I hate rainy days. Now don't get me wrong: I love a good thunderstorm now and again, and I am glad I don't live in a drought zone. It's just that persistently rainy days make me want to drink bourbon and listen to old blues music. The kind of music made by folks who had good voices and bad vices and generally didn't live to be much older than 40. A day spent in such a way can be pleasant in its own miserable way, but it does absolutely naught to make one feel better. The best way to pass time among the raindrops is, unfortunately, also a dying art: The Bullsh*t Session.
In recent years, the term "bullsh*t" has taken on some disturbingly and dishearteningly negative connotations. If your mechanic tries to overcharge you by $1000, you might say "What kind of bullsh*t is this?!?" If your air conditioner dies on the first hot day of summer (which is always on a Sunday - the hardest and most expensive day to get a service call), you might say "This is such bullsh*t!" Worst of all, every time anybody sees a politician move his lips, he or she is automatically and violently compelled to say "BULLSH*T!"
This corruption of such a beautiful word breaks my heart. For, you see, in simpler times that weren't that long ago (1989, actually. It was a Tuesday, I think....), "bullsh*t" was a medium in which the best storytellers of the day worked. It was noble, it was right, it was fun. And there was no better way to watch masters of bovine effluvia work than in a good, old-fashioned Bullsh*t Session. A quality Bullsh*t Session was the kind of event where a few folks (at least two, but no more than five - that's entirely too much manure for one room) would gather, usually spontaneously, and pass stories back and forth all day. The kind of stories that no one believes but everyone enjoys. And a quality Bullsh*t Artist would let you know up front that you were in for a tall tale. His stories would almost always begin with "You're not gonna believe this, but this one time...." or "That's a good story, but I've got one better...."
Now, to really enhance the effectiveness of one of these sessions (or, as the French say "improve the odeur d'ordure"), they have to be in the right setting. The best time is any rainy day. The best place is in a room or a house or a cabin that can be described as anything from run-down to rustic, depending on how long it's been since your Better Homes & Gardens subscription lapsed. The kind of place that has screen doors on either side of the room - for proper ventilation, of course, and to watch and hear the rain fall. The only other things you need are a few chairs, a table to sit around, and a couple of bottles. It was a well-known fact that the various, adult-oriented beverages found in bottles helped keep the Bullsh*t Artists from getting dry throats. Strictly medicinal, I swear. Oh yeah: There are only two rules. 1) Do not call anyone out as a liar. It's like a magic act: everyone knows it's fake, but the fun is seeing what happens next. 2) No stories about sex, religion, or politics. Sex stories lead to bragging, religious stories lead to lightning strikes, and only politicians are qualified enough to pull off bullsh*t of their magnitude.
The session would usually start with a few low-key but well-timed "Yeps" and "Mmhmms" aimed at nothing in particular. Then someone would always get things going with an actual true story, usually related to the weather: "Yep. This kinda weather reminds me of the last time my basement flooded. Took me three days to get that cleaned up." "Mmhmm" a few others would comment. The next person would gently steer the conversation towards the realm of fertilizer by grabbing his verbal muck-rake and chiming in with a "Y'all aren't gonna believe this, but I remember this one time MY basement flooded. We couldn't get the water out, so we turned it into an indoor pond. Stocked it with trout, we did. Cheaper than the grocery store, y'know." From there, the tales would escalate into stories of swimming across the Chesapeake Bay for just the right fishing spot, single- and bare-handedly taking down a bull moose, tickling a charging bear to stop him attacking, etc. (In case you hadn't noticed, hunting and fishing stories lend themselves to Bullsh*t Sessions. I'm pretty sure the first words in any language were "No, really! I caught a fish THIS BIG!") Eventually, the entire session devolves into a bunch of seasoned Bullsh*tters, 3 sheets in the wind (6.2 metric sheets), sitting (or lying) around and singing the wrong words in the way wrong key to songs no one's heard in the better part of 20 years. You always know the bullsh*t's over when you hear the second verse of Conway Twitty's "Tight-Fittin' Jeans".
So, next time you find yourself stuck inside on a rainy day, I suggest you phone a friend, grab a bottle, and see who can tell the best tale.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Of Tomboys and Mama's Boys: Gender Issues
I was intrigued by a recent news item relating the story of an American couple who, after nearly five years, finally revealed the gender of their child to the public. In an effort to avoid gender stereotyping the kid, the parents had refused to tell anyone other than close family members and their doctor the sex of their child. While I feel that this is a bit extreme (and makes for clumsy conversation), I can sort of understand their intent. (I would post a link to the news item, but I'm lazy. And I don't want facts getting in the way of a good story.)
When one is told of the birth of a child, the first question that almost always arises is "Boy or girl?" Some New Age-y folks take offense to this as a sign of society's attempt to "label" their kids and impose gender stereotypes on them. I think these people need to lay of the high-fiber diets. I can almost guarantee that the question is harmless and is intended to make future conversations easier. It's clumsy to talk in gender neutral terms: "Congratulations on your new child. Are he/she and the mother doing well? When are they letting him/her out of the hospital? Oh I can't wait to meet him/her!" (Side note: In some parts of Ireland, especially among older folks, the word "child" is a gender specific term. The first question after a birth is usually "Is it a boy or a child?") I think there are bigger, older, and more annoying forms of gender assumptions that we can all fight against for now.
As the father of two girls (and no boys), I have noticed some of these annoying assumptions in action. Hell, I've even engaged in some of them: I tend to buy and dress my girls in "girly" colors. I even have to do two loads a week of pink clothing just for them. I refer to them as my Chicklets (small chicks - sexist as hell, but funny). I don't wrestle or rough-house with them. Not because I think they're "delicate", though. They were just taught at an early age how to deliver a vicious uppercut to the nuts - a situation I try to avoid. The gender-specific crap that galls me involves athletics and education.
Every single one of us has heard this before: "You throw like a girl!" Nooo...you throw like a kid who's never been taught to throw. Up until puberty, boys and girls who have been taught to throw in the same manner are dead even when it comes to accuracy, distance, and speed. Sadly, though, girls usually aren't encouraged to be ball throwers much past puberty. They are taught to focus on more girly stuff. Studies have shown, though, that girls who receive the same training through adolescence and young adulthood as their male counterparts throw just as well as males. Distance and speed aren't quite as high for girls, but their form is identical to the boys. If you don't believe me, hand a ball to your superstar son who is a pitcher and have him throw it with his non-dominant hand. I bet he throws it like a girl. And as for football, basketball, and all the other sports, I would be willing to bet that if males and females start getting trained the same through their whole lives, they could play as equals. What about pro football? Yeah...you're not likely to see a female lineman who's 6'6" and 365 pounds, but I bet there's a woman out there who could knock him on his ass. Size ain't everything, you know. (!)
And as for education: This one really chaps my ass. Once again, I'm sure you've heard someone say "Boys are just better at math and science." When they are young, boys and girls have the same educational potential. They will be what you help them to become. Math and science spent centuries as a boys-only club, and we are still suffering the effects of it. Stop believing the boys vs. girls crap when it comes to academic potential, and we will double our chances for producing Nobel laureates in this country. By the way, my very girly oldest daughter has never once heard anyone say that the boys in her class are better at math than she is. Guess who's going into the talented and gifted program for mathematics next year? Yep. And so is her female classmate. Her parents don't buy that gender/brain crap either.
Finally, the touchiest of issues: Gender identity. "Girls play dress-up, boys play sports." Why? I've already touched on the girls in sports theme, so I'll focus on the whole dress-up thing. If your son wants to put his hair in pigtails, or clomp around in mommy's high heels, what's the worst that will happen? Oh my god! You're going to MAKE THAT KID GAY!!! No. No you frigging won't. I don't know if you can make a kid gay or make him not gay, but I am almost absolutely certain that letting him explore his world by way of what his parents wear is not going to "make" him gay. I think the worst thing you can do is try to suppress that curiosity or (God help us all) beat it out of him. THAT is what is most likely to cause him to have a lot of confusion and problems later in life. Did you ever think that maybe he wants pigtails just because it's different, or because he thinks they look good on Mommy and he wants to look good, too? Or that maybe he likes shuffling around in Mommy's heels because it makes a metric buttload of noise? It's not like kids love making noise or anything (heavy sarcasm).
So...let your daughter pick up a baseball bat and teach her how to throw. Let her do all the math she wants. Let her wear a ballcap. Let your son put his hair in pigtails or put a hair clip in if he wants. Let him play with dolls if he likes. Let him do the flamenco in Mommy's wedge heels. In 15 years, she is going to be the girl that guys want to be around because she is tough and understands them. And he will be sitting on the couch next to his supermodel wife, massaging her feet. Because he understands that while high heels may make a woman's butt and legs look great, they really hurt. And they both will be absolutely normal.
ps- I draw the line at letting girls pee standing up. That just gets messy.
When one is told of the birth of a child, the first question that almost always arises is "Boy or girl?" Some New Age-y folks take offense to this as a sign of society's attempt to "label" their kids and impose gender stereotypes on them. I think these people need to lay of the high-fiber diets. I can almost guarantee that the question is harmless and is intended to make future conversations easier. It's clumsy to talk in gender neutral terms: "Congratulations on your new child. Are he/she and the mother doing well? When are they letting him/her out of the hospital? Oh I can't wait to meet him/her!" (Side note: In some parts of Ireland, especially among older folks, the word "child" is a gender specific term. The first question after a birth is usually "Is it a boy or a child?") I think there are bigger, older, and more annoying forms of gender assumptions that we can all fight against for now.
As the father of two girls (and no boys), I have noticed some of these annoying assumptions in action. Hell, I've even engaged in some of them: I tend to buy and dress my girls in "girly" colors. I even have to do two loads a week of pink clothing just for them. I refer to them as my Chicklets (small chicks - sexist as hell, but funny). I don't wrestle or rough-house with them. Not because I think they're "delicate", though. They were just taught at an early age how to deliver a vicious uppercut to the nuts - a situation I try to avoid. The gender-specific crap that galls me involves athletics and education.
Every single one of us has heard this before: "You throw like a girl!" Nooo...you throw like a kid who's never been taught to throw. Up until puberty, boys and girls who have been taught to throw in the same manner are dead even when it comes to accuracy, distance, and speed. Sadly, though, girls usually aren't encouraged to be ball throwers much past puberty. They are taught to focus on more girly stuff. Studies have shown, though, that girls who receive the same training through adolescence and young adulthood as their male counterparts throw just as well as males. Distance and speed aren't quite as high for girls, but their form is identical to the boys. If you don't believe me, hand a ball to your superstar son who is a pitcher and have him throw it with his non-dominant hand. I bet he throws it like a girl. And as for football, basketball, and all the other sports, I would be willing to bet that if males and females start getting trained the same through their whole lives, they could play as equals. What about pro football? Yeah...you're not likely to see a female lineman who's 6'6" and 365 pounds, but I bet there's a woman out there who could knock him on his ass. Size ain't everything, you know. (!)
And as for education: This one really chaps my ass. Once again, I'm sure you've heard someone say "Boys are just better at math and science." When they are young, boys and girls have the same educational potential. They will be what you help them to become. Math and science spent centuries as a boys-only club, and we are still suffering the effects of it. Stop believing the boys vs. girls crap when it comes to academic potential, and we will double our chances for producing Nobel laureates in this country. By the way, my very girly oldest daughter has never once heard anyone say that the boys in her class are better at math than she is. Guess who's going into the talented and gifted program for mathematics next year? Yep. And so is her female classmate. Her parents don't buy that gender/brain crap either.
Finally, the touchiest of issues: Gender identity. "Girls play dress-up, boys play sports." Why? I've already touched on the girls in sports theme, so I'll focus on the whole dress-up thing. If your son wants to put his hair in pigtails, or clomp around in mommy's high heels, what's the worst that will happen? Oh my god! You're going to MAKE THAT KID GAY!!! No. No you frigging won't. I don't know if you can make a kid gay or make him not gay, but I am almost absolutely certain that letting him explore his world by way of what his parents wear is not going to "make" him gay. I think the worst thing you can do is try to suppress that curiosity or (God help us all) beat it out of him. THAT is what is most likely to cause him to have a lot of confusion and problems later in life. Did you ever think that maybe he wants pigtails just because it's different, or because he thinks they look good on Mommy and he wants to look good, too? Or that maybe he likes shuffling around in Mommy's heels because it makes a metric buttload of noise? It's not like kids love making noise or anything (heavy sarcasm).
So...let your daughter pick up a baseball bat and teach her how to throw. Let her do all the math she wants. Let her wear a ballcap. Let your son put his hair in pigtails or put a hair clip in if he wants. Let him play with dolls if he likes. Let him do the flamenco in Mommy's wedge heels. In 15 years, she is going to be the girl that guys want to be around because she is tough and understands them. And he will be sitting on the couch next to his supermodel wife, massaging her feet. Because he understands that while high heels may make a woman's butt and legs look great, they really hurt. And they both will be absolutely normal.
ps- I draw the line at letting girls pee standing up. That just gets messy.
How to Look Like a Wine Snob in 327 Easy Steps
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| Nice picture, huh? |
Relax and remember two things:
1) The people you are with probably have very little idea what is supposed to happen in that situation, either. With a little bit of grace and some sleight of hand, you will impress the ever-loving bejeebers out of them.
AND
2) Unless you are at the snottiest of snotty restaurants - the kind where the menus are in a foreign language (probably Aramaic) and have no pictures - the server probably doesn't know, either. (NB: If a member of the restaurant staff you have never seen up to that point brings the bottle to the table and calls himself the sommelier or wine steward, you are screwed. There is no impressing those people. The symptoms of a heart attack are shooting pain in the arm up to the jaw and a tight, restricted feeling in the chest. Go for it.)
So here then is a step-by-step guide for handling this situation:
The Presentation of the Bottle
Purpose/Procedure: The server will bring the bottle of wine to you while holding it in a jaunty manner. Be sure to compliment him/her on their bottle presentation: "My, what a jaunty and professional way to hold a bottle!" They do this so that you can verify that the bottle they are holding is what you ordered. Some restaurants have multiple vintages (years) of the same wine, so mistakes happen. If you are a true wine snob, the vintage can make a huge difference. (For more info, see my Wine Snob's Ultimate Guide to Vintages and Stuff. Good luck finding it, as I haven't written it yet.) Also, a winemaker may have multiple varietals (flavors, for lack of a snottier term) per year. You are checking the bottle to make sure that it is the 2004 Chateau Le Gauche Vache cabernet sauvignon you ordered and NOT the merlot or the 2005 cabernet...or possibly a bottle of Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill (stick with even-year vintages on that particular wine, btw.)
What to Say/Do: Keep it simple. Check the label for the name, the varietal, and the vintage. If you cannot find any of that info, just politely ask the server where it is on the label. If it is what you ordered, just say something like "That's the one. Thank you." If it is not the right one, politely inform the server of what is wrong with it. ALWAYS be polite and friendly with your server! ALWAYS. His time is very valuable, and this is a lengthy process. Plus, you'd be surprised how many free glasses of wine you can get out of "Please" and "Thank you".
What NOT to Say/Do: Do not grab the bottle out of his hands. If you put a finger on that bottle and it drops, you will be paying upwards of $50 for something that will wind up in a mop bucket. Do not get fancy or snotty. Wine servers HATE that. They know you're full of crap when you start saying things like "I usually prefer the '06 because of its subtle cherry notes blahblahblah..." Do not grab the server's ass, no matter how hot he/she is. That just leads to hurt feelings, lawsuits, and dropped bottles. Moving on....
The Uncorking/Presentation of the Cork
Purpose/Procedure: After the wine has been verified as what you ordered, the server will then uncork the bottle. (I feel it necessary to point out that a lot of wines - even high-dollar ones - are switching to screwcaps - more properly known as Stelvin closures or Stelvin caps. Research has shown that it is actually better for white wines and has probably little impact on red wines to use caps. New Zealand, which makes the best sauvignon blanc on the planet, has banned the use of corks by law.) The server does this to - DUH - open the wine. He will then present you with the cork. It is yours to keep. I suggest saving all of your corks and making a lovely, very expensive trivet out of them.
What to Do/Say: Watch respectfully and quietly as he removes the usual foil seal and/or wax over the cork and then the cork itself. In the case of champagne or sparkling wine, there will usually be a foil seal, a "cage", and the cork. After the wine has been opened, the server will hand you the cork. In the old days, unscrupulous restaurant owners would swap labels (among other nefarious acts) to pass off cheap wine as expensive stuff. You are being given the cork to verify that the maker's mark on the cork matches the label on the bottle. After you have done that, look at and touch the end of the cork to make sure it is wet and stained (ewwww). Wine should be stored on its side to keep the cork wet and the bottle opening airtight. If the cork is dry, it has been stored improperly. You don't really need to say anything, but a "Thank you" when the server hands you the cork is always a good thing. (Seriously, people...you can be snobby AND nice at the same time.)
What NOT to Say/Do: Contrary to everything you think is true, proper, and holy regarding wine, DO NOT SNIFF THE CORK. What's wrong with you? Sniffing stuff people hand you in public...ugh.... Also, do not lovingly fondle the cork, no matter how good the wine is. That's just rude. When the server pulls the cork out of the bottle, do not put your finger in your mouth and make the cork-popping noise. Save that stuff for Chuck E. Cheese (or, if you are in France, Charles Edouard du Frommage). Do not sing, hum, or whistle "Pop Goes the Weasel", even though that would be funny as hell if you timed it just right with the cork pop. Do not throw the cork at people.
The Pour
Purpose/Procedure: If everything has been OK so far, the server will pour a small sip of wine into your glass. This is your final test for the wine. You will be making sure that the wine tastes OK, there's no gunk floating in it, and that it is to your liking. This will be your chance to be step up your snobby game.
What to Do/Say: This is the most crucial step, so pay attention! It boils down to: Swirl, Sniff, Sip, Swallow.
Swirl After the server has poured, swirl the wine gently in your glass. There are various techniques for this (the Samba, the Hula Hoop, the Chicago Pas de Deux, the Shimmy, the Watusi, and - my personal favorite - the Wibble-Wobble), but keep it simple for now. You move it in the glass to get air into it (also known as letting it breathe - a move to improve its taste), to see how it coats the glass (aka "checking its legs" - I kid you not), and to check for debris. A few tips: Extremely high-end wines are unfiltered and may have sediment (fines) in them. This is OK. Wine should not have clumps, foreign matter, body parts, or bits of cork in it, though Sparkling wines and champagnes should have NO debris in them at all, not even sediment.
Sniff After swirling the wine, lift your glass to your nose, and sniff deeply. If you smell skunk, vinegar, wet dog, or anything else really unsavory, the wine has probably "turned" (gone bad). Depending on the type of wine, you may smell odd stuff like licorice, tobacco, fruit, "earth" (a smell very similar to clean and freshly turned gardening soil), flower smells, wood, herbs, etc. Odd does not mean bad. It's only bad if it makes you gag or brings back unpleasant olfactory memories of a daycare center.
Sip Take a sip of the wine. Nothing fancy, just sip it as if you are sipping hot coffee. Avoiding fancy tricks yet again, move the wine around in your mouth so it coats as much of the inside of your mouth as possible. Different wines affect different taste areas in your mouth, so you want to get a feel for its overall "taste profile".
Swallow Swallow the wine. Duh. After you have swallowed the wine, though, allow yourself one exhaled breath (mouth closed). Believe it or not, good wine will have three different "flavors": the inhaled aroma (or bouquet), the taste, and the exhaled aroma (the finish).
As you are doing this, make simple comments about the pleasing color of the wine, the pleasant bouquet, the nice taste, etc. Also, don't forget to thank the server when he pours. Thank him again after he pours the now-approved wine into glasses for all of the guests.
What NOT to Say/Do: Do not slosh your wine. Keep the swirl simple. Do NOT get overly snotty and elaborate in any of your comments. Avoid words such as precocious, evocative, aromatic, etc., and don't compare the aroma/taste to things you have never tried. I hate reading wine descriptions that compare the flavor to lychee, cassis, or anything else a lot of people have never tried. Do not slurp loudly or consume the whole amount the server poured for you. Slurping is gross. Forget all the fancy tricks for tasting wine. Do not slosh it about in your mouth like Listerine. Do not "chew" it. Sampling wine follows the same rule as that for food: Once it hits your mouth, no one else should see it or hear it. Sample the wine exactly as you would drink it. You don't "chew" what you drink, so don't chew your tasting sample. If someone gave you a sample of cheese, would you take the cheese and rub it over all of your teeth? Hopefully not. And most importantly of all: DO NOT SPIT. If you are sampling more than four wines at a tasting event, then you will be provided with special spit buckets to help you avoid alcohol poisoning. At a restaurant, though, spitting is NEVER allowed.
One last note: If you find the wine is not what you want (but the quality is fine), politely tell the server that and ask if you can get a different bottle. Restaurants will frequently take such mostly-full bottles and sell them at a much higher mark-up by the glass as the "special wine of the day". Or...they'll give free glasses of that wine to customers who have always said "Please" and "Thank you" to their servers. Enjoy!
ps- I don't think anyone I was with noticed or was impressed with my god-like wine knowledge. The server noticed, though, and I got a free glass of malbec out of it. That one goes in the Win column.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Of Love and Loss
Well, it's only been 4 months since the last blog update, so I reckon I'm getting more regular about it. I actually write quite a bit for this place, but being a little bit of a perfectionist about certain things, I do a lot of revamping before I actually publish anything. If Poe could spend 6 months figuring out the best place for a comma in The Raven, I should be allowed to take a couple of months to figure out the best way to work a fart joke into my blog.
Anyhoo....
From just about the time my youngest daughter was born, her favorite thing on Earth was her pacifier. She could not go a good five minutes without what she would later call her "gonk-gonk". I have been sheltered and fortunate enough not to have ever known any severe drug addicts, but I have a good idea of how they behave thanks to my child's incessant need for that bit of plastic. Fearing permanent tooth and jaw deformation from chronic non-nutritive suckling (that's Dr. Phil-speak for "We didn't want her to look like a buck-toothed yokel"), we did our best to wean her off of the cursed thing.
That, of course, is a lie.
We, being average parents in much need of sleep and peace, would listen to her whine for it for about 2 minutes before we would give in and give her the gonk-gonk. (I actually made a midnight run to Walgreen's to buy a couple of them after a long couple of hours of withdrawal.) It's not like we had a choice: Before she could even walk, our cunning little snowflake had learned to keep a hidden stash of the things. She had them hidden everywhere: under the liner in her car seat, under her pillow, in the toy box, UNDER the toy box, taped to the underside of the dining room table, in a safety deposit box at the bank, etc. Finally, my wife and I had had enough and decided to break her of her habit once and for all.
Six months later, we had finally tracked down and trashed all of the pacifiers in the house except for one. (And when I say "trashed", I mean we took scissors and cut the things up before throwing them in the trash. She would actually check the trash can for them and pull them out if they were still usable.) We knew that the Last of The Gonk-Gonks would be the toughest one to get rid of, especially since our little 'un pretty much had it handcuffed to her person at all times. That's when my wife had a mind-alteringly brilliant - and desperate - idea.
My wife (whom I shall hereafter refer to as "Genius") pulled out a small, padded manila envelope, showed it to our budding addict, and asked if she would like to put her last and only gonk-gonk in the envelope and mail it to her recently-arrived baby cousin in Utah. I could actually see the wheels turning in her little toddler head as she considered her options. She took the gonk-gonk from her mouth, stuck it in the envelope, and handed it back to Genius. Genius scribbled her nephew's name on the envelope, handed it to me, and told me to "put it in the mail" immediately.
As I stated before, my child loved her gonk-gonk more than any other physical thing on Earth. I could go away for several days, and she wouldn't even notice. Take her pacifier away from her, and she would hunt it down and give you a look that contained as much contempt and scorn as can be mustered by someone in diapers. Also at this point in her life, her entire moral code could be summed up as "Dora = good, Swiper = bad". When she put her pacifier in that envelope for her cousin, it became obvious to me that she had made some sort of conscious decision to give that which she valued above all else to someone whom she had never really met because she thought he might need it more than she did. I learned that day that charity begins at home - and in infancy.
So why, dear friends, am I telling you all of this? Well, it has become sort of a tradition during this time of year to tell everyone what one is particularly thankful for. I am of course thankful for all the usual things: good health, a loving family, stunning good looks, etc. What I am MOST thankful for, though, is what my 2 year-old daughter taught me when she gave away her gonk-gonk: There is good in everyone. It ebbs and flows as we live our lives and move through the world, and sometimes it is hard to see in others (and even in ourselves sometimes), but it is most definitely there. You want to change the world? Find the good in yourself and others and share it...nurture it...reward it...celebrate it.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!!
ps - While cleaning out my car before trading it in a while back, I reached under the driver's seat and pulled out a small, padded manila envelope addressed "To Baby B____" (our nephews' name). The Last of The Gonk-Gonks was still in it. Maybe someday I'll give it back to her....
Anyhoo....
From just about the time my youngest daughter was born, her favorite thing on Earth was her pacifier. She could not go a good five minutes without what she would later call her "gonk-gonk". I have been sheltered and fortunate enough not to have ever known any severe drug addicts, but I have a good idea of how they behave thanks to my child's incessant need for that bit of plastic. Fearing permanent tooth and jaw deformation from chronic non-nutritive suckling (that's Dr. Phil-speak for "We didn't want her to look like a buck-toothed yokel"), we did our best to wean her off of the cursed thing.
That, of course, is a lie.
We, being average parents in much need of sleep and peace, would listen to her whine for it for about 2 minutes before we would give in and give her the gonk-gonk. (I actually made a midnight run to Walgreen's to buy a couple of them after a long couple of hours of withdrawal.) It's not like we had a choice: Before she could even walk, our cunning little snowflake had learned to keep a hidden stash of the things. She had them hidden everywhere: under the liner in her car seat, under her pillow, in the toy box, UNDER the toy box, taped to the underside of the dining room table, in a safety deposit box at the bank, etc. Finally, my wife and I had had enough and decided to break her of her habit once and for all.
Six months later, we had finally tracked down and trashed all of the pacifiers in the house except for one. (And when I say "trashed", I mean we took scissors and cut the things up before throwing them in the trash. She would actually check the trash can for them and pull them out if they were still usable.) We knew that the Last of The Gonk-Gonks would be the toughest one to get rid of, especially since our little 'un pretty much had it handcuffed to her person at all times. That's when my wife had a mind-alteringly brilliant - and desperate - idea.
My wife (whom I shall hereafter refer to as "Genius") pulled out a small, padded manila envelope, showed it to our budding addict, and asked if she would like to put her last and only gonk-gonk in the envelope and mail it to her recently-arrived baby cousin in Utah. I could actually see the wheels turning in her little toddler head as she considered her options. She took the gonk-gonk from her mouth, stuck it in the envelope, and handed it back to Genius. Genius scribbled her nephew's name on the envelope, handed it to me, and told me to "put it in the mail" immediately.
As I stated before, my child loved her gonk-gonk more than any other physical thing on Earth. I could go away for several days, and she wouldn't even notice. Take her pacifier away from her, and she would hunt it down and give you a look that contained as much contempt and scorn as can be mustered by someone in diapers. Also at this point in her life, her entire moral code could be summed up as "Dora = good, Swiper = bad". When she put her pacifier in that envelope for her cousin, it became obvious to me that she had made some sort of conscious decision to give that which she valued above all else to someone whom she had never really met because she thought he might need it more than she did. I learned that day that charity begins at home - and in infancy.
So why, dear friends, am I telling you all of this? Well, it has become sort of a tradition during this time of year to tell everyone what one is particularly thankful for. I am of course thankful for all the usual things: good health, a loving family, stunning good looks, etc. What I am MOST thankful for, though, is what my 2 year-old daughter taught me when she gave away her gonk-gonk: There is good in everyone. It ebbs and flows as we live our lives and move through the world, and sometimes it is hard to see in others (and even in ourselves sometimes), but it is most definitely there. You want to change the world? Find the good in yourself and others and share it...nurture it...reward it...celebrate it.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!!
ps - While cleaning out my car before trading it in a while back, I reached under the driver's seat and pulled out a small, padded manila envelope addressed "To Baby B____" (our nephews' name). The Last of The Gonk-Gonks was still in it. Maybe someday I'll give it back to her....
Friday, July 29, 2011
So Anyway, As I Was Saying....
I know, I know. It's been 5 months since my last update. Sue me. Actually, wait until after my next post in which I will intentionally harass people just to get sued and, therefore, gain media attention.
Moving on....
I have a couple of friends on Facebook who are currently in veterinary school. Both of them are named Jessica, but I'm not sure what importance that has right now. What IS important is that I am addicted to their status updates and comments regarding the finer points of being in vet school, mainly because almost every conversation ends up devolving into an educated-sounding discussion of particularly naughty anatomical bits and pieces and their place in the animal world. (For a good example, google "dirty biological mnemonics", specifically the lewd mnemonic for remembering the cranial nerves.) Even when the discussions aren't about the ins and outs (so to speak) of reproductive science, they're still highly entertaining and informative. Entertaining and informative enough that someone could make a TV show out of it. What follows is my proposal for that show:
Moving on....
I have a couple of friends on Facebook who are currently in veterinary school. Both of them are named Jessica, but I'm not sure what importance that has right now. What IS important is that I am addicted to their status updates and comments regarding the finer points of being in vet school, mainly because almost every conversation ends up devolving into an educated-sounding discussion of particularly naughty anatomical bits and pieces and their place in the animal world. (For a good example, google "dirty biological mnemonics", specifically the lewd mnemonic for remembering the cranial nerves.) Even when the discussions aren't about the ins and outs (so to speak) of reproductive science, they're still highly entertaining and informative. Entertaining and informative enough that someone could make a TV show out of it. What follows is my proposal for that show:
They need a House set in the vet world. They can call it "Barnes". He could be a crusty large-animal doctor who now has to practice in an urban small-animal clinic because his arm was permanently damaged in a bizarre calving incident. His best friend is a feline diabetes specialist who has an Odd Couple sort of relationship with Barnes. Barnes has the hots for the clinic administrator, a former staff vet at Pimlico Racetrack until her torrid affair with a jockey ruined her reputation...and her back (you shouldn't stoop to shtup). He will have a team made up of: an Asian guy, a vegetarian, a foreign stud-muffinette (I'm thinking an Austrian - NOT AUSTRALIAN- chick), a bland white guy, and Wayne Newton (just for gits and shiggles). Each week they will tackle a seemingly normal case that has gotten way out of control because of some mystery illness.
Hou...I mean Barnes: "What we thought was a hairball was really...A BEZOAR*!"
Wayne Newton: "How does a cat get a bezoar*? Aren't they only found in goats?"
Barnes: "EXACTLY!"
Asian Guy: "Amazing! How did you figure it out, Dr. Barnes?"
Barnes: "I don't know. I was leaning back in my chair listening to a Counting Crows CD when suddenly I thought of a goat."
Adam Duritz (lead singer of Counting Crows): "I do NOT sound like a goat when I sing!"
Entire Cast: "Yes you do!!!"
Wayne Newton: "Can I go now?"
*Google it
Friday, March 4, 2011
I'm Smarter than Roger Ebert (Not Really)
One of the many things I love in this world is movies. All kinds of movies: sci-fi, horror, drama, westerns, comedies, etc. My tastes are pretty eclectic. Don't believe me? I own Clue on DVD. Yes, the movie starring Tim Curry that was based on the board game. It's funny, and I like it. Anyway, one of the things I love to do while watching movies is to try and catch mistakes in the movie: a beer bottle changes places in the middle of a scene, a Storm Trooper bonks his head on a door frame, Dorothy's ever-changing hair length in The Wizard of Oz, etc. These mistakes are called gaffes or continuity errors. There is actually a large number of people who try to catch these oopsies for fun, and yes, we are all nerds.
In defense of filmmakers everywhere, let me explain that movies are not easy to make. If you have ever actually sat through the closing credits of a movie, and I can almost guarantee that you haven't, you have noticed how many hundreds of names there are. Imagine trying to coordinate all of those people without making a mistake. In addition to the sheer size of the workforce, movie scenes are not shot in the order in which you see them. That would be a logistical nightmare. Part of a scene involving two actors may be shot using just one actor and a stand-in on one day, and the other actor and a stand-in on a completely different day. Therefore, it is understandable when a movie shows an actor with two vest buttons closed in one shot and three in the next shot. The movie I am getting ready to talk about, however, has one of the largest and most inexcusable gaffes in the history of ever: Citizen Kane.
For those who don't know, Citizen Kane is the story of the rise (and fall) of Charles Foster Kane, an extremely wealthy and power-hungry media baron. (Imagine Bill Gates was into newspapers instead of computers.) The movie starred and was written and directed by Orson Welles back in the days before he developed his own gravitational field and started pushing crappy wine. It starts with Kane uttering the word "Rosebud" with his dying breath, and it is told in flashbacks courtesy of a reporter who is trying to discover the tantalizing mystery of the meaning of Kane's last word. This reporter will not rest until he finds out exactly what, or who, Rosebud is.
Thanks to this movie being a thinly-veiled biography (and some would say character assassination) of a real media baron - William Randolph Hearst - at the time (1941), it didn't do very well in theaters. Hearst owned a large enough percentage of God's green Earth to make sure that this movie didn't play in too many packed houses. Since then, however, it has become regarded as one of the best movies in the history of cinema. Greater even than High School Musical and Twilight combined! The American Film Institute repeatedly ranks it at the top of its annual lists, and even Roger Ebert has stated: "So it's settled: Citizen Kane is the official greatest film of all time."
Here's the problem: Remember how it was Kane's dying word, "Rosebud", that launched this whole investigation? The whole movie was basically an investigation into Kane's life to find out what Kane meant by "Rosebud"? No one was with Kane when he died. The movie takes great pains to show how alone Kane was in his last days: an empty mansion, "No Trespassing" signs all over the place.... They even show the room his deathbed is in. No one was with Kane when he died, therefore, no one heard him say "Rosebud". How did the reporter know what Kane said as he was dying - the word that sparked the entire investigation, and therefore the whole movie? Granted, a nurse walks in right after he croaks, but I doubt she heard his whispered last words across 20 feet of room and through a heavy wooden door.
The "official greatest film of all time" is based on an impossible premise. Suck it, Ebert!
In defense of filmmakers everywhere, let me explain that movies are not easy to make. If you have ever actually sat through the closing credits of a movie, and I can almost guarantee that you haven't, you have noticed how many hundreds of names there are. Imagine trying to coordinate all of those people without making a mistake. In addition to the sheer size of the workforce, movie scenes are not shot in the order in which you see them. That would be a logistical nightmare. Part of a scene involving two actors may be shot using just one actor and a stand-in on one day, and the other actor and a stand-in on a completely different day. Therefore, it is understandable when a movie shows an actor with two vest buttons closed in one shot and three in the next shot. The movie I am getting ready to talk about, however, has one of the largest and most inexcusable gaffes in the history of ever: Citizen Kane.
For those who don't know, Citizen Kane is the story of the rise (and fall) of Charles Foster Kane, an extremely wealthy and power-hungry media baron. (Imagine Bill Gates was into newspapers instead of computers.) The movie starred and was written and directed by Orson Welles back in the days before he developed his own gravitational field and started pushing crappy wine. It starts with Kane uttering the word "Rosebud" with his dying breath, and it is told in flashbacks courtesy of a reporter who is trying to discover the tantalizing mystery of the meaning of Kane's last word. This reporter will not rest until he finds out exactly what, or who, Rosebud is.
Thanks to this movie being a thinly-veiled biography (and some would say character assassination) of a real media baron - William Randolph Hearst - at the time (1941), it didn't do very well in theaters. Hearst owned a large enough percentage of God's green Earth to make sure that this movie didn't play in too many packed houses. Since then, however, it has become regarded as one of the best movies in the history of cinema. Greater even than High School Musical and Twilight combined! The American Film Institute repeatedly ranks it at the top of its annual lists, and even Roger Ebert has stated: "So it's settled: Citizen Kane is the official greatest film of all time."
Here's the problem: Remember how it was Kane's dying word, "Rosebud", that launched this whole investigation? The whole movie was basically an investigation into Kane's life to find out what Kane meant by "Rosebud"? No one was with Kane when he died. The movie takes great pains to show how alone Kane was in his last days: an empty mansion, "No Trespassing" signs all over the place.... They even show the room his deathbed is in. No one was with Kane when he died, therefore, no one heard him say "Rosebud". How did the reporter know what Kane said as he was dying - the word that sparked the entire investigation, and therefore the whole movie? Granted, a nurse walks in right after he croaks, but I doubt she heard his whispered last words across 20 feet of room and through a heavy wooden door.
The "official greatest film of all time" is based on an impossible premise. Suck it, Ebert!
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
My Non-Bucket List
A movie came out a couple of years ago called "The Bucket List". It starred Jack Nicholson as an older fellow who had a list of things he always wanted to do before he died, or as they say: "kicked the bucket." Not being a member of AARP, I didn't actually watch the movie, but, judging from the previews and Nicholson's current girth, I thought it was called the bucket list because that's how he measured his fried chicken intake. Anyway, a bucket list is a list of things one wants to do or achieve before he dies.
Since I am currently 35 and have no major diseases that I know of, I have never made a bucket list. What I DO have, however, is a list of things I really want to see in this world. These are not great monuments like Stonehenge (built by gnomes), the Leaning Tower of Pisa (knocked askew by gnomes), or the Eiffel Tower (built by the French, who just LOOK like gnomes). This is a list of things I think would be really cool or funny to see. Things like:
Since I am currently 35 and have no major diseases that I know of, I have never made a bucket list. What I DO have, however, is a list of things I really want to see in this world. These are not great monuments like Stonehenge (built by gnomes), the Leaning Tower of Pisa (knocked askew by gnomes), or the Eiffel Tower (built by the French, who just LOOK like gnomes). This is a list of things I think would be really cool or funny to see. Things like:
- A Chevy Suburban NOT being driven by a 5' tall soccer mom.
- Someone at Wal-Mart after 10pm who DOESN'T have an unfortunate tattoo and/or respiratory problem
- Flying cars. We've been promised these things since our parents were kids, and no one has done a darn thing about it.
- Someone on a Rascal scooter in a grocery store who doesn't weigh over 300 pounds. You know, someone who is ACTUALLY disabled and not just lazy.
- A news report of Fred Phelps dying of a heart attack while fully "engaged" with an underage male prostitute.
- More Hummers broken down or out of gas on the side of the road.
- My feet. (For the record, I have NEVER used a Rascal scooter at the grocery store.)
- More honest Facebook status updates. We all know that "Jane Doe is pondering life's greater mysteries" actually means Jane was pooping and had nothing better to occupy her time than update Facebook.
- An auctioneer with Tourette's syndrome. "I'm bid 5, 5, 5, now 10, 10, #$%^&^!!, who'll give me 20?"
- Oprah come out of the closet. It's 2011 and she's worth a billion dollars. I really don't think anyone is going to give her any grief.
- An episode of CSI: Miami that doesn't look like an ad for sunglasses.
- The entire cast of Jersey Shore backing over a cliff in an RV driven by MTV's head of programming.
- "Plus-size" male models. They have them for women, why not for men?
- Paris in the springtime. While I would like to see this, I would most definitely NOT like to smell it.
- A clown on fire. Not so funny, is it you red-nosed, seltzer-spritzing freak?
- A black guy in a hockey jersey standing next to a white guy in Roca Wear.
- Fox "News" going off the air.
- MSNBC going off the air.
- A mother character in a Disney movie make it to the end of the movie. A friend of mine pointed out that, in almost every Disney movie, the mom of the main character is either already dead, or she dies during the movie. Uncle Walt was a rather misogynistic fellow, apparently.
- Shorter lists.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Twisted Trivia, Part 1
Welcome back, Tilters! For this installment of the blog, I've decided to combine two of my favorite things: trivia and twist endings. I've always liked movies like The Sixth Sense and The Usual Suspects that had surprising revelations at the end that made me go "Holy CRAP! Bruce Willis was really a woman throughout the WHOLE MOVIE!" Add a twist to a minor piece of history and you get Twisted Trivia! (Add a twist to gin and vermouth and you get a Martini!) Hopefully, this will become a regular topic on the blog. If not, then it was fun while it lasted (about 15 minutes or 22 farthings in the metric system).
Prior to 1982, it was considered taboo for a company to mention one of its direct competitors in its advertising. (In a lot of countries it is outright illegal, even today.) It just wasn't done. Along came Burger King and their advertising agency J. Walter Thompson. BK and JWT decided to create an ad taking on the behemoth of burgers: McDonald's. They aired an ad on television featuring a cute little 4 year-old actress who proclaimed, "I only eat at Burger King". They also made claims that their burgers were 20% larger than McDonald's, among other things. Those of you who have ever met a lawyer or who know anything about McDonald's know that this is where the meat hit the grinder, so to speak.
McDonald's at this time still had their sesame seed buns in a wad over the pernicious but false rumors that their burgers contained worm meat and their milkshakes had cow eyeballs in them. (If you don't know what I'm talking about, ask your parents.) There was also the ugly business involving the Hamburglar, who is now known as the Hamregisteredsexoffender, and the fact that their coffee stirrers were being used as coke spoons (that one is true, but don't ask your parents because they'll just deny it). Mickie D's, being a multi-billion dollar corporation, had a couple of lawyers with nothing better to do (which is when a lawyer is the most dangerous) than sue the crown off of the Burger King.
McDonald's didn't just go after the ad agency for defamation, they also sued the 4 year-old actress who starred in the commercial for false advertising. After intense cross-examination by one of McDonald'shellhounds lawyers, the little girl finally broke down in tears and admitted that she did, in fact, eat at places other than Burger King. At that time, BK wasn't quite as big or lawyerly as McDonald's, so the case was eventually settled out of court. That commercial was the first in American advertising in which a company's direct competitor was named, and it was also one of the first cases of the spokesperson - in this case a spokeschild - being named in the suit.
And now,
THE TWIST:
The actress in that commercial was none other than Sarah Michelle Gellar, star of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The Grudge, Cruel Intentions, I Know What You Did Last Summer and It Wasn't Very Nice, etc.
DOUBLE TWIST:
Sarah Michelle Gellar got her big break as the star of the TV version of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. One of the primary sponsors of that show? McDonald's...the same company that had sued her when she was 4.
Prior to 1982, it was considered taboo for a company to mention one of its direct competitors in its advertising. (In a lot of countries it is outright illegal, even today.) It just wasn't done. Along came Burger King and their advertising agency J. Walter Thompson. BK and JWT decided to create an ad taking on the behemoth of burgers: McDonald's. They aired an ad on television featuring a cute little 4 year-old actress who proclaimed, "I only eat at Burger King". They also made claims that their burgers were 20% larger than McDonald's, among other things. Those of you who have ever met a lawyer or who know anything about McDonald's know that this is where the meat hit the grinder, so to speak.
McDonald's at this time still had their sesame seed buns in a wad over the pernicious but false rumors that their burgers contained worm meat and their milkshakes had cow eyeballs in them. (If you don't know what I'm talking about, ask your parents.) There was also the ugly business involving the Hamburglar, who is now known as the Hamregisteredsexoffender, and the fact that their coffee stirrers were being used as coke spoons (that one is true, but don't ask your parents because they'll just deny it). Mickie D's, being a multi-billion dollar corporation, had a couple of lawyers with nothing better to do (which is when a lawyer is the most dangerous) than sue the crown off of the Burger King.
McDonald's didn't just go after the ad agency for defamation, they also sued the 4 year-old actress who starred in the commercial for false advertising. After intense cross-examination by one of McDonald's
And now,
THE TWIST:
The actress in that commercial was none other than Sarah Michelle Gellar, star of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The Grudge, Cruel Intentions, I Know What You Did Last Summer and It Wasn't Very Nice, etc.
DOUBLE TWIST:
Sarah Michelle Gellar got her big break as the star of the TV version of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. One of the primary sponsors of that show? McDonald's...the same company that had sued her when she was 4.
Monday, February 28, 2011
WELCOME!!!
Welcome to my blog, Dear Tilters! If you are here, it is probably because you know me, know about me, or have heard vague rumblings about my plot to overthrow Chuck E. Cheese. Therefore, I will skip the biographical info for now, but if you really want to dig up some dirt on me, you can check out my profile at the bottom-right corner of this page. No...the OTHER right.
So what is "Life at Full Tilt"? The expression "full tilt" originated with jousting, that popular sport from way back in which two knights would grab long spears or lances, get on horses, and charge directly at each other in the hopes of knocking each other off the horse (who probably had more sense than either of the iron-clad idiots who were competing) and impressing some Medieval maidens. (These guys would do some serious stuff for some damsel nookie.) It was basically a game of chicken before cars were invented. If a knight was going "full tilt", it meant that he was pushing his horse as fast as it could go and leaning as hard into his lance as he dared. Since then, the expression has come to mean "at full speed" or "as hard as one can". (For more references, read Don Quixote, specifically his fixation with windmills.)
For my purposes, "full tilt" has two other meanings. I tend to look at things in a slightly screwy way. I am perpetually in that state of being in which one looks at something and tilts his head while trying to figure out the meaning of said thing. Imagine you are looking at a large Chevy Suburban with decals on the back window indicating that the driver has a family containing at least 5 kids. On the bumper of that monstrosity, however, you see a "Pro-Choice" bumper sticker. You just have to look at that scene as a whole, tilt your head, and go "Huh?" These are the things I notice and will hopefully pass on to you, Dear Tilters.
The other meaning for "full tilt" relates to wine. I spent several years in the wine business and have subsequently developed a passion for the stuff. I know it's just rotten grape juice, but it is GOOD rotten grape juice. Try getting rotten bananas to taste that good! In my dealings with wine, I discovered that both the best moment and saddest moment related to wine happen at the same time: when the bottle is at full tilt and the last drops are being poured out. You have the (hopefully) pleasant feeling imparted by the wine you have just drunk, but you also have the sad feeling that there is no more to be had. There is a deeper meaning to this that relates to life as a whole, I am sure, but we'll try to figure that out later.
So...what can you expect from here on out? Well, my interests are varied, but here is what I will (probably) be covering in the future:
- wine
- the funny aspects of my family life
- food (I'm actually a pretty good cook, but I am NOT a "foodie")
- entertainment and popular culture (usually in a mocking tone)
- Monty Python
- anything else that catches my attention but won't cause me to rant
I'll update as often as I can, and I promise that future posts won't be this long. If you have any topics you would like to see me cover, or HELPFUL suggestions in general to offer, please feel free to leave them in the comments section.
Thanks!
Jon
So what is "Life at Full Tilt"? The expression "full tilt" originated with jousting, that popular sport from way back in which two knights would grab long spears or lances, get on horses, and charge directly at each other in the hopes of knocking each other off the horse (who probably had more sense than either of the iron-clad idiots who were competing) and impressing some Medieval maidens. (These guys would do some serious stuff for some damsel nookie.) It was basically a game of chicken before cars were invented. If a knight was going "full tilt", it meant that he was pushing his horse as fast as it could go and leaning as hard into his lance as he dared. Since then, the expression has come to mean "at full speed" or "as hard as one can". (For more references, read Don Quixote, specifically his fixation with windmills.)
For my purposes, "full tilt" has two other meanings. I tend to look at things in a slightly screwy way. I am perpetually in that state of being in which one looks at something and tilts his head while trying to figure out the meaning of said thing. Imagine you are looking at a large Chevy Suburban with decals on the back window indicating that the driver has a family containing at least 5 kids. On the bumper of that monstrosity, however, you see a "Pro-Choice" bumper sticker. You just have to look at that scene as a whole, tilt your head, and go "Huh?" These are the things I notice and will hopefully pass on to you, Dear Tilters.
The other meaning for "full tilt" relates to wine. I spent several years in the wine business and have subsequently developed a passion for the stuff. I know it's just rotten grape juice, but it is GOOD rotten grape juice. Try getting rotten bananas to taste that good! In my dealings with wine, I discovered that both the best moment and saddest moment related to wine happen at the same time: when the bottle is at full tilt and the last drops are being poured out. You have the (hopefully) pleasant feeling imparted by the wine you have just drunk, but you also have the sad feeling that there is no more to be had. There is a deeper meaning to this that relates to life as a whole, I am sure, but we'll try to figure that out later.
So...what can you expect from here on out? Well, my interests are varied, but here is what I will (probably) be covering in the future:
- wine
- the funny aspects of my family life
- food (I'm actually a pretty good cook, but I am NOT a "foodie")
- entertainment and popular culture (usually in a mocking tone)
- Monty Python
- anything else that catches my attention but won't cause me to rant
I'll update as often as I can, and I promise that future posts won't be this long. If you have any topics you would like to see me cover, or HELPFUL suggestions in general to offer, please feel free to leave them in the comments section.
Thanks!
Jon
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