St. Paddy’s Day, short for Saint Padrick, is, let’s face it, pretty awful. The music is awful, the food is awful, and the only way to get through it is to drink to excess. What is corned beef for instance? I like regular beef- I don’t want people going around corning it. I also like corn, and if you should get the urge to corn that, it’s okay with me. Also all the food is dyed green, making it, a.) resemble vegetables, and b.) gross-looking. On the other hand, at least when you go out for a drink there are plenty of people there, and I can watch drunk people all day long- they are SO CUTE!
My wife made me promise to DRIVE CAREFULLY on the way home- drunk people are like little kids on a ski slope- they have no sense of danger, and it's inevitable that one will slam into you at some point. The whole way home I fantasized that instead my car would be hit by a deer, only the deer would also be drunk, on some frigging fermented berries or some crap, just my luck.
We WERE in a car accident on St. Paddy’s Day many years ago, hit by a drunk driver. We sustained some serious injuries, and of course some humorous ones. We settled a lawsuit with the other driver; this was in the days before lawyers came on TV telling me how they were looking out for MY rights. One TV lawyer wears a huge hat- have you seen this guy? It’s not raining or snowing, but this guy has a ginormous hat as though he might ride a horse into court, dismount and then brand the defendant after tying three of his legs together. Another TV lawyer looks like an undertaker, wearing a big handlebar mustache. Basically every lawyer is rooting for your bad luck.
But I went out anyway. On St. Patrick's Day your feet stick to the floor of the bar. Most of it is beer, but anywhere you turn could be spit, vomit, urine... I think I saw some amniotic fluid at one point, and some stuff that might have come out of someone's duodenum. Everything is dyed green so who the hell knows. I realize now where the Earth's crust comes from. God forbid there is a murder on St. Patrick's Day, because there is so much DNA on the floor you'd be testing it for months. Luckily there is my big fat footprint sitting in it so the cops could finger me that way, the least fun of all the ways they could finger me.
I tried to walk from one end of the bar to the other so I could go to the bathroom, but the bar was so crowded I ended up being extruded at the other end like from a tube of toothpaste. I was man-handled. I think I was also woman-handled, and possibly leprechaun-handled. I checked to see if my wallet was still there. Not only was it there, but I actually had picked up another one, too. I was touched in an inappropriate place, namely the coat-check room. I felt cheap, especially after looking in the wallet. Drunk girls were getting caught in an eddy of green, going around in concentric circles for about 20 minutes before the tide shifted.
There were a lot of firemen, I guess left over from the parade. I think it's good to have a day for the firemen to feel appreciated, because they could be in danger at any given time if somebody did something stupid like leave French fries cooking on an oven burner on high and walk away for about half an hour and start a nice fire in the kitchen cabinets. I'm not mentioning any names, but I don’t think I ever got full credit for sending my little sister through graduate school on the insurance money my father got. I thought I noticed some other weasels trying to ride in on the wave of good tidings for people in uniform. People were wearing bell-hop uniforms, gas station-attendant uniforms, I thought I saw a McDonald's uniform.... It's going too far if you actually have a medal on one of those. Or a rank- sometimes I see a doorman with three stripes on the uniform, and I wonder if he got a promotion from door-corporal.
It seems a shame to celebrate the heroism of firefighters on a day when everybody is too drunk to realize it. I scoured the calendar to find a different day that we could use. By the way, since when did Secretary’s Day become Administrative Assistant’s Day? Remember when you had to stop calling people stewardesses and start calling them aerial wait-staff? This seems like a rare case where all the male secretaries got together and wanted to seem a little less girly, and got them to change the name. Hillary Clinton is Secretary of State and she doesn’t seem girly, does she? You don’t hear her complaining that she wants to be called Administrative Assistant of State, do you?
I had a friend Dave in high school who was a volunteer fireman. He had to pay for his own scanner and emergency lights. When a call came over the radio he had to jump in his car and get moving- his emergency lights were a strobe and a UV light- I think they were from a discotheque. To this day every time I see those lights on the dance floor I pull over.
Anyway, I finally made it to the bar. There was a barmaid there who looked just like Sean Young- right down to those cute nostrils of hers. Am I the only one that noticed that Sean Young has cute nostrils? That's probably why she smells so good. However, Sean Young had that aura about her where she might be bipolar or even tripolar, like you might wake up and she would be hovering above you on the bed with a little-used garden tool, your whole life flashing in front of you and all you can think of is that if you had used that damned bulb pruner ONCE and left it out there to rust like all the others you wouldn’t be in this predicament. Plus the garden would look a little better than it does….
Incidentally, Saint Patrick’s Day is a celebration of the “Patron of Ireland.” Saints sometimes become “patrons” of the city or place where they were born, and unlike regular patrons, can get service even though they are not wearing a shirt or shoes. Often Spanish or Portuguese explorers named a newly discovered town after the saint who was born on the day they first visited the place. Saint Patrick’s Day is sometimes seen as the end of Lent, when you can resume doing whatever disgusting thing you gave up 40 days ago. Legend has it that Saint Patrick used a shamrock to explain to the Irish pagans what the Holy Trinity was. Knuckleheads STILL didn't get it. Finding a three-leaf clover is still considered lucky, as long as you don’t have to sit through the whole Holy Trinity story.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Friday, March 2, 2012
ASH WEDNESDAY
Every year around this time Ash Wednesday takes me by surprise, when I walk up to somebody at work and go, “You have some schmutz on your face,” and I try to wipe the ashes off their face with my shirt sleeve, thereby almost compromising their religious beliefs. Just before my sleeve makes contact with their forehead, I notice that the schmutz is in the shape of a cross, and I think WOW: what did this guy stick his face into that resulted in a perfect ash-cross?? This minor holiday, of course, signifies Jesus’ inability to locate an ashtray. It is considered a “moveable fast,” meaning that alternate-side-of-the-street rules may be in effect.
In the NFL, players are now sporting plastic stick-on “lampblack,” those ashes that they put underneath their eyes to avoid the harsh glare of public opinion following their DWI or handgun arrest. I was wondering how long it will take for someone to come up with stick-on Ash Wednesday ashes. Let’s face it: if you live in the City, what are you going to have to go through to get your hands on some ashes when the nonfunctioning fireplace in your apartment is a planter, and even the planter doesn’t work that great? I fantasize about what had to lose its life to become that black cross on somebody’s face: a hastily burned Valentine’s Day card from your mistress? An evidentiary stack of documents implicating you in insider trading? Part of one of my Mom’s potroasts?
Ash Wednesday marks the beginning of Lent, when Jesus fasted in the desert for 40 days. They make Jesus look like a big hero for fasting- it’s not like there is a food court in the desert by the way. If you’re lucky you might find a cactus or something, and you can squeeze some moisture out of it if you can endure more pricks than a Hummer showroom. You can pinch off the rear end of a scorpion and pop it right in your mouth; it tastes like a poisonous chicken. Saw it on “Man vs. Wild,” where the guy can remove the ass of just about anything and eat it. I can’t even remove the packaging from a candy bar.
Nowadays, since Americans don’t want to give up being fat, you can symbolically fast by giving up something that you really love during Lent, such as “Dog the Bounty Hunter,” since it’s in repeats anyway, or Brussels sprouts. Many people give up alcohol, and by extension, sleeping with ugly girls, aiding & abetting, passing out on golf courses, jumping naked into the Trevi Fountain and hitting on their mother-in-law.
Like most of the stuff in the Bible, it’s probably meant to be taken figuratively, but people are always stupid enough to plunge right in. It’s a lot of tall tales that got stretched WAY out of proportion as one person tells another, and before you know it, it’s a friggin’ miracle. A guy does a perfect can-opener from the high-diving board, and all of a sudden it’s the parting of the Red Sea. You’re on vacation and the weather sucks, you’re stuck in your hotel room for what seems like 40 days and 40 nights, even though you were only there a week.
What an idea to think that you could line up animals two-by-two on an ark and think that they are even going to get along, much less repopulate the Earth. I have two cats that haven’t stopped beating on each other since the day they were whelped, if cats are even whelped. Walking up the gangplank 40 days worth of animals bickering and carping begins… Is it my imagination or does everything in the Bible take 40 days? Nothing really gets done in a great hurry.
What would happen if Jesus lived in our time? Would the Bible ever be written? No, because the truth would be out there on video. There is Cain loitering around wearing a red Yankees cap. The video is grainy but you can tell it is him. You don’t see the actual smiting on the video but you can see Cain fleeing, and it looks like he has just smoten somebody. And for god’s sake don’t wear a RED Yankees cap- if you want to wear red move to Boston.
Video is everywhere, waiting to rat you out. God forbid Jesus should have some cellulite on the beach, the next day it’s all over the tabloids. “Jesus & Judas show up at the Last Supper in the same toga! See who wore it better!”
I read that they are soon going to require video cameras installed on the back of all cars. That way, you can find out if where you just were was as boring as you thought it was.
All the prophets and disciples are watching their every move, lest they be crucified in the Twitter-sphere. The Twitter-sphere has more helium than oxygen, which explains why the thinking there is so addled. And of course, Fox News putting a nefarious spin on every move Jesus makes. “Today Jesus turned water into wine, throwing a temporary monkey-wrench into the Alcoholics Anonymous fund-raising car wash. A spokesperson for Jesus did not return our calls.”
Incidentally, in Ireland, National No Smoking Day is on Ash Wednesday. So when you snuff out your last cigarette on Fat Tuesday evening, you can snuff it out right on your forehead. I read that you are actually supposed to use the ashes from palms that you burnt the week before. How they knew that I burnt my palms the week before I'll never know, and THEY will never know how I burnt them- that's my little secret. The Bible says you're also supposed to wear sackcloth, but you're going to have to buy a hell of a lot of whatever is in that sack to get one in your size- try Costco. Ash Wednesday follows the last day of Mardi Gras,
famously celebrated in New Orleans. I haven’t seen anything in the Bible about flashing your tits for plastic beads, but I haven’t finished it yet.
In the NFL, players are now sporting plastic stick-on “lampblack,” those ashes that they put underneath their eyes to avoid the harsh glare of public opinion following their DWI or handgun arrest. I was wondering how long it will take for someone to come up with stick-on Ash Wednesday ashes. Let’s face it: if you live in the City, what are you going to have to go through to get your hands on some ashes when the nonfunctioning fireplace in your apartment is a planter, and even the planter doesn’t work that great? I fantasize about what had to lose its life to become that black cross on somebody’s face: a hastily burned Valentine’s Day card from your mistress? An evidentiary stack of documents implicating you in insider trading? Part of one of my Mom’s potroasts?
Ash Wednesday marks the beginning of Lent, when Jesus fasted in the desert for 40 days. They make Jesus look like a big hero for fasting- it’s not like there is a food court in the desert by the way. If you’re lucky you might find a cactus or something, and you can squeeze some moisture out of it if you can endure more pricks than a Hummer showroom. You can pinch off the rear end of a scorpion and pop it right in your mouth; it tastes like a poisonous chicken. Saw it on “Man vs. Wild,” where the guy can remove the ass of just about anything and eat it. I can’t even remove the packaging from a candy bar.
Nowadays, since Americans don’t want to give up being fat, you can symbolically fast by giving up something that you really love during Lent, such as “Dog the Bounty Hunter,” since it’s in repeats anyway, or Brussels sprouts. Many people give up alcohol, and by extension, sleeping with ugly girls, aiding & abetting, passing out on golf courses, jumping naked into the Trevi Fountain and hitting on their mother-in-law.
Like most of the stuff in the Bible, it’s probably meant to be taken figuratively, but people are always stupid enough to plunge right in. It’s a lot of tall tales that got stretched WAY out of proportion as one person tells another, and before you know it, it’s a friggin’ miracle. A guy does a perfect can-opener from the high-diving board, and all of a sudden it’s the parting of the Red Sea. You’re on vacation and the weather sucks, you’re stuck in your hotel room for what seems like 40 days and 40 nights, even though you were only there a week.
What an idea to think that you could line up animals two-by-two on an ark and think that they are even going to get along, much less repopulate the Earth. I have two cats that haven’t stopped beating on each other since the day they were whelped, if cats are even whelped. Walking up the gangplank 40 days worth of animals bickering and carping begins… Is it my imagination or does everything in the Bible take 40 days? Nothing really gets done in a great hurry.
What would happen if Jesus lived in our time? Would the Bible ever be written? No, because the truth would be out there on video. There is Cain loitering around wearing a red Yankees cap. The video is grainy but you can tell it is him. You don’t see the actual smiting on the video but you can see Cain fleeing, and it looks like he has just smoten somebody. And for god’s sake don’t wear a RED Yankees cap- if you want to wear red move to Boston.
Video is everywhere, waiting to rat you out. God forbid Jesus should have some cellulite on the beach, the next day it’s all over the tabloids. “Jesus & Judas show up at the Last Supper in the same toga! See who wore it better!”
I read that they are soon going to require video cameras installed on the back of all cars. That way, you can find out if where you just were was as boring as you thought it was.
All the prophets and disciples are watching their every move, lest they be crucified in the Twitter-sphere. The Twitter-sphere has more helium than oxygen, which explains why the thinking there is so addled. And of course, Fox News putting a nefarious spin on every move Jesus makes. “Today Jesus turned water into wine, throwing a temporary monkey-wrench into the Alcoholics Anonymous fund-raising car wash. A spokesperson for Jesus did not return our calls.”
Incidentally, in Ireland, National No Smoking Day is on Ash Wednesday. So when you snuff out your last cigarette on Fat Tuesday evening, you can snuff it out right on your forehead. I read that you are actually supposed to use the ashes from palms that you burnt the week before. How they knew that I burnt my palms the week before I'll never know, and THEY will never know how I burnt them- that's my little secret. The Bible says you're also supposed to wear sackcloth, but you're going to have to buy a hell of a lot of whatever is in that sack to get one in your size- try Costco. Ash Wednesday follows the last day of Mardi Gras,
famously celebrated in New Orleans. I haven’t seen anything in the Bible about flashing your tits for plastic beads, but I haven’t finished it yet.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
THE BIG DANCE
The Giants walked the walk, they talked the talk, and they made it to the big dance. They took it one game at a time, they took what the defense gave them, and they went all the way. I have to use the words "big dance," since the phrase "Super Bowl" is trademarked, and every time I use it I have to write a certified check for two and a half cents. I hear they are also trying to trademark the phrase, "Big Dance," "Big Game" and every pair of words that might refer to the Super Bowl, so that in the future you can only mention the game by winning at charades.
We have had five really lousy Super Bowl parties over the 29 years we have thrown them. Those were the ones where the guests were basically left to fend for themselves while we yelled at the screen as the New York Giants either did something INCREDIBLY stupid, or something INCREDIBLE. Those five times they have been trailing at halftime, making for grand theater but a really sore throat.
Speaking of halftime, what is going on there? I'm trying to come down from a semi-violent, testosterone-fueled rage, and all of a sudden the football game turns into "Glee." There is an awful lot of dancing these days at the big dance.
But they did it, and the game was great, again. It came out afterwards that Coach Belichick LET the Giants score that last touchdown, the one where Ahmad Bradshaw scooted right up to the end zone, paused in a position that looked like he was taking a crap, then realized that 80 billion people now knew what he looks like when he is taking a crap and then just fell into the end zone. It must be a great feeling to take a crap while falling into the end zone, a feeling most of us can only imagine. Then Belichick further let it be known that he let the Giants score all the other touchdowns too, so that Brady would have EVEN MORE time to come back and win the game.
Supermodel Gisele Bündchen is Tom Brady’s girlfriend, and she was tearful after the loss. She blamed the receivers for not catching the ball when Tom threw it to them. Then Wes Welker’s girlfriend blamed Brady for throwing that damned pass from the end zone that caused the safety. An acquaintance of the kicker’s questioned the zone defense at the end of the game. It was a mess. By the way in order to get that “u” with the two dots over it in "Bundchen" you have to hit the “num lock” button on your computer, press “alt” and then the numbers 1-2-9. Would you go through all that if Gisele was a regular model and not a supermodel?
Two days later the players rode through the "Canyon of Heroes." We learned a couple things at the parade as the ticker-tape rained down: Number one, the Giant fans have an undying love for their team. Number two, my Rite-aid stock is basically in the toilet. Everyone ended up at City Hall, mostly to try to fix a number of parking tickets, but also to hear a few very nasal words from Mayor Bloomberg, and accept the keys to the city. If they ever lock up the city, the only ones who will be able to get in are the people who remember where they left their keys; it will probably be Sean Landetta, Lawrence Taylor and a bunch of astronauts. I wonder what they will say to each other?
The fans were in a great mood as the floats floated by. People elbowed for position so that they could get video camcordings of all their favorite team members as they video camcorded the crowd video camcording them. Eli Manning held up the trophy, and there were a bunch of other big, fat looking dudes with huge necks that I couldn't clearly recognize without their jerseys on. There was a flatbed with Justin Tuck and Dave Tollefson. Another one rolled by with Osi Umenyiora and Dave Tollefson. The receivers’ float sported an ecstatic Hakeem Nicks, Victor Cruz and Dave Tollefson. I’m not sure who Dave Tollefson is or whether he is even on the team, but he looks good on a float.
The entire crowd was salsa dancing as the confetti fell from the sky. Either that or they had to go to the bathroom- I didn’t see any port-o-potties around… That salsa dance looks like they missed a step and had to go backwards to retrace it before they can go forward again, looks like a knitting stitch.
Incidentally, there is usually a bet on the outcome of the game between the two mayors, something that has to do with the major export of the city, like if Boston wins we get a year's worth of baked beans, or if New York wins you get a couple whores, or something like that. This year, they decided to perk things up with boring little prize packages so that a fan from each state could have a "night on the town." Tickets to a Broadway show, an amphibious Duck Tour.... This is the SUPER BOWL for god's sake! You could do better on "Ellen!" A suggestion for Bloomberg: Next time bet CASH so we don't have to hike up the bridge tolls again.
We have had five really lousy Super Bowl parties over the 29 years we have thrown them. Those were the ones where the guests were basically left to fend for themselves while we yelled at the screen as the New York Giants either did something INCREDIBLY stupid, or something INCREDIBLE. Those five times they have been trailing at halftime, making for grand theater but a really sore throat.
Speaking of halftime, what is going on there? I'm trying to come down from a semi-violent, testosterone-fueled rage, and all of a sudden the football game turns into "Glee." There is an awful lot of dancing these days at the big dance.
But they did it, and the game was great, again. It came out afterwards that Coach Belichick LET the Giants score that last touchdown, the one where Ahmad Bradshaw scooted right up to the end zone, paused in a position that looked like he was taking a crap, then realized that 80 billion people now knew what he looks like when he is taking a crap and then just fell into the end zone. It must be a great feeling to take a crap while falling into the end zone, a feeling most of us can only imagine. Then Belichick further let it be known that he let the Giants score all the other touchdowns too, so that Brady would have EVEN MORE time to come back and win the game.
Supermodel Gisele Bündchen is Tom Brady’s girlfriend, and she was tearful after the loss. She blamed the receivers for not catching the ball when Tom threw it to them. Then Wes Welker’s girlfriend blamed Brady for throwing that damned pass from the end zone that caused the safety. An acquaintance of the kicker’s questioned the zone defense at the end of the game. It was a mess. By the way in order to get that “u” with the two dots over it in "Bundchen" you have to hit the “num lock” button on your computer, press “alt” and then the numbers 1-2-9. Would you go through all that if Gisele was a regular model and not a supermodel?
Two days later the players rode through the "Canyon of Heroes." We learned a couple things at the parade as the ticker-tape rained down: Number one, the Giant fans have an undying love for their team. Number two, my Rite-aid stock is basically in the toilet. Everyone ended up at City Hall, mostly to try to fix a number of parking tickets, but also to hear a few very nasal words from Mayor Bloomberg, and accept the keys to the city. If they ever lock up the city, the only ones who will be able to get in are the people who remember where they left their keys; it will probably be Sean Landetta, Lawrence Taylor and a bunch of astronauts. I wonder what they will say to each other?
The fans were in a great mood as the floats floated by. People elbowed for position so that they could get video camcordings of all their favorite team members as they video camcorded the crowd video camcording them. Eli Manning held up the trophy, and there were a bunch of other big, fat looking dudes with huge necks that I couldn't clearly recognize without their jerseys on. There was a flatbed with Justin Tuck and Dave Tollefson. Another one rolled by with Osi Umenyiora and Dave Tollefson. The receivers’ float sported an ecstatic Hakeem Nicks, Victor Cruz and Dave Tollefson. I’m not sure who Dave Tollefson is or whether he is even on the team, but he looks good on a float.
The entire crowd was salsa dancing as the confetti fell from the sky. Either that or they had to go to the bathroom- I didn’t see any port-o-potties around… That salsa dance looks like they missed a step and had to go backwards to retrace it before they can go forward again, looks like a knitting stitch.
Incidentally, there is usually a bet on the outcome of the game between the two mayors, something that has to do with the major export of the city, like if Boston wins we get a year's worth of baked beans, or if New York wins you get a couple whores, or something like that. This year, they decided to perk things up with boring little prize packages so that a fan from each state could have a "night on the town." Tickets to a Broadway show, an amphibious Duck Tour.... This is the SUPER BOWL for god's sake! You could do better on "Ellen!" A suggestion for Bloomberg: Next time bet CASH so we don't have to hike up the bridge tolls again.
Friday, January 27, 2012
CHAMPIONS OF THE GRIDIRON
What is the leading cause of heart attacks this time of year? Shoveling snow? No. Holiday stress? Not even close. It’s the New York Football Giants. They still refer to the team that way so that they don’t pack the station wagon full of baseball bats and drive 3,000 miles by mistake.
Every week I look forward to a relaxing Sunday where I put on my bathrobe and slippers, light my pipe, a cup of coffee next to me, and my wife and I do the Times crossword puzzle while we check in on the football game. This fantasy doesn’t even last through the National Anthem before I start to go nuts. This time it was Steven Tyler. He actually looked drunk as he yakked his way through the thing. It was almost as if the song was an antibody that his body was trying to reject. Afterwards there was a military flyover where they tried to drop a bomb on him and strafe him with a 50 caliber machine-gun, but both missed. I just know he will be man enough to skulk back to American Idol and critique his own performance.
Usually it’s one of those patriotic, silky-throated croon-muffins who wants nothing better than to honor America by trying to draw as much attention as possible to herself, taking that BORING old song and JAZZING IT UP! Does this flag make me look fat??? Who are all those dudes with khaki uniforms that clash with my shoes???
It all started with Whitney Houston when she sang the Star-Spangled Banner at the Super Bowl in 1991. Every songstress, warble-ette and Idol-aire has been trying to top it ever since, and now the pre-game performance sounds like it is sung while falling down a flight of stairs. Not one note is ever left to suffer by itself without a trill or a glissade. And if you make it to the Land of the Free be prepared for that obligatory adventure where she tries to hit the octave. And all this is possible whether the twilight is gleaming or streaming, whether the night is perilous or the fight is perilous- LOOK: who the hell cares as long as I hit that octave, smile brightly and look HOT!
I’m spent by the time they flip the coin. I scan the stands for a familiar face. Where is the guy who always sat behind us when Phil used to have his great seats? Slightly obnoxious, often funny and usually drunk by the 3rd quarter and asleep by the 4th, all these guys have been replaced by the one-percenters, people who represent the real class inequalities in America. I can’t picture the Giants being effectively rooted on by people who say “kew-pon,” and use words like “vis-à-vis,” and spell “Shiitake” mushroom with two "i”s. Now you have to have a “seat license” to be a Giant fan. Even if I could afford the thousands of dollars, would I pass the parallel parking test?
I do a quick inventory of the crowd, and I still don't see anybody I know. Instead, I see about 70,000 actors that are currently on Fox sitcoms that will be cancelled soon, brushing up on their football jargon so they can just happen to be ready when someone comes by to interview them.
The game begins and all the pre-game blather and hoopla fade into the background. I can tell how the first series will go: Give to Bradshaw for three, and he had to fight for every one of them. Pass to Manningham, incomplete: he broke the wrong way. 3rd and long, Manning from the shotgun, pressure coming. They grab his jersey, flush him out of the pocket but there’s a linebacker there and Manning makes that face like he just stepped on an octopus, and throws the ball away just before he hits the ground in a heap. Does this sound familiar? Sometimes there is a completion on second down, but always negated by a holding penalty. Already my cats and dog are under the table, because I am throwing all the remote controls at the TV set. I will eventually have to retrieve them, because each one of them performs one function that the others do not.
My pulse is racing, and it is ahead at the moment. The announcers go on about the weather- it's raining, and traction is going to be at a premium. The running game will surely be ineffective. Hopefully the receivers will not have to run at all during the game, or we will have to rely on 80-yard field goals to win the game. The players are wearing a muff with a "Sham-Wow type product" in it to dry their hands. They ordered 11 of them and got 11 FREE (paying only shipping and processing).
The 49ers score early in the first quarter, and already I have pulled most of my hair out, luckily in places you can't readily see. The receiver crosses the end zone and climbs up onto the TV camera stand and poses like Geronimo, receiving a penalty for Unnecessary Douchiness. At least he didn't slither around trying to dance. If you find yourself unable to keep from dancing for any reason, and there are no women around, only a lot of dudes in uniforms, it's a lot like I picture prison to be.
I can tell that this is going to be a long game, one of those where the final two minutes lasts an hour. I settle onto the couch with my pipe and try to relax. I don't usually smoke a pipe, and it smells funny. I wonder whether PVC was a good choice....
Incidentally, the G-men ended up winning the game, they’re going to the Super Bowl, and I am pretty damn proud of them. I certainly wouldn't call them the "G-men;" that's what Russ Salzberg called them. "G-men" sounds like a part on a woman that I doubt Russ Salzberg could find without stopping to ask directions. By the way, if you can't find one of those parts yourself just do what I do and imply that SHE is the one who doesn't know where it is.
Every week I look forward to a relaxing Sunday where I put on my bathrobe and slippers, light my pipe, a cup of coffee next to me, and my wife and I do the Times crossword puzzle while we check in on the football game. This fantasy doesn’t even last through the National Anthem before I start to go nuts. This time it was Steven Tyler. He actually looked drunk as he yakked his way through the thing. It was almost as if the song was an antibody that his body was trying to reject. Afterwards there was a military flyover where they tried to drop a bomb on him and strafe him with a 50 caliber machine-gun, but both missed. I just know he will be man enough to skulk back to American Idol and critique his own performance.
Usually it’s one of those patriotic, silky-throated croon-muffins who wants nothing better than to honor America by trying to draw as much attention as possible to herself, taking that BORING old song and JAZZING IT UP! Does this flag make me look fat??? Who are all those dudes with khaki uniforms that clash with my shoes???
It all started with Whitney Houston when she sang the Star-Spangled Banner at the Super Bowl in 1991. Every songstress, warble-ette and Idol-aire has been trying to top it ever since, and now the pre-game performance sounds like it is sung while falling down a flight of stairs. Not one note is ever left to suffer by itself without a trill or a glissade. And if you make it to the Land of the Free be prepared for that obligatory adventure where she tries to hit the octave. And all this is possible whether the twilight is gleaming or streaming, whether the night is perilous or the fight is perilous- LOOK: who the hell cares as long as I hit that octave, smile brightly and look HOT!
I’m spent by the time they flip the coin. I scan the stands for a familiar face. Where is the guy who always sat behind us when Phil used to have his great seats? Slightly obnoxious, often funny and usually drunk by the 3rd quarter and asleep by the 4th, all these guys have been replaced by the one-percenters, people who represent the real class inequalities in America. I can’t picture the Giants being effectively rooted on by people who say “kew-pon,” and use words like “vis-à-vis,” and spell “Shiitake” mushroom with two "i”s. Now you have to have a “seat license” to be a Giant fan. Even if I could afford the thousands of dollars, would I pass the parallel parking test?
I do a quick inventory of the crowd, and I still don't see anybody I know. Instead, I see about 70,000 actors that are currently on Fox sitcoms that will be cancelled soon, brushing up on their football jargon so they can just happen to be ready when someone comes by to interview them.
The game begins and all the pre-game blather and hoopla fade into the background. I can tell how the first series will go: Give to Bradshaw for three, and he had to fight for every one of them. Pass to Manningham, incomplete: he broke the wrong way. 3rd and long, Manning from the shotgun, pressure coming. They grab his jersey, flush him out of the pocket but there’s a linebacker there and Manning makes that face like he just stepped on an octopus, and throws the ball away just before he hits the ground in a heap. Does this sound familiar? Sometimes there is a completion on second down, but always negated by a holding penalty. Already my cats and dog are under the table, because I am throwing all the remote controls at the TV set. I will eventually have to retrieve them, because each one of them performs one function that the others do not.
My pulse is racing, and it is ahead at the moment. The announcers go on about the weather- it's raining, and traction is going to be at a premium. The running game will surely be ineffective. Hopefully the receivers will not have to run at all during the game, or we will have to rely on 80-yard field goals to win the game. The players are wearing a muff with a "Sham-Wow type product" in it to dry their hands. They ordered 11 of them and got 11 FREE (paying only shipping and processing).
The 49ers score early in the first quarter, and already I have pulled most of my hair out, luckily in places you can't readily see. The receiver crosses the end zone and climbs up onto the TV camera stand and poses like Geronimo, receiving a penalty for Unnecessary Douchiness. At least he didn't slither around trying to dance. If you find yourself unable to keep from dancing for any reason, and there are no women around, only a lot of dudes in uniforms, it's a lot like I picture prison to be.
I can tell that this is going to be a long game, one of those where the final two minutes lasts an hour. I settle onto the couch with my pipe and try to relax. I don't usually smoke a pipe, and it smells funny. I wonder whether PVC was a good choice....
Incidentally, the G-men ended up winning the game, they’re going to the Super Bowl, and I am pretty damn proud of them. I certainly wouldn't call them the "G-men;" that's what Russ Salzberg called them. "G-men" sounds like a part on a woman that I doubt Russ Salzberg could find without stopping to ask directions. By the way, if you can't find one of those parts yourself just do what I do and imply that SHE is the one who doesn't know where it is.
Friday, January 13, 2012
NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTION
Happy New Year to all of you! This is the time of year when we reflect on the year that has passed, and look forward to the year we are heralding in. I have successfully heralded in the first couple weeks and I am looking to get ahead now in my heralding.
The media are awash with the images of those we have lost over the previous 365 days, not counting GPS malfunctions. They dissolve across the screen one by one, and every year, invariably, you say, “WHAT? He’s not dead yet? I thought he’s been dead for 20 years!” I could swear that Abe Vigoda died for seven years straight. They left us way too soon. They will be missed.
Stories that dominated the news are re-hashed, like dorm room brownies. The Arab uprisings, the crazy weather, the tsunami in Japan; this is the time to sigh and say, in spite of it all, we made it through another year. Except for the poor bastards listed above, and possibly Abe Vigoda. By the way, when I die, I don’t want to leave us way too soon. I want people to say, “He hung around about 20 years too long, and not only that but my purse is missing.” I do want to be missed, though, especially if my death is to be by firing squad. Sometimes I think about my existence and I start to wonder if I will ever get out alive.
Thanks to last year’s resolution, I watched more news, and I’m sorry I did. I finally learned how to say ACK-MA-JIN-a-DAD, the Iranian leader, although I still have not learned how to spell it. Every year around this time there is a special re-cap just for ACK-MA-JIN-a-DAD, where he blames homosexuals for many of the world’s problems (especially homosexuality). This undoubtedly signifies that he himself is a homosexual, under the “He Who Denied It, Supplied It” rule. But over there they don’t have any republicans to try to root out all the skeletons, which remain in the closet along with the homosexuals. Even ACK-MA-JIN-a-DAD’s father, ACK-MA-JIN-a-GRAND-DAD, doesn’t know the real truth.
We take a moment to relive the weird news stories from 2011- Maybe a kid who had a pencil lodged in his ear and still completed his SAT. Or a cat who walked 1,500 miles back to his owner’s house, a huge inconvenience since now the owner has to drive even FARTHER or maybe schedule a trip to Hawaii scrunched on a plane with a cat for 22 hours.
And of course, it is a time for resolutions: a simple phrase that will completely change our lives for two or three weeks. There are the obvious ones: “This year I am finally going to quit smoking!” Whenever there’s a fire and someone dies of smoke inhalation I start to wonder if smoking is really safe.
Getting in shape ranks high on the annual list. Every year from January 2nd (my gym is closed on New Year’s Day) to about the 12th the fitness room is teeming with new members doing 36 reps at each machine, at a weight of ten pounds. They are like ants, only with a larger thorax. My wife calls them the “resolutionaries,” and they bring all the gravity and dedication of a high school Starbucks barista. You know exactly who they are because they are fat, but to their defense, they only work out two weeks a year.
Many people aspire to diet. On Regis & Kelly, a nutritionist comes on to tell you how to make “healthy food swaps.” Instead of a pizza, try a paper plate with tofu with some parmesan cheese sprinkled on it. Even less calories if you eat the paper plate. One bagel is worth 12 English muffins except in England, where the pound is so high. Forsake the Frosted Flakes, and start your day with curds & whey. Did you ever see a picture of Little Miss Muffet with a big tuffet?
I asked my wife to poll her Facebook friends and find out what their resolutions are. Jim promises to be nicer to animals. Yeah, when they start being nicer to us. One of our new kittens has adopted the attitude that, in return for reducing every stick of furniture in the house to a pile of random molecules and scratching our bodies so that it looks like we just played kickball in a field of bramble bushes, it will pose for royalty-free photographs in which its eyes are the color of a neon Budweiser sign and sit on our lap at the most inconvenient moments in order to point out our weaknesses.
Jenn wants to “Sell my house and meet the man of my dreams, not necessarily in that order.” I believe that getting a new house should also be a priority, since it is not advisable to meet the man of your dreams at a homeless shelter.
Mimi wants to do the Broad Street Run in Philly this year. I am training for it also, but I will do it widthwise instead of lengthwise.
Obama has yet to respond.
As for me? This year I resolve to take better photographs. My New Year’s resolution is 30 megapixels.
Incidentally, every year I hate trying to sing Auld Lang Syne, when all you know is the first line, kind of like trying to sing Oye Como Va. The song is of Scottish origin, credited to Robert Burns, although it is widely known that he either adapted it from an old folk song or copied it from the Encyclopedia Britannica. Once you know the lyrics it doesn’t get that much easier. The chorus, “For auld lang syne, my jo” might be translated to mean, “For old time’s sake, my dear.” And even if old acquaintance be forgot, do not forget the word “jo,” for I guarantee you it will win you a game of Scrabble.
The media are awash with the images of those we have lost over the previous 365 days, not counting GPS malfunctions. They dissolve across the screen one by one, and every year, invariably, you say, “WHAT? He’s not dead yet? I thought he’s been dead for 20 years!” I could swear that Abe Vigoda died for seven years straight. They left us way too soon. They will be missed.
Stories that dominated the news are re-hashed, like dorm room brownies. The Arab uprisings, the crazy weather, the tsunami in Japan; this is the time to sigh and say, in spite of it all, we made it through another year. Except for the poor bastards listed above, and possibly Abe Vigoda. By the way, when I die, I don’t want to leave us way too soon. I want people to say, “He hung around about 20 years too long, and not only that but my purse is missing.” I do want to be missed, though, especially if my death is to be by firing squad. Sometimes I think about my existence and I start to wonder if I will ever get out alive.
Thanks to last year’s resolution, I watched more news, and I’m sorry I did. I finally learned how to say ACK-MA-JIN-a-DAD, the Iranian leader, although I still have not learned how to spell it. Every year around this time there is a special re-cap just for ACK-MA-JIN-a-DAD, where he blames homosexuals for many of the world’s problems (especially homosexuality). This undoubtedly signifies that he himself is a homosexual, under the “He Who Denied It, Supplied It” rule. But over there they don’t have any republicans to try to root out all the skeletons, which remain in the closet along with the homosexuals. Even ACK-MA-JIN-a-DAD’s father, ACK-MA-JIN-a-GRAND-DAD, doesn’t know the real truth.
We take a moment to relive the weird news stories from 2011- Maybe a kid who had a pencil lodged in his ear and still completed his SAT. Or a cat who walked 1,500 miles back to his owner’s house, a huge inconvenience since now the owner has to drive even FARTHER or maybe schedule a trip to Hawaii scrunched on a plane with a cat for 22 hours.
And of course, it is a time for resolutions: a simple phrase that will completely change our lives for two or three weeks. There are the obvious ones: “This year I am finally going to quit smoking!” Whenever there’s a fire and someone dies of smoke inhalation I start to wonder if smoking is really safe.
Getting in shape ranks high on the annual list. Every year from January 2nd (my gym is closed on New Year’s Day) to about the 12th the fitness room is teeming with new members doing 36 reps at each machine, at a weight of ten pounds. They are like ants, only with a larger thorax. My wife calls them the “resolutionaries,” and they bring all the gravity and dedication of a high school Starbucks barista. You know exactly who they are because they are fat, but to their defense, they only work out two weeks a year.
Many people aspire to diet. On Regis & Kelly, a nutritionist comes on to tell you how to make “healthy food swaps.” Instead of a pizza, try a paper plate with tofu with some parmesan cheese sprinkled on it. Even less calories if you eat the paper plate. One bagel is worth 12 English muffins except in England, where the pound is so high. Forsake the Frosted Flakes, and start your day with curds & whey. Did you ever see a picture of Little Miss Muffet with a big tuffet?
I asked my wife to poll her Facebook friends and find out what their resolutions are. Jim promises to be nicer to animals. Yeah, when they start being nicer to us. One of our new kittens has adopted the attitude that, in return for reducing every stick of furniture in the house to a pile of random molecules and scratching our bodies so that it looks like we just played kickball in a field of bramble bushes, it will pose for royalty-free photographs in which its eyes are the color of a neon Budweiser sign and sit on our lap at the most inconvenient moments in order to point out our weaknesses.
Jenn wants to “Sell my house and meet the man of my dreams, not necessarily in that order.” I believe that getting a new house should also be a priority, since it is not advisable to meet the man of your dreams at a homeless shelter.
Mimi wants to do the Broad Street Run in Philly this year. I am training for it also, but I will do it widthwise instead of lengthwise.
Obama has yet to respond.
As for me? This year I resolve to take better photographs. My New Year’s resolution is 30 megapixels.
Incidentally, every year I hate trying to sing Auld Lang Syne, when all you know is the first line, kind of like trying to sing Oye Como Va. The song is of Scottish origin, credited to Robert Burns, although it is widely known that he either adapted it from an old folk song or copied it from the Encyclopedia Britannica. Once you know the lyrics it doesn’t get that much easier. The chorus, “For auld lang syne, my jo” might be translated to mean, “For old time’s sake, my dear.” And even if old acquaintance be forgot, do not forget the word “jo,” for I guarantee you it will win you a game of Scrabble.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
HOW WAS YOUR CHRISTMAS?
So how was your Christmas? Did Santa bring you everything you wanted? Santa brought me everything I ruined in the past year. I spend an entire year destroying just about everything I come in contact with, and Christmas is when it all gets replaced. That is, if I don't get to it first and try to fix it. If I try to fix it, it goes on next year's list.
But I do enjoy the whole seasonal schpiel leading up to the big day. I like rating everyone's Christmas decorations outside their house. I have a strict code, and I would love to have the power to fine people who violate my rules: 1.) Nothing on your lawn should be full of air. Whenever I travel in December I usually bring an extra cat with me just in case I see one of those inflatable snowmen. 2.) If you have only two strings of lights, don't try to put them on a 30-foot spruce. Put them on your mailbox or something. 3.) Don't use those crappy lights that look like a net that just captured a shrub. 4.) Our neighbor Dennis had these nifty neon-looking moving lights, but they looked vaguely like anti-aircraft tracer fire, and I think the Navy made him take them down because I don't see them anymore.
I like the singing, except for that horrible Carol of the Bells. I have a funny feeling that the reason it's in every commercial is not because it's so wonderful, but because it is now in open copyright. It goes on forever, the same four tones, and two of them are the same note. I can usually operate the mute button on my remote in just two notes.
Christmas songs are great for my little game of "Maim that Tune." I like the one that goes, "Do you see what I see?," because I always sing in response, "Not without my glasses!" Try it- you'll be hooked. I also empathize with the song, Angels We Have Heard While High. Whenever carolers carol Silent Night I think of that Holy Infant, so tender and mild (like a steak), and I wish that just once, in this lifetime or possibly the next, I could sit next to one of those on a plane.
I like the Christmas cards. Everyone sends a picture of their kids, which is nice, but I would rather see the whole family- Usually the kids look pretty much alike until they are old enough to know that their parents don't know how to help with math homework anymore.
I don't even mind the weather. It's not the cold, it's the lack of humidity that gets you. For Christmas day, you want a coating of pristine white snow when you wake up, say about three inches. Then by 10AM or so, you want the temperature to shoot up to about 70 to melt the snow, then back down to like 40 by noon, when the company comes so you can have a fire. I can create a warm and cozy masterpiece, but apparently only in the toaster oven.
We will have opened our stockings by then, which were hung by the chimney with care. The less care you use, the more likely you are to have to explain to the insurance company the role hosiery played in the five-alarm fire you caused.
The cats and dog get their own stocking. The fish don't get a stocking because: DUH! Fish don't have legs. This year the cats got some high-tech gifts: a battery-operated toy bird that chirps, and a little laser shaped like a mouse. We had to take them both away; one cat obsessed on the talking bird and now both the cat and the bird are in therapy, and the other cat kept pointing the laser mouse at flying aircraft.
We spent Christmas Eve with Paul and Barbara next-door and their family, as we always do. I was informed that I was to be recruited next year to play the part of Santa, since the kids are old enough to recognize all the family members now through the disguise (some of them are in their 20s). I embrace the idea, since I don't picture Santa letting exercise and diet get in the way of his work. Also, as Paul will realize, just about the only natural talent I possess is the ability to use children to insult their parents with pinpoint accuracy. I have to work on the belly laugh though, since I always confuse him with the Jolly Green Giant. I don't think it's unethical for Santa to accept tips, I'm just throwing that out there in advance.
I ate most of the dessert table as they were exchanging gifts utilizing the "Yankee Swap." I tried to picture how Jorge Posada would get along with Nick Swisher's wife (good), but it has nothing to do with that. This one is like a more sophisticated "grab bag," where you can trade the loser gifts for something better. In an evil allegorical twist, one poor sap opened a box filled with canned anchovies, artichokes and Spam. There was more Spam in that box than coming home after two weeks of vacation. He pawned it off to the fellow next to him, a veteran Spam-lover from way back. As we all chuckled, the originator of the gift chimed in, "There's an envelope at the bottom...." A fifty-dollar gift card! Which just goes to show: don't look a gift-horse in the mouth. Why? Because it would be virtually impossible to hide a fifty-dollar gift card there!
Incidentally, the Carol of the Bells was originally titled Shchedryk, named during a time when vowels were in severe shortage and saved only for emergencies. It was composed by Mykola Dmytrovych Leontovych, although “composed” may be overstating it. I could have composed the damn thing by lobbing pebbles at the half-full glasses left on the table after dinner, and that’s putting it optimistically.
But I do enjoy the whole seasonal schpiel leading up to the big day. I like rating everyone's Christmas decorations outside their house. I have a strict code, and I would love to have the power to fine people who violate my rules: 1.) Nothing on your lawn should be full of air. Whenever I travel in December I usually bring an extra cat with me just in case I see one of those inflatable snowmen. 2.) If you have only two strings of lights, don't try to put them on a 30-foot spruce. Put them on your mailbox or something. 3.) Don't use those crappy lights that look like a net that just captured a shrub. 4.) Our neighbor Dennis had these nifty neon-looking moving lights, but they looked vaguely like anti-aircraft tracer fire, and I think the Navy made him take them down because I don't see them anymore.
I like the singing, except for that horrible Carol of the Bells. I have a funny feeling that the reason it's in every commercial is not because it's so wonderful, but because it is now in open copyright. It goes on forever, the same four tones, and two of them are the same note. I can usually operate the mute button on my remote in just two notes.
Christmas songs are great for my little game of "Maim that Tune." I like the one that goes, "Do you see what I see?," because I always sing in response, "Not without my glasses!" Try it- you'll be hooked. I also empathize with the song, Angels We Have Heard While High. Whenever carolers carol Silent Night I think of that Holy Infant, so tender and mild (like a steak), and I wish that just once, in this lifetime or possibly the next, I could sit next to one of those on a plane.
I like the Christmas cards. Everyone sends a picture of their kids, which is nice, but I would rather see the whole family- Usually the kids look pretty much alike until they are old enough to know that their parents don't know how to help with math homework anymore.
I don't even mind the weather. It's not the cold, it's the lack of humidity that gets you. For Christmas day, you want a coating of pristine white snow when you wake up, say about three inches. Then by 10AM or so, you want the temperature to shoot up to about 70 to melt the snow, then back down to like 40 by noon, when the company comes so you can have a fire. I can create a warm and cozy masterpiece, but apparently only in the toaster oven.
We will have opened our stockings by then, which were hung by the chimney with care. The less care you use, the more likely you are to have to explain to the insurance company the role hosiery played in the five-alarm fire you caused.
The cats and dog get their own stocking. The fish don't get a stocking because: DUH! Fish don't have legs. This year the cats got some high-tech gifts: a battery-operated toy bird that chirps, and a little laser shaped like a mouse. We had to take them both away; one cat obsessed on the talking bird and now both the cat and the bird are in therapy, and the other cat kept pointing the laser mouse at flying aircraft.
We spent Christmas Eve with Paul and Barbara next-door and their family, as we always do. I was informed that I was to be recruited next year to play the part of Santa, since the kids are old enough to recognize all the family members now through the disguise (some of them are in their 20s). I embrace the idea, since I don't picture Santa letting exercise and diet get in the way of his work. Also, as Paul will realize, just about the only natural talent I possess is the ability to use children to insult their parents with pinpoint accuracy. I have to work on the belly laugh though, since I always confuse him with the Jolly Green Giant. I don't think it's unethical for Santa to accept tips, I'm just throwing that out there in advance.
I ate most of the dessert table as they were exchanging gifts utilizing the "Yankee Swap." I tried to picture how Jorge Posada would get along with Nick Swisher's wife (good), but it has nothing to do with that. This one is like a more sophisticated "grab bag," where you can trade the loser gifts for something better. In an evil allegorical twist, one poor sap opened a box filled with canned anchovies, artichokes and Spam. There was more Spam in that box than coming home after two weeks of vacation. He pawned it off to the fellow next to him, a veteran Spam-lover from way back. As we all chuckled, the originator of the gift chimed in, "There's an envelope at the bottom...." A fifty-dollar gift card! Which just goes to show: don't look a gift-horse in the mouth. Why? Because it would be virtually impossible to hide a fifty-dollar gift card there!
Incidentally, the Carol of the Bells was originally titled Shchedryk, named during a time when vowels were in severe shortage and saved only for emergencies. It was composed by Mykola Dmytrovych Leontovych, although “composed” may be overstating it. I could have composed the damn thing by lobbing pebbles at the half-full glasses left on the table after dinner, and that’s putting it optimistically.
Friday, December 2, 2011
THANKSGIVING WITH THE KIDS
This Thanksgiving when my sister came over, as she does every year with her kids, I took time to be grateful that they had grown up. I don’t have any idea what to do or say around little kids. True: infants don’t seem to know what to do or say around me either, and they don’t seem to make much of an effort to keep me amused. Especially when they are REALLY little. They don’t get my jokes, for instance.
Every time somebody brings the new baby, we all sit around smiling, looking at it, waiting for it to DO SOMETHING. An amoeba could surprise you all of a sudden by splitting into two cells. Watching paint dry is boring but at least once it’s dry it stays dry; a baby? Quite the opposite. “He looks a little like his mom,” I stutter. He would be a dead ringer for her if she was a Don Rickles bobble-head doll, but I leave that part out. “He has his dad’s eyes…” Meaning he will be legally blind by the time he is 12. I wonder which traits he will inherit, and from whom. Will he get his alcoholism from his side of the family or from hers??
Clearly I am being too hard on babies, because they eventually grow up and become engaging, smart and a source of unwavering pride. That first sentence that comes out of its mouth is a major milestone. Junior formulates one word, then another and yet another, until in a couple months he is able to ask to borrow money. Now that he is talking, will he be able to finally get my jokes? Why do I have to constantly explain that you have to just TRUST that a penguin can drive a car?? After I explain, still no laugh, a feeling that I am disproportionately accustomed to.
One time when we threw a party and one of the neighbors brought their children, a little boy approached and he looked pissed. At ME. “You don’t have any toys,” he indicted. “Because you don’t have any KIDS.” I felt like such a jerk and I told him to check back with me later. Why DIDN’T I have kids? I know a lot of parents, and whenever the kids are with them they have that dazed, tired look on their face like you just came out of the bathroom and didn’t realize that a tornado had flattened the neighborhood. Didn’t you know it was going to be like this? “Oh I wouldn’t trade them for the WORLD!” They say. “What about for a Mercedes SLS AMG?” I goad. “Does that come with the extended interior carbon fiber package? And power windows?” Mom asks.
It still doesn’t solve the problem of what to do with the kids when Mom skips out the back door to have a smoke with the other moms who don’t even smoke, leaving me with a bunch of babies who don’t know how to shoot pool. I try discussing the Giants horrible pass defense, which goes nowhere, and venting about the Kardashians, which at least makes ME feel better, but I end up stumped. When I was a kid all you needed to have a perfectly good afternoon of play was a sandbox, a hammer and some unspent shotgun shells. Nowadays, of course, you would never even suggest such a thing because nobody wants that sand all over the place. I think of trying to pass off the cat litter box as a play area, but reject it immediately because the cat would throw a shit fit, literally. The cat has made a big stink over a lot less.
But it gives me an idea, and I try to get the kid interested in the cat toys. I get him to chase a catnip mouse for a while- the cat watches from the couch, rolling his eyes. The baby starts to get a little woozy from the catnip, and sharpens his claws on the side of the chair. When the baby starts to eat one of the houseplants I abandon the idea.
What about playing with the cat itself? Kids love animals, and I wish I lived on a farm, where every day, really disgusting things happen that kids would love. I picture milking the cows, squirting milk at each other until I remember that I am lactose intolerant. We watch a new foal being born: the kid watches rapt and amazed as I vomit uncontrollably. We play with the goats, which eat the child’s coat, mittens and hat as a prix fixe package. Anyway, I point over to the couch, where the cat immediately shows a look of terror, and disappears into the bedroom. I let the kid take the fish out of the tank and pet them for awhile, but he wants to play with the eel and I begin to wonder how Consumer Reports would rate it as a toy.
That’s another thing- you can’t let children play with anything anymore that might be dangerous. Which is tremendously and unfairly restricting. They are always recalling things that pose a danger to infants- a beach ball? NO WAY! The kid could swallow it and CHOKE! Matchbox car? NO THANK YOU! A really small child could get inside it, drive to the 7-11 and get BEER! Barbie Doll? DEFINITELY NOT! I don’t want to have to have the conversation about how her breasts got that big until my kid is at least 40.
When Melissa’s kids came over one time and realized that we had no toys that were suitable for children, the toddler started playing with the stereo system. “Isn’t that cute?” We all purred. 20 music-free minutes later, with my reading glasses on and the instruction book out, I learned that my receiver has a little button called “Tape Monitor 2” that is so simple even a child could use it.
I went to the bathroom at somebody’s house and they ran out of toilet paper. I couldn’t get into the cabinet under the sink because it had childproof locks on it, and had to use the shower rod to pry it open. It made me realize how many poisonous things there are under my sink, and also how cheaply made shower rods are.
Guests used to bring a portable playpen with them, which looked like a little jail cell with bars around it, and you could keep an eye on the baby, let him out once in awhile to get a prison tattoo or something. When you want to do Jaeger shots you just re-incarcerate the baby and jiggle his mobile.
Finally I decide on a game of “Nap and Seek,” where the kid searches for the perfect hiding place, and remains there for a couple hours until Judge Judy is on.
Incidentally, there were several children’s toys recalls in 2011. The “Pottery Barn Kids,” Chloe, Sophia and Audrey, were recalled due to “strangulation hazard.” How many children these evil dolls strangled I have no idea, but steer clear of these sluts. The Radio Flyer “Scoot ‘n Zoom” riding toy was taken off the market due to “fall hazard,” but I bet they’ll be back by spring. The “Gripper Musical Shaker” percussion toy was withdrawn due to “choking hazard.” It’s unclear whether the children were being choked by the toys or the parents. If anything was recalled before 2011 I can’t recall it.
Every time somebody brings the new baby, we all sit around smiling, looking at it, waiting for it to DO SOMETHING. An amoeba could surprise you all of a sudden by splitting into two cells. Watching paint dry is boring but at least once it’s dry it stays dry; a baby? Quite the opposite. “He looks a little like his mom,” I stutter. He would be a dead ringer for her if she was a Don Rickles bobble-head doll, but I leave that part out. “He has his dad’s eyes…” Meaning he will be legally blind by the time he is 12. I wonder which traits he will inherit, and from whom. Will he get his alcoholism from his side of the family or from hers??
Clearly I am being too hard on babies, because they eventually grow up and become engaging, smart and a source of unwavering pride. That first sentence that comes out of its mouth is a major milestone. Junior formulates one word, then another and yet another, until in a couple months he is able to ask to borrow money. Now that he is talking, will he be able to finally get my jokes? Why do I have to constantly explain that you have to just TRUST that a penguin can drive a car?? After I explain, still no laugh, a feeling that I am disproportionately accustomed to.
One time when we threw a party and one of the neighbors brought their children, a little boy approached and he looked pissed. At ME. “You don’t have any toys,” he indicted. “Because you don’t have any KIDS.” I felt like such a jerk and I told him to check back with me later. Why DIDN’T I have kids? I know a lot of parents, and whenever the kids are with them they have that dazed, tired look on their face like you just came out of the bathroom and didn’t realize that a tornado had flattened the neighborhood. Didn’t you know it was going to be like this? “Oh I wouldn’t trade them for the WORLD!” They say. “What about for a Mercedes SLS AMG?” I goad. “Does that come with the extended interior carbon fiber package? And power windows?” Mom asks.
It still doesn’t solve the problem of what to do with the kids when Mom skips out the back door to have a smoke with the other moms who don’t even smoke, leaving me with a bunch of babies who don’t know how to shoot pool. I try discussing the Giants horrible pass defense, which goes nowhere, and venting about the Kardashians, which at least makes ME feel better, but I end up stumped. When I was a kid all you needed to have a perfectly good afternoon of play was a sandbox, a hammer and some unspent shotgun shells. Nowadays, of course, you would never even suggest such a thing because nobody wants that sand all over the place. I think of trying to pass off the cat litter box as a play area, but reject it immediately because the cat would throw a shit fit, literally. The cat has made a big stink over a lot less.
But it gives me an idea, and I try to get the kid interested in the cat toys. I get him to chase a catnip mouse for a while- the cat watches from the couch, rolling his eyes. The baby starts to get a little woozy from the catnip, and sharpens his claws on the side of the chair. When the baby starts to eat one of the houseplants I abandon the idea.
What about playing with the cat itself? Kids love animals, and I wish I lived on a farm, where every day, really disgusting things happen that kids would love. I picture milking the cows, squirting milk at each other until I remember that I am lactose intolerant. We watch a new foal being born: the kid watches rapt and amazed as I vomit uncontrollably. We play with the goats, which eat the child’s coat, mittens and hat as a prix fixe package. Anyway, I point over to the couch, where the cat immediately shows a look of terror, and disappears into the bedroom. I let the kid take the fish out of the tank and pet them for awhile, but he wants to play with the eel and I begin to wonder how Consumer Reports would rate it as a toy.
That’s another thing- you can’t let children play with anything anymore that might be dangerous. Which is tremendously and unfairly restricting. They are always recalling things that pose a danger to infants- a beach ball? NO WAY! The kid could swallow it and CHOKE! Matchbox car? NO THANK YOU! A really small child could get inside it, drive to the 7-11 and get BEER! Barbie Doll? DEFINITELY NOT! I don’t want to have to have the conversation about how her breasts got that big until my kid is at least 40.
When Melissa’s kids came over one time and realized that we had no toys that were suitable for children, the toddler started playing with the stereo system. “Isn’t that cute?” We all purred. 20 music-free minutes later, with my reading glasses on and the instruction book out, I learned that my receiver has a little button called “Tape Monitor 2” that is so simple even a child could use it.
I went to the bathroom at somebody’s house and they ran out of toilet paper. I couldn’t get into the cabinet under the sink because it had childproof locks on it, and had to use the shower rod to pry it open. It made me realize how many poisonous things there are under my sink, and also how cheaply made shower rods are.
Guests used to bring a portable playpen with them, which looked like a little jail cell with bars around it, and you could keep an eye on the baby, let him out once in awhile to get a prison tattoo or something. When you want to do Jaeger shots you just re-incarcerate the baby and jiggle his mobile.
Finally I decide on a game of “Nap and Seek,” where the kid searches for the perfect hiding place, and remains there for a couple hours until Judge Judy is on.
Incidentally, there were several children’s toys recalls in 2011. The “Pottery Barn Kids,” Chloe, Sophia and Audrey, were recalled due to “strangulation hazard.” How many children these evil dolls strangled I have no idea, but steer clear of these sluts. The Radio Flyer “Scoot ‘n Zoom” riding toy was taken off the market due to “fall hazard,” but I bet they’ll be back by spring. The “Gripper Musical Shaker” percussion toy was withdrawn due to “choking hazard.” It’s unclear whether the children were being choked by the toys or the parents. If anything was recalled before 2011 I can’t recall it.
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