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!) ...
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
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 ...
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 ...
Friday, April 5, 2013
Clear-Cutting the Merrritt Parkway
April 5, 2013: Wow! Want to see a real-life example of disturbing fantasy come true? (Me neither, but I couldn't avert my eyes in time.)
Just like the orks in the Lord of the Rings, Connecticut's state highway department is doing a magnificent job of devasting the landscape (and environment) by clear-cutting our lovely "historic scenic highway."
It's remarkable, really. The extent of the homocentric (or anthropocentric --I'm not sure which) action. Since people have died on the Merritt Parkway as a result of fallen -- or falling -- trees, it's become logical and best-practice to cut them all down. In fact, the utility companies -- and their hired minions -- are making their best efforts to cut the trees down all over the place, and this issue of tree-related fatalities fuels the fear that makes it possible.
Now, we all know I'm crazy. And if I'm not crazy, then I'm certainly annoying. But my angled mind sincerely wonders if -- in the big picture -- the BIG picture, I'm talking about here, folks -- I wonder if it's the right thing to do. You see -- and I know this SOUNDS insane, and maybe it is, and you'll have to forgive me that, because I clearly have problems, owing to an odd childhood and a sincere love of fatty foods; I mean, lots of reasons -- but, see, well, I mean, isn't it, maybe, like, possibly just POSSIBLE that this is an overreaction?
I mean, really, maybe it's a bit ... well, I mean, just a TINY ... LITTLE bit crazy to be cutting down thousands and thousands of healthy trees, some very young and growing 25 feet from the road ... couldn't we PERHAPS ... MAYBE ... think this is a wee bit EXTREME?! Yes, trees fall on people. I'm not happy about it. (After all, as many of you know, I oppose violence in all its forms, except on the handball court.) But is this business of tree killings as epidemic as the reaction implies?
The state has a figure that, over the past five or so years, 10 of the 17 fatalities on the Merritt involve people striking trees. Is it possible that some of these people were driving too fast, and therefore left the road they were supposed to be staying on? Could alcohol have been involved in some cases? Most importantly, if these 10 people had hit bridges, would we have THOSE removed?
Please understand, I wouldn't defend anything our state highway department does. I mean, come on! I'm sure a much better job could have been done keeping tabs on dead trees, or pruning. The true level of loafing in that agency would stun people if they really knew its extent. But to even allow anyone to be liable for what old or weak trees are doing is just stupendously, majestically moronic -- the vividly misdirected, confused conclusion of an authentically red and vibrantly enflamed asshole. But so it goes ...
I just, more than anything, wish people shared some of my sadness and outrage that things like this are allowed to happen. What is the value of a human life? It's awful to go there, but again, I HAVE to because no one else will. No one -- certainly no sane person, and even some of us insane ones -- no one wants to see anyone killed. BUT, we are a species of however-many billion members, and as much as we try to fight against the natural flow of things, sometimes people are going to be killed, and sometimes by trees, and I just think that has to be okay. It's bad luck, no doubt. I wouldn't wish a tree on anyone I know, even my intellectual enemies. But at the same time, it's a perfectly honorable circumstance of death, and almost commands the kind of admiration one would have for a bloke who's mauled by a lion or eaten by a shark.
My real point is that as long as mankind continues to RESIST its subordinate role to the grand scheme of the natural order -- and Cripes, if that's not God, than what is?!! -- mankind is going to continue to screw things up to a staggeringly royal extent, and it's NOT GOING TO STOP TREE-RELATED DEATHS!! .... (Whew! Excuse me. Forgive my emotional outburst ... I just like trees!)
In fact, as I drove home this morning, and passed over the Merritt Parkway via the North Avenue bridge in Westport, from where I saw this horrible devastion sight, I passed by a family -- or at least a gathering -- of many wild turkeys straddling the side of the road near Christine B's old street. Now, in all my years in town, I never used to see these birds, but now lately I've begun seeing them in droves -- literally 30 at a time -- and close to the Merritt in each case .... Hmmmmm. What could this be telling us?
But before you say you don't give a shit about the turkey population or its habitat, or any other, because you've got to get to work and you can't run the risk of a tree branch falling on your sleek dull-black racer as you navigate your way along once-wooded roads to get to your job in the cyberspace, just stop and think -- pause, put your cell phone down -- and wonder what's going to happen when the turkeys -- like the trees -- start to turn bad ...
Oh, we'll try to kill them, of course ... But will we get all of them? How will they react to that? Will they get even madder? ... And the deer? ... Can they really be trusted? ... The fawns? ... The foxes? ...
And what about the squirrels? ... What are we going to when the squirrels -- in those sweet, little high-pitched voice -- say "ENOUGH!"?
Just like the orks in the Lord of the Rings, Connecticut's state highway department is doing a magnificent job of devasting the landscape (and environment) by clear-cutting our lovely "historic scenic highway."
It's remarkable, really. The extent of the homocentric (or anthropocentric --I'm not sure which) action. Since people have died on the Merritt Parkway as a result of fallen -- or falling -- trees, it's become logical and best-practice to cut them all down. In fact, the utility companies -- and their hired minions -- are making their best efforts to cut the trees down all over the place, and this issue of tree-related fatalities fuels the fear that makes it possible.
Now, we all know I'm crazy. And if I'm not crazy, then I'm certainly annoying. But my angled mind sincerely wonders if -- in the big picture -- the BIG picture, I'm talking about here, folks -- I wonder if it's the right thing to do. You see -- and I know this SOUNDS insane, and maybe it is, and you'll have to forgive me that, because I clearly have problems, owing to an odd childhood and a sincere love of fatty foods; I mean, lots of reasons -- but, see, well, I mean, isn't it, maybe, like, possibly just POSSIBLE that this is an overreaction?
I mean, really, maybe it's a bit ... well, I mean, just a TINY ... LITTLE bit crazy to be cutting down thousands and thousands of healthy trees, some very young and growing 25 feet from the road ... couldn't we PERHAPS ... MAYBE ... think this is a wee bit EXTREME?! Yes, trees fall on people. I'm not happy about it. (After all, as many of you know, I oppose violence in all its forms, except on the handball court.) But is this business of tree killings as epidemic as the reaction implies?
The state has a figure that, over the past five or so years, 10 of the 17 fatalities on the Merritt involve people striking trees. Is it possible that some of these people were driving too fast, and therefore left the road they were supposed to be staying on? Could alcohol have been involved in some cases? Most importantly, if these 10 people had hit bridges, would we have THOSE removed?
Please understand, I wouldn't defend anything our state highway department does. I mean, come on! I'm sure a much better job could have been done keeping tabs on dead trees, or pruning. The true level of loafing in that agency would stun people if they really knew its extent. But to even allow anyone to be liable for what old or weak trees are doing is just stupendously, majestically moronic -- the vividly misdirected, confused conclusion of an authentically red and vibrantly enflamed asshole. But so it goes ...
I just, more than anything, wish people shared some of my sadness and outrage that things like this are allowed to happen. What is the value of a human life? It's awful to go there, but again, I HAVE to because no one else will. No one -- certainly no sane person, and even some of us insane ones -- no one wants to see anyone killed. BUT, we are a species of however-many billion members, and as much as we try to fight against the natural flow of things, sometimes people are going to be killed, and sometimes by trees, and I just think that has to be okay. It's bad luck, no doubt. I wouldn't wish a tree on anyone I know, even my intellectual enemies. But at the same time, it's a perfectly honorable circumstance of death, and almost commands the kind of admiration one would have for a bloke who's mauled by a lion or eaten by a shark.
My real point is that as long as mankind continues to RESIST its subordinate role to the grand scheme of the natural order -- and Cripes, if that's not God, than what is?!! -- mankind is going to continue to screw things up to a staggeringly royal extent, and it's NOT GOING TO STOP TREE-RELATED DEATHS!! .... (Whew! Excuse me. Forgive my emotional outburst ... I just like trees!)
In fact, as I drove home this morning, and passed over the Merritt Parkway via the North Avenue bridge in Westport, from where I saw this horrible devastion sight, I passed by a family -- or at least a gathering -- of many wild turkeys straddling the side of the road near Christine B's old street. Now, in all my years in town, I never used to see these birds, but now lately I've begun seeing them in droves -- literally 30 at a time -- and close to the Merritt in each case .... Hmmmmm. What could this be telling us?
But before you say you don't give a shit about the turkey population or its habitat, or any other, because you've got to get to work and you can't run the risk of a tree branch falling on your sleek dull-black racer as you navigate your way along once-wooded roads to get to your job in the cyberspace, just stop and think -- pause, put your cell phone down -- and wonder what's going to happen when the turkeys -- like the trees -- start to turn bad ...
Oh, we'll try to kill them, of course ... But will we get all of them? How will they react to that? Will they get even madder? ... And the deer? ... Can they really be trusted? ... The fawns? ... The foxes? ...
And what about the squirrels? ... What are we going to when the squirrels -- in those sweet, little high-pitched voice -- say "ENOUGH!"?
Sunday, March 10, 2013
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 ...
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 ...
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
To Fill Your Gaping God Hole
March 6, 2013: It seems like the more I ignore this Blah-ugh!, the more people read it ... I'd like to know why that is, and I'd like to know who's reading it ... I mean, I'm not! I come hear every so often and ... Oh, never mind!
I'd like to say I have some passionate opinions and ideas to expound on, but I really don't. This is one of those rare times when I have next to nothing to say. To quote -- or perhaps paraphrase, for I'm too lazy to actually check -- Jack Kerouac in "On The Road," "I had nothing to offer anyone except my own confusion."
That said, if you're here reading this nonsense you're probably more confused than I am ... And I am confused, and I'm not ashamed to say it. I'm pretty much confused about everything tonight, including why I have this never-ending rash on my neck. Still, ironically, March has always been a month that for some strange reason provides me with answers. So hopefully in three or four weeks I won't be as confused. But who knows what I'll be at the end of March. I could be pregnant for all the way things have been going so strangely this decade ...
I'm also hungry. And I just ate. But I jogged this morning. That's probably accounting for some hunger, but more importantly will account for my justifying eating three corn muffins before too long. I don't know why I always get so hungry at night. It probably has something to do with not eating enough during the day, but also that unending attempt to fill what my friend Wendy Mole' once referred to as the ol' gaping god hole. In fact, that's become an understood part of the lexicon in our demented household, and I blithely explain to my kids on a regular basis -- usually in the later hours -- "I've got to get something to fill my gaping god hole," and they understand know ... Of course, sometimes I backtrack and explain the reality that nothing can really fill our gaping godholes except positive spiritual energy, or something like that, but depending on how much my gaping godhole needs filling, I may or may not bother to say much of anything constructive; instead, it's off to the kitchen again to get another frozen pizza perculating in the oven ...
As I said, I don't really have anything else to add to the discussion, or to your own attempts to fill your gaping holes with whatever weird wisdom you seek from this virtual dissertation ... I can assure you that the answer doesn't lie in frozen pizza, though I'm not entirely convinced it doesn't lie in homemade corn muffins ... But I want you to know that I'm thinking about you, and while the cold, wet snows splash your window tonight and you feel restless and irritable and discontented, I'm thinking of you, and what a fool you ... nononono I'm just kidding ... See, that's what I do ... And while it may not help your pain, it certainly assuages mine at your expense, so at least somebody's healing in this scenario ...
But seriously, I'm thinking of you tonight and how you're alright, and everything's gonna be alright ... I want you to know that ... Everything's alright ...
Start passing rumors that the world is getting better ... Don't believe that danger's lurking ... The communists are gone ... The most dangerous gun nuts are aberrations ... The economy is improving, or at least improvising ... The globe is cooling down again ... Say it with me ... All is well ... All is well ...
G'night Folks ...
I'd like to say I have some passionate opinions and ideas to expound on, but I really don't. This is one of those rare times when I have next to nothing to say. To quote -- or perhaps paraphrase, for I'm too lazy to actually check -- Jack Kerouac in "On The Road," "I had nothing to offer anyone except my own confusion."
That said, if you're here reading this nonsense you're probably more confused than I am ... And I am confused, and I'm not ashamed to say it. I'm pretty much confused about everything tonight, including why I have this never-ending rash on my neck. Still, ironically, March has always been a month that for some strange reason provides me with answers. So hopefully in three or four weeks I won't be as confused. But who knows what I'll be at the end of March. I could be pregnant for all the way things have been going so strangely this decade ...
I'm also hungry. And I just ate. But I jogged this morning. That's probably accounting for some hunger, but more importantly will account for my justifying eating three corn muffins before too long. I don't know why I always get so hungry at night. It probably has something to do with not eating enough during the day, but also that unending attempt to fill what my friend Wendy Mole' once referred to as the ol' gaping god hole. In fact, that's become an understood part of the lexicon in our demented household, and I blithely explain to my kids on a regular basis -- usually in the later hours -- "I've got to get something to fill my gaping god hole," and they understand know ... Of course, sometimes I backtrack and explain the reality that nothing can really fill our gaping godholes except positive spiritual energy, or something like that, but depending on how much my gaping godhole needs filling, I may or may not bother to say much of anything constructive; instead, it's off to the kitchen again to get another frozen pizza perculating in the oven ...
As I said, I don't really have anything else to add to the discussion, or to your own attempts to fill your gaping holes with whatever weird wisdom you seek from this virtual dissertation ... I can assure you that the answer doesn't lie in frozen pizza, though I'm not entirely convinced it doesn't lie in homemade corn muffins ... But I want you to know that I'm thinking about you, and while the cold, wet snows splash your window tonight and you feel restless and irritable and discontented, I'm thinking of you, and what a fool you ... nononono I'm just kidding ... See, that's what I do ... And while it may not help your pain, it certainly assuages mine at your expense, so at least somebody's healing in this scenario ...
But seriously, I'm thinking of you tonight and how you're alright, and everything's gonna be alright ... I want you to know that ... Everything's alright ...
Start passing rumors that the world is getting better ... Don't believe that danger's lurking ... The communists are gone ... The most dangerous gun nuts are aberrations ... The economy is improving, or at least improvising ... The globe is cooling down again ... Say it with me ... All is well ... All is well ...
G'night Folks ...
Monday, February 25, 2013
Maxfield Anderson's Field Guide to Vampires
February 26, 2013: It was quite a miraculous series of coincidences that led me to discover this manuscript. It's written by a lesser-known alternative animal biologist who was associated with Princeton University for a time, but then dashed from its bosom ... and we all know it doesn't get any worse than that ... But fortunately, through my work as a journalist, I was able to assist Maxfield Anderson with the editing and preparation of his manuscript and, fortunately for all interested parties, it's finally been put up for Kindle ... I suggest you read it. It's called Maxfield Anderson's Field Guide to Vampires, Book One -- Vampirus: The Fourth Domain ...
I suspect it will answer many questions you might have about vampires ... but have perhaps been too embarrassed to ask ...
I suspect it will answer many questions you might have about vampires ... but have perhaps been too embarrassed to ask ...
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Best, My Ass!
February 14, 2013: Jeez, I'm so far behind my time ... Here I'm pondering my Brand, and my Platform, and the lack thereof each, and I see I'd better get this thing written and fast ...
But what to say, short of some vapid Valentine's Day mumbo-jumbo, or another tart ridiculing of Ash Wednesday, which remains one of the most bizarre rituals in modern America to me ...
But what, but what? ... And yes, I remember now, I wanted to express how much I despise people signing their letters "Best." No, I just hate it. Yes, I'm using the hate word -- hate. But I do. I find it such an obnoxious closing -- "Best, JJ." The implication is clearly that whoever signs a letter like that thinks they're better than you -- the best, in fact. Dirty Fuffers, really ...
I first came across the phrase -- the phray -- in Hollywood, say 10 years ago, when I was out there dying my hair. Best ... Yeesh, I really hate that ... It also always makes me feel like the writer doesn't even have the time to give me two words, like "Best Wishes," and mainly because I'm not worth their time, the lousy pig fuffers! Best indeed!
So that was one thing on my mind, and now you've got me all upset because you made me bring that up. I really hate that, and I hate all of you who send me letters signed with that. In fact, going forward -- which is a phrase I've come to love as much as I loathe "best" -- I'll say I'll give you five business days, and then after that, every letter or email I receive that's signed with a "Best" I will post in its entirety on a website -- someone's else, because I'm not going to sully mine with your "Best" -- and soundly ridicule you, your "Best," and possibly some people you care about, including your pets ... Jerk!
I'm not sure what else I can tell you tonight. I've just drank ... drinken another tea ... and I'm so disoriented, I can't remember if the correct word is drank, drunk, or drinken. If I were German, it would solve it, because it would be trinken, and that would be that, but as I'm sitting here with large glowing pupils and noticable jitters, I can't remember many of the English language words I use every day ... Just "Best" ... "Best" .... "Best" ... God, how I hate that! I hate it as much as I hate men wearing loafers without socks, and Rich -- among others -- knows how much that bothers me ... Best, indeed!
Best, My Ass!
But what to say, short of some vapid Valentine's Day mumbo-jumbo, or another tart ridiculing of Ash Wednesday, which remains one of the most bizarre rituals in modern America to me ...
But what, but what? ... And yes, I remember now, I wanted to express how much I despise people signing their letters "Best." No, I just hate it. Yes, I'm using the hate word -- hate. But I do. I find it such an obnoxious closing -- "Best, JJ." The implication is clearly that whoever signs a letter like that thinks they're better than you -- the best, in fact. Dirty Fuffers, really ...
I first came across the phrase -- the phray -- in Hollywood, say 10 years ago, when I was out there dying my hair. Best ... Yeesh, I really hate that ... It also always makes me feel like the writer doesn't even have the time to give me two words, like "Best Wishes," and mainly because I'm not worth their time, the lousy pig fuffers! Best indeed!
So that was one thing on my mind, and now you've got me all upset because you made me bring that up. I really hate that, and I hate all of you who send me letters signed with that. In fact, going forward -- which is a phrase I've come to love as much as I loathe "best" -- I'll say I'll give you five business days, and then after that, every letter or email I receive that's signed with a "Best" I will post in its entirety on a website -- someone's else, because I'm not going to sully mine with your "Best" -- and soundly ridicule you, your "Best," and possibly some people you care about, including your pets ... Jerk!
I'm not sure what else I can tell you tonight. I've just drank ... drinken another tea ... and I'm so disoriented, I can't remember if the correct word is drank, drunk, or drinken. If I were German, it would solve it, because it would be trinken, and that would be that, but as I'm sitting here with large glowing pupils and noticable jitters, I can't remember many of the English language words I use every day ... Just "Best" ... "Best" .... "Best" ... God, how I hate that! I hate it as much as I hate men wearing loafers without socks, and Rich -- among others -- knows how much that bothers me ... Best, indeed!
Best, My Ass!
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