Everything has been going along pretty well for me. I just tossed out my empty can of Clean Linen bathroom spray and am now using Country Garden. It’s so much better having the bathroom smell like a tomato patch than a towel. I’m still pretty excited.
So, after this deodorizer excitement, I’m sitting out on the couch eating a no-sugar-added Fudgsicle, watching the tube and playing online Scrabble with someone from Newfoundland, and my dog Hadley starts to retch a little. I offer him a bite of my Popsicle thing, even though I know dogs shouldn’t eat chocolate because I am a what? A rebel. And a non-thinking pet owner.
But he doesn’t even want it. He’s too busy heaving his guts out on the rug. I mean, he was doing some serious Airedale hurling, baby. Mixed in with the hurl-goo were blades of grass and a Reese’s Pieces wrapper and what looked like a chicken foot. I think he made the right decision to hurl it.
And, of course, that reminded me of three of the favorite throwing-up experiences I’ve had over the past 30 years or so. And because I live to share things with you readers and readerettes, I am about to share my empty stomach with you. Warning! If you are about to eat lunch, that would be a mistake. Unless you want a fourth throw-up story of your own.
My first upchuck memory happened in the early ’60s. I was a student at Humboldt State College (where the men were men, and so were the women. I know I’ve said that before, but I just love repeating it.) I was attending a little party just off campus. The primary goal of this party was to drink as many cans of Brew 102 beer as you could and then take a shot of bourbon after each beer and then consume some Corn Nuts and baked beans and PB&J sandwiches and then see who could light the longest tightly pulled-skivvies-over-your-buttocks red rocket. Oh, the fun we had. I’m just glad we could pass these achievements on to the younger generation.
Anyway, around midnight I didn’t feel too good. I don’t know why. And I walked out onto the deck to get some fresh air and maybe survive the night. Well, this deck was on the fourth floor of the house we were in. Pretty high. Kind of like a certain columnist.
As I stood there, holding the rail, I knew I could not keep the evening’s refreshments down. And I also knew I could not make it to the bathroom or a sink or a pan or a bag or a hat. So I stuck my head over the railing and let her fly.
Wow. I can still see the chunks of spaghetti and meatballs and nuts in this foamy glob of beer and saliva just drifting down through the cool night air. It was like it was in slow motion. A Fellini movie. Each chunk of gunk was slightly separating as it fell toward the parking lot. And then it hit with a fourth-floor splat and it just missed a couple who were face-sucking. And I’ll never forget what they said. “Let’s check out some other party.”
About seven years later — but not seven years smarter — I was at a party with my ex-wife, who shall remain nameless because of my gallantry, good judgment and the provisions of the restraining order. I was working at the Army Corps of Engineers and they were having a little party for all of us to get to know each other at some guy’s house.
There were about 20 of us there, and we were all getting, uh, as they say in the construction industry, plastered. Everyone was pretty damn happy if your definition of happy is “can’t walk.” At some point in the evening’s proceedings, we all gathered in a big circle. I don’t remember why we were in this circle. People would go out into the middle and do something and then return. Well, when it was my turn, I went out into the middle of the circle and did something, too. I barfed.
Even in my condition, I could tell that this was not well-received. Especially by the hostess of the party. I remember her husband telling her that he didn’t know who I was and I would never be invited back. And then he took the kitchen knife away from her.
The last thing I remember was being carried into the bedroom where they put all the guests’ coats and they plopped me right in the middle of all those big coats and jackets and scarves. It was actually pretty comfy. I felt all snug and warm and loved as I wiped my face on a really soft chinchilla coat collar. (Furs were OK back then.)
Finally, on my little trip down vomitory lane, I remember back in the ’70s I spent a pleasant evening at The Catacombs, a cool little Mexican bar in downtown Los Angeles. The place was actually underground and it was dark and damp and seedy. Me and my other ink-stained wretch compadres would go there after putting out an edition of the paper. They owed us money for ad space and we took that out in giant platters of guacamole de huachucas and Coronas.
Four of us were sitting there in a dark leather booth and one of the young ladies we were hoping to have meaningful and fulfilling sexual intercourse with later was getting, as they say in the trucking industry, pretty loaded.
My potential love partner of the opposite sex turned towards me, looked at me with her big brown eyes, and she fluttered them a few feminine flutters like they did back then, and she tried to smile, but instead of smiling she projectile vomited her earlier consumed taco plate which was loosely held together by warm cerveza and female spittle. Or maybe it was warm spittle and female cerveza. I don’t know. But it was definitely memorable. And it was all over my chest and my shirt and my psyche. And if I knew the Spanish word for traumatized, I would relate that to you now.
Well, I hope you all have enjoyed our little trip down upchuck lane. Maybe we can meet again next week and I’ll tell you how I had my warts removed.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Bumper Cars (Cigar Smoke 5-22-2008)
OK, it was a Wednesday evening and on most Wednesday evenings I am heading to West Hollywood to play Scrabble and get my butt handed to me by way-better players who laugh at me and throw sand in my face. Which is rather difficult because they have to drive down to the beach to get the sand and come back and repark their cars and come in and throw the sand in my face. They don’t seem to mind the extra time and trouble.
Anyway, I head out the 134 going west and I’m bopping along, singing a song, trying to enjoy the remaining 7.9 years I should have on the planet. And I merge onto the Glendale Freeway going south and I kick my old Hemi (yes, girls, I am available) into a pretty scary gear and that part of the freeway is always wide open and I’m flying, baby. I’m passing Cessnas.
At the end of the Glendale Speedway I hit surface streets and make it through northern Mexico, I mean the Alvarado triangle, and finally get to the Hollywood Freeway. It’s kind of fun to see signs in English again, and I’m be-bopping along, singing a different song and I’m trying to change the channel on the radio and I’m reading the last two pages of my book on the Kindle and I’m trying to open a little bag of peanuts with my teeth and flicking a cigar ash somewhere towards the ashtray and would you believe it, I ran into some lady in front of me. Damn women drivers.
OK, maybe I was a little distracted. So I get out of the car and go up to her and ask if she’s OK, and she was, because I really wasn’t going that fast. I mean, I hit the brakes and everything. So we’re standing on the freeway looking at the bumper damage and everybody else is driving by and just openly hating us. Hey, I don’t blame them. It’s 5 o’clock on the Hollywood Freeway and they’re just off work and they’re tired and there’s all this damn traffic and then this irresponsible woman stops in front of a nice old gentleman such as myself. Who wouldn’t be irritated?
Anyway, after a pretty spirited flipping-off match with the driver of a Ford F-150 with a “No Fat Chicks” sticker, I exchanged information with the bad woman driver, suggesting she never again make such an unsafe stop, and I got back into my hurt Hemi. And I made it to Santa Monica Boulevard and was be-bopping along for the third damn time, and I went over this bump in the road and I heard this sound. Kind of a scraping sound like maybe I had run over a Democrat. (I kid the Democrats.)
So when I get to my Scrabble place, I get out of the car and look at my bumper, and damned if the right portion of the bumper isn’t just hanging there scraping my tire. I hadn’t even seen it on the freeway. I thought I was just going to sue the bad woman driver for a severe case of fraudulent whiplash and call it a day. I didn’t even consider that my bumper had been more than bumped.
So, being the what? Being the incredibly bright guy who I am, I decided I should have the bumper repaired. And I took Mr. Hurt Hemi Face over to the Dodge dealer in Glendale. I showed him the bumper and he looked at it and rubbed his chin, really, and got that expression. Dodge dealers must teach all their service guys that concerned expression. Damn, was he concerned. And then he called one of his fellow concerned associates over and they both looked even more concerned.
Finally, the head service rep says, “I think the frame’s bent.” I said, “I barely hit the thing. I think it’s just sprung. Can’t you just pop it back in?” And he said, “Oh, sure, I can just pop it back in, if you’re not concerned about the safety of your family.” I said, “Just suppose I was concerned about the safety of my family, how much would it cost?” And he said, “Well, with the new frame and the new mounts and the additional work on the adjoining struts and the damage to the differential and the universal and, of course, the labor involved from our factory-trained technicians and body shop people, I’m guesstimating here, say $2,500, plus the labor.”
Well, after me and my wallet got a good laugh over that, I declined to have him fix the bumper. I told him my family would have to fend for themselves on this one.
Now, I am not the most knowledgeable guy when it comes to cars. I basically know where the steering wheel is and how to turn the radio on. When I was a teenager and my buddies were fixing their cars in their dimly lit driveways at night, I was the guy who would hold the flashlight for them. And sometimes drop bolts onto their heads when they were under the car. Even then I was a kidder.
But I did know one thing: this guy was trying to rip me off. I have learned from Scrabble and poker when I’m being bluffed, and baby, I was being bluffed. And I called that sucker. And I am really happy with myself. Because nobody else will be.
So to end my sad tale, I took the car over to my favorite gas station, a Mobil station at the corner of Colorado and Allen. It’s called K & S Mobil. And I talked to my guy. I’m not sure if it was K or S, but he’s a great guy. And he’s an honest guy. And he’s always done great work for me — for a fair price. And he works fast. And if I wasn’t married I’d date this guy and take advantage of the new marriage laws in California.
I show him the bumper and ask him if he can fix it. He looks at it, looks up under it, nods a couple of times, and says, “Sure.” I would have cried, but there’s no crying in mechanic relationships.
I go pick up the car. The bumper has been fixed. It looks great. All ready for new things to bump. And how much does he charge me? He charges me $266; 166 bucks for the parts and two hours of labor at $50 an hour. And he says, it really took us three hours, but we’ll only charge you for two because we like you.
It’s gonna be a nice June wedding. We’re registered at Crate and Barrel.
Anyway, I head out the 134 going west and I’m bopping along, singing a song, trying to enjoy the remaining 7.9 years I should have on the planet. And I merge onto the Glendale Freeway going south and I kick my old Hemi (yes, girls, I am available) into a pretty scary gear and that part of the freeway is always wide open and I’m flying, baby. I’m passing Cessnas.
At the end of the Glendale Speedway I hit surface streets and make it through northern Mexico, I mean the Alvarado triangle, and finally get to the Hollywood Freeway. It’s kind of fun to see signs in English again, and I’m be-bopping along, singing a different song and I’m trying to change the channel on the radio and I’m reading the last two pages of my book on the Kindle and I’m trying to open a little bag of peanuts with my teeth and flicking a cigar ash somewhere towards the ashtray and would you believe it, I ran into some lady in front of me. Damn women drivers.
OK, maybe I was a little distracted. So I get out of the car and go up to her and ask if she’s OK, and she was, because I really wasn’t going that fast. I mean, I hit the brakes and everything. So we’re standing on the freeway looking at the bumper damage and everybody else is driving by and just openly hating us. Hey, I don’t blame them. It’s 5 o’clock on the Hollywood Freeway and they’re just off work and they’re tired and there’s all this damn traffic and then this irresponsible woman stops in front of a nice old gentleman such as myself. Who wouldn’t be irritated?
Anyway, after a pretty spirited flipping-off match with the driver of a Ford F-150 with a “No Fat Chicks” sticker, I exchanged information with the bad woman driver, suggesting she never again make such an unsafe stop, and I got back into my hurt Hemi. And I made it to Santa Monica Boulevard and was be-bopping along for the third damn time, and I went over this bump in the road and I heard this sound. Kind of a scraping sound like maybe I had run over a Democrat. (I kid the Democrats.)
So when I get to my Scrabble place, I get out of the car and look at my bumper, and damned if the right portion of the bumper isn’t just hanging there scraping my tire. I hadn’t even seen it on the freeway. I thought I was just going to sue the bad woman driver for a severe case of fraudulent whiplash and call it a day. I didn’t even consider that my bumper had been more than bumped.
So, being the what? Being the incredibly bright guy who I am, I decided I should have the bumper repaired. And I took Mr. Hurt Hemi Face over to the Dodge dealer in Glendale. I showed him the bumper and he looked at it and rubbed his chin, really, and got that expression. Dodge dealers must teach all their service guys that concerned expression. Damn, was he concerned. And then he called one of his fellow concerned associates over and they both looked even more concerned.
Finally, the head service rep says, “I think the frame’s bent.” I said, “I barely hit the thing. I think it’s just sprung. Can’t you just pop it back in?” And he said, “Oh, sure, I can just pop it back in, if you’re not concerned about the safety of your family.” I said, “Just suppose I was concerned about the safety of my family, how much would it cost?” And he said, “Well, with the new frame and the new mounts and the additional work on the adjoining struts and the damage to the differential and the universal and, of course, the labor involved from our factory-trained technicians and body shop people, I’m guesstimating here, say $2,500, plus the labor.”
Well, after me and my wallet got a good laugh over that, I declined to have him fix the bumper. I told him my family would have to fend for themselves on this one.
Now, I am not the most knowledgeable guy when it comes to cars. I basically know where the steering wheel is and how to turn the radio on. When I was a teenager and my buddies were fixing their cars in their dimly lit driveways at night, I was the guy who would hold the flashlight for them. And sometimes drop bolts onto their heads when they were under the car. Even then I was a kidder.
But I did know one thing: this guy was trying to rip me off. I have learned from Scrabble and poker when I’m being bluffed, and baby, I was being bluffed. And I called that sucker. And I am really happy with myself. Because nobody else will be.
So to end my sad tale, I took the car over to my favorite gas station, a Mobil station at the corner of Colorado and Allen. It’s called K & S Mobil. And I talked to my guy. I’m not sure if it was K or S, but he’s a great guy. And he’s an honest guy. And he’s always done great work for me — for a fair price. And he works fast. And if I wasn’t married I’d date this guy and take advantage of the new marriage laws in California.
I show him the bumper and ask him if he can fix it. He looks at it, looks up under it, nods a couple of times, and says, “Sure.” I would have cried, but there’s no crying in mechanic relationships.
I go pick up the car. The bumper has been fixed. It looks great. All ready for new things to bump. And how much does he charge me? He charges me $266; 166 bucks for the parts and two hours of labor at $50 an hour. And he says, it really took us three hours, but we’ll only charge you for two because we like you.
It’s gonna be a nice June wedding. We’re registered at Crate and Barrel.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Futile Gestures (Cigar Smoke 5-15-08)
I’m discovering that the older I get the more futile my gestures are. Does that make sense? Here’s the deal. When I was younger I would only get teed off, and then sometimes when I was really bent I would get ticked off, but now, as I am fully ensconced in my body-part-non-functioning years, I tend to get pissed off quite easily.
Marge notices it. At the breakfast table she will say something like, “Honey Mate, you tend to get pissed off more easily now that you’re very old and almost dead.” It’s that kind of inspiration that keeps me going.
So what do I mean by “futile gesture?” Well, gesturers and gesturettes, I mean this. I have been a loyal member of the Priority Club, which is the hot-shot premium membership deal of the Holiday Inn. For the last dozen years or so, I have always tried to stay at a Holiday Inn. It’s a pretty good hotel and their beds are fairly decent. But mostly it’s because I love their cinnamon rolls. (As you can see, my standards, like my arches, my chins, and my libido, have fallen over the years.)
Anyway, you get bonus points for staying at the hotel and I’ve accumulated a lot of points and have enjoyed a number of free nights. It just makes me feel good to be a member of something so trifling and petty. So, a few months ago, I took a little trip with my sons, Mike and Casey, down to see an Evander Holyfield fight in El Paso. And I reserved two rooms. One for me. And one for my loin-springers.
Well, when I got back home I looked on my Holiday Inn recap sheet online, and I was only credited with one room. My room. They wouldn’t give me credit for the other room, which I had paid for. I was, of course, what? I was incensed.
So I wrote them a long email and complained and bitched and moaned about not being important to them and how disappointed I was at not being special and I used obscene words, like Hilton and Marriott and Doubletree, to scare them. And what happened? Nothing happened, that’s what. They just ignored me. A loyal guy like me. Ignored me.
So, that is what I mean by a futile gesture. I gestured. It was futile. It was a futile gesture.
Another time a while back I canceled my subscription to Newsweek magazine because of that false story about GIs peeing on the Koran. I told them I couldn’t keep paying them to write bullshit stories, and I knew not receiving my subscription money was going to hurt them drastically. I was pretty sure it was going to force them into bankruptcy and that they would have to beg me to reconsider, and they would tell me about all the fathers and mothers they would have to fire, and let me know how many kids would be thrown on the streets. Never heard from them.
And I used to have trouble with a damn Hewlett-Packard printer back when I was publishing the Weekly, about 10 years ago. That sucky printer would never, ever work. It would always give me an error message, some code with four numbers and a dollar sign and an exclamation point and a little icon of a bomb exploding.
I tried everything to fix it. I re-installed the software. I called the HP help line. I gave the damn printer its own power outlet. I even read the manual. But it would never work. I got so frustrated I threw things at it. I even elbowed its sorry toner-cartridge butt one day. And I hate to admit this, but I think the statute of limitations has run out, so I can tell you. I killed three members of my staff for laughing at how red my face got and giggle-pointing at the spittle on my cheeks. They deserved to die. (By the way, Barack Obama knew about this, but continues to own Hewlett-Packard stock to this day.)
So I gestured up to the plate and wrote old Hewlett-Packard a letter informing them of my less-than-optimum experience, and that I would never ever buy another one of their damn supposed printer pieces of crap even if I was on a desert island and was hit on the head with a coconut. I was that mad. And over the last 10 years two things have happened. I have never bought another Hewlett-Packard product and I’m sure they’ve gone out of business because of that. And the second thing is that I have never heard from them. Gesture this!
But the most painful futile gesture I’ve made is the one I made to Bruce Springsteen. As you might remember, during the last election campaign he came out in support of John Kerry for president. He was going around the country having concerts and bad-mouthing Bush and all that. Now, I don’t want to get too political, but let’s just say I thought it was stupid and disgusting and repulsive and revolting and sickening and simplistic and it had warts and pimples on it.
So I got on Bruce’s Web site and sent him an email. I told him how big a fan of his I was, and that my favorite album of his was “Nebraska,” and how much I loved “Highway Patrolman,” and I told Bruce how I admired how he stood up for the little guy and expressed the longing of the downtrodden. And I even told him I enjoyed misconstruing the meaning of his “Born in the USA” song.
But because of his misguided political stance, I was going to have to discontinue referring to him as The Boss and that now I would be forced to refer to him as Just Another Employee. I also told him I would not ever, as long as I still had single digits to live, not ever buy another one of his albums. And I told him that I knew this would devastate him financially, but that I had to go with my heart and stand up for my ideals. And that I’m sure he would understand.
Well, I never heard from Just Another Employee. I guess he was just too wounded when his last album only sold nine million copies.
Marge notices it. At the breakfast table she will say something like, “Honey Mate, you tend to get pissed off more easily now that you’re very old and almost dead.” It’s that kind of inspiration that keeps me going.
So what do I mean by “futile gesture?” Well, gesturers and gesturettes, I mean this. I have been a loyal member of the Priority Club, which is the hot-shot premium membership deal of the Holiday Inn. For the last dozen years or so, I have always tried to stay at a Holiday Inn. It’s a pretty good hotel and their beds are fairly decent. But mostly it’s because I love their cinnamon rolls. (As you can see, my standards, like my arches, my chins, and my libido, have fallen over the years.)
Anyway, you get bonus points for staying at the hotel and I’ve accumulated a lot of points and have enjoyed a number of free nights. It just makes me feel good to be a member of something so trifling and petty. So, a few months ago, I took a little trip with my sons, Mike and Casey, down to see an Evander Holyfield fight in El Paso. And I reserved two rooms. One for me. And one for my loin-springers.
Well, when I got back home I looked on my Holiday Inn recap sheet online, and I was only credited with one room. My room. They wouldn’t give me credit for the other room, which I had paid for. I was, of course, what? I was incensed.
So I wrote them a long email and complained and bitched and moaned about not being important to them and how disappointed I was at not being special and I used obscene words, like Hilton and Marriott and Doubletree, to scare them. And what happened? Nothing happened, that’s what. They just ignored me. A loyal guy like me. Ignored me.
So, that is what I mean by a futile gesture. I gestured. It was futile. It was a futile gesture.
Another time a while back I canceled my subscription to Newsweek magazine because of that false story about GIs peeing on the Koran. I told them I couldn’t keep paying them to write bullshit stories, and I knew not receiving my subscription money was going to hurt them drastically. I was pretty sure it was going to force them into bankruptcy and that they would have to beg me to reconsider, and they would tell me about all the fathers and mothers they would have to fire, and let me know how many kids would be thrown on the streets. Never heard from them.
And I used to have trouble with a damn Hewlett-Packard printer back when I was publishing the Weekly, about 10 years ago. That sucky printer would never, ever work. It would always give me an error message, some code with four numbers and a dollar sign and an exclamation point and a little icon of a bomb exploding.
I tried everything to fix it. I re-installed the software. I called the HP help line. I gave the damn printer its own power outlet. I even read the manual. But it would never work. I got so frustrated I threw things at it. I even elbowed its sorry toner-cartridge butt one day. And I hate to admit this, but I think the statute of limitations has run out, so I can tell you. I killed three members of my staff for laughing at how red my face got and giggle-pointing at the spittle on my cheeks. They deserved to die. (By the way, Barack Obama knew about this, but continues to own Hewlett-Packard stock to this day.)
So I gestured up to the plate and wrote old Hewlett-Packard a letter informing them of my less-than-optimum experience, and that I would never ever buy another one of their damn supposed printer pieces of crap even if I was on a desert island and was hit on the head with a coconut. I was that mad. And over the last 10 years two things have happened. I have never bought another Hewlett-Packard product and I’m sure they’ve gone out of business because of that. And the second thing is that I have never heard from them. Gesture this!
But the most painful futile gesture I’ve made is the one I made to Bruce Springsteen. As you might remember, during the last election campaign he came out in support of John Kerry for president. He was going around the country having concerts and bad-mouthing Bush and all that. Now, I don’t want to get too political, but let’s just say I thought it was stupid and disgusting and repulsive and revolting and sickening and simplistic and it had warts and pimples on it.
So I got on Bruce’s Web site and sent him an email. I told him how big a fan of his I was, and that my favorite album of his was “Nebraska,” and how much I loved “Highway Patrolman,” and I told Bruce how I admired how he stood up for the little guy and expressed the longing of the downtrodden. And I even told him I enjoyed misconstruing the meaning of his “Born in the USA” song.
But because of his misguided political stance, I was going to have to discontinue referring to him as The Boss and that now I would be forced to refer to him as Just Another Employee. I also told him I would not ever, as long as I still had single digits to live, not ever buy another one of his albums. And I told him that I knew this would devastate him financially, but that I had to go with my heart and stand up for my ideals. And that I’m sure he would understand.
Well, I never heard from Just Another Employee. I guess he was just too wounded when his last album only sold nine million copies.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Single Digits (Cigar Smoke 5-8-08)
I just realized something the other day. I’m not lanky. No, that’s not it. I really am lanky. The other day I walked into a Starbucks and two people saw me and said, “Hey, are you Tommy Lasorda?” I rest my case.
No, I read last week that the average life expectancy of a man is 74.9 years. (I think women expect to live until 106. Something like that.) And because I am 67.1 years old, that means I have 7.8 years left. And it hit me. Hard. I realized I was now into the single digits of life. How in the double hey hey did that happen?
When you’re a kid, you never even think of buying the farm. It just never crosses your little pea-sized brain. I don’t think I ever even thought about death until I was about 30. Just had other more important things to think about. Like pimples and making the baseball team and studying and working and surviving and figuring out to defend myself when I copped a feel. When I was younger the only thing I thought was 67 years old was a redwood.
And now I’m one of those redwoods, baby. It’s funny. Life just creeps up on your butt when you least expect it and says, “Hello, Reaper here. You can call me Grim.” It’s not good being on a first name basis with Mr. R. I have to admit, it’s kind of freaking me out a little.
It’s not that I’m exactly afraid of the D-word. I don’t want to die. Yet. Maybe not ever. When I was younger — back when dinosaurs roamed Altadena — I was planning on living forever. It just seemed like a good idea to me. Why should I be like all the other people in the world and actually have to die? I saw no good reason for that to have to happen. Death was for other people. The less-cool people.
Now, that I’m into the single digits of expectancy, I’m having a few second thoughts. (By the way, can you have more than one second thought? Wouldn’t the second second thought be your third thought? Just think, in eight more years you won’t have to read these asides. I’ll be gone.) Maybe, just maybe, I will be like all you other regular people and not be special and not be God’s favorite person and maybe I won’t be able to count on being the first person to defy all the odds and live forever and eat M&Ms and corn nuts without consequences.
It’s a real pisser. This facing reality thing. Facing reality has never been my strong suit. I’m more of a believer in ignoring the really hard things of life, and maybe they will go away, or you’ll forget why they were scaring you. I’ve kind of run with the head-in-the-sand approach to life. My favorite bird is the ostrich.
But sometimes reality just gets in your face. When you’re sitting in your own damn kitchen drinking really crappy instant coffee and reading the really crappy Los Angeles Times and there is this official-ass article scientifically telling you that you have less than eight years left on the planet, well, Holy Ostrich, that got to me!
It scared the bejabbers out of me. And my bejabbers have been there for a long time, baby. I liked my bejabbers right where they were, and now they’re not there. They’re probably just running as fast as their little bejabber feet can carry them, running right along with my doomed dreams and my doomed outlook on life. (By the way, as bad as I felt when I read the life expectancy article, just think how the guy feels who is 74.8 years old. Jeeez!)
Bejabbers or not, I want to live and smell the roses — preferably from the flower side up. I do not want to smell roses from the root-side first. Nope. Don’t want that. Actually, I’ve told Marge and my kids that I don’t want to be buried at all. I’m claustrophobic, and granted I’d be deader than a doornail and a dodo, I just don’t want to somehow wake up down there and have some semblance of recognition and realize my 74.9- year-old butt is under six feet of dirt. I do not want to be in a “Twilight Zone” episode for eternity. I do not want to hear Rod Serling say, “All Mr. Larness, a bejabberless ostrich lover, wanted to do was find a peaceful garden of rest, but alas, fate was the motel keeper.” I don’t know what that means, either.
So, I’m planning on being cremated. I don’t want to be too morbid here, but just burn my bones. I do not want any fingernails left to claw at coffin lids or cremation urns. I don’t want any voice box parts left to cry out little pitiful yelps of despair. (OK, I lied about not being morbid.) And then I have a few very specific rules about how I want my ashes distributed.
First, I want the cremation container to be in the shape of the Stanley Cup. That’s most likely the only time I’ll see it. Then I want Marge and each of my kids to scoop out some ashes and put them in three other containers so they can each put them on their fireplaces and worship them every day. Is that too much to ask? No, they’ll still be reading newspaper articles about their own life expectancies. I’ll be part of the story then! Just two hours of worship a night. Big deal. What’s that? An “American Idol” and a “Lost” episode. Am I worth that? Don’t answer.
Oh, and if they have a little extra time, I’d like them to scatter some of my ashes around second base in some little ballpark, and maybe spread a few smidgins of ashes up in Humboldt County, and gently toss some ashes into a fast-moving stream in Montana, and maybe they could all quit their jobs and devote their lives to taking my ashes everywhere on a list that I will provide them in my will. Yeah, I like that.
Maybe they could stop by the house of the writer who wrote the life expectancy article and sprinkle some ashes on his breakfast table. And a few in his Cheerios. And stuff some into his nose. And smear some on his forehead. And make his dog eat the rest.
Jim Laris is the former owner/publisher of the Pasadena Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
No, I read last week that the average life expectancy of a man is 74.9 years. (I think women expect to live until 106. Something like that.) And because I am 67.1 years old, that means I have 7.8 years left. And it hit me. Hard. I realized I was now into the single digits of life. How in the double hey hey did that happen?
When you’re a kid, you never even think of buying the farm. It just never crosses your little pea-sized brain. I don’t think I ever even thought about death until I was about 30. Just had other more important things to think about. Like pimples and making the baseball team and studying and working and surviving and figuring out to defend myself when I copped a feel. When I was younger the only thing I thought was 67 years old was a redwood.
And now I’m one of those redwoods, baby. It’s funny. Life just creeps up on your butt when you least expect it and says, “Hello, Reaper here. You can call me Grim.” It’s not good being on a first name basis with Mr. R. I have to admit, it’s kind of freaking me out a little.
It’s not that I’m exactly afraid of the D-word. I don’t want to die. Yet. Maybe not ever. When I was younger — back when dinosaurs roamed Altadena — I was planning on living forever. It just seemed like a good idea to me. Why should I be like all the other people in the world and actually have to die? I saw no good reason for that to have to happen. Death was for other people. The less-cool people.
Now, that I’m into the single digits of expectancy, I’m having a few second thoughts. (By the way, can you have more than one second thought? Wouldn’t the second second thought be your third thought? Just think, in eight more years you won’t have to read these asides. I’ll be gone.) Maybe, just maybe, I will be like all you other regular people and not be special and not be God’s favorite person and maybe I won’t be able to count on being the first person to defy all the odds and live forever and eat M&Ms and corn nuts without consequences.
It’s a real pisser. This facing reality thing. Facing reality has never been my strong suit. I’m more of a believer in ignoring the really hard things of life, and maybe they will go away, or you’ll forget why they were scaring you. I’ve kind of run with the head-in-the-sand approach to life. My favorite bird is the ostrich.
But sometimes reality just gets in your face. When you’re sitting in your own damn kitchen drinking really crappy instant coffee and reading the really crappy Los Angeles Times and there is this official-ass article scientifically telling you that you have less than eight years left on the planet, well, Holy Ostrich, that got to me!
It scared the bejabbers out of me. And my bejabbers have been there for a long time, baby. I liked my bejabbers right where they were, and now they’re not there. They’re probably just running as fast as their little bejabber feet can carry them, running right along with my doomed dreams and my doomed outlook on life. (By the way, as bad as I felt when I read the life expectancy article, just think how the guy feels who is 74.8 years old. Jeeez!)
Bejabbers or not, I want to live and smell the roses — preferably from the flower side up. I do not want to smell roses from the root-side first. Nope. Don’t want that. Actually, I’ve told Marge and my kids that I don’t want to be buried at all. I’m claustrophobic, and granted I’d be deader than a doornail and a dodo, I just don’t want to somehow wake up down there and have some semblance of recognition and realize my 74.9- year-old butt is under six feet of dirt. I do not want to be in a “Twilight Zone” episode for eternity. I do not want to hear Rod Serling say, “All Mr. Larness, a bejabberless ostrich lover, wanted to do was find a peaceful garden of rest, but alas, fate was the motel keeper.” I don’t know what that means, either.
So, I’m planning on being cremated. I don’t want to be too morbid here, but just burn my bones. I do not want any fingernails left to claw at coffin lids or cremation urns. I don’t want any voice box parts left to cry out little pitiful yelps of despair. (OK, I lied about not being morbid.) And then I have a few very specific rules about how I want my ashes distributed.
First, I want the cremation container to be in the shape of the Stanley Cup. That’s most likely the only time I’ll see it. Then I want Marge and each of my kids to scoop out some ashes and put them in three other containers so they can each put them on their fireplaces and worship them every day. Is that too much to ask? No, they’ll still be reading newspaper articles about their own life expectancies. I’ll be part of the story then! Just two hours of worship a night. Big deal. What’s that? An “American Idol” and a “Lost” episode. Am I worth that? Don’t answer.
Oh, and if they have a little extra time, I’d like them to scatter some of my ashes around second base in some little ballpark, and maybe spread a few smidgins of ashes up in Humboldt County, and gently toss some ashes into a fast-moving stream in Montana, and maybe they could all quit their jobs and devote their lives to taking my ashes everywhere on a list that I will provide them in my will. Yeah, I like that.
Maybe they could stop by the house of the writer who wrote the life expectancy article and sprinkle some ashes on his breakfast table. And a few in his Cheerios. And stuff some into his nose. And smear some on his forehead. And make his dog eat the rest.
Jim Laris is the former owner/publisher of the Pasadena Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Something Smells (Cigar Smoke 5-1-08)
OK, I’m getting tired of bad-mouthing ministers and schoolteachers. I thought I’d dip back into my well of boring drivel. It’s pretty much full most of the time.
I’m a creature of habit. I do the same damn things over and over. I go see hockey games in Canada every winter. I go to bush league baseball games every summer. I wear my same old ratty robe every dang night. I go outside and smoke my stogies after dinner, every damn day. And I wear the same darn cologne. (I’m out of D words. Doggone it.)
I have only used two brands of cologne in my entire life. Oh, sure, once I rebelliously splashed on some Brut in college and two squirrels jumped my nuts. But that’s another story. Of course, I started out using Old Spice. I’m not a commie. Every guy I knew used Old Spice. Since I was about 15, I just sprayed on some Old Spice and bounded out into the world like that happy-ass captain in the TV commercials. I think he got all the women. That pirate outfit is a damn babe magnet.
I used Old Spice for about 20 years and then for some forgotten reason I switched over to Chaps. I don’t know why. I think I just liked the name. Chaps — it fit perfectly for a lanky cowpoke such as myself. And you know what? Women liked it. I couldn’t believe it. I would walk into my office and some woman person would say, “You sure smell good.” And I’d turn around and there was no one else there. And I’d say, “You want to smell it a little closer after work?” And she’d say, “Not really, I’m going to get some for my boyfriend.” (By the way, it’s kind of funny, but most of the women I know all have the same first name: Plaintiff.)
But I swear women would always comment on my Chaps. Sometimes I’d be standing in line at the bank, and sure as Jimmy Carter is loopy, some woman would comment on my sweet smelling Chaps-doused face. Everywhere I went I got some nice feedback. Even when I went to my favorite donut place, the Chinese woman behind the counter would say, “You smell berry wood.” I think that was a compliment. But I could be terwibbly wong.
I’m sorry. I kid the Chinese. This nice donut woman was nothing like those Tibet-enslaving commie bastards in her home country.
Well, a couple of weeks ago I was running low on my supply of Chaps, so I went on the Internet to order a few bottles at half the cost of California cologne and save the taxes and feel defiant and try to stick it to Rob Reiner for screwing me on the cigar taxes, and I get on this fragrance Web site and damned if all the women on there aren’t saying great things about Chaps. They just love Chaps. I am not kidding. Even out-of-state women love Chaps.
And then I read a message in a forum post. Some woman from Maryland just casually let it slip, and it kind of jolted me. She said something like, yes, she loved Chaps, and yes, it turned her on when her husband wore it, and yes, it made her want to get out of her skivvies, and yada yada, and then she said, “Of course, it’s not Paul Sebastian.”
It’s not Paul who? Paul Sebastian? Who in hell’s bells is Paul Sebastian? Probably some pissy Frenchman with an eye-patch and a beret. So what did I do? I ordered three bottles of Chaps and one disgustingly expensive bottle of Paul Sebastian. I thought, “Hey Chaps face, you’ve been wearing Chaps for 32 years. Maybe it’s time to switch to a little Sebastian action. Maybe if it made Marge rip your clothes off, you’d remember what to do when you’re naked.”
So it came in the mail the other day and I generously splashed some on my cheeks and I walked out of the bathroom and the first one to notice me was my personal man’s best friend, Hadley. He knows that whenever I put on my Chaps, he’s probably going for a walk. He gets excited every day at the first smell of Chaps.
Well, I threw that fur ball for a doggy loop, baby. He took one whiff of that Sebastian shit and he cocked his long Airedale head, and he looked at me out of the corner of his canine-acal eye, and he did something I didn’t think dogs could do. He coughed.
I probably should have taken that as a bad sign, but I live on the what? The edge. That’s what. Danger is my co-pilot. So I went out to the kitchen and Marge was sitting at the table reading the paper, and I walked up to her and put my Sebastian-splashed face right up next to hers, raised my eyebrows twice, and said, “You notice anything different?” And she said, “I don’t know, I can’t concentrate. There’s this bad smell.”
That was cold. I paid $59 for this?! Fifty-nine bucks to be rejected and humiliated. What a sucker. What a Sebastian suck-face sucker I was. I was stunned. So I decided to get another opinion, and I went over to Starbucks and I was standing in line, and the woman next to me coughed very much like Hadley had coughed, and the guy next to her was looking at me like I was a French dude from Paree. And I said, “I used to be a pirate and a cowboy.” He didn’t say jack. He just looked through me. And reversed sniffed a couple of times. He was probably from UCLA.
And when I got to the front of the line, I was hoping for some kind of donut-lady positive response to my new cologne. And I got my order, and well, I just waited there a second. I didn’t move. And the girl behind the counter said, “Is something wrong?”
And I kind of stumbled a bit, and finally said, “Uh, I was just wondering if you, uh, smelled something?” I looked at her expectantly for some Chaps-like love.
She said, “Oh, I’m sorry sir. The restroom backed up. We’re having someone come out soon.”
I think you and I both know who that will be. Paul Sebastian.
Jim Laris is the former owner/publisher of the Pasadena Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
I’m a creature of habit. I do the same damn things over and over. I go see hockey games in Canada every winter. I go to bush league baseball games every summer. I wear my same old ratty robe every dang night. I go outside and smoke my stogies after dinner, every damn day. And I wear the same darn cologne. (I’m out of D words. Doggone it.)
I have only used two brands of cologne in my entire life. Oh, sure, once I rebelliously splashed on some Brut in college and two squirrels jumped my nuts. But that’s another story. Of course, I started out using Old Spice. I’m not a commie. Every guy I knew used Old Spice. Since I was about 15, I just sprayed on some Old Spice and bounded out into the world like that happy-ass captain in the TV commercials. I think he got all the women. That pirate outfit is a damn babe magnet.
I used Old Spice for about 20 years and then for some forgotten reason I switched over to Chaps. I don’t know why. I think I just liked the name. Chaps — it fit perfectly for a lanky cowpoke such as myself. And you know what? Women liked it. I couldn’t believe it. I would walk into my office and some woman person would say, “You sure smell good.” And I’d turn around and there was no one else there. And I’d say, “You want to smell it a little closer after work?” And she’d say, “Not really, I’m going to get some for my boyfriend.” (By the way, it’s kind of funny, but most of the women I know all have the same first name: Plaintiff.)
But I swear women would always comment on my Chaps. Sometimes I’d be standing in line at the bank, and sure as Jimmy Carter is loopy, some woman would comment on my sweet smelling Chaps-doused face. Everywhere I went I got some nice feedback. Even when I went to my favorite donut place, the Chinese woman behind the counter would say, “You smell berry wood.” I think that was a compliment. But I could be terwibbly wong.
I’m sorry. I kid the Chinese. This nice donut woman was nothing like those Tibet-enslaving commie bastards in her home country.
Well, a couple of weeks ago I was running low on my supply of Chaps, so I went on the Internet to order a few bottles at half the cost of California cologne and save the taxes and feel defiant and try to stick it to Rob Reiner for screwing me on the cigar taxes, and I get on this fragrance Web site and damned if all the women on there aren’t saying great things about Chaps. They just love Chaps. I am not kidding. Even out-of-state women love Chaps.
And then I read a message in a forum post. Some woman from Maryland just casually let it slip, and it kind of jolted me. She said something like, yes, she loved Chaps, and yes, it turned her on when her husband wore it, and yes, it made her want to get out of her skivvies, and yada yada, and then she said, “Of course, it’s not Paul Sebastian.”
It’s not Paul who? Paul Sebastian? Who in hell’s bells is Paul Sebastian? Probably some pissy Frenchman with an eye-patch and a beret. So what did I do? I ordered three bottles of Chaps and one disgustingly expensive bottle of Paul Sebastian. I thought, “Hey Chaps face, you’ve been wearing Chaps for 32 years. Maybe it’s time to switch to a little Sebastian action. Maybe if it made Marge rip your clothes off, you’d remember what to do when you’re naked.”
So it came in the mail the other day and I generously splashed some on my cheeks and I walked out of the bathroom and the first one to notice me was my personal man’s best friend, Hadley. He knows that whenever I put on my Chaps, he’s probably going for a walk. He gets excited every day at the first smell of Chaps.
Well, I threw that fur ball for a doggy loop, baby. He took one whiff of that Sebastian shit and he cocked his long Airedale head, and he looked at me out of the corner of his canine-acal eye, and he did something I didn’t think dogs could do. He coughed.
I probably should have taken that as a bad sign, but I live on the what? The edge. That’s what. Danger is my co-pilot. So I went out to the kitchen and Marge was sitting at the table reading the paper, and I walked up to her and put my Sebastian-splashed face right up next to hers, raised my eyebrows twice, and said, “You notice anything different?” And she said, “I don’t know, I can’t concentrate. There’s this bad smell.”
That was cold. I paid $59 for this?! Fifty-nine bucks to be rejected and humiliated. What a sucker. What a Sebastian suck-face sucker I was. I was stunned. So I decided to get another opinion, and I went over to Starbucks and I was standing in line, and the woman next to me coughed very much like Hadley had coughed, and the guy next to her was looking at me like I was a French dude from Paree. And I said, “I used to be a pirate and a cowboy.” He didn’t say jack. He just looked through me. And reversed sniffed a couple of times. He was probably from UCLA.
And when I got to the front of the line, I was hoping for some kind of donut-lady positive response to my new cologne. And I got my order, and well, I just waited there a second. I didn’t move. And the girl behind the counter said, “Is something wrong?”
And I kind of stumbled a bit, and finally said, “Uh, I was just wondering if you, uh, smelled something?” I looked at her expectantly for some Chaps-like love.
She said, “Oh, I’m sorry sir. The restroom backed up. We’re having someone come out soon.”
I think you and I both know who that will be. Paul Sebastian.
Jim Laris is the former owner/publisher of the Pasadena Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Black and White (Cigar Smoke 4-24-08)
I guess Joe Hopkins, the publisher of the Pasadena Journal, didn’t like my column on the Good Rev. Wrong a couple of weeks ago. Well, I don’t know quite where to begin in my “ranting” rebuttal.
Joe and I go back a few years. When I first bought the Pasadena Weekly in 1988, I wrote a column about him putting a subhead on his paper — “The Newspaper for Black People.” Something like that. I thought he was a racist for doing that. He seemed to agree, because he stopped putting that offensive line on his paper.
And he seems to discount my reflections on the Rev. Jeremiah Wright and Barack Obama because of my supposed profanity. Well, yes Joe, I did use a few bad words like damn and pissed-off. (Hell, I thought you liberals would like that shit.) But Joe, I’m sure you have used your column to rail against the black rappers who have used their highly hip-hopping artistic-level profanity by using the f-word, the c-word, the b-word and the n-word to degrade blacks and women. Why don’t you send me some copies of those columns, Joe?
And Joe, I don’t give a hoot (is the h-word OK?) where you go to church. Don’t give me this red herring about me wanting to tell you where to go to church. I never said that, and I don’t care what church you or Obama attends. All I care about is Obama listening to hate speech coming from the pulpit of the church he attended and doing nothing about it … for 20 years!
Which sermon did you and your other “enlightened black folks” find the most spiritually uplifting? The one where he called America the KKK of A.? Or the one where he preached that we white guys started AIDS to kill off black people? Or maybe it was the one where he eloquently moralized that white people caused the attack on the Twin Towers on 9/11? Hmm? Whatever happened to the Sermon on the Mount?
And that First Amendment whining of yours. Who the hell is stopping you from speaking your mind? Nobody. You have a damn newspaper, for Christ’s sake! You just don’t like it when someone responds. Well, Joe, I’m just using my First Amendment right to call you and Obama and the Rev. Wrong on your misguided, racist comments. If you can’t stand the heat, then get out of the damn kitchen. Just call me a racist jerk in your newspaper if you like, but please, save me the whining about how I want to stop you from speaking your mind.
Yes, I said Obama’s wife was “ungrateful” because she is ungrateful. She doesn’t seem to thank anybody for her opportunity to get a good education and for her and Obama to make over $4 million. What part of “ungrateful” am I missing?
And yes, I didn’t say Hillary Clinton was “ungrateful” because, well, she isn’t. She may be a lot of things, but she has often thanked a lot of people for her many opportunities and for her and her hubby’s ability to make a tidy little $109 million over the last few years.
And Joe, of course I respected Martin Luther King. I was devastated when he was murdered. It was one of the most sickening moments of my life. I visited his memorial in Memphis and was very moved. I still get shivers. But, please don’t equate Rev. King with Rev. Wrong and Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton and Louis Farrakhan and Malcolm X. In my opinion, Jackson is nothing more than a publicity-hungry extortionist of businesses for mostly phony race issues. Sharpton lied about a black woman being raped and nobody gives a damn. And I don’t have space or stomach enough to tell you what I think of Farrakhan and Malcolm X. I can tell you this, though. They’re not Martin Luther King.
And what is all this bull-word calling me “Massa” Laris? Give me a break. Joe, who in the hell have I ever kept down on the metaphorical plantation? I have never tried to stifle anybody, ever. Black or white. Just because I speak my mind you think I’m trying to keep blacks down? Come on, Joe. You know that’s bullshit (hide your eyes). I’ll give you a thousand bucks if you can find any proof of me even hinting at stifling anyone’s speech. It’s ludicrous, and you should apologize. But I guess black people don’t apologize, either, huh, Joe?
If I may go a little shrinky on you here, Joe, I think you’re mainly pissed off at me because I don’t feel the adequate amount of guilt over slavery and racial prejudice that you think I should. And to be fair, you’re right. I don’t feel much guilt. I know I can’t convey how much I abhor the evils of slavery and I know that prejudice exists. And I know I’m white, and obviously, I haven’t been in you or your ancestors’ shoes. That’s how it is. I’m a white guy. Sorry.
But, I didn’t have any slaves, my parents didn’t have any slaves, their parents didn’t have any slaves. Slavery was 200 years ago. We fought the Civil War to stop slavery. Hundreds of thousands of white guys died to stop slavery. Doesn’t that count for something? Have you ever thanked us white guys who helped you attain freedom? Maybe you have. If you have, I haven’t heard about it.
I’m not naïve about the black struggle. It has been ugly. But you know what? It’s not anywhere near as ugly as it has been. And today we have black governors and black mayors and black senators, and black police chiefs and a black Supreme Court justice and a black secretary of state. That should count for something, Joe.
And maybe we’ll even have a black president. I hope it’s not this black candidate because I don’t think Obama has the chops. But I’m glad he is in the fight. A fight without any pulled punches. Let him take the damn heat, like every other candidate always has. Let the press rip him. Don’t call it a “distraction” when you are asked hard questions. We’re just trying to see what you’re made of.
The last thing we need in America is an affirmative action president.
Joe and I go back a few years. When I first bought the Pasadena Weekly in 1988, I wrote a column about him putting a subhead on his paper — “The Newspaper for Black People.” Something like that. I thought he was a racist for doing that. He seemed to agree, because he stopped putting that offensive line on his paper.
And he seems to discount my reflections on the Rev. Jeremiah Wright and Barack Obama because of my supposed profanity. Well, yes Joe, I did use a few bad words like damn and pissed-off. (Hell, I thought you liberals would like that shit.) But Joe, I’m sure you have used your column to rail against the black rappers who have used their highly hip-hopping artistic-level profanity by using the f-word, the c-word, the b-word and the n-word to degrade blacks and women. Why don’t you send me some copies of those columns, Joe?
And Joe, I don’t give a hoot (is the h-word OK?) where you go to church. Don’t give me this red herring about me wanting to tell you where to go to church. I never said that, and I don’t care what church you or Obama attends. All I care about is Obama listening to hate speech coming from the pulpit of the church he attended and doing nothing about it … for 20 years!
Which sermon did you and your other “enlightened black folks” find the most spiritually uplifting? The one where he called America the KKK of A.? Or the one where he preached that we white guys started AIDS to kill off black people? Or maybe it was the one where he eloquently moralized that white people caused the attack on the Twin Towers on 9/11? Hmm? Whatever happened to the Sermon on the Mount?
And that First Amendment whining of yours. Who the hell is stopping you from speaking your mind? Nobody. You have a damn newspaper, for Christ’s sake! You just don’t like it when someone responds. Well, Joe, I’m just using my First Amendment right to call you and Obama and the Rev. Wrong on your misguided, racist comments. If you can’t stand the heat, then get out of the damn kitchen. Just call me a racist jerk in your newspaper if you like, but please, save me the whining about how I want to stop you from speaking your mind.
Yes, I said Obama’s wife was “ungrateful” because she is ungrateful. She doesn’t seem to thank anybody for her opportunity to get a good education and for her and Obama to make over $4 million. What part of “ungrateful” am I missing?
And yes, I didn’t say Hillary Clinton was “ungrateful” because, well, she isn’t. She may be a lot of things, but she has often thanked a lot of people for her many opportunities and for her and her hubby’s ability to make a tidy little $109 million over the last few years.
And Joe, of course I respected Martin Luther King. I was devastated when he was murdered. It was one of the most sickening moments of my life. I visited his memorial in Memphis and was very moved. I still get shivers. But, please don’t equate Rev. King with Rev. Wrong and Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton and Louis Farrakhan and Malcolm X. In my opinion, Jackson is nothing more than a publicity-hungry extortionist of businesses for mostly phony race issues. Sharpton lied about a black woman being raped and nobody gives a damn. And I don’t have space or stomach enough to tell you what I think of Farrakhan and Malcolm X. I can tell you this, though. They’re not Martin Luther King.
And what is all this bull-word calling me “Massa” Laris? Give me a break. Joe, who in the hell have I ever kept down on the metaphorical plantation? I have never tried to stifle anybody, ever. Black or white. Just because I speak my mind you think I’m trying to keep blacks down? Come on, Joe. You know that’s bullshit (hide your eyes). I’ll give you a thousand bucks if you can find any proof of me even hinting at stifling anyone’s speech. It’s ludicrous, and you should apologize. But I guess black people don’t apologize, either, huh, Joe?
If I may go a little shrinky on you here, Joe, I think you’re mainly pissed off at me because I don’t feel the adequate amount of guilt over slavery and racial prejudice that you think I should. And to be fair, you’re right. I don’t feel much guilt. I know I can’t convey how much I abhor the evils of slavery and I know that prejudice exists. And I know I’m white, and obviously, I haven’t been in you or your ancestors’ shoes. That’s how it is. I’m a white guy. Sorry.
But, I didn’t have any slaves, my parents didn’t have any slaves, their parents didn’t have any slaves. Slavery was 200 years ago. We fought the Civil War to stop slavery. Hundreds of thousands of white guys died to stop slavery. Doesn’t that count for something? Have you ever thanked us white guys who helped you attain freedom? Maybe you have. If you have, I haven’t heard about it.
I’m not naïve about the black struggle. It has been ugly. But you know what? It’s not anywhere near as ugly as it has been. And today we have black governors and black mayors and black senators, and black police chiefs and a black Supreme Court justice and a black secretary of state. That should count for something, Joe.
And maybe we’ll even have a black president. I hope it’s not this black candidate because I don’t think Obama has the chops. But I’m glad he is in the fight. A fight without any pulled punches. Let him take the damn heat, like every other candidate always has. Let the press rip him. Don’t call it a “distraction” when you are asked hard questions. We’re just trying to see what you’re made of.
The last thing we need in America is an affirmative action president.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Enough is Enough (Cigar Smoke 4-17-08)
A few weeks ago they came out with the latest assessment of our high schools. You know the one: 80 percent of kids in Detroit don’t graduate, 69 percent in Chicago, 50 percent in LA. Maybe those stats aren’t exactly right. You know me. But the point is that our schools are doing an incredibly bad job of educating and graduating our kids.
And what do the Democrats want to do to fix it? Of course, they want more money. That’s all they ever want, is more money. But more money ain’t gonna do diddly. How do we know this? Because we’ve been giving them more money for more than 50 years. You talk about a poor learning curve. I used to vote to give money for every school bond, but for the past number of years I always vote not to do it any more. Enough is enough.
In California, the Democrats have held power for over 50 years. That’s a half-century to you high school dropouts. Except for those few years when we had Reagan and Deukmejian and Wilson, the Democrats have been in control of our state and our school system, and the school system has gone down faster than Monica Lewinsky. As the guy on Jim Rome says, “Its just unbeevable.”
To me, the answers are relatively simple. But I’ve learned that simple answers are usually the hardest to employ (like our non-graduates). The first obvious problem is the teachers union. Yes, I know there are good teachers, and I sure know they have to work in horrible conditions. And most parents are part of the problem, too. But the teachers union stands out. The definition of a union is that it’s a group of people who are negotiating for their own interests. The teachers’ interests are more important than the interests of the students. To the teachers, that’s not necessarily wrong. It’s just what a union is for.
Of course, the teachers will say, as they have for 50 years, that the students’ interests come first. That’s nuts. Do you think the auto workers union thinks the car buyers interests come first? Hah. Do you think the bus drivers union strikes to help the riders? Double hah. Do you think the restaurant workers are striking to get better meals for us customers? Double hah with a yuck.
It’s a conflict of interest. Even a drop out non-graduating lump of dumbed-down dumbness can figure that one out. And the schools themselves have a similar conflict of interest. They get money based on how many students they have enrolled. Not much of an incentive there to kick out the disruptive students, huh? Fat chance that either the teachers’ union or the schools would even consider a voucher plan. It’s against their interests. Why the hell should they? They would obviously lose students to other schools. Probably better schools.
Everywhere vouchers have been tried they have been successful. Competition just makes things better. Period. It does in every other area of life. Why shouldn’t it in education? It should and it would, but the teachers and schools do NOT want this. Even though a voucher program makes the students better, it does not make things better for teachers and school systems. It’s that simple. Or that hard. Follow the money.
Another obvious problem in the school system is the discipline problem. From what I hear, most high schools have a real problem keeping the little darlings in line. All the students who want to learn are constantly being interrupted by the jerk-offs. And the teachers can’t control them because of our politically correct bullshit that doesn’t allow them to do what has to be done. The ACLU is a major contributor to this craziness with their constant harping about how many rights the students should have. That is nuts.
Why should students have all these supposed rights? They’re just kids. They’re supposed to be learning from the adults who have those rights because they’re older and smarter and have earned them. Hell, kids don’t have the right to drink until they are 21. Kids don’t have the right to drive until they are 16. Etc. Etc. So why in the hell do they have the right to wear obscene T-shirts and disrupt classes and spout off about anything their little uneducated butts want to?
It seems to me that if students disrupt a class they should be expelled. They should be sent to some other school that specializes in giving them an education in some trade like auto mechanics or plumbing or dress making or computer training. It would not be that hard to do. If they behave, they get the privilege of staying in the regular school. If they’re disruptive, they’re sent to a trade school.
The misfits will probably do better and the regular schools will be far better off. Even the teachers would be happier. It’s not that hard, folks. And if the jerk-offs disrupt the trade school, they’re gone. Let them get a job.
And why don’t our high schools just stop teaching all these unnecessary courses about gender politics and global warming and gay marriage and proper condom use and whatever else is the latest pissy social fad. Seems to me teachers and schools (and the parents) should concentrate on the basics: reading, writing, math, science. When they get that graduation rate over 90 percent, then they can add classes on why we should hate oil companies or something.
And I just heard that over 40 percent of our students are illegal aliens. And that we spend more than $10 billion a year on them. To be honest, I’m not 100 percent sure on those exact numbers. Maybe I heard them wrong. But I am sure that they are pretty close, and I am sure that that’s a lot of money. Heck, with that kind of money, maybe the Democrats and the teachers union (sorry, they’re the same organization) wouldn’t keep asking us for more money every election.
I guess that would be too simple.
And what do the Democrats want to do to fix it? Of course, they want more money. That’s all they ever want, is more money. But more money ain’t gonna do diddly. How do we know this? Because we’ve been giving them more money for more than 50 years. You talk about a poor learning curve. I used to vote to give money for every school bond, but for the past number of years I always vote not to do it any more. Enough is enough.
In California, the Democrats have held power for over 50 years. That’s a half-century to you high school dropouts. Except for those few years when we had Reagan and Deukmejian and Wilson, the Democrats have been in control of our state and our school system, and the school system has gone down faster than Monica Lewinsky. As the guy on Jim Rome says, “Its just unbeevable.”
To me, the answers are relatively simple. But I’ve learned that simple answers are usually the hardest to employ (like our non-graduates). The first obvious problem is the teachers union. Yes, I know there are good teachers, and I sure know they have to work in horrible conditions. And most parents are part of the problem, too. But the teachers union stands out. The definition of a union is that it’s a group of people who are negotiating for their own interests. The teachers’ interests are more important than the interests of the students. To the teachers, that’s not necessarily wrong. It’s just what a union is for.
Of course, the teachers will say, as they have for 50 years, that the students’ interests come first. That’s nuts. Do you think the auto workers union thinks the car buyers interests come first? Hah. Do you think the bus drivers union strikes to help the riders? Double hah. Do you think the restaurant workers are striking to get better meals for us customers? Double hah with a yuck.
It’s a conflict of interest. Even a drop out non-graduating lump of dumbed-down dumbness can figure that one out. And the schools themselves have a similar conflict of interest. They get money based on how many students they have enrolled. Not much of an incentive there to kick out the disruptive students, huh? Fat chance that either the teachers’ union or the schools would even consider a voucher plan. It’s against their interests. Why the hell should they? They would obviously lose students to other schools. Probably better schools.
Everywhere vouchers have been tried they have been successful. Competition just makes things better. Period. It does in every other area of life. Why shouldn’t it in education? It should and it would, but the teachers and schools do NOT want this. Even though a voucher program makes the students better, it does not make things better for teachers and school systems. It’s that simple. Or that hard. Follow the money.
Another obvious problem in the school system is the discipline problem. From what I hear, most high schools have a real problem keeping the little darlings in line. All the students who want to learn are constantly being interrupted by the jerk-offs. And the teachers can’t control them because of our politically correct bullshit that doesn’t allow them to do what has to be done. The ACLU is a major contributor to this craziness with their constant harping about how many rights the students should have. That is nuts.
Why should students have all these supposed rights? They’re just kids. They’re supposed to be learning from the adults who have those rights because they’re older and smarter and have earned them. Hell, kids don’t have the right to drink until they are 21. Kids don’t have the right to drive until they are 16. Etc. Etc. So why in the hell do they have the right to wear obscene T-shirts and disrupt classes and spout off about anything their little uneducated butts want to?
It seems to me that if students disrupt a class they should be expelled. They should be sent to some other school that specializes in giving them an education in some trade like auto mechanics or plumbing or dress making or computer training. It would not be that hard to do. If they behave, they get the privilege of staying in the regular school. If they’re disruptive, they’re sent to a trade school.
The misfits will probably do better and the regular schools will be far better off. Even the teachers would be happier. It’s not that hard, folks. And if the jerk-offs disrupt the trade school, they’re gone. Let them get a job.
And why don’t our high schools just stop teaching all these unnecessary courses about gender politics and global warming and gay marriage and proper condom use and whatever else is the latest pissy social fad. Seems to me teachers and schools (and the parents) should concentrate on the basics: reading, writing, math, science. When they get that graduation rate over 90 percent, then they can add classes on why we should hate oil companies or something.
And I just heard that over 40 percent of our students are illegal aliens. And that we spend more than $10 billion a year on them. To be honest, I’m not 100 percent sure on those exact numbers. Maybe I heard them wrong. But I am sure that they are pretty close, and I am sure that that’s a lot of money. Heck, with that kind of money, maybe the Democrats and the teachers union (sorry, they’re the same organization) wouldn’t keep asking us for more money every election.
I guess that would be too simple.
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