Last week, the National Counter-Terrorism Center released its stunning 2011 Report on Terrorism. Guess what? The NCTC says you, as an American, are more likely to be killed by your furniture than by acts of terrorism.
What?! Have the terrible terrorists won by converting our innocent furniture? Have these meanies of the middle east broken our faithful wooden desks and chairs into tiny splinter groups?
Wait a minute. How do you know if your furniture has been converted?
I'm glad you asked. As an owner of fine furniture (until it gets repossessed next week - I didn't pay my exorcist bill), let me offer a few helpful hints.
You have justifiable suspicions if you noticed any of the following:
- Your Feng Shui has developed Feng bin Shui'n tendencies.
- Lebanese ceder furnishings have recently set up residence with your American pines.
- A sober you discovered your liquor cabinet stoned ... by rocks.
- After arranging your couch and davenport, you find them reorientated toward Mecca. NOTE: This must happen at least 5 times during the day. Anything less and you can blame your cat with have a little fun with your fears. Of course, you can stop your cat's shenanigans by casually mentioning how Persia rugs are made from skins of prankster felines.
Even if you notice a few oddities in your home (aside from the usual teenagers and spouse antics), you shouldn't worry. Our government is on top of it - napping in a recliner. No, just kidding. Our officials are busy revamping the terror alert color codes. You may remember the green "leave the house unlocked and the keys in the car while sleeping" color of safety, followed by increased anxiety-inducing colors of blue, yellow, orange, and finally "put your head between your legs and kiss yourself goodbye" red. We will soon have new stages of terror alert: starting with boringly safe polyester, then vinyl, silk, leather, and finally slip cover ("be as scared as you want, we'll clean it all off later").
Also, the fine folks at Home Land security ask that we take our furniture to the airports. There, competent agents of the TSA will put their well-rehearsed security talents to work by strip-searching sofas, undressing dressers, probing the cavities of grandfather clocks, and slowing all moveables to a dead stop.
Speaking of bureaus, our illustrious department of the FBI have already infiltrated several IKEA and furniture stores around the country. So you can sleep even safer tonight. If nothing else, the FBI will do its best to keep the Secret Service away from the love seats.
In short, rest assured that your government is doing all that it can. In addition to our current gaggle of counter-terrorism units, we'll soon be surrounding by forces trained in counter-top-terrorism. While you marble at their tactics, you can bet you won't take these superior forces for granite. (I apologize for the puns, but they are for your safety. If you heard groaning other than your own, take action immediately.)
Of course, the government can't everything (even if they spend like they can.) So protect yourself. Make a list of everything in your precious home. On your list, add a "Bin here, done that" column to mark off as you check IDs, and nail down everything that shouldn't move. We'll show those terrorists who's boss ... one stick of furniture at a time!
Friday, June 22, 2012
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Perhaps it was a bad idea.
Perhaps it was a bad idea to have staring contests with the sun. What did I know? I was young and foolish and almost won last week's challenge.
So ... Hurray! I'm going blind. That news wasn't really a surprise to me - I could see it coming. Actually, it became more obscure - the floaters in my eyes and my nearsightedness have been getting annoyingly worse over these past few months.
No, the surprising news came from my eye doctor. Yesterday, he said I am developing cataracts. I said I'd rather be developing film - the photograph kind, not this wispy obstruction clouding my sight.
I am sure blindness will have its plus side. I won't miss looking at the ugliness in the world. Hopefully, I have enough memories of beauty to sustain me during my dark days.
While you can't have 'cataracts' without a 'cat', the untreated result involves a dog. Maybe I'll get a seeing eye dog. Then I could walk into a store, swing the dog by it's tail, and say I'm just looking around. Then again, if I do get paired with this life-saving animal, perhaps I better not ask if I can take my pet for a spin first.
I wish it were my sense of smell going instead of my sense of sight. Without my nose working, I could continue with my works of pencil sketches. Without my eyes working, the best I can do is rub my nose on the canvas. Unfortunately, I don't recall the guidance counselor recommending a promising career in "nose art".
Oh well. Please excuse me. The sun taunts me into just one more game. We'll see who wins this time. Or we'll just see ... for a little while longer anyway.
So ... Hurray! I'm going blind. That news wasn't really a surprise to me - I could see it coming. Actually, it became more obscure - the floaters in my eyes and my nearsightedness have been getting annoyingly worse over these past few months.
No, the surprising news came from my eye doctor. Yesterday, he said I am developing cataracts. I said I'd rather be developing film - the photograph kind, not this wispy obstruction clouding my sight.
I am sure blindness will have its plus side. I won't miss looking at the ugliness in the world. Hopefully, I have enough memories of beauty to sustain me during my dark days.
While you can't have 'cataracts' without a 'cat', the untreated result involves a dog. Maybe I'll get a seeing eye dog. Then I could walk into a store, swing the dog by it's tail, and say I'm just looking around. Then again, if I do get paired with this life-saving animal, perhaps I better not ask if I can take my pet for a spin first.
I wish it were my sense of smell going instead of my sense of sight. Without my nose working, I could continue with my works of pencil sketches. Without my eyes working, the best I can do is rub my nose on the canvas. Unfortunately, I don't recall the guidance counselor recommending a promising career in "nose art".
Oh well. Please excuse me. The sun taunts me into just one more game. We'll see who wins this time. Or we'll just see ... for a little while longer anyway.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
Shazam!
As we sat at the table after eating our lunch, Mexican music blared over our heads. Odd because this was a Japanese restaurant. No, just kidding. My friends and I had gathered for our ritual Friday lunch at our favorite Mexican eatery.
One of my friends showed off the capabilities of her new iPhone by pointing it at the speaker while running an app called Shazam. Within seconds, Shazam not only identified the name and artist of this Banda song, it also begin playing the annoyingly melodious concoction of tuba and accordion for us. Amazing!
This would've been enough to impress us except for what followed. While sitting next to the proud owner of the iPhone, my other friend unexpectedly sounded an intestinal tweet* - or, as you old school types would have said - he farted.
The Shazam app faithfully reacted to that short burst of musical notes. Within seconds, it gave us the phone number to Congressional switchboard. Amazing!
*Sorry, just trying to keep it modern. Even so, you still have to watch out for those hashtags. They can get messy.
One of my friends showed off the capabilities of her new iPhone by pointing it at the speaker while running an app called Shazam. Within seconds, Shazam not only identified the name and artist of this Banda song, it also begin playing the annoyingly melodious concoction of tuba and accordion for us. Amazing!
This would've been enough to impress us except for what followed. While sitting next to the proud owner of the iPhone, my other friend unexpectedly sounded an intestinal tweet* - or, as you old school types would have said - he farted.
The Shazam app faithfully reacted to that short burst of musical notes. Within seconds, it gave us the phone number to Congressional switchboard. Amazing!
*Sorry, just trying to keep it modern. Even so, you still have to watch out for those hashtags. They can get messy.
Friday, June 15, 2012
Jeff's Challenge.
I almost feel like I've joined an AAA group. Sheepishly, I stand here in front of all of you and say, "Hi, I'm Ron. I'm a writer and I don't know what I'm doing. I don't need to be stopped, but directed - a knowledgeable critic, a helpful reader, an encouraging editor - just a little guidance with what I write."
But to say that feels like begging. "Say, buddy, can you spare an better verb? It's been a rough week, you see; my sentence structure is a little off. Whatever you can spare will help. A few words, even a couple of letters. Besides F and U, I mean. Yeah, that's ok, thanks anyway."
You know, if it wasn't for readers, writing would be much, much easier - just not as much as fun or rewarding. So I'll take Jeff's challenge to connect with other writers. Maybe they feel like I do.
"Hi, I'm Ron ..."
But to say that feels like begging. "Say, buddy, can you spare an better verb? It's been a rough week, you see; my sentence structure is a little off. Whatever you can spare will help. A few words, even a couple of letters. Besides F and U, I mean. Yeah, that's ok, thanks anyway."
You know, if it wasn't for readers, writing would be much, much easier - just not as much as fun or rewarding. So I'll take Jeff's challenge to connect with other writers. Maybe they feel like I do.
"Hi, I'm Ron ..."
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Soon To Be: MACC - Mothers Against Caffeine Consumption?
Want to treat your body better? Well, according to several kill-joy articles that crossed my RSS feed this week, we must drink little or no coffee. At the very least, these obviously perky morning-type writers want us to start drinking "responsible". As the old saying goes, "Friends don't let friend get wired." (Unless you're a puppet.)
You know, I thought I have been an excellent caretaker of that holiest of temples: my body. Aside from a few dusty pews (blamed on the dog, of course), I thought I was doing fine.
To me, responsible coffee drinking means going into Starbucks and ordering a Grande sugar-free, non-fat, heavy on the whipped cream, vanilla latte with 3 shots of espresso, filled 2/3 to the top, pouring whole milk on top with 3 shakes of Cinnamon, followed by extra whipped foam and a little soy latte. * The responsible part comes from you ordering this with a straight face and your pinky extended as you hand over your wallet to be vacuum- cleaned of cash (the vacuum-cleaning is a free service, by the way).
So how do you know if you've "coffee'd" irresponsibly? Fortunately, like everything else, there's an app for that. As of today, my ancient iPhone 3G runs the "Caffeine Zone 2 Lite" app. Once you have entered your weight, this handy piece of coding tracks the time you drank your coffee, how quickly you drained your cup, and the amount of invigorating goodness you poured down your throat. The app then shows you how long the caffeine lasts in your system as you buzz about saving the world from kill-joy articles on responsible coffee drinking.
Yes, I know. Some people do take things to excess. And yes, perhaps you need a wee less caffeine if you can thread a sewing machine while it's running. But aside from those who could stand still during an earthquake, most of us know our limits and act accordingly.
Not to brag about my actions, but my girlfriends have often compared me to coffee: I'm warm, dark (when the lights are out), and I keep them up all night - usually from snoring. I should point out these comments were made by ex-girlfriends, a couple of whom have been writing kill-joy articles on coffee.
Hey, just a minute ...
*A little coffee trivia: "Soy latte" is not Spanish for "I am late". I discovered this little fact when I added that phrase to my order one morning while in a hurry. The Mexican barista standing behind the counter was not impressed. Lucky for me, he did not charge for the spit added to my drink.
You know, I thought I have been an excellent caretaker of that holiest of temples: my body. Aside from a few dusty pews (blamed on the dog, of course), I thought I was doing fine.
To me, responsible coffee drinking means going into Starbucks and ordering a Grande sugar-free, non-fat, heavy on the whipped cream, vanilla latte with 3 shots of espresso, filled 2/3 to the top, pouring whole milk on top with 3 shakes of Cinnamon, followed by extra whipped foam and a little soy latte. * The responsible part comes from you ordering this with a straight face and your pinky extended as you hand over your wallet to be vacuum- cleaned of cash (the vacuum-cleaning is a free service, by the way).
So how do you know if you've "coffee'd" irresponsibly? Fortunately, like everything else, there's an app for that. As of today, my ancient iPhone 3G runs the "Caffeine Zone 2 Lite" app. Once you have entered your weight, this handy piece of coding tracks the time you drank your coffee, how quickly you drained your cup, and the amount of invigorating goodness you poured down your throat. The app then shows you how long the caffeine lasts in your system as you buzz about saving the world from kill-joy articles on responsible coffee drinking.
Yes, I know. Some people do take things to excess. And yes, perhaps you need a wee less caffeine if you can thread a sewing machine while it's running. But aside from those who could stand still during an earthquake, most of us know our limits and act accordingly.
Not to brag about my actions, but my girlfriends have often compared me to coffee: I'm warm, dark (when the lights are out), and I keep them up all night - usually from snoring. I should point out these comments were made by ex-girlfriends, a couple of whom have been writing kill-joy articles on coffee.
Hey, just a minute ...
*A little coffee trivia: "Soy latte" is not Spanish for "I am late". I discovered this little fact when I added that phrase to my order one morning while in a hurry. The Mexican barista standing behind the counter was not impressed. Lucky for me, he did not charge for the spit added to my drink.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
not so psychic after all.
As I walked up to my car in Walmart's parking lot, I noticed someone had attached a flyer to my windshield. Being the curious soul that I am, I freed the paper and read the large, colorful print, "Call now for a free psychic reading!" I then threw the flyer into the trash. After all, how good can that psychic be if they didn't foresee me trashing their sales literature?
Sunday, June 10, 2012
today's revelation.
I just watched my friend sit on her glasses. That was silly of her. Everyone knows that hindsight is 20/20.
In all fairness, I should mention that she doesn't have any child. As we parents all know, once she has a youngster or two, those eyes should move to the back of her head. Of course, she will still have to watch where she sits.
In all fairness, I should mention that she doesn't have any child. As we parents all know, once she has a youngster or two, those eyes should move to the back of her head. Of course, she will still have to watch where she sits.
Friday, June 08, 2012
Don't know nuthin' 'bout birthin' them words.
The more I work at writing, the more I think I understand the trauma of giving birth. Both processes are frustrating and painful and messy. But in the end, I have produced a wonderful child – one that I wish was just a little bit smarter and more beautiful than everyone else's.
Thursday, June 07, 2012
How to write a novel.
It's easy I'm told. Just write 250 to 300 words a day, you will have a novel at the end of a year.
Yeah. Or, as would be in my case, a collection of 100,000 words and a hope that the novel fairy will put a novel under my pillow. Something I can chew on during my sleep. When I awake, I can complain that someone has been putting words in my mouth. Maybe my girlfriend will be close by so she can take the words right out of my mouth. (Not that that has ever happened before.) How's that for a novel idea!
I guess collecting words wouldn't a bad hobby. Daniel Webster made a dictionary with his collection. And, so far, the TV show "Hoarders" hasn't featured anyone hoarding words. (Squirreling away books and magazines doesn't count. That's just amassing paper that has letter patterns.)
The secret to writing that novel, or collecting words, is ... to start: first an idea, turn it into a letter, then a word, followed by more words, then a sentence, then a paragraph. Putting off the 'start' step - or if you like big words: procrastination - gets you nowhere. Perhaps I could start by writing a mystery, science-fiction, romance book about procrastination. I could call it "Read Me Later When You Love Me On the Moon. (How Did We Get There?)"
Maybe not. Jumping into writing a book on procrastination seems self-defeating.
Yeah. Or, as would be in my case, a collection of 100,000 words and a hope that the novel fairy will put a novel under my pillow. Something I can chew on during my sleep. When I awake, I can complain that someone has been putting words in my mouth. Maybe my girlfriend will be close by so she can take the words right out of my mouth. (Not that that has ever happened before.) How's that for a novel idea!
I guess collecting words wouldn't a bad hobby. Daniel Webster made a dictionary with his collection. And, so far, the TV show "Hoarders" hasn't featured anyone hoarding words. (Squirreling away books and magazines doesn't count. That's just amassing paper that has letter patterns.)
The secret to writing that novel, or collecting words, is ... to start: first an idea, turn it into a letter, then a word, followed by more words, then a sentence, then a paragraph. Putting off the 'start' step - or if you like big words: procrastination - gets you nowhere. Perhaps I could start by writing a mystery, science-fiction, romance book about procrastination. I could call it "Read Me Later When You Love Me On the Moon. (How Did We Get There?)"
Maybe not. Jumping into writing a book on procrastination seems self-defeating.
Monday, June 04, 2012
This is a toothful post. Weally and for twue.
With thanks to my still-in-operation postal service, I received a sales coupon for Colgate's "Optic White" toothpaste. I guess Colgate wants your eye teeth to do a better job of watching what you eat.
But what if you no longer have your eye teeth? Does Colgate have a comparable product? Is there a "Optic Clear", "Optic Non-white", or even "No-optic-for-you White"?
Of course, you have to be careful with product labels. Some cultural groups have a sensitivity to the most innocence of words. I'm surprised Colgate actually put "Optic White" on their toothpaste. No doubt this happened only after months of deliberation between their lawyers and various ethnic groups. The last thing Colgate needs is a lawsuit because someone is offended by the word, "Optic".
But what if you no longer have your eye teeth? Does Colgate have a comparable product? Is there a "Optic Clear", "Optic Non-white", or even "No-optic-for-you White"?
Of course, you have to be careful with product labels. Some cultural groups have a sensitivity to the most innocence of words. I'm surprised Colgate actually put "Optic White" on their toothpaste. No doubt this happened only after months of deliberation between their lawyers and various ethnic groups. The last thing Colgate needs is a lawsuit because someone is offended by the word, "Optic".
Friday, June 01, 2012
I must be a twit.
I read that you can use Twitter to boost your popularity, to get more traffic to your site, even to win friends and fame and money. But Twitter just frustrates me.
All I can say at this moment is ... #hashtag, you're it!
All I can say at this moment is ... #hashtag, you're it!
The Art of Perler Beads
As the North Carolina summer rolled out its heated welcome mat of sun and bugs and torrential storms, I thought back to my youthful summer breaks in New Hampshire - no air conditioning, 3 TV channels, bratty younger sisters, and boredom. Ah, the good old days.
One year, my parents tried to change this situation: they bought us Perler beads. You might remember these tiny, hollowed-out cylinders. You would arrange these rubbery grains of colored plastic on a pegboard to make all sorts of patterns that, nowadays, look like pixels on an flat-screen TV.
At first, my parent had a success on their hands. Instead of hours of us idiotically bickering, we spent many happy, often quiet hours creating our masterpieces. But then ... well, I now realize that our activities soon drove my parents crazy. The longer we contentedly played, the more these little bits of plastic would magically migrate all over the house. Until, one day, just before school started, all of our beads mysteriously disappeared. My mom said something about Perler pieces needing a vacation.
Years later, I decided to share my creative adventure with my young children as they whined about having nothing to do. At the same time, Sam's Club had a large set of the beads on sale. ("Large", in Sam's Club terms, means barrel-sized.) My innocent memories coupled with my adult wallet made my purchasing decision easy enough. So, for the first few days, all was fine as my peaceful children exercised their imagination. Then, slowly and maddeningly, those plastic pellets turned me into my parents.
It started as I began finding multicolored pieces randomly throughout the house. Then, I would find these tiny bubbles in every possible nook (and some impossible nooks) - in the car, in the dog's dish, in my shoes, in the wash machine. Thanks to the heat from the dryer, a few melted their way into my work shirts. And don't make me explain how they wound up in the toilet. Of course, after a few weeks, these toys of creativity also took a vacation - to the Salvation Army store.
That was years ago. I had assumed that the Perler beads went the way of Garbage Pail Kids and tamagotchi pets. But no. Yesterday, as I set up my sister's art site on etsy.com, I discovered the artwork of Steve Moore, who uses Perler beads to create amazing photo-like pictures of celebrities. For example, take a look at these:
Great work, don't you think? I'm wonder whose portrait Mr. Moore will create next? With the resurging interest in the Rocky Movie series, I wonder if Mr. Moore plans a picture of Rocky Balboa? The only way such a portrait could be more incredible is for Steve to include Tiger Eye Beads for that "eye of the Tiger" realism.
Nah! I don't that likeness will ever happen. The last thing we need is someone else to complain about Sylvester Stallone's beady little eyes.
One year, my parents tried to change this situation: they bought us Perler beads. You might remember these tiny, hollowed-out cylinders. You would arrange these rubbery grains of colored plastic on a pegboard to make all sorts of patterns that, nowadays, look like pixels on an flat-screen TV. At first, my parent had a success on their hands. Instead of hours of us idiotically bickering, we spent many happy, often quiet hours creating our masterpieces. But then ... well, I now realize that our activities soon drove my parents crazy. The longer we contentedly played, the more these little bits of plastic would magically migrate all over the house. Until, one day, just before school started, all of our beads mysteriously disappeared. My mom said something about Perler pieces needing a vacation.
Years later, I decided to share my creative adventure with my young children as they whined about having nothing to do. At the same time, Sam's Club had a large set of the beads on sale. ("Large", in Sam's Club terms, means barrel-sized.) My innocent memories coupled with my adult wallet made my purchasing decision easy enough. So, for the first few days, all was fine as my peaceful children exercised their imagination. Then, slowly and maddeningly, those plastic pellets turned me into my parents.
It started as I began finding multicolored pieces randomly throughout the house. Then, I would find these tiny bubbles in every possible nook (and some impossible nooks) - in the car, in the dog's dish, in my shoes, in the wash machine. Thanks to the heat from the dryer, a few melted their way into my work shirts. And don't make me explain how they wound up in the toilet. Of course, after a few weeks, these toys of creativity also took a vacation - to the Salvation Army store.
That was years ago. I had assumed that the Perler beads went the way of Garbage Pail Kids and tamagotchi pets. But no. Yesterday, as I set up my sister's art site on etsy.com, I discovered the artwork of Steve Moore, who uses Perler beads to create amazing photo-like pictures of celebrities. For example, take a look at these:
Great work, don't you think? I'm wonder whose portrait Mr. Moore will create next? With the resurging interest in the Rocky Movie series, I wonder if Mr. Moore plans a picture of Rocky Balboa? The only way such a portrait could be more incredible is for Steve to include Tiger Eye Beads for that "eye of the Tiger" realism.
Nah! I don't that likeness will ever happen. The last thing we need is someone else to complain about Sylvester Stallone's beady little eyes.
P'zolo not 'zolo in price.
So, with my body racked with hunger, I held Pizza Hut's P'zolo advertisement at arm's length. Soon I found myself magically in my car and then in the parking lot of the Hut. (Most of that magic involves a buttered muffin 14 hours earlier, followed by missed lunch.)
I bought 4 of Pizza Hut's newest offering - The P'zolo - 2 buffalo chickens and 2 Italian steak. My first thought after I opened the take-out carton was a wish: I wished I knew which store sold those p'zolos advertised in promo picture.
My Pizza Hut disappointments measured about 6 inches in length, about 1 and 1/2 wide, and 1/2 inch deep. Not bad except these measurements contained mostly bread and cheese.
The 'buffalo' chicken p'zolos had about 8 small cubes of plain chicken. With the absence of any spice, I don't know what was 'buffalo' about this cheese stick of an appetizer - unless it's Pizza Hut thinking, "How can we buffalo our customers out of more of their money?"
The good news is that the green pepper filler in my Italian steak was thicker than the bread. The bad news is that the bread was thicker than the layer of meat spread sparing throughout this ... snack.
All in all, $5 for 2 is not 'zolo of a price. I would put this latest treat from Pizza Hut at the tasty, almost-overpriced edge of food-for-value scale.
Oh, you do get your choice of marinara OR ranch. Note the "OR". When I asked for both, the woman behind the counter looked at me as if I had just asked for McDonald's fries. I don't know if I'm more embarrassed that I asked both sauces or that I admit buying these doughy concoctions for supper.
Did this post help you in any way? If you're too embarrassed, let me know what your 'zolo experience has been.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
No Nursing Home for Old Men
What happens when guys cross that half-century mark of age? They start thinking about hanging up their mantle of manhood. They start dreaming about retiring from their testosterone fueled adventures, about the easy life, about being catered to in a nursing home. Well, the sissy men do.
But what do you do if you are a 65-year-old Sylvester Stallone or a 64-year-old Arnold Schwarzenegger? How about Mickey Rourke at 59 or Bruce Willis at 57? The choice is easy: You all get together and make an action-packed movie where you do your own dangerous stunts, and take off your shirts to show off a physique that even 20-year-olds would be envious of – men included.
In fact, that movie, "The Expendables", is perhaps the best testosterone booster of sissy men everywhere. It has inspired a number of us to set our beer down and give serious consideration to doing a sit up or two during the week.
Unfortunately, considering exercise won't build your body as well as actually exercising. To turn a liquid six-pack into a muscular six-pack requires motivation. In this case, that motivation takes the form of shame. And if you aren't shamed into action as a 72-year-old Chuck Norris struts his stuff in "The Expendables 2" this summer, well, buddy, perhaps we need to revoke your manhood card.
Just so there's no misunderstanding - Chuck Norris does not appear in the movie. The movie appears in him!
Oh, and for you fans of Jean-Claude Van Damme and Stephen Stegall – yes, all five of you – Mr. Damme (51) shows up in this sequel. Mr. Stegall will show off his 60-year-old surly squint in "The Expendables 3", which starts filming this fall. Apparently, the first movie shamed, I mean, motivated both of them into "The Expendables" sequels. Mr. Stegall just needed a little more "motivation".
But at least Jean and Stephen are out of retirement, which is more than I can say for the rest of us girlie-men. What do I have to say for myself? "Nurse, get me another beer so I can seriously consider doing a sit-up!"
But what do you do if you are a 65-year-old Sylvester Stallone or a 64-year-old Arnold Schwarzenegger? How about Mickey Rourke at 59 or Bruce Willis at 57? The choice is easy: You all get together and make an action-packed movie where you do your own dangerous stunts, and take off your shirts to show off a physique that even 20-year-olds would be envious of – men included.
In fact, that movie, "The Expendables", is perhaps the best testosterone booster of sissy men everywhere. It has inspired a number of us to set our beer down and give serious consideration to doing a sit up or two during the week.
Unfortunately, considering exercise won't build your body as well as actually exercising. To turn a liquid six-pack into a muscular six-pack requires motivation. In this case, that motivation takes the form of shame. And if you aren't shamed into action as a 72-year-old Chuck Norris struts his stuff in "The Expendables 2" this summer, well, buddy, perhaps we need to revoke your manhood card.
Just so there's no misunderstanding - Chuck Norris does not appear in the movie. The movie appears in him!
Oh, and for you fans of Jean-Claude Van Damme and Stephen Stegall – yes, all five of you – Mr. Damme (51) shows up in this sequel. Mr. Stegall will show off his 60-year-old surly squint in "The Expendables 3", which starts filming this fall. Apparently, the first movie shamed, I mean, motivated both of them into "The Expendables" sequels. Mr. Stegall just needed a little more "motivation".
But at least Jean and Stephen are out of retirement, which is more than I can say for the rest of us girlie-men. What do I have to say for myself? "Nurse, get me another beer so I can seriously consider doing a sit-up!"
Monday, May 28, 2012
business on tv.
So tonight on Telly, I have the choice between "Undercover Boss" and "Shark Tank".
In one show, an executive suddenly becomes concerned with the welfare of his faithful revenue generators, I mean, his employees. Fortunately for him, his conversion to a kind and caring employer is witnessed by millions of potential customers, I mean, TV viewers. How convenient.
In another show, four rich executives interview potentially easy money for their pockets by honestly asking their interviewees "what's in it for me?"
I'm trying not to be cynical. But it would be so much easier to work for a company that doesn't view you as a necessary evil in their business plan.
In one show, an executive suddenly becomes concerned with the welfare of his faithful revenue generators, I mean, his employees. Fortunately for him, his conversion to a kind and caring employer is witnessed by millions of potential customers, I mean, TV viewers. How convenient.
In another show, four rich executives interview potentially easy money for their pockets by honestly asking their interviewees "what's in it for me?"
I'm trying not to be cynical. But it would be so much easier to work for a company that doesn't view you as a necessary evil in their business plan.
yin, yang, cats, and dogs
It started shortly after the perfect couple married and bought a house. She wanted undermount stainless sinks for the house; he wanted to use drop-in cast-iron versions. She wanted granite counter-top; he, quartz. As they tried to build the perfect home, they tore down a promising relationship. She became, not the yin to his yang, but the cat to his dog. He became an itch she could never quite scratch.
Amazingly, this went on for 55 years. She would yearn for a to-MAY-to sandwich on whole wheat bread; while he was okay with a to-MAH-to on rye. She would want to go to the Caribbean, and he would want her … to just go.
One day, she hired an overpriced interior designer to fix their old house. The next day, he hired a divorce attorney to fix their old marriage. Soon, they signed the papers, sold the house, split the money. They parted the best of acquaintances. One told the other, "You'll never find another like me." The other said, "Why, do you have a twin? I'm single now." And for the first time in years, they smiled.
Amazingly, this went on for 55 years. She would yearn for a to-MAY-to sandwich on whole wheat bread; while he was okay with a to-MAH-to on rye. She would want to go to the Caribbean, and he would want her … to just go.
One day, she hired an overpriced interior designer to fix their old house. The next day, he hired a divorce attorney to fix their old marriage. Soon, they signed the papers, sold the house, split the money. They parted the best of acquaintances. One told the other, "You'll never find another like me." The other said, "Why, do you have a twin? I'm single now." And for the first time in years, they smiled.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Subject verbed an object.
What was I thinking? I read my old posts and wonder when the grammar police will arrest me for my ignorant abuse of innocent words and for my senseless slaughter of many sentence structures.
My time is short. So, in spite of my frustration, I am devote as much time as possible to study the intricate craft of writing. But it is possible to undo a lifetime of bad composition habits?
Given my available time, this has become an adventure in self-education. Unfortunately, I can't speed up the process by wrapping my knuckles with a ruler every time I make a mistake. If I keep myself after school, I am punished by having the convenience of the refrigerator nearby.
Still, every day I find myself chasing down another complex rabbit hole with an ever increasing number of tunnels. Eventually, these tunnels of composition and work placement and style and other mind numbing rules converge into a humbling realization – I have to relearn those grammar school basics of subject and verb and punctuation.
During my elementary school English class, I'm pretty sure my eyes weren't that glazed-over. As I sat at my little school desk, I'm reasonably certain that I was somewhat attentive. While my gray-haired teacher, Mrs. White, droned on about those rudimentary language lessons, I'll bet I gave her my undivided attention – well, most of it. Well, maybe some of it. I don't know. I'm not a betting man.
Every day in class, she assigned us writing homework. I remember groaning. In my bedroom at home, I wrestled the demon of homework procrastination. Sometimes I would win and take my place at my desk as the reward for a hollow victory. I recall the smell of the blue lined notebook paper and the woody aroma of my No.2 pencil. To this day, I can feel the greasy slide of my pencil as I moved its sharpened, black point on the white surface of the paper. I wondered if my teacher had the same sensation as she covered my paper with her blood-red pencil.
Yet, here I am – 40 years later, struggling with concepts that have grown moldy and distorted. It's like wanting to learn advanced mathematical techniques, but finding myself having to relearn the basics of counting before I can even get to "1+1".
My time is short. So, in spite of my frustration, I am devote as much time as possible to study the intricate craft of writing. But it is possible to undo a lifetime of bad composition habits?
Given my available time, this has become an adventure in self-education. Unfortunately, I can't speed up the process by wrapping my knuckles with a ruler every time I make a mistake. If I keep myself after school, I am punished by having the convenience of the refrigerator nearby.
Still, every day I find myself chasing down another complex rabbit hole with an ever increasing number of tunnels. Eventually, these tunnels of composition and work placement and style and other mind numbing rules converge into a humbling realization – I have to relearn those grammar school basics of subject and verb and punctuation.
During my elementary school English class, I'm pretty sure my eyes weren't that glazed-over. As I sat at my little school desk, I'm reasonably certain that I was somewhat attentive. While my gray-haired teacher, Mrs. White, droned on about those rudimentary language lessons, I'll bet I gave her my undivided attention – well, most of it. Well, maybe some of it. I don't know. I'm not a betting man.
Every day in class, she assigned us writing homework. I remember groaning. In my bedroom at home, I wrestled the demon of homework procrastination. Sometimes I would win and take my place at my desk as the reward for a hollow victory. I recall the smell of the blue lined notebook paper and the woody aroma of my No.2 pencil. To this day, I can feel the greasy slide of my pencil as I moved its sharpened, black point on the white surface of the paper. I wondered if my teacher had the same sensation as she covered my paper with her blood-red pencil.
Yet, here I am – 40 years later, struggling with concepts that have grown moldy and distorted. It's like wanting to learn advanced mathematical techniques, but finding myself having to relearn the basics of counting before I can even get to "1+1".
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Up, up, and ... intercepted
So I took matters into my own hands. Here we are, 12 years into 21st-century - a much-touted millennium of unbelievable wonderment. And still, we have not answered that age-old question: Where is my flying car?
Don't worry. I tried to handle this. I have, well, had a small RV – by small, I mean slightly bigger than the mini van but small enough that you have to step outside to change your mind.
Inside my quaint mobile home dangled one of those fancy Casablanca ceiling fans. Given the size of the interior and the air movement at the lowest setting of the ceiling fan, my home-away-from-home would become the inside of a NASA wind tunnel.
This is a good thing. I've moved the fan from inside of the RV and installed it with three more fans on each corner of the vehicle. The good news is that, with all four on the highest setting, I immediately became airborne. The bad news is that I live next to a military air base. Apparently, "Bogey" is not a term of affection for a Casablanca fan-powered flying vehicle.
Don't worry. I tried to handle this. I have, well, had a small RV – by small, I mean slightly bigger than the mini van but small enough that you have to step outside to change your mind.
Inside my quaint mobile home dangled one of those fancy Casablanca ceiling fans. Given the size of the interior and the air movement at the lowest setting of the ceiling fan, my home-away-from-home would become the inside of a NASA wind tunnel.
This is a good thing. I've moved the fan from inside of the RV and installed it with three more fans on each corner of the vehicle. The good news is that, with all four on the highest setting, I immediately became airborne. The bad news is that I live next to a military air base. Apparently, "Bogey" is not a term of affection for a Casablanca fan-powered flying vehicle.
Example of the Simple Life
Living and working in a very rural area for all these years has prepared me for various versions of living the simple life. I had this thought on Monday while having the privilege of being part of a baby shower for one of our coworkers.
I don't want to label this happy occasion as a backwoods baby shower. After all, the mother-to-be did receive a new clothes dryer and one of those handy jogging strollers. It's just that her gifts were in the form of new white clothes line and a new wheel barrel.
Still, the joy on the radiant face of this young mother-to-be made you think someone given her gifts from a far more prestigious store than Wal-mart. And made me feel a little ashamed for my gift of clothes pins - in the form of office binder clips.
I would have felt more shameful had I put my name on the gift. But then I'm living the simple life now.
I don't want to label this happy occasion as a backwoods baby shower. After all, the mother-to-be did receive a new clothes dryer and one of those handy jogging strollers. It's just that her gifts were in the form of new white clothes line and a new wheel barrel.
Still, the joy on the radiant face of this young mother-to-be made you think someone given her gifts from a far more prestigious store than Wal-mart. And made me feel a little ashamed for my gift of clothes pins - in the form of office binder clips.
I would have felt more shameful had I put my name on the gift. But then I'm living the simple life now.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
What color was a 1970's ring tone? Heavy.
For this was also a time when you struggled for several minutes with the rotary dialer to enter long phone numbers. To endure this ordeal, you knew you had to commit to your call. Mis-dial one number and the phone gods would roar with chimed laughter! Do this twice and you found yourself considering if the call was worth the effort.
Did you really want to spend more precious time of your short life redialing? What if your callee wasn't available to answer your call? There were no answering machines (except in offices of law firms who specialized in injury cases where little old ladies were trapped when their phones fell on them). Yes, people were models of fortitude back then. Still, I'm sure there was a limit to the number of redials any one person could justify. I'm also sure those unmade calls ended up being life changers: the prom date that went unasked, the job interview request that wasn't returned, the party invitation that went unanswered, the creditor that was avoided.
I should point out that Ma-Bell's instruments of communication had other uses. Back then, the phones were so massive that movies always used them as convenient murder weapons. Not now, of course. Try using your cell phone as a blunt object of death. You'll be lucky if you can leave a red mark on your victim. Even luckier if your phone doesn't disintegrate upon impact. Even luckier still if your victim doesn't beat you to death for annoying them. (That's why I always say, "Sorry, there was a vicious, ginormous mosquito about to attack you. I just wanted to save your life. I'll text you later when I get a new phone.")
So it was with heavy heart - but not heavier than the phone - that I dragged my once-faithful relic around my house and out to the street with the other trash. Now I have a deep, circular gouge in my yard. Fittingly, one last ring from my phone ...
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