Small World? You Don't Remember?!

So once again we have proof writ large that the tort bar is a confederacy of carnies.  A man, apparently with some degree of disability, was recently awarded $8000 by Disneyland after becoming stranded for three hours on the "It's A Small World" ride.  Eight freaking grand for a mere three hours!  I certainly did at least that much time in "Small World" prison every time I took my daughters to D'Land back in the Pleistocene era of the 1970's and I'm okay.  Uh…. wait a minute, on second thought, WHERE'S MY CHEESE?!  Great Caesar's ghost!  We may have a class action suit here.  Maybe even the kids are owed some compensatory damages.  Do they really like the ride?  Who knows?

That's the problem.  Nobody really knows what kids actually like.  Sure, we tell ourselves that such and such is just what kids love.  And, isn't it just grand to be a kid livin' small in their beautiful small world. Actually, things in general are pretty damn scary in kid's world.  Just refresh your memory.  

I was reminded of this a few weeks back when my daughter, Katie, related a story of making a cheese sandwich for her son Dan.  "Do you want it cut horizontally or diagonally?", she asked him.  He indicated a horizontal cross cut and she proceeded to slice the sandwich in half.  "No, no, I don't like it that way!"  "Make it whole!", the kid demanded.  This was a classic no win situation that wound up sending mom and son to separate corners.

That night as Dan thrashed in his sleep he blurted out "make it whole" as he most certainly dreamed of his less than perfect cheese sandwich experience and how mom had completely messed up his day.  This was a huge deal in his three year-old world.  

As adults we forget what our childhood was really like.   We romanticise about how blissful and carefree we were and it's a lousy dirty trick.  Childhood is loaded with trauma and angst.  Fear of wetting your pants, being yelled at by an adult, new people, rejection, being made fun of,  or being hit by the ball at the same time you're whizzing your pants all loom large on the big screen of early life.

Some childhood fears are completely irrational.  I specifically remember being reluctant to use the drinking fountain at kindergarten and would sneak into the teachers parking lot at recess to drink from a big old mud puddle until some goody two-shoes stoolie ratted me out.   Perhaps I merely preferred the earthy patina imparted by the dirty water that gave it a subdued yet frolicsome quality?  Nah…I was chicken to use the fountain.  Why?  Beats me, I was five.
And please don't get me started on the devastating day a third grade girl called me "overbearing" as I attempted to win her love with a killer joke.  (I had to ask mom what that one meant.)

My point?  Give the guy his $8k.  He probably earned it, but also think about the kids.  How many of them are really digging the catchy tune on the Small World ride?  Maybe it frightens them and makes them worry about "having an accident in their pants" while they're floating by all those singing blockheads.  We don't know because most of us have forgotten how piss your pants scary it is to be a little kid.  Mercifully most of the stupid stuff we fear as children is lost in the fog of adult memory and, I guess, that's a good thing.  Heck, I hope that works for some adventures of my twenties and thirties.  Lots of fog please.

The next time you find yourself pining for the bliss of childhood order up a good reality check and recall some of the less than fun, downright petrifying times of your youth.

Now, if you'll excuse me, there's a  grandson who needs a cheese sandwich--"make it whole!"--and a friendly and delicious mud puddle in the teachers parking lot calling my name.


"Pain is mandatory; suffering is optional." anon

"It's A Small World"…Enter at your own risk.

Where Are The Fashion Cops When You NEED 'Em?

It's over dammit!!  

And I realize I will be pissing off approximately half of my pals with this, but REALLY the whole goatee thing is OVER!  Actually what most post pubescent guys are wearing is a Vandyke.  When you rock a mustache with chin whiskers it is a Vandyke; not a goatee. Frankly, if you're going to insist on wearing this "swallow the rat" look you should  ^$%#ing well know that!  Maynard G. Krebs sported a goatee and, until about ten years ago, only guys with no chin, lounge acts,  and stage magicians hid behind Vandykes.

Why have so many dudes adopted this hirsute cliche?  Do women like it?  Since most women of my acquaintance pretty much hate all facial hair my guess would be a big fat NO.  Whatever the case, it's OVER.  I can almost guarantee  ten years from now guys will be hiding pictures of themselves taken during this eclipse of personal aesthetics.  Face it, not all of us are made for the Mandrake the Magician look.

This clown wears a leisure suit to complete the look..

Satan had one just like it!

Even pretty boys can't carry it off.

Prick hair

Another troubling development is spiked hair.  I see it on both men and women and it is hideous.  How did we get from"helmet" hair to the "I just rolled out of the feathers after having the best sex of my life" hair?  Roughly half the population now walks around looking like Nick Nolte's mugshot.  On the plus side I imagine it makes an insanity plea easier to sell the judge.  Again, there will be snaphots and high school yearbooks to hide or, better yet, burn.

Hard to wiggle your ears with this  look.

As George Carlin once said so aptly: "The world is theater in the round."  "It's a freak show and, if you're an American, you have a front row seat."

Be different.  Grab a shave and comb your hair.  Not everyone can look like they are directing a revival of West Side Story at the local "Chow & Bow" dinner theater.

Flying the hair freak flag

Milestones

There's a new pope in town

It looks like the Catholics have picked a good one.  A decent humble man of God is the new pope and no doubt  some refreshing new ideas are in store at the Vatican.  I'm not Catholic; in fact not much for church of any denomination.  I never liked the music nor ritual and quit attending just as soon as I escaped the iron hand of my mom.  She and dad were of the "these boys will be religious if we have to beat it into them" school of Christianity.  My brother is a church slacker too.  Maybe there really is a religious gene.   

Certainly I think more about the spiritual these days.  Tomorrow my odometer hits 65, one of those milestone birthdays like 21 and 40.  It's a safe bet that "youth and high spirits" is definitely out the rotation  as an excuse for bad behaviour.  Try pulling that card with a bald head and a face that shows some party miles.  From my side of these eyes I'm about twenty-five, but in the mirror every morning I greet Dad.

No complaints here.  Too many friends have tennis-shoed the planet or become husks of humanity merely waiting for a gust to blow away what's left of their once vital selves.  I'm lucky; always have been.  I missed deployment to Vietnam by two weeks.  At least two pals never came back from that misadventure and never will know what it's like to hammer at the moments we put together as life.  Others stayed too long at the parties we all think are unending in our twenties and thirties.  Sometimes our talents and abilities take us to altitudes where our character cannot sustain us.  It's a gift if you catch yourself before it's too late.

Complaints?  As I mentioned, I have none.  I'm 65 and grateful as hell to have made it.  I look forward to watching my kids and grandson grow older, but never ever, catch up with me.  Like I said, I'm lucky.  I get to beat them to the finish line.  With luck, I'll do it with the woman who has put up with me for forty-four years and counting.  Once again, I have all the luck; she deserved better.

The late Art Buchwald had a great line:  "Whether it's the best of times or the worst of times, it's the only time we've got."

Sixty-five is just a mile marker.  I plan on stacking years until I attain that "old guy" smell.  You know, the one that hints vaguely of vitamins and pee.  Then you can show me the parking lot.

"What, me worry?"

Pay UP! The Piggies in D.C. Are Hungry

"The country doesn't have a spending problem, we have a paying for problem."--Steny Hoyer (D-MD)

"Wise men talk because they have something to say; fools talk because they have to say something."--  PLATO

"Paying taxes is like making love to a gorilla.  You ain't done until the gorilla is done."--Me

Well, if I were running the show in D.C. the hogs in the house and the bloodsuckers in the senate would have their credit cards confiscated and their travel allowances taken away.  And, as for the arrogant amateur in the White House, no more Hawaiian vacations, Tiger Woods weekends, or feckless jaunts to Martha's Vineyard.  And, while your at it B.H.O., give me the keys to Air Force One!

Can you tell it's TAX TIME?  Well, actually, like most mere mortals, I am paying someone to do my taxes.  Ever since the political class discovered that there is profit in confusion, they have done everything in their power to add ever more confusing layers to the labyrinth of nonsensical tax law.  Loop holes?!  Find me one, PLEASE!

It would be different if the "revenue,"the new democrat term for taxes, were destined to be "invested", the new democrat way of saying "pissed away", on programs and personnel truly necessary to the country.  Naturally,  that is not the case.  

No, the clueless clowns we have marched off to Washington via our ill informed votes have seen fit to sink us trillions of bucks in debt by divvying it up on wasteful programs with more lives than a Hindu alley cat. 

FOR EXAMPLE:

$1.5 billion per year subsidizing phone service for the "needy".  Apparently 16,500,000 of our fellow Americans don't know someone from whom they could borrow a phone to make that all important call to secure a J O B.

$1 million for the "Mars menu".  Even though we have no plans for manned space flight to Mars, NASA spends that amount to plan for a variety of food that humans  could eat one day on the red planet.  Redhots anyone?

$325,000 on the development of "Robosquirrel"--a robotic rodent designed to test the interaction between rattlesnakes and squirrels.  (Ready to write that check yet?)

$70 million for the production of pennies.  Pennies cost 2.5 times more to make than they are worth.  

Could somebody please get their head out of their ass on this one??!!

$700,000 for the National Science Foundation to produce a musical about climate change and biodiversity.  "The Great Immensity" opened this year in Kansas City.  The audience, I'm told, was able to experience "flying monkey poop" as part of this wonderful evening of theater.

And, of course, no rant about wasting our money would be complete without a mention of the program expanding even faster than American waistlines-- food stamps.  Our friends in Washington dish out billions to citizens too stupid to feed themselves.  Kids we can excuse, but how do you explain the exotic dancer who earned more than $85k in tips last year yet qualified for $1k per month in food stamps while she spent $9k on "cosmetic enhancements"??   Also, somebody needs to explain the signs I see in liquor stores that say "We accept the EBT card".  Does that have anything to do with that old "beer is liquid bread" canard?

Since the dreaded SEQUESTER kicked in we have managed to save a little money.  Okay, so planes are falling out of the sky, widows and orphans have been tossed out in the snow, prisons have loosed killers upon the land and the White House tours have been cancelled.  So what?  The really important things such as White House calligraphy have not been neglected.  Yes, through all the hand wringing and gnashing of teeth, the U.S. government continues to fund the salaries of THREE full time calligraphers for the White House at a cost of $277,050 per year.  

As a buddy of mine opined, "Like myrrh, you can never have too much calligraphy."

Think of that as April 15 approaches.

"Thanks to your tax dollars, I can play the harmonica with my ass."

The Coke Cleanout and Freaky Doings in Iowa

"Coke, now with colon blow!"

Several years ago my old pal, The Skipper, in an effort to bring just a hint of nautical patina to his "always open, never a cover, never a minimum" household bar, acquired a ship's bell from marine salvage.  Skip wanted reminders of his many days as a sea captain to add realism to any and all alcohol fueled stories spun by him or other old salts during the coming years of non-stop codger B.S.   The bell was a dandy, however, there was one minor problem.  The damn thing was hopelessly corroded by its  too many years of salt air exposure.  

"No problem", thought the good skipper.  He quickly secured a large drum and several different types of solvents in which he would soak the gunk encrusted dinger.  There was no shortage of advice from sailors and others who professed to know exactly how to clean up anything made of solid brass.  None worked.

I don't remember if the Captain hit upon the idea of a Coke soak or if someone made the suggestion, but it was the miracle elixir that returned the beautiful antique to a bright and shiny "like new" condition.  "Coca Cola…the stuff that will eat through ANYTHING!"   Somehow that bit of legitimate advertising puffery never made it into a campaign for Coke and I'm betting that a brand new discovery involving the soda won't either.

"The Coke Cleanout" is the title of a Greek study in the journal,  Alimentary Pharmacology & Therapeutics,  just recently published.  The study suggests that drinking Coca-Cola may help alleviate gastrointestinal clogging caused by indigestible parts of plants such as skins and seeds.  Apparently Coke's phosphoric and carbonic acids help dissolve the masses.  In at least one half the Greek cases gastroenterologists  determined that Coca-Cola alone dissolved the masses.  Give that some thought the next time you pour one down the hatch.  Maybe swallow some old brass ammo casings and pennies just to see if the ship's bell experiment was a fluke.  Somebody really needs to tell Mr. Wizard about this.  Oh yeah, he's dead.  If only he had known about the healing power of Coke.

In other news…

"I feel pretty!"

Iowa seems to have changed quite a bit lately.  When I lived there many years ago it was a very conservative, polite, and frankly boring place to be, not that there is anything wrong with that.  Oh, there was the occasional star-crossed romance between a boy and his farm animal, but other than that nothing.  Now it seems new vistas have opened up to guys in the Hawkeye state.  A man, Jose Perales, was arrested last Friday on a burglary and theft charge in connection with a break-in at Dr. John's Lingerie Store in Davenport.  After illegally entering the store Mr. Perales was seen in a surveillance video walking around the store--shopping.  Then, the 325 pound miscreant proceeded to remove his clothes and uh….pleasure himself while trying on female lingerie and wearing a blond wig.  After his arrest the store determined that these items "could not be resold".  Good to know.

License plates in Iowa used to sport "The Tall Corn State" or something like that.  If they hurry state bigshots can service mark: " IOWA...Get Your Freak On!"

One more thing…

The University of Maryland had proved that women talk more than men.  (I don't even want to know how much jack they blew on this more than obvious observation.)  On average, women speak up to 20,000 words a day vs. 7,000 for the average man.  Don't you suppose that somewhere in that bonus 13,000 words a woman could have found this advice for Mr. Perales:  "Honey, there's NO WAY your 325 pounds of man candy can rock that size 4!"