I DON'T WANT TO SEE ANY CABLES ANYWHERE!!!!! NO COMPUTER CABLES, NO T.V. CABLES, NO, NO CABLES!!!!! declared my sweet baboo, Sancy as I was setting up all the communication stuff; ie: fax machine, computer with internet modem (after connecting and disconnecting the Verizon, horse and pony express quick, modem after one day; smoke signals are faster and more efficient, I might add), four television sets, two with HD cable boxes and 2 DVD players. She wants no cables and cords. HAH!!!
"Hmmm", I mutter to myself, "what the hey, is she nuts?" I tell her, in my most patient tutorial demeanor, that electrical equipment needs cables and input cords in order to function and transmit data from one place to another. "Until they (geeks probably) invent some kind of energy beam transmitter from one electrical appliance to another, we are going to need cables and cords", I say in my most professorial, manly,and all knowing tone of voice, not my usual sarcastic, looking down upon you as stupid s**t kind of voice.
"What about the two wall mounted televisions; are there going to be miles of ugly spools of cables draped all over the fireplaces and down the walls and to hell and back?" she says in her draconian, I'll kick your butt to the street, kind of crackly voice. I answer very coyly and shrewdly,thinking I can trick her with this one," Well, Sweetsie, because of you, I ordered the High Definition boxes for the two wall mounts and because of that fact, to please you, Honey Bun, there might be a cable or two that might be visual if you look close enough, Sweetie."
"Aggghhhh", she chokes out like a poisoned Bel Air raccoon that just ate some spoiled Friday night Sushi left in a styra-foam container on the back porch after an all night get a long and honky tonk by raving boys and girls fresh from a blow at the Viper Room. "You told me there would be no cables visible any where, and look at this mess, we look like we are stringing up "Charlettes Web" on steroids. AAAArrrrghhhh," her anguished cry, about to turn into rage, rang through the densley populated neighborhood of tenements and walkups. Mothers were quickly gathering up their children, front stoops were being emptied of old people sitting out for their daily constitution, dogs were crying with pain from the shrill screeching, covering their sensitive ears as they scurried for cover, coveys of geese arose from the pond and for a split second eclipsed the sun as they lifted in unison on a freedom flight to safety.
"Make those cables go away", she demanded in her domineering staff sergeant cadence, " or you'll be sleeping with the fishes in the bay, hup two, three, four. Sound off one, two, three four."
"But, but, Sarge, I'm mean Sugar, Sancy listen to me please," I plead in my most humbling and subservient, groveling tone of voice. I can't afford to make the "Spoiler of Fun" mad at me because I've been angling for some time now about getting a new boat and this could derail by best laid plans. Hmmm, Hmmm, my mind is blank, I'm trying my mightiest to come up with a believable excuse because Sancy over the years has heard them all and it has become very very hard to pull the wool over eyes so top speak. Then, all of a sudden, a flash, a brilliant boat saving flash erupts through my brain like lightening, Zeus is with me at last. I know exactly what'll I'll say as the nano-seconds slowly drift by like years of being tortured in an Iraqi sweat box. I begin to sweat profusely, as I only have one chance at this and I blurt out, sounding like a wounded bull frog,"It's not my fault, I wanted a conduit and the stupid, lazy ass, electrician, Juan, talked me out of it." There, the blame is squarely off of me and onto sound poor sub-contractor who is trying to feed his three motherless children. Electrician, schmuck-trician, they're dime a dozen, got to save my new boat.
Sargent Pepper says," I don't care who or what or why, get rid of those cables, pronto, got it Kimo Sabe?" "I got it Hon, but now that the house, condo, unit,(?HOME?) is done and we are living here, there might be a slight mess (and oh yeah, I whisper raspily some slight little inconvenience)." Sancy says "GET IT DONE AND FOR YOUR SAKE THE SOONER THE BETTER, FISH BAIT". Gulp, she called me FISH BAIT. I'm screwed, this place is going to be a mess. My pig-ass born in a barn workers are going to get drywall dust everywhere including but not limited to our new (hardly used ) furniture, and area rugs and window coverings. It's going to take forever and we won't be able to record "Grey's Anatomy".
That's it for today we started today at 7:00A.M., almost lost our old decrepit, skinny cat Gaucho.
Hopefully this project will be over by Sunday, we need to tape Desperate Housewives, after all.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
SANTA ANNA WINDS ( AKA "DEVIL WINDS")
"SANTA ANNA'S ARE A BLOWIN'. MAKIN' THE TREES A MOVIN'. FIERCE FLAMES A STOKIN'. CANYONS A HOWLIN'. DEVIL'S A COMIN ; for you, for you"(song to the tune of Rawhide as song by Rowdy Yates, aka Clint Eastwood in his early days.)
Are you feeling irritable, agitated, can't sleep well these days. Allergies bothering you? Well sir, you're not alone, blame it on the Santa Anna winds. Millions of Angelenos share your pain. People become confused and disoriented during the Devil winds. All the smog and trash that we have spent months blowing to Riverside and San Bernardino is now blowing back at us!!!!!Evil east winds that blow backwards, against natures' soft, silky, caressing west winds.
Where's the vaccine for the misery that the Santa Anna's bring? Obama Care give me some juice to kill the pain of the "Devil" winds. The Santa Anna's signal winter on our doorstep. Winter with its' short sunless, cheerless, Vitamin D-less days. Crime rises, especially murders and violence, all because of the evilness of the backward winds.
The Santa Annas bring a special night time chill that signals months and months of crisp winter air. I had to wear shoes for the first time in many moons today; tomorrow: full length pants. My feet were all cramped up and sweaty; cruddy feeling. These blustery monsters signal the onslaught of the "HOLIDAY SPENDING FRENZY". A "SEASON"(?HAH!!). This Saturday kicks off the "THE SEASON"WITH HALLOWEEN; when little spoiled monsters will be clamoring at my door begging for candy and money; destroying property with their cute little tricks. I won't be here, hah, hah. Holidays, shma-olidays, who cares. All false cheer because of booze and pills. Who needs it. Blah, blah, blah, Merry Blah blah blah.
Winter solstice is the day I long for. The shortest day of the year. Yea and Yea. Santa Anna's are genrally over by then. Spring is just around the corner. Freshness, newness, sun-ness, long long days of sun-ness. Winds a blowin' from the proper west to east direction. Our trash and smog blowin' to Riverside and San Bernardino as it should be. Winter Solstice is the day to be. Time for celebration and good cheer. Time for optimism and good feelings toward all. Winter Solstice only 60 days from now give or take. Give me heart and soul Winter Solstice.
Are you feeling irritable, agitated, can't sleep well these days. Allergies bothering you? Well sir, you're not alone, blame it on the Santa Anna winds. Millions of Angelenos share your pain. People become confused and disoriented during the Devil winds. All the smog and trash that we have spent months blowing to Riverside and San Bernardino is now blowing back at us!!!!!Evil east winds that blow backwards, against natures' soft, silky, caressing west winds.
Where's the vaccine for the misery that the Santa Anna's bring? Obama Care give me some juice to kill the pain of the "Devil" winds. The Santa Anna's signal winter on our doorstep. Winter with its' short sunless, cheerless, Vitamin D-less days. Crime rises, especially murders and violence, all because of the evilness of the backward winds.
The Santa Annas bring a special night time chill that signals months and months of crisp winter air. I had to wear shoes for the first time in many moons today; tomorrow: full length pants. My feet were all cramped up and sweaty; cruddy feeling. These blustery monsters signal the onslaught of the "HOLIDAY SPENDING FRENZY". A "SEASON"(?HAH!!). This Saturday kicks off the "THE SEASON"WITH HALLOWEEN; when little spoiled monsters will be clamoring at my door begging for candy and money; destroying property with their cute little tricks. I won't be here, hah, hah. Holidays, shma-olidays, who cares. All false cheer because of booze and pills. Who needs it. Blah, blah, blah, Merry Blah blah blah.
Winter solstice is the day I long for. The shortest day of the year. Yea and Yea. Santa Anna's are genrally over by then. Spring is just around the corner. Freshness, newness, sun-ness, long long days of sun-ness. Winds a blowin' from the proper west to east direction. Our trash and smog blowin' to Riverside and San Bernardino as it should be. Winter Solstice is the day to be. Time for celebration and good cheer. Time for optimism and good feelings toward all. Winter Solstice only 60 days from now give or take. Give me heart and soul Winter Solstice.
Friday, October 23, 2009
CONFESSIONS OF A TAILGATING FANATIC (LUNATIC?)
AHHHH! OCTOBER, OCTOBER, SWEET OCTOBER. The smells of Fall are in the air, so thick one can cut it with a knife. Sweet aromas of cinnamon spice and fresh apple cider from the hardy summer's harvest of God's forbidden fruit which helps keep the doctor away. Ripened pumpkin patches with large orange globes ready for the pie and Halloween festivities for kiddies and parents alike. Hint s of winter chill carried on gentle whiffs of breeze those invisible zephyrs foretelling the winter's solstice. Built up anticipation of the coming holidays makes us filled with joy and kind feelings to all. Soon family and friends will gather round the hearth and light heartedly sing with joy the familiar song of good will to all. Laughter and good wit will abound at gatherings and feastings throughout the land. AHHH, FALL, MIDDLE EARTH, times of reflection and times of gathering for the on coming winters' slumber.
ARE YOU KIDDING ME???? OCTOBER IS FOOTBALL MONTH!!!! IT'S FOOTBALL TIME!!!
Time for SMASH MOUTH. Football cleats tearing up freshly groomed turf and sod. Bodies slamming bodies. Muscles tearing muscles. Bones snapping, ligaments tearing and helmets breaking against unequal forces. Man mountains versus steroid pumped behemoths barely human. Blood, guts, tears, all for the enjoyment of drunken, over aged, plump sophomoric elite spectators. Modern gladiators performing for the emperors of sport: the COLLEGE ALUMNI!!!!
The drunken and gluttonous zealots demanding blood and demoralizing victory over the visiting charlatans. Nothing less than complete and utter destruction of any visiting warrior group will be tolerated. The unruly mob signals thumb down time after time when mercy is called for. Performing in the Roman namesake, Coliseum, these mighty warriors battle amongst themselves until the last man standing is declared the victorious warrior and entitled to vast and glorious recognition throughout the land.
It's the prelude to these barbaric encounters that is the most illuminating of the mental condition carried by the mob into the spectacle of the "GAMES". Thousands upon thousands of the proletariat congregate outside of the Venue several hours prior to the vestal blessing of the conglomerate media giant which controls the tempo of the contest. I am one of the mob that relishes the pregame build up. The pregame activities are known as "TAILGATING". Tailgating to serious students of the activity is a science actually. Months and months of precise planning is required to produce a serious "TAILGATING" experience at which all "TAILGATERS" must participate in consuming an over abundance of artery clogging food and alcoholic beverages. Gluttony, sloth-i-ness (made that word up)and pig-gery (that one also) and public drunkenness are proud honors to be worn like medals of honor. This mental and physical "TUNE-UP" is essential to be carried into the Coliseum. The tune-up reinforces the psychological mania of the spectator warrior to embolden him to yell and shout profanities and obscenities at the opposing team (and sometimes at the home team if things aren't going well.)
October, Sweet October, how I look forward to thee. This Saturday, I will be found as the sun has barely risen, early in the dew filled morn, sitting in an empty parking lot listening to my beloved Sancy asking me;"Why the friggin' hell are we here so early?" I will answer as usual, because it is OCTOBER, SWEET OCTOBER, AND THIS IS WHERE I NEED TO BE!!!!!!"
ARE YOU KIDDING ME???? OCTOBER IS FOOTBALL MONTH!!!! IT'S FOOTBALL TIME!!!
Time for SMASH MOUTH. Football cleats tearing up freshly groomed turf and sod. Bodies slamming bodies. Muscles tearing muscles. Bones snapping, ligaments tearing and helmets breaking against unequal forces. Man mountains versus steroid pumped behemoths barely human. Blood, guts, tears, all for the enjoyment of drunken, over aged, plump sophomoric elite spectators. Modern gladiators performing for the emperors of sport: the COLLEGE ALUMNI!!!!
The drunken and gluttonous zealots demanding blood and demoralizing victory over the visiting charlatans. Nothing less than complete and utter destruction of any visiting warrior group will be tolerated. The unruly mob signals thumb down time after time when mercy is called for. Performing in the Roman namesake, Coliseum, these mighty warriors battle amongst themselves until the last man standing is declared the victorious warrior and entitled to vast and glorious recognition throughout the land.
It's the prelude to these barbaric encounters that is the most illuminating of the mental condition carried by the mob into the spectacle of the "GAMES". Thousands upon thousands of the proletariat congregate outside of the Venue several hours prior to the vestal blessing of the conglomerate media giant which controls the tempo of the contest. I am one of the mob that relishes the pregame build up. The pregame activities are known as "TAILGATING". Tailgating to serious students of the activity is a science actually. Months and months of precise planning is required to produce a serious "TAILGATING" experience at which all "TAILGATERS" must participate in consuming an over abundance of artery clogging food and alcoholic beverages. Gluttony, sloth-i-ness (made that word up)and pig-gery (that one also) and public drunkenness are proud honors to be worn like medals of honor. This mental and physical "TUNE-UP" is essential to be carried into the Coliseum. The tune-up reinforces the psychological mania of the spectator warrior to embolden him to yell and shout profanities and obscenities at the opposing team (and sometimes at the home team if things aren't going well.)
October, Sweet October, how I look forward to thee. This Saturday, I will be found as the sun has barely risen, early in the dew filled morn, sitting in an empty parking lot listening to my beloved Sancy asking me;"Why the friggin' hell are we here so early?" I will answer as usual, because it is OCTOBER, SWEET OCTOBER, AND THIS IS WHERE I NEED TO BE!!!!!!"
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
GERMAN TECHNOLOGY TRUMPS MADE IN USA
My wife, Sancy, and myself went to a dealer today for a test spin of a new energy efficient machine that has lots of turbo power, has a green label, and that should make all the tree huggers proud. Our last MADE in the USA four wheeler blew an engine and was in need of some serious repair work that made it uneconomical to fix.
Upon arriving at the multi model dealership, Sancy thoroughly explained to the Latino salesman our everyday needs. She explained that our habits dictated a vehicle that is large and porwerful enough to accommodate pets , easy to manuever, energy efficient, has good warranty protection and most of all a large tank. Eddie, the salesman, says in an accent that is fairly understandable : "No problem, we have several models that will fulfill your every desire". He concentrated his focus on the sleek and slender, low to the ground ,turbo "green' models of a well reknowned German manufacturer. "This puppy is the best, great on the straightaways, solid on the curves, perfect power adjusting abilities and very easy to maintain. This baby is our most popular model!!"exclaimed Eddie. Sancy asks: "How much?" Eddie smiles;"That's the best part, this machine is fair traded, all dealers must sell it for the same price." Sancy says:"How much?" She senses something amiss when all of a sudden he is not making eye contact. His feet start shuffling and he blurts out: "Here, let me start it up for you." He flips the switch and the machine start purring like a kitten. The machine moves a little on its' own. He does some throttle adjustments to show the power versatility. "Want to take it for a spin, Miss?" Eddie asks coyly, knowing there might be some interest. Sancy says: "HOW MUCH, EDDIE?" Eddie sheepishly mumbles: "only 895, but it comes with a one year warranty." "What the...HOW MUCH? DID HE SAY 895? for a fricking vacuum cleaner...ARE YOU KIDDING ME....MY FIRST HOUSE DIDN'T COST 895....THIS THING MADE OF GOLD EDDIE?" Eddie is back peddling now tipping over old used vac hoses and broken, sad looking vacs of days gone by. An old lady that damn near ran me over with her Lexus in the parking lot looks over and begins to wonder what all the commotion is about.
Sancy smells fear on Eddie and that a bad sign for Eddie. "Come on Eddy, I'm not here to buy a BMW, all I want is a vacuum. How about the American models, like Royal, Hoover, Dyson." Nancy asks more calmly now that the sticker shock has kind of sunk in. Eddie, because Sancy didn't hit him with a vacuum hose, feels a little more confident, in fact his demeanor and self assurance picks up a bit. He is confident that Sancy and myself are vacuum noviceses, because I blundered and said that the only other place we had looked at vacuums was Lowes. "Lowes," Eddie laughed indignantly," Ay, Corrumba, you stupid gringos", he was thinking, behind those deadly dark eyes. He knew he had us.
"American made vacuums, I speet on them" blurted Eddie, gaining the upper hand. "ITS THE MIELE MAESTRO OR SPEDKO 3, BOTH GERMAN MADE, ONE FOR 895, THE OTHER FOR
769. TAKE YOUR PICK." declared the ever bold Eddie. "If you ever want your stinking house clean, buy one of those, you are wasting my time talking about this other stuff. Your house keepers will appreciate good equipment. It will keep them happy while they are toiling away for you rich whities. These beautiful machines will keep their minds off the slave wages you pay them and their poor ninos, left to fend for themselves in their gang turf dodging bullets from the barrio drug dealers. Pay up or shut up." belted Eddie.
We were a little shocked at salesman Eddie, but we could see his point. Perhaps American manufacuring skills have deminished abit over the years, and we do want to keep the $100 /day
housekeeper happy. As a last point Sancy straightens up and asks: "Will you throw in a an extra bag of Vacuum bags for the SPEDKO3?" (Rather sheepishly I might add, but I'm staying out it).
"Done and Done" declared Eddie.
We are now the proud owners of a German engineered, energy efficient, turbo powered Vacuum with a warranty for 5 whole years. Sorry USA, you lose.
Upon arriving at the multi model dealership, Sancy thoroughly explained to the Latino salesman our everyday needs. She explained that our habits dictated a vehicle that is large and porwerful enough to accommodate pets , easy to manuever, energy efficient, has good warranty protection and most of all a large tank. Eddie, the salesman, says in an accent that is fairly understandable : "No problem, we have several models that will fulfill your every desire". He concentrated his focus on the sleek and slender, low to the ground ,turbo "green' models of a well reknowned German manufacturer. "This puppy is the best, great on the straightaways, solid on the curves, perfect power adjusting abilities and very easy to maintain. This baby is our most popular model!!"exclaimed Eddie. Sancy asks: "How much?" Eddie smiles;"That's the best part, this machine is fair traded, all dealers must sell it for the same price." Sancy says:"How much?" She senses something amiss when all of a sudden he is not making eye contact. His feet start shuffling and he blurts out: "Here, let me start it up for you." He flips the switch and the machine start purring like a kitten. The machine moves a little on its' own. He does some throttle adjustments to show the power versatility. "Want to take it for a spin, Miss?" Eddie asks coyly, knowing there might be some interest. Sancy says: "HOW MUCH, EDDIE?" Eddie sheepishly mumbles: "only 895, but it comes with a one year warranty." "What the...HOW MUCH? DID HE SAY 895? for a fricking vacuum cleaner...ARE YOU KIDDING ME....MY FIRST HOUSE DIDN'T COST 895....THIS THING MADE OF GOLD EDDIE?" Eddie is back peddling now tipping over old used vac hoses and broken, sad looking vacs of days gone by. An old lady that damn near ran me over with her Lexus in the parking lot looks over and begins to wonder what all the commotion is about.
Sancy smells fear on Eddie and that a bad sign for Eddie. "Come on Eddy, I'm not here to buy a BMW, all I want is a vacuum. How about the American models, like Royal, Hoover, Dyson." Nancy asks more calmly now that the sticker shock has kind of sunk in. Eddie, because Sancy didn't hit him with a vacuum hose, feels a little more confident, in fact his demeanor and self assurance picks up a bit. He is confident that Sancy and myself are vacuum noviceses, because I blundered and said that the only other place we had looked at vacuums was Lowes. "Lowes," Eddie laughed indignantly," Ay, Corrumba, you stupid gringos", he was thinking, behind those deadly dark eyes. He knew he had us.
"American made vacuums, I speet on them" blurted Eddie, gaining the upper hand. "ITS THE MIELE MAESTRO OR SPEDKO 3, BOTH GERMAN MADE, ONE FOR 895, THE OTHER FOR
769. TAKE YOUR PICK." declared the ever bold Eddie. "If you ever want your stinking house clean, buy one of those, you are wasting my time talking about this other stuff. Your house keepers will appreciate good equipment. It will keep them happy while they are toiling away for you rich whities. These beautiful machines will keep their minds off the slave wages you pay them and their poor ninos, left to fend for themselves in their gang turf dodging bullets from the barrio drug dealers. Pay up or shut up." belted Eddie.
We were a little shocked at salesman Eddie, but we could see his point. Perhaps American manufacuring skills have deminished abit over the years, and we do want to keep the $100 /day
housekeeper happy. As a last point Sancy straightens up and asks: "Will you throw in a an extra bag of Vacuum bags for the SPEDKO3?" (Rather sheepishly I might add, but I'm staying out it).
"Done and Done" declared Eddie.
We are now the proud owners of a German engineered, energy efficient, turbo powered Vacuum with a warranty for 5 whole years. Sorry USA, you lose.
Monday, October 19, 2009
GENERATION GAP: "HEY DUDE?"
ANDY ROONEY, ANDY-FRIGGIN- ROONEY FROM SIXTY-FRIGGIN MINUTES. THE OLDEST, CRODGIEST, SHAKIEST HANDS, BLIND AS A BAT, PUKING ANDY ROONEY!!!!!
MY YOUNGEST CHILD, MICKEY (NOT HIS REAL NAME), INFORMS ME THE OTHER DAY THAT MY WRITING STYLE REMINDS HIM OF (WHAT'S THAT OLD BLIND GUY'S NAME, OH YEAH) ANDY ROONEY!!!! That old goat is so far out of it that he can not even be in the same league as cool old daddy-o Me. He's not in the same orbit. I'm the coolest, hippest, swinging cat on the face of the planet and to be compared to that one foot on a banana peel Geezer is a real shot to the chops. A punch to the chest. A heart stopper. When Mickey informed me of his opinion about my "STYLE", I lost my breath for a second. I was aghast. As I regained my composure, I said in amazement:" Huh, who?"" Do you even know who Rooney is?" "When did you ever watch 60 minutes?" Mickey says:" I caught him once as I was flippin through the channels." I say:" You caught him once, and now you can compare my brilliant, humorous, young energetic vibe and rhetoric to his lame ass dialogue?"
I've been doing some self analyzing since that cold cock (that's a term from when someone punches you in the face without you being prepared) bit of analysis was thrown at me like a rock at a Taliban stoning ceremony. I've always pictured myself as trans-generational ( DON'T EVEN CONFUSE THAT WITH TRANS GENDER); too cool for school, able to talk and converse with any age group. I've got the lingo from the 50's: "Daddy-o, cool cat"; from the 60's: "far out, Bitchin, pass the weed, good shit"; from the 70's: " snow, blow, double knits, acid rock, heavy metal (not much in the 70's); from the 80's: "dude, greed is good"; from the 90's: "will work for food (hah,hah)", "give me money", (90's sucked); from the 00's: "sweet","tight", (I can't think of much from 00's). Maybe it's true, perhaps I've lost touch, and can't communicate in a brain dead, monotone, single syllable dialogue. All those times that I thought I was being "with-it" and hip, and "in the now", it turns out that these young ones were being polite and waiting for more of my beer. They were tolerant in want of booze. Exchanging my engaging colloquy for free libation. I wasn't observant enough to judge the blank lifeless stares that were returned to me as I displayed brilliant coolness as I lectured on in the face of youth. All the while I'm being judged as an over-the-hill youth seeking junkie that doesn't know his place.
Ah, woe is me. My son the professor and me the student. The tables have turned and now I must learn my place, which is somewhere between Bruce Willis and Jack Nicholson; Tom Hanks and Clint Eastwood; Homer Simpson and the Family Guy.
Unfortunately, my style is my style. When I'm hot, I'm hot and when I'm stylin, I'm stylin. My age is my age and there is nothing I can do about it. I guess it's not all bad being compared to a guy that is a gillion years old, half blind and all but dead and been on T.V. for decades, after all he's been around for a hundred years, maybe I will be too.
MY YOUNGEST CHILD, MICKEY (NOT HIS REAL NAME), INFORMS ME THE OTHER DAY THAT MY WRITING STYLE REMINDS HIM OF (WHAT'S THAT OLD BLIND GUY'S NAME, OH YEAH) ANDY ROONEY!!!! That old goat is so far out of it that he can not even be in the same league as cool old daddy-o Me. He's not in the same orbit. I'm the coolest, hippest, swinging cat on the face of the planet and to be compared to that one foot on a banana peel Geezer is a real shot to the chops. A punch to the chest. A heart stopper. When Mickey informed me of his opinion about my "STYLE", I lost my breath for a second. I was aghast. As I regained my composure, I said in amazement:" Huh, who?"" Do you even know who Rooney is?" "When did you ever watch 60 minutes?" Mickey says:" I caught him once as I was flippin through the channels." I say:" You caught him once, and now you can compare my brilliant, humorous, young energetic vibe and rhetoric to his lame ass dialogue?"
I've been doing some self analyzing since that cold cock (that's a term from when someone punches you in the face without you being prepared) bit of analysis was thrown at me like a rock at a Taliban stoning ceremony. I've always pictured myself as trans-generational ( DON'T EVEN CONFUSE THAT WITH TRANS GENDER); too cool for school, able to talk and converse with any age group. I've got the lingo from the 50's: "Daddy-o, cool cat"; from the 60's: "far out, Bitchin, pass the weed, good shit"; from the 70's: " snow, blow, double knits, acid rock, heavy metal (not much in the 70's); from the 80's: "dude, greed is good"; from the 90's: "will work for food (hah,hah)", "give me money", (90's sucked); from the 00's: "sweet","tight", (I can't think of much from 00's). Maybe it's true, perhaps I've lost touch, and can't communicate in a brain dead, monotone, single syllable dialogue. All those times that I thought I was being "with-it" and hip, and "in the now", it turns out that these young ones were being polite and waiting for more of my beer. They were tolerant in want of booze. Exchanging my engaging colloquy for free libation. I wasn't observant enough to judge the blank lifeless stares that were returned to me as I displayed brilliant coolness as I lectured on in the face of youth. All the while I'm being judged as an over-the-hill youth seeking junkie that doesn't know his place.
Ah, woe is me. My son the professor and me the student. The tables have turned and now I must learn my place, which is somewhere between Bruce Willis and Jack Nicholson; Tom Hanks and Clint Eastwood; Homer Simpson and the Family Guy.
Unfortunately, my style is my style. When I'm hot, I'm hot and when I'm stylin, I'm stylin. My age is my age and there is nothing I can do about it. I guess it's not all bad being compared to a guy that is a gillion years old, half blind and all but dead and been on T.V. for decades, after all he's been around for a hundred years, maybe I will be too.
Monday, October 12, 2009
LIFE IS A BEACH!!!!!
SHOW ME THE BEACH!!! SHOW ME THE BEACH!!! I've spent the last week making countless trips, up and down the 405, transporting tons of useless stuff that we haven't seen, much less used, in over four years, perhaps longer. My poor little legs are worn out from carrying all that junk from the house to the car, from the car and up the stairs to the condo. No need for Golds gym this week. Where in the hell is the beach? I've been here a week and no beach. Sand on my walkway and sand on my porch and sand on my brand new wood floors, but no time for sand or water for me to make my little castles. Why did I move here, if I can't kick it at the beach? I'm supposed to be laid back and drinking pinas at the run down bars over on Washington. I should have been down there getting localized so I can start bad mouthing all the tourists from foreign places like Sweden, Germany, Iowa.
Last week I had a 180 degree view of the L.A. basin, and all the privacy in the world. No one to bother me, both of my neighbors were like 90 or something and too feeble to give a damn about what I'm doing. Like, right now I'm sharing a room with three hair shedding cats (I'm sneezing like a pig from the allergies), a washing machine that sounds like a fully loaded 747 on take off, and one window with blinds closed because I don't want the snoopy next door neighbor, who is 3 feet away, spying on me from his window which is directly across from me.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen. I've built bathrooms that are bigger than this condo. I am mister humble pie right now, eating crow for all the bragging I've done about having my choice of living in the big, expansive houses that we've created over the years. I kept telling the wife, in a taunting sort of way: "maybe we ought to move into this one, eh dear?"Then I'd get her all hot on moving and then pull the rug out from under her: " Nah, I think the next one will be better, let's sell this one, I need the $$$$$ for little Jenny's braces or little Stephen's softball mitt or Mickey's soccer shoes". The laughs on me. Here I am holed up like pet frog in a shoe box.
But on the bright side, I can say we are going green. This place is so small that there is no big, carbon footprint here, no sir. Big Al and the GREENIES would be proud of me for saving a couple of ounces of the Polar Icecap from falling into the Arctic Ocean. I've probably saved a Polar Bear Cub from an ice bath this morning. No Cap and Trade penalties assigned to my living habits. I park my Hummer down the street so any neighbors can't point and spit at me from their little boxes across the way. I got to admit though, to my surprise, not many Priuses down this way. The Santa Monicans must have bought all of the available supply.
God how I want to just sit back now, read the paper, and relax and not feel guilty about it. But living with my beautiful, darling little wife, Sancy Antcy Pantcy, (not her real name), I sometimes (not real often) get a guilty conscience watching her do all of the work, putting away all of the stuff that I hauled over. I kind of regretted the other day when I complained about not having a clean coffee pot for the morning sete, because in her cute,dainty, little way, she was way off target when she threw the damn thing at me, (expletives deleted), with old coffee grinds and all. Luckily she missed and didn't make much of a mess for me to clean up.
Perhaps in the next few days, when the weather clears (calling for rain), I can finally find a few moments and make the 200' journey to waters edge and finally make this beach my turf and be localized. God that'd be nice, me and my TOMMY B's down by the water sucking on a cool one.
Dream on, Dream on.
Last week I had a 180 degree view of the L.A. basin, and all the privacy in the world. No one to bother me, both of my neighbors were like 90 or something and too feeble to give a damn about what I'm doing. Like, right now I'm sharing a room with three hair shedding cats (I'm sneezing like a pig from the allergies), a washing machine that sounds like a fully loaded 747 on take off, and one window with blinds closed because I don't want the snoopy next door neighbor, who is 3 feet away, spying on me from his window which is directly across from me.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen. I've built bathrooms that are bigger than this condo. I am mister humble pie right now, eating crow for all the bragging I've done about having my choice of living in the big, expansive houses that we've created over the years. I kept telling the wife, in a taunting sort of way: "maybe we ought to move into this one, eh dear?"Then I'd get her all hot on moving and then pull the rug out from under her: " Nah, I think the next one will be better, let's sell this one, I need the $$$$$ for little Jenny's braces or little Stephen's softball mitt or Mickey's soccer shoes". The laughs on me. Here I am holed up like pet frog in a shoe box.
But on the bright side, I can say we are going green. This place is so small that there is no big, carbon footprint here, no sir. Big Al and the GREENIES would be proud of me for saving a couple of ounces of the Polar Icecap from falling into the Arctic Ocean. I've probably saved a Polar Bear Cub from an ice bath this morning. No Cap and Trade penalties assigned to my living habits. I park my Hummer down the street so any neighbors can't point and spit at me from their little boxes across the way. I got to admit though, to my surprise, not many Priuses down this way. The Santa Monicans must have bought all of the available supply.
God how I want to just sit back now, read the paper, and relax and not feel guilty about it. But living with my beautiful, darling little wife, Sancy Antcy Pantcy, (not her real name), I sometimes (not real often) get a guilty conscience watching her do all of the work, putting away all of the stuff that I hauled over. I kind of regretted the other day when I complained about not having a clean coffee pot for the morning sete, because in her cute,dainty, little way, she was way off target when she threw the damn thing at me, (expletives deleted), with old coffee grinds and all. Luckily she missed and didn't make much of a mess for me to clean up.
Perhaps in the next few days, when the weather clears (calling for rain), I can finally find a few moments and make the 200' journey to waters edge and finally make this beach my turf and be localized. God that'd be nice, me and my TOMMY B's down by the water sucking on a cool one.
Dream on, Dream on.
Monday, October 5, 2009
LOVE, LOVE, LOVE-VOLUTION S.F. STYLE
I love a good parade. Marching bands, baton twirlers, tuba players, drummers all in synch and high stepping to the beat and lead of the band major. I enjoy good parades with colorful floats and fancy horses, high spirits and good cheer for all those on the parade route. Civic patriotism on display. Funny clowns giving out clean and sweet candy to the happy and giddy kiddies. Proud parents and relatives watching and waving to their dandies in the lineup. Boyscouts and girlscouts and the brave policeman and honored firemen in their finest and shiniest flaming red trucks all marching to the tune of the MUSIC MAN. Americas finest, all on display on the main street or the grand boulevard. A good parade makes me proud to be an American.
To our surprise, on this past Saturday, San Francisco had a grand parade. It was held in a place of honor on their grand boulevard, Market Street. Beginning from the mighty Embarcadero and ending at the place of civic pride and power, City Hall, the thousands of marchers marched and the mighty fleet of gilded floats glided as if on a cloud in a elegant and ornate style of an era gone by.
My wife and I had just finished touring the fine shops of the Westfield Mall on Market and Powell Streets when, as we were exiting this fine tribute to vertical commercialism (the building is like 7 stories straight up and it is really dizzying), we were hit with a blast of bass (KA-BAM, A THUMP THUMP, KA BAM) a sound so loud that it almost stopped my heart from beating. I was confused and dazed and wobbly for a moment. Luckily the second blast of bass got my heart beating again ( the second blast was like a defibrillator: I hit the pavement face first in full heart arrest and shock, the Doc races over and shouts: "Clear" , ka-bam the bass hits my chest and my heart starts again). "Damn", I say, " that was a rush." "What the hell?? What is this horrible glass rattling noise?"" Did World War 3 start while we were shopping?" Still confused I stagger, with my knees buckling, to the curb and I see this monster of a truck bearing down on me with all this huge, huge humongous noise coming out of it. Not a horn noise, but "The Noise", all bass, is thumping my brain to mush and I'm confused to pieces, I'm like a deer on a freeway at midnight not knowing which way to go with headlights coming from all directions. The deer ,confused, runs straight at the lights; boom, dead deer and wrecked car. Like the deer, I'm running straight for the truck; I'm getting run over by the marchers, thousands of them coming at me like a tidal wave, but they aren't marching, they are bouncing and prancing and spinning and jumping and hopping and kissing and hugging and nothing in unison. I'm being bumped and prodded and banged and jangled. My wife grabs me by the collar and jerks me back to curb just as some freaky,totally naked, wild ass face, warrior painted, derby wearing, drugged out male marcher tries to give me a body slam. I can't hear anything other than the god awful pounding and blaring of unadulterated noise coming from that black behemoth truck. This truck had a 10 KW generator on it the size of a small car. It was pumping juice into telephone booth (for those of you who don't kow what a telephone booth is; in the pre-cell phone days, a booth is a little house where you could put coins in a little box and make phone calls, it was connected to a big wood pole with wires that went that way somewhere and connected you to people over there somewhere) sized speakers. On this truck were people who were gyrating to this noise like it was music. Most of these people were young ladies and these young ladies were ,like, naked except for small little patches of material that covered their private parts (after I gained my bearings, seeing this was actually kind of cool, my wife didn't think it was too cool).
This bizzaro scene was repeated time after time. There were probably 30 of these monster semi-trucks oozing down Market Street at 2 miles per hour. It took forever for each truck to pass and for some reason they all stopped in front of me, like I was the reviewing judge. After I checked out the chicks on board and gave them my thumbs up, the driver of the float-truck would look at me and I would nod my o.k. and give him permission to move on. I felt like I was the general of the parkway.
I would wager the parents of the paraders would have been proud to see their pretty little ones in this activity. As in:"Ahh look dear, here comes HONEY BUNNY BETTY with her cute little black heart shaped pasties lap dancing that wino from the homeless shelter now!!!" "I'm so proud of her." "These kids to day are so full of Love, and Ecstacy, and crank and crack. They have it all, not like when we were kids, when all we had was cheap Mexican weed cut with oregno and every once in awhile we could score some acid."
The favorite color of the day on the "floats"( everybody on those platforms were "floating", now I know how those platforms got their names) was gold. Gold bikinis, bold gold thongs, gold shorts, gold paint. "All that glitters is gold". "Show me the gold". GOLD, GOLD, GOLD. Gold everywhere except for the marchers. The marchers and paraders loved lime green, bright, eye blinding, LIME GREEN; except for a bunch of guys who were wearing pretty pink tutus and seemed real friendly amongst themselves, with all the hugging and kissing and such.
This spectacle went on for at least an hour, my ears are still ringing three days later, as in: "honey will you answer that? I hear the phone ringing". Honey answers: "Clean your stupid ears out, cell phones don't ring anymore, where you been for the last hundred years, huh?"
Most of the floats had Rappers on them and the common theme was: "Hit the Bitch", Slap the Bitch", "Hump the Bitch", Bitch, Bitch, Bitch, etc., etc., Ryhmes with itch, snitch, hich, rich. No wonder they like that word. What ever happened to good old favorites like "I ain't nothin but a Hound Dog", or " Jumpin Jack Flash", or catchy little " Yellow Submarine"? I think I've become my parents; a fogey, out of it. I looked out of place with USC hat and USC Trojan tee-shirt. I wish they came in more vibrant colors like neon flash red and yellow. I would have fit in better with the teenies.
They called this parade ( it was sanctioned by the city, police protection and all) THE LOVE EVOLUTION. Crazy isn't it? No wonder AL QUEDA AND THE TALIBAN want to kill all of us. Actually it was part Boom Box on steroids and a marching, stomping RAVE. I always wondered what a rave was like. Too cool, should have gone to one long ago.
It was fun experiencing this event though, saves me a lot of $$$$ from having to go to Rio De JINERO for Mardi Gras. Maybe next year they'll put a little more effort in the floats. The floats were a little tacky, but what would a person expect from drugged out LOVE FLOATERS?
To our surprise, on this past Saturday, San Francisco had a grand parade. It was held in a place of honor on their grand boulevard, Market Street. Beginning from the mighty Embarcadero and ending at the place of civic pride and power, City Hall, the thousands of marchers marched and the mighty fleet of gilded floats glided as if on a cloud in a elegant and ornate style of an era gone by.
My wife and I had just finished touring the fine shops of the Westfield Mall on Market and Powell Streets when, as we were exiting this fine tribute to vertical commercialism (the building is like 7 stories straight up and it is really dizzying), we were hit with a blast of bass (KA-BAM, A THUMP THUMP, KA BAM) a sound so loud that it almost stopped my heart from beating. I was confused and dazed and wobbly for a moment. Luckily the second blast of bass got my heart beating again ( the second blast was like a defibrillator: I hit the pavement face first in full heart arrest and shock, the Doc races over and shouts: "Clear" , ka-bam the bass hits my chest and my heart starts again). "Damn", I say, " that was a rush." "What the hell?? What is this horrible glass rattling noise?"" Did World War 3 start while we were shopping?" Still confused I stagger, with my knees buckling, to the curb and I see this monster of a truck bearing down on me with all this huge, huge humongous noise coming out of it. Not a horn noise, but "The Noise", all bass, is thumping my brain to mush and I'm confused to pieces, I'm like a deer on a freeway at midnight not knowing which way to go with headlights coming from all directions. The deer ,confused, runs straight at the lights; boom, dead deer and wrecked car. Like the deer, I'm running straight for the truck; I'm getting run over by the marchers, thousands of them coming at me like a tidal wave, but they aren't marching, they are bouncing and prancing and spinning and jumping and hopping and kissing and hugging and nothing in unison. I'm being bumped and prodded and banged and jangled. My wife grabs me by the collar and jerks me back to curb just as some freaky,totally naked, wild ass face, warrior painted, derby wearing, drugged out male marcher tries to give me a body slam. I can't hear anything other than the god awful pounding and blaring of unadulterated noise coming from that black behemoth truck. This truck had a 10 KW generator on it the size of a small car. It was pumping juice into telephone booth (for those of you who don't kow what a telephone booth is; in the pre-cell phone days, a booth is a little house where you could put coins in a little box and make phone calls, it was connected to a big wood pole with wires that went that way somewhere and connected you to people over there somewhere) sized speakers. On this truck were people who were gyrating to this noise like it was music. Most of these people were young ladies and these young ladies were ,like, naked except for small little patches of material that covered their private parts (after I gained my bearings, seeing this was actually kind of cool, my wife didn't think it was too cool).
This bizzaro scene was repeated time after time. There were probably 30 of these monster semi-trucks oozing down Market Street at 2 miles per hour. It took forever for each truck to pass and for some reason they all stopped in front of me, like I was the reviewing judge. After I checked out the chicks on board and gave them my thumbs up, the driver of the float-truck would look at me and I would nod my o.k. and give him permission to move on. I felt like I was the general of the parkway.
I would wager the parents of the paraders would have been proud to see their pretty little ones in this activity. As in:"Ahh look dear, here comes HONEY BUNNY BETTY with her cute little black heart shaped pasties lap dancing that wino from the homeless shelter now!!!" "I'm so proud of her." "These kids to day are so full of Love, and Ecstacy, and crank and crack. They have it all, not like when we were kids, when all we had was cheap Mexican weed cut with oregno and every once in awhile we could score some acid."
The favorite color of the day on the "floats"( everybody on those platforms were "floating", now I know how those platforms got their names) was gold. Gold bikinis, bold gold thongs, gold shorts, gold paint. "All that glitters is gold". "Show me the gold". GOLD, GOLD, GOLD. Gold everywhere except for the marchers. The marchers and paraders loved lime green, bright, eye blinding, LIME GREEN; except for a bunch of guys who were wearing pretty pink tutus and seemed real friendly amongst themselves, with all the hugging and kissing and such.
This spectacle went on for at least an hour, my ears are still ringing three days later, as in: "honey will you answer that? I hear the phone ringing". Honey answers: "Clean your stupid ears out, cell phones don't ring anymore, where you been for the last hundred years, huh?"
Most of the floats had Rappers on them and the common theme was: "Hit the Bitch", Slap the Bitch", "Hump the Bitch", Bitch, Bitch, Bitch, etc., etc., Ryhmes with itch, snitch, hich, rich. No wonder they like that word. What ever happened to good old favorites like "I ain't nothin but a Hound Dog", or " Jumpin Jack Flash", or catchy little " Yellow Submarine"? I think I've become my parents; a fogey, out of it. I looked out of place with USC hat and USC Trojan tee-shirt. I wish they came in more vibrant colors like neon flash red and yellow. I would have fit in better with the teenies.
They called this parade ( it was sanctioned by the city, police protection and all) THE LOVE EVOLUTION. Crazy isn't it? No wonder AL QUEDA AND THE TALIBAN want to kill all of us. Actually it was part Boom Box on steroids and a marching, stomping RAVE. I always wondered what a rave was like. Too cool, should have gone to one long ago.
It was fun experiencing this event though, saves me a lot of $$$$ from having to go to Rio De JINERO for Mardi Gras. Maybe next year they'll put a little more effort in the floats. The floats were a little tacky, but what would a person expect from drugged out LOVE FLOATERS?
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