What if?
Pretty scary to imagine, but what if there is some sort of significance to that Cinescopic collection of images that screens on the back of our eyelids every night?
There are plenty of books on the significance of dreams, but I'm not sure I want to invest in enough titles to finally find some of my strange dreams listed - and furthermore - I might not even want to know what the strange night movies mean.
Just try to imagine this one (I don't normally recall dreams, thank goodness). I'm in some odd-ball hotel wearing a bed-sheet toga, going commando underneath, and looking for the bathroom. (That part is probably in every dream for men my age...the going to the bathroom part, I mean - not the outfit.) Then, there is the big wall-to-wall tiled bathroom that looks like a high-school shower, outfitted with some grecian-style urinals.
It doesn't get any better from there. (In fact, it pretty much ends there, because - as you surely know by now - if you find yourself relieving yourself in a dream, you're going to wake up in a wet spot. Fact. It is right up there with falling off the cliff in the dream and dying if you don't wake up first.)
I'm thinking I should just write a book on the subject. Can anyone be more authoritative than anyone else? Where do they give those credentials out? (Night School is the obvious answer there...)
In the meantime, I'm guessing that my subconscious was knocking on the inner eyelids waiting for me to get the supposed obvious message that it was time to put the feet on the floor and quickly scuttle through the dark to the B-room. (No growing problem quips, if you please!) But what's with the toga outfit? Not to mention the guy at the next urinal who apparently encounters the Greek look all the time...
Probably at those toga-potties.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Can We Talk?
I am trying to imagine all the things that are being accomplished with the time savings. Not through Daylight Savings Time, that governmental invention designed to keep us outdoors longer, spending money on after-work recreation, but the time savings realized by the abbreviation of all those pesky long words.
Some of them are - understandably - just too long for the modern mouth to speak. Hurricane, for example. The lips become wound up, distorted, distended, tricked, and tremble with the effort.
Cane.
Oh! That's so much easier.
Heat may play a factor in our inability to mouth these words. Seminole, another Florida school mascot, shares an equal number of syllables, and as a result, must be reduced accordingly. Noles.
That is so much better.
When the Canes play the Noles, the temp goes up. (Temperature, you see, is even longer than hurricane or seminole, and falls under the mandatory reduction act.) Where are my meds? I'm getting worked up anticipating our own in-state rivalry when the Pokes play the Ners.
Text messaging is another thing entirely. Thumbs do tire. Buttons are small. Typing 'application' takes so much longer than 'ap' and I agree completely. Text me, baby.
Snd me a job ap.
Blogs don't conclude, they end. Shorter, more concise. (Brief, I mean. Gotta trim those syllables where possible.
Jeet? (Did you eat?)
Yanna? (Do you want to?)
I'm outie. (I'm leaving now to go dining with my acquaintance.)
What are we doing with all that free time we are saving? Where do those unused syllables go? The word bank? Probably not drawing any interest there. (Sho not get 'est there.)
Orators of America, unite! Spend those extra syllables! Stimulate the verbal economy by refraining from being economical with your words!
Articulate! Exacerbate! Matriculate!
Rah!
Check out the books:
http://mchustonbooks.com/
Some of them are - understandably - just too long for the modern mouth to speak. Hurricane, for example. The lips become wound up, distorted, distended, tricked, and tremble with the effort.
Cane.
Oh! That's so much easier.
Heat may play a factor in our inability to mouth these words. Seminole, another Florida school mascot, shares an equal number of syllables, and as a result, must be reduced accordingly. Noles.
That is so much better.
When the Canes play the Noles, the temp goes up. (Temperature, you see, is even longer than hurricane or seminole, and falls under the mandatory reduction act.) Where are my meds? I'm getting worked up anticipating our own in-state rivalry when the Pokes play the Ners.
Text messaging is another thing entirely. Thumbs do tire. Buttons are small. Typing 'application' takes so much longer than 'ap' and I agree completely. Text me, baby.
Snd me a job ap.
Blogs don't conclude, they end. Shorter, more concise. (Brief, I mean. Gotta trim those syllables where possible.
Jeet? (Did you eat?)
Yanna? (Do you want to?)
I'm outie. (I'm leaving now to go dining with my acquaintance.)
What are we doing with all that free time we are saving? Where do those unused syllables go? The word bank? Probably not drawing any interest there. (Sho not get 'est there.)
Orators of America, unite! Spend those extra syllables! Stimulate the verbal economy by refraining from being economical with your words!
Articulate! Exacerbate! Matriculate!
Rah!
Check out the books:
http://mchustonbooks.com/
Friday, July 6, 2007
Smoke 'em if ya' Gottem
The movie was THE MAN WHO NEVER WAS - a World War 2 movie filmed in 1954. It was in color, and there no obvious lines that made the film seem particularly dated. It was a look back, a history-related tale, that would - by its very nature - be dated. Military clothing has not changed all that much, and given that my familiarity with British culture of the mid-20th century is limited - it was a less-than-stirring recounting of how the Allies fooled the Germans by planting fake documents on a dead body and allowing it to wash up on a shore where it would be found. I thought it credible, at least.
What was INCREDIBLE was the pervasive depiction of cigarette smoking in the picture. We all know it's no longer PC to smoke, we know how bad it is for our collective healths, and we have to shake our heads at the smokers who must stand in the cold or rain, huddling in the smoker's hole to maintain their habits. (After gaining fifty pounds after quitting, I'm wondering if the smokers are simply exhibiting a different form of diet plan.)
The film features wartime Brits smoking in the crowded movie theater, in restaurants, taxis, sidewalks, and officer's clubs - basically, anywhere people stood, sat, walked, slept, ate, or drank. When the theater scene was depicted, I couldn't help but think what a mess that would have been. The patrons were jammed in, round-shouldered with the overcrowding, everyone rocking back and forth in hilarious laughter under the heavy cloud of smoke. Some had cigarettes clamped in their lips so they could clap their hands. Others were laughing with such wide-open mouths that they might have swallowed the cigarettes had they not clutched them between their fingers, while slapping their neighbor on the back. (That always makes a joke funnier.)
It was almost like looking at another world seeing the habits that everyone used to tolerate. The kicker for me was the spy. O'Reilly from Dublin. (He's really from Germany, sporting a fake brogue and passport.) Toward the end of the movie, he's camped in his second-story room, chain-smoking to the point of lighting another while the cigarette he's working on is little past half-smoked. The clock strikes the hour, marking the time he is to radio back to Germany on his secret suitcase telegraph transmitter.
He takes a deep final drag from the smoke, squeezes it between his middle finger and his thumb, and flicks it across the room. Oh, it's still lit, all right. He just needs the finger to tap-tap-tap the message back to Hitler. Martin genuine! Martin genuine! Martin genuine! Room on fire! Yikes!
Apart from being astounded, it make me think of my young buddy Mark, who was smoking in his mother's kitchen. We were maybe seventeen years old. Eighteen. Finished the cigarette, dropped it to the linoleum floor and crushed it out, twisting shoe against it. Then he stepped away. I asked him who cleaned up his butts, and he supposed his mother did it. Then there was Tim, another buddy who - in being particularly emphatic in his storytelling - lost his grip on his smoke and it flew onto my sofa, burning a hole in the cushion before he could retrieve it. I told him he needed smoking lessons.
I'm wondering now if we'd been better schooled in the art back then, we might today be allowed to enjoy a smoke with our pint of beer, at least those who still care to. We smokers back then had no skills to go along with our practice.
Probably easier in the long run to post a No Smoking sign, than to list the Continuing Education classes in Remedial Smoking.
Check out the books:
http://mchustonbooks.com/
What was INCREDIBLE was the pervasive depiction of cigarette smoking in the picture. We all know it's no longer PC to smoke, we know how bad it is for our collective healths, and we have to shake our heads at the smokers who must stand in the cold or rain, huddling in the smoker's hole to maintain their habits. (After gaining fifty pounds after quitting, I'm wondering if the smokers are simply exhibiting a different form of diet plan.)
The film features wartime Brits smoking in the crowded movie theater, in restaurants, taxis, sidewalks, and officer's clubs - basically, anywhere people stood, sat, walked, slept, ate, or drank. When the theater scene was depicted, I couldn't help but think what a mess that would have been. The patrons were jammed in, round-shouldered with the overcrowding, everyone rocking back and forth in hilarious laughter under the heavy cloud of smoke. Some had cigarettes clamped in their lips so they could clap their hands. Others were laughing with such wide-open mouths that they might have swallowed the cigarettes had they not clutched them between their fingers, while slapping their neighbor on the back. (That always makes a joke funnier.)
It was almost like looking at another world seeing the habits that everyone used to tolerate. The kicker for me was the spy. O'Reilly from Dublin. (He's really from Germany, sporting a fake brogue and passport.) Toward the end of the movie, he's camped in his second-story room, chain-smoking to the point of lighting another while the cigarette he's working on is little past half-smoked. The clock strikes the hour, marking the time he is to radio back to Germany on his secret suitcase telegraph transmitter.
He takes a deep final drag from the smoke, squeezes it between his middle finger and his thumb, and flicks it across the room. Oh, it's still lit, all right. He just needs the finger to tap-tap-tap the message back to Hitler. Martin genuine! Martin genuine! Martin genuine! Room on fire! Yikes!
Apart from being astounded, it make me think of my young buddy Mark, who was smoking in his mother's kitchen. We were maybe seventeen years old. Eighteen. Finished the cigarette, dropped it to the linoleum floor and crushed it out, twisting shoe against it. Then he stepped away. I asked him who cleaned up his butts, and he supposed his mother did it. Then there was Tim, another buddy who - in being particularly emphatic in his storytelling - lost his grip on his smoke and it flew onto my sofa, burning a hole in the cushion before he could retrieve it. I told him he needed smoking lessons.
I'm wondering now if we'd been better schooled in the art back then, we might today be allowed to enjoy a smoke with our pint of beer, at least those who still care to. We smokers back then had no skills to go along with our practice.
Probably easier in the long run to post a No Smoking sign, than to list the Continuing Education classes in Remedial Smoking.
Check out the books:
http://mchustonbooks.com/
Monday, July 2, 2007
On Such a Day as This
Creeks swollen to the lip of their banks with a slate-gray sky fat with more rain, and I can think of nothing but the day Earl and I lowered her into the earth. It was steady rain, then, like today, but it made no difference to Mrs. Baxter, sealed as she was in her gleaming brown casket.
The ground was thick with water, down to three or four feet, and the continuing showers met with no accommodation, forcing small rivulets to gather into larger ones in searching for a watercourse. At a safe distance, half-hidden in copse of trees, we watched the mourners gathered at the grave, the preacher's murmurs adding little to the steady patter of rain on the carpet of dead oak leaves.
"Raining like a cow pissing on a flat rock," said Earl, who then turned his head and spat a brown stream toward the base of the nearest tree.
His exact meaning was lost on me, as was much of the rural wisdom he imparted. I originally thought him to be little more than a simpleton. Earl - a man with an exact understanding of what was important in his life - confined his interests to simple pleasures, like the coon dogs he kept boxed in the back of his pickup, ready at a moment's notice to seek and tree a passing animal. He might never have crossed the county line but for our work, and yet he was infinitely more worldly than was I, a white-bread sixteen year old, dangerously naive.
Slanting rain slipped under the apiaceous canopy of floating black umbrellas, but even in such conditions there exists a time standard as to denote proper and fitting respect, and we had the good fortune to be in the hands of an experienced preacher man who knew that limit. He talked not a minute longer, briskly closing up the well-thumbed bible he had kept so near to his thin necktie, then moved toward the next-of-kin, a stalk of a man who was likely Mr. Baxter. The gathering of people drifted along in a slow wake until the waiting undertaker folded the little man into the back of the black Cadillac, and at that point the crowd set off like a shot to the dry interiors of the various parked cars.
It was time.
Dangling hammers at our thighs, Earl and I crossed to the plastic grass we had spread to soften the look of the raw cut in the ground, a corner of which I folded back to reveal the top of the pine box. I dragged furiously at the lid. It would have been practical to wait for Earl, but I believed it was only through these spontaneous acts that I could disprove his impression that I was but a soft city-boy. When he did not take hold of his end, I finally looked up to see what Earl had already discovered.
"Water's come up," he said, and looking down I comprehended his meaning completely.
The hole in which the departed would be lain was freshly dug, else it might have been as full as Earl's Sunday bath. As it was, the pine box into which we intended to lower the casket was floating in quickly-rising water. The several streams that had been coursing along the ground had discovered a destination, and ran cascading in torrents over the edge and into the collecting basin of Mrs. Baxter's grave.
It was apparent by their expressions that the two county gravediggers were appalled by the development, and they stood with their muddied boots at the edge of the hole, angled back, defying gravity, leaning stiff-backed and wide-eyed, as though Mrs. Baxter herself might rise up and shout at them in her disapproval. Earl - ever steadfast - coughed a suggestion and the county men steadied the boat of the box while I turned the cranking mechanism that slowly lowered the coffin. I looked up and saw Earl, his arms bulging as he maneuvered the pine top, ready to apply it at once to the box, now no longer floating. He held the lid at an angle, like a medieval shield, guarding the county men against what they could not see, which was the water pouring over the sides of the pine box, lapping up against the lacquered casket.
Earl's eyes were bright beneath furrowed brows, the look of a captain in battle, assessing and assaying, directing his charges. We were compliant at once, and even I - the dubious city boy - recognized his command of the situation.
Without looking in my direction, Earl growled at me to remove the canvas straps, "Quick," he said, and there was no other way but to lay down in the slick mud. I dangled myself into Mrs. Baxter's grave and jerked the straps from beneath her casket, tossing them up onto the ground. Earl flung the lid into position and we nailed it closed as quick as we had ever done it. I immediately set about the folding of the fake grass sections, loading them into the truck, taking down the square green tent we had positioned over the grave.
When my work was done I retired to the truck, where I sat dripping in the cab, blinking away water from the hair plastered against my scalp, shivering a little and waiting for Earl. Just as I turned to look for him, he motioned to me from across the way, and I opened the door again and climbed back out into the rain.
I could hear his soft argument with the county men as I approached, and it took only a glance to understand the basis for his position: Mrs. Baxter was not going without protest.
He instructed me to take a position opposite him, and we rode her floating pine box like a surfboard, pushing it into place while the county men struggled with spades full of wet earth, as Earl dictated a solution to our mutual difficulty. When the dirt covered my shoes, Earl ordered me out of the grave, and I climbed out directly. He marched along the peak of mud and dirt, stomping down a little as he moved along, securing the box against further motion with an almost religious rhythm.
Part of her grave we brought back with us, on Earl's boots and my city-shoes, mud in the fake green grass, smeared through the interior of the truck's cab, on the floor, the seats, and the door handles. Back at the warehouse, Earl uncoiled the garden hose and turned it on me, the stream not jetting from the faucet, but at a slower rate, much like that which was still pouring in on Mrs. Baxter when we pulled out of the cemetery. I heard the backhoe roar to life as Earl had turned the truck from the gravel onto the pavement, leaving the county men behind to complete the filling and tidy up the scene.
The rain has let up for the moment, and a brief stab of sunlight has broken through the cloud cover, indicating a false passage. I'll not go just yet.
When I do, I trust it will be with the reluctance of Mrs. Baxter, and if it should be on such as day as this, may someone of Earl's vision and eloquent focus be there to direct me.
The ground was thick with water, down to three or four feet, and the continuing showers met with no accommodation, forcing small rivulets to gather into larger ones in searching for a watercourse. At a safe distance, half-hidden in copse of trees, we watched the mourners gathered at the grave, the preacher's murmurs adding little to the steady patter of rain on the carpet of dead oak leaves.
"Raining like a cow pissing on a flat rock," said Earl, who then turned his head and spat a brown stream toward the base of the nearest tree.
His exact meaning was lost on me, as was much of the rural wisdom he imparted. I originally thought him to be little more than a simpleton. Earl - a man with an exact understanding of what was important in his life - confined his interests to simple pleasures, like the coon dogs he kept boxed in the back of his pickup, ready at a moment's notice to seek and tree a passing animal. He might never have crossed the county line but for our work, and yet he was infinitely more worldly than was I, a white-bread sixteen year old, dangerously naive.
Slanting rain slipped under the apiaceous canopy of floating black umbrellas, but even in such conditions there exists a time standard as to denote proper and fitting respect, and we had the good fortune to be in the hands of an experienced preacher man who knew that limit. He talked not a minute longer, briskly closing up the well-thumbed bible he had kept so near to his thin necktie, then moved toward the next-of-kin, a stalk of a man who was likely Mr. Baxter. The gathering of people drifted along in a slow wake until the waiting undertaker folded the little man into the back of the black Cadillac, and at that point the crowd set off like a shot to the dry interiors of the various parked cars.
It was time.
Dangling hammers at our thighs, Earl and I crossed to the plastic grass we had spread to soften the look of the raw cut in the ground, a corner of which I folded back to reveal the top of the pine box. I dragged furiously at the lid. It would have been practical to wait for Earl, but I believed it was only through these spontaneous acts that I could disprove his impression that I was but a soft city-boy. When he did not take hold of his end, I finally looked up to see what Earl had already discovered.
"Water's come up," he said, and looking down I comprehended his meaning completely.
The hole in which the departed would be lain was freshly dug, else it might have been as full as Earl's Sunday bath. As it was, the pine box into which we intended to lower the casket was floating in quickly-rising water. The several streams that had been coursing along the ground had discovered a destination, and ran cascading in torrents over the edge and into the collecting basin of Mrs. Baxter's grave.
It was apparent by their expressions that the two county gravediggers were appalled by the development, and they stood with their muddied boots at the edge of the hole, angled back, defying gravity, leaning stiff-backed and wide-eyed, as though Mrs. Baxter herself might rise up and shout at them in her disapproval. Earl - ever steadfast - coughed a suggestion and the county men steadied the boat of the box while I turned the cranking mechanism that slowly lowered the coffin. I looked up and saw Earl, his arms bulging as he maneuvered the pine top, ready to apply it at once to the box, now no longer floating. He held the lid at an angle, like a medieval shield, guarding the county men against what they could not see, which was the water pouring over the sides of the pine box, lapping up against the lacquered casket.
Earl's eyes were bright beneath furrowed brows, the look of a captain in battle, assessing and assaying, directing his charges. We were compliant at once, and even I - the dubious city boy - recognized his command of the situation.
Without looking in my direction, Earl growled at me to remove the canvas straps, "Quick," he said, and there was no other way but to lay down in the slick mud. I dangled myself into Mrs. Baxter's grave and jerked the straps from beneath her casket, tossing them up onto the ground. Earl flung the lid into position and we nailed it closed as quick as we had ever done it. I immediately set about the folding of the fake grass sections, loading them into the truck, taking down the square green tent we had positioned over the grave.
When my work was done I retired to the truck, where I sat dripping in the cab, blinking away water from the hair plastered against my scalp, shivering a little and waiting for Earl. Just as I turned to look for him, he motioned to me from across the way, and I opened the door again and climbed back out into the rain.
I could hear his soft argument with the county men as I approached, and it took only a glance to understand the basis for his position: Mrs. Baxter was not going without protest.
He instructed me to take a position opposite him, and we rode her floating pine box like a surfboard, pushing it into place while the county men struggled with spades full of wet earth, as Earl dictated a solution to our mutual difficulty. When the dirt covered my shoes, Earl ordered me out of the grave, and I climbed out directly. He marched along the peak of mud and dirt, stomping down a little as he moved along, securing the box against further motion with an almost religious rhythm.
Part of her grave we brought back with us, on Earl's boots and my city-shoes, mud in the fake green grass, smeared through the interior of the truck's cab, on the floor, the seats, and the door handles. Back at the warehouse, Earl uncoiled the garden hose and turned it on me, the stream not jetting from the faucet, but at a slower rate, much like that which was still pouring in on Mrs. Baxter when we pulled out of the cemetery. I heard the backhoe roar to life as Earl had turned the truck from the gravel onto the pavement, leaving the county men behind to complete the filling and tidy up the scene.
The rain has let up for the moment, and a brief stab of sunlight has broken through the cloud cover, indicating a false passage. I'll not go just yet.
When I do, I trust it will be with the reluctance of Mrs. Baxter, and if it should be on such as day as this, may someone of Earl's vision and eloquent focus be there to direct me.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Old Friends and Acquaintances
The people on the commercials are usually pretty invisible - people like the underwear models in the newspapers and catalogs who are unknown except to their friends and families.
Family: (reading newspaper) Goodgawdawwmighty! What in tarnation is Myrtle doing in the paper? Near nekkid!
Myrtle: (entering room) I am NOT near-nekkid! I'm wearing a Belissimo Fashion Bra, $19.95 - now through Sunday at Dillards.
Family: But that's ALL you're wearing! What if people SEE you?
Myrtle: You forget it's PRINT advertising. Who reads anymore?
From my spot on the couch in front of the television, I didn't recognize the middle-aged woman smiling and promoting her favorite brand of toothpaste. Obviously, the ad agency was a little nervous about that too, and put her name in the lower corner of the screen.
BROOKE SHIELDS, actress.
What? Brooke Shields, hawking toothpaste?
Not only do we have to be reminded who she is, but what she does for a living. When did Brooke Shields, Child Star, become middle-aged? Who has the time? Who reads anymore? (Obviously, not Brooke Shields when it comes to scripts. Has she appeared in anything since Blue Lagoon?)
Honestly, the first thing that came to mind when the ad came on, was - that looks like Kathy. The attractive neighbor lady.
We're all mixed up in our priorities. You see, Kathy-the-neighbor may or may not know that she looks just like the lost twin of Brooke Shields, but she digs in the dirt and paints the house trim, and sells fundraiser cookbooks down the block. If the subject of toothpaste came up in conversation and she mentioned a preference for Colgate - I might be inclined to try it. But this woman on TV who claims to be Brooke Shields, I just don't know about. They're just paying her to say that.
Why do they?
Why not pay Kathy-the-neighbor, the lost twin, who could then return to her garden and forget the fundraiser cookbooks.
Unless . . . this whole Brooke Shields persona is just a scam, and it's been my neighbor all along. Oooh. My head is hurting.
I'd better lay back down on the couch until this thinking episode goes away.
Family: (reading newspaper) Goodgawdawwmighty! What in tarnation is Myrtle doing in the paper? Near nekkid!
Myrtle: (entering room) I am NOT near-nekkid! I'm wearing a Belissimo Fashion Bra, $19.95 - now through Sunday at Dillards.
Family: But that's ALL you're wearing! What if people SEE you?
Myrtle: You forget it's PRINT advertising. Who reads anymore?
From my spot on the couch in front of the television, I didn't recognize the middle-aged woman smiling and promoting her favorite brand of toothpaste. Obviously, the ad agency was a little nervous about that too, and put her name in the lower corner of the screen.
BROOKE SHIELDS, actress.
What? Brooke Shields, hawking toothpaste?
Not only do we have to be reminded who she is, but what she does for a living. When did Brooke Shields, Child Star, become middle-aged? Who has the time? Who reads anymore? (Obviously, not Brooke Shields when it comes to scripts. Has she appeared in anything since Blue Lagoon?)
Honestly, the first thing that came to mind when the ad came on, was - that looks like Kathy. The attractive neighbor lady.
We're all mixed up in our priorities. You see, Kathy-the-neighbor may or may not know that she looks just like the lost twin of Brooke Shields, but she digs in the dirt and paints the house trim, and sells fundraiser cookbooks down the block. If the subject of toothpaste came up in conversation and she mentioned a preference for Colgate - I might be inclined to try it. But this woman on TV who claims to be Brooke Shields, I just don't know about. They're just paying her to say that.
Why do they?
Why not pay Kathy-the-neighbor, the lost twin, who could then return to her garden and forget the fundraiser cookbooks.
Unless . . . this whole Brooke Shields persona is just a scam, and it's been my neighbor all along. Oooh. My head is hurting.
I'd better lay back down on the couch until this thinking episode goes away.
Monday, June 18, 2007
The E-word
I'm sitting here listening to NPR's latest focus on words we are not supposed to focus on -- you know the list. The F-word, the B-word, the N-word. In truth, I'm not listening anymore. I've exercised the R-word, which would be my Right, I suppose, to change the station, and this jazz is infinitely more suited to the bookstore environment anyway.
For some reason, the topic always makes me think of Cameron - probably in first or second grade at the time - having just learned that the word fart described that particular event that has kept humanity in stitches since the days of the Caveman Comic, that Neanderthal nucklehead who slipped a hairy hand into his armpit and started flapping his arm. Humans have been laughing ever since.
I'm not really sure why.
Cameron, of course, realizing that it was one of those words, immediately began running around the living room in circles, saying it. It wasn't in context, or the punchline to a joke. Just the word. He sensed the power of the fart and immediately put it to good use.
NPR works along those same lines. On an almost daily basis, we are treated to clips of movies, tv programs, and music recordings, in which the majority of the presentation has to be censored by the busy man at the BLEEP button. Terry Gross (her real name) and her interview program FRESH AIR might be the chief purveyors, but the tendancy to air these Juicy Bits is rampant in the media, and I suppose to be fair, the reviewers and interviewers are only presenting what is appearing UNbleeped elsewhere.
Terry Gross (excited voice): Let's hear a clip from the show.
Clip: You BLEEP son of a BLEEP! Can't you BLEEP see that I'm trying to BLEEP here? Are you BLEEP nuts? BLEEP you! I'll BLEEP say whatever I BLEEP want, you dumb BLEEP!
Terry Gross (impressed): Wow. I could really sense the emotion there.
Radio Censor: Yeah. BLEEP great, wasn't it? My best BLEEP ever. And the actor wasn't bad either.
Just like children acquiring and trying the vocabulary of the world, there is a human need to push the envelope, cross the line in the sand, pass in the no-passing zone. We've got to speed, man. I'll park there if I want. Who says I can't say it? Nyah, nyah, nyah. There. I said it. Now what are you gonna do?
They are, after all, just words. (George Carlin pointed that out years ago.) What is the fascination with some examples over others? How come preachers can say fornicate but not BLEEP? (Wow. I could really sense the emotion there.) Why only certain bodily functions? I mean, ear wax is pretty gross, too. You wouldn't want a little pill of it there on the plate next to your french fries. Don't tell me you waxing would, you waxing liar. Wax you!
The E-word is Enough. Couldn't our time be better spent on some other topic? No?
I didn't waxing think so.
For some reason, the topic always makes me think of Cameron - probably in first or second grade at the time - having just learned that the word fart described that particular event that has kept humanity in stitches since the days of the Caveman Comic, that Neanderthal nucklehead who slipped a hairy hand into his armpit and started flapping his arm. Humans have been laughing ever since.
I'm not really sure why.
Cameron, of course, realizing that it was one of those words, immediately began running around the living room in circles, saying it. It wasn't in context, or the punchline to a joke. Just the word. He sensed the power of the fart and immediately put it to good use.
NPR works along those same lines. On an almost daily basis, we are treated to clips of movies, tv programs, and music recordings, in which the majority of the presentation has to be censored by the busy man at the BLEEP button. Terry Gross (her real name) and her interview program FRESH AIR might be the chief purveyors, but the tendancy to air these Juicy Bits is rampant in the media, and I suppose to be fair, the reviewers and interviewers are only presenting what is appearing UNbleeped elsewhere.
Terry Gross (excited voice): Let's hear a clip from the show.
Clip: You BLEEP son of a BLEEP! Can't you BLEEP see that I'm trying to BLEEP here? Are you BLEEP nuts? BLEEP you! I'll BLEEP say whatever I BLEEP want, you dumb BLEEP!
Terry Gross (impressed): Wow. I could really sense the emotion there.
Radio Censor: Yeah. BLEEP great, wasn't it? My best BLEEP ever. And the actor wasn't bad either.
Just like children acquiring and trying the vocabulary of the world, there is a human need to push the envelope, cross the line in the sand, pass in the no-passing zone. We've got to speed, man. I'll park there if I want. Who says I can't say it? Nyah, nyah, nyah. There. I said it. Now what are you gonna do?
They are, after all, just words. (George Carlin pointed that out years ago.) What is the fascination with some examples over others? How come preachers can say fornicate but not BLEEP? (Wow. I could really sense the emotion there.) Why only certain bodily functions? I mean, ear wax is pretty gross, too. You wouldn't want a little pill of it there on the plate next to your french fries. Don't tell me you waxing would, you waxing liar. Wax you!
The E-word is Enough. Couldn't our time be better spent on some other topic? No?
I didn't waxing think so.
Friday, June 15, 2007
If I Could Save Time in a Capsule
With apologies to Jim Croce (who sang about saving Time in a Bottle), I'll pause to note the reclamation of the 1957 Plymouth Belvedere that was buried in that year in downtown Tulsa. It was during a celebration called Tulsarama! (Back when putting 'rama on the end of words made them celebratory.) Tulsarama! was to mark the 50 years that had passed since statehood.
'57 was still close enough to the Big War that people were still a little jumpy -- looking over their collective shoulders and dreading the spectre of the Atomic Bomb. Technology was new and scary. Toasters had multiple settings. Chrysler had just introduced their Highway Hi-Fi, allowing drivers to play vinyl records on record players under the dashboard (and we consider skipping CD's a distraction!) . With those, and other signs of the impending apocolypse, there came a rush of spirit that spoke to the nature of survival, hope for the species, and optimism for all living things. That spirit said: Bury things in the ground!
'57 was still close enough to the Big War that people were still a little jumpy -- looking over their collective shoulders and dreading the spectre of the Atomic Bomb. Technology was new and scary. Toasters had multiple settings. Chrysler had just introduced their Highway Hi-Fi, allowing drivers to play vinyl records on record players under the dashboard (and we consider skipping CD's a distraction!) . With those, and other signs of the impending apocolypse, there came a rush of spirit that spoke to the nature of survival, hope for the species, and optimism for all living things. That spirit said: Bury things in the ground!
Put things in a container and we'll call it a Time Capsule, and it will explain to the survivors of the Cold War Meltdown what it was like before the human race wiped itself out with bombs and marathon sock-hops. With shovels and grit, Boy Scouts, Chambers of Commerce, Little Leagues, and Career Criminals all took to the dirt, burying bits of the present (and Joey the Snitch) to be uncovered later, as evidence of the living past.Unfortunately, the millenium was just too far away, and the Gloomy-Gus mentality of the Nation caused most of the instructions and maps about the time capsules to be lost. Who would be around, if that far-off millenium finally did arrive?
Well, it did come around, and humans still abound, still worrying about the big, important, life-changing things - like buried gas-guzzlers. And Tulsa kept its map to the buried car.
Today, they dug it up.
A crowd watched the lifting by crane of the enormous bagged automobile, having gathered from the far corners of the world, for the opening of a fifty-year old time capsule. No fooling. They came from countries like Mexico, Norway, Canada, and California (right...like California ISN'T its own country out there!). People drove in from all directions of the compass. Luckily, the Tulsarama! folks buried a filled gas can, which they can auction off, or put on display as the last example of gasoline at 19¢ per gallon.
In 1957, the revolutionary way to wrap a sandwich for the lunchbox was that new-fangled wax paper, and regretably, that's sort of what they used to hermetically seal the Belvedere. Anyone who has ever crept down into a gloomy cellar recognizes that mildewy, musty smell is the dank air, caused by dank water, which travels the earth's geography looking for basements, cellars, and burial crypts to fill. There are indications the water completely covered the car at times, and while digging up a car is reason enough for a party, it has to be admitted that burying a brand new car in the ground is NOT the best way to preserve it for posterity.
They could have disassembled it and put it in my sock drawer. I've got several pairs dating back to that era, still holding up pretty well.
Well, it did come around, and humans still abound, still worrying about the big, important, life-changing things - like buried gas-guzzlers. And Tulsa kept its map to the buried car.
Today, they dug it up.
A crowd watched the lifting by crane of the enormous bagged automobile, having gathered from the far corners of the world, for the opening of a fifty-year old time capsule. No fooling. They came from countries like Mexico, Norway, Canada, and California (right...like California ISN'T its own country out there!). People drove in from all directions of the compass. Luckily, the Tulsarama! folks buried a filled gas can, which they can auction off, or put on display as the last example of gasoline at 19¢ per gallon.
In 1957, the revolutionary way to wrap a sandwich for the lunchbox was that new-fangled wax paper, and regretably, that's sort of what they used to hermetically seal the Belvedere. Anyone who has ever crept down into a gloomy cellar recognizes that mildewy, musty smell is the dank air, caused by dank water, which travels the earth's geography looking for basements, cellars, and burial crypts to fill. There are indications the water completely covered the car at times, and while digging up a car is reason enough for a party, it has to be admitted that burying a brand new car in the ground is NOT the best way to preserve it for posterity.
They could have disassembled it and put it in my sock drawer. I've got several pairs dating back to that era, still holding up pretty well.
Saturday, June 9, 2007
On 24
What???!! Something good on television?
Scandalous!
It's easier to pick on TV than picking your own nose (picking someone else's nose is difficult enough to be an Olympic event). Once you get started picking (on TV, that is) it's easy to keep using the same broad brush once it becomes comfortable. (Then again, there is something deeply satisfying - so to speak - about nosepicking, too.)
I've never subscribed to the TV = Vast Wasteland theory, but I have subscribed to HBO and others since they first became available. Having uncut movies available to me makes the whole television experience a little more palatable. Some of you are already thinking - what rot!
Me: There are a couple of good shows on television, with sophisticated plotlines and three dimensional characters.
Some of you: What rot!
Me: Oops, my bad. I was watching the shows on DVD courtesy of Netflix. Technically, not TV.
The Fox Network show 24, which - as pointed out to me by Dustin - is riddled with graphic violence, came in the mail this week. (Of course, I had to see it, once I realized it was a TV bad-boy.) Season one, Disk one. Raring to rip. I'm not claiming it to be high art like Shakespeare or Larry the Cable Guy, but it IS pretty gripping, as TV shows go.
Quick thoughts...
1 . I told someone (several people actually) that I think I would actually VOTE for the Allstate Insurance pitchman, if he would run for president. Something about his on-screen presence exudes ability, confidence, and trust (probably required in actor contracts with Allstate), with the hint of scandal-possibility (probably required in politician contracts with America). Ironically - in 24 - Dennis Haysbert plays a senator running for president. All through the show, I had to fight an urge to locate a voting booth.
2. Television still doesn't have the big-movie budget. Bad-Guy-Teenager gets shot at near point-blank range, but he doesn't bleed. (Not that I'm looking for that, or needing it - I just thought every current show had to have the CSI gross-out factor.)
3. Bad-guy-teenager-with-a-heart (Bad-Guy-Teenager's sidekick) could bust into a whole new line of work, if he could just get out from under the thumb of his Big-Baddie-Boss. Big-Baddie orders Teen-Heart (What? You think I'm going to memorize all their names?) to bury his buddy, and tosses him a shovel and a one-liner.
Big-Baddie (tossing shovel): By the time I get back, you'd better have him buried.
Teen-Heart: Where?
Big-Baddie (with sarcastic snarl): In the ground.
Teen-Heart (doing a 3-Stooges finger-roll): Nyuck! Nyuck! Nyuck! (actually, Linda - that last line is made up...)
4. Since Big-Baddie has already shot his buddy, you'd think Teen-Heart would opt for the Crime Standard "shallow grave" - but NO! Working at a furious pace (except when he stops to smoke drugs), Teen-Heart digs the most beautiful square-cornered, six-feet-under, final resting spot - since Tales from the Crypt. The amazing part is how he does it without breaking a sweat or getting dirty.
5. Later, when Jack Bauer follows orders (against his will) and has to shoot his co-worker, he does it at the edge of a cliff, and the co-worker takes four or five shots to the brassiered chest before tumbling down the ravine. Luckily, he outfitted her with a flak-jacket first, which is probably why she didn't get too emotional at the moment of her impending demise.
Or maybe she saw the same trick pulled on the show Alias, the only other series I've received from Netflix.
Maybe it's a one-plot fits all World, after all.
Scandalous!
It's easier to pick on TV than picking your own nose (picking someone else's nose is difficult enough to be an Olympic event). Once you get started picking (on TV, that is) it's easy to keep using the same broad brush once it becomes comfortable. (Then again, there is something deeply satisfying - so to speak - about nosepicking, too.)
I've never subscribed to the TV = Vast Wasteland theory, but I have subscribed to HBO and others since they first became available. Having uncut movies available to me makes the whole television experience a little more palatable. Some of you are already thinking - what rot!
Me: There are a couple of good shows on television, with sophisticated plotlines and three dimensional characters.
Some of you: What rot!
Me: Oops, my bad. I was watching the shows on DVD courtesy of Netflix. Technically, not TV.
The Fox Network show 24, which - as pointed out to me by Dustin - is riddled with graphic violence, came in the mail this week. (Of course, I had to see it, once I realized it was a TV bad-boy.) Season one, Disk one. Raring to rip. I'm not claiming it to be high art like Shakespeare or Larry the Cable Guy, but it IS pretty gripping, as TV shows go.
Quick thoughts...
1 . I told someone (several people actually) that I think I would actually VOTE for the Allstate Insurance pitchman, if he would run for president. Something about his on-screen presence exudes ability, confidence, and trust (probably required in actor contracts with Allstate), with the hint of scandal-possibility (probably required in politician contracts with America). Ironically - in 24 - Dennis Haysbert plays a senator running for president. All through the show, I had to fight an urge to locate a voting booth.
2. Television still doesn't have the big-movie budget. Bad-Guy-Teenager gets shot at near point-blank range, but he doesn't bleed. (Not that I'm looking for that, or needing it - I just thought every current show had to have the CSI gross-out factor.)
3. Bad-guy-teenager-with-a-heart (Bad-Guy-Teenager's sidekick) could bust into a whole new line of work, if he could just get out from under the thumb of his Big-Baddie-Boss. Big-Baddie orders Teen-Heart (What? You think I'm going to memorize all their names?) to bury his buddy, and tosses him a shovel and a one-liner.
Big-Baddie (tossing shovel): By the time I get back, you'd better have him buried.
Teen-Heart: Where?
Big-Baddie (with sarcastic snarl): In the ground.
Teen-Heart (doing a 3-Stooges finger-roll): Nyuck! Nyuck! Nyuck! (actually, Linda - that last line is made up...)
4. Since Big-Baddie has already shot his buddy, you'd think Teen-Heart would opt for the Crime Standard "shallow grave" - but NO! Working at a furious pace (except when he stops to smoke drugs), Teen-Heart digs the most beautiful square-cornered, six-feet-under, final resting spot - since Tales from the Crypt. The amazing part is how he does it without breaking a sweat or getting dirty.
5. Later, when Jack Bauer follows orders (against his will) and has to shoot his co-worker, he does it at the edge of a cliff, and the co-worker takes four or five shots to the brassiered chest before tumbling down the ravine. Luckily, he outfitted her with a flak-jacket first, which is probably why she didn't get too emotional at the moment of her impending demise.
Or maybe she saw the same trick pulled on the show Alias, the only other series I've received from Netflix.
Maybe it's a one-plot fits all World, after all.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Are You Evolved?
Change is good. Particularly if it is in the form of rare Spanish pirate coins rattling around in your pants pocket - short of that, though, I've found that change ranges more toward interesting than especially beneficial.
For instance, I've locked my car doors for years, even to the point of paying sixty dollars to a locksmith at 2 am (the rates double at 1 am) to let me back in. People steal things. Lock the doors. Keep them out. Lock the key in. Keep yourself out.
Suddenly, I'm approaching my car after a day's work, grabbing the door handle and giving it the old heave-ho, and nearly ripping off my fingertips. The door is locked. Surprise? Shouldn't be. I know it is locked, because I'm the one who locked it. Every time. Thinking back on it, I recall walking to the car in the past, key in hand, extended forward like some water-divining rod seeking an underground spring. What happened? How come I'm suddenly jerking on a locked door expecting it to open?
It may be that my concentration skills are distracted by my new artistic expressionism, one rarely practiced in this day and age. Similar to the ventriloquists of old, Willie Tyler and Lester, Shari Lewis and Lamb Chop, Edgar Bergan and Charlie McCarthy, Jeff Dunham and Jose Jalapeno on a Stick - I'm practicing a form of that magical illusion, in which the voice of my stomach growling is "thrown" across the room without any movement of my lips whatsoever.
Although I've not been at this long (at least as far as I can remember) I seem to have taken to it like a bird to flight, even to the point of surprising myself. I was particularly startled this morning when - near the window across the room - I heard some scary safari-like noises and didn't immediately recognize them as the result of the "throwing" of my "voice." I decided I'd practiced enough for the day and immediately had a Dew & cupcake to end the morning's performances.
It's an entertaining pastime as well, since I'm not confined to safari noises, and already have a selection ranging from distant jet-landings to creaking metal swingsets - all of which I imagine as having great "party potential." I'm still trying to determine the audience for the shrill doll-like screaming that changes pitch as I breath in - which is rather unnerving, I'll admit.
But, enough of that for now - someone's apparently trying to get in the locked back door.
Oops.
That's me.
Check out the books:
http://mchustonbooks.com/
For instance, I've locked my car doors for years, even to the point of paying sixty dollars to a locksmith at 2 am (the rates double at 1 am) to let me back in. People steal things. Lock the doors. Keep them out. Lock the key in. Keep yourself out.
Suddenly, I'm approaching my car after a day's work, grabbing the door handle and giving it the old heave-ho, and nearly ripping off my fingertips. The door is locked. Surprise? Shouldn't be. I know it is locked, because I'm the one who locked it. Every time. Thinking back on it, I recall walking to the car in the past, key in hand, extended forward like some water-divining rod seeking an underground spring. What happened? How come I'm suddenly jerking on a locked door expecting it to open?
It may be that my concentration skills are distracted by my new artistic expressionism, one rarely practiced in this day and age. Similar to the ventriloquists of old, Willie Tyler and Lester, Shari Lewis and Lamb Chop, Edgar Bergan and Charlie McCarthy, Jeff Dunham and Jose Jalapeno on a Stick - I'm practicing a form of that magical illusion, in which the voice of my stomach growling is "thrown" across the room without any movement of my lips whatsoever.
Although I've not been at this long (at least as far as I can remember) I seem to have taken to it like a bird to flight, even to the point of surprising myself. I was particularly startled this morning when - near the window across the room - I heard some scary safari-like noises and didn't immediately recognize them as the result of the "throwing" of my "voice." I decided I'd practiced enough for the day and immediately had a Dew & cupcake to end the morning's performances.
It's an entertaining pastime as well, since I'm not confined to safari noises, and already have a selection ranging from distant jet-landings to creaking metal swingsets - all of which I imagine as having great "party potential." I'm still trying to determine the audience for the shrill doll-like screaming that changes pitch as I breath in - which is rather unnerving, I'll admit.
But, enough of that for now - someone's apparently trying to get in the locked back door.
Oops.
That's me.
Check out the books:
http://mchustonbooks.com/
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
On the Shoulder of the Information Superhighway
Here am I, unceremoniously booted from the train, my ticket in hand, banished to the antiquated and shameful dialup method of accessing the internet. As I type, I watch the small indicator in the corner of the screen, waiting for the moment I will be kicked offline again. Unlike the broadband, all-the-time connection, the dialup decides for you when you should be disconnected. Oops. There it goes.
It is the equivalent, I suppose, of sitting on my suitcase between the road and the rails, looking in one direction for the chance of a car and driver with an offer of a ride, and then looking down the other way, scanning the railroad track for my high-speed train.
When I signed up for the ride, I was issued a ticket and a hat, and I've been riding merrily along for all this time, holding out my stub at each station to have it punched by the smiling conductor with nary a problem. Thursday, the ticket apparently got an extra-close look, and it was determined that I was charged for the hat, but not the ticket. Rather than asking me to pay right then, or at the next station, I was kicked off the info-train, asked to stand in the back of the ticket line, and wait patiently while a new ticket is processed.
Thanks, Windstream! These are the corporate moments that obviously don't make the thirty second commercials, the ones proclaiming how well off you'll be, once you've signed up for the program. Those of you who know me (and that's all of you!) will be pleased to know that I kept my temper in check - if not my surprise - at the way the company's mistake was handled. (Can't get too angry after having six or seven months of free internet, although I'm sure the bill is being prepared, even now...) I did tell the woman that - if she didn't mind my pointing it out - I thought it was the wrong way to correct an error of their own making. It would have been easy enoughto include a personal message in the next bill, pointing out the situation, and including the standard internet charge that has been omitted to date.
In the meantime, I cannot conduct my regular business, much of which involves looking up authors, titles, and prices by way of the internet. I also have had to put aside the research I have been doing, for which I'm being paid regularly.
Ah, well.
No doubt, some of you know me well enough to realize I've already been thinking about an alternative company. Patience is a virtue, and one that I possess in adequate quantity. It's the lack of tolerance for incompetence that gives me the itchy dialing finger.
In the meantime, I've been forced to occupy myself with other things around the store, and I've come to realize that if the internet went out, say, every Monday, I could keep caught up on all my filing and cleaning.
It's almost fun to do while wearing this high-speed hat.
It is the equivalent, I suppose, of sitting on my suitcase between the road and the rails, looking in one direction for the chance of a car and driver with an offer of a ride, and then looking down the other way, scanning the railroad track for my high-speed train.
When I signed up for the ride, I was issued a ticket and a hat, and I've been riding merrily along for all this time, holding out my stub at each station to have it punched by the smiling conductor with nary a problem. Thursday, the ticket apparently got an extra-close look, and it was determined that I was charged for the hat, but not the ticket. Rather than asking me to pay right then, or at the next station, I was kicked off the info-train, asked to stand in the back of the ticket line, and wait patiently while a new ticket is processed.
Thanks, Windstream! These are the corporate moments that obviously don't make the thirty second commercials, the ones proclaiming how well off you'll be, once you've signed up for the program. Those of you who know me (and that's all of you!) will be pleased to know that I kept my temper in check - if not my surprise - at the way the company's mistake was handled. (Can't get too angry after having six or seven months of free internet, although I'm sure the bill is being prepared, even now...) I did tell the woman that - if she didn't mind my pointing it out - I thought it was the wrong way to correct an error of their own making. It would have been easy enoughto include a personal message in the next bill, pointing out the situation, and including the standard internet charge that has been omitted to date.
In the meantime, I cannot conduct my regular business, much of which involves looking up authors, titles, and prices by way of the internet. I also have had to put aside the research I have been doing, for which I'm being paid regularly.
Ah, well.
No doubt, some of you know me well enough to realize I've already been thinking about an alternative company. Patience is a virtue, and one that I possess in adequate quantity. It's the lack of tolerance for incompetence that gives me the itchy dialing finger.
In the meantime, I've been forced to occupy myself with other things around the store, and I've come to realize that if the internet went out, say, every Monday, I could keep caught up on all my filing and cleaning.
It's almost fun to do while wearing this high-speed hat.
Monday, May 14, 2007
The Difference is Perspective
The young man raced across the street in front of my car - he was long-legged and easily made the curb opposite, but he didn't stop.
THAT was somewhat suspicious, as twenty-to-twenty-five year olds are not generally inclined to run in the middle of the day, without the proper running attire. Assuming he was fleeing the law, I went through the required rubbernecking (a term that describes the rapid turning of the head in all directions, for you young whippersnappers) but saw no one in pursuit. As I drew even with him, he slowed to a trot and then began walking. At no point did he look behind him, or make any furtive movements that might tip his fugitive status, leading me to believe he was no fugitive at all, merely a young man who was sprinting because he could, and continuing that pace because - in the same manner that the running was not really required in the first place - there was no real reason to slow down.
He was running because he liked it.
My thought, as I watched, ran more toward - "what a waste of energy."
These are the pernicious thoughts of aging. They are the incipient indicators that the perspective is beginning to change and the onset of crotchity is at hand. (There is no scientific evidence for this, as yet, but there exists plenty of anecdotal association.) Presumably, there is the lost memory of the pure joy of running, full-speed, sans water bottle, that precedes the change of perspective, allowing such first impressions as "what a waste of energy" to emerge unmolested in the thought process.
He was running because he liked it, but I was already to the second run-through of "bad boy, bad boy, what'cha gonna do?" before it dawned on me that I had crossed another invisible line in the aging process. We tell ourselves we don't feel a bit older, except when we try to read the fine print on the bottle, or squat down to retrieve the cleaner under the sink. Our bodies may be aging a tad, we admit, but our thoughts - why, we might be eighteen still!
Nope.
I've also noted the additional difficulty in refraining to utter the phrase "I remember when," as in - "I remember when I filled up the gas tank on my motorcycle for a quarter."
It's not the entire reason, but it is a contributor to the onset of crotchity-ness, spending half the amount it took to buy a motorcycle back then, to fill up the tank of the SUV today.
And don't get me started on the price of these reduced-size Ding Dongs!
(Oops. A little crotchity slipped through there.)
Check out the books:
http://mchustonbooks.com
THAT was somewhat suspicious, as twenty-to-twenty-five year olds are not generally inclined to run in the middle of the day, without the proper running attire. Assuming he was fleeing the law, I went through the required rubbernecking (a term that describes the rapid turning of the head in all directions, for you young whippersnappers) but saw no one in pursuit. As I drew even with him, he slowed to a trot and then began walking. At no point did he look behind him, or make any furtive movements that might tip his fugitive status, leading me to believe he was no fugitive at all, merely a young man who was sprinting because he could, and continuing that pace because - in the same manner that the running was not really required in the first place - there was no real reason to slow down.
He was running because he liked it.
My thought, as I watched, ran more toward - "what a waste of energy."
These are the pernicious thoughts of aging. They are the incipient indicators that the perspective is beginning to change and the onset of crotchity is at hand. (There is no scientific evidence for this, as yet, but there exists plenty of anecdotal association.) Presumably, there is the lost memory of the pure joy of running, full-speed, sans water bottle, that precedes the change of perspective, allowing such first impressions as "what a waste of energy" to emerge unmolested in the thought process.
He was running because he liked it, but I was already to the second run-through of "bad boy, bad boy, what'cha gonna do?" before it dawned on me that I had crossed another invisible line in the aging process. We tell ourselves we don't feel a bit older, except when we try to read the fine print on the bottle, or squat down to retrieve the cleaner under the sink. Our bodies may be aging a tad, we admit, but our thoughts - why, we might be eighteen still!
Nope.
I've also noted the additional difficulty in refraining to utter the phrase "I remember when," as in - "I remember when I filled up the gas tank on my motorcycle for a quarter."
It's not the entire reason, but it is a contributor to the onset of crotchity-ness, spending half the amount it took to buy a motorcycle back then, to fill up the tank of the SUV today.
And don't get me started on the price of these reduced-size Ding Dongs!
(Oops. A little crotchity slipped through there.)
Check out the books:
http://mchustonbooks.com
The Only Constant is Change
Who'd a thot the name wouldn't last any longer than this? FROM THE COMMON MAN is a title that allows the entry to start with any first sentence, rather than the self-restricting format of WHO'D A THOT? It's a name change, and a settings-change that will now allow the posting of comments to any commentary. Change. It's the only constant. It's the free re-start we used to call "Boy's Club Overs!" that was the adolescent equivalent of golf's mulligan.
It's sort of like Bonnie Raitt's explanation, when she abruptly stopped a song in concert - "It's my show, and I can start a song over if I want!"
The solemn-looking fellow on the banner is Michel Höfling, a blue-collar American immigrant, forebear of the common thoughts expressed here, and an advocate of change, as evidenced by his decision to cross the Atlantic for a new life in the 1870's.
So - now the sermonizing can begin with any first sentence that comes to mind, even though the blogspot address remains as it was.
Who'd a thot that would matter?
Check out the books:
http://mchustonbooks.com
It's sort of like Bonnie Raitt's explanation, when she abruptly stopped a song in concert - "It's my show, and I can start a song over if I want!"
The solemn-looking fellow on the banner is Michel Höfling, a blue-collar American immigrant, forebear of the common thoughts expressed here, and an advocate of change, as evidenced by his decision to cross the Atlantic for a new life in the 1870's.
So - now the sermonizing can begin with any first sentence that comes to mind, even though the blogspot address remains as it was.
Who'd a thot that would matter?
Check out the books:
http://mchustonbooks.com
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Aaaargh, me Hearties!
Who’d a thot that the most technologically advanced society in the history of the planet would find their authority figures speaking in the parlance of eighteenth-century harpoon-throwing whalers?
Aaaaargh, me buckos – it’s come to that.
As referenced elsewhere, the term Nor'easter originates in British maritime English and - for unknown reasons - the popular media revived it. Certainly, you’ve heard the newscasters use the term to describe any storm on the east coast, which forces the question: Why are indigenous weather patterns elsewhere in the country not described by similarly arcane terms?
I can’t tell you the number of times that I heard someone or another describe a rainstorm as a real “gully-washer,” a common and descriptive term. I believe I may speak for any number of Midwesterners in requesting that future reporting of our weather phenomena include the nomenclature of our heritage in the manner that Nor’easter captures the vernacular of the New England seafaring man.
Katy Couric: A classic gully-washer in Austin Texas today swamped cars and homes in low-lying areas, prompting installation of FEMA gangplanks. Aaaargh, me hearties!”
And when did gunmen become shooters? There was a time that the Violence Union required such terms as Assassin, Murderer, Attacker, or Sniper. Gunman was the logical and acceptable lowest common denominator. Has political correctness rendered the term obsolete?
Katy Couric: The gunwoman seen running from the scene in high heels and Capri pants effectively avoided a gully-washer that sent floodwaters onto streets and FEMA gangplanks. Aaaargh, me hearties!”
While on the subject – what’s up with the rolling of the R’s in Spanish? I’m sure you’ve heard those reports, where the newscaster suddenly reverts to high school foreign language classes and delivers a commonly spoken word with the correct – if surprising – South-of-the-border pronunciation.
Katy Couric: The gunwoman ran through the barrrrrr-ee-oh, splashing floodwaters from the gully-washer onto her chinos. Aaaargh, I forgot chinos is a term only used by novelists, not real people, except those in Ah-mah-reeeee-yo, Tay-hoss.”
Then again, American never had a “grassy knoll” until the Kennedy assassination - that is to say - “shooter incident.” Aaaaargh, me hearties! Shiver me timbers and walk the plank, as soon as we get through this Nor’easter!
Or find it in the dictionary.
Check out the books:
http://mchustonbooks.com
Aaaaargh, me buckos – it’s come to that.
As referenced elsewhere, the term Nor'easter originates in British maritime English and - for unknown reasons - the popular media revived it. Certainly, you’ve heard the newscasters use the term to describe any storm on the east coast, which forces the question: Why are indigenous weather patterns elsewhere in the country not described by similarly arcane terms?
I can’t tell you the number of times that I heard someone or another describe a rainstorm as a real “gully-washer,” a common and descriptive term. I believe I may speak for any number of Midwesterners in requesting that future reporting of our weather phenomena include the nomenclature of our heritage in the manner that Nor’easter captures the vernacular of the New England seafaring man.
Katy Couric: A classic gully-washer in Austin Texas today swamped cars and homes in low-lying areas, prompting installation of FEMA gangplanks. Aaaargh, me hearties!”
And when did gunmen become shooters? There was a time that the Violence Union required such terms as Assassin, Murderer, Attacker, or Sniper. Gunman was the logical and acceptable lowest common denominator. Has political correctness rendered the term obsolete?
Katy Couric: The gunwoman seen running from the scene in high heels and Capri pants effectively avoided a gully-washer that sent floodwaters onto streets and FEMA gangplanks. Aaaargh, me hearties!”
While on the subject – what’s up with the rolling of the R’s in Spanish? I’m sure you’ve heard those reports, where the newscaster suddenly reverts to high school foreign language classes and delivers a commonly spoken word with the correct – if surprising – South-of-the-border pronunciation.
Katy Couric: The gunwoman ran through the barrrrrr-ee-oh, splashing floodwaters from the gully-washer onto her chinos. Aaaargh, I forgot chinos is a term only used by novelists, not real people, except those in Ah-mah-reeeee-yo, Tay-hoss.”
Then again, American never had a “grassy knoll” until the Kennedy assassination - that is to say - “shooter incident.” Aaaaargh, me hearties! Shiver me timbers and walk the plank, as soon as we get through this Nor’easter!
Or find it in the dictionary.
Check out the books:
http://mchustonbooks.com
Friday, April 13, 2007
Imus Gonus
Who'd a thot three words could bring down a career? And - technically - not even three valid words, but only a hyphenated descriptive followed by a colloquial slang term.
As a young broadcaster I learned the truth about the adage "sticks and stones," and it turns out the part that explains "words will never hurt me" ranks right up there with "a bird in the hand" being worth "two in the bush." No one wants a bird in the hand. Messy - just like the fallout from those words.
In my own case, the lesson was not by way of an open microphone, but words in a soundproof recording booth. It wasn't. I can't bear to repeat what was said, and have to ask myself if that was really me, speaking in that way, back then. The words were overheard, and they hurt even then. Today, they still cause anguish, the pain of my own shame.
On the air, I could never have been as quick-witted as Don Imus. It isn't so much a matter of intelligence, although I could fall flat on my cerebellum in a head to head Iowa Test of Standardized Development with him. Smarts come in several forms. Somewhere, for reasons unknown to me, I developed a governor that held my words in check, a device that forced me to hear the words in my head before they flew from my mouth. Scotch whiskey affects the governor, as many of my acquaintances will attest. I've been in trouble from words before, too.
Quick-witted from me on the radio had to be doubly so. Quips had to clear my own self-censor before they could reach the microphone, and still be timely. I held my own, but could never lead the pack. Having a built-in censor is like racing a car dragging an anchor: happily for me, it isn't a NASCAR world and conversationalists aren't equipped with equal horsepower. I could cruise around the track, passing a few, while others blew my doors off.
There are many avenues for entertainment these days - many more so than when I made a living talking out loud. In a way, it's a shame that those who enjoy Imus for his outrageousness will lose that option.
But I've never really seen the humor in calling people names. And if the defamed aren't present to defend themselves with equally-quickwitted retorts, where is the sport in that?
Not on CBS, I'm guessing.
Check out the books:
http://mchustonbooks.com
As a young broadcaster I learned the truth about the adage "sticks and stones," and it turns out the part that explains "words will never hurt me" ranks right up there with "a bird in the hand" being worth "two in the bush." No one wants a bird in the hand. Messy - just like the fallout from those words.
In my own case, the lesson was not by way of an open microphone, but words in a soundproof recording booth. It wasn't. I can't bear to repeat what was said, and have to ask myself if that was really me, speaking in that way, back then. The words were overheard, and they hurt even then. Today, they still cause anguish, the pain of my own shame.
On the air, I could never have been as quick-witted as Don Imus. It isn't so much a matter of intelligence, although I could fall flat on my cerebellum in a head to head Iowa Test of Standardized Development with him. Smarts come in several forms. Somewhere, for reasons unknown to me, I developed a governor that held my words in check, a device that forced me to hear the words in my head before they flew from my mouth. Scotch whiskey affects the governor, as many of my acquaintances will attest. I've been in trouble from words before, too.
Quick-witted from me on the radio had to be doubly so. Quips had to clear my own self-censor before they could reach the microphone, and still be timely. I held my own, but could never lead the pack. Having a built-in censor is like racing a car dragging an anchor: happily for me, it isn't a NASCAR world and conversationalists aren't equipped with equal horsepower. I could cruise around the track, passing a few, while others blew my doors off.
There are many avenues for entertainment these days - many more so than when I made a living talking out loud. In a way, it's a shame that those who enjoy Imus for his outrageousness will lose that option.
But I've never really seen the humor in calling people names. And if the defamed aren't present to defend themselves with equally-quickwitted retorts, where is the sport in that?
Not on CBS, I'm guessing.
Check out the books:
http://mchustonbooks.com
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Dawning of a New Age
Who’d a thot that the evolution of the species could fine-tune the DNA encoded shopping gene to an even greater degree, to the point that the proximity-sensing cilia could begin their frantic vibrations in the presence of designer bags and malls at ranges outward of fifteen miles?
Driving through Oklahoma City, my own first realization came in the form of a gentle cooing from the backseat, recognizable as being that of our seventeen year old only when it advanced into a steady and unrelenting drone, interspersed at points with the single, desperate word … mall. Our business completed, and only the drive home ahead of us, the two of us in the front seats found ourselves in a particularly vulnerable state, glazed in guilt at having had to require their presence for the decidedly unadventurous morning appointment.
Still, we had not prepared for mall visitation. I tried to remain strong against the not-so-subtle near-chant, understanding it was only in biological response to the siren-song of the boutique or the scent of the cosmetics counter, both well beyond my own hearing and olfactory abilities. Recognizing the smooth-tiled chrome and glass savannah as her native predatory expanse, I felt the hair tickling at the back of my neck as my skin drew taut, and I tell you brothers and sisters, I was mightily afraid.
I claimed ignorance, loudly and at once. Oklahoma City was too large, too broad, too under-signed - impossible for me to know the location of any suitable locations. I continued driving, trying to imagine following in her wake, straggling behind her muscular and well-rehearsed shopping stride, grazing and gazing amidst the earrings and leather goods.
Throwing myself at the mercy of Prada and Gucci, I made promises that now shame me, even as the droning from the back began to fade. In the waves of relief that followed, I flicked the turn signal and altered our course into the now-safe outer lane, only to spot a telescoped-pole capped with the sign of the golden arches.
Inhaling sharply, and with the knowledge that a five-year-old disciple sat directly behind me, I glanced into the mirror, only to find him fast asleep against the armrest, obviously lulled into his innocent and idyllic slumbers by the steady murmuring of his sister.
There will come a mutant gene to address that masculine reaction, a final evolution, a tweaking of the hereditary hunter-gatherer chromosome that will mark the onset of the Neoshopping Age.
And I’ll be spinning happily in my grave.
Check out the books:
http://mchustonbooks.com
Driving through Oklahoma City, my own first realization came in the form of a gentle cooing from the backseat, recognizable as being that of our seventeen year old only when it advanced into a steady and unrelenting drone, interspersed at points with the single, desperate word … mall. Our business completed, and only the drive home ahead of us, the two of us in the front seats found ourselves in a particularly vulnerable state, glazed in guilt at having had to require their presence for the decidedly unadventurous morning appointment.
Still, we had not prepared for mall visitation. I tried to remain strong against the not-so-subtle near-chant, understanding it was only in biological response to the siren-song of the boutique or the scent of the cosmetics counter, both well beyond my own hearing and olfactory abilities. Recognizing the smooth-tiled chrome and glass savannah as her native predatory expanse, I felt the hair tickling at the back of my neck as my skin drew taut, and I tell you brothers and sisters, I was mightily afraid.
I claimed ignorance, loudly and at once. Oklahoma City was too large, too broad, too under-signed - impossible for me to know the location of any suitable locations. I continued driving, trying to imagine following in her wake, straggling behind her muscular and well-rehearsed shopping stride, grazing and gazing amidst the earrings and leather goods.
Throwing myself at the mercy of Prada and Gucci, I made promises that now shame me, even as the droning from the back began to fade. In the waves of relief that followed, I flicked the turn signal and altered our course into the now-safe outer lane, only to spot a telescoped-pole capped with the sign of the golden arches.
Inhaling sharply, and with the knowledge that a five-year-old disciple sat directly behind me, I glanced into the mirror, only to find him fast asleep against the armrest, obviously lulled into his innocent and idyllic slumbers by the steady murmuring of his sister.
There will come a mutant gene to address that masculine reaction, a final evolution, a tweaking of the hereditary hunter-gatherer chromosome that will mark the onset of the Neoshopping Age.
And I’ll be spinning happily in my grave.
Check out the books:
http://mchustonbooks.com
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