Okay, I'm going to try this one more time.
About once a year or so I get inspired to begin blogging again. I also at various times get inspired to clean out the garage, start working out, and to renovate the living room. Those never last either. So let's see how long this one lasts, shall we?
Shall we start a betting pool? Who wants one week? Two weeks?
Friday, May 4, 2012
Friday, February 10, 2012
On Benchley, Breathing Strips, and Aftershave
Tonight I am channeling my inner Benchley (Robert, not Peter). I know I promised I wouldn't write any more long, rambling essays about nothing in particular, but I can't help it. I am hopelessly addicted to meandering rambles (or perhaps meandering rambles) over the hills and dells of my memory and psyche. I'm not sure which is the hill and which is the dell, but I suppose I should be content with the fact that my mental makeup has actual topographic features and isn't just a giant sheet of flat grid paper like the landscape in the movie, “Tron” (the original, not the remake).
As an aside, I was shocked to find out that a synonym for dell is “dingle”. I found that quite amusing for some reason. I suppose it conjured up the alternate lyrics to “The Farmer in the Dingle”.
Speaking of awkward segues, I can't decide which I hate worse: not being able to breathe at night or having to rip a “breathing strip” off of my nose first thing in the morning while still half asleep. There's nothing like starting your day by having to do the equivalent of ripping a BandAid off of a sensitive patch of skin. It would only be worse if a hand came out of nowhere and slapped me squarely on both cheeks to apply a liberal dose of Aqua Velva.
Speaking of which, I remember in my early years (before I became jaded) believing every bit of advertising that Madison Avenue shoveled out of their executive stalls into great, steaming piles on a credulous public. For instance, I believed that using Old Spice cologne would not only get rid of my razor burn, but would also give me a nautical air that women would find irresistible. Well, true enough, it gave me an “air”, but not a nautical one … and certainly not one that women found irresistible. It was more the the type of air that yellow signs warn one not to smoke in or create sparks in.
I eventually became disillusioned with Old Spice because I came to the slow realization that it was not the olfactory equivalent of epaulets and braids. Therefore, I turned my hopes to Aqua Velva because I thought, as shown in the TV ads, that slapping myself vigorously with a hand steeped in the arctic blue liquid would leave me feeling braced and looking like a male model with smooth, manly skin that was free of both five o'clock shadow and razor burn. However, I never managed to perfect the fine art of slapping myself vigorously without getting Aqua Velva in both eyes or all over my clothes. This was about the time that I realized that all aftershave lotions were merely bottles of alcohol with FD&C blue or green or some other soothing color and a dash of something that smelled strong enough to take our minds off of the fact that we were pouring alcohol on razor-irritated skin. It was like, “Holy jehimanies my face is on fire!… oh neat … eucalyptus.” And then we'd leave the house feeling as if we were now irresistible to the ladies. What the rest of the world saw, however, was a man who seemed to have a severe case of rug burn all over his face and neck and who reeked of something used to clear sinuses or awaken antebellum ladies who had fainted from wearing their corsets too tight.
I also succumbed to the hype surrounding gel type shaving creams, believing that they would allow me to shave my face so closely that I could rub cotton balls all over my face and not leave a single cotton fiber clinging to even a microscopic specimen of beard stubble. To add to their air of authority and trustworthiness, these gels came in a variety of different colored cans, each color indicating a different formulation for different facial types. I tried the orange can for awhile, because it purported to be for sensitive skin, but later on I switched to the white can because it promised that it was “medicinal”. What a great idea! Putting medication on the razor wounds while inflicting them. How efficient. So I slathered on the gel, fascinated at how it turned to foam as I smeared it around the ol' epidermis. And at least part of the advertising claims were correct: it did allow me to shave very closely. But the advertisements were strangely silent on what happened after the gel/foam was shaved and washed off and you were happily on your way to your first class of the day (this was back in my college days). What happened was that, as the eucalyptus and other emollients wore off or evaporated, the beard began to grow back. Unfortunately, now that the stubble tips were below the skin surface, they were often confused about where exactly they should grow. As they groped their way blindly up towards the surface of the skin, they poked and prodded and stabbed their way towards the light, the effects of which were to make me look as if I'd unsuccessfully fended off an attack by a maniac wielding two red-hot ice picks coated in allergens. So I learned that close shaves were not all they were cracked up to be.
So, being a poor college student, there was an avenue open to me that is not open to most responsible, employed, and conscientious people: I grew a beard and forsook shaving altogether.
Later, however, when I graduated and was forced to become responsible, employed, and conscientious (not to mention conscious), I bought myself an electric razor. But here, too, I succumbed to the unrealistic claims of Madison Avenue. I believed that running this electric gizmo back and forth across my face would make strange women want to rub their hands across my cheeks, chin, and neck. That never happened. I'm not sure they even noticed the difference between a razor shave and an electric razor shave. In fact, I'm pretty sure they didn't notice whether I shaved or not. Or even if I was actually there. I probably could have shaved with a scythe or a scimitar and gotten just as much notice from the fairer sex.
Luckily, now I am immune to the deceits of Madison Avenue.
On an unrelated note, I think I will buy a new computer. I saw an ad the other day for the latest octal-core, double-clocked processor that will make all my computing needs seem like child's play.
As an aside, I was shocked to find out that a synonym for dell is “dingle”. I found that quite amusing for some reason. I suppose it conjured up the alternate lyrics to “The Farmer in the Dingle”.
Speaking of awkward segues, I can't decide which I hate worse: not being able to breathe at night or having to rip a “breathing strip” off of my nose first thing in the morning while still half asleep. There's nothing like starting your day by having to do the equivalent of ripping a BandAid off of a sensitive patch of skin. It would only be worse if a hand came out of nowhere and slapped me squarely on both cheeks to apply a liberal dose of Aqua Velva.
Speaking of which, I remember in my early years (before I became jaded) believing every bit of advertising that Madison Avenue shoveled out of their executive stalls into great, steaming piles on a credulous public. For instance, I believed that using Old Spice cologne would not only get rid of my razor burn, but would also give me a nautical air that women would find irresistible. Well, true enough, it gave me an “air”, but not a nautical one … and certainly not one that women found irresistible. It was more the the type of air that yellow signs warn one not to smoke in or create sparks in.
I eventually became disillusioned with Old Spice because I came to the slow realization that it was not the olfactory equivalent of epaulets and braids. Therefore, I turned my hopes to Aqua Velva because I thought, as shown in the TV ads, that slapping myself vigorously with a hand steeped in the arctic blue liquid would leave me feeling braced and looking like a male model with smooth, manly skin that was free of both five o'clock shadow and razor burn. However, I never managed to perfect the fine art of slapping myself vigorously without getting Aqua Velva in both eyes or all over my clothes. This was about the time that I realized that all aftershave lotions were merely bottles of alcohol with FD&C blue or green or some other soothing color and a dash of something that smelled strong enough to take our minds off of the fact that we were pouring alcohol on razor-irritated skin. It was like, “Holy jehimanies my face is on fire!… oh neat … eucalyptus.” And then we'd leave the house feeling as if we were now irresistible to the ladies. What the rest of the world saw, however, was a man who seemed to have a severe case of rug burn all over his face and neck and who reeked of something used to clear sinuses or awaken antebellum ladies who had fainted from wearing their corsets too tight.
I also succumbed to the hype surrounding gel type shaving creams, believing that they would allow me to shave my face so closely that I could rub cotton balls all over my face and not leave a single cotton fiber clinging to even a microscopic specimen of beard stubble. To add to their air of authority and trustworthiness, these gels came in a variety of different colored cans, each color indicating a different formulation for different facial types. I tried the orange can for awhile, because it purported to be for sensitive skin, but later on I switched to the white can because it promised that it was “medicinal”. What a great idea! Putting medication on the razor wounds while inflicting them. How efficient. So I slathered on the gel, fascinated at how it turned to foam as I smeared it around the ol' epidermis. And at least part of the advertising claims were correct: it did allow me to shave very closely. But the advertisements were strangely silent on what happened after the gel/foam was shaved and washed off and you were happily on your way to your first class of the day (this was back in my college days). What happened was that, as the eucalyptus and other emollients wore off or evaporated, the beard began to grow back. Unfortunately, now that the stubble tips were below the skin surface, they were often confused about where exactly they should grow. As they groped their way blindly up towards the surface of the skin, they poked and prodded and stabbed their way towards the light, the effects of which were to make me look as if I'd unsuccessfully fended off an attack by a maniac wielding two red-hot ice picks coated in allergens. So I learned that close shaves were not all they were cracked up to be.
So, being a poor college student, there was an avenue open to me that is not open to most responsible, employed, and conscientious people: I grew a beard and forsook shaving altogether.
Later, however, when I graduated and was forced to become responsible, employed, and conscientious (not to mention conscious), I bought myself an electric razor. But here, too, I succumbed to the unrealistic claims of Madison Avenue. I believed that running this electric gizmo back and forth across my face would make strange women want to rub their hands across my cheeks, chin, and neck. That never happened. I'm not sure they even noticed the difference between a razor shave and an electric razor shave. In fact, I'm pretty sure they didn't notice whether I shaved or not. Or even if I was actually there. I probably could have shaved with a scythe or a scimitar and gotten just as much notice from the fairer sex.
Luckily, now I am immune to the deceits of Madison Avenue.
On an unrelated note, I think I will buy a new computer. I saw an ad the other day for the latest octal-core, double-clocked processor that will make all my computing needs seem like child's play.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Inexplicable Funk
Did you ever have one of those days where you just woke up in a blue funk, even though there was no real reason for it?
That was me today. It wasn't that noticeable when I first woke up, but as the day wore on, the cloud above my head became more and more defined until it wasn't long before it was a pretty well-defined black cloud.
The frustrating things about these sorts of days is that, even though we recognize them, we seem to be powerless to do anything to turn them around. We can sense the cloud forming and, rationally, we know there is no reason for it ... but we just can't seem to turn the ship around and head for sunnier waters. It's like one of those dreams where something unidentified, but menacing, is coming to get you, but you just can't seem to move.
Odder still about today was the fact that it was a warm, sunny day. We don't typically get those in January, even in Texas. I could have understood being in a funk if this had been our 23rd day without seeing the sun or if it was bone-chillingly cold and I ached all over from cold. But it was warm. The sun was shining. I was pretty much caught up on the things I needed to do around the house. In short, there was no reason on earth to be in a funk.
And yet, there I was . . . in a funk.
And still am at 10:15 at night.
Maybe tomorrow will be better.
That was me today. It wasn't that noticeable when I first woke up, but as the day wore on, the cloud above my head became more and more defined until it wasn't long before it was a pretty well-defined black cloud.
The frustrating things about these sorts of days is that, even though we recognize them, we seem to be powerless to do anything to turn them around. We can sense the cloud forming and, rationally, we know there is no reason for it ... but we just can't seem to turn the ship around and head for sunnier waters. It's like one of those dreams where something unidentified, but menacing, is coming to get you, but you just can't seem to move.
Odder still about today was the fact that it was a warm, sunny day. We don't typically get those in January, even in Texas. I could have understood being in a funk if this had been our 23rd day without seeing the sun or if it was bone-chillingly cold and I ached all over from cold. But it was warm. The sun was shining. I was pretty much caught up on the things I needed to do around the house. In short, there was no reason on earth to be in a funk.
And yet, there I was . . . in a funk.
And still am at 10:15 at night.
Maybe tomorrow will be better.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Please Resuscitate
You might have noticed that my entries into this blog are as sparse as pieces of chicken in a can of store-brand chicken-noodle soup. I take full responsibility for that. Between living a life that can only be described as plain vanilla and also spending every waking moment taking care of the staggering responsibilities of being staggeringly responsible, there hasn't been much time to write a blog nor material to fill it with. It all makes for a deafening silence.
But all of that is about to change. I'm resuscitating (or resurrecting, if you prefer) this blog, this tenuous and intermittent connection of mine to the outside world. No, it wasn't a New Year's resolution that condemned me to a year of writing in my blog. It wasn't a sudden uptick in the incidence of interesting incidents in my life that is inspiring me to hunt and peck feverishly at the keyboard. It wasn't a sudden epiphany or a blinding flash of inspiration. I'm not sure what it was. It was just a sudden and intense desire to write again. You know, like I used to do when I was in high school and college and flush with what I mistook for ideas and talent. Bottom line, I enjoy writing, gosh darn it.
This time, however, things will be different.
How, you ask? A very prescient question. I congratulate you.
My style for the past few years has been to write long, rambling monologues about my day or some topic that interested me on that day (a style that this very entry is in danger of falling victim to). But I'm going to try something new. I'm going to write short, single-topic blogs. Perhaps these little nuggets or nodules of blogicity will encourage my dear readers to comment on them since they are no longer put off by the eye-glazing length of the entries. Now my blog entries will be more like reading a filler anecdote in Reader's Digest and less like reading a co-worker's old college thesis on the effects of migratory patterns of the wandering albatross on squid populations.
So, let the blogging begin (anew). Let the terseness flow. Viva la succinction.
Monday, August 22, 2011
I'm Done
It is August here in Dallas and it is pretty much how you would expect Dallas to be in August. It is hot. And when I say "hot", I don't mean the ordinary hot that one reads about in books where the hero rolls up his sleeves and mops his brown with a handkerchief and the herione fans herself with whatever is handy in the way of coquettish devices. No, I mean the kind of hot that is usually accompanied by showers of sparks from giant crucibles of molten steel, tended to by men suited up as if to slay a fire-breathing dragon. For much of the summer, the thermometer has routinely read 105 or above. Though I don't think we'll break the record of that hellish summer of 1980, we're coming damn close to it.
As you might imagine, this has rendered almost the entire population of Texas housebound. No one even wants to venture out in this stuff. This is the Texas equivalent of winter in International Falls, Minnesota. No one gets outside unless they have to. Whereas a Minnesotan might suffer from a tongue frozen to a flagpole, we suffer from leaving our fingerprints on the steering wheels of our cars. All in all, its probably a toss-up as to which is more unpleasant.
All of this has led me to make a decision I never thought I'd make. I'm thinking about leaving Texas. I love Texas. I love its pioneer spirit and its "don't tread on me" attitude. I love its republicanism (as in "The Republic of Texas") and its can-do spirit. I love the friendliness and down-to-earthiness of its people. I love its opportunity and spirit of optimism. But this heat has broken me. I long for four seasons. I long to be able to go outside in the summer and actually sit in a chaise lounge without being cooked in place or being carried off by mosquitos (or both). I long to drive without having to hold the steering wheel with oven mitts. I want to live where pretty flowers grow without constant watering and shielding from the sun. I want to live where I can spend an hour outside working in the yard without having to be rushed to the hospital to be treated for heat stroke.
So, once the daughter has graduated from college and has settled down somewhere, me and the Missus are packing up the covered wagon and heading either nor' by nor'-east or up to the Pacific northwest. Both of these places have their drawbacks, of course. The Pacific Northwest is stacked to the rafters with bead-wearing, bong-toking, bath-avoiding hippies. The northeast is populated with people named Biff and Muffy who speak without unclenching their jaws or separating their teeth and who look at people with disdain so pure that it could be bottled without any further distillation and sold as either hard liquor or an alternative fuel. But I am beginning to think that I could tolerate all of those things if mollified by the presence of four seasons.
Ask me again in four years. My tune may have changed.
As you might imagine, this has rendered almost the entire population of Texas housebound. No one even wants to venture out in this stuff. This is the Texas equivalent of winter in International Falls, Minnesota. No one gets outside unless they have to. Whereas a Minnesotan might suffer from a tongue frozen to a flagpole, we suffer from leaving our fingerprints on the steering wheels of our cars. All in all, its probably a toss-up as to which is more unpleasant.
All of this has led me to make a decision I never thought I'd make. I'm thinking about leaving Texas. I love Texas. I love its pioneer spirit and its "don't tread on me" attitude. I love its republicanism (as in "The Republic of Texas") and its can-do spirit. I love the friendliness and down-to-earthiness of its people. I love its opportunity and spirit of optimism. But this heat has broken me. I long for four seasons. I long to be able to go outside in the summer and actually sit in a chaise lounge without being cooked in place or being carried off by mosquitos (or both). I long to drive without having to hold the steering wheel with oven mitts. I want to live where pretty flowers grow without constant watering and shielding from the sun. I want to live where I can spend an hour outside working in the yard without having to be rushed to the hospital to be treated for heat stroke.
So, once the daughter has graduated from college and has settled down somewhere, me and the Missus are packing up the covered wagon and heading either nor' by nor'-east or up to the Pacific northwest. Both of these places have their drawbacks, of course. The Pacific Northwest is stacked to the rafters with bead-wearing, bong-toking, bath-avoiding hippies. The northeast is populated with people named Biff and Muffy who speak without unclenching their jaws or separating their teeth and who look at people with disdain so pure that it could be bottled without any further distillation and sold as either hard liquor or an alternative fuel. But I am beginning to think that I could tolerate all of those things if mollified by the presence of four seasons.
Ask me again in four years. My tune may have changed.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Idle Hands
I'm not sure why it always seems to be on a Thursday when I finally sit down at the keyboard and grind out another entry for my largely unread blog. I suppose because it's far enough along in the week that I can finally unclench enough to be able to type. For the first three days of the week I'm wound up like the unfortunate watch of an obsessive compulsive savant on speed. By Thursday, my soul's mainspring has unwound enough to allow my hands to do something other than point stiffly at the passing hours as if to say, “Hey, stop that!"Unfortunately, having spent so much of the week under about six feet of a loamy mix of gainful employment and domestic responsibility, I don't have much to write about. That is my fault. I should have been born rich, but I lacked gumption as a zygote.
Earlier this evening I toyed with the idea of pulling the sheet back from my novel, giving it a few jolts with the defibrillator, and pressing a fingertip firmly against its neck in order to ascertain if resuscitation was possible. The prognosis was not good and in the end I decided it was more humane to toe tag it and allow it the dignity of mouldering peacefully in the morgue (for there was no plot). I decided it would be better if I just started anew. It has been so long since I wrote anything on my last attempt that it would no doubt turn out to be something of a franken-novel.
But for now I'm not going to think about it. It is only Thursday. Inspiration rarely visits on Thursday. My muse generally only comes in once or twice a week to vacuum and to make the beds.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Somewhere in Texas
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Another Pleasant Valley Thursday
Here I sit on this quiet Thursday evening sipping coffee and tapping into this laptop of mine, letting insipid thoughts drift aimlessly like dander to settle pointlessly on the beige pile carpet of my life. I'm not even sure it rises to the level of quiet desperation anymore. It is just quiet respiration.
Earlier was dinner at the Chinese buffet followed a quick walk around Hobby Lobby. I wasn't particularly interested in buying anything in support of a hobby (real or imagined). I just wanted to walk off dinner, and Hobby Lobby is always a quiet, clean, well-lit place that seems to emit a good vibe. Why not walk around Hobby Lobby? It is one of those pseudo-inspirational places that make one think, “I could do that.” It is a good feeling. It is almost exactly opposite of the feeling of frustration and anguish one would get if actually attempting that hobby. No, it is better to just imagine being successful at that particular hobby rather than attempting it and finding out one is all thumbs or abysmally untalented.
After that, we returned home where I took some recycling out to the recycling dumpster in the alleyway. This gave me a sense of having done something useful without actually having to exert much in the way of energy or time. This went a long way towards alleviating the guilt I would normally feel at putting on my pajamas at 8:30 in the evening.
So here it is 8:41 on a Thursday evening and I am in my pajamas and sipping on a cup of coffee and typing into this infernal machine. And 99% of the people in the world would gladly change places with me right now if they had the opportunity. How can one not feel blessed with numbers like that? Of all the realities I could have been born into on that cold winter day in 1962, I won the lottery. It may not have been the power-ball lottery, but I still won the equivalent of a pick-six and my life has been good.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Somewhere in Texas
Earlier was dinner at the Chinese buffet followed a quick walk around Hobby Lobby. I wasn't particularly interested in buying anything in support of a hobby (real or imagined). I just wanted to walk off dinner, and Hobby Lobby is always a quiet, clean, well-lit place that seems to emit a good vibe. Why not walk around Hobby Lobby? It is one of those pseudo-inspirational places that make one think, “I could do that.” It is a good feeling. It is almost exactly opposite of the feeling of frustration and anguish one would get if actually attempting that hobby. No, it is better to just imagine being successful at that particular hobby rather than attempting it and finding out one is all thumbs or abysmally untalented.
After that, we returned home where I took some recycling out to the recycling dumpster in the alleyway. This gave me a sense of having done something useful without actually having to exert much in the way of energy or time. This went a long way towards alleviating the guilt I would normally feel at putting on my pajamas at 8:30 in the evening.
So here it is 8:41 on a Thursday evening and I am in my pajamas and sipping on a cup of coffee and typing into this infernal machine. And 99% of the people in the world would gladly change places with me right now if they had the opportunity. How can one not feel blessed with numbers like that? Of all the realities I could have been born into on that cold winter day in 1962, I won the lottery. It may not have been the power-ball lottery, but I still won the equivalent of a pick-six and my life has been good.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Somewhere in Texas
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