5 Things I hate About Christmas

Christmas they say is the most wonderful time of the year, but it's not all ribbons and bows. Here are five things I hate about Christmas.

1. News Stories about shopping. Nuff said. Do Tv stations really need to do daily stories about how many people were out shopping this weekend or which new toys are most popular with the kids? Have some dignity. We all know that TV stations are run by the Toaster Division of the Sheinhardt Wig Company, which owns half the retail stores in the country. The other half are owned by the other TV networks. It's so blatantly obvious that you are pimping toys for the corporate office, just dial it down a few notches.

More to come

Sportsman of the Year: Jeter

Derek Jeter won Sportsman of the Year, a great honor for the Yankee captain who now has a ring for every finger. In this steroid fueled era, he is baseball, the face, the heart, the soul, the man. the greatest winner in the sport—if anyone deserves it, he does.
Buuuuuutttt, I can't give him Sportsman of the Year. In this case, it has to go to Roger Federer. Has to. In a year when everyone thought maybe his time was done, that Nadal had surpassed him, he won two slams—Wimbeldon and The French--and made it to the finals of the other two. Also, he broke Sampras's record with 15 career grand slam singles titles. He amassed 15 in a shorter time frame than Tiger won his Majors, yet Tiger has won something like 3 Sportsmans of the Year.
Federer deserves it this time, if for no other reason than a lifetime achievement award. And two slams ain't too shabby.

Goodbye November

November, novander, rocktober, decrember... I've got to post at least one story for the month to keep hope alive. This thing is on life support, but we can fix it, we have the technology.
It's the Monday after the long Thanksgiving weekend and it's back to work. The feast is over, the Star Wars marathon on Spike TV has passed. I'm feeling better; had the sickness, but now it's just a bone rattling cough that curls the toes. I took some Mucinex and it did the trick. Tonight I will take some Nyquil and try to knock this thing out once and for all.
I don't have much else to say right now, other than, goodbye November.

Sheetrock, Byzantium and Big Sur

The nights are starting to get cool here in Connecticut. It’s September, fall is coming, and some of the maples and sumacs by the rivers and ponds are starting to turn. We still keep the bedroom window open; the air is crisp this time of year and after a hot and humid summer it’s particularly welcome. We’ll be closing the window soon enough and for now all that’s needed is an extra blanket at night.

I’m a little over 6 feet tall and my feet often stick out over the end of the bed. By morning they’re usually cold and I wake up a little earlier than I would normally. It’s a good time to read and I usually pick up a book, my glasses and a headlight that I keep on the floor next to me. Pulling the covers over my head I make a little tent; it’s a good way to keep warm and it feels like I’m in a small theatre, waiting for the characters in my book to take the stage. This time it’s John Ash in A Byzantine Journey, traveling through western and southern Turkey exploring ruins, stopping at churches and mosques, tracing the culture and history of Byzantium.

Beginning in Istanbul he visits the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque. Under the covers the top sheet that forms the roof and walls of my tent is blue with a small geometric floral design. I imagine myself in the mosque, under the central dome surrounded by mosaics, thousands of ceramic tiles depicting tulips, trees and other native and imagined plants. As Ash leaves Istanbul to cross the Marmara Sea on his way to Bithynia, I put the book aside, brave the cold air and run downstairs to start the coffee. It’s time to get to work.

We had some water damage to our house, a leak in the roof that went unnoticed as the insulation soaked it up like a sponge. When we finally discovered the problem we had to rip out the plaster, lathing and insulation in two bathrooms and a closet. After pulling everything down and carting a dumpster full of material to the town dump, the walls were down to the original framing. It was nice though, old rough sawn dark wood, exposed studs, ceiling joists and siding. If we didn’t need to reinsulate and cover the electrical wires and plumbing we might have left it like that.

It wasn’t long ago that we were in a similar room; a cabin in Big Sur. Even then, just a few years ago, it seemed that we stepped into the past, a place that time had not let go of. Where else would we have met a National Park Ranger like Dwayne who prefaced his directions to a hidden stretch of beach with “Seek no further, you’ve arrived – all your questions will be answered and all your dreams will be realized.” We felt like we'd just gone down the rabbit hole. We knew we’d like it here.

Our cabin was one of a group built in the 1920’s as visitors began to explore the area. The walls were open and the ceiling and rafters exposed. A bathroom, it’s window looking out on the surrounding redwoods was in one corner, and a small kitchen with a few wooden shelves on either side of the stove and refrigerator in another. A braided rug, checked curtains and a table with chairs completed the living area and a back door opened on to a deck that sat above the Big Sur River. The only thing that would distinguish our stay from a visit in the 1920’s were the cars parked in front of each of the cabins.

The Santa Lucia Mountains encircle Big Sur to the east and then surrender it to the Pacific. As much as we loved the cabin we couldn't head home without sleeping on the beach. Julia Pfeiffer Burns State Park has two campsites, a half mile hike from a parking lot; they would be worth a full day's walk. Sitting on top of a bluff they overlook the ocean on one side and an eighty foot waterfall that spills onto a sandy beach in a protected cove on the other. Sheltered by cypress trees and settled amongst the cliffs you seem miles away from anyone or anywhere. We set down our headlights and books and opened our tent’s door and window to settle in for the theatre that night.

Back home the sheetrock is up in the bathrooms and the closet and the wood is covered. I know the cabins, with their exposed walls, and the campsite on the ocean are still in Big Sur and I like to think that Dwayne is still there, smiling and giving directions to that hidden stretch of beach.

diner guys

Joe, the owner of the diner sits on his stool at the end of the counter reading the paper. He began the family business years ago after returning home from the Korean war. A black and white photo hangs near the checkout counter, of a young man in an army uniform. On the walls hang two large Mexican hats, still wrapped in plastic. There are what look like number paintings hung up high. Too high to ever get dusted; they don't look like they have ever gotten moved, there was no clean edge around them.

Most of the waitresses are related to Joe and have been there forever. Those who aren't family stayed for years. His sons handle the kitchen and the fast paced cooking. The chefs are the top of the pecking order. Order up, and the waitresses had better be ready to deliver the over sized plates of food,or the cooks might get unpleasant. They ran that place like a fine tuned line in a factory.

The town is busy during fishing season. The diner, in the center is the hub. The river across the street is there for fishermen. Fly fishermen standing in water up to their waists flick their fishing rods gracefully, hardly making sounds,except for ripples in the water. The guys who stand on the bridge above, hang over the side, dangle their fishing pole lines about 20 feet down into the river. A cooler beside them, and a pail for their catches.

A fisherman comes in for his big breakfast. Mary, Joe's wife waits on him and suggests the Joe D. special. Eggs, sausage and home fries with onions, coffee included. He pays up, leaves a tip and asks for directions. "Could you tell me where the best fishing spot on the river is?" Reggie,Hank and Steve stop talking about the usual stuff, sports or town politics, spin around on their stools ready to help. Answering questions about how to get somewhere is a favorite pastime. Who's best at giving directions, who knows the back roads, shortcuts, and roads with no potholes.

The diner, used to be a small place. It looked like an airstream trailer,shiny and silver. Later a couple rooms were added and the outside changed to stained brown wood. Now there are tables and booths where people sit away from the loud talk. The lines are longer, but the regulars still linger on their stools for hours, push their empty cups closer to the edge of the counter and wait for a waitress to come by. Along with another refill, they get the quick witted remarks from the waitresses,who after years of dealing with these guys roll their eyes and wait for the next line that they already know by heart.

Frances

The overstuffed chair
slouches to one side
to fit her body.

A plastic palm tree lamp
her husband bought
when they first married
stands beside her.

She reads the paper,
cuts out coupons,
works on her needlepoint,
daydreams of square dancing.

As she closes her eyes,
heavy blue framed glasses
slide down her round face
towards her half opened mouth
that sings a lullaby.

Take it Baaaack

Here's a clever edit of Arnold from the great film, Kindergarten Cop. Bring the toy Back to the Carpet

Ribbonfish

What I did on my summer vacation in Myrtle Beach. A lot —— like catch this Ribbonfish. Well, not this ribbonfish, but one like it. It was about 2 or 3 feet long, skinny, with sharp teeth.

Laurel and Hardy Get Down

This cracks me up. Laurel and Hardy boogeying

party animals

String beans,
topped with slivered almonds,
a potato baked in foil,
hamburger turned into meatloaf.

The two guests arrive,
quiet talkers, low laughter.
mostly silence across
the second hand table.

Temporary friends,
thrown together
in a place
they briefly share.

Next Saturday
would be the same,
they meet again
because they do.

In six months,
they would be strangers,
each to a new place,
leaving friends they didn't really know.

Around The Next Corner

Our grandfather's green Pontiac
filled up with as many relatives
as it could hold
for the weekend trips
to New Hampshire.
Sisters, husbands, grand kids
squeezed into any open space.

We laid on the floor
of the big back seat,
in between legs of passengers,
feeling every bump on the road.
Gramp said, " go to sleep,
the ride will go by faster."
When we asked," how much longer Gramp?"
he said, "just around the next corner",
but it never was.

Smoke from Camels and Luckies
made us carsick.
We wanted to stick our heads
out the window,
to feel cold air blow against our faces.
On winter nights, windows closed,
heat turned on, we struggled to keep our suppers down.
Sometimes Gramp had to pull over.

The adults continued to smoke,
eat sandwiches and drink coffee
from their thermos' throughout the night.
Soon the card games would start,
the drinks would fly,
the cigarettes would cloud the New Hampshire kitchen.

Gramp left the mountains
and the hilly street
where he lived,
He found a new home for his family,
and a better paying job,
as a foreman in a spring factory.


But this weekend and many others,
they were traveling on a road,
that took them back home,
to the friends and family left behind.
where the late night trips
were a straight shot North
on a parkway
that seemed to have no corners.

Znojmo

It was a small sandwich board at the Westbahnhof train station in Vienna and it might not have caught our attention but for one word; Znojmo, and the price 9 euros. Where was it, what was it? A gentleman at the information desk told us that it was a city in the Czech Republic but the train left from Pratersten station, a short tram ride away. We were on our way to the Austrian Alps for a few days of hiking but if the sign was still there when we got back, we’d go.

Four days later, there it was. A quick dash to the tram, a short wait at the ticket counter and we were sitting in a train heading north. After riding for an hour, the train stopped and everyone got off; not a good sign when the station plaque says Retz, not Znojmo, and all the signs are in German. Following a group we overheard speaking Czech we ran across the tracks and headed for a bus. A few nods from the driver and passengers left us feeling fairly confident we’d made the right connection

We soon pulled up to a small building in need of paint where two border guards boarded the bus. If we didn’t know where Znojmo was we at least knew we’d made it to the Czech Republic. Everyone got off at the next stop, a bus and train station, empty of people except one person at a ticket counter and another at the tourist desk. Outside all we could see were grey concrete buildings and an old hotel. Was the attraction of Znojmo a cold war architectural theme park? Still there were no trinket shops or cheap t-shirts and the woman at the tourist information who’s English was as non existent as our Czech was the friendliest person we’d met in days, and our pantomime got us a map and gestures to go out the door and up the hill.




Everything changed in a few hundred meters. The streets were narrow and winding, steeples and red tiled roofs loomed ahead and suddenly we were in a town square lined on two sides with Medieval and Renaissance town houses and shops. On one end an old Capuchin monastery and cathedral faced a large concrete department store on the other, it’s display windows filled with washing machines. Even this one Soviet remnant couldn’t spoil the setting, in fact it made it more real; Znojmo was not a restored tourist Mecca. Vendors by the church were selling home grown vegetables, dried flowers, fruit and the local favorite, pickles.


We wandered about until we found an area that seemed full of small pensions, some above cafes, one over a bicycle shop and another down a covered alley. All had vacancy signs and prices listed outside but the front doors were either locked or the reception areas empty. Few stores have posted hours and for those that do, it’s best to consider them flexible.




A small sign with the word Penzion and an arrow led us down a street to a large closed gate with a bell, and expecting the same response we pulled on the chain and waited. This time someone answered, opening a small door in the gate, and led us into a courtyard with a garden, a flowered pool and an overlook of the Dyje River, 200 meters below. Our rooms were in a Gothic building, originally designed for housing the priests and clergy of the adjacent St Nicholas Church.















Finding a restaurant was a lot like finding a room. About to give up we saw people going in and out of a doorway on the square. A crowded cafeteria, it’s menu in Czech only, a student helped us order; goulash with sauerkraut and the full range of vegetarian offerings; mushroom soup, fried mushrooms and fried cheese, all delicious.

There was more to see than we’d first thought. Across from the cafeteria the Museum of South Moravia houses art from the Gothic through the Baroque in a Renaissance palace. Narrow streets brought us to neighborhoods and small parks. At the Chapel of St Wenceslas a bearded monk at led us down a spiral staircase to the older sanctuary, a two story circular room adorned only with a cross hanging from the ceiling. A monastery and castle on two of the city’s hills offered views of the forests and fields across the river where we hiked along the Czech Greenway the next day.




















Waking up early, looking out over the Dyje Valley from our window it was time to leave after two days in Znojmo. We headed back to the bus station, knowing where we were going this time, but maybe something would happen between here and there, all we needed was a sign.

Look Closer

Every Saturday,
My sister and I
rolled the ringer
washing machine
from the closet
to the kitchen,
where we washed
enough clothes
for 6 people.

We filled the tub once
and towards the last load
the water looked gray.
Our grandmother said,
"it's not dirty, it's deep.
Cup some water
into your hands.
Look closer."

One Roof

A house of women,
women
who worked
in factories,
cooked the meals,
cleaned their houses,
laughed
with their sisters,
played cards
on Saturday nights,
sent kids to church
on Sunday mornings.
Women,
who took care of their
daughter's daughters
under one roof.

Stoops

The houses
were all the
same,
shades of Gray
and Green.
Like army
barracks
filled with
soldiers.

The screen
doors
painted white,
each house
with a stoop,
to sit on in the
summer
or run to in a
game of tag.

A place to play
or be punished
to wait and
to watch.
It was good
to have a stoop,
to leave from
and return to.

Hats off to Golf Trend

A golfer was fined by the PGA today for refusing to take off his hat when shaking his playing partners hand.
"I had a real bad case of hat head and I didn't feel like taking my hat off and exposing it to the world," the defiant golfer said. "So fine me." He is appealing the fine, saying it's a stupid rule to begin with.
A check of the rulebook found that there is in fact no rule that requires a player to take off his hat when shaking hands after a round. Golf historians said it all started with Tiger Woods several years ago.
"Tiger was the first guy that I know of to take his hat off when shaking hands. There is no evidence of anyone doing it prior to 1997," the historian said. "Now, everyone does it just because Tiger does it," he said.
Miss Manners could not be reached for comment, but her assistant, Mr. Manners said it was not necessary to remove ones hat when shaking hands. "It's only done in golf. In cultures around the world, people leave their hat on when greeting each other. Why the hell take your hat off?" Mr Manners wondered.
Fans are disturbed by it, especially when players with long hair do it, like Phil Mickelson. Mickelson's hair is always matted down and looks terrible, said one fan. "He should leave the hat on." It's disturbing when bald guys do it too, because you can see the sweat pouring off their head. One fan thinks pros who take their hat off when shaking hands should be fined. "I don't like seeing them without their hats on," the fan said.
Incidentally, speaking of origins, the origin of the high five is believed to have been started by the Redskins in the fun bunch era of the early 80s. Remember when they would all high five themselves in the end zone. Kudos to them.
That's today's fake news. Next week, an inside look at the politics of golf and why all PGA tour golfers are to the right of Attila the Hun on the political spectrum.

Five Facts About U.S. Presidents

1. William Henry Harrison, at 68, was the oldest president to be elected until Reagan came along. He was also dead on his 32nd day in office, making him the shortest tenured president ever. He died of a really bad cold. I’m sorry, but that just sucks. If only they had doctors back then. My impression is that they had people like the Three Stooges practicing medicine. Usually, large mallets and drills were used to treat almost every malady. For colds, they would wrap you in a blanket, stick you in front of a fire, and give you a slug of whiskey.

And back then you could just become a doctor. There was no license or qualifications. If you had a sign that said “Doctor,” you stuck it out your front door and voila, you were a mallet wielding healthcare professional. But the most fascinating thing about Harrison is that he was one-half of the greatest marketing slogan in campaign history. He was Tippecanoe of Tippecanoe and Tyler Too fame. They won in a landslide and Tyler went on to become president after Harrison died. Tippecanoe referred to a big battle that Harrison won while he was general in some war or other — the War of 1812 maybe? Not sure. But did any war ever have such a great overture written about it? I think there should be more overtures. There hasn’t been a great overture since Kansas’ Left Overture in 1976.

2. Franklin Pierce is the only president from New Hampshire that has a college named after him, aptly named Franklin Pierce College. He is considered one of the three worst presidents of all time, according to a recent poll. He was also the namesake of a fictional character on MASH named Benjamin Franklin Pierce, aka Hawkeye. Why Hawkeye’s parents would name him after the worst president of all time is beyond me. But maybe they actually named him after Benjamin Franklin and Pierce just happened to be their last name? On the topic of Benjamin Franklin — you know how they say about golfers, “He’s the best player that hasn’t won a major.” Sergio Garcia is the one they say that about now. Well, Ben Franklin is the greatest American never to be president. I don’t think you can argue that otherwise. Sticking with the golf terminology, I’d have to say he is the leader in the clubhouse right now.

3. James Buchanan never married. He is also rumored to be the most confirmed bachelor ever to hold the office of president, not that there's anything wrong with that.

4. There were four Whig presidents. The aforementioned Harrison was the first Whig president in 1840, followed by his VP, Tyler, Zachary Taylor in 1848, and Millard Fillmore in 1856. This was the Golden Age for the party, which soon got taken over by the Neo-Whigs and run into the ground. The Whigs were actually more Republican leaning, I think, but their policies were a little saner than the modern Republican Party. I might have voted Whig, who knows. I do like the name. They were about protectionism and states’ rights. Interesting that two of the four Whig presidents died while in office — Harrison and Taylor. Hmmmm.

Henry Clay was also a Whig. He might be right behind Franklin as the greatest man never to be president. He did a lot of great things. I can’t name one off the top of my head, but he did. Trust me.

5. James Madison was the shortest president. He was only 5’4″, but people say he looked much bigger in oil paintings. You know what they say, the paintbrush adds 10 pounds. He only weighed 100 pounds. William Howard Taft, the fattest president, had bowel movements bigger than that. It’s ironic that Madison’s wife, Dolly, had an entire line of snack cakes named after her. Maybe James should have eaten some of those snack cakes that his wife had inspired and put some meat on those bones. The fact that Dolly Madison has an entire line of scrumptious cakes named after easily her makes her the greatest First Lady of all time.

some poetry..... the door

She stood
in screened shadows
on hot factory nights.

Stripped to bra and slip,
hair swept away
from face
of beaded sweat.

She stood
and cried
for kids
far off in woods,
who climbed tall trees
and swung on vines
suspended in air.

With a Little Help From My ‘Friends’

By Norm DePloom

A sampling of recent e-mail from some kind, helpful “friends”:

Beautiful Russian women waiting to meet YOU!

Me, really? How beautiful are we talking, here?

Show your lover that there can still be a lot of heat in your bedroom.

Indeed, the weather is getting warmer. Perhaps I should open a window.

Check account status.

Great idea! You need my social security number, right?

Nominate yourself for a Certificate.

Can’t get a promotion, but I’ll gladly accept your certificate, kind sir or madam.

No prescription needed

So now you tell me.

Make sure you look better by losing weight

Why, do I look fat in this golf shirt?

Beautiful watches for less.

Who wears a watch anymore?

You get freaked out when it comes to bed.

Yeah, it’s called insomnia, my friend.

Bank account blocked

I’ll get right on that. Bezunesh, you’re in Nigeria, right?

some poetry... "The Card Players"

Factory workers,
housewives, husbands
neighbors
gather
in the small kitchen.

Under bright light
black night
looks in.

Dealer slides
cards across
slippery table.

Laughter,
cigarette smoke
soars to gray ceiling.

Ginger and whiskey
glasses sweating
stains on rock maple.

Hands holding
many cards,
they disappear
one by one.

get me a soda ...

We couldn't go swimming for days after the airplane crash. We were told there might be body parts floating around; fingers, toes, who knows what. People stood around the edge of the water as it lapped at their feet asking questions of men in uniforms. The edge was as far as they usually got anyway. There was part of a wing that we could see. We wondered, is that a wing or is it really a whale. It wasn't a whale.

People still went to the beach. The crash didn't keep them from working on their tans. They sat on their beach blankets sipping cold drinks, soaking up as sun, rolling from front to back having someone rub more oil on them. Some had umbrellas for cover and little chairs low on the sand, as they read or napped. We kept going to the beach because this is what we did everyday after school until mom got home from work.

We turned right as soon as we walked out the door of our apartment house, down the palm tree shaded street, then a left and we could see the beach. The small main street was to the right, with stores, a movie theater and restaurants. It looked intriguing but we never went that way. The beach and our grammar school that we walked to were our furthest points. That was our Key West.

When there were torrential rains, the deep gutters in the streets filled up within five minutes. The street became more fun than the ocean to cool down in. Coconuts fell into the fast moving water, some floated down the road, others were ours to eat. The big porch filled with people from the apartment and nearby neighbors. They watched their kids splash around in their new swimming holes and in the evening sat outside in the cooler air fanning themselves, some nursing a drink. In the warm summer months, the hot days and humid nights made it unbearable for most, but little kids got away with being naked on their own porches.

At the beach a man cried out, "hey kids, would you each like to make a nickel? Get me a soda and keep the change!" We wondered if we should be talking to strangers, but the concession stand was nearby and it seemed a safe way to make some ice cream money. We looked forward to waiting on the beach people and getting tips. They would rather have their food delivered than move from their spots in the sun.

Sis got behind me as the man grabbed and held my hand then put money in it. Don't bring a soda to this creepy guy I thought. He wore mirrored sunglasses, we couldn't see his eyes. He could watch people and they wouldn't know. We tiptoed on the hot sand, bought the soda for the shiny man, scurried back and put it near his towel, then ran to another spot on the beach.

My Man Charlie Chan

The side streets were dark in Key West. Every Wednesday night dim streetlights lead us to the outdoor movie in the dirt parking lot. Sis and I each carried a bucket, to be flipped upside down for our seats. We brought big caramel suckers that would last through the movie and into the next day, then put them in the ice box kept cold by a huge chunk of ice delivered to our door every few days.

The same kind of movie was shown every week, a Charlie Chan flick. Number One Son would listen at a door or pick up a phone on the hallway table of the mysterious house and hear a lady with the name of Madam X making plans to steal a secret formula from the government. Her eyes were made up with thick black eyeliner and she wore bright red lipstick and colorful silky dresses. She wore her hair up on her head with a big wooden needle to hold it in place. It was also a weapon if needed, right through the heart and her enemy was dead.

The story usually went on something like this, number One Son gets caught because he sneezed or knocked something over. Someone ties him to a chair in a cobwebbed basement. Eventually he wriggles his way out by hopping to a tool bench nearby where he has spotted a knife to cut himself loose. He creeps upstairs and listens at the door. Madam X and her gang are plotting the crime. He goes back down cellar, sees a part way opened window and climbs out, he must warn his dad.

His famous detective father, Charlie Chan is worried about his hapless helper, what is he up to, he thought. He scolds him about his immature antics, but is secretly glad that he is out there helping in spite of his halfwit methods. In the end Charlie Chan catches Madam X and her gang. He smiles when he tells the police chief how valuable Number One Son was in his own clumsy way.

By this time, our all day suckers are only half gone and the light by the makeshift concession stand is on to warn us to pick up our buckets and go home. A zig zag route, and we are there. Up the dark staircases to the third floor, through hallways with big overhead fans blowing wet, damp air. The rubber mats on each stair had become sticky, we walked slowly and softly. We reached our apartment door and listened just like Number One Son. We heard loud talking and crept in quietly. The curtains blew slightly as we slipped into our beds. We hid under the white sheets hoping no one knew we were back.

Director Blames ELO For Movie Tanking

The director of a depressing movie blames the ELO soundtrack for the movie tanking at the box office.
"When you hear an ELO song over the previews, it means that the movie is quirky, funny, and kind of hip," said the director, Sam Rootbeer. "Why they chose to promote my movie with an ELO song, I'll never know," added Rootbeer.
His film called "A Long, Slow, Painful Death" was a four hour epic detailing the final days of a dying man as his body and mind whither away and ultimately breakdown after four long hours.
Critics called the movie, "Mind Numbingly Boring," "Incredibly Stupid," "Ill-conceived," "Utter Crap," "A Complete Waste of Time," and "Sleep Inducing." The critic from the New York Times said, "This movie was so bad it made me want to kill myself." It got -1 stars from the Boston Globe, and Two Big Toes down from the guys who replaced Siskel and Ebert. Reportedly, one person did actually commit suicide while watching the film, hung himself in the theater, although that's unconfirmed.
But the director thinks people's opinions of the movie were swayed by the soundtrack. "People go to movies based on the songs that play during the commercials. The song tells them what kind of movie it is."
The ad for the film featured the ELO song, Mr. Blue Sky, playing over scenes of the old man sitting in a hospital bed with tubes out of his nose and mouth turning blue. Film-goer Jefferson Jeffries called it misleading. "I saw the ad, and yeah, it didn't make much sense, seeing the old guy dying in the bed, but hey, it was ELO, so I thought that they just weren't showing the quirky parts in the ad. What a gip. That movie was NOT quirky."
The director said his movie attracted the wrong type of people because of ELO. "Everyone knows that when you hear an ELO song, quirky will follow. Well, my movie, 'A Long Slow Painful Death,' is not quirky," he said. "It's serious. It's about dying and a four hour movie about an old person dying is not for everyone." The crazy director called it Neo-Escapism, for people who want to escape all their problems, you know, by watching a movie about what he called the ultimate escape, death.
Turns out, not one person in the world liked the movie, ELO or no ELO. Talk about escapism, all they wanted to do was escape the theater as fast as possible. It was voted the worst movie of all-time by the Hollywood Foreign Press.
That's today's fake news.

We Got Thabeet

We got Thabeet, We Got Thabeet,
Everybody get on your feet,
jump ba-aack,
get down,
round and round,
We got Thabeet, we Got Thabeet, we got Thabeet,

or, for Sonny and Cher fans,

ThaBeet goes on, Thabeet Goes on. Yada dada dee, la da da da daa
And Thabeet goes on

With apologies to the GoGos and Sonny and Cher, Go Huskies. Bring home the championship this weekend!
I like Uconn in a close game over Michigan State, 71-67.
I like UNC over Villanova 77-68
Then I like Uconn over UNC in the finals Monday night, 69-66.

Uconn wins its third title in the Calhoun era, Calhoun announced his retirement and rides off a champion. You heard it here first.
I'm pumped for Saturday night. It's big; the biggest night of the year as far as I'm concerned. Buffalo Wing-big.

Major Leaguer Retires With Regrets

A major league baseball player announced his retirement last night because he hates baseball.
"I have so many regrets," said Josh Batson, the retired slugger. "I hate baseball," said Batson. "I never wanted to be a major league ballplayer, I wanted a 9 to 5 job, but my parents pushed me into it."
The 5-time all-star said he's always thought it was a boring game. "I'd be sitting out there in rightfield watching the pitcher shake off signs, then throw over to first base, then shake off more signs, then throw over to first base again, then he'd finally pitch, and it would be a ball. Then it would start all over again. He'd shake off signs, then he'd throw to first base, then he'd shake off signs, then he'd finally pitch, and it would be a foul ball. Then the batter would get out of the batters box, clean his spikes, then the pitcher would throw over to first base, then he would shake off signs -- I couldn't take it anymore."
Batson said he felt like he wasted the best years of his life playing baseball. "I wish I had retired sooner, I'll never get those years back," he said, crying like a baby at the press conference.
He then went on to complain about his teammates. "I played with some real bad players on some real crappy teams over the years." He felt that most of his teammates were stupid and that he was of superior intelligence. "I like to watch PBS and I listen to NPR, so I felt like I was much smarter than they were."
He also had harsh words for his manager. "He looked silly wearing a uniform. A grown man, with a pot belly and chicken legs, dressing up like a child in a uniform. Get a grip."
He wasn't sure what he would do next, but he felt like a free man. "Now I can pursue my dreams of working at a desk in a cubicle," he said, bawling.

Maker Involved in Controversial Football Embroglio

In today’s fake news, a football player cursed out God after the game because he claims God made his team lose.
“(Bleep) &*^%!. God definitely had something to do with that game,” said Joe Squareout, the star receiver for the local football team. “That team sucks and there’s no reason they should have beaten us. God must have been involved in the outcome somehow.” He believes the All Powerful may have answered a prayer from the opposing team that led to the loss.
God could not be reached for comment.
The quarterback on the opposing team, Fred Faithful, a born again Christian, did in fact ask God to let his team win before the game. Whether or not his prayers figured into the final result remains to be seen.
League officials say they are investigating the matter. “We don’t know what happened, but we take all charges of tampering very seriously and will look into it,” said the league commissioner. If God was involved, it could have very serious ramifications. “We obviously can’t discipline God,” the fake commissioner said, “but we can pray to Him to ask Him not to answer game-related prayers.”
God expert Father Bill Goodfellow called the whole thing ridiculous. “God does not care who wins a football game. He’s a basketball fan.”
This is the first time that there have been charges of Supreme Being tampering in a sporting event since 842 BC when Hercules disguised himself as a horse and entered a Chariot race.

Area Man Doesn't Know What Constitutional Means

After 40 years of taking his "daily constitutional," an area man is shocked to discover what a "constitutional" actually is.
"I thought it meant taking a crap," said Phil Buttons, an area man who lives in the area. For 40 years, Buttons had proudly proclaimed to his family every morning, newspaper tucked under his arm, that he was going to take his "daily constitutional." He'd disappear into the bathroom for 20 minutes and emerge "refreshed."
His wife Anne never questioned it. "I didn't know what the hell constitutional meant," said Agnes. "Crap made sense to me."
A recent survey of Americans finds that only 20 percent know what a constitutional is. Further, 90 percent of that 20 percent wonder why it's called constitutional. Constitutional, as a noun, means "taking a walk," so a "daily constitutional" is a daily walk. Why is a walk called a constitutional? Maybe because it's good for your constitution, good for your health, to take a daily walk. But some, like Buttons, would argue that taking a crap is also good for your health.
Buttons discovered the hard truth about what it meant from his neighbor, Dick Johnson, who actually took daily constitutionals (walks) every morning. So did Buttons, only he called them walks.
While the two were chatting over the fence last week, Dick Johnson said, "We should take our constitutionals together. We can talk. It'll be fun."
Buttons admits to thinking this was a weird suggestion at the time. "Why would he want me to take a crap with him," Buttons wondered. At first he politely declined, but after constant goading, Buttons half heartedly agreed. "Ok," I said. "He seems really into me coming over and taking a crap with him. Hopefully we'll be in two separate stalls."
But the next morning when Buttons showed up at Dick's house with his newspaper under his arm and his special roll of toilet paper proclaiming he was ready for his constitutional, he learned the hard way what it was.
"We had a good laugh," said Buttons. "Then he kicked me out. We don't talk much anymore.

Ed. note: My attempt at writing a fake Onion style news story, bear with me.

March Madness

Let the Madness begin.
I picked Wake Forest, Uconn, Pitt, and UNC in the Final Four. I have UNC and Uconn in the finals. I don't love the way UConn is playing now, but I don't love the way anyone else is playing either. If they can avoid meeting Pittsburgh, who they have trouble matching up against, I like their chances. There's no one other than Pitt that they can't beat, including North Carolina.
The loss of Dyson will hurt the Huskies in those tough, close games. Dyson was the goto guy down the stretch and without him, I'm not so sure they know who will step up. I don't think they'll have to worry about it until the final four because I see them breezing to the Final Four. But then, they'll need a Kemba Walker, an Austrie, a Robinson, to step up. Price will step up, but he can't be the only one because as the point guard, he will draw attention. But he can dish to the open man, the thing is, that person needs to know down the big shot.
The Huskies tip off today at 3 pm. This is one of the great sports days of the year -- the Thursday and Friday of the first week of the NCAA tournament. Wall to wall games, always some wild finishes, made even more intense by the do or die nature of the tournament. Sure, you have the blow outs, but for the most part you get a lot of close games and always one or two major upsets. Plus you get to see teams that you haven't ever seen before.
People say the quality of the teams are down because the best players go to the NBA. That may be true, but I think it has created much more parity than ever before, and that makes for a much more interesting tournament.
Ten or 20 years ago, 14, 15, and 16 seeds were routinely blown out by 40 points. Not anymore. There have been 2-15 upsets and close 1-16 games in recent years. Sometime soon, a number one seed will lose in the first round. Let's hope it's not my team, UCONN, the number one seed in the West.
Go Huskies.

The Art of Wasting Time

I think everyone has got the whole wasting time thing down pretty well. We all do it, we all waste time when we are supposed to be working, but we don't admit it. I've been wasting time for hours this morning, for no real reason. Ok, it's Friday, that's a reason, but I have stuff I have a lot of stuff I have to finish, like now, so I need to get moving.
But we all waste time -- that's pretty much the point of work, see if you can get through the day wasting more time than working. Some days, it's not even close. Other days, I work like a banshee -- but this is not one of those days. It all evens out is the way I see it. I have days where I work 8 hours, I sometimes work weekends, I work at night or early in the morning sometimes -- these are the benefits of working from home. So on the days when I mail it in, I feel it's all evens out in the end. Bosses waste tremendous amounts of time too, don't let them kid you.
How do you waste time? The internet is the Holy Grail of time wasting. That's pretty much why it was created. If Al Gore only knew when he invented the Internet that it would completely revolutionize the way people waste time. It has come to be a pretty acceptable vehicle for time wasting, as long as its in small doses. And you have to disguise it. When I used to work in an office, I couldn't really waste time on ESPN.com, because that was too obvious. Why would you be on a sports site at work? But I would go to the Yahoo or Excite news page -- I could say I was looking up stocks or something when actually I was reading about sports. You see, if you're going to waste time, you have to work at it. It's an art and a science. It's not easy -- you have to make it look like you are working. We all have our "go to" time wasting tricks -- what are yours?
Remember before the Internet? Remember how hard to was to waste time? You did it, we all did it, but it took a lot more creativity. I used to read newspapers in my cubicle. Of course, you couldn't blatantly read a newspaper because that would be wasting time, so you folded it up into a little square and shoved it under your big desk calendar, with only the part you are reading sticking out from underneath the calendar. When someone walked by, you could easily cover it up. I would also drink a lot of coffee, not because I wanted to drink that much coffee, but because I wanted to go walk into the break room and take a break. I was pretty damn jittery by days end.
Now, it's all changed for me. I have the pleasure of working at home at this point in my career, and I am truly thankful for that. I believe I have earned it. It brings wasting time to a whole new level. You don't waste time to waste time, you use your time wisely to go to games, pick up kids, paint the living room, run errands, etc. Ok, you still waste time looking up things like, Geez, I wonder what that Kelly Leak kid has been doing since bad News Bears? Actually, he was in a movie a few years ago-- Little Children.
But really, the schedule working at home is more your own, because you can put time in before 9 or after 5 much easier. I have earned this after working in offices for many years. And I do actually get my work done -- I work hard, in fact.
Ok, it's 11 am, time to get to work.

I'll Never Get Over Macho Grande

I was doing this routine with my youngin' in the car the other day. He never saw Airplane 2 of course but he caught right on. (Buddy caught right on?) He said, "And he wasn't there," and I interrupted "Wait, Andy wasn't there?" Then he said, with my prompting, "No, Andy was there, but he had to leave early." Then I'd say, "Buddy had to leave early?" We laughed.
Here it is, one of my favorite movie scenes, the Courtroom Scene from Airplane 2.


Pilot: Striker was the squadron leader. He brought us in real low. But he couldn't handle it.

Prosecutor: Buddy couldn't handle it? Was Buddy one of you crew?

Pilot: Right, Buddy was the bombardier. But it was Striker who couldn't handle it, and he went to pieces.

Prosecutor: Andy went to pieces?

Pilot: No. Andy was the navigator. He was all right. Buddy went to pieces. It was awful how he came unglued.

Prosecutor: Howie came unglued?

Pilot: Oh no. Howie was a rock, the best tailgunner in the outfit. Buddy came unglued.

Prosecutor: And he bailed out?

Pilot: No. Andy hung tough. Buddy bailed out. How he survived, it was a miracle.

Prosecutor: Then Howie survived?

Pilot: No, 'fraid not. We lost Howie the next day.

Prosecutor: Over Macho Grande?

Pilot: No. I don't think I'll ever be over Macho Grande.

Infomercials

The ESPN ads are hilarious. The latest, for ESPN 360, whatever that is, features the Infomercial legend Billy Mays, the guy who looks like Al Borland from Home Improvement and does the infomericals for products like OxiCleen and others. He's always yelling, like any informercial star worth his salt. If you are on an infomercial, you must yell, that's all there is to it.
In this ESPN commercial, Billy Mays is the host introducing this product, ESPN 360, whatever that is, like he would in an infomercial, yelling. I still don't know what ESPN 360 is, but the commercial was damn funny.

The other new ESPN is the one with Lebron going to his cubicle, but he notices that his chair his gone -- well, he's King James so it's actually a throne. He looks around for it and in the next cubicle, Scott Van Pelt is sitting in Lebron's throne, but when Lebron asks for it, Van Pelt acts like he doesn't know what Lebron is talking about. Very funny.

Infomercials are great. I've bought more products than I care to reveal after watching an infomercial. The latest one I always watch is for some kind of "internet business" where you don't do sales, you don't work, you don't buy inventory, you don't do anything -- apparently you just sit there in your house and the checks for thousands of dollars come rolling in for no reason.
I saw one the other night for how to make money in the "cash flow business." They never explained what the cash flow business is, but they told you how you can make hundreds of thousands of dollars on your lunch break. You better believe I googled "cash flow business." They kept repeating that phrase throughout the commercials so it would eventually sink into the heads of dummies like me. After about the 20th mention I said to myself, you know, I should look up this whole "cash flow business" thing to see what it's all about.
I'm also a sucker for the Kevin Trudeau infomercials. He's the guy who sells all those books about secrets "they" don't want you to know about. I know who "they" are, and I don't like "they." They are bad.
Then there is the Time Life music. I have a hard time changing the channel once I come across Russell Hitchcock and Graham Whatever from Air Supply. Then the siren songs of Bread or Maria Muldaur or Leo Sayer or Paper Lace (The Night Chicago Died) play and I am sucked in. It's not so much the music as it is what they look like -- the hair, the clothes, it's like these people from the 70s are beings from another planet.
Then there is the great Billy Mays, star of the ESPN 360 commercial, whatever that is.

Radio Binghamton

I have this cool 1937 Zenith radio, like the kind the Waltons used to listen to. It stands about 4 feet high, is made of hard wood, and has an AM band, a police band, and a short wave band. I could never get the police band to work, but the AM and Short Wave work great. I love this thing. I listen to stations from around the world at night as the soft light of the big circular dial glows. I get stations from Romania, Russia, China, Voice of America, BBC, Australia, Africa, South America, you name it.
About a year ago, the tuner blew out on me, meaning the little wire inside the moves the dial broke. So I was stuck listening to one channel, WRKO 680, the last channel I had tuned in to. Last June, I decided to take it to my friendly East Coast antique radio repair man in Binghamton, NY, to get it fixed. This guy is about the only one on the East Coast who fixes antique radios, so he has about a year waiting list. He told me not to expect anything until summer 2009. Whoa!
Well, I got a call last week that my radio was ready. He was a little ahead of schedule and managed to squeeze my order in, so I hit the road for Binghamton last Friday to pick it up. Binghamton is no where near the other Hamptons, it's in upstate NY, near Elmira, about a five hour drive for me. So, I loaded up the buggy with gas, some CDs and tapes, and I was gone.

The key to such a long trip is to strategically mix radio consumption with CDs and tapes. You want to listen to the radio because you are traveling to new places where you get new radio stations, but you also must keep in mind that in some parts of the trip there will be a lull where you only get country stations, right wing nutjobs, or religious freaks. That's where you pop in the CDs.
I started out listening to the radio because I knew I would get Mike Francesa on WFAN right off the bat. I start picking up Mike fairly quickly and I'm immediately hooked on two things. One, he's talking about the Mets, who I don't like, but there is mini controversy brewing. Mike, who, sans Dog, now calls his show Mike'd Up, was at Mets training camp and he was doing interviews with Mets players. The big story of the day was if David Wright and Ryan Church, two Mets that Mike had blasted last year for being a choke and a hothead, respectively, would come on the air with him. They were pissed off at him for his past remarks and had been boycotting him. Mike said he'd give them one more chance to bury the hatchet, but they declined. Mike went off on both of them, calling Church, essentially a nobody that he couldn't care less if he never graced his airwaves again. Wright, on the other hand, is a star player, so Mike said he would like to have him on for the fans. But if Wright was going to be thin skinned and couldn't handle a little criticism after two of the worst choke jobs in baseball history the last two years, well, then, so be it. He called Wright immature and thin skinned and said he was done with him. He didn't care if he ever came on again.
Reaction from the callers was mixed, some were supporting him, others were blasting him. To this listener, it was vintage Mike. Great, compelling radio.
Next up was Jim Calhoun, coach of Uconn, who Mike has had run ins with in the past. This was Calhoun's first interview since he lambasted a reporter and told him to shut up at a post game press conference. Mike was on Jimmy's side on this one, as am I. I love how Coach Calhoun handled that guy. I don't have a problem with the guy asking the question about Calhoun's salary, but I also don't mind Calhoun ripping him a new one. We need more press conferences like that -- that's entertainment. You can take the boy out of Southie, but you can't take Southie out of the boy.

I started losing Mike shortly after the Calhoun interview and this is where I switched to Carlin. I had two George Carlin CDs that I played, one on the way out, one on the way back. George was the best comedian of all-time in my mind. What a genius and he got better with age. I think stand up comedy is the highest, truest art form, higher than acting, singing, dancing, anything. It's a man on stage with a mic trying to make you laugh with no props, nothing but his wits. But beyond that, the best comedians are the most honest chroniclers and commentators of the times they live in. You won't hear the truth on the news or in the papers or in movies or TV, but you will from a great comedian standing on stage. Everything else is filtered and scripted and regulated, but there is no filter on a comedian on a stage in a club. Why so many go from comedy to other watered down media is beyond me, like it's a step up. Eddie Murphy is a great example. His first few albums were legendary, but then he gave it up and went on to make crappy movies. Carlin never did though, he knew what he was doing was the pinnacle. And he did it better than anyone else.
From Carlin I popped in the next best comedian of all-time, Chris Rock. He's another one that's dedicated to his craft and just nails it. Even though he has dabbled in movies, he always comes back to stand up. His first CD, Born Suspect, is friggin' hilarious.
I've prattled on long enough. Rock took me in to Binghamton where I picked up my radio and turned around and headed home.

Saturday nights at 6 o'clock

I had heroes when I was a kid. On Saturday nights at six o'clock Sis and I ate our supper in the tiny living room. The arms of the overstuffed chairs were wide enough to balance our plates. It was the only time that Nanoo would let us eat a meal anywhere other than the kitchen table. We watched the Lone Ranger in front of the floor model tv that Gramp bought. He worked a second job to buy it, and the new dark green Pontiac that soon smelled of his Camel cigarettes.

On the screen he rode across the plains with a cloud of dust at the speed of light, up that hill where his horse Silver rose up on his two hind legs, and the Lone Ranger shouted "Hi Yo Silver, away." Tonto, his sidekick and faithful friend was always close by, on his palomino , Scout. You knew they would bring law and order to any town they rode into, where outlaws were trying to steal cattle from a young rancher, his wife and 3 kids, or plan a bank robbery and blame it on the bearded old man shoeing horses. And at the end of the show when the bad guys were put in jail, the husband would say to his wife , "who was that masked man," and their kids who knew all along, would answer, "he's the Lone Ranger."

Sis and I knew that when we went to bed this hero of ours, wearing a white hat, a black mask and riding a white horse was going to take care of us, that we would have no bad guys coming to get us, that we could go to sleep and have no nightmares, only the stomach ache we got every Sunday morning when we had to go to church, and that was followed by the Monday stomach ache when we had to go to school and face the nuns for another week. All we had to do was wait til next Saturday at 6 o'clock to eat our beans and hot dogs in the living room with the Lone Ranger.

Buddy did it

On Sunday mornings Sis and I went to the nine o'clock mass. Nanoo waved goodbye and went back to her coffee, lucky strikes and one of the honeydip donuts that Gramp bought every Sunday.

One particular Sunday we passed Buddy sitting on his porch in his play clothes from yesterday or even the day before. He was tossing rocks from a bucket into his dirt yard. Buddy lived in the project like us, in one of the gray houses with two families connecting them and a shared coal bin.

Throwing rocks with Buddy looked like more fun than going the church. We started a game. Who could throw a rock over the shiny 1949 black Pontiac without hitting it. One of the rocks crashed onto the windshield leaving a pinwheel of cracks. I kind of knew it was mine but stayed quiet. Buddy darted towards his house crying, his face all smudged, his nose running even more. Two of his big brothers stood in the open doorway watching. I began to wish we had gone to church.

The cops came by and dressed in my Sunday clothes I said, "Buddy did it." Sis and I missed church that day, and Nanoo never found out.

Juice Box Heroes

There are so many funny words and phrases and names that catch my attention, so I will write them down here as I see them or else I'll forget them. That's what this space is for, to clean out the junk drawer of the mind.
This morning I'm watching kids shows, because that's pretty much all we ever watch. I could tell you all seven numbered trains on the Island of Sodor--Thomas, Edward, Henry, Gordon, James, Percy, and Toby--but could I tell you much about the stimulus package? The kids show was called Imagination Movers on Disney Channel and it's these four guys who are kind of like the American Wiggles. They play a lot of songs and videos and they just put out an album of kids songs. The album is called...
Juice Box Heroes! A take off on the Foreigner song of many years ago, Juke Box Hero.
I love it.

Oscar Observations

I watched some of the Oscars last night, up until right after Heath Ledger was announced as winner of Best Supporting Actor, Male, by one of the SuperFriends. Actually, I liked that whole set of having past winners introduce and announce the nominees and winners. I was stunned at how short Joel Gray was. I kept saying everytime the camera panned back, 'Look how short he is, Look, Look. See, He's short. Look at the guy next to him, he's like half his size. See how short he is?' My better half was like, yeah, so.
These are the things that strike me, what can I say.
I was also struck by Christopher Walken's hair. He looked like Shemp. "The Shemp" (see below) may actually be coming back in style because there was another guy who won for Key Grip or something who had the Shemp look. He was also wearing sneakers.



I was really pulling for the guy with huge teeth to win the Documentary Award. He had bigger teeth than Bababooey. I wanted to see those choppers up close as he made an acceptance speech, but he lost.
I don't understand short films. Why would someone make a short film? The guy who won spent 4 years making a 14 minute film! What?! If you spent that much time on it, I hope to God you won. The other guys who were nominated probably made their's in an afternoon. Can you even make a point in 14 minutes? The Stooges had it right. If you're going to make a 14 minute film, you may as well just wail on each other for 14 minutes. Get your licks in, because there's really no time for anything else. When the Stooges made short films they actually played short films before long films so it made sense. They don't do that anymore. If nothing else, have a separate awards show for short films, don't lump them in with the Oscars, it's too long as it is.
Instead of short films, they should have an award for best first hour of a movie. This year alone, I saw at least three first hours of a movie and never saw the end. I saw the first hour of Wall-E, King Fu Panda, and Leatherheads; and those are the ones that I remember. I'd probably go with Leatherheads -- a solid first hour of entertainment. I was starting to get bored when we had to turn it off to do something with the kids, so I'm sure an hour was about right. The last half hour would have ruined it. We just rented W, I'm looking forward to seeing the first hour of it.

I thought the skit with James Franco and Seth Rogen was funny, especially when they were watching those serious movies and laughing hysterically. Ben Stiller doing Joachim Phoenix on the Letterman show was also good.
I thought Huge Ackman did a good job as host. He was funny and seems like a very happy guy. I liked his line to Meryl Streep, saying she's racked up Huge numbers, like 15 nominations over her career. That leads me to wonder: Are you on steroids?
I hope they bring the SuperFriends thing back next year.
And maybe the Moe haircut will all the rage next year. There is, you know, a Three Stooges movie coming out in 2009. The long rumored Farrelly Brothers updated adaptation of the Stooges is reportedly being made an will be out by the end of the year. I smell Oscar!

Dance Party Friday

This is the greatest newscast ever. Period. If I had local news people like this I'd actually watch the news once in awhile.
If it bleeds it leads, well, in this case, if it raps it leads. Local news is just car accidents and murders, I can't watch it, it's too depressing. Those 10 o'clock shows like CSI are a great lead in to the 11 o'clock news, they get you all primed for real life depressing news as opposed to fiction.
So it's nice to see a change of pace like this, people being real and having fun. Just watch.

http://video.aol.com/video-detail/dance-party-friday-rap-dance-party-friday-rap/1579920491

I Like the Idea of Fishing

I absolutely love the idea of fishing. It's solitary, quiet, you're outside with nature, and you're matching wits with these aquatic animals--fish vs Beast, I mean, man vs beast. It's relaxing yet contemplative -- a thinking man's sport.
It's also the only sport that requires sitting and no movement for long periods of time. I'm surprised the Gods of sports actually voted fishing into the club. Movement should be a minimum requirement for a sport. I also like the idea of kicking back with a cold one and waiting for the fish to bite while the birds chirp, the breeze blows, and the sun shines.
Yes, I love the IDEA of fishing, but the thing is I don't really actually like fishing. Ya follow? Why don't I like fishing? Duh, you're outside, you're alone, it's cold and wet, and you're matching wits with a slimy, beady eyed creature. Oh yeah and it's relaxing and contemplative. But I don't want to relax when I'm playing, if I did, I'd be home watching TV or reading. And I don't want to think when I'm supposed to be recreating. Recreation means fun, thinking is a lot of things, but it's not usually fun. Plus, what is there to think about -- how fast will I lose my lure? How many times will I cast before I give up? It's a fool's game. The fish usually win, so why bother? And I don't actually like the sitting part. Sitting hurts your keyster and its boring. I like to move when I play--give me a turn around jump shot in the driveway or a chip shot with a 9-iron in the backyard any day.
You can see my confusion here. I'm conflicted when it comes to fishing. It's not like golf, which I love the idea of and I love playing. If I could come back as something, it would be as a golf pro. And it's not like skiing, which I hate the idea of and actually hate doing. I hate the idea of skiing because, for starters, it takes place in snow and cold weather. Strike one and strike two. Also, the payoff doesn't match the effort. You make this long slow climb up a mountain with big long things on your feet and clunky boots that don't allow your toes to bend and then, what's the payoff, a quick run down a mountain? Ok, but now you've got to climb up the mountain again in these boots. Sorry, no thanks. Strike 3. Climbing is not my idea of fun in any way shape or form.
What keeps me intrigued by fishing is the mystery of it all. Paraphrasing Forrest Gump, fishing is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you are gonna get, but just like a box of chocolates, 9 times out of 10 you usually get the crappy ones that you can't stand.
That's the lure of fishing, pardon the pun. You never know what you are going to get. There's this entire world underwater, bigger than the land mass on earth, and it's largely unknown by man. The underwater is a mystery and when you cast that line in, you're thinking, maybe I'll catch a trout, or a bass, or a mackerel, or maybe I'll catch a shark or a giant squid, or a treasure chest, or a pirates skeleton, or a man in cement shoes. You just don't know, so you keep trying. The truth is, if you catch anything, it's a sucker or a sea robin or some dumb ugly fish with spiky fins that you don't want to touch, let alone eat.
I think my whole attitude would change if I started catching fish on a regular basis like those guys on the weekend fishing shows. Like anything, when you're good at something, it's more fun, so I'll keep trying. I really want to like fishing, I just stink at it. That's my whole problem.
I sincerely hope that maybe someday, in my old age, I'll get good at it, because, like that Greek God whose name escapes me who kept pushing that rock up the hill for some reason, I will keep trying, I will keep fishing.
Because I love the idea of fishing.