HELLOOOO NEWMAN: Laughter is your sixth sense
Monday, 31 August 2015
Helloooo Newman: You've been Chopped
Helloooo Newman: You've been Chopped: There's so much pressure these days for the layperson to not just cook decent food, but to create a brilliant, creative, healthy, fresh-...
You've been Chopped
There's so much pressure these days for the layperson to not just cook decent food, but to create a brilliant, creative, healthy, fresh-ingredient-laced meal worthy of a Michelin start or two.
I blame shows like Chopped, Iron Chef, Iron Chef America, Top Chef, MasterChef, Hell's Kitchen, Dinner:Impossible, Barefoot Contessa…and the KFC Double Down sandwich commercial.
Who can live up to this pressure? Layperson means I don't really know how to cook, and I just want to eat a decent dinner and lay down my tired personage.
And what's this Michelin thing? Aren't they concerned that gourmet, fine cooked food is used in the same sentence with a tire company? Is that the best name they could think of? How about "Grill". Like Michelin, you find a grill on a car, and you also cook with it. This is not hard, people.
When I cook dinner for my family, I always feel like I'm on an episode of Chopped. My wife and daughter are the judges and I'm on a tight deadline, only because I remembered I have to cook dinner a half hour before they got home.
You didn't transform the ingredients, Paul.
What? It's ketchup. It's already been transformed from tomatoes…into ketchup. I find too much transformation is hard on the belly.
Often I'll add the magic ingredient that makes everyone like food – bacon.
Christmas cake? No thanks.
I added bacon.
I guess I'll try it. Mmmmmm.
Cooking with bacon is almost not fair. It's cheating, really.
Aren't I a good cook?
Ah, ya, you know what to do with a pound of bacon, that's for sure.
The problem with adding bacon to everything is you put so much effort into eating "just" the bacon. Yesterday I had kale salad (yuk) but it had bacon in it. Finding the bacon became like playing a game of Operation with my food.
Buzzer goes off – sorry, you took out some kale. What a lousy surgeon you are.
Back to culinary medical school.
I blame shows like Chopped, Iron Chef, Iron Chef America, Top Chef, MasterChef, Hell's Kitchen, Dinner:Impossible, Barefoot Contessa…and the KFC Double Down sandwich commercial.
Who can live up to this pressure? Layperson means I don't really know how to cook, and I just want to eat a decent dinner and lay down my tired personage.
And what's this Michelin thing? Aren't they concerned that gourmet, fine cooked food is used in the same sentence with a tire company? Is that the best name they could think of? How about "Grill". Like Michelin, you find a grill on a car, and you also cook with it. This is not hard, people.
When I cook dinner for my family, I always feel like I'm on an episode of Chopped. My wife and daughter are the judges and I'm on a tight deadline, only because I remembered I have to cook dinner a half hour before they got home.
You didn't transform the ingredients, Paul.
What? It's ketchup. It's already been transformed from tomatoes…into ketchup. I find too much transformation is hard on the belly.
Often I'll add the magic ingredient that makes everyone like food – bacon.
Christmas cake? No thanks.
I added bacon.
I guess I'll try it. Mmmmmm.
Cooking with bacon is almost not fair. It's cheating, really.
Aren't I a good cook?
Ah, ya, you know what to do with a pound of bacon, that's for sure.
The problem with adding bacon to everything is you put so much effort into eating "just" the bacon. Yesterday I had kale salad (yuk) but it had bacon in it. Finding the bacon became like playing a game of Operation with my food.
Buzzer goes off – sorry, you took out some kale. What a lousy surgeon you are.
Back to culinary medical school.
Friday, 28 August 2015
Helloooo Newman: Me and Mr. Trump
Helloooo Newman: Me and Mr. Trump: I'm admiring Mr. Trump more and more these days. Sure, he has some rad ideas. Rounding up 20 million people is no small feat. I once tri...
Me and Mr. Trump
I'm admiring Mr. Trump more and more these days. Sure, he has some rad ideas. Rounding up 20 million people is no small feat. I once tried to organize a party of six people in my tiny bachelor apartment and it was a nightmare. Some "illegal" partiers showed up via the balcony and things got so crowded it was very hard to find them and departy them. We built a wall with beer empties, but it just wasn't high enough. Then we realized these interlopers were serving us drinks, so maybe they're not that bad after all. They contributed nicely to the small bachelor economy I had set up.
It wouldn't seem like it to the casual observer, but Mr. Trump and I have so much in common. Consider the following quote, an everyday musing from the man himself:
One of the reasons I tell people about my level of intelligence — like, for instance, I had an uncle, Dr. John Trump, who was at MIT, like totally brilliant, became a professor at MIT — …
I relish his honesty. I have trouble admitting the very same thing to my friends. Granted, they would have trouble believing it too.
Notice Mr. Trump's clever strategy. He's an intelligence "borrower." As an example of his mental prowess, he borrows the abilities and accomplishments of someone else.
Clearly, though, he's not borrowing from just anyone. He's implying a genetic link. He's borrowing his uncle's genes and fitting them nice and snug around his own I.Q. He also shares 98% of his genes with chimpanzees, and is a distant cousin with Hillary Clinton. One chimpanzee Mr. Trump is very closely related to did quite well on Object Recognition tests in MIT labs, and even learned how to inflate a bouncy castle. Yes, the same MIT his uncle frequented.
Like Mr. Trump, I, too, am related to a brilliant and successful person. My first cousin headed up the Canada Pension Plan, is on the Board of 10,000 international companies, is a math genius, and is a multi-qualti millionaire. See how smart I am?
The problem with gene-sharing among smart people is that the proper genes in an individual have to be switched on by some complicated chemical process. Scientists don't fully understand why certain genes switch on or off in a given person, and also think some people may have a dimmer switch attached to their genes, so they don't get the full effect of brilliance. These people tend to be very romantic dinner hosts.
So I do have brilliant genes in me, but it's hard to find them. I've been searching through my huge gene pool, and the chlorine is starting to bug my eyes.
Look more closely at the quote. Note the use of a key word that all intellectuals use – "like". Mr. Trump is so, like, brilliant. Totally. I believe it was Einstein who said, "God does not, like, play dice with the universe, dang ya'll."
It takes only one word to plug Mr. Trump into the Miley Cyrus set. I have no idea who or what Miley Cyrus is related to.
Now, time to replace some of those dimmer switches.
It wouldn't seem like it to the casual observer, but Mr. Trump and I have so much in common. Consider the following quote, an everyday musing from the man himself:
One of the reasons I tell people about my level of intelligence — like, for instance, I had an uncle, Dr. John Trump, who was at MIT, like totally brilliant, became a professor at MIT — …
I relish his honesty. I have trouble admitting the very same thing to my friends. Granted, they would have trouble believing it too.
Notice Mr. Trump's clever strategy. He's an intelligence "borrower." As an example of his mental prowess, he borrows the abilities and accomplishments of someone else.
Clearly, though, he's not borrowing from just anyone. He's implying a genetic link. He's borrowing his uncle's genes and fitting them nice and snug around his own I.Q. He also shares 98% of his genes with chimpanzees, and is a distant cousin with Hillary Clinton. One chimpanzee Mr. Trump is very closely related to did quite well on Object Recognition tests in MIT labs, and even learned how to inflate a bouncy castle. Yes, the same MIT his uncle frequented.
Like Mr. Trump, I, too, am related to a brilliant and successful person. My first cousin headed up the Canada Pension Plan, is on the Board of 10,000 international companies, is a math genius, and is a multi-qualti millionaire. See how smart I am?
The problem with gene-sharing among smart people is that the proper genes in an individual have to be switched on by some complicated chemical process. Scientists don't fully understand why certain genes switch on or off in a given person, and also think some people may have a dimmer switch attached to their genes, so they don't get the full effect of brilliance. These people tend to be very romantic dinner hosts.
So I do have brilliant genes in me, but it's hard to find them. I've been searching through my huge gene pool, and the chlorine is starting to bug my eyes.
Look more closely at the quote. Note the use of a key word that all intellectuals use – "like". Mr. Trump is so, like, brilliant. Totally. I believe it was Einstein who said, "God does not, like, play dice with the universe, dang ya'll."
It takes only one word to plug Mr. Trump into the Miley Cyrus set. I have no idea who or what Miley Cyrus is related to.
Now, time to replace some of those dimmer switches.
Thursday, 27 August 2015
Helloooo Newman: Hard Core
Helloooo Newman: Hard Core: Women attribute their success to working hard, luck, and help from other people. Men will attribute that – whatever success they have, that ...
Hard Core
Women attribute their success to working hard, luck, and help from other people. Men will attribute that – whatever success they have, that same success – to their own core skills.
Sheryl Sandberg
I couldn't agree more with Sheryl. I really admire Sheryl, especially the guts it took to change the "C" that usually starts "Cheryl" to an "S". This clearly makes her unique, and in the enviable position of explaining the world to the rest of us…men. Amazing what she can do with a paint brush – painting all of us men into a corner where all the early primates live.
In light of this, I am spelling my name Pawl. I await the accolades.
Sheryl is bang on when she states that MY success is due to MY core skills. I freely admit that the heights I have risen to involved no hard work, a smidgen of luck, and offers of help, which I promptly turned down. Why do I need help when I have my core skills?
Even some of the men I talk to at our private meetings, celebrating our core skills together, offer me help, and I turn it down. In fact, we all turn down help together.
Probably the best part of the meetings is chewing tobacco together, spitting it on pictures of Gloria Steinem, and making the wife clean it up. Hey, she can get help from other people, you know.
We end each meeting with the slogan, "Use your core skill, Bill." Not sure who Bill is.
I am especially glad to be underemployed these days, because I get to flex some of my greatest of core skills.
Today I am focusing on getting some new batteries for our fart book.
Perhaps you've read it? It's called Farts: A Spotter's Guide by Crai S. Bower.
We keep it at the cottage so our valued guests can snuggle up in bed and read a good book.
The only problem is, the damn thing needs batteries. Sure, I had trouble understanding Moby Dick, but I didn't have to replace the batteries just as the exciting whale part was coming up.
AA? AAA? No, not those batteries. This book takes the flat circular batteries, like the ones you find in a Rolex.
Could it be? Does the fart book contain the same delicate machinery that graces the wrists of Federer and Clooney?
Here's where the core skills part comes in. Should I get the batteries at Costco? Will they live up to the standards of my fart book's technology? Or should I go to the Rolex store? Spend a bit more but I get to "read" the book for a much longer time.
Me: Hi, I need three LR44 batteries, please.
Rolex Man: Of course, sir. For your Rolex.
Me: Actually, no. It's for my fart book. Do you get this kind of request often?
Rolex Man: All the time, sir. Why, you're the tenth customer today looking for fart book batteries. May I ask which book?
Me: It's called Farts: A Spotter's Guide.
Rolex Man: Ah, that one. Pretty good book, kinda fizzled out at the end.
fart sound
Rolex Man: I thought you said the batteries were dead.
Me: That was me. Sounded like #7 in the book.
Rolex Man: Did you contribute to the book?
Me: No. I am a writer but they didn't think my stuff was up to par.
Rolex Man: Amazing thing. This fart book contains more computing power than the first Apple computer ever built.
Me: Apples make me fart.
I purchased the batteries. All by myself. No help from anyone, Sheryl. It's a core skill of mine.
Pawl
Sheryl Sandberg
I couldn't agree more with Sheryl. I really admire Sheryl, especially the guts it took to change the "C" that usually starts "Cheryl" to an "S". This clearly makes her unique, and in the enviable position of explaining the world to the rest of us…men. Amazing what she can do with a paint brush – painting all of us men into a corner where all the early primates live.
In light of this, I am spelling my name Pawl. I await the accolades.
Sheryl is bang on when she states that MY success is due to MY core skills. I freely admit that the heights I have risen to involved no hard work, a smidgen of luck, and offers of help, which I promptly turned down. Why do I need help when I have my core skills?
Even some of the men I talk to at our private meetings, celebrating our core skills together, offer me help, and I turn it down. In fact, we all turn down help together.
Probably the best part of the meetings is chewing tobacco together, spitting it on pictures of Gloria Steinem, and making the wife clean it up. Hey, she can get help from other people, you know.
We end each meeting with the slogan, "Use your core skill, Bill." Not sure who Bill is.
I am especially glad to be underemployed these days, because I get to flex some of my greatest of core skills.
Today I am focusing on getting some new batteries for our fart book.
Perhaps you've read it? It's called Farts: A Spotter's Guide by Crai S. Bower.
We keep it at the cottage so our valued guests can snuggle up in bed and read a good book.
The only problem is, the damn thing needs batteries. Sure, I had trouble understanding Moby Dick, but I didn't have to replace the batteries just as the exciting whale part was coming up.
AA? AAA? No, not those batteries. This book takes the flat circular batteries, like the ones you find in a Rolex.
Could it be? Does the fart book contain the same delicate machinery that graces the wrists of Federer and Clooney?
Here's where the core skills part comes in. Should I get the batteries at Costco? Will they live up to the standards of my fart book's technology? Or should I go to the Rolex store? Spend a bit more but I get to "read" the book for a much longer time.
Me: Hi, I need three LR44 batteries, please.
Rolex Man: Of course, sir. For your Rolex.
Me: Actually, no. It's for my fart book. Do you get this kind of request often?
Rolex Man: All the time, sir. Why, you're the tenth customer today looking for fart book batteries. May I ask which book?
Me: It's called Farts: A Spotter's Guide.
Rolex Man: Ah, that one. Pretty good book, kinda fizzled out at the end.
fart sound
Rolex Man: I thought you said the batteries were dead.
Me: That was me. Sounded like #7 in the book.
Rolex Man: Did you contribute to the book?
Me: No. I am a writer but they didn't think my stuff was up to par.
Rolex Man: Amazing thing. This fart book contains more computing power than the first Apple computer ever built.
Me: Apples make me fart.
I purchased the batteries. All by myself. No help from anyone, Sheryl. It's a core skill of mine.
Pawl
Wednesday, 26 August 2015
Helloooo Newman: Upbringing or Bringing Up?
Helloooo Newman: Upbringing or Bringing Up?: People ask me, Paul, are you depressed to be turning 53 in October? I tell them naw, not at all. That's 50 years longer than I expecte...
Upbringing or Bringing Up?
People ask me, Paul, are you depressed to be turning 53 in October?
I tell them naw, not at all. That's 50 years longer than I expected to live. I was sure, by the way my brothers treated me as a kid, that I wouldn't make it past three.
I didn't really have an upbringing. It was more reminiscent of a bringing up – that creamed corn you had for dinner, or macaroni and cheese drowned in ketchup.
One time I actually did vomit creamed corn all over the floor. My mom said you are eating that! I said I can't, I was sick and vomited it up. She said prove it. I couldn't. It looked the same.
Essentially I was raised by my brothers, and they did a bang up job.
First they would play beer pong while I watched. Switching to baby pong was just plain mean. I guess beer pong got boring. My parents thought all the welts from the ping pong balls were chicken pox so they quarantined me for 2 weeks.
I think they were actually on to something when they used duct tape on me as a diaper. Kinda held stuff pretty well, but when it came time to change the "diaper" – oh, the PAIN!!
They really blew it when they started putting the blame for my dad's missing beer on me. Not only was blaming me for drinking dad's beer really stupid, but my dad knew I would usually pass out half way through my second beer anyway. Come on, I was two.
There were times my oldest brother had to babysit me and take me for strolls. Now I was no expert at the time, but later on I compared a picture of a stroller and a skate board and they didn't look anything alike. But somehow my brother managed to confuse them when walk time came. Really, bro? I mean, I seem to be the only baby that needs to be bungee corded to the stroller to go for a walk. Why the hell is it so bumpy? Did we really need to go over that ramp and do a nosegrind?
I was the only toddler in the 'hood with bungee burns.
As a young kid I was very shy, and also afraid of people. This meant I couldn't even talk to myself.
I tell them naw, not at all. That's 50 years longer than I expected to live. I was sure, by the way my brothers treated me as a kid, that I wouldn't make it past three.
I didn't really have an upbringing. It was more reminiscent of a bringing up – that creamed corn you had for dinner, or macaroni and cheese drowned in ketchup.
One time I actually did vomit creamed corn all over the floor. My mom said you are eating that! I said I can't, I was sick and vomited it up. She said prove it. I couldn't. It looked the same.
Essentially I was raised by my brothers, and they did a bang up job.
First they would play beer pong while I watched. Switching to baby pong was just plain mean. I guess beer pong got boring. My parents thought all the welts from the ping pong balls were chicken pox so they quarantined me for 2 weeks.
I think they were actually on to something when they used duct tape on me as a diaper. Kinda held stuff pretty well, but when it came time to change the "diaper" – oh, the PAIN!!
They really blew it when they started putting the blame for my dad's missing beer on me. Not only was blaming me for drinking dad's beer really stupid, but my dad knew I would usually pass out half way through my second beer anyway. Come on, I was two.
There were times my oldest brother had to babysit me and take me for strolls. Now I was no expert at the time, but later on I compared a picture of a stroller and a skate board and they didn't look anything alike. But somehow my brother managed to confuse them when walk time came. Really, bro? I mean, I seem to be the only baby that needs to be bungee corded to the stroller to go for a walk. Why the hell is it so bumpy? Did we really need to go over that ramp and do a nosegrind?
I was the only toddler in the 'hood with bungee burns.
As a young kid I was very shy, and also afraid of people. This meant I couldn't even talk to myself.
A few times I worked up the courage to ask girls, in my weak voice, "Hey, would you like to go out?"
They all answered, "Sure, know anyone nice?"
I could tell you those callouses on my hands were from football practice. And you could choose to believe me – if you want.
For the next 15 years my dates were a series of snapchat sessions – 10 seconds and the woman disappeared.
My dating life was full of 360 degrees of separation – I would look all around me and no sign of women.
But I made it. I'm a hugely successful writer, read in five different countries (according to the stats my blog reports to me).
I am nearing 10,000 views. That's 20,000 eyeballs. 40,000 limbs. 200,000,000 miles of blood vessels (each person carries 60,000 miles of blood vessels in their body). That's – amazing!
Now I just, um, need a job.
For the next 15 years my dates were a series of snapchat sessions – 10 seconds and the woman disappeared.
My dating life was full of 360 degrees of separation – I would look all around me and no sign of women.
But I made it. I'm a hugely successful writer, read in five different countries (according to the stats my blog reports to me).
I am nearing 10,000 views. That's 20,000 eyeballs. 40,000 limbs. 200,000,000 miles of blood vessels (each person carries 60,000 miles of blood vessels in their body). That's – amazing!
Now I just, um, need a job.
Wednesday, 19 August 2015
Helloooo Newman: Drove Down The Wrong Madison Avenue
Helloooo Newman: Drove Down The Wrong Madison Avenue: Um, ah, well, okay, yes, my name does appear on the hacker-exposed list of Ashley Madison clients. I can explain. I was doing research f...
Drove Down The Wrong Madison Avenue
Um, ah, well, okay, yes, my name does appear on the hacker-exposed list of Ashley Madison clients.
I can explain.
I was doing research for a very important upcoming political blog that will change the landscape of the current American political race.
This blog required me to research, um, past Presidents, and one of those presidents was James Madison, President from 1809-1817.
Ya, I know, that goes pretty far back, but I'm a stickler for research.
Anywho, while researching Jimmy, I also need information on his wife, DOLLEY Madison.
That's DOLLEY, okay?
I swear I typed Dolley Madison in Google. Is it my fault a North Korean-created virus took hold of my machine and redirected me to ASHLEY?
No, it's not!
I mean, look below. It's a painting of Dolley Madison.
Now I ask you – would I have an affair with this women? Okay, she is kinda cute. Love the rosy cheeks and looks like a great chance to play motor boat with her.
But I highly doubt this is how the average Ashley Madison worker looks or dresses.
Wait a minute. No, I'm wrong. I was actually looking for Dolly Madison ice cream. Had a craving.
Okay, actually, I was…
Oh, never mind. I'm busted.
I can explain.
I was doing research for a very important upcoming political blog that will change the landscape of the current American political race.
This blog required me to research, um, past Presidents, and one of those presidents was James Madison, President from 1809-1817.
Ya, I know, that goes pretty far back, but I'm a stickler for research.
Anywho, while researching Jimmy, I also need information on his wife, DOLLEY Madison.
That's DOLLEY, okay?
I swear I typed Dolley Madison in Google. Is it my fault a North Korean-created virus took hold of my machine and redirected me to ASHLEY?
No, it's not!
I mean, look below. It's a painting of Dolley Madison.
Now I ask you – would I have an affair with this women? Okay, she is kinda cute. Love the rosy cheeks and looks like a great chance to play motor boat with her.
But I highly doubt this is how the average Ashley Madison worker looks or dresses.
Wait a minute. No, I'm wrong. I was actually looking for Dolly Madison ice cream. Had a craving.
Okay, actually, I was…
Oh, never mind. I'm busted.
Tuesday, 18 August 2015
Helloooo Newman: Trump Dump
Helloooo Newman: Trump Dump: Amis Take, roving reporter here. I caught up with Donald Trump on the campaign trail. He was feeding his hair while they gassed up his hel...
Trump Dump
Amis Take, roving reporter here.
I caught up with Donald Trump on the campaign trail. He was feeding his hair while they gassed up his helicopter.
I asked him about some of the polling numbers. He leads in the polls to be Republican leader, but a majority of these same people also think the Republicans won't win if he is leader.
This is becoming known as the Trump Dump phenomenon. Set him up as the Trump card, then dump the card.
I asked him about this curious contradiction. "Don, how can people prefer you as the party leader and yet feel that you can't win the election?"
Trump, as usual, was very direct. "Son, if you ever call me Don again, I'll rip the hair off your nut sack, braid it together and hang you from one of my tall buildings. Then I'll deport you."
"Will I still be alive? Also, I'm American."
"Only if I say so, buddy."
Obviously a touchy subject. I apologized.
Mr. Trump got hungry and the only place around was a local Taco Bell.
"Unfortunately I am going to have to deport the owner of this particular Taco Bell along with his 12 diarrhea-laden kids, all born and raised in the kitchen of this restaurant. But that can wait until after lunch. I can't make America great again on an empty stomach."
We took a short helicopter ride to a nearby Red Cross shelter. Mr. Trump was giving blood for a good cause. Rich, white, American blood. There's a shortage of that, he said.
I asked, "Mr. Trump, where will you give blood from?"
"My right arm, I'm Republican."
Actually, I meant will he give it from his nose, or eyes, or maybe his vagina? He wasn't sure where women gave blood from when visiting the Red Cross.
He kept saying "I want to help women" so often I thought he might grow a vagina right then and there.
I wondered if he ever say the Vagina Monologues, seeing as he wants to help women so much. Nope. Being a white, upper class, pudgy male, I figured soon he'll go see the Angina Monologues.
"I want to help women. You know, with the bleeding thing. What's up with that anyway? If there's a way I can help them with that, I will."
Mr. Trump put on his batman costume and flew away in his helicopter.
America will be great again.
I caught up with Donald Trump on the campaign trail. He was feeding his hair while they gassed up his helicopter.
I asked him about some of the polling numbers. He leads in the polls to be Republican leader, but a majority of these same people also think the Republicans won't win if he is leader.
This is becoming known as the Trump Dump phenomenon. Set him up as the Trump card, then dump the card.
I asked him about this curious contradiction. "Don, how can people prefer you as the party leader and yet feel that you can't win the election?"
Trump, as usual, was very direct. "Son, if you ever call me Don again, I'll rip the hair off your nut sack, braid it together and hang you from one of my tall buildings. Then I'll deport you."
"Will I still be alive? Also, I'm American."
"Only if I say so, buddy."
Obviously a touchy subject. I apologized.
Mr. Trump got hungry and the only place around was a local Taco Bell.
"Unfortunately I am going to have to deport the owner of this particular Taco Bell along with his 12 diarrhea-laden kids, all born and raised in the kitchen of this restaurant. But that can wait until after lunch. I can't make America great again on an empty stomach."
We took a short helicopter ride to a nearby Red Cross shelter. Mr. Trump was giving blood for a good cause. Rich, white, American blood. There's a shortage of that, he said.
I asked, "Mr. Trump, where will you give blood from?"
"My right arm, I'm Republican."
Actually, I meant will he give it from his nose, or eyes, or maybe his vagina? He wasn't sure where women gave blood from when visiting the Red Cross.
He kept saying "I want to help women" so often I thought he might grow a vagina right then and there.
I wondered if he ever say the Vagina Monologues, seeing as he wants to help women so much. Nope. Being a white, upper class, pudgy male, I figured soon he'll go see the Angina Monologues.
"I want to help women. You know, with the bleeding thing. What's up with that anyway? If there's a way I can help them with that, I will."
Mr. Trump put on his batman costume and flew away in his helicopter.
America will be great again.
Monday, 17 August 2015
Helloooo Newman: Sadtember
Helloooo Newman: Sadtember: And then comes sadness… The summer is almost over. And then comes the month that starts to change everything. Sadtember. I always take...
Sadtember
And then comes sadness…
The summer is almost over.
And then comes the month that starts to change everything. Sadtember.
I always take a roll in the doldrums after labour Day. I just love summer. I love the sun beating me up on a daily basis. And its partner in crime, the heat, that coaxes the moisture out of my cells, gives me horrible hair days and sets me up for slaking that beer thirst.
Then Labour Day. Depression. People around often ask, "Hey Paul, are you on your period? You go, girl!"
Donald Trump had it right in the debate. I get irritable in the Winter. All that bleeding.
No. I suffer from SAD, Seasonal Affective Disorder, as psychologists call it.
Or in my parlance, FUCK! Winter is coming soon.
Winter is all about being reminded that time is running out. Each day is shorter, the sun going up and down like a yoyo, dark, light, suddenly dark just before you slip on that patch of ice. Days whip by like not-in-service TTC buses.
The summer always seems endless, as if the world is stuck in some relaxed gear with cruise control on. That's great, because cruise control saves gas.
They're not called the lazy, hazy days of summer for nothing. Part of my challenge is confining those lazy days to ONLY the summer. I'm very good at being lazy while it's snowing too. Just ask my snow shovel.
There's a reason violent crime goes way up in the nice summer months. More people are out enjoying themselves and they bring their guns with them. It's lovely to see. Conversely, suicide rates go way down. I figure more of these kinds of people are shot in violent crimes in the summer, and let's face it, that looks more respectable on the death certificate.
One thing I love about the summer is I don't have to make lists of any kind. Except the list I refer to so I can replenish my meat and beer.
When Sadtember roles around, I have to get started on three important lists. My daughter's birthday comes in November. This is hard for me. November is usually the month where I go hunting for the cave I want to crawl into for the winter. Instead I find myself at a Forever 21 store, hauling my 52-year-old carcass in between tweens who think makeup is a clothing item.
Then there's my all-time favourite – Xmas. I call it Xmas now because I make a gift list and then draw a big fat X through it. There's no Christ to be found near me, except for the thousand times I exclaim "Christ, you're out of that too?"
Finally there is my wife's bday. I love and cherish my wife and her birthday. And not just because she reads this blog, and will be studying this article in particular.
Shakespeare did not write, "Now is the summer holidays drinking coolers with ribs on the barby of our discontent" for a reason. Smart guy.
I am not a man for all seasons. God, please take the following months off my calendar:
Sadtember
Awfultober
Foevember
Decadentcember
Insaneuary
Febrileuary
The rest can stay.
The summer is almost over.
And then comes the month that starts to change everything. Sadtember.
I always take a roll in the doldrums after labour Day. I just love summer. I love the sun beating me up on a daily basis. And its partner in crime, the heat, that coaxes the moisture out of my cells, gives me horrible hair days and sets me up for slaking that beer thirst.
Then Labour Day. Depression. People around often ask, "Hey Paul, are you on your period? You go, girl!"
Donald Trump had it right in the debate. I get irritable in the Winter. All that bleeding.
No. I suffer from SAD, Seasonal Affective Disorder, as psychologists call it.
Or in my parlance, FUCK! Winter is coming soon.
Winter is all about being reminded that time is running out. Each day is shorter, the sun going up and down like a yoyo, dark, light, suddenly dark just before you slip on that patch of ice. Days whip by like not-in-service TTC buses.
The summer always seems endless, as if the world is stuck in some relaxed gear with cruise control on. That's great, because cruise control saves gas.
They're not called the lazy, hazy days of summer for nothing. Part of my challenge is confining those lazy days to ONLY the summer. I'm very good at being lazy while it's snowing too. Just ask my snow shovel.
There's a reason violent crime goes way up in the nice summer months. More people are out enjoying themselves and they bring their guns with them. It's lovely to see. Conversely, suicide rates go way down. I figure more of these kinds of people are shot in violent crimes in the summer, and let's face it, that looks more respectable on the death certificate.
One thing I love about the summer is I don't have to make lists of any kind. Except the list I refer to so I can replenish my meat and beer.
When Sadtember roles around, I have to get started on three important lists. My daughter's birthday comes in November. This is hard for me. November is usually the month where I go hunting for the cave I want to crawl into for the winter. Instead I find myself at a Forever 21 store, hauling my 52-year-old carcass in between tweens who think makeup is a clothing item.
Then there's my all-time favourite – Xmas. I call it Xmas now because I make a gift list and then draw a big fat X through it. There's no Christ to be found near me, except for the thousand times I exclaim "Christ, you're out of that too?"
Finally there is my wife's bday. I love and cherish my wife and her birthday. And not just because she reads this blog, and will be studying this article in particular.
Shakespeare did not write, "Now is the summer holidays drinking coolers with ribs on the barby of our discontent" for a reason. Smart guy.
I am not a man for all seasons. God, please take the following months off my calendar:
Sadtember
Awfultober
Foevember
Decadentcember
Insaneuary
Febrileuary
The rest can stay.
Tuesday, 4 August 2015
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)