I'm Outta Here!

I love New Years Eve. "Why?" you ask. That was a well placed question. Otherwise, I might have blogged away for several hundred words and said nothing. So . . . to the point.

I love New Years Eve because life hands me -- once a year -- the opportunity to legitimately drive my wife nuts. All day long, with everything I do, I take a deep sigh and say things like, "This is the last time I'll ever have an egg for breakfast . . . this year!"

It's usually funny the first time or two but by late morning she is ready to kill me. At some point she will quit talking to me. That's when I have to start getting her to make me say it. It goes something like this. We will be listening to a playlist on my iPod Hi-Fi and I'll comment upon one of the artists, "I always liked their use of the saxophone." "Yeah, I do to." she'll respond. "Too bad it's the last time we'll ever hear it . . . this year." I casually work it in.

Or: "Mmmm. I like this bean dip. Who'd we get the recipe from?"

"We got it at Susan and Mike's party"

"Oh yeah, that's right. I guess we won't ever be seeing them again . . . this year!"


And so on and so forth.

Why do I do this to my poor, lovely wife. I look at it this way. I think there is only so much humor and good will allotted to us each year -- and I want to use all of ours up.


PS: This will be the last blog I'll ever write . . . this year.

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Saddam Hussein Was Hanged at Dawn

Saddam Hussein was hanged at dawn for his crimes against humanity. Imagine living in a country that is run by a total dictator. A place with a federal police force that can abuse and kill anyone they want. A place where the village or town in which you were born is reason enough to have you killed. A place of forced poverty and ignorance while the privileged few live in palaces and ride around in limos.

Imagine a country willing to invade its neighbors (Kuwait) because it has something it wants. A country that has been at war with other neighboring countries (Iran) for decades. A country willing to use chemical weapons on its own citizens. A country that is bragging and posturing about having weapons greater than it really possesses (WMD's).

This was the world created by Saddam Hussein. These were the people that were saved from an uncertain future under a brutal regime. This is the country that benefited from a U.S. led coalition of world forces intervening on their behalf. These are the people who now have an opportunity to dump this dictator upon the garbage heap of history and use their resources to build a better, brighter future for all of its citizens.

These are also the people who are squandering this rare opportunity on internal bickering and are allowing a few lawless and godless radicals to snatch it all away. From my perspective, Iraq is showing themselves to be unappreciative, ignorant assholes who didn't deserve our help in the first place and will be under someone else's dictatorial rule within the decade.

Saddam Hussein is dead. But in the long run . . . so what?

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Resolutions

I resolve to be a better person. I don't think I am a bad person now. But there are little things about me that bug the shit out of me and since I spend so much time with myself, I figure it's either this or a very nasty argument down the road. I'm not entirely sure I can win that one so I am pre-emptively giving in. At least, later on, I can claim the moral high ground.

My first resolution is to lose some winter weight. I know -- it's just barely winter so where did the weight come from? Inactivity, over eating, and too much booze. How's that for honesty? I have a very strict diet of raw beets and sauerkraut that always works. It's sort of an involuntary bulimia thing. It's been in the family for years.

My second resolution is more exercise. I already exercise every day. I have a Schwinn Airdyne stationary bike, a Bowflex Extreme II gym, free weights and an exercise mat. What I don't have is a comprehensive routine to take advantage of it all. And if I don't go along with the program, we'll see if I can exercise with my foot up my ass.

My next resolution is to write more. I began writing this blog to give myself the daily discipline of writing every day. So far -- mission accomplished. This is my 280th day in a row that I have posted. I have tried very hard to not become a "one note" blog. I have tried to be honest and interesting and inappropriately funny. (Individual tastes may vary.) What I haven't been able to do is to kick-start my serious writing. I have a lot of ideas and some decent beginnings on a number of projects but, to be quite honest, I think my blogging time could be better spent on some bigger projects.

I had an initial goal of blogging every day for a year. I intend to honor the discipline of that goal. In the mean time, as the new year begins, I'm going to try to carve out more of my day to spend on these other projects. When I hit 365 blogs in late March 2007 I will decide if the blog is helping or hindering my serious writing. You, constant reader, will be the last to know.

My final resolution is world peace. My plan involves either inventing an impenetrable force field around America or using dozens of strategically placed nuclear devices across the middle east. Which one I use will depend on which is easier to accomplish on a $40 a week allowance.

Finally, just remember, resolutions aren't easy to keep. If they were, millions of people would make them every year.

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That Uncontrollable Urge

God plays some funny games with us. Like the uncontrollable urge to pee when we hear running water. I'm not sure why this works the way it does -- but it surely does work. Listen to a decorative fountain, or a babbling brook or the gentle rain on an awning with the run-off splashing onto the deck and WHAM! You have to pee. Sometimes just the water running in the sink while I brush my teeth is enough to do it.

I try to understand most urges and bodily necessities. I try to imagine why God would create us to perform in certain ways. I try to hearken back to how primitive man lived. To understand what survival skills and instincts trigger what autonomic responses in us. Like the fight or flight response to danger. Or why we salivate when we smell (or even think of) certain foods.

But I can't figure out why we get an uncontrollable urge to pee when we hear water running. I mean, was primitive man sooo busy that he needed the occasional mountain stream or thunderstorm to remind him to pee? Were there a lot of burst bladders in the early models? Did we need a triggering mechanism to remind us to piss down our own leg?

Or was God just messing with us? Is this a proof that God has a sense of humor? Is the Big Guy just a frustrated stand up comic at heart? It makes sense. A lot of people think He's Jewish. I could see an all powerful Woody Allen messing with us this way; reclining on a pillow, eating peeled grapes and pointing to a random man somewhere and saying, "Watch me make him dance. I won't even touch him."

This theory actually makes the most sense to me. I believe that man's uncontrollable urge to pee is a direct result of God's uncontrollable urge to mess with us. He's done it before. It's just like the time he created women.

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Techno Junkie

I am a technology junkie. I have a monkey on my back and it has a remote control. I love technology and gadgets. I'm into cool computers, PDA's, cell phones, iPods, speakers, DirectTV, cable modems, routers, power tools and microwave ovens. I love clocks and cool watches. If it wasn't that I am so damn cool myself, I'd be a geek.

But I'm not.

So what makes the difference between a geek and a tech savvy cool guy? There are two things. The first difference is razor thin -- and that's why it's called the "cutting edge". You have to know where the cutting edge is and artfully hover around it. If you are constantly on the bleeding edge of the cutting edge you will a) go broke and b) forever be labeled a geek. But, if you know where the cutting edge is, have a supply of very recent cutting edge items (nobody has to know when you bought them), and own at least one bleeding edge item, you will appear to be very cool, indeed.

The second difference between geek and cool is attitudinal. You have to act like you don't care. Even though you may be dying to show off and talk about your new gadgets you must maintain. Too much tech excitement will label you as a geek. The better approach is to just casually use the gadgets. When other people rush up and say, "Wow! That's a Technocraft 6430! And you have the adapter!" You lean back and calmly say, "Yeah, I got it last week. I thought it would look good next to my 6420." Then you pause and mention, "It's Bluetooth too, you know." Then you change the subject to either chicks or booze.

I guess at heart most cool techno junkies are really closet geeks. But, you know, I can live with that. Perception is everything. I have a lot of cool-ass gadgets, and I've given my friends a reason to think I am terminally cool.

Like they needed another one.

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Of Black and White and Shades of Gray

I've mentioned numerous times that I like old black and white movies. This is true. In fact, my favorite decade for old movies is the 30's. I often use the cliche' "They don't make 'em like that anymore."

In the past several days I've had an opportunity to see two modern productions presented in black and white. The first one was a film noir-ish episode of Monk. The other was a sequence of a Tom Arnold movie called Chasing Christmas. Both were well done, well written, well acted and had decent production values. Neither one, in my opinion, worked.

I think this is because the authentic old movies brought with them a reflection of everything that that time was made of. The hopes and dream of everyone from the costume department to the director made it to the silver screen. The times, the politics; the depression, prohibition; the dust bowl, and gangsters. All were reflected through the writing and the actors. The attitudes necessary to perform the roles were genuine and true. And the movies, back then, captured the comedy and pathos of the times.

Having re-read that last paragraph I've also come to realize that all of those things are still true of today's movies. Sure, the special effects and action sequences are light years ahead of the old movies, but the heart of the current movies are still comprised of the times in which they are being created. They still reflect the cultural attitudes and political landscape. They are a mirror of these times and, in time, will either praise or condemn us to future audiences.

So what makes me a fan of the old time movies? I think it is because the issues back then were more black and white. In our Technicolor world there are too many shades of gray. People make too many deals with the devil. We trade away our values for trinkets anymore. And it is getting worse because we, as a nation and as a society, are not being permitted to pass on what values we have left. In a land that purports to honor diversity, faith and morality must hide their heads in shame for fear of offending the new comers. "Merry Christmas" and a simple prayer of thanks can get you sued.

Maybe watching the old time movies is escapism. But isn't all entertainment? I think maybe the old movies are a better place to escape to. Back then, people could do far more with far less. And I am beginning to understand that, more than their "production values", I appreciate their values.

They truly don't make 'em like that anymore.

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A Snoodle Christmas

I asked Santa for the day off but he said, "The Hell with that! Now get your middle-aged-white-guy ass out there and do a Snoodle (c), at least!"

I said, "What do you mean 'at least'"?




I kind of had a feeling that these guys read other comics. I just can't figure out how they turn the pages.




Some people just aren't suited for crime. Like, I have a neighbor who says he's a pick pocket . . . but we live at a nudist resort.

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The Penultimate Holiday

I woke up this morning, sat up in bed stretching my arms over my head and said, "Ahh! The penultimate holiday!'

My wife opened one eye to a small slit and stared at me. So I stretched again and said again, "Ahh! The . . ."

"I heard you the first time." she muttered into the blanket.

"Well, it is." I insisted.

"Yeah, whatever . . ." she mumbled and rolled over, burrowing deeper into the covers. I sat there a few moments wondering how anyone could have so little curiosity. So I nudged her.

"Hon?" I said softly. Then I nudged her a little harder. I got an irritated half-growl and she pulled further away from me. "Hon?" I repeated.

"WHAT?" The blankets exploded away from her and I fell off the bed backwards.

"Oh, never mind." I said, scrambling to my feet and backing out of the room. "I'll tell you later."

While I was brewing a cup of coffee she appeared in the doorway. It's a good thing we met 35 years ago, I thought. "You're no picnic, either." she said, apparently reading my mind. Married people do that after a while. Little boys are right. Girls are creepy.

"So what's so important that you can't let me sleep in on Christmas Eve?"

"If you choose to call it that." I answered.

"What are you talking about?" she growled, taking my coffee cup. I gestured rather futilely to my cup then began brewing another one.

"Christmas Eve is the penultimate holiday." I explained. "Penultimate means the second to last or the next to last in a series of things."

"Yeah . . . so?"

"In this case it is penultimate for two reasons. First, it is the last day before Christmas. But . . . and this is the really cool part, it is also a holiday on it's own."

"Nobody celebrates Christmas Eve." she sounded kind of exasperated.

"Yes they do." I insisted. It even has it's own name: Christmas Eve. We don't hear about Groundhog Day Eve or Easter Eve or Fourth of July Eve or Labor Day Eve or . . ."

"Enough! I get it." she said. "But so what?"

"Don't you get how cool that is?" I asked. "It is a holiday known for being the last day before another holiday AND it is the next to last holiday of the whole freakin' year!" I sat there looking at her. Waiting for something -- some kind of response. "AND there is a word for it! Penultimate means next to last. It is the next to last for two reasons. How cool is that?"

She just sat there looking at me, still half asleep, holding my World's Greatest Coffee Drinker mug. "What about New Year's Eve?" she asked.

"That doesn't count." I said. "It cancels itself out."

"What's that mean?"

"It might be known as being the last night before a holiday but that holiday isn't until next year. That means it's not the next to the last -- it's the next to the first holiday." I took a sip from the World's Most Patient Wife mug I was holding. "So . . . Christmas Eve wins."

That turned out to be the penultimate statement of that conversation.

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Heavy is the Head . . .

In recent days, there has been a lot in the news about beauty queens losing their crowns. Miss USA, Tara Conner almost lost hers. Miss Teen USA, Katie Blair, was caught up in the same scandal. Miss Nevada, Kate Rees, was fired over some raunchy photos. Several years ago, The Donald had to fire the reigning Miss Universe.

This got me to wondering why these women are having such a hard time hanging onto their crowns? In fact, why are there so few monarchs now-a-days? If we go by the current psycho-babble we hear from the talking heads on TV, it surely isn't the fault of the people involved. It is demon alcohol, or parental abuse or parental over-involvement or under-involvement, or peer pressure, or the pressure of society's expectations or . . . whatever!

All we know is that these poor girls are not to blame. So I did a little internet research and discovered something interesting. The reason the beauty queens (and by extension all monarchs) are having such a hard time hanging onto their crowns . . . is the crowns.

The crowns are to blame! Here are some recent photos of Hungary's Anita Horvath attempting to wear her crown after winning the Miss Bikini World Final pageant. She is having trouble hanging onto the crown from the very beginning.


So we sent our team of cracked reporters out on the streets. Their mission was to find the company that provides the crowns to these pageants and various monarchies. Unfortunately we aren't very good at this kind of thing and all we found was a place that makes bowling trophies which, by the way, are no picnic to wear on your head either.

The lessons to be learned here? Beauty queens are good. Crowns are bad. So whether booze or drugs or lesbian sex or under-age drinking had anything to do with it, Tara Conners was right after all. The Donald is a sucker for the top of a girl's head and that is why you need to keep your roots touched up.





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The Confession

I overheard a couple talking in the diner the other day. They were both middle-aged, which, depending upon genes, attitude and luck, can be anywhere from 35 to 60. He was sort of a big, hard working kind of guy in a plaid shirt and jeans. She was petite and wore a flowered house dress under a tan raincoat.

They were pushing the remains of a western omelet breakfast around their plates as they spoke. At one point he placed his large, work stained hands over her smaller, dove-like ones and confessed, "I haven't been completely faithful to you."

She sat silently, looking down at their hands. "Go on." she whispered.

"I . . . uh, I fantasize about another woman sometimes." he explained. "I met her at work. She's a customer . . . we've never done anything. In fact, she doesn't even know I like her." He was silent a moment and when she looked up he looked her straight in the eye and said. "But I love you!"

The woman held his gaze, her face frozen and unreadable. Finally her eyes softened and the lines around her mouth relaxed a little. "I guess we're all attracted to other people." she finally said. "Remember when we went to the beach last summer?" she asked.

He nodded solemnly.

"There was a young lifeguard. He was tanned and muscled and when he walked he moved like a lion. His muscles flowing and rippling under his skin." she paused, took a sip of her cold coffee and continued. "I haven't been able to get him out of my head . . . I have fantasized about him every time we have made love since then."

Everyone in the diner stopped moving. There was dead silence. Finally, he leaned back and slouched a little, as if in disbelief, and asked in his soft, deep voice, "Both times?"

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A Little Bit of Magic in the Air . . .

I was thinking of becoming a gigolo. I mean, I already hang out with women old enough to appreciate that stuff, anyway. Most of them can sneak a little extra cash from their husbands and the husbands are at work all day to boot. That gives me from noon until three to work my magic. I figured I wouldn't start until noon because I needed a little me time, too.

I just had to learn a few gigolo tricks, first. Like suggestively arching one eyebrow. I tried it in front of the mirror and every time some facial muscles went up . . . a few others went down. My face was twitching so much I looked like Miss USA trying to keep it together until her next fix. When everything finally settled down, I tried it again. This time I made my ears wiggle. So I thought, "Whatever . . ." and tried to make them wiggle suggestively. Admittedly, it's not hot but it should get their attention.

The next thing I needed was the pencil thin mustache. I figured, "How hard can that be?" All I can say is that there must be a special tool or attachment for that. Triple-head Norelcos are not that precise. So I thought I'd encourage what I hadn't mangled with an eyebrow pencil. All I found was a brown Sharpie. Did you know those things are permanent?

Finally, I had to work on an exotic accent. I knew I already had all of the savoir faire I needed but the accent is always a nice touch. I was going for something mysterious and Mediterranean. The closest I got was a cross between Polish and beaner. Sort of a Don Diegokowski. So I threw in a lot of "How you say?'s" and I was golden.

So, I splashed a little Canoe on my chest fur, threw on a pair of low-rider jeans and a silk disco shirt open to mid-fur. I borrowed a bunch of my wife's gold chains for a Mr. T starter set and I was good to go.

I thought I'd cruise by the local diner first. That seemed like a typical place for desperate housewives to hang out. (If this didn't work I'd try the laundry-mat and the grocery stores next.) When I got inside I looked around. There were so many variations of my theme going on that I thought I was in an Elvis impersonator's convention. And what made it worse was that they seated us all in the former smoking section -- together.

So, I made the best of it. When I saw the waitress was approaching I furtively fluffed my chest fur. When she got there I suggestively wiggled my ears, stroked my slightly crooked fake mustache and said in my best Polish/beaner accent, "Hey there! Whot eese especial today bee-sides you?"

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Trump to Miss USA: You're . . . 21?(!)

Tara Conner, who has just turned 21 (legal), has been given a second chance. She apparently humiliated herself, privately, to Donald Trump's satisfaction, so she was given an opportunity to become the latest celebrity poster-girl for sobriety.

Boo-fucking-Hoo!

Tara Conner has agreed to go into a rehabilitation program for an unspecified problem and would not be stripped of the title of Miss USA 2006.

Conner tearfully told reporters at the news conference that she realizes she is a role model and denied reports of widespread problems with alcohol and drugs.

"I wouldn't say that I am an alcoholic. That would be pushing the envelope a little bit," she said. "I don't have a problem with anything like that."

Where's his other hand?

We here at Escape Velocity would like to congratulate Ms. Conner for using her head on . . . er, uh, with The Donald and wish her success in overcoming her non-problem. As we all know, the first step to recovery is denying you have a problem.

Tara Conner joins a growing list of celebrity bad girls that includes Lindsay Lohan, Britney Spears, Paris Hilton, Nicole Richie and others. And, like the rest of them, Tara is permitted to act outrageously, break laws, shed a few tears, bat her eyes and get a pass. Then she'll do some bogus rehab time before reassuming the mantle of "role model".

It is all bullshit. If the board members of the Miss USA Pageant and Donald Trump want young women to learn something from the Tara Conner debacle, she should have been stripped of her title and fired.

The lesson to be learned would be actions have consequences. Behave yourself. Don't fuck up.

But in the land of second, third and fourth chances (for celebrities only) ordinary little girls and young women must learn the harsh reality of that lesson for themselves.. There are no second chances for ordinary citizens. Drunk driving, drug possession and car accidents have life ruining consequences. The law doesn't care if they are young or pretty or how much they cry and "Tara got away with it" is not an acceptable argument in a court of law.

The next time The Donald wants to exhibit his trumped up compassion, maybe he should think of the message he is sending to the rest of us. Rank has privilege . . . and this is as rank as it gets.

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The Winter of Our Discontent

Well, this is the time of year when we all pause to reflect. To think about the things that have happened during the past year and to hope for better things in the coming one.

A time of self examination. And a time to assess the world around us. A time to raise our heads above the niches we have carved for ourselves and see what else is going on in the world. A time of quiet contemplation. A time to reconnect with our loved ones.

It is Winter Holiday TV Hiatus time.

A time when none of our regular TV shows are on. A time when networks burn off the loser shows that have been yanked during the regular season. A time of Holiday Specials that were lame-o when we first saw them 35 years ago.

A time of egg-nog, fruit cake and Aunt Martha. Knitted sweaters, neck ties and cheap perfume. But, mostly, nothing on TV. Why do you think the suicide rate is so high around the holidays? Karl Marx called religion "the opiate of the masses." Well, TV is the new opiate and people need their fix. With nothing on from December 18 until January 8, what else is left for these lonely people?

We have lost all of our communication skills. We have disconnected from society. We have dutifully been pulled into an intellectual stupor caused by bombastic advertising and mind numbingly stupid reality shows.

And now, they drop us cold-turkey. Are we just supposed to walk around like everything is normal and right with the world? Well, it isn't! And it won't be until Jack Bauer is back for another day. Until the gangs from Lost and Heroes return to suck us into their continuing stories that never resolve anything.

So take this time to reflect; to contemplate where your favorite shows have been and where you hope them to go. Try to avoid eye contact with visiting relatives and act like you care about that new bathrobe. But on these long, silent nights when our souls yearn for anything to watch, try not to think too hard about the gas oven or that bottle of sleeping pills.

Your friends will return. It will get better. And until then -- there is always Blockbuster.

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Why? What Color Is It?

Personal discipline is not easy. How many times have you started a diet and then . . .

. . . What was I doing? Oh yeah, I was on a diet and I was telling someone how . . .

. . . You know, maybe I should exercise instead. I'll set some time aside each day, work up a routine that I can live with and . . .

. . . So far, I've gained five pounds. But I am finally tracking my weight. That's a really good first step. I have always believed that if you track anything, it will improve just because you are paying attention to . . .

. . . It's tough during the holidays. People expect you to eat when they cook. And it's all the things I like. But I promise, as soon as the holidays are over . . .

. . . What's wrong with these jeans? I just wore them last week! I think our fucking drier is running too hot. Man! I don't want to buy any new clothes. As soon as I lose this extra weight it'll be a waste of money . . .

. . . Well, I did it! I started my new diet today. I am six weeks from being lean and mean again. And this time I'm not kidding around . . .

. . . Hon? Our show's coming on. You want to make some popcorn?

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Back by Popular Apathy!

Just when you thought it was safe to go back into the garden . . . I had such a great non-reaction to my last batch of Snoodles (c) that I have had the Cartoon Elves slaving feverishly over some new ones.




But I guess speed is relative.



EDITORS NOTE: I have witnessed the appalling conditions in which the Cartoon Elves have to work. They live in a shoebox behind the coal bin and are forced to draw the Snoodles (c) using a bent safety pin and their own blood. (This is actually very typical behaviour for elves but, after all, they did invent the theater.)

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Another Near Miss . . .

Tara Conner, Miss USA 2006, is in danger of being dethroned. It turns out that the 20 year old beauty queen likes the night life and likes to drink.

Of course, the judges should have known that, when for the talent portion of the competition, she was able to chug 64 oz. of a beer-like substance from a funnel and hose contraption while keeping a spoon hanging on her nose. And while the other girls were putting Vaseline on their teeth and touching up their hair, Tara was looking for a breath mint.

Here is a picture of her with the reigning Miss Universe. Tara Conner is on the right:



She seems a little distracted. One of the lighting crew must have mentioned going to Hooters for lunch.

You know, I like to kid around here at Escape Velocity but every now and then we hit upon a very serious subject. Most people, especially young people, don't appreciate how their present actions can affect their future lives. They don't appreciate the fact that other people are looking to them as a guidepost for their own futures. And, in their quest for momentary fun or pleasure, they sometimes unwittingly give their enemies the opening to do them harm..

I am, of course, talking about Tara Conner -- future mother of John Conner, the only man who can prevent The Rise of the Machines. Even now, the cyborgs of 2029 are searching their history for the perfect moment to send one of their own back in time to prevent the birth of John Conner.

Next week, Donald Trump and the Miss USA pageant organizers are going to meet to determine Tara Conner's fate. Ironically, it may already have been decided in 2029.

And what if one of Tara's drunken, lost nights in the Big Apple has already resulted in the conception of John Conner. Is The Donald justified in protecting the dignity of the pageant and a money-making franchise? Will the cyborgs from 2029 find . . .

Excuse me a moment . . . what? . . . Ohhhh! . . . It's Sara Connor . . . and that's Connor with an O . . . and I'm a big . . . Hey! Wait a minute . . . Haven't you ever made a mistake? . . .

Well, anyway, under-age people shouldn't drink. It doesn't matter how smokin' they are.

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Rosie's Turn in the Barrel

Rosie O'Donnell cannot figure out why a Chinese-American person might find this offensive:

In a Dec. 5 segment, O'Donnell joked about how Danny DiVito's recent — and seemingly drunken — appearance on the ABC daytime talk show had become international news.

"You know, you can imagine in China it's like `ching chong, ching chong chong, Danny DeVito, ching chong chong chong, drunk, "The View," ching chong,'" the 44-year-old comedian said.

On Thursday's show, she told the audience: "To say ching chong to someone is very offensive, and some Asian people have told me it's as bad as the n-word. Which I was like, `Really? I didn't know that.'

First let me say this -- Rosie's poor attempt at humor was just another thinly veiled, cynical attempt to minimize DiVito's inexcusable, drunken and treasonable tirade. And, let me state again, if it had been a conservative celebrity that had shown up drunk and abusive, ranting about a liberal president and his policies, Rosie O'Donnell would not be trying to make everyone laugh it off.

And even the Chinese-american community isn't buying her insincere apology. They want Barbara Walters to admit that Rosie was offensive.

So I thought I'd save everyone a little time and restate the obvious. Of course Rosie O'Donnell is offensive. That's why she was hired. The View sucks. Barbara Walters knows it, ABC knows it, and so does everyone else involved with the show. In fact TiVo has a special Skip All Future Episodes button just for The View. So Rosie was hired because they knew she couldn't keep her stupid, racist, lesbian mouth shut. They want the controversy.

Next, why is the n-word the strongest example of an offensive word? I'll answer that question. It isn't. It is being used as a lightening rod. The word "nigger" is no more offensive than the words "queer", "bitch", "Nazi", or "middle-aged-white-guy". The only time these terms are truly offensive is when they come from the heart. And then, the damage done, is mostly to the person who has uttered them.

Sure there are words you don't use in polite company. But words are merely tools. They can be used to brutally hack something to pieces as well as gently caress a child's heart. Different words (tools) for different purposes.

It is my feeling that Rosie O'Donnell and her thoughtless words are being used as a blunt instrument to beat a very dead horse. And, by replacing one controversy for another (lesser) one, they are re-directing their minuscule audience's attention from the greater offender (Mr. DiVito).

Finally, I think Rosie O'Donnell should stick to her strong suit and quit trying to force unfunny comedic bits. She is much better at unintentional humor.

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In Ancient Rome I'd be LV

I have my computer well trained. When I woke up this morning there was a message embedded in the top of my My Yahoo! page. It said "Happy Birthday, Johnny!" (My computer calls me Johnny because I told it to.)

Today I am 55 years old. That means:

• I have the combined maturity of 5 eleven year olds.
  
• If I was half my age I'd still be too old for most of the girls at the mall.
  
• I will never be able to die young.
• The best I can hope for, is to live young and die hard.
• If I am middle-age, I should make it to 110.

They say that "with age comes wisdom" -- that's what they say. I find I am the same man I was at seventeen. Sure I've messed my body up big-time but, hell, I take it everywhere I go! I've never had any broken bones (although I've had my heart broken a few times) but if I took the time to bang out a few dents and knock the rust out of my quarter-panels I'd still look pretty good cruisin' past the malt shop. For a classic.

So far in this crazy journey of mine, I have accomplished more than I had ever hoped to and far less than I could have. I guess most lives are composed of odd assortments of triumphs and regrets -- and mine is no different. But the beauty of middle-age is in knowing that there is still time to work on lost goals.

I don't view 55 as much of a milestone. A lot of old people have done it. But it is a day to take a deep breath, reassess some priorities, and blow out a few candles. I still have my health, I am young at heart (some would say immature), and my best girl is still clinging tightly to my arm.

What more could a birthday boy ask for?

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The Red Dog Tavern

As I sat in the creaking hansom cab I observed the lighted windows of the pub across the street. The glass was steamed from the heat and the number of people inside, causing the occupants to appear as ghostly shadows, back-lit by the flickering oil lanterns. It was impossible to tell which wraith was my quarry.

I settled back into the rolled leather seat, pulling the blanket closer around my legs, and sighed deeply; my breath visible in the chill night air. All I could do was watch the door and hope to God that Barnes hadn't used another exit.

This was the third day that I had followed this, so-called, gentleman. As usual, he had finished his round of house calls and various appointments. Today he was in surgery at Blackmont Hospital before retiring to his club for a brief repast. Now he was back at the Red Dog Tavern, just as he was the first night. I looked up quickly as I heard a glass smash and a woman squeal. But, after a brief pause, there was laughter and the tinny strains from the piano resumed. Just some drunken tom-foolery.

The murders weren't happening on any set schedule that we could observe. But they were becoming more frequent and the last atrocity was a fortnight ago. Nobody thought the fiend would wait much longer before his next attack.

I was following Dr. Randall Barnes of Halsey Street because he fit the general description of The Ripper, he frequents the East End night spots, and he has the medical training necessary for some of The Ripper's signature mutilations.

As I ruminated upon Barnes' qualifications the tavern door opened. A tall man, wearing a cloak and top hat emerged. Beside him was one of the local street walkers, laughing at something he must have just said. She clutched her thin shawl around her bare shoulders and peered into the night. As they stepped into the halo of the streetlamp I could see it was Barnes.

The couple headed south down the wet cobbled street. She was leaning heavily against him and singing some drunken melody. An alley was nearby where many such brief assignations took place. It was also at just such a setting that the last victim was found.

I looked frantically about the street. "Damn it all! Where was Holmes?" I thought. It could be happening right now!

There was nothing else for it. I must act. I tossed the blanket from my legs, threw open the hansom door and stepped down into the cobbled street. I looked over my shoulder to the slouching driver and called, "Find Holmes. Quickly!" and trotted down the street towards the alley, my hand finding my service revolver in my overcoat pocket.

The driver immediately snapped his reins and wheeled the coach about in the narrow street. He lashed the reins to get the horses moving and careened toward the alley. "Right you are, Watson!" he shouted. "I'm right behind you!"

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Currently Current Events

Once again, we have gutted the headlines like a sacrificial deer and stuffed them with whimsey.

Actress Gives $1 Million to Art School -- BALTIMORE - Jada Pinkett Smith donated $1 million to the high school from which she graduated and asked that a theater there be dedicated to one of her classmates, Tupac Shakur. Coincidentally, There are just 19 days left in 2006 to get the tax break.

Mideast May Save Dead Sea With Red Sea -- This sounds like a job for The Cat in the Hat. Now they've got Dr. Seuss working on Mideast problems.

Doors Drummer Files for Divorce -- Windows woodwind recent widower. This is fun! Siding soloist seeks solitude. Basement bassist breaks barrier.

Obese Men, Girls See Unusual Testosterone Levels -- Yeah . . . that's their problem.



Romanian Models Present Lingerie by French Designers -- No they aren't!





Virginia Attorney General Wants Online Sex Offenders Names -- Why can't he pay the membership fees and IM for hours like the rest of us?


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Winter Nostrums

A "nostrum" is a medicine that is not considered effective, prepared by an unqualified person.

I don't mind the winter. I really don't. I have lived in Pennsylvania for 46 of my 54 years. I have had ample opportunity to move away and, at times, stay away. But here I am. So how bad can it be?

Having said that, I have gone out on a limb recently about the winter weather forecast. In one of my earlier blogs I mentioned that I saw some woolly caterpillars that had no dark stripe in their mid-section. Typically the width of the stripe, some would say, indicates the length or severity of the coming winter. I predicted, since the caterpillars had no dark stripes, that we would have a very mild winter.

I have not seen, heard, nor read the actual long term forecast for winter weather in northeast Pennsylvania. So I figure that, up to this point, my prediction should be as good as the weatherman's. But, having shot my mouth off, I've decided to give it a little *help*.

If you have ever blamed the rain on your having recently washed your car -- raise your hands. Now put them down. This is a blog and no one can see you. However, you DO understand the principle of thinking our actions can somehow affect the weather.

I lived in my last house for fourteen years. Twice during that time I owned snowblowers. I bought the first one because we had several severe winters in a row and I got tired of shoveling the driveway. The following year we hardly had any measurable snowfall. For the next four years we had so little snow that the tires went flat on the snowblower several times. I had to drain the gas twice because I figured it was too old. In March of that year I sold the snowblower. The next week he had what is now known as The Blizzard of '93.

After several more bad winters, I gave in and got another snowblower. I may have used it ten time in five years. When I moved here, to the resort, I sold my snowblower. The resort plows the road in front of my house and I have a relatively short sidewalk. Over the last three years, the first and second had pretty heavy snowfalls. Last year, things were a little different.

We built our new deck before that winter so I got a second snow shovel for the back deck. We had an early, moderate snowfall in November. It just so happened that I was in my office in the garage across the street from the house while it snowed one day and both of my snow shovels were across the street; one at the front door and one on the back deck. So I had to trudge through the snow to get the shovel, so that I could shovel, to avoid having to trudge through the snow. I decided it was time to get another shovel to keep outside my garage door.

Once I made that purchase, it hardly snowed again that year. That's when it hit me. Three snow shovels equal one snowblower.

So I have my woolly caterpillar story, three snow shovels and a ten day forecast that shows weather in the 40's through December 20th. I'm not sure how much credibility I have riding on this but, just to hedge my bet, I'm going out today to buy a bag of ice melt and a new snow brush for the car.

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Truthiness . . .

There were two stories in the news today that caught my eye and, at first, seemed non-related. One is about Wesley Snipes and tax evasion and the other is about Merriam-Webster choosing The 2006 Word of the Year.

In the case of Wesley Snipes, he is accused of fraudulently claiming refunds totaling nearly $12 million in 1996 and 1997 on income taxes already paid and with failure to file returns from 1999 through 2004.

According to the indictment, Snipes had his taxes prepared by accountants with a history of filing false returns to reap payments for their clients. The firm, American Rights Litigators, would receive 20 percent of refunds from clients, according to the indictment.

Snipes' case came to light when a man from Pennsylvania was arrested for not paying his taxes. He believed the system was voluntary. The man, Arthur Farnsworth, had a number of "investment funds" designed to hide income and avoid paying taxes. Snipes was listed as one of the investors of these funds.

Arthur Farnsworth, 44, contending that he was not required to pay income tax has been convicted of tax evasion. His lawyer argued that "it did not matter whether Farnsworth was right or wrong. The issue was whether he was sincere in what he believed."

In the other story, Merriam-Webster has decided that The 2006 Word of the Year is . . . "truthiness." Truthiness was credited to Comedy Central satirist Stephen Colbert, who defined it as "truth that comes from the gut, not books."

"We are at a point where what constitutes truth is a question on a lot of people's minds, and truth has become up for grabs," said Merriam-Webster president John Morse.

Colbert, who once derided the folks at Springfield-based Merriam-Webster as the "word police" and a bunch of "wordinistas," was pleased."Though I'm no fan of reference books and their fact-based agendas, I am a fan of anyone who chooses to honor me."

The thing that I find interesting about these two stories is the common mind-set that truth no longer needs to be "reality based." Apparently, whatever you want to believe is the new truth. In a world that believes Al Gore's An Inconvenient Truth even though it is based upon bad science, half-truths and outright lies, and where people are claiming the Twin Towers came down because of some right wing government plot even though we all watched it happen live on TV, it only makes sense that the Word of the Year would celebrate the ephemeral qualities of truth.

The Nazi propagandist, Joseph Goebbels, was known for "The Big Lie" or argumentum ad nauseum, the name given to a policy of repeating a falsehood until it is taken to be the truth. Bill Clinton, former U.S. President, in known for lying under oath and the Weasel Doctrine which poses the theory that truth depends upon "what "is" is."

Although it is true that "truth" can be subjective at times, there are larger, universal truths that will never be corrupted by weak-minded individuals or groups. At one time, our founding fathers considered these truths to be self-evident. Now, we live in a world where they need to be spelled out.

But maybe, if we stand against the lies and repeat what we know to be true often enough, it may eventually be taken to be the truth . . . again. And then it won't matter what "is" is.

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The Angel & The Tree

This is the story of how the angel got on top of the Christmas tree.

A long time ago, in a place where wishes and dreams go when they leave our lips as breath on a cold winter's day, lived an old man and some of his friends. And these were magical friends, indeed.

There were elves whose clever little fingers and nimble little brains could reverse engineer anything worth outsourcing to countries with cheap labor and no plan of their own. There were reindeer with the ability to bend the space time continuum, allowing the old man access to little boys and girls secret wishes and desires, thus casting them as naughty or nice. The younger reindeer were able to fly through sub-space, teleporting gifts to worthy little crumb munchers while circumnavigating the globe in the blink of an eye. And there was an "angel" named Linda whose talents usually helped the old man relax at night.

The old man, at this point in our story, had been doing his job for many, many years. He liked his job and he was good at it. So naturally things were about to change.

The elves were thinking about unionizing, citing health care costs and long work days as their chief complaints. So they were squeezing the old man with a work slow down. The reindeer were suddenly questioning the efficacy of their surveillance techniques and were talking of forming a committee. One of the younger reindeer had developed a nose bleed during their last practice run. And Linda had been a little cranky, lately.

So, there he was. The old man was weeks behind in his production schedule, his Naughty and Nice List was suspect, he had a young buck out on Workman's Comp and he hadn't been relaxed in days. He was mad enough to pull a Michael Richards.

Suddenly, the front door blows open and Linda comes in pulling a scraggly Christmas tree behind her; the wind and snow scattering the old man's revised production schedules and surveillance reports everywhere. She looks at him sweetly and asks, "Where would you like me to put the tree, Santa?"

And that's how the angel got on top of the Christmas tree!

NEXT UP: How the Bride and Groom got on top of the Wedding Cake.

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The Professionals

I had to have my furnace serviced yesterday morning. The problem turned out to be water (condensation) had migrated into the oil filter and froze overnight, causing the furnace to starve for fuel. I paid attention to everything the service guy did and I asked a lot of questions. The parts came to $8.50. The labor was $105.

About a year ago I had a slow leak in my hot tub. The problem turned out to be a cracked rubber o-ring in the pump's bleeder hole. I paid attention to everything the service guy did and I asked a lot of questions. The parts came to $0.25 and the labor was $75.

Now, I'm no dummy when it comes to mechanical stuff. I spent years running newspaper presses, could tear them apart and rebuild them from scratch and gave seminars on maintenance and trouble shooting. Prior to that I was the plant maintenance guy for a metal fabrication plant and was in charge of installing the electrical and compressed air to the new equipment. So, I'm not shy around mechanical maintenance issues.

I do, however, use discretion in not tearing something apart that I've never worked on before. So, I'll call the hot tub guy or the furnace guy once and pick their brains. I stand around like a typical home owner, my hands in my pockets, asking naive questions, and offering lame suggestions.

But these guys are slick, too. They know that they make their money on the labor end of the call. The parts rarely amount to anything. So they usually have a flurry of non-related activity and spend about ten minutes in their parts bin searching for the "right one". Because that's another trick they use -- your parts are always "hard to find".

So, I hang around, looking like a doofus, watching how things go together. Knowing that most of what they are doing is a dog and pony show. I've done the same thing myself to sell a boss on a new piece of equipment or to hire an extra guy.

This summer I had to replace that o-ring in the hot tub, again. It cost me $0.25 and less than a half an hour of my time. I also discovered that if you over-tighten the plug it cracks the o-ring and that the heat from the pump eventually dries out the rubber, making the crack worse, and the leak returns in about six months. Something I'm sure the hot tub guy knew when he over-tightened it the last time.

I guess I've said all of that to make this observation on life:

An expert will make the difficult look simple.
A professional will make the simple look difficult.

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Is This a $20 Bill or My Library Card?

I read the other day that the U.S. government is considering another change to our paper currency. It seems that someone has sued the government on behalf of blind people saying, in part, that our currently current currency is unfair to the visually challenged.

At issue is that blind people have no way to tell the difference between a twenty dollar bill and, say, a five dollar bill. The proposed solution would be to make different denomination paper money in different sizes. Why don't they just write a check or use a debit card? And what happens when they only have all fives in their wallet? With no other currency to compare the size to, aren't they still subject to whatever their original problem was?

And since when does size matter? I thought that was a myth. Does that mean that beach balls will have more value than baseballs? Or that tall people will have more worth than short people? Where will it end?

And if blind people can sue because they cannot distinguish the value between two similar inert objects, does that mean that blonds will be able to sue when they realize the true value of their man? Oh, wait . . . Britney and K-Fed already set that precedent. But the question still remains, if people can sue to know the actual, real value of things, how will Microsoft and Health Care companies stay in business?

This could have dire consequences. My solution is much simpler. Let the blind people sue the government and win. But they don't win the change they are seeking. They win, instead, a large monetary settlement. Then we pay them in all one dollar bills. And then we make a law saying that it is illegal to give or receive anything other than one dollar bills to blind people. This will accomplish two things.

Buying stuff will keep blind people too busy to file any more frivolous lawsuits. And Circuit City can continue selling the Microsoft Zune right next to Apple's iPod.

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The Danny DeVito Blog

I wrote a blog about Danny DeVito the other day. It was about free speech and his right to be a total butt-wipe. The funny thing is that I've never gotten more search hits for my blog than when I used his name. Google, Technorati, AOL -- all served up my blog site as a place that mentioned Danny DeVito.

First, let me say that I thought I did a humorous and insightful piece that day (It was entitled Free Speech?). And that it was deserving of the attention it garnered. But I do wonder as to why so many people were searching on Danny DeVito's name.

Was it because they all think he is a sawed off pant-load who should learn to keep his drunken mouth shut or that he is an amusing character who's always fun to watch? Were people surprised that there was no ensuing scandal or were they hoping for one? We'll probably never care.

Regardless, I'd like to thank Mr. Danny Devito for all the hits I received and that, now that it is all over, to tell him to get the fuck out. I've got other stuff to do.

I am curious about one thing, though. In the original article, I mis-spelled his name. I spelled it DiVito. And all of the hits I received on my blog were from other people mis-spelling his name. So I'm wondering something. (No, it's not how many hits I would have gotten if I had correctly spelled his name.) I'm wondering if maybe HE is spelling it wrong?

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National Breast Awareness Month

I almost forgot. This is National Breast Awareness Month here at Escape Velocity. We are at a heightened ORANGE level of breast awareness. Which means that all of the women who visit our corporate headquarters receive a free 115 point breast exam and a small glass of orange juice (to help rehydrate).

Since the holidays and Escape Velocity's National Breast Awareness Month coincide, as you can well imagine, there will be a lot of wrapping and unwrapping going on here in our glass tower.

So far, my staff (heh, heh) and I have examined over two dozen breasts. Since they come in pairs, that would be thirteen womeneses. The drink this month at the Escape Velocity tiki bar is the Buttery Nipple so, while all of this unwrapping and breast examining and drinking is going on, I guess you could say the ol' corporate staff has been a little stiff, lately.

We, here at Escape Velocity, are currently seeking donations to expand our breast awareness efforts for next year. The debate is currently going on between expanding our efforts to, say the ass or legs, or if we should expand the locale for the exams to someplace like Jamaica. I am in favor of the Jamaica idea because the rest of them can do that other stuff on their own time.

Unlike other charities who have large overheads and must defray office expenses, only allowing as little as 27% of donations to actually reach the intended goal, my personal pledge to you, oh constant reader, is that 100% of your donations will be spent in the pursuit of breast awareness. No exceptions. Even if it means I have to borrow other money from my wife.

You can send your donations to:

Tiki Fund
355 Sunny Rest Drive
Palmerton, PA 18071

So remember, self-exams can only go so far. Our motto is "Give A Lech A Look". . . or "Take A Pair To Lunch". . . Actually, we're still working on the motto.

God, I love the holidays.

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Current Events

Here are a few headlines that have caught my attention. The headlines are real; the comments are a figment of your imagination. Have some more coffee.

Nazi Hunter Elliot Welles, 79, dies. -- Hmmm . . . I thought these former Nazis were trying to keep a low profile. Nazi hunter . . . he must have been pretty good. You don't hear much about other Nazis. Like Nazi bowlers . . . or Nazi ice sculptors . . . or Nazi plumbers.

Clinton Dogged by "Electability" Questions. -- That's funny. I kinda thought she would be bothered by personal ethics issues; guilt over killing Vince Foster, trying to take over a seventh of the national economy by co-opting our health care system, the life ending and career destroying cover up of Whitewater and, generally, the whole bitch thing. But electability is good, too.

4 Die in Missouri as Temperatures Plunge -- Distraught weather man takes his own life. Note says: "I thought it was going to be cloudy and 47."

Experts Reconstruct Leonardo da Vinci's Fingerprint. -- Authorities close string of 500 year old robberies.

Manila Court Finds U.S. Marine Guilty of Rape -- Trust these people. They make great envelopes.

Study Finds Volunteering at 30 Year High -- Who says we need to raise the minimum wage?

Weight loss Surgery Results in Loss of Woman's Friendship -- You can never get too close to donuts . . . they're fickle. And Big Macs -- forget about it -- they think they own you!

Pfizer Shares Plunge After Cholesterol Drug Fails -- Yeah, but were they the good shares or the bad shares?

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Free Speech?

Michael Richards vs. Danny DeVito.

Two celebrities are in the news recently for poor behavior and outrageous statements in public. Both incidents occurred before mostly liberal audiences; both were equally outrageous and both have had very different results. The only difference was the persons or groups being verbally attacked.

In the case of Michael Richards, he was at a comedy club in L.A. when he began being heckled by some black people in the audience. He used the normal tips and tricks to quiet them down, but nothing worked. They kept it up and Richards lost his temper and began heckling back and used the word "nigger" several times.

In the case of Danny DeVito, he was out drinking with George Clooney all night before reporting for an interview on The View. DeVito was still drunk, was making no sense and went on an extended tirade about President Bush and his policies in a totally disrespectful manner, using various epithets to describe the president.

In the case of Michael Richards, his life has turned into a three ring circus from hell. He has publicly apologized numerous times, there is talk of law suits and his career is possibly ruined.

In the case of Danny DeVito, the hostesses of The View are downplaying the incident; after the initial reports, the media have dropped any mention of DeVito's political tirade; everyone is trying to laugh it off and DeVito has said any apologies needed to be made would be in the form of a private phone call to Barbara Walters.

As to free speech, we either have it or we don't. There should not be lists of words or concepts too sensitive to broach. This does not mean that there are not inappropriate times or places that would cause that free speech to be poorly received. In fact, part of the concept of free speech is the right to freely disagree with the speaker. If a person is a boor, he should be shunned -- personally and professionally.

In the cases of Richards and DeVito, they were both wrong. Michael Richards was provoked beyond a reasonable measure of patience by out of control, black audience members and he lashed out. Danny DeVito was up all night, drunk, and was provoked by an out of control liberal (George Clooney) and he acted out. They both deserve condemnation for their actions and some sort of consequence to their public careers.

But liberals have a slip-slidey scale for free speech and political correctness. If it had been a black comedian on stage being heckled by out of control whites in the audience, "honkey" and "cracker" and any other epithet would have been acceptable and probably applauded by the rest of the audience. If a conservative celebrity were the guest of The View, exhibiting the same boorish behavior and ranting about how bad a liberal president was, he would have been roundly booed, thrown off of the show, made to apologize and the political aspect would have played up -- not down.

So, do we have free speech in America? Probably more so than in some other countries. I fear its execution will never be as pure as its concept. But as long as we have to toe an arbitrary line of political correctness, controlled by people who consider some races or people "fair game" while others are "off limits" it will never be reasonable.

I guess that's just liberals being liberals.

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Is This Offensive?

I was at a computer super store yesterday making some routine purchases. By that I mean I wasn't buying a computer nor was I getting anything remotely super, either. All I needed were some printer cartridges. The store was packed. People were pushing ahead of other people, sales clerks were ignoring customers, door buster items were out of stock, everyone was being rude.

I eventually made my selection and rejoined the stream of humanity, like so much flotsam and jetsam, being tossed and shoved until I was spewed out upon the distant shores of the checkout lines. So far so good.

There were loud talking mommies making public demonstrations of their parenting skills. There were mother-daughter tag teams who alternated between standing in line and running back for one more thing. There were imperious looking business people disdainfully running up their expense accounts. There were Playstation 3 and Wii geeks getting their tech fix and clueless fathers with armloads of video games that their kids have ignored all year long. And me.

When I finally got to the checkout, I placed my ink cartridges upon the counter and cheerfully announced, "Merry Christmas!"

It was like a bomb went off. The girl behind the counter, a middle eastern looking person wearing a burkha and one of those silky gown thingies, literally gasped and took a step backwards. The girl at the next checkout's eyes went wide and she quickly looked away shaking her head. The rest of the people in the lines around me stopped talking. From everybody's reaction, you'd of thought I farted during a moment of silence.

I looked around me and said, "You people should be ashamed of yourselves! This is Christmastime. It has a name. We are allowed to say it. Well over 70% of our population in this country is Christian. But we can't even publicly name the holiday for fear of offending someone? Christmas is the most sacred of Christian holidays. If you people don't like it then get the hell out of the stores and give the true believers some room to shop!"

They all stood silently for a moment, then finally, the middle eastern girl cleared he throat and spoke, "It's not that, sir." she said quietly. "You're wearing a Party Naked tee shirt with a picture of naked people having sex. You are a veddy, veddy bad man!"

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The Straight Poop

I am confused by poop. I mean I know what it is and shit, I'm just confused by how people deal with it. I was recently around some people who were poddy training their child. Every time the kid pooped in the toilet or poddy chair, they made a big fuss and told him what a great, smart kid he was. I remember doing the same thing with our kids.

However, there comes a time (and this is probably where my own confusion originally began) when the kid is trained. He can now shit in the proper place. He is used to the accolades and possibly rewards for doing his doody. He is strutting around like a little king, knowing that any time he feels that certain urge, he knows exactly where to go and what to do and he will once again have praise and glory heaped upon him. But there will also be that certain day when all of the adults around him will say, "Yeah, so what kid? Now go play."

He will be crushed. He will suddenly realize he is the only one who gives a shit. And this will be his first real life lesson. And it will confuse him by it's subtlety. Even if he gets the attitude of, "That's good, but what have you done recently?" that adults have to deal with constantly, he still gets nothing by pointing to his recent poop. Because they mean "what else can you do?" instead of "how much more can you do?"

Then, adding to his confusion, will be the adult use of the word "shit." By this point he will have connected the words "poop" and "shit" in his little brain and suddenly, the very thing he was praised for doing, will forever more have a negative connotation. What's going on here?

Then he will look out the window and see the neighbors walking their dogs; making a big fuss when their doggy poops; giving the dog a treat; and then picking it up and saving it for later. Even back when everybody thought his poop was really great, nobody ever saved it!

This is why children go through what parents call their "terrible twos." It basically takes them that long to get over their poop confusion. And while they work it all out in their little heads they tend to act out.

Which, now that I think of it, might also explain the "teen rebellion" years and their confusion over the connotations and realities associated with the word "fuck".

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Why I Am So Funny

I have a fairly quick wit. If I am at a party where I don't know anyone, I will usually hang back to get the flow of the conversation, see who the smart ones are in the room and join in when I am directly spoken to. After I get a feel for the room I start slow, with a zinger out of left field. No one sees it coming and, yet, they are all laughing. Then I will hang back some more. Watching. Waiting. Timing is everything.

If I am among friends, I will start right in. Quips, quotes, and anecdotes flowing like tears in a soap opera. Everything is fair game. Most people think I am drunk. In fact, I usually tell people that the more I drink -- the funnier I think they think I am. It usually makes sense when they are drunk, too.

But all of this humor and apparent quick wit comes from years of living in my head. Watching other people tell the jokes and hearing the laughter. Years of saying to myself, "I shoulda said . . ." and having regrets for lost opportunities. Listening to the voices in my head argue over what my response would be the next time.

But all of that is in the past.

Ever since I started using Dr. Von Zell's Miracle Brain Cream. Dr. Von Zell's Miracle Brain Cream applies directly to the forehead and other bony areas surrounding the brain. It quiets the negative voices; the ones telling you not to say that in front of the boss; or the ones reminding you how much bigger her husband is than you are. And Dr. Von Zell's Miracle Brain Cream encourages the voices that say, "Hey, we all laughed when you thought it -- go ahead and say it!"

Dr. Von Zell's Miracle Brain Cream will give you the courage to be the life of the party by deadening the parts of the brain the have allowed us to survive this long. You will no longer worry about, "How will I face her tomorrow?" or "Isn't he connected, somehow?" All you will care about is how f**king funny you are.

So, if you hear voices, don't have a lot of friends anyway, and want to be the life of the party -- buy Dr. Von Zell's Miracle Brain Cream. Just $29.99 or two for $70. Dr. Von Zell's Miracle Brain Cream is not sold in stores so act now.

Dr. Von Zell's Miracle Brain cream may cause drowsiness, depression, diarrhea, vomiting, irregular heartbeat, thromboscular maculitus, pustules, stroke, cancer [in rare cases], baloney wiener syndrome, and earthquakes. Take only as directed.

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The Panda Porn Prognosticator

Today I want to talk about sex and panda bears. While we were visiting our son's over Thanksgiving someone mentioned teddy bears. Which got me to thinking about regular bears and that, in turn, got me to thinking about panda bears. For my own amusement and much to the annoyance of others, I did most of this out loud.

Eventually I got to the heart of the matter. Have you ever noticed that when ever panda bears are in the news it involves sex? Are they really that good or do they share a press agent with Tom Cruise? All of the stories about them are about their mating or inability to mate. Or sometimes about giving birth which I am pretty sure involves a sex component (Although after nine months who even remembers. Women talk about postpartum blues -- men should talk about post conception blues.). But with these bears, it is always about sex.

Most of the stories center around the panda bears not mating. The thing is, if the bears are paying attention, they can't help but know everyone is watching. Who can perform under those conditions? Hell, I can't even pee if someone is standing at the next urinal. The entire free world is watching with baited breath (whatever the hell that means) and the Internet is poised to erupt into a dis-information and mis-information frenzy the moment either bear reaches for the K-Y. The San Diego Zoo has a sign that says "Please Do Not Give Condoms To The Panda Bears".

So I thought, wouldn't it be funny to provide the male panda bears with a little panda porn. You know, just to get them going? And I got on a roll, here. I started speculating what pandas would find sexy or erotic. Would the girl bears wear see through lingerie? Or dress like French maids or Catholic school girls? And considering that they have hair everywhere, would they shave? And if so, what? If bears do it doggy style, do they give dogs credit for that position the way people do or have they named it after another species -- like koala style?

So, I had a good laugh about that and everyone else seemed to enjoy watching me laugh, and I thought that was the end of it. The very next morning, this headline was in the paper: Panda Porn Helps Spark Birthing Boom in Captive Breed. I'm not kidding. I had that conversation and THEN the headline came out.

I just wanted you to know how cutting edge we are here at Escape Velocity. Where our motto is: Yesterday's News Tomorrow! and, unlike pandas, we have no performance issues.

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Mood Gorning!

My dreams are dyslectic. Have you ever had one of those work-all-night dreams? You know, the endless, repetitive cycle, even if you wake up you go right back into it kind of dream? I don't have them a lot but when I do they are doozies. I get no rest when I have them. It is literally like working all night.

Last night I dreamt I was working in some kind of factory where everyone was shouting that we needed to make more procto-doohickies. That was the actual word from the dream. Procto-doohickies. I didn't know what they were but they sounded uncomfortable.

There was part of the dream where I was stacking boxes as they came off of the conveyor belt and, even though it was a dream, the boxes felt too light. As if they were empty. Then I was sent on an errand in this huge facility that, even though I presumably worked there, I was completely unfamiliar with where I was. So I was wandering the halls, and going in and out of doors and up and down stairs and was mostly lost.

At one point I became convinced that finding and seeing an actual procto-doohickie would somehow enlighten me and I would have total peace and understanding. There was even a part of the dream when everyone was running around naked. But the Freudians should not read too much into that since I am a nudist.

I never did find the procto-doohickie in my dream. As I awakened this morning, I lay there letting the last tendrils of Morpheus caress my brain with his ever-receding fingers until I had it.

I am always flipping syllables around within sentences or phrases to make new words or to change the meaning of the sentences. These are called spoonerisms. A good example would be: "He is nucking futs!" or "That's bass ackwards." One of my favorites is in Mel Brooks' Robin Hood: Men in Tights when the sheriff says, "He deered to kill a King's dare."

Anyway, I realized that the elusive "procto-doohickie" in my dream was "productivity" in real life. Which, from the sound of it, and as I intimated earlier, has always been a pain in the ass.

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Mr. Lucky

Life is not unlike a football game -- sometimes you're up, sometimes you're down and eventually you're out of quarters. Speaking of slot machines . . .

I have a number of friends who go to Las Vegas, Atlantic City and Wilkes-Barre a lot. You know, all of the meccas for gambling. (That was a little ballot referendum humor there, folks.) But I rarely go to those places. This is because I have no luck at all. Zero, zip, nada, zilch, none.

When we go to Atlantic City I give myself a budget for how much I am willing to lose per day. It is usually $50 a day. I never even consider the possibility of winning. I go to the cashier's booth and get $50 in quarters and I play the slot machines until it is all gone. This sometimes takes several hours during which time some asshole in my little party will have won $20,000 picking their nose or something.

I, on the other hand have an intimate knowledge of the full mid-range of experiences that gambling has to offer. Sometimes I am up. Sometimes I am way up (maybe $120). Sometimes I am down to my last few quarters and my luck turns and I'm suddenly back up to $30 or so. But eventually and inevitably the last quarter is played and I shuffle back to my little group with my hands in my empty pockets. But at least I never lose big-time.

I have played other games like roulette and craps and blackjack. But the money goes faster and I end up having to spend more time watching someone else win. So I try to stick to gambling devices that bleed me slowly. It gives me time to think about how long I had to actually work for that money in the first place.

Besides, I'm not allowed to play blackjack in most of the casinos on The Strip. They tell me I hold up the game. Apparently, it is supposed to be a fast moving, visceral experience, but I have a little trouble doing all that math in my head. I do not instantly know how many more I need to stay at or under twenty-one when I have seventeen. Hell, it takes me a while to even realize I have seventeen, unless I have a ten and a seven. So, I tend to slow things down a little.

So much so, that I am the only person I know of who has been kicked out of Las Vegas for counting fingers.

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Happy (snail) Trails To You!

I'm taking a few days off during the Thanksgiving holiday. In place of my daily blog I have prepared a few of my snail-doodles.

Well, this is it for this batch of Snoodles (c). I hope you have found them amusing. Escape Velocity will return to our semi-normal stuff tomorrow. Until then -- you've been slimed.

Time to call in the C.S.I. (Crime Snail Investigators).




Parlez-vous . . . ?




Snoodles (c) will return in . . . On Her Majesty's Secret Snail.

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The Not Ready For Slime Time Players

I'm taking a few days off during the Thanksgiving holiday. In place of my daily blog I have prepared a few of my snail-doodles.

I have always enjoyed prop humor. It turns out that snails have closets, too.







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Ask Your Mother

I'm taking a few days off during the Thanksgiving holiday. In place of my daily blog I have prepared a few of my snail-doodles.

I'm not sure why, but I rank marching band music right up there with bagpipes, accordions and yodeling. These snails may be on to something.




Later, that same day.



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Footless and Fancy-free

I'm taking a few days off during the Thanksgiving holiday. In place of my daily blog I have prepared a few of my snail-doodles.

I have always thought it was funny the way kids innocently ask loaded questions:





What do you call a guy with no hands and no feet who sticks to the wall? Art. Most of my Snoodles (c) humor comes from their inherent lack of hands and feet.




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And Now For Something Completely Different

I've decided to take a few days off from my daily blogging exercise during the Thanksgiving holiday. In place of my daily bloggerisms I have prepared a few of my Snoodles (c). These are snail-doodles.

I don't know . . . One of the voices in my head told me to do it. Anyway, I just think the idea of snails reaching Escape Velocity is pretty funny. Enjoy.







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