Over the hump

I had this idea to do a hump themed post every Wednesday. Okay, get your dirty little minds out of the gutter. Hump Day is what we Americans like to call Wednesday. It is the "hump" of the week and everything is down hill to the Weekend from here on out. And there are lots of things with humps so I figured I could milk this puppy for months worth of posts. The first thing with a hump that came to mind to me Holy Joe.

I seriously doubt any of you know who Holy Joe is. When I was growing up in Boise, there was a poor old guy who used to live next to my grade school in this dilapidated shack. Everyone called him Holy Joe because he was always seen walking down the alleyways by our houses carrying a Bible in one hand and an old canvas bag slung over his shoulder. He foraged through garbage cans looking for items he could use or sell. I guess that's how he survived.

Why do I bring up Holy Joe for my first 'Over the Hump' post? What made Holy Joe famous to the kids in my neighborhood was a very prominent hump on his back. And there is nothing like a deformity to bring out the curiousity and cruelty in children. I remember watching kids taunt Holy Joe from the edge of the school yard when he'd walk past to get to his shack. He shake a bony fist at them and mutter something unintelligible in a high-pitched voice. The kids would just laugh and move along with him, staying well out of his reach until he would disappear into his shanty.

I didn't join in the taunts. I felt sorry for him. But I was fascinated by the hump on Holy Joe's back. It reminded me of the most famous character in literature with a hump on his back -- the Hunchback of Notre Dame. And I'd felt sorry for him, too when I saw the movie version of the book starring Charles Laughton for the first time.

I imagine Victor Hugo would not have gotten away with writing the Hunchback of Notre Dame if he'd written it today. After all, the novel's central character is a deaf hunchback named Quasimodo who is more or less tortured throughout the book because of his deformity. Even Imus would have hesitated to stroll down that pathway strewn with politically incorrect land minds (well maybe not).

I'm surprised Disney got away with turning it into a cute little cartoon feature a few years ago without developing a more sanitized title. I'm willing to bet that they did focus groups on a few alternatives like "Person with a Noticeably Swollen Back of Notre Dame" or "Humpy, the Friendly Clown of Notre Dame." I imagine that someone in marketing finally said something like, "I've got a hunch the original title will sell better at the box office," and they kept it.

Disney may have kept the original title, but they toned down the grotesque nature of Quasimodo's appearance to a more gentle looking Shrek-like creature (if Quasimodo is a hunchback, I wonder what a Fullmodo would be...get it...Quasi-modo...Full-modo....oh never mind). I guess it's easier to make a cartoon about a hunchback if you make him all cuddly and lovable.


Oh well, that was a long, rambling way to say, "Happy Hump Day." God knows what I'll write about next Wednesday.

Predictable Combustion

"What doesn't kill us makes us blog."
--Tim-zsche



Kat recently wrote a post called Spontaneous Combustion in which she suggested there should be some early warning mechnanism that would alert people if they were about to spontaneously combust. My smartass comment was that it wouldn't be spontaneous combustion if you knew it was going to happen. It would be predictable combustion.

I am a literalist at times.

This conjures up a scene from Monty Python's movie Meaning of Life in which a waiter urges an obese man to eat just "one thin mint" after he as gorged himself beyond his limit. Even after the obese man protests that he can't or he would explode the waiter continues to taunt him with the mint. He eats it and explodes.

I believe Kat's original point was that we all reach a point where we've taken on much more than we can accomplish and that a visible sign that we were at our combustion point would give is an out. But there is always someone who wants you to eat that one, thin mint.

I have come to the conclusion that my blog is the pressure valve that keeps my head from exploding. It is a vomitorium of sorts that allows me to purge myself of the stuff that is circling about in my brain looking for a way out. I think it is a good sign if you can blog about something. The alternative is to lay in your shower in the fetal position clutching a toilet brush and wait for your head to explode.

I just wanted to pass this pearl on to those of you who are suffering from blogger's block. Perhaps all your blog needs is an enema. You'll be so relieved when the words start flowing again.

No need to thank me for that mental image. Have a nice day!

Interview with the Tim

Hayden taunted me with another meme with these rules:

Directions for the Interview Meme:
1. Leave me a comment saying "Interview Me."
2. I will respond by asking you 5 questions. (I get to pick the questions.)
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them 5 questions.

I of course took the bait. Here is her interview with me:

1) When you are day dreaming, where do you most often go – (past, present, future) and what do you do there?

When I day dream, I generally return to the past and relive happy times or rewrite scripts of things I would have done differently. I attend different colleges and earn different degrees. I take different jobs and take different chances. Sometimes I daydream that I am different people. When I was a boy, I imagined I was one of the Beatles. I would also put myself in various heroes’ roles from movies I’d seen. The beauty of day dreaming is that you can become anything: better looking, rich, successful and talented. I have day dreamed all those things.

2) If you could take your gnome anywhere in the world, where would it be and why?

I’d take the little bugger on one of those expeditions down to visit the wreck of the Titanic. Then I’d use one of the robot arms to place him on the bow of the wreck with a sign around his neck that reads: I’M THE KING OF THE WORLD! This would just be for the benefit of the gnome, mind you.

If it were a place I wanted to go, it would be either the Great Pyramids in Egypt, the French West Indies on a Windjammer Barefoot Cruise (preferably the Polynesian) or walking down Royal Street in New Orleans on my way to St. Louis Cathedral to watch the street performers and artists.

3) You’ve found a magic bottle with a djinn in it. It’s a very old djinn, and while his magic is still powerful, his willingness is weak. He grants you only one wish. What is it?

Any kid who has ever thought about this question will tell you the correct wish is to wish for more wishes. But since there seems to be lots of policies, disclaimers and caveats in the djinn world, I suppose I couldn’t get away with that. I suppose then I would wish for unlimited monetary wealth without constraints or penalties. Because, although money can’t buy you love, it can buy you freedom, security and the ability to provide for your loved ones.

If for some reason I couldn’t get that wish, I would wish for the ability to become invisible at will. Because I think invisibility could also provide freedom, security and the ability to provide for your loved ones.

4) If you could be any character in history, who would it be and why?

Cyrano de Bergerac. He was heroic, he was romantic, he was poetic, he was strong and he was beautiful on the inside. He just wasn’t beautiful on the outside. He lived in a romantic time where great gestures and honor were more important than superficial things. Plus I always wanted to be a great swordsman and swashbuckler.

5) You have been granted infinite power to change one thing in your life. What is it that you change, and why?

Again with the one thing. I suppose then, I would eliminate self-doubt. It stands in the way of so much in our lives and prevents us from reaching our potential. Eliminating my double chin would be a close runner up.

Bonus question: is there anything that you would hesitate to put your face on, and why or why not?

I am assuming you are referring to Photoshopping my face on things, and not literally putting my face on things. The answers would be substantially different. I have Photoshopped my face on whale vomit, pumpkins, Kim chi stew, quesadillas and head cheese. But I would not put my face on George W. Bush. Even I have standards.

The blue moon factor!

It has long been noted that a blue moon has strange and mystical powers recognized clearly by the ancients. Over the years, the ancients disappeared and left of us wondering really what does a blue moon mean?

According to modern science, a blue moon is the second full moon in a calendar month. For a blue moon to occur, the first of the full moons must appear at or near the beginning of the month so that the second will fall within the same month (the average span between two moons is 29.5 days). May 2007 has two full moons (at least in the Western Hemisphere). The second full moon or Blue Moon is today (May 31).

Elvis knew the true meaning of "Blue Moon." Consider these lyrics:

"Blue moon,
You saw me standing alone,
Without a dream in my heart,
Without a love of my own.

Blue moon,
You knew just what I was there for.
You heard me saying a pray for
Someone I really could care for.

Blue moon,
You saw me standing alone,
Without a dream in my heart,
Without a love of my own.

Blue moon...
Without a love of my own."

Taken at face value, one would assume Elvis was saying that the blue moon evoked feelings of being blue. But further exploration of these lyrics lead to a deeper meaning: the blue moon creates the blue men who in turn form the Blue Man Group!
Note the photo above of a past encounter in Las Vegas where strange, blue men used to perform in, you guessed it, a pyramid. And what does this have to do with a blue moon you ask? Think about it...pyramids=Ancient Egypt. Enough said?

Elvis has given us the sign!

Bars on the windows

The full moon is knocking at my door again and I have felt it messing with my muse. It has also been unseasonably hot in Seattle and I do believe I am suffering an attack of the vapors.

I am having a hard time focusing on serious subjects, so out of curiosity, I browsed some of my own archives to see what I was up to a year ago. I was surprised to see that I was in Boise staying in a Shilo Inn next to the airport while visiting my mother and the graves of some ancestors. It doesn't seem like a year ago.

But in some ways it seems like ages.

A year ago I was also responding to a meme regarding quirky things about myself. Most of them seem to have been OCD type behaviours. For example, I wrote I can't stand being in a house without the doors locked and the shades drawn. If I was tagged to participate in the same meme today, I would refuse and say that I have determined that I am also morbidly afraid of memes (and mimes...but that's a whole different story). Maybe completing memes is a bit too much like sitting in a house with unlocked doors and the shades up.

I compromise a bit with my blog, though. I'll let the shades up, but I'm going to put up a few bars. That way you can peer in and I can peer out and everyone is safe.

What is the fascination with memes anyway. Everybody is always poking you with a stick and asking you to step outside your comfort zone and share. Sometimes I like being in my comfort zone. It is comfortable there. That is why is is called a comfort zone. I think that unless you are sitting in a room stacked with newspapers and empty MacDonald's coffee cups, surrounded by cats that you don't clean up after, people should leave well enough alone.

This is not to say that I have ever sat in a room stacked with newspapers and empty MacDonald's coffee cups and surrounded by cats. I don't like to read newspapers (which is odd for a journalism major) and I despise MacDonald's coffees. We do have three cats, so sometimes I do feel surrounded but we clean up after them...constantly.

While I'm sitting here with my shades up, peering out of the barred window, I will let you know that I have this thing about my garage door, too. Unless I consciously say, "The door is closed," after I've backed out of the garage, I start freaking when I'm a block away wondering if I remembered to close it. I've backed up several blocks just to check.

I don't like short sleeved dress shirts with ties, either.

I'm going back into my comfort zone now.

Defacing the masters

"I've just seen a face,
I can't forget the time or place"
--Lennon and McCartney

I obviously have an affinity for Van Gogh.We had this set of Child Craft books when I was growing up. One showcased the art of the masters, including Van Gogh. I was always drawn to his Starry, Starry Night. I would stare at it and just feel what Van Gogh was feeling when he painted it (or what I thought he felt). Years later when I was picking out wedding rings, I was drawn to a wedding set that was patterned after the painting.

In the early 90s I was visiting London and went to the National Gallery. I almost cried when I saw an original Van Gogh painting. It was Van Gogh's Chair and then his painting of Sunflowers. They were amazing. I had never felt such emotion in the presence of a painting before.

It was only recently through the miracle of Photoshop that I discovered a way to truly be part of Van Gogh's art. I've morphed my face into three of his self portraits. And for some reason it triggers some of the same emotions I felt when I first laid eyes on a Van Gogh painting.

I know that some probably view this as defacing a master. But I like to think that Van Gogh would be flattered that I admired his work so much that I literally wanted to become part of it. After all, Van Gogh would often taste his paints in an attempt to immerse himself in the color. And it's not like I'm copying his work the way an art student would. I'm immersing myself in it.

Let's face it, it's one thing to look at art from the outside. I like to think of this as looking at the art from the inside.

Is it hot in here?

Look who's advertising
Billboards everywhere
"See Hellacious Acres
Your tailor made nightmare"
Traffic is backed up for miles
Attendants welcome you with devilish smiles
Steady...steady...
Have your tickets ready
Steady... steady...
Go to hell
After dark
It's a sin-filled city
An amusement park
It's a one way ticket to the other side
It's a Dr. Jekyll and a Mr. Hyde
See Lizzie Borden, she's one of the stars
And Tricky Dicky barkin'
Flashin' you his pardon
Jack the Ripper slashin' your tires
--Paul Williams, Hellacious Acres, A Star is Born

I don't believe in hell, a place, but I talk about it alot. Though I wonder, as many people who follow the television series LOST do, if all the characters are in hell or at the very least, purgatory. The two-hour season finale last night left us with the impression that all of the plane crash suvivors were finally rescued from the island. But a flash forward segment left us thinking that they wish they hadn't left the island. So perhaps they jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire.

But if you don't follow the program, than you are terribly LOST by this discusson (lost, as in confused as to what I'm talking about, not LOST as in the television series). I must admit I am feeling a bit lost that all of the programs I like to watch have aired their season finales. Gray's Anatomy, Desperate Housewives, the Office, My Name is Earl, 30 Rock and Sons and Daughters are all over for the season. Men in Trees and What about Brian are missing in action. And there are only two more episodes of the Sopranos and then it is lost forever (except in reruns and DVD).

Summer sucks when it comes to television. They are bringing back America's Got Talent with David Hasselhoff as one of the judges again. It's hard to look at him after that pitiful video his daughter filmed of him rolling around on his bathroom floor in Vegas drunk and trying to eat a hamburger. Though even that video isn't as disturbing as his music video of Hooked on a Feeling.

Dancing with the Stars is finally over only to be replaced by Racing with the Stars where we pit celebrities racing NASCAR's against each other. Jewell, the singer with bad teeth will be pitted against John Elway (former Broncos quarterback with buck teeth), and William Shatner (the Shat) who is just bad on so many levels. I'm not one to wish accidents on anyone, but I can only hope all of the transmissions fall out of the cars and the series finishes the race early.

American Idol is finally over and I'm just glad.

I'm sick of Deal or No Deal, too. And I refuse to watch Bingo.

My television god, why have you forsaken me?

The learned

Although not a rocket scientist, I do not consider myself a stupid person. But the other day I clicked on one of those annoying Web banner things and ended up spending about 20 minutes taking an online IQ test. The irony was that the entire thing was a scam to sell you the results of the IQ test once you completed it.

Am I an idiot or what?

It just goes to show that, no matter your educational level or IQ, you still need common sense. This is not to say that I don't think education is important. I have a BA in Journalism. Once and awhile I'll scan the job listings out there and I can't help but feel a bit inadequate that I don't have a graduate degree.

In this day and age, it's pretty much crucial that you have the credentials of a college degree to get your foot in the corporate door. The people who adamently diss a college degree are usually those who don't have one. I don't care if Abraham Lincoln was self-educated and Einstein flunked math. If they tried to get a job today, they'd likely be asked to wear a polyester uniform and repeat the phrase, "Do you want fries with that" over and over.*

I also think that college does more than provide the credentials you need to get a job. I'll admit I didn't really know anything when I got out of college. But even if you don't absorb the stuff they are trying to teach you, making it through college and earning (and I do mean earning) a degree teaches you how to learn. When I hit the work force, I started soaking up knowledge like a sponge. College more or less opened up my mind to learning things.

Still, at this point in my life, I can't even imagine going back to school to get my masters degree. It's not that I don't think I could learn anything, it's just that I don't think I have the attention span to sit through a class anymore. I can bearly tolerate the umpteen meetings I sit through in any given week at my job. Plus I would much rather watch the season finale of LOST than write a paper on the joys of channel marketing and ROI.

Maybe my attention span is so short because my IQ is so high. I'll never know. I refuse to send the money to get my final IQ report.

I'm not that stupid.

*Author's note: I am not putting anyone down who does not have a college degree nor do I think there is anything wrong with working in a fast food restaurant (I draw the line at working in a Walmart, however). Hard work is hard work and we all have to live. I just think having a college degree makes it easier to get a job where you can actually afford to live. Despite this disclaimer, I am sure I will offend someone who doesn't have a college degree. I apologize for that, but if you leave a comment to that effect, I will ridicule you without mercy. I mean it. You just have to toughen up. You would have learned that in college.

Clues

I think it is impossible to write anything without leaving clues to your personality. How about a shopping list, you may ask. Yes, even a shopping list will tell something about you, or at least about what you like to eat and what personal hygiene products you use (or need). For example I buy generic dandruff shampoo. An astute observer would deduce that I am flaky and cheap.

But I digress.

Even famous authors put their personalities in their writing. For example, I'm willing to bet that Stephan King is one disturbed puppy. Just a hunch.

So after almost three years of blogging, I imagine you could paint a pretty fair picture of who I am if you weeded through the 600 or so posts I've made. For example, you would discover that my favorite color is blue, I'm morbidly afraid of those people who hand out samples in grocery stores, I hate telephones and I like 70s rock musicals.

Okay, perhaps there is more to me than that.

I hope.

Pulling a Faust one

Roll on thunder, shine on lightning
The days are long and the nights are frightenin'
Nothing matters anyway,
And that's the hell of it.
Winter comes and the winds blew colder
While some grew wiser, you just grew older
And you never listened anyway,
And that's the hell of it.
--Paul Williams, Hell of It, Phantom of the Paradise

I don't want this to be construed as taking requests. But in the vein of JC Superstar, it seemed only fair to give the devil his due and dwelve into the dark lord's realm as well (at least when it comes to 70s musicals)

The Phantom of the Paradise was the only musical I could think of coming out of the early 1970s that centered on satan. It was written and directed by Brian De Palma and starred Paul Williams who also wrote much of the music for the film. Paul Williams would later degrade himself in such classics as Smoky and the Bandit I, II and III.

The plot of Phantom of the Paradise is kind of Phantom of the Opera meets Faust with a little Hunchback of Notre Dame and Dorian Gray thrown in for good measure.

Williams plays Swan, a record producer who owns "Death Records" (get it). He steals a rock version of "Faust" from composer Winslow Leach who goes beserk and is hideously disfigured by a record press when trying to confront Swan. He ends up terrorizing a production of his rock cantata at the Paradise Theater but eventually signs a contract (in blood) with Swan, but only on the condition that a woman he falls in love with, Pheonix, gets the lead.

Long story short, the Phantom dies for his love interest but not until he exposes Swan for the monster he is. The devil never actually makes an appearance in the movie, but it is all his handywork.

As with JC Superstar, I listened to the soundtrack to this album over and over and pretty much memorized the lyrics as well. There's lots of stuff about selling your soul and the supernatural (see the lyrics to "Hell of it" above). There's even one scene where a transvestite diva named Beef sings "Life at Last." He inexplicably playing the role of the Frankenstein monster in Faust. My favorite line is:

I'm the evil that you created gettin' horny and damned frustrated
Bored stiff and I want me a woman now

You can't get lyrics much better than that.

Although I liked the Beef character, if they ever made a stage version of Phantom of the Paradise, I'd probably try out for the Phantom character, instead. One, I don't look good in high heels and nylons (which rules out me every starring in Rocky Horror either). But really relate to the Phantom character the most. I always felt ugly growing up and had crushes on girls from afar. Thus I'm a sucker for unrequited love stories. I also think the Phantom's songs in the movie have the greatest range and depth (though ironically most of them are voiceovers by Paul Williams). So I'd really like to be the Phantom.

Plus I'd get to wear a mask.

So that's all I have to say about that, too.

Show me the face you had before you were blogging

koanA puzzling, often paradoxical statement or story, used in Zen Buddhism as an aid to meditation and a means of gaining spiritual awakening.
--Answers.com

A koan is a riddle that isn't intended to be solved. Or at least you aren't supposed to come up with a literal solution. They are used to dope slap you out of your comfort zone and look at things differently. The answer to a koan should therefore be intangible.

Literal people aren't very good at responding to a koan. Ask them what the sound of one hand clapping is and they are likely to say, "Nothing, one hand can't clap." You response should be to immediately smack them across the face and say, "But one hand can slap."

This will probably piss them off, but teaching people how to look at things differently sometimes hurts.

Sometimes I like to approach blogging like a zen koan. It is an opportunity to write, illustrate or compose a thought without relying on traditional structure. And I'll be damned if it isn't a little like meditation for me.

Or maybe it's like a box of chocolates. I sometimes get those things mixed up.

I think this is where I say that is all I have to say about that.

Superstar

Since I was a teenager, I have wanted to be Jesus Christ. Let me rephrase that, I have always wanted to play Jesus... well, not Jesus in a Passion Play or Christmas Pagent. After all, I'm not a religious person. I really wanted to play Jesus in Jesus Christ Superstar, the rock opera by Tim Rice and Andrew Lloyd Webber.

Though if I didn't get the Jesus part I could probably manage the Judas role. But I suppose I would settle for playing Caiaphas. Or maybe Pilate or Herod. When it comes down to it, I can sing all of the parts. Well, I know the words to all of the parts.

I am not ashamed to admit that Jesus Christ Superstar is one of my favorite musicals. I know that takes alot of guts these days. It was created in the early 70s and no one wants to admit to liking anything created in the 70s, especially by Andrew Lloyd Webber. But it was one of the first albums I purchased (after I'd purchased all of the Beatles catalogue). It was a double album and those puppies aren't (and weren't) cheap.

I listened to that album over and over. A lot of people at the time thought it was sacreligious. I actually thought the musical did a pretty fair job of presenting a rock version of Jesus' story. But I really didn't like the album for the story line. I loved the music.

I would sit in front of our stereo and listen to it over and over. Thinking back on it, my parents were pretty patient people. I even taped the album onto cassette tapes (when dubbing consisted of putting a microphone in front of the stereo speaker) and listened to it when I was taking a shower (which was quite often as a teenager).

Repetition burned the songs into my head. Years later when I actually saw a live performance of the rock opera, I had to fight not to be one of those annoying people you sit next to who sing along with the actors. Well, maybe I did it a little bit until the elbows in the rib caught my attention.

My version of of Jesus Christ Superstar was vinyl. I still have it, but I haven't listened to it in years. I don't even have a turntable anymore. But for some reason over the weekend the music popped into my head and I decided to go buy the album on iTunes. After nearly an hour and half (I never learn to say no to Apples continuous updates to the iTunes software) I had downloaded the 23 songs from the original studio recording and transferred them to my iPod.

So this morning, 36 years after I listened to Jesus Christ Superstar for the first time, I listened to it again with pure digital pleasure on the train going to work. And Jesus Christ it is still great! I was reminded how much I wanted to be Jesus in that musical.

The cool thing is now I can grow a beard. But unless someone kicks me in the privates, I'm not sure I could hit those high notes anymore. Christ you know it ain't easy living your dream.

It makes me cross.

I'm going to hell, aren't I?

Blog Bores

I realize that, over time, I have spent an inordinate amount of time writing about my blog insecurities, which puts me in the category of some of the blog bores I rant about on occasion. But it dawned on me that even when Luke Skywalker followed Yoda's advice to "do, or do not" Darth Vader cut off his hand and told him that he, the dark lord was his father. So even motivational platitudes can lead you astray at times.

I also don't want to retrace the "why do we blog" ground. More than enough has been written on that. We all have our own reasons. I started blogging almost three years ago because I stumbled into Blogger via Google and was intriqued by the whole, unfathomable thing.

But I must admit that it was much simpler in the beginning. As with anything new, I was giddy with the possibilities. There were no rules. So I wrote that way. And I was encouraged by the zero in the comments counter to keep on writing without rules. What difference did it make if no one was reading it anyway?

For better or worse, being read changes the way you write. It's like being able to run around your house nude and uninhibited as long as the shades are drawn. Then when one of the shades accidently goes up and you see one of your neighbors staring at you in all of your naked glory you run for your bathrobe (this is an analogy, not a confession).

Don't get me wrong. I love comments (some comments I love more than others). It is nice to have people from all over the world stop by. I just wish I could take off the robe now and then. And I'm sure some of you will say, go ahead, we can handle it. But when you get down to it, people say they want the naked truth, but in reality it looks better with clothes on.

But to overcome my occasional blogger's block, every now and then I'm going to have to let the robe fly open. Not everyone is going to appreciate it. But that's okay. I trust that everyone who reads my blog on a regular basis will understand and avert their eyes if necessary. I'd do the same for you.

Okay enough of the naked analogy or I'll have to dig out my Dirty Doughnuts masthead again. I think you get the idea. I just hope you can get the mental image out of your heads.

Blog, or blog not...there is no 'try'

I was thinking of calling this post, "I'm sick of blogging." But then I Googled "I'm sick of blogging" and there were about seven pages of hits on pages that said, "I'm sick of blogging." It's just as well, I'm sick of being sick of blogging anyway.

It's not so much that I'm really sick of blogging. I guess I'm more sick of trying to find something original to say and not repeat myself. I'm sick of trying to prove how clever I am and wondering if I am really not so clever after all.

But then I think about Yoda. When Luke Skywalker told him he was "trying," Yoda replied, "Do or do not. There is no 'try." So if I am going to blog (which I do), then I'm just going to have bite the bullet and do it, not try to do it.

But that doesn't mean I'm going to be original or clever.

Strings attached

Of all the instruments I've ever played, the guitar is my favorite. For one, you can always play the guitar without needing an entire band to a play along with you (like the bass clarinet). Plus you can accompany yourself when you sing (something you can't do with the bass clarinet).

I received my first guitar on my 10th birthday. I slowly taught myself to play a few chords. When I was 19 I bought a Guild 12-string guitar. It was the first thing I bought on time payments. It is a beautiful guitar.

I learned a few more chords. I would sit and play for my nephew when he was a baby and put him to sleep. I teamed up with a friend who had a great voice and we played at several weddings over the years. But I never became overly proficient.

Since then I have collected a couple of classic guitars, three acoustic steel string guitars (including a limited edition Elvis guitar by Epiphone), three electric guitars and a banjo. I am still not overly proficient, but I still play occasionally.

Guitars comfort me. They are one of the few things in my life that I am glad come with strings attached. As I slip into middle age, I can still pick up one of my guitars, open a songbook from my teenaged years and strum back time...

....at least as long as I can remember the chords.

TMI

I'm beginning to think that maybe ignorance really is bliss. I've come to this conclusion because I think we may have reached the point where we have access to too much information in the world.

Whoever really invented the Internet is to blame. They are followed closely by Google. Wikipedia isn't helping either. What used to take weeks (if not years) of research can now be queried in the blink of an eye. The problem is that although a simple Internet search can turn of an unbelievably amount of information, there is no way to know how much, if any of it, is true.

Wikipedia is a great concept. It is this collective sharing of knowledge. The catch is that it is difficult to screen out bogus experts. And for every expert Web site on any given topic there are a hundred created by crackpots wanting to spout "truths" the voices told them to share with the masses.

I also think I have proved many times that you can't trust photos you find on the Web, either.

The other problem is that when you used to have a really cool, original idea, you could bask in self-delusion that it was an original idea for ages. Now all you have to do is google your good idea and discover instantaneously that thousands of other people already had your good idea years ago.

This is especially problematic for writers, poets and artists. Now in addition to writer's block, when we do have a breakthru we have to have the fact that we aren't as witty and original as we always thought we were waved under our noses electronically at the drop of a hat.

This is also problematic for would be entrepeneurs. Google your idea for a great product and you are likely to find it is already being sold. If not, you can bet a hundred other people will steal the idea the minute you slap it up on the Web.

I suppose in retrospect that there has always been misinformation in the world. It was just easier to contain when it was produced by a mimeograph machine.

Blue

Picasso's blue period was when he painted the darker side of things. His self portrait at that time was done primarily in shades of blue. Why does blue always get a bum rap?

My favorite color is blue. My eyes are blue. My birthstone is blue. I think my aura is blue. So I don't understand why blue is he color associated with melancholy. Being blue shouldn't make you blue.

Nothing but blue skies is a good thing. The blue bird of happiness is always welcome. So why do people sing the blues, talk a blue streak and chase away the blues once in a blue moon?

It makes me see red.

Hören Sie zu!

Kat's comment on my "I scream" post made me think. She reminded me of a line from Pulp Fiction where Uma Thurman's character asks John Travolta's character, "Do you listen, or wait to talk?" John Travolta's response was, "I wait to talk, but I'm trying to listen."

I'd like to think that I listen. I want to believe that I can be quiet long enough to hear a person through on something without hopping around like a little kid who has to go to the bathroom just waiting to interject my opinion.

Sometimes all I want to do is listen. Meetings for example. I prefer to sit there soaking in everything that is being said, letting my brain take a mini-vacation. But inevitably, someone will ask me what I think. Nine times out of ten an honest answer to that question would be, "I think I'd like to be anywhere but in this meeting." But the nature of meetings is that people don't think you are making an effort to be engaged unless you are participating. So I am forced to say something on topic and rely on the fact that most of the people at the table aren't listening anyway.

So maybe not a good example of the advantages of listening. Let's see, I like to listen to stand up comedians. But that is more of a matter of survival. Talking instead listening to a comedian is usually met with swift retrobution like being pointed out and having the comedian say, "I was going to do my impression of an asshole, but this man beat me to it." Okay so this only happened to me once.

I'm beginning to think maybe I'm not as much of a listener as I would like to be. Part of the problem is that I don't have much patience for jibberastic people (someone who speaks in tongues and or in such a way that can not be comprehended). So when I hear something that is so obviously uttered by a jibbering blue-assed baboon I find it difficult just to sit there and nod in agreement. Because if you agree with a jibbering blue-assed baboon, doesn't that make you a jibbering blue-assed baboon as well?

That was a rhetorical question.

Okay, now I wish I was a better listener. I wish I could be patient and nod in all of the right places and give those sympathetic looks that encourage people to continue. I wish I wasn't thinking about whether or not I locked the front door or the price of gas or how many more years I have until retirement when people are pouring out their guts to me. I wish I could ask someone for directions and actually remember them the minute they are done. I wish I could watch television, type on my blog, and talk on the phone at the same time.

Most of all I just wish those voices in my head would stop.

I scream

I got a brochure today for a training seminar about the seven secrets of effective managers. It was the typical motivational speaker jibba jabba. They listed the seven things in the brochure, so I'm not sure why you would then need to go to the seminar.

The only one of the secrets I remember from the brochure was "Understand first, then try to understand." Okay, I kind of like that jibba jabba. I have been guilty of not trying to understand someone's point of view before trying to get them to understand mine. I suppose if you really want to communicate with someone you should try to at least listen to what they are trying to say first before you try to shove your opinion down their throat.

But then again I suppose if you do bother to listen to what someone is saying and still think they are full of shit, it is okay to force feed them your own opinion. Because then it is their turn to try and "understand first."

I don't think many people really listen though. Everyone is screaming to be heard, but no one is shutting up to listen. And when you realize no one is listening, you scream a little louder. But maybe, just maybe the way to be heard is to be quiet.

And god knows there are lots of people in the world I wish would just shut up, because I'm trying to be heard here.

Comfortable in my own skin

I got my tattoo when I turned 45. It was my birthday present to myself. Some would view it as the product of a mid-life crisis. I just viewed it as my time for a tattoo.

I found the design online at luckyfish.com. The designer is Pat Fish. She has a studio in Santa Barbara. You can buy her tattoo designs online though. That's what I did. Then I took the design to a local tattoo studio -- Slave to the Needle. It took the tattoo artist about four hours to copy the black portion of the design onto my arm. I went back three months later to add the green shading. That was another two hours.


The design has two celtic dragons intertwined in internal battle on my arm. It completely encircles my arm. And yes, the worst part was when the tattoo artist was working on the underside of my arm. But all in all, it was worth it.

I can't really verbalize why it was worth it, but I have never regretted getting my tattoo. I don't hide it. I am not self conscious about it. And I don't feel like a silly middle aged man for getting it. It is part of me and it will always be a part of me. It wasn't a whim. I thought about it a great deal before I got it.

Tattoos aren't for everyone. I probably won't ever get another one, but this one, well...this one is mine and it is me.

I like my tattoo. I feel comfortable in it and it helps remind me to always be comfortable in my own skin. That is an important thing to remember.

I hear what you are saying, but I don't know what you mean

I was standing in line at lunch time waiting to buy my sushi and spring rolls at the local Asian market when I overheard the conversation of someone walking by. Almost every other sentence coming out of the mouth of this one woman was, "You know what I'm saying?"

Her companion just kept nodding, but it was pretty clear that not only did he not know what she was saying, but he wasn't even really listening. I think the problem with this communication was that, in my experience, most people who interject much of what they say with, "You know what I'm saying" are engaged in that major league jibba jabba my good friend Mr. T doesn't have time for.

"You now what I'm saying" is interchangeable with:

You know what I mean?
All I'm saying is...
Am I right?
Ya know?

The jibba jabba response to such useless questions is often:

I hear what you're saying.
Yeah, I know.
What your saying is...
So, you're telling me...
You're right, you're absolutely right.
Get out of here.

You basically can carry on an entire conversation of "you know what I'm saying" without ever saying anything. For example:

Idiot #1: All I'm saying is that he doesn't know what he was talking about. You know what I'm saying?

Idiot #2: So you are saying that he doesn't know what he was talking about? I hear that!

Idiot #1: Exactly, that's what I'm saying. Like I said, he doesn't know what he was talking about, ya know?

Idiot #2: I know what you are saying. You are absolutely right. He doesn't know what he is talking about. Ya know?

Idiot #1: Yeah, he doesn't know what he is talking about. That's what I said.

Idiot #2: What?

See what I'm saying? So I have prepared some conversation stoppers for people who use the annoying phrase and other annoying verbal ticks like, "You know what I'm saying?":

No, I don't have a clue what you are talking about.
I hear what your saying but it sounds just like, blah, blah, blah.
Did you say something?
Do you speak English?
Stop saying "You know what I'm saying" or I'll dope slap you from here to the next corner.

Enough said?

Cut: A run with the scissors

Tess bought us tickets to the stage production of Edward Scissorhands as an anniversary present. It's nice to see live theater now and then, but in all honest, this one should have stayed dead.

I loved the movie Edward Scissorhands. It was quirky and had a nice bittersweet storyline. The stage production is based very loosely on the movie. It is billed as a musical version. The thing they don't tell you is that is entirely without dialogue or singing. It's like watching a musical performed by mimes or worse yet, a ballet. If you had never seen the movie, you wouldn't have a clue what was going on. It would have just looked like spooky looking guy running with scissors while chased by the cast of Happy Days.

We'd had dinner at a nice restaurant downtown before the show. Big mistake. Both of us were fighting to stay awake within 15 minutes of the curtain going up. The best part of the first half of the show was intermission. The best part of the second half of the show was the curtain going down.

This is one version of Edward Scissorhands that should have been full of cuts, but by the director.

The creative process

Working in marketing, you are pretty much expected to be creative on demand. It used to freak me out. You could be sitting in a meeting and someone would decide they needed a clever tag line for some project. Then everyone would turn and look at me. I've always been tempted to shout what comedian John Daly once said on a conservative talk show when he was asked to be funny, "I'M NOT YOUR MONKEY."

The problem is, the creative process isn't always pretty so you don't want people staring at you in the middle of it. It's kind of like making sausage. Once you've seen it, you lose your appetite for sausage.

I'm sorry, that wasn't a very creative analogy, but it is apt. Sometimes being creative simply involves slapping a bunch of crappy ideas down, grinding them up and forming them into a ball that you bounce around until it feels right.

But creative or not, the important thing is to have a ball.

Sorry, I'm not feeling very creative at the moment and it's the best I could come up with. Plus you are all looking at me. I don't like it when people look at me.

I see dead people?

Oh, nevermind.

#600: A simple man

"Some folks call it a sling blade, I call it a kaiser blade...hmmm."
Karl, Sling Blade

Frank: I like the way you talk.
Karl: Well I like the way you talk.
Sling Blade

Sometimes it's not what you say, but how you say it that matters. I could listen to Billy Bob Thornton's character in the movie Sling Blade talk for hours and be entertained. He reminded me of the way my uncles sounded when I was growing up. They didn't say much, but when they did it rolled off their tongues in a simple country fashion that was soothing to me as a boy. And when they spoke they cut right to the chase.

There is something to be said in using economy when it comes to words. I think it is okay to have an impressive vocabulary. I just don't think it is always necessary to use it. It's part of the difference between Journalism majors and English majors.

Instead of saying "I really like potatoes sliced into verticle slices about a half inch wide, deep fried in vegetable oil and served with salt," just say what Karl in Sling Blade said: "I like them French fried potaters."

In that way, I consider myself a simple man. Sometimes you just have to say what you have to say and shut up. There are lots of radio talk show hosts and pompeous bloggers who could benefit from that approach.

A dark and stormy knight

When I was in junior high, I somehow became the president of the chess club. I had joined because I wanted the service points so that I would be eligible for this award they gave you at the end of your 9th grade for school service. In retrospect, I'm not sure why I wanted the award. It turned out to be a modest trophy that is now somewhere in a trunk. I am sure there are thousands of such abandoned trophies gracing the shelves of thrift shops the world over. After I die, I'm sure mine will join them.

But I digress.

I became president of the chess club because the other geeks in the club elected me. But hey, as Lucifer once said, it is better to rule in hell than serve in heaven. I accepted the office. I never quite got into chess club. We came together once a week on our lunch hour and played chess. It seemed a rather pointless thing to form a club around, but one of the faculty -- a teacher who bore a striking resemblance to Kramer on Seinfeld -- thought our school needed a cerebral alternative activity for the sports impaired to engage in.

I was the chess club president and I could play chess, but that is about all there was too it. I was never one of these people who could focus on strategies and styles when it came to playing chess. I've never been much of a planner that way. I tend to approach most things with a kind of random logic that I'll know what to do when the time comes. Most of the time it gets me by. It works in chess as long as you are playing other mediocre players. And fortunately the East Junior High chess team didn't attract any heavy hitters.

I bring this up because I believe that my predisposed aversion to actually planning anything is just as good of a life philosophy as that of following a road map for success. While the rest of my collegues were on career paths, I was meandering around in the bushes. Ironically I'm pretty much as far along as the rest of them. I just didn't have to bust my hump to get here. But then again, I also set my sights on mediocrity and trusted fate would eventually lead me there.

As one might expect, this is the same philosophy I use when I approach blogging. It is the very unstructured nature of it that makes it my kind of medium. I tried my hand at short stories and novels and got a bit distracted by the requirements of following a storyline. I like the blog world much better. All you have to do here is throw something up on the wall and see what sticks.

So I guess that is pretty much check mate, mate.

Family resemblances

My great, great grandmother Amanda Knotts was a strong woman. She was born in the Shenadoah Valley of Virginia. I don't know what led her to marry my great, great grandfather George Knox, 20 years her senior. It was 1870, so I imagine it was out of practicality.

As one might think, she outlived George by 25 years. She was the matriarch of the family and raised six children on a ranch in Idaho. Last year I posted a blurb I found about her on the Web from a History of Idaho published in 1920. The author wrote that "Mrs. Knox has long lived in this district and has therefore witnessed much of its development and progress, her memory constituting a connecting link between the primitive past and the progressive present."


When Amanda (pictured above left next to her daughter Elvie) died in 1936, she unfortunately had witnesses more of the progressive present than she had bargained for. By that time she'd watched my 18 year old grandmother run off and marry a farmhand who lacked the work ethic for anything but producing children. She also witnessed all of her ranch land sold off to make way for the progressive present. I personally would have liked to see some of the primitive past remain.

But again, obviously I never knew my great, great grandmother. My mother barely knew her but remembers her sitting in her rocking chair on the porch smoking a corn cob pipe. She was kind to my mother, something that was a rarity in her family growing up. So I have a hunch that Granny Knox, although forged in a tough land, was a good and kind person. I hope I've inherited part of that side of the family. I do think I have her eyes (sorry Granny).

Sketch me if you can

Does a photograph contain anything of the subject, or is it just light frozen by chemicals or electronics? What can you tell about a person just by looking at their picture? Can you tell if they are kind? Evil? Cold? Compassionate? In that split second they posed for the camera, what is going through their mind?

Obviously I am fascinated by photographs. I grew up in a time where a box camera was pulled out of a drawer for birthdays, holidays and visits by relatives. My past is captured in blurry black and white.

The portrait above is of my great, great grandfather George D. Knox. He was born in Ohio in 1830 and died in Boise, Idaho in 1911. Obviously I never knew him. All I have are three photos of him including the one above. I know he served in the 19th Iowa Infantry during the Civil War. He was a farmer after the war. He married Amanda Knotts in 1870. She was 20 years younger than him. They had six children. One was my great grandmother. She died when she was 19 years old and my grandmother was raised by George and Amanda.

That's it. Whatever else I know about him has to come from looking at his photographs. But who was he? I stare into his face and wonder if I am like him. Part of his DNA is mine. Whatever legacy of his personality that he infused into my grandmother and was passed onto my mother is also mine.

I wonder if a hundred years from now, someone will look at a photograph of me and wonder similar things. It goes back to a post I wrote some time ago about wishing there was a way that we could preserve who we are for future generations. Even if it was just a permanent storage medium that kep all of our personal records...photos, writing, recordings...whatever. Maybe blogging is part of that. It's our way to shape the image the future will stare back at and wonder...

A little off color

I swear, by the moon and the stars in the sky
I'll be there
I swear, like a shadow that's by your side
I'll be there
For better or worse, 'til death do us part
I'll love you with every beat of my heart
I swear
Words and Music by Gary Baker and Frank Myers

Words. We empower them with the stigma of the forbidden and spew them. Then they become profanity. But they are still words.

My father learned to swear in the navy during World War II. He'd interject "damn" or "hell" into most of his sentences. It lost all meaning. But still my mother "tsked, tsked" her way through my childhood at his swearing. She rarely swore. Though on a rare occasion she squeezed out a "damnation." It would set me off dancing around her chanting, "Damnation, damnation, damnation, damn, damn, damn." This would set her off giggling and she would forget her transgression.

I began swearing in junior high when I started playing basketball. I couldn't play worth shit, but I could swear a blue streak by the end of the season. On more than one occasion I would have got a technical foul from the ref if he could have figured out where the swearing was coming from. But I was pretty good at spewing my string of swear words discretely while at the bottom of a pile of players fighting for a loose basketball.

Most of my swearing these days is confined to the car. I can't seem to drive with spouting streams of unbelievably foul language aimed at the uncertain parentage of other drivers. I have created strings of swear words that are works of profane art. And I drive along chanting them like a mantra intended to keep the driving gods on my side. I also use lots of non-verbal hand signals.

Despite my advance swearing skills, for some reason I find it difficult to write dirty words. Oh, I can slap out a "shit" or "hell," but I freeze if I try to type "fu...fu...fuc..." Well, you get the picture. When I try to swear in my blog I hear my mom "tsk, tsking" me and my fingers freeze. Pretty fucked up, huh?

Hey, wait a minute...I typed "fuc...fuh..."

Darn it, anyway. I swear I'll get over it some day.

On the level

I am not one to blog about current affairs. In this age of information overload, it seems senseless. What can I add to the world knowledge base by linking to some news article or a video of today's top story? But I have to say I have been more than overly disgusted lately with the state of journalism and how we are force fed sensationalism.

First the whole debate about whether the radio shock jock Imus should have been fired or not for insulting the Rutger's women's basketball game was a travesty. I had never even really heard of the guy much less given a hoot in hell about anything he had to say. His racist crap would have drifted away into oblivion if the press hadn't reinforced it at every turn and made sure everyone got to hear in graphic detail what idiotic mumblings he had uttered for the sake of shocking his audience. The real question was not whether he should be fired, but why he had a show in the first place.

And now the tragic shootings at Virginia Tech. How many times did each reporter have to point out the body count and how this was the new record for mass shootings in our history? It's just this kind of sensational garbage reporting that inspires other lunatics to try to beat such records. This was a tragedy. Why does the press insist on making it worse by conducting their scab picking form of journalism and obsessing about minutia. I don't need to hear interviews with local alumni who lived in the same dorm at Virginia Tech where some of the shootings took place. What purpose does that serve?

And don't get me started about Anna Nicole Smith.

It is getting so I am ashamed any more to have a degree in Journalism. It used to mean you were someone who had a thirst for presenting the truth in an objective and informative manner. It has mutated into this circus where the reporters scurry around turning over rocks to feed the masses' voyeuristic hunger for dirt and degradation.

I for one am mad as hell and I'm not going to take it any more.

Sorry, I had to go put my head out the window and scream. Hayden asked what am I going to do. Well, I'm going to boycott the stinking news programs that exploit these stories. I'm not watching Dateline or 20/20 and definitely nothing on the Fox Network. And maybe, just maybe I'll start writing letters to the networks and complain. Then I'm going to start writing the sponsors and tell them I'm not going to buy their products if they support sensationalism and sensationalistic programs.

So there.

PS: I did begin writing e-mails today. I've started with MSNBC. I asked them if they had any shame for the way they are reporting. Then I told them I won't watch any network that keeps reporting this way. I'm sure they will file it with the rest of the cranks out there. But at least I said something.

Flying the friendly skies

I can't really say I enjoy flying. But I can tell you if you have to fly, flying First Class takes away some of the pain. The biggest problem with flying First Class is having eventually to go back to flying coach.

It's that way with life, however. Once you've stayed in a suite, flown First Class, tasted a really great (expensive) wine, been in a limousine, dined in a great restaurant and had great seats at a sporting event, returning to reality sucks.

This is not to say you should condemn yourself to coach so you don't know what you are missing, but flying First Class will make flying coach even suckier than it really is.

I love it when they announce early boarding and you get to leisurely saunter down the ramp to the plane without having to worry about fighting someone for space in the overhead bins. I love it when you sit down in an airline seat that is more like a leather recliner than a bench with a TV tray. I love it when the flight attendants ask you what you want to drink before you take off. I love being offered a warm cloth before they serve the meal. And I love eating off real plates, drinking out of real glasses and wiping my mouth on a cloth napkin. I also love getting free headphones to watch the inflight movie that you can actually see because there is a video monitor right above your FIRST CLASS seat. Oh, and I love not having to fork over $5 every time I want a glass of wine (which is never empty in First Class). You also get your own bathroom that none of the riffraff back in coach is supposed to use.

Did I mention your luggage is also tagged so it is the first to be unloaded?

Oh yeah, you also get to use the airline's VIP lounges when you have a layover. I'm talking free booze and all the peanuts you can stuff in your pockets. And the restrooms aren't full of stranded passengers bathing in the sinks and towelling off with paper towels.

I LOVE FLYING FIRST CLASS.

But I am still a humble, simple man.

Travelling man

Haven't had much time to post this week. It is Tess' spring break and we are travelling again. I've had sporatic Internet access so I haven't really been in blog mode. Hope to catch up this weekend.

Don't feel too sorry for me. We have been flying First Class. That in itself is a vacation. :)

Building a cathedral

A traveler came upon a group of three hard-at-work stonemasons, and asked each in turn what he was doing.
The first said, “I am sanding down this block of marble.”
The second said, “I am preparing a foundation.”
The third said, “I am building a cathedral.”

Okay, that little parable is slightly cliche and it has been used by inspirational speakers for years. But I've always kind of liked it. It illustrates how your perspective on things goes a long ways towards how you approach anything you do.

I like building cathedrals. I like believing that what I do matters. But damn, sometimes it just feels like I'm just moving rocks from one pile to another.

I work in a renovated turn-of-the-century train station. Each morning I walk through the Great Hall. It used to be the main train depot. It looks like a cathedral and early in the morning, when there is no one else around, it is quite peaceful and uplifting.

But then I take the elevator up to my office. As the elevator door closed this morning I realized that, at the very minimum, I had another 16 years of punching that elevator button to carry me up to my office. That's about 4160 elevator trips. And at the end of those 4160 trips up the elevator what will I have to show for it and who will care?

But you really can't look at things that way. Then you are just carrying rocks from one place to another and after another 16 years all you'd have is a big pile of rocks.

So as the elevator doors opened and I walked to my office, I said to myself "I'm building a cathedral."

But when I'm finished with the damned thing, I'm going to Disneyland.

The Love Boat, Second Season

It was two years ago today that Tess and I got married aboard the Diamond Princess bound for the Mexican Riviera. Our Love Boat has been sailing happily ever since. I just want to take this opportunity to thank her for being my wife. She was truly the best thing that ever happened to me.

Happy Anniversary Honey! I love you!

xxoo,

Tim

I pity the fool

"The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool. "--William Shakespeare

"It takes a smart guy to play dumb."

--Mr. T

"I got no time for the jibba-jabba."

--Mr. T

It's April Fool's Day and it seemed only appropriate to write about fools. Thus the quotes. When was the last time you saw Mr. T quoted along side Billy Shakespeare? But you've got to love it, especially the line about having "not time for jibba-jabba." Shakespeare couldn't have said it better.

I too have no time for the jibba-jabba.But I constantly find myself in situations where I'm confronted with a fool who spouts only jibba-jabba.

Remember my post about how I don't like talking to naked men in the locker room of the place I work out in? Well this same naked guy sees me come into the locker room the other night and immediately asks me, "Whens the next tattoo show?" I'm hoping he is not just standing there waiting for me to take off my shirt, because it was my celtic armband tattoo that set him off talking to me the first time he'd seen it.

I play dumb and reply, "Tattoo show?" He says, "Yeah, I have to pick my tattoo design." Then he begins his jibba-jabba. "I'm $1000 short of buying my outrigger, though. The tax return helped." This is how crap meanders out of this guy's mouth. What does an outrigger canoe have to do with a tattoo? I put on my iPod and shut out the rest of the free word association he was engaged in.

This leads to another quote I like. I don't know who it is attributed too, but it goes: "It is better to be silent and thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt."

I've tried to live by that quote. Because I don't really mind being thought of as a fool. People don't tend to feel threatened by you if they think you are a fool. They also don't put to many demands on you. But the minute they think you are a bit sharper tool then they originally imagined they'll start expecting things.

But I digress. My less than finely honed point was that you should never judge a fool by the sheer volume of his verbiage. When you start hearing or reading a massive amount of jibba-jabba, rest assured you are dealing with total moron. This applies to politicians, pastors, self-help gurus, marketing professionals and pop psychologists. It also applies to more than a few self-righteous bloggers.

No fooling.

God would have mercy, Timbo won't!

"Fool me once, shame on you...if fooled, you can't get fooled again."
--George W. Bush

I may be having memory lapses lately, but there is one thing I don't forget -- a slight. I can be extremely stubborn that way. Some may call it petty, but I call it being persistently vindictive and a firm believer in karma.

Earl from the television show "My Name is Earl" has a list of things he has done to people. I keep a mental list of things people have done to me. I don't dwell on them, but as I said, I don't forget them.

When I was in first grade, my class went to a neighboring class to sing. I was in Mrs. Blair's class. We went to Mrs. Kimbro's class. While we were in there the kid next to kept talking. Mrs. Kimbro was old school and demanded to know who was talking out of turn. Mrs. Blair pointed to the kid next to me. Mrs. Kimbro thought she was pointing at me. She proceeded to whack me in the head. I imagine Mrs. Kimbro is dead by now, but if she isn't she'd better hope I never see her inching across a street in front of me with a walker while I'm driving.

Oh and Mr. Fahr, the principal at my grade school who poked me in the back with a pencil in the lunch room and made me pick a piece of meat loaf off the floor (that wasn't mine) and put it on my plate and then chastized me for wasting food: I hope you are living on a diet of cat food, particularly that batch that has been recalled.

There are also a whole slew of schoolyard bullies I remember who I'd like to wish an IRS audit on: John Zior, Louie Strahler, Gregg Hutton, Bill Miller and David Wilder. I hope you all have grown up to be fat and bald old men who forget what your teeny little private parts are for.

As for the person who hit my parked 1979 Honda Prelude in front of the Rainbow Tavern back in 1985 and left a note with a fake name and telephone number, I hope you busted a headlight while doing it, got busted for DUI and ended up in a drunk tank with an amorous tattooed man who told you that you have a real pretty mouth.

And finally for all of the editors over time who rejected my submissions to your magazines, I hope you now working in manufacturing plant editing instructions for shaving cream cans.

I feel better already.