Failing Hands, And Much Much More !

This post is about the other handmade gift I made this past Christmas.  Too large to fit in Santa’s sleigh, and definitely in excess of the maximum weight limits for loads pulled by reindeer, it was completed just prior to December 25th so the Jolly Old Elf wouldn’t have to subcontract its delivery to a freight hauling company.

Crafted for my son and designed with his help, what resulted was a desk / workstation for the studio in which he creates his music.  Made of oak plywood with solid oak trim, it spans eight feet across, with a desktop depth of almost four feet.  The only non-oak portions were the desk work surface, keyboard shelf, and monitor/speaker shelf. These were made of laminated particle board.  The only non-wood components used were the rack rails that hold the electronic gear, and the computer keyboard slides. 

Because of its large size, it was build as six separate components which, when assembled, combine to make up what you see in the pictures.  The whole project took about a month at a reasonable cost of under $900.00.  That’s a minimum of two thousand dollars less than would have been needed to buy one of similar size and quality.

Unlike the Dr. Who jewelry box in the last post, this Christmas project made it abundantly clear that it’s not only my hands that are failing.  It’s obvious that my body strength is on the way out, as well.  Back-in-the-day I used to run 4X8 sheets of plywood through the table saw completely by myself.  Building THIS project, I couldn’t even have gotten them to the saw, let alone cut them without help.  Ah, what a difference a decade or so makes.

Like a faithful old car, we keep “driving” our aging bodies as long as they are still able to start when we turn the key.  And though we chug along life’s highway far below the maximum speed limit, and must stop on the shoulder more frequently for emergency services, we continue our labored journey with optimism… hoping that others will at least acknowledge our earned presence in the slow lane.

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Still Handy, But With Failing Hands

As a guy ages, there’s one uncontested bit of evidence that he’s on the downhill side of life.  I guess it really hit me when one day I happened to take a VERY close look at my hands for the first time.  “Who in the hell do these scarred and wrinkled claws belong to?” I wondered.  “And how and when did they get transplanted onto MY wrists without me knowing?”

 I should have been paying closer attention.  After all, I’d been waking up with pain and stiffness in my fingers for a long time.  And when I played my keyboard it was more difficult to navigate the keys and span an octave with one hand.  And mechanical “clicking” sounds had begun emanating from the joints as if I needed to grab some WD40 and give each one a spritz.

Any older male who has seriously worked with his hands over the years, knows exactly what I mean.   As he senses his two fingered friends are becoming physically limited, it is as mentally devastating as a diagnosis of something lethal.  That’s because as men we derive much of our sense of worth from what we create with our hands.  No matter how insignificant, it is not only proof of our continued relevance, but our masculine way of trying to insure we’ll exist somewhere in the pages of life’s scrapbook long after we expire.

Anyway, it was with a pair of very sad hands that I decided to make two presents this past Christmas.  I figured that while each would take a number of painful weeks to construct, both would be a unique expression of my love for the two recipients.  They would also become a mental link to me, long after the hands that built them were still.

The gift I’m sharing in this  post, then, was for my youngest daughter.  A rabid fan of the “Dr. Who” television program, I thought I’d make her a jewelry box shaped like his Tardis Time Machine.  Here’s a picture of it from the show.  As you can see, it exists in the shape of a police call box.

   The project took almost a month to complete.  The miniature Tardis was about 14” wide, 10” deep, and 18” high.  Everything was handmade, including the light on the roof and the entrance door pulls.  All I purchased was the wood, the hinges, and the blue paint.

In a future post I’ll share the second of my Christmas creations.   Meanwhile, best wishes to each of you for a healthy and productive New Year !  Peace.

Paisano



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Woes Of The Solitary Man

As the SIX of you noticed, I haven’t posted anything for quite some time.  Now, I know what you‘re thinking: “Why ruin a good thing just before the holidays, right?  Well, get over it.  I’m doing this for ME!  I find myself needing to take an attitudinal “dump,” and this post is no more than a word-filled suppository.

Let’s get to the point.  Some old guys like me would rather live their lives as if wearing Harry Potter invisibility cloaks.  We try to fly SO far below the radar that our bellies have abrasions where hair used to be.  But unfortunately, the world is crowding in on us like we were sale items at the Swap Meet.  And the more it happens, the faster our “Bullshit Bags” fill up and need to be purged.  Today is one of those occasions.

It all hit the fan when I began getting this persistent message on my computer monitor:  “There are unused icons on your desktop. The desktop wizard can help you clean up your desktop.  Click this balloon to start the wizard.”

First of all, who in the hell is this “wizard” living in my computer without permission or a rental agreement?  And how the heck does he get the right to snoop on me and keep track of the frequency with which I use specific icons, anyway?  What’s more, why does he feel the need to assume that certain icons on my desktop are causing me stress and need to be banished for the sake of my mental health?  And who asked for his help, in the first place?  I certainly know how to use the “delete” key when I feel the need.

“My,” you might say, “what trivial things set you off these days, Mr. Paisano.  Get a grip !  It’s only the computer company trying to make you more efficient and well-organized.”  Well guess what?  My 9.5 decade-old  mother was a career secretary, and I got all the practice I needed in life efficiency and organization while I was growing up.  So as an older man, I now claim the absolute right to live my life in logistical chaos if I wish.  And that could mean  storing my woodworking tools in the refrigerator, or stashing my pepperoni in the underwear drawer if it makes me happy.

Frankly, I’m damn sick and tired of strangers who couldn‘t care less about me, yet strive to dictate the way I live my life.  A meddling government, for example, that mandates I have health insurance that covers me should I become the first male in history to experience an immaculate conception.  And nannycrats with big enough balls to legislate how much trans fat I can eat, or the size of my “Big Gulp,” or if I can buy “E Cigarettes” as an alternative to tobacco.

Not to mention those agencies that keep records of my calls or e-mails simply because I know someone named “Samir,” or because there’s a possibility I’m spending time with “Mrs. Habeeb” at the Senior Center because we’re plotting to bomb the DMV for taking lousy pictures at our last driver‘s license appointment. What a perverse twist of governmental “oversight.” 

And what gives anyone I don’t know, the right to collect and store every scrap of my personal information? And what need is there for the feds to have the GPS coordinates of my front door on file?  Even if I fall and can’t get up, they’re the last ones I’d want to show up to administer help.  And why should some spy system assume I’m dyslexic and was Googling for “porn,” when all I was attempting to do was learn more about shellfish, and mistakenly typed “pron” in the search box thinking it was the correct spelling for “prawn.” 
 
Beyond that, there should be no need for me to endure ten solicitation calls a day when I’m supposedly on the “No Call” list, or have to wait for commercials before I can view something on You Tube.  And I should still be able to pay with an old-fashioned check, instead of being forced to put my personal information on the internet in order to make purchases from certain companies.

Financially, I shouldn’t have a $49.95 “money-saving” bundled package with Verizon, and end up paying almost $75.00 after “someone” tacks on a bunch of mysterious fees in miniscule print.  And my rates for certain utilities shouldn’t skyrocket the minute my neighbors and I do a great job of conserving resources and cause the revenues of those companies to drop.  Who granted them the right to a guaranteed  income, anyway, especially using MY money?
 
Finally, as a solitary man I strive to live a “nag-free” life, and not feel like a polygamist husband at the wrong time of the month.  That’s an impossibility, however.  My computer bugs me regularly with messages to get off my ass and start using Facebook because there are SCORES of folks just dying to “talk” to me.  (Who are these people, and what is their mental condition if they need ME in order for their lives to be complete?)  And my mailman has gotten a hernia delivering “reminders” that I’ve failed to renew a magazine to which I subscribed in 1996, or that I’m going to miss out on someone’s special offer that ends in twelve hours, forty-two minutes, and three seconds.  I mean, what the hell?    

  The truth is obvious, Folks.  There has never been a time in history when there has been more meddling in our personal lives.  Our daily pursuits are riddled with unsolicited “wizards” of all sorts, human and otherwise… all forcing us to either change the way we live, or perish like the dinosaurs.  And guys like me who continue to resist, well… we’re considered fossils.  So take note, the SIX of you who actually read this stuff.  Start calling me Prehistoric Paisano if you like, understanding I’m more than comfortable being classified as “petrified remains,” and make absolutely no bones about it ! 

Another Attack On Fortune Cookie Messages

Brace yourself!  I’m in one of those moods where if the Rapture occurred and I was the only one left on the planet, I’d feel it was almost one person too many.  Even a mild-mannered gent like myself, when forced to function in a world full of absolute blockheads, builds a level of frustration that after awhile, needs release.  So, what better way to do that non-violently ? Take  twenty more of those numbskullish, narcissistic fortune cookie messages, and tack on some grouchy sarcasm (in blue) !!

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True wisdom is found in happiness.... thus you will remain stupid the rest of your life.

Make a wise choice everyday.... and you will be unique among the jackasses with whom you associate.

Not all closed eye is sleeping, nor open eye is seeing..... nor black eye is because you didn't deserve it.

Seize every second of your life and savor it.... as the cholesterol- filled grizzle it is.

Vision is the art of seeing what is invisible to others.... blindness is art of writing stupid statements like that.

It's kind of fun to do the impossible.... because when you ultimately fail you have a built-in alibi.

When in doubt, let your instincts guide you.... understanding they cannot be used in court as a legal defense.

You will have an extremely bright future… but only if you wrap yourself in aluminum foil from head to foot.

Love is on its way.... or at least that's what you always say when you’re not getting any.

You are one of the people who "goes places in life."..... but NOWHERE is highly overrated.

We cannot change the direction of the wind, but we can adjust our sails.... or just sell the damn boat and cut our losses altogether.

Begin your life anew with strength, grace, and wonder.... why you're gullible enough to believe this crap.

You are often asked if it’s in yet..... which doesn't engender much self-confidence, right, Lover Boy?

A beautiful, smart, and loving person will be coming into your life.... and quickly regretting having done so.

You create your own stage ... the audience is waiting.... to watch you make an idiot of yourself.

Do not follow where the path may lead. Go where there is no path, and leave a trail.... so that the rescue squad has some idea of where to look for your dumb ass.

You believe in the goodness of mankind..... as well as unicorns, the Tooth Fairy, and that someday you're going to lose weight.

You are broad minded and socially active..... so don't abandon those monthly blood tests.

You will have many happy days soon..... as long as your medical marijuana card gets authorized.

Unleash your life force..... and let the dog that it is, run away.

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Read more fortune cookie messages from Paisano’s point of view, at these links:

http://theprattlingpaisano.blogspot.com/2013/02/fortune-cookie-messages-for-pessimists.html

http://theprattlingpaisano.blogspot.com/2011/06/fortune-cookie-messages-lets-get-real.html

Romance At The Local Park

When you’re an old guy like me, bad feet and questionable knees make your choice of exercise regimens rather limited.  And since puttering around in the shop, or sitting at the computer trying to write interesting commentary is not considered legitimate exercise, my choice of physical activity has defaulted to bike riding within a couple miles of my house.

While I could easily go off on a rant about bike riding, I‘ll save that for another time.  I mean, any activity that makes you feel like a buck during hunting season, calls for some sort of exposure as the second deadliest urban exercise after being chased by muggers and/or bill collectors.  But in circling my local park’s vehicle area, I’ve slowly become quite a chronicler of what actually goes on there during daylight hours. And believe it or not, there’s a shocking amount of romance in the air.

For example, it’s a handy haven for horny Middle School students who walk past it on their way home.  Clumped around those more “out of the way” picnic benches, they ardently practice a variety of chasing, catching, and “rubbing up against each other” skills so appealing at that age.  Maybe it’s just normal adolescent behavior, or perhaps a “hands-on” homework assignment for their Human Sexuality class.

Then there are the couples who meet for lunch, arriving in  separate vehicles.  They park at different spots in the lot, then meet at a table somewhere in between.  Once there, some snuggle and smooch while they share sustenance, and others sit separately and pass things across the table.  Whether picnicking or not, my guess is that the snugglers and smoochers are most likely not married, and the ones with the space between them, are.

Another coed “grouping” also arrives in separate cars, but ends up in either one vehicle or the other.  They usually begin by chatting for a few moments, but inevitably move on to more tactile forms of communication which, if happening in colder weather, would certainly fog up every window in short order. 

Of course, there are couples who arrive at the park together, then walk hand-in-hand to areas unknown, glancing back over their shoulders as they go. They always seem to reappear ten to twenty minutes later with new looks of appreciation on their faces, most likely for the bounties provided by nature to those with a strong attraction for each other.

And almost always, there’s at least one couple under a blanket in 80 degree heat, moving in ways that make it clear they must have mistakenly stretched it out over a colony of red ants.  Of course,  they might be practicing wrestling strategies for the 2016 Olympics, even though I’m not aware that “lip locks” are one of the moves that are either legal, or need much practice even if they are. 

Finally, every once and awhile a Senior couple hobbles from their vehicle, pulled by a dust mop of a dog on a long leash.  They usually end up on the closest bench, and while no less romantic than those around them, their expression of love is usually more geriatric than athletic.  A gentle hand on the shoulder, or simple sharing of a small snack among all three, seems to say it all.  And once and awhile they glance at their youthful counterparts, then turn and smile sweetly at each other.  And while I’m still circling on my bike observing from afar, I can almost hear them quietly saying, “Been there, done that!”

For Better Or Worse, Boys Will Be Boys

In a recent attempt to ban legal abortions after twenty weeks of pregnancy, Representative Michael Burgess (R-TX) stated that because he’s seen sonograms of male fetuses masturbating in the womb at around 15 weeks, it’s proof that since they feel pleasure, they must conversely, feel pain.

To his credit, Mr. Burgess did not made these observations by  frequenting porn sites that specialize in vaginal voyeurism.  Apparently he’s a doctor/legislator who has delivered hundreds of babies, thus studied at least that many sonograms.

Anyway, while it is certainly NOT my purpose to extend the abortion debate on this occasion, I DO think it’s noteworthy to make a few observations regarding these claims.  First of all, critics might say his definition of “masturbating” is far too vague.  After all, the only thing to which he can attest is that he’s seen male fetuses with “their hand between their legs.”  Realistically, he could have seen that at the mall watching male adults.  With fetuses, however, maybe they were just scratching an annoying itch, or determining whether their testicles had descended.  Or perhaps they were simply checking ahead of time to see how they might “measure up” as compared to other boys, if they survive long enough to make it to a Middle School shower room.

Not only that, since sonograms are captured as “still” pictures, a mere hand between the legs does not reveal whether the classic “movement” generally associated with this type of self- gratification, is indeed occurring.  Besides, if it actually IS going on, wouldn’t one assume that the offending fetus would blow his cover by having a wide grin on his face as the picture is taken?  Burgess never mentioned anything about happy facial expressions.

Furthermore, according to my research, a 15 week old fetus is approximately the size of a lemon.  By my guess that would make his “member” about an eighth inch long at best, even when erect.  Now if that toddler on the commercial can’t even grab a few Cheerios well enough to put them it his or her mouth at two or three years old, how in the heck can a fetus with relatively NO hand-eye coordination grab on to anything that miniscule, let alone manipulate it?

Perhaps this discovery of possible masturbation in male fetuses, says more about the nature of “maleness” rather than anything relating to abortion.  Because if the Burgess observations ARE correct, it reinforces what we adult males have known all along.  Basically, we’re very horny creatures.  And even without the benefit of visual stimuli, we are wired to remain in that mode until we croak.  In short, sexual impulses are as automatic as breathing.  And if you don’t believe me, consider this.  Nowhere in any of the sonograms to which Burgess referred, was the male fetus holding a girly magazine in the other hand.

Male masturbation most likely began in the Garden of Eden when Eve was in a bad mood.  And it has continued throughout history.  Yeah, you heard me!  I’m still not completely convinced that it was his “violin” with which Nero was fiddling while Rome burned.

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In time, boys turn into old men.  For Paisano's take on that, you might like to read this:

http://theprattlingpaisano.blogspot.com/2013/01/in-defense-of-dirty-old-men.html 

The Famous Feline Got It Right !!

As an old-timer, I don’t like to bitch and moan about this disaster society calls, “getting older.”  Doing so not only makes me appear grouchy, but lends credence to the myth that Seniors are always out of sorts and eager to rain on everyone’s parade. 

But let’s face it.  Aging is not for the faint of heart.  And all you young “whippersnappers” who ignore the fact that it’s YOUR fate, too, will hear me chuckling from the Great Beyond when years from now you have trouble getting out of a chair without groaning, or can’t figure out what to cut from your budget so you can afford that new medication that’s helping keep you alive.

Recently I received an e-mail that describes “old age” with not only blunt language and deadly accuracy, but with the borrowed authority of one who is trusted around the world for saying it like it is.  Yes, the “Cat In The Hat,” (who I figure will soon be reaching sixty himself), has cut to the descriptive heart of the issue.  And while he’s not yet MY age, he’s certainly reached those years where the sad preview of what’s ahead begins to unfold, and one's physical destiny becomes more than abundantly clear. 

The Cat In The Hat On Aging

I cannot see
I cannot pee,
I cannot chew
I cannot screw.
Oh, My Gawd, what can I do?

My memory shrinks
My hearing stinks,
No sense of smell
I look like hell.
My mood is bad… can you tell?

My body’s drooping
Have trouble pooping,
My knees are shot
Need sleep a lot.
The Golden Years have come at last
The Golden Years can kiss my ass !

DISCLAIMER:  No authentic Dr. Seuss manuscript was used in the creation of this e-mail, nor can credit be given to its originator since there are 80 million of us who could have written it from first-hand experience.

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For a less irreverent view of getting older, you might like to read this:

http://theprattlingpaisano.blogspot.com/2012/02/feeling-at-home-in-ninety-nine-cent.html 

The Death Rattles of Paisano’s Prattles

This post is my one hundredth since I began blogging.  And in July, I will have toiled at this keyboard for 1,095 long days… though not in a row.  Frankly, these statistics astound me.  Who would have ever thought I’d endure that long?  Certainly not me.

My first post said it all.  (Link:  http://theprattlingpaisano.blogspot.com/2010/07/what-heck-am-i-doing-here.html )  I am basically a flake when it comes to projects like this, and less faithful to such commitments than Bill was to Hillary in a matrimonial sense.  But I plodded forward, anyway, hoping these character flaws were recessive.  With each new post I tried to improve my writing style, while proving I could stick to something difficult, long enough for someone to notice it was gone once I finally pulled the plug.

Well, guess what?  First of all, my writing style hasn’t noticeably improved.  I’m still long-winded, and verbose to a fault.  Quoting a college writing professor, I never fail to, “… use big words where simpler ones will do.”  As far as being missed when I’m gone, were I to exit the blogosphere today, my apologies need extend to only a faithful few, that when counted on two hands number less than the ever stiffening digits used to make the tally.

Beyond that, I take issue with Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s line,  “The pen is mightier than the sword.”  Not one thing I’ve written on substantive matters, has generated noticeable discussion.  This can only mean two things:  Either I’m preaching to the choir, or as a “sword,” this blog has no cutting edge.  And if I decided to commit suicide in a fit of despair, I’d have better luck impaling myself on the pen.

What I’m saying is simple.  The time is drawing very near where I feel it appropriate to draw the curtains on this endeavor, and gracefully exit stage left.  When I do, I will have no regrets that my time has been wasted.  After all, think of all the hours I consumed writing, that might have been less productive carousing with those hussies at the Senior Citizen Home.  And think of all the angst I shed and the high blood pressure medicine I saved, ranting about the idiotic things around me that pissed me off.

Is it because I’ve run out of things about which to prattle?  Absolutely not.  What I’ve run out of is enthusiasm.  It’s the old, “been there, done that” attitude that inevitably seems to creep in and move me on to something new.  It’s the sad hallmark of someone whose resume of life accomplishments, is far wider than it is deep.  But, as Popeye always said, “I yam who I yam.”  And after seven-plus decades, it’s kind of hard to change now.

To new readers of this blog, I suggest you go back through my posts and see what’s been on my mind over time, that is, if you’re remotely interested.  And were you to move your computer into the bathroom, please understand there’s enough prattling to keep you busy through an extended bout of acute constipation.  

To my small band of “regulars,” don’t bury me yet.  I’m sure I’ll have more to say, but just not on a regular basis.  My suggestion to you is this.  Consider signing up for an e-mail subscription (“Follow by E-Mail” box just under the last post on page one).  It will save you time checking in to see if I’ve written anything new.  Whenever I do, you’ll be notified electronically.  Isn’t some technology wonderful…?

Peace, Friends !!