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 …
