K-Y and a Cigarette

I have to go for a prostate exam today. I know! I know! I am prepared to be the butt of your jokes for the day. And, yes, while he is up there I'll have him check for more blog ideas.

In the mean time, I promise not to repeat a lot of cheap jokes about anal exams. It would be too easy. Like, I'm not going to tell you about the guy who went into the proctologist's office for his first exam. The doctor told him to have a seat in the examination room and that he would be with him in just a few minutes. When the man sat down and began observing the tools he noticed there were three items on a stand next to the exam table: A tube of K-Y jelly, A rubber glove and a beer.

When the doctor finally came in the man said, "Look Doc, I'm a little confused. This is my first exam. I know what the K-Y is for, and I know what the glove is for, but can you tell me what the BEER is for?"

At that the doctor became noticeably outraged and stormed over to the the door. The doc flung the door open and yelled, "Nurse! I said a butt light!"

I am NOT going to tell you that joke. I'm also not going to tell you about the time I asked my Doctor why he uses two fingers for the exam and he told me he did it in case I wanted a second opinion. You won't hear that one from me, either.

Nor will you hear of the proctology student who is in the morgue one day after classes, wanting to get a little practice in before the final exams. He goes over to a table where a body is lying face down. He uncovers the sheet over the body, and to his surprise he finds a cork in the corpse's rectum.

Figuring that this is fairly unusual, he pulls the cork out, and to his surprise, music begins playing:

"On the road again...just can't wait to get on the road again..." The student is amazed, and places the cork back in the backside. The music stops. Totally freaked out, the student calls the Medical Examiner over to the corpse.

"Look at this, this is really something," the student tells the examiner as he pulls the cork back out again. "On the road again...just can't wait to get on the road again..."

"So what?" the Medical Examiner replies, obviously unimpressed with the student's discovery.

"But isn't that the most amazing thing you've ever seen?" asked the student.

"Are you kidding?" replied the Examiner, "Any asshole can sing country music."

This blog is WAY too dignified for jokes like that! So you won't hear them here.

I will, however, mention that the last time I underwent this procedure I asked the Doctor if he could write a note to my wife saying that my head is NOT, in fact, up there . . . and I remember singing, "You put your left hand in, you put your left hand out. You do the Hokey Pokey . . . " . . . and I remember telling him that now I know how the Muppets feel . . . and asking him, while he's up there, to let me know if he finds my dignity . . .

All in all, this won't be a good day for the Doctor.

Season's Greetings

"You'll never guess what I saw at Walmart today?" my wife said as she came in the door.

"Um . . . Did it have three ears?" I asked.

"No."

"Was is covered in pickle juice and sequins?" I tried again.

"No."

"Has it ever been to the Moon?" I queried.

"No! And you really suck at this game!" she asserted.

"O.K." I surrendered. "Let's start again."

She sighed deeply. Put her purse down. Walked into the other room and began cooking dinner, pots and pans banging louder than necessary. Later, while she was serving our beef burgundy and brussel sprouts, I decided to take another crack at it. "Christmas decorations." I said out of the blue.

"What?'

"At Walmart. Christmas decorations."

She put down the wine bottle and turned her full attention on me. (oh, oh) "How could you possibly know that?" she demanded.

I sat back, crossing my legs, smoothing the creases of my imaginary silk suit. I ran my fingers through my imaginary long hair then smelled my left armpit. "It's really quite elementary, I assure you."

"But it is August 29th." she protested. "It is insane for stores to start having Christmas decorations out yet! We haven't even had Halloween or Thanksgiving. How could you possibly guess that? You never even leave the resort -- not since that Guy Stuff incident at the Mall. So how could you know?"

"They really do push the seasons in the stores." I semi-answered. "Those weasels are so afraid of getting stuck with inventory that the end-of-season sales are over and the new season's inventory is out before a season even properly begins. Try buying Hawaiian shirts in the summer time. Or a pair of gloves in the actual winter. If they have anything, it's on a remainder table in the back of the store. If we want to go on vacation in July, we have to shop for it in March. Who even thinks that way?" I was warming up to the subject now.

She just sat there looking at me. After a long pause, she put one hand on either side of my head and said, "Answer . . . my . . . question. How did you know there were Christmas decorations at Walmart?"

"Oh, that!" I said. "I thought you were playing a word game with me."

"A word game?"

"Yeah. You came in, and said (and I quote): 'YULE never guess what I saw at Walmart today.' "

Home is Too Far Away

The rhythmic beat of the wipers added to the din of the heavy rain pounding the surfaces of the car. Visibility was poor. The view an intermittent blur of shiny black reflections. Foams of ground spray from the other vehicles violently assaulted them. The wind buffeted them, rocking the older car on its road-weary suspension. The wind becoming visible as sheets of heavy rain whipped before the back lighting of halogen streetlamps.

"I think it's letting up." Audrey said, squinting through the windshield. The humid atmosphere in the car fogged the windscreen as she swiped at it with a wad of McDonald napkins.

Another gust of wind rocked the car. "Yeah, right." The slouching passenger replied. "You want any help putting the top down?"

Audrey threw the wet napkins at her younger brother. He deftly deflected them with his forearm. "You're such a dick!" she said in frustration.

"I'm just sick of the rain." he replied, defeat softening his response, causing him to sink deeper into his slouch.

It had been raining for two days, now. Ever since they had gotten the call from their father . . . telling them about the accident . . . and Mom. It was all so stupid! Nobody died that way; slipping on a wet spot in the mall and snapping your neck on a decorative planter. What a stupid way to die.

So Audrey and Rick, two years apart at the same college, threw their stuff into the back of the family's old Wrangler and headed for home. Headed for the funeral. And to see Dad.

Dad wasn't around much after the divorce. Not that he was before, either, but afterwards . . . he just dropped out. He had his job, and that apartment, and that was about it. The last few times Rick or Audrey went to visit him he was drunk and the apartment had been a mess; take out bags and containers and empties were everywhere. They weren't even sure he was still working. But he would be comic-opera polite, ignoring the mess and his own disheveled appearance, acting as if they had been invited to high tea.

When Aud got the call, Dad's voice sounded kind of rough. Like he had been crying or maybe like someone else had just roused him from a binge. She wasn't sure. She thought back to earlier memories of her father . . . and of her mother -- when they were still good. Tears began trickling down her cheeks again. Blurring her vision even further.

She knew nothing ever stayed the same. That people get old and change. But why'd it all have to turn to shit? When Mom left Dad for That Guy, the affair only lasted six months. The damage was lasting a lifetime. And now this.

The Fan's Blog

I am approached by friends and family with new blog ideas, everyday. Some of them are really good so I wait a respectful amount of time (2-3 days, tops) before pretending it was my own idea. This works some of the time because, although most of my friends have a fair amount of untrained mental capacity, my family just isn't all that sharp.

Most of the ideas, however aren't all that good. Now, don't get me wrong. I LOVE hearing ideas. I am ENTERTAINED by your ideas. Even the bad ones. A lot of times, an un-viable idea will contain an elemental truth or detail that will start me down the right path. All I need is a bunny trail and liberal amounts of vodka or rum for an idea to start looking good.

Sometimes I follow myself around with a stack of 3x5 note cards and a feather quill pen and an ink jar, a sheath of scrap paper and one of those half-circle weight thingies to roll over the back of the scrap paper. Then, if I make a note, I set the scrap paper upon the freshly written note card and roll the weight across the paper. This helps absorb the excess, slow drying ink from the quill pen and lets the remaining ink dry faster. (I hate smudged note cards.) Anyway, I follow myself around -- ready to take notes as soon as I utter something brilliant. Usually the slow drying ink will evaporate from the sealed bottle before that happens.

So I do rely, to some small degree, on outside ideas. Here are a few of the recent ones (My contribution to the idea is in italics):

• Halloween candy - it has been out in the stores for a month already. They try to extend the season in order to give fat people a dignified way to buy that much candy.
  
• Racy sports terms - like love and tight-end.
  
• Water volleyball. I call this sport T-Rex ball. Have you ever noticed how everyone holds their hands above the water, elbows tucked in, hands slightly cupped and facing downward. It gives the the appearance of having short, useless arms. Like T-Rexes.
• Lost pets. We had a lost dog at the dance on Saturday. It was a large tan dog of dubious parentage. Knowing it was not a pure bred, I dubbed it Rin-Tin-Aluminum.
• Bears in the resort. I could have gone for the irony - there being so many bares here already. Or, we have several joke BARE CROSSING signs around here, and I could have dealt with the tragedy of the declining literacy levels among bears (especially black bears).
  

Some weaker ideas ought to be mentioned, as well:

• It sure is raining a lot lately.
• Boy, is that sun hot!
• I wonder what the lunch special is today?
• Do you have a light?
• What are you writing? And what's with the big feather and the ink bottle? What's this weight thingy for?

But the best idea of the week came from a beautiful lady named Bev. She thinks we could end our terrorist concerns for air travel if people were naked on airplanes.

I think this is an excellent idea. It is the same principle behind the low crime rate at nudist resorts. (Pick-pocketing at a nude resort is mostly a victimless crime.) For this idea to work, however, we would have to expand the Zone of Nudity outside of the plane. If we got naked after we're on the plane, we are still taking a lot of potentially dangerous junk with us. But -- if we were totally naked when we got to the airport, the security lines would be non-existent. No shoes in the plastic tray. No buttons or jewelery to set off the buzzer. Hell -- no buzzer!

And what's the big deal, every third person is practically strip searched already. Nobody will be embarrassed if everyone is naked. Of course, the pilots will need to remain clothed. They need those big uniform pockets to carry enough of those little bottles of booze to get them through the flight. (Believe it or not -- the dashboards on a 747 are quite small.)

You would have to redesign some other things on the plane, too. Like, I wouldn't want to have an aisle seat when some burley naked guy was rummaging in the overhead above it, looking for a pillow or blanket. We would definitely have to establish boy-girl-boy-girl seating. And the movies would all have to be PG. And snack and beverage time would be sooo cool, too. There's nothing like watching a nude stewardess bending over for a hot one. (Coffee, I meant coffee.)

To ensure total safety at the airport we would really have to arrive naked. This means we would have to travel by car or taxi or bus naked, as well. (This idea just keeps getting better.)

The tradition of handshaking was started to prove that the two parties were not armed. This is really just an extension of that same idea. Nudity could actually make air travel pleasant again.

The first thing I'm going to do today is write a detailed e-mail to Homeland Security outlining all of the benefits of Bev's idea. Then I am going to the pool to practice my airport etiquette. I have to fly to Florida in October. I can't wait to get one of those giant pretzels. I know just where I'm going to hang it.

Move Over, Gabriel

A legend died yesterday. Jazz trumpeter Maynard Freguson died at age 78. He was the musician who hit the high notes in his recording of Gonna Fly Now, a hit version of the theme from the Rocky movies.

Maynard was an import from Canada who made his mark on the jazz world in the 50's and never stopped until the end. He was instrumental and influentuental in the Be-Bop and the West Coast jazz movements and was famous for being able to hit the high notes.

Personally, he blew me away.

The first time I heard him was on a record put out by the Emarcy Jazz Series called Stratospheric. Every song was consistently great but his version of Over the Rainbow haunts me to this day. In it, he presents a fairly straight forward version of the familiar song before drifting into a jazz rendition of its musical themes. Towards the end of the song he hits this note that is so high, and so pure, and holds it for so long, that I truly believed I would never hear anything as perfect again. And the next note was higher. It has blown me away every time I've ever heard it.

Miles Davis, a fellow trumpeter, once asked Maynard for some advice on hitting the high notes. Maynard told him his problem was in his legs. Miles looked at him and said, "Shee-it!" and walked away, thinking Maynard was goofing on him. Later, during a similar conversation, Maynard was able to explain that he meant you need a solid, balanced foundation to feed the torso, the source of the energy required to hit the higher register. Miles tried it and it worked.

Another time, Miles was with jazz greats Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker and he suggested that they all go down to Birdland to hear Maynard hit the high notes. This was genius recognizing genius.

My wife and I had the privilege of seeing Maynard Ferguson in concert in the early 90's. His masterful performance captivated the audience that night. No one walked away unchanged. We had very good seats near the front of the auditorium and we were able to see the sweat fly. That night I learned that this Giant who walked among Legends was merely a man. But the man was extraordinarily gifted and lived to entertain.

Maynard Ferguson was the last of the greats from an era that is now closed. He will be missed here on earth but someone close to him said yesterday, "Move over, Gabriel. You're second trumpet now."

A fitting tribute, indeed.

The Haunting

When I was young, my mother used to tell me this story.

Back in the early 1940's a little girl went to stay with her aunt for several days. The aunt lived in the country in a small farm house surrounded by woods. The house had been there for many years. Its weathered boards were gray and unpainted. Inside there were three rooms. The large front room served as the kitchen and sitting room. The two smaller back rooms were bedrooms. The house was always drafty and the only heat was from a wood stove in the center of the front room.

It was fall when the little girl made her visit. She was staying with her aunt because her parents and older siblings were attending a funeral. The aunt was a quiet, hard person. She rarely spoke, other than to give brief commands. The girl was afraid of her aunt and did everything she was told. The house was very quiet except for the aunt tromping back and forth, bringing in fire wood, cutting vegetables and using the pump at the kitchen sink; the water splashing heavily in the tin bucket, smelling slightly of sulphur.

At night the aunt would dim the lantern on the plain wooden table and tromp into her bedroom, leaving the little girl sitting in the semi-darkness, alone. Being fall, the aunt was not yet keeping the wood stove going all day. The air was chilly. Occasional puffs of wind would whistle through the loose window frames. Stray leaves would blow in under the door.

The girl sighed heavily and walked quietly to her bedroom. The sound of her aunt's gentle snoring was somehow reassuring. Inside the bedroom, the girl was guided by the little moonlight that made it past the autumn thinned trees and through the thin cotton curtains of the unpainted window. The mattress was filled with corn husks and rags. There were clean sheets and a heavy feather-tick blanket to trap her body heat for warmth at night. She quickly removed her shoes, her worn dungarees and the faded cotton shirt that she loved so, leaving her socks and underwear on for sleeping.

After saying her prayers, she lay quietly, listening to the sounds of the old house and the wind just outside its walls; the leaves sounding like rain as they scoured the barn-like wood. A little later she became aware that she had drifted to sleep but was now awake again. The night had become quieter. It was much darker now, the moon having moved on in its journey across the night sky. She heard the sometimes sounds of a night creature as it moved stealthily through the woods, looking for prey. And something else.

Her eyes strained to make out objects in the dark. Her night vision ineffective in the deep darkness. She could see the darker shadow of the straight backed chair against the far wall. She knew her discarded clothing was lying on the cane seat, waiting for morning. There was little else to see in the room -- even in the day time. The only other piece of furniture was a battered three-drawer wooden dresser sitting in the corner. A mirror was hung on the wall behind it and the girl had examined the treasures of the pearl backed hairbrush and porcelain wash bowl earlier. Yesterday, now.

She must have fallen asleep again because this time she was awakened by a pressure on her legs and a shifting of the bed. She lay very still, her thoughts sluggish from sleep. Her young mind trying to process this new experience. The room suddenly seemed much colder. Time had passed again but it was still night and very dark. She lay frozen. The pressure on her legs increased slightly . . . still shifting. She was unable to move her legs and felt trapped, the early stages of panic welling up in her thin breast. She wanted to cry out but fear closed her throat, preventing her from uttering a sound.

The pressure moved up her body. Up her thighs and across her belly to her chest and shoulders, immobilizing her already fear frozen arms. She felt as if a great weight had settled upon her. But she also felt a presence. It wasn't merely a dead weight holding her down. It felt as if someone was laying on top of her. Pinning her to the mattress. Her eyes strained to see who it could be but saw nothing. The presence was cold.

Then the girl heard the whispers. Far away and in her ear at the same time. Was it one voice all over the room? Were there many voices? She tried to understand what they were saying. The voice was gentle and somehow pleading. Sad maybe. The little girl felt a compulsion to go with the voice. To rise from the bed and follow where it led.

And then she felt what could only be described as kisses. The first one was on her cheek. It was cold and . . . wet? She felt a pressure on either side of her head, holding her still. She felt another kiss on her forehead . . . then on her eyelids . . . and on her cheeks again . . . and her mouth. When it found her mouth it would not let up. The cold, wet, smothering kiss lasted forever, the whispered voices still flying around the room, her body pinned to the overstuffed mattress by the terrible weight. She was terrified, realizing she could not breath. If the kiss did not end she would die.

Fear galvanized her young muscles and she twisted her body and turned her head, gasping for air. Finally -- she screamed . . . and screamed . . . and screamed.

When the aunt rushed into the room the little girl cried into her shoulder for a long time, unable to speak. Slowly, between sobs, she was able to tell her aunt what had happened. Her aunt soothed and rocked her like a baby, gently stroking the girl's hair. After a while the aunt spoke in her plain, no nonsense fashion, "That was your great-aunt Estelle. She died over thirty years ago in this very room. Normally, she leaves us alone but she likes young girls. She had a daughter that died from pneumonia one winter -- by the next winter she was gone, too. She stopped eating and wasted away. Dying of a broken heart . . . I guess your being here stirred her up again."

The aunt lifted the little girl in her strong arms, saying as they left the room, "Come on. You can sleep with me tonight." From that time on the little girl no longer feared her aunt and they became good friends.

My mother was that little girl and she swore this was a true story.

Of Diversity and Divisiveness

Whatever happened to the melting pot? When I was growing up, lo those many years ago, America was proud of how many cultures from around the world were able to come together with common purpose and become simply . . . Americans.

Now, the catch-phrase is diversity. We must celebrate our differences. Industry, education, small business, entertainment and social groups must recognize, honor and accommodate these differences. But never -- ever -- ever -- ever use these differences in describing or looking for someone suspected for a crime. That would be racist.

But all of this has made our view of different races and cultures rather schizophrenic. Dependent upon the situation, recognizing the difference between races, religions and cultures can be viewed as a positive or a negative thing. Also, it depends upon which side of the fence you are on.

When it comes to hiring, firing, discipline, college acceptance, housing, etc., America is supposed to have a blind eye towards these racial/cultural differences. Unless of course (and purely through coincidence) the most qualified people don't happen to include enough of a particular racial/religio/ethnic grouping. Then we should have taken these differences into account when hiring, firing, etc.

Racial profiling is wrong. Our legal system is racist. Our penal system is racist. Why? Because 80% of this nation's criminals come from 12% of the population. But our police are never to look toward the usual suspects in solving a crime. That would prove the specious charge of racism.

I read, yesterday, that Survivor is adding another twist to their show next season. In the past, they have divided the tribes based upon their sex and their age. This season they are planning on starting with four tribes based upon race -- blacks, Asians, Latinos, and whites.

This came about after the producers received some complaints about the show not having enough racial diversity among the contestants. Jeff Probst, the shows host, said they decided to turn the criticism into a positive. Thus the idea was born.

This morning, I read that some senior NYC officials are condemning the new season of Survivor as racist. They claim the show could cause racial division and encourage negative stereotypes. HELLO! I thought you people wanted to point out your differences. Isn't that what diversity is all about. And what is wrong with stereotypes? By definition they illustrate common behaviors or actions by an individual or group. They reflect reality. Sure, they may be easy pickin's for lazy writers -- but they do exist.

So let me sum up:

Diversity is when members from a particular racial/religious/cultural group recognize their differences from other groups and use it to their advantage to gain access or to fend off criticism.

Racism is when anyone outside of that group recognizes those same characteristics and works for the common good despite those differences.

The Weasel Clause

I read an article that ended with an interesting spin, yesterday. I wonder if the guy being interviewed ever listens to himself?

Apple Fires Retail Employees Who Downloaded Leopard by Brad Cook

Apple has fired at least five of its retail store employees, with dozens more potentially on the chopping block too, after they were overheard talking about downloading illegal copies of Mac OS X v10.5 "Leopard." Think Secret said that word of the discussions reached the company's Cupertino headquarters and prompted an investigation that resulted in the employees admitting what they did.

"All of us know that we violated our NDA and ethics policy," the web site quoted one of them as saying. "Therefore, because we had the character to tell the truth and to face the consequences of our actions, we were terminated. My only question is, if we all lied and denied it would we still be working at Apple today? Even more so, is that the kind of person that Apple wants working for them?"

Is he asking, "Does Apple want the kind of person who steals, lies and gets away with it to be working for them?" I don't think they do -- and how does that help his point?

Or, is he asking, "Does Apple want to lose people with enough character and integrity to admit to stealing, once they've been caught?" I don't think they do -- but where would that lead? Are people supposed to get points for truthfulness -- once they are backed into a corner? Would any kind of bad behavior become acceptable by invoking the "weasel clause"?

Charles Manson: "You got me, man. I admit it, I had those people killed because I was jealous of their success and I convinced those idiots who follow me that I was deep or something. But it was mostly the drugs. They make everything sound deep. . . . So do I get off now, or what?"

Bill Clinton: "I did smoke marijuana in college -- and I did inhale. I did run a phony land scam called Whitewater and used my political clout to cover my tracks. I did have sex with that woman -- and, yes, I do think blowjobs are sex. So, what do I win? . . . What do you mean nothing? . . . So you're saying that, as President, I could have lied about all of that stuff and gotten a pass from liberal America and the press? . . . That it would have all ended the same whether I lied or told the truth but I dragged America through eight years of shit for nothing? . . . Ah, man! I need a joint and a blowjob. Hillary!"

Former Apple Employee: "Yes, I violated Apple's non-disclosure agreement and their ethics policy. Yes, I released an extremely valuable and highly secret version of Apple's next operating system to the public. Yes, I know it could cause great financial harm to the people who put food on my table. But I have admitted to doing it. That's gotta be worth something. . . . What do you mean clean out my desk? . . . I'm an honest guy! I have character! . . . I told the truth, didn't I? . . . If I lied about stealing I'd still have my job -- wouldn't I? . . . Is that the kind of person you want working for you?"

Do you see what I mean? It didn't make any sense that time either? It's like a double-positive wrapped in an enigma. Or trying to understand the inner thoughts of a serial killer . . . or a politician.

L. Ron Dumbass

Tom Cruise was fired by Paramount yesterday. It appears that they too think he is:

• A few clowns short of a circus.

• A few fries short of a Happy Meal.

• An experiment in Artificial Stupidity.

• Dumber than a box of hair.

• Doesn't have all his corn flakes in one box.

• The wheel's spinning, but the hamster's dead.

• A few feathers short of a whole duck.

• All foam, no beer.

• Couldn't pour water out of a boot with instructions on the heel.

• Has an intellect rivaled only by garden tools.

• Doesn't have all his dogs on one leash.

• His elevator doesn't go all the way to the top floor.

• His antenna doesn't pick up all the channels.

• He's missing a few buttons on his remote control.

• His receiver is off the hook.

• He is surfing in Nebraska.

• He has too much yardage between the goal posts.

• He's dumber than a bag of left-handed hammers

Well, you get the point. But we will miss you, Tom. You have been good for business down at the sarcasm factory. If you get too depressed, maybe your Scientologist friends can recommend a good psychiatrist or some medication. In the meantime, we'll have all your mail forwarded to:

Loser
c/o The Mothership.

The Endless Summer

Summer is winding down here in the northeast. It should be filled with lazy days by the pool and quiet evenings on the deck; the glow of a $10.00 cigar in the twilight, cicadas in the trees and the splash of a pungent amber liquid over shaved ice.

Instead I've got shit to do.

After I finish writing, I have a doctors appointment this morning. My doctor's office is 30 miles away, near where we used to live. From there I have to drive to a furniture store in Quakertown to pick up a matching bookcase to a set I've already gotten for my living room. From there I have to swing by Allentown to stop at a couple of bookstores on my way home. After I unload the bookcase from my truck, I have to go back out to the local lumberyard to pick up some oak paneling and trim for some new wainscoting I'm putting in my living room. My wife (who will be at her job all day -- I think they're plotting to take over the world or something) is planning on giving me a haircut before dinner. After wolfing down a Healthy Choice TV dinner, I'll be sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, assembling a new ebony, glass and chrome corner unit for the TV.

So screw the pool, screw the deck, screw the cigar, screw the cicadas, screw the adult beverage and, apparently, screw me too!

What ever happened to the simple life? I remember the endless summers of my youth. The days without appointment or agenda. Solitary afternoons reading comic books under a shade tree. Friends running through the woods playing war games. Laughing, our only concern being whose house would we crash for lunch.

I thought, "I'm retired now. I live at a resort. I can recapture one of those endless summers of my youth. This will be the year."

Yeah, right! I have appointments and agendas coming out of my ass. Comic books cost as much as my cigars and I'd really like both. My friends go home during the week and their wives decide when they can come out to play. And my biggest concern about lunch is whether I'll have time for it.

But, all seriousness aside, I really do like doing the guy stuff, too. The measuring and cutting. The band-aids. The scrap pile. The re-measuring and re-cutting. The trip back to the lumberyard for more wood. You know, guy stuff.

I guess my summer has been endless this year, but in a different way than years gone by. And I'll probably never recapture the innocence of my youth. But I can savor the heady aroma of life and enjoy the hell out of that. I do get my pool time in and I do have my quiet evenings on the deck, as well . . . mostly on weekends . . . just like everyone else.

In the mean time -- I've gotta go. I've got more balls in the air than The Flying Wallendas.

Addendum to original post: For my younger readers -- The Flying Wallendas were acrobats - not jugglers. This might help you get the joke.

Death By Media

I sometimes wonder what my obituary will say. The answer will probably depend upon when I die, who else is still alive that knew me and my perceived accomplishments. Unless you are famous, some one other than the newspaper will provide the main facts of your life.

Famous people already have their obituaries written. You see, the news media does not want to be caught short -- let someone else get the scoop, so they have an up-to-date obituary of anyone who is media-worthy. That way if a movie star, politician, rich guy or serial killer dies, the media has all of the facts pertaining to them. Every success and every scandal. Which may explain why most celebrities are so schizophrenic.

They desperately crave media attention and are at war with the papparazzi at the same time. They shout to the world, "LOOK AT ME! Look at me! . . . How DARE YOU look at me? . . . Why aren't you looking at me? . . . Why won't anyone look at me? . . . Those aren't my drugs! . . . I'm starting a new movie so LOOK AT ME! Look at me! . . . How dare you look at me, that's my PERSONAL life!"

So they want to revel in their fame, promote their work, live and party like their fame and money can afford them to, and promote their "causes" to rehabilitate their post-scandals images. They have "people" whose sole job is to control the media's (and therefore the public's) image of them. If their image is tarnished it might cost them work and their A-list status. If it gets too crusty it will cost the house and the eye-candy spouse.

That leads me to imagine that a good publicist would be in frequent touch with the guy who writes the obituaries at some big news source. Like any other news story, the obituaries are written in inverted pyramid fashion. The big, memorable, juicy stuff will be first, followed by the lesser, but interesting, details of their life and then the minutiae. On a slow news day, the entire obituary may be printed -- no scandal unforgotten. On a big news day, there may only be room for the first paragraph.

This would give the publicist a constant check on how their client is doing. If the successes and recent projects and charity work make it into the first paragraph -- pushing the scandals and rehabs and messy divorces deeper into the background material -- then their client is doing O.K. If public masturbation in a Florida porno theater or the internet sex videos make the first paragraph -- they have work to do.

I've always wondered how these celebrities could go from raving lunatic to humanitarian in the blink of an eye. I just always figured they were crazy. It turns out they are. But they are being driven nuts by, of all things, their obituaries.

For my part, I hope to die on a slow news day. Being a nudist -- I'm used to the exposure.

80 Proof Milk

We have been experimenting with a variety of mixed drinks this summer. I had recently gotten several bartenders guides and every weekend we try our hand at mixology. We've beefed up our bar with alcohols we've seen are common to a lot of drinks as well as non-alcoholic mixers.

So on Friday and Saturday, after pool time but before the dance, we try to find a new one to drink for the evening. The theory being that you shouldn't mix different kinds of alcohol and that it is best to pick a drink and stay with it for the night.

That theory breaks down two different ways. (A.) By the time we "try" several recipes we've mixed it up pretty good right out of the gate and (3.) mixed drinks are, by definition, a blending of alcohols. I've never been much for rules, anyway.

So we've had 57 Chevys, A-Bombs, Red Devils, Almond Mochas, B-52s, Bahama Mamas, Banana Split Shooters, Bay Breezes, Black Russians, Black Velvets, and the occasional Blow Jobs.

We've tried variations on a theme. There must be 10 ways to mix a Rum and Coke. We've done layered shots such as Carrot Cake. And we've had Apple-tini weekends.

A recent one that we tried was called the Paralyzer. It is made with Coca Cola, Kahlua, Milk and Vodka. My first reaction was, "Milk?"

Why would I want to drink something that is good for me? Or at least, partially good for me? Does the milk counterbalance the deleterious effects of the Coca Cola? Or is something else going on here? We drink to get kinda messed up; we don't need anything delaying the process. Does the milk strengthen my bones while the booze weakens my muscles? I wouldn't know whether to stand at attention or fall down. On the other hand, at my age, it could improve the odds against my breaking a hip if I fell down drunk. My wife's first reaction to that last sentence was, "If?"

There is precedence for mixing things that are good for you and bad for you, however. Cheese and rat poison comes to mind. My wife's meatloaf and scalloped potatoes is another. Or anybody and Tom Cruise.

I guess the bottom line is that you should be careful of what you mix and the quantities that you consume. All it requires is good taste, discipline, and self-control . . .

. . . We are soooo screwed.
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Things You Can't See On the Radio

I have always been fascinated by Howard Stern. I'm not a big fan. I rarely listen to him. But I would tune in, occasionally, when I was on the road all the time.

The thing that fascinated me about him is the naked women on his show. And the thing that fascinated me about the naked women on his show was that, "Um . . . it's RADIO, dude!" In a world of special effects, air brushed flaws, and breast implants, he is able to titillate his audience with WORDS. If it wasn't for his show on E!, we would never have known whether Howard and these women were reading a script or if he was actually using his weird combination of Svengalli and peer pressure to get these deluded women denuded.

But his audience eats it up. They listen with rapt attention as the women's will power is beaten down, the stakes are raised and, slowly, piece-by-piece, her clothing comes off. They, somehow, share her embarrassment while thinking what a dumb ass she is. They relate and berate simultaneously.

Somehow, in a world of flat screen TV's, video iPods, Pixar animation, and other visual and graphic wonders, Howard's audience is asked to use their imaginations. To visualize what they so want to see. It may be the closest many of his listeners have ever come to experiencing what it's like to read.

Yet, I keep coming back to our fascination with naked women on the radio. It is a non-visual medium. There is nothing to actually see. But, on his show, the women are all beautiful and vulnerable whether they are trailer trash or super-models. They are unseen yet forever seared into our memories as if we were there.

I am reading a book called The Chinatown Death Cloud Peril by Paul Malmont. It is about a lot of the pulp fiction writers of the 1930's. Orson Wells is one of the characters, having brought voice and life to Maxwell Grant's The Shadow series on the radio. One of the innovations Wells brought to The Shadow on his show was the title character's ability to "cloud men's minds" and become, essentially, invisible. When somebody asked Mr. Wells how he got away with having a man turn invisible on the radio, he referred to Edgar Bergan, replying:

"If they'll believe a ventriloquist on the radio, they'll fall for anything."

Apparently, they still do.
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Samaritan

The little boy would drop the ball between his feet and catch it when it bounced back up at him. Sometimes he would give little peals of delight as his pudgy hands recaptured the red orb. Sometimes he would readjust his stance before dropping the ball again. He never seemed to grow tired of the game nor was he interested in variations.

Drop the ball. THUMP! Capture the ball. Drop the ball. THUMP! Capture the ball. Laugh. Drop the ball! THUMP! Capture the ball . . .

The neighborhood was quiet this time of evening. The sun waning in the cloudless sky, casting long shadows through the trees that lined the street. Two doors down from the little boy, a teenage girl was playing games with her golden retriever. She was on the ground as much as he was. She was laughing and talking to the dog but her words were unclear at this distance. The tone was happy and encouraging, though.

Drop the ball. THUMP! Capture the ball. Drop the ball. THUMP! Capture the ball . . .

Suddenly, several things began happening at one time; breaking the serenity of the evening. From several blocks back there was a squeal of tires as a black sports car turned a corner too fast. The squeal continued as the engine roared, gears shifted, and the car shot forward in this new direction. The little boy dropped his ball and looked away from it, his concentration broken, at the noise from up the street. THUMP! . . .Thump . . . thump . . . ump . . . ump . . . And the red ball rolled away from the boy, down the concrete driveway and into the street. The girl two doors down had taken the retriever into her back yard, presumably to feed and water him. A car door slammed as the little boy began running after the ball on his short legs. His eyes only on the ball, once again. Total concentration clouding his immature features.

As the child reach the street, trying to recapture the ball that had wobbled to a slow roll, the oncoming car shifted gears again, still accelerating. The boy bent, grasped the ball between his splayed fingers, and was violently lifted and hurled away from where he was standing.

The man who had, until moments before, been sitting in the blue van parked across the street gently placed the little boy in his driveway. The startled child, too shocked to cry, clutched the ball to his chest, staring up at the stranger with large, brown, unblinking eyes. The car screeched to a halt a little past the girl's house. The driver, another teenager, turned around to look at the man and the boy, an icicle of fear going up his spine. He thought of his already tenuous hold on his driver's license, turned around in his leather seat, and sped down the street, the incident already fading in his mind and his rearview mirror.

"Hang onto that ball, buddy." The man's voice was almost a whisper. "And stay out of the street. O.K.?"

The little boy just stared at him. Suddenly he lifted his prized object and said, "Ball!"

The man tousled the child's hair. "Yeah . . . ball." And he recrossed the street to his van.

As the man, dressed in sneakers, faded jeans and a gray tee-shirt, settled back into the dusty, innocuous van he looked around. The back of the van was a clutter of boxes and blankets and fast food packaging. There was a toolbox with a spool of wire, cutters, duct tape and gloves. A small dog whined in a wire cage behind the passenger seat.

He looked at his reflection in the rear view mirror. He examined his clean cut features, the piercing blue eyes and ran his fingers through his light brown hair. He practiced his Sincerity and Concerned faces. Down the street the teenage girl was leaving her front porch, shouting something over her shoulder and waving. Heading off, further down the street, away from the van.

The man reached behind him, fumbled with the latch, and pulled the small dog from the cage. He sat with it in his lap for several seconds, before starting the engine and putting the van in gear. As he approached the girl, her tan legs flashing beneath her tight shorts, her young breasts stretching the thin fabric of her cotton blouse, he was already leaning across the passenger seat, rolling the window down. Saying the line he had practiced a thousand times.

"Excuse me miss, I found this dog wandering in the street and it was limping. Could you help me find its owner? I'm not familiar with this neighborhood." He smiled, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners, wearing his Concerned face. The door already opening . . .

Good News From Tinseltown

Gwyneth Paltrow, on hiatus from acting for more than two years, is ready to get back to work."For a long time, I thought, `I've done it. I've done what I wanted to do. I'm not interested. I just want to be home with my family,'" the 33-year-old actress tells Harper's Bazaar in its September issue, on newsstands Tuesday.

"I had no spark for work, but I feel the feeling back. And I'm excited about the prospect. I want to do something kind of fun. I don't want to do anything depressing or mad. I want to do a really great, funny, weird character."

She has a 2-year-old daughter, Apple, and 4-month-old son, Moses, with husband Chris Martin, the lead singer of Coldplay.

For Paltrow, parenting is "a total joy" — and a major time commitment.

"I do not know how single mothers have more than one child with no help," she tells the magazine. "It requires so much of my life, and I don't have to change sheets and clean toilets, you know."

Paltrow doesn't read celebrity tabloids, and says the family's home in London helps them avoid the paparazzi. "We have a gate and a car. It's easier to control it a bit more."

Wow, it sucks being normal. I honestly tried, but couldn't make her sound any dumber than her own words. I just have one question, however: Gwyneth who . . . ?

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Ignore That Man Behind the Curtain

This is against my better judgment, but I am doing it for Mother. She says a boy should get credit for his work. I keep telling her it is not work. It is a labor of love. The Fiction. I have spent a lot of time getting it just right. The Name. The Quirks. The Locale. The Wife . . . the wife . . .

But Mother says the world should know how "talented" her boy is. That he is The Writer. She doesn't understand that nobody wants to read a blog about an overweight, 47 year old man who works at K-Mart and lives with his mother. There's nothing interesting about that. I know I'm not clever enough to write a Novel. But I have found a way to hide behind a Character and pretend my life is cool. It's like when Billy Batson becomes Captain Marvel. He can say and do things I never could.

And Mother agrees -- up to a point. There have been many Famous Writers with Pseudonyms. Ed McBain was really Evan Hunter. But he was also famous as Evan Hunter, too. Lester Dent wrote the Doc Savage novels as Kenneth Robeson. Kenneth Millar wrote all his Philip Marlowe books as Ross McDonald. So why can't I have an alter-ego?

I really thought the John Bonus persona was cool. He was everything I wasn't. Everything I wanted to be. He retired at 51 and lived at a year 'round resort with his beautiful (sexy) wife. He spent his days writing and tinkering at "guy stuff" and his nights entertaining beautiful people from the resort. His weekends were spent by the pool, talking to friends, having crazy conversations, drinking rum drinks and martinis. He had an amazing Tiki themed deck where he would throw big parties for all of his friends; the girls would be barefoot and dressed in grass skirts. His hot tub was legendary. And he was a Nudist.

I think that is what Mother objects to the most. "Why does that horrible little man have to be a nudist?" she keeps asking.

"Because it is something I could never do!" I'd shout back.

Our battles are endless. I'm amazed I get any time to write at all. Nothing I ever do is good enough for her. When I was made Assistant Manager at the store she had to point out that George Harbert is only 36 and he is the Manager. BIG DEAL! He had two years of community college, too! I had to work my way up.

I wish I could leave her. But Mother needs me. What with her bad back and the headaches. I can't just turn my back on her. Who would cook? And take care of the cats? And I do love her. She just makes me so mad sometimes. Why can't she see what writing as John Bonus means to me?

He has the courage to be funny. I can't even make a joke in the lunchroom. He has opinions that people listen to. I sit at another table and listen to everyone else talk. Especially the girls. I like listening to the girls. I can't always follow everything they are saying and they laugh a lot. Sometimes I think they are laughing at me. But as John Bonus I can imagine sitting at the Tiki bar, surrounded by friends, fixing cold drinks in a blender and Entertaining everyone with Tales of the Narcoleptic Swinger. They listen to him. Even if he is a fantasy.

But Mother INSISTED that I burst the bubble. "People will respect you more." she keeps saying. "You need to get the credit for all your hard work."

What she doesn't realize is that when I am John Bonus it isn't hard work. Things happen to him and I just talk about it. And I don't care about getting credit. I just want to get out of this basement for a couple of hours each day. Away from her voice and the thumping upstairs when she needs something.

I promised her I would do this -- and I have. Now you know. As for me, I'm going to pretend I never wrote this. I need to keep my fantasy in place. It's the only thing that keeps me halfway sane and I'm afraid of the other fantasies and what I might do if Mother REALLY makes me angry.

Don't worry, John Bonus is alive and well -- for now.

. . . I hear Mother at the top of the stairs. She is gloating like the time she made me burn all of my comic books. Now she is shouting down in that raspy, cigarette damaged voice. She wants to know if I remembered to tell you my name . . .

Liberals Are the New Conservatives

Back in the late sixties and early seventies, the conservatives were trying very hard to preserve the status quo in our society and the liberals were pushing boundaries and leading a social revolution.

The conservatives back then thought the new social freedoms threatened the moral fabric of America. They fought such issues as social drug use, free sex, radical clothing and hair styles, anti-war efforts, women's liberation, music, and the free speech of comedians. They saw these new freedoms all moving us away from God and country. They sought to preserve a simpler, gentler, kinder America.

The liberals of the day saw themselves as explorers and liberators. They sought to open the world up to a plethora of new freedoms. They spoke of freedom of speech, freedom of choice, freedom of (and from) religion, freedom for women, etc. They sought a nirvana of peace and love and personal freedoms.

So, back then, the conservatives were seen as trying to take away the new freedoms and the liberals were seen as promoting personal freedoms and (sort of) anything goes. Over the years there has been a slow, subtle shift in the roles and goals of these two groups.

The liberals grew older and became a selfish, me-centered society. They got a lot of the freedoms they fought for, learned the lessons of speaking up, being vocal, beating a drum until people gave in. But now, instead of fighting for big issues and freedoms, they selfishly fight for their own personal freedom from certain annoyances.

• If they don't like smoking -- everyone has to stop smoking.
• If they think the sun is bad for them -- everyone has to wear SPF lotions.
• If they can't safely use a cell phone in a car -- no one is allowed to.
• If they can't eat in moderation -- fast food stores must change their menus.
• If their children are too stupid to ride a bicycle -- everyone's kids have to wear helmets.
• If they think animals have "rights" -- they harass restaurants and clothing stores.
• If they have had mean spirited thoughts -- everyone must adopt politically correct speech.
  

The liberals went from a group that celebrated personal freedoms to a group devoted to taking away the rights of everyone who doesn't share their selfish, narrow world view. The rest of us should not inconvenience them or make them feel uncomfortable in any way.

The conservatives, in the mean time, have charted a fairly steady course. They are still fighting to hold on to the old values and established freedoms. They fought against the changes they thought would hurt our society back then and now they are trying to preserve the freedoms we have all taken for granted for so long. They have been consistently against change.

The irony is that when the old conservatives attempted to block the new freedoms, back then, they were perceived as trying to take freedom away from people. And today's liberals, the very people who made that claim, are now actually taking away those same freedoms.

So, in a sense, liberals are the new conservatives.

How to Write a Biased Blog

I have been accused being biased. (The following blog is directed at one individual.)

I am very vocal in my disdain for journalistic bias and I never miss a chance to point it out. There used to be certain rules for journalism. They were the who-what-where-when-why rules. The story was never about the journalist. They were merely there to present the facts. To be a conduit for the raw information.

Now, they think their mission is to "change the world." To "make a difference." They have "causes" and are "on missions." So they end up filtering everything they write through their (usually liberal) biases and prejudices. They slant news stories to reflect their world view. They use scare tactics, hyperbola, and outright lies to make specious points. They are the breeding ground for medical quackery and bad science. They want to be social engineers.

And, amusingly, I have been accused of showing bias in my daily blog. NO SHIT! This blog is about my opinions. It is about my world view.

There is no place on the front page of a newspaper for journalistic opinion. That is what the editorial page is for. It is where the voice of the newspaper can be heard. The rest of the paper is for facts.

I am not a journalist. I've never claimed to be one. I never want to be one. But, somehow, I am supposed to be held to a higher standard than they are? They don't even follow their own rules. But if they did, at least they would have the editorial page on which to voice their opinions. My "critic" doesn't permit me even that. I'm not to show any bias anywhere.

This blog is one big editorial page. It is mostly about humor and creative writing and maybe 5% of the time about real life issues. The mix is my call and the opinions are mine. To claim that I am being too opinionated within my own blog is stupid beyond belief.

I am a conservative, middle-aged, white, Christian male with a sense of humor. That is what you get when you tune into this blog. If you are looking for opinions to validate some liberal-assed agenda, you are in the wrong place. If you are offended by references to God, you are in the wrong place. If you like to laugh a lot and enjoy being occasionally challenged to think, you may be in the right place.

Don't get me wrong. I don't mind an honest, open discussion of whatever the current topic is; that is what the comments section is for. What I do object to is the tone of the comments. Of being accused of being dishonest or intellectually lazy. You are a guest in my house. Be civil or get out. It is easy to stand at a distance and throw rocks. If you have so much invested in your opinions -- start your own blog. See how you like being heckled. Until then, sit in the back of the class and shut up . . .

I have some opinions to give.

SPF -- My Ass!

In another stunning coup for the science world, researchers have found that exposure to the sun reduces the risk of 16 types of cancer.

That's right, sunlight prevents cancer. After years of warnings and hysterical hyperbola we can all go out in the sun again. Solar ultraviolet B (UVB) radiation is associated with reducing the risks of 16 types of cancer through the natural production of vitamin D. This is the second major study with the same results in the past two years.

According to Dr, Cedric Garland, co-author of the study recently published in Anticancer Research, "Enhancing vitamin D status is the single most important simple thing that people can do to reduce their risk of cancer . . ."

Dr. William Grant explained, "Other recent studies recently found that it takes 1,000 to 1,500 International Units (I.U.) of vitamin D per day to reduce the risk of cancer death by 30-50%. In the U.S., dietary sources provide only 250 to 300 I.U. per day . . . People with fair skin living in the sunnier regions of the country can make 1,500 I.U. of vitamin D in about 20 minutes . . . The public receives a steady barrage of public service messages to avoid the sun and wear sunscreen in order to reduce the risk of skin cancer and melanoma. Unfortunately, such messages do not mention that these risks are counterbalanced to a substantial degree by the advantages of producing vitamin D from solar UVB irradiance. Insufficient UVB (exposure) and vitamin D costs society about 10 times what excess solar UVB does."

Of course, this is bad news for the Sunscreen Industry (who made tanning lotion until they saw where the new dollars were), Dermatologists (who build their practices on promoting bad science and hysteria), Think Tanks (who's sole purpose is to try to spoil or eliminate anything that is fun or enjoyable in America) and Professional Whiners (who support and encourage the rest of these idiots).

Common sense will tell you that there is no way that sunlight can be inimical to human beings. Our bodies are designed to thrive on sunlight and the natural bounty the Earth has to offer. Let me break this down in two directions:

If you are of the religious, God-created-the-world, school of thought: Why would He create humans to live in a world where sunlight (which causes every other living thing to grow) would somehow be harmful to his greatest creation? Wouldn't He have made us to thrive on the source of energy and life that he provided for us?

If you are of the non-religious, big-bang-and-evolution, school of thought: How could we, after millions of years of evolving and adapting to our environment (including the sun) receive more harm than good from sunlight? If sunlight was so bad for us, we would have died off years ago.

It is only in the past thirty or so years that politicians have decided to use science as a social engineering tool. As a result we have been the recipients of a lot of bad news and bad science. Man, in his arrogance, has decided that he can micro-manage our eco-system. He takes insignificant amounts of data and extrapolates doomsday senarios. The media keeps the frenzy going -- not caring or questioning the efficacy of the story because they are driven by ratings and circulation numbers. And bad news sells.

Now, in a brilliant breakthrough, science has "discovered" what anyone else with an ounce of common sense has known all along. Sunlight is good for you. But try using the common sense argument while the clowns are still on the bandwagon.

I am encouraged, however. The pendulum seems to be swinging the other way. Eventually real science and common sense will retake the podium and maybe all the whiners will finally shut up. But it probably won't be any time too soon. It seems the Big Brains at University X have made another startling breakthrough. I just read the following headline:

Study Suggests TV Watching Lowers Physical Activity

Ya Think?

Being Blogworthy

I spend a portion of every day wondering what tomorrow's blog is going to be about. My wife hates this exercise. It usually starts as soon as I publish my current blog.

She is usually at work and I call her as soon as I publish. She closes her office door, opens my blog page on her computer and reads it out loud to me. This serves several functions. It lets me share my newly written blog with someone; she gives me immediate feedback; and she acts as my final proof reader for each blog.

Better than 90% of the time she is surprised by the day's blog subject or content. This is because I typically do not know what tomorrow's blog will be about when I go to bed the night before. Occasionally I get a solid idea the day before and she and I and virtually everyone else I talk to about my writing will know what I'm going to write about tomorrow.

As you know, I write about things that grab my interest or my imagination. Usually I try to laugh at things, sometimes I have to yell at things in impotent rage. But I always have something to write about.

Yet I spend a good portion of every day convinced that "the well has run dry". I have written a daily blog (as of yesterday) for 141 days straight. I haven't "missed one" in four and a half months yet I keep thinking "today is the day."

So as soon as I hit the publish key, call my wife for feedback, and she reads it, she'll tell me, "See, you had something to write about."

My typical response is, "Yeah, but what am I going to write about tomorrow?"

I drive her and myself nuts with it every day. So she tries to give me ideas. Most of them aren't so good. In fact, most of them stink. Every now and then she tosses in a gem. That's why I keep her around. Neither of us have figured out why she keeps me around.

Some of the ideas she gives my are pretty good but they aren't what I consider to be "blogworthy." In order to be blogworthy an idea must:

• capture my imagination
• make me laugh or get me cranked up
• cause me to spontaneously "spout off" for several minutes
• have either a good "hook" or "punchline"
• and not get me in too much trouble

The last one eliminates a lot of ideas. There are hundreds of things I could write about here at the nudist resort -- but this blog is about me, not other people. That is why I make occasional reference to where I live and how my lifestyle impacts my life but I rarely get too specific about our social life. People want to relax and let their hair down here. It is a place for them to forget the daily grind and to be themselves for a while. They don't want to end up in tomorrow's blog.

So I see and hear a lot of crazy stuff. Most of it is booze related but I am the soul of discretion. That's why I am the butt of so many of my own stories. I'm the only one who will sign the release form. Usually because I'm the only one at 7:00 AM who is sober enough to read and sign anything. It's sort of a "last man standing" thing.

This morning, I began asking myself if a blog about blogworthiness would be blogworthy. I didn't want to get involved in a self examining "navel inspection" but I thought it had potential. I think I'll call my wife and see what she thinks.

In the mean time, I wonder what I'm going to write about tomorrow?

Cold is the New Hot

I was driving down the road the other day (Yes, I left the compound) and I saw a billboard that said: Cold is the New Hot! Apparently it was advertising an iced coffee product at Wawa or 7-11 or somewhere. By the way, that's how effective billboard advertising is -- I remember the catchy phrase; I'm fuzzy on the product and I don't remember the vendor.

Later that day I saw a magazine ad that claimed: Green is the New Black! I've heard these kind of trendy phrases for years but I'm wondering where we are going with it. In this case I started cursing all of my outdated dress shoes. Damn them -- why weren't they green? And I can't wait to get one of those new green TV controllers.

But what does that make the old green stuff? Was it ahead of its time? Or is the new green (New Black) a different shade, so as to make the old green people feel even dumber than the stupid people who are stubbornly hanging onto the old black?

You know it's not easy being trendy. I tried a frozen TV dinner last night, seeing as how cold is the new hot. All of the food in these things is pre-cooked at the factory so it was safe (thanks for worrying) but frozen beef tips embedded in chunks of popsicle-like gravy is definitely an acquired taste.

Then I got to thinking. I'm older; I'm not as hip as my adult children. I can't get into the trendy clubs any more. So maybe I should back off a little. Compromise with fashion. Maybe I could be semi-trendy (for an older guy) if I embraced a concept like: Cool is the New Warm. Because I have to tell you, hot and cold hurt that one molar of mine. I take a sip of hot coffee or, now, iced coffee and HELLO! That's a pain you don't seek out.

So now I go into a Starbucks and boldly order a cup of hot coffee. In the shocked silence that follows, I look around and artfully add, "But throw some ice in there." Suddenly the tension in the room melts and everyone starts chatting among themselves again.

I might not be cutting-edge trendy, but I'm cool for an older guy.

Now, what should I do about my shoes? I could cut the grass in them. That would make them greenish. I can see it now. There I am: cutting my grass naked in my front yard. All I'm wearing is a pair of formerly black wing-tips. The mower stops. I stand to wipe my brow with the back of my arm and my lovely wife brings me a luke-warm beverage on a silver serving tray.

Who says advertising doesn't work?

And the Survey Says:

So I'm reading headlines yesterday and I see one that makes me stop to read the story. Like so many other headlines -- it was misleading . . . As was, in this case, the story. The Headline read:

Iraq War Opposed by 60 Percent of Americans, CNN Poll Shows

The first line of the story makes a summary statement for people who only read the first paragraph of stories. This is called the inverted pyramid style of writing. First the big idea is presented. Next you get supporting details of the story. Then comes the minutiae. This way when an editor has to cut the length of a story to fill a news hole, he cuts from the bottom and no re-writes are necessary. The body of this story read in part:

Aug. 9 (Reuters) -- Sixty percent of Americans oppose the war in Iraq . . .according to a CNN poll. The poll showed 36 percent of respondents said they were in favor of the war -- half the peak 72 percent who supported the war as it began, said the poll of 1,047 Americans. The telephone survey, which had an error margin of 3 percentage points, showed 61 percent believed at least some U.S. troops should be withdrawn from Iraq by the end of 2006.

First off, I read the story from Reuters, Bloomberg, UPI, and CNN and they all had the same take on it -- meaning they were all purposely misleading. The details of the poll never reveal 60 percent of the people saying "I oppose the war in Iraq". What they reveal is 61 percent believed at least some U.S. troops should be withdrawn by the end of 2006. There is a world of difference between these two statements. You can support the war and want to see some of our troops home for Christmas.

Secondly, they polled 1,047 people over the telephone for these results. I don't care how "scientific" the poll claims to be, 1,047 people are not representative of the entire country. The July 2005 census showed the U.S. population at 295,734,134 people. The absolute most this survey shows is that 61 percent of those 1,047 people favor some kind of withdrawal by years end.

The sampling is too small to be able to claim it represents the opinions of close to 300 million people. Even if they had some way of pre-knowing some demographical information about the respondees before the call, the poll would be invalid because the selection process could predetermine the outcome. But calling 1,047 people on a blind survey is just ridiculous.

Time of day will greatly skew the demographics. As will who is willing to answer the questions for the poll. Younger voters, females and retirees will skew the demo one direction, while middle aged white guys will skew it another. Again, any pre-screening of these demographics will invalidate the results.

So, all we have is a random survey, asking leading, fuzzy questions, designed to get a pre-determined response in order to get an inflammatory headline. The definition of modern journalism.

They ask: "Are you in favor of the Iraq war?" And: "Do you believe at least some U.S. troops should be withdrawn from Iraq by the end of 2006?" And then they act like the answers are two sides to the same coin. They don't have the guts to ask: "Do you oppose the Iraq war?" because they know they would get a very different result. And if they do ask that particular question, they never give us the result; we only hear the result from the fuzzily worded question that sort of sounds like people oppose the war.

Then they use the results of these bogus polls to try to manipulate real public opinion by pounding and Pounding and POUNDING their disingenuous numbers into the American psyche. Pretty soon, supporters of the war start asking themselves if maybe they should rethink their position since they appear to be out of step with the majority. Again, the definition of modern journalism.

Now, don't get me wrong. If the headline were true I would be perfectly willing to accept it. It's just that the facts of the story do not support the assertion in the headline nor in the opening sentence of the story. They have to manipulate the data and the way they ask the questions in order to obtain their predetermined results.

There you have it. And now we have come to the point in this discussion where you have to make a decision. Are you going to trust the self-serving, agenda driven, liberal media or will you consider what the clear thinking, funny naked guy has to say?

Remember: Friends don't let friends read headlines -- without asking them to think before believing.

How to Read a Blog

I guess one of the weirdest things about being naked all the time is crumbs in my pubic hair. I don't think this was a problem for Adam and Eve because their diet consisted mostly of bananas and oysters.

Another one is having to explain to the cops that "I was just going to the mailbox."

One of the weirdest things about writing a blog is having to explain myself afterwards (the verbal equivalent of picking crumbs out of my pubic hair). I was recently asked by a friend, "How could you let the Martians kill your wife like that?" My wife was standing next to me at the time.

Or there was the blog in which I was talking about over eating and facetiously mentioned a stop at the emergency room to have cheese scraped out of my colon. I had several concerned e-mails about my health.

Then there was the "bee stings on my dick" blog. That one was totally true.

I guess what I'm saying is that there are no rules about WRITING a blog. It is not a diary or a textbook. But it is not exactly a work of total fiction either. I write it mostly for laughs and as a mental "warm up" for my "serious" writing. There is usually a piece of myself in it so there is usually some percentage of truth to it. But how much is real -- that is the question!

The original name for my blog site was As Far As You Know. That sort of summed it up. So, in order to clear a few things up:

• No, I am not the Narcoleptic Swinger -- unless getting shit-faced counts.
• Yes, I do think global warming and Barbra Striesand are too much B.S. for the same planet.
• Yes, I do stain my deck in the nude.
• No, I never fought a gunfight in the Old West.
• Yes I do think women are aliens.
• Yes, I'm not the "World's Greatest" anything.
• Yes, I do watch The Sopranos but I do not have a WWTSD (What Would Tony Soprano Do?) wristband.
• Yes, I do have Precognative Amnesia.
• Yes, my neighbor does have those trees and he is a bastard.
• No, I don't take early morning jogs to my neighbor's house to have sex with his wife. I hate jogging.
  
• No, John Walsh was never a fugitive (but he would make a funny one).
• Yes, I have considered Bonsai Grass but I haven't done it for the same reason I haven't done my neighbor's wife -- I'm too lazy.
• Yes, I do know 50+ euphemisms for F**K.
• Yes, I do get pissed off because people do not know how to give you the correct change anymore.
• Yes, I do think that the side effects of some prescriptions are tantamount to a death sentence.
• Yes I do think Hollywood has a lot of bad writers with political agendas.
• Yes, I am constantly questioning whether something is Sarcasm or Irony.
• No, I don't consider myself an Outsider -- you people are.
• Yes, I am a genius (or should have been, anyway).
• Yes, the lady at the bank gives me a hard time every time I go there.
• Yes, I think the DiVinci Code is the biggest piece of literary shit since Hillary Clinton's memoirs.
• Yes, I do dislike Elvis impersonators but I really do like Elvis.
• No, I've never been marooned on an alien planet after my starfighter was disabled.
• Yes, I do think headline writers should READ the story first.
• No, I have never been abducted by aliens -- as far as I know.
• Yes, I do suspect my mailman's penis is having a good summer.
• Yes, Microsoft annoys the hell out of me, yet amuses me at the same time.
• Yes, I have been mistaken for a policeman at airports.
• Yes, the 50% rule does apply to most of our parties.
• Yes, I do believe in deja vu.
• Yes, I do believe in deja vu.
• Yes, I am retired and I don't think I'll ever run out of things to do.
• Yes, I do believe the press does a piss poor job of reporting the news without bias or agenda.
• No, I never was naked and tangled up in fishing line at the mall.
• Yes, I do think weathermen are bullshit artists.
• Yes, I was in the Air Force and Walking on the Grass is a true story.
• Yes, I have sat down to smoke and remembered everything but my cigar.
• Yes, my Adventures in Moving are all true.
• No, my neighbors weren't demon possessed druids.
• Yes, I do seem to be "communication device" challenged.
• Yes, my former bosses were assholes and Ernie did burn his mouth with green pea soup.
• No, I don't hate dogs -- if they're cooked right.
• No, I've never been the last private eye on an alien planet.
• Yes, I did cut my hand with a chainsaw.
• Yes, I did have a friend who could reconcile a theology involving John Wayne, Jesus and Flying Saucers.

Sorry for all the confusion.

Wanna Bet?

I have never been fond of insurance companies. I recognize them as a necessary evil but if I ever took the time to add up all the money I have spent on insurance as compared to the few paltry claims I've made over the years, I'm pretty sure they are way ahead.

And I understand the whole concept of my betting them that I will suffer a misfortune before I've paid them enough to cover the pay out. What a morbid little past-time that is.

I can even understand why they raise rates or drop your coverage altogether if you make a claim. The odds have changed, after all. And insurance really is nothing more than gambling.

And I even admire insurance salesmen. They have to convince you to make these stupid bets in such a way that we thank them and shake their hand when its over. It's like a woman kissing a rapist good-night when he's done.

What I cannot abide is their abuse of the English language.

Take Life Insurance for example. Shouldn't we be buying Death Insurance? Am I paying them money against the unfortunate circumstance that I might live? I don't think so. I am betting them that I will die before I have made enough payments to cover the amount of money they have to pay out to my wife. I am making a bet that guarantees I will never live to collect it and the only way it pays off big time is to die young. And my wife sits there next to me, across from the agent, saying, "Hon, I think we should do it."

But calling it Life Insurance is absurd. The other one is Health Insurance. Shouldn't it be called Sickness Insurance? We aren't sick people insuring against the inevibility that, someday, everyone gets healthy.

You might argue: who would buy death insurance or sickness insurance? They sound so morbid. It would be like wishing bad luck on yourself. Yet we are still willing to bet with a stranger that we can get sick or die before they want us to.

You might also say: it's just what they call it so what's the difference? Well, I think words mean things. And if we are going to make these absurd bets that are wrapped up in weasely lawyer talk, the least they can do is get the big premise right.

And there is plenty of precedent for it:

• We buy Fire Insurance -- not Nothing is Burning and Everything's O.K. Insurance.
• We buy Flood Insurance -- not Everything's Dry and I Live on a Hill Insurance.
• We buy Accident Insurance -- not I live in a Good Neighborhood and Rarely Drive Anyway Insurance.

By the way, what the hell is Self Insurance? My wife's company is self insured. What do they do, sit around at lunch and bet on a death pool? Who has to pay up when the secretary has to take time off to go to the clinic? Or are the owners just betting each other which employee will be the next to drop from exhaustion?

In recent months I bought two Apple computers and an iPod. I got the insurance (extended warranty) for all three. Which is always an interesting conversation. The salesman just spent a half an hour or so touting the virtues, strengths and reliability of some electronic device. They have convinced you that you cannot live without it and that you are very smart, indeed, for having chosen that product. Then, sometime during the ringing-it-all-up process (once it would be too awkward to back out of the deal), they start telling you how you never know when these things might experience catastrophic failure or how expensive it is to replace a broken hinge or how the weasely manufacturer only trusts their product for 30 days. And then, once again, what a clever shopper you would be to buy the product insurance.

Which is why the insurance racket works. Fear.

I guess all of this makes me a clever coward with a gambling problem.

The Last P.I.

(This is an excerpt from a sci-fi P.I. story that I'm noodling around with.)


I was blowing smoke rings and watching the traffic go by two floors down when I heard the sound behind me. I pretended I didn't. If it was a bill collector, maybe they'd go away; if it was trouble it was too late anyway. It never occurred to me it might be a client. It was.

"Mr. Bensen?" I couldn't tell if she wasn't sure or didn't want to be.

"That's right." I took my feet off the window sill for the first time since breakfast and turned to see the face that went with the voice. I wasn't disappointed.

The first thing I noticed were her eyes. They were brown and moist and doe-like. She had been crying recently. But it didn't ruin her looks any. Her skin was as smooth and clear as a baby's and her hair, though worn simple to the shoulders, shone like a blond halo. She would stand five-six, five-seven in her stocking feet but the heels she was wearing showed off her calves nicely. If the dame had a problem, she didn't deserve it.

"My name is Lissa Horn." She said it as if that explained everything.

"Uh huh." I said. As if I understood everything.

"The uh . . . the reason I am here is . . . You'll have to forgive me, Mr. Bensen, but this is a . . . new experience for me."

"Go ahead." I interjected sympathetically.

This time she got it all out. "The reason I am here is that I want you to find out who murdered Angela Hardy."

I asked her to have a seat then watched her decorate the wooden chair like gold plating on a three dollar watch. She crossed her long legs and then thought better of it under my interested gaze. It never hurts to look.

"Angela Hardy was my roommate." she was saying. "We shared an apartment over in Xylor City, near the Spaceport. We were both stewardesses for Unity Spacelines and . . . " She faltered, words eluding her.

"And what, Miss Horn?"

"And now we aren't, I guess."

I hate awkward silences. That's probably why they're so awkward.

"So why come to me?" I asked bluntly.

"I think maybe I'm the one who killed her."

What's the Big Idea?

A lot of people ask me where my ideas come from. I usually point to a dark ring around my right wrist, "Some of them I just pull right out of my ass." I say.

"No you don't!" they argue. "Where do they really come from?" they insist.

"I didn't say I pull them all out of my ass. But some of them are harder to come by than others." I continued.

"Sometimes I have conversations with people and they give me an idea. Sometimes I mine for one within the same conversations. Perhaps we touched upon a social theme that, if taken to absurd lengths, would make a good blog. I've had real life incidents that have become funny when retold. I have known people who have said or done things too stupid to ignore. Marriage is fertile ground for satire. So are threats of bodily harm."

"But where do the really good ones come from?" they persisted.

"Oh, the really good ones." I said as if I finally understood the question. "Well there are certain universal themes in life. Love, hate and greed are probably the root themes. Springing from them are things like patriotism and jealousy and lust. They're always good for a laugh."

"So, like, you're not going to tell me?" they finally say.

"I have been telling you." I insist. "You just want to hear something magical when the answer is actually quite mundane. Now, if you'll excuse me." I moved to get up.

"Where are you going?" they ask.

"You just gave me an idea for a blog and I have to go wash the shit off my wrist."

Look. I'm Not Dicking Around Here.

As I walked, naked, into the pool area yesterday I looked down at my swollen manhood. It was twice its normal flacid size, the skin tight against its stiffness. Heads turned as I walked by; eyes following my progress to our chaises. As I reclined I took care to adjust my engorged member and finally lay back. Occasionally, I would gently stroke it as I looked around the pool area.

Every now and then, people would casually walk by or even stop to chat. But I could see them stealing glances at my throbbing dick. There were a couple of women who actually asked if they could touch it.

Zzzrrrrrrrrrrttt! Wait a second! Isn't this supposed to be a family nudist resort? How in the hell was I getting away with this behavior? Well, believe it or not -- I can explain.

I was cutting my grass yesterday morning. When I was all done weed whacking, grass mowing, and leaf blowing I went to put up the umbrella in our little grassy patio area. As I was standing there, admiring the manicured look of the yard, I felt a sudden sting in my right shin. I looked down startled and saw my legs beginning to be engulfed in an angry cloud of some kind of bees. I did a quick pirouette (I know -- that never helps) and dashed for the openness of the back yard. As I ran and batted at my attackers I felt several more stings.

Fortunately I am not allergic to bee stings. They just hurt like hell and swell up for a little while. When it was all over I had two stings on my right leg and two stings on my penis. That's right -- my dick! So I called my wife, who was already at the pool, to tell her what happened. She rushed right up, checked out the damage, looked up bee stings on the internet and ultimately contributed nothing to the problem.

While we were talking my penis continued to swell. The skin turned red, the venom irritating the tissues. My body began sending histamines to counter the poison and the extra fluids created the swelling. The throbbing, yet pinpoint pain of the two stings was almost unbearable. So I would occasionally gently stroke the area in a vain effort to ease the pain.

As in any small community, word spread of my mishap and by the time I was able to make it to the pool, everyone was aware of my situation. So that was how I was able to walk around the pool area with an enlarged member, sit there and stroke it, and not get thrown out.

So get your brain out of the gutter.

Fortunately, my condition only lasted several hours. Getting in the pool really helped. By mid afternoon it was mostly back to normal. I did have some fun with it later that evening at the dance, however. By this time everyone's concern had morphed into humor. It was, I had to admit, too good not to laugh at.

But not to be out done, I seized the moment. I was wearing a pair of shorts and an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt. And when people (especially women) would ask "how's your dick?" and then laugh, I would say:

"Almost all of the swelling has gone down. But it's still huge. Want to see it?"

The Martians are Coming, The Martians are Coming

(This one is lovingly dedicated to Frederick Brown)


I threw the TV controller across the room. "God damn it!" I yelled. "They're back!"

"Who?" my wife asked.

"The f**king Martians!" I shouted on my way up the stairs. I was running to get my "go bag." My "go bag" was a leather satchel that I had packed and ready to go at a moment's notice. I needed one with the job I had.

I ran back downstairs with the travel bag, checking for my wallet and my gun. "Where are my keys? . . . Oh, never mind, I got'em." And I was running down the brick sidewalk. Before my wife could get to the front door, my car was speeding down the block, tires squealing on the damp, black pavement. She stood there listening to the night sounds re-assert themselves. The crickets chirping, the lawn sprinkler thwipping, the hiss of tires as a car rolled slowly by.

"Does he always rush off like that" The unexpected voice made her spin around. Eyes wide, she stared in shock at the little green man in her living room. "Wh-h-h-h-o-o-o-ooo . . .?"

"Who-ooo-ooo?" he mocked. "C'mon, baby, you can do better than that!" He winked at her and vanished, accompanied by three xylophonic notes and a puff of gold pixie dust in the air. He was gone. She stepped further into the room, setting her martini glass on the table just inside the doorway.

"Over here." came the voice from across the room. Startled again, she knocked the glass over, causing it to shatter on the parquet flooring. The green man was on the couch. Naked. He was lying on his side, one leg bent, his foot resting on the cushion behind his other knee. One elbow on the couch, a hand propping up his bald head. His other hand held the fallen martini glass; the clear liquid sloshing viscously inside the crystal. She quickly looked down to see that it was missing.

"Never cry over spilled milk. But vodka . . . that's another story." he commented.

"Who are you?" My wife demanded, finally getting her voice back. "And get off of my couch. You'll get that green make-up everywhere!" Just as she reached for him, he vanished again. With the music and the pixie dust and the whole schtick. She spun around, not seeing him. He was gone. She shook her head in disbelief. The martini glass was sitting safely upon the coffee table. The vodka moving in gentle waves.

She reached into the drink, pinching the olive between two fingers, shaking it slightly before raising it to her mouth. "Hey!" the tinny voice shouted. "Let go of me!" She pulled the olive back from her lips to look at it. She was holding the little green man by his head. His legs were flailing and his tiny fists beat at her finger and thumb. "Let go!" he repeated.

She dropped him back into the drink, staring down at the little freak. Suddenly a wave of vertigo washed over her and she felt herself falling . . . falling . . . and splash into . . . the pool? She came up for air. Sputtering. Spitting . . . vodka? She kicked around treading water or vodka or whatever. Trying to get a handhold on the slick sides of the . . . "Oh my God!" she screamed. "I'm in the martini glass!"

She thrashed and splashed some more, looking up at the giant green hand holding the glass, the icy liquid chilling her to the bone. Her feet couldn't get a grip on the sloping glass walls and she was taking the hundred proof poison into her lungs. Desperately she struggled to get out. Screaming, she pleaded, "Who are you? Why are you doing this?" Finally, exhausted from her struggles, one hand sliding against the glass prison, she sank below the surface and was still.

The Martian held the glass to the light and squinted slightly. "I thought your husband told you." he laughed. "We're invading." He downed the drink and shattered the glass in the fireplace. "We're invading." he repeated and vanished amidst the musical tones and a puff of gold pixie dust.

John Wayne, Jesus, and Flying Saucers

Back in the days of Hippies and Free Love I was in the Air Force. I was stationed at Goodfellow AFB in San Angelo, Texas. During my free time I worked at a Christian half-way house for troubled teens. This is where I met Duane Hutchinson.

Duane was a co-worker/volunteer. He drove a beat up Suburu and I remember him wearing yellow, bell bottom pants; the pants were covered with psychedelic flower designs. He also wore a short sleeve, white, button-down collar shirt and a straw cowboy hat. He was thin as a rail and could not sit still.

His thoughts were as hyper-active as his actions. Talking to him was like having three or four conversations going at once. He was very likeable, enthusiastic, entertaining, and when he left the room you had to catch your breath.

At the time, he was reading a book by Erik von Daniken called Chariots of the Gods. It was a book that purported space travelers visited the Earth in ancient times, gave us technology, possibly mated with us, and may be the basis for many of our religious beliefs.

He came into the room carrying a couple of boxes of donuts. "I'm having a prayer meeting for John Wayne tonight. Can you make it?" he asked me.

"I dunno." I said. "What's wrong with John Wayne?"

"Nothin's wrong with him. We're praying for him to be saved."

"Uh . . . That's good. But why John Wayne. You know, in particular?" I asked, watching him set the donuts out on the side table. He snagged one and ate it in three bites.

"Well, I'm reading this book on ancient astronauts. Did you know Ezekiel was describing a landing spacecraft?" I took the question to be rhetorical. "The author thinks a lot of our religious imagery came from primitives trying to interpret and describe advanced technology."

"Is that so? What about revelation from God?" I wondered.

"That's the beauty of it. Why can't God have created these ancient space travelers, sent them to Earth for what ever reason, and used them to inspire the Old Testament writers? Why would God make us the only ones in the universe?" Duane was straightening a stack of hymnals and looked over his shoulder at me as he asked.

"I dunno . . . but--"

"Can you imagine how popular those ancient astronauts must have been? They were treated like gods! Probably a lot of people thought they were gods. They must have hung on every word those guys said!" he enthused.

"Assuming they spoke a language we understood." I needled him.

"That's my point exactly!" he made a sweeping gesture with his arm. "We can't do it without John Wayne!"

I sat there for several seconds just looking at him. Finally I said, "John Wayne?"

"How else are we going to get the Gospel out?" he asked.

"WHAT are you talking about?"

"The ancient astronauts brought us technology but had trouble communicating. So their message from God came as imperfect revelation. We got things all jumbled up. Then Jesus came to Earth to die for our sins but some people misunderstood His message and they persecuted the early church. But we got the Bible out of it. The Gospel. The Good News. So I was thinking we should combine it all."

"Combine what?" I was afraid to ask.

"We have most of the technology of the ancient astronauts -- so we can communicate with the whole world, right? We have the Gospel of Jesus Christ and His resurrection, right? All we need is a voice that everyone will listen to. Somebody bigger than life -- like the ancient astronauts were to our ancestors. Somebody like . . . "

"John Wayne." I finished. After a second I said, "I've never really heard, but I don't think he's a born again Christian. Is he?" I hated my self for asking.

"That's why we're having the prayer meeting tonight. We're going to pray that John Wayne gets saved so that he can spread the Gospel." Duane looked at me while devouring another donut. "So, you coming . . . or what?"