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?
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.
