On the last episode of the "Mary Tyler Moore Show," a line of dialogue was directed at Ted Baxter, portrayed by Ted Knight. This is not an exact quote. I am relying on my memory and I am lucky to remember the 1970's at all. So I will be paraphrasing. Here is the setup, and then the line. Ted Baxter was a outragious brown-noser. In the last episode, he went against type and spoke up for the underdogs who were being fired. He realized he was risking his own job and quickly renigged. When he questions why nobody is saying anything about his taking back his brave outburst, he is told, "Ted, when you see a jackass fly, it's amazing. You don't complain because he doesn't stay in the air long enough."
Which brings me to me. (One of my favorite subjects) If you are interested, or even if you are not, I just got back from riding the bike and I may have lost another 30 or 40 pounds. The big thing that happened this time is that I was able to peddle along without holding onto the handlebars. I must have went seven or eight feet before having to regrasp the grips. (The bike had started to shake violently.) But the important thing here, is that I did travel by balance alone for a tiny bit. Hey, the Wright brothers first flight wasn't across the Atlantic. It's called "baby steps."
I can see myself in the near future doing my 10 mile ride without using my hands at all. In fact, I may get so good that I won't even need the bike. I'll use my car. That way I can be in air conditioning comfort while losing weight. Why didn't I think of this before. I could do more than 10 miles with a car. If I took the car for hundred mile drives, I would be fit and trim in no time. I should celebrate this idea with a couple cheeseburgers and a six-pack of Bud. Being weight conscience like I am, I will make that Bud Light.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
Birth Day
I missed being born on Friday the 13th by 6 hours. I was born on Thursday the 12th. There is an old poem that is suppose to predict a baby's path in life by the day they are born. Here is the poem:
Monday's child is fair of face
Tuesday's child is full of grace
Wednesday's child is full of woe
Thursday's child has far to go
Friday's child is loving and giving
Saturday's child works hard for a living
But the child that is born on the Sabbath day,
is fair and wise, good and gay
I looked up the birth dates of Elton John, Rock Hudson and Liberace. They were all born on a Tuesday. You would have thought it would have been a Sunday, but when this was written "gay" had a different connotation. Anyway, back to me, I was born on a Thursday. I have far to go. "Far to go where?" is what I want to know. I wonder if that means in life or in travels. Perhaps wealth and popularity.
The poem is not very specific. Like what is "fair of face?" It could mean light complected or average in looks. "How's the kid look?" "Eh, fair." "Boy, he sure is white!" Wednesday has the child full of woe. Is he gonna stop horses for a living? And only the child born on Saturday works hard. That implies that 6 out of 7 people are lazy bastards.
Why does Sunday's child have multiple traits? The rest of us only get one apiece. (*The Friday exception noted) There may be bias going on here. You think the author may have been born on a Sunday? The author did not even use the word Sunday. He referred to it as "the Sabbath." When I think about "the Sabbath," I think about Ozzie Ozborn's old band. Ozzy was born on a Friday. I checked. Perhaps someone else from the band was born on a Sunday. You can check that out.
Well, I killed enough time. All these blog entries can't be winners.
Monday's child is fair of face
Tuesday's child is full of grace
Wednesday's child is full of woe
Thursday's child has far to go
Friday's child is loving and giving
Saturday's child works hard for a living
But the child that is born on the Sabbath day,
is fair and wise, good and gay
I looked up the birth dates of Elton John, Rock Hudson and Liberace. They were all born on a Tuesday. You would have thought it would have been a Sunday, but when this was written "gay" had a different connotation. Anyway, back to me, I was born on a Thursday. I have far to go. "Far to go where?" is what I want to know. I wonder if that means in life or in travels. Perhaps wealth and popularity.
The poem is not very specific. Like what is "fair of face?" It could mean light complected or average in looks. "How's the kid look?" "Eh, fair." "Boy, he sure is white!" Wednesday has the child full of woe. Is he gonna stop horses for a living? And only the child born on Saturday works hard. That implies that 6 out of 7 people are lazy bastards.
Why does Sunday's child have multiple traits? The rest of us only get one apiece. (*The Friday exception noted) There may be bias going on here. You think the author may have been born on a Sunday? The author did not even use the word Sunday. He referred to it as "the Sabbath." When I think about "the Sabbath," I think about Ozzie Ozborn's old band. Ozzy was born on a Friday. I checked. Perhaps someone else from the band was born on a Sunday. You can check that out.
Well, I killed enough time. All these blog entries can't be winners.
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Whatever Happened to Bongo Bob?
I have a set of bongos. They are old. I never learned to play them. They were entrusted to me for safekeeping back in 1972.
"Let's go to California," was the suggestion and immediately the Ox and I stuck our thumbs out and began our trek west. The Ox was a fellow who's real name was Bill. He was given the moniker "Ox" because of a childhood incident where he was on a farm and tried on an oxen yoke. The yoke was on for a minute. The nickname went on for years. So be it.
After a week we had made it as far as Denver, Colorado. This would be as close to California as we would make it. We were road weary and needed to stabilize. We had decided to see what Denver was all about and had decided to stay for awhile.
In 1972 in Denver there was a place called "Shiloh House." This was a place that took in runaways and homeless people and travelers. They would put you up for the night and feed you in the morning. You would have to be out of the house by 6:30 a.m. and could not come back in until after 5:00 in the afternoon. This was to encourage people to either find a job or move on. The Ox and I found jobs.
We worked at a Maxwell House warehouse. For eight hours a day, five days a week, we would unload 50 lb. sacks of coffee beans from trucks and stack them onto pallets. Hard to believe that not only were we allowed to do this, we were also being paid a dollar twenty-five an hour. (Here's an old joke about Maxwell House. Did you know Maxwell House also make parachutes? They use the same slogan. "Good to the last drop." )
The people who stayed at Shiloh House was in constant flux. New faces replacing familiar faces daily. One day Bongo Bob showed up. He was a nice enough sort of fellow. He had a set of bongos and could play them quite well. The Ox and I integrated him in our growing circle of friends. He was the one who introduced us to "Crank."
"Crank," as you may already know, was the street slang for crystal methamphetamine. Two dollars worth of crank would turn the average joe into a Warner Brothers Road Runner cartoon. Beep-beep.
The Ox and I made a daily habit of stopping at the bus depot and renting a locker. We could protect our belongings for 25 cents a day. Better this than carrying all our possessions everywhere we went. Bongo Bob liked this idea and asked if he could share the locker with us. He wanted to safeguard his bongos. We didn't mind. There was all sorts of extra space in the locker. Plus, it would cut down on the individual expense of the rental to 33%.
I don't recall where Bongo Bob worked. He did not work at Maxwell House with the Ox and I. But he did have a check everyday from Manpower. Manpower was a "temp" agency in Denver that was as close to slavery as humanly possible in the 20th century. Manpower was the go-between that employed the Ox and I at Maxwell House.
After meeting Bongo Bob, the days at Maxwell House were a lot easier and went by a lot faster. Beep-beep. The three of us would go to the bus station every morning, get a change of clothes, and go off to work. After work we would meet up back at bus depot and go to the YMCA (you could shower there for ten cents). Afterword we would go one of a dozen places along Colfax Avenue to spend our days wages. Mickey D's was always the first stop. They sold McCrank in the parking lot. We would generally call it quits around 3 a.m. and return to Shiloh House to grab a couple hours sleep before work in the morning. If sleep was possible. Beep-beep.
I should probably mention that Shiloh House was a religious organization and their sheltering charity had an ulterior motive. If they could convert x number of individuals to their way of thinking, they win a lifetime supply of plastic Jesus (or some such thing). And they wanted those plastic Jesus (or some such thing) real bad. Every time they let us in and granted us a bed, we were prayed over and asked if we had found Jesus. They should have put his picture on a milk carton. That would have better results than waiting for the Ox and I to find him. We really were not looking, nor were we intending to start a search party.
One day after work, Bongo Bob did not show up at the bus station. We were more curious to his where-abouts than we were about Jesus. We continued on in spite of this event. After all, Maxwell House was depending on us. Who else could maintain our breakneck speed unloading their trucks? Beep-beep.
About two weeks after Bongo Bob disappeared, Shiloh House had put up with us long enough. I'm not certain what broke the camel's back: either our crank abuse, or our constant hitting on the female guests. For future reference; Religious organizations are very adamant against premarital relations. Especially when they observe you changing partners as often as coffee filters. We were asked to vacate and not return.
The Ox and I decided that we had been west long enough. We quit Maxwell House and thumbed our way back to Michigan. Naturally, we emptied out the bus locker before we left. The Ox got another set of clothes. Bongo Bob had been closer to his size than mine. I inherited Bongo Bob's bongos. When I got back home, I stored them in the basement.
Periodically throughout the years I run across the bongos and think back to those days. It was quite an experience. I still wonder if our sudden departure hurt the Maxwell House Coffee Company. Do you think they might still be in business?
"Let's go to California," was the suggestion and immediately the Ox and I stuck our thumbs out and began our trek west. The Ox was a fellow who's real name was Bill. He was given the moniker "Ox" because of a childhood incident where he was on a farm and tried on an oxen yoke. The yoke was on for a minute. The nickname went on for years. So be it.
After a week we had made it as far as Denver, Colorado. This would be as close to California as we would make it. We were road weary and needed to stabilize. We had decided to see what Denver was all about and had decided to stay for awhile.
In 1972 in Denver there was a place called "Shiloh House." This was a place that took in runaways and homeless people and travelers. They would put you up for the night and feed you in the morning. You would have to be out of the house by 6:30 a.m. and could not come back in until after 5:00 in the afternoon. This was to encourage people to either find a job or move on. The Ox and I found jobs.
We worked at a Maxwell House warehouse. For eight hours a day, five days a week, we would unload 50 lb. sacks of coffee beans from trucks and stack them onto pallets. Hard to believe that not only were we allowed to do this, we were also being paid a dollar twenty-five an hour. (Here's an old joke about Maxwell House. Did you know Maxwell House also make parachutes? They use the same slogan. "Good to the last drop." )
The people who stayed at Shiloh House was in constant flux. New faces replacing familiar faces daily. One day Bongo Bob showed up. He was a nice enough sort of fellow. He had a set of bongos and could play them quite well. The Ox and I integrated him in our growing circle of friends. He was the one who introduced us to "Crank."
"Crank," as you may already know, was the street slang for crystal methamphetamine. Two dollars worth of crank would turn the average joe into a Warner Brothers Road Runner cartoon. Beep-beep.
The Ox and I made a daily habit of stopping at the bus depot and renting a locker. We could protect our belongings for 25 cents a day. Better this than carrying all our possessions everywhere we went. Bongo Bob liked this idea and asked if he could share the locker with us. He wanted to safeguard his bongos. We didn't mind. There was all sorts of extra space in the locker. Plus, it would cut down on the individual expense of the rental to 33%.
I don't recall where Bongo Bob worked. He did not work at Maxwell House with the Ox and I. But he did have a check everyday from Manpower. Manpower was a "temp" agency in Denver that was as close to slavery as humanly possible in the 20th century. Manpower was the go-between that employed the Ox and I at Maxwell House.
After meeting Bongo Bob, the days at Maxwell House were a lot easier and went by a lot faster. Beep-beep. The three of us would go to the bus station every morning, get a change of clothes, and go off to work. After work we would meet up back at bus depot and go to the YMCA (you could shower there for ten cents). Afterword we would go one of a dozen places along Colfax Avenue to spend our days wages. Mickey D's was always the first stop. They sold McCrank in the parking lot. We would generally call it quits around 3 a.m. and return to Shiloh House to grab a couple hours sleep before work in the morning. If sleep was possible. Beep-beep.
I should probably mention that Shiloh House was a religious organization and their sheltering charity had an ulterior motive. If they could convert x number of individuals to their way of thinking, they win a lifetime supply of plastic Jesus (or some such thing). And they wanted those plastic Jesus (or some such thing) real bad. Every time they let us in and granted us a bed, we were prayed over and asked if we had found Jesus. They should have put his picture on a milk carton. That would have better results than waiting for the Ox and I to find him. We really were not looking, nor were we intending to start a search party.
One day after work, Bongo Bob did not show up at the bus station. We were more curious to his where-abouts than we were about Jesus. We continued on in spite of this event. After all, Maxwell House was depending on us. Who else could maintain our breakneck speed unloading their trucks? Beep-beep.
About two weeks after Bongo Bob disappeared, Shiloh House had put up with us long enough. I'm not certain what broke the camel's back: either our crank abuse, or our constant hitting on the female guests. For future reference; Religious organizations are very adamant against premarital relations. Especially when they observe you changing partners as often as coffee filters. We were asked to vacate and not return.
The Ox and I decided that we had been west long enough. We quit Maxwell House and thumbed our way back to Michigan. Naturally, we emptied out the bus locker before we left. The Ox got another set of clothes. Bongo Bob had been closer to his size than mine. I inherited Bongo Bob's bongos. When I got back home, I stored them in the basement.
Periodically throughout the years I run across the bongos and think back to those days. It was quite an experience. I still wonder if our sudden departure hurt the Maxwell House Coffee Company. Do you think they might still be in business?
Monday, May 24, 2010
Trash Talk
Down the street from me a neighbor has put a gas grill up for sale. He has this item on display between the curb and sidewalk. Tomorrow is garbage day. People put their trash out tonight. There are also scavengers that roam the neighborhood on trash nights. They look for scrap metal, newspapers, anything that can be fixed up or sold for a few bucks. Can you picture this scenario?
I know the man down the street is looking to sell his grill. I can imagine one of these scrappers tossing it in the back of their truck tonight. I can even hear what they would tell the police if they got caught; "He was throwing it out, Officer." And the response when the cop points out the for sale sign; "He must have tried to sell it but couldn't so he threw it out. Why else would it be on the curb?"
I don't know if there are laws against scavenging. If not, then this would be the perfect crime. I know the police have seen these people before and have not bothered them. They may just consider this a very petty crime like taking forgotten change out of candy machine (Yes, that is against the law) and that is why the cops don't bother them. I know that when you throw away something, you give up your ownership rights. I also know that for the police to legally use your trash against you, they either have to have a search warrant, or wait until it is in the back of the garbage truck. I didn't spend the last 20 years watching "Law and Order" for nothing.
Speaking about garbage, do you know how hard it is to throw away a garbage can? I once tried to get rid of an old can. The first week I had trash in it with a sign that said "Please take." The garbagemen only took the trash inside, not the can itself. The second week I put the unwanted can on the curb empty with the same sign on it. The garbageman went through the motions of picking up the can, emptying its non-existent contents into the bin of the truck, and returned the can to the curb. The third week I put a longer note on it stating that the can itself was trash and to please take the can because I no longer wanted it. The garbageman went through the motions again. This time all that emptied into the truck was the note that he had not bothered to read. The fourth week I put the unwanted can inside another can to illustrate that it was trash and not of value to me. The garbageman ended up separating the cans leaving them both upside down on the curb. Finally on the fifth week I wised up and put a "For Sale" sign on the can. It was taken away in the middle of the night by a scavenger.
I know the man down the street is looking to sell his grill. I can imagine one of these scrappers tossing it in the back of their truck tonight. I can even hear what they would tell the police if they got caught; "He was throwing it out, Officer." And the response when the cop points out the for sale sign; "He must have tried to sell it but couldn't so he threw it out. Why else would it be on the curb?"
I don't know if there are laws against scavenging. If not, then this would be the perfect crime. I know the police have seen these people before and have not bothered them. They may just consider this a very petty crime like taking forgotten change out of candy machine (Yes, that is against the law) and that is why the cops don't bother them. I know that when you throw away something, you give up your ownership rights. I also know that for the police to legally use your trash against you, they either have to have a search warrant, or wait until it is in the back of the garbage truck. I didn't spend the last 20 years watching "Law and Order" for nothing.
Speaking about garbage, do you know how hard it is to throw away a garbage can? I once tried to get rid of an old can. The first week I had trash in it with a sign that said "Please take." The garbagemen only took the trash inside, not the can itself. The second week I put the unwanted can on the curb empty with the same sign on it. The garbageman went through the motions of picking up the can, emptying its non-existent contents into the bin of the truck, and returned the can to the curb. The third week I put a longer note on it stating that the can itself was trash and to please take the can because I no longer wanted it. The garbageman went through the motions again. This time all that emptied into the truck was the note that he had not bothered to read. The fourth week I put the unwanted can inside another can to illustrate that it was trash and not of value to me. The garbageman ended up separating the cans leaving them both upside down on the curb. Finally on the fifth week I wised up and put a "For Sale" sign on the can. It was taken away in the middle of the night by a scavenger.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
A Florida Distraction
I have been thinking...
(Whoa, you can't teach an old dog new tricks!)
...about...
(Are you really determined to continue in this line?)
...when...
(All right, apparently you are going through with this. So when is your when?)
...I was in Florida.
(About time you finished that sentence. You got another?)
Here is a fact. If you were to go to Disney World in Orlando and were to ask to see their sign-in book of the first visitors from Michigan, the very first name would be mine. Amazing isn't it? I am the very first person from Michigan to ever step foot in Disney World.
(That's not 100% true, is it?)
Not Disney World as it is today, but several months before it opened in 1971, my friend and I entered the Disney World Preview Center and signed their Michigan Guest Book. My signature was numero uno.
Durring Easter break of my senoir year of high school, my friends and I had a race to see who could hitchhike to Florida fastest. We were in three teams of two. We decided to meet up at Disney World, which had just announced their opening of their preview center. My partner and I won.
In fact, we got there so far in front of the others that, in order to kill time, we filled out applications for employment and went through the interview process. Disney World hired us for park maintenance.
(You mean sweeping up mouse shit?)
We were suppose to take physicals for the job. Instead, we met our other friends and continued on to Daytona Beach.
(What? That's it? Not a very good Disney World story.)
But while we were still in Orlando, we sold some blood to have extra party money.
(To Disney?)
NO! Quit interrupting! We sold blood to the Orlando Blood Bank.
(Yeah right. To have "extra party money." Now you're gonna say you partied with Walt himself...)
NO! Walt was dead already. We partied in Daytona!
(With Mickey and Donald?)
Don't be ridiculous. They're fictional charactors.
(You're a fictional charactor!)
I am not! Will you shut the hell up?!!!
(Make me.)
DAMMIT. Sorry, folks, but I have to end this now. I have to have a talk with my super-ego.
(Oh, so now you have a secret identity?)
What???
(Did you spend your blood money on super powers?)
Look, there are three of us; id, ego, and super ego. You are the super ego.
(Well if I'm the super ego, then I get to do what I want. And I don't want to talk to you anymore.)
You have no choice. All three of us exist simultaneously.
(Can't hear you.)
I said...
(CAN'T HEAR YOU. CAN'T HEAR YOU. No, no, no. No, no, no.)
I'll be back once I get myself under control.
(Whoa, you can't teach an old dog new tricks!)
...about...
(Are you really determined to continue in this line?)
...when...
(All right, apparently you are going through with this. So when is your when?)
...I was in Florida.
(About time you finished that sentence. You got another?)
Here is a fact. If you were to go to Disney World in Orlando and were to ask to see their sign-in book of the first visitors from Michigan, the very first name would be mine. Amazing isn't it? I am the very first person from Michigan to ever step foot in Disney World.
(That's not 100% true, is it?)
Not Disney World as it is today, but several months before it opened in 1971, my friend and I entered the Disney World Preview Center and signed their Michigan Guest Book. My signature was numero uno.
Durring Easter break of my senoir year of high school, my friends and I had a race to see who could hitchhike to Florida fastest. We were in three teams of two. We decided to meet up at Disney World, which had just announced their opening of their preview center. My partner and I won.
In fact, we got there so far in front of the others that, in order to kill time, we filled out applications for employment and went through the interview process. Disney World hired us for park maintenance.
(You mean sweeping up mouse shit?)
We were suppose to take physicals for the job. Instead, we met our other friends and continued on to Daytona Beach.
(What? That's it? Not a very good Disney World story.)
But while we were still in Orlando, we sold some blood to have extra party money.
(To Disney?)
NO! Quit interrupting! We sold blood to the Orlando Blood Bank.
(Yeah right. To have "extra party money." Now you're gonna say you partied with Walt himself...)
NO! Walt was dead already. We partied in Daytona!
(With Mickey and Donald?)
Don't be ridiculous. They're fictional charactors.
(You're a fictional charactor!)
I am not! Will you shut the hell up?!!!
(Make me.)
DAMMIT. Sorry, folks, but I have to end this now. I have to have a talk with my super-ego.
(Oh, so now you have a secret identity?)
What???
(Did you spend your blood money on super powers?)
Look, there are three of us; id, ego, and super ego. You are the super ego.
(Well if I'm the super ego, then I get to do what I want. And I don't want to talk to you anymore.)
You have no choice. All three of us exist simultaneously.
(Can't hear you.)
I said...
(CAN'T HEAR YOU. CAN'T HEAR YOU. No, no, no. No, no, no.)
I'll be back once I get myself under control.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Bicycle Blues
I am the first to admit that I am not physically fit. I quit cigarettes eight years ago. To some that amount of time seems trivial. To others, an eternity. I haven't craved a cigarette in 3 or 4 years. Instead I crave hamburgers, tacos, pizzas, french fries, baked potatoes with sour cream and butter, KFC, BK, Micky D, Lil' C, fast food, slow food, and food that goes at normal speeds. Thus my old slender self vanished with the last of my cigarettes. And now, before shuffling off this old mortal coil, I have decided to regain my youthful physique.
I loathe exercise; lifting weights, calisthenics, aerobics, et cetera. Yet I did find an exercise that is not totally abhorring. This miracle weight reducing system I have rediscovered is riding a bicycle. They (whoever they may be) use the expression "it's like riding a bicycle." This supposedly means that once you learn to ride a bike, you never forget. This is an outright lie. As a boy I could glide along on my bike, hands free at my side, turn by shifting my balance, and stop on a dime and have nine cents change. Today, I am sideswiping parked cars, houses, telephone poles, and all stationary objects along my route. My balance is constantly being corrected. I imagine people seeing me either coming or going would think I am some new form of mobile paint mixer. And my stopping technique today is dragging my feet and slamming the front wheel into a building. My stops are always accompanied by a vocal "Oh, shit!"
But press on I continue. I have gone from circling the block to circling the neighborhood. Soon I shall be circling the city. I traverse by bike every other day, and every new ride includes an additional block of distance. I do not know if I am losing weight for I have no scale in my home. I threw the last lying bastard out and have since to replace it. The only time I am weighed is at the doctors office and I believe that scale also has a knack for telling falsehoods. Yet there are days that I feel lighter. Perhaps if I were to replace my blood with helium, then the scales would register true.
The whole reason I have been talking about this is because I have just returned from my bicycling and it is fresh on my mind. I estimate that I have just covered five and half miles. I know I must have lost at least ten or fifteen pounds. I think I will reward myself with a banana split.
I loathe exercise; lifting weights, calisthenics, aerobics, et cetera. Yet I did find an exercise that is not totally abhorring. This miracle weight reducing system I have rediscovered is riding a bicycle. They (whoever they may be) use the expression "it's like riding a bicycle." This supposedly means that once you learn to ride a bike, you never forget. This is an outright lie. As a boy I could glide along on my bike, hands free at my side, turn by shifting my balance, and stop on a dime and have nine cents change. Today, I am sideswiping parked cars, houses, telephone poles, and all stationary objects along my route. My balance is constantly being corrected. I imagine people seeing me either coming or going would think I am some new form of mobile paint mixer. And my stopping technique today is dragging my feet and slamming the front wheel into a building. My stops are always accompanied by a vocal "Oh, shit!"
But press on I continue. I have gone from circling the block to circling the neighborhood. Soon I shall be circling the city. I traverse by bike every other day, and every new ride includes an additional block of distance. I do not know if I am losing weight for I have no scale in my home. I threw the last lying bastard out and have since to replace it. The only time I am weighed is at the doctors office and I believe that scale also has a knack for telling falsehoods. Yet there are days that I feel lighter. Perhaps if I were to replace my blood with helium, then the scales would register true.
The whole reason I have been talking about this is because I have just returned from my bicycling and it is fresh on my mind. I estimate that I have just covered five and half miles. I know I must have lost at least ten or fifteen pounds. I think I will reward myself with a banana split.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Trying to get back on track
Whoa! Where have I been? Haven't been here for awhile. But just in case the police ask, I was with you. We were in...
umm....
...seclusion?...
Yeah! Seclusion!
That's right. We were in seclusion where we couldn't be reached by phone or St. Bernard or Canadian Mounties. Yeah, that sounds good. Okay, let's practice this. We were in Seclusion, Montana, at the height of the dental floss gathering season. Remember Frank Zappa and how we promised to move to Montana and be dental floss tycoons? (Seclusion, Montana is right next door to Paradise Falls, where demoted angels hang out at road side diners.)
If you're not getting any of this, then listen to the "Over-Nite Sensation" CD by Frank Zappa, and watch the movie "Legion."
Frank Zappa is dead. And since I'm speaking of dead Franks, guess what famous Frank died this last week? Frank Frazetta. This is a real shame. He was one of my childhood idols. I still admired him as an adult, but his real influence on me was in the 1960's. Frank Frazetta, for those of you who do not recognize his name, was the greatest illustrator of all genres of front cover artwork; be it comic book, magazine, or paperback; fantasy, horror, humor, or voluptuous vixens. The following is one of his illustrations:
If the style looks familiar, then you probably have seen his art duplicated on one of the millions of vans that drove over this planet's highway systems from the 1970's on. You may have been inside one or even owned one yourself.
And if you happen to own a Frank Frazetta original piece of artwork, then I am happy to inform you that your investment just went through the roof. If you would like, you can send the artwork to me and I'll give an appraisal. If it is an original, then I will be sorry to tell you that the artwork you have sent me was lost in the mail. Hope you had it insured.
umm....
...seclusion?...
Yeah! Seclusion!
That's right. We were in seclusion where we couldn't be reached by phone or St. Bernard or Canadian Mounties. Yeah, that sounds good. Okay, let's practice this. We were in Seclusion, Montana, at the height of the dental floss gathering season. Remember Frank Zappa and how we promised to move to Montana and be dental floss tycoons? (Seclusion, Montana is right next door to Paradise Falls, where demoted angels hang out at road side diners.)
If you're not getting any of this, then listen to the "Over-Nite Sensation" CD by Frank Zappa, and watch the movie "Legion."
Frank Zappa is dead. And since I'm speaking of dead Franks, guess what famous Frank died this last week? Frank Frazetta. This is a real shame. He was one of my childhood idols. I still admired him as an adult, but his real influence on me was in the 1960's. Frank Frazetta, for those of you who do not recognize his name, was the greatest illustrator of all genres of front cover artwork; be it comic book, magazine, or paperback; fantasy, horror, humor, or voluptuous vixens. The following is one of his illustrations:
If the style looks familiar, then you probably have seen his art duplicated on one of the millions of vans that drove over this planet's highway systems from the 1970's on. You may have been inside one or even owned one yourself.
And if you happen to own a Frank Frazetta original piece of artwork, then I am happy to inform you that your investment just went through the roof. If you would like, you can send the artwork to me and I'll give an appraisal. If it is an original, then I will be sorry to tell you that the artwork you have sent me was lost in the mail. Hope you had it insured.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Dabbling in the Future
This is a new discovery for me. It seems that if I have opened a "New Post" for my blog and then decide not to write anything and close the page. If, at a later time, I open my blog again and select "Edit Posts," there will be an entry for the post in which I wrote nothing. I can then enter my usual nonsense in this spot, click "Publish," and the post shows up under the date that I first opened it.
As an example, this post will show up dated as May 4th, but in reality I am writing this on May 16th. So I could pretend to predict that "On the May 15th Tiger home game against the Boston Red Sox, the Tigers will be losing 6-1 up until the 8th inning where they will tie up the score. The game will go into extra innings and in the bottom of the 12th, the Tigers will load the bases and Boston will walk in the winning run."
Now if you check today's sports pages, you will see that is exactly what happened. You will be saying, "Oh my God, John must be some kind of psychic. I better send him some money so he will predict my future." And you wouldn't be wrong to do so. Send me money, and I will predict your future. Or if you like, I will predict your future right now for free. Okay, are you ready for this. This can be considered a "spoiler alert," so if you do not want to know your future, do not read any further. Alright, here goes: "I predict that no matter what you do to try to change the outcome, that at the end of your life you will die."
Sorry, if I don't always bring happy tidings.
As an example, this post will show up dated as May 4th, but in reality I am writing this on May 16th. So I could pretend to predict that "On the May 15th Tiger home game against the Boston Red Sox, the Tigers will be losing 6-1 up until the 8th inning where they will tie up the score. The game will go into extra innings and in the bottom of the 12th, the Tigers will load the bases and Boston will walk in the winning run."
Now if you check today's sports pages, you will see that is exactly what happened. You will be saying, "Oh my God, John must be some kind of psychic. I better send him some money so he will predict my future." And you wouldn't be wrong to do so. Send me money, and I will predict your future. Or if you like, I will predict your future right now for free. Okay, are you ready for this. This can be considered a "spoiler alert," so if you do not want to know your future, do not read any further. Alright, here goes: "I predict that no matter what you do to try to change the outcome, that at the end of your life you will die."
Sorry, if I don't always bring happy tidings.
Monday, May 3, 2010
The Beginning of Bobby
In the Congo region of Africa lives a tribe of people known as the Bambuti. These people are classified as hunter-gatherers. The breakdown is 20/80; that is 20% of their food is from hunting and 80% is from gathering. Over the centuries, because of their more vegetative diet, the Bambuti tribe did not attain height in their development. The Bambuti are pygmies. Their total population is around thirty-five thousand, but they live separated in small bands of 15 to 50 individuals each.
In 1984, a group of French anthropologists were finishing a five year study of the Bambuti social structure, when one of the female pygmies gave birth to a two-headed baby. The mother did not survive the childbirth. Her tribe looked at the birth as an angry message from the gods of the rain forest. They believed that they had displeased the gods by allowing the French scientists access to their band of people. They forced the French to take the newborn and escorted them out of the jungle.
The French did not mind this. Their study was complete and now they had a live freak of nature with which to start another study. This time in a controlled environment. They returned to France and converted one of the labs at "L'Institut d'Etudes Tribales" (The Institute of Tribal Studies) into a baby room and day care unit. They named the two-headed baby boy Bobby in honor of one their biggest benefactors, an American Texas Billionaire named Bronco Bob Benson. Bronco Bob did not know about the French using his name for several years. He had become furious when he found out. Bronco Bob did not like being so closely associated with the pygmy boy. He arranged to have the three year old taken out of the Institute and put into a Himalayan monastery.
Little did Bronco Bob realize, but his use of the phrase "Damn straight" would be the only learning that the left head of Bobby would ever attain. Bronco Bob was notorious for his use of the expression. He never would answer a question with "Yes," he would always say "Damn straight" instead. "Care for another cocktail, Mr. Benson?" "Damn straight," he'd reply. Then the left head of Bobby would echo, "Damn straight." After Bronco Bob had left the young tot at the monastery, (He did this himself to be certain it was done right) the left head of Bobby no longer had to hear Bronco Bob in order to say the phrase. Anytime someone would speak, the left of Bobby would say, "Damn straight!"
The right head of Bobby had picked up quite a vocabulary in French. He was a genius of sorts, although the scientists had all assumed wrongly that the right head was an idiot savant. Within the week of being relocated by Bronco Bob, he had picked up a limited English vocabulary. This would come in handy at the monastery. The monks would mostly speak Himalayan with the exception of Brother Peterson, who was originally from the United States. Brother Peterson spoke both Himalayan and English fluently, but with Bobby, he only spoke English. Brother Peterson could have spoke Himalayan to Bobby. Bobby learned a rudimentary Himalayan language within hours of his arrival at the monastery. As Bobby aged, Brother Peterson would tell Bobby the wonders of America. He was careful never to mention the greed and desire for the Americans to own more possessions than their neighbors. This was why Brother Peterson forsaken all his material properties and became a Himalayan Monk. No, instead of the dog eat dog way of life the majority of Americans lived, he concentrated his teachings to Bobby of the amazing places across the great land; the Grand Canyon, Niagara Falls, Mammoth Caves, Old Faithful, the Petrified Forest, and hundreds of other scenic wonders. The right head of Bobby absorbed every detail with fascination. In the midst of every tale, the left head of Bobby would chirp in, "Damn straight!"
Bobby's right head was a sponge for learning. He was reading and speaking five languages coherently by the time he turned five. On his sixth birthday, he was given a plot of land to till and raise tomato plants. He grew the biggest, tastiest tomatoes that the monastery ever produced. His secret was that when he felt the need for a bowel movement, he would dig a hole between two of his plants, defecate, and bury the feces. This was his secret fertilizer, and he managed to keep the secret safe.
(More on Bobby another time. I am falling asleep at the keyboard.)
In 1984, a group of French anthropologists were finishing a five year study of the Bambuti social structure, when one of the female pygmies gave birth to a two-headed baby. The mother did not survive the childbirth. Her tribe looked at the birth as an angry message from the gods of the rain forest. They believed that they had displeased the gods by allowing the French scientists access to their band of people. They forced the French to take the newborn and escorted them out of the jungle.
The French did not mind this. Their study was complete and now they had a live freak of nature with which to start another study. This time in a controlled environment. They returned to France and converted one of the labs at "L'Institut d'Etudes Tribales" (The Institute of Tribal Studies) into a baby room and day care unit. They named the two-headed baby boy Bobby in honor of one their biggest benefactors, an American Texas Billionaire named Bronco Bob Benson. Bronco Bob did not know about the French using his name for several years. He had become furious when he found out. Bronco Bob did not like being so closely associated with the pygmy boy. He arranged to have the three year old taken out of the Institute and put into a Himalayan monastery.
Little did Bronco Bob realize, but his use of the phrase "Damn straight" would be the only learning that the left head of Bobby would ever attain. Bronco Bob was notorious for his use of the expression. He never would answer a question with "Yes," he would always say "Damn straight" instead. "Care for another cocktail, Mr. Benson?" "Damn straight," he'd reply. Then the left head of Bobby would echo, "Damn straight." After Bronco Bob had left the young tot at the monastery, (He did this himself to be certain it was done right) the left head of Bobby no longer had to hear Bronco Bob in order to say the phrase. Anytime someone would speak, the left of Bobby would say, "Damn straight!"
The right head of Bobby had picked up quite a vocabulary in French. He was a genius of sorts, although the scientists had all assumed wrongly that the right head was an idiot savant. Within the week of being relocated by Bronco Bob, he had picked up a limited English vocabulary. This would come in handy at the monastery. The monks would mostly speak Himalayan with the exception of Brother Peterson, who was originally from the United States. Brother Peterson spoke both Himalayan and English fluently, but with Bobby, he only spoke English. Brother Peterson could have spoke Himalayan to Bobby. Bobby learned a rudimentary Himalayan language within hours of his arrival at the monastery. As Bobby aged, Brother Peterson would tell Bobby the wonders of America. He was careful never to mention the greed and desire for the Americans to own more possessions than their neighbors. This was why Brother Peterson forsaken all his material properties and became a Himalayan Monk. No, instead of the dog eat dog way of life the majority of Americans lived, he concentrated his teachings to Bobby of the amazing places across the great land; the Grand Canyon, Niagara Falls, Mammoth Caves, Old Faithful, the Petrified Forest, and hundreds of other scenic wonders. The right head of Bobby absorbed every detail with fascination. In the midst of every tale, the left head of Bobby would chirp in, "Damn straight!"
Bobby's right head was a sponge for learning. He was reading and speaking five languages coherently by the time he turned five. On his sixth birthday, he was given a plot of land to till and raise tomato plants. He grew the biggest, tastiest tomatoes that the monastery ever produced. His secret was that when he felt the need for a bowel movement, he would dig a hole between two of his plants, defecate, and bury the feces. This was his secret fertilizer, and he managed to keep the secret safe.
(More on Bobby another time. I am falling asleep at the keyboard.)
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Creative Process
Meanwhile, deep inside my thought process, an idea starts to form. It is like an itch that begs to be scratched. I can visualize a door slightly ajar. I know something is wonderful behind. Something totally amazing that will benefit all mankind.
The intuition of discovery is overwhelming. Through the slender opening light is emitting. I take hold of the doorknob. When I push open this door, all will be revealed. I am hesitant, wondering if I am worthy of the treasure inside. Maybe not, but I have to go on, for sake of the rest of the world.
This room beyond the door encloses all the secrets of the universe (Before they are hatched, all my ideas feel like they will reveal all the secrets of the universe). I am inches away. The door is fast in its tracks and does not budge easily. I have to put my shoulder to it and shove. The door creaks in protest. It moves fractions at first and then suddenly it swings wide. I almost lose my footing and have to quickly regain my balance. I find myself in a room filled with blinding light.
I squint trying to focus on the center of the room where a shoebox shape sets on table. All is glowing white. I hear a faint humming from the box. At first the hum is annoying like the buzz of a mosquito, but then the tremor of the noise begins to go up and down like a toy kazoo. The hum turns into a tune and I recognize it as "Do You Believe in Magic?" an old 1960's song by the Lovin' Spoonful.
I grasp the top of the box to remove the lid. Although my eyes are shut tight, through my eyelids the white blindness pushes through. I don't know how much longer I can bear the brightness. I have no idea on how I will be able to look at the contents of the box. I must continue on. I know I am risking my vision, but that matters not compared to what lies within the box. I pull back the box top and anxiously allow my right eye to peek open. Inside of the box is a small creature that I immediately recognize. It's Bobby the two headed pygmy and he's playing a kazoo.
I always knew that Bobby was small, but I never imagined that he could fit into a shoebox. But why not, Bobby is figment of my imagination. I had created him on the spur of the moment a week or so earlier. Bobby's right head looks up at me and says, "About time you showed up." His left head says, "Damn straight." I apologized and Bobby's right head says, "Okay, just don't let it happen again." His left head says, "Damn straight." It was possible to hold a conversation with the right head of Bobby, but his left head will only say the words "damn straight." Bobby goes to a switch on the inside of his box and turns down the intensity of the light. "I was just trying to tan," he explains and his left head says, "Damn straight."
That's enough of this for now. I will try to pick it up later. To which Bobby's left head says, "Damn straight."
The intuition of discovery is overwhelming. Through the slender opening light is emitting. I take hold of the doorknob. When I push open this door, all will be revealed. I am hesitant, wondering if I am worthy of the treasure inside. Maybe not, but I have to go on, for sake of the rest of the world.
This room beyond the door encloses all the secrets of the universe (Before they are hatched, all my ideas feel like they will reveal all the secrets of the universe). I am inches away. The door is fast in its tracks and does not budge easily. I have to put my shoulder to it and shove. The door creaks in protest. It moves fractions at first and then suddenly it swings wide. I almost lose my footing and have to quickly regain my balance. I find myself in a room filled with blinding light.
I squint trying to focus on the center of the room where a shoebox shape sets on table. All is glowing white. I hear a faint humming from the box. At first the hum is annoying like the buzz of a mosquito, but then the tremor of the noise begins to go up and down like a toy kazoo. The hum turns into a tune and I recognize it as "Do You Believe in Magic?" an old 1960's song by the Lovin' Spoonful.
I grasp the top of the box to remove the lid. Although my eyes are shut tight, through my eyelids the white blindness pushes through. I don't know how much longer I can bear the brightness. I have no idea on how I will be able to look at the contents of the box. I must continue on. I know I am risking my vision, but that matters not compared to what lies within the box. I pull back the box top and anxiously allow my right eye to peek open. Inside of the box is a small creature that I immediately recognize. It's Bobby the two headed pygmy and he's playing a kazoo.
I always knew that Bobby was small, but I never imagined that he could fit into a shoebox. But why not, Bobby is figment of my imagination. I had created him on the spur of the moment a week or so earlier. Bobby's right head looks up at me and says, "About time you showed up." His left head says, "Damn straight." I apologized and Bobby's right head says, "Okay, just don't let it happen again." His left head says, "Damn straight." It was possible to hold a conversation with the right head of Bobby, but his left head will only say the words "damn straight." Bobby goes to a switch on the inside of his box and turns down the intensity of the light. "I was just trying to tan," he explains and his left head says, "Damn straight."
That's enough of this for now. I will try to pick it up later. To which Bobby's left head says, "Damn straight."
Dog Nab It
Why does my dog get to decide when it is time to play? She'll flop her head in my lap with her chew toy in her mouth. I am suppose to wrestle this soggy bit of doggy doll from her and when I finally succeed, I am to throw it down the hallway where she will retrieve it and place it back in my lap to repeat the process.
On the other hand, if I was to pick up her toy, wave it at her to get her attention, and then throw it down the hall, she will look at me as if I have lost my mind. "You threw it. You go get it!"
But when she is in control, if I was to ignore her the way she ignores me, then she will waggle the toy in my lap as hard as she possibly can. Needless to say, a man's lap is no place to have a toy waggled. I am forced to comply to her demands. Yet I am the supposed master.
At least I know my dog's limitations. Linda, on the other hand, does not. She will have long heart to heart talks with the dog. She will instruct Roxy (our dog) that it is not nice to try to jump through the front window and attack the mail lady. Linda will go on about how nice the mail lady is and how she will leave treats for Roxy. Roxy stares at Linda as though she understands every word being said. Linda will talk to Roxy for hours. I know the only words Roxy understands are "Go for a walk," "look in your bowl," and "Sit." The word "Sit" only works on Roxy if you are holding a piece of food that she wants.
Another trick that Roxy loves to do is to grab something she shouldn't and play keep-away. She somehow manages to snatch change up, pennies and dimes, and show us that she has the coins in her mouth. As soon as we try to retrieve them, she shuts her mouth tight. We will try to force her jaws open to no avail. When we finally give up trying to pull her mouth open, she sits back and shows us that the coins are still on her tongue. Once again we lunge at her, and she snaps her jowls shut. The only way to get Roxy to relinquish the coins is by offering her a treat. She will drop the money in an instant for a piece of ham or turkey. In a way it's like payment. "Okay, here's seven cents for the slice of ham."
The last thing I want to mention about our dog is something that Linda finds hilarious and I find disgusting. Periodically, Roxy will sneak up on me, use her front legs to grab my shoulder, and try to hump my arm. Naturally, this is when I am laying down watching TV. Roxy could not reach my shoulder if I was standing up. Roxy is only a foot and half tall. Still, when I am laying down and she tries to mount me, Linda finds this funnier than all the Abbott and Costello movies combined. "Who's on first?" "Well, Roxy's trying to get on first." What I really don't understand is that Roxy is a female and she has been fixed, so what's with the humping? This is like fishing in the bathtub. You may be doing something, but there is no way you're getting anything.
On the other hand, if I was to pick up her toy, wave it at her to get her attention, and then throw it down the hall, she will look at me as if I have lost my mind. "You threw it. You go get it!"
But when she is in control, if I was to ignore her the way she ignores me, then she will waggle the toy in my lap as hard as she possibly can. Needless to say, a man's lap is no place to have a toy waggled. I am forced to comply to her demands. Yet I am the supposed master.
At least I know my dog's limitations. Linda, on the other hand, does not. She will have long heart to heart talks with the dog. She will instruct Roxy (our dog) that it is not nice to try to jump through the front window and attack the mail lady. Linda will go on about how nice the mail lady is and how she will leave treats for Roxy. Roxy stares at Linda as though she understands every word being said. Linda will talk to Roxy for hours. I know the only words Roxy understands are "Go for a walk," "look in your bowl," and "Sit." The word "Sit" only works on Roxy if you are holding a piece of food that she wants.
Another trick that Roxy loves to do is to grab something she shouldn't and play keep-away. She somehow manages to snatch change up, pennies and dimes, and show us that she has the coins in her mouth. As soon as we try to retrieve them, she shuts her mouth tight. We will try to force her jaws open to no avail. When we finally give up trying to pull her mouth open, she sits back and shows us that the coins are still on her tongue. Once again we lunge at her, and she snaps her jowls shut. The only way to get Roxy to relinquish the coins is by offering her a treat. She will drop the money in an instant for a piece of ham or turkey. In a way it's like payment. "Okay, here's seven cents for the slice of ham."
The last thing I want to mention about our dog is something that Linda finds hilarious and I find disgusting. Periodically, Roxy will sneak up on me, use her front legs to grab my shoulder, and try to hump my arm. Naturally, this is when I am laying down watching TV. Roxy could not reach my shoulder if I was standing up. Roxy is only a foot and half tall. Still, when I am laying down and she tries to mount me, Linda finds this funnier than all the Abbott and Costello movies combined. "Who's on first?" "Well, Roxy's trying to get on first." What I really don't understand is that Roxy is a female and she has been fixed, so what's with the humping? This is like fishing in the bathtub. You may be doing something, but there is no way you're getting anything.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
blog entries...
15:52:39
May 1st, 2010
blog entry: 2010050101
Computer running slow. Making intermittent banshee screams. Unknown how long it will last. Will try to transmit current message.
15:56:18
May 1st, 2010
blog entry: 2010050102
Strange black oily substance leaking from monitor. Movement of substance gives impression of intelligent life. Flowing towards me. Should I abandon post?
16:00:03
May 1st, 2010
blog entry: 2010050103
Standing fast against oily substance. Handy-wipes piled high forming dam between monitor and self.
16:02:44
May 1st, 2010
blog entry: 2010050104
Dam breached. Abandonning post.
16:03:59
May 1st, 2010
blog entry: 2010050105
Black oily substance has grasped my ankles. Will not allow me to leave computer. Its working its way up my legs. My god, wasn't this a Spiderman movie?
16:05:12
May 1st, 2010
blog entry: 2010050106
Only moments left before being completely devoured. Hands and head are still uncovered allowing me to relay this message. Back of hands now consumed. Same with neck and lower jaw. Pain is searing...
...please disregard previous posts. All is well. Do not leave your computer. If your monitor leaks, please touch the fluid immediately. I repeat, do not leave your computer. Thank you.
May 1st, 2010
blog entry: 2010050101
Computer running slow. Making intermittent banshee screams. Unknown how long it will last. Will try to transmit current message.
15:56:18
May 1st, 2010
blog entry: 2010050102
Strange black oily substance leaking from monitor. Movement of substance gives impression of intelligent life. Flowing towards me. Should I abandon post?
16:00:03
May 1st, 2010
blog entry: 2010050103
Standing fast against oily substance. Handy-wipes piled high forming dam between monitor and self.
16:02:44
May 1st, 2010
blog entry: 2010050104
Dam breached. Abandonning post.
16:03:59
May 1st, 2010
blog entry: 2010050105
Black oily substance has grasped my ankles. Will not allow me to leave computer. Its working its way up my legs. My god, wasn't this a Spiderman movie?
16:05:12
May 1st, 2010
blog entry: 2010050106
Only moments left before being completely devoured. Hands and head are still uncovered allowing me to relay this message. Back of hands now consumed. Same with neck and lower jaw. Pain is searing...
...please disregard previous posts. All is well. Do not leave your computer. If your monitor leaks, please touch the fluid immediately. I repeat, do not leave your computer. Thank you.
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