I bet you didn’t know I was a fashion plate. Well, you would have won that bet. But, you know, I don’t even want to be a fashion plate. I really don’t. But I would like to have a look.
Most of my friends have a certain look to them. And it seems to fit them quite well. One guy I know lives out on a ranch, and he looks like a damn rancher kind of guy. Jeans, Western shirts, belts with buckles bigger than bull genitals and stallion-dung-encrusted boots. This guy looks the part. Jesse James would walk on the other side of the sidewalk if he saw him coming.
Another guy I know has a great, what I call urban casual look. He just looks so damn comfortable in his soft leather moccasins and cuddly corduroy pants and flannel shirts. I want to hug the guy. But I’m afraid I would become gay and have to spend all my time lobbying for same-sex marriage, so I don’t. Instead, I just tell him he looks like Pat Boone, only he looks older and poorer and uglier than Pat.
Another friend has an earthy look to him. His clothes are all in shades of brown and beige and green and burnt orange and pomegranate pumpkin. He just blends right into the damn planet. Sometimes I’m not even sure if he is really there. I’ll have to say, “Hey, Eggplant Lips, you here? Has your biodegradable ass blended into the moist, black, organic sod yet?”
Even when I was going to school up at Humboldt State College in Northern California, I never quite fit in. My look just didn’t work. All the guys looked like damn lumberjacks or outdoorsmen. They had these big, black caulked boots that would make a Hell’s Angel sob into his pillow, and they all wore wide-ass suspenders over Pendleton shirts. They had a damn look! They looked like they were ready to fell a Redwood or punch an elk in the face and skin it right there.
Me? I didn’t skin too many elk, because the elk blood and elk guts would get on my polyester pants. Yes, I’ve always liked polyester. What can I say? When I was born, the doctor told my mother, “Ma'am, you have the first baby we’ve ever delivered who is not naked. Too bad he is wearing polyester.”
I don’t think my mom ever got over that. In fact, when she breastfed me, I remember reaching up with my eager lips, searching for her tender breast, and she would turn me away and say, “Polly, my breasts are on my back.” Oh, the trauma of being called a girl’s name and searching for the breasts that weren’t there. I only got over it 37 years later when I heard Johnny Cash sing “A Boy Named Sue.”
You know, I kid about polyester. But I have always liked it. I’m not sure why. I think it’s because it never needs ironing. It’s cheap. And it’s easy to wipe mustard and spittle from it. And you know, come to think of it, I may have always had a look after all. Here I have been bitching and crying about everybody else having their own damn look and all the time I have had a look, too. I was just too envious of others not to have seen it.
And my look is more than just polyester, too. It has a lot of other, shall we say, accessories to it. Yes, I have inadvertently accessorized without even knowing what accessorizing is or does. I also like to wear SC T-shirts. Or Dodger T-shirts. Or LA Kings T-shirts for variety. They seem to go well with polyester.
And all my T-shirts end up with holes in them. Cigar-ash holes. (Stop. Don’t say it. You wouldn’t be the first one to call me a Cigar Ash Hole.) I don’t try to put holes in them. They just seem to mysteriously appear after I’ve been driving and smoking, and after I smell something burning.
I also wear a navy blue jacket that used to be a nice jacket. Sixteen years ago. Yes, it’s 16 years old, but it goes well with my T-shirts, and it’s made out of some kind of synthetic material, too, so my polyester pants don’t get their panties in a bunch, either. Polyester, sports tees, synthetic jacket. It’s starting to come together, isn’t it?
All you would need now is some really nice shoes. Kind of a shame I don’t have any. I wear black Rockford old-man shoes with orthotics in them. What’s that sound I hear? Could it be the pounding hearts of you lady readers out there? Thump. Thump. Thump.
All this fashion talk reminds of when I was younger, and I hate to say it, but I will. I looked pretty damn good in my leisure suit back then. It had pale blue polyester bellbottom trousers with a Nehru kind of button-less jacket. And a puffy shirt that would have given Jerry Seinfeld a woody. I mean, I looked pretty damn good. Really good. John Travolta walked by and fainted.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
For Better or Worse (Cigar Smoke 4-15-10)
In this case, let’s go with worse. I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s start at the beginning.
I got up the other day and I went out to the kitchen and sat down at the table and I pulled a little clump of my chest hairs out and counted them. I have found that my best days occur when I have an even number of chest hairs. Well, I ended up with 13 chest hairs. Yep, I should have gone back to bed.
Anyway, I’m sitting there reading the paper, and out of the wild smoggy yonder, Marge says, “You know, I never knew that President Taft became a Supreme Court justice after he was president. Can you believe that?”
And I said, “Of course I knew that. I can’t believe you didn’t know that. What kind of woman are you? Who did I marry? When I stood there at the altar that day and agreed to that ‘for better or worse thing’ I never thought you would disappoint me like this. I can’t believe you married me under false pretenses. The fake pregnancy I could understand. But this? You’ll be hearing from my attorney.”
But before I called my lawyer, I noticed that my new dog, Archie the Airedale, was pressing his big horse head up against my leg urging me to take him for his morning walk. So I ran the Taft thing by him and he just shook his head in disbelief, too. So I told Marge I didn’t want to interfere with her learning any more new Taftinian revelations in the Times, so I was going to take Archibald for a run. I don’t think she heard me. She was lost in her educational dream world and was mumbling something about Warren G. Harding as I left. For worse had kicked for better’s butt.
Archie and I get in the car and I asked him if he could believe what he had just heard. He didn’t say anything. He just sat there like a dog. I told him my other Airedale, Hadley, the good Airedale, would have answered me. Archie still just sat there. He’s got that down pretty good.
Because Archie was disappointing me almost as much as Marge was, I decided to take him to the dog park over on Orange Grove instead of his usual walk. When we get there, we have to go in this little gated buffer neutral area before you can let your dogs out in the main area and Archie is throwing himself at the fence in a fit of rage. He’s growling and snarling at the other dogs on the other side of the fence, and mothers are picking up their kids and guys are wishing they had brought their firearms in with them.
I wasn’t quite sure what to do, so I said, “What the hell. Let’s see what these so-called dogs are made of.” And I opened the gate and Archie rushed out there and people gasped. And what did vicious Archie do? Vicious Archie smelled more butts than a proctologist. That’s what Archie did.
I was relieved. I really didn’t want to have to deal with Archie killing a miniature poodle while I was still digesting Marge’s Taft remarks. And it was kind of cool out there in the main dog park of life. Archie just ran his semi-mangy self all over that place. He was doing that thing where they run alongside of each other and bump their shoulders, and he was hauling ass, baby. His Airedale life was good. So was mine. I could just stand there and watch and not have to do any physical exercise of any kind. And be a good master without exerting any energy. I’m trying to patent this.
Well, Archie ran his big canine furball butt for about a half-hour and was panting harder than Paris Hilton on YouTube. And I was panting just thinking of Ms. Hilton.
When I stopped panting, I started talking to some woman as I watched my dog embarrass himself, and I mentioned that I had just taken Archie to the vet and it had cost me more than $200 for the vet to determine that my big-headed dog had too much gas in his stomach. I said, “Can you believe I dropped two large ones because my dog would NOT fart?” The woman did not respond. She just walked away. Quickly walked away.
When I got back home, I opened the door, and yelled out to Marge, “Hi Honey, your soon-to-be-former-husband and your non-farting dog are home.” She didn’t answer. Probably too excited learning that Millard Fillmore only had one testicle or something.
I got up the other day and I went out to the kitchen and sat down at the table and I pulled a little clump of my chest hairs out and counted them. I have found that my best days occur when I have an even number of chest hairs. Well, I ended up with 13 chest hairs. Yep, I should have gone back to bed.
Anyway, I’m sitting there reading the paper, and out of the wild smoggy yonder, Marge says, “You know, I never knew that President Taft became a Supreme Court justice after he was president. Can you believe that?”
And I said, “Of course I knew that. I can’t believe you didn’t know that. What kind of woman are you? Who did I marry? When I stood there at the altar that day and agreed to that ‘for better or worse thing’ I never thought you would disappoint me like this. I can’t believe you married me under false pretenses. The fake pregnancy I could understand. But this? You’ll be hearing from my attorney.”
But before I called my lawyer, I noticed that my new dog, Archie the Airedale, was pressing his big horse head up against my leg urging me to take him for his morning walk. So I ran the Taft thing by him and he just shook his head in disbelief, too. So I told Marge I didn’t want to interfere with her learning any more new Taftinian revelations in the Times, so I was going to take Archibald for a run. I don’t think she heard me. She was lost in her educational dream world and was mumbling something about Warren G. Harding as I left. For worse had kicked for better’s butt.
Archie and I get in the car and I asked him if he could believe what he had just heard. He didn’t say anything. He just sat there like a dog. I told him my other Airedale, Hadley, the good Airedale, would have answered me. Archie still just sat there. He’s got that down pretty good.
Because Archie was disappointing me almost as much as Marge was, I decided to take him to the dog park over on Orange Grove instead of his usual walk. When we get there, we have to go in this little gated buffer neutral area before you can let your dogs out in the main area and Archie is throwing himself at the fence in a fit of rage. He’s growling and snarling at the other dogs on the other side of the fence, and mothers are picking up their kids and guys are wishing they had brought their firearms in with them.
I wasn’t quite sure what to do, so I said, “What the hell. Let’s see what these so-called dogs are made of.” And I opened the gate and Archie rushed out there and people gasped. And what did vicious Archie do? Vicious Archie smelled more butts than a proctologist. That’s what Archie did.
I was relieved. I really didn’t want to have to deal with Archie killing a miniature poodle while I was still digesting Marge’s Taft remarks. And it was kind of cool out there in the main dog park of life. Archie just ran his semi-mangy self all over that place. He was doing that thing where they run alongside of each other and bump their shoulders, and he was hauling ass, baby. His Airedale life was good. So was mine. I could just stand there and watch and not have to do any physical exercise of any kind. And be a good master without exerting any energy. I’m trying to patent this.
Well, Archie ran his big canine furball butt for about a half-hour and was panting harder than Paris Hilton on YouTube. And I was panting just thinking of Ms. Hilton.
When I stopped panting, I started talking to some woman as I watched my dog embarrass himself, and I mentioned that I had just taken Archie to the vet and it had cost me more than $200 for the vet to determine that my big-headed dog had too much gas in his stomach. I said, “Can you believe I dropped two large ones because my dog would NOT fart?” The woman did not respond. She just walked away. Quickly walked away.
When I got back home, I opened the door, and yelled out to Marge, “Hi Honey, your soon-to-be-former-husband and your non-farting dog are home.” She didn’t answer. Probably too excited learning that Millard Fillmore only had one testicle or something.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Talking to Myself (Cigar Smoke 4-8-10)
OK, I talk to myself. And not only that. I answer myself. You may ask why I talk to myself. And I may answer, because my self is the only one that will talk to me. Can you hear that little slurping sound? That is the sound of all the shrinks in Pasadena licking their lips.
And not only do I talk to and answer myself, I talk to the imaginary people I have conversations with and answer them, too. Let me give you a recent example. I go into my favorite coffee place the other day, and I am carrying a container of yogurt with me. As I am going up to the counter to order my coffee, I say to myself, “Self, is it OK that you are carrying a little container of yogurt that you have not purchased here, because they don’t offer any little yogurt containers?”
But then I think the manager will see me and he will say, “Uh, excuse me, yogurt carrier, but do you think, maybe, you could buy something from us since you are in our store and we are a small business trying to survive in this suck economy, and we are providing you with a comfortable and safe place, cleaner than your house, to drink your coffee and lead a nice middle-class life?”
And I say to either him or myself, I can’t quite figure out whom, “Well, what if I just bought a cup of coffee and I wasn’t carrying a cup of yogurt with me, would I then be considered a responsible patron?” The answer remains a mystery because, obviously, the manager has never even heard my imaginary question and I myself do not know what the answer is, although I lean toward being on the side of myself.
So I get my coffee and I go to my table and sit down. I take my yogurt in one hand and I notice that the top of the yogurt container has a little secondary container of nuts attached to the top of the main yogurt container. Are you with me? (I would talk to you more about this, but I don’t want that many people in on the conversation with myself.) So I take the nuts container off, and I notice that there is a tinfoil lid on the yogurt container. And that there is a little tinfoil flap on the tinfoil lid that you have to pull up to gain full yogurt access.
So, of course, I pull up on the flap, and I hear this little spritzy sound and a glob of strawberry yogurt squirts out and lands on my shirt. It kind of startles me. (I startle easily.) And I lean my head back to look at it, and I notice the guy next to me looking at my yogurt glob on my shirt. And then he notices me noticing him, and he looks away like he hasn’t really seen my yogurt glob. And then I quickly talk to myself and wonder if I should acknowledge somehow that I know he saw my yogurt glob, and tell him that I’m usually a person whose shirts don’t have yogurt stains on them, and that this was just a one-time act of sloppy and careless flap-lifting. Or maybe I should just tell him to just buzz the hell off, or maybe even walk over and smear some uneaten strawberry yogurt all over his Dockers. I talk myself quickly out of that last option. Because I am a sane, civil human being? No. Because he’s bigger than I am.
So now I am sitting there with a yogurt glob on my shirt and a flap full of yogurt on the underside of its lid. So I ask myself if I should lick the lid. And, of course, my self says I should. So I lick the lid, and then place it licked-side-down on one of my napkins. And I can’t help myself, but I glance over to see if my favorite yogurt-glob observer has seen me lid licking. Thank God he hasn’t; that saves me one imaginary conversation.
So then I grab the little container of nuts, which has its own little flap on it. But this damn flap is too small for me to get my semi-fat fingers to pull on, and I have to use my teeth. But before I use my teeth, I ask myself, “Self, should I use my teeth? Self, is using teeth to pull nut flaps off a yogurt lid in a public place OK?” And apparently my self has given me the OK, because I start using my teeth like a pirate.
So now I empty my little packet of nuts into my strawberry yogurt, and I am all set to thoroughly mix my nuts, which are on top of my yogurt, deep into the yogurt beneath the nuts, and then finally eat my evenly distributed nut yogurt and drink my coffee and lead a relatively happy life.
But then I realize something — I do not have a spoon. No frigging spoon. My head drops to my chest, just missing the yogurt glob.
I sigh a long, audible sigh. I ask myself if I think the manager would give me a spoon to eat snuck-in yogurt not purchased in his store. I answer myself that he would probably use a phrase that had “over my dead small-business owner’s body” in it.
So I ask myself if you can eat nut-filled yogurt with one of those little coffee-stirrer piece-of-crap thin wooden dealies. My self said, “No, but if you use two of them together, it should work pretty well, Dummy Butt-Face.”
Well, my self was right. It did work well. But why would my self call me “Dummy Butt-Face?”
And not only do I talk to and answer myself, I talk to the imaginary people I have conversations with and answer them, too. Let me give you a recent example. I go into my favorite coffee place the other day, and I am carrying a container of yogurt with me. As I am going up to the counter to order my coffee, I say to myself, “Self, is it OK that you are carrying a little container of yogurt that you have not purchased here, because they don’t offer any little yogurt containers?”
But then I think the manager will see me and he will say, “Uh, excuse me, yogurt carrier, but do you think, maybe, you could buy something from us since you are in our store and we are a small business trying to survive in this suck economy, and we are providing you with a comfortable and safe place, cleaner than your house, to drink your coffee and lead a nice middle-class life?”
And I say to either him or myself, I can’t quite figure out whom, “Well, what if I just bought a cup of coffee and I wasn’t carrying a cup of yogurt with me, would I then be considered a responsible patron?” The answer remains a mystery because, obviously, the manager has never even heard my imaginary question and I myself do not know what the answer is, although I lean toward being on the side of myself.
So I get my coffee and I go to my table and sit down. I take my yogurt in one hand and I notice that the top of the yogurt container has a little secondary container of nuts attached to the top of the main yogurt container. Are you with me? (I would talk to you more about this, but I don’t want that many people in on the conversation with myself.) So I take the nuts container off, and I notice that there is a tinfoil lid on the yogurt container. And that there is a little tinfoil flap on the tinfoil lid that you have to pull up to gain full yogurt access.
So, of course, I pull up on the flap, and I hear this little spritzy sound and a glob of strawberry yogurt squirts out and lands on my shirt. It kind of startles me. (I startle easily.) And I lean my head back to look at it, and I notice the guy next to me looking at my yogurt glob on my shirt. And then he notices me noticing him, and he looks away like he hasn’t really seen my yogurt glob. And then I quickly talk to myself and wonder if I should acknowledge somehow that I know he saw my yogurt glob, and tell him that I’m usually a person whose shirts don’t have yogurt stains on them, and that this was just a one-time act of sloppy and careless flap-lifting. Or maybe I should just tell him to just buzz the hell off, or maybe even walk over and smear some uneaten strawberry yogurt all over his Dockers. I talk myself quickly out of that last option. Because I am a sane, civil human being? No. Because he’s bigger than I am.
So now I am sitting there with a yogurt glob on my shirt and a flap full of yogurt on the underside of its lid. So I ask myself if I should lick the lid. And, of course, my self says I should. So I lick the lid, and then place it licked-side-down on one of my napkins. And I can’t help myself, but I glance over to see if my favorite yogurt-glob observer has seen me lid licking. Thank God he hasn’t; that saves me one imaginary conversation.
So then I grab the little container of nuts, which has its own little flap on it. But this damn flap is too small for me to get my semi-fat fingers to pull on, and I have to use my teeth. But before I use my teeth, I ask myself, “Self, should I use my teeth? Self, is using teeth to pull nut flaps off a yogurt lid in a public place OK?” And apparently my self has given me the OK, because I start using my teeth like a pirate.
So now I empty my little packet of nuts into my strawberry yogurt, and I am all set to thoroughly mix my nuts, which are on top of my yogurt, deep into the yogurt beneath the nuts, and then finally eat my evenly distributed nut yogurt and drink my coffee and lead a relatively happy life.
But then I realize something — I do not have a spoon. No frigging spoon. My head drops to my chest, just missing the yogurt glob.
I sigh a long, audible sigh. I ask myself if I think the manager would give me a spoon to eat snuck-in yogurt not purchased in his store. I answer myself that he would probably use a phrase that had “over my dead small-business owner’s body” in it.
So I ask myself if you can eat nut-filled yogurt with one of those little coffee-stirrer piece-of-crap thin wooden dealies. My self said, “No, but if you use two of them together, it should work pretty well, Dummy Butt-Face.”
Well, my self was right. It did work well. But why would my self call me “Dummy Butt-Face?”
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Should Have Named Him Jughead (Cigar Smoke 3-11-10)
Well, I knew it was going to happen. Yes, I shot a few Democrats just to watch ’em die. No, that was Johnny Cash in “Folsom Prison Blues.” I always liked Johnny. No, no, I didn’t shoot anybody.
What I did was get another dog. Yup, my life was just getting too comfortable and I was enjoying myself way too much to not have another fur ball around. And, of course, my good friend Paula Johnson had something to do with it. She suggested that I get a rescue dog from the pound and not get another damn purebred like my last dog, Hadley. And she kept giving me subtle hints, like, “got another dog yet, you jerk-off commie heartless bastard who likes to see dogs put down at the pound?” (Are you able to get new friends at the pound?)
So, as it happened, I had recently joined the Airedale Rescue Society, and my main function was to help them haul rescued dogs to kennels and homes. So they called me and had me go down to the animal shelter in Downey to pick up an Airedale who had been picked up off the street.
Well, I went down there and got him. And he was one ratty-looking dog. His hair was all matted and his head was bald and he was scary skinny and he had a trailer-trash long tail, and he smelled like No. 2 and he had just been neutered. I got him in the car and he nipped at me. (Hey, I would have nipped at someone too if I had just had my nuts snipped off.)
We got him home and he started to get acclimated by taking a dump on the living room carpet that was bigger than any dump Hadley had ever taken and would have given a rhinoceros dump a good challenge for both texture and total volume. I scolded him and he instantly rolled on the floor in a submissive posture. I told him I didn’t want him to be submissive because that’s what I want out of my wife, not my dog.
Then we had to give him a name. My first choice was Dumpy, but I didn’t share that with Marge. So, because he was bald, I said how about ArchiBALD? She thought that was just a little too cute, so I came up with Jughead because he has a jug-horse head. That didn’t fly, either. Then we remembered that Jughead used to hang out with Archie in the comics. So his name is officially Archie. Archie the Airedale.
I asked him how he liked his name and he didn’t say much. Then I asked him how he liked being rescued from the shelter and being with us, and he paused and said, “I would have preferred the 8-year-old boy on a Montana ranch, but seeing as I am nutless, I might like it here in the old folks’ home.” I told the Rhino Defecator not to press his luck.
Let me tell you a few things about this dog. We’ve only had him for three weeks but we are starting to see a trend. And the word “psycho” is in a lot of the early data. He likes to dig holes in the backyard; he likes to eat shoes; he is sneakier than Pete and waits until we leave a room before he shreds our valuables; he has squeezed under a fence and run away three times; and he likes to seriously haul ass around the house just tucking in his Airedale butt and crashing into things that used to be whole. I mean this sucker moves like Clinton after an intern, baby.
And one time while I was out playing Scrabble, and Marge had to go out for a few hours, she put him in the laundry room. When she got back, she opened the door and there was Archie, looking at her eyeball-to-eyeball. He had jumped up on a counter and ripped open some dog food packets and was trapped up there. But not before tearing down the curtains and overturning his water and food dishes. Psycho. Archie, not Marge.
And get this: I have never seen Archie either pee or go dumpy-poo. Never. Not once. Yes, I see the results, but I have never seen him do these things. Hadley would do these things until I cried. Archie is different. Oh, and Archie does not lick, either. Have you ever heard of a dog that doesn’t like to slobber on you? Me neither. He’ll put his mouth up to yours to smell what you’ve just eaten and try to remove it before you can swallow it, but he won’t lick. I think this is a case for The Dog Whisperer. Maybe even The Dog Hollerer.
But we love the big lug already. He’s very sweet. He is just a gentle giant of a dog. He now weighs more than 70 pounds and you can’t feel his bony sides anymore. And he’s getting healthier after the antibiotics and the de-worming and the deficit-building vet bills. And his hair is starting to grow out. And he smells a little better after the industrial bath and chemical dip.
But he’s still pissed off about his nuts.
What I did was get another dog. Yup, my life was just getting too comfortable and I was enjoying myself way too much to not have another fur ball around. And, of course, my good friend Paula Johnson had something to do with it. She suggested that I get a rescue dog from the pound and not get another damn purebred like my last dog, Hadley. And she kept giving me subtle hints, like, “got another dog yet, you jerk-off commie heartless bastard who likes to see dogs put down at the pound?” (Are you able to get new friends at the pound?)
So, as it happened, I had recently joined the Airedale Rescue Society, and my main function was to help them haul rescued dogs to kennels and homes. So they called me and had me go down to the animal shelter in Downey to pick up an Airedale who had been picked up off the street.
Well, I went down there and got him. And he was one ratty-looking dog. His hair was all matted and his head was bald and he was scary skinny and he had a trailer-trash long tail, and he smelled like No. 2 and he had just been neutered. I got him in the car and he nipped at me. (Hey, I would have nipped at someone too if I had just had my nuts snipped off.)
We got him home and he started to get acclimated by taking a dump on the living room carpet that was bigger than any dump Hadley had ever taken and would have given a rhinoceros dump a good challenge for both texture and total volume. I scolded him and he instantly rolled on the floor in a submissive posture. I told him I didn’t want him to be submissive because that’s what I want out of my wife, not my dog.
Then we had to give him a name. My first choice was Dumpy, but I didn’t share that with Marge. So, because he was bald, I said how about ArchiBALD? She thought that was just a little too cute, so I came up with Jughead because he has a jug-horse head. That didn’t fly, either. Then we remembered that Jughead used to hang out with Archie in the comics. So his name is officially Archie. Archie the Airedale.
I asked him how he liked his name and he didn’t say much. Then I asked him how he liked being rescued from the shelter and being with us, and he paused and said, “I would have preferred the 8-year-old boy on a Montana ranch, but seeing as I am nutless, I might like it here in the old folks’ home.” I told the Rhino Defecator not to press his luck.
Let me tell you a few things about this dog. We’ve only had him for three weeks but we are starting to see a trend. And the word “psycho” is in a lot of the early data. He likes to dig holes in the backyard; he likes to eat shoes; he is sneakier than Pete and waits until we leave a room before he shreds our valuables; he has squeezed under a fence and run away three times; and he likes to seriously haul ass around the house just tucking in his Airedale butt and crashing into things that used to be whole. I mean this sucker moves like Clinton after an intern, baby.
And one time while I was out playing Scrabble, and Marge had to go out for a few hours, she put him in the laundry room. When she got back, she opened the door and there was Archie, looking at her eyeball-to-eyeball. He had jumped up on a counter and ripped open some dog food packets and was trapped up there. But not before tearing down the curtains and overturning his water and food dishes. Psycho. Archie, not Marge.
And get this: I have never seen Archie either pee or go dumpy-poo. Never. Not once. Yes, I see the results, but I have never seen him do these things. Hadley would do these things until I cried. Archie is different. Oh, and Archie does not lick, either. Have you ever heard of a dog that doesn’t like to slobber on you? Me neither. He’ll put his mouth up to yours to smell what you’ve just eaten and try to remove it before you can swallow it, but he won’t lick. I think this is a case for The Dog Whisperer. Maybe even The Dog Hollerer.
But we love the big lug already. He’s very sweet. He is just a gentle giant of a dog. He now weighs more than 70 pounds and you can’t feel his bony sides anymore. And he’s getting healthier after the antibiotics and the de-worming and the deficit-building vet bills. And his hair is starting to grow out. And he smells a little better after the industrial bath and chemical dip.
But he’s still pissed off about his nuts.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
The Handyman Can (Cigar Smoke 2-25-10)
Is it just me or do things like this happen to you, and I don’t know if things like this don’t happen to you because you don’t have a column, or is it that these things may happen to you but you don’t give a flying fraguzzi, and I do give one of those?
Anyway, I’m up in my little Hovel by the Sea in Oregon last week and I need to do some work on my so-called house. I have to hang a large clock on the wall and I know from experience that if I do it myself I will leave a large hole in the wall and the anchor bolt will just hang there like Saddam Hussein and the clock will just be holding its breath until the first earthquake. And then it will fall on some luckless pet and I will be sued for every penny I have in my lousy shack hovel life. That is a pretty good summary of my handyman experience.
So I need to get a real handyman. So I go to a furniture store up there that I know fairly well, and I ask for a referral for a great handyman, and this guy standing near us hears my request and he says, “I am a great handyman.” So I looked at him and I said, “How do I know you are a great handyman?” And he said, “Because I drive a ratty pickup and I wear a tool belt.”
That was good enough for me. So we arrange for him to come over in the morning and do the work. He gets over to my place at 8 a.m. sharp and I have high hopes. (These hopes will be lowered very soon.) As he’s coming up the walkway, he seems to be wobbling just a bit. Nothing alarming, but there is definitely a wobble waiting to come out.
I asked him how he was doing and I didn’t want him to answer, but he did. He said he went to his brother’s bachelor party last night, but he had to leave early so he could help me out. Yup. Straight from the naked women and Chivas to old Jim E. Baby’s hovel handyman job. The hopes were pretty much at my ankles about then.
But, because I am a what? I am a dumb shit, that’s what. I let him continue. He comes into the house to analyze the job and he reaches for his tool belt, but his tool belt is not there. He says, “Oh shit, I left it with that stripper last night.” I said, “Hmm.” He said he would go out to his truck and get something. He did. A hammer.
He came back in and he had some kind of punch thing and he took a relatively straight swing with his hammer and he, well, he punched out a big enough hole in my cowering wall to put his fist through — and then crack his knuckles. He looks at me and I look at him and he says, “You got any Spackle?” I swear on my handyman’s manual, he said, “You got any Spackle?”
I said, “No. But I have a Colt 45 in the bedroom.” The humor went right over his hangover. He told me to sit tight; he would run down to the hardware store and get some stuff. He was back in 20 minutes with some hardware bolts and bullshit. And he worked awhile and the only thing I could see change was the size of the hole in the wall. He inquired as to whether I might have a bigger clock to hang.
Well, he went back and forth to the hardware store five times. Five frigging times. He kept coming back with wrong sizes and medieval attachment devices you may have seen in prisons in the Middle Ages. He was there for three-and-a-half hours. To hang one really tacky heavy clock. Three-and-a-half hours.
But finally he says, “Got ’er done. Come on over here and take a look.” I look and sure enough, the damn clock is on the wall. I kind of gingerly touch it and it seems secure. He asks me if I would like to see his work behind the clock and I tell him no, because I have a bad heart and I’ve seen large rat-entrance holes before. He laughed his handyman laugh.
I said, “Well, how much do I owe you?” and he said, and this is the God’s honest handyman fee truth, “how about five bucks?” Being from LA where I have been charged $120 dollars for a guy to come out to the house to look at a problem, I was pretty much stunned. Only five bucks.
I couldn’t believe it. Three-and-a-half hours of work for five bucks. I didn’t know what to say.
Finally, I said, “Would you take four?”
Jim Laris is a former publisher and owner of the Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
Anyway, I’m up in my little Hovel by the Sea in Oregon last week and I need to do some work on my so-called house. I have to hang a large clock on the wall and I know from experience that if I do it myself I will leave a large hole in the wall and the anchor bolt will just hang there like Saddam Hussein and the clock will just be holding its breath until the first earthquake. And then it will fall on some luckless pet and I will be sued for every penny I have in my lousy shack hovel life. That is a pretty good summary of my handyman experience.
So I need to get a real handyman. So I go to a furniture store up there that I know fairly well, and I ask for a referral for a great handyman, and this guy standing near us hears my request and he says, “I am a great handyman.” So I looked at him and I said, “How do I know you are a great handyman?” And he said, “Because I drive a ratty pickup and I wear a tool belt.”
That was good enough for me. So we arrange for him to come over in the morning and do the work. He gets over to my place at 8 a.m. sharp and I have high hopes. (These hopes will be lowered very soon.) As he’s coming up the walkway, he seems to be wobbling just a bit. Nothing alarming, but there is definitely a wobble waiting to come out.
I asked him how he was doing and I didn’t want him to answer, but he did. He said he went to his brother’s bachelor party last night, but he had to leave early so he could help me out. Yup. Straight from the naked women and Chivas to old Jim E. Baby’s hovel handyman job. The hopes were pretty much at my ankles about then.
But, because I am a what? I am a dumb shit, that’s what. I let him continue. He comes into the house to analyze the job and he reaches for his tool belt, but his tool belt is not there. He says, “Oh shit, I left it with that stripper last night.” I said, “Hmm.” He said he would go out to his truck and get something. He did. A hammer.
He came back in and he had some kind of punch thing and he took a relatively straight swing with his hammer and he, well, he punched out a big enough hole in my cowering wall to put his fist through — and then crack his knuckles. He looks at me and I look at him and he says, “You got any Spackle?” I swear on my handyman’s manual, he said, “You got any Spackle?”
I said, “No. But I have a Colt 45 in the bedroom.” The humor went right over his hangover. He told me to sit tight; he would run down to the hardware store and get some stuff. He was back in 20 minutes with some hardware bolts and bullshit. And he worked awhile and the only thing I could see change was the size of the hole in the wall. He inquired as to whether I might have a bigger clock to hang.
Well, he went back and forth to the hardware store five times. Five frigging times. He kept coming back with wrong sizes and medieval attachment devices you may have seen in prisons in the Middle Ages. He was there for three-and-a-half hours. To hang one really tacky heavy clock. Three-and-a-half hours.
But finally he says, “Got ’er done. Come on over here and take a look.” I look and sure enough, the damn clock is on the wall. I kind of gingerly touch it and it seems secure. He asks me if I would like to see his work behind the clock and I tell him no, because I have a bad heart and I’ve seen large rat-entrance holes before. He laughed his handyman laugh.
I said, “Well, how much do I owe you?” and he said, and this is the God’s honest handyman fee truth, “how about five bucks?” Being from LA where I have been charged $120 dollars for a guy to come out to the house to look at a problem, I was pretty much stunned. Only five bucks.
I couldn’t believe it. Three-and-a-half hours of work for five bucks. I didn’t know what to say.
Finally, I said, “Would you take four?”
Jim Laris is a former publisher and owner of the Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Circus Lion Meat (Cigar Smoke 2-11-10)
Well, the little woman and I decided to go out for an evening of dinner and entertainment the other night. (By the way, I use the term “little woman” not because I am a sexist pig, but because Marge is indeed a little woman. She’s only four inches tall and I hold her in my hand.)
Anyway, before we left for the entertainment venue, I thought I would try out my new navigation app that I bought for my iPhone. I set everything up, I put in the address, I punched the buttons, and it seemed to be ready to go. I did a little app jig in the living room. Then we get in the car and, as I was driving, Marge was in charge of holding the iPhone, which was tough for her because the iPhone was also four inches tall. And as we were driving I kept asking her what the directions were. The app was supposed to talk to us in its little app voice. And guide us to our destination. But there was no response. Nothing. Just the silent treatment.
And I was getting all whacked out of shape and cursing and screaming and Marge was encouraging me with a “just drive, dumb ass” every once in a while. I had to just say to hell with the supposedly talking app and find the place myself. I don’t know how, but we got there and we got our table and I looked at the iPhone and I noticed that I had forgotten to turn the sound on. The app was talking to me after all, but I had not let it express itself fully. Marge wants to know if there is an app for being a dumb ass.
So we order dinner and we get two appetizers. Marge gets some commie French thing and I get the quesadillas with the guacamole dip that will jet propel me back home even without a car. Then we get two really great salads with killer crusty rolls and life looks livable again. And then our entrees arrive.
I had ordered a tri-tip with some special Roquefort sauce and that sucker was sitting on the plate like it had been there since it had been grazing in the pasture. And it was looking back at me. And it was not happy. I couldn’t quite tell, but I think it was giving me the finger.
I said to Marge, “Have you ever seen roast beef with semi-liquid white fluid on it before?” “Only when I worked at Huntington Hospital that one year,” she replied.
I kept looking at the tri-tip out of the corner of my eye, because I didn’t want to make direct eye contact with it and piss it off even more. But because I was hungry and because I will eat almost anything, I decided to take a bite. Holy Hoofed Dead Animal, that was not my best decision. It did not taste good. It did not taste healthy. It did not taste edible. It not only made my skin crawl, it made my tongue crawl. And I don’t blame my tongue — I was trying to crawl someplace myself.
Then I looked over at Marge and she was trying to crawl away from her dinner, too. I said, “Come back here. What did you order?” And she said, “I ordered the stuffed trout.” I said, “What was it stuffed with?” She said, “Rotting intestines and wolf feces.” I said, “Hmm?
Pretty creative.”
I ask you. I implore you. What are the odds that two people can order two completely different dinners, one dinner from the earth and one dinner from the lake, and have both dinners be so bad that we wouldn’t even try to trade them to each other? It was unbelievable. Both dinners looked gross and tasted worse. I wouldn’t have fed this stuff to enemy soldiers.
But all was not lost. Most of it was. But not all of it. We did find one shining blessing in the entertainment. While we were consuming an extra order of the killer crusty rolls and downing a few alcoholic beverages to give hope to our mortally wounded taste buds, some actor on the stage yells out, “I am going to jump down my own butthole and hang myself!”
I am not making that up. The actor guy said, “I am going to jump down my own butthole and hang myself!” Marge and I laughed so hard we spit up booze-drenched bits of crusty rolls, which made us laugh even harder.
And then, as we were leaving the theater, the hostess asked us how we liked our dinners, and I said, “If I ever eat here again I am going to jump down my own butthole and hang myself!”
Then we ran to the car like eloping teenagers and started driving home. After a while, I asked Marge to check my email. She flipped on my iPhone and it started yapping out directions. At the next street, turn left. In a half a mile, exit here. Yap, yap, yap.. And I grabbed the phone and yelled at it, “If you don’t stop your little app yapping, I am going to jump down my own butthole and hang myself!”
Anyway, before we left for the entertainment venue, I thought I would try out my new navigation app that I bought for my iPhone. I set everything up, I put in the address, I punched the buttons, and it seemed to be ready to go. I did a little app jig in the living room. Then we get in the car and, as I was driving, Marge was in charge of holding the iPhone, which was tough for her because the iPhone was also four inches tall. And as we were driving I kept asking her what the directions were. The app was supposed to talk to us in its little app voice. And guide us to our destination. But there was no response. Nothing. Just the silent treatment.
And I was getting all whacked out of shape and cursing and screaming and Marge was encouraging me with a “just drive, dumb ass” every once in a while. I had to just say to hell with the supposedly talking app and find the place myself. I don’t know how, but we got there and we got our table and I looked at the iPhone and I noticed that I had forgotten to turn the sound on. The app was talking to me after all, but I had not let it express itself fully. Marge wants to know if there is an app for being a dumb ass.
So we order dinner and we get two appetizers. Marge gets some commie French thing and I get the quesadillas with the guacamole dip that will jet propel me back home even without a car. Then we get two really great salads with killer crusty rolls and life looks livable again. And then our entrees arrive.
I had ordered a tri-tip with some special Roquefort sauce and that sucker was sitting on the plate like it had been there since it had been grazing in the pasture. And it was looking back at me. And it was not happy. I couldn’t quite tell, but I think it was giving me the finger.
I said to Marge, “Have you ever seen roast beef with semi-liquid white fluid on it before?” “Only when I worked at Huntington Hospital that one year,” she replied.
I kept looking at the tri-tip out of the corner of my eye, because I didn’t want to make direct eye contact with it and piss it off even more. But because I was hungry and because I will eat almost anything, I decided to take a bite. Holy Hoofed Dead Animal, that was not my best decision. It did not taste good. It did not taste healthy. It did not taste edible. It not only made my skin crawl, it made my tongue crawl. And I don’t blame my tongue — I was trying to crawl someplace myself.
Then I looked over at Marge and she was trying to crawl away from her dinner, too. I said, “Come back here. What did you order?” And she said, “I ordered the stuffed trout.” I said, “What was it stuffed with?” She said, “Rotting intestines and wolf feces.” I said, “Hmm?
Pretty creative.”
I ask you. I implore you. What are the odds that two people can order two completely different dinners, one dinner from the earth and one dinner from the lake, and have both dinners be so bad that we wouldn’t even try to trade them to each other? It was unbelievable. Both dinners looked gross and tasted worse. I wouldn’t have fed this stuff to enemy soldiers.
But all was not lost. Most of it was. But not all of it. We did find one shining blessing in the entertainment. While we were consuming an extra order of the killer crusty rolls and downing a few alcoholic beverages to give hope to our mortally wounded taste buds, some actor on the stage yells out, “I am going to jump down my own butthole and hang myself!”
I am not making that up. The actor guy said, “I am going to jump down my own butthole and hang myself!” Marge and I laughed so hard we spit up booze-drenched bits of crusty rolls, which made us laugh even harder.
And then, as we were leaving the theater, the hostess asked us how we liked our dinners, and I said, “If I ever eat here again I am going to jump down my own butthole and hang myself!”
Then we ran to the car like eloping teenagers and started driving home. After a while, I asked Marge to check my email. She flipped on my iPhone and it started yapping out directions. At the next street, turn left. In a half a mile, exit here. Yap, yap, yap.. And I grabbed the phone and yelled at it, “If you don’t stop your little app yapping, I am going to jump down my own butthole and hang myself!”
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Right Cross (Cigar Smoke 1-28-10)
OK, I am sitting here at my desk basking in the right-wing-nut glow of the Scott Brown win in Massachusetts. I still can’t quite believe what happened. The Democrats lost the Kennedy seat. The decisive 41st seat. Un-frigging-believable. Holy Political Moly, the irony is just too delicious to not gloat over it.
But I know it is unbecoming to gloat, so I won’t be gloating very long. I’m a short-term gloater. Something will piss me off within the next hour and there won’t be a Scott Brown truck to run it over.
So I would like to spend some time talking about being a right-wing nut. I think us right-wingers have gotten a semi-bum rap. All of us aren’t Bible-toting Ku Klux Klan racists and war-mongering insensitive capitalistic greedy scum who hate gays. Although, I would admit that most of those groups could be in the Republican Party. What can I say? I don’t sleep with any of them.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that I think we should all chill out a little and take a closer look at who is on the other side. So I thought I would share with you some of my so-called right-wing views. So eventually you will love me, and send me nice gifts.
And I realize this will be a short and somewhat shallow revelation of my positions. However, I don’t have the space or the talent to present a more in-depth offering.
First of all, I am an atheist. I am not a big fan of religion. However, I would side with the religious right over the spiritual left. At least, the religious right has some kind of moral standard. They hold themselves accountable for their actions. Most people on the left seem to just want to be spiritual, whatever the hell that means. They all just want to move to New Mexico and gaze at sunsets or navels and take a few hits on something and be mellow. Seems to me they just don’t want to acknowledge any of the hard stuff.
I warned you it would be short and shallow.
I’m also on the right because people on the right actually show their love of the country. They are not embarrassed by being patriotic. People on the left always say they love the country, but they always say that when complaining about how bad things are. They never seem to show it with flags or pins or bumper stickers like us right-wing-nut jobs do. Is it really that hard to say that you love the country and not put a but after it? People on the left want us to be more like France. People on the right are comfortable being Americans. People on the right are proud to be Americans. Are people on the left proud to be American?
Maybe. But it would be nice if they showed it once in a while.
I like FOX News. Sue me. But I think Bill O’Reilly is an arrogant jerk. Just like MSNBC’s Keith Olbermann is an arrogant jerk. I’ll admit my guy is a jerk-off if you will throw yours under the bus. At least we could make a stab at being civil. Let’s get rid of those two guys, huh? You go first. I’ll drive the bus. Then maybe Scott Brown can swing by in his pickup.
But you can’t take away FOX News. You keep all the other stations. Just let me have my one poor little stepchild of a station. But hell, some of you lefties don’t even like the fact that us right-wing-wackos have any TV news stations at all. If it were up to Obama, FOX would be gone. What a whiner.
And in my simplistic right-wing view, global warming is the biggest hoax in my lifetime. It is such a crock that Betty should name a cooking pot after it. First it was that our poor planet was getting too hot and then, when the facts wouldn’t support that, they quickly morphed it to climate change. And just this week the United Nations acknowledged that they made a slight mistake in their prediction that the Himalayas were melting. They had said they would melt by 2035. Seems as if there was a typo. It should have been in the year 2350. What’s 315 years among us scientists?
And lest we forget, the other little UN global hot air goof: Remember when they said all this supposed melting would make the seas rise by 18 feet? They eventually confessed that they meant 18 inches. Feet? Inches? What’s the big deal?
And the polar bears are going to all die. Doesn’t anyone even give a leftist crap that the polar bear population is increasing? But that wouldn’t fit with the agenda. I’m glad I’m enrolled in another school. Remember, I’m not trying to be too heavy or critical here.
I’m extending my little peace pipe or lotus leaf or outstretched crushing right-handed manly handshake to help us see each other a little better. I love polar bears, dammit. But whatever global climate change there is (which may or may not be happening) is making the polar bear population go up. There are more polar bears. Shouldn’t having more bears be a good sign?
Finally, I’m on the right because the right is grateful for and honors the military. The Berkeley left tries to ban them from being able to recruit near college campuses. The left sings songs about how bad they are. John Lennon wants us to Imagine. I want us to imagine what the world would be like without the US military.
OK, I’m stepping down off my soapbox of gloating. Oops, I have to get back up there again. “Air America” just went under.
Jim Laris is a former publisher and owner of the Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
But I know it is unbecoming to gloat, so I won’t be gloating very long. I’m a short-term gloater. Something will piss me off within the next hour and there won’t be a Scott Brown truck to run it over.
So I would like to spend some time talking about being a right-wing nut. I think us right-wingers have gotten a semi-bum rap. All of us aren’t Bible-toting Ku Klux Klan racists and war-mongering insensitive capitalistic greedy scum who hate gays. Although, I would admit that most of those groups could be in the Republican Party. What can I say? I don’t sleep with any of them.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that I think we should all chill out a little and take a closer look at who is on the other side. So I thought I would share with you some of my so-called right-wing views. So eventually you will love me, and send me nice gifts.
And I realize this will be a short and somewhat shallow revelation of my positions. However, I don’t have the space or the talent to present a more in-depth offering.
First of all, I am an atheist. I am not a big fan of religion. However, I would side with the religious right over the spiritual left. At least, the religious right has some kind of moral standard. They hold themselves accountable for their actions. Most people on the left seem to just want to be spiritual, whatever the hell that means. They all just want to move to New Mexico and gaze at sunsets or navels and take a few hits on something and be mellow. Seems to me they just don’t want to acknowledge any of the hard stuff.
I warned you it would be short and shallow.
I’m also on the right because people on the right actually show their love of the country. They are not embarrassed by being patriotic. People on the left always say they love the country, but they always say that when complaining about how bad things are. They never seem to show it with flags or pins or bumper stickers like us right-wing-nut jobs do. Is it really that hard to say that you love the country and not put a but after it? People on the left want us to be more like France. People on the right are comfortable being Americans. People on the right are proud to be Americans. Are people on the left proud to be American?
Maybe. But it would be nice if they showed it once in a while.
I like FOX News. Sue me. But I think Bill O’Reilly is an arrogant jerk. Just like MSNBC’s Keith Olbermann is an arrogant jerk. I’ll admit my guy is a jerk-off if you will throw yours under the bus. At least we could make a stab at being civil. Let’s get rid of those two guys, huh? You go first. I’ll drive the bus. Then maybe Scott Brown can swing by in his pickup.
But you can’t take away FOX News. You keep all the other stations. Just let me have my one poor little stepchild of a station. But hell, some of you lefties don’t even like the fact that us right-wing-wackos have any TV news stations at all. If it were up to Obama, FOX would be gone. What a whiner.
And in my simplistic right-wing view, global warming is the biggest hoax in my lifetime. It is such a crock that Betty should name a cooking pot after it. First it was that our poor planet was getting too hot and then, when the facts wouldn’t support that, they quickly morphed it to climate change. And just this week the United Nations acknowledged that they made a slight mistake in their prediction that the Himalayas were melting. They had said they would melt by 2035. Seems as if there was a typo. It should have been in the year 2350. What’s 315 years among us scientists?
And lest we forget, the other little UN global hot air goof: Remember when they said all this supposed melting would make the seas rise by 18 feet? They eventually confessed that they meant 18 inches. Feet? Inches? What’s the big deal?
And the polar bears are going to all die. Doesn’t anyone even give a leftist crap that the polar bear population is increasing? But that wouldn’t fit with the agenda. I’m glad I’m enrolled in another school. Remember, I’m not trying to be too heavy or critical here.
I’m extending my little peace pipe or lotus leaf or outstretched crushing right-handed manly handshake to help us see each other a little better. I love polar bears, dammit. But whatever global climate change there is (which may or may not be happening) is making the polar bear population go up. There are more polar bears. Shouldn’t having more bears be a good sign?
Finally, I’m on the right because the right is grateful for and honors the military. The Berkeley left tries to ban them from being able to recruit near college campuses. The left sings songs about how bad they are. John Lennon wants us to Imagine. I want us to imagine what the world would be like without the US military.
OK, I’m stepping down off my soapbox of gloating. Oops, I have to get back up there again. “Air America” just went under.
Jim Laris is a former publisher and owner of the Weekly. Contact him at jimlaris@mac.com.
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