When I was in school my fellow classmates and I questioned authority. We never questioned science. Learning that the world wasn't flat was considered a good thing. Learning from the likes of Galileo about the universe and galaxies far far away was also considered a good thing. There was no one in my biology class that said, "Who does that Darwin guy think he is?"
What the hell has happened? Who are these believers that are actually non-believers messing with our science? Can't they separate Noah's Ark from paleontology? Generations in the past had done that for, well...generations. Here's a simple solution for these evangelical know-it-alls that question the origin of species - they all should google actor Ron Perlman. That should end the evolutionary debate right then and there. "Oh, now I see it", replied the deniers.
But, it doesn't stop there. I read in this morning's newspaper that climate change is now being debunked in some schools. Just what we need; another anti-science curriculum for our kids. That'll help us compete with the Chinese youth for years to come. These non-global warming teachers obviously don't live in the Valley when it is 102 degrees in February. These so-called "educators" disavow 99% of all scientific evidence and have chosen to accept the findings of a guy named Ludwig.
Now, I have to admit, you hear a name like Ludwig and you figure credibility. A little further research proves otherwise. It turns out that Ludwig was once fired from Mattel for getting too close to a Ken doll. Ludwig then wrote two mediocre film scripts that never got produced. Down on his luck he noticed an ad in the L.A. Times looking for a fiction writer to say that global warming was simply a myth. He got the job. Printed out his made up suppositions. Went on a few talk shows. Became pals with Sean Hannity. Then had his anti-global warming assertions be taught along side the findings of most of the world's renowned climatologists. Maybe the guy's name wasn't Ludwig. It could have been Bernard.
I feel like someone has pushed the button to the wayback machine. Everybody should be wearing Davy Crockett coonskin caps. Be brandishing "I Like Ike" buttons on their lapels. Stuffing Twinkies into their mouths. Hello...it is 2012. It wasn't better when it was separate but equal. It wasn't better that a woman's workplace was solely in the kitchen. Bonanza wasn't really that great a show. Three grown men still living with Pa. Come on.
Seriously, what is going on? Rational folk are having a hard time being heard. Conventional thought can't compete. Social networking has allowed the fringe to be much more fringe-like than ever before. Have you been listening? They say that science sucks. No evolution. No global warming. They say that women can't suck. No morning after pill. No contraception coverage.
No contraception coverage! Now you're pissing me off! Anybody that has ever driven on the 405 knows how important it is to not take away contraception rights. It already takes 45 minutes to get to Encino. Change the contraception laws and the new lanes that they are building for that freeway won't do jack. They'll be a fetus behind the wheel of all the brand new Fiats.
Most of the women that I know are having their vaginas explode with all of this retro rhetoric. The state of Virginia was trying to pass a law that allows penetrating in to a female's area that I rarely ever got to in my dating days. Women that I know want to go full Steinem on the religious right of right. They need help. It is time for the younger women to rise up. Stop texting. Stop playing Farmville. Don't let your Mamas do all the heavy lifting. They did that in the sixties and seventies. Your Moms could use a little assistance against this misguided social conservatism. You don't have to burn your bras unless you want to.
I wish that what was going on today was so out of the mainstream that I didn't have to worry about it. That teachers teaching science classes didn't have to be concerned about being burned at the stake. That women weren't getting probed by folks with a badge. That someone like Rick Santorum: A man that believes that the refrigerator light doesn't turn off when you close the door - A man that believes that a woman's prized possession is her apron - A man that believes that he would support a marriage between a man and a dog before he would support gay marriage - is considered a viable candidate. Not a viable candidate for a local council seat in upstate Pennsylvania but a viable candidate for the Presidency of the United States. I haven't been this scared since The Exorcist first came out. You have to be worried. Please, don't fall asleep out there.
Friday, February 24, 2012
Friday, February 17, 2012
NINE LIVES AREN'T ENOUGH
It was about an hour after the Super Bowl had ended. She was definitely upset that Welker had dropped the pass. She must have had money on the Patriots. But, that wasn't the reason. It was her time. I continued to stroke her as the last of her nine lives finally left her body. Indulge me as I go Marley and Me on you and tell you the story of our departed cat Sniffles.
In my neighborhood our house is known as the Hotel Rwanda for stray cats. They all seem to know that they will get three meals a day and a roof over their head if they just show up.
It was about 3 and a half years ago. The rain was soaking the street. We were on our front porch looking for our young stray when we saw this mangy cat crash through the hedge and head in our direction. She lessened in size as she struggled towards us. "Help me. Please help me." We both heard this soaking wet cat's call. Her nose was completely plugged. Scabs and sores lined her back. I ran inside and got a towel for the bedraggled feline. I quickly returned to the porch handing the makeshift blanket to the wife.
The towel wrapped around our new border. Within minutes she stopped shivering. We offered her some food. She hoovered it down. The wife got one of our indoor cat beds and made it up for this poor thing on the porch. Sneezing and exhausted the cat got into the bed. Just before falling asleep the cat said to us, "If I can return the favor, I will". Sniffles returned it in spades.
A trip to the vet and a couple of weeks of rehab had given Sniffles her strength back. The vet had guessed that she was around 14 years old; or maybe a few years passed that. Our much younger stray was curious about the new tenant. Lodger was a baby. Sniffles wasn't. Think Lady Gaga meeting up with Queen Elizabeth. The first meeting was more about tolerance than bonding. The awkwardness soon turned to sisterhood. Only to be interrupted when Lodger would occasionally pounce and Sniffles would say, "get off my lawn".
The front porch didn't provide enough protection for the ever-improving Sniffles; so we moved her to the back. At that time we had an aging senior 22 year old cat in the house. No need to disrupt Tuxedo. Our newest friend was not allowed to roam from room to room. Sniffles was given the back office and backyard to hang. She made the office her home. Especially when she missed her litter box. She never tried to get to the rest of the house. Her single apartment was just fine with her.
You couldn't help but smile every time that you saw Sniffles saunter across the backyard. She had that Masterpiece theatre walk. All she needed was a parasol. A Downton Tabby if you will. Whenever she would find a spot to rest she would start a circle dance. She made more orbits than John Glenn before settling down. She loved her food. She loved our food even more. This feline was an adorable wacky one.
Sadly, after six months, we lost Tuxedo to a Petco in the sky. The wife was devastated. Sniffles was now given free reign to the house. That first night she knew that my wife was miserable with her Tuxedo gone. Sniffles jumped up on the bed and snuggled up to the wife. "Losses are tough. Let me help you through this", Sniffles said.
That is what Sniffles did for the next three years. She acted as more than a buffer. She stole our hearts. She wrapped up joy and delivered it to us every day. She was quite a character. You would open up the pantry door and she'd come running. You would grab a can of tuna and she would say. "Had that yesterday. Let's go with the chicken and vegetables." Her eyes could melt you. You could be at a movie theatre and know that Sniffles would be waiting beside her bowl expecting you to be home soon. I have never had a pet that was so grateful.
It came to an end on Super Bowl Sunday. It was not unexpected. It was not wanted. It was serene and dignified. Towards the end I felt that she was definitely thanking us for the ride.
Things are never meant to be the same. So; you move on. The dynamic of our house has certainly changed. An emptiness that will fade with time. Her surviving sister is confused by the absence. "Have you seen Sniffles?", Lodger asked. With a tear in my eye, I responded to Lodger, "I see her everywhere."
In my neighborhood our house is known as the Hotel Rwanda for stray cats. They all seem to know that they will get three meals a day and a roof over their head if they just show up.
It was about 3 and a half years ago. The rain was soaking the street. We were on our front porch looking for our young stray when we saw this mangy cat crash through the hedge and head in our direction. She lessened in size as she struggled towards us. "Help me. Please help me." We both heard this soaking wet cat's call. Her nose was completely plugged. Scabs and sores lined her back. I ran inside and got a towel for the bedraggled feline. I quickly returned to the porch handing the makeshift blanket to the wife.
The towel wrapped around our new border. Within minutes she stopped shivering. We offered her some food. She hoovered it down. The wife got one of our indoor cat beds and made it up for this poor thing on the porch. Sneezing and exhausted the cat got into the bed. Just before falling asleep the cat said to us, "If I can return the favor, I will". Sniffles returned it in spades.
A trip to the vet and a couple of weeks of rehab had given Sniffles her strength back. The vet had guessed that she was around 14 years old; or maybe a few years passed that. Our much younger stray was curious about the new tenant. Lodger was a baby. Sniffles wasn't. Think Lady Gaga meeting up with Queen Elizabeth. The first meeting was more about tolerance than bonding. The awkwardness soon turned to sisterhood. Only to be interrupted when Lodger would occasionally pounce and Sniffles would say, "get off my lawn".
The front porch didn't provide enough protection for the ever-improving Sniffles; so we moved her to the back. At that time we had an aging senior 22 year old cat in the house. No need to disrupt Tuxedo. Our newest friend was not allowed to roam from room to room. Sniffles was given the back office and backyard to hang. She made the office her home. Especially when she missed her litter box. She never tried to get to the rest of the house. Her single apartment was just fine with her.
You couldn't help but smile every time that you saw Sniffles saunter across the backyard. She had that Masterpiece theatre walk. All she needed was a parasol. A Downton Tabby if you will. Whenever she would find a spot to rest she would start a circle dance. She made more orbits than John Glenn before settling down. She loved her food. She loved our food even more. This feline was an adorable wacky one.
Sadly, after six months, we lost Tuxedo to a Petco in the sky. The wife was devastated. Sniffles was now given free reign to the house. That first night she knew that my wife was miserable with her Tuxedo gone. Sniffles jumped up on the bed and snuggled up to the wife. "Losses are tough. Let me help you through this", Sniffles said.
That is what Sniffles did for the next three years. She acted as more than a buffer. She stole our hearts. She wrapped up joy and delivered it to us every day. She was quite a character. You would open up the pantry door and she'd come running. You would grab a can of tuna and she would say. "Had that yesterday. Let's go with the chicken and vegetables." Her eyes could melt you. You could be at a movie theatre and know that Sniffles would be waiting beside her bowl expecting you to be home soon. I have never had a pet that was so grateful.
It came to an end on Super Bowl Sunday. It was not unexpected. It was not wanted. It was serene and dignified. Towards the end I felt that she was definitely thanking us for the ride.
Things are never meant to be the same. So; you move on. The dynamic of our house has certainly changed. An emptiness that will fade with time. Her surviving sister is confused by the absence. "Have you seen Sniffles?", Lodger asked. With a tear in my eye, I responded to Lodger, "I see her everywhere."
Friday, February 10, 2012
SUPER BERLE SUNDAY
Another Super Bowl Sunday and I still don't know what the hell Go Daddy.com is. Saying it is a search engine doesn't help. I still have two bottles of white out on my desk. That is whom you are dealing with.
The game, that surrounded the Grammy Awards halftime show, was actually a pretty good one. It took forever to get started. The pre-game show was very reminiscent of extended foreplay. I'm not a proponent of foreplay; or lingerie for that matter. I consider them both a waste of time.
America The Beautiful and the National Anthem before kickoff. Two songs that never made it to the top of the billboard charts. Why both of them? Thank God the game was being played in a domed stadium. That stopped the predictable fly bys of scary fighter jets. When has it become necessary to wear flag pins when announcing a football game? The game hasn't even started and Middle America is so riled up that they want to invade Iran.
Even the toin coss has gotten out of control. The referee explains to the 27 co-captains, future NFL hall of fame inductees, a General Petraeus look-a-like, and 2 of the judges from the Voice, the difference between heads and tails. "Heads are these silly little moon things that look like Benito Mussolini. Tails are the lyrics to two of the songs from the broadway musical Gypsy."
The first half consisted of some mediocre plays that were magnified out of proportion because it is the Super Bowl after all. People in Vegas were all ready collecting on some silly early wagers like: The first Giant player that made a sack and didn't do a celebration. The first Patriot player that mentioned Valerie Harper's name in the huddle. Plus, people in homes all across America, were ragging on the latest talking baby commercial. The one's that weren't ragging were wondering how they got the baby to remember all that dialog.
I know that we don't need to return to a halftime show consisting of a marching band messing up a Fleetwood Mac song. But, enough with geezer rock. Madonna, with her pom poms, looked like she was auditioning for a Richard Simmons workout video. The finger malfunction was the best part of the show.
Why do we have to have a musical act during halftime? Other ideas: A fifteen minute diatribe by Ron Paul about the national debt. Mud wrestling with the Housewives of Beverly HIlls. Iron Chef shenanigans. Dick jokes from an old time comedian like the late Milton Berle. What about Rickles? "Hey Eli, how does it feel to be not as good as your brother or your father? And you Mr. Pretty Boy Tom Brady, I'll get to you in a minute. Don't get your panties in a Bundchen you hockey puck!"
The game starts to get serious in the fourth quarter. Annoying announcer anecdotes continue. "Not since Vince Lombardi french-kissed Y.A. Tittle have I seen such perfection." It came down to the last play. A long hail Mary pass was thrown. The only person that could have completed that hail Mary pass would have been Tim Tebow. He claims to actually know Mary. It is incomplete. Giants win. Confetti is flying. Trophy is hoisted.
This is when you really needed Rickles. "What are you gonna do with that trophy other than piss in it?"
The game, that surrounded the Grammy Awards halftime show, was actually a pretty good one. It took forever to get started. The pre-game show was very reminiscent of extended foreplay. I'm not a proponent of foreplay; or lingerie for that matter. I consider them both a waste of time.
America The Beautiful and the National Anthem before kickoff. Two songs that never made it to the top of the billboard charts. Why both of them? Thank God the game was being played in a domed stadium. That stopped the predictable fly bys of scary fighter jets. When has it become necessary to wear flag pins when announcing a football game? The game hasn't even started and Middle America is so riled up that they want to invade Iran.
Even the toin coss has gotten out of control. The referee explains to the 27 co-captains, future NFL hall of fame inductees, a General Petraeus look-a-like, and 2 of the judges from the Voice, the difference between heads and tails. "Heads are these silly little moon things that look like Benito Mussolini. Tails are the lyrics to two of the songs from the broadway musical Gypsy."
The first half consisted of some mediocre plays that were magnified out of proportion because it is the Super Bowl after all. People in Vegas were all ready collecting on some silly early wagers like: The first Giant player that made a sack and didn't do a celebration. The first Patriot player that mentioned Valerie Harper's name in the huddle. Plus, people in homes all across America, were ragging on the latest talking baby commercial. The one's that weren't ragging were wondering how they got the baby to remember all that dialog.
I know that we don't need to return to a halftime show consisting of a marching band messing up a Fleetwood Mac song. But, enough with geezer rock. Madonna, with her pom poms, looked like she was auditioning for a Richard Simmons workout video. The finger malfunction was the best part of the show.
Why do we have to have a musical act during halftime? Other ideas: A fifteen minute diatribe by Ron Paul about the national debt. Mud wrestling with the Housewives of Beverly HIlls. Iron Chef shenanigans. Dick jokes from an old time comedian like the late Milton Berle. What about Rickles? "Hey Eli, how does it feel to be not as good as your brother or your father? And you Mr. Pretty Boy Tom Brady, I'll get to you in a minute. Don't get your panties in a Bundchen you hockey puck!"
The game starts to get serious in the fourth quarter. Annoying announcer anecdotes continue. "Not since Vince Lombardi french-kissed Y.A. Tittle have I seen such perfection." It came down to the last play. A long hail Mary pass was thrown. The only person that could have completed that hail Mary pass would have been Tim Tebow. He claims to actually know Mary. It is incomplete. Giants win. Confetti is flying. Trophy is hoisted.
This is when you really needed Rickles. "What are you gonna do with that trophy other than piss in it?"
Friday, February 3, 2012
HAPPY FACEBOOK TO YOU
It is the day after my birthday and I am doing what every other person with an ipad would be doing - checking my facebook friends list to see who didn't wish me a happy birthday. I know that sounds very fourth grade, but that is what facebook birthdays really are.
My fourth grade birthday helped me achieve celebrity status for one day with my classmates. The grammar school ridicule that I was normally subjected to was put on hold. I was treated like royalty during recess. One downside was that the whole "pinch to grow an inch" thing got out of hand. I needed an infusion of bactine to bring down the swelling. Years later I learned that one of the more aggressive pinchers became a lyricist. Janet, the beyond cherub, gave me a mushy birthday card. Which led to teasing and insults that still haunt me to this day. Kathy, the cutest girl in the world, still paid no attention to me. I guess butch wax wasn't her thing.
There was usually a party that weekend to continue the celebration. Mostly little league teammates. No girls were invited. I'm sure the lyricist was there. Always a store bought cake. It would be over-decorated with little baseball players atop it that you could actually eat. Nothing like munching on a tiny chocolate mitt and washing it down with a tumbler full of Hawaiian punch. Those are two very combative food groups.
I would open my gifts and never hide the disappointment. I was a very blunt fourth grader. Even then I enjoyed disdain. But really, how should I have acted? It was a sweater vest!!! I wanted something from Mattel. I didn't want to look like Andy Williams. Where the hell was my water wiggle?
A few games were played. None of them involved skill. Pin the tail on the donkey. Musical chairs. Hide your Grandma's teeth. I would win most of the contests. Years later I found out that the fix was in. My Dad had tipped the scales in my favor. That day was probably the only time in my Dad's life where I actually met his expectations
Being on Facebook has allowed me once again to achieve that celebrity status on my birthday. This past Monday my everyday ridicule was put on hold. I was treated like royalty during my recess. Okay grownups don't call it recess. They call it unemployment. Most of the day I received only self-inflicted pinchings. I guess there were some differences between now and the fourth grade.
But, quicker than you could say Mark Zuckerberg, the Facebook shoutouts on my special day came in fast and furious. I started out being grateful but that changed. The shoutouts lacked cleverness. I worked in show business for a long time. My friends on Facebook included people that had been nominated for Emmy Awards. You would think that I would get the most creative salutations. I got 97 Happy Birthdays. Personalization was not at a premium. "Have a great day!" I deleted 27 of the non-creators from my friends list.
I did have a nice Facebook birthday greeting from an old college buddy. It's too bad that now he is an Evangelical that lives in an Aryan gated community in Idaho. He believes that conception begins when you respond to an email. My favorite best wishes came from an ex-girlfriend, "Happy Birthday. We're not getting back together." That sums it up rather well.
Look, when I see someone's birthday on Facebook it is a tough decision for me as to whether I want to participate. "I met this person in my office 19 years ago - does he really warrant a birthday greeting?" If I do wish this "friend" a happy birthday - please don't let it lead to anything else I hope. I don't want to follow up. Hate to follow up. One of my Facebook friend's brithday is coming up and I don't want to send him the "wishes". It is the debate within because I have known him forever. I don't dislike him. It'll lead to follow up status. I know it will. I just don't want to start up. Like I said; nothing against him. He is a talented lyricist.
My fourth grade birthday helped me achieve celebrity status for one day with my classmates. The grammar school ridicule that I was normally subjected to was put on hold. I was treated like royalty during recess. One downside was that the whole "pinch to grow an inch" thing got out of hand. I needed an infusion of bactine to bring down the swelling. Years later I learned that one of the more aggressive pinchers became a lyricist. Janet, the beyond cherub, gave me a mushy birthday card. Which led to teasing and insults that still haunt me to this day. Kathy, the cutest girl in the world, still paid no attention to me. I guess butch wax wasn't her thing.
There was usually a party that weekend to continue the celebration. Mostly little league teammates. No girls were invited. I'm sure the lyricist was there. Always a store bought cake. It would be over-decorated with little baseball players atop it that you could actually eat. Nothing like munching on a tiny chocolate mitt and washing it down with a tumbler full of Hawaiian punch. Those are two very combative food groups.
I would open my gifts and never hide the disappointment. I was a very blunt fourth grader. Even then I enjoyed disdain. But really, how should I have acted? It was a sweater vest!!! I wanted something from Mattel. I didn't want to look like Andy Williams. Where the hell was my water wiggle?
A few games were played. None of them involved skill. Pin the tail on the donkey. Musical chairs. Hide your Grandma's teeth. I would win most of the contests. Years later I found out that the fix was in. My Dad had tipped the scales in my favor. That day was probably the only time in my Dad's life where I actually met his expectations
Being on Facebook has allowed me once again to achieve that celebrity status on my birthday. This past Monday my everyday ridicule was put on hold. I was treated like royalty during my recess. Okay grownups don't call it recess. They call it unemployment. Most of the day I received only self-inflicted pinchings. I guess there were some differences between now and the fourth grade.
But, quicker than you could say Mark Zuckerberg, the Facebook shoutouts on my special day came in fast and furious. I started out being grateful but that changed. The shoutouts lacked cleverness. I worked in show business for a long time. My friends on Facebook included people that had been nominated for Emmy Awards. You would think that I would get the most creative salutations. I got 97 Happy Birthdays. Personalization was not at a premium. "Have a great day!" I deleted 27 of the non-creators from my friends list.
I did have a nice Facebook birthday greeting from an old college buddy. It's too bad that now he is an Evangelical that lives in an Aryan gated community in Idaho. He believes that conception begins when you respond to an email. My favorite best wishes came from an ex-girlfriend, "Happy Birthday. We're not getting back together." That sums it up rather well.
Look, when I see someone's birthday on Facebook it is a tough decision for me as to whether I want to participate. "I met this person in my office 19 years ago - does he really warrant a birthday greeting?" If I do wish this "friend" a happy birthday - please don't let it lead to anything else I hope. I don't want to follow up. Hate to follow up. One of my Facebook friend's brithday is coming up and I don't want to send him the "wishes". It is the debate within because I have known him forever. I don't dislike him. It'll lead to follow up status. I know it will. I just don't want to start up. Like I said; nothing against him. He is a talented lyricist.
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