The Cutlery Wars

I really need your help.

Seriously.

I trust you.

I am married to the Contrarian, and that places a special burden upon me as a woman, nay, as a human. I am stressed daily, nay, minute by minute with entanglement in a world that is simply not normal.

This is a world where up can sometimes be sideways, and out is almost always inside out. I have adapted over the years, and can carry off this feat quite well now, few strangers would ever guess that my mind is so twisted with incongruity.

So, why I need you?

Well how do you deal with the cutlery wars in your house? I’m utterly stymied by this family dilemma and look as I may, have been unable to find a good self-help book on the subject. I can but assume that there is some childhood training that I totally missed. I’m the only one on the planet who seems unable to fathom how to deal with this obvious problem.

You have no idea what I’m talking about?

Surely you jest.

You seriously don’t?

Ahhh, well it’s not me then?

Let me explain then.

Our happy home is utterly disturbed on a regular basis by the digging about in the drawer reserved for all things called “eating utensils.” I mean digging. As in pushing aside, throwing spoons into the knives, pawing to the bottom, cursing, growling, and pointed periodical statements such as “where are all the decent spoons in this house?”

Let me back up a bit.

I did not learn of this issue during the early time of our courtship. All those e-mails, phone conversations, leading up to our meeting in February of 1999, gave no clue that forks would come to divide us. Even during the whirlwind weeks of co-habiting, nary a clue could be garnered by the romantic food interludes we enjoyed.

As with all secret nut cases, my husband kept all these things hidden until the ring was squarely implanted on the third finger left hand.

And then it began.

The complaints.

The whining.

“Why don’t we have any decent forks?” he mewed.

“These spoons are the wrong shape!” he exclaimed.

I looked at them each time. Fork = longish rod with four tines. Spoon = longish rod with ovalate shape at the end depressed in the middle for holding liquids.

They seemed fine to me.

But they were not.

No, not by a long shot.

They were “bad” forks and spoons.

Knives, well we don’t even bother with knives. Knives are either sharp or to be tossed. They are either large, or useless. This man takes my biggest chefs knife of some twelve inches to cut a piece of pie. Moreover he doesn’t like knives much. He used to bone hams in a past life, yet he is terrified of them.

“You’re walking!” he screams.

“Yes, I am, I learned that around age one.” I intone.

“You have a knife in your hand–the blade is up. TURN IT DOWN!”, his face turning shades of red I’ve only dreamed of seeing on paint chips.

“Parker, I’m 63 years old. So far I’ve never stabbed myself.”

“THERE’S ALWAYS A FIRST TIME”, he snorts.

But at the table where we consume victuals, he doesn’t have much to say about knives, other than the obvious, “I think we need the steak knives babe, since WE ARE EATING STEAK.” He usually grins broadly following such an exclamation and you can see how proud his mother was when he smiled like that. Time to take the kid off the pot. He’d done his poop.

No, at the table, we reflect on the limitations of our forks and spoons.

And there is no good reason for this.

When we moved from the meadow and I was engaged in the endless task of sorting and packing, I omitted some of the worst offenders from the “stuff going south.” The near round spoon? Out it went. “Ridiculous shape” it was called. “Who can get their mouth around that?” it was taunted.

When we arrived in Las Cruces I planned on a new set of regular stainless steel. We shopped. He picked.

Did you hear me?

HE PICKED.

Has the complaining stopped?

Hell no.

Case in point.

Salad fork.

An innocent piece of cutlery. It sits first in line for forks. To be used for salads, and desserts. Perhaps for appetizers if necessary.

We have some. They come with the “set”.

But the Contrarian cannot use a salad fork.

Why you ask?

Because the handle is too short.

Did you hear that?

THE HANDLE IS TOO SHORT.

That IS what defines it as a salad fork Mr. Contrarian. If the handle were longer it would be a FORK as in DINNER FORK.

“But it makes the food too close to my hand. I don’t like that.” he moans.

How exactly does one answer such a statement?

The soup spoon.

It has a lovely place in the line of cutlery, for using for soup. It allows the slurping of liquids not drunk with enough speed that the entrée doesn’t get cold/burn up awaiting the finishing of the soup course. It is larger than a regular spoon but smaller than a serving spoon.

What’s the matter?

“It’s too large for my mouth!” he laments.

This delicate mouth that I love to kiss is frightened that the one-quarter of an inch increase in width will harm the corners of his delicate lips.

Short of giving this man his food through a feeding tube just what am I to do here?

Signed: desperately seeking food moving tools.

PS: Diego still disdains the use of stainless steel, preferring silver plate or his tongue. I live with a couple of heathens I tell ya!

Sooo, I’m Waiting for the Big Celebration!

Yeah, I’m waiting for the doorbell to ring, and the balloons to fall, and the gaily wrapped presents to tumble into my lap. Just to keep me busy, while I’m waiting, I walked the dog, cleaned the house, did a load of laundry, and got groceries.  I was pretty sure everyone was hiding in the bedroom when Diego and I returned from our desert jaunt.

I was even more sure that the backyard would be stacked with friends and relatives when I got back with bags of groceries. I even changed my top to look extra nice.

The guys are here to paint the rest of the new fence out front. I’m waiting, because no doubt they brought all the presents with them. Along with the paint.

Speaking of which, Diego loves his new fence. He runs out his back door and speeds around the house to check out what the neighbors are doing. He has a water dish in case he gets thirsty. He has plenty of shade. He likes it all. He’s thinking of what he wants for his birthday, and we haven’t yet even picked a date for his “birthday” yet. He seems unconcerned about it all.

Actually, I don’t pay much attention to birthdays. Other people’s? Yes, I pay attention to that because that’s polite. My own? Naw. The Contrarian managed to remember before the morning was over. That’s saying a lot. Heck we often talk about our anniversary and then get so caught up in living, that we forget when it actually hits.

Having a birthday now is sorta of a badge of survival anyway. I’m not sure that makes me feel a lot better about being 63 years of age. I’m smarter than I was at 36. But what to do with all that stuff stuffed in there? I have no clue. I figure when you get to heaven you get to put all that stuff in a box. I’m not sure how to make enchilada sauce is a useful thing in heaven.

We are going out to eat today. That’s what we usually do on Monday, so I don’t even get an EXTRA “out to eat” day. That seems wrong, and somehow doesn’t make today’s out-to-eat day all that special. I noted that on google search they had cupcakes and candles? Was that for me?

I got the usual number of “X posted on your wall” in Facebook. It took me a minute to realize it was the “happy birthday” obligatory if you can remember, stop by to type happy birthday. Or Have a great day! Or Hope you have a super birthday!  Or words to that effect. Do you try to come up with something a bit different to make it appear that you actual care? I do. But I confess I don’t think of the person’s “happy day” much past the click of the mouse to the next page.

I haven’ really thought about anything I “want” for my birthday. I pretty much buy what I want anyway. When you can afford to buy most things, nothing much seems very special does it? Unlike Tiny Tim and his wonder at the goose for Christmas in A Christmas Story. Or all those stories about pioneer life in the olden days when an orange and gum drop were major delights to be swooned over and enjoyed slowly and to the last drop on Christmas morning.

I got a number of “gifts” from some stores. JCP sent me a $5 dollar gift certificate. Pier One gave me a 25% off ticket. I got a bunch of tickets from JoAnn Fabrics. My broker sent a card, my dentist a $5 coupon at some ice cream palace over on RoadRunner Rd. I’m sure they all are thinking about me today. That makes me feel warm inside.

I noted that the wind stopped blowing as Diego and I walked into the desert. I’m sure it was homage to me and my desire not to walk into a head wind. I thought that was nice of Mother Nature, aka, God.

The housework went nicely, all the dust cooperated and clung to my dust cloths. Some people call their dust cloths rags, but I think that’s just mean. How do you expect a slip of cloth to do its job well when it’s referred to as a rag? I mean really. These things are important folks.

The car cooperated in my drive into town for groceries. That was a nice gift I thought. It’s been a thoroughly nice car for some time, although the engine light does like to come up a lot. That’s got to do with the catalytic converter according to the computer code at Auto Somethingorother place, which hooked her up and said she was only unhappy with her fuel mixture. It goes on and off. We can disconnect the battery and let her sit and stew in her unelectrified self for a bit and then plug her back up, and the light stays off—until it doesn’t again. She’s just petulant.

Actually I think the car is not a she. But I haven’t gotten under her to check for sure.

If you are in your twenties and reading this, boy are you in the wrong place. Unless you are studying to become a geriatric nurse. Then you can screw OFF. I’m being polite, and not using the F word. If you are in your 30-50′s, then the above is a preview of the state of mind you too will attain upon reaching your 60′s. It’s got to do with social security. It’s not very social, and not very secure by the way. And Medicare doesn’t care one whit I suspect either. You’re just another warm body until you are a cold body. And then it’s on to someone else.

So hey, if you get lucky and get to be 63, you too can be the happy person you’re reading right now! Aren’t you excited?

Yeah, well screw off then too!

Just kidding.

Sorta.

 

 

 

Chronicles of a Harried Housewife Part: 3,723

Or the Saga of the Crippled Finger and the Unbalanced Butt.

Whichever you prefer.

But I get ahead of myself.

Oh, one second.

GOD ALERT: THIS IS ANOTHER HALO REQUEST REMINDER!

The Lord said:

Sherry, your reward shall be great in heaven.”

I trust in the Lord.

Okay, so here’s how this all started.

Late in the day of the day following the Turkey gorge, “there arose such a clatter than we sprang from our chairs to see what was the matter.” We did this since our street is normally a quiet place, a place so untraveled that on occasion the children string a net across the street to play volley ball and can be assured of a full game with no interruptions  by vehicles coming or going.

“When what to our pondering eyes should appear,” or words to that effect, “but neighbors abounding on ladders and so forth, pounding and plucking, and stretching and stringing.”

Yes, here in the fair environs of Las Cruces, it appears a requirement that thou shalt put forth the Christmas decorations before the Thanksgiving weekend is over. So thus were many of our neighbors engaged. We looked upon in wonder as the yard next to ours was encircled by a row of candy canes all alit. Up the driveway careened a line of lollipops. The large window was awash with a cascade of white lights, while in front, a fully blow-up version of the nativity waved gently in the breeze. Upon the sweet face of Mary I saw some alarm as next to her, overseeing the manger was a very large and corpulent Frosty the Snowman.

The state motto might well be changed from Land of Enchantment to Land of Mixed Metaphor. But I digress.

Across the way we saw a more fashionable display of red and green light fixtures unencumbered by elves, sleighs or other paraphernalia. The garage night lights were alternately green and red. I do question the massive red light directly over the front door. In some parts of town one might expect a line of slightly aging men to be apparent, but of course not here.

At the corner, our neighbor Tim had a nicely lit blue tree, a row of red ducks with ribboned necks, and a host of santas lining the sidewalk while snowflakes dotted the gravel in the front, all overseen by a sleigh and a deer, empty sadly of either the jolly man himself or any presents.

So it was clear we must SHOP soon!

On yesterday, called Monday by most, but by me, the hell day, we gathered ourselves together for a trek to K-Mart and Lowe’s in the hopes of finding a tree and ornaments, but of course now the need was obvious–we needs make our own neighborly statement. We must show our solidarity with Christmas. We must plaster our yard with gaud and bauble. We must most of all, not be last to decorate.

So, as I said, we were on the way.

Before we rode out of sight, I heard him exclaim:

“For what earthly reason would anyone do this? I mean can it really be cheaper? A small piece of material like that? I ask you?”

“What on New Mexico’s brown desert are you talking about, DEAR?” I mewed.

“The makers of these damn pants,” he exclaimed.

“What’s wrong with your pants, dear?” I mused. (I use the term dear a good deal as it calms things down at a time like this.)

“There is no LEFT back pocket!” he shouts with consternation. “I didn’t realize it until we got in the car. This is a total mess.”

“Is there a RIGHT back pocket, dear?” I queried.

“Yes, but that is worthless! Why would they do this?” It was now a whimper.

“You have a pocket, in fact you have many pockets. Two in your hoodie if I’m not mistaken. Plus three in your pants. That gives you five to choose from if my math is still good.” I sighed, and then looked forth upon the land to see if I was still firmly planted on Planet Earth.

“But it needs to be on the left side. I ALWAYS put my wallet in my left back pocket. My butt is uneven now, and my back is killing me. I’m unbalanced!” he groaned.

“Many would agree with you there, dear.” I smiled softly, but to myself.  “I suppose I could put a pea on the floor under the bed, and you would tell me about it the next morning too.”

“Pea? Why would you put a pea under the bed? But you could be more careful with the dust bunnies under there. The lumps are getting a bit hard to take.” he proffered.

I sighed.

We shopped.

At Lowe’s he called me on my cell phone.

“Where are you?”

“Back in the bathroom fixtures area looking for those non-skid stickers for the tub,” I said.

 

“Okay, I’ll meet you at the front.” he said.

“Okay, I’ll be there in a second,” I promised.

A few minutes later, the cashier asks, “did you find everything you were looking for sir?”

“Everything but my wife,” he chortled.

The clerk laughed. I hit him over the head with a roll of wrapping paper.

Back in the car we are headed to Burger Time to pick up dinner.

We order and the lady says, “that will be $19.45, sir.”

He reaches, and digs and digs, and digs.

“Oh good God, do you see how hard this is to get my wallet from my RIGHT back pocket–I”m forced to use my right hand, with my crippled finger! Oh, and my back, the pain has traveled clear up my spine. I’m in agony.”

The lady looks a bit frightened and backs slightly away.

“Oh good grief, pay the woman!”

“Y0u have no idea the pain I’m in. I’ve had more than 50 years of my left butt cheek slightly elevated from the right. To turn it upside down at my age, well, I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy, or YOU. Thanks for your sympathy, me and my crippled finger that had the tendon sliced nearly 35 years ago, or maybe even more. Never healed properly, still pains me at night. Women don’t have a sympathetic bone in their bodies I tell ya.”

We got home.

We ate.

We now have two grazing lighted deer, and a twig tree and a wreath and a window covered in lights.

We are no longer the pariah of the neighborhood. We have seen the light.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

 

 

I Felt Like I Was Homer, Doh

No, no, not THAT Homer. The other Homer, the one who sailed the Mediterranean.

That is they story the Contrarian is pushing. For what that’s worth.

Okay, so this is the story.

The Contrarian tends to read my blogs in bunches. And so he acccccuuuum-ulates all the MInor little digs I make at him, and makes them a BIG DEAL.

So he insists that I set the record straight. So that is this.

A couple of days ago, I was complaining, as has been my wont for some time now that my tummy was unhappy. I have what are known as “digestive issues” and from time to time they annoy me for a few days. So anyhow, I was grousing about this, and sucking down my fourth cup of coffee, when I mused, “I wonder if in fact the full caffeine coffee is making this worse than it otherwise would be?”

Lights, camera, action.

The next thing I know, said holder of the ring of committment, was getting his wallet and checkbook and inserting same in bibs.

“Where ya goin’?” I inquired.

“To get you some D-caf.” he intoned.

“Oh, dear, I can wait, I’ll just stop drinking coffee for a bit.”

“No, the minute you mentioned it, I knew that was it. I”m going to get my sweetie some D-caf.”

And so it goes.

He left.

He returned. With ice cream drumsticks, but no coffee.

“Didn’t have any at Troy. Didn’t have any at Walker either.” he moaned.

“Well, we can get some next week.”

“No, I just came back to drop off the drumsticks, I’m off to Center Point.”

“Parker, that’s enough. No need for all that.”

“No, I going. If I’m not back in twenty minutes, then I had to go clean into Cedar Rapids.”

He left.

He returned.

He had a green container of Folgers.

“I may have to take  rest,” he shuddered. “It’s awful out there.”

“I think I traveled to hell and back. Bicycles, bicycles, bicycles everywhere. I mean they don’t even know enough to get over yet. They haven’t been hit enough times, the brush back doesn’t work. I was nearly killed on a hill when I had to go AROUND them. On a HILL of all places.”

He walked into the living room and flopped down, still muttering.

“I felt like Homer, I felt like Homer,” I heard him say again and again.

I had not the heart to ask which.

¶

 I have only one dog left in the fight. MSU is in the Sweet Sixteen. All my other teams were defeated. Sometimes in nail-biters, sometimes rather ignominiously. Such is March Madness. Such is the foul-make ‘em-foul shoot, college ball.

¶

I find that reading crap from the Right is a great sanity protector. One has to hold most strongly to one’s own in order to properly witness the evaporation of someone elses.  (by the way, that is an original quote from me. Feel free to quote me–extensively. Sherry M. Peyton, thinker extraordinaire)

¶

What would it take to buy you off? I’m not talking about the average politician who bit by bit sells his vote for enough dough to insure his own re-election. He/she salves his soul by telling himself that he is simply doing what needs to be done to remain there to do the “right” thing by the really big issues.

I’m talking about the man or woman who makes a decision to deny their very self in return for success, however defined. The ones who out-torture their torturers. The ones who will demean gender, orientation, race, ethnicity, and/or beliefs in order to be in “the club” and reap the reward, called the “American Dream.” The ones who cannot look their own in the eye any more, because of what they have done in the name of winning personal reward.

I’m reading about them in Republican Gomorrah, by Max Blumenthal. It absolutely makes your skin crawl. If other life forms have visited us, they must surely have left in disgust. To witness up close the intertwining evil is frightening, but at the most basic, it’s not an ideology so much as it is a series of petulant, damaged little men and women who want people to sit up and take notice that they are alive and prosperous. They recognize each other, and join forces all supporting each other in their personal madness, corrupted and corrupting all they touch, for this barely believed “greater good” they hope to usher in.

I should go pack some more. LOL. I’m obviously in a foul mood.

It’s Monday, I’m retired, and I still hate Mondays.

 

How To Tell the Difference Between a Hooker and a Stripper

What? Don’t look at me. I don’t know the answer.

No, to get the answer, you gotta look to the Contrarian. Yeah, I see you nodding now.

The Contrarian went off to the big city yesterday.

By himself.

No good could ever come of that.

Worse yet, one of his tasks was to get his wedding ring resized. So he went lurking as a “single man.”

Wait. It gets worse.

My husband likes to tell folks that unlike other men, there is no “honey do” list waiting for him every week. No, he says. Only one item on his list: “PLEASE THE WIFE!”  Of course, you faithful reader, know the truth.

How I work my fingers to the bone. But that is another story. For another day.

One of the small tasks I requested was a stop at the grocery store to pick up a green pepper and some mushrooms. This was so I could grace my beloved with homemade pizza. Not so much to ask I thought.

Well, I was wrong.

Some three hours later, he careened down the hill and came to a screeching halt, nearly dismantling the back porch. He threw open the door, and with eyes rolling wickedly and dangerously psychotic, he stumbled up the steps, reaching to kiss the door frame as he entered his castle. He pushed past me and dropped into a kitchen chair.

“I barely escaped with my life!” he mumbled, not once, but several times.

Knowing this is all a bunch of hooey, I waited with patience for the tremors and ticks to subside.

“Okay, what happened?”

“I will never set foot in that demon-laced establishment again!” he shouted.

“Which one are you talking about?” I sighed.

“Wal-F**kin’-Mart,” he screeched. “The place was packed. I picked what I thought was the best line. Little did I know. She couldn’t count, she couldn’t count. Not past thirteen. Three times, Three times, never past thirteen,” he moaned, rocking from side to side.

“Slowly,” I urged, “just take your time and tell me what happened.”

“This woman, this woman. . . .You see I was trying to figure out was she a hooker or a stripper, but she couldn’t count!” he looked up pleading me to see.

But I didn’t. How could any sane person make sense of this?

“Start from the beginning, please!” I begged.

“I got in the line. She didn’t have so very much stuff, big items, expensive items, but not many. I thought she would be quick. It came to $153.42. Her bill. I will never forget those numbers. She took out a wad of bills,” he looked at me helplessly.

“Go on,” I quietly said, still not having a freakin’ clue.

“When I saw the wad, that’s when I got to wondering, was she a hooker or a stripper. All those bills. But they were all 1′s. All of ‘em. And they were all folded, not in half but the LONG way!” His face suggested that I was supposed to “get it” at this point. Do you? No, I see you don’t, and neither did I.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” I responded limply.

He sighed in manly frustration, like he was talking to a kid. “See that was not the point. The point was, she couldn’t count. . .not past thirteen. She was trying to count out 153 ones and she couldn’t get past thirteen! She started over and over and over, until I thought my head would explode. Finally the cashier told her to just count out ten at a time, and then she paper-clipped each packet. Until there were FIFTEEN freakin’ packets! And three dollars more. And then the change! Don’t get me started with the change. She couldn’t add a quarter to a dime to nickel. It was all too much for her.”

“So it took a long time? So what has that got to do with the folding thing? I still don’t get that?”

“Why it was obvious that she was a stripper! Anybody could see THAT!”

I looked at him hopelessly.

“First of all, when I realized that all the bills were ones I knew she wasn’t a hooker. She’d have had some bigger bills, surely. But the folding the long way gave it away. Can’t you see?”

“No, afraid I can’t.” I murmured.

“They were folded the LONG way, because that’s how you stick them in a g-string! Geesh, haven’t you ever been in a strip joint?” he sputtered.

“Can’t say that I have there partner. Can’t say that I have.

“Oh, my ring will be ready in about  three days, the jeweler said.”

I thought . . .perhaps he can fit it as a nose ring. That might be more practical at this point. But of course, I never SAID that.

 

Supply-Side Blankets

The Contrarian and I seldom go to bed at the same time.

Last night, I happened to awaken just as he was getting into the bed.

“Hey, hey, hey,” I uttered.

“What?” he intoned.

“You’re stealing the blankets!”

“I’m not settled yet,” he grunted. “It’s supply-side blankets.”

“WHAT?”

“When I’m settled, the blankets will trickle down.” he chuckled.

I never slept a wink last night.

♦

I confess that I never thought animals were terribly thoughtful. I figured they were pretty much responsive to stimuli creatures. Brandy taught us otherwise. We learned from her that dogs at least can think and plan, and make choices. A new dimension has been added as we watch Bear cope with her absence.

Bear didn’t seem to express the typical mourning we expected, though he looked for her a lot, and avoids her grave. He went there once that we know of, removing a rawhide bone we had left in her dish and bringing it back to drop at the Contrarian’s feet.

Over time, we noticed a real oddity. The two had always had their own idiosyncracies. Brandy would lay impatiently in the doorway to the kitchen while we ate. Bear would lay elsewhere. Now he has taken up that position each day. When snacks are eaten at night, again, she was the pushy one, wiggling and twitching at each bite. He would lay back, appearing to not care. Now he does the wiggling and twitching. 

It is like he feels that he must take over all her behaviors as well as his own. We don’t know how he thinks about this, but clearly he is pondering his role within the house.

An article on recursive thinking, long thought to be the province of humans only, is being re-examined. Recursive thinking is the human ability to look backward in time at distant events, and then place them in future scenarios. Studies now suggest that chimpanzees engage in such thinking, and certainly I saw instances of Brandy doing the same as she planned how to get Bear off the couch so she could have it.

We are all of us living beings so much more alike than we are different. Evolution tells me so.

♦

See the new Herm Cain ad? The one with his campaign manager smoking? Seems that his manager has some “issues”. Charges of voter suppression that got him banned in Wisconsin for three years, drunk driving convictions, foreclosures, unpaid bills and taxes.

Yesterday, I picked up this on MSNBC talk shows: The Cain campaign is in utter disarray since Cain is conflicted between his “book tour” agenda and where the VOTERS ARE. Also we understand that new campaign staff are informed that under no circumstances are they to speak to the king unless the king speaks to them first.  Doncha love that kind of stuff?

♦

I was just a thinkin’ (dangerous I know). I’m really surprised that the scientific community doesn’t make more of  this, along the lines of the possible finding of faster-than-light particles. I mean it is revolutionary in a scientific sense. What do I mean?

Why the fact that “trickle-down” economics is a perfect proof that money at least doesn’t always obey the laws of gravity. The money seems to go up, instead of falling down.

Just a thought.

♦

Do you find it tiresome that the clueless Right continues to whine that the OWS folks have no “message” and then likens them to anarchists?  Are they unable to read the signs? Or is it that the Right is so attuned to the “talking point” that it can’t understand that people might just be individualistic enough to think for themselves and create signs that reflect that? Slate has a good article on this today.

♦

Need a laugh? Juanita Jean’s usually has one. This is Rolling Stones little nod to our boy Ricky (aww shucks, I ain’t no good at debatin’) Perry. This is The Best Little Whore in Texas. It’s Friday. It’s been a long week. Teaser: this description–”a goggle-eyed mega church Joan of Arc like Michele Bachmann”.  Or this one: “Perry is a human price tag”. Now that’s some writing I can love. It’s Mike Taibbi of course.

Seriously, if you want to know how Perry attracts money all the while being an awful speaker, this article gives  you a big clue. Long article but well worth it.

♦

I am a jinx. We turned Game 6 of the World Series off in disgust. In the 8th inning. Texas was up two runs. The Cardinal pitching was awful. There had been five errors, causing me to question how these could be the two best teams in the “world.” Course, it turned into an exciting game. And now there will be a Game 7. We will watch it. But. . . it will  undoubtedly be a no-hit one run winner for Texas. That’s my prediction, since I’m gonna watch it. If I don’t watch it, it will be 24-23 after 15 innings and the Cardinals will win.

What to do, what to do?

♦

If you needed any more evidence that Herm Cain is stupid, I mean really stupid? Well he went to Israel. And he refers to the Palestinians as the “so-called Palestinian people.” And he says that the only reason they want statehood is because Obama is so weak. Except that he was once in favor of a right of return policy. Sort of, as best he could understand what it meant. How can only a so-called people have a state to return to  Herm? And I think the desire for statehood on the part of the Palestinians might be a tad older than the three years Obama has been in office.

Do they not have a basic primer for you Herm? Can’t your smokin’ campaign manager find you a Dick and Jane version of world history? 

 

Related articles

• Cain: Foreign policy details aren’t important (firstread.msnbc.msn.com)

If I Straddle the International Date Line. . .

1. I’d live forever.
2. If I closed my right eye, my left eye would look back in time, and if I closed my left eye, my right eye would see into the future.
3. I’d only have to shave one leg a day.
4. Half my brain could sleep at a time, and the other half remain active.
5. My vagina would be a black hole.
6. The exact point of conversion of my eye sight would make the “God particle” visible.
7. If I clapped my hands, the resultant meeting of matter and anti-matter would collapse the universe.
8. I literally wouldn’t know which way to turn.
9. I’d replace the Dos Equis man as the most admired person in the world.
10. I’d be married to Johnny Depp (that occurs in any fantasy of mine, case you didn’t realize.)

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“California had its first medical marijuana job fair. Over 2 million people meant to show up.” – Conan O’Brien (via Political Irony)

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The Contrarian was on a rant this morning. I walked into the bedroom to find him furiously throwing socks hither and yon from his “sock drawer” which is a wicker basket containing about 75 assorted socks.

A bit of history is in order.

You see the Contrarian, being a recipient of the OCD gene, doesn’t handle socks like the rest of us. There are rules of join-ment. Namely there are such things as “thicks” and “thins” and “girls” and “boys”.

After repeated “lessons” in how to join two damn socks together as a “pair”, I gave up and gave him a drawer of socks he can sort through for himself.

Now, it seems that in all of the 75 or so (there is always one missing), he can’t find an acceptable pair.

“If I find a thick, then when I find another thick, it’s a girl sock and not a boy,” he pouts. “Why would any wife buy girl socks and boy socks that look exactly alike?”

“For someone who is gonna sit on his ass most of the day, I really don’t see why this matters,” I pitched, while making up the bed.

“Ouch, that was a low blow,” he whined.

“I know, we’ll throw out the entire stock of socks and buy you one pair, you can wash them out every night,” I advised.

“Finally, Finally,” he shouted. “I found a match!”

Off he went in true over-the-top happiness, tossing over his shoulder: “Big game tomorrow, babe, big game.”

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I always thought George (THE ELDER) was kind of a douche, kind of a grumpy old geezer type, who complained a lot. (I don’t like broccoli!). And choosing Dan Quayle was a real duh moment, for sure.

Well, it turns out the Bush duh gene was really in the forefront way too much of the time. Seems Bush-Daddy was seriously thinking of dropping the dumb Quayle for a better VP in his run against Clinton.

His choice?

Clint Eastwood.

We really need a better system for choosing our leaders doncha think? I mean why not Andy Taylor? He was such a good sheriff in Mayberry.

♦

I think that people who draw for fun, or for profit for that matter, live lighter than the rest of us. That may be true for artists in general. I’m not sure.

Lighter?

More carefree. More open. With more fun. More childish, in the good way. More in the moment. More, let tomorrow take care of tomorrow, don’t miss today.

Case in point.

See Hansi’s Hallucinations today or any day.

♦

Did you know that statistically speaking, 95% of all blogs are abandoned within 120 days?

I’m still trying to figure out what that means that this blog is 3 1/2 years old, and I’ve been blogging in total nearly 5 years.

Either I’m a masochist who enjoys banging my head against a wall, or I have the biggest ego this side of Sarah Palin. Eww, that analogy gave me dyspepsia.

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Okay. Sit still. Don’t screw up your face like that.

It’s just your weekly dose of Cul-cher.

Meet Jonathon Keats: thinker, artist, poet, scientist, or something all-together different. Decide for yourself. Brought to you by BigThink, ideas that push the envelope.  Want more? Go to the next page.

Okay, so you think he’s a charlatan? Maybe.

Try this then:

How much do you crave to be different? (do check the “related content” link at the bottom) or go to here to see the entire article at Wired.

 ♦

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