Now someone please tell me I am not the only human defect who confused the "Twelve Days of Christmas" as ENDING on Christmas. As it turns outs, only the partridge gets given on December 25th and the gift giving continues right on through to January 5th of the following year. Not only is this expensive, but the Christmas tree needles have already cannonballed their way to the carpet and the New Years' resolutions have gone up in smoke by that time. So, I am here to do what, oh, say, millions of other people before me have done, which is to dissect this song and figure out what all the excitement is about.
On the First Day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: A partridge in a pear tree.
There are a few things wrong here. A wobbly, bulbous bird in a tree that couldn't survive the harsh winter to begin with is a gift? From my TRUE love? My TRUE love would provide me with cooked partridge with a nice pear glaze, substitute prime rib for partridge, and give me a little rub and tug under the covers. THAT is TRUE love. Damn bird. Another mouth to feed.
On the Second Day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Two Turtle Doves
What on God's green earth is a turtle dove? Talk about your paradoxes. It's on par with a breakdancing sea sponge. Don't I already have a partridge? Now I have three birds all fighting for territory and waiting to poop in my morning cereal? Will there be mating involved? Because if there is, I'll have two for sale - cheap, the following day.
On the Third Day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Three French Hens.
What is it with these damned birds? Was this song written by genetically-engineered super cows trying to get us to not eat beef? How will I know they were French? Would they have accents? Berets? Would a bill have been passed to call them "Freedom" Hens? Wait, it gets worse...
On the Fourth Day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Four Calling Birds.
Well, let's just open a bird sanctuary, why don't we. Should be called the 12 Days of Audubon Song. Do they call on little cell phones? Are they on a good calling plan? Should I wait until off-peak hours to answer them? Should I put them in a steel cage match with the partridge, doves and hens and let them have some sort of Battle Royale for the right to be my future dinner?
On the Fifth Day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Five Golden Rings
I don't know bout you, but jewelry was never my strong suit, and unless you are a pimp, multiple Super Bowl winner, or mafioso, two rings should be your maximum - and one of those had better be a wedding ring. As for women? This is their favorite part of the song, that's why there's such the pause and emphasis on FIVE GOL-DEN RINNNNNNNGS!. Great. She gets gold and I get poultry.
On the Sixth Day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Six Geese a-Laying
At least someone is getting some action, but all that means is more freaking birds. At least I can get good market value for them. Omelets on the house.
On the Seventh Day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Seven Swans a-Swimming
Good. Keep on swimming. Don't worry about the private hell my life has become with all these birds (and rings) multiplying with each day.
On the Eighth Day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Eight Maids a-milking.
For some reason, I just get this idea that Brigham Young himself wrote this part. If they're milking, they've just given birth, and with squawking birds and piles of golden rings towering over my head, eight is too many for me. If I was a caliph, maybe, but, I'm just a working-class idiot, and my seed bill has just taken a severe hit.
On the Ninth Day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Nine Ladies Dancing
Finally! A day for me! No birds, eggs, rings, milking ladies, just some good old-fashioned women dancing round that ol' brass pole. Is this the shortest day or does it just seem that way? Hell, I'll bring some of those Golden Rings to get me into the Champagne Room. Hey, plenty of Kev to go 'round!
On the Tenth Day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Ten Lords a-Leapin'
Um........um....... Between you and me? Leaping Lords, particularly of the British import, brings visions of limp-wristed theater actors and artists who have been knighted singing, "When you're a Jet, you're a Jet all the way..." with all kinds of pirouetting and frolicking.
On the Eleventh Day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Eleven Pipers Piping
Depends what they are smoking in those pipes. Then again, they could be pan-flutes and then I'd have to kill my entire menagerie in a homicidal rage while Zamfir covers Kenny G's "Songbird".
On the Twelfth Day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Twelve Drummers Drumming.
Let me tell you something, after the birds, eggs, rings, new mothers, strippers, prancers, and assorted pipes, why not form my own drum circle? I can cover myself in bear grease, adopt the manners of a wild animal, howl at the moon and kill what I eat.
Think I'll start with the partridge.
Merry Christmas, everyone.
Friday, December 23, 2005
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Book 'em!
After being wonderfully pestered by friends and foes alike, I have decided to join the world of publishing. So what if it's a self-published doo-dad, it's still a book and it's mine - ALL MINE! In this book, I'll scale Everest, end communism, and kill off Harry Potter, if I want to.
So, there I was, staring at letters on a page and they stared back. They had that lean, hungry look, like teenagers after a few hours in the basement. I figured if Ernest Hemingway, Charles Manson, and Socks the Cat could write a book, why not me? So, I sat down, typed a few lines, basically re-wrote comedy as we know it, became fabulous, and still had a losing football team.
I finally put together 30 or so stories for your reading pleasure. The first round of books are going to family and best friends. The second round will go to anyone who would like one - which could be done within a month if I get enough orders. It costs me $15.00 per book, so, send something if you can, but if not, just consider it a gift from me. And do me a favor - share it with others. They, too, may finally enjoy humor the way it was meant to be - dressed up with a big gut, not dumbed down in a cummerbund.
Please contact me at rhinokev19702@yahoo.com for all book requests and questions!
So, there I was, staring at letters on a page and they stared back. They had that lean, hungry look, like teenagers after a few hours in the basement. I figured if Ernest Hemingway, Charles Manson, and Socks the Cat could write a book, why not me? So, I sat down, typed a few lines, basically re-wrote comedy as we know it, became fabulous, and still had a losing football team.
I finally put together 30 or so stories for your reading pleasure. The first round of books are going to family and best friends. The second round will go to anyone who would like one - which could be done within a month if I get enough orders. It costs me $15.00 per book, so, send something if you can, but if not, just consider it a gift from me. And do me a favor - share it with others. They, too, may finally enjoy humor the way it was meant to be - dressed up with a big gut, not dumbed down in a cummerbund.
Please contact me at rhinokev19702@yahoo.com for all book requests and questions!
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Movin' Out
I just moved into a new place a few days ago. The place where I was living was about as cozy as living in a broom closet with an oily engine manifold that shoots waves of maggots at you every five seconds. So, naturally, any change from that would be an improvement, right? Right?
Well, maybe not so much, but I have myself to blame. You see, I have accumulated an epic amount of junk over the years - none of which I am proud - to the point where there is no room for me. There's my junk and then there's me, and guess who is winning the war? So, taking a page out of Alexander's book, with one clean stroke (CLEAN stroke), I eliminated whole chunks of junk. I took it like a man: I cried, peed my pants, threw a tantrum, drank heavily, and set myself on fire. You see, comportment is important to me.
Truth be told, most of the things should have been discarded long ago - things like cassette music tapes, VHS movies, and my paltry collection of sports awards. I'm a pack rat, so sue me. Sure, you say, a pretty simple exercise to John Q. Normal. Well, normal ain't me, because I will be getting rid of over 1,500 video and cassette tapes. The only way I can legitimize trashing all of it is that I had this crap in storage for about a year without ever feeling the need to access it, so into the buzz saw it goes.
I have a bad back, so I hired a team of movers. You might have heard of some strange names in the moving business. Me? I had my choice of "Hungry Student Athletes" (none of which were athletes - good guys, though, "Starving Student Athletes," and "Near Death Student Athletes" moving companies. I figured the "Near-Death" folks wouldn't do so well with the heavy lifting and my corpse-burying skills are, admittedly, on the wane, so I chose the first company. Quality people, all of them, but what I really needed was an interior decorator. I ended up doing more heavy lifting, shifting, and moving than I have ever done in my life. I'm pathetic. If I just didn't gather so much "stuff" (thank you, George Carlin), I wouldn't need so much room - and this hombre needs a LOT of room.
I did not need movers as much as I needed a SWAT team of interior decorators. I lifted, shifted, and moved more garbage than I should have been legally allowed. I can tell you this: once I become a homeowner again (I'm sharing a house right now), that's it, game-over, man. I will love there and die there because I have maybe one more good move left in me - that's it! And when I do slither off this morbid coil, don't hang around too long for the reading of the will and the distribution of possessions because there won't be any. I'll live like a hermit, snaring silverfish off the walls and drinking dew from the morning grass - and I CERTAINLY will not need to throw away 1,500 of anything to clear my house, because I'll be having a little ceremonial fire to dance naked around to celebrate the fact that I finally stopped being belonging to the things that belong to me
Well, maybe not so much, but I have myself to blame. You see, I have accumulated an epic amount of junk over the years - none of which I am proud - to the point where there is no room for me. There's my junk and then there's me, and guess who is winning the war? So, taking a page out of Alexander's book, with one clean stroke (CLEAN stroke), I eliminated whole chunks of junk. I took it like a man: I cried, peed my pants, threw a tantrum, drank heavily, and set myself on fire. You see, comportment is important to me.
Truth be told, most of the things should have been discarded long ago - things like cassette music tapes, VHS movies, and my paltry collection of sports awards. I'm a pack rat, so sue me. Sure, you say, a pretty simple exercise to John Q. Normal. Well, normal ain't me, because I will be getting rid of over 1,500 video and cassette tapes. The only way I can legitimize trashing all of it is that I had this crap in storage for about a year without ever feeling the need to access it, so into the buzz saw it goes.
I have a bad back, so I hired a team of movers. You might have heard of some strange names in the moving business. Me? I had my choice of "Hungry Student Athletes" (none of which were athletes - good guys, though, "Starving Student Athletes," and "Near Death Student Athletes" moving companies. I figured the "Near-Death" folks wouldn't do so well with the heavy lifting and my corpse-burying skills are, admittedly, on the wane, so I chose the first company. Quality people, all of them, but what I really needed was an interior decorator. I ended up doing more heavy lifting, shifting, and moving than I have ever done in my life. I'm pathetic. If I just didn't gather so much "stuff" (thank you, George Carlin), I wouldn't need so much room - and this hombre needs a LOT of room.
I did not need movers as much as I needed a SWAT team of interior decorators. I lifted, shifted, and moved more garbage than I should have been legally allowed. I can tell you this: once I become a homeowner again (I'm sharing a house right now), that's it, game-over, man. I will love there and die there because I have maybe one more good move left in me - that's it! And when I do slither off this morbid coil, don't hang around too long for the reading of the will and the distribution of possessions because there won't be any. I'll live like a hermit, snaring silverfish off the walls and drinking dew from the morning grass - and I CERTAINLY will not need to throw away 1,500 of anything to clear my house, because I'll be having a little ceremonial fire to dance naked around to celebrate the fact that I finally stopped being belonging to the things that belong to me
Monday, December 12, 2005
Was it Something I Said?
"Was it Something I Said?" Don't take that as a question, but rather as a reference. You see, after surreptitiously sneaking my "KISS - ALIVE II" album into the house as my first album purchase, Richard Pryor's "Was it Something I Said?" was the second album, and included a multitude of subterfuges and counter-intelligence to get it in the door. You see, I have been a fan of comedy ever since I can remember. I was too young for Lenny Bruce, but caught the wave of George Carlin, Cheech & Chong, and Monty Python. Comedy, for me, was about fart jokes and belching "Hail to the Chief." My older brother, Dave, and I, weaned ourselves on our parents' collection of albums from the 1960s - of which was Bill Cosby's classic, "I Started Out as a Child..." Funny was funny, whether it was from Redd Foxx, Freddie Prinz or Carol Burnett.
All of which brings me to Richard Pryor. Richard was the first person to really use language that awed us, offended us, and truly pissed us off. Like Carlin, he dared to take our thoughts and put them in front of our faces for us to confront. You weren't "black," - you were a "nigger." You weren't "white," - you were a "honky." Because that's how we saw each other, and, in fact,that is how many of us saw ourselves when we were looking upon ourselves honestly. Richard Pryor didn't just walk through the last door of comedy. He detonated it, and the shards are still flying around today, from Chris Rock to Joe Rogan to Ralphie May.
The cover of "Was it Something I Said?" showed Pryor being burned at the stake by a group of hooded Klansmen. Richard was never one to tiptoe through the tulips when he could stomp through them with cleats. It was shocking, the skits were racially charged, it was an affront to every decent sense you could muster up.
It was also damned funny.
But, Richard Pryor did more for me than just make me laugh. His divisiveness (and yes, he could be divisive), showed me that blacks and whites were indeed not cut from the same cloth, that there were differences beyond skin color. Back then, a black kid was no different to me than a red-head or a fat kid or a tall kid. He was just a kid. I never knew people divided themselves against each other in this fashion before. I had a friend,named Steve Jennings, who was about 6'8" when he was 12, and was (and probably still is) black. His family, along with Tony, Laurie, and Ann, were some of my best friends. Steve was probably my first friend. Anyway, we were watching our friend, Ray, being chased by a black kid named Omari. Ray was/is white. Steve and I were laughing and shouting insults to them both. Then I said something I'll never forget, to Omari:
"Hey, Ovaltine! That's enough!"
The chasing eventually ended, everyone laughed, but Steve turned slowly to me and said "I heard what you said. You called him Ovaltine." I didn't know what to say. To me, it was as innocent as saying, "Hey stinky!" or "Hey jerkface!" - or more to the point, "Hey fatty!" or "Hey shrimp!" But, it didn't matter. The words were out there and I couldn't take them back. Worse yet, Steve, who had to grow up with the sort of stigma I couldn't even imagine, seeing as they were the only black family in the neighborhood when they moved in the same time we did, probably now saw me as less of an innocent friend and more of a typical white person. I meant no harm by it,but it stuck with me just the same. Then,I started thinking of all the terrible things I had said all in the name of friendship without knowing how much damage I was doing:
"You're not really black. You act more like a white person."
"There are niggers and there are blacks. You're not a nigger, just black."
"Why don't you listen to any music by white bands?"
Do I forgive myself? Well, yes and no. Yes, because I had not been poisoned by honestly knowing how much those words can hurt someone else. On the other hand, I do not forgive myself, because no matter where those words came from, they still hurt a friend - a good friend. A friend I really miss a lot sometimes.
Richard Pryor passed away this weekend, and his death brought with it a terrible loss for me personally. Without Richard Pryor to show us, front and center, without euphemisms and without white-gloving it, to force us to face the ugly truth of racism - even if he used comedy to deliver it to our doorsteps, this planet has lost a true genius. Was he a good man? Not all the time? Did he make mistakes? Often. Was he guilty of racism himself? That's for others to decide. Right now, I hope he is at God's side, strolling that funky stroll of his, asking God:
Richard: "Was it something I did that got me here?"
God: "No, my son"
Richard: "Was it what I believed that got me here?"
God: "I am afraid not."
Richard: "Was it Something I Said?"
God: "You're damn right it was."
All of which brings me to Richard Pryor. Richard was the first person to really use language that awed us, offended us, and truly pissed us off. Like Carlin, he dared to take our thoughts and put them in front of our faces for us to confront. You weren't "black," - you were a "nigger." You weren't "white," - you were a "honky." Because that's how we saw each other, and, in fact,that is how many of us saw ourselves when we were looking upon ourselves honestly. Richard Pryor didn't just walk through the last door of comedy. He detonated it, and the shards are still flying around today, from Chris Rock to Joe Rogan to Ralphie May.
The cover of "Was it Something I Said?" showed Pryor being burned at the stake by a group of hooded Klansmen. Richard was never one to tiptoe through the tulips when he could stomp through them with cleats. It was shocking, the skits were racially charged, it was an affront to every decent sense you could muster up.
It was also damned funny.
But, Richard Pryor did more for me than just make me laugh. His divisiveness (and yes, he could be divisive), showed me that blacks and whites were indeed not cut from the same cloth, that there were differences beyond skin color. Back then, a black kid was no different to me than a red-head or a fat kid or a tall kid. He was just a kid. I never knew people divided themselves against each other in this fashion before. I had a friend,named Steve Jennings, who was about 6'8" when he was 12, and was (and probably still is) black. His family, along with Tony, Laurie, and Ann, were some of my best friends. Steve was probably my first friend. Anyway, we were watching our friend, Ray, being chased by a black kid named Omari. Ray was/is white. Steve and I were laughing and shouting insults to them both. Then I said something I'll never forget, to Omari:
"Hey, Ovaltine! That's enough!"
The chasing eventually ended, everyone laughed, but Steve turned slowly to me and said "I heard what you said. You called him Ovaltine." I didn't know what to say. To me, it was as innocent as saying, "Hey stinky!" or "Hey jerkface!" - or more to the point, "Hey fatty!" or "Hey shrimp!" But, it didn't matter. The words were out there and I couldn't take them back. Worse yet, Steve, who had to grow up with the sort of stigma I couldn't even imagine, seeing as they were the only black family in the neighborhood when they moved in the same time we did, probably now saw me as less of an innocent friend and more of a typical white person. I meant no harm by it,but it stuck with me just the same. Then,I started thinking of all the terrible things I had said all in the name of friendship without knowing how much damage I was doing:
"You're not really black. You act more like a white person."
"There are niggers and there are blacks. You're not a nigger, just black."
"Why don't you listen to any music by white bands?"
Do I forgive myself? Well, yes and no. Yes, because I had not been poisoned by honestly knowing how much those words can hurt someone else. On the other hand, I do not forgive myself, because no matter where those words came from, they still hurt a friend - a good friend. A friend I really miss a lot sometimes.
Richard Pryor passed away this weekend, and his death brought with it a terrible loss for me personally. Without Richard Pryor to show us, front and center, without euphemisms and without white-gloving it, to force us to face the ugly truth of racism - even if he used comedy to deliver it to our doorsteps, this planet has lost a true genius. Was he a good man? Not all the time? Did he make mistakes? Often. Was he guilty of racism himself? That's for others to decide. Right now, I hope he is at God's side, strolling that funky stroll of his, asking God:
Richard: "Was it something I did that got me here?"
God: "No, my son"
Richard: "Was it what I believed that got me here?"
God: "I am afraid not."
Richard: "Was it Something I Said?"
God: "You're damn right it was."
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Winter Blunderland
We're now a few footsteps into the month of December and I have to admit how much I hate the cold. It's not Canadian cold nor is it the cold of the morning-after-the-night-before stare of your significant other when you pulled the old "ding-dong" bit with your mother-in-law's breast after doing shots with your wife's cousin. No, it's just really the first "unpleasant" cold of the year. I walked outside to commune with nature on my way to get a coffee and saw it there, plain as a monkey head in the collection plate - snow. It wasn't much snow, but, it was if Mother Nature was spray painting a warning telling me, "Hey, Sparky, I'm still in charge around here."
It's not that I hate snow. Just keep it off my roads and out of the hands of adolescents when I'm driving down the street. There was a time when snow was the answer to all of my prayers. Now, you folks who have lived your entire lives in warm weather, you have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about. Please skip to the next story, have a laugh, and leave a complementary compliment. Snow was much more than frozen ice crystals. It meant Santa was coming, Christmas specials and egg nog. Remember hearing about the "Storm of the Century" that was predicted to come five to six times per Winter? Remember gathering around the static-y radio or the fuzzy television screen just dying on every word of the news anchor until the weather-person showed you the local map that had "48+" covering your area. All you cared about was waking up the next morning and listening for the school closings. No matter what school you went to, it was always the last school announced, or, you tuned in just after they announced your school and had to wait until the next. All the surrounding schools were off and your school was going to open "one hour late". Life was not fair! Dad had off, so he was in his robe reading the sports page and asking, "So, want to go sledding today? Oh, that's right, YOU have to go to SCHOOL today!" and laugh that evil Dad-laugh before flipping to the comics to see what Marmaduke was up that today.
There was always a kind of giddy edge to going out to play in the first real snow. Mom would wrap you up in long underwear, three pairs of socks, t-shirt, regular shirt, sweater, pants, snow pants, gloves, ski mask, hat, shoes and boots. Then, after she would buckle than last piece of sharp metal buckle, you told her you had to go to the bathroom.
Once you made the jail break into the white cold world of the outdoors, a specific truth hit you smack in the face like a neighbor’s snowball - it’s freaking cold out here! If you fell down, you stayed down until the Spring thaw. Nothing could get you back on your feet. You also had to beware what type of show was on the ground. Now, the Native Americans in Alaska, Canada, and the Pacific Northwest may have 100 different words for "snow" - we have two: "Packable and unpackable". Packable meant you could make snowballs easily, which meant more chance for trouble and more chance for getting bombarded by your friends. You can also build a snowman more easily in Packable snow. Now, this leads me to a point in my life of which I am not proud, but, my buddy, Ray, and I used to go tearing through the neighborhood at 10 p.m. with aluminum baseball bats and beat the tar out of the well-constructed snowmen in the community of Greentree. It wasn’t our best moment, but, it sure as hell was fun. Anyway, back to the snow. The unpackable snow was worthless. You couldn’t form a proper snowball, it didn’t harden on the streets to play hockey or tag rides on. Tagging rides was when you ran up to a car, grabbed its bumper, and let the car drive you all over town. It was illegal and highly dangerous - which is why it was probably so much fun.
For some reason, there were some mothers in the neighborhood who made their kids wear mittens instead of gloves. I never could figure this out. You couldn’t do anything in mittens and ended up with frostbite because you always took your mittens off for snowball fights, building forts and doing battle with the Dark Lord. And it was impossible to hold a baseball bat.
Nowadays, snow is just a nuisance. We can telecommute to work (some of us), have to shovel the driveway, sidewalk, and God-knows what else, according to whatever civic association to which you belong, and you have to drive in that stuff. And it’s not just you that you have to worry about; it’s that yahoo with the bald tires and rear-wheel drive careening maniacally into your lane that you have to worry about. There’s salt deposit, slush, dirty windows…the list goes on and on.
But still, I get that first shiver of excitement whenever I see the first real snowfall of the year. It takes me back and I want to make some hot chocolate and sit by the static-y radio again.
Don’t you?
It's not that I hate snow. Just keep it off my roads and out of the hands of adolescents when I'm driving down the street. There was a time when snow was the answer to all of my prayers. Now, you folks who have lived your entire lives in warm weather, you have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about. Please skip to the next story, have a laugh, and leave a complementary compliment. Snow was much more than frozen ice crystals. It meant Santa was coming, Christmas specials and egg nog. Remember hearing about the "Storm of the Century" that was predicted to come five to six times per Winter? Remember gathering around the static-y radio or the fuzzy television screen just dying on every word of the news anchor until the weather-person showed you the local map that had "48+" covering your area. All you cared about was waking up the next morning and listening for the school closings. No matter what school you went to, it was always the last school announced, or, you tuned in just after they announced your school and had to wait until the next. All the surrounding schools were off and your school was going to open "one hour late". Life was not fair! Dad had off, so he was in his robe reading the sports page and asking, "So, want to go sledding today? Oh, that's right, YOU have to go to SCHOOL today!" and laugh that evil Dad-laugh before flipping to the comics to see what Marmaduke was up that today.
There was always a kind of giddy edge to going out to play in the first real snow. Mom would wrap you up in long underwear, three pairs of socks, t-shirt, regular shirt, sweater, pants, snow pants, gloves, ski mask, hat, shoes and boots. Then, after she would buckle than last piece of sharp metal buckle, you told her you had to go to the bathroom.
Once you made the jail break into the white cold world of the outdoors, a specific truth hit you smack in the face like a neighbor’s snowball - it’s freaking cold out here! If you fell down, you stayed down until the Spring thaw. Nothing could get you back on your feet. You also had to beware what type of show was on the ground. Now, the Native Americans in Alaska, Canada, and the Pacific Northwest may have 100 different words for "snow" - we have two: "Packable and unpackable". Packable meant you could make snowballs easily, which meant more chance for trouble and more chance for getting bombarded by your friends. You can also build a snowman more easily in Packable snow. Now, this leads me to a point in my life of which I am not proud, but, my buddy, Ray, and I used to go tearing through the neighborhood at 10 p.m. with aluminum baseball bats and beat the tar out of the well-constructed snowmen in the community of Greentree. It wasn’t our best moment, but, it sure as hell was fun. Anyway, back to the snow. The unpackable snow was worthless. You couldn’t form a proper snowball, it didn’t harden on the streets to play hockey or tag rides on. Tagging rides was when you ran up to a car, grabbed its bumper, and let the car drive you all over town. It was illegal and highly dangerous - which is why it was probably so much fun.
For some reason, there were some mothers in the neighborhood who made their kids wear mittens instead of gloves. I never could figure this out. You couldn’t do anything in mittens and ended up with frostbite because you always took your mittens off for snowball fights, building forts and doing battle with the Dark Lord. And it was impossible to hold a baseball bat.
Nowadays, snow is just a nuisance. We can telecommute to work (some of us), have to shovel the driveway, sidewalk, and God-knows what else, according to whatever civic association to which you belong, and you have to drive in that stuff. And it’s not just you that you have to worry about; it’s that yahoo with the bald tires and rear-wheel drive careening maniacally into your lane that you have to worry about. There’s salt deposit, slush, dirty windows…the list goes on and on.
But still, I get that first shiver of excitement whenever I see the first real snowfall of the year. It takes me back and I want to make some hot chocolate and sit by the static-y radio again.
Don’t you?
Friday, December 02, 2005
A First for Everything
I was reminded today of how great firsts are in life. There's nothing quite like the first time you try something, no matter how mundane or marvelous. It's a first impression, that, more or less, will last with you an entire lifetime. There's the first boyfriend or girlfriend, the first innocent kiss in the garage, the first hand-holding, the first grade, the first time you had your training wheels taken off your bike. Firsts can also be a drag, such as the first time someone knock you in the jaw, the first time you lose a tooth, the first zit, the first time you discover there is no Santa, the first real break up. Of course, then you can look forward to your first car, your first REAL date (accompanied by your first REAL kiss), and some other firsts that I am sure our parents would rather not want to know about us. Getting to first base, the first man and woman, the first state of Delaware (my home state, thank you), the first colored major league baseball player, the first woman in space, this first paragraph - all tremendous firsts in our private and public lives. Everything has a first.
However, I am not here to talk about any of that. I am here to indulge you, and myself, into some firsts that REALLY matter when it comes to the little pleasures in life, because, after all, isn't that what life is all about - the little pleasures? Little pleasures like opening up a carton of Breyer's ice cream, busting out the ice cream scooper with the little flippy thing, starting at one end, and smoothly skimming the surface from one end of the carton to the other. A frozen vanilla fudge curl arcing and folding into itself, slowly and erotically before being plunked down into your bowl. That first taste of ice cream that sets your taste buds ricocheting in all directions deciding, in panic mode, "Just what the hell flavor is this, anyway!?!?" before the red alert dies down and a murmur ripples through your taste buds, "It's ok, folks, it's vanilla fudge". Then, your taste buds do the Snoopy Dance.
Don't even try to deny it. It's with everything. How awesome is it to be the first to break the creamy surface of a freshly-opened jar of peanut butter? That first bowl of cereal on Saturday morning? That first cup of cawfee? That first bite of pizza or the first chomp on a carefully-crafted Dagwood sandwich? For the smokers and drinkers out there, you don't need me to tell you just how toe-curling that first drag from the first cigarette from a fresh pack is or that first whip-back of whiskey or beer (or both) after a long week of reattaching that ass you just worked off.
How many of us love the smell of a new car and driving it for the first time? Ok,hands down. How many of us have had a father or grandfather who would thump you in the head for reading his newspaper before he did. Hmmm, same number of hands. It's not like the news was going to change, but he had to be the FIRST to read it.
The fact is that you can never really go home again, according to some famous white person whom I never took the time nor energy to remember. That first year in the dorms or your first apartment; that first rinky-dink house with ideas of making it look like an adult lived there, the first holiday you hosted, the first time you had the girls over for margaritas and gossip or the guys over for burgers and the football game.- or both over for poker night.
Remember the first time you went to Walt Disney World or other similar vacation destination? Going back may have been fun, but it just wasn't the same anymore. Remember turning 10, then 13, then 16, 18, and 21? Great years since you were first A) in double digits, B) a teenager, C) legal driving age, D) an official adult, and E) legal drinking age. After that, it's 30, 40, 50. and ever-increasing, vanity-thieving landmarks. And, sadly, more and more of us have had the pleasure of walking down the aisle more than once - and although those first marriages that ended in divorce were not necessarily happy circumstances, I'll wager that the marriage day itself was like no other.
I dream of a day where computer chips, manufacturing by ultra-smart monkeys, will be implanted into our brains to make us feel like everything we do and experience feels like the first time we ever had that particular experience. Gone will be the disappointment and the yearning. Gone will be the deja vu. How about that? Every kiss will feel like the first, every ball game you attend will be just like when your uncle or aunt took you, and every time you re-read my essays, you'll be moved to heights of ecstasy.
Yeah, that'll be a first.
However, I am not here to talk about any of that. I am here to indulge you, and myself, into some firsts that REALLY matter when it comes to the little pleasures in life, because, after all, isn't that what life is all about - the little pleasures? Little pleasures like opening up a carton of Breyer's ice cream, busting out the ice cream scooper with the little flippy thing, starting at one end, and smoothly skimming the surface from one end of the carton to the other. A frozen vanilla fudge curl arcing and folding into itself, slowly and erotically before being plunked down into your bowl. That first taste of ice cream that sets your taste buds ricocheting in all directions deciding, in panic mode, "Just what the hell flavor is this, anyway!?!?" before the red alert dies down and a murmur ripples through your taste buds, "It's ok, folks, it's vanilla fudge". Then, your taste buds do the Snoopy Dance.
Don't even try to deny it. It's with everything. How awesome is it to be the first to break the creamy surface of a freshly-opened jar of peanut butter? That first bowl of cereal on Saturday morning? That first cup of cawfee? That first bite of pizza or the first chomp on a carefully-crafted Dagwood sandwich? For the smokers and drinkers out there, you don't need me to tell you just how toe-curling that first drag from the first cigarette from a fresh pack is or that first whip-back of whiskey or beer (or both) after a long week of reattaching that ass you just worked off.
How many of us love the smell of a new car and driving it for the first time? Ok,hands down. How many of us have had a father or grandfather who would thump you in the head for reading his newspaper before he did. Hmmm, same number of hands. It's not like the news was going to change, but he had to be the FIRST to read it.
The fact is that you can never really go home again, according to some famous white person whom I never took the time nor energy to remember. That first year in the dorms or your first apartment; that first rinky-dink house with ideas of making it look like an adult lived there, the first holiday you hosted, the first time you had the girls over for margaritas and gossip or the guys over for burgers and the football game.- or both over for poker night.
Remember the first time you went to Walt Disney World or other similar vacation destination? Going back may have been fun, but it just wasn't the same anymore. Remember turning 10, then 13, then 16, 18, and 21? Great years since you were first A) in double digits, B) a teenager, C) legal driving age, D) an official adult, and E) legal drinking age. After that, it's 30, 40, 50. and ever-increasing, vanity-thieving landmarks. And, sadly, more and more of us have had the pleasure of walking down the aisle more than once - and although those first marriages that ended in divorce were not necessarily happy circumstances, I'll wager that the marriage day itself was like no other.
I dream of a day where computer chips, manufacturing by ultra-smart monkeys, will be implanted into our brains to make us feel like everything we do and experience feels like the first time we ever had that particular experience. Gone will be the disappointment and the yearning. Gone will be the deja vu. How about that? Every kiss will feel like the first, every ball game you attend will be just like when your uncle or aunt took you, and every time you re-read my essays, you'll be moved to heights of ecstasy.
Yeah, that'll be a first.
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Season's Grievings
'Tis the season to be jolly. Actually, not many people would appreciate being called "jolly" since it infers a negative image when said person is naked, but there is no doubting the Holiday season is nigh. Whether you celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Ramadan, Tet, or any other number of late-year holidays, there is one immutable truth: we cannot wait until it is over.
Oh sure, there's the whole Peace on Earth and Good Will Towards Men thing, but those are arbitrary concepts. What's peace to one person may be subjugation to another. If some ding-dong cuts in front of me at the check-out counter, peace is the last thing on my mind. I'm going to cut his throat with my Border's Rewards card, carry his head to the Lady's Auxiliary who do the volunteer gift-wrapping and settle in at Bugaboo Creek for two-inch-thick slab of prime rib afterwards. And the whole Good Will Towards Men not only completely eliminates women from the sentiment, it also makes it impossible for me to enjoy my steak since my Border's card would be bloodless.
I think the whole concept for celebrating the Holiday season late in the year is to keep us from going insane while making us go crazy. Now follow me here. It is a well-known fact that light, especially sunlight, produces a chemical reaction in our brains that releases endorphins that make us happy. Well, wouldn't you know the Winter Solstice falls within the same week of those holidays? We need light during that time. The Winter Solstice is the shortest day (in terms of sunlight) in the whole year! Don't believe me? Go to Sweden or some other country that rises above the Arctic Circle. Their suicide rate is almost at lemming-level and all the kids are into Death Metal music. They're not just producing world-class hockey players and chewy licorice fish, they're trying desperately to keep their sanity.
Now, for those of us in the Western world, the holidays are a time to set every angle ablaze with red, green, blue, orange, yellow, and white lights. Sure, it's pretty, but there's an evil below the surface. Those lights on the tree aren't for decoration, they're for keeping us wobbly-eyed and sedated. Decorating the house? It's to keep the kids from unsheathing the Ginsu blades from the knife block in the kitchen and doing in Mom and Dad. And who here hasn't had a relative who grabs the family and tosses them into the station wagon or mini-van and goes on a driving tour of the neighborhoods looking at how some people have more illuminated clutter on their lawn than Pee Wee Herman. Every self-loathing father on the block secretly clenches his teeth when he passes the Anderson's house because they ALWAYS have the most lavish and classy light display. Mom doesn't help when she coos, "Oh, honey, look at what the Andersons have done THIS year!" It takes all the discipline of a trappist monk to keep Dad from careening into a snowbank, kicking out the family, and going back to torch the Andersons' house.
To rip off an idea from Northern Exposure, the Holiday season is a festival of lights, which is really just a festival of life itself. It's affirming, comforting and brings us warmth. It's the tree in the morning, all glittering and majestic. You may have seen the tree every day for a week or so before that, but on Christmas Day, it's at it's most vibrant. It's almost as if it knew today was THE day. The Menorah, solemn and celebratory, dignity in the candles, fireworks, and memorial fires of our ancestors and family, both past and present. Light is a celebration. Light both hides and exposes our grieving. Light is all this and more.
Light is Life
I'm not too cynical to enjoy the finer elements of the holiday season, but it is fair to say that if the grand Holiday Season was held in June, during the Summer Solstice, I doubt we'd get all bunched up about it from a secular standpoint, especially since the holiday season has been co-opted from religion by Buck McDollar. But, I'll leave that rant for another time. It's December, I have some shopping to do, and I have my trusty Borders Rewards card ready to go.
Oh sure, there's the whole Peace on Earth and Good Will Towards Men thing, but those are arbitrary concepts. What's peace to one person may be subjugation to another. If some ding-dong cuts in front of me at the check-out counter, peace is the last thing on my mind. I'm going to cut his throat with my Border's Rewards card, carry his head to the Lady's Auxiliary who do the volunteer gift-wrapping and settle in at Bugaboo Creek for two-inch-thick slab of prime rib afterwards. And the whole Good Will Towards Men not only completely eliminates women from the sentiment, it also makes it impossible for me to enjoy my steak since my Border's card would be bloodless.
I think the whole concept for celebrating the Holiday season late in the year is to keep us from going insane while making us go crazy. Now follow me here. It is a well-known fact that light, especially sunlight, produces a chemical reaction in our brains that releases endorphins that make us happy. Well, wouldn't you know the Winter Solstice falls within the same week of those holidays? We need light during that time. The Winter Solstice is the shortest day (in terms of sunlight) in the whole year! Don't believe me? Go to Sweden or some other country that rises above the Arctic Circle. Their suicide rate is almost at lemming-level and all the kids are into Death Metal music. They're not just producing world-class hockey players and chewy licorice fish, they're trying desperately to keep their sanity.
Now, for those of us in the Western world, the holidays are a time to set every angle ablaze with red, green, blue, orange, yellow, and white lights. Sure, it's pretty, but there's an evil below the surface. Those lights on the tree aren't for decoration, they're for keeping us wobbly-eyed and sedated. Decorating the house? It's to keep the kids from unsheathing the Ginsu blades from the knife block in the kitchen and doing in Mom and Dad. And who here hasn't had a relative who grabs the family and tosses them into the station wagon or mini-van and goes on a driving tour of the neighborhoods looking at how some people have more illuminated clutter on their lawn than Pee Wee Herman. Every self-loathing father on the block secretly clenches his teeth when he passes the Anderson's house because they ALWAYS have the most lavish and classy light display. Mom doesn't help when she coos, "Oh, honey, look at what the Andersons have done THIS year!" It takes all the discipline of a trappist monk to keep Dad from careening into a snowbank, kicking out the family, and going back to torch the Andersons' house.
To rip off an idea from Northern Exposure, the Holiday season is a festival of lights, which is really just a festival of life itself. It's affirming, comforting and brings us warmth. It's the tree in the morning, all glittering and majestic. You may have seen the tree every day for a week or so before that, but on Christmas Day, it's at it's most vibrant. It's almost as if it knew today was THE day. The Menorah, solemn and celebratory, dignity in the candles, fireworks, and memorial fires of our ancestors and family, both past and present. Light is a celebration. Light both hides and exposes our grieving. Light is all this and more.
Light is Life
I'm not too cynical to enjoy the finer elements of the holiday season, but it is fair to say that if the grand Holiday Season was held in June, during the Summer Solstice, I doubt we'd get all bunched up about it from a secular standpoint, especially since the holiday season has been co-opted from religion by Buck McDollar. But, I'll leave that rant for another time. It's December, I have some shopping to do, and I have my trusty Borders Rewards card ready to go.
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