I came across this while cruising the 'net. It's not my words but being a son and a parent, these words stirred something inside.
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I think of this as I shlep through the airport security line with my heavy bags (Willy Loman style), as crazy people sit in front of me on the plane, trying to break my nose by throwing their seatbacks onto me, and as I wake up early to travel to the next destination. Then, as I look at all the other middle-aged (and sometimes older) road warriors in the security line, on the plane or checking into the hotel, I think of our children in school.
I picture our kids bravely taking moral stands on global warming and the polar bears, refusing to "sell out," get a job or learn anything useful. I think of what I could write to them about their parents’ work. I would start with a short phrase from Hart Crane, the genius poet.
"O, brilliant kids, I was a fool just like you. I was in my mid-40s before I properly thanked my father for his decades of hard work — paying for me to laze around in the cars he bought me, to get drunk in the frat house whose dues he paid, to spend the afternoons with my girlfriends looking at trees and rivers while Pop worked and got so anxious that he took up smoking three packs of Kents a day.
"O, brilliant kids, you get to put on the garments of the morally righteous and upstanding while your parents work — because mothers work now and always have worked — and your parents must say, ‘Yes, sir,’ or ‘No, sir,’ to those who hire them. O, golden children, you get to talk about how you’ll never ‘sell out,’ and meanwhile your parents stay up late in torment, thinking of how they can pay your tuition. Because, brilliant kids, work (business) involves exhaustion and eating humble pie and going on even when you think you can’t. And you are the beneficiaries of it in your gilded youth.
"Be smarter than Ben Stein ever was. Be a better person than I ever was. Right now, today, thank your parents for working to support you. Don’t act as if it’s the divine right of students. Get right up in their faces and say, ‘Thank you for what you do so I can live like this.’ Say something. Say it, so that when they’re at O’Hare or Dallas-Fort Worth and they’ve just learned that their flight is canceled and they’ll have to stay overnight at the airport, they will know you appreciate them.
"Get it in your heads that if you throw away your moral duties to your parents, you are thieves. You were born on third base and your parents put you there, and you think you hit a triple. It’s not true. It’s time to give back.
" `Attention must be paid,’ as Arthur Miller said. So start now, and make it a habit to be grateful to your parents. Say you’re grateful and mean it. Do it now, however young or old you are. Do it on Father’s Day, Mother’s Day, every day."
How I wish I had done more of it. Now it’s too late — but it’s never too early.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Friday, October 17, 2008
Minivan and me
There's an old Marine Corps slogan, "Lean, Mean, Fighting Machine" that my Drill Instructor pounded into my psyche. I thought about it when I bought my minivan. I'm no longer lean. The minivan does not look mean. And I'm a broken down fighting machine. It works.
But you know what? I love my minivan. Sure it's not the manly truck that I replaced it with. And I can't race the engine at a stop light. But, these days styles doesn't trump comfort. What better way to roll up to a "Monsters of Mayhem" concert than in my sweet green Dodge Grand Caravan STX? I say there is none.
You can laugh at me when you see me driving down the road in my minivan. Yeah I put some flames on the side of it. I think the flames make it rock. But you got to understand, I got a wife and kids and dogs, I no longer have to care if people think I'm hard core. My ego stopped writing checks my body couldnt cash long time ago.
You know who people call when they want something moved? Or when they want to go food shopping? Or when they need to transport the Swedish Bikini Team? Definitely not me, but if you have a large number of scantily clad hot babes that needs a ride somewhere, give me a call.
But you know what? I love my minivan. Sure it's not the manly truck that I replaced it with. And I can't race the engine at a stop light. But, these days styles doesn't trump comfort. What better way to roll up to a "Monsters of Mayhem" concert than in my sweet green Dodge Grand Caravan STX? I say there is none.
You can laugh at me when you see me driving down the road in my minivan. Yeah I put some flames on the side of it. I think the flames make it rock. But you got to understand, I got a wife and kids and dogs, I no longer have to care if people think I'm hard core. My ego stopped writing checks my body couldnt cash long time ago.
You know who people call when they want something moved? Or when they want to go food shopping? Or when they need to transport the Swedish Bikini Team? Definitely not me, but if you have a large number of scantily clad hot babes that needs a ride somewhere, give me a call.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
My Birthday Present
My birthday came and went a couple of weeks ago. I have finally stopped crying and sobbing enough to write. To start, I can't believe how quickly "Thirty-something" has crept up on me. The only comfort I take is that I'm either a) younger than you and to that I say "Nani-Nani-Poo-Poo" or b) older than you and to that I say, "Sure laugh all you want now, but we'll see who's laughing when your changing my depends after 'Corn-on-the-Cob Night' at the ole nursing home."
My birthday started off on a good note. Birthday kisses from the wife, kids and the stank breath dogs. I did the 3 S's, shower, shave and slam my head on the wall. I went to brush my teeth and then I spotted something silvery in my nose. My first thought was that it was a bugger and I'll enjoy picking it later at work at my desk while my boss is talking about trend factors and widgets. Remembering that it was my birthday, I thought maybe if I pick it now, I can make a wish and it'll come true. Guess which option I picked (no pun intended)?
I shoved my finger in my nose with the delight of my 2 year old daughter. I paused and wished for something great like nude sunbathing at a 65 and older beach resort. As I pulled my finger out with a feeling of triumph, I looked down and saw NOTHING. With a sense of urgency, I shoved my finger up my nose again. I even wiggled it around for good measure. I pulled my finger out but this time with a slow feeling of dread and desperation. I looked down one more time and horror completely overwhelmed me.
There was nothing on the tip of my finger. Had I lost the ability to pick a bugger in the comfort of my home? Had I pushed the bugger farther up my nose thus impacting my reasoning and motor skills? I needed to know these answers. I leaned forward over the sink. I placed my face ever so close to the mirror. I hooked my nostril with my right index finger and then I stared. I carefully examined the abyss that was my nostril. And there it was. My body's gift to me. A single gray hair. I wept in silence.
My birthday started off on a good note. Birthday kisses from the wife, kids and the stank breath dogs. I did the 3 S's, shower, shave and slam my head on the wall. I went to brush my teeth and then I spotted something silvery in my nose. My first thought was that it was a bugger and I'll enjoy picking it later at work at my desk while my boss is talking about trend factors and widgets. Remembering that it was my birthday, I thought maybe if I pick it now, I can make a wish and it'll come true. Guess which option I picked (no pun intended)?
I shoved my finger in my nose with the delight of my 2 year old daughter. I paused and wished for something great like nude sunbathing at a 65 and older beach resort. As I pulled my finger out with a feeling of triumph, I looked down and saw NOTHING. With a sense of urgency, I shoved my finger up my nose again. I even wiggled it around for good measure. I pulled my finger out but this time with a slow feeling of dread and desperation. I looked down one more time and horror completely overwhelmed me.
There was nothing on the tip of my finger. Had I lost the ability to pick a bugger in the comfort of my home? Had I pushed the bugger farther up my nose thus impacting my reasoning and motor skills? I needed to know these answers. I leaned forward over the sink. I placed my face ever so close to the mirror. I hooked my nostril with my right index finger and then I stared. I carefully examined the abyss that was my nostril. And there it was. My body's gift to me. A single gray hair. I wept in silence.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
The Estrogen Choke Hold
There's an old American cliche that goes like this, "Be careful what you wish for!" I have been one to never be careful of things. In my leaner and hair fullness days, I had wished to be surrounded by beautiful women till my dying days. I forgot to wish that none of these beautiful women should be my offspring. So the next time the Devil comes knocking, I'm going to be really, really, really specific on what I want.
My curse for having such lack of foresight is what I call the "Estrogen Choke Hold" or ECH. The moment I walk into my house from a longs day work, I am instantly suffocated by estrogen. This chemical seeps out from my wife and 3 daughters. It morphs into one of those GLOW female wrestlers and tries to pound me into submission. I wish I could say that I fight back valiantly everyday and brake free of this ECH but that would not be the truth. There's been a few times when I've walked in and everything goes dark. I wake up and I've been shackled and must endure another night of torture.
Those nights can be painful to endure. I would rather be water boarded then subjected to the evil plights of this estrogen. Daddy, Honey, Daddddyyy, HONNey, DAAAADddyyyy, HHHOOOONNNNEEEYYYY, DDAAADDDDDYYYYY!!! It's enough to make me want to use an ice cream scooper and lobotomize myself. I am often tied down to a chair and be forced to find the minute differences between my wife's red hair and her new "red" hair. I am electrocuted for not noticing the .000001% degree difference in her new red dye. My eldest daughter hangs me upside down and shoves bamboo splinter underneath my fingernails because a) I cant find the 0.5 mm X 0.3 mm stain she has on her t-shirt and b) after I say "No one will notice" she's says I'm only saying that because I'm her father. Yet the most devious and diabolical one is my 2 and half year old. She's already enlisted my 4 month old as her Sith apprentice. She will wait till I sit down to eat and she will get out of her chair and sit on my lap. She will eat half of my food and then chew the other half and spit it back out on my plate. She will then say, "Daddy you eat." I haven't had a nice meal in years. She has even emasculated my 2 male dogs. They're just bitches now.
This is not to say I don't love my women, I just wish they weren't related to me sometimes. I am hoping to build a man cave in my new home. I will place talismans and ancient hieroglyphics to ward off this estrogen from my sanctuary. I will have TED perform weekly estrogen exorcistisms. Or maybe I'll just start wearing a dress to fool it. Any suggestions? Please?
My curse for having such lack of foresight is what I call the "Estrogen Choke Hold" or ECH. The moment I walk into my house from a longs day work, I am instantly suffocated by estrogen. This chemical seeps out from my wife and 3 daughters. It morphs into one of those GLOW female wrestlers and tries to pound me into submission. I wish I could say that I fight back valiantly everyday and brake free of this ECH but that would not be the truth. There's been a few times when I've walked in and everything goes dark. I wake up and I've been shackled and must endure another night of torture.
Those nights can be painful to endure. I would rather be water boarded then subjected to the evil plights of this estrogen. Daddy, Honey, Daddddyyy, HONNey, DAAAADddyyyy, HHHOOOONNNNEEEYYYY, DDAAADDDDDYYYYY!!! It's enough to make me want to use an ice cream scooper and lobotomize myself. I am often tied down to a chair and be forced to find the minute differences between my wife's red hair and her new "red" hair. I am electrocuted for not noticing the .000001% degree difference in her new red dye. My eldest daughter hangs me upside down and shoves bamboo splinter underneath my fingernails because a) I cant find the 0.5 mm X 0.3 mm stain she has on her t-shirt and b) after I say "No one will notice" she's says I'm only saying that because I'm her father. Yet the most devious and diabolical one is my 2 and half year old. She's already enlisted my 4 month old as her Sith apprentice. She will wait till I sit down to eat and she will get out of her chair and sit on my lap. She will eat half of my food and then chew the other half and spit it back out on my plate. She will then say, "Daddy you eat." I haven't had a nice meal in years. She has even emasculated my 2 male dogs. They're just bitches now.
This is not to say I don't love my women, I just wish they weren't related to me sometimes. I am hoping to build a man cave in my new home. I will place talismans and ancient hieroglyphics to ward off this estrogen from my sanctuary. I will have TED perform weekly estrogen exorcistisms. Or maybe I'll just start wearing a dress to fool it. Any suggestions? Please?
Friday, February 8, 2008
Normal
What happens when normal is no longer normal? In this dizzying, fast paced, discontented society, being normal changes from minute to minute and from place to place. So really, what the hell is normal anyway?
For starters, what is normal in my head is certainly not normal in yours. Thinking of things in 2 or more languages is pretty normal in my noggin. In most of you, thinking in just one language causes backspasm and involuntary flatulance, which is fine if that's normal for you. Crafting exotic and impossible acts of existence such as contemplating the effects of simultaneously living out a 1000 different lives, in various parts of the world, in random cultures, levels of hierarchy, intellects, self-awareness, gender, rational, and acrobatic talents and having it all feed back to the "real" me to help me examine and comprehend why the 3 Stooges are such an universal example of physical comedy would be a wonderful experience. In my head, that's all normal since it took the slightest effort to go through that thought process. For you, that may have been no different than being Alice and following the white rabbit down the rabbit hole listening to Jefferson Airplane playing loudly in the background, Keep your head! On an individual basis, we're all normal if there's no other measuring stick for normalness. Warming your peanut butter and jelly sandwich in your armpit is perfectly normal if there's no one else to say otherwise. Screaming at inanimate objects like TVs, cars, trains and aeroplanes are A-O-K!
Now lets dive further into said PB&J sandwich warmer from up above. Let's say Miss "I'm not high maintenance even though I order double-soy, no foam, no water, half-caf, no creamer cappuccino" comes along and tells Mr. PB&J that warming your sandwich in the sweaty, musty, warmth of your armpit is definitely not normal. What happens to him? He has been doing it for years and that's the only way he knows how to enjoy his creamy peanut butter and apricot jelly on 2 wholesome slices of dark German wheat bread sandwich. Is he no longer normal because someone who's not part of his immediate realm deems his act not normal? What about the handsome, charming Venezuelan who marries into an Italian family and loves to put ketchup on his spaghetti much to the utter revulsion of his new extended family? Is he not normal even thought for 30 years that is the only way he's seen other Venezuelans eat their spaghetti?
So what happens when your sense of normal is no longer normal? Do you conform to the new notion and ideas of this "normal"? Or do you continue upon your path of normalcy since it's the only normal you've ever known? It’s a quagmire indeed. With that I leave you with a scrumptious nugget written by a much better man than me, "There Are Things Known and Things Unknown and in Between Are The Doors.”
For starters, what is normal in my head is certainly not normal in yours. Thinking of things in 2 or more languages is pretty normal in my noggin. In most of you, thinking in just one language causes backspasm and involuntary flatulance, which is fine if that's normal for you. Crafting exotic and impossible acts of existence such as contemplating the effects of simultaneously living out a 1000 different lives, in various parts of the world, in random cultures, levels of hierarchy, intellects, self-awareness, gender, rational, and acrobatic talents and having it all feed back to the "real" me to help me examine and comprehend why the 3 Stooges are such an universal example of physical comedy would be a wonderful experience. In my head, that's all normal since it took the slightest effort to go through that thought process. For you, that may have been no different than being Alice and following the white rabbit down the rabbit hole listening to Jefferson Airplane playing loudly in the background, Keep your head! On an individual basis, we're all normal if there's no other measuring stick for normalness. Warming your peanut butter and jelly sandwich in your armpit is perfectly normal if there's no one else to say otherwise. Screaming at inanimate objects like TVs, cars, trains and aeroplanes are A-O-K!
Now lets dive further into said PB&J sandwich warmer from up above. Let's say Miss "I'm not high maintenance even though I order double-soy, no foam, no water, half-caf, no creamer cappuccino" comes along and tells Mr. PB&J that warming your sandwich in the sweaty, musty, warmth of your armpit is definitely not normal. What happens to him? He has been doing it for years and that's the only way he knows how to enjoy his creamy peanut butter and apricot jelly on 2 wholesome slices of dark German wheat bread sandwich. Is he no longer normal because someone who's not part of his immediate realm deems his act not normal? What about the handsome, charming Venezuelan who marries into an Italian family and loves to put ketchup on his spaghetti much to the utter revulsion of his new extended family? Is he not normal even thought for 30 years that is the only way he's seen other Venezuelans eat their spaghetti?
So what happens when your sense of normal is no longer normal? Do you conform to the new notion and ideas of this "normal"? Or do you continue upon your path of normalcy since it's the only normal you've ever known? It’s a quagmire indeed. With that I leave you with a scrumptious nugget written by a much better man than me, "There Are Things Known and Things Unknown and in Between Are The Doors.”
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Weathering the Now
It's always calmest before the storms rambles over you. An eerie silence blankets your every sense. You stand before it with a glimmer of hope. Where will you be when the storm has passed on through?
There's a song out there singing for me. You have one as well. I listen to the words softly sung in my ears. They strike me. They consume me. They batter me. They strip me to my soul. I hear the song all the time. It's in between everything and around it. Shhhh, I hear it now. Can you hear your song in my words?
The song has romanced me. It has spoken of the things I have dreamt. It foretells the path before me. The silence is coming I know. The very essence of me is in anticipation. The song will crescendo and it will be unleashed. It will be a typhoon wrecking havoc in the Pacific Rim. Has your song rolled over its last peak?
The only thing I need to know, the only thing you need to know or have known, is this; Will I brave the storm? Will I stand up strong and try to navigate the tempest of my life? I can cower and hide. I can place my palms on my ears. I can turn deaf and forgetful of my song. But will I? Will you? Have you? Its now.
There's a song out there singing for me. You have one as well. I listen to the words softly sung in my ears. They strike me. They consume me. They batter me. They strip me to my soul. I hear the song all the time. It's in between everything and around it. Shhhh, I hear it now. Can you hear your song in my words?
The song has romanced me. It has spoken of the things I have dreamt. It foretells the path before me. The silence is coming I know. The very essence of me is in anticipation. The song will crescendo and it will be unleashed. It will be a typhoon wrecking havoc in the Pacific Rim. Has your song rolled over its last peak?
The only thing I need to know, the only thing you need to know or have known, is this; Will I brave the storm? Will I stand up strong and try to navigate the tempest of my life? I can cower and hide. I can place my palms on my ears. I can turn deaf and forgetful of my song. But will I? Will you? Have you? Its now.
Friday, November 2, 2007
When daughther's come of age
I marked the day in my diary. My title entry for that day was "I have to get a shotgun" day. I went to my local gun shop and asked for the "I can technically be a grandfather now" special. I now own a sweet 16 gauge double-barrel shotgun with a lovely cherry wood stock. It comes with a titanium plated recoil pad in case I run out of ammo and have to start bashing teenage boys' skulls. Right now, its just for show.
I walk my daughter to her school bus stop and wait with her. I look at all the boys and tell them I got my eye on them. I make sure they know that I qualified as an Expert shooter in the Marine Corps and display my medals. I don't think my daughter is all that happy about it but I would hate to have 2 kids under 3 plus a grandson.
So my plan is to be very vigilant. I'm afraid of it taking its toll on me and wearing me out. Daughter #2 might luck out when its her turn. When her day comes, I might just have to name my diary entry "Where can I get a Chasity belt in a size 0?".
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Remembering SSFs
My Single Spanish Female girlfriends? No, I'm talking about the tragic Stay Sweet Forever moniker that was laced throughout my and other guys Grade School, Junior High and High School yearbooks. Since 5th grade, I cannot come up with a worse backhanded compliment that a girl, lady, or woman could give a guy. No matter how thuggish my persona was, some girl inevitably found me sweet.
If you are a woman, you are asking yourself what's wrong with SSF? Its such a nice thing to say. Well its like the movie Just Friends. That little grenade puts a guy in the friend zone. Its says, "Hey, you've got all the qualities in a guy that I'm looking for but I've decided to go a different way." For guys, it just took away all your street cred. Not only are you not going to get that, but now the word is out that you is nice.
Too bad that in this day and age, no one has their old phone numbers that are listed in my yearbooks. I've always wanted to randomly call some of these girls and give them an update. It would probably go something like this:
Phone ringing...
Hello.
Hi, Michelle from Oak Park Elementary School?
Uhhgg, Yes.
Listen, this is Jaime, we had 6th grade class together with Mrs. Greene.
Oh yeah, hmmm, why are you calling me?
Look, I wanted to be straight with you. I know you thought that I should stay sweet forever but I just couldn't do it.
I wanted you to do what?
STAY SWEET FOREVER. You wrote it in my yearbook. Right next to the gym teacher's comment, "Hope the rope burns fade." You also wrote KIT 4eva.
....
Anyway, I will be going into rehab for the third time this year but I think I can finally kicked that heroin monkey off my back this time. Also, I'm suppose to go back to jail for masterminding a drag midget prostitution ring. I dont really understand, I was offering half-off specials. And I needed the money for a good defense lawyer so I sold my parents home from under them and dropped them off at a nursing home. You should have seen mom crying like a little girl. Hmm , what else? I got 6 kids with 5 different women but I never seen them. People always tell me they're mean little bastards. But what are gonna do? Don't judge me too hard, I tried being sweet till about the 8th grade.
Are you joking me?!?!
Nope. I guess forever was too long of a period. Maybe, Stay Sweet for a couple of days would've been more accurate.
I guess....Hey you want to get a drink or something?
Sure, but you'll need to bring a hacksaw so I can take this ankle monitoring device off.
If you are a woman, you are asking yourself what's wrong with SSF? Its such a nice thing to say. Well its like the movie Just Friends. That little grenade puts a guy in the friend zone. Its says, "Hey, you've got all the qualities in a guy that I'm looking for but I've decided to go a different way." For guys, it just took away all your street cred. Not only are you not going to get that, but now the word is out that you is nice.
Too bad that in this day and age, no one has their old phone numbers that are listed in my yearbooks. I've always wanted to randomly call some of these girls and give them an update. It would probably go something like this:
Phone ringing...
Hello.
Hi, Michelle from Oak Park Elementary School?
Uhhgg, Yes.
Listen, this is Jaime, we had 6th grade class together with Mrs. Greene.
Oh yeah, hmmm, why are you calling me?
Look, I wanted to be straight with you. I know you thought that I should stay sweet forever but I just couldn't do it.
I wanted you to do what?
STAY SWEET FOREVER. You wrote it in my yearbook. Right next to the gym teacher's comment, "Hope the rope burns fade." You also wrote KIT 4eva.
....
Anyway, I will be going into rehab for the third time this year but I think I can finally kicked that heroin monkey off my back this time. Also, I'm suppose to go back to jail for masterminding a drag midget prostitution ring. I dont really understand, I was offering half-off specials. And I needed the money for a good defense lawyer so I sold my parents home from under them and dropped them off at a nursing home. You should have seen mom crying like a little girl. Hmm , what else? I got 6 kids with 5 different women but I never seen them. People always tell me they're mean little bastards. But what are gonna do? Don't judge me too hard, I tried being sweet till about the 8th grade.
Are you joking me?!?!
Nope. I guess forever was too long of a period. Maybe, Stay Sweet for a couple of days would've been more accurate.
I guess....Hey you want to get a drink or something?
Sure, but you'll need to bring a hacksaw so I can take this ankle monitoring device off.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Pregnant Survival Tips
The Women
1. Get use to the fact that you will gain lots of weight. The skinnier you were, the more you'll gain. You might actually be happy that you finally have a rack and backside that people stop to check out. And you're not getting FAT, you're just carrying for 2. (Unless you were already fat and in that case, you need to put down that scoop of ice cream, Tubby!)
2. Know where you can get your weird food combination craving. Post a large map on your fridge and circle each place and adorn with a picture.
3. Screw trying to look good, it's all about being comfortable. Just wear a sheet and enjoy the breeze.
4. Food smells don't make you nauseous, they are just not worthy of being smelled by you.
5. It will all be over soon, you wont be pregnant all the time. By the way, there are such things as the pill and condoms. Google it.
6. You're carrying his baby, he is suppose to do your bidding.
7. Fall in love with stripper and porn star names. Everyone will love them. Candy Lipz goes great on a birth certificate.
The Men
1. Leave the country right now! Don't tell anyone where you are going. Come back in 8 months and 29 days. Trust me.
2. If you can't manage #1, fake a coma or kidnapping.
3. If you can't manage #2, strap yourself in, you're in for a long and bumpy ride.
4. Get used to waking up at 2am and making a cheddar cheese and pickle omelet.
5. Get used to not having your favorite foods because your woman cant get within a 100 mile radius.
6. Never ever admit she's fat, I don't care if the Guinness Book of World Records has her listed as the 2nd largest land mammal.
7. Tell her she's radiant and beautiful b/c deep down you know she is.
1. Get use to the fact that you will gain lots of weight. The skinnier you were, the more you'll gain. You might actually be happy that you finally have a rack and backside that people stop to check out. And you're not getting FAT, you're just carrying for 2. (Unless you were already fat and in that case, you need to put down that scoop of ice cream, Tubby!)
2. Know where you can get your weird food combination craving. Post a large map on your fridge and circle each place and adorn with a picture.
3. Screw trying to look good, it's all about being comfortable. Just wear a sheet and enjoy the breeze.
4. Food smells don't make you nauseous, they are just not worthy of being smelled by you.
5. It will all be over soon, you wont be pregnant all the time. By the way, there are such things as the pill and condoms. Google it.
6. You're carrying his baby, he is suppose to do your bidding.
7. Fall in love with stripper and porn star names. Everyone will love them. Candy Lipz goes great on a birth certificate.
The Men
1. Leave the country right now! Don't tell anyone where you are going. Come back in 8 months and 29 days. Trust me.
2. If you can't manage #1, fake a coma or kidnapping.
3. If you can't manage #2, strap yourself in, you're in for a long and bumpy ride.
4. Get used to waking up at 2am and making a cheddar cheese and pickle omelet.
5. Get used to not having your favorite foods because your woman cant get within a 100 mile radius.
6. Never ever admit she's fat, I don't care if the Guinness Book of World Records has her listed as the 2nd largest land mammal.
7. Tell her she's radiant and beautiful b/c deep down you know she is.
Friday, August 24, 2007
What I learned this Summer
Romanian weddings are fantastic. They are also very helpful if you want to have a baby.
Every no gets you closer to a yes.
There's never ever anything worthwhile on TV on a Friday night.
Celery and cream cheese sandwiches are the new PB&J!!
Its not okay to bailout greedy investors, loan companies, and home owners that bought more house than they could afford with my taxes.
A "topless" resorts looks a lot better in your mind than in person.
115 degrees is damn hot, no matter how sexy you try to dress it up.
Never's no winning with pregnant women.
Our president still sucks and is oblivious to his own failures.
We need more monkeys.
I really miss The Office and Burn Notice is my new favorite show.
Flight of the Conchords is widely underrated.
The Far Side has gotten me through some rough patches.
Every no gets you closer to a yes.
There's never ever anything worthwhile on TV on a Friday night.
Celery and cream cheese sandwiches are the new PB&J!!
Its not okay to bailout greedy investors, loan companies, and home owners that bought more house than they could afford with my taxes.
A "topless" resorts looks a lot better in your mind than in person.
115 degrees is damn hot, no matter how sexy you try to dress it up.
Never's no winning with pregnant women.
Our president still sucks and is oblivious to his own failures.
We need more monkeys.
I really miss The Office and Burn Notice is my new favorite show.
Flight of the Conchords is widely underrated.
The Far Side has gotten me through some rough patches.
Monday, August 20, 2007
WTF? Who am I?
I was wandering through the park today. As usual, I was contemplating my existence on this salty grain of sand in this infinite cosmos. As I started thinking "Who am I?", not that I don't know my own name or anything, but "Who am I?" in respect to those that don't believe me when I tell them who I am. And by those, I mean you America.
America, you confuse me. Maybe its the whole world but I'll narrow it down just to you America for the sake of this blog. Now, you constantly interchange heritage, race, color,religion, nationality and ethnicity to label me. My skin color might be white, tan, black, yellow, or black and blue but if I try to use that, you object and say I'm a liar. You will tell me that I am Spanish but my father is from Trinidad and they speak English not Spanish. So I'm not really 100% Spanish. It would be dicier if I was still with my Jewish ex-wife. Because regardless of everything else, you would just label me by that. It doesn't make much sense. Christian, Buddhist, Muslims (to a degree) don't get the same treatment.
You also confuse me about my wife. Sometimes, she's not white at all. Sometimes she's Italian, even though she wasn't born there. I'm at least born in Venezuela so being called a Venezuelan is true. I think she's crazy but that's not one of the options on your census form. One of her parents is half Italian and half Native American. Her other parent is half Italian and half Sicilian. A half times half is a quarter, therefore, my wife is a quarter Italian, a quarter Native American, a quarter Sicilian, and somehow she lost a quarter of something. I guess the last quarter is made of puppy tails, sugar and everything nice. All I know is that she's my ball and chain and I am obligated to say that I wouldn't wanted any other way.
What about my kids? They are a mixture of me and my beautiful wife and that Japanese Social Services engineer. (But that kid is in Japan and being half of anything sucks out there. Gomennasai!) It hurts my head trying to figure who they are based on your erractic labeling criteria. Can't we just called them Wilkies and call it a day?
Do you really want to be label-monger America? My grandparents where from Venezuela, England and India. Depending on the hour, I can be white, or black, or Spanish, or Venezuelan, or British, or Christian, or Agnostic, or Hindu or Liberal, or Conservative, or Pro-Comedy, or anti-Aging, or Air guitarist, or just plain nuts.
America, you confuse me. Maybe its the whole world but I'll narrow it down just to you America for the sake of this blog. Now, you constantly interchange heritage, race, color,religion, nationality and ethnicity to label me. My skin color might be white, tan, black, yellow, or black and blue but if I try to use that, you object and say I'm a liar. You will tell me that I am Spanish but my father is from Trinidad and they speak English not Spanish. So I'm not really 100% Spanish. It would be dicier if I was still with my Jewish ex-wife. Because regardless of everything else, you would just label me by that. It doesn't make much sense. Christian, Buddhist, Muslims (to a degree) don't get the same treatment.
You also confuse me about my wife. Sometimes, she's not white at all. Sometimes she's Italian, even though she wasn't born there. I'm at least born in Venezuela so being called a Venezuelan is true. I think she's crazy but that's not one of the options on your census form. One of her parents is half Italian and half Native American. Her other parent is half Italian and half Sicilian. A half times half is a quarter, therefore, my wife is a quarter Italian, a quarter Native American, a quarter Sicilian, and somehow she lost a quarter of something. I guess the last quarter is made of puppy tails, sugar and everything nice. All I know is that she's my ball and chain and I am obligated to say that I wouldn't wanted any other way.
What about my kids? They are a mixture of me and my beautiful wife and that Japanese Social Services engineer. (But that kid is in Japan and being half of anything sucks out there. Gomennasai!) It hurts my head trying to figure who they are based on your erractic labeling criteria. Can't we just called them Wilkies and call it a day?
Do you really want to be label-monger America? My grandparents where from Venezuela, England and India. Depending on the hour, I can be white, or black, or Spanish, or Venezuelan, or British, or Christian, or Agnostic, or Hindu or Liberal, or Conservative, or Pro-Comedy, or anti-Aging, or Air guitarist, or just plain nuts.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Where is my voice?
Where is my voice? Where is yours? Where are the words that sail with the winds and change the now? Where is the movement in the wheel of revolution?
I see the world today. Do I let it be the same? At first, it seems to me like the problems have always been the same, only the faces and the places differ. The comfort of generalization. In a macro-world, it appears to never move. THe Earth is just another rock floating on the jettison of the Milky Way.
I take a look closer and the problems are never the same. The struggles for freedom are not all created equal. The slavemasters do not always have the same agenda or tactics to keep them in bonds. Not all slaves know for what freedom they fight for or what bonds they need to break. A black volcanic beach fought for, has different worths to all the warmongers.
Your silence and mine is key. It stops the revolution. What revolution? The REVOLUTION of mankind and society. Let's be clear, today's good deeds are sometimes the seeds for the next generation's ills. In this imperfect world, it's a must that we strive to continually correct what mistakes we made yesterday. There's no need to argue about the why and the who, just correct it. Also, we must also learn that all deeds do not have the same consequences on everyone. Our good is their evil and their good is our evil. Who is "us" and who is "them" is only relevant to where you are and who you are.
If I measured the small decible of cries for change, I could believe that the world has become transparent and that great changes have occurred and nothing else is needed. Or maybe there are too many cries for me to hear and they have become white noise. There might not be any unity of direction in those voices. It could be there but I would have to shut off everything else around you and listen closely. I may be wrong and a great echo is circling the globe and I have become deaf to it.
There is still rampant discrimination. There is still violence on the streets. There is still obstacles in place to keep certain people out. So where is my voice? Where are my actions to change the wrong that I see? I dont know. A rock or a pen, a whisper or a scream, which one is better? They all carry equal weight if its all that I can do.
I see the world today. Do I let it be the same? At first, it seems to me like the problems have always been the same, only the faces and the places differ. The comfort of generalization. In a macro-world, it appears to never move. THe Earth is just another rock floating on the jettison of the Milky Way.
I take a look closer and the problems are never the same. The struggles for freedom are not all created equal. The slavemasters do not always have the same agenda or tactics to keep them in bonds. Not all slaves know for what freedom they fight for or what bonds they need to break. A black volcanic beach fought for, has different worths to all the warmongers.
Your silence and mine is key. It stops the revolution. What revolution? The REVOLUTION of mankind and society. Let's be clear, today's good deeds are sometimes the seeds for the next generation's ills. In this imperfect world, it's a must that we strive to continually correct what mistakes we made yesterday. There's no need to argue about the why and the who, just correct it. Also, we must also learn that all deeds do not have the same consequences on everyone. Our good is their evil and their good is our evil. Who is "us" and who is "them" is only relevant to where you are and who you are.
If I measured the small decible of cries for change, I could believe that the world has become transparent and that great changes have occurred and nothing else is needed. Or maybe there are too many cries for me to hear and they have become white noise. There might not be any unity of direction in those voices. It could be there but I would have to shut off everything else around you and listen closely. I may be wrong and a great echo is circling the globe and I have become deaf to it.
There is still rampant discrimination. There is still violence on the streets. There is still obstacles in place to keep certain people out. So where is my voice? Where are my actions to change the wrong that I see? I dont know. A rock or a pen, a whisper or a scream, which one is better? They all carry equal weight if its all that I can do.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
10 signs that things arent so well with your life
1. Setting up a taco stand in the Arctic Circle doesn't sound like a bad idea.
2. You get jealous every time you watch the Geico Caveman commercial because he's at a party and your sitting there with a tub of Easy Mac and no one to share it with.
3. The Golden Girls on prime time TV are your best memories.
4. You associate more closely with your online persona and dread facing RL.
5. Even the coworker that EVERYBODY hates stopped talking to you because you are bringing them down.
6. Your best fantasy, you're still not calling the shots.
7. Goth kids think you're "too" out there.
8. You get a letter from American Family Publishing stating, "You definitely are not a winner and here are 10 million reasons why."
9. You treat yourself on your birthday, by ordering a mail-order bride. You subsequently move but you forget to forward your mail and left no forwarding address.
10. You willingly move Las Vegas in July. You dont gamble, you dont drink, you dont smoke and your celibate.
2. You get jealous every time you watch the Geico Caveman commercial because he's at a party and your sitting there with a tub of Easy Mac and no one to share it with.
3. The Golden Girls on prime time TV are your best memories.
4. You associate more closely with your online persona and dread facing RL.
5. Even the coworker that EVERYBODY hates stopped talking to you because you are bringing them down.
6. Your best fantasy, you're still not calling the shots.
7. Goth kids think you're "too" out there.
8. You get a letter from American Family Publishing stating, "You definitely are not a winner and here are 10 million reasons why."
9. You treat yourself on your birthday, by ordering a mail-order bride. You subsequently move but you forget to forward your mail and left no forwarding address.
10. You willingly move Las Vegas in July. You dont gamble, you dont drink, you dont smoke and your celibate.
You know you've been commuting for too long when...
On the train/bus
~ You have your designated seat/spot.
~ You have a back up to the above when someone got there before you.
~ You know exactly what time the next train/bus arrives without thinking about it for more than a nanosecond yet you can never remember to send mom flowers for her birthday.
~ You know not to sit next to that person because you already know one of the following:
a) They talk to much
b) They're constantly on the phone
c) They smell like a wet moose in mating season
d) Snore like grandpa after binge drinking on St Patty's day
~ On the flip side, you want that person to sit next to you because:
a) They're freaking hot
b) They always smell really nice
c) They always offer up small nuggets of advice that always seem to lighten you up like "Its not desirable to eat beans if you have to have a prostate exam."
d) They dont mind when you use their sleeve to wipe off the drool you accumulated while napping.
In the car
~ You have your lane and you be damned if anyone tries to get in front of you
~ You cut-off that asshole in the red mustang because he did it to you last month
~ You know if you leave right now, you'll catch all the lights green. If you leave now? Well you rather have a camel make out with you then drive behind THE @#*&$^ school bus for 10 miles while it picks up all those bratty kids and you wishfully pray that all those parents had learned "Safe Sex" so could save 15 minutes off your drive.
~ You're convince that the sneaker and the boot that you've been passing by for the last 3 years have finally procreated and that would explain the new batch of mixed matched flip-flops strewn across the grass at the last exit.
~You look forward every morning to honking your horn at the lady in the white Lexus and watching her mess up her make-up as she gets startled.
~It no longer amazes you that she hasnt learned her lesson by now.
~Your absolute enjoyment is seeing someone with a better car than you, broken down on the side of the road. Doubly so if its raining. Statically if its snowing.
~You cant imagine a better start to your day than noticing someone getting a ticket. Miraculously, she always looks like a bitch or he always looks like a dick.
~ It ruins your day when you get a speeding ticket.
~ It ruins your week when you get a speeding ticket in the HOV lane without having a passenger.
~ It ruins your month when you get a speeding ticket in the HOV lane without having a passenger and talking on your cellphone.
~ It ruins your year when you get speeding ticket in the HOV with a prostitute in the passenger seat servicing you while your talking on your cellphone and tailgating the @#*&% School Bus.
~ It ruins your life when one of those bratty kids records the whole incident on his cellphone and posts it on YouTube.
~ You have your designated seat/spot.
~ You have a back up to the above when someone got there before you.
~ You know exactly what time the next train/bus arrives without thinking about it for more than a nanosecond yet you can never remember to send mom flowers for her birthday.
~ You know not to sit next to that person because you already know one of the following:
a) They talk to much
b) They're constantly on the phone
c) They smell like a wet moose in mating season
d) Snore like grandpa after binge drinking on St Patty's day
~ On the flip side, you want that person to sit next to you because:
a) They're freaking hot
b) They always smell really nice
c) They always offer up small nuggets of advice that always seem to lighten you up like "Its not desirable to eat beans if you have to have a prostate exam."
d) They dont mind when you use their sleeve to wipe off the drool you accumulated while napping.
In the car
~ You have your lane and you be damned if anyone tries to get in front of you
~ You cut-off that asshole in the red mustang because he did it to you last month
~ You know if you leave right now, you'll catch all the lights green. If you leave now? Well you rather have a camel make out with you then drive behind THE @#*&$^ school bus for 10 miles while it picks up all those bratty kids and you wishfully pray that all those parents had learned "Safe Sex" so could save 15 minutes off your drive.
~ You're convince that the sneaker and the boot that you've been passing by for the last 3 years have finally procreated and that would explain the new batch of mixed matched flip-flops strewn across the grass at the last exit.
~You look forward every morning to honking your horn at the lady in the white Lexus and watching her mess up her make-up as she gets startled.
~It no longer amazes you that she hasnt learned her lesson by now.
~Your absolute enjoyment is seeing someone with a better car than you, broken down on the side of the road. Doubly so if its raining. Statically if its snowing.
~You cant imagine a better start to your day than noticing someone getting a ticket. Miraculously, she always looks like a bitch or he always looks like a dick.
~ It ruins your day when you get a speeding ticket.
~ It ruins your week when you get a speeding ticket in the HOV lane without having a passenger.
~ It ruins your month when you get a speeding ticket in the HOV lane without having a passenger and talking on your cellphone.
~ It ruins your year when you get speeding ticket in the HOV with a prostitute in the passenger seat servicing you while your talking on your cellphone and tailgating the @#*&% School Bus.
~ It ruins your life when one of those bratty kids records the whole incident on his cellphone and posts it on YouTube.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Top Ten Corporate Bathroom Pet Peeves
As a classified expert of Corporate America's bathroom habits and etiquettes, I have compiled my list of the 10 worst bathroom offenders.
10 - The "Working Bathroom Break" guy. This guy or gal doubles as the "Working Vaction" minion. Listen up, the last thing I want to do is handle your proposal after you have gone #2! It's bad enough that I have to listen to your BS, I dont want to touch it either.
9 - The "Mama's boy" guy. If you're older than 8 years old, stop pulling your pants down to your knees when you have to take a leak. No one cares to see your old hairy pimply ass. I'm pretty sure that after 50 years, you have managed to learn not to pee on yourself.
8 - The "Uneven Squatter" gal. If your thighs arent strong enough to hold you up, dont try to squat. The girl next to you doesnt think pee looks good on her flip-flops. Yellow puddles? Not so good.
7 - The "I'm in a rush guy", also know as, "Bathroom Kramer". Stop waiting till the last second to go to the bathroom. Next time you hit me with the door as you barge in, I'm going to dunk your head into the clogged toilet. I've suffered more jammed fingers at your hands then all basketball games I played in Turkish proffessional league.
6 - The "Leaner" guy. Working in a cube is such a physically demanding job that you need to lean on something, anything just so you can pee in the urinal. You'll use the flushing handle, the wall, the urinal divider or the intern to lean on. You have no shame.
5 - The "Long Distance" guy. There's no 3 point line at the urinal and you're not hung like a horse. You dont get extra kudos for peeing from 6 feet away. At least you dont stick around for long. You tend to miss half the time and you end up getting fired for peeing on the CEO's pants.
4 - The "Whinner" gal. Its a bathroom for crying out loud. Its acceptable behaviour to rip out a good one while your going number 1. Jane doesnt appreciate your murmured complaints while she's dropping the kids off in the pool.
3 - The "Space Invader" gal. Keep your body in your stall. Ask for toilet paper before you put your hand into the stall next to you. Also, if you're so large that you need to grab unto the bottom of the stall wall to roll yourself off the toilet, warn someone first. Women are already worried enough about getting assaulted in the stall by some stranger. They dont want to die of a heart attack from seeing your big fat digits.
2 - The "Parrot" guy. Hey its great talking to you but A) I hate listening to you while I'm going number 2, its my "me" time; B) I hate listening you while you're going number #2 and I have to hear you deuce flopping into the water; and C) I hate listening to you while we're both going #2 and you insist on trying to play "You sunk my battleshit".
and the most disgusting, vilest person of them all
1 - The "Hand Shaker" guy. You are the same guy who sneezes at the buffet counter and doesnt bother to cover their nose. I really really really despise you. I just saw you go #1 or #2 and I really dont care that I havent seem you in weeks, so please stop trying to shake my hand. I will not high 5 you, pound you, or even pinky swear with you. You havent bathed in days and you still try to come in contact with me. I hope you BURN IN HELL.
Honorable mention to the "Look Ma, No hands" guy. Love your talent. You're so ashame of your penis, you wont even touch. You've gotten so many STDs that you wont shake without a salad thong. Sorry you didnt make my list.
10 - The "Working Bathroom Break" guy. This guy or gal doubles as the "Working Vaction" minion. Listen up, the last thing I want to do is handle your proposal after you have gone #2! It's bad enough that I have to listen to your BS, I dont want to touch it either.
9 - The "Mama's boy" guy. If you're older than 8 years old, stop pulling your pants down to your knees when you have to take a leak. No one cares to see your old hairy pimply ass. I'm pretty sure that after 50 years, you have managed to learn not to pee on yourself.
8 - The "Uneven Squatter" gal. If your thighs arent strong enough to hold you up, dont try to squat. The girl next to you doesnt think pee looks good on her flip-flops. Yellow puddles? Not so good.
7 - The "I'm in a rush guy", also know as, "Bathroom Kramer". Stop waiting till the last second to go to the bathroom. Next time you hit me with the door as you barge in, I'm going to dunk your head into the clogged toilet. I've suffered more jammed fingers at your hands then all basketball games I played in Turkish proffessional league.
6 - The "Leaner" guy. Working in a cube is such a physically demanding job that you need to lean on something, anything just so you can pee in the urinal. You'll use the flushing handle, the wall, the urinal divider or the intern to lean on. You have no shame.
5 - The "Long Distance" guy. There's no 3 point line at the urinal and you're not hung like a horse. You dont get extra kudos for peeing from 6 feet away. At least you dont stick around for long. You tend to miss half the time and you end up getting fired for peeing on the CEO's pants.
4 - The "Whinner" gal. Its a bathroom for crying out loud. Its acceptable behaviour to rip out a good one while your going number 1. Jane doesnt appreciate your murmured complaints while she's dropping the kids off in the pool.
3 - The "Space Invader" gal. Keep your body in your stall. Ask for toilet paper before you put your hand into the stall next to you. Also, if you're so large that you need to grab unto the bottom of the stall wall to roll yourself off the toilet, warn someone first. Women are already worried enough about getting assaulted in the stall by some stranger. They dont want to die of a heart attack from seeing your big fat digits.
2 - The "Parrot" guy. Hey its great talking to you but A) I hate listening to you while I'm going number 2, its my "me" time; B) I hate listening you while you're going number #2 and I have to hear you deuce flopping into the water; and C) I hate listening to you while we're both going #2 and you insist on trying to play "You sunk my battleshit".
and the most disgusting, vilest person of them all
1 - The "Hand Shaker" guy. You are the same guy who sneezes at the buffet counter and doesnt bother to cover their nose. I really really really despise you. I just saw you go #1 or #2 and I really dont care that I havent seem you in weeks, so please stop trying to shake my hand. I will not high 5 you, pound you, or even pinky swear with you. You havent bathed in days and you still try to come in contact with me. I hope you BURN IN HELL.
Honorable mention to the "Look Ma, No hands" guy. Love your talent. You're so ashame of your penis, you wont even touch. You've gotten so many STDs that you wont shake without a salad thong. Sorry you didnt make my list.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Dumb Assness
I want to start with I love my kids and they are the best things to have happen to me. But I cant help but wonder if I was as much of a "dumbass" as they are. I will never know since I'm the youngest boy in my family and according to my parents I could do no wrong. I know that is a total lie since I was probably the second biggest troublemaker in the family, second only to my older brother who was the town bully/hairdresser.
Some will argue that there is no such thing as a stupid question but in my house there's one golden rule, "Ask a Stupid Question and Expect a Stupid Answer." This applies to my kids AND wife. Helpful note here, you cannot install this rule in your house and apply it to your wife if you have been married for longer than 6 months. AGAIN, this absolutely does not work on your wife if you been together longer than 6 months or if she really wears the pants in the family. She will not find it cute and divorce will be right around the corner.
I am lucky to have a 13 year old daughter because there are no shortages of stupid questions. The other one is too young and her vocabulary is limited to "Daddy, Mama, Dog, Bye, Hi and NO NO NO" My oldest has asked questions like, "Are horseradishes made from horses?" Yes, dear, and guess what hot dogs are made from? "If Adam and Eve only had 2 sons, where did the rest of everybody come from?" Duh, one the sons got a sex change and they got it on. "I'm 13 now, can I have a boyfriend? Your sister is too young to have a father in jail.
Talking about her little sister, she looks like she'll be following her footsteps. Every time she throws a tantrum, she knocks her head silly against the hardest object she can find. I felt sorry the first couple times. Now, I just shake my head and keep on walking. How early the disease starts!
I try to steer them away from this behavior. But society isn't helping me out. Our society just promotes dumb assness. Just look around. From paying more money for a gallon of water than gasoline and that's just for the tap water stuff. People actually paying more money for a cup of coffee you have to make yourself, than paying the 50 cents for the corner coffee guy cup. Its the same people who taut the greatness of technology and freak out when their blackberry goes down. The lady who protest the racist remarks made by celebrities but has the nerve to lock her doors while she's driving 75mph on the highway because she's scared the Latino stuntman next to her is going to jump out of the car he's driving just to carjack her.
If you would like to help my cause, please do everything you can to stop dumb assness. It not only affects those with the disease but it affects you too. In the meantime, I will explain to my daughter why you cant see an astronaut walking on the moon from here.
Some will argue that there is no such thing as a stupid question but in my house there's one golden rule, "Ask a Stupid Question and Expect a Stupid Answer." This applies to my kids AND wife. Helpful note here, you cannot install this rule in your house and apply it to your wife if you have been married for longer than 6 months. AGAIN, this absolutely does not work on your wife if you been together longer than 6 months or if she really wears the pants in the family. She will not find it cute and divorce will be right around the corner.
I am lucky to have a 13 year old daughter because there are no shortages of stupid questions. The other one is too young and her vocabulary is limited to "Daddy, Mama, Dog, Bye, Hi and NO NO NO" My oldest has asked questions like, "Are horseradishes made from horses?" Yes, dear, and guess what hot dogs are made from? "If Adam and Eve only had 2 sons, where did the rest of everybody come from?" Duh, one the sons got a sex change and they got it on. "I'm 13 now, can I have a boyfriend? Your sister is too young to have a father in jail.
Talking about her little sister, she looks like she'll be following her footsteps. Every time she throws a tantrum, she knocks her head silly against the hardest object she can find. I felt sorry the first couple times. Now, I just shake my head and keep on walking. How early the disease starts!
I try to steer them away from this behavior. But society isn't helping me out. Our society just promotes dumb assness. Just look around. From paying more money for a gallon of water than gasoline and that's just for the tap water stuff. People actually paying more money for a cup of coffee you have to make yourself, than paying the 50 cents for the corner coffee guy cup. Its the same people who taut the greatness of technology and freak out when their blackberry goes down. The lady who protest the racist remarks made by celebrities but has the nerve to lock her doors while she's driving 75mph on the highway because she's scared the Latino stuntman next to her is going to jump out of the car he's driving just to carjack her.
If you would like to help my cause, please do everything you can to stop dumb assness. It not only affects those with the disease but it affects you too. In the meantime, I will explain to my daughter why you cant see an astronaut walking on the moon from here.
Thursday, May 3, 2007
Vegas: Through the eyes of a father
I would just like to point out that no one was killed or harmed while making this vacation extravaganza in Las Vegas. Some eardrums may have been hurt but that was totally not my fault. I may be banned from ever returning to Vegas or impaled on a turkey neck bone because I refuse to stick to Vegas's motto. I will not let what happened there, stay there.
At the airport on my way to Vegas, I took stock of my belongings before entering the plane. Portable DVD player? Check. Pulled pork sandwich, dry sausage, 1 liter of breast milk (conveniently carried in 10 3.4 ounces containers because airport security does not allow containers that are larger than 3.4 ounces but they don't limit the number of containers. I guess if they figure you are smart enough to make a bomb with 1 liter of liquid explosives, you are not dumb enough to separate the bomb before going through security and then mixing it back after you pass security) , cookies, trail mix, cheerios, rack of lamb, penne ala vodka, and a Chilean sea bass in a white wine sauce? Check, check and quadruple check. Remembering its 2007 and not 1987 were they actually gave you food on any flight longer than 90 minutes and everyone would have called you a raving lunatic if you try to tell the world that an airline would not hand out meals on a 6 hour flight. Check but damn you future! I wanted flying cars and cuddly aliens not torturous flights with no food and tasty beverages except for half-eaten peanuts and flat coca-cola. Exorcist Baby? Check, with a touch of witchy-ness.
The flight there was fantastic for the first ten minutes. My lovely daughter realized there were 200 people stuck in a plane with her and no one knew she was there. She let them know she was there. Over and over and over and over. A few passengers got off on Chicago, while we were 37,000 feet above it. I tried using duct tape but I ran out of tape 12 rows into taping everybody's ears shut. Instead, I bartered with a few of the passengers that had not gone completely insane for some peanuts to use as ear plugs. It all worked out in the end. I was able to unload my Matrix Revolution and Evolution DVDs for said peanuts and the casino got a bunch of mindless drones that still had the ability to withdraw cash from the ATM which I got comped for. A win-win situation for all around. Plus, Bean got to test her 35 different cries. You just cant top that.
Of course there were good times to be had. My first day there started off horrendously. I lost a contact and when I tried to go to the nearest eye place they would not let me buy some new contacts without a valid prescription. By the way, the wife forgot to pack me a few extra pairs of contacts but I wont hold it against her. Anyway, I had to get my eyes checked out. I get into the room with this opthamologist and he's going through his whole spiel. He turns off the light and goes, "Tell me the last line of strippers you can see clearly?". I was like, "Well, I can see up to line 4 but if I squint I can see the strippers on line 5 with the nurse's outfits. " The opthamologist pushes over some contraption and gestures for me to place my chin on the headrest. He places some goggles over my eyes and blacked out my left eye. He starts asking a series of questions.
"Which set boobies are better? #1 or #2?"
"#1!".
"Okay, now boobies #3 or #4?
"Umm, 4?"
"Alright, boobies #5 or #6?"
"Ummm...."
"#5 OR #6?"
"Well, #5"
"Lastly, boobies #7 or #8?"
"Definitely #8, she's freaking hot."
He goes through the whole procedure with my left eye. He turns the lights back on and looks down at his clipboard making some last minute notes. "Well, you seem to suffer from Jessicaism. Your right eye only sees Jessica Simpson's breasts and your left eye only sees Jessica Alba's breast. Its a great combination but it puts too much strain on your brain and your pants, if you know what I mean. " He rips off a sheet from his clipboard and gives me my prescription. Its a picture of Jessica Simpson in her Daisy Dukes on the right side and Jessica Alba in her stripper costume from Sin City on the left. "Take that to the front and the girls will take care of you." After I pay for my new contacts and walk out of the place, I realize that this has got to be the best kept secret in Vegas.
Much to my surprise, getting your eyes checked is not the best Non-Casino event in Vegas. The supermarket is by far the best place to check out while you're there. Let's think about the 2 things most men come to Vegas for: Gambling and Strippers. Where's the least likely place you'll find both of them combined? The supermarket.
I walked into a supermarket to pick some diapers. I walked out an hour later after winning $50 at the poker table, immediately dropped it on a lap dance and forgot to get the diapers. Each supermarket has a casino room AND a T&A bar. That's Tits and Ass for you none-strip club hopping people. I had a lot of fun walking down the stripper aisle. At first I thought the strippers browsing down this aisle didn't know when clock out but it's a little known fact that the Stripper Union in Vegas stipulates that all their members MUST dance if confronted with a stripper pole. For the remaining days of my trip, I carried a portable 8 foot pole everywhere I went. On my last day, I took a hack saw to it because it was pure evil. Its one of things that's a great idea at first until you realize that retired Strippers have to still adhere to the Union bylaws. You don't want to witness a 73 year old stripping down to her G-String and trying to mount a pole with an artificial hip, with that sagging flap of skin under her arms, and a woolly mammoth camel toe. Like the banana show in Okinawa, you only want to see it once!
Some final thoughts. Vegas made me understand Chris Rock better. He said "If I can keep my daughter of the pole, I've done a good job as a dad." I would like to add that if I can keep both of my daughters out of "The Bachelor", any CineMax skin flick, any scene involving Ron Jeremy and Court TV, then I've done an amazing job. The Grand Canyon is way bigger in person and 120 degrees dry heat is not so bad
At the airport on my way to Vegas, I took stock of my belongings before entering the plane. Portable DVD player? Check. Pulled pork sandwich, dry sausage, 1 liter of breast milk (conveniently carried in 10 3.4 ounces containers because airport security does not allow containers that are larger than 3.4 ounces but they don't limit the number of containers. I guess if they figure you are smart enough to make a bomb with 1 liter of liquid explosives, you are not dumb enough to separate the bomb before going through security and then mixing it back after you pass security) , cookies, trail mix, cheerios, rack of lamb, penne ala vodka, and a Chilean sea bass in a white wine sauce? Check, check and quadruple check. Remembering its 2007 and not 1987 were they actually gave you food on any flight longer than 90 minutes and everyone would have called you a raving lunatic if you try to tell the world that an airline would not hand out meals on a 6 hour flight. Check but damn you future! I wanted flying cars and cuddly aliens not torturous flights with no food and tasty beverages except for half-eaten peanuts and flat coca-cola. Exorcist Baby? Check, with a touch of witchy-ness.
The flight there was fantastic for the first ten minutes. My lovely daughter realized there were 200 people stuck in a plane with her and no one knew she was there. She let them know she was there. Over and over and over and over. A few passengers got off on Chicago, while we were 37,000 feet above it. I tried using duct tape but I ran out of tape 12 rows into taping everybody's ears shut. Instead, I bartered with a few of the passengers that had not gone completely insane for some peanuts to use as ear plugs. It all worked out in the end. I was able to unload my Matrix Revolution and Evolution DVDs for said peanuts and the casino got a bunch of mindless drones that still had the ability to withdraw cash from the ATM which I got comped for. A win-win situation for all around. Plus, Bean got to test her 35 different cries. You just cant top that.
Of course there were good times to be had. My first day there started off horrendously. I lost a contact and when I tried to go to the nearest eye place they would not let me buy some new contacts without a valid prescription. By the way, the wife forgot to pack me a few extra pairs of contacts but I wont hold it against her. Anyway, I had to get my eyes checked out. I get into the room with this opthamologist and he's going through his whole spiel. He turns off the light and goes, "Tell me the last line of strippers you can see clearly?". I was like, "Well, I can see up to line 4 but if I squint I can see the strippers on line 5 with the nurse's outfits. " The opthamologist pushes over some contraption and gestures for me to place my chin on the headrest. He places some goggles over my eyes and blacked out my left eye. He starts asking a series of questions.
"Which set boobies are better? #1 or #2?"
"#1!".
"Okay, now boobies #3 or #4?
"Umm, 4?"
"Alright, boobies #5 or #6?"
"Ummm...."
"#5 OR #6?"
"Well, #5"
"Lastly, boobies #7 or #8?"
"Definitely #8, she's freaking hot."
He goes through the whole procedure with my left eye. He turns the lights back on and looks down at his clipboard making some last minute notes. "Well, you seem to suffer from Jessicaism. Your right eye only sees Jessica Simpson's breasts and your left eye only sees Jessica Alba's breast. Its a great combination but it puts too much strain on your brain and your pants, if you know what I mean. " He rips off a sheet from his clipboard and gives me my prescription. Its a picture of Jessica Simpson in her Daisy Dukes on the right side and Jessica Alba in her stripper costume from Sin City on the left. "Take that to the front and the girls will take care of you." After I pay for my new contacts and walk out of the place, I realize that this has got to be the best kept secret in Vegas.
Much to my surprise, getting your eyes checked is not the best Non-Casino event in Vegas. The supermarket is by far the best place to check out while you're there. Let's think about the 2 things most men come to Vegas for: Gambling and Strippers. Where's the least likely place you'll find both of them combined? The supermarket.
I walked into a supermarket to pick some diapers. I walked out an hour later after winning $50 at the poker table, immediately dropped it on a lap dance and forgot to get the diapers. Each supermarket has a casino room AND a T&A bar. That's Tits and Ass for you none-strip club hopping people. I had a lot of fun walking down the stripper aisle. At first I thought the strippers browsing down this aisle didn't know when clock out but it's a little known fact that the Stripper Union in Vegas stipulates that all their members MUST dance if confronted with a stripper pole. For the remaining days of my trip, I carried a portable 8 foot pole everywhere I went. On my last day, I took a hack saw to it because it was pure evil. Its one of things that's a great idea at first until you realize that retired Strippers have to still adhere to the Union bylaws. You don't want to witness a 73 year old stripping down to her G-String and trying to mount a pole with an artificial hip, with that sagging flap of skin under her arms, and a woolly mammoth camel toe. Like the banana show in Okinawa, you only want to see it once!
Some final thoughts. Vegas made me understand Chris Rock better. He said "If I can keep my daughter of the pole, I've done a good job as a dad." I would like to add that if I can keep both of my daughters out of "The Bachelor", any CineMax skin flick, any scene involving Ron Jeremy and Court TV, then I've done an amazing job. The Grand Canyon is way bigger in person and 120 degrees dry heat is not so bad
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Waiting for the Train
You want to know how being 30 seconds late can really affect your life? Miss the after-rush hour train leaving from Penn Station or whatever big metro train station you live nearby. If you don't have a public railway system, trust in what I am about to say.
You check the time and pray to St. Thomas, the patron saint of trains, that the 9:15 pm is running late. You run down the stairs like a monkey trying to dodge a storm of flying ape pooh. Arms wailing above you, screaming at a 100 ton behemoth cho-cho pulling away from the platform. You try to trick it and make it stop by saying the first random thought in your head, "Hey, what's the square root of 225?". The train will calmly say "15" and keep going about it's merry way.
So you're standing there panting like you just finished a triathlon. Sweat pouring off of you like a leaky faucet and bending over trying to gasp for air. While you marvel at the marble floor, you think, "Shit, I should have went with, 'What's the capital of Mozambique?" Everybody knows American trains don't know jack about world geography. You glare up to the ceiling lights with your head cocked to the side and admit defeat. No, you can't run after the train and try to jump on the back.
You head back towards the huge train schedule display. Next train, one hour. 60 minutes. 3600 seconds. The same time it takes to figure out how to work your new HD TV cable box and miss your spouse's favorite TV show and being sent to sleep on the couch for the third time that week. You search for a kind face among the crowd of unfortunate souls that are desperately trying to get home too. Any face that feels your pain will do. You meet eyes with husky 40 year old guy with the graying Mohawk and a bald spot to boot. Instantly you decide you can't have a serious conversation with this man without dying. Dying from laughing so hard at him or by him stabbing you 27 times with his Swiss Army pocket knife, the one with the 62 attachments for this sort of thing. It's a toss up and you don't which way it will go down but your gut feeling is that RIP will closely follow.
You keep scanning the masses. Its noted that women will avoid making any sort of eye contact for fear of being asked to explain the Cauchy Residue theorem and how to solve wave propagation problems. But bingo, you finally get lucky 234 seconds into your wait. You meet a nice lady and right around second 239, you have realized you've made a terrible, terrible mistake. You immediately ponder why this lady is still alive. You would have definitely taken her out by now. Her voice goes right through you. Its like the Devil mixed the sounds of nails scratching a blackboard, a cat in heat, Minnie Mouse, and your 8th grade Science teacher and put this lady in your life just to torture you. You start imagining all the various ways you can dispose of her body without leaving a trace. Thank goodness for "Law & Order: Criminal Intent".
It's 9:23 pm and you know you cant get a hold of a pineapple, a blowtorch, and an F-16, so you do the next best thing. You point over her left shoulder and quizzically say, "What's Michael Keaton doing on a unicycle juggling a potato, a sword and this month issue of US?" Quickly, you make your getaway and dive for cover between 2 homeless guys. They reek of 2 week old cheap wine and cinnamon buns emanates from them. Oddly you feel a slight pang of hunger. The coast is finally clear and you search your memory banks for the nearest Cinnabon. And...the AIRPORT, that's the last time you saw a Cinnabon.
You look at your watch. You check the time on your cellphone. You look back at your watch. You smartly deduct that it takes 2.5 seconds to accomplish this mundane task. You doubt you could keep doing it for another 1000 times. It's no use, you can't speed up time and 10:15 pm still seems like a millennium away.
No one wants to make friends with you and those that look like they do, seem like they just finished polishing off a kegger and the art of conversation is not their strongest skill at the moment. You start wondering why adults hate making new friends. It seemed so much easier when you were a kid, didn't it? You pick someone's buggers and you had a best friend for the rest of the day. Sadly, no one likes playing with mucus anymore.
There's no Best Buy insight to venture in and play some video games on the new PS3. No game rooms around either and the last good pinball machine was last seen circa 1994, so the bar is out. Well the bar is out for numerous reasons, but lets just stick to the fact that they don't have a good pinball machine. "Pinball Wizard" would not be a great commercial hit song right now and The Who would be a cover band at Applebees or something. Damn the pinball machine making union.
You can't exercise your favorite activity because, again, no one wants to be your friend for the next 38 minutes. Making fun of strangers is just not as amusing when you are doing it alone. You shudder at your loneliness and sing softly to yourself. "Roxanne, you don't have to put on the red dye, those days are over, you don't have to sell your body to the right, Roxanne, you walk the streets for honey and something, something, something, Roxanne..." Wow, you really wish you had payed more attention to Sting and The Police.
At 9:45 pm, your mind finally starts to completely shut down from boredom. Your body reverts to its most basic of instincts. You're grunting and you're aimlessly making a spear out of your knapsack, a discarded piece of pizza crust and a lotto ticket. You strip down to your boxers and start chasing people down like they were wilder beast on the Serengeti. You herd a small group of commuters into a narrow hallway and automatically choose the weakest of the lot. You hit them in the eye with your makeshift weapon and tackle them down like a wrestler on WWE. You hear your train being announced, you look down at the calf you are gnawing on, quickly eyeball the area for your stuff, mutter a quick apology, "Sorry, I missed my train and, well, hmm, you know how it is!" They give you a quick nod of understanding as they try to stem the flow of blood.
You dash off to collect your belongings. You scamper back down to the track platform, make a beeline for your train and find a nice seat in the back of the train. You start to get dress, toss the piece of pizza that's somehow still in your hands, wipe of the blood from your chin, and let out a big sigh. You just wasted a WHOLE hour at the train station. You could have been home doing something more exciting like watching Rachel Ray on the Food Network. Now, she can cook a fantastic cinnamon bun from scratch!
You check the time and pray to St. Thomas, the patron saint of trains, that the 9:15 pm is running late. You run down the stairs like a monkey trying to dodge a storm of flying ape pooh. Arms wailing above you, screaming at a 100 ton behemoth cho-cho pulling away from the platform. You try to trick it and make it stop by saying the first random thought in your head, "Hey, what's the square root of 225?". The train will calmly say "15" and keep going about it's merry way.
So you're standing there panting like you just finished a triathlon. Sweat pouring off of you like a leaky faucet and bending over trying to gasp for air. While you marvel at the marble floor, you think, "Shit, I should have went with, 'What's the capital of Mozambique?" Everybody knows American trains don't know jack about world geography. You glare up to the ceiling lights with your head cocked to the side and admit defeat. No, you can't run after the train and try to jump on the back.
You head back towards the huge train schedule display. Next train, one hour. 60 minutes. 3600 seconds. The same time it takes to figure out how to work your new HD TV cable box and miss your spouse's favorite TV show and being sent to sleep on the couch for the third time that week. You search for a kind face among the crowd of unfortunate souls that are desperately trying to get home too. Any face that feels your pain will do. You meet eyes with husky 40 year old guy with the graying Mohawk and a bald spot to boot. Instantly you decide you can't have a serious conversation with this man without dying. Dying from laughing so hard at him or by him stabbing you 27 times with his Swiss Army pocket knife, the one with the 62 attachments for this sort of thing. It's a toss up and you don't which way it will go down but your gut feeling is that RIP will closely follow.
You keep scanning the masses. Its noted that women will avoid making any sort of eye contact for fear of being asked to explain the Cauchy Residue theorem and how to solve wave propagation problems. But bingo, you finally get lucky 234 seconds into your wait. You meet a nice lady and right around second 239, you have realized you've made a terrible, terrible mistake. You immediately ponder why this lady is still alive. You would have definitely taken her out by now. Her voice goes right through you. Its like the Devil mixed the sounds of nails scratching a blackboard, a cat in heat, Minnie Mouse, and your 8th grade Science teacher and put this lady in your life just to torture you. You start imagining all the various ways you can dispose of her body without leaving a trace. Thank goodness for "Law & Order: Criminal Intent".
It's 9:23 pm and you know you cant get a hold of a pineapple, a blowtorch, and an F-16, so you do the next best thing. You point over her left shoulder and quizzically say, "What's Michael Keaton doing on a unicycle juggling a potato, a sword and this month issue of US?" Quickly, you make your getaway and dive for cover between 2 homeless guys. They reek of 2 week old cheap wine and cinnamon buns emanates from them. Oddly you feel a slight pang of hunger. The coast is finally clear and you search your memory banks for the nearest Cinnabon. And...the AIRPORT, that's the last time you saw a Cinnabon.
You look at your watch. You check the time on your cellphone. You look back at your watch. You smartly deduct that it takes 2.5 seconds to accomplish this mundane task. You doubt you could keep doing it for another 1000 times. It's no use, you can't speed up time and 10:15 pm still seems like a millennium away.
No one wants to make friends with you and those that look like they do, seem like they just finished polishing off a kegger and the art of conversation is not their strongest skill at the moment. You start wondering why adults hate making new friends. It seemed so much easier when you were a kid, didn't it? You pick someone's buggers and you had a best friend for the rest of the day. Sadly, no one likes playing with mucus anymore.
There's no Best Buy insight to venture in and play some video games on the new PS3. No game rooms around either and the last good pinball machine was last seen circa 1994, so the bar is out. Well the bar is out for numerous reasons, but lets just stick to the fact that they don't have a good pinball machine. "Pinball Wizard" would not be a great commercial hit song right now and The Who would be a cover band at Applebees or something. Damn the pinball machine making union.
You can't exercise your favorite activity because, again, no one wants to be your friend for the next 38 minutes. Making fun of strangers is just not as amusing when you are doing it alone. You shudder at your loneliness and sing softly to yourself. "Roxanne, you don't have to put on the red dye, those days are over, you don't have to sell your body to the right, Roxanne, you walk the streets for honey and something, something, something, Roxanne..." Wow, you really wish you had payed more attention to Sting and The Police.
At 9:45 pm, your mind finally starts to completely shut down from boredom. Your body reverts to its most basic of instincts. You're grunting and you're aimlessly making a spear out of your knapsack, a discarded piece of pizza crust and a lotto ticket. You strip down to your boxers and start chasing people down like they were wilder beast on the Serengeti. You herd a small group of commuters into a narrow hallway and automatically choose the weakest of the lot. You hit them in the eye with your makeshift weapon and tackle them down like a wrestler on WWE. You hear your train being announced, you look down at the calf you are gnawing on, quickly eyeball the area for your stuff, mutter a quick apology, "Sorry, I missed my train and, well, hmm, you know how it is!" They give you a quick nod of understanding as they try to stem the flow of blood.
You dash off to collect your belongings. You scamper back down to the track platform, make a beeline for your train and find a nice seat in the back of the train. You start to get dress, toss the piece of pizza that's somehow still in your hands, wipe of the blood from your chin, and let out a big sigh. You just wasted a WHOLE hour at the train station. You could have been home doing something more exciting like watching Rachel Ray on the Food Network. Now, she can cook a fantastic cinnamon bun from scratch!
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
In Her Steps
This is something different than what I normally write but it came out of me one day.
"In Her Steps" By Jaime Wilkie
I wonder if the miles I have covered have hampered or improved my views of life and the world. Long before my journey began, a loving face was all I needed to be at one with the world. Happiness and joy reigned in my kingdom in those early days.
The plain worned face with the scars of toil and wrinkles of laughter, which came into my view, was the start of me. She radiated inner beauty and strength. My mother was the earliest form of completion. She opened my eyes to the truth sung on the horizons. In the beginning, she told me I had a long and hard path to trek. She winked and smiled at my projection of self defeat. She said, “Don’t worry my dear, these little feet of mine, as the ignorant ones like to point out, ‘Never made it past the 3rd grade’, but they have carried me to the farthest regions of the world. Well I’m still going along my son. I’ve walked down Dante’s path and so shall you”.
She set me down upon my road. I realized she alone did not complete me anymore. I needed colors, shapes and sounds to be whole again. Down the road markers and past the hands of the clock, those 3 have kept evolving. They have morphed into elements constantly changing. At 6, it was a bright red fire engine toy with the blaring alarms. At 12, running in the outfield chasing down a white fly ball while everyone looked and cheered on. My teens and twenties were a succession of camouflage fatigues, the sounds of an M-16 firing down range, college books, loves gained and lost, and the cloudy haze of booze, drugs, and music.
I have traveled thousands of miles in search of something. A good story to tell is what I think that something is. At some stops, I’ve taken off my shoes and stayed a while. A good woman, a good drink, a good friend and plenty of diversions was all that I needed. It was always a good omen when I crossed paths with my mother. The times we met when I was happy, she would point to her feet and laugh. “See those feet, they’re still taking me places and yours will too.” The times she saw me down, she would pull me close to her and say, “Those feet of yours, we’ve prepared them well. They have helped you climb mountains and cross the oceans. Son, don’t fret about the ‘Good Old Days’ behind you, the road ahead still holds the best days of your life and those feet of yours will take you there.”
She has been right of course. The day I fell in love with my wife, I thought was the day to end all days but then I asked her to marry me and that seemed like that was the best. The day oldest daughter said I was her hero, was the day I thought could never be topped. Then my little bean was born and that’s been the best day so far. I have now a wife and two daughters to walked beside me part of my way. I still have to explore the universe in search of that simple sense of happiness. I continue to find my own sets of defeats and triumphs. My path has been my own but it has interlaced with a billion other paths. There’s still a lot of geography to cover and a thousand great things to experience.
My mother still comes and goes on those two little feet. They don’t carry her as fast as they used to but they’re still chugging along. Slow and steady has been their motto of late. Her feet have never quit on her and they have never thought of doing so.
She wiggles her toes and tells her grandchildren, “See those little feet of mine, they started their journey 70 plus years ago on the Andes Mountains of Venezuela. Let me tell where they been.” The kids all surround her and listen for hours on end. I’ll stop to listen and still be amazed at the miles she has covered. Her feet have passed by the Eiffel Tower, the canals of Venice, the streets of Tokyo, the pyramids of Chichén Itzá, the beaches of Hawaii, and her favorite place of all, Angel’s Falls in Venezuela.
My mother’s face is still beautiful. More scars have appeared on her face but so has more laugh lines. Her feet will soon take her some place where we can’t see her anymore and she wont return to us. I wont worry for her because I know those little feet will take her someplace anew and the best days are still ahead of her.
Short Ramblings
#1 The best use for homeless people in NYC? To hide the smell of my farts. Nothing better than blaming it on the nearest homeless person.
#2 I've read that the new book "The Secret". I now carry a picture of a time machine. I believe I will build it. I pray that I built it. Who knew that all I was missing was to carry a picture of it. Thanks, I will go back in time and find out who really was Harry Crumb!
#3 I just wanted to set the record straight, IF YOU SPILL WATER ON YOUR PANTS, IT WILL NOT STAIN. If you're not clear, please reread the preceding sentence.
#4 I loved Babel till I noticed that the bus was facing the wrong way. How can you screw that up editing guys?
#5 I cant believe Sylvester Stallone was busted from trying to smuggle HGH. Rocky will never be the same.
#2 I've read that the new book "The Secret". I now carry a picture of a time machine. I believe I will build it. I pray that I built it. Who knew that all I was missing was to carry a picture of it. Thanks, I will go back in time and find out who really was Harry Crumb!
#3 I just wanted to set the record straight, IF YOU SPILL WATER ON YOUR PANTS, IT WILL NOT STAIN. If you're not clear, please reread the preceding sentence.
#4 I loved Babel till I noticed that the bus was facing the wrong way. How can you screw that up editing guys?
#5 I cant believe Sylvester Stallone was busted from trying to smuggle HGH. Rocky will never be the same.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Commuting Lemmings
I have on many occasions wondered why I just don't exit, stage left, to the nearest cliff. Commuting has overtaken my life and my soul. While it provides for some comedic fodder, the chemically impaired, the fashionably impaired, the mentally impaired, the follicle impaired, it still sucks the life out of me. I function no better than Mr. Rogers at a comic book convention.
On average, I can watch 8 half-hour TV shows during my travels to and fro work. I can clean, prepare and cook a turkey every single day. I can knit 1 scarf, 2 sweaters, 3 mittens, 4, well, you get the point. It's a lot of time I can be using to herd my Flock of Seagulls hairdos.
Every day I stand on the precipitous of a train platform. I wait in line wondering if when the doors to the train open, will there be nothingness on the other side. Does anything on the other side exist till I get there? If a tree falls inside the train, does a conductor still charge it full fare? My mind will spice things up while I aimlessly stand there. It'll imagine the train stopping and opening its doors. Instead of stepping inside, people will start falling into a large pit of gummy bears. Would I be mad if I fell into some gummy bears? Would you?
If you somehow stood at the other end of the rails, where the great LIRR fleet converges on New York City, an Penn Station and looked down, you would understand the joke. You don't believe people are animals? Pay a visit and watch hundreds of people rushing out of every orifice of the train. A horde of mindless arvicolinae. Up the stairs, down the hallway and up the stairs again, trying to flood the streets with their bodies. People are A to B, asshole to belly button as my old fitness instructor would say, clamoring to get out. All the while with a blank look of purpose washed on their faces. No talking, no stopping, just following the same path together. And I? I am right there in the midst of things, wondering if I'm the only dumbass that finds this whole exercise quite funny.
There's a great line from "Leaving Las Vegas" where Nicholas Cage says, "I cant remember if I started drinking because my wife left me or if my wife left me because I started drinking." I feel the same theme running through my life. Did I start commuting like a lemming because I needed to work or did I start working because I am not part of the "Lucky Sperm" club?
On average, I can watch 8 half-hour TV shows during my travels to and fro work. I can clean, prepare and cook a turkey every single day. I can knit 1 scarf, 2 sweaters, 3 mittens, 4, well, you get the point. It's a lot of time I can be using to herd my Flock of Seagulls hairdos.
Every day I stand on the precipitous of a train platform. I wait in line wondering if when the doors to the train open, will there be nothingness on the other side. Does anything on the other side exist till I get there? If a tree falls inside the train, does a conductor still charge it full fare? My mind will spice things up while I aimlessly stand there. It'll imagine the train stopping and opening its doors. Instead of stepping inside, people will start falling into a large pit of gummy bears. Would I be mad if I fell into some gummy bears? Would you?
If you somehow stood at the other end of the rails, where the great LIRR fleet converges on New York City, an Penn Station and looked down, you would understand the joke. You don't believe people are animals? Pay a visit and watch hundreds of people rushing out of every orifice of the train. A horde of mindless arvicolinae. Up the stairs, down the hallway and up the stairs again, trying to flood the streets with their bodies. People are A to B, asshole to belly button as my old fitness instructor would say, clamoring to get out. All the while with a blank look of purpose washed on their faces. No talking, no stopping, just following the same path together. And I? I am right there in the midst of things, wondering if I'm the only dumbass that finds this whole exercise quite funny.
There's a great line from "Leaving Las Vegas" where Nicholas Cage says, "I cant remember if I started drinking because my wife left me or if my wife left me because I started drinking." I feel the same theme running through my life. Did I start commuting like a lemming because I needed to work or did I start working because I am not part of the "Lucky Sperm" club?
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Cubicle Comedian
I separate myself from all the other jesters in the office. I don't just click forward and awash my co-workers and friends with the joke-du-jour. I take the time out to go out of my way to give them a fresh air of amusement. I have pushed the boundaries, all the while toeing the company line of electronic media censorship.
I joined the Marine Corps so I could beat up my mother. Till the age of 17, I swore to my friends that my mother was a 4th degree black belt ninja assassin. I towered over my mother by more than a foot yet I cowered at her shadow. When I was 15, and thought of myself as a certified bad ass, my mother took me down like an Alabama State Trooper. Trust me, it was an amazing sight. It involved a broom stick and me on the ground praying for a) mercy and b) that none of my friends saw me being taken down by a 5 foot, 50 year old, gray haired chubby lady.
Like all Soviet Bloc military trained assassins, she will deny that any event ever took place and if that event truly did exist, she's not at liberty to discuss such black-ops. If you pry hard enough, she will tell you that she can't remember ever touching a hair on my body and if she did, I probably deserve it. She has total deniability about how screwed up I became.
The Marines had a nice share in the twisted mindset that I have accomplished. My personal trainer, or to you novices, my drill instructor taught me one valuable lesson. He also got me into great shape by teaching me these great pilates as he casually referred to me as a gang banger from NYC. Anyway, while we were taking a leisurely stroll through the woods, he asked us Leathernecks, "What do you call a Medal of Honor winner, who saved his entire platoon by killing 200 enemy troops with his M-16 but sucked one dick?" After a round of High School girl giggles from our platoon, he gave us the answer, "A Cocksucker!" I learned 4 things that day. First, there's nothing funnier than saying cocksucker in front of 70 17-19 year olds. Second, what's more ironic than making gay jokes to a group of men who have been training for 12 weeks sharing every second together without having once having the company of a woman? Third, society will label you by the stupidest standards so you might as well be yourself, tell the people who want you to conform to go to hell and make the rest of the people laugh. Lastly, Seaman would've been a funnier answer. That's right you Navy Sailors!
In the Corporate world I have been able to parlay my gift for wit into raises and uncensored behavior. I have ridiculed my boss's bad back, co-worker's intelligence, personal hygiene, and I have made outlandish claims of having been kidnapped by bandanna wearing pygmies. I figure that if it took Donald Rumsfeld six years to get fired for doing such a terrible job running the war in Iraq, why can't I get paid to write fantastical emails at work?
I joined the Marine Corps so I could beat up my mother. Till the age of 17, I swore to my friends that my mother was a 4th degree black belt ninja assassin. I towered over my mother by more than a foot yet I cowered at her shadow. When I was 15, and thought of myself as a certified bad ass, my mother took me down like an Alabama State Trooper. Trust me, it was an amazing sight. It involved a broom stick and me on the ground praying for a) mercy and b) that none of my friends saw me being taken down by a 5 foot, 50 year old, gray haired chubby lady.
Like all Soviet Bloc military trained assassins, she will deny that any event ever took place and if that event truly did exist, she's not at liberty to discuss such black-ops. If you pry hard enough, she will tell you that she can't remember ever touching a hair on my body and if she did, I probably deserve it. She has total deniability about how screwed up I became.
The Marines had a nice share in the twisted mindset that I have accomplished. My personal trainer, or to you novices, my drill instructor taught me one valuable lesson. He also got me into great shape by teaching me these great pilates as he casually referred to me as a gang banger from NYC. Anyway, while we were taking a leisurely stroll through the woods, he asked us Leathernecks, "What do you call a Medal of Honor winner, who saved his entire platoon by killing 200 enemy troops with his M-16 but sucked one dick?" After a round of High School girl giggles from our platoon, he gave us the answer, "A Cocksucker!" I learned 4 things that day. First, there's nothing funnier than saying cocksucker in front of 70 17-19 year olds. Second, what's more ironic than making gay jokes to a group of men who have been training for 12 weeks sharing every second together without having once having the company of a woman? Third, society will label you by the stupidest standards so you might as well be yourself, tell the people who want you to conform to go to hell and make the rest of the people laugh. Lastly, Seaman would've been a funnier answer. That's right you Navy Sailors!
In the Corporate world I have been able to parlay my gift for wit into raises and uncensored behavior. I have ridiculed my boss's bad back, co-worker's intelligence, personal hygiene, and I have made outlandish claims of having been kidnapped by bandanna wearing pygmies. I figure that if it took Donald Rumsfeld six years to get fired for doing such a terrible job running the war in Iraq, why can't I get paid to write fantastical emails at work?
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