Travel is broadening, but that can be fixed.
First, the obvious: Unless you’re (literally) a starving bohemian backpacking and hostelling your way through the world, you’re going to eat more calories when you’re away from home. It could be expedient junk food, or you could be like me and load up on scrumptiousness.
For whatever reason, you’ll get fatter. That can be fixed. Not easily, but it can be done.
Second, metaphysically: Even if you’re only on a Greyhound tootling through Podunk, you’re going to get a new perspective. It’s unavoidable. No matter where you go, at the very least, you should come home with an insight into something.
That can be fixed too.
I say this because I got home about two hours ago, bringing with me a pile of laundry and a freshly laundered perspective. My head was filled with New Thoughts and Ideas. I was looking forward to going through my little pad of scribbled notes, witty observations, and general joke material to parse for all of you.
So what happened in those two hours?
Reality bitch-slapped once again, which is one of the things it does best. The answering machine was flashing in a way I like to think of as Satan’s wink. Emails festered inside my computer. My lovely, fragile and delicate New Plans have been pummeled by my thuggish To Do list which has grown faster than Bruce Banner in a bad mood.
Never mind. The stories will keep until I regain control over both my To Do list and my waistline, or, at the very least, my laundry.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Wait - Don't Wait
What do you do when you’re waiting for something? Of course I mean the kind of something that preoccupies your mind so you can’t be productive without metaphorically shooting yourself in the foot. The stuff you can’t help thinking about even when you know perfectly well that dwelling on it isn’t going to help or speed things up at all.
I start with laundry, because I don’t have to think about it and because there’s always laundry waiting to be done. Then I go to mindless computer games, even though my beloved Pogo is giving me grief about using the AOL browser.
Sigh. Of course, be my guest. Go ahead. Mock me for using AOL. I’ll wait. I was waiting already, it’s no trouble.
All done? Good, I’m properly chastened and not changing a damned thing.
Sometimes I read, but it can be difficult to get into a book if my mind is busy worrying about whatever it is I’m waiting for. For which I’m waiting. Jeez, enough with the mockery already. I get it.
Of course when all else fails, I write a blog post.
Then there are times when I give up the wait prematurely and dash forward un-forewarned and unarmed. That’s rarely a good idea, but at the moment it looks like a plan.
Wish me luck.
I start with laundry, because I don’t have to think about it and because there’s always laundry waiting to be done. Then I go to mindless computer games, even though my beloved Pogo is giving me grief about using the AOL browser.
Sigh. Of course, be my guest. Go ahead. Mock me for using AOL. I’ll wait. I was waiting already, it’s no trouble.
All done? Good, I’m properly chastened and not changing a damned thing.
Sometimes I read, but it can be difficult to get into a book if my mind is busy worrying about whatever it is I’m waiting for. For which I’m waiting. Jeez, enough with the mockery already. I get it.
Of course when all else fails, I write a blog post.
Then there are times when I give up the wait prematurely and dash forward un-forewarned and unarmed. That’s rarely a good idea, but at the moment it looks like a plan.
Wish me luck.
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Age Before Something
I was going to take a nice bath, so I went to get some clean towels. On my way through the kitchen, I checked the dog’s bowls. They were fine. I tried to remember why I was in the kitchen and realized I had been on my way to get the mail.
Yes, I know. That's the point.
So I got the mail, dealt with it, then was about to take the bath. There were no towels. Of course I went to get some. On the way, I stopped to do something else. You know what? I don’t remember what that was, which is pretty funny in itself.
The punch line is it took four trips before I got the towels. I still haven’t bathed yet, I thought I’d write this first.
Four trips.
Count’em, four.
That has to be a personal best. Congratulate me.
Oh, go ahead and roll your eyes. I used to, when I heard stuff like this. You’re just racking up the karma, dude. Because, if you’re very lucky, you’ll survive to be as old as me and this will happen to you.
When it does, please try to remember to get a Ouija board so I can laugh mockingly at you for a change.
Yes, I know. That's the point.
So I got the mail, dealt with it, then was about to take the bath. There were no towels. Of course I went to get some. On the way, I stopped to do something else. You know what? I don’t remember what that was, which is pretty funny in itself.
The punch line is it took four trips before I got the towels. I still haven’t bathed yet, I thought I’d write this first.
Four trips.
Count’em, four.
That has to be a personal best. Congratulate me.
Oh, go ahead and roll your eyes. I used to, when I heard stuff like this. You’re just racking up the karma, dude. Because, if you’re very lucky, you’ll survive to be as old as me and this will happen to you.
When it does, please try to remember to get a Ouija board so I can laugh mockingly at you for a change.
Monday, August 13, 2012
Cliché Cliché
Sunday night was one of those Los Angeles clichés, but not Los Angeles as it is now.
Instead, the night – or at least 20 minutes of it -- screamed of the stereotypical LA of television and movies from the butt end of last century. It was a 3D cliché of why everyone comes here, and what they do once they’ve unpacked and figured out whose couch they’ll sleep on and where they’ll wait tables or tend bar.
You know what I’m talking about. Earnest artistic vision that thinks itself unique, transmitted through a lot of effort and a wisp of ability. Don’t even get me started on talent. I have none, so I’d prefer not to complain about anyone else not having any. At least I don’t get on a stage and expect people to pay attention to me.
These two were young. They were not particularly attractive, although the female had very nice boobs on display. He played guitar and sang. She sang and waved a plastic tambourine while the ghosts of Davy Jones and the littlest Partridge girl laughed and wept. (Yes, the actress who played her is probably still alive. Don’t be picayune. It’s poetic license.)
I couldn’t understand the lyrics, some were obscure and some were just indecipherable. Drugs, recreational or prescription, may or may not have been an issue. If you wanted to parody the performance, you wouldn’t have to change a thing.
In their own way, they were likeable and really enthusiastic. I keep telling myself that. Enthusiasm is good. Youth can be good. They had lots of both. That adds up to good, right?
Wisdom: If you’re going to listen to what amounts to angry-poetry-with-guitar on a blisteringly hot evening, make damned sure the place has functional air conditioning.
I should’ve run away the minute the guy at the door said, “Leave it open, we need the fresh air.”
Instead, the night – or at least 20 minutes of it -- screamed of the stereotypical LA of television and movies from the butt end of last century. It was a 3D cliché of why everyone comes here, and what they do once they’ve unpacked and figured out whose couch they’ll sleep on and where they’ll wait tables or tend bar.
You know what I’m talking about. Earnest artistic vision that thinks itself unique, transmitted through a lot of effort and a wisp of ability. Don’t even get me started on talent. I have none, so I’d prefer not to complain about anyone else not having any. At least I don’t get on a stage and expect people to pay attention to me.
These two were young. They were not particularly attractive, although the female had very nice boobs on display. He played guitar and sang. She sang and waved a plastic tambourine while the ghosts of Davy Jones and the littlest Partridge girl laughed and wept. (Yes, the actress who played her is probably still alive. Don’t be picayune. It’s poetic license.)
I couldn’t understand the lyrics, some were obscure and some were just indecipherable. Drugs, recreational or prescription, may or may not have been an issue. If you wanted to parody the performance, you wouldn’t have to change a thing.
In their own way, they were likeable and really enthusiastic. I keep telling myself that. Enthusiasm is good. Youth can be good. They had lots of both. That adds up to good, right?
Wisdom: If you’re going to listen to what amounts to angry-poetry-with-guitar on a blisteringly hot evening, make damned sure the place has functional air conditioning.
I should’ve run away the minute the guy at the door said, “Leave it open, we need the fresh air.”
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
More Ask Auntie
Dear Aunt Scary,
See, I can get stuff cheap where I work and my friend asked me to get something for her so I did, and then I thought it was really cool so I used it but when I went back to work to get her one there weren’t any left and now she’s seen me with mine and she is so pissed. She’s kind of a drama queen anyway. Ok she’s really a drama bitch when she gets like this. What do I do?
Not her sister
Dear Not her,
First, breathe. Inhale, exhale. Good. Next, learn to use Spellcheck. Auntie took care of you this time, but I won’t be there when you have to type something else.
As for Bitchy Bernice, you have options. Did you say you'd get her the mystery thingie? If so, you owe her a sincere apology. You have to say that you broke your promise and you’re sorry. Then again, you don't sound sorry at all. Maybe you'll want to skip the apology.
If you didn’t promise, then you’re technically off the hook. You can stay away from her until she forgets or stops caring. You wouldn’t be acting like a real friend if you did that, but it sounds like you’re not really that good a friend to her anyway, so she’s not losing much except for whatever the mystery “something” was that’s now yours forever.
See, I can get stuff cheap where I work and my friend asked me to get something for her so I did, and then I thought it was really cool so I used it but when I went back to work to get her one there weren’t any left and now she’s seen me with mine and she is so pissed. She’s kind of a drama queen anyway. Ok she’s really a drama bitch when she gets like this. What do I do?
Not her sister
Dear Not her,
First, breathe. Inhale, exhale. Good. Next, learn to use Spellcheck. Auntie took care of you this time, but I won’t be there when you have to type something else.
As for Bitchy Bernice, you have options. Did you say you'd get her the mystery thingie? If so, you owe her a sincere apology. You have to say that you broke your promise and you’re sorry. Then again, you don't sound sorry at all. Maybe you'll want to skip the apology.
If you didn’t promise, then you’re technically off the hook. You can stay away from her until she forgets or stops caring. You wouldn’t be acting like a real friend if you did that, but it sounds like you’re not really that good a friend to her anyway, so she’s not losing much except for whatever the mystery “something” was that’s now yours forever.
Sunday, August 5, 2012
Fake You
Popular culture adores authenticity. “OG” as a pinnacle has topped “the real deal” even with people who don’t know or remember what it stands for.
Reality -- or at least the claim to it -- is more popular than anyone in your senior class ever was.
“Wannabe” is a taunt. You’ve said (or thought) it yourself at some point, if not in so many words. Oh yes, you have. Don’t distract me. Auntie is making a point here about the blur between real and fake.
That can of fizzy drink going flat next to your keyboard, I bet it’s got artificial sweetener. People Photoshop their Facebook profiles. Was that Advil or generic Ibuprofen? Did you have a turkey burger or a chicken burger for lunch?
An older gent of my acquaintance uses that spray-on hair from the infomercials. Seriously, he does. It looks like you’d expect, which is to say no worse than a bad wig.
Shaved heads and Cialis are replacing toupees and sports cars. Botox (for either gender) is slowly becoming déclassé, but only because there’s better stuff out there.
Don’t look at me. My gray hair and wrinkly forehead notwithstanding, I’m fine with fake. I work out, that’s artificially building my muscles, at least in theory. I wear makeup and a bra.
Embrace the fake. A lot of faking is really, really good. Reconstructive surgery can be miraculous. I genuinely prefer soy milk to the extraction from cow udders. I’m sure Furries are very nice people if you get to know them.
Let’s face it. Honesty may be the best policy, but I’d rather hear something nice.
Reality -- or at least the claim to it -- is more popular than anyone in your senior class ever was.
“Wannabe” is a taunt. You’ve said (or thought) it yourself at some point, if not in so many words. Oh yes, you have. Don’t distract me. Auntie is making a point here about the blur between real and fake.
That can of fizzy drink going flat next to your keyboard, I bet it’s got artificial sweetener. People Photoshop their Facebook profiles. Was that Advil or generic Ibuprofen? Did you have a turkey burger or a chicken burger for lunch?
An older gent of my acquaintance uses that spray-on hair from the infomercials. Seriously, he does. It looks like you’d expect, which is to say no worse than a bad wig.
Shaved heads and Cialis are replacing toupees and sports cars. Botox (for either gender) is slowly becoming déclassé, but only because there’s better stuff out there.
Don’t look at me. My gray hair and wrinkly forehead notwithstanding, I’m fine with fake. I work out, that’s artificially building my muscles, at least in theory. I wear makeup and a bra.
Embrace the fake. A lot of faking is really, really good. Reconstructive surgery can be miraculous. I genuinely prefer soy milk to the extraction from cow udders. I’m sure Furries are very nice people if you get to know them.
Let’s face it. Honesty may be the best policy, but I’d rather hear something nice.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
A Merrie Medley
When I was younger, so much younger than today, ahem, sorry, let me start over.
When I was young – and I’m talking 20s and 30s here – it used to seem disingenuous when older people would wonder where the time went. Come on, they lived through all those days one after the other. How could the aggregate come as so much of a surprise?
Surprise! It really happens like that.
On the one hand, it’s semi-reassuring to know that I was just as annoying as any ordinary 20-something. Goody for me, I’ve achieved retroactive normalcy.
But on the other hand, the one in a metaphoric fist, it’s true. Time really does fly faster than the speed of sound which, I think, is also why you seem to speak so quickly.
Yesterday (honest, it was yesterday, I’m not using gratuitous Beatles references on purpose) my late father’s former apprentice came over. I hadn’t seen him since well before 1993, the year my father died. Take a look at the closest 19 year old. He or she wasn’t even born the last time I saw this man. This is freaky stuff.
It’s enough to make me want to buy a ticket for the last train to Clarksville. You can meet me at the station.
When I was young – and I’m talking 20s and 30s here – it used to seem disingenuous when older people would wonder where the time went. Come on, they lived through all those days one after the other. How could the aggregate come as so much of a surprise?
Surprise! It really happens like that.
On the one hand, it’s semi-reassuring to know that I was just as annoying as any ordinary 20-something. Goody for me, I’ve achieved retroactive normalcy.
But on the other hand, the one in a metaphoric fist, it’s true. Time really does fly faster than the speed of sound which, I think, is also why you seem to speak so quickly.
Yesterday (honest, it was yesterday, I’m not using gratuitous Beatles references on purpose) my late father’s former apprentice came over. I hadn’t seen him since well before 1993, the year my father died. Take a look at the closest 19 year old. He or she wasn’t even born the last time I saw this man. This is freaky stuff.
It’s enough to make me want to buy a ticket for the last train to Clarksville. You can meet me at the station.
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