"Johnny... put da bear on ice!"

We've become notorious whiners about everything that is wrong in the world.

In this particular blog I'm not going to touch on any big controversy and try to crack any proverbial icebergs; nope, global warming will do that for me (there's one)!

No, I'm more concerned about some of the little things that we all tend to complain about.  Here are four that I've heard in the last week and they were never an issue before recent history.

It's really, really, really, really quite rather hot outside today (I swear, this isn't about global warming).  And I have complained about it some just like most folks.  Sure, the heat kills people and animals and it melt's stuff and causes things to be so unbearable to touch that just by doing so you can get a third degree burn (and this is a valid frustration) but, the common rebuttal that I hear to complaining about the heat is "well, back in the 40's and before, there was no AC so nobody complained about the heat." 

Where is the logic in that?  If nobody complained about the heat, then why the hell did they invent AC?  I'm thinking that they did in fact complain.  I'm willing to bet that people only stuck it out, because, yeah, there was no alternative, but they sure as hell complained.  

What they didn't complain about was "boy I hope someone invents AC soon."  What they probably did complain about is "boy, I'm so worn out from this heat that I can't even run away from this bear."  BEARS PEOPLE!!!!!  I'd be willing to bet that since the AC was invented, bear attacks have decreased by tens at the very least!!!  No, I do not think that statistic could be affected by the number of people with rifles over hunting the species or even the fact that people now live in communities as opposed to in the woods.  Go with me on this, it's the AC.

We get upset about the most miniscule of things like the score of our baseball game not updating as fast as it should on our smart phone.  WHAT?  100 years ago if you didn't have a radio, you had to wait until the paper came out or for someone to tell you what the score was.  And 100 years before that, THEY DIDN'T EVEN HAVE BASEBALL!!!!  You had to wait another 70 years to get ANY score.  Now how much are you going to complain about the amount of seconds it is going to take you to get your score?

Here's one I like, "My garbage disposal smells" spoken all high and mighty and whiny.  Well, pour some bleach down the thing.  A long time ago everyone had to eat everything on their plate and they didn't have disposals. 

Do you know what happened when Fred Flintstones garbage disposal smelled?  Nothing, they just accepted it.  If Fred had poured bleach down the disposal, he would have killed a dino-pig (or piggiesaurus or something).  IT WOULD BE DEAD!!!  STOP WHINING!!!!

And if they didn't finish all their food, they saved it and ate it later only to get dysentery or something like that.  And then when they were sick and had to go to the outhouse... BEARS!

We have it too good.

"My tv reception is out..." WHAT?  100 years ago... well I don't know what they did without tv, maybe it was something with sock puppets by candle light.  And then... and then the sock puppets would catch on fire and you'd lose your hand and maybe even your house!!! YEAH!!!  How dare you complain about your tv reception when people were once dying to be entertained.

I sometimes feel guilt about how much better technology has made our lives compared to people who had no idea of what they were missing.  We've advanced so much that we cannot go back with much ease.  Sure, as a species we'd survive without all of the advances but we'd know what we're missing and we'd have so much more to complain about. It might be easier to abandon all technology and just go live in the world if not for all the bears.

Whining about all the conveniences of life is bad enough.  Whining about the whiners is nuts.  Just think about it.

hmmmmm...

C'monnnnnn....

Oh Mannnnnn...

C'mon already....

HOW THE @&*(&$@(# LONG IS THIS (&$)(@* BLOG GONNA TAKE TO (I&$ @$#&@# UPLOAD?!?!?!?  Gahhhhhhhhhhh....

"Starships are meant to fly... this makes me want to die!"

To my Mom and Dad, but mostly Dad, I am soooooooooo sorry for what I did to you during my childhood.  No, no, no, not the back talking, or the staying out late, or the occasional lying, or talking bad about you behind your back, or being an ungrateful punk teen, or for forging your signature on tests, or for.... wow, I might have been a crappy kid...

But, no, at this time, I wish to apologize to my folks for making them listen to Top 40 Radio, especially when we were on long road trips. 

See, my beautiful child has recently learned, from another beautiful child, about the joy that is Top 40 radio.  I mean this facetiously when I say the part about "joy."  I find almost no joy in what I listen to on Top 40 stations.

At least most of the Top 40 music from my generation was good.  Top 40 before my youth was, and after my youth, has been, not good.  Just the stuff that came out when I was a kid was worthwhile.

I was worried that love might be tainted.
I did run, I ran so far away.
I hoped people thought I was sexy and that they wanted my body.
I wanted to talk to the dearly beloved and just go crazy, one time.
And I was very happy that the men all paused when she walked into the room.

This was brilliant relevant stuff.  It was all about the pop, pop, pop muzik!

I do regret that day, on the Florida Turnpike when I jumped up from the has been seat in the wagon and shouted into Dad's ear, "WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD," as he was trying to nap in the middle seat while Mom drove.  He didn't deserve that much of a shock, but it was playing on the radio at that moment.  I still, to this date, believe with all my heart that he urgently needed to know what to do when a problem comes along.

On a side note, the "has been seat" was the rear-facing back bench that used to be standard in the 20+ feet long land yachts, known as Station Wagons, of the 70's and 80's.  When sitting in that seat, you could see where you "has been" and not where you was gwanna be.  I do not know if this seat still exists in modern vehicles.

So, now I fast forward from the 70's and 80's to right, about, NOW!!!!  I guarantee you that at this moment that song "Starships are meant to fly..." is playing for the fourth time in the last hour on the same radio station.  And if that song hasn't been played 4 times, whatever has been playing sounds just like it. 

I swear, I sat in the car with four kids the other day listening to "their station," the Top 40 one.  I sat in the front seat making that percussive "m-tss, m-tss, m-tss, m-tss" sound that was the exact same drum/cymbal beat for four songs in a row.  At one point I didn't even know "Starships" had ended and some non-anthem/ non-rock song titled "Party Rock" had started. 

IT WAS AWFUL!!!!!  Luckily I have Dana Carvey on my side.  He taught me that when all else fails, just sing about "choppin broccoli."    So now, when I feel I just cannot go on listening anymore, I will sing at the top of my lungs(and I have BIG lungs):

 "Starships are meant to fly, I'm choppin broccoli, I've got some in my eye, God Bless Dana Carvey." 

Of course you have to pronounce broccoli and Carvey as if they rhyme with fly.  Yes, that's taking some poetic liberty, but it helps.

So, to my Mom and Dad, I am, of course sorry for being such a difficult kid and I am also sorry that you did not have Dana Carvey to help get you through.  But I swear it was not my fault.

It was that damned Casey Kasem!!!

Nope... Nossir... I just don't like 'em!

Gilligan walked into a cave.  He was very unsuspecting that anything could go wrong.  I believe everybody else on the island knew that going into that cave was a terrible idea; everyone, except for Gilligan.

However, nobody thought to tell him.  Of course, giving Gilligan a "heads up" would have stopped all the comedic chaos that often ensued when he was up to his hi-jinx.  Ohhhh Gilligan, Little Buddy.

It was Gilligan.  He never listened to anyone anyway.  I couldn't tell if he was just not so bright, or if he was still in a haze from the little beatnik parties he would go to with Dobie Gillis the night before.

Anyway, just say his name to yourself, Gilligan.  GILL-I-GAN!  You cannot say it without wanting to chuckle about something silly he did.  Everything was funny on Gilligan's Island.  Right? 

In the afternoons I would come home from school and sit in our nice cool basement by myself and watch my safe, happy, stand-the-test-of-time-wholesome shows on the UHF channels.  I would watch Petticoat Junction,  Green Acres, I Dream of Jeannie and Gilligan's (always happy and funny and safe for elementary school kids) Island.  Watching these shows was the only thing I was brave enough doing in the basement alone in the 70's. When my brother got home, I was brave enough to watch Welcome Back Kotter and What's Happening.

The basement was a scary place!  If you were all alone in the basement, and something was down there hiding under the bed, or on those dimly lit shelves where Dad kept old paints and tools, or behind the water heater that wasn't lit at all, Mom could NOT hear your screams when the creature came out to eat you!

But when my shows were on, it was like I had my friends there to help me.   I was safe.  And I was safest when Gilligan was with me.  Nothing scary EVER happened on Gilligan's Island.

Then Gilligan walked into the cave and nobody bothered to warn him.  Apparently, I had missed the warning too; I was probably making sure there was nothing under the bed.

Out of nowhere comes this HUGE FREAKING SPIDER!!!!  It must have been three feet tall and six feet long, with big eyes and massive, sharp, fuzzy, FANGS!!!!!  It trapped Gilligan in the cave!!!

In one simply amazing leap, I jumped the 20 or so feet (I was 6 or 7 so it might have been inches) from the bed to the stairs.  I ran up the stairs at full speed, arms raised, screaming at the top of my lungs:

"MMMMMMMMMAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!

(That's my phonetic spelling of  a long drawn out "Mom."  I worked hard on that.  Get your own phonetic spelling of a long drawn out Mom.)

Mom wasn't in the kitchen or the living room or in the carport off the living room, or in the small imitation foyer by the front door (why was base housing so convoluted) so I ran up to the second floor.  I didn't see her anywhere.  THE SPIDER MUST'VE GOT HER!

Still screaming I opted to give up on searching the bedrooms and upstairs bathroom and just run straight for my bottom bunk of the bunk bed, for under the covers was the only true safe place any time of day!!! 

Safe under the layers of "anti-monster, spider, boogeyman, pick any scary thing" fabric I was safe.  Then I heard Mom yelling for me and running up the stairs.  Oh yeah, we had a bathroom on the first floor.  I hadn't thought of checking that.  Anyway, she was yelling so I knew she was being chased too.  I opened up the covers to let her in.

She was not scared.  There was a reddish hue to her face.  Maybe steam coming out of ears.  I don't remember.  I might've passed out.

I wasn't allowed to watch Gilligan's Island for a few weeks after that.  The nightmares were pretty bad.  I couldn't even go in the basement again for quite sometime. 

Why would Gilligan do that to me?  I was in such a developmental stage in my life back then (luckily I was potty trained) that I really believed giant spider could happen.

Gilligan had never lied to me before, and nothing "impossible," as unlikely as it was, ever happened on his island.  So surely, six feet long by 3 feet wide spiders with fuzzy fangs must exist.  And quite possibly, they existed in my basement.  It's not like I ever saw the creature in the basement.  It was very stealthy.

Somewhere deep in my synapses, a link formed that since Gilligan could not lie to me, impossible creatures must be real as well as horrific events.  And somehow, that thinking has stuck with me for a quite a long time.

I DON'T LIKE SCARY MOVIES!!!!  There, I said it.

To this day, I will not even walk into a sporting goods store that sells both hockey masks and machetes.

Is Blogging right for Me (not you)? You decide.

You're a polite person.

You do not want to offend anyone.

You're standing outside of an airport waiting to hail a cab.  You've been away from home for three weeks and you're only back in town for a few hours to see your family, change out your luggage and head back out to the airport for a flight out of town for another three weeks. 

I walk up and stand next to you waiting for a cab.  There is a comfortable distance between us and I am certainly not impeding on your space.  But you're a polite person.  You instigate small talk with me. 

"Sure is a long wait for a cab."
"Yup"

"At least it's pleasant outside"
"Yes it is."

"How has your day been?  Did you enjoy the flight?"  And there you have it. 

Chances are your are now going to miss your cab, not see your family and have to wear the same clothes you've been wearing for three weeks for THREE MORE WEEKS!!!!

See, what you just did there was ask me about my day.  And as a polite person, you can not walk away until I am done.  I am so sorry, I really am, but there is a chance you're not even going to make your next flight now, because, I'm going to tell you how my day has been!

But the thing is, you don't know me.  So now, I have to give you an example of comparison days so you are able to understand how I am able to evaluate the quality of this particular day.  And in giving you an idea of days comparable and in contrast to today, I have to give you some insight into my life and what makes me who I am and how it has all affected what I may see as positive or negative in my life.  But I certainly don't want you to feel uncomfortable with some of the misfortunes that have made me who I am, so I am going to add some jokes and humorous metaphors to lighten up some of the more serious moments. 

You deserve my honesty and truthfulness, because you were brave enough to open up a conversation with me.  I am basically a very shy person.  As you have taken the time to break through my awkward  veneer, I owe you the very best of what I can be.  I am human and I have experienced so much,  and I must tell you all about it ...  NOW!

I am not trying to be difficult, I promise. 
I am certainly not offended by you asking me such a personal question. 
I am actually burdened by it, but by no means offended. 
It takes away from my day too to have to explain it all. 
But, I must give you all the details to properly answer you!

If I had answered you with a simple "Oh it's fine," that is open to interpretation and really doesn't say an awful lot.   Its lack of detail makes it kind of a lie.  You deserve better and I will give you such.

I can't say "this was a good flight," just because we landed and the stewardess didn't see the need to slap me this particular time, without telling you about the flight I was on that blew out a tire while landing and then the plane started going a little cock-eyed down the runway and the stewardess had to slap me, twice.  THAT was not a good flight.

What if by your standards this was a crap flight?  Without my comparison flight, you might think I'm an idiot for being satisfied with such a flight.  So I can't just ASSUME you're going to approve of me for liking this one flight.  You need more data.

What if you were testing me early on when you said "At least it's pleasant outside?"  What if you hated the humidity and thought it was a little too warm and just wanted to know if I was loony enough to simply agree to what ever you spout out at me?

Well, that's why I need to tell you about the coastal towns I've lived in in the southeast and how bad the heat and humidity gets in those places.  It's really unbearable sometimes and this place, at this moment, is sooooo much better than that. 

You would not have a fair vantage point on how to understand me If I hadn't told you.  I am sacrificing my time to tell you.

I know all of this about myself and I kind of embrace it.  I am only abnormal in my attention to detail in as much as communication is slowly breaking down. 

Very few people really want to talk anymore.  They ask polite questions for no real reason and want a quick concise non-realistic answer. 

"How's your colon?"
"Fine Doc."
"C-ya."
"K"

And then you die!  Sure it was because a bus ran you over.  But if you had spent more time talking with the doctor, the bus would've been long gone when you tripped crossing the road because your pants fell down around your ankles due to you rushing out of the doctors office and forgetting to re-buckle your belt.

That's simply not right. 

So, the art of conversation seems to be going away.  I cannot tell you how many relationships would have been saved if partners would just communicate their feelings and the events of the day (which may explain their mood) rather than holding everything in until they are just yelling at you for no real reason and you can't curl up into a small enough ball to get away from the shouting and find a happy place... find a happy place... find a happy..... oh, sorry....

And there you have it.  My friends say I'm "wordy" and they may be correct.  Perhaps I am overcompensating for people in my life who don't speak much.

I have a great neighbor whom I'm pretty sure simply sees asking me "how ya doing" as a personal challenge.  He wants to see how long he can last, just to escape his wonderful daily routine, if only for a moment; a moment of his life that he really had no use for and knows that he can never ever ever get back because he asked me how I am.  Poor guy; he's so nice, he just stands there until I stop talking.

I'm sorry you missed your flight.  Next time, I'll just send you a link to my blog.

Ay Mon... I am d'Pastafarian!

Somewhere, not too far back in my blood line people from two different cultures got together and decided to be a family.  A few generations down the line (and a few more cultures mixed in), I magically appeared in a potato patch ... You know what, my childhood had different stories than yours, so just accept it.  And, oh yeah, cabbage SUCKS! 

Just keep reading.

I come from some Irish and Italian lineage; peoples rich in histories that focus on two different  things:  Alcohol and Carbs.  Maybe there are some other things involved in these cultures, but Alcohol and Carbs are all I can come up with right now.

Anyway, I'm addicted to one of those and I cannot beat this monkey with either a tuber or a bucatini!  Lets face it, a tuber to the head may hurt but uncooked bucatini in the eye can blind you!

However, tubers are not my focus here, even though people can make vodka out of them; yippee!  In my defense, Alcohol can be pretty high in carbs, so I'm pretty much covered with the carb issue alone.  I realize I wasn't really defending anything, but I liked starting the sentence that way and by God this is where I want that sentence to be!

I am just a man who needs a fix.... I can handle a long line of a Bevette or a Vermicelli or a small cut of Farfalle or Tortiglioni or even some tiny Quadretti or Tempestine.  Whatever, I JUST NEED A FEW OUNCES MAN!!!! 

It's almost a religion for me.  I could sacrifice a bale of Capellini to anyone as long as me ingesting said sacrifice is an option.  And make sure we've got a loaf of bread and some butter to go with all the sacrificin' going on tonight!

Now, I may need to research some of this but here is how I understand it:

We had a pasta-saviour, who back in twelve or thirteen something, while inventing a game to be played in swimming pools yelling out his own name, accidentally bumped into a China-man (presumably in the pool giggling) who implied "you know that lasagna stuff you fancy pants Italians like so much? Cut it up and go nuts with it.  Add some variety to your life!"  Then he took a hit off his opium pipe and said "call meeeee." 

Marco simply got out of the pool at that point.

So noodles became the "in thing" back in Italy; originally, just at swinging pool parties.  And pasta makers became big at all the local food courts. 

After the pasta was made then spices and oils were added for flavoring.  Looking for variety, some sicko actually added veggies to the mix and then the Olive Garden was invented and trademarked "Primavera," (citation needed).  Luckily cheese was added too; "blessed are the cheese makers."

Many, many years later, in the late 16th century, some Spanish guy came back from "The New World" (a remarkably unexpected road block to India) with the recently discovered tomato and suggested to my ancestors "maybe you should try adding the spices and oils to some crushed up stewed tomatoes and making more of a sauce to put on your pasta as opposed to all that vegetable crap!"  I'm sure he had a sexy accent. 

I'd be willing to bet that same Spanish guys descendants later trademarked "Lycopene" and retired happily ever after, convincing everyone that their "veggie-free fruit-sauce," even though it was veggie free, was good for them because TOMATOES ARE A DAMNED FRUIT!!!! 

Then the Texans came along and added every farm animal they could think of to the sauce.

So yeah, the pasta is soooooooooo much of what I want out of life, and the more animals in the fruit sauce the better!

But I have to cut it out. I have to find some way to get rid of my need for the noodley goodness that is starting to eat away at my body.  And by "eat away at my body" I mean GREATLY INCREASING THE SIZE OF MY BODY!

It's like somewhere around 35 years old, one night whilst sleeping in bed, presumably after a nice dinner of pasta and bread sticks, with potato vodka tonics followed by a bread pudding sunday, my metabolism just said "ENOUGH!!!  I'M MOVING OUT ... NOW!"  And with a thrashing BWOM-like sound, I gained 50 pounds in one night.

I simply cannot keep up with the carbs.  Must .... quit .... CARBS!!!!

I can try the sauce without the pasta, which is simple enough, I just sop it up with some bread and .... oh...
But I want steak, and I know where to get some; mmmmmm, with fettuccine Alfredo on the side.... ohhhhhh...
And I want Chicken .... mmmmm breaded with some spaghetti and mozzarella and some fruit sauce..... Ohhhhhh YEAHHHHH.....
or, I guess I could just have some ham... WITH MACARONI AND CHEESE!!!!!

DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT DAMMIT!

Okay, I will try to eat more vegetables.
Surely, potatoes haven't got much carbs? 
No, I'm not in denial, they're vegetables, right? 
They have to be. 
I see vegans eating them all the time....

No no no... that guy is Optimus!

I remember a scene in the movie "Splash" where Tom Hanks finds Daryl Hannah crying while watching some sort of western.  She was upset because a character died.  But Tom Hanks explains to her something like "no no no, don't worry, he's just an actor and he's fine.  He'll be in other movies later on."  Then Daryl Hannah starts laughing every time some guy gets knocked off in a show.

Well that really happens for kids.  They don't really get it at first that someone in a show can be somebody different in another show. 

"Daddy, why is Gibby in this show?" 
"What's a Gibby?"
"From iCarly?"
"You shouldn't watch that show.  You're too young."

And I have thoroughly avoided teaching my child that Gibby is an actor named Noah Munck, who actually seems to be successfully beating childhood obesity.

So my kid, and kids in general, have a hard time understanding that characters are actors, who, if they're any good at their craft, end up playing many different characters in many different productions.  Kids also think "craft" means macaroni and cheese.

Last night, I threw a monkey wrench into any progress my child may have been making in understanding the actor/ character relationship.  See, sometimes, especially over a lifetime, actors can become typecast.

Henry Winkler is the Fonz.
Mark Hammil is Luke Skywalker
and
OPTIMUS PRIME IS PETER CULLEN!!!

"Who is Peter Cullen" you may ask?  Well, according to some people, he is the voice actor who in my childhood and now in modern day movie makin' does the voice of Optimus Prime.  I firmly believe that he is simply Optimus Prime's holographic alter ego and he doesn't even have to be in holograph form much these days.  Optimus can just do his Peter Cullen impression over the phone at any time.

"Who is Optimus Prime" you might also ask?
"GET OFF MY PLANET!!!!" is all  I have to say to you for asking that.

So, last night I was watching Piglet's BIG Movie, which is another chapter in the series of Winne the Pooh films. 

Yes, my daughter was with me. 
Yes, it was her idea to watch it. 
Yes, I enjoyed it. 
Shut up.

Anyway, Eeyore is Optimus Prime!  I kid you not!  He walked into a scene and opened his mouth and BOOM out pops Optimus Prime's voice!  Suddenly this movie became a lot more interesting to me.

I looked at my child and said:

"Whoa honey, do you know who that is?"
"No Daddy, who?"  she was so excited.
"That's Optimus Prime Baby!!!"  I was so excited.
"What? No... no Daddy, that's Eeyore?"  She stared at me kind of funny.
"Well no, I know that the character is Eeyore but the actor playing Eeyore... that's Optimus Prime!"
"Daddy, it's a cartoon.  There are no actors."  like she's so smart!
"No, I know that, but, the voice is Optimus Prime's"  I confidently told her and I followed up with, "It's like when I do voices for commercials" which I do "it's my voice, just a different product."
"But Daddy, you're nobody in the commercial just the voice selling something."

I died a little inside.

I wanted to tell her that "Optimus Prime is selling something, and it's not something you can buy with money.  It's peace and justice and safety for all humanity, and even bears seeking honey and neurotic pigs!"

But, instead, I gave up.  I held her in my arms and quietly watched the rest of the movie with her; knowing all the while that she is just a child and she simply doesn't understand, yet.

I was pretty pissed that Eeyore didn't transform into anything.  I was really hopeful when his tail came off, much like Optimus's trailer....

Shall We Play a Game?

The first time I heard the WOPR say the words "Shall we play a game" it sent freakish chills down my spine.  How could a computer, not even a simple automaton, say such an innocent thing in such a demonic manner?  And why would it torment Ferris Bueller so much?  He totally deserved that day off after such a vicious game of Tic-Tac-Toe! 

The WOPR was relentless.

Well, as I have grown up, I've come to have WOPRs of my own.   You know, people or things in your life that simply demand your time and your attention and you're pretty much convinced that they really might destroy the world if they do NOT get their way?

I tried to coin the phrase "You're my WOPR" in college when referring to a demanding girlfriend who ALWAYS needed to snuggle, but it didn't take. 

"We're in bed... let's snuggle!"
"We just ate.... let's snuggle!"
"We're watching a movie... let's snuggle!"
"Your Mom is coming over... let's snuggle!"
"You've just told me you need space .... let's snuggle!"

"You're my WOPR baby!" 

COLD COLD SILENCE.

No matter how pretty she looked, she thought I was calling her fat by comparing her to the flame broiled goodness that Burger King would slap in front of me for a dollar. 

Granted, trying to give a girlfriend a cute and clever nickname to capture one of her most obnoxious qualities is NEVER a very good idea; Trust me. 

One girl I appropriately nicknamed "HO" and told her that it was because she liked to work in the garden.  She didn't buy it and I really was lying so.... I'm better off eating my whopper alone.  Granted, I don't eat whoppers anymore; they taste of flame broiled grease wrapped in health problems on a bun.  But I do like to snuggle now.

My next foray into the WOPR world was to get a dog.  It's really cute when you first teach them to bring the ball back to you after you throw it away; just precious.  Then they simply don't stop.  All the time, bringing the ball. I throw the ball away, it comes back.  I throw it further away,  it comes back.  I throw it into a moving car, it comes back.   I'm ignoring the ball by faking interest in any show on Disney XD and BAM, ball in my lap.  Sometimes, I didn't even know it, but at 5:18 am, according to the WOPR Dog, I NEED THE DAMN BALL!!!!!  So freakin' precious....

So you know what I did next?  I had a child.  Some people think you do such a thing to continue your blood line or simply to have someone who can take care of cleaning your house and organizing your stuff after you die.  But another good reason to have a child is so that the WOPR has someone else to play with. 

"HAH!! BRILLIANT!!!"

Well, no... that was not the correct line of thinking.  My thinking was actually off by 180 degrees.  Don't get me wrong, I LOVE being a parent and a dog owner,  but now I have TWO WOPRs, and bonehead that I am, I actually taught one of them how to play TIC TAC TOE!!!  I tried teaching the dog, but she sucks at it. 

The kid is better at it, but she thinks she actually has a chance to win.  And she doesn't get it when I say "strange game... the only way to win is not to play."  But that's all part of the learning curve I guess.

The WOPR that is a child is so much more in your face than the WOPR dog.  You actually have to teach them things and pray that after 1,327 times (or more) of telling them the same thing over and over again, it will actually take.  "Don't put that in your nose ... shhhh ... not now ... don't put that in the dog's nose ... don't eat that ... put that down ... again with the nose?"  A lot of the WOPR dog stuff you just don't worry about so much: "Sure, go ahead and lick yourself.  We kind of expect it"  I could never let that fly with a kid.

And the WOPR kid needs food, clothes, rules, guidance, love, attention ... and YES, they do in fact want you to play games with them!!!! I could go on. 

Being a parent is the greatest and most fulfilling part of my life.  I love my child dearly and would sacrifice most anything to make sure she grows up safe and happy.  But, I fear that I could make one simple mistake by ignoring that angel one time and then, BOOM, GLOBAL THERMONUCLEAR WAR!!!!

So anyway, thank goodness it was Ferris who answered that phone.  That would have freaked me out.

I swear, if Stephen Hawking starts calling me at random times to play TIC TAC TOE, I will probably spend the next 5 to 6 years crying myself to sleep.

Muckenfuss, Quattlebaum and Finkbine

My last name is Payne.

There are times that instead of Payne, I would have preferred a name like Alowishus Devadander Abercrombie.  Of course, that name is "long for mud, so I've been told." But Payne is what I got.

Payne is the kind of name that guarantees you will be picked on as a child, often into adulthood and even as recently as last night.  It's grueling but you learn to accept it and appreciate it and all of the creative flexibility that comes along with such a name.

"You ARE a pain!"  kids would say in an annoyingly sing songy way.

"A pain in the neck;" more sing songy crap.

"Pain in the Asssssss!"  You must apparently always drag out the S when calling me a pain in the asssssssss...  I don't know why, but I'm sure Strunk & White have something to do with it.

Pretty much, I have been related to being a pain in every body part and even a few regions; "You're such a pain in my side" is definitely a regional reference.  Some of the places that I have apparently been a pain were simply gross (think of your own example) and some just didn't make sense, like, "you're such a pain in my duodenum." 

I think the duodenum one was and attempt to be clever, unless that particular insult happened that one night I tried to make blackened chicken and accidentally put a lot of cinnamon in the mix.  That could have had duodenal repercussions.   Regardless, "pain in the duodenum" is a stretch at best.

Payne has been a somewhat limiting name.  It limited my marketability in the medical profession.   Dr. Payne just sounds a little less than comforting.   Military service is tough too, Chief Payne, Major Payne, General Payne....

I wanted to have a kid named Sham at some point just because Sham Payne sounds like a clever name, but I think I need to be rich and famous before I can don a child with such a character building name.  Nope, I'll have to stick with naming a boy "Sue" before I could go with Sham.

Other names that wouldn't work were all of the AIN classification of names like Shane, Jane, Duane, Wayne.... and a select other few like Royal (I knew two Royals growing up) and Richard just because of the common nickname Richard leads to; no, not Rich(ie) or Rick(y), the OTHER one. 

I'm sure there are many more names that simply don't work with Payne.

I also run into a HUGE problem picking up prescriptions from smart ass pharmacy interns and techs.  Imagine walking into the pharmacy and saying to the person at the counter "I'm here to pick up a prescription for Payne."  After staring at me glassy eyed for a bit, they'll say something like "which one?" or "what's the patients last name."  Sometimes they even smile when they say it.  Like they're so freakin' original!!!

So anyway, Muckenfuss, Quattlebaum and Finkbine.  THESE are funny sounding names, but they aren't really that limiting, are they?  If you are born with one of those names, you are almost guaranteed a future as a doctor or a lawyer.

Sure, you can really mess with Muckenfuss in one quite vulgar way, but that's all you've got going on with that one.  On a side note, Muckenfuss and Finkbine was the actual name of the oral surgery practice where I had my wisdom teeth removed as a kid.  Under the nitrous I apparently had as much of my was as I could with the name Muckenfuss.  All I could come up with for the other guy was "and youuu.... you buddy... well, you're a FINK!"  Probably followed up by a slurred "nyah nyah nya nyah nyahhhhh..."

I am still, to this date, amazed at how Fudrucker's stays in business. Sure there is really only one vulgar combo that you can come up with for their name, but, my God, they serve beer there.  EVERY CUSTOMER is messing with that name, especially the one's drinking the beer!

And I bet you, every last one of them thinks that they are being sooooooo original too. 

I Sir am NO Pugilist!!!

I changed the sheets on my bed today. It just needed to be done.

This set had probably gone a good two weeks more than they should have.

Of course, that isn't the most exciting thing to post on only my second blog entry, but I've got to dole some of my thoughts out gradually. Please give me time! To paraphrase Les Claypool (or whomever it was that named Primus's Greatest Hits album They Can't all be Zingers), "They Can't All Be Zingers" folks.

Anyway, I fear you would be so unamused about my comment regarding my sheets that you might just lose yourself in the moment and reply to me with something like "why would you waste my time with such a pointless blog you pugilistic bastard?" And then you might continue to say something about my mother... Try to avoid saying anything about my mother. I'm fair game, Mom is NOT!

Anyway, I can think of two reasons:
First off, have you read the name of my blog page? I pretty much admit outright that my comments may be "inane ramblings" meaning NOT NANE in addition to the fact that my mind may not be overly KEMPT!

The other reason I posted about my sheets was to push you into a position of such frustration that you would call me something like a "pugilist," a word I never knew existed until just now. I had to look it up after you called me that and it turns out you used it incorrectly. A pugilist is "someone who fights with their fists." What does that even have to do with my sheets?

But did you see what I did? I set you up. I pushed you into an irrational frame of my mind giving me a dominant position over you. You couldn't win this time. I'm sorry.

Why do people do that? Why do people often have to put themselves into a dominance position especially when it isn't even called for. You weren't threatening me. But honestly, I do feel better about myself now.

I swear my ex-wife used to set me up in no win scenarios. I didn't even know it was happening until I was in trouble. I'd give you and example but it would probably get back to her and then I'd be in trouble. OH MY GOD! SHE DID IT TO ME AGAIN!!! Maybe that's all a part of her plan.

Dammit.

Anyway, you don't always need to prove your dominance, especially over me. I'm sorry I set you up today, but I needed you to understand first hand.

I am a bit offended because it is quite obvious that you were definitely trying to hurt me by using the word pugilist, but you used it wrong... You filthy enchiridion!

Let's Get This Party Started

  Wow, so this is it, I'm starting a blog. 

It sounds like work. 

So far it has not been.

Granted, in lieu of working on this, I should be doing actual work!

I don't know what I'm going to write about.  I hope somebody reads this. 

Let's just see where it takes me..... Hmmmmmmmm.....

I love my Dad very much and I miss him dearly.  I am at peace with his passing, but not a day goes by that I don't think about him.  He was a great father.

I am very proud that my Dad served in the US Navy.  I am more amazed that he spent the majority of his career underwater in submarines.  I cannot imagine getting into a boat and saying "okay, we're all in; soooooo, let's sink it!"  Pretty much most of his career was spent in combat mode protecting our nation from another nation that felt it needed to protect itself from us. 

The thing is, I like the politics of our nation better and I agree that we needed to protect ourselves. As much as it may suck from time to time, we have a certain right to speak our peace and say what we think.  That other country did not believe that and our many disagreements with them seemed to make the world very very COLD!  Granted, I'm almost certain that there was more to it than free speech.

Sure, freedom of speech gets sketchy and people tend to abuse the living daylights out of it, but that is what makes us able to progress without having to limit our thoughts.  I do wish that a lot of people would tone down their expressiveness A LOT and give each other a chance to embrace their own opinions in a less "in your face" manner, but that's just me.

So, I have beliefs. 

I am Catholic, but I would never force that upon anyone or tell them that their religion or lack thereof is wrong.  Sure there may be a few people I'll hold to it, but that's more of a relationship/ practicality thing.  Also, if your religion condones blowing up me, my stuff, my friends or people who don't need to be blown up, I'm not really a fan.

I believe in a strong national defense, but I do feel we need to balance that out with a healthy and secure infrastructure.  No, I don't have a solution to make that balance work. 

I do think you should be allowed to marry in a civil union no matter what sex you or your partner are, but I also believe your church of choice has the right to either accept you or not for your decisions.  Let's face it, if your church cannot accept you, it may be time to move on.  That does seem like quite a sensitive topic these days and I think it's become a pathetic distraction.  There's too much judgment being passed making aggressive use of a religion based on peace and love.

That's about as controversial as I get.  I think I am very accepting of the world around me.  I really do try to treat others as I would like them to treat me but I find I am often misunderstood. However, sometimes, I get angry and irrational too.

Anyway, Dad once got very upset with people on the news who were inadvertently blocking traffic somewhere downtown whilst advocating something very unoriginal that most likely never changed.  I'm sure they had long hair... almost certain.  In his frustration he commented on their ignorance and their desire to express such ignorance so blatantly.

As a mildly rebellious teen (I had long bangs) I asked him, "but didn't you serve all of those years defending their rights to do so?" 

Vanquished to my room, I had a lot of "me time" to think about what I had said.  I knew what I said was correct and in future discussions with my Dad, I think he eventually agreed as well. 

But what I had truly done wrong was to poke an angry bear.

I'm not much for poking bears these days. I just have stuff on my mind in no particular order.