Up and down and side side side

So, two of the three parking spaces in front of my dentist's steps are handicapped spaces.

My dentist office has TVs in the ceiling. The hygienist asked if I wanted the headphones and the remote. I declined. I'd rather not have the TV there at all. First, I don't want my dental hygienist to worry if the super-bright spotlight she shines into my mouth is blocking my view of the TV. Get all the light you need to do your job. Second, I keep imagining the TV falling onto my face.

My hygienist is very nice. I don't envy her job AT ALL, scraping goo off strangers' teeth. It'd be nice to try and cheer her up a little. Someone needs to invent a Dental Patient Translator. How many times has your hygienist asked a question, but all you can say is, "Huurgh, huh-urhgh," with her fingers poking around in your mouth?

Instead of "hurgle-gawk-sthpit," it'd be great to say, "Why do dentists have the highest suicide rate? Because they're always looking down in the mouth."

Or, instead of "gaaah-rhh hherh gak," she'd hear, "Did you notice I wrote 'Wash Me' on my front teeth?"

Or "nawnghr ahgk SH*T!": "Say, do you Facebook? I have a son, single, who's your--OW! THAT FRIGGIN' HURT!"

Or, "hmmmmmmmmmmmmm er, um, awgk," translates as "Is that your breast on my forehead? I'm not sure I should be comfortable with that. Does my insurance cover that?"

All I'm saying is, a Dental Patient Translator would improve patient/hygienist relations a lot more than having a TV waiting above to crush their skulls.

Minor Home Improvements

Here are five things I'd like to have in my house, but I don't have a place to put them:

#1: Tina Fey. Oh, it'd be great to have Tina Fey in my house. I could walk into her office, and say, "I'm feeling peckish today. Could you please update my Facebook status for me? Something wisecutefunny." That'd be so cool. And, if she spilled some wasabi on her shirt, she could borrow something from my new walk-in closet where I'd keep--

#2 The entire fashion archive of Christian Lacroix: This man can mix patterns and colors in so many bizarre ways and make it look freaky-awesome! Then, I'd invite all my friends to come over and try on the clothes. And, for the friends who couldn't care less, we could saunter to the back of my house where I'd have--

#3 An Irish Pub: Complete with Guinness on tap, and live Irish Music four nights a week. On the nights without the live music, I'd wander off into my backyard where I'd keep--

#4: Ireland. What's not to love? Pubs, music, rolling bogs, friendly people, horse racing, celtic history, a snazzy stone to kiss for luck. And, Ireland probably comes with a nice hot tub, too, from which I would watch--

#5 DVDs of all of Gong Li's movies. Really, my movie binder is running out of slots.

Brother, Can You Spare A , um, Like, Some Money, Dude?

I've been walking the dog some more.

Last night, just after the evening twilight, I walk the dog up to a corner, and two skateboarders scrape by.

"Excuse me, sir?" the black-haired one yelled at me from across the street.

"Yeah?"

"Can I have a dollar?"

This kid is a product of our poor public school system. Our state's kids are growing up without a clue how to properly beg. No panache. No wheedling. Not even a grovel to tug some guilt-and a couple bucks-out of me. They panhandle just like the state. Essentially: Here's a new skateboarder tax: Give me a dollar.

I'm glad there are some private schools to teach some more fortunate kids this valuable skill. Valuable especially in this economy! I mean, how many times have you been at the gas station, without your debit card, no cash, and you just need a couple bucks for gas to make it home? In fact, some kids learn to beg before they can walk! Some even learn to beg instead of walking!

So, for all you folks who've been through Florida Public Schools, and need an appreciation for the sport of scrounge, here are some lines that just may get the job done for you.

*-*-*

I'm from The Immaculate Perception. Around the corner. We see you drive by Sunday mornings. I'd like to explain to you why you need to give me a tenth of what's in your wallet, or burn for all eternity.

I'm collecting donations to buy supplies for my charity car wash to raise money for uniforms for my school's band to wear while they sell cookie dough to fund their trip to Washington, D.C. to play a benefit concert to help starving kids in South America sell popcorn to help the victims of Hurricane Katrina.

My dog needs an operation I can't afford, and it's her birthday today. Could you spare a couple bucks so I could get her something special for her last meal?

Give me a dollar, or I'll have a wardrobe malfunction.

I ran into Samuel L. Jackson, and he said you're not as cheap as everyone says you are.

I know this guy in this apartment building that can turn your ten dollars into fifty. He's really shy, so give me your ten, and I'll be right back.

Mommy! Mommy! --What? You're not my real mommy? Y'know, this deep, personal pain you've caused me could be smoothed over with just a few bucks.

I'm passing the hat here! C'mon, don't cheap out! I had to pawn my ventriloquist's dummy just to buy the hat!

Help! Help! My two-year-old baby wandered out of the house last night, and made it clear across town! I need to send her cab fare.

My job moved to India. Can you spare some dough so I can go chase after it?

Say, stop feeding Africa! I'm hungry and standing right in front of you.

I just gave my last fiver to a hungry skateboarder. Could you spare some change so I can make it home?

*-*-*

There's plenty more, you can bet. I'll be looking for you and your hook. I don't have any cash to give you, you understand. I'm a little light in the wallet this payday. Business has still not stimulated in my neck of the woods, and blogging about idiots don't pay squat, so, um, if you could shoot me a little something-something, you'd make my day. I take Paypal.

Unfaded Memories

I remember the first time I saw The Thin Man. I had just got my job back that morning. To celebrate, I spent the afternoon pitching pennies. I won enough to buy a ticket to the theater near my brother-in-law's house where I rented a room. I sprawled out in the middle of a row, even winked at a girl a row behind me. First, the news reel about John Dillinger still being at large, the drought and dust storms, and Hitler's rise. A Betty Boop cartoon, and FINALLY the film. I laughed all the year's troubles away. Heck, we all did. I left the theater convinced all I needed was a snappy wit and a small dog to meet me a swell dame like Myrna Loy.

Well, okay. That's not exactly how it went. I love old movies: Bogart film noir, Fred Astaire musicals, or screwball Cary Grant comedies. My mind makes up a little fake me-history to go along with what I'm watching. I don't know why my brain does it, either. I'd understand it if they were memories of my OWN life, but "memories" of my grandparents' era? Is it to enjoy the movie even more, as if I could be in the original time at a theater when it was first released. Or, is it just a game to cull as much sickly-sweet nostalgia as I can from the movie?

When I hear old Benny Goodman tunes, I'll get sucked back to the days before going to war, the smokey dance hall with the tables shoved close together, yellow bulbs with tin shades hanging from the ceiling to light us, swirling-drunk dances, wringing one more happy memory to warm me through the winters Over There.

It's other people's schmaltz, but I loll in it all the same.

Wisenheimer, Offend Thyself

So, I snapped out a crappy pun which played upon the obvious religious heresy of the stranger in the story being told. However, the pun was received as a hint toward sexual deviancy.

My head emptied. My mouth hung open, flapping gently on one hinge. There was a dry, gurgle in my throat. I could hear blood rushing past my ears to flush my face. My blinking was slow, and deliberate. Fog swirled around empty skull. Lightning was sure to strike me any second. As the topic was expounded a little, my gut twisted, and I began to sweat under my too-too jaunty cap. The pun's connection to sex was SO obvious! How come I didn't catch it before I said anything!?!

People will always say they have a sense of humor, and listen to a variety of music, and are not easily offended. People think a lot of themselves. Me, too. It has been awhile since I've been offended. I mean, I listen to Lily Allen: See! Sense of humor, musical variety, and not offended all in one!

It has been a long time since I remember being offended. But, in this case, had I REALLY been offended? What is being offended? What happens? I mean, I got over it. I don't think anybody in the room was out to get me, or any such nonsense. Everyone was very nice. I just felt very uncomfortable.

So, I got to thinking (I really ought to stick to knitting, though). Maybe feeling comfortable all the time is a bad thing. And, that's a wild thing for a meat sack of neuroses like me to be thinking. What is soooooo bad about being uncomfortable? Maybe I could pay very close attention to the uncomfort, and try to pin down just what it IS. Kind of an inner adventure. Or, just plain get over it and move on. Why dwell? If I get too uncomfortable, I can always grab a Guinness, my knitting, and an old movie.

And, to anyone who was in that room for my REALLY bad pun: Yeah, I thought it was a stupid pun, too.

Laugh and Let Laugh

So, I said, "Sure, I've seen The Holy Land theme park. I've gotta warn you. You WILL get wet on the Jonah in the Whale Ride."

Then, someone said, "Are you joking? I can't tell when you're joking."

Yeah. I get that a lot. Especially when I'm not very funny.

So, in case you're wondering, at left is my face after I just told the computer what I had for lunch. Note the half-closed eyes staring off into space, a little nervous, with a self-deprecating air. I could use a trim about the goatee.

Now, at right is my face just after telling the computer a joke. Notice the snarky smirk, the twinkle in the eye, the cocky tilt to the head. Oh, yeah. I'm joking all right. You should be falling off your laptop, because the joke I told the computer was so funny.

Here's the deal. I've been thinking. (In case you're wondering, when I think, I look very angry, but I'm NOT angry!) Why would someone bother asking me if THEY think my joke is funny? Do I have to carry a laugh track around with me? (Everyone, say it with me: "Is that a laugh track in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?") Why not let yourself decide whether to laugh or not? Don't laugh if the joke is stupid. Laugh if the joke is funny. OH! And, laugh in the middle of a sentence-- for no reason. That is loads of fun. Gets people real nervous real quick.

Anyway, if you're still not sure when to laugh or not, let me revise my little joke. It's like a pop quiz:

---

Hey, great crowd here tonight. Great to be here.

Anyone been to the Holy Land theme park? I freaked out on the Tower of Babel. They make you walk 16 flights of stairs, and when you're pushed off, you scream in 12 different languages. And all the concession stands have all-you-can-eat loaves and fishes. They're practically giving the stuff away. Oh, and my little boy likes the petting zoo, He rides those Four Ponies of the Apocalypse like there was no tomorrow.

Hey, thanks for being here. Remember to tip your bartender and waitstaff. Good night.

---

Soooo, how'd you do? Did you manage to roll your eyes in mock disgust a couple times? That's all I'm asking for. A genuine response from the core of your being. Is that so hard?

The Stuff Dreams Are Made Of

My artist friend, Kathy, was over the other day and told me to update my blog, or else she would have to stop reading the same paragraph over and over again.

---

My favorite thing to do is to knit and watch old movies. TCM was celebrating Humphrey Bogart's birthday (Don't we all?) on Dec. 25, and I got to Tivo The Maltese Falcon. FANTASTIC movie, although I don't know if I'd let the kids watch it. I think it's rated PG-13 just for all the smoking.

Anyhoo-- Near the beginning of the film, Spade (Bogart) returns to his room at about four in the morning after visiting the crime scene. I can't remember exactly what he did just then--pour himself a drink, I think. I do remember what he DIDN'T do:

He didn't check his email. Spade didn't update his Facebook status, "Sam is having a rough night." He didn't blog about the clues at the murder scene. He didn't delete his partner's photo off the Spade and Archer web site. He didn't search the bay area Craig's List for a bird statue. He didn't flip on CNN for the day's headlines. He didn't even play a game on his cell phone.

I couldn't get over how quiet his apartment was. Simple. Some pictures of horses. Tidy. Nearest thing to an urban Walden Pond you'd be able to get now days. What would you do if you lived in Sam Spade's apartment? Go nuts from all the clear-headed, uninterrupted thinking? Get lonely, and see what type of, um, phone "service" was available in 40s San Francisco? Get a cat?

Late in the movie, all the main characters are in Spade's apartment overnight (slumber party!). When the final scene begins, Gutman is holding some sort of bulky thing in his lap. (Not a PC!) Watch for it. It might give you some ideas.

Happy to be back blogging, though. Needed a little break. Thanks for the kick in the butt, Kathy.

Where Do Thoughts Come From??

It's not the cartoon angel and devil on my shoulder. It's not my mind sifting through a cosmic stream of consciousness. It's not the way you look tonight. (Unless... heh, heh, what'r yer wearing?)

The mind is a tool. (I've been told I'm a tool, but I digress. My mind is like that.)

A tool. That's it. It is not the seat of a soul, nor the unruly monkey trying to guide me to an early grave. It's like a snazzy calculator. And, it's programmable! Sure, thoughts are the product of mind. How the thought comes to me, and disappears is the mystery. Like a wave.

Say I'm looking at a kitten, or a flower, or the way you look tonight, and I notice I have this thought, "Gosh, it/you are easy on my eyes." The kitten, flower, nor you put that thought in my head. Nor the next one that follows: "That kitten/flower/you would look great in my living room." And, guaranteed there are more thoughts that follow. How I'd get it/you there, what to feed it/you. Cats are good, flowers are best, all else is bad.--

I thought these thoughts were correct, just because I thought them! THAT'S crazy! And, maybe they will loop over and over. In a rut. Some thoughts that many, many people have, like: "I'm shy," "I suck at business," or "You look really great tonight." (Well, that last one IS right. You do look awesome tonight. Is that a new shirt?)

It's my senses taking in info, putting them in my mind-tool which makes snap-judgments of raw data at 1/16th of a second, THEN playing them, or replaying them. What if I could just think and stop the auto snap-judging!?! Take thoughts as only raw data? Like a bubble blown by a child floating through my mind.

I like it best when my mind is OFF! Crazy, I know. But, when I drew, all I did was draw. My brain wasn't chattering away about housework, politics, or the way you look tonight. (Seriously. You should be in movies, or selling me something.) I knew a musician who said the same thing happened when he played. The thoughts stopped. It's happened when I beat on my little drum player. (I don't care that I suck at drums. But, that's not my point.) And, every now and then, when the house is quiet, and I've got the pattern down-- knitting. Sometimes, doing the dishes. Scrubbing the floor. Walking for awhile by myself. And, just sitting.

It's not the thoughts that are good or bad. They are just thoughts. And, I'm just sick of having them all the time. I gotta go knit.

I reckon I've bored you enough. So, what do you think?

Mnemosyne's Kiss

My wife, boy and I were rushing through the public access to Neptune Beach last night. The Space Shuttle Endeavor was going to be launched. At 7:50 in the evening, the beach was dimly lit by a moon, a smidge on the waning side, but slathered in layers of cloud. Sea foam flopped along the sand, over our feet. Looking south, into the strong wind, was a dense sea spray fog. I left my hoodie in the car. I was a little chilly. Dangnabbit wind. Small groups of folks huddled around their mobile phones, connected to the NASA site. T minus 5 minutes.

I had brought my binoculars. I don't use them much any more. Star gazing, sometimes. Tonight, it was more cloudy than starry. Nothing really to point the binoculars at. There was a small, greenwhite pin-light near the ocean's horizon, about 5 degrees north of east. Through the binoculars I can see subtle shades of black of the fishing ship's shape.

There was a tanker. It was underway without lights. Creeping blacked-out city on waves. Safe passage through the Gulf. Socolddamnwind. Balls to 8 watch again. So tired. No stars. Socolddamnwind. Glow. Off starboard now. Water ablaze. Tanker. Thrashing souls. Screams in my head. So, so damn #$%&ing cold. Damn wind.

"Daddy, can I see?" my boy says, tugging at my pants. T minus 2 minutes and counting.

"Huh? Um, there's nothing to see out there. But, sure." I put the binocular strap over his head. "Y'know, your dad used to do this for a living."

A hoodie would have been nice.

O! Say, can you see O's?

Obama. That's the answer.

The Fed. Gov't should license Obama! Take Obama's name, his head, his logo, and put it on EVERYTHING! Official Obama merchandise!

Wake up to a bowl of Obama-O's! Fortified with vitamins, minerals and hope! Don't think you can eat a whole bowl? Yes you can! And, each box has a free Obama bobblehead inside!

Obama T-shirts, tote-bags, towels. Obama coffee mugs, coin sets, and collector plates. Obama sun screens for cars. Obama teething rings for babies. Obama temporary tattoos for the tweens!

Obama's family sauerkraut recipe. Obama soap-on-a-rope. Obama pajamas!

And, not only does the Fed take the profits and put it toward the national debt, but all this stuff could be American made!

Save the US Auto Industry! Just put Obama's face on the hood of all the models that won't sell!

Obama (TM) is just the thing to get the American economy moving again! Heck-by-golly-gee-willikers! I'm betting all these goods will sell fast over seas! His international appeal is phenomenal! He might even be bigger than John Lennon! Imagine there is no more trade deficit!

Man, I've got to get a message off to Senator Bill Nelson. This could pay for two crappy wars, a bail-out of a corrupt banking system, and two skeins of sock yarn for every man, woman and child in the world! Maybe even some U.S. healthcare thrown in!

sigh

Some days I wonder what Pam would do.

TMI

Okay. I saw the Yarn Harlot, but before I try to find my camera to download the pic, (I got to my room that night, dropped my bags, and just about passed out, before I realized I had to do a load of laundry at 12:30 am.) and post about it, I need to clear up something:

1. I'm a social misfit.

I got to spend some time with some really cool people. And, I met a very nice young lady, S. S mentioned she had this fear (I'm not going to mention it.) But, I think I reacted like I thought she was insane. AH! No, no, no! In fact, I wanted to compare seemingly irrational fears. So, S, if you're out there, this post is for you.

2. Every headache I get surely means I'm about to have a cerebral aneurysm.

Then, if I manage to get the headache to go away with acupressure, caffeine, or pills, I remember:

3. I know I'll die by getting hit by a bus.

So, I look both ways, usually twice, before crossing the street. I hate to jaywalk or cross against the lights.

4. I'm a major goopaphobe.

Coined by my wife, as a goopaphobe I don't like sticky fingers, my boy to wipe his nose on my arm, or guacamole on my elbow. I used to get a peeved face. I just stop what I'm doing and reach for the paper towels. Now, that doesn't mean I don't like my wife's guacamole, or my boy's nose. I'll weed the garden, or unplug a drain, but I'll de-goop as soon as I can.

5. I don't like to eat in front of strangers.

Geez. All sorts of neurosis there. I have trouble eating at buffets, 'cause I feel like all the humans (including me) are at the feed station of some barn, and all the eating and grunting noises are magnified in my head, seeing all the people hunched over, shoveling all-they-can-eat deep-fried everything into their maws, fattening up for the county fair...

...and, that's how I feel when I eat in front of strangers. I mean, which one is the nacho fork? Do I chug my Guinness too fast? What if a string of cheese gets caught in my goatee and no one tells me? What if I absent-mindedly wipe my goopy hands on my pants? My neighbor's skirt? Did I just talk with my mouth full? Laugh with my mouth full? I my mouth ever NOT full? I feel like a pig when eating in front of strangers. Which, of course, leads back to:

1. I'm a social misfit.

I don't know the polite topics, I cannot talk about football, and I feel dorky when I mention the weather we're having. I can't segue between topics without feeling I ran over a speed bump. If I say anything, I'm sure I offended someone. I feel like I'm leering when I smile, and when I look people in the eye, I feel like I see pieces of their souls, so I try hard not to stare, so I lower my eyes, which can be a problem if you're a guy talking to a lady, then I worry I look gawky and desperate -- for absolutely no reason-- and maybe I should just stay home and knit. I don't know how to say good-bye. And, when this all floods my brain...

6. I chant.

I chant, "I love my wife I love my wife I love my wife," under my breath. Now, true, I DO love my wife. That's not why I chant it. The reason I chant it is because I feel like I've done something incredibly dumb, and crude. I know no matter how stupid the incident, yet, incredibly, my wife still loves me. And, that's why I chant it.

So, S, see? I don't think you're crazy at all. Just crazy enough.

HEY! Hockey's on. Gotta motor.

Droodle me this.

I've always liked optical illusions.

I've liked this one with the visible gray dots that aren't really there. I stared at these for hours as a kid.


Here's a whole page of them.

But the best optical illusions were the ones I could tell were screwing with my brain, not just the various weaknesses of the human eye.

Droodles. They've been around a very long time. I've since lost my copies of the little books. I used to carry them to school, study them during lunch, make up my own answers. I'll be getting the new copies very soon and showing them to my kid.

My favorite ones were the ones with multiple answers. My favorite (Watch your brain, now.) :


I think the official caption is:

An Olive Sticking Out Its Pimento.
Or, A Tennis Racket Needing to be Restrung.
Oh, and A Hairbrush for a Bald Man.

And, then turn it this way:

An Egg with a Mohawk.

And, turn it this way:

A Nickel Jumps the Third Rail.
or, A Beheaded Cotton Swab

Hmmm. This is turning a little dark. Maybe I can make a little adjustment:

Jiffy the High Diving Horse's View of the Swimming Pool.
Or, A French Fry Hula-hooping.

Anyway, time for the point.

I love the trick the Droodles play on my brain. It all happens in my brain!

How well do you know the people you meet? Isn't there just the finest of fine lines between what is an aquaintance, and what is a friend? How much time? How many hugs? Is "A stranger just a friend you haven't met"? Where is the line YOU draw between friend and enemy? Does it switch back from enemy to friend? How much of it is in your head?

What if, just, what if you could look at people like they were a Droodle? Let go of who they are in your head, and watch it change in your head moment by moment.

Get back to me on this, will you?

Perfectionist

Then I felt like I flew through a windshield. Metaphorically speaking.

Here's the schtick. I got to thinking. (Yeah, I hate it, too.) Thinking and driving. I thought about people I've met this past eight/nine months or so, and I got to thinking about extremes, and it just smashed into me-- like my mind just flew through a windshield:

I have met many perfect people. Now, I'm not saying they all have a nice butt, and great chest, and a cute smile (not everyone can be Mike Rowe). I'm not even paying much attention to that, and that's no where near where I'm headed.

The people I know are perfect just the way they are! I wouldn't even dream of changing a thing even if I could! I'm surrounded by perfect people! They have their funny quirks, and buttons to be pushed, and every single one of them has a great laugh. They eat different stuff, and sleep differently, and all have different accents, and it's all too beautiful! They even make different mistakes, and handle them in different ways, just perfectly! Just the flipping way they should be handled by each individual! It's not like they should be called mistakes at all, but little tangents, or diversions, or artistic expression. Some even frustrate the crap out of me! They do it with such a perfect je ne sais quoi!

Except, I'm not quite sure these people realize they're perfect. So, if you have ever met me, realize that you are perfect.

There. That should do it.

That whole "Nobody's perfect" saying? Hogwash. EVERYBODY'S PERFECT!

Now, here's what blew my mind even more! (And, while trying to drive!) What happens when two perfect people don't seem to connect? When there's friction? You'd think perfect people would get along. Perhaps, it's like they are magnets, both showing each other their asses! therefore repelling each other! Hmmm. Butting heads? Maybe they don't realize they're perfect? Maybe they think only themself perfect, but not the other person? Hmmm. Luckily I need to sleep, or I'd be thinking for eight more pages.

Geez! Thinking confuses me. I've got to trade-in this cracked brain for something a little more slick. In fact, I just got some sort of spam about enlarging my something or 'nother. Let me see if I can find that email... Maybe I can make a swap.

And, yes, I already have the perfect wife.