Ear Hairs & Moon Pies

March 11, 2012: Two things are on my mind right now -- these gorgeous peanut butter moon pies I just bought for my daughter, which I hear whispering to me from downstairs in a gelatinous siren-like song of sugar love -- and my poor burning beet-red ears, which I've spent the last 15 minutes abusing with an ineffectual tweezers in an ever-failing effort to successfully groom away the rampant growth of black hairs ... (Of course, there's SPACE CASE too, which relates to moon pies, but that's ALWAYS on ALL our minds, especially as it's so easily accessible in e-form on Amazon and B&N! So get your copy today ... Mr. Josh! >:- )

I just got a haircut yesterday, so I not only wanted to make my Sunday night straight-razor shave a good one, I wanted to do all I could to get all the other strange hairs out of the picture for at least a few days. As the months keep passing, more and more ear hairs show their ugly hairs, and as I have my own (probably fatuous) formula for contending with them -- an old pair of tweezers that doesn't close properly -- it's becoming an effort that feels earmarked (if you'll excuse the unintentional ha-ha) for failure.

It's a genuine mystery to me why, with my main hairs continuing to fall to grey and white, these awful ear hairs keep coming in blacker and blacker. I blame this one woman who cut my hair out in L.A. several years ago. Before I knew what was happening, she was in there with some tiny buzzing razor, mowing my ear like it was a public park. "Stop!" I yelled, but it was too late. Before that they'd been a sweet, invisible blonde down, barely noticeable, unless you happened to be in their with a Q-tip while I was asleep. Everyone knows that once you start trimming the things, they only get coarser and blacker ... maybe angrier too. (Imagine how hard it was for me to have to tip her, too, being she was a friend of my wife's ... and mine, I guess, at least up until THAT point.)

Speaking of L.A., I knew a lovely Indian man out there who had the thickest ear hair you could ever imagine. (I wish he were here now, living in Connecticut, for the juxtaposition would certainly make me feel better about mine.) He had what looked like two black and grey mice sitting in his ears (one in each). I mention that he was Indian not only because I'm prejudice -- oh, you know I'm kidding, EJ -- but also because I think it had something to do with his genes (if not his culture). And speaking racial genetics, little does my poor son know what he's due to face in his ears in the decades ahead with that rancid Sicilian blood bubbling through his veins, making every growth a thick black one. I mean, we get all these great cooking skills and a formidable love-making ability, of course, but I have to fear taking my shirt off at the beach. (Chime in, Cousin Gary! This is your history as well!)

Not to change the subject, but I noticed I also gained a stinging cut on my inner-ear this evening. (Well, perhaps not my INNER ear, but certainly more INSIDE my ear than outside.) And how I got the cut is remarkably stupid (dumb Sicilian!) because I helped my cat do it. (Cat cut! Cat cut your tongue? No, my ear!) For some reason -- I'm STILL not even sure why -- I was hoisting our kitten -- Bob K. -- over my head while I was lying down, and placed him on my ear. (See, I was on the computer as this was happening, which I often work on lying on my stomach, which is how the computer is set up ... I think I explained this once, but no one listened to me then either.) Anyway, the cat just panicked and scratched my ear, and while I was investigating the hair factor, I happened upon this nasty little cut ... in my ear ... and of course, once I saw it, it hurt even more!

So, that's all I have to share tonight, because I'm really, really thinking a lot about that moon pie right now. I will see how good it is ... or perhaps THEY are, presently ... and then I'll hope throughout the long, still-caffeinated night that my sometimes up-fluxing gullet doesn't demand that I barf moon pies out across the flannel bedsheets in this sweet mid-March evening of my Connecticut ...

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!

Lies Surrounding JFK Assassination CAN'T Be Revisited Enough Times ...

February 23, 2012: I just enjoyed another viewing of Oliver Stone's "JFK," and while I've always been suspicious of Oliver Stone because he looks a bit like my evil brother, this is really one hell of a movie.

Of course, at the heart of loving this movie is my adamant and extremely logic-based belief that there was, of course, ABSOLUTELY, without a doubt, an ugly government/military-derived plot to assassinate Kennedy. Only a fool would think otherwise. I believe that with all my heart! And I remain befuddled and disturbingly shocked by the great number of fools who still do.

In years past -- before the movie was made ... before I was charged with perpetually plugging my ebook SPACE CASE (which as you know retails for a mere $2.99 for my Blah-ugh! readers, and $2.99 for everyone else) -- I had a somewhat unique opportunity to twice see and hear a five-hour presentation by a photographic expert who was involved with the SECOND official investigation -- (the one which followed the Warren Commission, and may have been called the "Church Commission," but I'm not absolutely sure and I'm too lazy to look it up).

It was absolutely amazing and jaw-dropping to be taken through the event step by step, to see repeated viewings of the famous "Zapruder film," AND another little-known home movie that was taken from the other side of the street ... to learn the links between key figures involved and their respective ties to organized crime, the CIA, the military, and in some later cases both Watergate and the Iran-Contra Affair ... to be shown how and why certain photographs are faked ... to see with a guided hand exactly why it was ABSOLUTELY IMPOSSIBLE for Lee Harvey Oswald to have acted alone.

At the time of "JFK"'s release, a lot of people sought to discredit it based on Stone's (perhaps fatuous) inclusion of a nonexistent character whom the chief investigator Jim Garrison (truly, a kind of hero) meets with in Washington. For narrative purposes, it tied a few loose ends up in the movie, but many jumped all over this as reason to discount everything else that was presented. The fact is, the evidence is ridiculously overwhelming that myriad lies were told and reenforced by numerous parties, including the Warren Commission, which handled the first investigation into the assassination.

To begin with, it was physically impossible for one man (Lee Oswald) to even take three shots in the short window of time he was allowed. There is also overwhelming proof that MORE than three shots were taken -- five at least, and more probably six or seven. The damage inflicted on Kennedy and Gov. John Connolly combined simply could not have been done with ONE BULLET, as the Warren Commission claimed. (See Sen. Arlen Spector, if you really want to look at an asshole.) Film of the event also pretty much proves -- I mean, it DOES, for Chri'sakes -- that Kennedy was shot from the FRONT, likely from the famous grassy knoll, where DOZENS of eyewitnesses said they heard shots. (Some even saw smoke, smelled gunpowder there, and witnessed men running from the site.)

The biographies of other individuals involved -- Clay Shaw, David Ferrie, Guy Bannister, and more -- fill in many blanks about how and why such an event would be orchestrated. More importantly, Oswald's links to the military, his covert training, the ease with which he went into and out of living in Moscow and regained his citizenship effortlessly, and his affiliations with all these people, make it abundantly clear that he was involved in government work (though possibly could have been getting set up for many years in advance for just such a fall). The lightning speed with which Oswald was arrested, the fake photograph of him given to Life magazine holding the rifle, and all the propaganda that was immediately put into play on that very same day, are just too unrealistic to take seriously.

Further, the numerous botched arms of the subsequent investigations -- lost documents, destroyed evidence ... and even witnesses gone missing -- all add up to -- if not an outright effort to shield the truth -- a remarkably poor attempt to try and find it.

It's been almost 50 years now, and you may be asking yourself, Who gives a s**t? And that's a good question, and that's the scariest part. Little by little, the terrifying realities surrounding this event have become so familiar, that they're no longer considered dangerous. It's something that happened a long time ago. Even the "bad" people like Spector aren't really that bad, after all, because we got to know them through television and even, perchance a Saturday Night Live appearance, or some such nonsense ...

Oh, our military industrial complex? It's possible they've done some questionable things in recent years, maybe, but it's not like it was, if it ever was ... I mean, they wouldn't do anything like that now, would they? It's not like they had a hand in taking down ... the ... World Trade Center or anything like that, did they? ... Uh ... Did they?!

How I Cured My Lactose Intolerance and Lived to Tell About It

February 19, 2012: I wanted to share how I've conquered my lactose intolerance, but also put in a plug for my ebook Space Case, which is available at major emotional outlets. (Although judging by the sales, I'm sure those outlets are emotionally unavailable. Still, that's no excuse not to get on this book before the printer runs out of ink, or intel.)

So on to my lactose intolerance, which pesters me often when I eat ice cream, or even spill some on my shirt. You see, lactose intolerance (or L.I., as it's known outside the New York metropolitan area) involves the body's inability to properly digest milk sugar (or lactose, which is really a coded word connoting a "lack" of "tose," or "dose," which references LSD droplets left on sugar cubes, which are a form of sugar, and which anyone who's suffered the cramped indignities of L.I. knows is not unlike a bad abdomen-stabbing acid trip).

Anyway, I accidentally stumbled on the perfect cure for L.I. -- I know not how, but it works! It simply involves drinking a lot of water at the time of the milk consumption. It's a modern miracle, when timed right, because you can actually eat a whole bowl of ice cream, or drink a milkshake, and if you (or I, in this case) quickly drink two enormous glasses of water, we won't spend the better part of the next day in the bathroom revisiting our bad judgement.

It's a simple formula, but must be executed with scientific precision in order to maximize colonic results. Start by preparing a large -- preferably clean -- glass with a full measure of room-temperature water. I stress room-temperature because we want to be able to guzzle the stuff in wicked haste, lest the operation go kablooey. Also, you'll need to have at least one other glass-worth of water standing by for transference into that glass, and I like to use filtered water because ... well, that's just the kind of man I like to be in this environmentally unsound age we live in. (I'm not sure what the point of that last statement was, but if someone out there somehow found it funny, it doesn't matter.)

I suggest you don't linger for an excessive amount of time over your frappecino, malted milkshake, or creamy hot cocoa. Certainly enjoy the experience (because in truth, you really shouldn't be trying this every day ... perhaps every three or four days, depending on how fully you consume the sweet, sweet milk of our forefathers. (In my case, I've worked my way up to being able to have three or even four nights in a row of my favorite bran flake/corn flake cereal mix with heavy whipping cream, with and without bananas, but I'm very experienced with this practice and would suggest you begin by limiting yourself to no more than two moderate lactose experiences a week.)

Once you've swallowed the last lactose drop, IMMEDIATELY drink that water -- the entire glass in five second flat, and then pour the other glass and drink as much of that as you can ... By the time another 30 seconds has elapsed, you should probably get done with that second glass. (I'm talking large glasses, by the way, holding at least 2 cups (or as the Indians called them, "pints").

Further, it won't hurt you to drink a shade more even after this, if you're still thirsty enough (although the odds are you won't be thirsty again for at least a week). Understand that you may experience a bit of cramping the following morning, particularly if you don't like your job, but this is normal and will shortly pass.

The important thing is that you won't find yourself repeatedly having to use the bathroom in shameful, acidic regret the next day ...

And you'll no longer have to fear -- nor will your lactose love be compromised by -- your once incomprehensibly demoralizing inability to adequately process the sweet sugar within!

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 ...