White Board Philosophy

The Perils of a Yuletide Office Romance

noreply@blogger.com (Gus) — Sun, 11 Dec 2011 15:55:00 +0000

Part of Indie Ink's Writer's Challenge- Prompt "You don't choose love; love chooses you"

The trouble with having a secret is that every routine interaction that takes place in the course of a normal workday becomes a potential hazard. For the rest of society, these casual moments of carefree conversations add a degree of levity to an otherwise monotonous day; but for Thompson, these moments were a collection of stress filled seconds, as he wait to see if this was the moment that his charade of normalcy had come to an end.

A simple “Hey Thompson” heard in the break room caused panic to course through his body, as a quick scan of his co-workers face would try to detect any sign of knowing, any sign of judgment or any hint that blackmail was on the horizon. The secret had evolved into a carefully orchestrated 12-hour recital, established to ensure a satisfactory completion of all of Thompson’s assigned duties, maintaining his current level of autonomy in the workplace, so that he could maximize the amount of time that he could slip off to the spend object of his fantasies, the lovely Miss Cheri.

This type of emotionally driven behavior was out of character for Thompson, who had always had a reputation as a logical individual, with a strong work ethic and a respect for the governing rules of the community. He rationalized that this new found relationship with Cheri was the subconscious brain’s way of dealing with the work time stresses brought on by the Christmas season. Even though his feelings compounded each day, he assumed this affair would run its course and dissipate along with the layers of snow and ice outside.

And who knows, that plan might have worked, had it not been for a phone call early on Tuesday morning. The caller ID simply said “The office of C.C”. Thompson’s stomach filled with adrenaline fussed acid, as his first reaction was to not answer and let the let it go to voicemail. He instantly knew that something was wrong, since he wasn’t on the immediate radar of the Executive office. His orders and objectives were filtered down though a layers of middle management and being off the radar was one of his primary goals.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Thompson mumbled to himself, “He knows, he knows. Ok, think.” Pounding his closed fists into his forehead failed to produce any meaningful results, although by some stroke of luck, the phone did stop ringing. With a hint of shock, Thompson turned his attention to the phone and quickly wondered if he had somehow adverted a crisis—this question was quickly answered as the red message waiting light illuminated.

“Mr. Thompson, please report immediately to Chief Executive’s Office,” the voice on the message calmly stated.

“I’m dead, I’m dead,” Thompson recited as he began the short walk up to the main workshop. “How did I get myself into this mess?”

But Thompson knew exactly how this all began. He replayed the last few weeks’ events in his head like a movie on a continuous replay. He’d first seen Cheri while crossing the courtyard on a break. For Thompson, the moment their eyes met he felt an instant connection. He later discovered from his obsessive research that she was in the transportation trainee program and new to the area. Thompson soon spent every free moment peering out windows or walking through the yard with the hope of catching a glimpse of his new found soul mate.

As he climbed the final flight of steps, he settled on the moment when he knew everything began to spin out of control. It was one of those damn jewelry commercials he saw late one night, where the couple wakes up on Christmas morning together and expresses their love with a wonderful new diamond bracelet. Thompson knew their work schedule would prevent this from taking place, but he felt an overwhelming desire to show his true love the extent of his affection in some manner.

“You can go in,” the admin said as Thompson entered the waiting room, “He’s expecting you”.

Thompson sensed a smirk on the corner of her mouth as she said this. He tentatively tapped on the slightly ajar heavy oak door with his knuckles.

“Mr. Cringle, its Thompson.” He said as he stepped onto the plush red and white carpet.

“Have a seat son.” Santa said with a deep and caring tone of his baritone voice.

Thompson did as instructed, jumping up into the high-back velvet green chair. His eyes quickly scanned the room at all the personal mementos that the Big Man kept in his office. Around the room were 100’s of framed letters from grateful children thanking him for their various presents, pictures of Santa with former Presidents and various Heads of State, along with his numerous gold medals from his participation in the Summer Olympic Games.

“Do you know why I’ve called you here?” Santa asked with a don’t bullshit me demeanor.

“I’m guessing it has to do with Cheri” Thompson stated.

“Damn right it has to do with Cheri,” Santa interrupted, as he lit and took a long drag off the one-hitter pipe resting in the corner of his mouth. “Haven’t I been very clear about the policies regarding North Pole relationships?”

“Yes sir.” Thompson relied in a hushed tone.

“So where in the hell do you get off trying to play meet me under the mistletoe with a trainee?” Santa asked.

“Sir, I didn’t mean for this to happen. You don't choose love; love chooses you.” Thompson explained in a manner that he thought his boss would understand.

“LOVE CHOSES YOU?” Santa screamed. “You think the cosmos of love decided it was a good idea for one of my elves to fall in love with one of my god damn reindeer? You think the cosmos decided an interspecies union is just what we all needed for the New Year?”

“But sir, it’s a matter of the heart,” Thompson interjected.

“It better be just a matter of the heart, because I had to physically restrain my stable manager from dragging you from behind his sled this morning when he found one of his reindeer in lingerie.” Santa screamed as his face matched the color of his Carhartt work shirt.

“It was just a gift,” Thompson stammered, “The relationship has never been consummated”.

“Consummated! Son, if I ever hear you are within 200 yards of one of my reindeer, I’m selling your ass to those tree dwelling, assembly line cookie making, mother fucking elves! You got that lover boy?” Santa asked.

Thompson just nodded his head as he tried to stop the tears from sliding down his cheeks.

“Now get your hormone riddled ass back to your desk and channel that energy into making those Lalaloopsy Silly Hair Baby Dolls. We’ve got orders to fill, a schedule to meet and little girls to make happy.” Santa demanded.

Thompson quickly scrambled off the chair and made a quick exit towards the door.

“And one more thing,” Santa reminded “Have a Merry Christmas”.

This week’s IndieInk Challenge came from Lisa, who gave me this prompt: You choose love; Love Chooses you. I challenged Kurt with the prompt "You use the same wrapping paper for your bosses gift and a "Naughty" gift for your mate. As your boss is about to open the gift, you're not sure that you didn't mix up the packages.

The Waning Sun

noreply@blogger.com (Gus) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 21:10:00 +0000

Part of Indie Ink's Writer's Challenge

You can do it-- just a few more feet. Just a few more feet over a distant tree line, the sun will melt into a sky of orange, and this day will be complete. Just a few more feet and MY day can begin.

The waning of the sun signals my retreat from society ushered in with the nocturnal ritual of “shutting it down”. My unspoken obligation to participate as a contributing member of society is complete. The rules, etiquette, and norms agreed to by the collective can now be replaced by the wishes of the limited. For these few hours, the wishes and wants of the individual can be explored and exploited without the disruptive requests of the outside multitudes. Inside the darkness exists an opportunity for autonomy.

The waning of the sun is a time for sharing. 10-12 hours of frenzied energy can be distilled into a few prominent points worthy of the attention of another. This sacred sharing of little lessons collected via the successes or failures of the day light hours, so that the journey doesn’t have to be made in isolation.

The waning of the sun provides a slice of consistency from home, as I step off this airplane and prepare to make my temporary home in whatever city I find myself today.

The waning of the sun signals the official transition point in the day from the US to the MINE. Slowly the shackles of work are powered down and the lists of household responsibilities are crossed off. The balance of a day is then focused on a form of self-southing, supplied inside a world provided by Mr. Woody Allen.

The waning of the sun signals a finish line of the day. The aspirations formulated with the rising of the sun are now either reflected on as accomplishments as a result of our focus or failures from our distractions. However the list is chronicled, the only remaining objective is to once again see the morning light and try it again…….

This week’s IndieInk Challenge came from Liz Culver, who gave me this prompt: The Waning Sun. I challenged Kelly Garriott Waite with the prompt "There better be a good reason for a half eaten cupcake, an orange sock and a torn paper with A37-2 to be in my car's glovebox

THE PLAGUE OF BLACK FRIDAY

noreply@blogger.com (Gus) — Sun, 27 Nov 2011 19:14:00 +0000

Submission for IndieInk's weekly writers challenge.

“There’s no way in hell!” Aimee said emphatically.

“You’re my sister; it’s your moral obligation to say yes.” Lucy answered.

“The only obligation that qualifies me for 3:30 AM participation involves a scenario where you are trapped in the trunk of a car after you’ve been abducted.” Aimee said.

“What if I was arrested and sitting in jail?” Lucy questioned.

“That one could wait until at least 7 AM.” Aimee replied.

“You would make me sit in a cold and dirty cinder block cell for three and a half hours, for the sake of an uninterrupted night of sleep?” Lucy pressed.

“Lucy, it’s not the 1920’s and the county no longer fashions jail cells out of cinder blocks.” Aimee reasoned.
“Secondly, letting you sit for a little while you consider you’ve done will build character and I don’t want to deprive you of this time of self-reflection at the expense of my final REM cycle. On the bright side, I would have one of those Pumpkin Lattes waiting for you in the car for the ride home.”

“What if I promise to wait until at least 7 AM for any future bail posting needs and you agree to go with me tomorrow morning?” Lucy negotiated.

“No.” Aimee replied.

“Come on, where is your sense of adventure?” Lucy said.

“My adventure has been suppressed by the cold and wet forecast. Why can’t you just shop online like normal well-adjusted employed members of society?” Aimee questioned.

“Because I’ve thought of the perfect gift for Jimmy, but I can’t really afford it without the 30% door buster gift cards they are handing out.” Lucy said.

“For Jimmy?” Aimee asked in a confused tone. “You’re dragging me into the belly of retail hell for a guy that you are planning to break up with after New Year’s Eve?”

“I said I might break up with him after New Year’s,” Lucy reminded “and this gift is so perfect for him.”

“I’m sure he already has the Call of Duty voice activated wireless headset.” She said.

“He does, but this is much better. I found a Malachite and Amber medallion made out of Mother of Pearl in the shape of a Star.” She said.

“What is the poster boy for arrested development going to do with that?” Aimee wondered aloud.

“He told me all about the minerals healing powers.” Lucy explained.

“You’re fucking with me! What healing powers could a piece of mass produced Malachite provide? Are you seriously taking New Age healing advice from a guy with Justice League bed sheets?” Aimee said.

“Aimee, you’re not being fair and they weren’t Justice League bed sheets. You are thinking of his pair of red and blue house shoes with the Superman “S” on them.” Lucy reminded, as she tried to highlight the distinction.

“Yet, you still decided go on sleeping with him.” Aimee relied with a chuckle.

“They were kind of cute.” Lucy confessed.

“Cute in a freshman year crush kind of way or cute in a fixer up-I see potential kind of way?” Aimee asked.

“Even if this magical power stuff is bull shit, what can it hurt?” Lucy said in an effort to refocus the conversation. “Chalk it up to another talisman in the long line of self-healing items sold every day by everyone from the shady magnet bracelet guys at mall kiosks to the officially blessed gift shop items located at the Vatican.”

“However, in each of those cases, I don’t have to wake up early on my day off to act as an accessory in the continuation of their brand of psychosis. I prefer endorse bat shit crazy causes that operate during more civilized hours.” Aimee said.

“Enough fighting, you’re going.” Lucy declared.

“Sorry sis, it’s not going to happen.” Aimee replied in a tone to match her unwavering stance.

“Either I’m picking you up at 3:15 for a pre-dawn morning bonding adventure,” Lucy explained, “or I’m registering you as a Chapter Founder and member of The Guilty Remnant—along with a special request for a personal home visit to receive personalized guidance.”

“Oh…you suck!” Aimee responded with a hint of pride in her sister’s resourcefulness.

“See in you in a little bit, Sunshine. I’ll bring the lattés.” Lucy said.

“Bet your ass you will.” Aimee muttered as she hung up the phone with a grin.

This week’s IndieInk Challenge came from Grace O'Malley, who gave me this prompt: Malachite and amber, mother of pearl and stars. I challenged Lisa with the prompt Oh Shit…this is going to hurt.

A little something new for everyone

noreply@blogger.com (Gus) — Thu, 17 Feb 2011 23:09:00 +0000

This is a GUS original and the first attempt at movies.

A little movie for your enjoyment. Makes me laugh.

2010 Winter Olympics Hand Guide

noreply@blogger.com (Gus) — Fri, 12 Feb 2010 22:50:00 +0000

Smothered! I’m being smothered by the Winter Olympics. I don't need to be caught in an actual avalanche of cascading snow, instead I've been overwhelmed with imagery. The marketing saturation is complete.

Mission accomplished Madison Avenue. You've successfully followed the roadmap of the Tootsie Roll campaign and everywhere I look I see five intertwined rings and hear that “waiting room to hell” music provided by John Tesh.

I tried to resist these external forces and my intentions are always to stay out of it, but it’s just not possible. My house is infected with Olympic fever and I worry it could eat away at me like the locust do our trees on their scheduled path of destruction.

Unfortunately, I do have respect for what these athletes put into their preparation and the danger that many of the events hold. Unlike the Miss America pageant, I don’t feel comfortable wishing for someone to fall off the stage or trip on their evening gown for my personal amusement. People could die while propelling themselves down the face of a mountain, I get that.

Since I’m not an Olympic purest, I’m basically watching with a rooting interest in my home country. In the past I’ve tried to become better informed and learn something about the teams that might be interesting (

Lithuania

in 1994) to cheer for or taken a genealogical approach and cheer for the country of my ancestors. No matter the choice, both left me longing for the end of the games and normalcy to resume.

I’m too young to remember the true country rivalries between

Germany

and the World in the 40s or the

vs.

USSR

in the 80s. These were times where the Olympics were more than a game, but a commentary on the fundamental believes of a society.

In the absence of a true rivalry, I’m creating a cheat sheet for everyone who wants a little help when watching non-US games. My approach is borrowed from the uninformed March Madness Tournament pool participant that watches zero college games but thinks they can beat the system. My selection is based solely on ascetic profiling of their country’s flag and translating that idea onto their country as a whole.

Flags that Suck = Counties that Suck:

Japan

—A country with a rich history of Samurai Warriors should have something more menacing than a flag that looks like a gunshot exit wound. Shame on you and your ancestors.

Libya- Come on

Libya

, this flag says “We're not really trying.” You put in the minimum effort. Since white is the flag of surrender, you pick green? Your lack of originality shows a lack of commitment, only to be displayed on the filed of play.

Palua- Your flag looks incomplete, like you were going for a nice sunshine against a clear blue sky or possible a happy face? This effort shows a lack of planning and focus. No gold medals for you, just sad faces.

St. Peirre and Miquelon- When your country has a name as pretentious as St. Peirre and Miquelon you don’t need to over do you flag with a picture of your boat, family crests and royal lineage. Come on StP & M, your better than that—less is more. Even OchoCinco thinks this is a little over the top and you don't want to know what John Mayer said about you. Let your results speak for themselves.

Flags the Style = Countries with Style:

Norfolk Island- I like the Norfolk flag. These people know who they are and are proud of their surroundings. The didn’t go with crazy color combinations, but stuck to their theme. Focus like this will be rewarded with a bronze medal.

Nepal

– Here is a country that that represented their rocky landscape with an appropriate geometric shape, while also symbolizing their transition into a new day from the overbearing pricks known as the Chinese. I predict a silver in some kind of snow boarding event.

Guam- Guam has the greatest all around flag of all time. It’s clear, without being overstated “We’ve got paradise everyday of the year”. The medal count isn’t important, they are going home to the beach.

Isle of Man- This is the greatest Olympic flag I’ve ever seen and I am 100% behind the Isle of Man winning every freaking gold medal. To design and approve a national flags that’s motto could be “Busier than a three legged man in an ass whipping contest” shows really balls. Big national balls, the kind that must sound like cannons exploding when they walk (metaphorically of course…as if an actual collection of citizens or a geographic location could move). This flag’s so high on the style meter that it supersedes the annoying fact that the country sounds like a all male review in Vegas and could be interpreted as a dance troop.

Today I can say with pride—I AM A MEMBER OF THE ISLE of MAN

**You too can play the home game of Your Flag and Your Country Suck. Just visit Cia.gov (who provided these flags) and pick your own set of global losers.

Relics

noreply@blogger.com (Gus) — Sun, 07 Feb 2010 18:25:00 +0000

Like many old relics that gradually migrate to some seldom used corner of a room and begin to collect dust after their careers have expired, my alarm clock’s time has passed. Without an examination of necessity or a conscious upgrade to an alternative solution, its service was unceremoniously displaced by the slap-slap-slap of little feet smacking against hardwood floors.

My days steadily transitioned from extended stretches of time casually flowing from one activity to another, to a controlled timeline that rewards precision and structure. It’s ironic that a life so heavily dependent on exactness no longer requires the trusted instrument of time that served for so many years as a daily starting pistol.

As my memory reached back into a time of casual weekend mornings, I tried to regain a portion of my yesterdays by introducing the snooze button concept to my new alarm clock.

Very early one morning I heard a soft voice, “Daddy, Daddy, I’m awake” from approximately 2.5 inches in front of my nose.

I responded with a mostly audible, “Son, it’s still the middle of the night” trying to convey enough legitimacy that the statement could be plausible. To a 2 year old, dark equates to the middle of the night and without his ability to read a clock, I felt that my explanation was believable.

“But I need you” whimpered my little friend with enough truth that I was compelled to investigate the degree of “need” and fulfill my paternal duty.

I seem to recall my relationship with the snooze button being much less complicated.

The shift from automated to personalized wake up has provided a welcome side effect that even my Soothing Sounds of Zen alarm failed to do for my morning disposition. My new 41 inch alarm clock does more than shove me from one state of consciousness to another; instead ushering in the pace for my awaking.

My morning schedule now includes a daily appointment for Boy’s Club- a quiet time comprised of silent bonding on a comfortable couch or chair, while we enjoy a beverage and watch the sunrise over the distant tree line. The rules of Boy’s Club are simple and sacred: Keep the light, the distractions and the fussing to a minimum (a rule applicable to all members). This session lasts until all internal systems have a chance to activate and we are prepared to introduce additional stimulus into our day.

I’ve come to appreciate and look forward to the personal nature of this morning ritual. I just wish there was a setting on my new alarm clock prohibiting any notification before 5:30 am.

Scenes from a Kitchen

noreply@blogger.com (Gus) — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 02:18:00 +0000

ID: I was thinking of submitting it in that writing contest.

EGO: You should, it’s good.

ID: I’m not sure they’ll get it.

EGO: They will... its fine.

ID: Is it fine or is it good? You said it was good.

EGO: It’s both, it’s very clean.

ID: Clean? Because I didn’t include elevator based humping jokes?
EGO: Precisely!

ID: They say that I have to submit it under humor or human interest.
EGO: What’s the difference?

ID: Humor brings out the HA-HA. Human Emotion evokes an emotional response.
EGO: Well, what do you think?

ID: I think it contains an ideal balance of philosophical funny.
EGO: I wouldn’t do humor.

ID: You don’t think it’s funny do you?
EGO: I think it’s clever.

ID: Well did it evoke a deep emotion reaction.
EGO: In what way?

ID: Did it make you question your own existence or role in the universe?
EGO: I thought it was very clever.

ID: This would be a lot easier if they had a category for wise ass.

Oh, good morning Mr. Tyler……

noreply@blogger.com (Gus) — Sat, 30 Jan 2010 14:49:00 +0000

I am equal parts captivated and confused by the thought process of other people. It’s the week to week real life interactions that make me question “What the fuck are these people thinking”. At a recent conference, I encounter another example of dubious social norms that further confirmed reality is better than fiction.

Late one evening I joined an unfamiliar group of conference attendees at the 2^nd floor elevator bay, each of us awaiting our final carriage of the evening. Maybe it was the long day of back to back industry sessions, marginal food served in rows of chaffing dishes or too many draft beers at the mixer that made the wait seem extensive. As the small UP arrow activated and sounded a small audible “ding” the doors opened to reveal an half dressed couple who had found a way to send a bland day out with a bang. This was a first for me. Since there isn’t an iPhone app that provides the proper social response when you encounter a middle aged woman giving head in an elevator, so I had to play this by instinct.

As the breath was sucked out of the group, some turned away as the rest of us tried to process what was transpiring. As the couple glanced back at us with a mixture annoyance and impatience, an invisible 10 second clock started the count down for these doors to be closed. My mind started to race through the options available with the current situation and my desire to make it to the 14^th floor.

- Does this couple have some expectation to privacy that trumps our need for publicly available transportation?

- Is there some kind of man code that takes precedence in these situations?

- Who, if anyone, bares the burden of embarrassment in this situation?

- Who should try to make the other party feel at ease?

- Was it overwhelming passion that dictated this current location or was this space selected because they are ok with public blow jobs? There seems to be room on the other side.

- Do you think she would reconsider this hook up with the knowledge that he’s wearing knee high socks, now plainly visible with his pants around his ankles?

As the questions and seconds ticked through my head and without additional debate, my desire to make it to my room propelled me into the other side of the elevator. As I turned around to face the front of the elevator, per social dictum, I saw the shocked look on the 5 faces staring at me. It’s not as if I dropped my pants and got in line to be serviced next or smacked the guy on the ass with a kink to say “Nice work partner”. I want to go to my room. I patiently waited for the elevator that these two chose for foreplay, so let’s all continue with our evenings.

The ride up 12 floors was nothing to write to Penthouse Forum about. I tried to keep my eyes on the ascending numbers and no small talk took place. I did sense a degree of tension in the elevator, but isn’t there always a little awkwardness when 66% or a group have exposed genitals? I’m not sure what the right thing to say would be and honestly my mind went blank as my inner wise-ass just soaked up the moment. As I made it back to my room and started to brush my teeth I kicked myself for not delivering a comment like “$10 for whoever gets off first”.

Who says passion in America is dead?

New Years Resolution

noreply@blogger.com (Gus) — Sun, 24 Jan 2010 23:35:00 +0000

More like a delayed reaction resolution. Technically I guess it would be classified as a semi-resolved, loosely held objective, only to be accomplished with divine intervention or extended trips to remote places in Georgia.

What is it-- WRITE IN 2010.

If anyone was around for the 2008 Resolution I decided to slim down my areas of focus. Well last year, reading and investing were turned up and writing went to the wayside. This year, I’m going to lessen the investing (gambling driven) focus and try to find a creative center. As a side note, I did dump 99% of the talk radio and went to NPR or books on tape. I will say that was a positive turn in my psyche.

Anyone want to take the over/under on April 1st? I’ve giving 3:2 odds.

Die You Little Bastards

noreply@blogger.com (Gus) — Mon, 03 Aug 2009 02:52:00 +0000

One of my friends has cancer. I’m sure there is never a good time to get this news, but being young and having small children seems like the shittiest possible time to take this kind of challenge head on.

Anyways, I made the mistake of reading their update before I attempted to go to bed for the night, but only accomplished a mixture of cursing my pillow and making lists in my head.

The thing about a new disease is that sports metaphors surface as an analogy for the treatment. These metaphors might be needed to help us wrap our minds around an invisible “them” that only surfaces in test results or reports.

Since I have no medical knowledge and limited magical ability (none of which is applicable in this situation), I do have a suggestion that make the Man vs. Cancer easier to conceptualize….The Cancer needs a characterization. In sports, there is always a THEM.

In this case, since my friend is an OSU fan, I suggest that we call this cancer MICHIGAN. (I would call my cancer "Phil Collins" and I bet his wife would call her cancer "driving the speed limit")

Let the doctors use their fancy medical terms, we can show our support by saying:

“Hope you kick Michigan’s ass this week”

“Remember, only John Cooper let’s Michigan get him down”

“Yeah, Michigan does suck”

Again, I got nothing here of tangible value, just suggestions to kick around while your sitting in the hospital going through treatment. If there is any good news, this is not a great time for the state of Michigan or their famed football program. I guess if you have to fight Michigan, this is the time to do it. There is something to be said for good timing.

Since this is the extent of my contributions, I will just say “Good luck against Michigan this week!!!!”

Holy Shit

noreply@blogger.com (Gus) — Wed, 24 Dec 2008 02:00:00 +0000

Do you ever have one of those moments where two separate and seemingly benign events merge in your head, creating a juxtaposition that makes the world a little bit clearer? I had one of these moments yesterday as an outcome of the most unlikely of daily chores--- a dirty diaper.
For those of you that are in the process of snacking and are members of the Too Much Bodily Information Society (my old crew), I’ll sanitize this version and only say that my boy Q had a blowout. For the most part, blowouts are not that uncommon of events, but they still leave me in a state of shock when they turn up. Being an old pro at this daddy gig, I do my fatherly chore of ½ cleaning and ½ calf roping with the minimal level of swearing, while mixing in my rendition of Elmo’s world.

As we returned to the living room, I found my corner of the couch and Q returned to playing with his “Life in the Manger- Baby Jesus Action Figure Set”. As my head tipped back and I watched my boys replicate battle between the Wise Men and some random Smurf figures (yes, we add a few new adoring figures to compliment the set) my mind was flooded with some new Christmas questions:

Did Baby Jesus have monster blowouts that made Joseph look to the heavens in bewilderment?

Since Jesus was born long before Pampers, what did they use as diapers in 0 HN and what long term damage did these occurrences’ cause?(Speaking of which, what is the proper calendar reference for the time Jesus had taking the human form? It’s no longer B.C and not yet A.D. In the absence of an answer, I’ll just call it HN- Here Now).

Was a monster blowout the origin for the phrase JESUS CHRIST!!!!!?
This expression is quickly followed by the question—What is your mother feeding you?

Did Jesus ever get in trouble at family gathering for horseplay (camel play?) with his cousin John the Baptist?

Was it impossible to get the family together for holiday gatherings since John’s family was Baptist and celebrated Christmas, while Jesus’ family was Jewish and observed Hanukah?

Did Jesus ever feel resentful that only got presents once a year- Birthday and Christmas on the same day? I think this might have been overshadowed by the fact that his biological father sent him to be beaten, dragged through street while being ridiculed and then nailed to a large wooden structure?

Did Mary ever have to have the following conversation when dealing with Jesus’ and his toddler siblings James or Jude?

"Push, Me” announces little James
“Who pushed you son? Asks his concerned mother.
“Jesus” replies a crying sibling.
“Jesus, what have I told you about doing unto others?”
“He took my sandal” Jesus explains.
“Come on son, you are the Prince of Peace. Stop shoving your brothers”

In retrospect, maybe these thoughts brought out more questions than revelations. I do feel a new bond with Joseph, as a member of some Dad’s Club. According to the tale, Jesus took the human form for his 33 years, so I guess the real moral to the story is that child rearing is difficult whether you are raising the Messiah or your own brood. In the end, everyone has to deal with some degree of Shit!

WHAT DID I MISS?

noreply@blogger.com (Gus) — Fri, 18 Jul 2008 00:56:00 +0000

Where the Hell have you been?

Ok, Ok. I’ll admit that I’ve most likely violated some level of implied pact between writer and reader. In said relationship, I agree to write things that are humorous and in general don’t suck, while you dear reader are morally obligated to faithfully read each essay with a sense of amusement while withholding any comment about my many typographical errors.

Over the past few months I’ve frequently heard the question, “Why aren’t you writing?” This is a fair question and I’ve attempted to answer it myself. From time to time I’ve even found myself checking this site myself, hoping to see something new posted. I too feel a little twinge of disappointment when I have to see the same old Mother’s Day Card Post. (It doesn’t escape me that this is totally irrational behavior since I am the sole contributor to this site, yet it has happened multiple times). On the surface, I wasn’t writing anything fresh. But there was a deeper subconscious reason that I came to realize my lack of writing.

The real reason I haven’t been posting……….. I didn’t want to die!!!!!!!

I read an article a few months ago about technology Bloggers who were keeling over dead from the continuous stress of posting. Not from mainlining heroin or eating too much of that delicious port wine cheese spread….from blogging. I lay in bed at night wondering:

Can Blogs Kill?

I’d heard that Woodie’s guitar killed fascists and the pen was mightier than the sword, but were blogs a loaded gun pointed at a writers head? What have I gotten myself into?

As the winter weather broke into spring, I closed my laptop and decided to refill the place in my head where good writing originates. Since then, I’ve been spending my free time either reading and studying, trying to see things from a different perspective. For the first three quarters of my life, I’ve measured years on a rolling calendar of August to June. The few summer months in between were used to slow down and look around (sage advice borrowed from Mr. Ferris Bueller), take a swim and read about whatever interested me for that day. My calendar is now synced with Corporate America, which runs on a calendar of budget cycle to budget cycle without a break for individual discovery. This summer, I’m trying to relive that summer of investigation.

Then a few days ago, I heard a news report about an 108 year old blogger. Like the previous bloggers, she had also assumed room temperature. Making it to 108 made me wonder if blogging was the death sentence that I earlier suspected. Up to this point I’d never heard of Ms. Olive or her site. With no previous frame of reference I’m left to wonder if her long life was a by product of her dedicated blogging, her strong genetic constitution, or maybe the fact that she was writing geriatric erotica while maintaining a diet high in vegemite. Whatever her secret to a long life was, she made it to 108 and I began looking for the right time to revive the WhiteBoard.

Just as my search began for a sign, the universe complied.

For my money, there is no better spectator entertainment than human acts of vanity gone wrong…..well, other than police car chases broadcast live from a news helicopter.

My sole purpose for watching pageants, award shows or high school plays is to see someone trip and fall down. It is not that I wish life altering harm to anyone; I just want to see how they are going to react when the unexpected happens. I take full responsibility for this deviant joy and fully expect the karma of the universe to extract revenge at some point in my life. This is why I try to be very mindful of being in front of large groups. In my heart I know someone, somewhere is silently wishing “Fall, Fall, Fall”. Judge if you wish, but what is your reaction when you see this? (If you are using a reader, you have to visit the site for full effect)

I got you universe----I’m getting back to it.

OPEN NOTE TO HOLLYWOOD:

If there were some way to combine police chases and people falling, I would be hooked. I don’t think I’m the only one. I believe there is an untapped demographic of reality/trauma based viewer that is willing to invest more of their leisure time given the right opportunity. And by the way, if there is any way you could sprinkle in trivia questions or those little factoid bubbles from VH-1’s Pop Up Video, I might never leave the house again.

The Perfect Card

noreply@blogger.com (Gus) — Sun, 11 May 2008 14:48:00 +0000

I'm always ready for a good quest. By quest I mean any expiditon that doesn't involve extended time (read--more than 15 mintues) inside a major retail establishment, require me to speak with more than 3 people in a 12 hour peroid of time, or any activity that might require shaving or a tie. Yeah, I love a good quest.

This week, I decided to put Hallmark’s reputation to the test and to see if they really did have a greeting card for any occasion. With Mother’s day around the corner, I was in search of the perfect card to say “ To my wife--in spite of it almost killing you (literally) twice, thanks for the two great boys and have a Happy Mother’s Day”. I figured there must be one or two card options with colorful, non-cartoon options, out there for just this type of circumstance.

As I was reading though the available cards, I was distracted by the message printed on a light coral green card displayed in the Mother’s Day Card section. “To My Dad’s Wife, Thanks for Making Dad so Happy”. It took a minute for my mind to digest this statement. I needed a minute to analyze the situation,“If it’s Dad’s wife, wouldn’t that be their Mom…ah, step-mom…oh, step-mom that is not highly regarded…ah ha, welcome to reality”.

I was then distracted by one of the boys or some shiny object inside the store, so I failed to look inside the card to see the rest of the greeting. Ever since then, I’ve been creating my own insert to the card. Here are a few of the possible options:

To My Dad’s Wife, Thanks for Making Dad so Happy…..

… I’m still not going to call you Mom.

… It’s still creepy that your 10 years younger than me.

… FYI, a bikini top is not acceptable to wear to a 5 year-old’s birthday party (did you notice the absence of a pool).

… But please stop telling people we look alike.

… Although I still think you are a gold digging bitch.

I never did find the card for my wife that I was looking for, so I instead opted to focus on a more traditional card to express my love while apologizing for wrecking cars. It’s always harder around the holidays to be on the fringe of the general population.

Happy Mother’s Day to everyone who played the role of human incubation machine.

Back and Refreshed??

noreply@blogger.com (Gus) — Wed, 07 May 2008 01:12:00 +0000

I have a very clear memory of being 9 years old and wondering if I would always have to vacation with my parents or if I would someday take a trip on my own. At the age of 9, I had financial standing, no ability to venture beyond the limited distances available to my BMX, and no idea where the roads lead beyond my town. As I sat in our southbound van, I tried to understand how grown ups knew where to go, what to do, and questioned whether I would someday be able to travel independent of them.

As I grew older, I found a source of income and discovered where the roads lead…..to adulthood. I can officially say that I’ve completed my first vacation where I served as one of the “Adults”. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve traveled a lot since turning 18, but the trips were never as structured or choreographed as the family vacation, where I’m playing the role of the Dad. Trips to this point consisted of a duffle bag of random clothes, a search for a truck stop when hungry, and filling a day of napping, reading and drinking a beer or two. Oh, how the agenda has changed.

On this trip, I was able to spend quality time with the family and show the boys the ocean as I had planned. We were also able to see the sunset on the beach a few times and I witnessed my first shooting star while sitting outside watching the stars come on in the sky. My little Q slowly discovered that I was correct in my warning not to eat the sand, but not until he had his second handful. My objective of reading multiple books was reduced to my week long attempt to finish one Rolling Stone Magazine in between the coming and going of events.

Deep down, I wanted to use this hiatus as a time to listen to what the universe was trying to tell me. I was able to do this and the message that I heard was “NEVER BUY A MINI-VAN”. That’s right, the universe and some higher power is anti Mini-Vans. The great Mini-Van debate has been raging in our house for some time now. We decided to test drive the idea (see what I did there?) and see how family mobile would work while on vacation. Captaining the Mini-Vessel was OK up to the point that I crashed the damn thing while trying to make a right hand turn on Tampa’s illogical, non-liner street system. (Side note: Never utter the phrase “I’m the greatest driver ever”, because you too could end up getting a ticket within 12 minutes. The universe does have a since of humor).

The damage was limited to the front section of the bright red chick magnet, so a little glue + amateur car repair on the front light allowed us to drive the dream machine home. It’s looked like something out of “Pimp my Ride” in an alternate reality where masking tape is the new chrome. I guess if I’m truly listening to the Universe, it also doesn’t want me to own a Lexus—since that is what I hit.

As I drove home in the wee hours of the morning, the vacation turned into a weeklong blur of feedings, changing, baths, and the other normal events of life that don’t go away just because you are sleeping on someone else’s sheets. What stood out were the little moments of ice cream cone runs after dinner, sitting outside under a blanket in the dark, the phrase “there is sand on my toe” uttered 100 times by a little mouth, and the enduring knowledge that these car seats are headed for a Jeep.

It’s time to start resting for the next vacation.

Spring Break

noreply@blogger.com (Gus) — Sun, 13 Apr 2008 13:01:00 +0000

Prompted from a lunch conversation over Gyros, this little blog is quickly approaching it’s 6-month anniversary and ready to celebrate it’s 1300 hits. I’ve been thinking about the appropriate way to celebrate this occurrence and I’ve decided to take the New Years Eve approach—small noise maker followed by some much needed sleep.

I’m taking a mini-sabbatical for the next few weeks to read a few books, teach the kids about sand, and show them the ocean in person. Also, I want to collect my thoughts and see what builds up in my head. I have an illogical optimism about these types of grand results.

When I opened up my Time Magazine to find 100 of the most likely candidates for the PERSON OF THE YEAR award, I was a little shocked not to find my picture. Not that I’ve done anything globally noteworthy, but it would be nice to be nominated. This is the same type of surprise that I experience each year as I’m watching the NBA draft and I’m not selected. I’ve got good floor awareness, I can defend the back door cut, and the Knicks can’t get any worse. I could help.

Anyway, I’m taking a little break from the world of online publishing. If you haven’t already subscribed with and RSS Reader or via Email, now is a good time so you don’t miss anything in early May.

PEACE!!!!!

ps—TIME is taking nominations for new candidates.

Believe in Magic

noreply@blogger.com (Gus) — Tue, 08 Apr 2008 17:07:00 +0000

Today I have a previously unpublished essay entitled HOUSE OF MAGIC posted on Indie Ink. The essay is a flushed out idea based on an earlier Thought Nugget. Stop over and take a look. Hope you enjoy.

Can I Follow You?

noreply@blogger.com (Gus) — Fri, 28 Mar 2008 01:50:00 +0000

One of my roles of being a good husband is to spend family time each week while American Idol is broadcast. As my sons dance with the people on TV and my wife provides her color commentary of each contestant (the female version of what happens when I’m watching Poker), I sit and watch marginally talented contestants sing classic songs based on their 90 second interpretations.

I’m not distressed by the amateur talent show quality of the event, but at the reaction of the audience that loses its mind for each performance, as if it really were the Beatles returning from the dead. These Idol fans will cheer for anyone, regardless of their talent level.

The compelling aspect that American Idol is missing is the authenticity of Showtime at the Apollo. Here is a show where a lack of talent will get a contestant booed off stage before they finish their act. The contestants know this coming into the event, so a marginal performance isn’t attempted. Eight Time Grammy Winner Lauren Hill was booed off the stage at age 13 during an amateur night performance. There was nothing polite about it, but the event is grounded in realism. (This reaction to performance followed Lauren Hill later in her life, when Bishop’s walk out during a performance at the Vatican because of editorial content, not her performing ability).

The practice of idolatry is a risky proposition. This behavior can be downright dangerous if you choice to idolize anyone that is still living. Yet, popular culture is rooted in the elevation of individual to mythic proportions, only to await the documentation of their Icarucs like fall back to reality when their true self doesn’t match the public perception that is created. As a safety precaution, the practice of idol worship should be abandoned as a step in the maturation process from childhood to adult—similar to the belief in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, Social Security or The saving grace of Organized Religion.

The other show that I can’t stop watching is the Moment of Truth, where a contestant is enticed to reveal embarrassing and potentially damaging information in front of loved ones for opportunity to win easy money. The show works because it tears down the unspoken believe of goodness that one person has for their spouse. Relationships work not just because of the things we know about our partners, but also those things that we believe to be true. We want to believe that they are honest, trust worthy and think we look good when we are rolling through the house in our sweat pants and uncombed heads. This show destroys the façade that we are always idolized by our family, just because they are a member of our family.

I too know that I too am susceptible to Idol worship, so I shy aware from meeting those people that I might put on a platform. This caution started when I was when I was in elementary school and saw Huckleberry Hound holding his Huckleberry Head while smoking a cigarette at King’s Island. The seeds questioning authenticity were planted. These seeds matured with an epiphany while at church. I was in the church gym on a weekday and heard something in the sanctuary. When I investigated, I saw the Preacher practicing his sermon for Sunday—- a verbatim delivery of what I would hear Sunday. Up to this point, I didn’t realize that church was a production, just like any other stage show with actors that played a part. Sunday mornings were never the same after that week. The pageantry and spirituality of church melted away and the operational machine of a performance was now visible, like a fog burning off to show the city on the horizon.

So it began-- my fear that the people I look up to in some manner are indeed human and could really be assholes in real life. I decided in most cases, it was better not to know the real person. What would happen if I met Coach K and he had a tremendous case of body odor that created a sensory memory that surfaced every time they were on TV? What if I accepted an outstanding offer to meet Mike Ness (front man for Social Distortion) before a show and as I enter his dressing room I found him watching Fox News, with Genesis playing in the background, as he is getting a cucumber detox face peel?

This is not to disapprovingly characterize those with life altering BO or anyone who likes wrinkle free skin (but you do need to check yourself if you are listening to Fox News or Genesis) they just don’t fit into my vision of what my Idols are about. I’m sure it’s similar to the shock experienced by legions of Anne Rice’s Goth followers when she revealed that she became a born again Christian and no longer subscribed to the world of vampires. But in my world, I want my aging Punk Icons to be a little cantankerous and not in search of a good skin treatment.

Adventures of a Lost Boy

noreply@blogger.com (Gus) — Sat, 22 Mar 2008 15:17:00 +0000

I assumed the fetal position when I returned home from my first workout in six years. I quietly thought to myself, “Honestly, I use to be in shape. I have photographic evidence to prove it”. As I lay very still, I scanned my mind for the time in my life when working out was a staple of my daily routine. This was a long ago time when I was a card carrying member of the Peter Pan Society, where I refused to leave the halls of the closest academic institution that would have me. Since entering the “Real World”, I’ve allowed time to my muscles to enter a stage of atrophy, as I divided my days between a mix of office cubes and non-descript conference rooms—keeping time to the Tic-Tock Crock.

As the weather starts to break, I decided that it’s time to begin my delayed New Year’s Resolution. The first step in this physiological transformation is the reintroduction of physical exertion into my daily life as a planned activity. During the hibernating months of winter, I am comfortable living under the delusion that playing basketball once a week is adequate fitness (this delusion also allows me to believe that I can still compete in a game of hoops with guys younger than me). However, my current physical condition is not reflective of the term “in shape” so, it’s time to begin the springtime metamorphous.

Much like Peter’s return to Neverland, my return to the gym was different than I remembered. The contrast from my days of working out on a college campus in between classes and the world of suburbia took some adjustment.

Rules of the New World-

#1 Good Morning Captain Hook- You have to win the internal debate to get out of bed when the alarm clock goes off. It’s early, it’s cold and every muscle is still asleep. Step One- Feet on the floor. My optimal time of day is late morning, about 10:17 am. If you want to really get the most out of me, you should schedule this time. Unfortunately, the only time that is available in my schedule is 5:30-7:00 am, so I’m forced to rise with those people that have paper routes. This small accomplishment of being vertical will set the tone for the day. Get up, get out, get moving.

#2 Think Big Picture- The first day that I reached the fitness center, I caught myself circling the lot looking for a space closer to the door. If you’re going to get up and go work out, eliminating extra steps to the door is counterproductive. I became hard to rationalize looking for a closer space when I was paying to wake up early and travel to a place where I was going to simulate walking on a stationary devise. (The only exception to this rule is rain—there is never a reason to be wet in the rain) I was a little shocked that I wasn’t the only car in the parking lot, which leads me to #3.

#3 The 80 year old crowd dominates the morning- When you work out early, there are old people everywhere. I thought old people needed their sleep. Is this why they are eating dinner early in the evening? I half expected to see Steve Guttenburg leading a water aerobic class for his fellow Cocoon cast mates. When the bars close at 2:30 am, is this when the old timers come out to play? It’s not entirely awful working out with the older crowd, since they tend to stay on the machines and leave the free weight area for me to be alone. But there are dangers.

#4 I was crop dusted by an old woman- I was sitting on a flat bench, resting between sets, when an grey haired woman in a purple jump suit wandered away from the world of circuit machines and into my world of free weights. Instead of picking any other part of the vacant area, she chose to use the bench next to me to perform her tricep kick-backs. As I resumed my chest presses, I’m suddenly engulfed in the distinct odor of decay. Only two possibilities came to mind; either she is rotting before my eyes or this old bag just farted on me. I cut my set short and returned the weight to the rack as I wondered, “What’s happened to the respect of the elderly these days”?

#5- Coming to terms with your limits- It’s a daily battle between my ego and mind’s reality while working out. Questions like these arise: Is it more disgraceful to struggle while bench pressing 125 lbs or dropping 200 lbs on your chest and cracking your sternum? Should I sacrifice the form while performing bicep curls with the 30 lbs weights or use the small, purple plastic coated 15 lbs. dumbbells. My mind keeps arguing, “We used this weight the last time we worked out”, but idealism doesn’t make the weight move.

#6- Emphasis on Diet- The sudden expenditure of stored calories caused my body to seek replenishment in the tastiest manner possible. With each additional set, thoughts of Philly Cheese Steak or Fresh Glazed Doughnuts fill my mind. It’s critical to resist the urge to stop on the way home for a meal. Each food item must be equated to a workout event. Small French fry= 200 sit ups. I’ve also found that a diet of late night pizza and beer doesn’t enable successful workouts as it did in college. I now need to take some form of Protein supplement to repair my sore muscles or the top part of my hair will never be clean again.

After a few weeks in, the process of transformation is getting better and the incremental results serve as motivation for continued advancement. My expectations have shifted from the days of running with the other Lost Boys and finding constant adventures, to improving my overall health and impressing my darling “Wendy”.

Note to Myself next August

noreply@blogger.com (Gus) — Fri, 07 Mar 2008 20:03:00 +0000

Hombre (that's what I call myself),

I hope all is well with you and the family. Being as we are the same person, I’m sure you are a little unhinged by the fact that the temperature is hovering around 94 degrees on a daily basis. I can picture you mumbling to yourself about your certainty that the pavement is melting, while wondering how you ever purchased a vehicle without air conditioning. At a moment like this, I hope to provide a little perspective.

Remember back to early March when a seemingly nice weekend was altered by the delivery of 12-14 inches of snow? That’s right, the weekend where you had to shovel the drive-way multiple times while the wind blew snow down the neck of your jacket. Snow might sound romantic in the heat of the summer, but rarely does it fall casually to the ground in big flakes and melt the following morning as your ready to leave the house. In reality, snow is delivered from the heavens as if you’re inside a snow globe being shaken by a hyperactive 3 year old.

No matter how hot it is, you don’t have to shovel sunshine. The sun will go down at the end of the day, the temperature will fall as you drink a beer on the deck and you can start again tomorrow. This pile of snow in our driveway is not going anywhere. Take my advice, cheer up and enjoy some time in the climate controlled environment of your basement.

WINTER SUCKS!!!!!

Peace Out,

The good looking guy in the mirror.

PS. If you’re going to drink all the Bloody Mary Mix, replenish the supply. It's deflating to run out when you are a shut-in.

Can you cough up a lung?

noreply@blogger.com (Gus) — Tue, 26 Feb 2008 02:12:00 +0000

The cloud of sickness has finally receded from the corners of my head. I spent the majority of last week in a haze created by a cocktail of sinus tablets, cold and flu liquids and any losange that claimed to shorten the life cycle of any known virus. I hate being sick and I’m a terrible patient. I tend to walk around the house moaning, which makes be feel a little better but doesn’t do much for my homes inhabitants.

I had every intention of writing last week, but my view of the events around me must have been distorted by my medication.. Here is what I worked through last week:

Castro has resigned the Cuban Presidency so he can star in Latin version of MTV’s “Run’s House”. As long as I can remember, I’ve seen images of Castro in his Army Green Military suit that he adorns day in and day out. Now there is an announcement that he is retired and ever network carries footage of Fidel lounging in his red Adidas track suit (honestly, with a beard that stlyish, that could be me in 50 years). My mind swirled with the possibilities. Has Castro been rocking a pair of shell toe 3 stripe kicks with his military outfit all these years? When the US ends this silly trade embargo with Cuba, will Steven Tyler break down the symbolic wall with his microphone stand only to find Castro and Rick Rubin kicking back? I’m not sure when this new show will premier, but I look forward to Fidel’s sitting in a bathtub, chomping on a cigar, sending a text message to Elián Gonzalez with the weeks highlights—I love a good reality show.

It’s possible I hooked up with Hilary Clinton. This is a possibility that I can’t defiantly deny with any certainty, but I'm definitely getting the wrath of a scorned woman. For the last week, Hilary has been calling my house every other day and she sounds PISSED OFF. For the most part, I’ve been too weak to rush around the house to answer the phone, so I voicemail do it’s thing. Repeatedly, I would hear the faint screeching of Hilary’s voice coming from the other room, as she left a 3-4 minute message. I’m not sure where this interaction took place, but I know she has been criss-crossing Ohio and NyQuil puts my head in such a fuzz that I can’t account for all my time last week. To put some closure to this matter-- Hilary, whatever happened, whatever I promised, I’m sorry and didn’t mean it (just like your position on Free Trade).

The US Military destroyed a falling satellite with a missile, possibly with Bruce Willis as commander. I was shocked to find out that Bruce Willis was capable of producing a hit, but I’m more concerned with the thousands of pieces of falling debris that are on their way to Earth. The news reports attempted to project a reassuring tone, stating that the shrapnel chunks were less than the size of a football. A softball meets that size criteria and I don’t want a softball hitting anywhere around me at the speed of a gravity. There is no prediction as to the location of these pieces of metal, but the hope is that most will fall into the ocean. As I sucked on a Halls drop I thought, “It would suck if you were going out to sea on a cruise, decided to lay out on the deck for a little winter tan, only to be struck by a sharp piece of metal falling out of the sky”. Hey NASA, can I at least get a date range for falling metal so I’ll know if I should keep the top on my Jeep? It would be nice to plan for the days when these items will be re-entering the atmosphere, so that I can make sure the thin canvas top will be available to provide a little resistance as I’m assaulted from the heavens?

At last, I’m happy to report that I’m feeling much better and my dependency on gel caps is gone. I can once again return to my station in life.

Open Note to Cube Dwellers

noreply@blogger.com (Gus) — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 03:00:00 +0000

I’m disturbed by co-workers that have framed Star Wars & Star Trek posters in their cubes. In my mind, framed posters translate to rooms at home dedicated to action figures, most likely arranged to recreate a scene from the movie, which leads to full size costumes in the closet and role play games with their significant other (assuming they’ve convenience someone else to get naked with them).

I get the appeal. I’ve seen the movies, I enjoyed them……….when I was 12. Princess Leah was hot and who doesn’t want to manipulate others with their mind. But growing up means putting aside childhood delusions: The Force, The Easter Bunny, Social Security.

Attention Cube Dwellers “Keep your freaky fetishes at home. It’s impossible to take anything you are saying seriously when I have to stare at Luke Skywalker talking to a 900 year old green dwarf or read a list of the Top 10 Things You Learned Watching Star Trek”. As a general rule of thumb, if you are in the process of making a living, keep your freak flag at half mast. Attend conventions during your vacations, name your kids Aniken or Kirk, just please, keep this crap out of the office so I can go about my boring ass day without the confirmation that I’m working with adult sized bed-wetters.

4 Things I Don’t Understand

noreply@blogger.com (Gus) — Mon, 11 Feb 2008 02:41:00 +0000

1. Do I have a magic refrigerator? I bought a 12 pack of Miller Lite months ago. By my estimation, I’ve finished this 12 pack at least twice. How can you drink a beer twice you ask? This is tough to do if you don’t posses a magic refrigerator like me. I’ve consumed or given the final Miller Lite away at least 3 times over the last two weeks, but I opened the door this evening to retrieve my trusty tub of humus, and sitting next to grapes was another Miller Lite. This feature wasn’t listed on the manufacture’s specs when we purchased the unit, or I would have been sure to buy the model that made Newcastle.

2. Why were Fergie and Carrie Underwood wearing a ring on the Grammy Awards that looked as if they won the Superbowl? Does Eli have some explaining to do?

3. Are the Grammy’s or Strip Clubs a better representative of popular music? I consider myself in plugged into today’s new music. I know the saga of Amy Whinehouse and all nominees for song and album of the year. This confidence was challenged when I found myself at a clear shoe fashion show a few weeks ago and had no idea what half the songs played during the exhibition. I was there with a youngster who was able to fill in the gaps of our game “Who the hell is this”. (The other indicator that I was the old guy in the club was my degree of fascination with the sound system and light show than the girls on stage). But as I sit and watch the Grammy’s, I know these bands. I know these songs. I would feel better about my pop culture IQ if I didn’t remember that the Grammy’s gave the best hard rock album to Jethro Tull instead of Metallica. Strip Clubs or Grammy’s—what’s the barometer.

4. What is it about John Lennon’s voice that can lower my blood pressure by 50 points?

Quench My Thirst

noreply@blogger.com (Gus) — Fri, 08 Feb 2008 03:12:00 +0000

I was sitting with my son last week, on a hard plastic table inside Sam’s club, awaiting the end of the checkout process. These idle times in life present little life lesson that I should pass along from father to son. His understanding of the world around him is evolving very quickly, so I try not to overload him with everything I want to teach him at the moment it flashes into my head. This form of self restraint causes me to keep a mental list of the things I need to teach him in the future. Addition to the list Item # 2018— When presented the option, the perfect beverage is always a Large Suicide, no Diet.

My head began to spin as I watched two high school kids purchase cups for the fountain drink and then proceed to the drink dispenser and only select Sierra Mist. “Just Sierra Mist”, I thought, “What’s happened to the creativity of today’s youth”? Does this lack of inventiveness stem from their repressive upbringing in a household that imposed a single beverage selection for consumption or is it their elders fault for their ignorance to the wonders of a flavor combination that is created with a Suicide Drink?

As we left the store, I began to crave a sugary drink that is now foreign to my sugar free world. Sugar and hyperactivity is for the young. I no longer have the enough energy to maintain the sugar high for 12 straight hours before the inevitable crash. My mind began to fill with the drinks of my youth and I present to you the definitive list of Soda Beverages:

Top 5 Ranking: Schweeepes Ginger Ale, Orange Crush, Squirt, Cherry 7-Up, & Dr. Pepper.

It’s not only sodas that have consumed my thoughts of late. Six years ago, my addictive personality discovered the wonder that is a Bloody Mary. I was in the ‘Ville for the weekend and felt a degree of shame as I ordered a beer at 11 am. Instead I decided to try an American Tailgate classic as my early morning beverage. My first drink provided a full bodied beverage with the perfect mix of spice, flavor and enough sodium to preserve my intestines for the remainder of the winter.

How can you not love a beverage that is garnished with a small side salad? I’ve had Bloody Mary’s with Celery stalks, olives, lemons, limes and once a dill pickle. At Mike Ditka’s in Chicago, they serve a Bloody “Mike” with a shrimp skewer that should be classified as an appetizer. I use to sample Bloody Mary’s wherever I went, rating each place on a comparable basis to the Eggplant Parmesan Scale. This experimenting stopped when I ventured into foreign lands and tried Toronto’s version—The Bloody Caesar. I was introduced to some repulsive red liquid called Clamato juice, which must be Canadian for “Tomatoes marinated with smelly feet”.

Even though my thoughts are filled with exotic beverages, I return to the reality that is my day to day intake. My consumption of Bloody Marys has subsided and have been replaced with a daily can of V-8 to address my tomato based habit (removing the liters of empty Vodka bottles from my recycling bin). So, I’ll settle for some reduced calorie (read flavor) Cola and save up my sugar credits for shots of Black Haus in the spring on the back porch.

January Thought Nuggets

noreply@blogger.com (Gus) — Thu, 31 Jan 2008 22:57:00 +0000

The finger is better, so I’ll attempt to catch up with a mind cleansing edition of random nuggets.

When I heard about the passing of Gordon Hinckley, head of the Church of Latter Day Saints, I was stuck with a pang of nostalgia. I remembered back to days when I was little and wished there were Latter Day Saints in my neighborhood that I could join. The appeal of this religious group wasn’t grounded in their approach to eternal life (for me and all my ancestors), instead their marketing campaign spoke to me about a better way of life. Initially, I would receive this colorful stamps in the mail (these were actually junk mail, but I always felt entitled to something since I got the mail) that I could use in my various childhood games of Army General or smaller version of Mr. Wizard. Then while watching TV, I saw what it meant to be a Latter Day Saint—Ice Cream and smiles. I always remember the commercials with old people and young people laughing and smiling, often eating an ice cream cone while playing outside with their dog. This commercial spoke to the areas of my life that defined my pursuits of happiness, so I wanted to join this magical organization. As I grew older, I learned that this imagery was just a façade and ice cream was a gateway drug into a life of Mormonism. So my search for happiness shifted to more obtainable pursuits. Not because I’m not opposed to Mormons, just “isms”.

All this talk about last weeks Fed Rate cut and whether or not there is a need to stimulate the economy got me thinking--Can you over stimulate the economy? What does an over stimulated economy look like? I would love to see an economic condition that mimics the hyperactive ramblings of Katlin from SNL. Shouldn’t we strive for this level of energy and enthusiasm on Wall Street? As an ancillary benefit, we would get to see a conversation between Katlin and Jim Cramer from Mad Money discussing the Financial Service Sector and the impact that the Euro is having in the Asian markets.

I’m willing to take a shift on Brittany suicide watch. This saga can’t end and I’m willing to do my part to make sure no premature harm abridges this story. The nation needs its resident crazy celeb to give Meredith Vera something to contribute on the Today Show. Who needs writers when there is an unscripted mental health outbreaks on CNN? Brittany, Dr. Phil is lacing your dogs’ clothes with a mind altering drug. It’s a trap. If something were to happen to Brittany, I think one of the Olsen Twins moves to the top of the list of Craziest Celeb.

Please, someone make me the winner of a trip for 4 to Bora Bora? Honestly, what’s better than taking 12 steps from your bed and being immerged in crystal clear water? A forecast of falling ice is not appealing.

As an act of mercy, all banana flavored candy needs to be removed from the general candy population. Nothing squash to the spirit of a sugar dependent cube dweller, then walking up to a reliable candy dish on a co-workers desk, only to find the bottom filled with only Banana Laffy Taffy. I’ve had it. Sell the banana stuff in specialty shops and AARP magazines, catering to people with diminished taste buds. VIVA la FLAVOR!!!

Write Something Dammit

noreply@blogger.com (Gus) — Fri, 25 Jan 2008 11:52:00 +0000

Update-- My finger is not broken, instead fractured. I can once again return to some of my normal activity and must stop whining around the house. Why is my finger fractured? It is either because I'm too stubborn to realize that I shouldn't be engaging in basketball games with guys in their 20s or that the subtle art of the bounce pass is a lost art and dislocated phalanges are cool.

Anyways, I went to the hand specialist yesterday and he said that I have to tape my fingers but could “Play tomorrow if I needed to”. I can understand that sitting across from me could confuse a medical professional that I’m a physical specimen that is crucial to every pick up basketball game, but I told him that I would be taking the next two weeks off.

The biggest relief was the doctor telling me he wasn’t going to have to re-brake or re-set the fracture. I envisioned a scene out of Misery that ended with me weeping as I left the doctor’s office. The rational side of my brain tried to make the case that medicine has advanced to a level where this type of procedure would be quick and painless, but the side that houses pain could not be swayed from the ugly torture that is a Physical Therapist.

I will now attempt to get back to typing using capital letters and the letters on the left side of the keyboard. New stuff coming from me soon.