounding my life. So, here are stills from today's meanderings:

Forget the show. It would be WAY too grim. LOL, not.

Flow Bee

2011-08-08T21:16:00.001-05:00

Better Living Through Resignation

2011-08-05T14:41:00.000-05:00

Cipher

2011-08-04T19:20:00.003-05:00

I have something I must say.

Too much conflict. I dislike confrontation. I don't understand roles. Boundaries have become mobile. It's unsettling. I'm come to understand that I really don't understand anything in fundamental ways. That's a bad thing. It puts me in league with The Sheep.

Thank you. I will post this now.

Sentimental Reality Revisited

2011-08-02T19:42:00.001-05:00

In a prior post, I showed you an image of what seemed like visual irony from outside my favorite post office. I was there today and it doesn't look like it's getting any better. In fact, if you look carefully enough, you can see a dead bug curled up in the middle. Sigh.

Fart

2011-08-02T19:32:00.000-05:00

Let me be candid from the outset. This little bit of commentary will be uncomfortable for some to read. But then, if I can't elicit at least that emotion from the reader, I have no business pressing these little keys until an idea emerges, do I?

Farts are a fact of life. In fact, they are a proof of life, as it were, although dead people also may fart from time to time as the need, and gases of decomposition, arise. For the living, however, farts are often inopportune and a sullen inconvenience. On that point, I wonder if there is a time that represents the optimal temporal opportunity for gaseous effluence. Farts may be odoriferous or benign, gregarious or timid. I imagine that females actually do not fart at all, thus accounting for their distemperate attitude towards males who, as a group, are a notoriously gassy bunch.

There are very bad times to fart and some not-so-good moments, like during a funereal or when near an open flame. But of more concern is not the event of the fart itself, but of the quality of the fart. Yes, I believe we all know, at least us males, that there is a broad range of possibilities. Most preferable are the dry, lift-one-cheek, airy variety most like letting the air out of a camp mattress. Least desirable are sputtering, wet, acrid, short-singeing farts that give Jackson Pollack a run for his money if the derriere of the afflicted farter could be positioned perpendicular to a primed canvas of appropriate size.

In this way, farts are like lawsuits. They both begin for different reasons and at different moments in the human life-cycle. Some take a long time to produce results, and the peak of the bell curve for both farts and lawsuits represents something messy, unpleasant and unfortunate. Farts and lawsuits that can be suppressed are a win, a sort of lower abdominal settlement. But when they go all the way, the outcome is uncertain, but at least one person will be very uncomfortable and someone will have to clean up the mess.

My absence from these pages as of late can be explained away by my involvement in one heck of a stinker. My last foray into matrimonial conjugification was at least a failure if not a disaster. This is because I simply do not have the ability to identify psychopaths. Oh, I know. You're thinking that this is just more sour grapes from another weak male not willing to take responsibility for his part in a failed relationship. Um, no. That's not it. In this case, I take responsibility for not cashing my reality check and outlining what was crystal clear to not less than a half-dozen people at the time of my enamoration, that the girl of my dreams was, in fact, suffering from borderline personality disorder.

Actually, for those who have know, lived with or attempted to love someone with BPD, it's not the afflicted person who suffers - it's everyone else. Unfortunately, when this is turned into legal wranglings, it can get very expensive. When we were rolling up to the divorce date, a scant three years ago, I was spending two grand a month just to keep her at arm's length. In the end, the total spent was enough to buy a modest house in some or another less high-falutin' part of the country and have money left over for a pool, above-ground, of course. I should have run away.

Well, since we were divorced, that should be that, right? Perhaps if it was you and me, perhaps it would be civil and adult. But, unfortunately, a BPD'ed individual thrives on the stimulation from absolute drama and is so expert at using all resources at manipulation and can do so with utterly no remorse, that there never is an end, even when employing expertly-honed low-contact techniques.

After years of post-divorce wrangling which was really just time-wasting emotional abuse, it came time to sort up a nice and tight suit. And sure enough, since no one can know the case better than me, I chose myself as the lawyer. Yay. Don't worry, I'm not totally stupid. You've no doubt heard the old saw, "The lawyer who represents himself has a fool for a client." This is because even for someone who trained in the law, the emotional components involved in a legal proceeding make sound judgment unlikely. So, I do have an attorney who is of counsel and I'm on the brief, that is to say that I do the motions, cross-motions, orders, certifications and so forth - anything to do that has to be researched and written down.

The idea is to be concise and precise. This is very difficult. Try describing something in sufficient detail so that another person a thousand miles away can draw it. No try doing that in one sentence, Twitter-length. Not so easy, neh? Even worse when one fancies oneself a writer. It's necessary to convey clearly that which the Judge needs to know with the appearance of as little vitriol as possible, also not easy when having to relive serial psychoses of years gone by.

But, it's done. I have eaten the burrito and I am ready to do my worst, or should I say wurst? Ha ha! In the end, ha again, it may be like a fallow breeze or like a leaking sump hose, but this fart is a-comin' Don your protective eye-wear and clothes-pins and let'r RIIIIPPPPPP!

A Conspiracy of Silliness

2011-07-12T10:45:00.000-05:00

It may be hard to believe, but it seems that us Merkins just can't seem to accept that which is. Every national disaster - assassination of a beloved leader, terrorist attacks, even Katrina, seems to bring along an in-built need for a better, more complex explanation that what the facts support.

In philosophy, there is a principle called Occam's Razor. The idea is that between two explanations that are similar, the simplest explanation is likely to be correct. Popular conspiracy theories ignore this principle, instead opting for DaVinci Code complexity where more sensible, factually established arguments should hold sway.

Scenario: two giant airplanes loaded with explosive and volatile jet fuel crash directly into the centre of two giant skyscrapers. The jet fuel ignites, burns at 1800 degrees Fahrenheit. The structures are compromised because of a) the intrusion of giant flaming foreign objects into the structure and 2) the hollow-tube design of the building which is meant to resist lateral force, not the multiplied gravity and force of pancaking floors, each weighing several thousand tons, that give way as the cantilevers that were distributing the force between the compromised center columns and the compromised outside tube columns are heating to melting. And those elements don't have to melt to fail, either, just get hot enough to allow their load-bearing spec to be exceeded.

In short, most buildings are NOT designed to withstand missile attacks, let alone almost a million pounds of aircraft loaded with super-hot-burning fossil fuel. So, it seems that the likeliest explanation, which is flaming, heavy, high-speed missiles + structure not designed to resist those forces = structure failure. Versus what else? Surreptitiously planting literally tons of high explosive? Per building? With no one noticing? In two buildings? With security tightened after the '93 bombing? Huh? Doesn't pass the "makes no sense" test.

I believe that conspiracy theories like this are rarely proved but understandable. Kennedy was assassinated by a team of black ops people or the Mafia or the Cubans left floundering in the Bay of Pigs or maybe Marylin Monroe. Yet, years of examination and the collection of all the evidence seem to point to the simplest answer - a crazy dude did it.

We would all like a more diabolical and complex answer to "why" rather than the simplicity of a coordinated, low-tech attack. The feeling of being "had" needs more than such simplicity in order to be erased. Aren't we the greatest, strongest nation in the world, or don't we believe that anyway? Don't we represent good and not evil?

We may be Goliath after all and it's clear that others in the world see America and Americans that way. The truth hurts. The truth is that the Davids out there will be successful when they use the simplest means at their disposal - cheapest, most direct, easily done. And there does not have to be, and usually isn't, a sophisticated explanation involving archaeologists, popes, CIA operatives and evil geniuses. The only way to beat that approach is with a stick, literally. Or close the gates and stay at home. Either way, it won't stop nasty jerks from their bullying, no matter whether we're the ones being bullied or whether we're smacking kids upside the head for their milk money.

Welcome to the human condition. Now, get over it.

Why I Don't Watch (Don't Like) "Black" Movies

2011-07-10T19:56:00.003-05:00

It's really very simple. Motion picture entertainment target exclusively at "black" audiences is, believe it or not, still a developing market. As a consequence, "black" movies that get made and promoted tend to be, well, dumbed-down to a point that an equalized audience would have little choice but to be insulted.

So, by not being part of that audience, I choose to not support "black" movies by watching or renting them nor do I subscribe (knowingly) to any cable network that supports that kind of programming. The fact that the only director to ignore the audience, namely Spike Lee, can make intelligent movies and inform me on the real black, excuse me, African-American, perspective, means that it can be done. Not my fault that he's an intellectual. He is bankable, and so, can make his brilliant movies. The rest is absolute crap and is f*cking insulting to my African-American brothers and sisters. The time has come to look at this this and perhaps suggest a blanket boycott of that tripe.

So, is it okay to make stupid white-person movies? Maybe it's because there's more freedom and more history. There's certainly enough "free" perspective to make a significant difference and to allow way more latitude. In fact, it should be expected. But for black audiences, there are issues that need to be examined carefully, right now. That doesn't mean boring, dry scripts, either. It can be, and has been done in an entertaining way, too.

I beg you, Tyler Perry: stop with the Medea crap - that's particularly embarrassing. "Why Did I Get Married" one and two, is cringe worthy - for a white person! Please - make it stop.

Sentimental Reality

2011-07-07T17:30:00.000-05:00

Well, there you are.

A well-worn sentiment, cast in stone, placed thoughtfully in a garden and subsequently shattered.

What is the message and who, may I ask, is sending it?

Maru: Defining Determination

2011-07-04T14:30:00.000-05:00

Yes, I know. Two cat posts in a row can't be a good sign. But then, I don't really write about what I'm writing about when I'm writing about it. It's only when, like a good pot roast, it's had a while to soak in its own juices that it starts to take on the proper meaning.

This, however, is a cat post. I wish for you to have no illusions about this. I am addicted to cats. I can't get enough of them. oddly, I have none in my possession at this time. No, instead I have a dog. Interestingly, this dog has developed some very cat-like properties, like being forever underfoot in the kitchen, watching birds (also know as crack-for-cats) while muttering something akin to, "I could get you, I could kill you, I could, I could . . .", sleeping like all freakin' day and playing with string. Perhaps it's a good thing I have no cats as it's likely that I would have at least three and begin the not-so-long journey to stereotype-dom.

Still and all, I like cats. I especially like cats that are wacky. So, without further delay, here are two videos. The first one is about Maru The Japanese Cat and his obsession with a big box. Simple, I know, but like most things Japanese, elegant. And I can't be the only one who likes cats and cat videos, since this video has had nearly six million views. And the second is a video of an apparently invisible cat. Please excuse me if you've seen these and kindly let me know if they disappear, since the videos are on YT and may very well go "poof." Meow!

And here's yer bonus:

Yeah!

Serious Cat Is Serious

2011-06-29T11:39:00.000-05:00

These are two separate images of a feral cat sitting by a stream. The cat in the context of said stream is pictured at left. I came upon this cat by accident whilst parking my auto-motive conveyance device unit. As one can see from the photo, he, and I am assuming his gender as he never did back down and turn away, which would have allowed me to view his privates, is not a cat who is likely to take crap from anyone or anything. No, this is not a conniving Top Cat or OCD-ridden Tom (of Tom and Jerry fame) or some fuzzy internet meme. This is one serious-assed cat, ready to scratch out his name in your forehead or chew off your lips, should he find your lifeless body discarded, post-homicide, in the tall grass.

Don't get me wrong - I love cats. They are crazy cool. They don't need you or me for anything. Sure. they'll hang out at your house as long as you have something worthwhile to offer - food, that pile of comfy sweaters you've been meaning to put away in the attic all spring that make the perfect spot to deposit a matt of fur after too many curled-up naps to count, a shaft of sunlight, food. Did I mention food? Most won't be bothered to come when called nor will they want to do tricks or make cutie-pie faces to please Master or Mistress. Oh, they can do tricks: they just don't want to denigrate themselves. So, "house" cats may be domestic, but I am pretty sure that they're not entirely domesticated - they just want you to think that they are.

When a cat pees on a wall, say, it's not because he's being bad or that he's forgotten how to use the litterbox. He does it because he can. Cats have an acute sense of smell, so that spraying cat knows full well that you're going to smell Eau de Felis the minute you walk in the door. And there he will be perched - on your navy blue peacoat or velour couch, depositing impossible-to-entirely-remove cat fibers on your favourite fabrics, staring you down as if to say, "yeah, what?" On the other hand, a dog will let loose because he has no other damn choice since you decided to stop off at Target to pick up a Raspberry Entemann's on that super hot day during which he managed to gulp down, one tongue-coating at a time, a two-quart-sized bowl of water and he just couldn't hold on any longer. And then, he experiences the duality of being a dog: exquisite relief as the yellow puddle on your kitchen floor spreads out like pancake batter on a too-cold griddle with the momentary knowledge that you will be none too pleased as you slide across that same-said yellow lake on your way to depositing your baked treat on the formica of that table you should really have thrown away already, so old as to be pre-retro.

Dog: sad face, knows he did something to displease, ready to be contrite. Cat: f*ck you, gimme food. Smaller brain, yet, somehow, smarter, n'est ce pas? Methinks I prefer the attitude of Serious Cat. No pity, no question, just action when it's called for, otherwise, maintain the status quo and preserve energy. Sound like an excellent strategy for survival to me.

Clever Chap, What?

2011-06-14T21:19:00.000-05:00

Some you have heard, some you shall wish to have been of the hearing once in the again:

A Freudian slip is when you say one thing but mean your mother.

What is a committee? A group of the unwilling, picked from the unfit, to do the unnecessary. -- Richard Harkness, The New York Times, 1960

Slogan of 105.9, the classic rock radio station in Chicago: "Of all the radio stations in Chicago ... we're one of them."

With every passing hour our solar system comes forty-three thousand miles closer to globular cluster 13 in the constellation Hercules, and still there are some misfits who continue to insist that there is no such thing as progress. -- Ransom K. Ferm

Madness takes its toll. Please have exact change.

The graduate with a Science degree asks, "Why does it work?" The graduate with an Engineering degree asks, "How does it work?" The graduate with an Accounting degree asks, "How much will it cost?" The graduate with a Liberal Arts degree asks, "Do you want fries with that?"

Karate is a form of martial arts in which people who have had years and years of training can, using only their hands and feet, make some of the worst movies in the history of the world. -- Dave Barry

I am not a vegetarian because I love animals; I am a vegetarian because I hate plants. -- A. Whitney Brown

A great many people think they are thinking when they are merely rearranging their prejudices. -- William James

We should be careful to get out of an experience only the wisdom that is in it - and stop there; lest we be like the cat that sits down on a hot stove-lid. She will never sit down on a hot stove-lid again, and that is well; but also she will never sit down on a cold one anymore. -- Mark Twain

If a woman has to choose between catching a fly ball and saving an infant's life, she will choose to save the infant's life without even considering if there are men on base. -- Dave Barry

When cryptography is outlawed, bayl bhgynjf jvyy unir cevinpl.

668: The Neighbor of the Beast

Some mornings, it's just not worth chewing through the leather straps. -- Emo Phillips

Writing about music is like dancing about architecture.

Experience is that marvelous thing that enables you to recognize a mistake when you make it again. -- F. P. Jones

Human beings, who are almost unique in having the ability to learn from the experience of others, are also remarkable for their apparent disinclination to do so. -- Douglas Adams, Last Chance to See

When I told the people of Northern Ireland that I was an atheist, a woman in the audience stood up and said, "Yes, but is it the God of the Catholics or the God of the Protestants in whom you don't believe?" -- Quentin Crisp

Boundary, n. In political geography, an imaginary line between two nations, separating the imaginary rights of one from the imaginary rights of another. -- Ambrose Bierce, The Devil's Dictionary

I think that all right-thinking people in this country are sick and tired of being told that ordinary, decent people are fed up in this country with being sick and tired. I'm certainly not! But I'm sick and tired of being told that I am! -- Monty Python

May the forces of evil become confused on the way to your house. -- George Carlin

Those who make peaceful revolution impossible will make violent revolution inevitable. -- John F. Kennedy

Life may have no meaning. Or even worse, it may have a meaning of which I disapprove. -- Ashleigh Brilliant

My opinions may have changed, but not the fact that I am right. -- Ashleigh Brilliant

Drawing on my fine command of language, I said nothing.

Always try to do things in chronological order; it's less confusing that way. (which, I believe, is a Steven Wright-ism.)

Once at a social gathering, Gladstone said to Disraeli, "I predict, Sir, that you will die either by hanging or of some vile disease". Disraeli replied, "That all depends, sir, upon whether I embrace your principles or your mistress."

For three days after death, hair and fingernails continue to grow but phone calls taper off. -- Johnny Carson

A slipping gear could let your M203 grenade launcher fire when you least expect it. That would make you quite unpopular in what's left of your unit. -- In the August 1993 issue, page 9, of PS magazine, the Army's magazine of preventive maintenance

On one occasion a student burst into his office. "Professor Jones , I don't believe I deserve this F you've given me." To which Jones replied, "I agree, but unfortunately it is the lowest grade the University will allow me to award."

Don't worry about temptation--as you grow older, it starts avoiding you. -- Old Farmer's Almanac

G: "If we do happen to step on a mine, Sir, what do we do?" EB: "Normal procedure, Lieutenant, is to jump 200 feet in the air and scatter oneself over a wide area." -- Somewhere in No Man's Land, BA4

The mind is not a vessel to be filled but a fire to be kindled. -- Plutarch

The only difference between me and a madman is that I am not mad. -- Salvador Dali

I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone, but they've always worked for me. -- Hunter S. Thompson

Sacred cows make the best hamburger. -- Mark Twain

"Time's fun when you're having flies." -- Kermit the Frog

Sometimes I lie awake at night, and I ask, "Where have I gone wrong?" Then a voice says to me, "This is going to take more than one night." -- Charlie Brown, _Peanuts_ [Charles Schulz]

Calvin: People think it must be fun to be a super genius, but they don't realize how hard it is to put up with all the idiots in the world. Hobbes: Isn't the zipper on your pants supposed to be in the front?

LOL. Right?

Obit

2011-06-13T22:26:00.000-05:00

Muse, aged about 4386, died recently of unnatural causes. Which one? Hard to say: perhaps all of them in a tragic bus plunge on the way to Atlantic City or one of those Indian Casinos. All I know is that they're not speaking to me.

Part of the problem is early dementia, or something very much like it, that has taken over my brain as I obsess over cases and motions as I dredge out the dusty training I got so many years ago that I was forced to set aside in the quest to live vicariously through a sociopath. Oops: my mistake - what was I thinking?

Thinking - aye, there's the rub. The creative force that is the source of the myth of the muse comes, for me, anyway, from some foggy, emotional place. Just like depressed folks can't "snap out of it, " creative people can't snap into it. It's either there or it ain't. When it's there, it's powerful. It's love, sex, hysteria and goosebumps, gluttony, vibration and ice water all at once. It's The Force in Star Wars. But it's not something to mulled over. One wouldn't spend the afternoon considering whether to have mad goat sex, would one? It just happens, rising from that place without words, to manifest as something that someone, somewhere, will receive like a shot to the soul as perfect communication.

When I was in High School, I had a film teacher who was, I know now, a sorry has-been-that-never-was, a failed film critic that hadn't even managed to rise to the level of college instruction. Still, he knew a lot about movies and for a year and a half, he was mentor to a smallish group of artsy-fartsy students at a hippiesque school where one could either pass or fail. No judgements, man. But this "experiment" in education meant that the standards were much higher than other schools with traditional grading systems. We had a ton of work to do each semester in every class and the "passing" grade was equal to an 85. Two fails in while attending and you were out, slung back into the school system that was otherwise host to race riots and guido fascism. No place for hippy-dippy creative types.

So, as wonky as the guy was personally, he knew how to love film, and he knew that one way to understand how to make movies was to make movies. So, each semester, one film was due from each student plus a group effort, all shorts of eight to ten minutes or under. This was in the days before portable video and anything other than real celluloid wouldn't have gone over very well for this guy anyway. As he put it, "This is a film class. Not a TV class. We will watch films, make films and understand films." And that's what we did.

Now, making a film as a group is not so easy, but he was totally hands off, except to advise now and then, mostly when we were about to beat each other to death. We had to script the picture, storyboard it, choose a director, cast the parts, scout locations, light it, edit and dub it, all in about twelve weeks PLUS shoot our individual projects. Mind you, most of the kids were sixteen to eighteen and the school paid no part of the cost for film stock and processing. There were two editing set-ups with winders, edit bins and an 1950's-era Moviola for 16mm and a Rollei viewer for 8mm/Super 8. The "house" rig was a Bolex R16 with a 400-foot magazine and no synchronous sound. For audio, there was a Uher Reporter and a Sennheiser boom mic with a fuzzy rabbit-fur covering to kill wind noise. There was some studio-type lighting that basically amounted to a bunch of "beauty dishes" with 150-watt color-balanced incandescent bulbs gaffer-taped to the top of very dicey-looking and very rickety stands. But we learned how to actually take what we had and turn it into a few student-y, but finished, productions, complete with titles.

In retrospect, it was a ridiculous amount of work to foist on students with a full load of other courses to pass. So, I guess this was the seventies' version of School of Rock, only, it was School of Film and the teacher was nowhere near as charming as Jack Black. No: not at all.

For my own projects, I started out okay. I had a Bolex P1 8mm that was through-the-lens with a massive zoom and took very nice footage. My first project was a documentary on a pro-Israel rally near the United Nations, done in newsreel style owing to the lack of any way to either record or sync sound, though there was a music track and crowd sounds added. Shot with a single camera, this project was where I began to appreciate the importance of loads of B-roll and tons of choices to be shot and maybe tossed for cutaways and such, but without which, a very boring project would be the only possibility. And I read Dymytyk's On Film Editing from cover to cover, precocious lad that I was, and learned stuff that I would use a-plenty when I edited video commercially, many years later.

On the next project, I went with a dramatic mystery/crime script. This time, I had graduated to 16mm with my own Bolex R16, which could shoot 100 foot rolls of film. The story was about a guy who was casually minding his business, reading the paper and eating his lunch when he gets the sense that there's someone watching him. His anxiety level increases through the film as he senses, but can't put down to an actual entity, that he's being stalked. The camera goes POV from time to time to show that there doesn't appear to be anyone around, let alone a malevolent attacker. I had just spent a summer watching a bunch of Hitchcock movies and reading about his style of filmaking and I storyboarded the hell out of that thing - each shot planned and marked so that anybody could have shot it and it would have come out the same way. The star? My best friend, who was very photogenic and could actually take direction. We had good weather, good light, everything worked, the concept was compact, the dailies looked good, and then I started editing it.

Maybe I succumbed to my teacher's own delusions of grandeur in his role as either Golwyn or as Mayer. I don't know. But I started editing that thing and no matter what, I could not seem to get it where I wanted it. I had all the shots as scripted. I even went back out and reshot a little. But the deadline was up and I was screwed. I offered to show the rough cut to the teacher. He refused. I either had to submit a finished piece or he would fail me, for my own good, he said.

Bitch. I knew I couldn't finish it in time for that coming Tuesday, because even if I made a work print, I would still have to cut the negative, run into the city and have an answer print made that could be project, for peer review, of course. Again, in retrospect, WTF?

So, I punted. I went to the beach (it was absolutely freezing, as I recall) and in one reel, no edits, in about three hours, shot a very abstract bunch of images that would become the now-classic, "Brighton Impressions." Heard of it? Yeah, no, didn't think so, although it did play on Channel 13 once . . .

Teach was disappointed. He said, and I will never forget it, "You know, Mr. B, you will never be anything other than a conceptual artist. Sure, what we watched here today slides in under the wire - right length, titled, on time. But what does it say? Huh? What? Nothing! Nothing, because you have nothing to say." In front of everyone, he did this. To a high school student. If that happened today, he'd be flipping burgers on the following Wednesday. Loser.

But I learned some valuable lessons, besides how to take a concept, a thought, a mere idea, and make it into something real that could be communicated to someone else. First, authority-types are not gods. Just because they wield or project power, doesn't mean they're qualified to do so, and even if they are, they can be wrong and more importantly at the moment, they can be bitches. Nevertheless, it's their tree house and one must play by their rules, even if they make absolutely no sense. Next, respect the form of communication your audience expects. If you want to go to a strange place, go, but give them a point of reference, otherwise, it won't be fun for them anymore and they won't come along. I give you David Lynch's Blue Velvet as a guide to this, versus the much earlier Eraserhead. Go watch those and you'll see what I mean.

I'll wait. Tap, tap, tap. Done? Okay: let's continue.

Most importantly, I understand that if a creative work is meant to be, it will be. The work has to come from within. That doesn't mean that one sits around sipping absinthe hoping to be inspired. The "work" part is producing even if what's produced varies from sub-par to utter crap. Keep shooting at the target, since their is a concept you're aiming at. Don't get me wrong - if all you seem to produce is crap, better leave this job to the pros and take up something more suited to your Muse, like needlepoint, say. But once you start creating stuff, keeping trying things, cleaning, honing, polishing BUT remember that it will NEVER be perfect. Never. It will be finished, though, and that's when you have to stop and say, "Hello, World! Look at what I've wrought."

Let's Not Lose Our Heads

2011-06-11T00:48:00.001-05:00

Is this explicable in any way? Maybe the concept behind this is lost, but I'm thinking I might have done well in 1928. Still, seems not much has changed with how women think about men, or rather, how men think women think about men. Yeah, that's it.

What? No Valet?

2011-06-09T19:44:00.001-05:00

Hello, Mr. Chairman and Greetings:

I am writing to you from the Office of the First Consular Envoy From Gleepmorp. I believe we have had the brief pleasure of meeting at the recent Counsel Mixer, which seemed to end almost as soon as I arrived. I regret not having come earlier as spending cycles with colleagues in a non-work modality would likely have been more than pleasant. I understand that this time, the bean dip was to die for. I'm personally sorry to have missed it.

A matter of some concern has crossed my desk and I would like it very much if you could put some thought to it prior to our meeting next month in Justinia.

This may seem a small matter, what with the recent discovery that the entirety of the known universe will implode in 6.3 billion IUs, but it is nevertheless a concern of my colleagues and I, while we wait. Let me get to it. It seems that the parking of personal transportation devices, or rather, the location of the area assigned to our delegation here at the Empirical Counsel of the Universe has become, shall we say, a reflection of one's collective standing, politically speaking, within the Counsel. Though not so much a concern to me personally, I can say that the High-Praised Ambassador is more than somewhat, let us say, disappointed at the distance he and his entourage are forced to walk each day from the deposit location of his Ford Floater in order to attend official business here at the Administrative Centre. This planet's gravity, as you know, is more than 1.62 times the force we experience on Gleepmorp. The location of assigned parking is nearly two IKMs away, which, even when it is possible to take the shuttle that only seems to come by once every three cycles, causes great pressure, in the literal sense, to be brought upon His Most Magisterial Ambassador and his "clique," as you have been given to call his staff and security, I have heard it said.

I must emphasize that I personally, as the Furiously Splendid Ambassdor's Adjunct, am only concerned with my service to the interests of the Good People of Gleepmorp, the Righteously Ignominious Ambassador and to the Counsel and that I have no true concern regarding where I am permitted to park or whether, even, I am permitted to continue in a state of ready reproduction. However, I do believe the Flatulently Adept Ambassador is right in saying that having been assigned what is possibly the most distant and remote area for our delegation in the assigned parking level bespeaks something about the diminutive regard in which he and the Delegation and, indeed, the people of Gleepmorp, are held.

I have also heard it murmured, in the esteemed halls of the Counsel, behind hands-to-face, I might add, a grave insult in our culture, that perhaps the Gleepmorp Delegation should be relegated to attendance only by means of Interspacetime Conferencing rather than by personal appearance. I understood IC to be reserved for those cultures so distant from the Counsel's premises so as to be able to attend only in this manner. I also understand that there are cultures for whom the environment on this planet is so inhospitable that making the necessary accommodations for in-entity attendance would be impractical and burdensome to the Counsel as a whole, such as for ammonia-dwellers or The Dense Ones of Pendente, who would surely move the whole of this planet into a neighboring sun simply by appearing, thus incinerating us all. Having casually shared my concerns with another similarly-stationed entity, his, her or its response was simply, "Yeah, you might say the whole situation stinks" before giggling, then gagging, then abruptly running away, out of shame, I should say.

We have attempted to assimilate ourselves while retaining recognition of GleepMorp's contributions to, and position in, the Universe. We breathe what you breathe, eat what you eat. Again, that bean dip . . . but, I digress: apologies. We have also, most importantly, endeavoured to be vital and fair members of the Universal Community, attending each Discussion Session, Counsel Panel and Committee Hearing and through careful deliberation, subsequently voting on matters brought before the entire Counsel so as to benefit the greatest good. In short, we have been Good Universal Citizens and yet, we feel shunned.

Of course, this situation is unlikely to be an expression of any intent on the part of you, Mr. Chairman, or of the Counsel. As the Distinguished and Powerful Earthian, John Wayne, once said, "the squawking wheel is likely to be lubricated first, pilgrim." Therefore, by bringing this matter to your attention, it is the sincerest hope of the Illuminatingly Elevated Ambassador that this matter could be discussed and subsequently rectified to everyone's satisfaction. Of course, should you see fit to recommend appropriate changes in the interval prior to our meeting, I can assure you that every Gleepmorpian would be ecstatic with delight.

On the other hand, and perhaps I should not approach this angle prematurely, if Gleepmorp is not to be afforded due consideration, then we shall request a Hearing to adjudicate the matter in front of the Rules Committee, of which you are the head. For my part, I should not like to see the impression of all your good work tainted by what might be viewed by some as blatant discrimination by the Counsel against the meek and good-natured Gleepmorps who seek only to bring the best of our sulfur-based breed to the Counsel and by doing so, benefit all entities, everywhere, for all time. That time which is left, that is.

With most sincere appreciation,

Bungee Gleep Vanderplass, XXXCII, HMS, TNT, OMG, PhD
Most Succinct Adjunct to the Volumetrically Obsequious Ambassador From Gleepmorp

Is This What You Had In Mind?

2011-06-09T18:10:00.000-05:00

An able account across addiction.

Adjustment against agreement.

Air all almost among amusement and angry animal answers.

Any approval?

Argument as attack, attempt attention. Attraction? Authority!

Back bad, balance beautiful because before behaviour, BELIEF!

Berry, between bird births, bit bitter black blade.

Blood: blue.

Boiling bone-box boy, broken brother.

Brown brush, building-burst business.

But, butter button by cake.

Yeah, Kinda Like That

2011-05-13T18:58:00.000-05:00

It seems that the ex's have finally caught up with each other and I'm in the sh*t.

That makes it the perfect moment for you to avert your eyes to this blog. Yeah, klicken-sie on the linkin-see?

Is That All There Is?

2011-04-21T21:36:00.000-05:00

Oh, you know, I hate to use my PEW's insanity as a muse for essays, but I have to credit her downright nutty-ness for inspiring two bits this week. I present the following response to the similar thread as mentioned in yesterday's posting, with her response indicating how far she can take a simple request and simply run it up the flagpole. It's lucky I type fast. So, without further a-doo-doo, here's Swan Song, version 23948, in OhMy!-nor . . . gents? . . . . anna won anna too . . .

On Thu, Apr 21, 2011 at 6:59 AM, <XXXX@XXX.com> wrote:
Let's see you weren't Jewish and then you were and supposedly unitarian, you're no longer xxx and instead mostly xxxx, and now you're perfect in every, wow....the things you did are unforgivable and you pretend you didn't, which is I guess how you survive. I don't forget.

Dear _____;

You, or whoever gets to read all this sorry-ass stuff at some point, presumably in paperback, will notice how I manage to avoid dragging you through whatever my imaginary mud might be or even the actual "things you did" that are "unforgivable." You know what those things are and I actually hate to have to accept the possibility that it tears at your mind that you weren't more careful or callous. But it doesn't matter, because that was long ago, a few incarnations back, in another life.

Had the spiral into insanity been broken, and I will point out that it was all in your hands as the alpha-mother, it would have worked out. I don't want credit for trying to do the right thing and I don't want an eternity of suffering for the wrong things, either. To take it a little further, your point of view, if I can be generous enough to call it that, is skewed by inappropriately rabid levels of ire so that it's not actually possible to either reconcile or to forgive. No one wins at such games, except for the short-term satisfaction of scoring a single tactical point. Emperors, kings, presidents, generals and diplomats all understand that hatred is ultimately destructive and counterproductive and not likely to reflect well on their respective office.

All major religions have reconciliation and forgiveness at the core of their systems. Though neither of us are religious, such practices are typically integrated into the secular world in the cycle of human relations. It is reasonable to expect that, after a time, the warfare must end and the healing begins. It's how we all manage to get along. Otherwise, I'm sure the Hatfields and McCoys would still be shooting at each other and clearly that's just no darn good.

I survive by trying to accept that things are as they are and that people are, for good or ill, how they are at this point in time, and that includes me. It helps to recognize that one is not the centre of the universe but only one fraction of roughly six billion people currently on this planet. This individual existence is only one of many generations who have gone before. Each of us and all of us will pass through the arc of time and sooner rather than later, our individual and collective experience will simply and finally fizzle out. No matter how much drama, real or perceived, may exist in one's life, the sun will still rise, and set, and rise again. And with the start of a new day brings the potential of a new beginning, a chance to try again, perhaps to win and maybe to lose, but in the end, to live.

There's a Peggy Lee song written by Lieber and Stoller that pretty much nails it for me. It's mostly spoken with the choruses sung, as if she's telling us a story with a certain palatable amount of wistfulness mixed with a dash of unhurried regret. Toward the end, she says and sings:

Then I fell in love, with the most wonderful boy in the world.
We would take long walks by the river or just sit for hours gazing into each other's eyes.
We were so very much in love.
Then one day, he went away. And I thought I'd die -- but I didn't.
And when I didn't I said to myself, "Is that all there is to love?"

Is that all there is, is that all there is
If that's all there is my friends, then let's keep dancing

I know what you must be saying to yourselves.
If that's the way she feels about it why doesn't she just end it all?
Oh, no. Not me. I'm in no hurry for that final disappointment.
For I know just as well as I'm standing here talking to you,
when that final moment comes and I'm breathing my last breath, I'll be saying to myself,

Is that all there is, is that all there is
If that's all there is my friends, then let's keep dancing

So, I keep dancing. After all, what else is there to do?

FIN

It's Ain't Easy

2011-04-20T23:07:00.000-05:00

This was written in response to something typically vile from the mother of my child after I made sure to ask her whether I could have the kid stay over a Monday since I was being robbed of Easter with her yet again, probably the last one, too, an important and traditional holiday for my now-dead mother and a point of rememberance for a time where we would go to my mother's tiny apartment in Brooklyn, where she lived with my saintly Polish cousin, gather around the table and eat good Polish food, and just enjoy, herein redacted to protect the innocent:

(She's) not under my control now. I can only encourage her, help her and try to motivate her. I let her know that I follow the rules and that that she should follow the rules. I also let her know that people that don't follow the rules are potentially dangerous to themselves, certainly not trustworthy, and, if possible, should be avoided as immediately as she is able, with as much distance as is possible.

I will be telling her what to do as long as she listens and as long as I have an opinion from which I think she can benefit. I'm only afraid that she won't keep her own sound counsel and thereafter make good choices. I fear her good nature will fool her into trusting those who should not be trusted and who will waste her time, energy and emotion for their own nefarious purposes. The world can be a very nasty place, even for the well-initiated and the price to be paid by the meek is great. What's worse is that for every person who lacks unreasonable circumspection because, after all, why should they come to harm, especially from someone they should ostensibly trust, there is a skilled hunter waiting to make them their own. These denizens are efficient because they are absent remorse - there's no hesitation in subsuming the victim, no pause, no mercy. Yet, I believe it's better to be the meal rather than suffer without a soul.

So am I worried about losing "control" over (her)? Let's see - I don't hunt her down by phone or text except when I am concerned about her and when I do get her, I'm mindful of the fact that she may be involved in something else and I don't utterly demand her attention at that moment - I let her be. I don't pry into her private conversations with others or try to deconstruct her relationships. I protect her privacy and I encourage her to be self-aware. I also encourage her to be active with people on a one-to-one basis and to make choices. If these actions were inverted, THEN my motives would be suspect.

I miss (her) every day. But, it's part of life. Parents are only a launching pad. But as such, I intend to keep trying to be the best at it I can be, because that's my kid and my responsibility is to help her hopes materialize, no matter what. And that's one way I can stay just a little bit closer, but not too close, behind her, but further and further back, ready to catch her if she starts to fall and needs a hand. Even if that's my only job, that'll be enough for me.

Slobidarity, Yes

2011-04-15T14:42:00.000-05:00

During a time where the middle class is just about at the midpoint of its disappearing act, one would think that there should be a grass-roots revolt by the oppressed merchant and proletariat classes, but no. The Tea Party, or Tea Baggers, as Bill Maher likes to call them, inexplicably employ sufficient leverage to scare the centre even out of John Boehner. And that rightward momentum of the movement itself flies in the face of logic: middle-class, middle-aged people facing effectively stagnant income, reduced benefits they either need now or will need at retirement or when they get sick busily campaigning against their own interests.

One would think it's the perfect time for unions to step in and up the ante and not just with the occasional display of a giant inflatable rat. And if the unions are worried about small-shop viability, there's no shortage of bedraggled, disenfranchised workers out there. Wal-Mart alone employees 2.1 million people across the globe.

So, say you want to start a union at your place of work. The logical first step would be to find out a bit of general information about unions and how they can help in the process. Of course, you'd want to limit your exposure in getting "caught," and what better way than making semi-anonymous contact by e-mail?

I tried it. The result in the the screen capture above. And this was through the national AFL-CIO / Teamsters site. I followed up with a call, which referred me to someone else, who gave me the number of a local organizer, who's number was disconnected. So, in the solemn quest to find out whether I could organize my imaginary workplace, I exposed my theoretically soon-to-be unemployed underbelly to quite a few people, something a real and frightened worker would probably not do.

My mother was a union worker only because she couldn't work without it. The story of the growth of the International Ladies Garment Workers Union has its roots in the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory fire which recently celebrated its 100th anniversary. Into the mid-50's and into the very early 70's, the unions saw the great arc of their cumulative success begin a long march into the sea until today, where they seem less than relevant, since the shift of American business has been to non-smokestack industries and so many "traditional" jobs have simply gone away, either overseas or as victim of technology or forced efficiency.

With all of this motivation, history and new opportunity, the unions, like the left in general, cower and shirk, still, apparently, not ready for prime-time. Oh, well. Welcome to Wal-Mart!

Really?

2011-03-22T07:05:00.000-05:00

Spring arrives but winter carries a grudge.

Hothothothothothot. HOT!

2011-03-18T16:34:00.001-05:00

The main thing I learned from my current encounter with Maruchan Roast Chicken Flavour Instant Lunch is that Styrofoam and pseudo-ramen noodles make EXCELLENT insulating material. Flippin' ow. I mean, geez. Damn.

Not Very

2011-03-06T09:36:00.000-05:00

It's always a disappointment to see well-respected actors try to fill out a vapid script as they push the edges out only to have their performance diluted by heavy-handed, uneven direction. One might not be sure where to lay the blame when unknowns are involved, but in the case of 2009's It's Complicated, it's certain that none of the leads can be held to fault, so the viewer's excoriation can only be turned to the director and screenwriter who, in this annoying effort, clearly deserves a cinematic bitch-slapping.

It's Complicated stars three veterans, Meryl Streep, Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin and is written and directed by Nancy Myers, who also wrote and directed The Holiday, Something's Gotta Give and who directed and wrote the screenplay of 1998's The Parent Trap starring the not-yet-voluptuous and still-sober Lindsay Lohan. Myer's rom-com cred can be traced back through Father of the Bride and Father of the Bride II, both ostensibly starring Steve Martin, all the way back to 1980's ubercute Private Benjamin, which she wrote. So, with her last few movies, she's wrested more complete control over the finished product and in the case of It's Complicated, that's not a good thing.

The movie opens with an establishing aerial shot of the gloriously beautiful California coast near exclusive and well-monied Santa Barbara and as the titles roll, land at an event celebrating the college graduation of one of the character's kids. Surprising is Steve Martin's second billing against Streep, though the viewer will shortly find that his character, that of architect Adam, is more minor in terms of spoken lines or appearances in scenes though the movie than third-billed Alec Baldwin, the putative lead of Jake Adler, successful attorney, versus Streep's pastry-happy Jane Adler. Focus is quickly drawn to Jake and Jane champagne-toasting their long-time friends on their assumed successful thirty years of marriage. The impression is that one married pair is celebrating another and they do make a likely couple, Jane and Jake, but the appearance of Agness, bitchily played by Lake Bell, and Jane's ha-ha double take of Agness' perfect abs as she waltzes toward the camera in slo-mo, very oddly dressed for the occasion, is the first of many WTF eye-rolls to come. Oh, we get it - Jake and Jane aren't together after all as it turns out that the much younger Agness is barrel-shaped Jake's trophy. Sigh.

Nevertheless, for reasons both boring and inane, Jake and Jane hook up, reigniting a flame that perhaps never quite went out. Why? Insert minor dramatic tension here - okay, moving on. That's right: without even seeing the movie, whatever the reader of this review cares to sketch out in his or her mind is what comes to pass, together with baby-boomer pot smoking, minor health scares of the aged and revelations thereto that are just, plain sad and scrumptiously flabby but fabulous tumbles in the sack.

Perhaps it could be said that Nancy Myers has a brand to offer and is a known quantity at the box office so that, when liberally mixed with indubitably A-list talent, a hit of sorts is in the offing, bankable and guaranteed to be undisturbing to casual, middle-aged holiday moviegoers. It doesn't seem that this demographic is tired of the well-worn hat she's served up, either. With an incredible $85 million budget, this movie, as it really shouldn't be called "film," grossed $112 million domestically by the time is closed in theatres after Easter 2010. Don't worry, though, since foreign ticket sales more than made up for the domestic close-call, topping the take at $219 million. Her prior flick, The Holiday, actually lost money on the home front, possibly disappointing the older set by featuring the not-yet-mid-life ensemble cast of Jude Law, Cameron Diaz, Kate Winslet and a surprising turn by Jack Black, grossing only a tad over $63 million against another hard-to-believe budget of $85 million, and again making up the difference worldwide. The guess should be that the top-line box-office Dysons she ropes in are the biggest "above the line" part of her non-CGI budgets and this helps make bank on an otherwise tired-and-true formula, hence, Hollywood, or rather, Tokyo, opens the checkbook. Domo arigato.

One of the problems with It's Complicated is that it's insulting. It assumes its audience is interested in the juvenile machinations of its ultra-rich and highly whiny lead characters who, at their ripe old age, haven't yet figured stuff out for themselves though they display great success in the professional and parenting aspects of their lives. It's a falsehood that grates especially because such people in real life have the resources to force a difference, they know it and know full well how to accomplish whatever the heck they want. Let's see - Baldwin's character Jake is a lawyer, apparently wealthy (what lawyer isn't, especially in California, right?), Streep's Jane is the hands-on owner of a tremendously-sized, super upscale Starbucks-style bake shop, doling out hundred of gallons of over-priced lattes per hour to an endless stream of Polo- and Prada-wearing white people, whose lives are already so sweet that she admonishes, in the scene that establishes her massive success as the Lady Barista of the hills or the valley or wherever they are, one of her many bakers to take a tray of brioche back because there's "too much sugar." Break, please? Using details like this to instantly define a character is most definitely phoning it in on the part of the script. Finally, poor, poor Architect Adam relies on self-help tapes to re-centre his feelings of loss toward his ex-wife who might have, probably, possibly left him because she was a "ho." Or because he was 2% when her coffee called for cream. Whatever, wimp.

In the end, there's no real explanation why Martin's character is such a cuckolded milquetoast or why Baldwin is such a sorry, flabby character or even why Streep is so conflicted. So, Myers thoughtfully inserts a scene in which Streep explains to her three very grown, red-eye-rimmed kids, all huddled together on a bed in their literally palatial house, why she got her Mojo tuned with old, fat, Flomax-suckin' Dad. Who is actually a loser. Who we should pity. But he's you're Dad, so he must be absent from this conversation. And these grown children, who are apparently still getting over a fifteen year-old divorce, where both parents parted amicably with loads of cash left behind and Ivy League educations and Priuses for all, are so hurt and fearful that their parents might again come together that they come apart. It's disturbing to imagine that these could possibly be real people. Let's hope not. Instead, let's be irritated by the notion that the director and script would have us believe that it is so.

Which brings this film to the concept that's critical to the success of a movie - suspension of disbelief. The characters fail to bring us there. For instance, successful lawyers don't have oodles of time to rattle around hotel rooms and fertility clinics. They are billing hours, meeting with clients, running meetings and possibly even litigating, if they're senior partners which, in the absence of anything more concrete about Jake-as-lawyer, we must assume he is. Ultimately, he's dimensionless and unbelievable because of it. Again, Baldwin is only reading what weak lines he's got and cashing the check at the end of it. Adam is an architect, and must be at least somewhat successful at it because he's an old guy and is still doing it. It's a tough business, the building trades, and being an all-around pussy will kill your career there for sure. And Adam is such a complete wimp, even more so than Jake. Clearly, Jane is attracted to wimpy guys, right? Sorry, it's not enough. Why does she choose a weak man with whom once before she's had a catastrophic relationship demise? Loneliness? The need for closure? Boredom? Revenge? Is Jane really the archetypal rich divorcee, shunned by husband of late, very late in this case, for the favours of snap-bottom recent grad student? Unfortunately, it's all explained very neatly between Jane's coffee klatches with her lady-buds and a session with her therapist, who, I might add, is the only believable character I could find in an eye-roll filled hour and fifty-eight minutes of purely saccharine meanderings.

I'm neither an enemy nor a friend of the proverbial chick-flick. If a movie is good, I'll enjoy it. I might enjoy it even if it's middling if there's some particular appeal on any level, something subjectively particular to my taste or if it manages to disperse the ennui of the moment. But nearly two hours of mildly slapstick, upper-middle-class post-midlife angst in the land of climate so perfect that the hills bloom green all year 'round left me squirming, with sore eyeballs and wishing that these elitist, wishy-washy characters would just "snap out of it," as Loretta says to Ronny in Moonstruck. It's not complicated at all, which is at the core of what makes this film so terrible. It's impossible to feel empathy for people with perfect lives that purposely run off the path and when they do, not much happens. There's no great loss, no change, no real tension and not much learned. It's Complicated? Not very.

Is The End Near For Retouchers?

2011-03-03T12:58:00.001-05:00

I've had a teeny bit of fame and only momentary recognition garnered by touching the faces of some pretty famous people and some famously pretty people, like Faith Hill, Mel Karmazin, David Beckham (and Victoria, too), Kate Moss and Shania Twain. By touching, I don't mean that I disturbed their expensive Hamptons spray-on tans, but as a retoucher plus d'extraordinaire, on a pixel level. Kate Moss' pores are quite tiny, I assure you.

Of course, you probably know someone who knows someone who has an illicit copy of Photoshop on their laptop and who fancies himself l'artiste plus grande. Heck: two french phrases in two paragraphs - I'll come back and fix that when I can think of something better. Anyway, while it's true that any fourth-grader can remove diabolous red-eye or that giant zit from Aunt Livia's right cheek - on her face, mind you, as for those other pictures, well, you get the idea - it takes a lot more education and experience and, yes, talent, to correctly render the human form or to render it in such a way as to achieve a desired look.

Most of the top-of-the-pile retouchers are painters by vocation and most have advanced fine-art educations. Those who study fine art learn about form and light, texture and colour, and it takes years to find the core of one's talent in such a way as to have it accessible at will. This elite, of whom I am sad to say I am not a member, bill several thousand bucks per head or scene, with follow-ups (for client changes, not errors, that is, if the client would prefer this or that for whatever whimsy needs fulfillment that day) billing at half that again. And their stuff looks like art. It is art. You can see it in Glamour, Elle, Cosmo and WWD and on a bus shelter near you. Even the New Yorker profiled Pascal Dangin in 2008, who worked on the now-famous "real women" Dove campaign and is considered by many as probably the best of the best.

But the end may be near for Dangin and his priestly minion. Panasonic has come out with a camera that can retouch in-camera, going so far as to add "makeup" to the image so that you, too, can look your best when posting to your mySpace profile. This video from New York's New Tang Dynasty Television breaks it down:

Fashion Week

2011-03-03T11:11:00.001-05:00

It's my favorite Blue's Clues shirt, rendered as a woodcut. Cool, huh?

Iron-y

2011-03-03T10:41:00.000-05:00

Figger it out . . .

He Be eBay'in' It A Little Too Much

2011-03-01T12:41:00.001-05:00

Okay, so I was bored. So, I started scanning eBay, as I can for hours and hours if left alone too long, and I started noticing patterns in the images as they appeared next to each auction item.

Kinda kyute, right? A few pages later:

And then:

Just so you don't think I've started cross-dressing, I was looking for a "chandelier" and apparently, there's crap costume jewelry that's also called chandelier-style, so it came up in the search. What I want with a chandelier, I don't really know, come to think of it, I only like the ones that cost thousands and thousands of dollars and, for that kind of money, I can hire someone to walk around in a leather thong, holding a really big candle. But, I digress. What's so cool about this is that the auction listing are from different sellers, positioned in the way you see them, by software at eBay, without human intervention. So, there is randomness in the unsold junk of the unwashed masses after all. And in that, I find beauty.

Ennui

2011-02-23T15:51:00.002-05:00

I has it.

Got Wood?

2011-02-23T00:33:00.002-05:00

Take The Quiz

2011-02-20T09:14:00.000-05:00

With the advent of on-line media supplanting print media, or so we're told by mass media, and the coming, if not already arrived, supremacy of the iPad (full disclosure: I don't own one), it seems that we can expect flag-sized newsprint editions and glossy magazine volumes to soon disappear from the face of the earth. At least it may mean fewer trips to the recycling center. In the meantime, there's no shortage of this presumably now-antique form of communication. If one has doubts, a few long minutes at a WalMart checkout should serve to change minds.

I have here a 220 page issue of the March 2011 Cosmopolitan. You may be wondering why a guy has an issue of Cosmo open on his lap. Well, I read the articles, okay? What puzzles and frightens me is this concluding question: is this what women think about all day while guys are fantasizing about pimping their Volvos into monster trucks? If so, we're in more trouble than I thought.

Cosmopolitan Magazine, for those who have lived strictly in a monastery since birth, is a collection of advertising, sex and beauty tips and sex tips for the beautiful. It's also famous for its quizzes, where ladies can test any aspect of their existence, from the level of their ability to conquer the elusive orgasm to some other thing about orgasms. The March issue has a quiz on, you guessed it, sex. Here's an interesting question: "You're about to indulge in a steamy solo session, so you reach for . . .", followed by four brash choices, but I there's really no reason to go past letter A, "Your clitoris or breasts or both - no reason to wait." Exactly. Good enough for me. However, I'm not a woman, at least, I don't think I am, and the purpose of the test is to suss out what kind of sexual deviant you actually are. Enough A answers, and your "pleasure MO" is "tactile," a column of information goes on to tell the compliant, test-taking female reader who would probably otherwise be having sex, as far as I can tell from the magazine, that she has a particular "go-to style" and that there is a way to trigger a "bigger O," though why a large zero would be beneficial is a mystery to me. There's even a handy and colorful graphic depicting the ideal, or maybe only, sexual position, tastefully done in two-tone color-coded silhouette complete with a slim, pony-tailed girl and pec-bearing dude. I somehow doubt that the peak of the Bell Curve of Cosmo readers, who are mostly American, after all, would bear similar profiles.

My favourite article this month is "25 Ways To Go Naked . . . Without Freezing Your Butt Off." I wonder how many editorial meetings it took to get that ellipsis to stay in there. Yes, I like nakedness and I indeed dislike freezing, so this must be the place to gather some tips: let's see . . .. "Try These With Your Guy" - Number 6 tells the reader to use warming lube during sex. Okay, that seems like a no-brainer. Warmth. Lubrication. Works. Number 9 suggests a sleeping bag and summer movies: clever and romantic. But Number 12, involving turning up the heat in the car and having a romp, sounds downright deadly. Should we not be in a private place, lest a serial killer put me and my "man" at the top of the 11 O'Clock News? If we're in the garage, how long before the CO poisoning kicks in? No less deadly, and likely a favorite of members of the SS, is Number 8, "Bake a pie together in a hot 400 degree oven." You know what, I guess I'll keep my clothes on for now.

I dunno. Maybe Cosmo describes what women really want out of life - makeup and orgasms. It's a bit reductionist, but okay, everybody needs a hobby. What bothers me is the arc of induction into womanhood that Cosmo and magazines like it describe. Starting with Teen Magazine, then Seventeen and graduating to Cosmopolitan, it seems almost as if it's a movie plot where a subversive Manchurian Candidate / Stepford Wives evil empire of a government, or secret social Star Chamber prep our womyn for their future "place" in society and, with sufficient indoctrination, they will like it and long to be better at it.With a seventeen-year-old daughter myself, I worry about the focus that pop media is still trying to bring to the forefront of impressionable and later, jaded, minds. That of a focus on being able, willing and ready to breed and to be objectified and to finally be put to pasture as well-trained cougars since there is no media for the non-egg producing set, unless you include Family Circle, Good Housekeeping and Reader's Digest.

Maybe it's a good thing that Cosmo and its ilk will pass into obscurity or, at least, not be all up in the face, to paraphrase the slang, dog. Perhaps the identities, sexual and otherwise, of our vaunted special boys and girls can develop on their own, without the pressure of guidebooks to what they should want and need, courtesy of some mega publisher. Perhaps, in the case of the individuality of people in general, perhaps there's no app for that.

Lies, Liars and the Search For Something Good

2011-02-16T21:35:00.001-05:00

Wow. That sounds like the title of a best-seller. Actually, there's a scholarly and somewhat overlooked book called "On Bullsh*t" (asterisk added so my blog doesn't get yanked) by Princeton professor Harry Frankfurt. In this philosophic essay, he reviews the evolution and meaning of the term and the effect of bullsh*t on the perception of reality. Rather than turn this into a review of the book, why not get yourself a copy and read it - I'm sure one can be had on eBay or Amazon for a couple of bucks. I found the book very interesting because Dr. Frankfurt expounded on a knowledge-state that is very apparent in our modern society and it expands on some specific points in Ayers' The Problem of Knowledge, which I would also recommend if you're a philosopher, I guess. Frankfurt makes the point, or floats the theory, that a preponderance of bullsh*t eventually washes out the basis of what we understand to be true until even simple truths are no longer self-evident.

There are certainly some apparently good reasons to not be entirely truthful. As children, many are taught to not necessarily disclose each and every thought to the point of the precocious four-year-old being chided for observing in a guileless way, perhaps, that old Mr. Jones is pretty fat, for instance. So, we're taught that deception in the form of non-disclosure and omission is sometimes the right thing to do. Left undiscovered, such a pattern of lies may become a convenient form of leverage or otherwise turned to a less-than-honest purpose and certainly a way to avoid responsibility.

But what about the circumstance where, say, a loved one meets their end, the State Troopers arrive and promptly announce that little Timmy fell headfirst into the woodchipper and gosh what a mess and then the machine must have gotten jammed because it was stopped when they found him with only his legs sticking straight up like some kind of V-is-for-victory sign and funny, but no one heard his screams. That would probably not go over very well with whomever was unfortunate enough to have answered the door. Or the infamous "do these pants make me look fat" question that every married man dreads and so universal is the sentiment that innumerable television commercials have centered around just that topic.

It's a fine line to walk, indeed. Self-editing is a subtle skill started at home and honed in the schoolyard. And that skill is something diplomats, lawyers, used car salesmen and successful lovers all have in common - know when to hold 'em and know when to lay the cards out on the table.

Of course, the latter option is more difficult. It means that the revelator has to be ready to own, and possibly own up to, the likely unfavourable feedback upon delivery of said revelation. It's much easier, and probably less likely to result in bodily harm, to simply hold back the fact that Carla really shouldn't be wearing fitted Capris or to share only that Timmy is gone, all, oh, okay, mostly gone.

Confession is apparently good for the soul. The Catholics even have a method by which a compromise is effected where the Sinner can be absolved for less heinous crimes by a Deitistic Intermediary, in private, all on the QT. Jews (and I am half of one) don't even bother - just tote 'em up and neatly dispose of them with the L*rd directly, once a year, wholesale, no middlegod involved.

What about complex confessions that could have been avoided by being honest from the beginning? Ah, well, the more complex the fib, the higher the price to pay - it's only fair. But perhaps the ultimate price is that of devoted Stoicism, where nothing is confessed and instead, the interests of those who might be hurt are preserved, possibly at an emotional price, but at a discount, let us say, over the full-tilt blather. In other words, if there is something to say, it had better be worth the pain for all involved and not simply be a matter of principle, otherwise, the hurt is doubled. Or worse.

Speaking for myself, I admit I have many sins to confess, none major except for those I regret. But what would my motivation be to "come clean?" I would probably feel better, at least after recovery from my coma that the beat-down would produce, but in that case, I'd only be helping myself. So, I guess I'm punishing myself, being responsible and prudent by keeping my big mouth shut. Oh, there's a line, of course, but I would only cross it if there was a clear benefit to the recipient of my well-salted tale.

Even here, there is a compromise. Everyone wants something. I want peace for myself, but no longer at the expense of others. I am hoping that this will make me somewhat less misanthropic, meaning that I'm willing to set aside my self as priority so that those who gave their care and abidance to me should not have to pay for that generosity.

Yep, Carla, those jeans are lookin' pret-ty good, if I do say so myself. Yow! Nice. I'm a liar, but I'm your liar. Ain't that sweet?

Two Jews Walk Into A Bar

2011-02-16T17:56:00.001-05:00

During the hotter part of 2010, in my post titled Mystery Solved, Sort Of, I posited a number of earworm-type issues that had haunted me for years. Two were solved, basically, but this one

"Two Jews walk into a bar . . ."

as the beginning of a joke that I never could complete has finally been solved.

"OW!"

That's hilarious. And just proves that I'm brilliant because I can recognise genius. So there.

I'm Gonna Sit Right Down and Write Myself A Letter

2011-02-16T11:34:00.002-05:00

Sometimes when we touch, it all becomes too much, or however that insipid big-hair, pastel-jogging-suit, pet-rock, polyester-leg-warmer-era song goes.

I like to watch. I like to watch all the time, to see people who can't see me watching them . . . no, wait, officer, I mean that I like to watch movies.

Blockbuster used to be The Joint to load up on features and loadza oldies and even when they were out of the latest JCVD straight-to-video mega-action thing, there was still a reason to go. Sort of like going to the Public Library except without the thinking part. But, it seems to me, that in the age of cable, the internet, RedBox and NetFlix, Blockbuster has become somewhat irrelevant. Fine - not much of a market for pomade, either, but to make one's own company irrelevant by pretending to own the Behemoth Genome is really, really stupid. Frankly, I could care less, but my time is MINE, gatdammit, and ain't nobody gonna waste my time.

Okay: I rented two movies. I admit it. It was just for old times sake. It didn't mean anything. You gotta believe me - just a moment of weakness. I returned them dutifully, on-time. Sometime that afternoon, I got an e-mail as a reminder that I had these two movies out. But, wait. Is the Alzheimer's getting worse? No: I'm sure I returned them, slipped them into the little slot an' everything. Buts here's this e-mail, loaded with marketing offers. So, what is this? Did they not get the movies? Mind you, when one rents, one can only do so by credit or debit card and Blockbuster's credit card terminal screen is custom-programmed with two pages (I kid you not) of Terms and Conditions to which you must click in the affirmative in order to complete the transaction. I'm not sure that this isn't a basis for a class-action suit on the basis of tying, but I diverge. In the Terms, you, the renter, hereinafter to be called the Idiot Who Really Wanted To See That Movie About That Thing With That Guy, agrees that Blockbuster will charge your card for the current rental and will retain the right to, without prior notice to IWRWTSTMATTWTG, charge the Dickens out of that card for any and all future costs of that rental, and I paraphrase. Well, I wanted the stupid movies, so I clicked 'Sell Soul" and the clerk smiled, thanked the register and turned away to put the discs on the Relay Table. Don't make me explain this. I wanted the stupid movies, went out of my way to go back to the stupid store and put the stupid discs in the stupid slot and then, I got the stupid, annoying e-mail.

Hence, in revenge, I wrote the following to Blockbuster, once I finally waded through their array of irritating far-more-expensive-with-less-options-than-anyone-else offers and arrived at their "Customer Questions" area, or whatever it was:

Dear Blockbuster;

I received an e-mail from you that indicated that I had a rental outstanding. This is very confusing since I returned the items shown. How can that be? I tried to research the information on your site, but many links seemed to be "branded", like "Blockbuster Premier" and so forth, rather than informational, like "Questions About Your Returns," so I just gave up. Also, why does it cost so much more to rent from Blockbuster than from RedBox? I picked up two movies you didn't have in your store at one of the many RedBox kiosks in my area and it only cost me $1.50 a night for a BD versus your rather uncompetitive $4.99 for a 3-day BD rental for which I now am not even sure has been properly logged into your store. On the other hand, when I returned the RedBox discs, I immediately received a confirming e-mail that those items had been returned. Even NetFlix confirms receipt and does NOT send annoying "Rental Reminder" e-mails that are, I suspect in the case of Blockbuster, marketing opportunities Trojan-horsed in a wrapper of faux helpfulness that is actually, because of the disconnection with the reality of where your proffered goods are in respect to your customer, annoying.

With fond regards,

Your Irritated Customer

I don't expect I'll get any kind of a real answer. I couldn't even submit the question until I agreed that a list of links with entirely unrelated questions, like, "What if my disc doesn't play?" - good job, computer-parser. What I'll probably get is some kind of confirmation e-mail that tells me that they've received my question and don't dare write back because the e-mail address they'd used to send me that e-mail is, well, unattended. In other words, don't call us and we won't call you.

That's fine. Really, it's fine. I don't need Blockbuster. But I might if customer service was a priority. A bit of advice - if you're the last player on the field, you can own the field if the crowd is pleased with your game. If not . . . Marco . . . Polo!

Bitch-ass punks. Where my remote at?

Side note: The very next person that responds with some lengthy exposition to a question of mine and begins said soliloquy with the now oft-used starter, "So, . . .," as if they had already described some preamble at length and are now continuing a thought based on the foregoing, shall receive from me a fork in the eye, so to speak. F*cking stop it, really. Just stop. Don't start a paragraph with "So." Don't do it. Just don't. I'm serious. Stop.

Here: I Give You The Himalayas

2011-02-14T20:02:00.000-05:00

C'mon . . . let's watch this together . . . snuggle close . . . that's right . . . I'm yer lama and your my mama . . check it, one tahme . . .

Watch the full episode. See more Nature.

Chiller

2011-02-11T12:39:00.002-05:00

It's been freezing in the outside world 'round these parts. I managed to venture forth in some of the worst weather because, because . . . I don't know why. I guess I wanted to, okay?

Look at this dangler:

And this footprint of a mechanical Sasquatch:

Cool, huh? Little blue houses for you and me. Well, me, anyway.

Help Not Wanted

2011-02-11T12:32:00.000-05:00

Just for fun, during a moment of frozen immobility, I logged into my favourite job board account just for fun. I know that may sound odd, but here's what I looked for:

Surprising, considering what positions I've seen in business and how many of them seemed to fit this job title, even if not formally. Looks like all the spots are filled.

Hazardous Road Ahead

2011-01-26T21:36:00.001-05:00

I'm shortly about to begin a very hazardous trip. I get the feeling that I may not make it. There's so much I wanted to say and do that will go undone now if I'm fated to meet my end. So, in the few minutes I have before losing touch with the blogosphere, at least, let me say a few things.

I would like my kid to know that I love her very much. Since I don't believe in a Great Beyond, (unless it includes unlimited sea-salted Wendy's fries, in which case, I'm on board,) I would ask that you tell her this for me and direct her to this blog. Tell her what you remember about me. Please be sure she can look at the thousands of e-mails and the journal that was to make up my book on the divorce. She should have the ammunition to at least understand. Please let her read at least some of the more appropriate e-mails between us, if not now, then when she's ready. I'm counting on you, as I said I would, like the Godfather counted on the undertaker, to grant me this favour, because I have faith that you can overcome any butt-holio-ness that gets in your way and because I would do it for you.

Call my brother and tell him for me that I feel sorry for him, that he couldn't delude himself long enough to realise that it would be possible to actually enjoy stuff because in the end, it's all irrelevant once we shuffle off this mortal coil. All the suffering in the world need not be yours. Really: get a grip, J, your time is nearly done. Okay, you're a brilliant guy or, if not, then at least in the top two percent on the planet and if that's still sad, go play some volleyball on a beach somewhere because why the f*ck not?

I made plenty of mistakes in my life, most out of fear, some out of stupidity and many because I just didn't "get it" in that special, EST-ian way. I'm sorry that I hurt whomever crossed my path. Please understand that I did so not out of malice but out of fear. I'm actually not a massive dick. Or, rather, I may be a massive dick, but with a heart of gold.

This is all too short, but I have to go now. They're giving me the two-minute warning, apparently.

It would have been nice to be with all of you one more time, give you all one more hug, tell you one more joke, share one more meal. It would have been nice. Instead, let me share this typically unsolicited and characteristically obvious advice: stay warm, except when you're trying to be cool. Be well, except when you're doing something sick. Never, ever, ever buy, make, wear or display anything with the phrase, "Live, Love, Laugh"' because if you need a slogan to remind you that this is what you should be doing, you're probably too stupid to keep breathing. Luge like there's no tomorrow. And it really is all small sh*t.

Dammit. No more edits. No more hidden messages or unintended double-meanings. No words powerful enough to change what will be. See you on the other side . . .

Yes, I know how to use an ellipsis. Geez.

I think I hear a helicopter. That's my cue.

Ciao, America!

Idiots

2011-01-16T08:12:00.000-05:00

Christmas Time Machine

2010-12-24T20:40:00.001-05:00

It's not possible to be with the ones we care about on Big Holidays, like this one, for reasons sad and diverse that range from misunderstanding to death.

I come from a Polish peasant family that made good in the New World. Thatched houses were replaced by brick and shingle. The food, though, stayed the same.

So, in an attempt to invoke the spirits of those gone and gone away, here's tonight's menu, all made by your truly, even if i didn't start off having any real idea of how to make it happen.

Pieorogies, potato and sauerkraut

Ham (no goose)

Pea salad

Unsweet sweet potatos

Sweet potatos for old time's sake

Onions and potatos

Fish, coconut encrusted

Red, white and chocolate ice cream

Smoked mozzarella

Spinach artichoke dip

Port

Riesling

Sherry

Zinfandel

Just missing one ingredient - you. Happy Christmas. You'll be remembered in every bite.

Be Of Good CHEER, Dammit!

2010-12-24T00:38:00.001-05:00

You want proof of life? Here it is. I am quite alive, not enjoying standing in line at StallMart. I'm stuck amongst literally a thousand shoppers whose collective wish to jam through and out of this mega-store simply because, as one tired and resigned looking guy offered when i queried whether he was in line, "yeah, i figured like anybody else in here that because it was nighttime, the joint would be empty." What a singular world we live in, eh? It all stops for you and me, but mostly for me.

The registers are down. The massive flow of profits have abruptly stopped like menopausal menstruation, depriving HQ of a merrier XMas, but only temporarily. It's not as if any of these people are going anywhere. These folks are as committed to this queue as starving Somalis are to the World Hunger Project rice line.

The registers are now where in sight. A short, thin' black man is holding a spot in line in front of me while he coordinates and communicates by bluetooth and cell. "Just come to your left. Wait: did you back up? You should be able to see the GAME TRADE sign. Hullo? Hullo?" Abort, abort, abort!

I can see the register's shining beacon from my place in line, dim, but visibly indicating "10". We are moving now through disrupted and dishevled shelves littered with discarded wants and needs. Planter's Honey Roasted Nuts, in the 2 pound jar, a Conair XTreme Heat 75 second hair curler set, a two liter bottle of Minute Maid Lemonade are incongruously displayed along what's left on the jeggings display. Those are $3.50, if you can find one in your size. A burly guy scoots me forward so that he can assume his cart's place in line. More than one cart behind me is overloaded with a 32, 44 or 50 inch flat-screen TV. In the cart immediately ahead, having arrived and docked through the skillful guidance of Mr. Tiny Black Fellow, bears a 4€ Dora the Explorer 2 Piece cotton sleepwear set and an Oster 12 speed blender Deluxe.

I don't see: puppies, gingerbread men, eggnog, yule logs or even wrapping paper. Wait: scratch that. There's a cart loaded to overflowing being pushed by a seemingly good-natured Indian woman (she's wearing a sari and blue jeans) with exactly two rolls of wrap. She's going to need more, i'm thinking.

Still, where's that Dickensian patina, that "Zuzu's petals . . ." Moment that should be front and center at this very moment? Why do i smell cinnamon and mulled wine scents replaced by the odor of vomit, or is that coming from the in-store Subway's personal pizza output? Oh, yes, God, ech, that's it.

The wail of babies who know damn well that they're up too late echos off the corrugated steel ceiling. They don't want to be here anymore than i do. I'd rather be with you, sipping, nay, guzzling that mulled wine, watching the Yule Log burn, baby, burn. But that's not going to happen, is it. Nope. Trapped. Like a rat. Like a rat on the sinking ship of good cheer.

My feet are starting to hurt and. The line is moving. Hallelujah.

Rage Against The Machine

2010-11-03T08:55:00.000-05:00

I stopped at my local convenience store, a brand ubiquitous in New Jersey, before picking up my kid to drop her off at school. In the parking lot, there were the usual assortment of contractor's trucks with their owners sipping coffee and smoking, the fog of both combining in the chill morning air to make individually-sized clouds. I imagined that these men were tired at the early hour, contemplating the jobs they were going to do today and thinking about what was next. Their pickups and vans, variously festooned with ladders, buckets and gigantic toolboxes, steel and copper pipe, wire and wood, idled dutifully.

Inside, I stopped at the ATM. I usually carry no cash, instead faithfully relying on my bank card to provide for me and to also track my spending. Next to the cash machine was a lottery dispenser with four columns of five rows of tickets. A man was counting out a large quantity of twenties, oddly cheering himself on. He looked up. "Sorry, man," he said and moved his cigarettes, coffee and cash to the magazine rack. People are awful polite around these parts. I withdrew what I needed and as I walked to the counter, he was at the lottery machine, buying tickets, one after another. His version of a 401K, I thought.

When I got to the counter, I saw that the attendant was a guy I had seen last on Saturday night when I came down for cigs because I couldn't sleep and didn't want to run out. He was about my age, maybe a little older and very well-spoken. Behind the apron and cap could have been a former captain of industry, someone who took one risk too many in business or misplayed the office politic. Maybe he just got too old.

I'd been thinking about this guy for the last few days. This morning, I struck up some conversation. I asked him if it had been busy so far. "It's been about average, though post-election, one would think there's be more movement on the papers," he said, gesturing to the magazine rack which indeed had big stacks of newspapers. Most of the front pages either had images of deposed Democrats or victorious Republicans, whose hands were held high in salute. I nodded. On his hand, I saw he wore no wedding ring, but he did has another ring, gold, with a beaver motif. "MIT?," I asked, pointing to his ring. There was no one behind me in line, so I took a chance. He seemed to fold into himself and shortly answered, "Yeah. What can I get you?" I asked for my brand and said, "So, are the Republicans going to fix this job market for us?" He turned back with the read and white pack and seemed to brighten a bit. He said, "Not for people like us. Six ten, please." I gave him the cash and requested I also get back two fives. He wished me a good day and went into standby mode, ready for the next customer.

After dropping my kid at school, I wondered what his story was. MIT grad, a little past middle age, working nights at the Seven Chek: what phenomenal life event befell this gent? I went back to find out. His shift was ending and I asked if we could talk. He looked at me like I was crazy. I told him that I was a freelance writer thinking about on piece on the underemployed. He said, "Give me a few minutes," which I did. For the purposes of this piece, let's call the MIT clerk "Paul." He met me outside. I asked him how an MIT grad came to be working overnights at a convenience store in the northwest corner of New Jersey. On condition of anonymity, this is what he said: "I was an engineer with (company name withheld) and they just decided one day to ship a third of the design spots to India and China. They laid off more people last month. My department was wiped out. They said they wanted to increase competitiveness. So, they took the most experienced people they had and fired them - overnight." He emphasized the last word. He explained that, at his age, 55, it was virtually impossible to get employed. I asked if he thought retraining would help. "Retrain for what? I have all of the latest certifications. There's nothing more for me to learn at this point." So why not just collect unemployment until you can find something in the field? "My unemployment ran out and it just so happens that they (congress) didn't re-up (extend) it, so what should I do?" Did you think about moving? "I have a house here. We're renting out right now and staying with my wife's brother. It's impossible for me to just move." I apologized and thanked him for talking to me. I didn't tell him that what he had just told me made me very queasy.

Think about it: excellent education, excellent experience, excellent credentials, no work. And no prospects of work, except for Quik Eleven, maybe WalMart, if they loosened the hiring purse strings and did some seasonal acquisition of staff. But neither of these entities would be filling a position that required an expert engineer. And it isn't as if Paul doesn't want to work - he's working, but it's a waste.

If Paul's case were an isolated incident - maybe he just doesn't play well with other, you might surmise, though his resume says otherwise - it could be written off as sour grapes. But in the last ten years, more high-paying, skilled and expert technical jobs have either gone away or gone overseas than have been created. And the majority of those enjoying employment at that level in this country are between 25 and 40 years old. Further, according to Emy Sok, an economist in the Division of Labor Force Statistics, older people, once out of work, stay out longer than their below 40 counterparts, by as much as twelve weeks. And when they do find work, it's part-time or ex-career.

America is supposed to be globally competitive, but that apparently doesn't mean the utilization of the most powerful resource we have - brain power. "Our most important asset is our people," say the corporate talking heads. They fail to mention that those "people" are likely enjoying a chauffeured commute to work from their luxurious homes just outside of Mumbai or Shanghai. They leave out the part where those resources are trained right here in America where, on graduation, they go home, back where the Good Life is actually achievable. And that's our newest export: The American Dream.

Our government has made Paul's plight a surety by encouraging foreign corporations to "invest" in the U.S. market and create jobs, but take their profits and the taxes that go along with them back overseas. These foreign companies aren't evil, just good business people. At the same time, newly-elected Republican Senator Rand Paul and his cohorts, like Alaska's Joe Miller and California's Meg Whitman variously oppose or question the validity of a Federal minimum wage. Connecticut's Linda McMahon, who spent an incredible fifty MILLION dollars or her senate campaign, and lost, by the way, didn't dispute the need to review the needs of business in terms of the minimum wage. Recently, at a National Independent Federation of Businesses event, she said, "I think we ought to look at all of those issues in terms of what mandates are being placed on businesses and can they afford them." And if they can't? Off with the heads of the workers?

I live in an area of the state that's pretty red. It's not uncommon to see confederate flag and "Impeach Obama" bumper stickers next to silver silhouettes of a girl lacrosse player on the back of a Town and Country or F-250. But I would like to doubt that my neighbours are secretly all militia members, running off to shooting practice just as soon at they drop little George off at Tae Kwon Do practice. Yet, there seems to be some confusion about how things like how government stimulus spending actually creates jobs that generate taxes, that keeps people from sucking up unemployment insurance resources, that helps to reduce home foreclosures that keeps taxes flowing into municipalities that rely on real estate taxes to fund operation like local schools, police forces and fire departments. That's a pretty straight line from A to B. Same thing with "Obamacare," which was, after all, passed by both houses of congress, both Democrats and Republicans. The health care reform is meant to REDUCE health insurance costs by spreading out the risk. It's like going to a restaurant and equally splitting the bill, see? Your friend may be ordering lobster while you're ordering a hamburger, but one day, you'll inevitably be going for the surf and turf and the scales will be in balance. Also, your daughter can't be denied a life-saving liver transplant as was the case with seventeen-year-old Nataline Sarkisyan last year. Yes, she died. The real Death Panels? Could it be the health insurance companies?

Those contractors sipping their very hot coffee outside where Paul is working because he has to, career essentially done, will benefit from more government, from Obamacare and job creation. Yet, they oppose it. Why? Because they don't want to be told what to do? Republicans have their daily talking points and Fox telling these folks the way it's going to be. The Democrats, unwilling to offend anyone, say nothing. Change is coming, say the newly victorious Republicans. In the meantime, Paul's making his own change - two-fives-for-a-ten at a time.

Civics Lesson

2010-10-28T19:16:00.001-05:00

"Too many Americans feel powerless against the influence of private lobbying groups and the unbelievable flood of private campaign money which threatens our electoral process."

Jimmy Carter said this thirty years ago in a State of the Union address to the nation. In many ways, and I'll let you do your historical research on your own time, the current administration's plight parallels what was going on in this country in the late seventies. Carter was a Democrat, too.

Did you know that seven million jobs were created during Carter's four years as President, mostly due to his fiscal restraint and stimulus plans? Yes, I said fiscal restraint - that means a Democrat vowed to, and achieved, government-spending shrinkage without affecting so-called entitlement programs. In fact, he created programs that created jobs and training opportunities for millions of Americans. In fact, there's a long list of accomplishments from that administration - the peace process which made Camp David famous, Federal funding for education was increased by 75%, a national health plan was proposed, the minimum wage was brought up to be in line with reality and the government's civil service system was reformed for the first time in the 20th century. Carter faced one crisis after another - oil and gas shortages, crippling inflation and a population so disinterested in voting that only 1/3 of the population that could vote even bothered to go to the polls in 1976 and at the midterm.

Between the Nixon/Ford and Reagan presidencies, we had four years of Democrat influence. Did the Dems open up to the public at large and publicize their leadership and the progressive programs that were strictly Democrat ideas? You bet they didn't. Just like now.

The difference today is that the average non-ultra-rich American operates under the illusion that making a choice of the lesser of two evils is the way things are supposed to work. Just like when they're out of Kraft Slices at the WalMart, there's always Velveeta. As it stands, if political in-activism continues on the trend of "they're out of that'" there won't be any cheese, not even the Government kind.

Isn't it far more effective to initiate change from within, as evidenced by the Teabaggers current success in forcing the GOP away from the center? So-called Tea Party-endorsed or -sponsored candidates are running exclusively as Republicans. The pressure from the right is on, supported 24/7 by "fair and balanced" coverage and, as usual, the Dems are silent. Where are the Merlot-sipping hipsters that are needed to move the flabby Dems to action? Getting ready to vote for some other powerless entity to make a point, it seems. Unfortunately, to the victor goes the spoils and a big win by the GOP in this midterm will yield a double mandate: they will get their way so that the ultra-rich can get ultra-richer, ready to fund the next bashdown of the Everyman and the "shrug" agenda of the ultra-right will get a foothold here. Would it not be better to try to retain some legislative control by supporting the Dems now and THEN work the party over like a red-headed stepchild, but from within? Wouldn't it make sense to corral the party power that can move sensible, humanist agendas forward and can win elections with candidate of YOUR choice?

One can't be an activist without being active. Democracy is not only about making a choice, but also making the changes that make more choice possible.

So, yes, please vote, but make the vote count. 'Cause, ya know, the Rent's Too Damn High!

While we're on the subject, let me say one thing about New York: Richard Ravitch, the state comptroller recruited by Governor David Patterson who has a long history of dealing with fiscal crisis in intelligent ways for government, said that when he got to Albany, he was shocked not only by the fiscal condition of the state, but by the attitudes of the legislators. Both sides lack the political will to be real. And without getting the politicians back to earth, New York will simply run out of money. How do the politicians respond? They stall.

As an aside, I wasn't a Herman Munster, I mean, Kerry fan by any stretch, but only because he was far too reposing, much like the current state of the Dem Party. Bush versus Kerry in a fight at a biker bar? Put my twenty on the goofy guy in the Stetson.

It's Alive!

2010-10-26T20:47:00.000-05:00

I just spent the better part of two hours getting freaked out, yet again, about the bedbug problems that have been making headlines in the last few months. Even the frilly underthings at Victoria's Secret are game. It seems that not even the haughty Lincoln Center is immune to these disgusting bloodsuckers.

CC license by G.rezniczek@gmx.at

Google returned 2,280,000 results for the search query "bedbugs." Yum. That's a lot of reading. Let's start at aardvark, meaning, at the very beginning, with the WikiPedia article. Let me summarize: they're disgusting. Unlike cute caterpillars that morph into beautiful butterflies and unlike the industrious and useful bumblebees that make our fruits and vegetables and pretty flowers possible and most certainly unlike the fierce and ninja-like praying mantis that rids us of other nasties, like flies and spiders, bedbugs exist only to SUCK YER BLOOD! Arrgh. I'm itching all over.

*So, I read further, itching and scratching all the while. About how they secret themselves in cracks and crevices, like my beautifully refinished hardwood floors, or in my pillows, mattress and boxsprings. How they lay in wait for the deepest hours of darkness to stealthily creep onto one's person and, with their "beaks," take three bites from his or her sleeping form. The three bites are so characteristic that they are termed by those in the know as "breakfast, lunch and dinner." Very nice.

I also read about the cost to "control" the critters, which can run into the thousands. You should know that without "final solution" insecticides such as DDT, banned here now, exterminators, excuse me, pest management experts, can only assure that treatment can be administered, NOT that the bugs will be eradicated. Lovely.

And I also read about folks' personal fights against these animals and have gleaned a variety of preventative methods that you can be damned sure I'll be applying in triplicate starting tomorrow. I have already crossed off my list any trip to the movies, despite the fact that I love the movies and am missing lots of stuff I really, really want to see. Christmas gifts will need to be solids only, no silks, leathers or polyesters. And when I travel, I stick to the top hotels because I know that they know that I know their reputations are on the line.

I feel better already. Still itchy, though.

Part of this paranoia has to do with having been bitten by something earlier in the year. It may have been a tick or it may have been a spider bite. The doctor could not tell me and blood tests were not positive for tick antibodies or whatever it was they would have looked for. I still bear a pencil-eraser-sized bruise on my thigh at the bite site, though and no one is quite sure why. Great, huh? I've been mouth-raped by an alien species.

Unfortunately, it doesn't seem to end. Those living in the city have to contend with cockroaches, waterbugs and,of course, the aforementioned tiny terrors. Out here in the country, we get everything else. At the moment, waiting for me to manage it, is the following:

Yes, I realize that you can't see anything but a light fixture, but I assure you that there is a beetle of unspecified capabilites warming himself near those 11 watt CFLs that glow with such inviting light. What to do? I could climb onto a stepladder and try to suck him up with my 7 amp Hoover, but I probably can get the nozzle into the fixture. And I just cleaned that darn lamp, too. I could take the shade down, being aware he will likely fly off, scaring the living crap out of me as I subsequently drop the shade, shattering it into a thousand deadly shards which will take hours to clean up, if I could even get all the glass. And, he'll get away. Might as well let it be-etle. Get it? Ah, ha, ha, ha.

The fight continues, but the bugs will prevail. They won't get my rotting corpse, however, as I have made sure to be toasted upon my demise. Take that!

*I absolutely hate the modern convention of adding "so" to the beginning of a new paragraph, as if the conversation had been going on all along and you, the new listener or reader to the schoolyard or bar-side group already in progress suddenly walked in or by and nearly, but not quite, destroyed the rhythm and pace of one heck of a ripping yarn. So, I consciously put that in there to annoy myself. Thanks. Oh, and stop using that hipster crap please, or I will eat your young.

Sears: Where Else?

2010-10-26T17:45:00.001-05:00

Come see the softer . . . no, the squishy, maggot-ridden, rotting side of Sears!

Happy Halloween

2010-10-26T09:17:00.000-05:00

Well, okay, it's not quite Halloween yet, but I do believe this cute kitty will brighten your day.

A Wee Update

2010-10-25T21:17:00.000-05:00

For those of you that are dutifully following this blog, I salute you. I would also like to let you know that there are a good many pieces in the pipeline that are in various phases of write and rewrite, so hang tough, y'all.

I also have some "reader mail" that I plan to answer en masse, so if anything else is irking you, not that I actually care, but knock yourself down and sent me more comments and questions, 'cuz I can only manage enough fortitude to do it every three or four years. This ain't TV, byotch, so get off yer adz.

Thank you very much. I'm crushing your head, crushing your head . . ..

Breaking Bad, Right Here

2010-10-25T15:44:00.000-05:00

First it was the Latino Robots invading my town, now it's Pastor Crankhead and his congregation of Methamphetamine Minions? Naw, man, see, we gotta stop this . . .

Chicken Sauté a al Justin

2010-10-20T12:58:00.001-05:00

Please don't think I'm getting all Family Circle on ya, but I have a recipe for you that is quick, easy and quick. And easy.

See, when my kid comes to visit, I have to feed her something other than whatever Budget Gourmet is less than nine months old in my fridge. And, she's a non-red-meat-aterian, though she calls herself a vegetarian. Pork is out. So is beef and anything else that's "gross." I would guess that includes liver and onions and kidney pie. So, each time I need to cook something up, it's dilemma and trial and tribulation time. Well, my old Polish buddy, Justin, has saved the day, for today, at least.

Image glommed from http://stefanbatoryoceanliner.weebly.com/

He says that he learned how to cook from the head chef of the S.S. Stefan Batory, a Polish cruiseship. Who am I to argue that as fact or fantasy? I do recall my mother poring over brochures for the ship when I was a wee lad. She never went aboard, so there's no verification from that quarter, either.

But he does know good food, especially Polish food, to which I am partial, and he has made a gift of this recipe to me. Here goes:

OVERVIEW: Cook stuff up in a pan and then eat it.
SPECIFICS: Will make enough Sauté a al Justin for six hungry Polacks
WHAT YOU NEED: Fire or alternate, manageable heat source, couple of good saute pans. I use Farberware heavy clad pans, myself.
STUFF YOU PUT IN IT:

2 pounds chicken breast, trimmed of fat, split and subsequently portioned into french-fry-length strips
3 small peppers, 1 each green, red, yellow
2 medium zucchinis, peeled or not, sliced across the seed
1 can of fresh mushrooms (I know this makes no sense - just do it.)
A little sweet paprika, just for colour
Freshly ground black pepper to taste
Sea salt, any cheap brand will do, to taste
About an eighth cup of soy sauce
About a half-cup of tart white wine, NOT cooking wine.

STUFF YOU NEED TO SERVE WITH IT: Some kind of rice.

On a bit of oil, quite hot, sauté all of the non-chicken ingredients except for the zucchini and pepper until "golden" and then add the zucchini and pepper, heating the zucchini until golden but not soft. In a separate pan, on very hot oil, sauté the chicken with soy sauce until "golden" (again with the golden - oy) and then add the white wine and reduce for a few minutes. Serve with white or flavoured rice when hot.

There you go. Dinner tonight, allegedly in fifteen minutes. It better be good.

***UPDATE*** Nope, I did it wrong. One dinner guest politely and silently commented by pushing the chicken bits away from the rest of the meal. Too much teryaki, I'm guessing.

R

2010-10-20T11:57:00.001-05:00


Monk Parakeet (Myiopsitta monachus) Old San Juan, Puerto Rico, photo Ujorge at en.wikimedia, CC

I've been using a new medication lately. I was told by my very careful physician that I might experience some "visual disturbances" but that it was nothing to worry about. In fact, I've enjoyed frightfully intense colors from time to time as if the Photoshop module in my brain has set saturation to maximum. It's the only pleasant side-effect, so much better than headache, nausea, muscle weakness and aching ovaries when, in fact, I'm a dude and don't have those structures as part of my physical make-up, at least, that I know of. Heh heh. Ahem..

Briefly, I thought that I might have to have the dosing adjusted. The other day, while walking to my car in an east Jersey parking lot, I heard a flock of birds ack-acking their way in my direction. When I focused on the source of what is a non-typical bird sound for the area, I saw a group of greenish feather-bullets headed right at me. They swooped upward and landed as a group in a tree to my left. I stopped dead and peered into the leaves to see if what I thought I saw was actually what I thought I saw. There they were, hacking away at the berries of the tree: parrots. Green enough up top to be almost lost in the still-leafy canopy of the tree but with grey-ish chests, or breasts or whatever it is that birds have. Parrots. Frickin' parrots. In New Jersey. In New Jersey? Wha?

If it had been one parrot, it could be an escaped bird, sure, but seven of them? Squawking and clipping the berries off the tree, they stayed for a while and I watched them, dumbfounded.

Naturally, I didn't have a camera at the ready. It seems that whenever something extraorinarily beautiful or amazing or frightening or news-worthy happens, I am sans lens. And with my reputation as a weaver of what-must-be-a-tall-tale-since-there-are-no-photos-to-prove-it, my sighting might not be believed, had I had anyone to tell. But, I swear that they looked like parrots and I swear that I saw them. I swear, I tell ya, thems was parrots.

I set out to discover whether I was experiencing a particulary severe distortion of reality. Could they have migrated from somewhere? Were they the descendants of pirate-owned runaway parrot-slaves who had somehow heard of the liberal tendencies of the North and pledged to rendezvous to survive al fresco, free as a bird, which they in fact were?

Having lived for two decades right in the path of the Atlantic Flyway, I would see all kinds of odd birds, that is, birds not typically seen 'round these parts, during times of their migration, but never parrots. My discovery was both fascinating and exciting and I couldn't wait to call the bird people at Cornell to announce my find. Perhaps it would be called capnmorganus misanthropicus? Not so fast, bud. Those birds were merely an aweigh team.

Photo courtesy Steven Baldwin, brooklynparrots.com, used by permission

As it turns out, parrots, or rather, a particular species of parakeet called a Monk Parakeet or Quaker Parrot, have been hanging out in the New York area for a very long time. There's an excellent source of information about these very neato-cool birds to be found at Steven Baldwin's BrooklynParrots.com and you should visit this link for his very thorough explanation on how these critters may have been introduced to the area and what's happened to them since. Not as a second mention, the photos are really fantastic. There's also this article in the New York Times from 2008 about parrot colonies in Edgewater, NJ, not too far from the location of my personal encounter with the birds.

There's going to be a Parrot Safari in Brooklyn on November 6th, according to BrooklynParrots.com. Wanna go? Contact Steve Baldwin at BrooklynParrots.com

In the meantime, keep your eyes peeled for curious critters. They're out there for us to enjoy and cherish.

The Results Are In

2010-10-13T09:18:00.001-05:00

Is Lusting After A Red-Headed Mannequin Creepy?

2010-10-08T20:44:00.000-05:00

I like the hat.

I Got My Eye On You

2010-10-08T20:04:00.003-05:00

Flew down from New Yawk to stay at da Hyatt Key West. Pretty nice joint. We like it 'cuz deres plenny a stuff ta eat an' pretty much nobody bodders ya. Only ting is, we was hopin' to find some lady pigeons at da bah or da beach, but no luck. Some pretty gay-lookin' seagulls been checkin' us out, dough. Boids. Doity, stinkin' boids. Oh, well. Whaddaya gonna do? And this frickin' railin' is frickin' hot. Nice view, if I sez so myself. Fuggedaboutit.

Invasion Of Privacy

2010-10-03T10:41:00.001-05:00

Dear Mr.Homeowner;

Although you may have seen me around, I would like to formally introduce myself. I am Mr.Robert Grandtail, son of Edward "Buck" Grandtail, of Number 1, Large Oak. For the four earth changes, you have been inhabiting the nest on my property that is set between my home and The Place Where Squirrels Are Made Flat. As you may know, I also recreate and make my living amongst the Elm, the Japanese Maple and the Southern Pines, or as I have come to know these trees are called by virtue of my research through WikiPedia.

I have tried to be a good neighbor in the hope that you would rise above your common human-ness and reciprocate the courtesy. It has become clear to me, not unexpectedly, yet, with some level of morose disappointment, that you are no different from the other furless freaks that have plagued my family for all memory.

Within the last fortnight, I have found myself very busy in the collection of foodstuffs meant to stave off starvation through the coming lean times. It has also been a rather difficult time for me in terms of Homeland Defense, as you have no doubt at least heard, having had repelled multiple incursions on my territory from gutless thieves intent on displacing me from my heritage and supplies stores. This has consumed a great deal of energy and has created an environment fraught with stress. The very last thing I need is another vector of pressure from any quarter. Yet, I find that you have insisted on perpetually insinuating yourself into my activities through unceasing voyeurism.

My father used to say, "good fences make good neighbours," As would apply to my complaint, I must now respectfully ask that you observe the spirit of this philosophy since I am unable to erect actual fencing being that I lack the necessary building permits and opposible thumbs. Kindly stop peering at me at all hours of the day and please do not distract me when I am engaged in fighting for my territory and for my very life.

If you care to reply, please wrap said note around either a peanut or chestnut of appropriate weight and loft it into the first ring of branches at Large Oak. I thank you in advance for your attention in this matter.

Sincerely;

R. Grandtail

Dear Mr. Grandtail;

Thanks for writing to me and now that I am a name to put to the face, let me straighten you out on a few things.

First of all, you're on my property, not vice versa. I own the "nest," (which is called a "house," by the way, had you bothered checking this out in WikiPedia, you would know that, Dweebish McFartwit,) the land and, guess what? the trees, too, including the large oak that I have, frankly, been thinking of cutting down.

It takes a lot of gall to basically slink around for a year and then make what I would call un-neighborly demands from a person who is a complete stranger. And did I mention that you're a frickin' squirrel. So, yeah, if I seem pissed off, I am. I pay plenty taxes and don't need to be harassed by a tick-infested forest creature.

Up until now, I thought your antics were kinda cute. Now I understand that you're basically a furry bully and that you think by using formal and official-sounding language that I'll be intimidated by your puffed-up attitude. Well, all I'm doing is standing outside, drinking my coffee and checking out the crazy-ass squirrels. This isn't "voyeurism" and it's pretty fricking rude to suggest that I'm some kind of peeping Tom.

Check your attitude, bud, and we'll get along fine.

Signed,

Lord and Master of the Tree You Frickin' Live In

Dear Manimal;

An attitude of indifference does not surprise me, being that you are a Man and therefore likely believe that all things of the earth are beholden to you. What is surprising is the utter lack of basic respect coupled with sheer hostility toward a small and, I might say, thoughtful fellow creature.

What you don't realize is that I have shown you respect and you have not returned the same in kind. I have not moved my home from Large Oak to the interior of your nest, though I am sure this would enhance my personal comfort as well as be highly attractive to a potential mate. I have not wielded my not inconsiderable influence over my fellow creatures to encroach upon your nest in any way that you might ultimately see as inconvenient. And, you will notice, that the shiny pod upon which you lavish such undue attention through the rubbing of its surface on a semi-regular basis, which I can only imagine is some sort of perverted stimulatory event, has remained unmarred by the output of my flying friends, to whom these pods are a favourite target.

Again, I must renew my demand that you keep your eyes to yourself and allow me to go about by business unmolested.

Concernedly,

R. Grandtail

Dear Nutbuster;

You actually wrote me back? Maybe I didn't make it clear - you're a frickin' squirrel and I don't give a crap if you think I'm streaming your gay squirrel fights to YouTube. Let's get this straight: first of all, you're a frickin' squirrel and second of all, this is America and the law says that if you're in the public view, I can look at you, take your picture (see attached pic of you invading MY privacy by staring into my living room - who's the voyeur, now, bitch?) talk to you, whatever.

And you're frickin' threatening me? What? If I don't avert my eyes, your birdie friends are gonna poop on my car and you're gonna break into my attic? As to the second, go ahead - ever hear of an Exterminator? Merchant of Death, babee! And I won't let him use a HavAHeart trap. No - he'll be instructed to terminate with extreme prejudice. With the bird poop - whatever. You're bullcrapping me. You don't have any control over the birds anymore than you have over me, or over your squeaky little motor mouth.

Don't threaten me, even unintentionally, otherwise, I'll be off to the sporting goods store to score me a Wrist Rocket. Get me?

Thanks,

He Who May Determine Your Fate

Dear Fleshtard;

I see that you intend to return a friendly tap on the shoulder with a vicious slap in the face. My request is simple and perfectly reasonable. If you choose to behave like E. Coli, so be it. Reap the consequences.

R. Grandtail

Dear Squirrel A. Hole;

Very funny. Is it a coincidence that my car is covered in bird shit, that I all of a sudden have a giant spider problem, that, somehow, though I just paid 200 bucks to clean my gutters that they're now overflowing with leaves and nut shells and that skunks all this week have been walking out into the middle of the road, waiting, apparently, for a car to come by and crush the living stink out of them? I have reported this situation to the police who looked at me like I was crazy said, "why don't you just shoot him." And so, I will. Watch your back, bitch. This shit's gonna stop.

Meaning it,

The Terminator

Dear Neighbor;

In light of the recent invasion of poop-filled deer who have paved my yard with their black pearls of dung and have eaten every last bit of ground-lying foliage at a cost to me of thousands of dollars in custom landscaping, including the groups of mature hostas and every last fern in my shade garden, I am willing to admit defeat.

As a gesture of my goodwill, I am extending a peace offering in the form of a nice assortment of foods that, I am told by experts, you will find both delicious and nutritious. These strategically-placed caches have been protected from your competitors within special "safe spaces" that you can enter at will to retrieve what you want, when you want it.

I am hoping that this letter finds you in the best of health. Hope to hear from you soon.

Best regards,

Your Partner In Gaia

Dear Murderous Human Swine;

I am writing at the behest of my late father, the venerable R. Grandtail. It is my understanding, according to the forensic analysis, that you are responsible for his gruesome and untimely death. His blood is on your hands. Our home will now be thought of as the Killing Fields of Large Oak, amplified by the deception you levied in the form of a proffer of an olive branch. Instead, my noble Father was treated to "food" in fact made deadly by your minions through typically destructive human means, food so attractive that he could not resist, by his trusting nature and to his and our detriment, its appeal and did, by your urging, enter the metal enclosure which was set out with the intent not only of unlawfully imprisoning him, but arranged in such a way as to force him to slowly die without dignity in full public view. This was not an honorable death as would be befitting a gentlesquirrel of his stature.

Unlike my father, I am above resorting to reactionary tactics clearly meant to lure your victims into a confrontation. Instead, I have filed a wrongful death suit against you with the CAA, or Court of Animal Affairs. Since we do not subscribe to the biblical notion that man has dominion over animal, as if man himself were not an animal, the rules and laws that we have proscribed are binding and subject to enforcement in no uncertain and most final terms. I look forward to our day in court and expect that justice will be swift and whole.

With much gravity,

R. Grandtail, Jr., Esq.

Dear Junior;

WTF? I just got some bogus papers delivered to my door by a woodchuck who was pretty menacing, if you ask me, especially when he threw the papers at me and said, "You are served."

I'm not bound by your stupid laws, whatever those are. Your father was a dick and being that you are using the suffix "Esq." after your name, I assume that you're a lawyer, which makes you ten times the dick your father was.

My attitude to you is this - blow me.

Sincerely,

Your Personal Jesus

*****

County of Greene, State of New Jersey
First Circuit Court of Animal Affairs
Hon. J. Beaver, Presiding
In Re: Grandtail, et al v. Human Interloper

Be It Known To All Animals that in the foregoing action brought by the Estate of R.Grandtail, et al, of Large Oak, hereinafter known as the Plaintiff, with Robert Grandtail, Jr., Esq, representing the Plaintiff against Human Interloper, of Man Nest within the bounds of the property overlaid by Large Oak, hereinafter known as the Defendant, that the Plaintiff has duly served by certified means the Defendant with the Complaint and the particulars of the aforesaid Complaint and has been given the statuatory period as required by law to respond. The Court has heard the motions of the Plaintiff and given that the Court has no record of having received an interlocutory response, nor has the Defendant appeared before the court, the Court has hereby entered a Summary Judgement in favour of the Plaintiff based on the overwhelming facts within the case as presented as well as the Defendants failure to respond as opportuned by the Law and the Rules of the Court.

To wit, the Court finds for the Plaintiff as follows:

Immediate Relief: The law provides for the immediate and permanent ejection of Human Interloper from his unlawfully constructed nest by any lawful means.
Direct Compensation: Human Interloper is hereby ordered to pay the sum of twelve seasons of food adequate to provide for the descendants of R.Grandtail as this is in line with the period of time that he should have been able to provide for himself, his mate and offspring were his life not so brutally cut short.
Additional Relief: Human Interloper is and shall evermore be the subject of Animal retribution so that none of his days shall be without the reminder that he is not only Man Amongst Men, but also subject to the whims of Gaia, as are we all. The Court shall not interfere with, nor take notice of, nor punish, any animal(s) whose activities may result in the immediate or eventual demise of Human Interloper, either through direct or indirect action.
Damages: Human Interloper is hereby ordered to pay the sum of More Than We Can Count in the form of premium, unsalted, lightly toasted cashews, macadamia nuts and dry-roasted almonds, but in which proportion shall not exceed less than two parts macadamia nuts to all other nuts combined.

This Judgment is entered this First Day of the Third Season, Season Set of The Owl.

Signed,
Hon. J. Beaver, presiding

*****

Moral of the story? Don't f*ck with the squirrels, or any living thing, for that matter. Woodchuck Connection = Mobbed Up. If you see one coming, dear FSM, RUN THE OTHER WAY!

Lie Low, LiLo

2010-09-29T19:29:00.000-05:00

It makes my daughter's skin crawl to hear me refer to Lindsay Lohan as "LiLo," but frankly, the former has too many syllables, causing me to waste even more time discussing her. What's the fascination? Schadenfreude? Oh, how the mighty have fallen kind of thing? Yes and no.

For those who don't know, Ms. Lohan's is a tragic tale of a yet another Disney star gone wobbly. Ejected from the same fame mill as Justin Timberlake, Christina Aquilera and Britney (do I have to say her last name?), she rocketed to fame as a co-star in Disney's Parent Trap with follow-ups Freaky Friday, across from mega-star, Jamie Lee Curtis, and in Mean Girls, all high-grossers. Maybe what cracked her pot was having a car as a co-star in Herbie Fully Loaded because after that, both publicly and in her filmography, she moved toward strictly grown-up stuff, like rampant, in-your-face sexuality, beaver-reveals and nip-slips a-plenty, the rumoured, but so-far-untrue, cell-phone sex videos, allegedly being beaten up and spat upon by her supposed ex-girlfriend, Samantha Ronson and, of course, not one, but two DUIs within a ridiculously short time span, both also involving the possession of coke, and I don't mean the fabulously sweet carbonated beverage that gives me agita, either.

Really, WTF? We are talking about a "successful" 24 year-old with two records under her belt and more than fifteen movies, a few of which have been huge hits, right? And the potential is there, not because she's a great actress or a fabulous singer, but because she is smack-dab in the middle of the Hollywood success machine, at just the right age, with loads of momentum. And she apparently doesn't give a f*ck. That's sad.

What's sadder still is that she hadn't taken a page from the Celebrity Manual of Contrition. Michael Vick took his lumps, served his time, apologised and ponied-up a barrel full of money to help counter the publicity surrounding his dog-fighting conviction. It didn't mean that he had to lay prone while animal rights activists took their best shots in a poorly-lit east Philly parking lot, but he instead negotiated the situation and whatever arc of a career as a star NFL player he has left can now be followed neatly to its inevitable conclusion to a network color commentary chair, surrounded with a smattering of dealership ribbon-cuttings and a side of strength-training supplement endorsements. All because he got caught, weighed the difference between being a feckless thug and the potential of true star status, and decided that it would be better to make people like him again so that they would show him the money. LiLo's attititude is exemplified by the creative mani she sported on sentencing day in July - "f*ck u."

Blah, blah, so it's a "shame." Unfortunately, it's a little more than that. Hollywood types have been self-destructing since the days of Fatty Arbuckle and we've been eating it up since then, gossip whores that we are. Thing is, it's not alright. It's about time that the divas and dudes that do this kind of thing understand that a nip-slip or drunken brawl might be momentarily entertaining, in the end, it's pretty nasty and does nothing for our country's image in the world. Further, as a celebrity, one has the obligation to be respectful to one's fans. Celebrities don't have a private life when they're in public and if they want to behave like drunken, drug-addled idiots, it's really an intentional insult to the lesser "great unwashed." Hey, listen, you're cute, hot, talented, whatever, but there are limits. So, behave badly all you want, just not in our collective livingroom. It's just plain rude. And sad. And it's about time that we collectively set a standard both for ourselves and for our kids that says to these lilotypes that we're not sinking any further - sorry. And for those celebrities - and sports stars and politicians - who can't respect themselves enough to show a little respect for the rest of us, well, we must commit to just turning away like we turn away when someone else's toddler explodes in frustration at the Pathmark because he just wants it wants it wants it. Well, you can't have it. Behave yourself.

It's Magically Delicious

2010-09-29T16:10:00.000-05:00

Forget about the Pink Hearts, Orange Stars, Yellow Moons and Green Clovers. Here's something better, kiddies:

It's incontrovertible proof that what lies at the end of the rainbow ain't tiny marshmallows or Pots O' Gold, but BOOZE! Glorious, soul-numbing, mind-deadening hootch. My favorite? New Jersey Port. Yum. Makes me all English an' sh*t.

Can You Keep A Secret?

2010-09-27T23:34:00.001-05:00

I learned the hard way that not everything needs to be said,even when this means that an opportunity for understanding is lost. In fact, i paid a lot of money to a very able therapist to train me to shut my big trap. Oh, i understand why i "share too much." And, yes, i have parents at fault. My father was my guide to this M.O.. He simply uttered every thought that entered his brain without an apparent thought to self censorship, though i have no idea if he actually had more vile and horrible things to say that never made it out of his pie-hole. Frankly, i can't imagine it: it would be much better if all he had to say was said. It was enough as it was.

So, now i consider, reframe, scenarize my thoughts before my internal editor will release them to publishing and, i must say, it's difficult and unnatural for me. the further downside is that i seem stodgier than ever, unless i employ the body language techniques i learned to help my talking buddy feel at ease and speak on. In other words, i'm in the role of the non-directive therapist. The upside is that people like me better, mainly because they are of the impression that i give a fashizzle.

One other big downside is that since my free-wheeling stream-of-conciousness has been clamped, i'm not as brilliantly funny in person as i uster be. This is disappointing.

But, i can talk to the dog and he looks at me questioningly, trying to pick out words like "walk" or "bisquit." Convinced that i am not near to an action that addresses his needs, he lowers his head and snuffs his disappointment. Little bastard.

There have been collecting a coven of secrets in a sort of pool in my mind, things that should probably be talked about but that i know may more organically resolve on their own or things that are, by themselves, not all that important. Still, there are things that i just know in my gut have to be resolved before i croak. Maybe if i mix those things in with far more pedestrian issues, the impact will be diffuse. Maybe i am wrong. Maybe these are secrets that should be kept. Maybe i should just keep my big trap shut.

I'd rather tell you, though. I'd rather it all get sorted, but only for you, whose loyalty could never truly be called into question, except in anger. On the other hand, what right do i have to impose the truth on anyone, whether it's a universal truth or mine alone. Ah. What does it matter? Who cares?

I do. Dammit. I do.

Where Am I?

2010-09-18T01:16:00.001-05:00

It's dark out and cold. I catch a glimpse as I pass a mirror and see a gaunt face that I am surprised to recognize as my own. My body is lost in the zippered black fleece that makes the unreasonably chilly air just this side of bearable.

There's nothing to remember except that I am in the prison of my decisions under a sentence of death.

I don't think I can stand it much longer. Where am I?

9 Lives of The Undead Zombie Superhero

2010-09-09T09:35:00.001-05:00

Ya know, i took inventory of how many close calls i've had in the white-light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel department and it seems i've just about run out. There was that time i found my father's Manlicher Carcano carabine in the bedroom closet when i was very little and very curious. Then, there was the ravine-tumbling challenge by by school chums. I can scarcely forget the high-speed crash with Howie's Dad's Impala while were we on our way to a midnight show (totally not Howie's fault, just so you know.) Then, there was that unfortunate toxic substance incident on a rather hot day, to boot. Let's see, that makes four, so far. Then, there was the throat cancer scare, the skin cancer scare, the thyroid scare, the crazy ex-wife arrow-flinging event, the near-miss, icy spin-out, the fall, the bee attack, that stupid bar fight with the broken bottle in the neck, that really crazy red-headed chic with the Harley tattoo and only one nipple.

Oops. Seems i'm over. I guess it's actually a mode of superherodom that i've failed to fully engage. Perhaps i am in fact indestructable and can only be finally downed when presented with appropriately weighty toxic jewelry from the deepest part of the methane oceans on my home world.

I am writing this at 36,000 feet. I think this would be an opportune time to test my theory. Well, then . . . I need a catch-phrase, something heroic? Ah, yes: Salute The Day! Away! Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!

Work In Progress

2010-08-06T00:24:00.003-05:00

"It couldn't have happened to a better person," his mother's voice rang and rang in his head, repeating this phrase like a penny winding down a mall coin-funnel. To stop the trace of that vortex, he needed only to extend his hand, but he lacked the will. Instead, he watched the coffee cup circle, chasing itself in the microwave, nearly full with water, as it began to vibrate and emit tiny angel's wings of steam.

Two minutes timed down and the water was hot. Two minutes were lost and he still had no answer, no plan, no clear way out. He often thought of himself as the master of the bad scenario, brain-powering his way down endless blind alleys, seeing from the outside in, creating order from disaster. This time, though, he could conjure no plan of rescue. He was frozen in place as his options turned into mirages.

His problem should be simple to solve, really, if he chose good over evil and did the right thing. But this was a situation of his own making and, in the end, was too complicated with far too many grey areas to find its solution in a set of steps to follow out and away. His thighs felt weak and again he realized that reality was the absolute antidote to best wishes and good faith.

He opened the microwave door quietly, though the interlock clunked and clicked, giving him away. He meant to leave his wife in her peaceful sleep, upstairs in the pastel quiet. She was an impossibly light sleeper, easily woken at three or five AM by his tires on the circular gravel drive or by the smell of the bread before it erupted from the toaster, just so. Though he felt duty-bound, he had no solution for her, either. She would surely hear it from the police when they found his body well after his disappearance, or when they found whatever pieces were left. Whatever the Bouras brothers didn't finish, the alligators would certainly indulge.

"Ruben Calderon Identified As Glades Doe," the headline would read. Between the heat and the hungry swamp, he would need only be dead for a few days to be rendered identifiable only through his dental records. If they found his head, that is. Ruben was sure that his hands would be cut off to thwart easy identification, hopefully after he'd been shot, stabbed or garroted into the next world. And for reasons that weren't clear, the brothers had a penchant for depriving male victims of their "archidi." They didn't seem to need the penis - that might be construed as unmanly, but the balls had to go.

He poured the instantly boiled water over instant oatmeal in a bowl glazed with an image of a sunflower such that the yellow petals bordered the Strawberry Cream variety of dried oats. As he dripped the water in and stirred with a matching sunflower spoon, the dessicated strawberries gave up some of their colour and a rivulet of vermilion wound across the surface of the food like Moses' Nile plaque.

Ruben tried tasting the oatmeal. It was very hot. He thought of the story of the three bears and a smile momentarily broke the shell of his face. It would be the last time he would have the occasion or opportunity to smile.

Taking the bowl with him, he made his way to the living room. He put a napkin on the coffee table next to his work laptop and put the bowl in the center of it, where the oatmeal could cool so that it was 'just right.'

He decided to review his options as he had earlier set out in a spreadsheet with desperate care. He could not run away. He could not face the Bouras brothers and lie to them, since they already knew what he knew he wasn't supposed to know. He couldn't play the loyalty card, since he wasn't family, though he was "Uncle Ruben" to little Jimmy. Big Jimmy would kill him anyway. If he ran away . . . where could he run where he wouldn't be found? Nowhere, that's where. The brothers did business everywhere and with everyone as did their father and his father before him The FBI would take him in, would relocate him and his wife, they promised, and Ruben knew the brothers or one of their ilk would find him and then he and his wife would both be dead. He couldn't do that to her. She was far too stupid and he loved her far too much because of it, in the way a boy loves an addled Retriever and he pities it besides. She was still safe, since she had no idea that he was really a criminal in league with other, far worse, criminals rather than a career numbers guy. At least, going to the feds meant he had time to think, to plan. It might be a game changer. He sat staring at the spreadsheet, running down the options, weighing out the potentials. He made a decision and sighed.

He picked up the bowl and spoon, now very hungry for the filling warmth of the oatmeal. He needed very much to not feel empty. As the spoon rose to his mouth, there was a soft, almost apologetic, knock at the door. Ruben knew at that moment that it was too late. He knew that the time to plan and calculate was over, that they would now take it from here. He eyed the sliding glass doors that led out to the patio and the pool, considered for a tiny slice of the time he had left and knew that he would never make it. That's why they always came to the front door - so the target would realize that his car, the street and the world was out there and that there was simply no way of getting to any of it.

Ruben put the spoon into the bowl and put both back down on the coffee table. He stood, tucked his white shirt back into his slacks and went to greet the knocker.

Time For A Little Art

2010-08-03T14:31:00.002-05:00

Entropy

Acrylic, gouache, watercolor and prepared ink on canvas. Limited edition of 10. archival giclée print, $2800.

Love Stinks

2010-07-29T19:48:00.000-05:00

Press the button. Make the call. Send the e-mail. Write the letter. Send the text. Save the pictures. Smell the clothes. Feel the warmth, the cold. Forget it. Never forget. Let it go. Try again.

Loving someone that's lost can be a truly awesome experience, but not in the sense of how that word is misused these days. The transcendent power of the chase, of conquest, of loss, whether by choice, luck or misadventure, has no peer. Every emotion is wrung up and tasted like bile. No paranoid corner dark with anxiety is revealed to be less than knowing. And still, the mind seeks and hopes, forlorn and withering against the truth of it.

So much worse when the chemistry is undeniable. That was it - the singularity of oneness collapsed into a black hole of separation. The laws of the universe prevent the rejoining of what man hath put asunder.

But wait: there's more!

If there's a will, there's a way. A stitch in time saves nine. A penny saved is a penny earned. Oh, who is today's fool? Lover, come back to me? Fat chance.

Too many words, too much lost time, too much hurt - all are expedient excuses when the potentials are there to be exercised. It boils down to a decision that it's just too much damned work, too many damned compromises and, by the way, the grass is looking a damn sight greener on the other side of the fence. Today. Right now. Why wait?

Live, love, laugh.

Yeah, whatev.

The adult thing is to let it go, admit the mistake, decide to move forward, decline defeat, embrace the future.

Yeah, whatev. Again. As if. As if the face could escape memory. As if that memory would simply fizzle away in sparkly confetti, reassembly denied by nature. As if the sound of your voice, your bell-like laugh, your ruddy cough, your breathing, heavy and deep with sleep could find its way into those dark corners where demons wait and snuff out your absence. As if.

No walk alone is without you. No meal without a thought of your provision. No feeling without the sense of a ghostly touch from you. No wind without your scent.

There can't be a goodbye. Apparently, it's not allowed. Yet, the die is cast. Shut up!

Lighten Up, Will Ya?

2010-07-28T10:09:00.000-05:00

A little humour to brighten your day:

Two cannibals are eating a clown.
One says to the other: "Does this taste funny to you?"
______________
Man with a strawberry stuck up his bum goes to the doctor.
The Doctor says "I'll give you some cream to put on it."
______________
"Doc, I can't stop singing 'The green, green grass of home'."
"That sounds like Tom Jones syndrome."
"Is it common?"
"Well……..It's not unusual………"
______________
A guy walks into the psychiatrist wearing only cling film for shorts.
The shrink says, "Well, I can clearly see you're nuts."
______________
Two hydrogen atoms walk into a bar.
One says, "I think I've lost an electron."
The other says, "Are you sure?"
The first replies, "Yes, I'm positive."
______________
Answer phone message:
"If you want to buy marijuana, press the hash key…"
______________
A man takes his Rottweiler to the vet and says, "My dog's cross-eyed, is there anything you can do for him?"
"Well," says the vet, "let's have a look at him." So, he picks the dog up and examines his eyes, then checks his teeth. Finally, he says "I'm going to have to put him down."
"What? Because he's cross-eyed?"
"No, because he's really heavy."
______________
Apparently, 1 in 5 people in the world are Chinese.
And there are 5 people in my family, so it must be one of them.
It's either my mum or my dad.
Or my older brother Colin.
Or my younger brother Ho-Cha-Chu.
But I think it's Colin.
______________
I went to buy some camouflage trousers the other day but I couldn't find any.
______________
My friend drowned in a bowl of muesli. He was pulled in by a strong currant.
______________
A man came round in hospital after a serious accident.
He shouted,"Doctor, doctor, I can't feel my legs!"
The doctor replied,"I know you can't. I had to amputate your arms"
______________
I went to a really energetic "Seafood Disco" last week and pulled a mussel.
______________
Two Eskimos sitting in a kayak were chilly, but when they lit a fire in the craft, it sank, proving once and for all that you can't have your kayak and heat it too.
______________
A man walks into doctor's office.
"What seems to be the problem?" asks the doc.
"It's … um … well … I have five penises," replies the man.
"Blimey!" says the doctor, "How do your trousers fit?"
"Like a glove."

Logs

2010-07-27T11:08:00.002-05:00

"Lair" is a blog that exists to express random thoughts and often, things that Lincoln would have put in his desk overnight only to be ripped up in the morning. Lincoln was a smart man. I'm not Lincoln.

Schweinekoteletts

2010-07-26T19:05:00.000-05:00

God, am I stupid. I'm probably the stupidist person I know. I'm just so unforgivably stupid. Really, really stupid. Stoopid stupid. And just plain dumb.

What the hell was I thinking? What? Why do I hatch these plans and convince myself that they really should work, that these gargantuan scenarios which I love so well are the best compromise between what I should be doing and what I want to do? What screw is missing in my mousetrap of a brain that causes to be missing the critical cog that should easily direct me to an actually fruitful conclusion? Huh? I want to know?

Here is where I am.

Here is where I should have wound up. But no, not me. Gad. So stuuuuuuuuuuupid.

And yet, I still have hope. Hope that it will come out all fine. Hope that my more rational mind tells me is an extension of the delusion that had me put myself on this path in the first place.

Unfortunately, it doesn't take much to snap me back to reality. A few recollections thrown into the mix of my already overheated and constantly recycling mind, the resulting plunge into a depression on the realization of the foregoing which, in turn, solidifies my belief that the klaxons in my head screaming "WRONG! WRONG! WRONG!" are tuned to just the right frequency to capture my full attention.

Not being alone in this experience DOES NOT make it better. Either side of the good or evil teeter-totter that seems to be applicable to any decision and choice I've made absolutely sucks. And I mean that I'm not in this alone since thousands of years of poetry, prose and song support that particular observation.

And do you know why I'm in this tizzy? Maybe you or you don't, but you do and that f•cking pisses me off all the more, at myself, of course. Oh, well. F•ck me, I guess. Stupid.

The problem is that I got just what I wished for - a date with the cruelest mistress of them all: fate. Please, Mistress, command me to do your bidding though I am unworthy. I beg your forgiveness for my snivelling nature. Please forgive me for anything I might do to displease you now or at some point in the future, no matter how unreasonable your expectations may be. Please grab my party bits and slam them flat with the latest Oxford Dictionary of the English Language.

In return, I will spank you until your bottom turns the color or the great flag of the People's Republic of China.

No? That won't do it? Screw you, then. I have free will, you know. "Will he?" they whisper, collectively wondering how far he could go. Free will. Free Willy!

Dangle, dangle, strangle: I had thought this the modus operandus of a variety of female types I had encountered over the course of time, but I was wrong to limit this concise observation and will now include ALL humans. And yes, it would be convenient to blame the rest of the world for my apparent lack of open-minded scenario-building, but I can't, simply can't. I note this only because I now realize that I was absent that day where the politics of dealing with human beings and learning to go with the flow of same was taught.

Destiny has a funny way of not always being all that random. I am a planner and I hate that which could be attributed to fate, karma or some other thing unseen that corrupts the plans of men. It makes me think of Tulsa and how bad things were there and how bad they probably still are and then, some hidden prose rises like a bad meal of boiled steak and beans and I read this, from a time far away and a place long ago:

You ever see a bird.
And you're like, this bird is mine.
So, you say to yourself: "This is mine. I own this." The map and the intention mesh. You feel kind of smug.
So, you see a girl a grrlllllllllllllll, tits and EVERYTHING.
And the seeds of desire are sown, because they're seeds and that's what we do with seeds, sow.
The next thing you know, she's telling you about the boyfriend, but you've seen her pupils dilate, and before the night's over, you're covered in mosquito bites and her sweat and spit and she smells like hope.
But that never happened because you're not stupid enough to try to smash a clam. No, who wants clam shards in their mollusk? Otters. Gulls. A two item list. But, you've got your ears open. Words and confidences fan out like. Reinforcing signals emerge, lapping against the edges of your GOLDEN BOWL OF LUST.

"Hi!" You squeak.
"Would you like a cigarette?" she asks. But you haven't smoked in months. She reminds you of a shady lane. So you take two cigarettes worth of drags, and it's all you can do not to blow on her pooch whenever she lifts her arms.
You lean over and smell her and nothing, bills, personal oblivion, dissatisfaction with your career, any kind of setback in the past, even murder, rape, cowardice, betrayal, whatever, it doesn't matter, anxiety melts away.

She tastes like pot but those eyes are anything but distant.
Black eyes. Like a doll's eyes.

And you come to the conclusion that after all this pursuit, all this sex, and need and hunger, that you've reached an endpoint, you've finally jumped a shark.

"Where you from?"
"Indianapolis."
"Are you expected back?"
"Later or never."
"Where you headed, baby?"
"The bottom of the sea."

Yes - I have to dredge up every emotion, every experience, every conclusion, every hope, fear and regret and I have to set them all out like a sorrowful buffet and sort them out once and for all, this time, with no endpoint in mind. And make some new choices, I think, including accepting the possibility that I won't make any choice at all. On the other hand, status quo is pretty boring. I don't do boring.

Blow the dust off your crystal ball and shine it up, will ya? Where thou goest, I shall follow. Oh, geesh, now I have to think something up. It never ends. Never. Not ever.

What Are You? Deaf?

2010-07-25T11:15:00.001-05:00

I just saw Andrea Bocelli in concert and I don't know why. It was in Las Vegas, was all drippy with Spanish and Italian love songs and was topped off with guys holding torches that jumped into the fake canal at the casino where the concert was held, all finally decorated with fireworks a la Seaworld. Somebody's idea of a good time, I suppose.

Aphorism

2010-07-23T11:03:00.000-05:00

The very best thing about having your back constantly up against the wall is what it can do for your posture.

If I Was Not Me And This Was My First Go At A Blog

2010-07-07T20:17:00.002-05:00

Here we are broadcasting from high atop Mount Palomar, which is home to the once-famous Mount Palomar Observatory, located in the beautiful San Bernadino mountains. This is obviously a great place for a telescope since there are more stars here than anywhere else!

You know, I was thinking about doing the MySpace thing, but I changed my mind. Everybody's doing it. "Do you have a MySpace page? Do you? Do you?" No, I don't freakin' got one. Why should I be like every other loser on the planet, right?

So, I'm starting out on this blog thing and I'm saying to myself, what do I have to say? The first thing I come up with is "um, um, um" and so, that's the title of this blog. I call it a blog thing because I hope it will be something more than just words, like pictures and videos and stuffs. I have a german friends that calls stuff "stuffs." I correct him, but you know foreigners aren't too smart, that's why they can't speak English good.

Anyhow, I work like everybody else but I'm looking for the Next Big Thing. I don't know what that is yet but that's good because if I knew what it was then everybody would too and then it wouldn't me the next big thing. Right? Right? So, like, I'm looking for opportunities that I can exploit, which means that I can make work for me with luck and hard work. I can't work on the gluing machine at the box factory forever even though I probably will make supervisor next year when Gus (Fussy Gus) throws in the towel and finally retires. Or dies.

In the meantime, I'm looking for a special lady. You know, someone who can be there, can cook good, likes to go out, wants to take care of my kids, or I mean, our kids and stuff. She's gotta work too until I hit on that next big thing I was talking about before, but it'll be alright.

Right now, I have a pretty okay job, my brother's still in Iraq and when he comes out, maybe we'll open a detailing shop together. He might stay in, though. We didn't have the chance to talk much since he joined up, He wanted to get away from being a kid brother, I guess and now he's a big man, a soldier and all that. You gotta respect him for making a big step with his life. But we both graduate from high school though I have to admit that he's smarter than me, but I'm better with the girls! Sometimes I wonder if he's maybe a fag, but I don't think so. Anyway, my Father would never talk to him and my mother's heart would be broken into little pieces, like she says, 'cause then he wouldn't have grandkids. But I could make up for that!

So, I could see that happen. Me running the business and him working the customers and running the crew, He would have experince, right? Being that he was a sarge and all. So, that would work out pretty good. But I don't know. He got a lot of money for college from the Army so I guess that's what he might do. Then he might be running the business and I'll work my charms on the customers! We could sell rims, too and stereo installation. Who knows how far we could go? But, by myself, I don't know. It would be too hard with a new wife and kids. We'll see.

In the meantime, there's a girl I like but she's way older than me. She's Latina, which is bangin, and she's got older kids, like in their twenties and whatnot. But she is so bangin, it's sick. She is like a Latina princess. And I know she works next door cause I see her come in around lunch time and she leaves way after I quit work. I know cause sometimes I waited for her. Sometimes I could see her through the factory windows, too, when she parks at the end of the lot, and she's just sittin in her car and I think she's crying. She just looks like she's shaking and sobbing. I wish I could go out to her and comfort her, but I know I would scare her and maybe she would think I'm a stalker or something, I don't know.

But she has long black hair, huge bazongas (I don't think I can say "rack" or "tits" here) and some sweet thighs that I'd just like to sink my teeths into. Jesus, she is too much. And a guy like me? At my age? Oh, you know I could keep her satisfied and stop her crying. You just know it. But she's pretty old and that's okay, cause I know she must like movies and dancing and stuffs. I think one day soon I'm gonna ask her out or at least let her know I'm available, then she can make the right choice, know what I mean?

Anyhow, I'm gonna cut this short since this is my first time and all. My boss is a woman and she is a bitch on wheels. She's not mean but I swear she's into S&M cause she will torture you until the product ships. Her name's Carla, but all the guys on the floor call her Carl cause she might as well be a man. She's my mom's age, but sometimes she dresses a little slutty, which is not respectable for a woman, okay? Yeah, she looks okay, but with a woman like that you gotta be careful that she not gonna break your dick off in the process. So, she wants everybody in early tomorrow even though it's the day before Thanksgiving and who wants to work anyhow? So, I better not be late or she's gonna hook my nipples up to the forklift charger. She probably like it, too. ;)

I'm gonna try to tell my story like you're ready a diary, so when stuff happens or occurs to me, that's when I'm gonna fill this up. Probably, it'll be pretty good stuff to read, I don't know. Okay! Chow for Now as they say in Italy!

Mystery Solved, Sort Of

2010-07-02T18:32:00.001-05:00

Have you ever had a song stuck in your head? I wrote about the phenomenon of "earworms," that is, songs or tunes that enter your brain and just keep repeating over and over again. I've had a similar experience for the last thirty years or so, but with words, specifically, a phrase and the beginning of a joke that I was concocting back in my lost youth. I think about them every day. Not compulsively, not to the exclusion of all else, but without fail, these things will enter my conciousness, not associated with any particular thought or activity, and simply sit there, poking me, until they go away. Now, one issue has been at least partially resolved.

In the early eighties, I was playing with a band on tour in the Southwest. Before a show in either Phoenix or Flagstaff, I can't remember which except that the town started with a eff sound, I was driving with the other guitar player from one place to another and saw the following bumper sticker on the back of a burgundy red Chevy pick-up truck:

NO PITE, NO JODA

"Hey, look at that. What the hell does that mean? " I said to my pal. " He peered at it through his turtle glasses which he only wore while driving, though he was more or less as blind as me and neither of us wore our specs while performing - how vain. He read and repeated the words aloud and said, "It's no Spanish I ever learned. Maybe it's Portugese. They're a little similar." The light turned green, the truck made a right and the image of that tailgate with that inscrutable message was burned into my mind forever. When we got to where we were going, I recall asking around. There were plenty of native Spanish-speakers, but no one had any idea of what it meant.

As time passed, that phrase echoed in my mind once a day, like a storm horn, only quieter. I would ask just about anyone I encounter, if I knew them a bit, if they had ever seen this phrase or whether any of the words might be something they'd run across in the past. No joy. I went to the library, asked the help of librarians, spoke to a Spanish teacher, a professor of Portugese, who told me that the word structure wasn't Portugese. My Dad, who spoke at least five Slavic languages plus German fluently and a little Italian, too, in addition to English, had no clue whatsoever. I had a girlfriend during that time who was brought up in an Italian and Swedish-speaking household and it rang no bells for her, either.

NO PITE, NO JODA

The phrase haunted me into the dawn of the internet age. Before there was Google, I searched out the phrase in whatever search engines or portals were available - AltaVista, AOL, Compuserve, Yahoo - you name it. Nuthin'. Later, I Googled it, many times over the years as the Google database grew and grew. Finally, I asked a Rican, a Puerto Rican, that is, who is fluent in their brand of Spanish, which, for some probably macho-nationalistic-my-fubol-team-is-better-than-yours-and-you-don't-even-have-a-team-puta reason, other Spanish speaker deride and denigrate. That's their battle: I just want to know what the heck this insidious phrase means, already.

So, here's what it means:

Don't beep (your horn), don't mess with me.

Alternatively, the second part of the phrase can mean "don"t f•ck with me" when used with emphasis.
It's simple, it makes sense and yet, no one could help me with this for thirty frickin' years? Hmm, maybe my PR translator is dead wrong. So, I asked around, but this time, I sought out Carribean Spanish speakers - a Cuban, a Dominican and another Puerto Rican. "Oh, si, sure I can tell you what that means," said the Cuban. "It say, don't press on me, don't bother me." Okay, so, his English wasn't so good, but that's close enough. The Dominican said, "You shouldn't say that to someone who speaks Spanish unless you wanna get cut. It means, like, 'don't push my buttons, don't whistle at me, don't f•ck with me'. So, like a girl might say that if you're, like, gittin' on her at the club, you know?" Thanks, Oskar. And finally, the proof that countrymen often stick together because they more or less are tightly bound by culture and history, the Puerto Rican told me, "Sure, that means 'don't beep at me and don't mess with me." It's not that hard to figure out. What was that? On a bumper sticker?" Tip o' the hat, Ramon.

Of course, now I'm wondering how this particular bumper sticker relates to history. Was it just a clever phrase like, "Please don't tailgate and we won't meet by accident"? Or was it the battle cry for some union battle or in defense of the rights of migrant workers or grassroots support for an obscure town council seat in a dusty Arizona or New Mexico hamlet. Three decades ago, that is, so long ago that contemporaries will have forgotten what the fight was about and, in hindsight, the contested matter was really not such a huge deal after all and so, in turn, no real record exists, except maybe for the Sun Star Herald Intelligencer's newpaper archives where a grainy, yellowed photo shows the sticker being proudly displayed at a rally of some kind by a youngish dude in a white straw range hat with a bristol-white smile and his future entirely ahead.

It's possible, I guess, but I'll probably never know for sure. It's yet another fact that I can't verify. Sigh.

At the beginning of this thang, I mentioned there were two things that had been stuck in my head and I will not disappoint you. The joke I started so many years ago and cannot finish, starts like this:

Two Jews walk into a bar.

Go from there. Go ahead. Try it. You will fail. I have failed, miserably. Maybe I should find another Jew and walk into a bar and just . . . see . . . what . . . happens. Not fer nuthin', but Tyler and Calvin, fairly typical, at least IQ-wise, inhabitants of "truth by consensus" websites like ask.com (notice no link, okay?) can't figure it out, either:

So, clearly, it's not just me. I will make you a deal, such a deal like you have never seen before in your LIFE! Help me put this last "brainworm" to sleep and I will do something nice for you. I don't know what yet, but I will figure something out. Now: GET TO WORK being funny.

Roto Photo

2010-07-01T22:33:00.000-05:00

Prepare to DIE!

2010-07-01T21:27:00.002-05:00

I wrote last week about all the nasty men and women I had to visit, the ones in white coats. Last Friday's appointment with Mr. GP, MD, DO, FACS and all that was a lengthy one indeed - two hours, in fact. Since no one asked, okay, someone asked but who knows if I'll be talking to her anytime soon, let alone before I croak, here's the rundown of that very fun morning:

I was prompt. I promptly wrote a check for my copay and I was promptly whisked into Exam Room 9, which was all the way at the back of the facility. I'm guessing that my screams would be less apparent to those who shuffled, hobbled and we dragged by purportedly loving family members into the waiting room after my early arrival, hence, the placement. The nurse promptly appeared and took my blood pressure, which was too low, then, too high. She asked me if I was nervous and I explained that I had White Coat Syndrome and that I thought this was sort of like taking a test you know you didn't study for and was likely to fail. She looked at my chart and gave me a wan smile, with slightly pitying eyes. "It's okay. The doctor will be in, in a minute." I'm not sure if she inserted that comma in her mind when she said that, but that's what I saw floating in front of her when she said it and so, I am reproducing it here so that there can be no grammatical ambiguity about what I imagined. Really, with that particular sentence structure, one is trapped. The second "in" can't be left out, right?

Anyway, as I always do, I got the full soup-to-nuts (literally) work-up, including a fresh and digital EKG. I think the nurse was fixated on my nipples when she was applying the electrodes. Or maybe, I was imagining it. No, I'm pretty sure my nipples would be dinner conversation at Nursey's house:"Well, I must say I've never seen such puffy nipples on a man. They looked a little like baby plums. You know, those tiny Japanese ones? No, the plums, I mean." I should mention that I got to don what must be the haute couture for Le Monde de Medécin, that is, a white garment made of what I believe was Bounty, you know, the Quicker Picker Upper, modeled after what could only be described as a samurai kimono, only without the cool designs evoking bamboo or leaves or carp.

Promptly thereafter, the doctor came in, not making eye contact, as is his practice. I guess I make him nervous. Instead, he rolled up to where I was perched, on the edge of the examining rack, er, table, at roughly ball level, tapping away at his wireless laptop. He asked me to detail my latest experiences and I told him about the increasing arrythmias and the exhaustion. He looked at the EKG, my EKG, on his laptop in silence. I thought he was about to say something House-ian, but, no luck. He asked me about my Hep C. I said, "Whut? Wrong disease, doc. What else have you got in there?" "Sorry, sorry, maybe the software did it. So, you've never had gout? Or gall bladder problems?", he said, fearing that his software was making him look foolish, which it was. "Nope, happy to say that I don't have what Pam Anderson's got, but at the same time, I really haven't had the opportunity to have her expose me to it." Recovering, he said, "Well, at least you don't have syphilis." Mild chuckle from Dr. P. Then, without warning, he jumped up and stethescoped me and listened in a number of spots, but particularly at my carotid artery, specifically at the junction where the artery splits off to go internal to the structure of the neck and external, closer to the skin, if you will. And he listened again, shhshing me when I started to say something. "Something going on there at the carotid bulb. Hmm. Hmm. Okay, first things first and then we'll order some pictures. Could be nothing." Could be nothing? Could be? Garshck, Doc, let me down easy, will ya?

And he continued to poke, prod and tickle. I avoided eye contact so he wouldn't think I was liking it too much. But, c'mon, for the patient, a doctor's visit is pretty intimate. After all, how many people do you know have you come by, grease up a finger, shove it up your butt and say, "Feels okay, no problems there at least?" Oh, you do? Really - how often? Hmm. Wow. Got any pics?

Then, he ran down one treatment that I was to enjoy for two weeks to follow. This involved swallowing GIANT green capsules. I hate pills. I CAN'T F•CKING SWALLOW THEM without thinking I'm going to choke to death and I almost always gag them back to the surface. Ech. Ecccccch. I hate it so much. And then, of course, I have to swallow them all over again. Eeeeeeek! So, I made up a joke about it. Here it is:

A guy goes to the doctor and the doc tells him he has Hep C or maybe gall bladder disease, but at least it's not syphilis. The doctor tells him that he can cure his problem, but he'll have to take these huge-ass pills for two weeks. The good news is that if he takes each and every pill as prescribed, he'll be permanently cured. The bad news is that if he misses even one, the treatment can't be repeated and he'll die for sure. So the guy takes all of this very seriously and decides to follow the doc's advice to the letter. But he hates pills, can't swallow them, never could. He tells the doctor this and the doctor says, "Well, you're in luck. I can either prescribe the pills or you can get suppositories." The guy decides to man it up all the way and goes for the pills. Two weeks later, he comes back to see the doctor and it turns out he's completely cured. "Yep, doc, I decided to take it like an hombre and I took every last pill." And the doctor says, "Pills? You mean suppositories, don't you?"

Yes, it could be funnier. Please write in with your lame suggestions on how to improve the world's second most wonderful joke. Next!

Now this part is no joke. I went down to the corner drugstore, to get my fair share of abuse (Rolling Stones reference - yay!) and to also get the prescription. You see, the highly trained staff at the doctor's office called it in so that it would be ready upon completion of my one minute and forty-five second drive from their office to the Wrong Aid. When I arrived, it was not ready. I wandered the aisles, peering at the stacks of Ramen selling for five times the cost of what was on offer at SlopRite and considering whether I indeed might need a Vince "I Can't Do This All Day" Shlomo-endorsed nut chopper, As Seen On TV. Wait - I though TV was obsolete.

Eventually, I wandered back to the pharmacy counter. I wasn't loitering too close, as the junior Mr. Gower, likely hailing from Islamabad rather than Bedford Falls, might "accidentally" put a wee bit o' poison in my supposi-, um, capsules and then he'd cuff me on the ear and twenty years later, I'd be standing on a bridge on Christmas Eve with some dude named Clarence and who wants that, right? As I approached, I straightened my spine to make my gaunt and withered frame more erect, open and less evocative of Plague. The rotund servile behind the apothecary's till, oh, God, I'm slipping purple, sorry - the fat broad behind the money machine - oh, gee, now I'm gone all Chandlery at the wrists. Okay - the "lady" behind the counter said, "May I help you?" I'm certain she needed to be hitting the Alzheimer's meds because I was just there, not twenty minutes ago. Am I that forgettable? Jovially, in my best mock-hippie voice, I said, "I'm here for the drugs, man, the drugs!" She chuckled at this, asked my name, I announced it and Ahmed The Dealer (the pharmacist's name has been changed to protect me) snapped at her that they were working on it. She turned to me and said, "He's working on it. Should be a few minutes." Sometimes people do the darndest things!

My pretty pills were soon ready to be cashiered. What I got, though wasn't correct, I thought, and it's not because I dropped out of Brooklyn's BA-MD program thirty years ago so that my ex-ex-wife could go to nursing school and actually graduate and instead wind up negotiating entertainment contracts nor is it because I've now seen each and every episode of House at least once nor is it because I was a devoted follower of ER and St. Elsewhere, though I still think the ending of the latter was bogus and I stopped watching the former three years before the finale. No, the drug was wrong because it started with an "A" rather than with a "D" and no, there's no generic for this stuff, that's for sure. So, on my way to have my scalp conditioned at the El Cheapo Barbershop, I called the doctor's office and told the now-harried deceptionist that I believed that I had received the wrong stuff and could she check it with Il Doctore? She asked me what I got. I told her. "I am pretty sure that this stuff will destroy my kidneys. Should I take it anyway?" Of course it wouldn't do that, but I was certain that it was wrong. She checked the computer. The same computer that had me suffering from Sleeping Sickness and elephantitis and colic. And Hep C, which ain't hep at all, daddy-o! "Yes, that's what the doctor ordered and that's what we called in." Grrr. Confrontation time. Oh, how I hate confrontation. "I'm sorry," I started, mildly insistent and meekly indignant, "but could you actually ask the doctor, just so that we can be sure that Sodium Cyanide is certainly his intended treatment? After all, my last check hasn't cleared yet." Don't get me wrong, she was nice about it, but I'm pretty sure that anyone else would have missed this. A doctor prescribed it, a pharmacist filled it: what could be wrong? "Let me call you back," she said on returning, "since I have to send the doctor an IM?" Interesting - an instant message within the office because he's with another patient, I first thought. Or, maybe, when he was purportedly peering at my EKG, he was actually finishing up a round of World of Warcraft.

My scalp was being soothed by a stylist I used before who is a dead ringer for that native girl from Avatar, only she's not blue, when the deceptionist called back twenty minutes later. The message was panicked: "Mr. X, DO NOT TAKE THAT PRESCRIPTION!. You are right, it's the wrong thing. DO NOT TAKE IT. I've called the correct prescription in. The doctor has verified that you're correct. Thank you." Five minutes later, another call and then another. I really should have called back and whimpered into the phone, "How could you do this to me . . . I trusted you . . ." and then just let the line disconnect.

So, I returned to the Belle Salon de Pharmacopie and got myself some new and equally gigantic pills. And, of course, there was the warning which I've now heard before one too many times, "These are likely to make you feel a little sick . . ." This time, I have been quite lucky, since, except for some very interesting poop, I'm not doing too bad. I'm thinking that all those pills might be piling up in my throat, stuck. Ack-ack!

What A Hoot

2010-06-25T14:55:00.001-05:00

I love Nigerian scammers. So much work goes into the construction of their scam letters and the way they are put together constitutes a distinct style. I haven't seen one in a while and I kinda miss 'em, so I rooted around in my spam folder. Sure enough, I found this gem:

Barrister.Henry Ivan Loo
13, Jalan 4, Taman Seri,
Cheras Jaya.
KAULA LUMPUR 56100.
MALAYSIA.
TEL: +60-166-245-514.
EMAIL: barristerhenryivanlooconsult02

@yahoo.co.jp

ATTENTION,

I am Barrister Henry Ivan Loo, an attorney at law. I discovered your email and
information through comprehensive web email search on directory so I
decided to contact you. I know this sounds like a scam because of lot of
activities going on the internet. But I assure you that this is real.

A deceased client of mine, who hereinafter shall be referred to as my
client, died as the result of a heart-related condition on the 11 November
2001. His heart condition was due to the death of all the members of his
family in the Gulf Air Flight Crashes in Persian Gulf near Bahrain Aired
August 23, 2000 - 2:50 p.m. ET as reported on: http://transcripts.cnn.com/TRANSCRIPTS/0008/23/bn.08.html

I have contacted you to assist in distributing the money left behind by my
client before it is confiscated or declared unserviceable by the bank
where this deposit valued at Ten Million Six Hundred Thousand United State
Dollars. ($10,600,000.00 USD). Is lodged. This bank has issued a notice to
contact the next of kin, or the account will be confiscated.

My proposition to you is to seek your consent to present you as the
next-of-kin and beneficiary of my named client, so that the proceeds of
this account can be paid to you. Then we can share the amount on a
mutually agreed-upon percentage. All legal documents to back up your claim
as my client's next-of-kin will be provided. All I require is your honest
cooperation to enable us see this transaction through. This will be
executed under a legitimate arrangement that will protect you from many
breach of the law.

This will be executed under a legitimate arrangement that will protect you
from many breach of the law. If this business proposition offends your
moral values, do accept my apology. I must use this opportunity to implore
you to exercise the utmost indulgence to keep this matter extraordinary
confidential, whatever your decision, while I await your prompt response.
Please contact me at once to indicate your interest. I will like you to
acknowledge the receipt of this e-mail as soon as possible via my private
EMAIL: (barristerhenryivanlooconsult02@yahoo.co.jp) and treat with absolute
confidentiality and sincerity. I look forward to your quick reply.

Also include your direct telephone number when contacting me to enable me
call and speak with you.

Best regards,

Barr.Henry Ivan Loo

So, to Mr. Water Closet, I have replied with the best legalistic purple prose I could muster:

Dear Mr. Loo;

Many thanks to you for your honorable and esteemed decision to make the choice of my personage as your contact in this matter. Be assured that all information you provide will be held in the strictest confalusion. Further, please excuse me if I have addressed you improperly as I am not sure of the proper salutation for a person or persons of your station.

It seems that we may travel, or, at some time, have traveled, in social spheres most similar. I am Dr. Peter DuVal Neos, formerly Consultante de Le Ordre de Escargot L'Or of the French High Command and now, due to the recent upheaval in the political climate of mon pays, that is, 'my country', I am, sadly, retired and in semi-permanent, self-imposed exile in the United States of America.

I have read with great interest the particulars of your proposal. Please be assured that I am not only interested in providing my assistance, I would be honor-bound to do so with great pride. Naturlement, you might expect that a person of my temporarily degraded station may participate in certain remunerations so as to offset associated costs and expenses that may be found to be involved in the successful completion of this project. I must, however, advise you that since I am bound both by honor and by duty, I will not and cannot represent myself as any other than the proud man and scion of history that I have become.

Therefore, if you are so disposed, I would be most appreciative of your creative input as to the matter of properly providing me with the appropriate tools so that I might aid you in this matter. I do understand the urgent nature of your request and be again assured that I stand ready to provide whatever assistance I might render. Of course, lest it not be said, your particular associations will need to be considered as I will not wish to be involved with those involved in acts against their state or the states or peoples of others. On this, I am most firm.

Most judcious regards,

Dr. P. DuVal, MMS, BPOE

Let's see what happens.

• • •
UPDATE: So far, NOTHING HAS HAPPENED because, as usual, these folks are chicken-livered poopy-heads. I heartily recommend you visit 419eaters.com for some entertaining, sad and sometimes scary dealings with Nigerian scammers.

I'm Getting To It

2010-06-22T12:35:00.001-05:00

Gone now
that time
you gave me your smile
and again
that time
you gave me your teeth
and that time
I gave you mine

Who I was,
blue, green, red, yellow
your favorite colours,
uttered
consent and comfort

Gone now
the words
I used to snare you
the words
you used to tell me
you are mine
the words
I never said
now wrapped tight
in the dim smoke

You are a favoured star
on a cloudy night
beyond my grasp
and still my guide
now gone

Forgive Them, Lord, For They Know Not I'm A Dude

2010-06-18T18:12:00.000-05:00

Yup. TGIF, Jesus-sama.

I discovered this quite by accident on deviantart.com. It's the work of The Angry Buddha and the direct link to this and other fab work by the same artist can be found by following this linky-poo.

Bet You Thought I Was Dead

2010-06-18T17:22:00.002-05:00

Me, too.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, as your point of view might lead, I still breathe, if only barely.

I'm more than a little pissed off. I fully expected this mortal coil of mine to carry me at least another few decades without the whimpering and simpering and pampering of every cell as if they were high-maintenance, attention-vampire, time and energy-sucking girlfriends. Alas, it is not to be. I am decaying faster than an isotope of Darmstadium 267.

Oy, was I sick. This time, I really didn't think I would make it. My lungs filled up with liquid and my pericardium was inflamed. I could not keep down food and pissed like a racehorse. Funny, but I didn't feel sick at all beforehand. Seems that the cure is worse than the illness.

But, now I'm better. Aren't you glad? Whatever. My heart is still missing like an engine with a loose spark plug wire and my anus is being surprised daily with new and strange demands. Next week, I go to the doctor to see what the outcome will be of his handiwork. Blood tests, a sonogram, and ECG will most certainly be on the menu.

But, wait, there's more to complain about! The week before, when I was paralyzed with malaise on the couch, I had a sudden burst of energy which brought me to my feet long enough to scramble to the bathroom to hurl plus step outside to water my fledgling herbs, planted in a fit of "spring alights anew" and all that. Somehow, an insect of unknown entymology, crept up my thigh in a very un-seductive way and drilled a hole in my leg. The result was a slightly itchy red spot about the size of a silver dollar, which subsequently got warmer and warmer. Then, my leg fell off. Okay, my leg didn't fall off, but that's not the point. I grew concerned that it might be a tick bite as there are many, many deer that come to use my property as a toilet and there are, no doubt, many ticks just waiting for a tasty snack in the nether regions around my junk. Fortunately, it doesn't appear to have the characteristic necrosis and bullseye-like appearance of a tick bite. Still and all, just the thought of having another creature's DNA mixing it up with my own - ewwww!

Speaking of doctors, I need to visit the following: a dermatologist to look at lesions that are not cancerous but that may become cancerous, especially with my current and past exposure to carcinogens, and I don't only mean cigarettes, but radiation, plastics and the motherflippin' sun. I will also have to go to the oncologist to biopsy lesions that are likely cancerous but are probably not melanoma. Nice, huh? Then, there's the proctologist to look into my bladder and feel up my prostate again. Couldn't I just do that on my own and report my findings? Yech and ouch. Stop laughing. Then, there's the cardiologist to figure out what direction my heart problem is heading in and the otolaryngologist to follow up my what's going on in my throat. And, of course, there is my "main" doctor to manage whatever treatment is next and hopefully to coordinate all these other people. Srsly, WTF? I'm not ROFL. Not at all.

So, despite the fact that I'm not yet dead, and that I'm stupidly optimistic about my chances, I recognize that there are certain things I need to get in order, if only so that I don't need to think about them anymore. Thing one is my living will and thing two is a subject close to my heart - "pre-need."

Oh, yes, you knooow what I'm talking about. It's the Grim Reaper's mortal partner, the Undertaker Man. The euphemisms abound: final arrangements, bereavement planning, eternal disposition, last wishes, buying the farm. Now, I don't want to seem morbid - okay, yes, I do - but we all gotta go sometime. When my time comes, which will be sooner rather than later at this point, I want to make sure that no one other than myself is responsible for the costs and for the arrangements themselves except for me. It will one my last tasks as a dead person. And, I'm hoping that it shows that I was thoughtful enough, despite what y'all think, to have taken that particular burden away from you. No, I am not deluded in thinking that whomever would be charged with disposing of my mortal coil would be so wracked with grief that he or she simply couldn't bear to make the appropriate decisions. That's not gonna happen. Instead, I want to make sure that I'm not dumped in a landfill or otherwise tossed where the worms can get me. Get me?

Yes, I want to be toasted. Dust to dust and all that. Cremation (unless they can drop the body in a giant food processor and hit pureé, which would then be more suitably called "cream-ation) is the way I want my meat tube disposed of, thank you very much. Of course, this isn't the Jewish way, but, since I consider myself a Buddhist, and this is the Buddhist way, it's all good. I DO NOT want to be worm food. Clear? How many times do I have to say it? And for this task, I must plan ahead. And I must choose someone to execute my brilliant and dastardly plan. But who shall it be? You? Or perhaps, you? No, no: you. No, in the back, the short one. Gawd. Yes, you.

Okay, so I should be so terribly serious? Who am I disrespecting? My own dead self? Get real.

Amex card and I'm pretty sure that I wouldn't have know what the correct thing to do was and, as Fredo would say, I'm smaat. I had asked my mother year before what, if any, plan there was. She skirted the topic and so did my brother, for his own reasons, I'm sure. And, no, I don't think it was because he was trying to be nice. If you really need to know, I'll get into that at another time, if there is another time, that is.

For me, it would be preferable if no one knew exactly what the plan was. Yes, I will place the number of the person to be contacted in the case of my sudden demise somewhere on my person. Or maybe, I'll send an e-mail each day to that person just to confirm my non-dead state and should those e-mails stop coming, a certain set of actions would take place. Yes, yes: I like this. Control from the grave - how appropriately suited to my recently-departed personality. And this Chosen One must be entirely trustworthy and stalwart, willing to punch noses and stomp toes to get the deed done. Yes, on considering those qualifications, it must be the one in the back that raised the hand earlier. Right - you. Could you step up to the lectern?

Thank you. Now, repeat after me: I have been charged by the decedent, formerly domiciled in the fair State of New Jersey, with the responsibility and authority to exercise his wishes as have been delivered to me under seal, as executed by him and witnessed as required. None shall stand in the way of his personal decree or same shall suffer the moral wrath of indifference and the attention of the State in such a way as to remain upon the offender(s) mind and person for all time. To wit, the decedent desires a timely and proper disposition of his mortal remains, as follows . . . and then the document goes on to describe that I'm to be barbecued, no fanfare, the only container to be provided and paid for as required by law, no memorial service, not that anyone would come anyway. There is one kinda important thing. I've always had a vivid imagination, okay? Hear me out. I do not want to get ass-porked by a necro-dude workin' the graveyard (heh-heh) shift at the mortuary. I don't want to imagine it anymore than I do the worms. So, the person who is charged with the aforementioned task has to also stay with my body until they Laura Dean me. Gulp. I know that's a rough one, but it's something that Jews do. Think of the benefits - I could come back to life and you'd be the first to witness the resurrection (who would thunk it?) or, maybe I'm not really dead and, in the middle of the night, I wake up and ask for a glass tea, which this fie person of whom I now speak feels an incumbency to provide and with the healing powers of said glass tea, I am healed most miraculously or, most likely, I fail to become the ice-cold love-object of Clem The Night Janitor. 'K?

It'll all be paid for, so don't worry about that, and I'll even through in a few bucks for you to cover travel expenses and so forth. Wouldn't want you to go out-of-pocket on this one, ya know?

So, if you don't mind signing here, right there, and date, and again here, date again and just, oops, sorry, let me turn that, initial here and there and there - we're done and you're officially on the hook! Simple rules - kick ass, cover my bung hole and no worms! Thanks! Call me! Let's do lunch . . .

• • •
The vintage ad used in this article is sourced from Woman's Day Magazine, which my mother used to read vociferously, sort of the way I listen to This American Life pod casts. See the other wonderfully silly ads (too many of which i remember) at http://www.womansday.com/Articles/Shelter/A-Look-Back-15-Vintage-Household-Ads.html

Good News! This Domain For Sale!

2010-05-25T11:55:00.005-05:00

I was looking for a domain name for a new project and I found this:

Can you guess my mood? Then I thought this might be excellent for a fireworks company:

And then, of course, for those lonely nights when domination is the fascination of the nation:

If you hurry, you can snag these valuable names at GoDaddy.com!

Oh, No, Mr. Bill!

2010-05-20T20:38:00.003-05:00

Seems that the people at Scunci (sorry, I don't know how to create the required umlauts) apparently have a wicked sense of humor. On the top is a photo-image depiction of a 14 piece hair accessories gift set which I came across on Walmart's website, in their "Clearance" section. I wasn't doing anything other than idly browsing, mind you. It's not as if I'm running short on barrettes. Please note that this is the "Tiger Print" variety of hair accessories and is, in my opinion, like, Totally Eighties.

Below the first picture, there is an image of Mr. Bill. If you don't know who "he" is, then you are too young to be reading this blog anyway, so, scoot. If you might be a somewhat recent immigrant or were in jail or in a coma during the period between 1976 and around 1982, please see this link. And this one. Hahaha. Okay.

Payola

2010-05-19T20:43:00.000-05:00

Bribery is only effective until the offered inducement becomes expectation, at which point, it becomes ineffective. Therefore, a threat that's viable must be in-pocket as a fallback position.

A tactic perceived is no tactic at all.

I've taught you everything I know, and what do you know? Nothing!

Ahem.

Here, Look

2010-05-19T20:37:00.001-05:00

Negotiation is a way of staving off inevitable change. Humans hate change. Personally, I really dislike pennies.

Negotiation is sometimes defined as the willingness of an initiator of change to accommodate the desire of the receptor to resist the alteration of an existing state. I believe that this is too nicey-nicey. After all, if the initiator had the position to overcome the receptor, there is no argument: the initiator wins. So, there must be a weakness, either in the perception of the initiator regarding the position of the receptor or in the factual position of the initiator.

Here's an example: say you want to buy a car. No, don't actually say it. C'mon, work with me. You go to a new car dealer with ten grand in pocket. The change you want to initiate is the ownership of the purple mettalic Honda Fit from the dealer's figurative hands to your own. The dealer states that he can't part with this model of fine motor vehicle for less than, say, twelve grand. Would you shut up? Okay, so, what to do? What do we know?

The dealer doesn't know what you are truly able and willing to spend.
The dealer doesn't know anything about you or your Shatner-like negotiating skills, so you may walk out at any moment.
The dealer doesn't have facts about your perceptions.
You don't know what circumstances surround the dealer's need to sell his vehicles.
You don't know whether the dealer is in a position to sell you the car of your dreams for ten grand.

And so, the dance begins. The dealer is at an advantage simply because he is much more experienced at sussing out what he needs to know about you and your position and your perception of the position.
If you retreat from your position, you will become the receptor and the dealer will win. And, of course, vice versa. So, fair dealing, while a nice concept, is never the tilt-all that's the step down from total conquest. So, one must be better armed and arrive with the understanding that this is a battle and it's winner-takes-all.

Not very nice, is it?

The one thing I learned from dealing with a BPD'ed person within the process of divorce is that nice guys finish second. In a two-man race, that means finishing dead last. Go for the gut, smile and tear out the jugular, put one in the solar plexus and two in the head. And don't forget to say, "Thank you!" This insures that the receptor will be ripe for the plucking next time simply because he not only perceives he's weak, but amply demonstrates the willingness to be weak in order to be concilliatory. Bad plan, buddy.

The lesson is that Win-Win sounds great in management school, but come loaded for bear, even if you're expecting squirrel. The hunter with the biggest barrel WILL win. And as Gordon Gekko said, never let 'em know what you're thinking. Ever.

Dig We Must

2010-05-15T04:26:00.001-05:00

I have a massive problem in my backyard. Dirt. About three tons of it. It's a problem not because it's there, but because it's in the wrong place.

Backstory time: when I bought this house, one condition was that the buried oil tank wa to be removed before closing. The oil tank was at the north east corner of the house. Above the tank was one section of a huge 20 x 50 foor deck. I agreed to allow the portion of the deck that was over the tiny corner under which lay the nasty-assed oil tank to be removed to allow for excavation. In exchange, a very small allowance was made to the purchase price of the house. A month went by with no work done. One day, I drove by the house to see what was going on. Okay, I drove by every day. So, Im a house-a-holic, just like Lindsay. In the very long driveway could be seen a huge roll-off container, empty. Two days later, I drove by and, lo and behold, the dumpster was full. Can you guess with what? If you guessed a thousand-square foot redwood deck that would cost $25,000 to replace, you'd be right. What's more, it was sawn into tiny chunks - this, I couldn't fathom at all. Why would anyone waste the time carving up all that wood into tiny pieces?

I got on the horn to my lawyer. He checked the contract. "It doesn't say they can't remove the deck. It say that they can remove whatever portion of the deck would provide the contractor access to do their excavation and remediation, if needed. So . . ." "Portion," I pointed out, "portion. When I go in for a portion of Freedom Fries and Denny's, they don't haul out a fifty pound bag of frozen potatoes, now, do they?" "Well, 10% is as much a portion of the whole and 100%, so, there you go." There was nothing to be done. As usual, the lack of precision in the language of a contract screwed me. Or rather, I guess I screwed myself. So, I concluded, I would have to screw together a deck if I wanted one. In the meantime, it was destined that I would be deckless. Ahem.

In the meantime, the splendid tank removal people, and yes, I DO mean that sarcastically, no, causticlly, left a mound of dirt as high as a groundhog's eye while filling in the hole that was significatly un-level with the rest of the now-barren area behind the house.

I had grand designs for that deck, all now dashed. And dirt up the wazoo. The first alarm went off a few days after closing when heavy rains fell and the burial mound created an ersatz lake a foot deep with waves lapping against the foundation. I created a poncho out of a garbage bag and dug a tiny Suez Canal to Let My Water Go away from the house and down the hill to puddle the neighbor's property. By the way, garbage bags don't work very well as ponchos. And ShopRite bags make pretty terrible rainhats.

Slowly but surely, I've been rehabbing the exterior grounds by myself, mostly because I'm cheap, but also because I'm stubborn. The landscaping was a train wreck. Though the lady who owned the house was an avid gardener, so I'm told, she was blind in her later years and had been in an assisted living warehouse until she died, absenting herself from her green-thumb duties on what would become my property. Her ungrateful children didn't see fit to do more than the minimum, which was to have the landscaping lord across the road trim the grass in exchange for permission to park some of his equipment in the lustily long driveway that runs up to the house. I've worked over the large lawn in the front, torn out, tilled and replanted with perenials the side hill that's adjacent to the driveway, rearranged, for now, about a ton of stones in what was the garden area behind the house and hacked away the mass clematis that seemed intent on taking over the west side of the house and that had seen much better days indeed. I also cleaned out the little shed at the back of the property that seems to have been the home of wild things for the last ten years, with a roof covered in growth that I had to weed-whack before digging it clean. God. Oh, and I pruned everything that was spared my executioner's ax and shovel.

But, the mound issue remains. So, today, I called an excavation to get a quote. A rough man, he rolled off his references: Town Hall, the somewhat-more-ritzy-than-open-kitchen local Chinese restaurant, Walmart. I instantly knew that I wouldn't want to afford him because he was clearly and enemy of the Proletariat. He called and quoted, all right. When he told me the number - the number to deliver dirt and level it out, to rake dirt, to spread it and rake it, to make it flat and sloped away from the house so that water would run away from the foundation, for dirt, for dirt to be put on my dirt, the number, the figure he wanted, what he said was twenty-five hundred. That what he said. That's what he wants - twenty-five. Hundred. Sorry for getting all Mamet-y there.

I texted my daughter about it and I asked her to guess. She did, to the penny. "Do you know that guy, somehow?" I queried. I then texted her again, "Say, how are you with a shovel?" She has yet to text me back.

Arithmetic

2010-05-15T03:43:00.000-05:00

We're meant to be. We're meant to be a pair of equals. One-to-one is our ratio, though not Golden. I think about you every day, of how you have added to my life and how to add mine to yours. We are divided from each other for the moment, yet when we're together, your happiness multiplies mine. Would it be a better thing if I could somehow subtract the common denominator of despair and loss and solve for X? I estimate that it would.

No matter how I look at the problem, in the end, there seems to exist no solution. The numbers are daunting, towering over me, nullifying my will to act, zeroing this tangent to success. It just doesn't tally, since it all has to count.

What's the method, the theorem, the formula, the algorithm? I've always been bad at math. Could you be my tutor?

It's Official: I'm Pregnant

2010-05-15T03:08:00.001-05:00

It's true: I'm expecting. I'm going to have a baby. That's why I'm up at four in the morning, hacking away on a keyboard with oddly spaced keys that have me wondering whether I have arthritis of whether I'm actually shrinking. Piece of crap.

Not a literal baby, silly, but a figurative one. A child sprung from the loins of my mind, borne of the Muses' insistent insemination of my brain-vagina with copious quantities of Creative Juices. And they promised to pull out - damn!

So, what will it be? A book, since I have dictation, background and yes, chapters, ready to coalesce into a finished thing with sketches for three other things done? Starting working out with band now that my voice is back and consistent? Finally finishing the three websites I put on the back burner four years ago?

Oh, heck. Who am I fooling? I have yard work to do. Here comes the sunrise. Better wash up.

All Things Old Are New Again

2010-05-06T21:13:00.000-05:00

For months, you've been trying very hard to both communicate your feelings to me and to tell me that you were getting ready to stop waiting for something to change. At first, I felt panic and sorrow, then I began to see that you were on an inexorable march to that conclusion.

I felt that you would need a reason and that such a reason would make it less painful for you to make the choice you truly wanted to make. I see that the path that's evolved is along the lines of blaming me for dragging you in to a relationship dishonestly, in your view, along with some of my flaws thrown in for good measure.

So, I focused on the things I had to do. It became obvious that I could fight, but that this would only cause you more pain and that was never my intent. I thought that I had to be as selfless as my nature would allow and, if the timing was right, maybe it would play out. But, I was determined to respect where I knew you were going. The more space and distance you took, the more I gave. I intentionally made it more difficult for you to stay for the sole reason that I knew you desperately wanted to go. If you could, you might want nothing better than to "go" with me, but I also knew that I could be replaced and easily at that.

What you want, or I should say, what you need is a vibrant, ongoing love affair that includes all the normal things you crave, that anyone would crave: security, excitement, fun, intimacy. That you would want such things with me and that you would offer me the opportunity to take part, as a part of and, in your life is a great gift, one that was only inches away from my grasp. But, just like a high fly ball that misses the fielder's glove turns from an easy out to a massive home run, it's still a miss.

You are the best person I have ever known. You are complex and funny, smart and thoughtful. You levelness has been a source of persistent admiration on my part. And I find it impossible to say goodbye. To me, that's like death, leaving a void where a luminescent soul once stood. No more can the urge to share tete-a-tete be satisfied nor can the the role of number-one fan-dom be exchanged. Pleasant memories fade into a gray, image-less uncertainty when unreinforced by renewing reality.

But death comes to all things, I guess, or at least, the entropy of the soul. Aspirations wane with a weakened will, hopes blow away like summer-ending dandelion plumes and the last cup of tea grows colder on the night-stand. Change occurs and the cycle begins again. The rusted timeline of what we thought could be waits to dissolve without attendance as we are distracted with the new.

I hope that you can forgive me my trespasses. I want you to believe that I always meant well, that I wanted more, that I hedged my bets on all sides, only too heavily on yours, but only in the interest of making something happen. This is the sin of pride in fine form, to think that time could be over arched by will alone by one man. So, once again, I apologise and I hope you can forgive me for never being able to say goodbye.

Songs Of Lament

2010-05-06T20:19:00.001-05:00

A number of tunes have been rolling around in my head of late, some in the genre that's least typical for me, that is, Country. (God, these ginger snaps are U 238 snappy!) But, hey, listen, if it's good enough for Robert Plant (Raising Sand) and Elvis Costello (The Delivery Man), it's certainly good enough for me.

It's no myth that the majority of popular music over the centuries has to do with love, loss and lost love. Okay, Frank Zappa may be the exception, but that's not really pop, anyhow. We shout into the steering wheel and showerhead with laments that express the joy, frustration and loss at, and of, love. Country music happens to do this very, very well. For instance, Willie Nelson, who wrote "Crazy," which was sung by Patsy Cline to hitdom in the early '60s, also wrote:

It's not supposed to be that way.
You're supposed to know I love you
It don't matter anyway
If I can't be there to console you

Willie knows the truth about love, alright. In this song, it's clear that there's a mixture of lament and warning by the spurned lover amounting to, "go ahead and leave me, stomp on my heart, but you ain't gonna like it, mark my words."

In America's country rock hit, "Sister Golden Hair" produced by Beatles ex-producer, George Martin, the lament is more of a negotiation and an explanation for the lack of attention Mr. Man is providing to his love interest:

Well I tried to make it Sunday, but I got so damn depressed
That I set my sights on Monday and I got myself undressed
I ain't ready for the altar but I do agree there's times
When a woman sure can be a friend of mine

Well, I keep on thinkin' 'bout you, Sister Golden Hair surprise
And I just can't live without you; can't you see it in my eyes?
I've been one poor correspondent, and I've been too, too hard to find
But it doesn't mean you ain't been on my mind

This could be any man's lament, but I claim it as mine, okay? But wait, as the now quite dead Billy Mays would say, there's more. Another tune, this one written by Fred Rose and famously performed by Willie Nelson (yeah, so I think he's pretty damn good - got a problem with that?) that really hits me in the gullet because of the poignant resignation in the tone of the poetry is "Blue Eyes Crying In The Rain":

In the twilight glow I seen her
Blue eyes crying in the rain
When we kissed goodbye and parted
I knew we'd never meet again

Love is like a dying ember
And only memories remain
And through the ages I'll remember
Blue eyes crying in the rain

Someday when we meet up yonder
We'll stroll hand in hand again
In the land that knows no parting
Blue eyes crying in the rain

This song is far less direct and is subject to all kinds of interpretation. Did she leave him? Did she have a night job working at a smelting plant and fall into a vat of molten steel? Is it about his Mom? Perhaps it's about all those things, and more . . .

Like love, love songs represent many aspects of desire and compromise. In Elvis Costello's "I Want You" from Blood and Chocolate, one can imagine the stark confrontation that's punctuation with the begging "I want you" answering each line:

Oh my baby baby I love you more than I can tell
I don't think I can live without you
And I know that I never will
Oh my baby baby I want you so it scares me to death
I can't say anymore than "I love you"
Everything else is a waste of breath
I want you
You've had your fun you don't get well no more
I want you
Your fingernails go dragging down the wall
Be careful darling you might fall
I want you
I woke up and one of us was crying
I want you
You said "Young man I do believe you're dying"
I want you
If you need a second opinion as you seem to do these days
I want you
You can look in my eyes and you can count the ways
I want you
Did you mean to tell me but seem to forget
I want you
Since when were you so generous and inarticulate
I want you
It's the stupid details that my heart is breaking for
It's the way your shoulders shake and what they're shaking for
it's knowing that he knows you now after only guessing
I want you
It's the thought of him undressing you or you undressing
I want you
He tossed some tattered compliment your way
I want you
And you were fool enough to love it when he said
"I want you"
I want you
The truth can't hurt you it's just like the dark
It scares you witless
But in time you see things clear and stark
I want you
Go on and hurt me then we'll let it drop
I want you
I'm afraid I won't know where to stop
I want you
I'm not ashamed to say I cried for you
I want you
I want to know the things you did that we do too
I want you
I want to hear he pleases you more than I do
I want you
I might as well be useless for all it means to you
I want you
Did you call his name out as he held you down
I want you
Oh no my darling not with that clown
I want you
You've had your fun you don't get well no more
I want you
No-one who wants you could want you more
I want you
Every night when I go off to bed and when I wake up
I want you
I want you
I'm going to say it again 'til I instill it
I know I'm going to feel this way until you kill it
I want you
I want you

Listen to the performance. It's frightening, threatening and sad. What's worse, I can relate. All too well.

God, this is getting depressing. Now where's my copy of "Walkin' On Sunshine"? Ba ba ba di bop. Yeah.

It's All About You, Babe!

2010-05-05T12:27:00.005-05:00

I've been accused of being hyper-logical rather than emotional, and that's true to some extent, but not for want of trying. I am sentimental and caring, though not in the ways that the typical human expects. (Sorry - try a little acceptance, will ya?) This is certainly a major influence on my interest in matters of the heart. I'm in love with the logic of love.

The haunting continues with questions like:

If love is chemical, then why isn't hate?
If love is chemical, then why isn't it instant?
If love is chemical, then does it build?
If love is chemical, then why does it sometimes just go away?
Why is the sky blue? Why am I writing this?

We know the scientific answers and they are facts. In brief, love is "chemical" in the sense that pathways as set up in the brain to seek reward from success in activities such as breeding, primally speaking. Mates are sought and won on the basis of physical qualities, such as body and face shape, along with the release of hormones through breathing and secretion in mucus, urine and through the skin. The senses are heightened in the courtship phase leading those "in love" to think better, have more energy and take more chances than they ordinarily would, which certainly explains why lovers can stay up all night and talk (or do other things, heh heh) until dawn breaks.

Love in humans is complicated by this species' ability to think, reason and learn. If it was only a matter of attracting a mate, breeding to offspring and providing food and shelter for same, things would be a lot simpler, yes? But humans have to spoil it all by thinking about stuff. The upside is that the chemical aspect gives the next phase of the love relationship, bonding, a headstart. After a predictable period of time, if bonding doesn't occur, "love" will "fade," that is, if some greater connection isn't established to replace the initial chemical "rush" of biological imperative, the whole damn thing falls apart. Again, it's simply scientific fact.

Now, it's not as easy being a friend as is blind abeyance to the pull of lust. There needs to be a basis for the friendship - common interests, especially on a meta-level, excitement and interest by both people involved in similar things. In other words, opposites may attract for the short-term, but we know, scientifically, that choices of mates by women will tend toward those individuals with more similarities in terms of beliefs, interests and long-term goals. This same-pagedness is essential for a non-dysfunctional friendship. So, long-term love is part and parcel of friendship.

Let's not be confused here. One may have friends with whom one doesn't have sex. In fact, that would be far less tiring. Those friends are platonic and while certain intimacies are shared in terms of personal information about thoughts and feelings. The intimacy between lovers is different. The typical idea is that the sex act is only partly about physical pleasure and has similar importance in terms of building and maintaining a sense of trust and intimacy. This is why a breakdown in physical intimacy between, say, husband and wife, must be addressed with immediacy since the partners will begin to feel mistrustful and wronged and ultimately, this will affect their ability to communicate and then, the whole thing goes down the toilet.

Which brings us to the third phase of the human love relationship: communication. Us humans so love to talk. Yup, we're happy to chatter away like monkeys that have been nefariously exposed to mass quantities of sugary beverages for the sheer amusement of observing scientists. And studies have shown, including the UCLA Marriage and Family Development Study, that it's not only that communication occurs, but that the quality of communication is effective. Those in the relationship have to be able to express their beliefs and opinions freely and without recrimination with acceptance and support of a disfavoured position an essential goal. See how all this thinking stuff puts things awry? Again using the example of a married couple, an ideal outcome would be each supporting the individual view, arriving at a compromise through discussion without ad hominem elements and for both people to feel that a satisfactory position, if not conclusion, has been reached. If not, to keep talking about it without the constraint of a limit on time but with a limit on scope - that is, one thing at a time. And should no agreement be possible, the acquiesing party must leave the discussion with a sense that although he or she isn't in agreement with the conclusion, that it may be accepted and supported without reserve. Sounds impossible? It's not - again, more pesky scientific fact. The couples who were more successful in the practice of this approach were, in the study I cite above, the beneficiaries of longer and happier relationships. Period.

Communication isn't limited to verbal exchange. There are all forms of non-verbal communication between those in love. Eye contact, physical touching, hold hands, hugging, smooching - all good stuff. And that ultimate act between lovers - sex. That's doesn't necessarily mean missionary-style intercourse 24/7. In fact, the ol' in-out every day without change is insulting to the human need for variation. We need change in what we eat, the music we listen to, the scenery we view. Sex is no different. And all of the other contact we make that doesn't involve contact with genitalia is part of the sex act, including dinner at Spirito's.

Through all of these phases, we build on the initial chemical love-charge and, hopefully, at least for us incurable romantics, something will happen. But if it doesn't, that's natural selection telling us it's a bad idea, and we should listen. After all, you can't polish a turd.

Love and hate are both emotions, indifference is the absence of emotion. In some sense, a spurned lover is better off being hated, as my ex-wife hates me, unjustifiably, I might add, instead of being relegated to the arena of dim memories like that bad shellfish meal at the Lobsterfest that year. Hate is most certainly chemical. Hate comes from unrequited frustration and, like bad seafood, will repeat unless the attitude of the person feeling that hatred adjusts to acceptance. Now, that's accetance in some form, which may include accepting the fact that it's necessary to remove one's self from the locus of the nasty-ass that's causing all the trouble in the first place.

So, we love, we bond, we build OR we love, we don't bond because he's just what-a-dick OR we love and that moron keeps taking my car without my permission and picking his nose while he's watching the game and he just won't stop and I don't like it and I'm not gonna take it anymore. And then, you're Beyonce, singing, "to the leff, to the leff . . ."

As to why I'm writing this - I must. It's the possibly the only way I can connect with the rest of the planet in a way that's without specific consequence and, like a good physician, it's my charge to "do no harm." On the other hand, it's impossible to do this topic justice in a thousand-or-so word essay. Love and human relationships in general are mysterious to me. I forever feel like the younger brother sneaking a peek at the babysitter making out with my jockish older bro. It looks like fun, but I can't be sure I understand what's going on. Or, do I?

Pure love should be untainted by practical considerations. That's a decision a human can make. Love for the "wrong" reasons will certainly dive headlong into the abyss of despair. However, we all make choices based on our experiences and our means. And, as the doyen of do would say, "there's never enough time to do it right, but there's always time to do it over." Come to think of it, that doesn't even make sense. Huh. Hmm.

Is there a doppelganger under the broad blue sky (made blue by sunlight passing through suspended water vapor and then reflecting off of the surface of the planet, by the way) just waiting for you to call? I can say, unequivocally, yes. A connection like that is worth seeking and once found, the search is over, forever.

Even if the relationship fails on a practical level, and let's face it, there are so many influences in our lives that make for bad decisions that look like good ones at the time, the connection is permanent and immutable. Imagine one for you who is your private, safe place amongst the billions of humans fighting to grab the food right out of your mouth. One for you who thinks you're better than you know you are, loves you for both that and your humility and will kick your butt all the way up the hill, where, once you arrive, he will wait just outside of the spotlight in case you need something more. And you will need, or want, something more. And you will need and want to give in return and it never stops. Not ever. It's the Cupid disguise that more or less survives - now that is love.

Coward. No More.

2010-05-05T11:16:00.001-05:00

I'm haunted every hour or every day about the paths taken out of expediency and fear when holding tight would have been the better option. I've had success when avoiding convention and have failed miserably when doing the right thing - for others. In retrospect, it would seem that as selfish as it might be, making the right, gut choice for myself would benefit those who had the misfortune, or good fortune, depending on the point of view, of contact with my admittedly pedestrian sphere of influence.

Sigh.

I'm not all that, but still, there have been those who believed otherwise and, I must admit, that their collective faith in me over time was scary and so, I backed away. Art, love, business, family - my modus operandi has become clear to me through my own retelling and wholesale forgetting of history.

Before the reader decides this is yet another "chew me up and spit in my face" post, be assured it's not. I'm getting to a point. Or two.

Since I'm insufferably frustrating, it would follow that I'm fairly well hated. If I stop to bear the consequences of playing the politics of the individual, time will again be lost and because it's so unnatural for me, I will fail - pure and simple. So, no can do.

I feel the tick-tock of my biological clock more than ever before, so much so that I feel that I must make decisions that will hurt in the short-term but that will get me to the goals I should be pursuing, that is, life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Gotta love those founding fathers. Though I'm not ready, there isn't enough time left for me to be ready. There just isn't. I am compelled to make whatever time is left count for something.

Therefore, I am making a public commitment to the following goals and since I delete nothing from this blog, may this stand as a testament to my discard of cowardice:

1.

Oh, Snap! Smurfs Are REAL!

2010-05-04T12:24:00.007-05:00

Dear Fellow Beings;

Ya know, any time I start to think it can't get any stranger on this fair planet, the typical cracks in reality range wide to reveal its darker crags. For instance, there's Paul Karason:

I mean, really. Sure, there's a "scientific" explanation, but I am certain, just as sure as the rooster calls the dawn, that this man is a Smurf.

And, he's not the only one. A Libertarian and former candidate for a senate seat in Montana, Stan Jones, is also a Blue Dude. Which means they're trying to take over our government! This can't happen! Not Here! Not Now!

I propose that police powers be expanded to include the right to stop and deport all non-beige, brown or yellow peoples. Further, our sons must be counseled to avoid personal or conjugally-initiated manipulation and involvement on the occasion of the Blue Moon so that these aberrations will not have access to our precious genetic material to be used to propagate their <ech!> species! Only our diligence will prevent this scourge!

Yours truly,
Gargamel

Mood: Silly

2010-05-03T15:58:00.000-05:00

I'm not a big fan of FaceBook, Twitter or that other thing - what is it? Oh, yeah: MySpace. I've been designing for the web since a fast computer was running at 66 mHz. That's a long time ago, especially in Web Years. I have taken a bit of a hiatus since, oh, about 2008 but, I'm going back to the future again. Things have changed quite a bit from the coding standpoint but, it's not that hard, really. That there's a challenge factor of more than 2% leaves the field open to those who can actually think, problem-solve and apply the experience of what keeps a user at a particular site.

It seems that "social media" is important to businesses who, for some reason, think it will make a difference to their bottom line. I don't agree at all. No one wants to know whether your HVAC company is putting in a whole-whole AC system in that Victorian stunner on Dogwood Circle unless you're doing it for free. And if you are, the normal rules of PR apply - content, reporting, content. Twitter isn't really a broadcast medium. but local cable is effective for small business, certainly, and it's cheap, too. Some PR is free because it's news-worthy. Anyway . . . I digress.

I am putting together a template for a low-budget site at the moment and it seems that folks would like to collect metrics and opinions from visitors. I don't think long-winded surveys accomplish anything from uncommitted visitors anyway, but I needed to fill in my page, so, here's what I did:

Clever, huh? I amuse myself. Which is a god thing, since no one else does. Oops - I meant, "good thing."

Facebook doesn't impress me, either, except for big-budget endeavours. And MySpace is starting to even bore the thirteen year-olds who seem to exclusively inhabit it. Still, Motorola and Samsung now have "hooked in" phones that allow "streaming" updates to these "major" social media outlets. Even their advertising is unimpressive in terms of what they're touting, for instance, "This just in via text and Twitter," (so and so) "loves Pepperoni pizza." I'm sorry, but in the real world, if you have time to Tweet your pedestrian food preferences and then to confirm same tendencies by text then you simply have too much damn time on your hands.

Disclosure: I own a high-tech smartphone which I use to check the weather, e-mail, stock reports, Google stuff (not porn) and, yes, text. Works for me. ;)