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Wow. Tomorrow? -I'm climbing Mt Everest in my sleep...

2007-10-29

Gooooood evening Boys and Girls.

I've been listening to Steven King's "On Writing," during this trip. It's a book I've read bits and pieces of previously, but one I'd also purposely avoided reading straight through because, though I've always enjoyed what King I've read, he's not a writer I'd especially aspire to emulate, at least with regard to his style. No biggie, I suppose, since it's rather doubtful he'd want to emulate me with regard to either my style OR my lack of success to date.

So - I like to think - that makes us just about even!

That said, I've really enjoyed, "On Writing," so far. It's an unabridged audio version with Mr. King himself doing the narrating - always a big plus to me if the author has any reading chops whatsoever since, you KNOW you're hearing the words exactly the way they were intended to be read.

And, going further down that road for some reason I haven't fathomed - or planned - it reminded me that last night a friend read one of my old posts to me over the phone.

We'd been discussing something about it, but I really don't recall the details. Funny. Regardless, I asked her to do it, and for me, it was interesting.

See, I'd always wondered whether the way I hope something reads, is in "the voice" I intend when I put something down here. Often I worry that because I do tend to write the way I speak, I find myself concerned that since you can't HEAR it as it sounds in my head, that either my meaning will be distorted, or that the tone will come off as far harsher than I mean for it to.

I can say that she seemed to nail it perfectly; pausing where I would have and with exactly the tone I'd hoped for. Even so, afterward, I wondered aloud whether someone who doesn't already know the way I talk would have done as fine a job, at least to my ear.

Who knows.

Last night, as I drove West toward a never-reached point where the dark horizon met a beautiful night sky, I found I'd just crossed the Mississippi River - and that I'd done so without even realizing it.

Honest.

Zowie.

This, to me, is tangible proof that, in some respects at least, life has gotten a little too damned easy.


Be good to everyone.

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Capricorn One?

2007-10-23

Gooood morning Boys and Girls.

When I was a kid, about the biggest cool thing going on in the world - at least as far as I was concerned - was the Apollo Program. My formative years were defined by the decade of the sixties and perhaps began when John Kennedy articulated the seed of his giant idea during his inauguration speech in early 1960 and ran right through Apollo 11's landing on the moon in July of 1969, an event I remember watching at my grandparents little vacation trailer in Canada on lake Eerie, with six of us crowded around into a booth at one end of the trailer watching the tiniest black and white TV I'd ever seen.

I remember being angry with my folks for having chosen that particular weekend to visit them there, because the television's reception was awful and the picture was grainy and distorted. It wasn't until later that I realized that everyone saw that same horrible picture that night; that it wasn't the TV at all.

It was just a few weeks later when I walked into the Post Office in the little Northern Michigan town where our family's cottage was to pick up the mail, when I overheard the Postmaster there giving his opinion on the moon landing to the fellow who owned the cottage just two lots down from ours. "It's was fake," and he waved his hand away like he was swatting an especially slow fly. "They've never been to the moon, and they'll never go to the moon. Physically impossible. Did you see those television pictures? Of COURSE they were lousy. If they showed it clearly, we'd have been able to see it was all cardboard and paper mache."

I was astounded. It never occurred to me that anyone didn't think we'd "done it," let alone that we COULDN'T do it - ever!

I was just thirteen at the time, and I don't think he was more than twenty-five. Last time I was up that way he had just retired as the postmaster - a job he held for thirty-five years - and he was still just as skeptical about anything scientific.

Over the years he became sort of a joke to me - a nice fellow, really - but he was forever spouting his ill-informed opinions to anyone who'd listen. After a while, you'd just smile and nod, and completely ignore him since his opinions got formed FIRST, and then he'd carefully ignore any information that got in the way of him thinking whatever it was he'd decided to think.

I get sort of a kick out of it, and I'm reminded of that postmaster every time I hear Steve Forbes, or any of the other idiots who don't get that global warming is not only a fact, but that it makes perfect sense that we'd be placing a bigger and bigger strain on the planet, ramble on smugly.

Good grief, the population doubles every thirty-seven years. There's never been a time to compare with the present one since we've never had this many people, this much industry, this much deforestation... We've just never had this many doing this much of so very many things. Oh well, so be it.


It's not a good or bad thing, a liberal or conservative thing... It's not even a moral question. It just IS. Just because the TV is tiny and the picture's still a little grainy doesn't mean we're not seeing what we're seeing.

Do me a favor, next time you hear Thoolou, or ottomanprang, or any of the other goofy naysayers (either within the blog world or out in the real one) try to convince you that Global Warming is (a.) not real, or (b.) a liberal plot to steal your money, or (c.) invented by Al Gore as a ruse to help him be drafted into the presidential race, or - my favorite, since it flies in the face of the rest of their logic - (d.) if it IS real that there's not a blessed thing we could ever hope to do about it and so we shoudn't even give a hoot, ask them if they think we really went to the moon back in 1969.

Wouldn't be surprised if they're skeptical about that too.

Finally, ask them if, in their attempt to counter the mainstream argument, they're using information from another time in the planet's history when there were 6 BILLION people living on the surface - and, if so? -find out exactly when that was. I'd like to know.


Be good to everyone.

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And when we come back from commercial? -we'll tell you something else you already know.

2007-10-22

Good morning Boys and Girls.

I've been accused by more than one person of being a bit mamby-pamby in my posts of late; of not providing the hard hitting opinions (backed up by facts, knowledge and experience, of course) some readers have come to expect from my digital pen.

And, that while I may have been personally happier of late, that somehow I'm letting down those of you out there who count on my brilliant takes on matters both imminently relevant to all of us, as well as my occasional attempts to convey broader thoughts on humanity itself and our long term survival within the confines of the known universe; you know, the very stuff that's made this blog the "must read" source of all things "surrogate," for all eleven of you out there who "get it."

(This would probably be a good time for those of you in the know to execute the secret handshake. If no one's around who knows it? -I'd suggest you do it to yourself.)

I suppose the bitching is justified.

I suppose I've been almost deliberate in my gradual toning down of the rhetoric I use here.

I suppose that if you don't like it, you can go straight to hell.

There.

How's that for hard hitting and edgy?

(Snicker. I wonder if they know hell isn't even real? -except here on earth, of course, where we work quite diligently to create one ourselves...)


Be good to everyone.

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Be good to everyone? -Yeah? What about Roadie? You cad....

2007-10-20

Good Saturday mornin' to ya'll...

It's bright and clear here with a bit of "crisp" in the air.

Been wondering what to write about the last few days. My mood has consistently been pretty darn good of late and for the first time in years, I find myself sneaking peeks forward as often as I look backwards - even though I still try to root myself (as preached in all the self-help books I abhor so much,) in the "here and now."

Is this glancing ahead dangerous? -sure. Will it bite me in the ass? -probably. Will it stop me? -don't think so; not for now, at least.

Roadie has been meowing at my feet for most of the morning even though I've petted her a million times and given her more treats than she ought have in a whole day. I think she's finding herself very needy right now, as though maybe she can feel my affections shifting a bit. And though I've told her repeatedly she's the only cat in my life, I'm sure she senses a possible betrayal afoot and is doing her level best to quash it before it happens.

For Roadie, this is "General Hospital," "Santa Barbara," and "As the World Turns," all rolled up into one giant hairball she's having trouble coughing up.

I stand at the back of the chair she jumps onto at my command a dozen times a day. "Come on. Come on Roadie. Up here... That's a good girl. You need a treat, don't you.... Ohhhh, you good kitty cat, you..." And I give her a little one armed hug.

Still? Her eyes tell me what she's thinking. "You Judas. How DARE you! Fine. Give it to me. I'll eat your tainted treat. I know. You expect that, don't you. -surrogate holds out the treat and I'm supposed to act all appreciative. Fine. I KNOW what's really going on here."

And I find I must look away, shamed.


Be good to everyone.

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Want a tiny pumpkin muffin?

2007-10-18

Good morning Boys and Girls.


So...

A few months ago, good roomie Dot asked me to attend a one-evening class with her sometime off in the future. "Me?" -I thought. "A class?" I was dubious. Didn't sound like me.

But, Dot really thought I'd like it, and she assured me that she'd even pay for it if I'd be willing to go. "Sure. "I said, "knock yourself out. Sign me up."

And, truth be told, that was that - I kind of forgot about it.

Last week sometime, Dot reminded me about it and said it was next Tuesday - meaning the night before last. Unfortunately, when Tuesday came, by the time I got home from work, about the last thing I wanted to do was go attend this class. I'd not slept well the night before and had awaken at 3:00 a.m. and then hadn't been able to get back to sleep - a VERY unusual circumstance for me - and, to make matters worse, work had been hectic all day. I was exhausted.

But...

I'd promised.

So it was that Tuesday evening I found myself sitting in the Freshman Center auditorium of the Rockford High School to watch a lady named Deanna House cook holiday treats and to learn to make some new ones myself...

Oy. I wasn't pleased. I was soooo tired and I knew I'd have trouble staying awake for the two hours, let alone not really being interested in the least in the learning to make the rudimentary recipes as outlined in the little programs we'd been handed as we walked in. Hell, I love to cook, but I've never made many "Holiday Treats," of this sort anyway.

Why, I wondered, had good Dot insisted I'd enjoy this? Oh well, I thought, it's just two hours. I looked at her sitting there next to me, all smiles, SURE I'd get a kick out of what was to come. I can honestly say that, at that minute, I thought she was nuts.

I looked around. No men. None. I stood and looked more closely. Nope. Not one. I did a count... Ten full rows plus a few partially full ones of... let's see... I counted the number of seats in each row. Twenty-four. So, way more than two-hundred and forty women...

...and me.

I'll say it again. Oy.

Dot had asked me to give me her impression of Deanna House when I saw her, and frankly, it was stark and immediate. I saw her and thought, "Why look! It's Robin Williams playing Mrs. Doubtfire!" -which, I think, was exactly what Dot was darn sure I'd think.

What a hoot!

She didn't have the fake English accent, and her hair was shorter, and though she did have a big old-fashioned looking apron on, this was the first time Dot had seen her sans a big frilly dress that, she assured me, added to her "look." Yes, Dot has gone to see this lady any number of times over the years.

Exactly at seven, she took the stage and immediately told us all, with calculated if frantic gestures, that she was extremely worried about finishing all ten recipes before nine.

Early on, Mrs. House made a silly joke about the fact that her husband had brought her and helped her set up all the stuff she needed to cook there on the stage, but then as soon as things were ready to go, he'd disappeared to the McDonald's across the street saying he didn't want to be "in the way," -though she made it quite clear that he'd really left because he simply did not want to stick around and listen to her do her schtick for the zillionth time.

Honestly, I did have trouble staying awake for the first twenty minutes or so until I "won" a sample of the pickled red cabbage she'd just made. Incredible! (Everyone had been given tickets with number on them to facilitate the passing out of samples as door prizes throughout the night.)

The woman was an absolute riot. Funny as can be and quick as... well, how about Robin Williams? Evidently she's a retired Home-Ec teacher who's been doing these "evenings" all around the Midwest for twenty years or more. I can't even remember a single "joke," really, other than the one about her husband, (who did return at some point to wild applause from the crowd when she made fun of him again - which earned her a scowling wave from him, making it clear that her "wit" was not the least bit new to him, and was something he's quite tired of by now, which, of course, was funny in itself.) No, no real jokes. She was just plain... funny! She really enjoys doing what she does, and her effect on the crowd was... Aw hell, it was just plain touching.

Anyway. I just went to her web site at http//www.deannahouse.com and wasn't overly impressed. It looks nice enough, I suppose, but it really gives no clue as to her professionalism and talent, nor her sense of humor. A shame.

All I can say is this: if you ever get a chance to see her, (even if you're going to be the only guy there,) spend an evening with Deanna House. You may or may not learn a darn thing, but you'll laugh a lot. -A fine thing indeed.

Thanks Dot!

 

Be good to everyone.

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Five hundred and nineteen miles, one way. Exactly.

2007-10-14

Good afternoon Boys and Girls.

Got home here about two and a half hours ago. I'm tired but pleased as punch about the trip. Drove a little over a thousand miles since Thursday evening and really enjoyed myself as did, I'm pretty sure, the friend I visited whom, by the way, may have one of the best smiles on the face of the earth. I find I keep looking through the pics I took just to get a glimpse at that beautiful, sardonic and happy grin. Safe to say we've all seen one very much like it.

This new Jeep Liberty Commercial that's just popped on the tube again; the one with all the animals singing "Rock Me Slowly" along with the driver? -Brilliant.

Some of you know I have a wonderful friend and roommate named Dot with whom I own this house. Well, she too had a great weekend and I'm really glad for her. She's all smiles right now and I'm lovin' it. You go girl!

Roadie the cat missed me; a good thing and a real ego boost. Always nice to come home to furry friend who wants your attention. "And exactly where have YOU been?" She seems to ask with each rub up against my leg. I answer with my standard reply:

"Nosy!"


Be good to everyone.

 

Addition: My son Ryan just sent me this link to a video he recorded for my daughter's birthday featuring their cats. Funny and adorable... Check it out. http://youtube.com/watch?v=M783O65Excc

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Ya wanna have a catch?

2007-10-10

Gooood morning... Well, actually, good evening Boys and Girls.

I'm outta here tomorrow afternoon. Not sure whether I'll be posting over the weekend. I'm off for the weekend to see a close friend; looking forward to the drive. From what I understand, I can point the car west and go to sleep for a while. I'll let you know how that works out.

Ya know, when I was a kid, we were promised cars like that by now. That and a helicopter in every garage. Hell, I remember the little movie; I saw it in school at least two or three years in a row. -That movie and the one about the discovery of butyl rubber. Same narrator, if I remember correctly, and definitely the same production crew since the music and credits were just alike.

"Imagine..." (the grainy black and white shot would be pulling away slightly from a standard 1950s garage door,) "when you're your parents age, you'll be able to simply fly to work..." -And the "Dad," would pull the little copter out of the garage on a wheeled tripod, unfold the prop, and start the thing up with a tug of a cord.

Seems to me I remember thinking the far-away footage of the copter flying wasn't of the same contraption "Dad" had wheeled out of the little garage, but hey, I was pretty sure the flying monkeys in the Wizard of Oz were fake too, though, for some reason, I don't remember having any doubts whatsoever that Superman could fly.

Is this heaven? No. Where is it?


Be good to everyone.

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It's gonna be war!... Or a snooze...

2007-10-09

Goooood morning Boys and Girls.


Here in Michigan tonight, we're hosting the 2037th debate of the current presidential campaign; this one featuring the Republicans and brand spankin' new debater, Fred Thompson, known to his wrestling fans - as opposed to fans of his acting - as "The Tenacious Bulldog."

Many people fondly remember Fred's tactic of waiting around the outside of the ring during any number of those made for pay-per-view wrestling epics wherein a dozen or more wrestlers take each other on - in a cage, or on the roof of a very tall building, or - my favorite - within the confines of a small snake-filled pit of some sort where the surrounding fence is electrified - until a single champion emerged, standing proud, even if scratched and weary - his newly acquired belt held high for everyone to see.

Bulldog would usually wait to enter the fray until only one or two wrestlers were left, spending his time prior to getting involved walking extremely slowly around the outside of the venue using an index finger to tap at his temple, while he pointed at his own chest with the other one, all this while grinning a toothy grin and saying virtually nothing of substance. Even then I remember the lettering on the back of his robe reading, "I don't know much about anything, but at least I'm conservative - just like Reagan. You DO remember Reagan don't you?"

It would have been hard to read all that on a flowing robe, but he walked so slowly - without any apparant enthusiam - that it made it easier.

Welcome to Michigan boys!


Be good to everyone.

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Another unoriginal thought...

2007-10-07

Good morning Boys and Girls.

This morning, fog - on little cat feet, no less -  casually makes its way across the fields and hills and forests around here.

Thought about playing golf early, but following the ball in the sky is a tad difficult when it's been swallowed by clouds. Another couple of hours and things'll clear, I'd guess.

During the trip back from Detroit yesterday afternoon, one that should take no more than three hours, but took damn near five because of road construction, I had plenty of time to think silly thoughts. I'd had breakfast before leaving with three of my favorite people, all of whom tend to make me smile just from being around them, and all of whom are twenty-plus years younger than I am.

My son has been taking classes at Second City one night a week and has been enjoying them thoroughly - meaning he had plenty of stories to share about what he's been learning and the people he's met there. I'm glad he's decided to do this as it strikes me as being right up his alley. Besides Ryan, two of his friends, both of whom I consider my friends as well, joined us.

Jenny, a great catch for any guy who thinks smart, attractive, creative, funny and honest are neat qualities, was there. She showed us her new engagement ring she'd just received from a guy she's known forever and has been dating for a year or so. She was beaming and couldn't resist calling her sweetheart and putting him on speaker-phone for a minute so he could share in the banter and so we could offer our congrats.

Chris, a friend of Ryan's from as far back as elementary school, and his college roommate for a year or two, was feeling tired. His wife has just moved out to San Jose to start school this semester and he's ultra busy finishing up the chores required of him to be able to move out there to be with her as soon as possible, and this while his current job is putting all kids of stress on him. I don't like seeing Chris feeling this much pressure. I liked it better when he was a happy-go-lucky kid rarely seen without a video camera and constantly talking about this idea or that.

Good souls, and I love'em all.

Know what I want for them?

I want there to come a time when the exuberance of youth isn't slowly sanded away by the friction of life.

Handle that, would ya?


Be good to everyone.

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Reality draft.

2007-10-04

Good morning Boys and Girls.

When my kids were young, they participated in an after-school bowling league for a few years. Whenever I could, I'd sneak away from work those Thursday afternoons to watch them.

It gave me a kick to watch the two of them as team-mates pulling for each other, especially since their two-and-a-half year age difference and their divergent personalities often meant they saw things a differently at home, where squabbles between them were, if not a regular occurrence, also, not all that rare.

So watching them high-fiving and hugging each other and their team-mates was a ball. I don't ever remember them doing anything other than encouraging each other when they were bowling. Usually my ex would be there too, having served as taxi driver for ours and, sometimes, one or more of the other kids too.

After the bowling, which finished up right around dinner time anyway, we'd often pile into one of the local family diners, the favorite of which was only a few hundred yards down from the bowling alley.

At the time, my ex worked part time for a lady from the old Yugoslavia, who, though a very nice woman, never smiled much and had a rather sour disposition. This despite her having, to all appearances, found a pretty nice life here in the good ol' USA with a successful small business and a husband who seemed to tow the line pretty well.

Her name was - and hopefully still is - Donna, and she was a great Mom and a good soul even though her outlook was anything but sunny. One day, I remember asking her if everything was okay. I forget what specifically prompted my concern, but she said everything was fine. "Oh, good," I remember responding, "You don't look at all happy and I was worried something might have happened."

"I no trust happy," she said, and continued with whatever she was doing.

"Pardon?" I asked, sure I'd misheard.

She shrugged, and frowned, and honestly, I thought she was going to cry, when she repeated herself. "I no trust happy." She looked at me. "All my life, every time I get happy, something terrible, it happens."

And she gave me a few examples from her life that, by the time she was done with them, made me understand her attitude. If I was her, I decided, I wouldn't "trust" "happy" either.

One year, her son - I'll call him "Ben," - who was a couple of years younger than my daughter, asked to bowl on my kids' team. This created a little dissension within the ranks because, frankly, Ben could be a little difficult. Though he'd been born in the States, his grandparents had recently come over and lived with their family and so the language of their household was the one they'd spoken before arriving, meaning that even at ten years old, Ben's English was spotty at best and he tended to speak in fractured bursts of syntax challenged speech.

The phrase that stuck with us all for years afterward, even after Ben was completely "Americanized" and became a star lineman for his high school football team - by which time he'd dropped even the slightest trace of the accent that was so pronounced in his speech as a child - was the one he'd used constantly during bowling whenever he wanted to run to the vending machines for a candy-bar. "I could have a quarter?" he ask, -his standard, and often repeated request for funds for the string of machines that, even then, required far more than a single quarter to give up any single treat. Sometimes he'd even petition for some of the money his mother entrusted to our safekeeping before throwing the second ball that constituted the completion of his turn, something that struck all of us as hilarious - at least the first fifty or so times it happened. He did have trouble grasping the concept of the game, though throwing the ball hard was somethng he really seemed to enjoy. For the first few weeks - oh who's kidding who - for the entire year, the challenge for Ben was in "keeping it between the gutters," and understanding that he got two rolls of the ball each turn. He'd roll that first ball directly into the gutter, and then cheerily turn to either my ex or me, and smiling, ask in that innocent and oblivious voice of his, "I could have a quarter?"


After a while, my sweet children - those two kind and generous souls, the ones we'd raised so very well - wanted to kill him.

 

After a while, it became funny, and it stuck. Though it was probably mean, within our family for years afterward, anytime someone needed cash for something from another family member; any amount of cash; the plea, no matter whether it was for a buck for a soda - or hundreds of dollars for a college course or a car repair - would often be, "Hey Dad, I could have a quarter?"

........

But all this came to mind today primarily because of Donna's self-protective philosophy, the one that bangs into my head from time to time like a struck gong, the percussive attack reminding me that, while it's probably not the most pleasant way to go through life, at least it's one that helps you get THROUGH life with minimal wear and tear, because, really, it's not whether the glass is half full or half empty. No. What it is, is this: sometime there's something in the glass, and sometimes there isn't. That's it. Best to treat it the same either way. Don't get too excited by what you find, cuz tomorrow? Well...

I know what she meant.

These days, "I no trust happy," either.


Be good to everyone.

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Explaining the unexplainable - yo - yo

2007-10-02

Gooood evening Boys and Girls.

So, first...

Five days. No backsliding, and fifty bucks in my "I didn't buy smokes today so I might as well save the money," jar - which is a clear plastic gallon jug that apparently once contained "Spinsel's Braided Butter Pretzels," though, since I don't remember ever eating or buying any "Spinsel's Braided Butter Pretzels," tells me that perhaps I picked up the plastic jar from one of my kids or something...

Regardless, I'm thinking that the fact I've mentioned "Spinsel's Braided Butter Pretzels," three times in just three paragraphs ought to warrant some sort of significant payment from the manufacturers of "Spinsel's Braided Butter Pretzels," (four times now...) to yours truly.

The other night I was talking with a friend about the fact that though I like to write song lyrics and music every now and again, that my mind works far too slowly to allow me to ever be the least bit successful in the Rap genre.

We yapped and yapped about the possibilities and eventually, one thing lead to another and soon I found I'd made the rash decision to entirely change the plot for my next novel from the well thought out and intricately woven story I've been devising for months to another fake biography; a format I've toyed with before.

So now, the next story will center around a large Caucasian female rapper whom, since she doesn't exactly look like Beyonce, finds it relatively easy to take on a tough "bad girl" image, an image she fosters and builds upon for a number of years.

After some solid sales with a smallish label, she signs with an established recording company run by "The Notorious D.U.D." To avoid contractual problems, she decides to change her name from Blond-Ora, the handle she'd used for years and the one that made her famous.

After much deliberation, and some focus group analysis, she and her manager decide on her new moniker, and at a hastily arranged press conference, "Attila Vanilla," is introduced to the world.

Unfortunately, even though her first CD release is enormously successful, it's found that her live performances feature not only almost constant lip synching, but that except for a couple of carefully timed "live" walk-ons, her entire stage show showcases a CG version of the poor gal. Attila Vanilla, it seems, has out Milly Vanilli-ed, Milli Vanilli...

And when someone throws water on her while she's in mid-performance?

Well, no-one can figure how or why she can be zapped into oblivion one moment and then come blasting back in-time for the next song...

Cool story?

No?

Oh well.



Be good to everyone.

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