Giving Umbrage

This Place, These People - Chapter 1

I try to ignore them but it's difficult to concentrate on anything else, their laughter is eating my brain.  There's seven of them around the table: three woman, four men, average age approximately 77, average hair color 'blue'.  I catch raspy bits of their conversation (something about a pheasant hunt gone awry) and I am guessing they have never left the State.   Returning to my breakfast, I gently push my eggs around the plate with the back of my fork…an attempt to further refine my mountain-scape of hashbrowns.  As my eyes begin to burn, I look up and it occurs to me that I can actually hear the lofting smoke plumes giggle as they breach an imaginary wall, making their break for the non-smoking section.  

 

My father attempts to break the silence with a fraternal inquiry regarding 'my day' to which I respond in a perfect pubescent dialect, 'huh?'.   Between the cigarette smoke tickling my nose and the cackles of geriatric laughter, I am more moody than the average 17 year old (and that's saying something). This place, these people, there's got to be so much more. 

 

I grew up in South Dakota and this place is Tally's Restaurant, Rapid City, SD - it's 1989.   I’ve always been able to place myself back to Tally’s and vividly remember the need for escape - not so much an escape ‘from’ something but an overpowering desire to escape ‘to’ something bigger, faster, shinier, seemingly more important, and without regard to the niceties, passing hello’s and goodness around me…something raw and powerful.  I envisioned this is the sort of fire that historically prompted those to follow the order, “Go West young man!”.  It was not lost on me that I was already ‘West’. 

 

This is Chapter 1.

Yawn.
Searching through the junk drawer for the keyboard, it's in here someplace....ah, there it is.

Tap tap, is this thing on?

Notorious D.O.G.

I’ve never been a dog person.  The term ‘dog person’ is tough to define without alienating people and generally creating strife for yourself as dog people are quite loyal to themselves, their pack, and of course their co-pilot dogs.  In the past, when I’ve told people that ‘I am not a dog person’ it’s been followed by looks of scorn (it’s Colorodo) and the assumption I am a communist.  I haven’t seen or felt fervor at this level on an issue since the Coldwar and the universal distrust of the Soviets we shared as kids.  So eventually, I just stopped saying I wasn’t a dog person and began explaining in more precise terms what I didn’t like about dogs:   

 

For one, I’ve never trusted anything that is ‘that’ happy to see me.  It means the thing in question either wants something or well, doesn’t know me that well.

 

Two, I don’t pick up poop.  It’s Article #23 of my personal constitution - sandwiched between Article #22 (don’t eat your boogers) and Article 24 (don’t trust people that brush their teeth at lunch).  

 

Three, I am generally scared of dogs (or canines) – noting that the largest teeth in any mouth are actually named for these creatures.  This third factor by way of background is grounded in my experiences as a child as I was chased by a 180lb canine named George for several years of my life.

 

George was a St. Bernard, and not the kind with the small barrel cutely attached to its collar.  I suspected that George’s small barrel had once been filled with bourbon and that he had consumed it in a series of mad swigs…followed by a smashing of the barrel on his furry forehead.  Regardless, George’s house was positioned between my house and a few of my friends’ homes, requiring that we ride our banana seat Schwinns past George’s lair of terror at a very specific breakneck speed to ensure survival.  Certain details are sketchy, but I seem to remember that the precise speed to pass George’s house without certain destruction was exactly 32.4 mph, the upper limit for both the wheel set and frame of my 45 pound electric blue transporter. 

 

On occasion, a member of our peloton of terror wouldn’t make it. One of my friends has a particularly fond memory of hitting some gravel in front of George’s house at approximately 31.5 mph (note: not the required speed) and fishtailing back and forth…and, in slow motion, going over his handlebars.  As my friend recalls, he flew through the air in a suspended state of horror and noticed two things…. #1 – the sight of George lumbering up the driveway smelling like bourbon and #2 – the glance I gave him over my shoulder while I continued to pedal furiously.  Thus, I learned at an early age what my limits of friendship were – ‘yes, I will help you move’ but, ‘no, I will not save you from a large St. Bernard if you fall of your bike’.  This isn’t the Army, I will leave you behind and I may not even tell your mother. 

 

As you can see, I have some doggie baggage.  I’d been looking for away to shed these dog demons for some time when it occurred to me…why don’t I just go out and buy a dog?   So, that’s what I did – 7 pounds of French Bulldog puppy is currently curled up on my couch (note – I am not a Francophile and thought of calling her a Freedom Bulldog).   Her name is Rosebud….yes, like the sled.

 

To date, I’ve noticed a few things about Rosebud and dogs generally:

 

1. Dogs make an unsettling amount of eye contact.  While Cats will throw you a glance and carry on their way to destroy something you love or wait for you to fall down the steps….dogs just stare at you.  My dog does this so constantly that it reminds me of the movie Castaway - she is my tiny Wilson.  The psychology of being constantly stared at is quite deep and leads me to odd behavior like… making random small talk with the dog, making funny hand gestures to the dog, or occasionally growling.  I’ve found I like growling and the dog seems to as well.

 

2.   People like puppies.  This may be obvious but I had no idea how much talking one needs to do with total strangers when toting around a puppy. I’ve had people get off their bikes, stop their cars, and leave there children unattended on the corner all to come pet this small thing attached to the end of the rope I am holding. I am not accustom to this much small talk on the street and to be honest, I am not sure I am all that good at it.  For one, I am still a newbie dog person and am excited to communicate all of my newly found canine observations.  Take the following recent interaction,

 

Blonde Girl on Sidewalk – “Wow, she is SOOOO SWEEET, I just love her ears and oh my, she is so SMART and so <insert dog adjectives here>”.

 

Me – “yep, she sure is cool.  Do you know I can tell when she is going to poop because her behind looks a bit like a lifesaver right before she’s going to go?” <insert awkward silence>.

 

3.  Despite all the hubbub, having a puppy is ‘not’ like having a child. Children will turn on you.

 

 

 Rosebud is growing on me.  There goes the lifesaver, I gotta run.
 

Tooth Fairy Downgraded

Forbes Magazine recently listed the Tooth Fairy in its list of fictional 15 wealthiest individuals:

 

"No. 8: Fairy, Tooth

 

Net Worth: $3.9 billion


Source: Inheritance

Marital Status: Single


Education: Harvard University, School of Dental Medicine

 

Mythological sprite recently gifted multibillion-dollar grant from Santa Claus (who remains off Fictional 15 this year due to volume of letters to Forbes from children insisting that he is real). Endowment sufficient to finance annual tooth collection duties out of interest alone.  Rumored to sell baby teeth to gray-market Chinese labs researching human cloning; other theories hold teeth are an ingredient in Colonel Sander's secret Kentucky Fried Chicken recipe. New member. - From Forbes Fictional 15"

 

Reading this article coincided with my daughter losing her first tooth.  Her vigorous wriggling of the tooth non-stop, 24 hrs a day, finally resulted in the tooth’s demise and the subsequent pre-packaging process for the Tooth Fairy ensued. 

 

Shortly after the great extraction it occurred to my daughter that she was rather fond of the tooth, “Dad, do you think I could write the tooth fairy a note and just tell her that my tooth is special to me and that I would like to keep it but…still get some money.”  I told her it was worth a try, hey, it works for certain EU countries so why not.  

 

Being intrigued with her angle and a stock market nerd I further inquired, ”What if you thought you would get 10 bucks, would you still hold on to it? – what’s the market for your tooth?”.  Turns out, my daughter wasn’t making a market in teeth - it wasn’t for sale.  I was proud of her, I never liked the tooth fairy because the idea of strange women flying into my room late at night while I was asleep and sliding their hand under my pillow was disturbing…not because I had a problem with the secondary market for my leftover body parts.

 

So, my daughter wrote the note, proposing an impossible dilemma for the Tooth Fairy’s business model. 

 

Surprisingly, it worked!  The next day she was quite pleased with herself, ”Look Dad! The tooth fairy left me two bucks AND I got to keep my tooth!”.  “That’s great babe!” – my mind briefly wandered off and I envisioned my daughter walking around at 20 years old with a bag of old teeth attached to her belt.  This would surely have negative implications for her at some point, messing with the order of things was starting to worry me.

 

Far worse, it occurred to me that the Tooth Fairy was over-extending herself.  Cleary, it was poor risk management to be forwarding my daughter capital without taking custody of the target of the transaction.  Surely, the Tooth Fairy had pledged my daughter’s tooth against another obligation or had already promised delivery of the tooth to a downstream party.  I got worried, I work with derivatives and understand the consequences - it’s an unregulated market.  By my calculations, with approximately 40 million children in the U.S. losing an average of approximately 4 to 6 teeth a year, the Tooth Fairy would face a liquidity crisis on her paper worth of 3.9bl within 6 months.  Once the rating agencies got wind her debt would be downgraded, her bank accounts closed and ultimately, all children around the world would be walking around with a bag of teeth attached to their belts at 20 years old. 

 

I was sad, I envisioned my daughter sitting beside the Tooth Fairy at a Congressional hearing:

 

Senator Carl Levin - “Are you telling me that when you concocted this transaction you didn’t think it would be detrimental to the market?”

 

Daughter – “No sir, I just wanted to keep my tooth.”

 

Senator Levin - “Tooth Fairy, I would be interested in your take, you surely must have known that you couldn’t support this type of activity.”

 

Tooth Fairy - “My job is to provide liquidity to the market not make a moral judgment.  She seemed like a nice girl.”

 

****

 

 

 

An Earth Day Allegory

Once upon a time there lived a large shaggy dog.  The dog lived through many hardships in its life and developed a rough outer coat over time.  Despite it’s occasional suffering the dog was resilient and while impossible to train, generally good natured.

 

Upon the dog there lived a colony of fleas.  The colony was expansive, organized, and covered much territory upon the dog.   Occasionally, the colony caused the dog discomfort but generally, the dog was oblivious to its enumerable guests.   When the dog felt noticeable discomfort from the colony’s many activities and antics, it would scratch…creating widespread chaos throughout the colony and occasionally, closing the colony's many airports.       

 

One day the colony agreed amongst its elders that it was time to honor all that the dog had given the colony.   The colony would, from this day forward, honor the dog with a great celebration each flea new year.   Normal activities that caused the dog displeasure would be prohibited and the fleas would sit together, in harmony, and praise their resolve to keep the dog clean and happy.  This brought much peace amongst the fleas and even inspired them to song. 

 

Early in the next flea new year, the shaggy dog felt great angst and shook wildly, destroying the great flea colony.  After the shaking, the shaggy dog felt better and went for a great walk through the forest.  Unbeknownst to the shaggy dog, several forest ticks attached themselves to its underbelly.

 

Happy Earth Day

 

 

Don't Mind Me

 

A while back my 6 year old daughter and I ran across the above specimen at the science museum.  My daughter inquired, “Is that a real human brain?”, to which I responded, “Why yes, I think it is, they must not have been using it anymore.”  We chuckled and she moved on to the volcano exhibit.  I on the other hand had a more difficult time moving on.

 

I am not sure what you need to check on your driver’s license application to have your brain end up in a jar but I intend to call the DMV to get clarification.   If a simple checkbox does exist I would like to at least have the option to choose the message that is stuck to my jar.  The message on this jar clearly reads, “Human Brain: please do not pick up or shake”.  I guess I am not sure if I would mind (no pun intended) being picked up if my brain was left in this state, I might actually enjoy the companionship. And, while I wouldn’t ‘love’ being shaken, I would probably be more concerned with being left in the back window of a car during a summer scorcher (I hate being hot) or being permanently displayed in Fargo, North Dakota (there’s just not much going on there and people talk funny).

 

Finally, and not to be picky, but I would also like the option of choosing the color of my jar’s liquid, maybe something with a blue hew like that juice in the Magic Eightball.   I might even let you shake me, you know for old times sake, if I had that blue juice….noting, specifically, that I am talking about the Magic Eightball blue juice and ‘not’ the blue juice used to sterilize combs.  If my brain was peering through a pile of combs, it wouldn’t be happy.

 

I don’t mind if my heart keeps someone alive or my eyeball provides a window to the world for a stranger’s mind.  I just request that the sacred engine and keeper of my life’s love, joy and emotions isn’t sitting in a pickle jar.

I'm Just a Healthcare Bill

 

When life gets hectic, the blog withers from lack of care and TLC.  I’ve killed off a fair number of plants this way and even a sick bird I forgot I was taking care of in the garage (kidding).  Part of the problem is that I occasionally throw too much into a post so I am changing my tune - it’s now ‘ok’ to just pass along a thought.  Basically, I am changing my approach a bit and no longer attempting to write the Sistine Posting each time. 

 

Anyway, it occurred to me that despite my legal education and encyclopedic knowledge of Schoolhouse Rock, the path that Obama-care took to become law is nothing less than baffling.  I refer back to the gospel that is the original ‘I’m Just a Bill Sitting Here on Capital Hill’…hum with me:

 

Boy: Woof! You sure gotta climb a lot of steps to get to this Capitol Building here in Washington. But I wonder who that sad little scrap of paper is?

 

I'm just a bill.


Yes, I'm only a bill.


And I'm sitting here on Capitol Hill.


Well, it's a long, long journey


To the capital city.


It's a long, long wait


While I'm sitting in committee,


But I know I'll be a law someday


At least I hope and pray that I will,


But today I am still just a bill.

 

Boy: Gee, Bill, you certainly have a lot of patience and courage.

 

Bill: Well I got this far. When I started, I wasn't even a bill, I was just an idea. Some folks back home decided they wanted a law passed, so they called their local Congressman and he said, "You're right, there oughta be a law." Then he sat down and wrote me out and introduced me to Congress. And I became a bill, and I'll remain a bill until they decide to make me a law.

 

I'm just a bill.


Yes I'm only a bill,


And I got as far as Capitol Hill.


Well, now I'm stuck in committee


And I'll sit here and wait 


While a few key Congressmen discuss and debate


Whether they should let me be a law.


How I hope and pray that they will,


But today I am still just a bill.

 

Boy: Listen to those congressmen arguing! Is all that discussion and debate about you?

 

Bill: Yeah, I'm one of the lucky ones. Most bills never even get this far. I hope they decide to report on me favorably, otherwise I may die.

 

Boy: Die?

 

Bill: Yeah, die in committee. Oooh, but it looks like I'm gonna live! Now I go to the House of Representatives, and they vote on me.

 

Boy: If they vote yes, what happens?

 

Bill: Then I go to the Senate and the whole thing starts all over again.

 

Boy: Oh no!

 

Bill: Oh yes!

 

I'm just a bill.


Yes, I'm only a bill


And if they vote for me on Capitol Hill


Well, then I'm off to the White House


Where I'll wait in a line


With a lot of other bills


For the president to sign


And if he signs me, then I'll be a law.


How I hope and pray that he will,


But today I am still just a bill.

 

Boy: You mean even if the whole Congress says you should be a law, the president can still say no?

 

Bill: Yes, that's called a veto. If the President vetoes me, I have to go back to Congress and they vote on me again, and by that time you're so old.

 

Boy: By that time it's very unlikely that you'll become a law. It's not easy to become a law, is it?

 

Bill: No!

 

But how I hope and I pray that I will,


But today I am still just a bill.

 

Congressman: He signed you, Bill! Now you're a law!

 

Bill: Oh yes!!!

****

 

In reviewing this cornerstone of constitutional interpretation what occurs to me is that the following stanza must not have made it into the final cut:

 

I'm just a bill.


Yes, I'm only a bill,


And if they don’t vote for me on Capitol Hill,


Well, then I'm off to committee


Where I'll be broken in two,

One piece of me to be approved

While the other slides through,

For the president to sign,

Under procedural snaffoo,


And if he signs me then I'll be a law,

That is, until the repeal…

 

Republican:  OH NO!

Democrat: OH YES!

 

This is not a political statement…call it a procedural satire.  

The Devil Wears Ballet Shoes

I took my kids (ages 4 and 6) to the ballet for the first time this past weekend.  As part of my parenting strategy, I began building the event up starting mid-morning on Sunday and continued with unrelenting pro-ballet fervor right up until the curtain gently rose at 2:00 p.m.   Fervor and over-promising are two of my strongest parenting techniques, often required for efficient bath time execution, as well as, the struggle into ‘fancy’ clothes.  Eventually, they will resent me for this and realize I am just a ticket providing peddler of lies and misguided culture, but for now it’s showtime! 

It dawned on me during our preparation that secretly, I truly dislike the ballet.  There was a time in my twenties when I relished all that was cultural (including ballet) and fancied myself some sort of avant-garde, wine-drinking, yuppy-phile .  In my more mature state (don’t laugh), I have actually regressed and now prefer a nice combination of trashy and sophisticated; like a fine Crozes Hermitage paired with a title bout UFC fight.  This sophisti-trash approach creates a strange sense of peace and happiness (like having the largest 4x4 in the trailer-park).  The point is that I’ve tried to like ballet and just don’t, so I’ve placed it on my list of things to avoid in life (i.e. Argyle).  I digress.

In any event, we manage to make it to the theatre in pretty good order - nobody has cried and everyone is excited to see Beauty and the Beast as we know it (i.e., singing cartoon candlesticks).

Beauty and the Beast: Notes from Act I.

Once seated, I open the program and notice the following, “Running time: approx. 2hrs 20 min”.  As the curtain goes up my 4yr old locks eyes with me…it’s understood between us men that this isn’t going to be easy.  Like two paratroopers making a nighttime drop deep into enemy territory the silence between us tells it all.  As the orchestra strikes a chord we hear the deafening hum of the outside engines, the light turns green, the door opens, we feel the wind…and know it’s unlikely we will both make it back from this.   

Lots of leaping ensues.  I notice princess ‘Belle’ isn’t as cute as the cartoon Belle I remember but the pirouette is pretty solid so I let it go.  Where’s the talking candlestick?

I notice a small blue screen on the back of each seat. The screen provides story notes during the show for those that may be visiting from well, the moon, and are not otherwise familiar with the story.  In some sort of Rainman-ish repetitive frenzy my 4 yr. old keeps pressing the button below the blue screen – I am now getting all messages in French.  I don’t speak French. 

One row in front of us I see a child eating pretzels out of her small Hello Kitty purse.  My 6yr old inquires as to why this little girl is allowed to eat pretzels when I had specifically told them that nobody was allowed to eat in the theatre.   I look to see if there is a red phone on the wall to report this nefarious activity and hope that when they come to take pretzel-eating satan-spawn away they bring the batons for good measure.  Pretzel inquiries continue deep into Act I. 

I notice the French word for Beast is ‘Beast’.  Cool.

4yr old is sweating, tired and now scared… the Beast is terrifying, albeit a man in tights.  I promise 4yr old bountiful treats at intermission.  Where is the damn talking candlestick?

Under the premise of being ‘wronged’ by the pretzel eating troll in front of us, my 6yr old is now actively negotiating intermission bootie on behalf of herself and brother.  I am hoping to ink a collective bargaining deal before intermission.

Intermission I. 

In order to secure our rightful place in line for intermission goodies, we streak up the stairs in a very un-theatre like manner.   It quickly occurs to me that this is not exactly Ringling Bros. Circus…this is the ballet in all of its bourgeois glory.  For those of you that have read my circus post you may remember my historic disdain for the expensive, flashing, seizure inducing orbs and light sticks they sell at the circus.  That said, as I survey the lack of ‘treats’ at the ballet and reflect again on my ‘over-promising’… I now realize I would pay a circus freak about $100 a piece for some glowing, flashy circus goodness. 

I manage to divert a total meltdown with a cookie and two Shirley Temples (with extra cherries).  I divert my own meltdown with a glass of cab which is quickly consumed within the allotted intermission time - this induces a brief college flashback followed by hot ears.  We are all happy.

Notes from Act II.

As Act II starts it occurs to me that unless the Beast flattens someone with a large mallet and, in turn, the victim re-inflates himself by blowing into their thumb, I am going to lose my son quickly.  After intermission he’s like a soldier returning from leave…sure he’s had some sugar and gotten to stretch his legs but he’s in no mood for bullshit.  

The Beast is getting scarier, I don’t know what Belle sees in him and the French subtitles are not providing any insight.  4yr old reminds me that he is not suppose to watch scary stuff and references the Thriller video he once saw under my watch.  I assure him Michael Jackson is not in the show. 

Pretzel girl in front of us is now eating Skittles.  Quietly, I wonder what the French word for ‘shoot me’ is.

Skittle inquiries continue until intermission part deux and I recall without the aid of the blue screens what ‘Les Miserable’ means in English.

Intermission II.

‘Yes’, another intermission… and all treat bargaining power is long lost.  In a desperate attempt to divert attention from the reality of Act III, I build up the excitement of the orchestra pit and we make a visit.  6yr old tells me she wants to play the bassoon someday and I make mental note that bassoon playing daughters often require a significantly bigger dowry. 

4yr old remains speechless throughout intermission II.

Notes from Act III.

I have now learned that a protracted ballet will create a vast array of emotions in the average 4yr old.  My son has now seemingly experienced every emotional state I can name: excitement, exhaustion, inquisition, fear, hunger, sadness, remorse, curiosity, love, hate, despotism, socialism, borderline personality disorder, and gas (not an emotional state but notable nonetheless).  Two more minutes into Act III he is asleep.

In the iridescent lighting of the blue screens, my daughter and I share a high-five in celebration of my son’s slumber.  My daughter then leans over and whispers in my ear how much she likes the ballet.  As I savor her whisper two simultaneous events occur: #1) I swear I hear skittle-pretzel-eating girl throw-up one row in front of us; and #2) the Beast turns into a prince sparking a glorious dance.

As I sit there with my son’s sweaty head pressed against me I decide to give the ballet another chance. 

 
 

 

 

 

Olympics - Day 8

 

The blog's been on a commercial break due to, well, 'life' …that is, until, the Olympics lifted the haze.    Maybe it’s because I am a sucker for a montage, relish the agony of defeat or love that damn Olympic song (I could watch Abe Vigoda floss to that music) – either way, the Olympics have cleared my head and it feels good to be getting back online.    

 

A few observations and questions from the past week:

 

I have been practicing ‘curling’ with the kids…they call it curling while I secretly know it’s ‘sweeping’…my pad has never been cleaner.

Darth Vader may be Luke’s father but Dick Button is Yoda’s.

If you say Dick Button fast enough it sounds like a body part.

Why would anyone take-up a sport called the ‘Skeleton’; why not forget the death-sled altogether and just hurtle yourself down the run wrapped in saran-wrap…let’s call it the ‘Cadaver’.

It was revealed today that Mary Carillo’s half brother is the caveman character in the GEICO ads.

The men’s figure skating event should be renamed the ‘Not that there’s anything wrong with that competition.’  – Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

I couldn’t hear the opening ceremonies very well over the collective laughter of 1 billion people that seemed to be lofting in my window from the East.  Strange.

Mysteries of life: Have you ever seen a baby pigeon? Have you ever seen a Winter Olympian from India?

Canadians are Australians with a stocking cap on.

Icedancing is frozen softporn.

The Winter Games are missing the contact sport flare of the Summer Games (e.g., fencing, boxing, wrestling, and the occasional rogue javelin): I think Curlers should be given clubs and the Bi-athletes should be allowed to shoot at each other.

Shawn White is probably not a virgin.

If you name your country ‘Iceland’ you should be able to produce more than ‘4’ Winter Olympic Athletes, that’s just embarrassing.   They should be forced to change their name to ‘Coldrock’.

When did we start calling Russia, the ‘Russian Federation’; sounds like an arena football league, so wimpy - I miss the Cold War era ‘Soviet’ athletes with their uni-brows and steroid track marks…<sigh>

I bet the French feel like I do when I am in Alabama, “I know they are speaking my language but…”

Ever since watching the ski jump my son’s been eye-ing the top of my dresser, not good.

Leave it to the Canadians to leave all the medals in the back window of their car last summer.

What’s with the green broccoflowers they keep handing out to the medal winners?

More cowbell.

 

History Re-Tweets Itself

 

I promise this is my last Twitter related post.  Unfortunately, it occurred to me how cool it might be to imagine that Twitter existed throughout history.  What might have been on the minds of certain historical icons late at night or during their moments of weakness?

 

I’ve gathered a few potential examples; feel free to comment below with your own if it hits you.

 

Historical Tweets

 

“We just adopted a girl – such a cutie!”  Woody Allen 

 

“All is well in Section C, taking a quick snoozski..” Chernobyl Tech #4

 

“Hey tweeples, not sure who said baking soda would take this stain out but, it’s not working.” – M. Lewinsky

“I already said on the TV, I did not have an inappropriate relationship with that woman.  I am now going to unfollow all of you…unless you are a woman.” Pres B. Clinton

“Fck it, I am running for President.” H. Clinton

 

“All my hats are fitting tightly since taking these new vitamins.”  B. Bonds

 

“Just got the kite up in this here storm, trying it without key at end of string first then going to !@!@$!@$ -----….'  B. Franklin

 

“Mission accomplished bitches.” Pres G. Bush

 

“..wish mom would put some freaking clothes on and stop fawning over Abel..” - Cain

 

“Heading towards Asia minor if any you twerps are in the area and want to get a cold one.”  G. Khan

 

“Son of a !@#$!@$I#!$” – B. Favre (not last weekend, 1998)

 

“Yo mili-tweeps, weather is awesome, smell campfires, can’t wait to reason with locals..” – Gen. G.A. Custer

 

“Like I have ALWAYS said, the key is low interest rates and a super strong housing market..” A. Greenspan

 

“Wife won’t stop naggin me that everyone’s ready for chow but we gotta make it over this pass before morn…” – George Donner, 1847

 

“Yo cina-tweeps partying with Nicholson this weekend, gonna be crazy, then heading to Europe for a few days..” R. Polanski

 

“ERRRRR…AHHHHH” - Frankenstein

 

“Another sweeeeet hand, could I BE any more lucky!..” – Wild Bill Hickok

 

“That’s !@$!@ing IT, just filed a 100mm class action against Acme..”  W. E. Coyote, Genius

 

“It can’t be the rats making us sick, it’s gotta be the cats, let’s kill all of them first…” London Civilian, 1348 AD

 

“Just found out my mother didn’t breast feed me..wtf.” – Charlie Manson, Age 11

 

“What it IS twollowers – should I make it 2011 or 2012??” - God

 

Editor's Note.  Apologies for the silliness, a break was needed from the nostalgia, two dollar words, loose literary references and passing semi-deep thoughts of the past few posts.  Cheers.

Peaceful People

I haven’t been inspired to write for more than a week.  It seems that recent world events have had a numbing effect, thereby directing my cursor to stand at attention and blink – (at ease).  Besides the obvious apocalyptic events, there’s been a myriad of subtle spirit killers.  Take the fact we have to endure Jay Leno (again) in a key timeslot, the only person on earth less funny than a Family Circus cartoon strip: 

 

I spent the last few days in search of some perspective when it occurred to me - the problem is that I no longer have ‘calming icons’ in my life.  In the past, these stewards of peacefulness (e.g., Mr. O’Rourke from Fantasy Island) and/or soothing omnipotent voices of clarity (e.g., bald guy from 7up commercial) would remind me that ‘everything is gonna be alright’.  I am not talking about the peacefulness provided by a backlit, zero-emissions, cloud-driving God or even family.  I am speaking of the subtle, supporting role characters in our lives that help us deal with our unbearable lightness of being (“Peaceful People”).

In the beginning, it was Mr. Roger’s peaceful voice and ritualistic sweater change (although, even at age four I remember thinking, ‘dude, give us a break and change the sweater before the show starts, we are all dying to see that train’).  Regardless, Rogers provided years of quiet reassurance to the throngs of us that toiled with getting rid of our blankies and finalizing our approach to #2.

Let’s not forget John Denver as another example and his invitation to ‘take us back home to country road’.  As a child, while winding through Yellowstone on the annual family road trip (aka deathmarch) my parents would play Denver’s battery of mountain goodness in an endless loop.  This music soothed my mind as I drifted from excited vacationer and surveyor of Americana to vomiteer’ of the backseat (note: I still feel a bit sad that Denver left this world strapped to a lawnmower powered kite.  I am not sure if there is irony here – the ‘unbearable ultra-lightness of being’).  I digress. 

 

I could also go on and on about the benefits of watching Bob Ross but, unfortunately, the nostalgia’s starting to wear on me.  The point is that the world has lost its peaceful characters and it’s time to find new ones. Even our funny people are battling for late night supremacy.

So, I find myself on a search and at a bit of a loss as to where to start since I don’t watch much TV.   It initially occurred to me that I should explore this Twitter thing, as an audition of sorts, for my peace purveyor openings.   For those that know me ‘yes’, I still find Twitter annoying and remain convinced the whole operation is run by the Chirch of Seeuntologie.  I can’t bring myself to use the correct spelling as I fear 'Seeuntologists' are web-scraping for naysayers and I don’t want Tohm Crooze showing up at my doorstep.  I digress, again.

Regardless, I’ve kicked off my search.  In the past week I’ve actually found bit of solace in a few unlikely potential tranquility providers:   

Snoop Dog.  Don’t judge, it’s relaxing to watch Snoop’s tweets.  Last week, while standing in a Soviet era line at Starbucks (impatiently tapping my foot and stressed about my day), I saw this go by on Twitter, “Ayo wat it do my tweezleators!”  I wasn’t exactly sure what it meant but I liked it.  I wanted to yell to the whole yuppie filled room, “AYO wat it DO my Coffeelators!”  It’s all-good, thanks Snoop Dog.

Milla Jojovich.  Again, don’t judge, it’s important to track the ongoing plight of the supermodel and ensure everything they do remains ‘super’.   Life got ya down? - just tune in and maybe you will get lucky like I was to see, “Oh hi all, I missed you so much.  I just got back from my honeymoon on St. Barts and it was so beautiful.  We got back safely and everyone is so happy.”  Your first response might be nausea but that’s just your own egocentric jealously.  Fight through that and maybe you’ll find a slice of peace knowing the cosmos takes care of people like Milla, just not you.   Don’t be so jealous.  Stop it.

The search continues. 

As a side, it would be nice to settle on a peaceful iconic soul with some Mayan lineage; I may need to know the 2012 Apocalypse ‘isn’t going to be all that bad’.   I remain open to suggestions and am accepting applications.