Gush…Gush

A few weeks ago, I was leaving my apartment for work and I ran (almost head-on) into a police officer in the hallway.  I thought nothing of it.  A few days later, there was some police activity in my parking lot, I still didn’t take the time to connect the two.  Later in the week, there was a suspicious envelope taped to the lobby of my building, with a hand written note on it “For the Hamden Police”.  I finally put all three things together, but I hadn’t watched enough Law & Order to make a definite connection, so I forgot about it.  I really never considered the efforts of people having to avoid detection at the hands of law enforcement officials, (let alone criminologists and forensic scientists).  I truly can’t say that I admired or disparaged their efforts, but I thought about them each time they were portrayed on television as hapless boneheads, or cunning criminal savants.

...not quite on their level...

The last time I mentioned blood, it was rather pedestrian shaving cut.  This, my friends, was different.  This afternoon I experienced a nosebleed of epic 3rd grade proportions*  What begun in the shower, continued to the sink and really didn’t slow down for 15 minutes; fifteen minutes for which I was held hostage in my bathroom with my face in the sink.  I will spare you the gory details, but it was messy, or so I thought at the time.

What I didn’t realize until an hour later, was precisely how quickly and pervasively blood can splatter.  I will no longer laugh at the television, mocking the criminals with comments like “Use industrial strength bleach, dumbass”, or “They can strip that brand new paint, you idiot”.  After scrubbing (what I hope) was the last blood splatter with my “industrial” bathroom cleaner I looked at my shriveled fingers, exhausted face, and my small bathroom and realized just how hard this could be.  It is possible I wasn’t cut out to commit major bloody crimes, or that I simply don’t pay enough attention to little bloody details; either way, I expect to still see blood in some random place tomorrow.  I also do not expect to get away with any major crimes in the near future.

No more yelling at the perps on CSI, SVU, or any MSNBC show…I get it folks, it is NOT easy to clean up a messy crime scene.

...better than real blood, right?...

*This was no ordinary nosebleed, just like that dude from the Jersey Shore doesn’t have ordinary abs…he has a ’situation’.  This was an experience, like the kind you have running into your best friend on the sandy playground.  The one that makes the teacher call your parent, use your “extra clothes”, and removes you from afternoon spelling.

Deja Vu

When explaining a confusing Newtonian law or rare geological phenomena, my 6^th grade science teacher used to say “I hope this doesn’t go over your head, but it might since I’m standing up and you’re sitting down.”  While corny, I found it hilarious, and 16 years later I still remember it.  He also used to randomly proclaim, to no one in particular, “That seemed like Déjà vu, or Vuja De.”

I seemed to have a case of this “Vuja De” when reading all the pundits’ opinions concerning President Obama’s handling of the “Christmas Terrorist”.  This Nigerian man tried to blow up a plane using fireworks..er..a highly incendiary compound called PETN, and President Obama was vacationing in Hawaii.  Evidently it made perfect sense for him to come back – from Hawaii – so he could tell us things that we already knew.  He has a blackberry, one that’s probably presidential in nature, a host of aides, a Homeland Security Secretary (Janice Napoletano), and a Vice President.  He also has the wonderful bicameral legislative system that was put in place by our founding fathers.  Nevermind all that, I think the man can take a hiatus from doing work in D.C.*  I may be bias towards Obama and all, but is his pimp hand THAT strong that he could have solved this problem simply by flying back to Washington?  I think not.

~~fade to black~~

~~cue Twilight Zone music~~

On September 11^th 2001, and the days that followed, the public shuttered at, and ridiculed the images they witnessed on television.

These folks were not screaming about the towers falling or the planes crashing, but President Bush reading “The Pet Goat” to a group of elementary schoolers in Florida.  We all know the image…his Secret Service whispers in his ear.  He has a momentary realization of the horror that has just crept upon American soil…and he turns and keeps reading.

Seems innocent to me...

Again, pundits and a number of left wing media (read: Michael Moore) excoriated the President for remaining seated and seeming “indecisive”.   What, exactly, was the President to do from Florida, and state where the hijacked planes were decisively NOT heading.  Was he to also cut short this time with these kids (a transformative day in their lives) in order to make a statement (which he did about 20 minutes later) and then reach his own pimp hand 3000 or so miles and re-direct these rogue aircraft?

The President of the United States is the “Commander in Chief”.  The United States government is set up to function smoothly in the awful scenario that he is killed, so why is it rational to think that our Armed Forces and the myriad of other Washington offices can’t function when the president it out of town?  If my car stalls, I am really not going to worry about the location of Carlos Ghosn.  If my cable gets fuzzy, will I wonder whether Brian Roberts is on vacation?  When Steve Jobs underwent surgery for cancer, I certainly didn’t have a panic attack when my Mac wouldn’t turn on**.

Presidents are elected in a denotatively democratic process that allows them to represent the people that put them there.  They can and should be held accountable for the goings on in this country; but with all the communicative advances that have taken place, is there anything more that the commander in chief can do to prevent disaster by actually being in Washington?

*Don’t be fooled, this was not a vacation in the way the regular American thinks vacation, or even working vacation.  It was more of a “White House on the Island” type trip.

**CEO’s of Nissan, Comcast and Apple respectively.

Fillin it Up

In July of this fleeting year, Walter Kronkite died.  This was the setting in which Brosquire J and I had a conversation that led me to write about the least generation. In completely unrelated news, both he and I adore The Cosby Show.  It’s one of very few DVD’s that I actually regret not owning.  For the music, the history, the humor and the pride, this show was legendary.  This classic clip with Raven-Simone* is one of my all time favorites.

Imagine for a minute that Clair doesn’t catch these two, and someone actually bites into that piece of cake with the paper towel.  Initially, one might pass it off as a strangely “bland” piece.  But any more bites or further inspection would lead to an exclamation of “What the f**K!” or a simple outburst of “BULLSH*T”  This happens when the composition of something is completely foreign to what it should be; surprise gradually leads to resentment which then brings about anger.  If there was a large hole in the cake, it would be just that, a cake with a large hole in it.  But with that half a roll of paper towel in there, it compromises the integrity of the entire baked good.  Is it filthy inside?  Are there other paper products amiss? Can I trust the cook?  Who knows**

On Christmas Eve, a 23 year old Nigerian man boarded a plane in Lagos, Nigeria, changed planes in Amsterdam, and after 20 hours of flight he decided it the proper time to light an incendiary powder device, as the plane was making its final descent into Detroit.  More brave passengers and crew members, who managed to subdue to him, thwarted disaster.

On Christmas Day my mom called from her bedroom to exclaim “Turn on Larry King, there was terrorism!”  I was shocked, because I remain connected to the news in, all the time, and I hadn’t heard about this. ***  When I turned to my favorite news channel I was shocked to see that I had heard about this story a few hours earlier, but in a much less alarmist, and blander state.

That same morning I did read about a black guy who had fireworks on a plane.  I thought it strange, reckless, and stupid but nothing more than that.  Then I checked the news of the day.  “Black guy” had morphed into “Nigerian” and then into “Arab with al-Qaeda ties”.  “Fireworks” morphed into “explosive liquid” into “incendiary powder with terroristic intentions”.  “Plane” even morphed into “a flight from a corrupt war torn country with terrorist affiliations” and then to…well…”plane”.  This was the crux of the conversation I had with Brosquire J on that day.  The immediate need for information manifests itself as inaccurate guesses.  With a 24-hour news station, there needs to be news ALL THE TIME.  Be it accurate, funny, outlandish, hypothetical or conjectural, the time slots to be filling; just like that cake.

All morning I was eating that paper towel cake, but I didn’t know it.  The more I chewed, the more upset I got.  As the story finally began to unravel near the end of the day, I figured out that there was a chocolate cake, it just takes time to make:

On Christmas Eve, a 23 year old Nigerian man boarded a plane in Lagos, Nigeria, changed planes in Amsterdam, and after 20 hours of flight he decided it the proper time to light an incendiary powder device, as the plane was making its final descent into Detroit.  More brave passengers and crew members, who managed to subdue to him, thwarted disaster.

*She was so cute then, and now…

**I am NOT trusting a kitchen that produces paper towel cakes, even if Claire Huxtable cooked them

**Blackberry, computer, television, radio….its more of an info-addiction.

Merry Christmas

It would be a Christmas miracle if I actually wrote a good thought out post today.  But the Christmas season is fully upon us, and family time is important.*  So in lieu of a ost I’ll just wish everyone a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.  I surely hope to hit the “blog-waves” at least once before 2010 rolls in.  This December black-out is not cute.

*sometimes difficult, but always important

Thankful Yet Again…

Happy Thanksgiving to all of my loyal readers, and I guess to everyone else.  Enjoy your turkey, tofurkey, turduckon, whatever.

Gobble gobble….bitches.

Man Up!

I wish I had a clever lead-in here, but Bob Costas just felt it necessary to tell me that the NFL should take one of three methods to improve its overtime*:

1. Mandate a rule that you must win by 6 points
2. Eliminate the field goal from overtime
3. Give each team a possession

I know that the NCAA has a wonderful overtime system in which each team is allowed to get at least one possession to score/match.  Like a football version of “KnockOut”.  This is fair, collegial and wonderful.  Young men playing for pride, NFL contracts, and the love of the game deserved to be treated fairly.  No feelings need to be hurt, this is college after all, not exactly the “real world”

But this, Mr Costas, is the National Football League.  These are grown men playing the game at the very highest level on the planet, and getting compensated with absurd amounts of money and the perks of a superstar athletic lifestyle.  Their feelings need not be pacified, their egos not coddled.  If you win the coin toss, you don’t automatically win the game.  Statistically, only 28% of the teams that win the coin toss go on to score on their opening possession.  This tells me that 28% of the time, the defense can’t stand up and make a stop.

This is football, not 3rd grade playground tag.  If your defense can’t make a stop, well then, enjoy a quiet ride home, because you lost the game.  This isn’t “fair” but its real life, and its still a game, get over it, work harder and move on.

The NFL needs to start mandating that players where double sided mouthguards and better modernized helmets to prevent concussions and future brain damage; or start offering more comprehensive health care to the aging pioneers of the game.

But the sudden death overtime?  Let it be and have the men play like men.

 

*The current “first to score” method has many critics

Ouch…

I wonder if the pink is bad, or does that signify healing?

Is this scabbing too soon?

Will I ever re-grow hair there?  (Not if band-aids have anything to do with it.)

While having these thoughts, I couldn’t help but think of The Boss.  Yes, New Jersey’s own Bruce Springsteen.  There is no reason why I should be thinking about one of the greatest rock n’ roll artists of all time…while I am peeling away the band-aids from my skinned knees.

Is that blood on the inside of my slacks?

Did that band-aid stick to my pants?

Shit, is it peeling from the cut during this meeting?

In 1984 Bruce Springsteen wrote a seminal rock n’ roll anthem entitled “Glory Days”.  He spoke about a young man reminiscing about his earlier prime years, and the folks he knew in high school.  This song became one of Springsteen’s biggest hits, and survives through television shows, farewell tours, and huge sporting events.

...to skinned knees!!...

I wear f****ing compression pants so this doesn’t happen

I can’t even brush my teeth with my thumb this jammed

If this band-aid pulls out any more hair,  I’m suing them*

In September of 2009 I decided it was a good idea to re-join the flag football league that I loved so much.  My pleasant memories of exercise and friendly relationships severely overshadowed the realities of limping around my office the next morning, or wishing I could take a hot bath.  But nevertheless, in some effort to reclaim my “Glory Days” on the gridiron, I signed up for it again.  All was going well with the acute body trauma, until last night’s game just took its toll.  My dominant thumb is rosy and swollen and has limited mobility, and my knees….oh my poor knees.  Beyond the usual structural cracks and aches, I have a far worse affliction.  The cosmetic mess of severely skinned knees.  Until the age of about 12, this is seen as a rite of passage, and easily patched up with some TLC and a band-aid, at worst, a little alcohol.  At 28, using aloe and Neosporin only lent to the comical situation of my work slacks having a ridiculous grease stain at the knee, followed by the band-aid demaning immediate removal and taking all the hair with it.  This, my friends, is bullsh*t.

Reliving the Glory Days sucks.

 

*Even though they are stuck on me, I am NOT stuck on Band-Aid Brand

The Least Generation

A couple of months ago the social blogosphere was aghast in feigned horror for a for days when Kanye West interrupted Taylor Swift’s VMA acceptance speech.  A couple days of self realization and public apologies later…it was mostly forgotten.

A couple of weeks ago I overheard Taylor Swift on Saturday Night Live.  I was shockingly underwhelmed, I believe I immediately scrunched my face and said “Uh, she really can’t sing can she…”.  I understand that there is a segment of the American public who finds her “cute”; another sub-segment who find her “really hot”; and yet another segment who sympathizes with her, because that’s the easiest way to continue to hate Kanye West.

I don’t think she is all that talented, or all that attractive.  She is exceptionally mediocre, and that is what we’re willing to accept.  Have we forgotten how to recognize true excellence, or even “very goodness”?  The stunning lack of excellence has pushed every lower level of talent forward.  Like napkins from a dispenser, the excellence void must always be filled, and here we sit, as a society filling it with whatever drivel we can.  What happened to us?

Maybe it’s that this year has bestowed so many celebrity deaths upon us, that we’ve scrambled to find a way to fill that void.  Take for example this paragraph I wrote in the middle of July:

Walter Cronkite died yesterday.  This seemed to be a putrid rotten cherry atop a sundae of death, loss and forlorn feelings.  Ed McMahon, Farah Fawcett, Bille Mays (the OxiClean guy), and of course Michael Jackson.  Champions of an era, figures of power and fame.  I feel this loss, my peers feel these losses, society feels these losses.  These were prominent figures in their fields, if not seminal icons.

May You Rest in Peace

Since I wrote that paragraph, both Senator Ted Kennedy and Patrick Swayze have died, making that statement all the more real and depressing.  After the “Death is the new black”, and “Passing away in 2009 is like adopting an African baby in 2008″ jokes faded*, I was left with the wandering thought: “Where do we measure up?”

Where do we measure up?  Tom Brokaw wrote a book entitled “The Greatest Generation” that chronicles the WWII generation and their eminent greatness in a time of grave danger**  Are we living in “The LEAST Generation”  Who is our eminent newscaster? Who is the political titan of our era?  Are these titles only bestowed in hindsight?  I figured this was far too grave of a topic at all, so I let it pass.  Then I saw “This Is It”;  I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I knew there would at least be great music.

What I found was that ‘This Is It” was to be the concert experience by which all others would be measured.  It was a coup de grace to the other lesser concerts that aimlessly pass through arenas, stadiums and convention centers around the world.

Until last week, I knew that Michael Jackson’s untimely death over the summer was tragic.  Until last week, I knew it allowed for the endless playing of all of MJ’s classic hits, and until last week, it had inspired me to take time out from a hectic summer routine to write this little piece on the King of Pop.  After viewing his posthumous “rockumentary” is it evident that this concert would have been legendary.  Say what you will about Michael and his trials and tribulations, some of them self-afflicted, but you simply have to recognize the genius that this man possessed.

Oh this was certainly "IT"...

I often forget a question a scant 5 minutes after it was asked, but the King remembers the pitches and note combinations from his 1980’s hits.  He’s 50 and doing a better moonwalk than I could even dream of.  He’s 50 and hits his falsettos on the 2^nd try.  The point is, this man is a beast of the industry, someone who’s mere presence drove people to tears.

As I left the theater the question crept up on me again…What happened to us?

There has to be more to newscasting than the constant barrage of “anything interesting” that the cable news junkets broadcast.  There must be another way to be a bombshell than to release  sex-tape, what happened to the art of the tease?  Can an artist perform using metaphors and clever dance moves, instead of lip-synching ahout sex and beating women?

I know that part, if not all,  of this problem lies with the immediacy of our culture.  At this rate, however, patience will be an exhausted resource.  Our society is fast becoming a place where creativity goes to die, and as far as I can see, we are losing out because of it.

Hasn’t this happened before?

*Bad taste…but funny

**I think this is what it’s about, it’s been sitting on my shelf for 4 years now.

Maybe I didn’t forget

RE: the new Sesame Street song.

Regale me in the rare “workday blog update”. I’ve listened to it over and over and over.  And while it is different and certainly not familiar, it is NOT techno, more jazzy with a pleasant sax melody.

I am not sure if this makes me more curmudgeonly because I am still a bit salty at the absence of the song I grew up with, or less because I can see how Sesame Street has to keep changing what they do to be on top.

Ugh, here is the clip…

Maybe I forgot…

“When you’re old enough, you’ll understand”

“You’ll get it eventually”

“It’ll register when you’re my age”

Over the past couple years as I barrel ahead towards the big 3-0 I have noticed that, try as I might, those above sayings have become all the more true.  From the way I cringe at the music that young kids are listening to, or the way I shake my head at young girls dressing all “less that modestly”, to how I scream at teenage folks driving all wild on the highways of the northeast.  It’s ridiculous, but I have finally embraced the truth that age breeds wisdom, but sometimes, just sometimes it births frustration and unease.

As noted previously, I tune to NPR for two reasons: to catch up on the news and have a good story to obsequiously quote at some point to my co-workers.  On the way to work this morning I was tuned into NPR and the informed me that it was the 40^th Anniversary of Sesame Street.  They waxed poetic for a while about the characters, the voices, the educational lessons.  They talked about the social value, the tradition, and the “experimental” aspect of that type of television programming.  NPR even spoke to the guy who voices Oscar and Big Bird (who is supposed to he a precocious 6 year old) about how the various ways that Sesame Street has had to overcome their competition (evidently Bert & Ernie are now in claymation).

Then they played the song.  You know the song…

“Suuuuuuuunny days

Wishing the, clooouds away……..

(some other words I forgot about clear air and such)

…can you tell me how to get, how to get to Sesame Street!”

 

Hello friends...

As I sped along the interstate I couldn’t help but smile and sing along.  Then they let it fade out, as I had memories of my Ernie dolls with only one arm**, being scared of the Count, a few menacing numbers, and the bald black guy.

Snuf-a-lufagus

My exit for work was nearing, but I didn’t care because my head was filled with this delightful reverie, and then something offensive came from my radio.  Some new age techno tomfoolery.  I thought I might have accidentally turned the channel, but it was still NPR.  Then I overhear the most egregious thing of all, Sesame Street has changed their intro song.

HUH-WHAT!?!

And immediately my smile wrenched around and my face turned into something ugly. Was there any justifiable explanation for changing this staple?  In an instant my pleasant demeanor gave way to that of a curmudgeon.

I wanted to let this go, but it was too jarring.  Not only was I upset about something rather trivial, but yet again, another layer of my youth shed away.

I can understand why my mother disavowed the Dallas Cowboys because they got rid of her favorite icon of a coach in Tom Landry.  I can sympathize with my older cousin about the pain of Don Cornelius’ absence from Soul Train, or Johnny Carson’s exit from late night television.

As we age, our creature comforts become more than that; they morph in pillars on which we rest our youthful memories.  Once these seemingly unchangeable facts, actually do change, it wreaks havoc on the foundation of our memories.  What we once held familiar and true crumbles out of our grasp, and suddenly to the ground.

...kinda like this...

Getting old sucks.

*Swerving out of the way of careless teenage drivers

**Because I would always carry them by the same arm