I Hope

I hope you remember me. Did you laugh? That was the plan. Did you feel safe? But you're fine. See? There was nothing to fear. I wish you had liked what you saw, liked it enough to grow past the realization that i was nothing more or less than another of billions. Just like you.

Christmas Time Machine

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!

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.

Can You Keep A Secret?

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.

9 Lives of The Undead Zombie Superhero

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!

What Are You? Deaf?

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.

Sunset Red

Red sky in morning, sailor's warning; red sky at night, sailor's delight!

Walmart Reads My Blog

Good news! Latinos no longer have to subsist on small appliances alone.

I covered this in a post a little while back. This particular placard had been in place for months. Is it coincidence that my item appeared and within a relatively short time, Walmart corrected the sign? No, of course not! Clearly, Sam Walton reads my blog. Er, from the grave, since he died in 1992. It could happen, right?

Angles

I need some new ones.

This inadvertently turned into a de-motivational poster, for which I apologise.

Amazing

Scott Simon of NPR's Weekend Edition was discussing a play during a White Socks pre-season game with the phrase "as if they had seen a dolphin playing a grand piano" in describing the reaction of the crowd.

I thought this a very clever turn of phrase that yielded a fabulous mental image. I Googled for a matching image. Not a thing.

I really enjoy NPR and this time, I will become a member of my local station. You should too.

Big Dick!

Just because we're all American an' sh*t, doesn't mean we've cornered the market on silly marketing that's culturally insensitive, outdated or just plain wrong. Visiting with some German clients, I was offered a taste of this:

The Krauts tell me that this means "Really Big Fat Man" versus what it used to be called, which was "Neggerkusse", which, they told me, translates loosely as "Negroe's Kiss" but more accurately and literally as "Nigger's Kiss." Don't get all excited and kill the messenger. I'm only reporting what I was told. I also verified this with a little research and found that this isn't the only product in the post-Jim Crow millenium that has a speckled, or rather, "dark" past - and present. He ha.
But first, let me describe this confection. It's a kind of creme marshmallow, much less sweet and less spongy than American-style mallow, really more cream-like, but I said that already, covered with a thin coating of semi-sweet, but not dark, chocolate, yet, not milk chocolate, a lot like what might be on a Funny Bone, but thinner, all sitting on a communion-wafer-sized, well, wafer-like. On the whole, not bad. A little big for my mouth, but, just the same. I kinda made a fool of myself, trying to jam the whole thing in my mouth. How women do it, I just don't understand.

The other thing I don't get is why it was called "N-word Kiss." They don't look like lips. They rather look like short, squat dicks sporting shiny brown condoms.

 

(image sourced at The Museum of Public Relations site)

At least the Germans did something about it. According to an article on TheLatest.com, Finnish confectioner Fazer is presently refusing to alter their unpleasantly retro (to put it very nicely) packaging for a licorice product called Lakritsi which features a Sambo-like graphic. Another Finnish company, Brunberg, had been forced to remove the slogan "Nigger's Kiss" from one of their candy product lines but has refused to alter the imagery, shown here.

So, chuckle, chuckle, Super Dickmann, huh? What a hoot. Only, the Germans weren't laughing. I explained that the product's moniker and suggestive product shape kinda more evoked a box of disposable sex toys than midday treat. On the other hand, come to think of it, a midday treat could be a sex-toy. Huh. But I digress from the groggy path this tale takes. They looked at me in uncanny unison and beseeched me to eat one. Which I did. Case closed.

The thing is, and there is a thing here, one should recollect a few things. Until the last few decades, there just hadn't been many black people hanging out in continental Europe. Yes, I know, someone will cite some statistic that indicates that I'm not quite right, but they can blow me. I can tell you from personal experience in two decades of intermittant travel in Europe that seeing a black person was as likely as seeing a penguin in a leper colony. I remember visitng West Germany in the late eighties nineteen-eighties, wise ass) and observing the very white Germans in Cologne's banking district literally staring at a very nattily-dressed black man in a Burberry suit and bowler walking down the street. He was the only black person I saw in more than a month in Germany and he might as well have been naked.

So, I'm kinda excusing all of Europe, except for England and Paris and maybe Marseille and most of Spain, probably, for having these images persist into the twenty-first century. Black people were nearly a novelty. The homogenization of culture worldwide has only really come underway in the last twenty years with the mass availability of television and then the internet. But, yeah, they should probably get on the stick at this point. And, please, Euro-dudes, please don't take us Ugly Americans as your example because we're still crass and loud and xenophobic and we still have Uncle Ben and Aunt Jemima, sans kerchief, as nationally recognized brands woven into our psyche.

Eventually, it will all go away. That's not to say that patently offensive images and language should be ignored. Indeed, those who are offended should be allowed to voice their opinion and move to have their agenda satisfied. But, lest we forget the reaction to that Danish cartoon, no has to mean no at some point. Political correctness can and often does go too far, like the case this week of the teenager who wore a "I (heart) Lady Gay Gay" t-shirt to school in Greenbrier, Tenessee and was sent home because of the word "gay." This amongst a school filled with kids wearing Confederate flag and "Jesus Is My Lord . . . and Yours Too, Byotch" t-shirts. Some might be offended at that, but if it's the cultural norm, then who is to say?

That's easy. The community decides whether porn is obscene or simply smut, for instance. The community decides based on its culture and values. And when it comes to products with offensive packaging, the community votes with its collective pocket-book. So, if the Finns don't really care whether they offend the 2% of their population that's classified as black, should we? Well, yes, we should be aware that cultures vary all over the place and that what we classify as racist or sexist or ageist is how their very homogoenous society defines itself, in part. We need not be the Ugly Americans in that sense, at least.

But still, Super Dickmann's . . . ah ha ha ha ha ha ha . OMG, LOL. That absolutely cracks me up.

Clash of the Titans

299 seats and the only one i could snag was 11 feet from the screen. Sam Worthington's begrizzled mug was huge and in frightening 3D.

Clash of the Titans gets much right and a few things very wrong. The pacing overall is good and the acting is nuanced. The action sequences are far too speedily cut, making them somewhat incomprehensible. The color scheme of the film's design is very bland, almost British, limited to hues of sand, brown, granite and grey. Very depressing.

But they do get the story right and this movie is very family-friendly. No blood, no cleavage, no nipples poking through diaphanous gowns, even. On the other hand, 8-year-olds will be squirming through the long, complicated narrative of the classical mythology.

Still, it's a mostly intelligent film and the actors do a good job of expressing their art with limited face-time. Thank the Gods there can't be a sequel, though.

Oh, God

I just finished working outside. I'm getting too old. Muttering to myself. My neighbour across the road is a landscaping contractor. He is corpulent, with a shock of gypsy-white hair and has yet to return the de-riguer land-owner hail-wave, let alone offer either his advice or his services.

Maybe he thinks it would be rude to sell a neighbor. But the nice lady next door, who I think of as an "old lady" in the parlance of my time but in fact is probably only ten or thirteen years older than me. In other words, she could have been that lusty babysitter i had when i was a wee lad, is a customer. Maybe he doesn't like the cut of my jib. Maybe my hedges disgust him.

I am worried.

Well, now i shall enjoy a shower and then solidify. Ow. Ouch.

Wtf Is It With This Snowicane Stuff, Huh?

Really. I mean, c'mon.

Um, yuck.

I'm eating a bowl of Cambell's Hearty Sirloin soup at the moment. On opening the can, I was presented with an aroma that, having been the host to many domestic felines over the years, I immediately recognized as that of cat food. And I don't mean Fancy Feast here. We're talkin' Shoprite generic that might be made from unfortunate pussies, for all I know. It's the kind of food that one might toss in an alley to assuage the pangs of hunger rumbling through the tummies of hapless, homeless, feral kitties whose alternate menu selection might come from the dumpster behind Happy Time Kitchen.

Like those fuzzy soulmates, I am hungry and faced with either going out to score something else, either at Happy Time or at Shoprite. But that would mean going out into the wind and I hate the wind.

The images on the packaging are appealing: steamy chunks of "beef" and hearty-looking potatos just waiting to be loaded into a gaping maw.

So, here I sit, typing, breathing through my mouth between bites to avoid the ambience, alone. Next time I shop, I'll stock up in case of snow since the salt content in one putrid bowl is surely enough to keep my driveway clear until Spring.