Christmas 1964

We were too tired after shopping to put up our trees, so the Elvis tree will have to wait until tomorrow. We use artificial trees anyway. Although I like the way a real tree looks and smells, I have always felt guilty about killing a baby tree for decorative purposes. This is a bit hypocritical considering I am surrounded by wood based products in a house built primarily of wood. But I don't eat baby animals either.

But I digress.

Most of my early childhood, we had an artificial tree. It was one of those aluminum jobs that you couldn't put lights on. It was illuminated by a spotlight shining through a motorized color wheel with different colors of celephane on it. The colored wheel made the aluminum tree glow alternately green, blue, red and yellow. In retrospect aluminum trees were kind of lame, but in 1964 they were pretty high tech.

I loved Christmas in 1964. I loved the decorations, I loved the tree (aluminum or not) and most of all I loved presents. I know that sounds superficial, but I was six years old. The sweet siren song of wrapped presents was almost unbearable for me.

My oldest brother used to orchestrate these elaborate plans to hijack one of our presents in the wee hours of Christmas morning. He diagramed the living room where the tree and presents were and coached my other brother and I on a game plan to defeat our home security system -- my father.

We had a shoebox that contained our burglar kit. In it were three balls of yarn with paperclip hooks tied to the ends, three pairs of slipper socks, a flashlight and the plan diagram.

The plan was simple. My middle brother Dan would get up and pretend to go to the bathroom to create a distraction. At the same time, my oldest brother Ted would crawl into the living room and the Christmas tree. He would hook one end of each of the balls of yarn to one of each of our Christmas presents and then crawl back to our bedroom while unrolling the balls of yarn. Dan would flush the toilet to cover up any noise while Ted and I would drag the presents to our room using the yarn.

It seemed like a pretty good plan, but the minute Dan got up to go to the bathroom, my father, who I swear slept with one eye open, yelled, "GET BACK TO BED!" We never got to see if the rest of the plan would work.

So, we had to lay in bed wide awake waiting for our parents to get up and give us the signal that it was okay to raid the tree. Then we'd tear into the living room in our pajamas and wait patiently while my mom took photos of us posing with our packages (I'm reminded of those people who train dogs to sit there with a dog biscuit on their noses until they are given a signal that they can eat). Finally my mom would let us open the packages.

Funny, I can't really remember what any of the presents were, but I can remember the painfully pleasant anticipation of waiting to open them.

There is a life lesson in there somewhere.

Santa Elvis

We will be decorating our Christmas trees this weekend. And keeping with tradition, one of those trees will be the Elvis tree. It is my white artificial tree with blue lights and all Elvis themed ornaments (I weep just thinking about it).

It's going to be a blue, blue, blue Christmas!

Half wit

There have been times in my life when I thought I was kind of witty. And then it occurred to me that maybe I was only half right. But hey, a half wit is better than none.

Humor is subjective anyway. One man's humor is another man's tragedy. Case in point: There was this great old theater in Boise when I was growing up. It was built in the 1920s in an Egyptian motive when King Tut's tomb was discovered and sparked a nationwide ancient Egyptian craze. It was eventually renovated and restored to it original splendor. But before that I kind of enjoyed it in its seedy decline.

I particularily got a kick when the theater was crowded sitting in one row in the middle of the main floor behind a row with a missing seat. Inevitably some guy loaded down with popcorn, soda and several candy bars would see the space where the missing seat was and start sliding down the row thinking it was available. The victim would get to the spot and since the theater was dark attempt to sit down totally unaware that there was no seat. The result was a satisfying scream and popcorn and soda flying everywhere. I don't think I ever witnessed anyone warn anyone that the seat was missing.

It still cracks me up thinking of that. It was my favorite part of going to that movie theater.

I am a sick, sick person.

Freeze frame

" Everyone talks about the weather, but nobody does anything about it."
--Mark Twain

Seattle's news stations don't talk about anything but the weather. They've nicknamed this the "November to Remember." I'm personally pretty sick of hearing about it. I'm not too thrilled with driving in it, either.

Tess' school has been closed the past two days so she had had a mini vacation. My train runs on schedule every day so I haven't had an excuse not to go to work. This is the price I pay for working in public transit.

I did see clips of Seattle weather woes on one of those network tabloid programs tonight. The blonde announcer laughed a lot at the videos of cars sliding down hills smashing into other cars. Ha, ha...that was funny to watch. She must really enjoy plane crashes.

It is snowing again as I type this. But they claim it will change to rain overnight and we will be back to our normal soggyness by tomorrow.

How many days until spring?

Alienation

One of the paradoxes of life is the desire to fit in yet at the same time be different. This internal struggle seems to be at its height when we are teenagers. We experiment with extremes under the pretext of expressing our individualism, yet we do so to get attention and be accepted.

Part of the irony of the struggle to be an individual is that it so often fosters fads that are embraced by the masses. Hair length, hair color, piercings, tattoos, baggy clothing, tight clothing, black clothing, torn clothing and old clothing all have been popular ways of expressing how different and the same we are.

Generally, whatever annoys us as adults is adopted by the younger generation. And what we adopted that annoyed our parents is scoffed at by our children. It is a cycle that repeats itself over and over, yet none of use seem to be aware of it when were are swept up in it. This explains why we allowed things like disco to cloud our judgement in the 70s.

I've come to the conclusion that more often than not, marching to the beat of a different drummer just means you don't have any rhythm. If we truly want to be different, we have to stop being the same. And not being the same requires either courage or the ability to be oblivious. You also have to enjoy being alone. Because unless you are different in the same way as other people, no one really wants to hang with you.

How do we resolve the paradox? I think the answer is a cliche: just be yourself. If you truly are unique, you can't hide it. And if you aren't, no one will notice you anyway.

Not really much comfort, is it?

Ear Relevance

“Stop making sense.”
--Talking Heads

I get this ear-ie feeling sometimes that I'm not making any sense. Or if I am making sense, it doesn’t mean anything to anyone but me.

Maybe that is nonsense. Or maybe it is just being ear-rational. But everyone wants to be relevant.

I’d just like to leave this world thinking I contributed something besides a pumpkin carved in my image and likeness (though it was graven). It’s easier to think you will make your mark on the world when you are young. When you are middle aged, you start to realize that leaving a mark in the world is a bit like writing your name on a sandy beach with the tide coming in.

When I was young, I wanted to be an artist. I wanted to paint or sculpt or draw. I drew a picture of a horse when I was 11. It won a gold ribbon at the Western Idaho Fair as part of a 4-H competition. I left the world of competitive art at that point because where can you go from there but down?

I never liked taking art classes. There was something about learning about form, light and composition that took some of the joy of creating out of it. There is nothing like a bunch of rules to take the “create” out of creating.

I did make a few slab and coil pots in an art class in junior high that were kind of interesting. The best part of working with clay, however, was slamming it onto the table to get the bubbles out.

My last formal art class was Drawing 101 in college. I drew some killer vases and cow skulls. I had hoped we were going to draw naked people. I got an “A” in the class anyway.

By that time, I gave up on the idea of being an artist and decided to become a writer. There were still rules to contend with, but I read a lot growing up and being a natural born mimic, I could fake understanding grammar with the best of them.

It is easier to explain to people that you are a writer than to tell them you are an artist (though one could argue that they aren’t potentially the same thing). I have never met anyone who actually made money off from being an artist. They generally make money off from being baristas or bicycle messengers and paint on the side. The same is true for “writer” writers. If you really want to make money writing, you need to go into public relations or advertising. Only a rare person makes a living being a novelist. I am not a rare person.

So to fill in the gaps between making a living and being an artist, I took up blogging. It is an odd preoccupation. It pays nothing. It is appreciated by few and overlooked by many.

Which brings me full circle to my original ear-resistible point -- I am not sure I am making a meaningful one. But this post is becoming an earful, so I’ll end it.

Oh and a pox on any of you who try and use ear puns in your comments.

Self-portrait #513

I'm beginning to know how my friend Vincent felt when he painted self portraits.

Blogging is just one big self-portrait. You either get it or you don't.

Something wicked this way falls...

It is snowing here in the Puget Sound. So while of my neighbors look outside and see the beauty of the white stuff, I see something a little more sinister slithering down from the sky.

If I were a kid, I'd be excited and scraping together a snow man, hoping school would be closed in the morning. But since I am an adult that has to get to work in the morning in a region that flounders at the sight of a snow flake, I'm annoyed at best.

When I was a kid growing up in Idaho, snow didn't really shut down anything. It never shut down the school. It didn't shut down the roads. It was just there.

The people of the Puget Sound are not emotionally equipped for snow. It rarely happens here. They are oblivious to the rain for the most part. When becomes cold and frozen and comes down in flakes, they stare at it like a chipanzee that's been handed an iPod. Then they do the natural thing. They jump in their cars and try to drive as if nothing was amiss. And idiots in SUVs -- the official vehicle of the Pacific Northwest -- somehow think four-wheel drive allows them to navigate at 60 miles per hour in the snow with immunity.

Inevitably they clog the roads with abandoned cars that have skidded off the road because the concept of steering your car in the direction the rear end of your car is skidding does not come intuitively to "native" Washitonians. And for the most part, it does not come naturally to people who have moved here, either. Knowing how to drive in snow doesn't really help you when no one around you does.

Part of the problem in the greater Seattle area is that everything is built on hills. So pretty much anywhere you try to get to driving involves going up or down a hill. The best course of action is to stay home or take public transit. Unfortunately, most employers here don't believe in snow days and our bus drivers don't really know how to drive in snow either.

So as the snow falls and the lights flicker, I shudder a bit. It's going to be a long night. And the morning commute promises to be even longer.

Over the river and through the woods?

We made our annual trek east of the mountains to Boise for Thanksgiving. As I normally do, I rented a car at the airport. I booked it online and went for the cheapest available -- an economy car. In the past this was not a problem, because inevitably the car rental counter person would take pity on me and upgrade me to a full sized car.

That was not the case this time. The counter person just smirked at me when he read my reservation on the computer monitor and said, "We have you down for an economy car. Have fun with that." We were given the smallest Chevy I've ever seen. If I'd had a fez with me, I could have joined the Shriners in the holiday parade.

Clown car aside, we were able to pick up my 81-year old mother and take her to my brother's house for Thanksgiving dinner. My mother confessed to me a week ago that the DMV would not renew her driver's license two years ago because she could not pass the eye test. This, unfortunately, did not stop her from tooling around in her 1972 Chevy truck for the past couple of years. My brothers and I have hopefully convinced her that that is not a good idea without a license.

Regardless, we picked my mother up and drove her to Thanksgiving dinner an listened to a 15-minute monologue about how many acorns she has raked up in her front yard. I'll spare you the details.

My brothers and I all cook. This is probably because my mother hated to cook (though she does like to rake up acorns...go figure). Anyway we all cook. And my brother cooks Thanksgiving dinner every year...the works, turkey, stuffing, green bean casserole, rolls, gravy, pecan pie and this year a killer pumpkin cheese cake. It's really quite impressive.

What's more impressive is that we managed to get through dinner this year without talking our childhood or politics. My brother and I don't agree on either. His selective memory that excludes remembering tormenting me as a child has always amazed me. The only thing that amazes me more is his penchant for Rush Limbaugh and our current president.

But neither topic came up this year during dinner. Politics did make a slight appearance during Pictionary and another party game later, but we managed to gracefully ignore each other's rhetoric.

Dinner was blissfully peaceful

Oh, and Dan, if on the slight chance you read this, thanks for dinner and Bush sucks! :)

Brain cells

The average adult brain as about 100 billion brain cells. We kill off about 10 billion of them over the course of a lifetime. That leaves about 90 billion to mess around with.

I like those odds.

I also read where it only takes one brain cell to recognize someone's face. In my case it takes another 5 billion to remember their name (this includes my own name at times). I have one of those brains that remembers tons of trivial facts, but blocks out crucial information like remembering to wear pants.

It was just that once and there were mitigating circumstances.

Odds are that one line about me forgetting to wear pants will be one of the few things any of you will remember about this post. Many of you are nothing if not predictable.

I've always been fascinated by the brain. I mean, here's this mass of wrinkly stuff that looks a blob of something you'd cough up yet it controls your entire body and thinks about all kinds of crap at the same time. That's pretty amazing.

And memory is pretty amazing, too. All of those neuron paths that the brain uses to store things like a squirrel hoarding nuts. And then it goes back to find them and sometimes discovers other things more interesting like the time your First Grade teacher took your class into another teacher's room to watch a movie and the kid next you was talking. And when the teacher of the other class asks who is talking your teacher points out the kid next to you, the other teacher thinks your teacher is pointing at you and you get whacked on the back of the head by the other teacher. And then your teacher laughs because she knows you never do anything wrong and now you've been wrongly punished.

Yes memory is pretty amazing. But I (and my brain) digress.

Sometimes I think my brain finds memories much in the same way Hansel and Gretel tried to find their way back home by leaving a trail of bread crumbs. The older I get, the more bread crumbs are eaten by birds and the harder it is to find my way home.

But all told, I have a pretty decent memory. I just hope that my brain is one of the last things to go (well second to last things) as I check off the parts of me that don't work as well as I age.

What was I talking about?

Zoltim Tells All

Tom Hanks' movie Big was on over the weekend. It had been awhile since I'd seen it and I forgot how much I enjoyed that movie. The movie is about the magic of youth and the reality that getting older makes you less aware of that magic.

The cool thing about movies is that they can make magic seem real. Tom Hank's thirteen year old character puts a quarter in a fortune teller machine at a carnival and makes a wish that he was "big." The machine lights up (despite not being plugged in) and grants the boy his wish. He wakes up the next day with a 30-year old body. At first he is frightened, then excited and finally desperate to return to his 13-year old existence.

The plot may seem hackneyed now, but at the time it came out, it was refreshing and inspiring. Seeing it again just drove home to me how much I have aged. Being middle aged is a buzz kill for magic.

I remember believing in magic. I remember the little rituals I had as a kid like avoiding stepping on cracks or carrying around rabbits foots and fourleaf clovers. I remember this plastic ring my best friend in 5th grade got out of a gumball machine that had the head of a tiki god on it. He swore it was bad luck because the girls chased him every time he wore it. I remember borrowing it in hopes that some of that "bad" luck would rub off on me.

During the 70s I toyed with more adult magic of crystals, tarot cards and psychotherapy. None of pop metaphysical fads really captured the magic of being a kid. And the older I get, the more magic I lose to the realities of war, politics, economy, crime and just living. But I still look for magic every chance I get.

I think those of you with children have the advantage of being able live vicariously through your children's magic. I urge you to relish that and bath yourself in as much fairy dust as you can borrow from their stash. Because as Tom Robbins and See's Candy once said, "It's never too late to have a happy childhood."

Nothing

Writing about nothing really is nothing. I'd hazard a guess that many people write about nothing effortlessly and are oblivious that they have written about nothing. I, however, write about nothing, deliberately and effortlessly. Now that is something.

A paradox perhaps?

Actually it's years of practise. My years as a freelance writer honed my ability to write about nothing with authority. I can also read any magazine and spot the professional writers who write about nothing and make it appear that it is something and that they are experts about it. This is why you can read these articles about weight loss, finding a job or becoming rich and not realize the writer has told you absolutely nothing in about 1500 words.

Knowing nothing is an artform. I am an artist of nothing. That is why I get annoyed when amateurs write about nothing with conviction. You may think you know nothing, but you don't know nothing.

But nothing ventured, nothing gained.

I am feeling very Zen like now.

Save the huge manatees

If you search for tenderness
it isn't hard to find.
You can have the love you need to live.
But if you look for huge manatees
You might just as well be blind.
It always seems to be so hard to give.

Huge manatees are such a lonely mammal.
Everyone thinks they aren't real blue.
Huge manatees hardly ever wear flannel.
And it's mostly what they need from you.

I can always find someone
to say they sympathize.
If I wear my heart out on my flipper.
But I don't want some pretty face
to tell me pretty lies.
All I want is someone to be chipper.

Huge manatees are such a lonely mammal.
Everyone thinks they aren't real blue.
Huge manatees hardly ever get to wear flannel.
And it's mostly what they need from you.

I can find a lover.
I can find a friend.
I can have security until the bitter end.
Anyone can comfort me
with promises again.
I know, I know.

When I'm deep inside of me
don't be too concerned.
I won't as for nothin' while I'm gone.
But when I want sincerity
tell me where else can I turn.
Because you're the one I depend upon.

Huge manatees are such a lonely mammal.
Everyone thinks they aren't real blue.
Huge manatees hardly ever get to wear flannel.
And it's mostly what they need from you.

Now that you bring it up

I have been in a rather odd blogger mood as of late. This may come as a suprise to many of you since taken on the surface, I always seem to be in an odd mood.

It's not even a full moon. Maybe it is the weather. Seattle has had its wettest month in history. Throw in some violent wind storms, flooding, power outages, the elections, and a re-organization and move where I work and I may have pinpointed why I'm feeling odd.

Or maybe it is the blog community. I'm always a bit sad when blogger's disappear, go through identity crises' or stop visiting or posting. In the microcosm of life that is the blog world, it is sometimes difficult not to think of the bloggers I read and read me are friends. I don't know about the rest of you, but I get caught up in your lives and sometimes worry about how you are really doing outside the virtual reality existence online. And in the words of my mother, "You never write anymore."

But then again, in the real world, friends come and go and I really don't have much control over it. It's the karmic nature of life. Our paths collide and branch off as the universe deems necessary.

So odd or not, I try to blog regularily to maintain some kind of continuity in the universe I live in at Dizgraceland. It's not much, but it is mine. But most anyone is welcome to drop in when they feel like it.

Or not.

Don't hate me because I'm beautiful

Apparently George Clooney has stolen my place on the cover of People Magazine as the world's most sexy man again. This confirms my theory that there is no god.

Who votes on this? The staff of People Magazine? And that qualifies them how to declare anyone the most sexy man in the world?

Reality check: These are people working for People Magazine, people. They are barely more credible than the staff of the National Enquirer. What qualifies them to tell the world who is the most sexy man in the world?

Sexy is as sexy does.

I think I am pretty hot for a middle aged man with double chins and a full head of gray hair.

Everyone knows that today's gray is yesterday's not gray.

Bring it on George Clooney

Faces

"Show me the face you had before you were born."
--Buddhist Koan

Let's face it, I've written about faces before. I did a Google search for "Show me the face you had before you were born" and I turned up my own blog post from two years ago. This was before anyone read my blog.

I started reading what I wrote and thought, 'This is pretty good.' I toyed with the idea of just copying and pasting it here and saving myself the trouble of coming up with a new post. Who would know?

I would. It is bad enough that I repeat myself without having to plagerize myself as well.

It makes me think of the times I catch myself repeating the same funny story to people at work and realizing I've told it before. Most people will just smile politely and let me repeat myself while they think, 'what a schmuck.'

But then again, stand-up comedians don't write new material for every performance. They repeat what works for new audiences. Blogging, however, is unforgiving when it comes to repeating yourself.

I refuse to post the "best of Dizgraceland" entries when I can't think of something original. Though you should read the original post that I started out to rewrite when I started this one.

Show me the blog I wrote before I was born.

Meme's the word...

Footpad tagged me with a meme. I forgive him, but just this once. Here goes:

a) Four jobs I have had in my life
1. Library clerk
2. Computer operator
3. Writer/Editor
4. Marketing manager

b) Four movies I would watch over and over again
1. Braveheart
2. Groundhog's Day
3. The Thirteenth Warrior
4. Titanic

c) Four places I have lived
1. Boise, ID
2. Seattle, WA
3. Shoreline, WA
4. Edmonds, WA

d) Four TV shows I like to watch
1. The Office
2. Heroes
3. Grey's Anatomy
4. Las Vegas

e) Four places I have visited
1. London, England
2. St. Barts
3. Belize
4. Honduras

f) Four websites I visit daily
1. Olive Juice
2. Mickey Ripped
3. Lyric Flight
4. The blog formerly known as Dances with Leaves

g) Four places I would like to be right now
1. Guatemala
2. Las Vegas
3. St. Maarten
4. Bed

h) Four of my favourite foods
1. Goat cheese and hummus salad with grilled chicken
2. Chicken cordon bleu
3. Bacon
4. Garlic Chicken pizza

g) Four bloggers I would like to respond

1. Mickey Ripped.
2. Lyric Flight
3. The blog formerly known as Dances with Leaves
4. Whitesnake.

There. The curse is lifted.

Focus groups

We were at the outlet mall on Saturday and walked by a store called the Dress Barn. Even if I wasn't a marketing professional, I would think I'd have enough common sense not to call a store "The Dress Barn." Doesn't it just scream at you that you are a cow if you shop there?

Yet people shop there.

I wonder if the store name was the product of a focus group. If you aren't familar with focus groups, they are a non-scientific market research tool where you get about 8 to ten strangers from various demographic groups to sit in a room and verbally take a dump on a product name, package design or slogan. They do this while the business owner and his marketing people sit in another room watching through a two-way mirror. The focus group is led by a facilitator who tries to keep the room full of people focused on bashing the crap out of the thing being tested. They do this by offering the focus group members cookies and M&Ms at crucial moments.

Focus groups usually start out with no one talking. Then the facilitator godes one of the focus group members to take a shot at the product name or packaging. The facilitator then shoves a plate of cookies at the focus group member who started the criticism fest going. The rest of the focus group members then jump in and begin clubbing the product name or packaging design like a bunch of Canadians hot on the trail of a baby seal.

If you are the marketing person who came up with the product name, package design or slogan, a focus group is a painful and degrading process. If you are the business owner, it is an opportunity to go with your gut feeling and toss out the ad agency or marketing person's ideas and go with the name for your store or product your Aunt Bertha suggested at the dinner table on Sunday.

I'm pretty sure this is how the Dress Barn got its name.

Purple Cows

I never saw a purple cow,
I never hope to see one;
But I can tell you, anyhow,
I'd rather see than be one.

-- Frank Gelett Burgess

I know, I know, this isn't a photo of a purple cow. It's an ostrich in a racing harness. There are no purple cows and I don't have any photos of them. Oh, I suppose I could have created one with Photoshop, but that would take too much effort. I already had the photo of the ostrich in a racing harness.

Sometimes you make do.

I think Purple Cow is one of the first poems I ever memorized. Of course, it isn't much of a poem. But I could remember it. It was kind of like "Fuzzy Wuzzy was a bear; Fuzzy Wuzzy had no hair; Fuzzy Wuzzy wasn't very fuzzy, was he?"

That always cracked me up as a kid.

But I digress.

Although for years I thought Ogden Nash wrote Purple Cow, it was actually written by Frank Gelett Burgess. The complete title was Purple Cow: Reflections on a Mythic Beast Who's Quite Remarkable, at Least (in 1895). The full title is almost longer than the poem. Once Burgess wrote the poem, he regretted it. This was expressed in his sequel to the poem:

Ah yes, I wrote "The Purple Cow"
I'm Sorry now I wrote it
But I can tell you Anyhow
I'll Kill you if you Quote it!

I kind of like that more than the original poem. Basically, I think poems should be like visits from relatives -- very brief.

Oh and if you are still wondering about the ostrich in a racing harness photo...well don't.

Milepost #500: Highway to hell

If I was a praying man, one of my nightly prayers would include "Please god, don't ever let me buy an RV." This prayer would be right up there with, "Please god, don't ever let me wear black socks and a Speedo on a public beach."

First, let me caveat this post with a disclaimer that if you own an RV or have a dream of owning an RV, I'm happy for you. Knock yourself out and enjoy those KOA Campgrounds and Walmarts across the country. My opinion about RV's, however, is that they are sure sign a bad combover and pastel jumpsuit are in your future. I don't feel like debating the merits of owning an RV, however, so comments telling me of the many benefits of RV ownership will be met with a series of sarcastic insults (not unlike many of my responses to opposing opinions).

I've never liked RV's. There is just something about getting stuck behind a convoy of RV's driven by sixty-somethings on a mountain pass that brings out the worst in me. When I used to drive from Seattle to Boise to visit my family, kept a running tally of the number of RV's I'd pass and flip off, screaming, "F***king Winnebago!"

My biggest problem with RV's is that they are driven by people who really shouldn't have driver's licenses in the first place. Face it. Most people who buy these dinosaurs on wheels are retirees. You pass them on the highway and these pissy looking old men stare at you through their coke bottle glasses. These puppies are the size of a semi-truck and they are being driven by geriatrics who can barely see over the wheel.

What makes the whole thing even scarier is that many of the RV's tow a trailer with their Hyundai on it so they have something to drive once they've beached the whale at some RV park in Barstow. This scares the bejesus out of me.

Most people will tell you how much money they are saving on hotels by traveling with an RV. Sure. Spend $200,000 on a traveling mobile home and tell me about all of the money you are saving. And since most of them are buying them after age 65, how many years can they really use them?

All I can say is that when I retire, I plan to travel too. But my idea of freedom is not driving a bus and sleeping on a bed that converts to a kitchen table. I'll stay in a hotel or I'll stay at home.

Talking to naked men

I want to go on record that I don't like carrying on conversations with naked men.

I've been a member of health clubs for about 18 years, so I'm pretty well versed in locker room etiquette. Rule number one is that you can carry on a conversation with someone you know until they drop their boxers. Then you both pretty much need to mind your own business in silence until you are dressed in workout clothes or street clothes. At that point the conversation can resume.

Rule number two is that you don't stay naked for more than 5 seconds. This means you don't drop trou and stand there admiring yourself in the mirror. You especially don't stand there for 15 minutes rubbing lotion on your body while everybody else is trying to follow rule number one and two.

And the ultimate rule is that, if you are naked, you don't try to chat up strangers in the locker room. When you are naked is not the best time to try and find new friends.

I am not homophobic. I just consider myself a modest person, respectful of other people's personal space. And I expect them to respect mine. After I've worked out, the last thing I want to deal with is some naked stranger standing there towelling off and asking me about my tattoo.

I've never liked being naked around strangers. Most of you are probably thinking this is probably just common sense. But I'm not talking about flashing, streaking or exhibitionism. I'm talking about those awkward situations where we are forced to disrobe in front of strangers (like a locker room or doctor's office). I was appalled in seventh grade when I learned I would have to take showers with 20 or so strangers in my PE class. But it was there where I learned the rules of locker room etiquette listed above.

While I'm on the subject of naked men, I want to dispel any myths that the average male body (including my own) has any aesthetic quality that anyone should have to endure naked. The cliche that "clothes make the man" is true. Most men look better covered up. I can't tell you how many times I've walked into a locker room and had to suppress screaming, "HOLY MOTHER OF GOD" after seeing some disgusting naked man parading around as if he was Adonis. Gravity wasn't a kind discovery.

At this point, I can imagine what many of you are thinking: TMI.

I agree. That's how I feel about locker rooms.

But I still don't like talking to naked men.

Pumpkin update: Squirrel attack

I came home this evening and discovered a squirrel had gone medieval on my self-portrait jack-o-lantern. This is the first time in all of the years I've been carving pumpkins that I've ever seen anything like this.

Perhaps my face just enraged the squirrel. I sometimes have that effect on people. Or I suppose the squirrel could have mistaken the pumpkin for Richard Roundtree, Silent Bob or Dom DeLuise and flew into a rabid rage. Others made that mistake when they first saw it.

Maybe the squirrel was just jealous of my artwork and like most critics, defaced it rather than accept my genius.

Or he was pretty hungry.

Regardless, I'm more than just a little nervous about stepping outside and having a crazed squirrel leap on me and start gnawing on my face thinking I'm a pumpkin. Or worse yet, he could go for my nuts.

Oh come on, I'm talking about the bag of peanuts I sometimes keep in my pocket.

Perverts.

Silence of the leaves

The leaves are back. I used the leaf sucker on them and mulched them, but they are back. Oh, you think they are pretty and innocent, rustling and wafting gently to the ground.

Bull pucky. They are little demons. Even now I can hear them falling, falling, each one screaming as they fall....they must be stopped.

It finally dawned on me. Leaves come from trees. Those of you who have been stopping by for awhile may remember my encounter with the curse of a couple of trees I had cut down two years ago. There was wood everywhere that I just couldn't get rid of. So maybe the leaves are part of that curse.

Damn you leaves, leaf me alone! I'll win. I'll keep leaf sucking until there isn't a single one of you left.

It's personal now.

Fall-ing

I officially acknowledge that it is fall. The leaves have changed and are falling in alarming numbers. Last week I dragged out the leaf sucker and sucked leaves off from my driveway in the midst of a hail storm. A man has got to do what a man has got to do.

Sucking up leaves with a leaf sucker and turning them into mulch is a far cry from the endless raking and burning my father engaged in. I have to admit that I do have fond memories of waiting until my father had raked a huge pile of leaves and then running out from the corner of the house and jumping into the pile, scattering the leaves to the wind. The only downside (other than my dad trying to catch us and smack our butts) was jumping into a pile of leaves and discovering dog crap had been raked up into the pile as well. I suppose it was karma (or dogma considering the source of the crap).

But I digress.

What I really find disconcerting about the fall is the media and business world's desire to push it aside as quickly as possible and get to Christmas. There is nothing like seeing Halloween and Christmas decorations side by side in the stores. Remember when Thanksgiving got at least a few decorations sporting Pilgrims shooting turkey's at the stores. Now it's Thanksgiving? Who needs Thanksgiving?

Pretty soon the baby Jesus is going to be shown going door to door in a Ninja costume trick or treating accompanied by Mary and Joseph dressed in Pilgrim outfits to help cement the holidays into one big mega retail push for the advertising world. Throw in some hearts and flowers and we can take over Valentines Day, too.

Christmas is one day a year, yet much of Western Civilization's retail world depends upon it fund their bottom line for the entire year. There is something seriously wrong with basing our economy on a bastardized Christian holiday artificially celebrating the birth of Jesus. And ironically, more people probably associate the holiday with Santa Claus, A Charlie Brown Christmas, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and Burl Ives than with Jesus.

But I digress again.

Aren't the fall leaves beautiful?

The Great Pumpkin....er....the Pretty Good Pumpkin...alright, the Okay Pumpkin

Every year I have pretty much carved slightly different versions of the same jack-o-lantern. They all have fangs and demonic eyes and are scary the way a jack-o-lantern is supposed to be. After all, they are supposed to frighten away evil spirits on All Hallow's Eve to keep them from taking up residence in your house.

Tess, of course insists on carving her happy pumpkins with silly, lopsided grins. I call them her "village idiot" pumpkins because they look like the banjo player in Deliverance or George W. Bush. So they are frightening in that way.

This year I decided to carve a different type of jack-o-lantern. There are no fangs. The eyes aren't particularily demonic, but still, there is something strangely disturbing about it.


When lit up, it may not have kept the demons away, but it sure seemed to keep the number of trick or treaters to a minimum. Still, after staring at it for awhile, it kind of grows on you. It is actually kind of cute.


Don't you agree?

Okay, maybe not.

Halloween 1968

In 1968 Vietnam was still going strong, Lyndon Johnson was president, Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated in Memphis, the first heart transplant was performed, Elvis made his comeback on national television, Lisa Marie Presley was born, the musical Hair opened on Broadway, Helen Keller died in her sleep, Robert Kennedy was assassinated while campaigning for president, riots erupted at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago, Jackie Kennedy married Greek millionaire Aristotle Onassis, Nixon was elected president, Apollo 8 orbited the moon on Christmas Eve and I turned 10 years old.

It was an eventful year.

On a more disturbing note, Vanilla Ice was born on Halloween day in 1967. And we all know how scary he was. Fortunately none of us knew who or what Vanilla Ice was. And as Halloween approached, my best friends -- Robert Tullis, Dave Little and Jim Lonnevick -- and I were more concerned about what costumes to wear than the body count in Vietnam. We had decided to go Trick or Treating as a group and I convinced them that we should all go as characters of one of our favorite television shows at the time -- Dark Shadows.

Dark Shadows was a schlocky Dan Curtis soap opera with twist that appealed to my 10-year old psyche -- it was about witches, vampires, werewolves and other supernatural creatures. My friends and I watched it every chance we could after school. I put dibs on being the main character: Barnabas Collins. He was a classy British vampire who wore a tweed overcoat with a short cape and carried a cane with a silver wolf's head. In my 10-year-old opinion, he was pretty darned cool.

Dave was going as Quentin, a character played by actor David Selby. Quentin had these porkchop sideburns and turned into a werewolf at the full moon. Jim was a bigger kid and made a natural Count Petofi. Count Petofi was an evil count whose hand had been cut off and reattached. It had special powers. Jim recreated the green hand with a rubber dish washing glove.

Robert ended up being Aristede, Count Petofi's foppish sidekick. It was the only male role of any distinction left after I snagged Barnabas, Dave took Quentin and Jim played Count Petofi. I convinced Robert to be Aristede by letting him wear a cape that belonged to my grandmother. She also helped sew together the tweed overcoat with short cape for me. I fashioned my own cane using my grandfather's walking stick and some aluminum foil shaped kind of like a wolf head. I forget what Dave made his sideburns out of, but it looked a bit like roadkill stuck to his face. Jim also recreated Count Petofi's beard with a portion of an old dust mop.

Looking back at the photo, we looked more like Mormon missionaries than the characters from Dark Shadows, but at the time we felt pretty cool. It was only after the seventh or eighth time we were asked by puzzled adults handing out candy what we were supposed be that we began to feel a bit self conscious.

I tried not to let it get to me. Because that night I was Barnabas Collins, creature of the night and sophisticated British gentleman who could drink your blood. It was only after I lost one of my fangs on a tootsie roll that I slunk home dejected to count my candy.

But looking back, that was a significant Halloween for me. I was in 5th grade and it was really the last time we could Trick or Treat and be kids. And it was the first time we were allowed to go Trick or Treating without our parents tagging along.

The next year, we were 6th graders and began feeling the pressures of leaving behind childish pursuits. I don't even remember whether I went Trick or Treating after that. So the Halloween of 1968 will always be the one I remember. Though my group of childhood friends have long since gone their separate ways (Dave sadly passed on last year), that night will live on in my memory.

And this Halloween, as I pass out candy to Harry Potter's, Pirates of the Caribbean and Ballerina's, I will think fondly of those four characters from Dark Shadows laughing and jostling each other to get their fair share of the bounty in their pillowcases before time shut the door on childhood forever.

Happy Halloween!

Where the gnomes are...

It is gratifying to me to know that the gnome has indeed begun to roam. So far they have gone to California, Ohio, Washington (other than my home), Florida, Minnesota, Nevada, Canada, Australia and France. I'm hoping this will snowball and he'll see way more of the world than I ever will.

Thanks to all of you who have been good sports and played along (even those of you who have made disparaging remarks about the gnomes boyishly good looking face).

I've added a list on the right with links to all of the sites that have stolen and posted the gnome. I urge you to check them out, especially Shandi's amazingly creative approach to gnome theft. If you haven't stolen the gnome and still would like him, please be my guest and I'll add your link to the list. It could be the rise of the Gnomen Empire.

Stealing gnome

The first yard gnomes were created in Germany in the mid-1800s. British tourists began bringing them home and decorating their yards with them because the legend is that gnomes like to do yard work at night. One site I visited pointed out that gnome sales in Germany dropped sharply during both World War I and World War II.

I wonder why.

Regardless, as one might expect, I am drawn to gnomes in the same way I am drawn to pink flamingos and pinwheel daisies. Tess makes me keep my gnome in the back yard where the neighbors can't see it. It's just as well. It has become fashionable for people to steal yard gnomes and photograph them in odd places and at nicer vacation spots than most of us can afford.

So it dawned on me, why not put a yard gnome up at Dizgraceland and encourage any of you to steal it and place it on your site and encourage others to steal it from you. If you choose to take part in this experiment, please let me know, and provide a link back to Dizgraceland so I can keep track of where the gnome is traveling.

If you are computer graphic impaired, all you have to do to copy an image off a site is right click the image with your mouse and scroll down to the "save image as" command. Then save to your desktop and load it up on your own site.

Remember, a gnome is where your heart is. Share mine.

Who let the blogs out?

I wish it was cool to blog. I wish we could have cult followings and t-shirts and unauthorized biographys. I wish they did segments on us spitting on the paparazzi on those evening tabloid shows. I wish they went through our garbage and sold our gum wrappers on eBay.

But it isn't cool to blog. I mean, it isn't even unique to have a blog. Thanks to sites like blogger.com and myspace.com, everybody and their dog has a blog.

Something has to be done. I think we need to band together in militant little blog gangs and raid the other blog gangs. Maybe it can be Bloggers versus the Myspacers. I think we at blogger.com are clearly the more serious literary bloggers anyway. Let's go over to myspace.com and open up a major can of blogger whoopass. Yeah, that's what I'm talking about. Let's go to work!

Ow! I just broke a nail on my keyboard. The rest of you go ahead. I've got your backs.

Power to the bloggers at blogger.com!

As long as it's not down for maintenance.

Sunday school

I first sensed that life wouldn't be fair when my mother started sending us to Sunday School. It wasn't so bad before I started attending regular school, but once I started getting up early every day to educate my mind, I wasn't too thrilled to be forced to get out of bed on a Sunday morning to educate my soul.

A Christian Science church doesn't have much to occupy a kid. They are pretty plain. There isn't much decoration except for Bible quotes on the walls. They aren't like a Catholic church where you can at least get caught up in the spectacle of it all. They don't even have preachers or priests. They have readers . So you sit there while a couple of people read out of the Bible and the Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures by Mary Baker Eddy.

It was a little bit better when we would break off into groups based on our ages. We'd go off to separate rooms and talk about what the reader's had read during the service. The only thing worse than listening to the readers at church was talking about it.

My other problem with Sunday School was when I started applying the cognitive reasoning I was learning in regular school, I was having a real hard time buying the bill of goods they were trying to make me believe based on faith alone. I began asking the Sunday School teachers questions like, "If god created everything and everything he created was good, where did evil come from?" I don't even remember the answer, but I know it never satisfied me.

Christian Scientists don't really believe in a devil per se. When you were sick or tempted to do something wrong, it was an "Error in thinking." When I would tell my mother I wasn't feeling well, she would tell me that that was "error" speaking. For years I thought she was saying "air." And I formed this image of the devil being made out of dark smoke or air.

I finally stopped going to Sunday School when I was 16 years old. I had a girlfriend by then and she was concerned that, being a Christian Scientist, I wouldn't go to a doctor if something was seriously wrong with me. It was just the excuse I needed to finally tell my mother I didn't want to go to Sunday School anymore. She was very disappointed. My brother's had given it up long before me. I had been her last hope of having a good Christian Scientist son.

I think being a Christian Scientist did help me learn how powerful our minds are when it comes to dealing with illness. But I honestly never missed being part of an organized religion. And to this day I sleep in on Sunday's and enjoy every minute of it.

And as I wrap up this post and try to post it, it keeps giving me error messages.

Or they could be air messages. It makes me wonder.

Monsters

I don't really like mixing my work world with my blog world. But a local telvision program ran a story about an ad campaign I worked on and interviewed me. So if you are curious as to what my day job is, watch this video.

Daily Exorcise

"To work it out I let them in
All the good guys and the bad guys that I've been
All the devils that disturbed me and the angels that defeated them somehow
Come together in me now"
--Paul Williams; Phantom of the Paradise, "Phantom's Theme"

I was in high school when Linda Blair was freaking the world out in The Exorcist. I saw the movie at a drive in with some friends. Not being a Catholic I didn't get what all the fuss was over. Okay, the scene where Linda Blair abuses herself with a crucifix was kind of disturbing, but I didn't go into convulsions like the press was reporting that many movie goers were after viewing the film.

Watching The Exorcist was the first time I'd ever heard about exorcism though. Since then, I've seen tons of movies and read many books in which people are possessed by demons and have had to go through an exorcism to expel the demon ( or demons depending how popular the possessed person is) from their bodies.

I don't literally believe in demonic possession. But in a metophorical sense, I believe we could all use a little daily exorcism to get rid of our demons. Or maybe we need a ritual that helps us embrace our demons. Or accept them. Or just recognize them for what they are. Because I think I have met my demons and they are me.

Now before you suggest I get fitted for a straightjacket (44 regular if you must), I'm just pointing out that instead of looking for a demon to blame all of your faults, woes, misfortunes and bad behaviour on, perhaps you can just look in a mirror and acknowledge that maybe, just maybe there is no outside source to blame. There is no devil, it's not your mother's fault, the government isn't conspiring against you and you weren't cursed for ripping those tags off the bottom of your mattress years ago.

It kind of points back to my discussion about Yin and Yang last month. What makes us "us" is that delicate balance between angels and devils. We are all good and bad. Even saints sometimes leave the toilet seat up. And I bet even devils sometimes help old ladies cross the street.

So maybe instead of a daily exorcism of our demons, we should exercise both our demons and our angels. It's the only way they can learn to play nice together.

Fog

Fog

THE fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.
--Carl Sandburg

I always thought Carl Sandburg's poem was the best description I'd ever read of fog. When I first read it as a child, I thought it described fog perfectly. Though growing up in Idaho, we didn't have harbors (or much of a city for that matter). Our fog came creeping out of the Boise River and settled primarily over the airport each winter.

Still, I loved fog. It was mystery. It was intrigue. It cloaked everyday objects in a misty coat of shifting shadows. I was always very disappointed when the cat moved on.

Seattle has its share of fog. It can slink into the city for days. I remember my first year at college in Seattle. I was heading home to Boise for Christmas and sure enough Sea-Tac Airport was socked in by fog. I waited for hours and finally my airplane popped through a window of fog and winged me to Boise only to discover the fog had beaten me there. The Idaho Statesman ran a photo of my father at the airport staring out the window at the fog while he waited for my plane. The plane landed in Idaho Falls a hundred miles away and I had to take a bus into Boise.

The fog hung around Boise through the holiday and I had to take a Grayhound back to Seattle. When I arrived at the bus station and stepped into a cab at 2 a.m. to go back to my dorm, the cab driver pointed out that someone had stolen the Space Needle. Sure enough when I looked up, the Space Needle had been decapitated by a fog bank.

You have to admire the fog's persistence.

Fog is often used as a metaphor for clouded thought. But to me it is clarity. Fog smooths the lines of reality and softens our point of view. My dreams are often filled with fog.

I think when my time comes, and others are stepping into the light, I will walk into the fog instead.

Debate

Tuesday night is a vast wasteland on television. I found myself watching a a political debate between three candidates for a state of Washington Senate seat. It reminded me that I loath politics and politicians.

The debate was predictable. The Republican spouted right wing
Republican rhetoric. The Democrat spouted liberal Democrat rhetoric and the Libertarian spouted gibberish.

The journalists asking the questions asked predictable questions about the war, the economy and the environment. The responses were artfully vague and lacking in any real course of action on any of the issues.

If I were there, I would have at least asked interesting questions of the candidates that they couldn't have been prepped for:

Do you think Berber carpet is preferable to shag?

How much wood could a wood chuck chuck if a wood chuck could chuck wood?

Have you ever wondered where the yellow went when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent?

Who framed Roger Rabbit?

It would have been fun to watch them flip through their crib sheets looking for answers to those questions. I think the Libertarian would have nailed them.

Self-portraits of the blogger as a young man

Before digital cameras and Photoshop, there was film, dark rooms and water colors. I dabbled. It wasn't as flexible as Photoshop. You didn't have the luxury of instantly knowing what you were getting. You took the photo, processed it, and printed photos and hoped for the best.

Even then, I messed around with self-portraits. The model fees were cheap and giving direction was much simpler. I could only print in black and white in my dark room. So I played around with hand coloring prints. The contact sheet above is a sample of one of my experiments.

I never really knew what I was doing or why. Sometimes I pretended I was being an artist. At the very least, I was capturing a piece of my own past in a colorful way.

Now we have almost completely become a digital society. Photoshop is much simpler than the darkroom. And I still like experimenting. The beauty is that I can still work in self-portraits, past and present. Digital painting opens up whole new worlds.

Un-Enlightened

It is sometimes nice to be in the dark. Enlightenment requires a heck of a lot of batteries. Sitting in the dark can be pretty peaceful.

I haven't always felt this way. When I was little, I was afraid of the dark. When the lights went out at bedtime, I pulled the covers over my head. Eventually, I allowed my nose to stick out. I eventually accepted that some demon wasn't going to rip off my face and pulled the cover down to my neck and exposed my whole head. I did get my mosquitoe bites on my eyelids, but that's another story.

Bottomline, I learned to accept the dark. Sometimes I even prefer it. Or I prefer dimly lit environments. There is nothing like soft light and shadows to soften reality.

It dawned on me (no pun intended) that some of you may be thinking I am referring to light and dark in a metaphorical sense here. You are thinking that light represents reality and darkness a delusional veil of fantasy that dulls it.

Not so.

Hey, don't use that denial crap on me. This is my life and my blog. I know when I'm being metaphorical or not.

I just like the dark.

I do.

Half full or half empty

I've always been a bit annoyed at the over optimistic twits who debate the burning question of whether a glass is half empty or half full. It is a relative question. If you are at a conference dinner for 1100 people, you can look at the glass as half empty and not a snowball's chance in hell of ever being refilled by the hundreds of servers scurrying around taking your salad before you are done so that they can serve the entry quickly and sneak off for a cigarette break.


I don't think it is wrong to see a glass as half empty. It's how you react at that point that counts. Some sit there and wait for it to be filled. Others don't care because the water tasted funny anyway. Some start screaming for someone to fill it up. And finally, some simply go find the water jug and fill the glass up themselves. I think I'd hire the latter type of person.

I personally consider it optimistic to look at a glass that is filled half way and be grateful it doesn't have a hair or cigarette butt in it. But then again, I have always believed the easiest way to clear a hurdle is by lowering the bar so you can step over it. You are less likely to trip and it is much easier on the knees. This is not to say I lack ambition. I am just practical and tire easily. I'm getting to old for high-impact activities.

So the next time someone asks you whether you think the glass is half empty or half full, pick it up and throw the contents into their face and say, "I'd definitely say it's empty, now."

Social graces

I have discovered something about myself on this business trip. I am not a social creature.

Most people go to conferences to network. I am still of the mind that a network programs your television or, is something IT people maintain. This is why I am an anomaly in the marketing world. I really don't like to schmooze.

Other than the reception I slunk my way through last night, I've avoided hospitality suites left and right at this conference. I really don't want to buy anything from anyone and I am not selling. I am not looking for a job or trying to find someone for one. So I don't have the energy to "go fish" with my business cards in a hotel suite just to get a free drink and a stress ball with some bus company's name on it.

I haven't even sought out collegues to go to dinner with. I am perfectly fine with dining alone or calling room service. So obviously I will never be a leader in my profession or a person who will seek public office. I am not a good old boy nor am I that kind of guy everybody knows and likes. I can walk into a room and go completely unnoticed even though I've worked in this industry for almost a quarter of a century.

The cheese stands alone.But I do like crackers.

A star is born

I do know the way to San Jose. I am here at a conference. I attended an award ceremony today and won a major award for an ad campaign. It is like the Academy Awards for public transit advertising except no one televises it and no one judges what we wear on the red carpet (thank god).

This is my sixth such award in ten years. One would think I'd be used to the spotlight by now.

I'm not. I like the trophy. But I have never liked people staring at me. It makes me want to shout, "I see dead people" and running. But I went up on stage and accepted my trophy, let them take my photo and left.

Tonight I went to a consultant reception at an adjacent hotel. Unlike the show Entourage, I had no crew to go with me to the reception. I had to suck down drinks, eat prime rib sandwiches and shrimp all alone. But I was fine. I moved around the food station effortlessly because I am a star. I have a trophy.

No one talked to me. I think they were intimidated. Being a star will do that.

The Pooka Polka

"The Púca (also Pooka, Phooka, Phouka, Púka) is an adroit shape changer, capable of assuming a variety of terrifying forms. It may appear as an eagle or as a large black goat (its name is a cognate of the early Irish 'poc', 'a male goat' and it lends its name to Puck, the goat-footed satyr made famous in Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream), but it most commonly takes the form of a sleek black or white horse with a flowing mane and glowing yellow eyes. "
--Wikipedia

polka n 1: music performed for dancing the polka 2: a Bohemian dance with 3 steps and a hop in fast time
--Webster's Revised Unabridged Dictionary (1913)

"Well, I've wrestled with reality for 35 years, Doctor, and I'm happy to state I finally won out over it."
--Elwood P. Dowd, Harvey

I didn't really know much about Pookas before I started writing this post. I first heard about the Pooka when I watched the movie Harvey years ago. It starred James Stewart as Elwood P. Dowd. Elwood P. Dowd's best friend was a Pooka. This Pooka, however, took the form of a six foot three giant rabbit named Harvey. Harvey hung out in bars, drank and basically was harmless.

The Pookas from Celtic mythology apparently weren't quite as benign. Wikipedia goes on to describe the Pooka as "...the most terrifying of all faery creatures. One reason for this is its appearance, but its powers are also feared. It is said to waylay travellers and others about at night, and if it is able to toss them onto its back, it will, at very least, provide them with the ride of their lives, from which they will return forever changed. "

I think it would be fun to take a ride on a Pooka and return forever changed. But those supernatural kinds of adventures never really happen to me. The closest thing I get is to ride the train every day to and from work. It beats riding a bus, but I don't feel forever changed.

I do have a couple of Puka shell chokers from the 70s. I can also honestly say I have never danced a Polka. But I digress.

The thing I liked about Elwood P. Dowd's Pooka Harvey was that he was a jovial kind of creature that one would really like to hang around bars with. I imagine the author of the screenplay made Harvey a giant rabbit instead of the traditional Pooka was that having a white horse with blazing yellow eyes hanging out with you in a bars would seem kind of weird. Plus there is the issue of the massive amount of manure horses produce. A giant rabbit is much more manageable.

Watching the movie or the play, one never quite knew whether Harvey was a hallucination brought on by Elwood's drinking or a real spirit only he could see. I pretty much think this is the case with most mystical creatures. You never really see them, but you can't quite bring yourself to dismiss them altogether. Because you never really know. Just because you can't see something, doesn't mean it isn't there.

Look at air.

You can't (except in parts of Southern California). I rest my case.

Half baked fears

Our television is full of demonic icons conjured up by ad executives to prey upon our fears in order to sell products. Pop N' Fresh, the Pillsbury Dough Boy for instance. What is he other than a terrorist with a chef's hat. There he is with his pasty face, blackhole eyes and bloated body, leering at you while you try and open an explosive pipebomb of biscuit dough. What's not to be afraid of?

Or take the "Jolly" Green Giant and his little imp "Sprout." Isn't he just the flesh eating ogre from the Jack and the Beanstock story? And Mr. Clean is a defrocked genie who dresses like an orderly in a mental hospital, spraying disinfectant on everything. Perhaps he is in league with the Coo-Coo for Cocoa Puffs bird.

The list goes on. There's the sinister leprechaun taunting you from a cereal box, "Orange moons, yellow stars, they're all after me luck charms..." Can we say, "WITCHCRAFT!" I'm sure he hangs around with his buddies Snap, Crackle and Pop or the Keebler elves casting spells.

The Geico Gecko slithers around talking in a Cockney accent like a slimy Artful Dodger from Dickens. He might as well be tempting us with an apple. Can we say, "THE DEVIL!"

I'm here to say, "RESIST!" Get TIVO. Fast forward through the spew that is speaking in tongues through your plasma screen before it's too late.

Do it before midnight tonight...my god what am I saying...argggggggggggggg....

School of thought

Only dead fish go with the flow.
--Anonymous

Never wrestle with a pig: You both get all dirty and the pig likes
it.
--Even more Anonymous

Wise men make proverbs, but fools repeat them.
--The most Anonymous

Anonymous is my favorite philosopher. I believe he was Greek. I think he is also responsible for the phrase, "That's Greek to me."

Regardless, I am amazed that some people can open up a fortune cookie, read the fortune and then quote it for the rest of day like Einstein had just explained relativity to them. But then again, People Magazine is one of the most widely read magazines in the country. So that says a lot about the thinking processes of much of our population.

It does make me wonder about what makes people believe in one thing over another. We have so many polarized views in the world over politics, religion and just basic reality. What makes people jump on one bandwagon and not another?

I look at lots of research as part of my job. Statistically, people are generally fixed on one side of an issue or the other. And once they are there, you can do very little to change their minds. It's the undecided people marketing and public relations people target with persuasive arguments trying to get them to jump to one side of fence or the other.

I think initially children absorb the belief systems of their parents. The weak minded ones never break free of those belief systems. I think really good teachers teach you how to think and not to accept. That's where the smarter people break free from what they are told and develop opinions of their own.

It still amazes me when someone latches onto a really stupid idea and clutches it with a death grip, even in the face of daunting evidence that it is bull shit. Perhaps that is why I like Penn and Teller's Showtime show, Bull Shit. It rattles the cage of scared cows and makes them moo. Unfortunately, as with most great things, it is like preaching to the choir because only people receptive to it watch it. The idiots that need it are too busy watching Survivor.

But then again, all of this is just my opinion.

Making a point

I violated my own "don't write a long post" rule when I wrote about my dog Shep. But the rule was more tongue in cheek than pronouncement. I think the number of words should match the occasion. Shep deserved a few more paragraphs than my usual drivel. Though I seriously doubt that, unless he was your dog, it was a riveting piece of prose and captured too many people's attention.

Which is the point about blogging versus writing. If you make your living writing, you don't have the luxury of self-indulgence (unless, of course, you are someone like Stephen King...then you have enough money to indulge yourself to your heart's content). Blogging, on the other hand, is by and large always about self-indulgence. You write what you want when you want.

This is what makes blogging addictive and cathartic. It is also what makes it an iffy proposition if you are looking to be entertained on a regular basis. Let's face it, day to day life just isn't that interesting. Me writing about cleaning my desk and finding a ten-year old doughnut in a tape dispenser (don't ask) is fascinating to me, but not to a lot of other people.

I think this is why blogging hasn't caught on to a mainstream audience. They are too busy watching reality TV shows about the Dallas cheerleaders to waste time reading random thoughts from millions of strangers. And it is why any of the delusional bloggers out there thinking they are going to be discovered and made famous blogging are in for a very long wait (as in snowball's chance in hell).

Oh well, I'd better get back to cleaning up my desk. I need to find some coffee to go with that doughnut.