Various Kinds of Crap ...

Once again I find myself being plied with questions on a constellation of topics—our broken education system, breast implants, snowstorms, the Super Bowl … Once again I find myself working diligently to balance prompt professional responsiveness with tending to the aggressive diarrhea I somehow managed to contract this afternoon …

I would guess that snow is on everyone’s mind this evening, or at least it’s on my mind, and since I’m an unapologetic narcissist, that basically means everyone's. When we start to speak of snow, I think it’s important not to confuse the different kinds. Contrary to many popular myths, snow is as varied as the DNA that pulses through the monkey house, and I’m not even talking about snowflakes, or monkeys that wears hats and make those expressive faces on TV shows. I’m just talking about regular monkeys here, so don’t try and confuse me.

Tonight’s snow was what’s known as white powder, which is somewhat different than wet snow and, of course, not to be confused with cocaine. White powder is good for skiers, although what’s good for skiers isn’t necessarily what’s good for me, because the last time I skied I lost my hat, which was in Colorado, and for all I know it's still there, doing no one any good.

Which brings me to the question of whether or not monkey’s ski—which I’m often asked—and I vehemently explain that few monkeys live in cold climates and, consequently, favor summer sports, like kayaking and outdoor grooming. While there are so-called winter monkeys—the ones who wear coats—most of them live in and around Russia and, therefore, are discouraged from skiing, which is considered a barbaric western sport and not particularly kulturney.

Which reminds me of a Steven Seagal movie I watched last night called Driven to Kill, which as you might imagine is about a man—a Russian man, in fact, you see, which is why I’m mentioning it, for I’m not as arbitrary as some of you might imagine—who is driven to kill. And kill he does—with a vengeance, if you’ll forgive the obvious glibby—a cavalcade of Russians and Americans alike, which I appreciated because it showed a kind of  wonderful post-Soviet equality. Steven does a rather good Russian accent, incidentally, except in several scenes where he forgets to, and once again I’m impressed with how he manages to master speaking the language outright for a fluid flow of great Communist dialogue in several conversations. (Yes, I understand that Communism fell, or folded, or did something it never intended to, but let’s face it—to those of us born in the Cold War era, much as we’ve come to love them and their kasha, those guys will always be Communists in our hearts.)

Which brings me to All in the Family, which is certainly one of the best television shows ever and one I’ve sorely neglected honoring in this here Blah-ugh! It’s a weird travesty to me, I must say, just how poorly the DVD collections were manufactured, considering what a landmark and brilliant work it was. They jam all the discs on one spoke in the box on top of each other, which sucks for those of us who treat our discs with respect, and they offer absolutely nothing in the way of extras, which sucks for those of us who want--and expect--extra out of life. Yet another example of man’s injustice to man, but I can’t get into all that now.

Nor can I properly expound on the many merits of All in the Family, which lampooned our weird world and culture and stuff throughout the 1970s even better than Mad magazine, and touched on just so many fascinatingly hysterical fodder topics, like Communists, families and the differences between snow colors. (Actually they never did address that, but you get the implication, I hope.)

Which brings me to Martin Luther King Day, which was yesterday, or as perhaps it’s more politically correct to say, Monday. (God knows I’ve offended enough people with my callous references—no need to add to the list!) Again, I have no time or energy to expound or expand—I’m struggling to tame this diarrhea, among other things—but it’s interesting to note the coming of Black History Month (which is February, or as the white man calls it “Feb-u-ary”) and this becomes a solemn time to look at everything and be all serious.

I, myself, often reflect on a great column I wrote years ago when I was doing my "Education Consumer" column (back when blogs were nonexistent and we called them "columns" or "crap that Jarret wrote). Anyway, I did a great piece on the month, wherein I interviewed some black civil rights leader woman who kept calling me Honey, and she explained—which I almost found a fascinating and logical concept myself, after having read the Malcolm X autobiography—that there shouldn’t be a special month for blacks because it highlights or implies that blacks are different and separate of mainstream America. See, now we can get into a whole serious discussion about this--during which time you could criticize me for using the word "black"--but I still have diarrhea, so it’s not going to happen. The point, really, is just that Monday was Martin Luther King Day and I didn’t have a thing to wear.

Which brings us to the Super Bowl, breast implants, the crippled education system and the Gong Show—all of which I hope to address very soon in one or several upcoming Blah-ughs!

Meanwhile, I want all of you to think warm thoughts and keep your mind on the snow while you’re driving, or on monkeys while you’re sitting at home grooming yourself. That’s about the most logical and heartfelt advice I can offer at this time, but that’s because I have diarrhea, so you can’t hold me responsible …