Wednesday, October 29, 2008

Tailored Made for Misery

OUCH. I mean...OUCH. I was fitted for a Tuxedo and I NOW know where Sadists go when they get old. My tailor looks like the sweetest elderly lady you could ever meet. She never stops saying thank you and repeatedly says OK to anything you ask regarding dry cleaning or clothes. But take a chance and ask her to take in a pair of pants and a jacket and you open the floodgates of her past life as the Pain Minister of Acupuncture .

I'm thinking a few minutes of a tug here, a fold there and a quick mark of a wax pencil with a safety pin and I'm done..outta here and off to pick up dinner.

There is a reason I don't gamble as I couldn't have been farther off and I will never, REPEAT NEVER, let this 4 ft. frame of a woman fool me again with her sweet smile. I walked out to the parking lot with the confidence knowing that my prostate is normal, I do bleed red each time I'm poked and my voice can rise two octaves with the right amount of pressure.

I forgot to ask her if she takes health care insurance because I haven't had that thorough of a physical since I played high school football.

Getting changed behind a 3 Ft. louvre screen that has as much privacy as a Swiss Spa, didn't help comfort my doubt of her tape measure prowess. She's screaming numbers out to her assistant who I never saw. (scary thought in itself). "35...... 35.5...No...35" she screams out in two different cadences.

Where am I? Is this a tailor behind me or is Tom Brady getting ready to hike a football from between my legs?

Sorry, you lost all my confidence in your statement of "NO PAIN, TWO MINUTES promise", when I asked about how all this could be done today.

So I surely don't believe you when you tell me the pin needs to break the skin to ensure a proper fit. "No lady, I'm NOT tensing up...You just happen to "grab" me to help yourself off the ground and I haven't been used like that without someone buying me at least a drink AND dinner."

I truly couldn't tell you if the tuxedo is going to fit me. But I promise my new "best friend" with a pin cushion knows more about my body shape, size, measurement and BMI than any HoMedic's scale on the market.

I walked away in complete denial, not knowing if I should be ashamed or thankful I didn't ask to have her for a second date.

Sunday, October 26, 2008

Colors of the Road

Someone cooler than me in this world needs to step up. I know there are millions of you out there, and explain to us non-bikers, why your helmet, jacket, pants, gloves and boots all have to be color coordinated with your motorcycle. A cobalt blue or hot lime bike is cool as it flies by my four-wheel version of transportation but seeing you pass by with 95% of matching accessories wrapped around your body like a cheerleader on steroids kinda weirds me out.

Last time I checked there wasn't a military bike brigade looking for your muffin top body to join other Honda or Kawasaki motorcycles leading the local parade with community colors and flags of Benetton.

I get the fact you want to perhaps compliment your bike with a personal rendition of identifying with your mode of transport over the rest of the world. But I think matching your fluorescent wheel guards with your underwear sticking out like (Joe the Plumber) goes too far in your support for your brotherhood of bikers.

At least Harley riders seem to know that every bike goes with black leather. These modern stylish dudes and dudettes driving a Ninja 250 with their front V-fork matching their V-neck leather jacket and rear sock adjustable pre-load matching low riding boot cut pants will surely add to the stability of the improved chassis with diamond-type frame to match your own Square diamond-type frame.

As they say, It's a Biker thing and I wouldn't understand.

True, because from my view behind you, that little Ninja might feel like a big bike in its newly engineered 249cc parallel-Twin motor and it might match your powder blue Power Ranger gloves, but you just MIGHT be trying to overcompensate for something that I hope doesn't match anything with a cobalt blue or screaming lime green hue.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Musical Chairs

I understand freedom of expression. Music wouldn't be entertaining if it were all the same genre, sound or compilation of rhythms. But I decided to create my own rules anyway.

Rule #1. Please don't rhyme words or make up words just for the sake of rhyming.

"Me and LorenzO
sitting in my Benz-O"

I could say anything O
just to pretend I have talent O


"Had a brother at Khe Sahn fighting off the Viet Cong.
They're still there he's all gone.
He had a woman he loved in Saigon."

Bruce, have written thousands of songs...gotta have a dictionary somewhere in your house. Where does those three words express rhyme to you?


"What the deal playboy, just rest your soul.
Got these ladies on the rock now you know how we go.
Got the whole world on lock down you know how we flow."

Jay-Z.... different words, not one actually rhymes. I mean, you had three chances to find one word that matches. Even with the Internet you can find a word that rhymes with anything else except "orange".

Rule # 2. Please don't repeat the same verse more times than a human breathes in an hour. Catchy or not, if you hear that verse for two straight's not a song, it's a death march.

"Blinded by the light.
Revved up like a Deuce.
Another runner in the night
[repeat until you die a slow long painful demise]

If I wanted to hear that verse again, I'd hit repeat on my iPod.

or my new LEAST favorite of John Mayer.

His verse, "Say what you need to say...say what you need to say" [He repeats it no less than 36 times in 2 minutes.]

JOHN... Say what you mean to say..and STOP saying it.

Rule #3. Don't sample a great song from 10 years ago and then tell me you are an artist. There is a reason that people like your updated version....because the best part is what you stole in the first place.

Ok I'm done venting
I'm through chanting
I'm just saying less
to get it off my chest

and I just said what I needed to say in less time than it took John to clear his throat.

Thursday, October 16, 2008

Open Sesame

I'm not a child (physically anyway). I just want to open a simple package. A package that has been around since before zip lock bags zipped, before tie wraps had ties and before Tupperware was ..well...tupper?

I need help. I need to call my grandma or someone who grew up with these simple treats of pleasure before electricity and ask them, "HOW DO YOU OPEN a graham cracker package without crushing the cracker?"

What happened in this century that banned the resealable or reusable packaging on this Graham Cracker product? Even today's cereal boxes have slowly, but methodically changed their RIP TIL IT BUSTS bags to more consumer friendly, peel, and fold back for freshness techniques.

I was desperate. I called CRIS ANGEL, the illusionist of the month from Mind Freak and he told me that he had a better chance to be invited to Houdini's return to earth than to open the cellophane packaging on this Nabisco staple without incident.

But I'm persistent and relentless. I can't sleep now until I solve this quandary so I wrote to NASA and requested two rocket scientists to prove that this separation of package to product could be accomplished without creating crumb cake crust.

Their response was disappointing. Other than asking me to NEVER contact them again or be prosecuted in federal court, they told me that if it WAS possible, they would have a budget from congress to work on this enigma of the food world.

So, I'm at a loss. I'm craving. I'm hungry and I don't want to brush the crumbs off my shirt ONE MORE SECOND. I just want to peel away the inner folds of Honey Graham harmony and snap a square to dip in my milk..

....and then.....surprisingly, I discovered a trick. It might not work for all of you....but my friends, it filled the void.

I reached down deep into my solution filled mind and decided to have an OREO.

Monday, October 13, 2008

Closed Caption for Yesterday's News

We've all been there. Busy loud public place with big screen TV's within an eye shot of your seat or perhaps you are home and having a hard time hearing the audio on your own TV. Capitalizing on the Closed Caption (CC) on the bottom of the screen is a perfect solution to ignore the rest of the world and still get your media fix.

But we seem to settle for this mediocre technology as cutting edge. This was designed to help the hearing impaired, right? But I know I'd be insulted if I was hearing impaired and the CC assumed I can't read faster than 5 words per minute (wpm). Why am I watching a story on a dying manatee on way to Florida, but reading about Palin's campaign snafu? (um...that didn't come out right)

I see the 5-day forecast is up on CNN this morning but the (cc) is telling me the Dodgers and Phillies have no love lost between each other in the NLCS. Can someone speed this scrolling version of INFORMATION KARAOKE up to at least a 4th grade reading level?

I can ignore the misspellings of hard to pronounce proper nouns. It is a machine, not an interpreter. Gee, I thought it was Sen. Joe Bitemen for a little while too until I saw his name in print. Yes, Lithuania does sound like Robin Meade has a lisp, but when she is talking about a fuzzy fruit and I'm reading about last night's talk show banter on George Bush, I get a little confused. CC is supposed to assist the comprehension of the story, not cause apprehension.

Let's settle for the opposite, shall we? Have the words scroll one news story in advance so we can decide if we want to stay and watch about a father and son in West Virgina rescued from a river or ignore it all together knowing in advance from the CC they were trying to see if a toilet seat would work as a rescue ring.

It's all about choice, options and decisions on TV and I don't want to see a headline that says, "The world to end at 7:30 today" to only see a Dancing with Stars Promo for 8:00 on my screen. I deserve a better way to die. Don't you?

Friday, October 10, 2008

Procrastinating the Inevitable

I truly was going to write this blog months ago. I was. I had it in my head. I had it outlined in thoughts and clear in scope. But I just had something more important to write about. I think it was how there should be etiquette in elevators. Or perhaps it was the blog about pretending not to see me so you didn't have to wait and hold the door. I'll get it out. I just truly wanted to write about the art of procrastinating..and I will get to it as soon as I finish my train of thought about my miserable experience at the doctor's office yesterday. I digress.

Let's just get it out of the way..NO more waiting, excuses or filler blog posts. I mean if procrastination was so bad, why do we wait four years for the Olympics? Sleep is the aphrodisiac of procrastination. Eating only prolongs the task of completing something on your ToDo list and working is the ultimate procrastination before retiring.

I know you are expecting me to finish by saying life is only a procrastination of death, but even the most cynical of people know life is really a procrastination of events until the new fall season of TV starts.

I'm just venting that delaying your tasks might have an advantage. The garage, basement and yard would never get clean in March if you didn't have taxes due in April. You wouldn't even have a credit rating if you paid everything on-time, every time in cash without getting five letters from a bill collector. What value is that unless you live in Intercourse, PA. (Amish joke...for you civilized folks)

They say never put off until tomorrow what you can do today. Who said this? George Custer? He would have had 1500 soldiers support him if he procrastinated JUST one more day.

Napoleon? If he held off trying to invade the right side of Europe until he conquered the left side of the world, he might have been named for a Continent instead of just a air filled puff pastry.

Michelangelo? If he would have finished the Sistine Chapel without procrastinating, He would have completed one wall in a month and said, "Hey Pope! Call RENT-A-HUSBAND, If you want three years of my life on a scaffold, go talk to my union rep."

I say, never finish today what you can delay to hope someone else tries to complete for you tomorrow.

It's all about pacing yourself and procrastinating this morning just prevented me from ........... .......... ..........

Go ahead, finish my blog for me. I need to do my taxes, complete my holiday shopping and save for retiring before breakfast.

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

Room without a View

What is YOUR self-storage rental unit telling you? We all need an additional, externally located deluxe closet for your high school mementos or an expensive option to finally be able to park your vehicle in that place called a two-car garage?

No. No silly wabbits, storage is for kids. This over sized drive thru coffin with air is telling you that if you haven't used or open a few cardboard boxes in this millennium then life is blatantly screaming you don't need to spend $99.99 a month to keep your child's first sippy cup in air conditioned, carpeted, temperature controlled filing cabinets next to your USED college textbooks that YOU STILL haven't opened. (Remember that one C- you got sophomore year in Women's Studies?)

The only thing overtaking the country's landscape in both urban and suburbia more than these shoe boxes with padlocks are Dunkin' Donuts and Starbucks. But at least they offer coffee that you never store more than 24 hours or until the next rest stop.

These (UStore it, StopnStore, Lackland, Pods, PackRat) self storage business cases were based on the fact that most Americans think of the number of possessions as their wealth, instead of the quality of their health.

I'm a sentimental, collectible, archivist as well. But I do try consolidating my memories into a 4 x 4 ft. area of my basement for photos, family heirlooms and

Yeah, laugh now, but you never know when that article from a 1989 woodworking magazine will come in handy as I finally build that amazing tree house that will use up all that lumber and rope sitting in my basement behind the furnace.

Solution of the day: Use your digital camera to photograph all the stuff you think you want to keep. After showing it to your family and friends and hearing them laugh at your 6th grade choir recital program photo or your collectible shot glasses from New Mexico...I think you will find it much easier to use that recycling bin now that you placed your poorly recorded VHS tapes of Luke and Laura's wedding on General Hospital for sale on eBay.

Monday, October 6, 2008

The New Math

It must seem that my life is spent in a line. As I run my errands throughout the week or weekend, I realize I spend wasteful amounts of time behind lines of people that just seem to believe no one watches them. To my chagrin or lack of something to do with more value, I seem to be the one who notices.

Quick lesson: When it says 10 items or less for THAT particular cashier's line. It simply means that. There is no interpretation of the law, no need to appeal, argue or gather names for a petition. It is 10 or less. If you got 11, go ahead, I'm a nice guy.

However, if you try to sneak in 19, Can I call the Handy Helper security number? Can we check your shopping IQ? It didn't say to round DOWN to the nearest 10, nor did it say to use a number that can be divisible by 10, let alone a number that can be lumped into sets. Your dozen eggs do count for one item. But your 15 individually wrapped fruits and veggies combined with the 9 wrapped deli packages do not count as ONE food group in this line mister.

I'd have more respect if you went in with 9 and got back in the same line with 9 more. At least then I would think you aren't assuming the rest of us didn't pass the 8th grade.

Yeah, yeah, we are ALL in a hurry. We all have something to do before the weekend ends. We all have something we won't be able to finish because we are stuck in this line that is supposedly an express check out. It's ok, the world does revolve around you. What else would explain your ability to cheerfully grab 7 other items, while in line, that could feed the Brady Bunch for two months when you were just gonna grab a "few things that you forgot".

The merchant gods must have been watching as the line next to you opened up for me and all your fruits and vegetables needed a price check from my favorite Cashier, so you will be here until Daylight Savings changes or until you can write, "I will not count 9 cases of Red Bull as one item 100 times, I will not count 9 cases of......"

Thursday, October 2, 2008

Coed Moment of a lifetime

As I mature and start to enjoy the little things in life, I have found any opportunity to spend a few minutes relaxing in a dry or wet sauna room after a work out cleanses my mind as much as my body.

So getting a moment, while traveling to Switzerland, to self-contemplate in a wet sauna in Basel I enthusiastically disrobed and walked into my temporary utopia to discover to my dismay that most European countries traditionally share these steamy rooms of meditation with both sexes.

Before you start thinking this is a preamble to a bad Playboy forum article, realize that I walked in on two women that were probably NOT supermodels during the early '80's. Like a deer in headlights I thought I misinterpreted the sign on the door and stepped out to look for the familiar male/female signs. When I realized IT IS WHAT IT IS, I fought the urge to be a modest American and re-entered the sauna grabbing a seat in the corner facing the door like a scorned child (NOTE: I so wish I would have grabbed a larger towel to wrap myself in.

These soft spoken Eastern European women never paused their heated conversation as I smiled with paranoia knowing I couldn't comprehend their language. They were either laughing at my bashful actions or contemplating why I haven't dropped my towel like it was some unwritten law punishable by death.

Let's be realistic, its extremely hard to relax in a steam room when your constantly flexing and sucking in your stomach for 10 straight minutes. I could have been the fittest person in the room, but that doesn't help white terry cloth hand towel create a confidence builder, let alone a body builder.

I did my required time as I wasn't going to give in to my better judgement and stood off the wooden bench to accidentally catch my towel on my size 13 feet and created a moment that only YOUTUBE and TMZ paparazzi could have made worse.

As I grabbed my dish rag and exited the most heated room I've ever experienced, I overheard the two ladies giggling, "он имеет большие ноги" which I am going to guess or hope translates to "He has big feet".

However, I should have been thankful that it wasn't a COLD sauna room or I would have been making George Costanza excuses in seven languages for the next 10 minutes.