...if you're not reading Stephan Pastis' work, you should be.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Brought To You With Limited Commercial Interruption
There’s a chance the Glorious Revolution is slowly…surely… grinding to a halt. The workday: it is a powerful thing. I’m up to almost sixty percent and, Captain, she canna take no more. Ship’s engines have had to file, collate, and deal with AT&T. I had to use the words ‘platform’ and ‘leverage’ in one breath. Luthor wouldn’t even do that to Superman. What I’m trying to say is, I’m tired. I just put the finishing touches on the second edit of a novel. The brain’s dilithium crystals can manage one more Star Trek reference but they lack the strength to raise shields against The Man.
Aw hell, there’s always room for Jello: Dammit, Jim, I’m a Glorious Revolutionary, not a copywriter for a trade magazine read by account executives (Denebian slime devils). And yet…
And yet I wrote this: “…our exciting new platform of initiatives will leverage experience and prestige with the innovation and creativity of the new generation to bring…”
The only saving grace is those words will never be seen. It was a draft only and turns out will not be needed. But the damage is done. They came from my head. The hair follicles desperately tried to scratch them off the old gray matter but they just don’t have enough troops. I am a geezer at 44. I am not as sexily published as Stephen King; there will be no writing groupies. At home there’s a toilet to put in. Grout to be freshened up. And sleep, whole lots of sleep, that eludes.
They came from my head. Tiny little Tom Cruises. The Glorious Revolution is compromised (although I did get paid for the time it took to type that last line; I’m off lunch now. Keep Hope Alive!). Soon enough I’ll be unrecognizable (except when naked, but that’s the Wife’s purview). To all 2 people reading this, Run! I’ll lay down suppression fire. Run for the hinterlands and don’t look back. It’s been fun and it’s been an honor. Take whatever you can from the Revolution and rebuild a fine society, one where account executives (that’s salespeople to you) are retrained as masseuses. I don’t know that I’ll be gone for good, just for a while.
Unless something exceedingly stupid forces my hand.
Viva Paper Towels!
Aw hell, there’s always room for Jello: Dammit, Jim, I’m a Glorious Revolutionary, not a copywriter for a trade magazine read by account executives (Denebian slime devils). And yet…
And yet I wrote this: “…our exciting new platform of initiatives will leverage experience and prestige with the innovation and creativity of the new generation to bring…”
The only saving grace is those words will never be seen. It was a draft only and turns out will not be needed. But the damage is done. They came from my head. The hair follicles desperately tried to scratch them off the old gray matter but they just don’t have enough troops. I am a geezer at 44. I am not as sexily published as Stephen King; there will be no writing groupies. At home there’s a toilet to put in. Grout to be freshened up. And sleep, whole lots of sleep, that eludes.
They came from my head. Tiny little Tom Cruises. The Glorious Revolution is compromised (although I did get paid for the time it took to type that last line; I’m off lunch now. Keep Hope Alive!). Soon enough I’ll be unrecognizable (except when naked, but that’s the Wife’s purview). To all 2 people reading this, Run! I’ll lay down suppression fire. Run for the hinterlands and don’t look back. It’s been fun and it’s been an honor. Take whatever you can from the Revolution and rebuild a fine society, one where account executives (that’s salespeople to you) are retrained as masseuses. I don’t know that I’ll be gone for good, just for a while.
Unless something exceedingly stupid forces my hand.
Viva Paper Towels!
Thursday, January 21, 2010
2010
Why are certain people such dicks? Shouldn’t there be a reset switch inside to return their mindsets to factory defaults? Let’s not debate this. Pat Robertson is a dick. Dick Cheney is a dick. Rush Limbaugh is a dick. Yes, dicks tend to be older white men. Masters of the Universe can’t help but be dicks; dickishness helps one think of oneself as “Master of the Universe”. Not that women can’t be dicks. Not that all races can’t be dicks. Condi Rice is a dick. Understand I’m not speaking from personal interaction with any of these esteemed doofs, I’m going off what they present of themselves to us of their own free will. Robertson is an easy-target dick: anybody that says an earthquake that pretty much decimates a country is divine retribution for satanic pacts should either be ignored or shuffled quietly into the bus to “Camp Comfort”. Cheney: Cheney is Beavis from Beavis and Butthead, complete with that nervously aggressive laugh, in attitude, demeanor and phenotypic traits. A weasel’s a weasel. Michael Steele’s a dick. John Edwards is a dick (literally—dude, is it the hair? Like a Sampson thing pulling in the chicks?).
What’s a dick? A dick is someone whose responses to given situations is so far off the map of human perception that, when presented to a crowd of onlookers anywhere on the face of the planet, the communal reaction is a confused WTF in capital letters followed by looking at one another to try to figure out wtf.
Former mayor Kwame Kilpatrick of Detroit is, was, and always shall be…a dick.
Kim Jong is a supreme North Korean dick.
Monica Conyers (former city council member, Detroit—it’s a long story) is a dick.
Is Tiger Woods a dick? That’s too easy a joke and we already zinged John Edwards. Moving on…
We’re all dicks on occasion. Why, I was a dick just last night. Most of us though, to humanity’s credit, aren’t stuck on dickish. Usually it merely takes a buddy telling us “Stop being a dick” to cure the affliction.
Others aren’t so fortunate. Others are paid millions of dollars and given huge forums to fan their dickishness throughout the land. These poor saps are being robbed of their souls by Rumplestiltskin corporations turning dickishness into gold hand over fist. Pity these poor dicks for they are kind of stupid and don’t even find comfort in masturbation. Dick Cheney masturbating with that sneer on his lips and those beady eyes fixed on a picture of a starving foreign child is an affront to god on so many levels.
Dicks tend to think on the level of “Do the most harm” as opposed to the physician’s credo “First, do no harm.”
Ladies and Gentlemen: hug a dick today. Before he can open his spout-hole; before she can flash that irritating look; before she makes us frown the huge WTF; before he disgusts us with the petty, brackish thing that is his irredeemable worldview. Hug that dick. Squeeze him hard. Re-humanize him. Dicks need love too. They’ll pretend otherwise, but truth is truth: all you need is love. Everybody.
All together now: All you need is love.
Love is all you need.
We love you, dicks, but you are irritating as hell and in the best world we are marching to beat the snot out of you. Please leave the door unlocked.
Actually in the best world there are no dicks. There’s no malicious violence. Jesus is appreciated but not worshipped. Humanitarian aid isn’t viewed as political fuel. People aren’t stupid. Disney stops creating cash-cow teens. In the best world we all grow up. The world has become one huge 12 year old. And 12 year olds, especially boys, are in love with their dicks.
Maturity is woefully under valued.
Can we stop needing to see suffering on a biblical scale in order to re-humanize ourselves?
Sting, when Sting was cool, sang it best: “policeman puts on his uniform, he likes to have a gun ‘cause it keeps him warm, because violence here is a social norm—you got to humanize yourself.”
“Johnny’s joined the National Front; he always was a little runt; got his hands in the air with the other cunts—rehumanize yourself.”
Barring that, can we just agree to ignore the dicks? No more national forums for them. No radio programs. No talking head Sunday morning television interviews. No press. No media of any kind. No More Professional Dicks. The next time Limbaugh wants to say that the nation’s first black president’s response to a cataclysmic natural disaster among a whole bunch of darkies is tailor made for said Pres to gain street cred among U.S. darkies (I’m paraphrasing here but not by much in word or dickishness), can it be a conversation that only Limbaugh and the lonely bottle of lotion on his nightstand needs to hear?
Yes, dicks rule now…but after a certain point even the followers of a dick need to step back and say, “Dude, what the fuck?”
What’s a dick? A dick is someone whose responses to given situations is so far off the map of human perception that, when presented to a crowd of onlookers anywhere on the face of the planet, the communal reaction is a confused WTF in capital letters followed by looking at one another to try to figure out wtf.
Former mayor Kwame Kilpatrick of Detroit is, was, and always shall be…a dick.
Kim Jong is a supreme North Korean dick.
Monica Conyers (former city council member, Detroit—it’s a long story) is a dick.
Is Tiger Woods a dick? That’s too easy a joke and we already zinged John Edwards. Moving on…
We’re all dicks on occasion. Why, I was a dick just last night. Most of us though, to humanity’s credit, aren’t stuck on dickish. Usually it merely takes a buddy telling us “Stop being a dick” to cure the affliction.
Others aren’t so fortunate. Others are paid millions of dollars and given huge forums to fan their dickishness throughout the land. These poor saps are being robbed of their souls by Rumplestiltskin corporations turning dickishness into gold hand over fist. Pity these poor dicks for they are kind of stupid and don’t even find comfort in masturbation. Dick Cheney masturbating with that sneer on his lips and those beady eyes fixed on a picture of a starving foreign child is an affront to god on so many levels.
Dicks tend to think on the level of “Do the most harm” as opposed to the physician’s credo “First, do no harm.”
Ladies and Gentlemen: hug a dick today. Before he can open his spout-hole; before she can flash that irritating look; before she makes us frown the huge WTF; before he disgusts us with the petty, brackish thing that is his irredeemable worldview. Hug that dick. Squeeze him hard. Re-humanize him. Dicks need love too. They’ll pretend otherwise, but truth is truth: all you need is love. Everybody.
All together now: All you need is love.
Love is all you need.
We love you, dicks, but you are irritating as hell and in the best world we are marching to beat the snot out of you. Please leave the door unlocked.
Actually in the best world there are no dicks. There’s no malicious violence. Jesus is appreciated but not worshipped. Humanitarian aid isn’t viewed as political fuel. People aren’t stupid. Disney stops creating cash-cow teens. In the best world we all grow up. The world has become one huge 12 year old. And 12 year olds, especially boys, are in love with their dicks.
Maturity is woefully under valued.
Can we stop needing to see suffering on a biblical scale in order to re-humanize ourselves?
Sting, when Sting was cool, sang it best: “policeman puts on his uniform, he likes to have a gun ‘cause it keeps him warm, because violence here is a social norm—you got to humanize yourself.”
“Johnny’s joined the National Front; he always was a little runt; got his hands in the air with the other cunts—rehumanize yourself.”
Barring that, can we just agree to ignore the dicks? No more national forums for them. No radio programs. No talking head Sunday morning television interviews. No press. No media of any kind. No More Professional Dicks. The next time Limbaugh wants to say that the nation’s first black president’s response to a cataclysmic natural disaster among a whole bunch of darkies is tailor made for said Pres to gain street cred among U.S. darkies (I’m paraphrasing here but not by much in word or dickishness), can it be a conversation that only Limbaugh and the lonely bottle of lotion on his nightstand needs to hear?
Yes, dicks rule now…but after a certain point even the followers of a dick need to step back and say, “Dude, what the fuck?”
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Lady Gaga
Marilyn Manson crossed with Hanna Montana. Miley Cyrus. Whatever. End of message. Death of culture. Goodbye.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
That's What I Want For Christmas
I look on in utter amazement as, had she actually read the previous post regarding Peace On Earth, the Wife says (which she hasn’t said but would) that it wasn’t heartwarming enough.
Apparently the Wife’s heart is a wee bit of coal, as I thought the entire piece absolutely brimmed with the best of mankind’s aspirations.
What does Christmas mean to me then? Well, understand this: I grew up poor, and when you grow up poor Christmas is never about what you wanted, it’s about what you got. I wanted a guitar; I never got it; I came to learn to be happy with what I had.
I remember one Christmas Daddy was out of work. My teenaged brothers and sister took it on themselves to see that we younger ones had presents. Six kids in the family total. I was about 9. Christmas morning, I run to the living room to see what’s in the 2 packages for me. A bag of army men and a box of Life Savers candy. Army men, cool. Had this been a Hallmark Channel movie, I’d have hugged folks and thankfully cried, “Best Christmas ever!” I looked at the Life Savers, I looked at my sister (who’d bought the Life Savers and rather than cover her tracks wrote on the label ‘to Clarence from Deb’), I blinked several times (I remember this) and I remember thinking (because I had just learned what the word meant) If it’s the thought that counts she must have amnesia. Life Savers. I didn’t even particularly like Life Savers. I’d always accidentally eat the butterscotch flavor thinking it was pineapple. Gag!
So I berated her. My sister had kicked my ass on several occasions so it’s not like she cared that I berated her; she’d kick my ass later. But I clearly remember being disappointed in myself that morning. She’d bought for me and my brothers what she could afford. I wasn’t a completely stupid kid, so I realized later that day and even more so in the days immediately after that my sister had sacrificed her own in order to get me something when she didn’t--as a sister or as a person period--have to. In that act of sacrifice was a small request: not to jump up and down and sing her praises, but to acknowledge that she had sacrificed and be genuinely appreciative.
The world has become a very unappreciative, mean place.
The world is a 9 year old child. An entire generation looks befuddled now at the entire concept of sacrifice. They’re even called The Entitlement Generation. Sacrifice is not subtracted from others, it is given to them, this generation of youth. One can almost imagine the entire generation thinking ‘I didn’t ask to be born, you brought me here so treat me as an exalted guest.’
Me, I call them the Hotel Generation, for whom Life comes with room service and tipping (i.e. reciprocity/generosity) is a city in China. They’re the twenty-somethings who laugh when they’re with friends about what their parents got them for Christmas. They view anything outside of what they are immediately prepared to do at that moment as unconscionable work. All praise to the exceptions, but most of y’all, most of y’all ain’t worth Christmas.
…but that’s where the 9 year old kid in me realizes he’s wrong. Me and the Wife watch the Albert Finney version of Scrooge every Christmas Eve. It’s a tired old beat up VHS tape but it brings two people who are very much in love to a pretty place each time. When Finney sings “I hate people!” I think happily, dammit, that’s me! Then it sinks in: that’s me.
People.
“I abhor them,” sings Finney.
But aren’t they what Christmas is all about?
I don’t want to sing that song.
Christ had no interest in gift giving unless it was of the self. Modern man counters, ‘No, it’s the thought that counts.’
Kmart makes Christmas count. Sigh...
Christ had no interest in becoming a cult of personality. All those people bent out of shape over “happy holidays” versus “merry Christmas” should step back a minute and read the bumper sticker on the car that just cut them off for the mall parking space: Jesus Is The Reason For The Season. Which means 'Don't make me a rock star, live by what I represent.' Me, I love the pageantry, camaraderie and excess of “the season” for what it is: a Dionysian orgy of release and redemption. I keep that quite separate from celebrating Christ’s teachings and ways. Same as I celebrate the Buddha’s teachings and ways. I try to live it. Granted I can’t stand most people, but given a choice between me and somebody else running into a burning building to rescue you, you’re better off with me. Trust me.
Christmas is about truth. Truth burns away all falsehoods. Takes time sometimes but it does. That’s what all good teachers do; they first reassure us that truth exists, then show us certain truths they themselves have found, then invite us to seek the deeper truth of ourselves. Jesus, during his time, would’ve been exposed to Greek and Roman philosophy, to the ancient teachings of central Asia that traveled southward even through Egypt, to the Koran, to all the precepts of the Jewish faith. And definitely to mid and lower African theology. Whether you adhere to the Son of God part or not, I imagine he would have been a smart man. Would’ve had to have been, because smart men motivate change; stupid men generate chaos. From what I gather he was about benign interior change, so my opinion is stupid men foisted the Bible and the Gospels on cultures at large as political tracts rather than teaching tools because stupid men tend to be greedy and greed needs a cowed populace to feed its coffers. But that’s just me fighting the power. We all know that modern Christmas is a hodge podge of various pagan rites and Judean doctrine; no need to berate the point. Let us not pretend as we move into 2010 (the future!) that Christ is not a minor portion of Christmas in the first place. When Dickens wrote 'A Christmas Carol' he decried Christmas's utter crass commercialism even then, and that was what, 8 centuries ago? (Yes, I know not that long ago, but point is...)
Point is, when I was 9 I saw what I was doing. I realized I was being an ass. I could’ve stayed selfish, and continue even now to be selfish, but truth was Deb had done something cool for me.
I thanked her later that day.
I think she punched me. We were like that.
Christmas, for this Michigan boy, means cold mornings, the smell of a freshly watered tree (kids are master gardeners at Christmastime; the Christmas tree--we didn’t have one when I was 9 but the times we did have a live tree were glorious--as sacred gathering place of the presents, had to be maintained at all costs; we’d argue to see who got to water the tree because that meant getting up close and personal to the boxes and wrappers with your name on them); Christmas means the sound of Ma opening the kitchen curtains that meant it was time to get up; being thought of, because presents--regardless of my snarky adolescent brain--are thoughts one way or another and being thought of means you are appreciated--again, one way or another--in the eyes of another. Christmas is the Wife being thrilled not by a diamond necklace or gold spatula (which she doesn’t want and I wouldn’t buy) but by getting to sleep in and finally coming downstairs decked out in fuzzy robe and slippers with her hair looking crazy. Christmas is Ma, who lives with us, trying her best to sneak in early and get to her presents. We call Ma our Christmas Mouse. Christmas is the nephew cooking up some mac and cheese from his ma’s recipe. Deb died from cancer years ago. I think about her every day. Not always fondly, but we were like that. There were many times I wanted to wring her neck.
Scrooge had a sister in the movie... and a nephew. Christ, as a teacher, shows us parallels.
I loved my sister. I hope my nephew honors her and himself all his days.
Christmas is about truth, and truth, well...
Truth means the world to me.
Apparently the Wife’s heart is a wee bit of coal, as I thought the entire piece absolutely brimmed with the best of mankind’s aspirations.
What does Christmas mean to me then? Well, understand this: I grew up poor, and when you grow up poor Christmas is never about what you wanted, it’s about what you got. I wanted a guitar; I never got it; I came to learn to be happy with what I had.
I remember one Christmas Daddy was out of work. My teenaged brothers and sister took it on themselves to see that we younger ones had presents. Six kids in the family total. I was about 9. Christmas morning, I run to the living room to see what’s in the 2 packages for me. A bag of army men and a box of Life Savers candy. Army men, cool. Had this been a Hallmark Channel movie, I’d have hugged folks and thankfully cried, “Best Christmas ever!” I looked at the Life Savers, I looked at my sister (who’d bought the Life Savers and rather than cover her tracks wrote on the label ‘to Clarence from Deb’), I blinked several times (I remember this) and I remember thinking (because I had just learned what the word meant) If it’s the thought that counts she must have amnesia. Life Savers. I didn’t even particularly like Life Savers. I’d always accidentally eat the butterscotch flavor thinking it was pineapple. Gag!
So I berated her. My sister had kicked my ass on several occasions so it’s not like she cared that I berated her; she’d kick my ass later. But I clearly remember being disappointed in myself that morning. She’d bought for me and my brothers what she could afford. I wasn’t a completely stupid kid, so I realized later that day and even more so in the days immediately after that my sister had sacrificed her own in order to get me something when she didn’t--as a sister or as a person period--have to. In that act of sacrifice was a small request: not to jump up and down and sing her praises, but to acknowledge that she had sacrificed and be genuinely appreciative.
The world has become a very unappreciative, mean place.
The world is a 9 year old child. An entire generation looks befuddled now at the entire concept of sacrifice. They’re even called The Entitlement Generation. Sacrifice is not subtracted from others, it is given to them, this generation of youth. One can almost imagine the entire generation thinking ‘I didn’t ask to be born, you brought me here so treat me as an exalted guest.’
Me, I call them the Hotel Generation, for whom Life comes with room service and tipping (i.e. reciprocity/generosity) is a city in China. They’re the twenty-somethings who laugh when they’re with friends about what their parents got them for Christmas. They view anything outside of what they are immediately prepared to do at that moment as unconscionable work. All praise to the exceptions, but most of y’all, most of y’all ain’t worth Christmas.
…but that’s where the 9 year old kid in me realizes he’s wrong. Me and the Wife watch the Albert Finney version of Scrooge every Christmas Eve. It’s a tired old beat up VHS tape but it brings two people who are very much in love to a pretty place each time. When Finney sings “I hate people!” I think happily, dammit, that’s me! Then it sinks in: that’s me.
People.
“I abhor them,” sings Finney.
But aren’t they what Christmas is all about?
I don’t want to sing that song.
Christ had no interest in gift giving unless it was of the self. Modern man counters, ‘No, it’s the thought that counts.’
Kmart makes Christmas count. Sigh...
Christ had no interest in becoming a cult of personality. All those people bent out of shape over “happy holidays” versus “merry Christmas” should step back a minute and read the bumper sticker on the car that just cut them off for the mall parking space: Jesus Is The Reason For The Season. Which means 'Don't make me a rock star, live by what I represent.' Me, I love the pageantry, camaraderie and excess of “the season” for what it is: a Dionysian orgy of release and redemption. I keep that quite separate from celebrating Christ’s teachings and ways. Same as I celebrate the Buddha’s teachings and ways. I try to live it. Granted I can’t stand most people, but given a choice between me and somebody else running into a burning building to rescue you, you’re better off with me. Trust me.
Christmas is about truth. Truth burns away all falsehoods. Takes time sometimes but it does. That’s what all good teachers do; they first reassure us that truth exists, then show us certain truths they themselves have found, then invite us to seek the deeper truth of ourselves. Jesus, during his time, would’ve been exposed to Greek and Roman philosophy, to the ancient teachings of central Asia that traveled southward even through Egypt, to the Koran, to all the precepts of the Jewish faith. And definitely to mid and lower African theology. Whether you adhere to the Son of God part or not, I imagine he would have been a smart man. Would’ve had to have been, because smart men motivate change; stupid men generate chaos. From what I gather he was about benign interior change, so my opinion is stupid men foisted the Bible and the Gospels on cultures at large as political tracts rather than teaching tools because stupid men tend to be greedy and greed needs a cowed populace to feed its coffers. But that’s just me fighting the power. We all know that modern Christmas is a hodge podge of various pagan rites and Judean doctrine; no need to berate the point. Let us not pretend as we move into 2010 (the future!) that Christ is not a minor portion of Christmas in the first place. When Dickens wrote 'A Christmas Carol' he decried Christmas's utter crass commercialism even then, and that was what, 8 centuries ago? (Yes, I know not that long ago, but point is...)
Point is, when I was 9 I saw what I was doing. I realized I was being an ass. I could’ve stayed selfish, and continue even now to be selfish, but truth was Deb had done something cool for me.
I thanked her later that day.
I think she punched me. We were like that.
Christmas, for this Michigan boy, means cold mornings, the smell of a freshly watered tree (kids are master gardeners at Christmastime; the Christmas tree--we didn’t have one when I was 9 but the times we did have a live tree were glorious--as sacred gathering place of the presents, had to be maintained at all costs; we’d argue to see who got to water the tree because that meant getting up close and personal to the boxes and wrappers with your name on them); Christmas means the sound of Ma opening the kitchen curtains that meant it was time to get up; being thought of, because presents--regardless of my snarky adolescent brain--are thoughts one way or another and being thought of means you are appreciated--again, one way or another--in the eyes of another. Christmas is the Wife being thrilled not by a diamond necklace or gold spatula (which she doesn’t want and I wouldn’t buy) but by getting to sleep in and finally coming downstairs decked out in fuzzy robe and slippers with her hair looking crazy. Christmas is Ma, who lives with us, trying her best to sneak in early and get to her presents. We call Ma our Christmas Mouse. Christmas is the nephew cooking up some mac and cheese from his ma’s recipe. Deb died from cancer years ago. I think about her every day. Not always fondly, but we were like that. There were many times I wanted to wring her neck.
Scrooge had a sister in the movie... and a nephew. Christ, as a teacher, shows us parallels.
I loved my sister. I hope my nephew honors her and himself all his days.
Christmas is about truth, and truth, well...
Truth means the world to me.
Peace On Earth And Mercy Mild
I’ve wished Jewish people Merry Christmas; they’ve wished me Happy Hanukkah. No malice, no slight.
I’ve wished white folks a good Kwanzaa, told Buddhists “shalom,” said “Bless you” any number of times to atheists, agnostics and other travelers in the stream. So far nobody’s cried.
I’ve greeted Hindus with Muslim words, I’ve smiled at women in burkas, and even once told an Amish man how do.
All with sincere warmth in my heart.
You can tell me Merry Christmas without worrying whether I celebrate it or not (is buying stuff the same as celebrating it?). The words are coming from a happy, human place. You can say Happy Holidays too; doesn’t bother me a bit. I say thank you because, coming from you to me, that’s a nice thing to say. Plus it came with a smile? Hell, if you can keep it down to just one person saying “Fuck you” with a smile, you’re doing good. I’m a certified heathen but there’s an old lady works in the candy shop in my building who always says “Have a blessed day” to everybody. If I’m an asshole, I stop to explain, assert, and negate her beliefs. I am not that big an asshole. I smile and genuinely say thanks, plus tell her to have a blessed one too. I don’t need to believe in Jehovah Most High to hope for good things for a sweet old lady. Check your definitions, folks. Blessings come in all sizes, shapes, beliefs and colors.
Folks get bent out of shape every year around this time about people saying “Happy Holidays!” Happy Holidays ain’t anti-Christmas. I don’t think Christmas has anything to worry about. As a holiday, I’m pretty sure it’s caught on. Be cool. It’s not even political correctness (which, when I find who coined that annoying bit of fearful drivel, I—-completely against the spirit of peace and good will—-will smack him or her hard enough to release their DNA); “Happy Holidays” just sounds a lot better than “Happy Kwanzmakah!”
Linus said it best; we all know Christmas is run by a big Eastern syndicate. Kmart, I believe, ran television ads this year saying “Make Christmas Count”…by buying crap at Kmart. To me, that’s way more offensive than somebody saying “Happy Holidays.” I was at Walmart a couple nights ago (penance) and heard some shriveled biddy snap back at the haggard clerk who—-per Walmart’s cheerful mandate (and, y’know, when you hear those words coming out of the mouth of somebody who really didn’t want to say shit to you in the first place, THAT is annoying, but still not worth getting bent out of shape)—-mumbled out “haff holday”, “No, Merry Christmas!” And true to Walmart’s rigorous training, the clerk didn’t give a fuck. He kept right on working.
By God, that’s an American!
It’s not like he told the old lady (Ok, she wasn’t that old, but—-public service announcement-—my lighter people: tanning booths are not your friends. Seriously)—-he didn’t tell the old lady to worship Satan or anything (which I would have done considering she looked like the devil’s concubine with her wild hair and disheveled clothing; those emails about “the people of Walmart” don’t circulate for nothin’), but she immediately felt the need to load it, cock it, aim it and shoot at him.
“Merry Christmas” as epithet. God bless us, every one.
Here then, for all you “diversity” nutjobs, December observances; the rest of you, Merry Freaking Christmas, God Bless America (and nowhere else), Feliz Navidad with valid green card, and somebody kick Rush Limbaugh (and Bill O’Reilly) in the nuts…’cause it’s necessary. Amen. If you're offended, my name is Glenn Beck. That's g-l-e-n-n...
12-6 - St. Nicholas Day (International) –for those who really, truly need to grow up. Everybody knows there’s no such thing as a saint. Why, our current Pope did some things in his youth…
12-8 - Bodhi Day - Buddha's Enlightenment (Buddhist) –because ain’t no party like an enlightenment party, ‘cause enlightenment party don’t stop
12-12 - Hanukkah (Jewish) –the traditional season of buttah; Barbra Streisand’s gotta eat
12-12 - Virgin of Guadalupe (Mexico) –blessed madonna sought by spring break frat boys everywhere
12-13 - Santa Lucia Day (Sweden) –looks Spanish but it’s pronounced “Santa Loo-SEEEYA Day, ya ya”
12-16 - Ashura (Islamic, Muslim) –No freaking idea (from the Wikipedia entry)
12-16 thru 25 - Las Posadas (Mexico) –if it means what it sounds like to my ear, and they’re offering it up for over a solid week, I. Am. There.
12-18 - Al Hijra - Muslim New Year –and nemesis to Godzilla
12-25 - Christmas (Christian, Roman Catholic, International) –us. Period. Deal with it.
12-26 - Boxing Day (Canada, United Kingdom) –wtf?
12-26 - Kwanzaa (African-American - Dec. 26, 2009 - Jan 1, 2010) –See again: Wikipedia
Then there’s the “New Year”, and there are like 12 million different dates that it falls on that Americans (and lesser Americans, like other countries and stuff) really should pass a world amendment that January 1st now and forever marks it so we can all get our party on at one single time. Can you imagine everybody in the world partying on December 31st? And they need to sync their clocks with ours; New Year's falls at midnight, dammit. If it's 2:17pm where you are, deal with it. Let's take a moment to imagine that precious introspective rush to get laid.
The orgasmic joy alone would bring about world peace for a good twenty minutes.
So in the spirit of all that is good, let us be gracious as we receive in this season of giving.
Happy Christmas, John Lennon, wherever you are.
I’ve wished white folks a good Kwanzaa, told Buddhists “shalom,” said “Bless you” any number of times to atheists, agnostics and other travelers in the stream. So far nobody’s cried.
I’ve greeted Hindus with Muslim words, I’ve smiled at women in burkas, and even once told an Amish man how do.
All with sincere warmth in my heart.
You can tell me Merry Christmas without worrying whether I celebrate it or not (is buying stuff the same as celebrating it?). The words are coming from a happy, human place. You can say Happy Holidays too; doesn’t bother me a bit. I say thank you because, coming from you to me, that’s a nice thing to say. Plus it came with a smile? Hell, if you can keep it down to just one person saying “Fuck you” with a smile, you’re doing good. I’m a certified heathen but there’s an old lady works in the candy shop in my building who always says “Have a blessed day” to everybody. If I’m an asshole, I stop to explain, assert, and negate her beliefs. I am not that big an asshole. I smile and genuinely say thanks, plus tell her to have a blessed one too. I don’t need to believe in Jehovah Most High to hope for good things for a sweet old lady. Check your definitions, folks. Blessings come in all sizes, shapes, beliefs and colors.
Folks get bent out of shape every year around this time about people saying “Happy Holidays!” Happy Holidays ain’t anti-Christmas. I don’t think Christmas has anything to worry about. As a holiday, I’m pretty sure it’s caught on. Be cool. It’s not even political correctness (which, when I find who coined that annoying bit of fearful drivel, I—-completely against the spirit of peace and good will—-will smack him or her hard enough to release their DNA); “Happy Holidays” just sounds a lot better than “Happy Kwanzmakah!”
Linus said it best; we all know Christmas is run by a big Eastern syndicate. Kmart, I believe, ran television ads this year saying “Make Christmas Count”…by buying crap at Kmart. To me, that’s way more offensive than somebody saying “Happy Holidays.” I was at Walmart a couple nights ago (penance) and heard some shriveled biddy snap back at the haggard clerk who—-per Walmart’s cheerful mandate (and, y’know, when you hear those words coming out of the mouth of somebody who really didn’t want to say shit to you in the first place, THAT is annoying, but still not worth getting bent out of shape)—-mumbled out “haff holday”, “No, Merry Christmas!” And true to Walmart’s rigorous training, the clerk didn’t give a fuck. He kept right on working.
By God, that’s an American!
It’s not like he told the old lady (Ok, she wasn’t that old, but—-public service announcement-—my lighter people: tanning booths are not your friends. Seriously)—-he didn’t tell the old lady to worship Satan or anything (which I would have done considering she looked like the devil’s concubine with her wild hair and disheveled clothing; those emails about “the people of Walmart” don’t circulate for nothin’), but she immediately felt the need to load it, cock it, aim it and shoot at him.
“Merry Christmas” as epithet. God bless us, every one.
Here then, for all you “diversity” nutjobs, December observances; the rest of you, Merry Freaking Christmas, God Bless America (and nowhere else), Feliz Navidad with valid green card, and somebody kick Rush Limbaugh (and Bill O’Reilly) in the nuts…’cause it’s necessary. Amen. If you're offended, my name is Glenn Beck. That's g-l-e-n-n...
12-6 - St. Nicholas Day (International) –for those who really, truly need to grow up. Everybody knows there’s no such thing as a saint. Why, our current Pope did some things in his youth…
12-8 - Bodhi Day - Buddha's Enlightenment (Buddhist) –because ain’t no party like an enlightenment party, ‘cause enlightenment party don’t stop
12-12 - Hanukkah (Jewish) –the traditional season of buttah; Barbra Streisand’s gotta eat
12-12 - Virgin of Guadalupe (Mexico) –blessed madonna sought by spring break frat boys everywhere
12-13 - Santa Lucia Day (Sweden) –looks Spanish but it’s pronounced “Santa Loo-SEEEYA Day, ya ya”
12-16 - Ashura (Islamic, Muslim) –No freaking idea (from the Wikipedia entry)
12-16 thru 25 - Las Posadas (Mexico) –if it means what it sounds like to my ear, and they’re offering it up for over a solid week, I. Am. There.
12-18 - Al Hijra - Muslim New Year –and nemesis to Godzilla
12-25 - Christmas (Christian, Roman Catholic, International) –us. Period. Deal with it.
12-26 - Boxing Day (Canada, United Kingdom) –wtf?
12-26 - Kwanzaa (African-American - Dec. 26, 2009 - Jan 1, 2010) –See again: Wikipedia
Then there’s the “New Year”, and there are like 12 million different dates that it falls on that Americans (and lesser Americans, like other countries and stuff) really should pass a world amendment that January 1st now and forever marks it so we can all get our party on at one single time. Can you imagine everybody in the world partying on December 31st? And they need to sync their clocks with ours; New Year's falls at midnight, dammit. If it's 2:17pm where you are, deal with it. Let's take a moment to imagine that precious introspective rush to get laid.
The orgasmic joy alone would bring about world peace for a good twenty minutes.
So in the spirit of all that is good, let us be gracious as we receive in this season of giving.
Happy Christmas, John Lennon, wherever you are.
Friday, December 11, 2009
The Road To Geezerville
I used to have a big fro. Even bigger when ma pressed it out. Looked like a dandelion puff as a kid. Now I’ve got a figure 8 mown by Smurfs at the crown and forehead. If I bend over at night and light hits it people panic at large cat’s eyes.
But geezerville doesn’t start with losing it.
Geezerville starts with getting it.
The new growth. Hair loss is no big deal till you realize you’re not losing it, it’s just sucking in through your scalp and coming out somewhere else, apparently going through bleach by-products because it comes out white. Bleach or fear, but as it seems to happen mostly at night when I’m dreaming about Pam Grier’s loofah, I lean toward the internal bleach theory. The gray hairs in my nose I was cool with till they started looking like an albino caterpillar cowering in there. But what immediately got me and pushed me on my grown-up tricycle ride toward Geezerville were the damned hairs coming out my ears. Why in the hell at 43 am I growing antlers out my ears?! There is no physiological reason for a virile man to grow hairs not only sticking out of but standing proudly upon the upper edges of his ears. None whatsoever. They serve no purpose beyond letting people know this is an old fuck. Nobody needs to know that I’m an old fuck till I’m an old fuck…which I’m not! My long term memory might be Windows but my short term memory is still a Mac. I’m mature. I clearly remember not having hairs coming out of my ears.
I clearly remember not needing the morning ritual of clipping thick gray nose hairs. There were never wild eyebrow strands that grew four inches and left welts on my face in the wind. I didn’t need to do foot stretches before stepping out of bed for fear of breaking my heel bone.
It wasn’t that long ago that I was virile. Really.
There’s a new TV show called “Men of A Certain Age”. I taped it but haven’t watched it. I might not ever watch it. There’s enough happening in life that I don’t need extra things depressing me. I taped it thinking I’d get some sense of community, that the Club of the Aged would welcome me in its understanding arms. Then I said no. I am not old. This is not denial. Hell, the gray hairs are all over my face. The pudge is stuck tighter than superglue. I might be on the road to Geezerville…but I ain’t the mayor of the city yet. The certain age I’m at doesn’t jibe with what’s happening to my body. I’m wearing bifocals, ma! One day I could see up close; the next day I was squinting. Let me put ??? here ‘cause that ain’t right! Caterpillars up my nose, antlers out my ears, and now I’m Mr. Magoo?! Practically overnight?!! I. Say. Thee. Nay.
Am I that cliché of the guy the hot chicks call “sir”? I have no interest in vapid 20-somethings, but what if Susan Sarandon calls me? Am I supposed to interact with her as a peer rather than the young dude fawning over her hotness? And what about crotchety-ness? I was always crotchety but I was young with my crotch. The Road to Geezerville hardens crotch; makes it annoying rather than endearing. Young crotch, endearing; old crotch, not so much.
As a tangent, sex—-while it could mean muscle spasms, butt cheek locks or other errant cramps—-never meant worrying about throwing a back out.
…Big… honking… sigh…
I’m on the Road to Geezerville without warning and apparently without brakes. What is it they say about aging gracefully? They never say it with albino caterpillars nestled in their nostrils.
Of that I’m for damn sure.
But hey, I gotta do what I do, right? Snip ‘em, curl ‘em, pluck ‘em, manage it in the eyes of hot chicks and the Lord. Hottest chick is the Wife, right? She doesn’t want some old dude leering at her through the shower curtain. Even though the Wife is older than me she will always be hotter. She deserves to be peeped at through the shower curtain.
Since I’m going blind it helps that I have a clear shower curtain.
The lesson, my friends: work with what you’ve got. No off ramps on the road to geezerville. The best you can hope for is a helluva view to help pass the time in a rather pleasing, soapy fashion. The Wife shaves the gray off the back of my neck then goes all PG-13 or even R on me. This means my tricycle is tricked out with red and blue streamers and flame decals. When I spin out I might tumble Arte Johnson style (wiki “Laugh In” you young fucks) but I’m still--here, today, now--cool.
Maybe my caterpillars will turn into bee-yootiful butterflys.
But geezerville doesn’t start with losing it.
Geezerville starts with getting it.
The new growth. Hair loss is no big deal till you realize you’re not losing it, it’s just sucking in through your scalp and coming out somewhere else, apparently going through bleach by-products because it comes out white. Bleach or fear, but as it seems to happen mostly at night when I’m dreaming about Pam Grier’s loofah, I lean toward the internal bleach theory. The gray hairs in my nose I was cool with till they started looking like an albino caterpillar cowering in there. But what immediately got me and pushed me on my grown-up tricycle ride toward Geezerville were the damned hairs coming out my ears. Why in the hell at 43 am I growing antlers out my ears?! There is no physiological reason for a virile man to grow hairs not only sticking out of but standing proudly upon the upper edges of his ears. None whatsoever. They serve no purpose beyond letting people know this is an old fuck. Nobody needs to know that I’m an old fuck till I’m an old fuck…which I’m not! My long term memory might be Windows but my short term memory is still a Mac. I’m mature. I clearly remember not having hairs coming out of my ears.
I clearly remember not needing the morning ritual of clipping thick gray nose hairs. There were never wild eyebrow strands that grew four inches and left welts on my face in the wind. I didn’t need to do foot stretches before stepping out of bed for fear of breaking my heel bone.
It wasn’t that long ago that I was virile. Really.
There’s a new TV show called “Men of A Certain Age”. I taped it but haven’t watched it. I might not ever watch it. There’s enough happening in life that I don’t need extra things depressing me. I taped it thinking I’d get some sense of community, that the Club of the Aged would welcome me in its understanding arms. Then I said no. I am not old. This is not denial. Hell, the gray hairs are all over my face. The pudge is stuck tighter than superglue. I might be on the road to Geezerville…but I ain’t the mayor of the city yet. The certain age I’m at doesn’t jibe with what’s happening to my body. I’m wearing bifocals, ma! One day I could see up close; the next day I was squinting. Let me put ??? here ‘cause that ain’t right! Caterpillars up my nose, antlers out my ears, and now I’m Mr. Magoo?! Practically overnight?!! I. Say. Thee. Nay.
Am I that cliché of the guy the hot chicks call “sir”? I have no interest in vapid 20-somethings, but what if Susan Sarandon calls me? Am I supposed to interact with her as a peer rather than the young dude fawning over her hotness? And what about crotchety-ness? I was always crotchety but I was young with my crotch. The Road to Geezerville hardens crotch; makes it annoying rather than endearing. Young crotch, endearing; old crotch, not so much.
As a tangent, sex—-while it could mean muscle spasms, butt cheek locks or other errant cramps—-never meant worrying about throwing a back out.
…Big… honking… sigh…
I’m on the Road to Geezerville without warning and apparently without brakes. What is it they say about aging gracefully? They never say it with albino caterpillars nestled in their nostrils.
Of that I’m for damn sure.
But hey, I gotta do what I do, right? Snip ‘em, curl ‘em, pluck ‘em, manage it in the eyes of hot chicks and the Lord. Hottest chick is the Wife, right? She doesn’t want some old dude leering at her through the shower curtain. Even though the Wife is older than me she will always be hotter. She deserves to be peeped at through the shower curtain.
Since I’m going blind it helps that I have a clear shower curtain.
The lesson, my friends: work with what you’ve got. No off ramps on the road to geezerville. The best you can hope for is a helluva view to help pass the time in a rather pleasing, soapy fashion. The Wife shaves the gray off the back of my neck then goes all PG-13 or even R on me. This means my tricycle is tricked out with red and blue streamers and flame decals. When I spin out I might tumble Arte Johnson style (wiki “Laugh In” you young fucks) but I’m still--here, today, now--cool.
Maybe my caterpillars will turn into bee-yootiful butterflys.
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