Jarret Reports Groundbreaking New Weight-Loss Technique for Fatties!

September 8, 2013:  You're going to love this, but first I have to go off on tangents ...

For starters, I don't know how I did it, but I managed to bring my Blah-ugh! into the 21st century and fix the problem with line spacing. I think it was the addition of the new picture that made the difference, and while it's getting mixed reviews, mostly from people who believe I look dangerous, I think it goes far in capturing the contemptuous glint of surly intolerance that many people -- mostly friends -- relate to me ....

But this is my time of getting things done, and toward that end I wanted to share some awesome discoveries I've made about weight loss and staying in shape.

Many of you loyal Blah-ugh! readers will recall my earth weight creeping up the scales recently to where I almost hit 200 for the first time in my life. (I continue to draw comfort knowing that on the moon I remained under 40 pounds.)

I'm happy to say -- and mainly because more women are glinting at me -- that I've reduced my abundance to something in the upper 170's at this point, and more pounds promise to drop, provided I don't drop first.

I'm proud to report I've made a concerted effort to win back my sveltitude, and while it hasn't been a linear process (mostly owing to my love of fatty meats and blue velvet cupcakes), I've exhibited incredible concentrated consciousness in making the hard choices that served to redefine my beautiful body and finally make my pants looser ...

Now, I can tell you there are obvious things to put into practice when it comes to getting thinner, such as considerable reduction of breads and pastas. But these ideas have been reported in many places and I won't waste a valuable forum like mine on the obvious. (In truth, if you don't already know this stuff, you're probably too dumb to grasp the subtle magnificence of my new idea, so stop bothering me and go eat some kippers.) Instead, let me tell you about a unique realization I had in the shower today ...

I've noticed in recent years that I tend to actually get thinner once autumn grows cold. In fact, I've found that I feel myself losing weight with the cold weather, and I kind of noticed -- though I'm not sure now, because my memory is so bad -- that I don't gain weight when the weather turns colder ...

Now, a key element of weight loss involves increasing your metabolism. This means -- at least to me, and I don't know why it has to be any more complicated than this -- getting your heartbeat moving faster. Anyone who does a good lot of exercise in a period of time knows that feeling of increased heart. It's kind of like when you drink a lot of coffee on an empty stomach. You see, weight loss occurs not from the targeted time of exercise, but over the ensuing hours, when your heart rate is up and your beautiful body is pumping away the pounds through its panicked mania.

To make a long story short -- and I see already this is becoming a long one, if not a particularly dull one -- I realized today that cold shower increase your heart rate. Yes! This is the secret that those so-called fat-cat scientists in Washington don't want you to know about! Cold showers are the route to real effective weight loss!

Yes, I'm as surprised as you are, but it makes perfect sense if you think about it. This is why the advent of the cold weather brings increased heart rate -- because it's cold, dammit! And if you can replicate that through the pain of ice water doused on your head and private parts, so much the better for you and all of us (and our domestic partners in particular).

Try it! I guarantee that a few solid minutes of icy water will step up your system to a new level of panic. And isn't that how we should be shedding the pounds -- through fear and intimidation?! I mean, it works in every other area of our lives, after all, so why not use it here ...

But I'm serious, and I hope that in my own small way I'll be making a difference not only in your commanding ownership of your body, but also in perhaps saving you money on hot water ...

Embracing the Obvious: Teaching Texting Thru Driver’s Ed

I’m dumbfounded and contrite that it took me so long to finally realize what this country needs to dramatically increase safety on our roads and really make this a better living world for all of us … It was so simple!

Driver’s Ed classes, driving courses, and Motor Vehicle Departments at large need to focus on teaching new—and especially experienced—drivers how to text message efficiently while they’re on the road.

You see, the problem is that people are not fully equipped to text and drive at the same time. Their brains haven’t evolved far enough, nor have they been properly instructed in how to combine the two seemingly disparate acts into one.

You must notice it as often as I do. You’re innocently heading down the road when the oncoming car suddenly starts veering into your lane, looking like they’re going to hit you head on. Then, usually after you’ve had a strong, sour dose of adrenaline internally injected into your nervous system, the oncoming car regains control and jerks back across the yellow line. Needless to say, as the car passes you see that the poor driver is struggling to efficiently text message on their phone-computer-device thing while worrying over bringing their car to the next destination as soon as possible.

While some people will make a fatuous argument that this is a negative result of people combining too many activities into one moment, I say otherwise. This, to me, is really a winning example of American resourcefulness and industry. There are places to go and things to be communicated, and if God has given us the means to do both simultaneously, then it’s our responsibility to get it done.

Yet being such an independent lot, we Americans sometimes fail to seek out the guidance and instruction necessary to take it to the next level. That’s why I believe it should become mandatory for people to receive several hours of practical instruction on how to text message efficiently while driving.

For instance, there are eye coordination practices that make it much less likely to smash your car into an oncoming vehicle. There are numerous abbreviations that could be used to consolidate the content of your message. There are certain sections of roads—certain highway patterns—that just don’t need to be observed as closely as others, such as straightaways and two-lane roads. And, of course—once we’ve massaged the proper dual capabilities into our still-evolving brains—there are mental means by which you can absolutely be concentrating on two things at once, and it just becomes a matter of holding the phone-computer-messaging device a little higher so that it is properly taking up half your line of sight, along with the windscreen.

Of course car companies, computer tracking companies and the government at large have already done such a great service for humanity by installing these large, blue-screen GPS devices atop dashboards. This is great because it gives drivers something else to look at beside the road. This is already a clever opportunity for people to begin learning that they needn’t—heck, they shouldn’t—be wasting all that attention on one thing, like the road around them. Instead, they’re beginning to grasp that part of their attention can be used to watch this little television-like screen, and, of course, another part can certainly be well-spent sending off the myriad messages that have become so vitally important to the betterment of humanity. (For instance, “Hi, how RU?” and “LOL,” to name just a couple.)

Again, the real crime here is that I—a self-centered, somewhat abrasive complainer with new hairs appearing in his ears on a regular basis—should fail you faithful Blah-ugh! readers by not seeing—and fervently advocating for—such an obvious boon to us all much sooner ... and much more fervently. I’m contrite (not to mention gaseous).

I think it’s important to note that new, young drivers will probably need much less instruction on this topic, for their brains are already being bred for this new kind of split-level thinking. It’s the older neurological holdouts, such as myself, who will really need to be retrained. (Fortunately some of us have gained valuable related experiences with writing notes and reading elegant passages in books while we’ve been driving, but we all know it becomes an added skill when bright blue light is added in.)

Please help spread the word about this. Forget everything else I might have told you in the past—I don’t even remember what that might have been, but that’s good—and let’s focus on getting some real tidy legislation passed toward this objective instead.

We need safer roads out there and I’m absolutely convinced this is the only way to get them. It’s a modest proposal, really, if you think about it, and there’s not much else that’s so wrong with the world at this time that we can’t give this some serious attention.

Jesus & Me

I woke up this morning thinking about how much Jesus and I have in common. (Do I say “have” or “had”? It’s really not clear to me if he’s dead or what. I know he came back on or around Easter, though I don’t think it was as big a holiday at the time. The Bible books don’t make it entirely clear whether he stayed back, and if so, which Apostle he went to live with.)

If you haven’t read the Bible stories about Jesus, by the way, you should, because they’re kind of interesting. I think there are four basic overviews—John, Paul, George, and the fourth may or may not be Ringo. They kind of tell his same story over each time, but with different angles, different versions. It’s kind of like the “All in the Familly” episode where Mike and Archie share conflicting accounts of the guys who came to fix the refrigerator, except they’re pretty much more in agreement that Jesus was a good guy and didn’t have a knife.

I don’t mean to being blasmatic, incidentally, comparing myself to Jesus in any offensive way. It’s my understanding that he was a terrifically nice guy, like Steven Spielberg, and while there are conflicting accounts that he may have been black (at least according to Mr. Jefferson on “All in the Family”), and/or incredibly homely—and I’m not sure where that came from, but I didn’t invent it—I’m pretty sure he was very wise and probably had a good sense of humor, although there’s no record of him having had a blog, as far as I know.

Actually, I was thinking about how we were both misunderstood in our own countries. Like him, I feel that I’m regularly frowned upon for not just my annoying capacity to speak the truth—and the more-annoying capacity for those around me to ignore it—but also for my inherent inability to connect with my fellows. It’s a real problem, as we both know. I understand that at parties and such, Jesus was usually very shy and stood off alone a lot, especially during the faster songs. Some of those pictures you see, like the famous “Last Supper,” seem to show him as the life of the party, but really that’s more of a fictionalized depiction. (Plus, he knew the Apostles pretty well and felt much more comfortable around them anyway.)

What I really identify with about Jesus was how he would always say these seemingly cryptic things that people didn’t get, but really they made a lot of sense. For instance, I was trying to explain to my wife why we should keep the shades drawn on the east side of the house until after noon, then we could open them, but should shut the shades on the west side. She still can’t seem to grasp it, but I know it makes sense when you don’t have air conditioning. See, Jesus went through that kind of thing a lot, and back then no one had air conditioning.

Realistically, I understand there are probably some things we don’t have in common. Like Jesus, I know, used to like to fish, and I don’t really do any fishing anymore, although I did a little when I was younger, but really it’s kind of a barbaric practice better left to Polynesians and southerners. I like eating fish, of course, and have had numerous good experiences with both lobster and haddock. When I was little I hated fish, however, which again makes me think of Jesus, because I don’t think he hated anything, except women.  Not to imply he was gay or anything—which is fine, because some of my best friends are gay, although I tend to be in denial about it—but I myself happen to like women even more than haddock.

Jesus and I both like to walk, too, by the way. I just love walking, although I can never get very far in sandals, the way he did. I’ve walked in various shoes, and I’m not being metaphoric. I mean, I’ve worn my good Florsheims, sneakers, cowboys boots … It’s interesting how feet—at least my feet—adapt to changing conditions (meaning changing shoes … or changed shoes). Sometimes I put on shoes that I haven’t worn a lot and walk, then my feet hurt. But after a few walking experiences, they don’t hurt anymore. Then when I return to my previous shoes—meaning my former shoes, or the shoes that were—(in other words, to paraphrase the Bible—before this pair of shoes was, these sneakers am!) …  See, when I get that first pair of shoes back on, now suddenly they hurt again (my feet, not the shoes), and the whole process repeats itself, except with different shoes.

This is very much like Jesus, I think, because he was always turning the other cheek, which metaphorically, if you stop and think about it, is very much like my turning the other shoe. I tend to believe that if Jesus lived today, he’d most likely wear a nice pair of old, brown shoes, like a British youth. I just don’t think he’d go in for any of these new fangled kinds of sneakers, or even sneakers at all. Even if he were on the soccer field—I don’t mean in a tourney, of course, but just a pick-up game—you’d probably see him playing in an old-fashioned brown shoe, complimenting his casual street clothes. That’s what I like about Jesus. Despite his savior role and all that fame he attained, I suspect he was very down to earth and probably stood his ground fashion-wise. I like to think I’m the same way.

If Jesus were alive today—or if he is alive and I ever get the opportunity to sit and have coffee with him—or tea, or lamb’s blood or whatever—I want to ask him how he manages to keep such a good attitude about things. I suspect it has to do with his fame. It’s much easier to be a maverick when you’re famous, like Alan Arkin. This I wouldn’t know, for my struggle to maintain integrity as an artist, a wag, and a concerned citizen unfolds in a veritable vacuum of non-appreciation, contempt and misunderstanding.

As usual, I'm not sure I've made myself clear, but I know that if he does read this Blah-ugh!, Jesus gets it. Amen!

Jarret's Frank Film Forum: A Few Different Films & Things ...

May 6, 2013:  I'm thoroughly enjoying a second viewing of the old British film "The Wicker Man," and not only because it's such a sincere pleasure to watch a young Britt Ekland dancing naked. (Needless to say, her song number in the bedroom adjacent to the police inspector's chamber is not only a remarkable visual -- and auditory -- pleasure, but it and other moments --{although not the other moments as much}-- really highlight the utter {a tacky comic with less thoughtful material would say 'udder,' but I won't!} delight of her lovely talents and talented udders ... I mean, loveliness ... Ah, to be young and Swedish in 1971 Europe!)

I like movies. You might have gathered as much from my periodic Frank Film Forum entries, which ... Did I say "entries?" I meant "entrails." ... Or did I? ...  FFF -- Frank Film Forum entries, which offer tired and impatient Blah-ugh! readers the chance to get an honest appraisal of the most important, or least important, cinematic fare polluting our natural environment today and in years gone past ... I believe I've done the Bond films as a whole, owing to my laziness, and "Chicago" and "Halloween III," and maybe others ... and others still ... Who really remembers?! And who really cares anyway. I know I don't!

But this is quite a startling movie for other reasons as well -- "The Wicker Man," I mean -- really quite a frightening little flick ... But I don't want to say anymore, in part because I don't want to ruin anything, but also because I've lost interest in writing about it ...

It's funny how that works. I mean, I start out with these grand ideas to craft a Blah-ugh! entry -- all those important details swirling around, like so many gnats in summer, and then by the time I finish proofreading my first paragraph on the fly, I'm so tired of whatever it is I'm writing about, I usually deteriorate into something of unrelated interest ...

Which brings me to another movie I really enjoyed recently called "The Third Man." (Not a sequel, nor prequel, to "The Wicker Man;" completely different man!) This is a post-WWII flick set in Vienna with the great Joseph Cotton (Cotten? ... I mean, how great was he really, that I should have to remember how he spelled his name?!) and Orson Welles, who I love and revere on some strange level, and directed by the wonderful Carol Reed, who I was always attracted to until I found out he was a man. The best part of this movie for me is the tweaky cinematography by Robert Krasker, which is just cool, and especially I love the last long, long shot, which I'll say no more about. Also, the unnerving zither music is just terrific and inspiring. (I mean, I'm inspired to never let a zither player in my house after hearing it, but it works so well in this masterpiece.)

As I continue on my own creative journey as a filmmaker ... (What? You didn't know I made film?! ... Well, we'll talk at some point, but I've got to get this thing done now ...) ... I find it's so easy to learn (and enjoy) more and more each time I watch anything. I subscribe to what I think Coppola said about a BAD movie being the best teacher for learning how to make film, but the good stuff can also do well to open your eyes/mind to some very cool tricks, techniques and psychic treachery ...

Another superb movie I just watched was "Taxi Driver," which really rings my bells as an overall example of very fine filmmaking. Here I'm smitten with Michael Chapman's photo work--that look of the city night and lights captures a spirit to me the way Haskell Wexler's work on "American Graffiti" did ... But what really cements this movie -- "Taxi Driver," I mean -- is that awesome, terrifying Bernard Hermann music. It's really intensely cool. His last film, I believe, but he went out with a Zap ...

And that's how I'm going to go out tonight -- with a Zap!

Zap!

Once Again, for The Bradys ...

April 25, 2013:  I had every intention of doing a Blah-ugh! entry on my friend Steven Spielberg, but that's going to have to wait. My inclination to spout about my favorite sit-com family has again grabbed at my groin and I'm going to seize the opportunity the way I seize the towel when I leave the shower naked, although hopefully I won't hurt my back this time ...

Yes, The Brady Bunch is the subject again today. Faithful Blah-ugh! readers -- the 23 of you -- know that I've barfed up some of my Brady ideas in past entries. This time, however, I won't bore you with more Marcia-related revelations, but I will put a new twist on Mike. You see, once again my children and I have slogged through another cycle of our DVDs and now, after the 14th -- or 40th, I'm not sure which -- viewing, it's become abundantly clear that Mike Brady is really the antithesis of the great father role model I always presumed him to be. (And no, Shannon, it has nothing to do with Robert Reed being gay and from Chicago.)

You see, though I've tried to deny it, I can't now watch one of these episodes without noticing how often Mike hits the kids. Yes, it's absolutely true. He swats them like insects on a regular basis, particularly in the first couple of seasons. It's a wonder he wasn't reported sooner, or that he hasn't now been cast in the sour light of other psychopathic television parents -- Homer Simpson, Archie Bunker, and Cloris Leachman. The examples are numerous -- the viewing of Greg's film on the pilgrims, Greg buying the lemon, Greg learning something-or-other ... In fact, I think Greg took the worst of his blows, which were often loud slaps on the back, but also sound whacks on the butt, the leg or the arm, depending on Robert Reed's mood.

It's ironic that Reed was such a fussbudget about the numerous implausibilities in Brady scripts, such as the time so-called Method actress "Meerna" Carter gave him and Henderson (a.k.a. Carol) tips on how to be motivated in the Safe commercial. All that time he was focusing his somewhat warped Shakespearean sensibilities on script revisions and scolding memos to the Schwartz family, he might have better served everyone by refraining from hitting the children so often.

That said, I think it's important to address the spectacle of Cousin Oliver. It was a dark day in Brady history when this pesty little jinx ambled onto the set looking like a shrunken John Denver. His smarmy one-liners and irritating glasses all served to beg the question of why Robert Reed didn't hit him more often.

Hmmmm... I see there are many, many more involved Brady-related points that require broaching, and I simply don't have the time or fortitude to address them right now. Why is Carol wearing Marcia's shirt in that episode with Lovey Howell and the Good Ship Lollipop? Does Jim Backus have a toupee or a comb-over in the pool episode? And what happened to Mr. Phillips? Was the new City Hall built in Woodland Park? Did Alice and Sam ever marry, and did he ever repair that gaping space in his front teeth? Did the kids ever record a family-version of "Clowns Never Laughed Before?" Did Maureen McCormick ever stop pronouncing words with that California patois, such as "dinist" for "dentist," etc. Does she still hate Alan Anthony? (I know I do and always will!) ...

Spring Sprangs ... Again ...

April 10, 2013:  I'll never be able to mutter the trite truism that 'Spring is in the air,' without immediately remembering Groucho Marx's concerned response to Thelma Todd in "Horse Feathers" -- "You mean you want me to spring in the air and fall in the lake?"

But the fact is, despite all the nuances of Global Warming and El Ninny and various weather-related geo-thermal exacerbations, spring has apparently sprung eternal ... or at least external, and that's where we'd want it, I'd think, especially because the house is so dirty ...

I'm not sure what I wanted to say about it, except it's certainly lighter. This, as you may know, owes to the new tilt we're getting from the sun, or perhaps the earth. All I know is I heard some loud noise last night, and I don't think it was my neighbor, Mrs. Schtiple, who shaves her legs with a bandsaw. No, this was spring springing, and the light lighting, casting shadows in a new and vivid way ... so get that hat on or you'll burn!

I spent a few moments yesterday lying out on the lawn photographing a bird ... And I got some great shots! Then the bird got a few shots of me, including one great one where I caught a worm ... Then the bird went in my house and drank the last Yoo-Hoo. But I showed him and ate the last of the birdseed in the driveway ...

This brings us to the question of whether this Blah-ugh! is really funny. I tend not to think so, but to be honest, I don't really read it that often. Granted, I come to the site a lot, but mostly it's because I can't get over how young I look in that picture!

Again, I'm trying to remember why I started this entry. I keep meaning to publish a remarkable poem I've been working on about Starbuck's, but I'm blocked. (I think it was the banana walnut bread.) Now I'm just trying to remind myself -- others too -- why we call this Blah-ugh! a comedy site, and not a tragedy site, although some would argue that my attempts at comedy continue to be tragic, while my forays into tragedy are endlessly masked in a kind of humorous pathos.

Speaking of pathos, did you ever read that poet John Dos Pathos. I think he wrote that volume about mid-20th century America called "Regurgitate This, Ye Sons of Soil." (And to demonstrate just how reductionist my damaged sense of humor really is, I'm actually having an uncontrollable fit of laughter after writing that last sentence! Consider this further evidence that a good writer writes for themselves, and a good reader shouldn't put up with it!)

On a completely different note, there's this very strange smell in my living room at the moment, and I can't decide whether it's coming from the kitchen, from outside, or possibly from my shirt. It sort of smells like plastic, but a kind of burnt plastic -- polyethylene terephthalate resin, I think. I don't believe anyone in the house was cooking plastic this morning, although my domestic partner tends to put anything in the oven and call it lunch. I'm hoping it's not some kind of new spring lawn chemical that Mrs. Schtiple is applying to her geraniums, the old hag. It's so weird how normal, red-blooded Americans will put all sorts of foreign objects and chemicals on their lawn in some strange vain hope it's going to make them more popular and sexier. Our lawn isn't like that. It's a down-and-dirty lawn, with lots of onion grass and dandelions. I like to go out there now and again and trim it with a pair of eyebrow tweezers.

(That smell is really making me nervous. If I cared more about my health, I'd probably investigate. As it is, I have to conclude it's probably building up my immune system and, perhaps, making my teeth whiter ... I'm beginning to think my teeth will never get whiter, which makes me wonder if I should stop eating out ... Which reminds me, I haven't even had my morning tea, and I've been up since 5:40 ...

So on that note, I'll add the closing parenthesis later, when I've had more rest and stopped ruminating on this awful stink ...

I'm Willing to Listen ...

March 11, 2013:  A little-known poet named Ronald Walter Ludley had a little-known poetry book called "Why Don't You Listen?" It's a question I've been asking the people in my life for many years now ...

It's such a simple thing, and yet it's remarkable how poorly we all listen. (I don't really mean me, but I'm just generalizing here to make everyone feel good; in fact, I consider myself a rather good listener, owing to both my journalistic skills and my consummate acting ability.)

We just want to be heard -- all of us -- but heard in a certain way. A friend of mine pointed out tonight how the so-called social media forums fluorescently highlight how hungry humanity is to be heard. People grow more and more desperate to be heard with each passing day, and yet they become poorer and poorer listeners ... Isn't that funny? ... No, I guess not ...

I can only speak for myself, but I suffer on an ongoing basis from people's poor listening skills. This is a large reason why I became a writer, I think. I feel a deep need to be heard. And while it would be wonderful to spare myself all this trouble of typing out lengthy (and pithy) rants about what ails us on my Blah-ugh! forum, it's really one of the few satisfying means I have at my disposal to get that sensational sense of being really, truly heard.

Now, what does that mean? Well, really it means being able to share one's thoughts without feedback. I need to be able to share without having my comments appraised or -- much worse and annoying -- getting back those feeble attempts to fix me, to solve my problems.

Isn't it interesting how many people listen with half an ear, just waiting to tell you what's wrong and how you can fix it. They're not really listening. In fact, they're probably uncomfortable listening, which takes a degree of patience and consciousness that many people don't have. It's important -- as a listener -- to understand that most of us don't really want to be fixed. I know I don't. I just want to feel like I was heard, even if I wasn't. (Thus again, a great listener can merely be a gifted actor; what the hell does it really matter to me in the end anyway, as long as I feel listened to?!) Few frustrations are as bad as those horrifyingly well-meaning individuals who can't let you get five sentences out before they chime in with their eager advice. I've also noticed many people who have a ridiculous gift of being able to steer your shared thoughts into their own experiences, and within moments of your attempting to open up, they smoothly manage to usurp the conversation and contain it for the next nauseous 20 minutes within their own thoughtless history.

But let's not make this about me. I'm fine. I have a Blah-ugh! to voice my stupid opinions and observations. (And of course I'm being falsely humiliating, as you know, because I obviously consider my stupid opinions and observations light-years more amusing and valuable than anyone else's.)

No, I want to offer others my service in feeling that they've actually, authentically been heard. No joke. If you're struggling with this very issue, and don't know where to go to get the base satisfaction of feeling listened to, send me an email and we'll arrange a time for me to listen to you. I want you to feel you're worth that, and while I can't promise I won't be rolling my eyes or stifling laughter, I'll give my best effort to be the kind of listener that I value in my life.

If no one else is willing to listen -- and listen well -- I'll certainly be glad to ...

Tong Etiquette and Ass Bacteria

January 5, 2013:  Huzzah, huzzah! Yes, I'm fooling all of you by posting another post, right here at the Blah-ugh! ... And I'm doing so because it's important, you see, for despite the good turns America is taking in this millenium, it's certainly not practical for me to be sitting on my laurels -- or anyone else's -- at this point.

For starters, I know people were wondering how my stew turned out, and I can assure you that it was palatable, if not necessarily tasty. Today I tried another attempt in the guise of chicken, and I was very pleased with the result, though it gave me hives.

Actually, I wanted to post a post because of two food-related discoveries I made today, and this chicken was one of them. You see I realized that the secret to preparing chicken -- which I’ve always abhorred and suffered by – is to be really, really hungry when you’re cutting it up. You see, it’s so incredibly disgusting and gives me formidable heebeejeebies (and I’m sure I’m not spelling that right) that I’ve largely kept it off my menu entirely, except for the chicken that comes breaded and frozen and merely requires heating. Anyway, I found myself just throwing chicken caution to the wind today – leaving a remarkable variety of entrails and veiny things intact, and just throwing it all in the pan for consumption, because I was so bloody hungry that I had no compunction about eating any of it. (And let me tell you, over 150 Blah-ugh! entries and all this time I’ve been dying to use the word “compunction” in a post!)

The other food-related item is one I’ve had on my mind for a very long time, but never remember to get down – namely the issue of tong etiquette. It’s a ridiculous and remarkable phenomenon how people use their grubby hands on tongs and then lay them atop food. Have you watched salad bar behavior with the kind of hyper-vigilant fear that’s so much a part of my pathology? If you have, then you must have noticed how people somehow find it okay to lay the tongs directly atop the food. It’s so strange that no one things twice about it, and stranger still that people then pick up the tongs and serve themselves after the bacteria-infested paw prints of some knucklehead have been unsoundly transferred into the group food plate.

I spent some time observing it today at a social event. For a while I’d been eyeing a succulent cheese ball resting innocently in the middle of a large platter of handsome cold cuts. I was close to going over and showing it who was boss when, as if on movie cue, a fat woman came forward, grabbed the tongs and helped herself to a generous serving of salami and stuff, then thoughtlessly, unconsciously, laid the big black plastic tongs right there on top of everything, like it was custom … And it is, sad to say! … Then the next man did the exact same thing. And for one hopeful moment he couldn’t balance the tongs on the pile, but then he solved the little problem by just throwing them right on the middle of the plate, where they touched everything.

Like me, you’re probably thinking there’s a good chance either one of these people may have their hands up their asses, or perhaps somewhere worse, and now we were all going to share in their experience, though obviously without some of the same joys. Not me. This was one of those times when my acute paranoia and hyper-vigilant fear paid off … No ass salami for me!

Over the years I’ve adopted some intelligent practices when it comes to getting a share of group food. I’d share them with you, but in all likelihood it would somehow impede my progress were we to end up at a social event together. Suffice it to say, I’m not falling for any of this …

So that was my day, at least in part. I’m still wondering if and when I’ll ever find time to finish the myriad projects I’m involved in, or when I’ll at least have the nerve to start giving them less psychic energy … Most importantly, at this rate there’s a good chance that I’ll complete 150 new Blah-ugh! entries by the end of the year … But don’t count on it!

The Wind in the Willows Revisited and Other Stories

January 3, 2013:  If you knew how often I thought about doing Blah-ugh! entries, you'd be surprised ... Or not. Perhaps nothing phases you. Perhaps you've been so hardened by uncivilized society and fast food and grocery checkout clerks who talk to one another in abrasive voices while they're doing your checkout, that you can't even find a ray of hope in this Blah-ugh!?

Well, if that's the case, I sincerely hope the lessons of Toad will lift your spirits, for he is in reality an honorable creature. If you haven't read the book, you have no business wasting your time here with this silliness. Grab a copy -- preferably the one with the magnificent illustrations by Ernest Shepard (of Winnie-the-Pooh fame) and see what truly excellent literature looks like.

Now one of the great marks of perfect literature--and you know, with no hyperbole, I honestly feel this book is the closest thing I've encountered near perfect writing. No fooling! ... It's musical writing, which is what I strive to accomplish, with my fiction in particular. It's intelligent, layered, and beautiful just to read, regardless of where it's going. In other words, each line or phrase is pleasant enough on its own. I don't even have to be dragged along an adventure or a plot. I'm content to sit in the sunshine of the words and relish the warm twinkling ray of light massaging my brain through my eyelids ... Imagine a novel you can read in a random order ... What a thought ... But I digress ...

What I meant to say was that one of the marks of great writing is references to food and loving descriptions of meals, and I so enjoy those in this book -- in particular I'm enamored with the gipsy's stew -- ("It was, indeed, the most beautiful stew in the world, being made of partridges, and pheasants, and chickens, and hares, and rabbits, and peahens, guinea-fowls, and one or two other things ...") And the reason I'm even mentioning any of this is because I'm making stew right now, as we speak, or as I write. Yes, I know it's hard to believe, but it's true ... Stew! And while I didn't include rabbits or partridges -- and really don't have any inkling to -- the beef is doing nicely ... or so I hope! (It's got a funny smell, but what doesn't these days.)

You see, I couldn't find the right non-alcoholic cooking wine to whet my fancy -- I couldn't find any, actually, though I only looked in one store -- and so I'm attempting one of my misguided improvisations ... No, not the kind I do at parties, but a culinary improv, wherein I'm combining grape juice and balsamic vinegar. You see, I reason that wine is halfway between the two, so added in the right proportion, it should, in all likelihood, work out. I've had noteworthy success with red grape juice in spaghettie sauces, actually, but this business of stew may be quite another story ... Time will tell. I'll add the potatoes around midnight and go from there ...

So that's where things stand, except I set out to talk about Toad's behavior in detail, but now I've completely lost interest and energy. Instead, I'm looking forward to completing this interminable Blah(-ugh!) and lying back on the couch to allow myself some much-deserved peace time working on a Cross Sum puzzle.

Have I mentioned how much I like Cross Sum puzzles? It's not the kind of thing you like to get around, but it's true I tellya -- true, true! And the beautiful ice cold weather of good winter days really moves me to work on them in earnest, though I have other responsibilities, like learning to juggle and eating this handsome box of fudge my daughter got me for holiday. (It's actually Ralphie from "A Christmas Story" fudge, and on the cover of the box he's saying in a word bubble, "Ohh .... FFFFFudge!!" ... Very clever!)

And that's why I'm convinced the Chinese are taking over the world ... Did I explain that properly? I'm not sure, and I try not to reread this stuff. It just upsets my stomach and makes me wonder what I did with my thirties ...

Finally, please forgive my failure to achieve a record number of Blah-ugh! entries in the previous year. I came close and certainly meant to, but I know you wouldn't have wanted me to just write to write and fill space, like I appear to be doing now. It just wouldn't be right. I mean, look! ...

Finally, I'm almost through with another novel book, which I'll be putting up online in the next few days. It's quite a different book for me -- something in the horror region -- but I'm very happy with it, but you probably won't like it, so don't waste your 99 cents. I'm hoping this one will be better proofread, but there's no telling what I'll do or not do, depending on my mood and how my stew turns out ...

Finally, I wish you and me both -- and especially me -- a joy-filled, peaceful, conscious, and lucrative 2013 ... I really sense it's going to be a good year, and I look forward to being a part of it ... preferably in the evening hours, when I'm better rested ...

Does This Read Like a Rhetorical Blah-ugh! Essay?!

July 23, 2012:  What is it about Glen Campbell I love so much, anyway?! It's a rhetorical question, and I'm never sure whether you're supposed to put a question mark, so I always compensate by putting both an exclamation mark AND a question mark. How's that for conscientious?! (See?!)

Anyway, it's my kind of morning -- heavy rain, moody clouds and lots of thunder. The cats are being pleasant -- that is, the little cat is being sweet and friendly, but the fat one followed up pooping on the basement floor by vomiting in the kitchen. Still, they're better than some people I know, who poop everywhere!

And speaking of poop, I was recalling this great comment John Lennon made in some documentary, wherein he references that the quality of a given song he'd written on some day may have just been the result of his having had a good (dare I say, sound) bowel movement that day. And it makes sense, if you think about it. After all, what myriad details of living craft the precarious state of my emotions at any given time?!

For instance, this thunderstorm just set me straight, and now that it's clearing up I'm getting depressed. Frequent Blah-ugh! readers will (or won't) recall that I favor British weather to the skin-burning sun of modern summer, and any chance to be enveloped by the lovely hydraulic gauze of nature's natural sprinkler is, for me, just peachy keen.

On another note, I'm sitting here nude right now, as some of my regular Blah-ugh! readers may (or may not) realize, and I'm wondering if the front door being open constitutes my being some kind of public spectacle. It's certainly not my intention, as my regular Blah-ugh! readers would (or wouldn't) understand. It's just that I was about to shower when I was sucked into listening to this Glen Campbell album and felt compelled to let you know -- my regular (and irregular) Blah-ugh! readers -- that Glen is among the most underrated performers of the 20th century. Certainly, his is among my five all-time favorite singing voices, the others being Lennon, Lulu, Brian Wilson and Sam Cooke.

Anyway, I've got to go now. Put that in your pipe and smoke it! Don't forget to buy my Youtube video at this location, and watch "Space Case" if and when you've got the nerve ... And keep watching the flagpoles, because I note they're STILL all at half-mast and I have no F***ING idea why!

"I Go Out Walkin' ... Before and After Midnight ..."

March 26, 2012: Well, another week has passed and I'm no closer to anything on my "bucket list," except perhaps my death. One difference, however, is that I've stopped putting undue blame on myself and have started placing it squarely where it truly belongs -- on everyone else.

It's been an interesting week, you see, in part because I've started walking everywhere. And if you want to learn anything about the people around you, try walking everywhere and see how many of them pass you by on the street. "I saw you walking this morning," has become an annoyingly familiar greeting at work, and one to which I have to perpetually keep NOT replying, "So then, why didn't you offer me a ride?" Instead, I find it a great opportunity to brood and embrace that certain otherness that makes me the kind of person who can't just sit on his laurels collecting an exorbitant salary like so many disturbed people, but must also continually express his disturbed notions in a Blah-ugh! (or a Blah-ugh!-like venue, such as an e-novel, such as SPACE CASE, which is really nothing like my Blah-ugh! except it was written by the same person, who was me, or IS me ... or Esme ... so anyway ...)

I've always been vastly disappointed by the collective non-response of my Blah-ugh! readers to my infrequent offerings (excepting the few of you who DO respond, and in whom I'll forever forgive everything, including minor theft and periodic body odor ...). Here it is, I commit not only MY thoughts to paper (or could I call it virtual papyrus) on an almost daily basis, but YOUR thoughts as well -- (Come now, you KNOW I do, and that's the POINT!) -- and in responsive gratitude, you merely cast me aside without so much as a glance because I'm no longer driving that Mercedes that Matt lent me ... (and Matt is a lovely man, by the way, except for the fact that I'm starting to suspect he's really Italian.)

The point is, you should all be ashamed of yourselves for perpetuating the myth that Americans are surly and lazy and have to drive American cars and eat at Duchess. It's disheartening, yes, but also vaguely unnerving, because somewhere in the past -- and I think it was 1975, actually -- we took a wrong turn and have never got back on the high road. And yet we all sit around bemoaning how awful things have become and how too many people text message when they drive and do all this terrible stuff, and yet when I mention that I'm on foot, people look at me like I just shit in their oatmeal.

On a parallel note, I was disturbed to hear from my son that they now install front-seat DVD players, supposedly for the passengers. Now this just takes things to a very bizarre new level, for I still can't get my head around how they allow those television screen navigation systems in cars, let alone mini movie theaters. I mean, it's absolutely comical. Do we as a culture -- as a world -- now really believe that it's not ENTIRELY DISTRACTING for a driver to have a giant blue-light screen shining in their face while they drive?!! No, I'm serious!! I'm just mystified beyond all belief. I mean, am I from another planet and just don't realize it. Please, be honest with me. I really need to know at this point. Am I the result of thoughtless inbreeding and too much Lysergic Acid in my developing years?!

Anyway, I hear my wife coming, so I'd better end this before she catches me. This is no time in America to deviate from what we're all expecting to experience in each given moment, and it's especially way past the time where a good American can raise any sort of question that might rub someone the wrong way. Unfortunately in this country it's just no longer safe to rub anything anymore!

I think it was Gary Neuman who so eloquently sang, "Here in my car I feel safest of all. I can lock all my doors. It keeps me stable for days in cars."

(Who am I kidding?! I KNOW it was him, but I'm so scared to SAY I know because I don't know what you'll all think of me for knowing! ... See! THAT'S what it's come to!!)

Coffee Cures Everything; It Cured ME

March 6, 2012: I suddenly came to realize today that my main problem -- perhaps my ONLY problem, really -- is that I haven't been drinking enough coffee--or any coffee--for way too long.

Right away, this explains why my Blah-ugh! entries have become poorly intermittent, (where once they were intermittently poor). Also, the topics themselves have become increasingly maudlin and pedantic, where they were once buoyant, pithy, and on rare occasions vaguely funny. This, too, is a reflection of coffee's magic powers, for as everyone knows coffee drinkers are prone to sit around coffee shops laughing and telling funny stories about hens and washing cars and hiring nannies from funny-sounding countries ... and so to NOT be charged on coffee, one suddenly sees the folly of even TRYING to have a conversation without waxing morose.

By the way, at this point you're probably wondering if SPACE CASE is still available on Amazon and at B&N, and it is, and if you were really the fan you purport to be, you'd already know that, so I've half a mind to delete these last three lines, except I can't properly work the delete button on this stupid futuristic keyboard my wife bought, for it's like typing on one of those fake rubber keyboards, or on a toy piano, and just try to send a letter through one of those.

Speaking of ME and my BOOK, you'll probably be microscopically excited (as my wife was) to learn that I've been asked to do my first public appearance in relation to that unique, oft-discussed (certainly by me) humorous attempt at chick lit (SPACE CASE, which as you know is available at B&N and Amazon). I'll hope to see you there, assuming you won't be wearing weird clothes or calling out from the audience about problems in Tibet or problems with MY stand on Tibet, or Tibet's stand on ME ... Actually, at this point I'm not even sure I want you there at all, so call first ...

Anyway, the point is, I'm enjoying a clarity of mind usually only experienced by coke addicts, and it's all thanks to my increasing coffee intake. Not to say that tea isn't doing it's part too -- the drinking kind, I mean. I'm still enjoying my morning cup, only now I'm starting to have two in the morning, and several more throughout the evening, following a healthy afternoon of coffee ingestion. (I just finished a cup now, in fact, and I feel GREAT!)

It's amazing, really. I'm finding I don't need to sleep as much as I thought I did, and my real fear-issue relating to it being a diarrhetic has been handily quelled by putting my brilliant cure for Lactose Intolerance (remember -- L.I.) into play. (See http://jarretliotta.blogspot.com/2012/02/how-i-cured-my-lactose-intolerance-and.html )

So life is good, and if I can keep up this pace, the Blah-ugh! entries should keep coming faster and faster, and with more virulent pith (if I'm not being gross by saying so) ... and while I've noticed my blinking starting to change a bit -- it's kind of hard to explain, but my eyes aren't quite closing all the way anymore, but just sort of rolling around -- otherwise I haven't noticed any ill effects. And due to my ever-increasing energy, I've got several new writing projects underway, two of which involve complete sentences, while the others are more abstract and just entail my hitting the keyboard rhythmically with clenched fists. (Which reminds me, I'm thinking about learning to play the accordion while I have all this extra time.)

Anyway, ask yourself honestly, Have I bought my copy of Space Case yet? And if you answer No, get the hell off my Blah-ugh! site or I'll call the cops ... I'm just kidding. So few people are up at this hour, I can't AFFORD to offend anyone ... even you!

Can't Stop Talking Toilets 2012

February 10, 2012: If this were your homepage, you'd be home now ... And if you haven't purchased your virtual copy of SPACE CASE by now (Amazon or B&N), I honestly don't know what I'm going to do with you, except fervently resent ...

That all said, with numerous topics vying for selection in my muddled, moribund mind -- my email struggles, Indian food, Hermann Hesse, the dangers of synthetic underwear ... Once again, toilets turned out to take top billing here at the Blah-ugh!, for once again I'm moved to revisit and revial my most favorite of holy subjects.

You'd think by now you'd have learned everything you needed to know from me about toilets from previous posts. (http://jarretliotta.blogspot.com/2009/08/finding-god-in-my-toilet.html, http://jarretliotta.blogspot.com/2010/03/still-more-on-toilets.html and http://jarretliotta.blogspot.com/2010/01/finding-acceptance-in-my-toilet.html are just some examples ...) The fact is, however, that we've only just begun to scratch the surface -- or dive deeper, if you will -- regarding this important and yet sadly overlooked element of our overtly disturbing modern human existence.

Today's entry was prompted by my seeing someone pee on the seat at work today. (No, no! I didn't bear witness -- perish the thought!) But I was the unfortunate victim of some selfish moron's thougthless skullduggery and, at the time of my toilet pigrimage, was unfairly forced to view the result of the disturbing actions of what is in essence a modern-day fiend.

Fortunately (for me ... and we all know this is all about ME), this was one visit where the condition of the seat didn't come into play for MY plans, except for the disgust I had to feel in having to gently lift that soiled seat with my foot while watching those skin-creeping neon-yellow dots of vitamin-enriched urine clinging there like so many June bugs ... And while I relieved myself (if you'll forgive the gruesomeness of THAT image), I got to thinking about my own habits where the seat is concerned.

You see, I've long wondered why men are forever implored to "put the seat down." In this enlightened age of equinimity -- (Is that the right word? If not, please don't tell me; I don't WANT to know) -- shouldn't we all be responsible for our own toilets? In other words, if I'm required to LIFT the seat to do MY dirty business, why should a woman not be required to LOWER the seat to do HERS? And yet, time and again, in my codependent efforts to be polite and be a good citizen and to get people to like me in AND out of the bathroom, I will not only raise the seat at the start, but return it to its resting place when I'm complete.

But this ongoing journey of self-discovery has led me to experiment a bit and -- depending on my mood, level of self-confidence, sense of self-esteem, and memory -- I sometimes will and sometimes WON'T put down the bloody seat.

(To be honest, at home I tend to always put it down, for various reasons. As a rule I think one is much more comfortable handling their OWN toilet seat. Despite all the rumors about urine's sterility and the argument that sexually transmitted diseases can't be thusly tranferred -- and why should we believe THAT anyway? -- handling public seats opens a clean man such as myself up to all kinds of disturbing, disgusting and potentially dangerous possibilities.)

Anyway, what really struck my mind -- and you have to understand, this was all unfolding in that short window I took to pee -- was how hostile a gesture it was to pee on a seat. Leaving the seat up is one thing, but by actually PEEING on the seat, you're sending a clear message of contempt -- and dare I say MISOGYNISTIC contempt -- to anyone and everyone who tries to use that soiled toilet after you. And this is what I REALLY found worrisome -- that there was some dirty, vitamin-fueled misogynist running around my place of work -- peeing at will, like a rabid fox terrier, leaving his supposedly sterile mark on our sacred toilet seats, ruthlessly laughing in the face of everything that's decent about urinating ...

At the end of the day, I'm not a woman -- not in any literal sense -- so it doesn't concern me too much. But again, I'm reminded how we, as a society in the 21st century, must not lose sight of the importance of our toilet culture.

We've come light years as an enlightened and spiritual species. We can't regress now. Let's not forget that kindness, caring, community, and even love begin when we first settle down to not just TAKE our piss, but MAKE IT ...

More Answers Than Questions

February 1, 2012: It's a week later, and I'm still coughing like a smoker. People say that at this point I should get some antibiotics, but I'm not going to let their negative vibrations influence the coalescence of my mind-body healing process, no matter how much it pains them. (Frankly, I'll hack myself dead before I kowtow to the insanity of their short-sighted aleopathic healing, especially without insurance!)

Still, as you can plainly see, I carry on -- through thick and thin, through hack and tickle, through green phlegm and yellow ...

This episode -- perhaps in celebration of Groundhog's Day, and perhaps not -- I thought you might enjoy hearing the abbreviated responses to some of the more pressing questions being importunately posed by you -- the loyal Blah-ugh! reader and often inebriated fan. Writing the Blah-ugh! has given me something akin to celebrity status -- (of course, authoring that dynamic new humorous e-novel SPACE CASE, which is available at Amazon and Barnes & Noble, has also helped spread my juices, especially in the Bible Belt). People are constantly asking me questions -- some related to past Blah-ugh! entries, some related to my beliefs and dislikes, still others referencing the size and description of my genitalia in relation to my first name, (which as you all know from a previous Blah-ugh! entry (http://jarretliotta.blogspot.com/2011/07/name-game.html) translates to mean "Ye who wields an enormous spear of justice").

I thought I'd address a few, contingent on my precarious ability to keep sitting upright in my chair. For starters, someone asked why, in my recent list of my Top 40 Favorite Songs (http://jarretliotta.blogspot.com/2012/01/jarrets-top-40.html), the Rolling Stones weren't represented. This was largely because of all the crap they've recorded, but also because I tend to grow tired of even their many great hits. Of course, I do adore many of them very much, including "Emotional Rescue" and "Under My Thumb." Asked to name a favorite, it would probably be "Ruby Tuesday," but "Paint It Black" is close behind.

Another question I've been asked is why I don't write/print some of my poetry in my Blah-ugh! As many of you know, I'm first and foremost a Poet -- even before I was cutting lawns and handing out sale flyers, I was capturing the colorful rhythms of this good earth with my textural, tantalizing quatrains. My verse is not only exquisitely whittled, stark and potent, in many cases it also rhymes. And yes, the day will soon come when I post some of my better, more enduring works -- particularly those I couldn't publish anywhere else. For now, I can only share with you a teaser to tempt your temporal lobe -- it's called ...

"Poem 69"

Smell the flower
Sweet and sour

Another question that keeps coming up involves why I eat such large meals right before I go to bed, especially when I'm sick. I really don't have an answer for this, except to acknowledge my primal gluttony. Part of my sick healing, however, involves not antibiotics, but the conscious satisfaction of obscure food cravings, which I feel expedite the healing process. Tonight, I was absolutely sure I needed an eggplant parmegian sandwich, and while there remains a good chance I'll vomit it up all over my pillow tonight during what has become a regular 3 a.m. coughing fit, I don't regret a thing.

But I have to go now and try to make myself throw up properly, before bed. Goodnight, my Darlings! I'll be thinking of you ...

Toni, Daryl & Me

January 26, 2012: I'm sick, so it's not going to be easy making you laugh. But my ongoing codependent sense of emotional obligation to you -- my loyal Blah-ugh! readers -- impels me to force myself to get some crap up on this stupid site, on the outside chance that you -- the loyal idiot -- will garner some feeling solace from the inane ramblings of this defective raconteur. (Did I mention SPACE CASE yet? Well, I will ... and soon ...)

So, failing to generate my usual helping of trying wit and vaguely insightful kah-kah, I thought it a good time to wax sentimental and share some of those dear and delightful childish memories -- in particular, those relating to two of my all-time favorites entertainers -- The Captain & Tennille!

Yes, I had a great love of that wonderful duet, which broke open the '70s with their Neil Sedaka standard "Love Will Keep Us Together." I owned their first three albums -- I still have them, in fact, with their second -- "Song of Joy" -- my personal favorite. (The tropical melancholia of "Lonely Nights" is still a favorite feeling felt, and their version of Smokey Robinson's "Shop Around" is grand and catchy.)

I remember reading all about the Captain & Tennille, and I can still recall some key details of their lives -- for instance, they supposedly married for convenience's sake, owing to the great amount of time they spent together on the road. (Now, that always confused ME, and hopefully now it'll confuse you, too!) The Captain -- whose real name is Daryl Dragon -- surely one of the best nonfictional names ever -- wore sunglasses for a congenital eye condition. (And I always knew that fact after having read it, but I'm STILL not clear exactly what that means; I know he had big, dark, rather spooky eyes, and looked kind of like a fruit bat when he wasn't wearing his sunglasses.)

(Point of fact, or so I'd heard: Dragon -- apparently a somewhat gifted and busy studio keyboardist in his day -- is credited with that awesome organ solo in the Beach Boys' standard "Surfin' USA.")

I joined the Captain & Tennille Fan Club around that time as well, (although I think membership was merely the result of a lengthy lugubrious letter I wrote them). I remember how exciting it was to receive the light blue tri-folded newsletter with their funky pop-art logo in the corner, telling all about their latest happenings, etc.

I remember they were on the cover of a new magazine called "People" -- him in that awesome captain's hat (sans glasses, if I remember correctly) and gorgeous, tall Toni, with her straight-bang, honey-colored '70s hair and those enormous white corn-fed teeth -- the quintessence of beauty in 1976. (I may still even have my copy somewhere.)

And then, imagine my breathtaking thrill when I learned they were starting their own variety show! I think it was on ABC, and I remember the intense anticipation I experienced waiting for that premiere ... And I watched each episode with joy and relish until it was unceremoniously yanked from the air after one season or so. I can still vividly recall some of the songs they played "live," including numbers with Toni's two southern sisters. ("My Boyfriend's Back" stands out, along with the animated -- rather Muppet-ated -- "video" for the immortal "Muskrat Love."

As you might imagine -- assuming you're imagining any of this -- I wanted nothing more than to have my own captain's hat. At that time, for me, that was the absolute pinnacle of cool, and I craved to have my shakey, pre-teen identity completed with my very own seaman's chapeau. (Sadly, I was always too embarrassed to ask for one from my parents, and so never realized that dream. Perhaps I'll amend that one day soon, if I can figure out where they're still sold, and whether my awful receding hairline and flash-frozen grey color have enough cool left to support such a grand hat.)

Of course, I harbored still more intense feelings and frustrating dreams dependent on the possibilities of Toni finally coming to her senses and acknowledging that marrying Dragon was a mistake. A much younger man, she'd have to know, would make a much better catch, and I was all too eager and ready to take over the helm of that ship.

Yes, I loved the Captain & Tennille (and always will, despite how disturbingly old they look on their current web site). Things never worked out between Toni and me, of course, but the three of us remain permanently linked -- forever young -- in the grotesque yet gossamer halls of my deranged memory ...

Nothing New to Spew Under the Sun

January 22, 2012: Short of reminding you that my new e-novel Space Case remains on sale for an unlimited time -- (that story about the alien who finds himself entangled in a dysfunctional relationship with a busybody) -- I don't really have anything new to tell you ... Which is why it's so important I get this entry up and running For Your Information (or, FYI, for those of you in a rush) ...

You see, I'm acutely aware right now of how little any of us have to say that's of any worth. (YOU didn't make me realize this, of course, so don't feel paranoid; it was everyone else!) It suddenly strikes me as absolutely remarkable how, in this unfettered age of communication, where every possible opportunity to express ideas is literally budding from our virtual fingertips, there exists an astounding void of fodder worth formulating, let alone consuming.

The reason is simple -- There never was that much worth consuming to begin with! I finally realized that, here in the so-called Twenty-First Century (and we all know perfectly well it's really the Twenty-Second Century, even though I can't prove that because I sat on my calculator) we're more convinced than ever that there is a "wealth" of new and ever-newer info, facts, data, stories, ideas, opinions, observations and recollections that simply must be recorded, repeated, related and recounted ... But there isn't!

Like most things that fool us, it's an illusion of relativity. Hundreds of years ago -- pick a number, for it's relative anyway -- most everyone's time was taken up in a simple life of actions, spared long spells of trivia consumption and art for the sake of personal distraction. There was much more "living" going on, meaning people by-and-large had the opportunity to stay centered on whatever it was they were really doing -- to be "present" -- and objective intellectual experiences -- reading a book, watching a play, or hearing some gossip, for instance -- were confined to limited moments of novel recreation, which kept it all in its' meaningless place.

People can blame the creation of "leisure time" for the change, wherein more chances to watch, read and relate without participation came about, but I think it's more about the ongoing belief -- for we continue to suffer from it more and more -- that there is an ever-growing amount of things, ideas, etc., that need to be examined, that there are new ideas and new creations coming about vital to our heads ... But of course there aren't! That's the myth, the mistake ...

Modern people grow continually more worried that they'll miss something. New shows, trends, television, Youtube videos, articles, etc., are created and speeding by with such flustering bluster (or is it blustering fluster?), it's a wonder any of us get up and go to work at all. (I, actually, don't, but I'm using that figuratively.) Sadly, we're continually picking through the sparse, dry bones of a kind of cultural/social/intellectual roadkill, like unsatisfied crows, vainly hoping there'll be some stuff worth consuming. And I don't even think any of us are even hungry for anything, really, but driven by some vague fear that we're going to miss the boat if we stop or slow down.

Of course, there are -- always will be -- items, songs, stories, shows, sentences, scenarios -- worth our time -- ones which lend value to our state of being and provide us with an authentic nurturing. (This Blah-ugh! unfortunately isn't one of them, but that's not the point.) The difference is, somehow today in the Twenty-Third century, our ability to discern that value has been perhaps irreparably thwarted by a society replete with people who think they're artists, writers, poets -- idea people with anything new to say -- and there is little left to say that hasn't been said, and still fewer ways to say it with any interesting panache ... and yet everyone keeps shouting and writing and singing out ... Where do we stop? Where do we go? The question becomes, Do I need to know it, hear it, see it, read it ... and remark on it? Why shouldn't I just reread my Bradbury, Dickens and Kerouac, and rewatch my Lucy, Honeymooners, and Muppets?!

Not that they (we) are not entitled to keep shouting it out from the loudspeaker (or Internet) -- my god, if anyone was ever in favor of large bodies of our pliable citizenry shouting loudly and incoherently, it would have to be me! It's just that I don't want anyone thinking there's any pressing need to listen to any of us, any of it (excepting, of course, Space Case, which is available at Amazon and B&N) ... It's all just trivial poo-poo, and the presidents will keep coming and going, and the economy will ebb and flow, and actors will do good and bad, and styles will change and repeat, and confessions will be written and rereleased with different names, and songs will be sung and stung, and the same chords will be used over and over ...

But don't waste your time worrying about hearing them, seeing them, analyzing them, experiencing them ... It's all been done before, and odds are there really isn't much to be added to your mind, reality and emotional well-being ...

And that's why I felt it was so vital to get this Blah-ugh! entry up and active -- so you'd know enough not to bother reading the next one I write ...

The Name Game

July 12, 2011: I see now that my heartfelt Blah-ugh! entries don't generate half the interest that my scathing rants do, so I'll revert (or evolve, depending on your point of view) back to addressing only those issues and topics that I feel can generate the most angst and venom, or humor -- whichever comes first ...

That said, I've pretty thoroughly criticized everyone based on looks, their ethnicity, their stupid religions, and even the way they walk (I'm talking to you, you duck walkers!), but I don't think I've ever taken the time to really gnaw on the silliness of people's names.

Names are interesting and intriguing, and can even tell a lot about an individual based on their epistomology (I think that's the word, or it might be "wordography," but I think you get my meaning.) Everyone knows MY name translates to "one with mighty spear," which of course says all that needs to be said about me. But what about the rest of you?

I turned to my daughter's name book to explore a few definitions, consider a few inconsistencies, and generally squeeze for material with which to make fun of others, which is, after all, at the heart of what I do.

Before I go any farther, can you believe that this version (called "100,000+ Baby Names") actually condones the name "Anfernee," calling it a version of Anthony. I've long known this was a name only an illiterate could generate, and despite the popularity of its' sole recipient (of basketball fame, of course), it's always been a weird reminder to me of how an eternally guilt-festered society will let some people get away with anything. That said, WHY NOT Anfernee, for where do new names come from anyway, if not illiterates? (Who the hell thought to turn "Ann" into "Anne" after all?) Why not Infernee? or Assfurry? It's a debate I want no part of, but I just want you to consider all the facts before you jump to conclusions ... E.J.!

Thumbing through this thorough volume, I'm delighted and repelled by the quaint variety and dashingly stupid selection. "Curipan" is a Mapuche name for a boy, meaning "stinging nettle." Now who the hell would name their child Curipan, or even Pan for that matter. (Ironically, Pan doesn't even show up in this book -- probably the only name in the known universe that doesn't, because they have "Panini," believe it or not, which doesn't actually mean "sandwich"!) Further, what or where is Mapuche, and should we recognize anything that comes out of what must certainly be a devilishly weird region, and probably a dangerous one!? ...

Turning to the girls, there are a wide variety of "Sha" names, which are all American in origin, if you can believe such a thing. "Shalisa" is (and I quote) "a combination of the prefix Sha + Lisa," while "Shalita" is "a combination of the prefix Sha + Lita. If we're going to use prefixes, perhaps we can get more creative -- or more traditional. Why not use "Pre" as a prefix, for, say, "Prelisa" ... or "Prementrual." Could we not call a girl "Antibellum" or Antilita," meaning someone who is against being Lita ... or Lacklita ... or Lackluster ... (Did I mention MY name means "one with an enormous and dangerously sharp spear"?)

Other names bring strange meanings directly to life, like "Brieanne" (sorry Brianne & Brianna!) which literally combines "a type of cheese" with "gracious," or to simplify it -- "gracious cheese!" "Ottah" means "thin baby," while "Oya" means "speaking of the jacksnipe," (and we all know how often we speak of jacksnipes, especially in the privacy of our homes).

Some names make perfect sense. For instance "Akbar" means "great," and we all know what a great comic Akbar & Jeff is. "Alacrino" means "alive & outgoing," and who's ever been to a party where the center of life didn't flow from all the Alacrinos there ...

And did I mention MY name, which means "ye with enormous and crafty spear"? ...

Five Things No One Cares About

March 29, 2011: I was toying with the idea of putting this Blah-ugh! on hiatus, given my utter revulsion with having to update it so frequently. But then I thought of all the people I'd be disappointing -- all the working stiffs and sad singles and miserable married and restless young and smelly old ... I just couldn't bring myself to let any of you down. I just hope you're all satisfied now that you've ruined yet another evening I could have better spent eating hazelnut gelato and watching adult films.

And what to talk about? I keep thinking about Mel Brooks for some reason, but that's not a topic. (I had the opportunity to meet him once in L.A. at a Hanukkah celebration, of all things, at a synagogue; I found it a unique thrill to hear him scream out "dreidel" when the rabbi was trying to goad the many kids in the room to answer the question.)

I'm also ruminating rather anxiously on the sad state of technological affairs, wherein people drive down the road typing messages in their phones, leave their lanes and accelerate in irritating fits and starts, and demented parents play DVDs in the backs of their minivans to keep their kids medicated and still, and half the people I know can't be present for a conversation without keeping one eye on their portable email device while they're feigning attention, and on and on ...

But besides myself (and possibly the one known only as Mordant Glee) no one even cares. No one sees how demented it all is, how we're robbing a whole new generation of creative thought and silence, and slowly steaming the brains of this generation, which no longer values silence or solitude, but just constantly craves distraction through a thousand forms of trivia. Like drug addicts, they're scared to sit still and feel a feeling. It's depressing and pathetic, but mostly maddening because nobody seems to see how wrong it is ... And so I won't talk about that.

Instead, I'll mention I finally watched the new Wall Street movie, and it was pretty good, and Michael Douglas didn't look at all as bad as I thought he would (which I feared would be kind of like an Aztec mummy, and instead he just looked like this mummy they had on a Twilight Zone episode, which wasn't quite as shocking). As I said, it was a pretty good movie, though I couldn't understand most of what they were talking about -- all this weird business/money-speak, which is as foreign to me as an automobile engine. But I recognized the romance and excitement, in part because the music cued me to do so.

And speaking of the Twilight Zone, I was ecstatic to find my local library recently purchased the entire catalogue, and with shameless relish, I've begun introducing my children to the most brilliant episodes, starting with "The Masks" and "Five Characters in Search of an Exit." Rod Serling was a rare genius, not unlike Charles Dickens or myself.

Now why is this different, you ask, then the parent who stifles their brats in the backseat with automotive video, my forcing my poor dumb children to ingest great quantities of vintage sci-fi brilliance? Well ... it just is, so leave me alone.

Which reminds me, I hear the kids watching the Brady Bunch downstairs -- the one where Jim Bachus buys the Bradys a pool table -- so I've got to run ...

What Have You Done for Me (Jarret Liotta) Lately?!

February 25, 2011: It's late February, and the time has again come to ask yourself, "What have I done for Jarret lately?"

No, it's not my birthday, nor do I presume to pay some kind of weird homage to Finnish actor Leo Golowin, who as you know was born on this day in 1903. Instead, I merely think that, owing to the uncanny wealth of wonderfully engaging words with which I selflessly provide you on an ongoing basis through this Blah-ugh! (and for free, mind you), it just seems (if you have any heart, or at least a modicum of shame) you might feel a festering motivation to help further the questionable cause of my sordid career by consciously spreading the word about ... well, me!

As you know, I'm still on the lookout for the right agent (meaning any agent) to represent my first novel, which currently waits in the vaults unfondled, and leaves the world without that opportunity to see just what sort of meandering madness I can squeeze out of my brain, given the space (and a clean spot to stand). Beyond that -- meaning beyond your forcefully pursuing any avenue available to you to get me in touch with some fool willing to champion my book -- I'd hope that (like E.J. and Shannon ... and possibly Matt, though I'm beginning to have my doubts about him) you're making some effort to spread the word about this wonderful (and free, mind you) Blah-ugh! you find populating your happier moments (and, let's be honest, where you find yourself identifying with many of mankind's grungiest thoughts and basest feelings as only I can recount them).

Please understand, I don't want you to feel that you're not doing enough for me simply by being a loyal reader, but I'd hope you would exhibit just a little guilt -- not a lot, but a little -- enough to motivate you to move this thing along toward its ultimate conclusion.

Well, I've said my piece. I can't promise not to talk about myself next time, but I'll certainly talk far less about you.

But once again, my darlings, thank you for lurking here ...

Good Grief! Still More on Toilets

January 30, 2011: Blah-ugh! ideas can either fall from the sky, or crawl wretchedly from the shallow depths of one's toilet. You judge where the Muse really dwells ...

Tonight, moved to get another one of these rambling posts into the ether (or out upon the microwaves ... Whatever it is; I'm not Al Gore!), I was pleasantly surprised to get a welcome dose of that muse-manipulated magic to guide me right. For, you see, as I climbed my stairs -- literally moments before I would get to my keyboard -- my no-good son Max bellowed out that he'd fatuously dropped the toenail clipper into the toilet bowl.

Eureka! I thought. This is divine inspiration!

You see, as many new people are drawn to my Blah-ugh!, like so many mealy little European cockroaches attracted to a low-class German bakery (and I don't mean that in any derogatory way, I hope you understand), I'm compelled -- I feel it's my duty, really -- to start repeating myself in order to enlighten all the newcomers to the divine novelty of my meaningless insights and opinions. I only have so many, after all (for as I mentioned, I'm not Al Gore), but these few are important and well worth regurgitating.

So this is -- or at least would have been -- the ideal intro to talk at length about my toilet-related theories, experiences and ideas ...

But, y'know, I'm really, really hungry, and while I've explained in past Blah-ughs! how vital physical hunger can be to the creative process, there's only so much I'm willing to do to please you people. (Selfish cads!) So expect the rest of this finished soon ... or pretty soon. I just -- having paused in my prose -- mashed a large pot of potatoes, and they grow cold as I write ...

So stay tuned ... and, as always, thanks for reading!