Hello from the crappy side of Winter, that time when he gives you just a gentle hint at what the spring will bring. Yeah, just before he goes ahead and bitch-slapcha with another arctic blessing that gets your teeth chattering and heater a hummin’. The wind here howled so hard last night I thought I saw the wicked witch of the west and a couple of those flyin’ monkeys! They was bundled up mind you, and she was just a cussin’ out her broom and the fire-making apparatus because it don’t work so well in the cold.
So I was watching the Oscars last night…okay, big lie number one. I was watching the talking heads this mornin’ discussing the Oscars last night ’cause self-promotion on a scale that large makes my eyes hurt. And I had a chance to see Spike Lee jump into the arms of Samuel L. Jackson, see Mrs. Streep not win an Oscar for the seventh time (travesty number one), see Lady Gaga’s stirring rendition of a song from a movie in saw in 1978 (A Star is Born). I think Streisand sang so much better. But I was struck when Ms. Gaga (anybody with a name that is also the first sound a baby makes when it sees my adorable face is not really a name. Nor is Boo-boo, Gee-gee, Coo-coo, or Maa-maa) stated during her acceptance speech that one should never give up. The camera did a slow paced scan of the overly dressed audience, and faces were just aglow with understanding of Ms. Gaga’s heart felt words. Trying to hold back tears myself (I’d just cracked my little toe a good one on the edge of the bed) I pondered how a lovely lady, who was wearing what appeared to be a cumbersome diamond of epic proportions around her slender neck, could express to us the time tested theory of never giving up.
Giving up on what? Oneself? The world? Mankind? The new jar of mayonnaise with the lid on so tight I’d need a muscle-bound olympic athlete to get it loose? My hair, that discontinued the art of growing toward the center of my head in the late 1970’s?
Alright, I’m all in Ms. Gaga. Here goes….I BELIEVE IN MY HAIR. IF I TRY REALLY, REALLY HARD AND BELIEVE IT WILL GROW!
Alright, I can already feel it working. I’m believing in Tom Cruise’s type hair, that crafty part on the side where the bangs just kinda wisp across your brow. Ahhh hell, I needa get a comb, and a blow dryer, and some gel, and a good barber. Or maybe a beauty salon? Yeah, that’s what guys do these days…and I can buy one of those trimmers, and maybe wear a guy bun from time to time?
I BELIEVE MS. GAGA!!!
All of us believe, or at least we did. We believe that anyone can grow up to be the president, and based on the ranking scale of the last fifty years or so we’re all certainly qualified. We can all write a great book, scale a great mountain, or be launched into space. Mama told me I could, so I can (tongue out at this point).
But then reality checks your belief system like a meteor checked the expanse of the dinosaurs. No amount of believing is gonna make you an NFL quarterback. Make you prettier. Make you taller. Make you more intelligent than your brain will allow. There are check and balances in the “believe in yourself” cosmos.
It’s a feel good kinda statement that leads to positive reinforcement in the self enrichment vein, but it’s also just pure crap. Here are examples, mostly ’cause I like lists:
THINGS I GAVE UP ON
1. Making the Brownie in my 2nd grade class my girlfriend. Yes boys and girls, I had a megaton crush on a girl who sat two desks over from me in 2nd grade. She was one of those delicate creatures who had the shiny hair in a kinda beatles style, pouty lips, and dreamy eyes. Couple times a week she wore a brownie uniform, and I just loved a girl in uniform when I was in 2nd grade. And this one time, when we were going to get extra crayons out of the crayon bin, and my friend Eddie pushed me super hard, I bumped into her (didn’t wash that shoulder for a whole year!) and she said “excuse me”. She even looked at me with the words…oh my ghod. I felt flushed, heart-raced. She spoken to me (Mama made me was that ear after a couple of weeks ’cause it was getting kinda gross), and then she’d smiled! Course the smile was meant for Eddie, but it went past my face and had it not been raining on the way home I would never have washed it again either!!!
But then I gave up a couple days later when she farted in the bathroom line and it smelled like a heifer barn.
2. Being an astronaut.
3. House training a chihuahua.
4. Fixing anything. For those of you who don’t know me, I’m about as mechanically inclined as a chimpanzee with a tongue depressor and a purple pair of thongs. I once tore apart a carburetor and when I brought it to the mechanic to have his repair the initial malfunction he giggled and had to show his buddies at the shop what some lame-brain had done. When I fixed the plumbing the basement flooded.
I have a washer, dryer, plumber, car, teeth, body, litigation, wood-working, tax-purposes, flooring, lawnmower, marriage, and roofer on speed dial. If I get a hangnail I scream loudly for my wife to please come fix it.
5. Having 6 pack abs. I’ve done more sit-ups than a new marine recruit. More crunches than most television wrestlers. I’ve planked so many times pirates call me for advice on procedures. And yet Mr. Half-kegger still makes an appearance each and every time I take off my shirt. And the sad part of that is that when I suck him in my butt swells up like a Kardashian’s and I wanna start rapping about to squirrels in the forest.
6. Understanding women. Oh yes, I’m one of those guys who actually attempts to bring peace and solidarity to my world. I try and say the right things, at the right time, to the right women I’ve placed in my realm. And yet…
If a woman asks you if these pants make her butt look big don’t answer. It’s a trick. They’re all in on it, I swear, and at the “Women’s Council for Driving Men Nuts” monthly meeting (ever notice how you lady needs to have a night a month where she can just go shopping and be with her thoughts…she ain’t shopping guys. She’s at the meeting, which is held in a large room toward the back of Walmart, and usually coincides nicely with some sporting event that had us manly-men at home consuming large amount of poison and cussing a lot) they give advice on how to more acutely drive you man over the edge.
“Do these jeans make my ass look fat?” It’s a non-answerable question. If you answer affirmative do so while ducking and reconsidering self-stimulation in the sexual department for the future. If you answer that those jeans do not make her derriere look like the Red Sea when Moses parted it she’ll have you spend the next fifteen minutes explaining exactly what choices in trousers do make her ass look fat!
Bark your shin off the next available hard object, or merely bite off a finger when she asks….
7. Eggplant. Seriously, I can’t eat eggplant. Most will say that smell is the leading cause of eating, or not eating a specific item. The small of a nice steak on the grill will lead typically to salivation on a par with Pavlov’s dogs. The smell of mayonnaise gags me. Gravy is euphoric. Liver is not.
But to me the terminology is ever so important. Eggplant….it doesn’t go together. Is it an egg, or a plant? Can’t be both. Won’t eat it.
Cumquat. Nope. Unless it buys me a nice dinner and we’ve been on at least two and a half dates…then maybe, but the mood has to be just right.
Dates. Not happening.
Beets. Thought it’s spelling different, I won’t eat beets. I have a deep seated fear of eating adjectives. Nor do I consume Mashed potatoes, Whipped potatoes, Broiled potatoes, or Molested potatoes. And don’t try and get the Scalloped ones past me either. To me it’s akin to eating Raped Grapes, or Slain Brain. I draw the line here.
And that’s enough of that lists, though I swear I’ve given up on thousands of things in my lifetime.
Can we give up on the border wall yet? It was a beautifully calculated campaign thought, but its practicality is on a par with using well placed spatulas to hold back a flood. In fact; while we’re chatting up the Chinese on trade tariffs can we ask them how well their wall worked against the Mongols? And did the Mongols pay for it?
Stop being a stubborn ass already and say that the wall is symbolic.
And when did sex become bad? And I mean that quite seriously, when the owner of the New England Patriots is caught having solicited prostitution it becomes a front page story. If he’d done it in Las Vegas, where prostitution is legal, folks wouldn’t blink an eye. So let me tell ya, we as human beings have sex drives. The art of prostitution has thrived for thousands of years with that understanding.
And then the Catholic Church has to stand and account for why their employees keep getting caught up in sex scandals. Could it be that not everyone can control their libido?
Tiger Woods, who was once the number one role-model for all of America, had sex outside of his marriage. His life was destroyed. Yet John Kennedy bedded anything that would lay down for it. He was not. Nor was Bobby Kennedy. Nor was Martin Luther King Jr.
Maybe it’s not that we think sex is bad. Maybe we just have a poor understanding of sex and the sexual nature of human being.
Out for now, stay warm!