I didn’t plan to make any New Year’s resolutions this year, but a couple of reoccurring TV commercials have made me change my mind. Offering alarming statistics about what will happen in 2012, I thought it prudent to air on the side of caution by heeding their warnings. After all, I might be old, but I’m not stupid.
The first ad said that one out of three Seniors will fall and injure themselves in the coming year. So, to insure I’m not part of that statistic, I plan to be proactive and attach seat belts to my computer chair, my bed, and the couch, as well. I am also putting reflective tape on the thresholds of every doorway to the outside. And finally, I’m ordering a truck inner tube I will inflate and begin wearing around my waist whenever I ambulate. I might even paint it the same color as the bike helmet I'm going to start wearing 24/7.
The other commercial claims that one out of six people will get food poisoning in the New Year. For that reason I am going to advertise for, and hire a Food Taster in 2012. And if I can’t find anyone who needs the work, I’ll buy a pet with a delicate digestive track. If that fails, I’ll only eat when I feel like I’m going to faint, or after I regain consciousness from doing so.
Of course, I won’t have to keep these safety precautions in place the entire year. On December 23 the Mayan Calendar runs out, and the world’s going to end, anyway. At least that guarantees I won’t fall down while Christmas shopping at the mall, or get sick eating tainted holiday pizzelles.HAPPY NEW YEAR !!
I have contended for years, that the existence of men and women on this Earth, and their admonition to coexist peacefully and live in harmony, is nothing more than a “Heavenly Hoax.” Yes, the Creator and his Gang knew there would be many a slow day in Heaven once all the mansions were built, so they devised a scheme to keep themselves amused when things got boring.
I can visualize them dangling their feet off a cloud, looking down and observing our pathetic attempts at Earthly male/female interaction. And I can hear their chuckles and belly laughs as they see how lousy things are going, but how diligent we are at trying to make it work despite the knowledge that doing the same thing over and over again while hoping for different results, is at least one definition of insanity.
I thought, perhaps, a recent study by a New York Couples Therapist might change my long jaded opinion about the inherent incompatibilities between men and women. It began by offering the conclusion that it was “caring” gestures, not romantic ones, that “make women feel really good,” and even go a long way to “getting (them) turned on in the bedroom.”
Fighting back the stirrings of a giggle, I read further. Next were some examples of the gestures women supposedly liked…… even loved from their men. While the list was only anecdotal, it included the following: Him helping with the dishes, making her coffee in the morning, picking her up at work, taking a walk with her, being quick to say “I’m sorry,” when he’s clearly at fault, and exhibiting his “little boy” when he doesn't know he's being watched.
(ANNOUNCEMENT: Anyone who feels the need, may pull up his or her hip boots whenever this data gets too “deep.” Also, turn down the violin music if it becomes distracting. Oh, and don’t forget, keep shaking that vial of oil and water to see if you can get the two to mix before you reach the end of this post.)
Anyway, while I’m not a researcher, I have lived on this planet for seventy years and observed a substantial number of females during that time. This being true, here’s what I see to be the huge flaw in the “turn-on” examples cited. Instinctively, women seem to like these things SO MUCH, they fail to realize that almost always, every caring gesture their man shows voluntarily becomes a new baseline in the relationship, at least in their mind.
Helping wash dishes, soon becomes, “It’d be nice if sometimes you could dry them, too, and wipe down the counter when you’re finished.”
The sweet act of bringing coffee to her in the morning, pales after a month or so and morphs into, “It’d be nice if sometimes you’d make the bed like you do the coffee.”
The “picking them up at work” thing soon loses its significance as a loving gesture, too, and becomes, “It would have been nice if you’d thought to pick up the dry cleaning on your way over here.”
A peaceful walk together through the neighborhood spawns observations like, “Maybe this weekend you could do something with our front planter and get it to look like that one.”
Accepting their man’s apology for being wrong, turns into something like, “Apologies are nice, but if you tried harder to think before you acted, they wouldn’t be necessary.”
As for loving to watch a man’s inner boy, that seems to get old real quickly. Most men have been told, “This is serious . Quit acting like you’re ten years old and pay attention.”
Beyond the fact that a man’s caring gestures usually become baseline expectations in a relationship, women seem fatally compelled to inject sarcastic remarks into most situations. For example, after washing dishes becomes the new expected standard of behavior, the female can be heard grumbling, “You think you’d figure out where all this stuff goes after doing it for so long,” accenting the comment by rattling pots and pans in the cupboard.
As she gets her wake-up coffee, she might be heard making the comment, “You were late this morning. If you really don’t want to do this, I can get up and make the coffee myself.”
The “being picked up” thing starts getting comments like, “I’ve been standing here forever. Maybe you should keep closer tabs on the clock if we’re going to do this right.”
Verbal subtleties start cropping up during walks, as well. Things like, “Don’t walk so fast. If you’re trying to get this whole thing over with more quickly, just tell me.”
And after receiving yet another apology from her male, a women might well be heard to say, “Just saying you’re sorry doesn’t make the whole thing go away like it never happened.”
Finally, with men who often display their inner boy, in time they begin showing up in the woman’s statistics about children. And, when asked outright how many kids there are in the family, she responds by raising her eyebrows and saying, “Including my husband ?”
Now, lest any female out there think I‘m a disgruntled misogynist purposely assigning blame, I’m not. Conflict between men and women is usually not the conscious choice of either sex. It’s just what happens as the plot of the Heavenly Hoax unfolds. Males and females act exactly as they were programmed way back when fig leaves were in style. That has never changed, and never will. Face it…… our wiring schematics are so different, it’s a wonder we can even say “good morning” without the possibility of resulting controversy.
Finally, consider this last research wrinkle. The study concluded by offering the following disclaimer: “All of these types of turn-ons… (for women)… can enrich and strengthen a relationship. Keep in mind, however, that what’s a turn-on for one woman, may be a turn-off for another.”
Does the complexity and depravity of this hoax never end……?
Just when I thought I’d heard everything, I learned about a new diet that some folks are trying. Its allure is that it puts absolutely no responsibility on a person to eat less or exercise more. He or she can just sit around the house and slowly the pounds begin to drop away. In a medical sense, the diet is a reflection of today’s societal attitude that one should be able to reap benefits just sitting on his or her ass, while someone else (or in this case, “something else”) does the work.
The diet is simple, at best. One goes on the internet and orders tapeworm cysts harvested from purposely infected cows in some far-off Third World Country. Then the dieter INGESTS said ingredients!!! Soon a parasitic worm hatches and establishes residency in the intestines by attaching itself using hooks and suckers. From then on, losing weight is a downhill battle. The growing tapeworm dines on stolen nutrients ingested by its Lard Ass Landlord, thus causing a weight loss of one to two pounds per week.
Are you freakin’ kidding me? A living, growing creature inside me that can grow up to fifty feet and reproduce by the segment? And when it gets homesick and wants to leave, or I hit my goal weight and no longer need its filching, the only way out, dead or alive, is through my rear exit? Holy hookworms, Batman!! I could lose just as much weight by simply throwing up over such a disgusting thought!
What ever happened to that old fashioned weight loss alternative called the tape MEASURE diet?
You know how sentimental we old-timers are about things from the past, especially those we recognize as part of the fabric of our youth. And you probably know that we are apt to exaggerate how wonderful the “good old days” were compared to today… how simple and pure they seemed in contrast to the present high tech, high energy life one is almost forced to live.
Now, I would hope that no one of good will would begrudge us those rose colored memories, no matter how embellished they may have become over time. However, we oldsters must be careful not to use such reveries to contrast with, then deprecate the life style of today’s younger generation who were born into a much more complex society than we.
In my opinion, that’s what the e-mail I’m sharing today has unintentionally done. Written to make the point that the older generation did less harm to the planet than today’s “enlightened” generation, the writer seems to have missed an important point in his or her attempt to show there was greater environmental integrity way back then. Here’s the e-mail:In the line at the store, the cashier told an older woman that she should bring her own grocery bags because plastic bags weren't good for the environment.The woman apologized to him and explained, "We didn't have the green thing back in my day."The clerk responded, "That's our problem today. Your generation did not care enough to save our environment."He was right -- our generation didn't have the green thing in its day.Back then, we returned milk bottles, soda bottles and beer bottles to the store. The store sent them back to the plant to be washed and sterilized and refilled, so it could use the same bottles over and over. So they really were recycled.But we didn't have the green thing back in our day.We walked up stairs, because we didn't have an escalator in every store and office building. We walked to the grocery store and didn't climb into a 300-horsepower machine every time we had to go two blocks.But she was right. We didn't have the green thing in our day.Back then, we washed the baby's diapers because we didn't have the throw-away kind. We dried clothes on a line, not in an energy gobbling machine burning up 220 volts -- wind and solar power really did dry the clothes. Kids got hand-me-down clothes from their brothers or sisters, not always brand-new clothing. But that old lady is right; we didn't have the green thing back in our day.Back then, we had one TV, or radio, in the house -- not a TV in every room. And the TV had a small screen the size of a handkerchief (remember them?), not a screen the size of the state of Montana .In the kitchen, we blended and stirred by hand because we didn't have electric machines to do everything for us.When we packaged a fragile item to send in the mail, we used a wadded up old newspaper to cushion it, not Styrofoam or plastic bubble wrap.Back then, we didn't fire up an engine and burn gasoline just to cut the lawn. We used a push mower that ran on human power. We exercised by working so we didn't need to go to a health club to run on treadmills that operate on electricity.But she's right; we didn't have the green thing back then.We drank from a fountain when we were thirsty instead of using a cup or a plastic bottle every time we had a drink of water.We refilled writing pens with ink instead of buying a new pen, and we replaced the razor blades in a razor instead of throwing away the whole razor just because the blade got dull.But we didn't have the green thing back then.Back then, people took the streetcar or a bus and kids rode their bikes to school or walked instead of turning their moms into a 24-hour taxi service.We had one electrical outlet in a room, not an entire bank of sockets to power a dozen appliances. And we didn't need a computerized gadget to receive a signal beamed from satellites 2,000 miles out in space in order to find the nearest pizza joint.But isn't it sad the current generation laments how wasteful we old folks were just because we didn't have the green thing back then?
Please forward this on to another selfish old person who needs a lesson in conservation from a smart-alecky young person.
Now, I must admit that when I first read this, my impulse was to yell, “Right on, Older Lady… stick it to that know-it-all, Smart Ass Punk.” But then it hit me. While we old timers did all of what she mentioned, we did it because we HAD TO, not because we had some heightened notion about preserving the planet. In fact, as I mentioned in another post, I don’t think I even heard the words “ecology” or "conservation" until I was in my twenties.
As a kid I can remember pushing the lawn mower over an expanse of lawn on the side of our house that seemed to be the size of a football field. And the older and rustier the mower was, (which describes ours), or the shorter the pusher‘s height (which definitely describes me), the tougher the task. So if someone would have offered me an easier and quicker way to shorten the grass, including dropping off some sheep to graze, I would have gone for it in a second.
I can also remember my Grandma sending me on those seemingly endless treks to Zucchari’s Dairy to get four full quarts of milk in glass bottles. Those buggers seemed to be filled with lead, and I’d have to change carrying arms every twenty or so feet. Not to mention how the handle of the wire basket cut into my delicate, piano practicing hands on the way home. I was so excited and thankful when home delivery began in our neighborhood, by truck.
And I can see my stained fingers after trying to fill my fountain pen with ink despite every attempt at being careful. Not only that, I remember the ink blobs that messed up my written work and forced me to start over after I shook the pen to get the ink flowing through a blocked tip. Man, I would have killed to have one of those disposable Bics they sell today.
While I personally never had to wash clothes, I remember that the process took my Grandma the best part of a day to complete. Though we had a vertical agitator machine, each piece being washed had to be put through the wringer to squeeze out excess water, thus reducing the drying time needed on the clothes line. Then, after returning them in a basket to the third floor apartment, each piece had to be ironed to remove the wrinkles before you could wear it. There was no such thing as, “I need this shirt in fifteen minutes for a hot date.” If that was the case, you were out of luck. Oh, if efficient washers and driers, plus permanent press fabric would only have been around back then,
Grandma would have had far more disposable time, and I might have had a more successful dating life.
My mom would have gone nuts to have Pampers when I was a baby. Out of necessity, she made diapers out of flannel cloth she bought by the yard, then brought home and cut up into the correct sizes to cover my highly active infant waste ports.
And we did have to walk up stairs because there were no escalators to transport us, or walk, ride a bike, or take the bus across longer distances because families like us could not afford the expense of buying and operating an automobile. By the time I was in High School, however, I had my “hot” 1950 Mercury, and probably never again walked any farther than the distance it took me to retrieve it from the garage.
As far as ordering pizza, there was absolutely no need to “search” for it using any advanced devices other than your eyes and your feet. There was one shop I could see from our second floor porch, two Italian restaurants within walking distance that included it on their menu, plus two bakeries I passed on the way home from school that made not only fresh Italian bread, but pizza (on two by three foot baking sheets, no less), that was sold by the slice.
The same goes for the rest of the examples used in the e-mail to infer how environmentally responsible we oldsters were. The truth is, we had little or no choice. We were just living life as we knew it. And, had we magically awakened one morning in a high tech society like we have today, what are the chances even someone like me would have begun writing multiple copies of this post using a fountain pen, then mailed each of you a hard copy using an envelope and three cent stamp?
Attention skeptics! While there was thought to be no scientific proof that humans and dinosaurs ever existed on this planet at the same time, this post should set the record straight once and for all.
For finally, here is visual evidence that Man and said prehistoric beasts presently coexist in the land of “all things strange,” Southern California. In fact, the ones shown here are permanent residents at the home of one Prattling Paisano, and compliment the “retro” style of decorating for which he has become infamous.
Made from liquid starch, paper towels, and tempera paint, these prehistoric replicas were crafted by five of his 2nd Grade classes over the years. As Science enrichment projects, the kids transformed Paisano’s basic chicken-wire armatures into finished dinosaur models which were displayed around the school for all to enjoy. Then, when Paisano retired, they came home to live with him, at least until he becomes extinct.
There are many beautiful things in nature, but one of my favorites is wood from the oak tree. With distinctive grain pattern and rugged durability, it’s long been one of my first choices of material from which to create things.
Years ago I ran across an article that described how to make keepsake baby rattles. All you needed, it seemed, was a wood lathe and lots of patience. Possessing at least the first of these, I gave the project a try. And to my artistic satisfaction, I was able to learn to craft these unique infant noise-makers.
The rattles, pictured, are just under six inches long and turned from solid pieces of oak. The rings that make the noise when shaken, were undercut and freed from the basic stock. As such, they cannot be removed. Aside from the basic turning method, only the craftsman’s creativity determines the finished design of each rattle. It can end up being as singularly unique as the piece of wood from which it was fashioned.
If you ask any Italian what they were fed as kids when their stomachs were upset or they weren't feeling well, their answer would be, “pastina.” Literally translated as “little pasta,” it came in a multitude of small sizes and shapes, and was mixed mostly into chicken broth to add something solid, yet light enough to not make a kid want to throw up. (For those of you who need visuals, please consult the technical chart I’ve included at the left.)
Now, while I’ve never been actually told that the length of my posts has made readers sick or nauseous, it has been subtly suggested that perhaps posting shorter stuff now and then, might increase the readership of this Blog. Being a former teacher, I am familiar with the statistics regarding people with A.D.H.D. But it never entered my mind when I started sharing my thoughts, that I needed to show sensitivity to the percentage among you with either shorter attention spans, or daily schedules which allow only two minute blocks of reading time and nothing more.
So, beginning today I am determined to become an equal access blogger. That means I will soon begin including short, one paragraph posts which should take no longer than thirty seconds or so to read, a cinch for even the most easily distracted souls who might stop by during their meanderings through Blogdom.
Furthermore, as with all things new and unprecedented, I shall give these diminutive writings a formal name. They shall be forever known as “Postinas”… tiny posts which when added to your literary soup, are short and light enough to keep you from feeling the need to barf, either literally or figuratively.
Now, be forewarned. I have seldom, if ever, written anything that short since I first began putting down my thoughts on paper back in Elementary School. And it’s not gotten much better through the years. Even things such as notes I wrote explaining my own kids’ absences from school, always seemed to evolve into mini dissertations. And, as one college professor candidly critiqued in the margin of one of my assignments, “Good, sincere writing, however the one weakness is your liking for big, inappropriate words in simple places.” That red ink comment was penned in January, 1967, so do the math.
Everything said, then, I’ll give this “Postina” thing my best shot, and obviously only time will tell. I mean, nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? Maybe an old dog can learn new tricks. Then, if all goes well, my next goal will be to eliminate clichés.
When marriage goes bad, sometimes it REALLY goes bad. Take the recent case of a Southern California woman who in the midst of a rancorous divorce, gave new meaning to the phrase, “Cut and run.” In her case, she “cut” off her husband’s penis, so she could “run” it down the garbage disposal.
Yes, this scorned female spiked her husband’s dinner, and after he went to bed feeling sick, tied him to the bed and filleted his tube steak with a ten inch butcher knife. Then, to make sure it would be difficult to reassemble, (or perhaps to save space in the local landfill), she tossed it in the garbage disposal and flipped the switch.
The reason she did the latter, remains unexplained. Certainly, if her disposal was as old as mine, she should have known that anything beyond the consistency of soggy bread had little chance of being ground up and eliminated as evidence. Perhaps in her agitated state, her only purpose for doing so was to further humiliate the little nublet, or at least mutilate the shape of its cleanly severed end so it would never fit back as a matching puzzle piece.
Now, domestic violence upon small and defenseless members of society, is nothing new. For those old enough to remember, almost twenty years ago the infamous Lorena Bobbitt performed the same kind of amputation on her husband. In that case, however, she tossed the snippet out her car window into a field next to the road, thinking perhaps the critters who lived there would snack away the evidence. To her dismay, however, a searcher (who was heard to call out, “Uh, is this it?) recovered the pruned penis from the weeds, and rushed it to the “Lost and Found” desk at the hospital where it was cleaned up and reattached to its original owner.
All this said, what, if anything, can women learn from this story? First of all, if you going to cut off your husbands penis, calling 911 to report it as a medical emergency will NOT be interpreted as the act of a Good Samaritan.
And saying the whole thing happened because “he deserved it,” won’t keep you from getting cuffed and hauled away. After all, most likely the responding officers will be male. And as your husband is wheeled by moaning on the gurney, most of them will instinctively cross their hands in front of their groins, and sympathetically conclude they “feel his pain.”
Men can learn a lot from this story, as well. First of all, if your marriage is in trouble, remove all sharp knives from the home and start using plastic. At least a knife made of that would required a sawing action to cut through human tissue, which should give you enough time to wake up and try to escape.
In addition to a more prudent selection of cutting utensils, refrain from having your soon to be ex-wife make dinner for you. Be suspicious if she suggests any menu that includes hotdog segments, such as beans and franks. Also, be at least leery if she brews soup from scratch using various unmarked cans and bottles with the labels removed, or stirs what’s in the pot with a butcher knife instead of using a wooden spoon.
And, REALLY pay attention if she starts humming Connie Francis’s version of the song, “You Always Hurt the One You Love” to herself while she's cooking, or runs the garbage disposal over and over, but neither turns on the water or puts anything in it. Perhaps, if she’s just standing there humming and listening to it whir, a good possibility exists that she’s fantasizing about something quite unrelated to cleaning up after meal preparation.
Finally, if you’re filing for divorce, be careful the grounds upon which you base the dissolution. How ironic would it be to hear your raving spouse yell back at you as she’s being taken away…, “Hey, Jerk, you want irreconcilable differences? Look in the mirror after they take off the bandages.”
Today marks the one year anniversary of this blog. To celebrate, I poured a cup of coffee, then scrolled back and reread my first ever post, the one that offered a thumbnail sketch of who I was the day it all began.
When I got to the end, I breathed a deep sigh of relief. Thankfully, I still recognized the rather quirky old guy that was described in that initial post. A year later he’s pretty much that same predictable, recalcitrant codger. He still doesn’t answer his phone if he’s not in the mood, or twitter or socially network with others in an attempt to feel relevant. He continues to live life below the radar, and is still comfortable assuming the persona of a retired and reclusive, Invisible Man. He continues to loathe the selective hypocrisy of political correctness, and values the work ethic of prostitutes over that of politicians, in as much as they both provide the same public service. And to date, not here or anywhere, has he said anything so profound that it’s either changed the personal lives of others, or altered the suicidal trajectory of the society in which we live.
So what, if anything, has blogging accomplished in this writer‘s life during the past year? From the previous description, it sounds like absolutely nothing. But… perhaps that’s not quite accurate. For one thing, by lasting 365 days this blog is at least a moral victory for a person who routinely flits from one creative challenge to another, guiltlessly moving on to something new whenever the intellectual “shininess” of the latter begins to fade.
For someone who dislikes writing as much as he, it also shows a measure of resolve to have sat down thirty-five times and tried to put into words what was bouncing around in his tangential thoughts. Not only that, considering the fact he only has about five regular readers, he’s been surprisingly able to overcome the daily urge to stop blogging, and simply begin sharing his nonsense with them via conference call.
And even when one of that “band of five” innocently inquired whether he ever wrote anything “shorter,” he silently pulled the poisoned dagger from his creative heart, and smiled as he explained he was just a “long-winded” kind of guy.
Finally, while he understands the cliché, “If you don’t use it, you lose it” as it refers to things that either work (or don’t) as a gentleman gets older, he’s shown dedication to forestalling such a fate when it comes to the skills necessary to think clearly, and write creatively. After all, from way back in his teaching days, he’s believed that the phrase, “A mind is a terrible thing to waste,” was more a personal daily reminder, than merely a T.V. fundraising hook for some Black University.
So, everything considered, “Happy Birthday” to the Prattling Paisano. At least you made it one year… or at least a full three hundred-sixty days longer than some of your previous creative impulses. Who knows, maybe you’re finally maturing in your old age? Or, maybe it was just a lucky fluke.
Talking to oneself has always been a highly suspicious activity, at least for the observer. I mean, why would someone do such a thing unless he was suffering from something ominous like senility, dementia, or outright phobia, correct? Well personally, I’m not qualified to make that sort of psychological evaluation. I’d like to think that someone does it because there’s no one else around to talk to who’s as bright or interesting as himself.
Now if talking to oneself gets such negative reviews, what must people think about someone who not only does that, but talks to inanimate objects, as well? I mean, that’s got to be another level of insanity altogether, right? Well, maybe not. I’d like to think it’s just an eccentric way of safely complaining about stuff, and getting things off one’s chest without having to actually talk to another human being and face the possibility of destroying his or her psyche in person. (Hmmm, sounds a lot like social networking, doesn't it?)
Anyway, I’ve become comfortable talking to just about anything, including water leaks, user‘s manuals, weeds, and even termite droppings I find scattered around my property. I talk to traffic lights, tight belts, price tags, hair found in brushes, blood test results, and especially annoying people on television who can neither hear nor respond to my comments. And I’ve gotten pretty good at it, too... so much so that I really can’t wait to hear what I’m going to say next. Yes, my creative verbalization with inanimate objects knows no limits, and if you were a dust ball lurking in some dark corner of my house, I might even talk to you next.
Of course, I wouldn’t want to destroy my impeccable reputation for being the patient, mild-mannered, rational, non-impulsive, articulate, clean-spoken person most people think me to be. But if this post is going have any value, I do need to clarify what I mean by the term “talking,” at least when used as a tool for improving mental health. In this case talking means, “emotional outbursts of sarcastic vitriol that cleanse one's disgruntled soul through unsolicited attacks of aggressive and condemnational verbiage.”
Now, for all of you who are visual thinkers, consider it the difference between listening to the charming rhetoric of a "Dr. Jekyll," as he schmoozes at a cocktail party, and the evil rantings of a “Mr. Hyde” as he dementedly mumbles to his straight razor while fantasizing about his next act of mayhem. Got it?
Anyway, the reason I brought it up in the first place, is that in the last few years I’ve found that talking to… alright, “cussing out” inanimate objects IN PRIVATE is a fantastic way to dissipate anxiety and prevent yourself from having a perpetually bad attitude about life. Oh, I know in this era of twittering, tweeting, twanging, and “twying” to sound relevant, people have become accustomed to being brutally candid when commenting about things. Such blatant blabbing, shrouded by the anonymity of hiding behind a cell phone or computer keyboard, makes it not only easy but almost “cool” to unload one’s negative feelings about something or someone else. Of course, that’s because you don’t have to look them in the eyes to do it.
But it boggles my mind as to why today’s social communicators can’t see the major flaw inherent in blowing off steam this way. First of all, the stress relief you experience is only temporary since you NEVER EVER get the last word. Because what you’ve said is floating in cyberspace, your comment will most likely be commented upon many more times by others who disagree and think you‘re a jerk. And what they opine back, never fails to piss you off to a greater degree than you were before you shot off your electronic “mouth“ in the first place.
Nah, there’s a better way to get things off your chest. Here’s a free summary, then, of Paisano’s Plan for Profound Mental Peace:
When you’re alone, away from the presence of all other living creatures, take a moment to thoroughly cuss out whatever makes you mad using any form of expression which matches or exceeds the level of frustration and/or anger you feel. Then, once you’ve drained every ounce of verbal bile from your mind and body, go back and replay the entire tirade in your head. Listen to how profoundly stupid and unhinged you sounded just moments ago, and feel how grateful you are that no one you value heard a single word. Then smile sheepishly, and move on with no regrets. Resume your role in the world as that wonderful, understanding, gentle, empathetic soul that others wish they could be… but always appreciating this fact: It’s SO much easier being that person, once you’ve emptied every emotional cache by privately “addressing” the irritating stuff around you that can’t talk back.
Lately I’ve been transcribing various pieces of my writing that were collecting dust in old folders, languishing on vintage floppies from long-gone days at school, and hiding in overlooked crevices around the house. For some reason, I thought it might be nice to print them out, and put them in folders for either my own reverie, or for public viewing in the lavish memorial library that I’m sure someone will build in my honor after I’m gone.
Anyway, as I was proceeding I found two letters that I wrote and gave to the students and staff on my final day in the classroom. Not surprisingly, reading them brought back a flood of memories, and as always… great emotion. Without question, that last day of school was one of the toughest of my life, at least, to date. And I found that trying to express my deepest thoughts and feelings to those looking in, was almost an impossible task.
Today I include those letters here. Perhaps it’s not the most interesting subject for a Blog post, but I did so as a small glimpse into what makes this older man tick. And, every once and awhile, it’s good for me to look back and remember how blessed I was to have spent so many years among the kids.
This is the letter I gave my First and Second Grade students on our last day together: June 2004Dear Class, Thank you again for being such wonderful young boys and girls. I have loved being your teacher this year, and will miss the smiles and laughter that we shared each day in our classroom. Even though I will not be back next year as a regular teacher, my thoughts will be with you each day. I know each of you will remember all the things we’ve talked about this year. The most important of these is that you are a wonderful, special person ... unique in all the world. Without you and the important things that you will accomplish in your life, the world would suffer a great loss. Also, you have the power to make the people around you better by sharing your love and special talents. I know you will always do that. You have with me this year, and I am a better person thanks to you. After some time off, I hope to see you all again. Until then, if you want to contact me, I leave you these addresses: You can write to me here: (Contact Information) Please take good care of yourselves, and keep smiling ... :) :) I leave you with my love, and will keep you in my heart, always. Mr. (Paisano)And this is the letter I left for each staff member: June 2004Dear Friends, Today I locked my classroom door for the final time. As most of you have sensed, it was one of the most difficult days in my life. Saying good-bye to the kids was impossible, even though I did my best. We hugged, we cried, and despite my attempts at gentle humor, our hearts were unbearably sad.
Thank you for your support during this past month. Thanks, also, for honoring my request to keep news of the occasion from the kids and their parents until these last days and hours. Despite the emotional hit, it meant a lot to me to be able to tell them personally. I owed them that. To those of you who wanted to honor my departure with some type of public recognition, I apologize if you feel cheated due to my wishes. I know such occasions are a way of expressing affection and honor, thus I thank you for wanting to do it at all. It just couldn’t have been a happy occasion for me, and I would not have wanted my demeanor to disrespect your wonderful intent. Maybe in a couple of months we can get together off campus and hoist one to the “good old days.” So saying, should you still feel the need to “do something,” I would ask you to consider writing me a short personal note when you get the chance. You know we teachers .... a few kind words are more precious than gold. Let me leave you, temporarily, with something to ponder. It is an insight that explains, at least for me, why I’ve loved teaching children all these years, and why I am so sad in leaving. At a recent party for a former colleague, the word got out that I had only a few days left in the classroom. A sincere and well-meaning acquaintance came up to me and said, “Friend, you can be proud of all that you’ve given so many kids over the years.” Instinctively I smiled, and with a twinkle in my eye, said, “Nah, those kids have given me far more over the years than I ever gave them.” I challenge you to test this theory. I commend you for doing God’s work. I value you as colleagues and unsung heroes. I will miss you! With great affection, (Paisano)
This week I detoured into an Asian take-out restaurant on my way home from driving around aimlessly seeking a location for which the phonebook vouched, but even my GPS wouldn’t admit existed. Of course, I ordered my favorite four item combo which included fried rice, chow mein noodles, beef broccoli, and teriyaki chicken. As always, the nice Mamasan didn’t skimp on the portions, and I ended up walking out with about two pounds of food for a mere $6.14 including tax. Not only that, she threw in three napkins, a plastic fork, a reusable segmented Styrofoam hot food container, an individually wrapped fortune cookie, and a cheerful and sincere, “Tank you beddy much” as part of the deal.
(BEGIN EDITORIAL COMMENT: How the Chinese continue to undercut American prices is nothing short of amazing. Had I spent the same amount of money next door at the pizza place, they would have given me about half of a twelve inch, one-topping pie, and probably put it in a brown paper bag in order to save the cost of one of their cardboard boxes. Were I to have spent $6.14 at the Italian restaurant up the street, I would have gotten about six forkfuls of spaghetti, one ping pong ball-sized meatball, and a half slice of garlic bread… plus, I probably would have had to put it in my own container and supply my own grated cheese and extra sauce once I got home. And face it, neither of these two places would have given me a fortune cookie to top off the meal. END OF EDITORIAL COMMENT.)
So I went home and ate myself into a stupor, not caring whether my condition was a result of eating too much, or purely MSG poisoning. And when I was done, I unwrapped the fortune cookie with anticipation, and broke it in half to expose the text printed just for me. This is what it said: “Your travels will be productive, and lead to new opportunities.” I thought about it for a moment, then it hit me. Fortune cookie messages are a bunch of crap, with no relationship to everyday reality. After all, I had just used eight dollars worth of gas and at least sixty minutes of my remaining life span traveling to a store that didn’t even exist. And, the only thing it led me to was the opportunity to buy a Chinese dinner on which I hadn’t really planned, plus receive a bullshit fortune cookie message that rubbed my nose in the whole afternoon fiasco.
Based on this experience, then, from today on I’m launching a campaign to reform fortune cookie messages so that they TELL THE TRUTH ! No more optimistic platitudes that make you expect something fantastic is going to happen, and no more suggestions that you’re going to be a bigger shot than you already are. No more embellishments about your wit, your personality, or your overall worth and/or importance to those around you, and no exaggerations about your astounding impact on the world at large. From today forward, fortune cookies must tell it like it is!
So, here are some examples of traditional fortune cookie messages which I’ve altered by adding a short phrase (in blue) which cuts through the verbal bologna, and makes them reflect glimpses of the real world in which we live.
- Your love life will be happy and harmonious, at least until you get married.
- Your hard work will pay off today, but only if you rob a bank or a convenience store.
- Your biggest virtue is your modesty, and the way you brag about it all the time.
- You will become more and more wealthy, after your kids leave home.
- You should be able to undertake and complete anything, as long as it comes with diagrams and simple written directions.
- You have yearning for perfection, but only in those around you.
- Romance moves you in a new direction, but it’s mostly downhill or to the rear.
- Listen to everyone. Ideas come from everywhere, just like flatulence in a crowd leaving Taco Bell.
- He who knows he has enough, is rich in the skill of underestimation.
- It takes courage to admit fault, but even more courage to live on a fault.
- Don’t worry; prosperity will knock on your door soon, or more likely some Jehovah’s Witnesses.
- Every wise man starts out by asking many questions about where he can rent a camel.
- How you look depends on where you go, so visiting the blind should work in your favor.
- Good to begin well, better to end well, and dangerous to jump into a well. Oh, well…
- Don’t let your limitations overshadow your talents, even though in your case the ratio is ten thousand to one .
- Your ability to juggle many tasks will take you far, as long as you join a traveling circus.
- Hard words break no bones, fine words butter no parsnips, whatever the hell that means…?
- The sure way to predict the future is to invent it, just like you do everything else in your life.
- You will always have good luck in your personal affairs, that is, until your mistress’ husband catches your adulterous asses.
- You have an active mind and keen imagination, so do something novel by facing reality for a change.
- You are in good hands this evening, even though you most likely had to pay for them.
- People find it difficult to resist your persuasive manner, and the fact you can beat them up.
- You are going to have some new clothes stolen from your luggage at the airport.
- You are busy, but you are happy that it gives you time away from your wife and/or girlfriend.
- You are open-minded and quick to make new friends who absolutely agree with you on every point.
- Many will travel to hear you speak, and many will regret having made the trip.
- You are working hard to avoid getting something done.
- You have an ambitious nature and may make a name for yourself, if you ever decide to get off your fat ass.
- You have the power to write your own fortune, SO WHY IN THE HELL ARE YOU READING THIS ONE?
At this stage in my life, I rarely tackle the larger issues of existence unless they throw a kink in the conduct of my everyday life. Unlike college days when I would gladly ponder and even debate subjects like “how many angels can fit on the end of a pin,” today I see such mental exercises as a wasteful use of the few brain cells I have left. And, unless those angels are complicating the process of me sewing up a rip in my pants, who cares how many there are, anyway?
So just when my brain was trying not to over-exert itself, my daughter called and asked whether I believed in the “Big Bang” Theory, or the Bible’s version of creation. Of course, she was writing a paper for her Astronomy class and wanted to sample the opinions of her family and friends regarding the controversial issue.
Immediately I found my self in an awkward position. As a person of reasonable intellect, I didn’t want to sound like the stock soundtrack from the archives of an evangelical minister, nor did I want my elderly mother (in the next room) to overhear a secular opinion that might cause her to banish me from the will for becoming a religious heretic. So what’s a guy to say… especially when all he really wanted to do was get through the day with as little heavy-duty thinking as possible?
Anyway, because I was paying twenty-five cents a cell phone minute, I gave my daughter what was probably the quickest and least helpful answer (to her) that came to mind. I said that since both views of creation could not be conclusively proven, I thought both science and religion were kind of sharing the same theoretical boat. The minute we hung up, however, I realized I probably should have reviewed the elements of both theories at least once before offering an opinion. Of course, vagueness of subject matter has never stopped me from giving her my two cents worth in the past…!
So review I did… though a bit late. In abbreviated and unscientific language, then, the “Big Bang” Theory proffered that around fourteen billion years ago all energy was contained at one point in the vacuum of space. For some reason an “explosion” occurred which created a plasma soup in which particles were projected away from each other to form the foundation of our known Universe. As these particles began to cool off, ones favorable to the development of life as we know it (protons, neutrons, etc.) became the predominate state of matter, and over time combined with other stuff to became the astronomical bodies we know and study today.
Bible “Creation Theory” related a six day project by God, in which He supernaturally created everything that presently exists from the emptiness we now call our Universe. From Day One when he created the Heavens, the Earth, and light for the Earth, through Day Six when he finally created Man and his animal companions, everything was a result of His specific purpose and design. And, when He deemed the work finished and satisfactory, He used the seventh day wisely by taking a well-deserved rest.
Now, despite these unscholarly descriptions, to me both theories seem to describe the exact same creation scenario. Neither seems exclusive, that is, if one’s Bible view of creation stems from the “Old Earth” point of view which allows for the possibility that God’s “day” is not the twenty-four hour construct within which we operate today. Given that description of what a day means, it is easy to believe that God’s creation activities began with a “Big Bang” explosion that He made happen, by simply allowing His established “Laws of Nature” to do their thing down to the smallest molecular speck. In essence, it was His way of creating the “neighborhood” in which His subsequent human creations would someday live.
Obviously, many volumes have been written on the subject so I’m not going to try to sound scholarly here. I mean, after my two summaries, above, who in the world would take me seriously, anyway? So let’s just say I believe that each of the next creation “days” the Bible describes, is more easily reconciled with scientific theory, as well, when viewed from the “Old Earth” point of view. To buy that, however, a religious person must view God as more the patient, “Cosmic Engineer,” than the flashy “Heavenly Magician.” He must accept the possibility that God separated the land from the waters using natural tectonic forces during His second “day,” rather than just waving His hands and making it happen instantaneously. Likewise, he must allow for the possibility that God created the seeds that when scattered across our Earth, grew into mature plants and trees over time, ready to serve their designated purpose by the end of the third creation “day.”
Personally, I find this non-literal interpretation of God’s “day” not only plausible, but a truly practical way for Him to pull off an inspired and extremely complicated creation plan using His own timetable. And, though described to Moses in only skeletal form for the book of Genesis, He ultimately created everything scientifically necessary to both initiate and fulfill the plan to establish a suitable world for the Man He would create “in His image,” on the day before He rested.
Looking back, perhaps the most important thing I should have shared with my daughter that day, is an opinion sure to alienate both the scientific and the religious community equally. Everything considered, except for the purpose of earning a decent grade in Astronomy class, KNOWING CONCLUSIVELY HOW THE WORLD WAS CREATED IS OF ABSOLUTELY NO PRACTICAL BENEFIT OR IMPORTANCE. No matter the theory, the theology, or the compatibility between them (or not), what really counts is how we conduct ourselves during our brief stay here on Earth, and whether when we depart, those left behind are better off for having known us.
Beyond that, if one’s literal belief in God makes him shun the body of knowledge accumulated by Science, he is surely blind to the full beauty and magnificence of what his God has created. And, if a reliance on Science and it’s theories has made that same man reject and turn his back on God, this body of worldly knowledge has rendered him not only spiritually blind, but eternally unfulfilled, as well.
It’s not often that I run across something sweet that a diabetic can eat without ingesting loads of guilt, as well. Every now and then, however, I do get lucky as in the case of this wonderful no-crust strawberry pie I’m sharing today.
First made for me by my Aunt G., it’s not only fast and simple to make, but light, refreshing, and absolutely sugar-free (except, of course, for the strawberries).
Here’s what it will take to have one of these delights in your refrigerator in only about twenty-five minutes:
What You’ll Need …- A small box (.8 oz.) of “Cook & Serve” Jello “Sugar Free/Fat Free” Vanilla Pudding- A small box (.30 oz.) of Jello “Sugar Free” Strawberry Gelatin- Around four cups of fresh, sliced strawberries- Two cups of water- A whisk and rubber spatula- A nine inch pie plateWhat To Do With Them …1. Wash and cut the strawberries to a size of your choice, then distribute them evenly in the pie plate.2. Combine the vanilla pudding and water in a microwavable container of about two quart capacity. (The mixture will tend to boil up towards the end, so the larger container will insure it doesn’t overflow and mess up your microwave oven.)3. Microwave the pudding mixture on “high” for three minutes. At that point, take it out and whisk it back into consistency. Finish by microwaving it for an additional three minutes.4. Pour the strawberry Jello powder into the hot pudding mixture, and whisk until it has completely dissolved. Set aside this filling mixture until it cools. (Putting it in the refrigerator may thicken it too quickly, so leaving it out to cool down, is fine.)5. Pour the cooled filling mixture over the strawberries in the pie plate. (Use a rubber spatula on the bowl so you don’t lose even one delicious drop.) Make sure to fill all the voids between the berries so that the pie will hold together nicely after it cools.6. Refrigerate the pie for at least a couple of hours. (The longer it chills, the easier it will be to cut and remove neat, firm slices.)And that’s IT… strawberry pie at its simple best! And were you diabetics to “splurge“ by embellishing a delectable slice with some sugar-free whipped topping when no one is looking, my inclination would be to say, even under oath, “Aay… I didn’t see NOTHING!”
(Paisano’s Note: The flavor ingredients of this recipe can be changed with equally great results. For example, you can make a sugar-free peach pie using fresh or canned peaches, with peach sugar-free gelatin substituted for the strawberry. Of course, the vanilla pudding remains a constant. ENJOY!!)
Traveling carnivals are part of our rich American history. An idea said to have originated just after the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair, there were almost three hundred shows traversing the country just a half dozen years before I was born.
Basically a wandering enterprise, these carnivals offering fun and entertainment to anyone in Smalltown America who had the price of admission. Moving from place to place, they sprang up almost spontaneously in fields and vacant lots in or outside towns across the country. And, after conducting their sometimes “questionable” business, they vanished as mysteriously as they had appeared.
The American public had an ambivalent relationship with these traveling spectacles. While convinced that most carnies were dishonest and eager to cheat you out of your hard earned dollar, people nevertheless were drawn to the shows and became willing marks for the creative larceny that went on there. And while most patrons were often religious and brimming with moral integrity, they still came under the allure of the carnival’s most intriguing and compelling attraction… the side show.
There were various types of carnival side shows usually housed beneath the same tent. One was the Thrill Show that featured amazing acts such as knife throwers, sword swallowers, and fire eaters. There were also muscle men who could bend steel bars, contortionists who could lie on beds of sharp nails, and a wide assortment of other characters with special physical skills not common among the normal population of most towns.
There were also side show acts that were outright frauds. Psychics were available who claimed they could read your mind, and palm readers would gladly tell your fortune for the right price. And there were actors who pretended to be bizarre characters like the “Wild Man of Borneo,” or the “Ape Man of the Himalayas.” Such worldly characterizations were impressive to those who had never traveled more than fifty miles from their homes.
And there were “Adult” Side Shows that satisfied the more prurient interests of mostly male customers, by featuring scantily clothed women who danced behind thin veils or transparent curtains. For their time, these acts were a scandalous glimpse into the forbidden world of sex and seduction, something openly condemned by mainstream society.
Finally, the most infamous type of carnival attraction was called the Freak Show. This featured “curiosities” of nature, both human and animal. Crowds flocked to view specimens such as midgets (as they were called then), or Siamese Twins, or those with gross medical anomalies and crippling deformities such as large tumors or multiple arms and legs. And there were always features like, “The World’s Fattest Man or Woman,” “The Bearded Wolf Lady,” or the token anorexic billed as “The Human Skeleton.” Anything bizarre qualified as a Freak Show attraction, including men and women with full body tattoos or multiple piercings.
True to the theme, the genetic seconds from Old McDonald’s farm were also on display in the carnival Freak Show. There were chickens with two heads, conjoined rabbits, and other barnyard oddities such as goats with extra legs. It seemed that the more controversial or grotesque the specimen was, the more anxious patrons were to pay the price of admission to see it.
As would happen, after World War II the number of traveling carnivals began to decline, and in time they no longer held a place of importance in the American entertainment scene. And while today there are County Fairs and a handful of circus corporations that still travel, the heyday of “under the tent” carnival side shows is over…… at least at the outskirts of town. In our homes, however, they live on and THRIVE !
Yes, the curious of today no longer have to jump in their jalopies and drive to the city limits to be titillated by the bizarre, the unusual, or the controversial. They only need to plop down in front of their television sets and turn on the cable channels. Everything a carnival side show offered fifty years ago, is now available in the privacy of one’s home, except that now there’s more variety and it’s in high definition.
In the Thrill Show category, here are a few of the shows which have featured individuals with amazing, even death-defying physical and mental skills and abilities:
“Daredevils and Speed Demons,” “Escape Artists,” “Super Humans,” “World’s Most… Death Defying Stunts,” “Jim Rose’s Twisted Hour,” and “It’s A Strange World.”
Cable offers a number of productions that focus on fascination with, and belief in the paranormal, as well. Just like the Scam Sideshows of old, they offer only speculation and innuendo as they attempt to contact the spirit world to explain past or present phenomena. Here are a few:
“Ghost Hunters,” “Paranormal State,” “Most Haunted,” “Ghost Lab,” Paranormal Cops,” “Psychic Roadshow,” “Beyond The Explained,” “Psychic Kids,” “Teenage Clairvoyants and Mediums.” and “Alien Autopsy: The True Story.”
The Adult Side Show category abounds with a number of cable documentaries that would not only cause those original carnival hotties to blush, but make them look like nuns by today’s sexual standards:
“Real Sex” (1 through 33), “Cathouse,” “Strippers,” “Pornucopia: Going Down In The Valley,” “Katie Morgan: Sex 101,” and “Family Business” (the life and times of porn producer, Seymore Butts.)
Finally, subject matter endemic to the early traveling carnival Freak Show, is the most prolific genre of cable television fare today. Hundreds of shows and their spin-offs fill the channels to satisfy viewer’s with even the most peculiar tastes. For example, interest in Little People has spawned this series of shows:
“Little People, Big World,” “The Little Couple,” “Our Little Life,” “Dwarf Adoption Story,” “The Littlest Groom,” “Little Parents, First Baby,” and “Pit Boss,” (a series about “Shorty” who runs a Little People talent agency and pit bull rescue center).
And if tattoos are one’s thing, the are a number of shows about that, as well:
“L.A. Ink,” “Tattoo: Under The Skin,” “Inked,” “Secret World of Tattoo Cultures,“ and “Miami Ink.”
The exploitation of people with graphic physical anomalies has also staked out its niche cable television, like in the following:
“Monsters Inside: People Invaded By Parasites,” “The Man Who Lost His Face,” “World’s Oldest Conjoined Twins,” “Growing Up Tiny: Primordial Dwarfism,” “Surviving Tumors: Massive Tumors Removed,” “The Wolfboy,“ “Scarred,“ “Extreme Surgery,“ and “Amazing Medical Stories.“
Reality shows involving obesity are also a cable staple:
“The 650 Pound Virgin,” “Heavy,” “Ton Of Love: Morbidly Obese Couples,” and “Heavily Ever After: The 606 Pound Mother.”
People with psychological issues are featured, as well:
“My Strange Addiction,” “Housebound: People With Agoraphobia,” “Strange Phobias,” “Bipolar Mysteries: Moms with Bipolar Kids,” and “Hoarders: Buried Alive.”
And, if the remains of animal freaks and other odd artifacts are your thing, there‘s one for you, too:
“Obscura Antiques and Oddities.” (Some of the items in their shop include a pickled pig, artwork made from human nails, shrunken heads, a four-legged chicken, a human skeleton, and a mummified human hand).
Finally, while I never heard of an old-time carnival side show which featured “The Worlds Most Perpetually Pregnant Woman,” cable television trumps the tent, as well, in wife Michelle Duggar from the series, “19 Kids and Counting.” A sort of exponential “Brady Bunch,” this popular show will most likely continue to propagate both kids and ratings until the Duggars either run out of viable sperm and/or eggs, or names for their children that begin with the letter “J.”
Yes, cable television is today’s traveling carnival sideshow without the smell of animal droppings, or the chatter of persuasive pitch men. And that same public thirst to be entertained by the bizarre and the shocking, is as alive and well today as it was a century ago. Other than technology, then, some things never seem to change.
I didn’t plan to make any New Year’s resolutions this year, but a couple of reoccurring TV commercials have made me change my mind. Offering alarming statistics about what will happen in 2012, I thought it prudent to air on the side of caution by heeding their warnings. After all, I might be old, but I’m not stupid.
