HELLOOOO NEWMAN: Laughter is your sixth sense
Tuesday, 31 December 2013
Helloooo Newman: Apologies to the Fifty Percent
Helloooo Newman: Apologies to the Fifty Percent: Just as I dotted the last pixel on my previous article, I realized my peewee/ice destruction game cannot be enjoyed by 50% of the population...
Apologies to the Fifty Percent
Just as I dotted the last pixel on my previous article, I realized my peewee/ice destruction game cannot be enjoyed by 50% of the population.
I apologize to the fifty percent who are female. I try to be all-inclusive on this blog.
Please don't cancel your free subscription.
This is not Dog Dynasty on A&E! If bestiality beats your drum, then all the best to you.
But worry not, women. They are working wonders with them 3-D printers and perhaps some day you can enjoy a working attachment and play destroy the urinal world.
I could certainly use a bit more 3 for my D (insert Groucho Marx voiceover).
I'll end there.
I apologize to the fifty percent who are female. I try to be all-inclusive on this blog.
Please don't cancel your free subscription.
This is not Dog Dynasty on A&E! If bestiality beats your drum, then all the best to you.
But worry not, women. They are working wonders with them 3-D printers and perhaps some day you can enjoy a working attachment and play destroy the urinal world.
I could certainly use a bit more 3 for my D (insert Groucho Marx voiceover).
I'll end there.
Helloooo Newman: Intelligent Life Once Lived Here
Helloooo Newman: Intelligent Life Once Lived Here: Whenever I read articles discussing the intelligence of the human race, I notice that writers always default to grand and epic examples of h...
Intelligent Life Once Lived Here
Whenever I read articles discussing the intelligence of the human race, I notice that writers always default to grand and epic examples of how stupid we seem to be.
The human race developed nuclear weapons that can destroy the planet and everyone on it. Stupid!
We developed a strategy called MAD (Mutual Assured Destruction) to ensure we don't destroy ourselves with these weapons. Nuke me and I'll nuke you - na na boo boo. Childish!
We rape the earth of her resources on a daily basis to live a good life, knowing it won't last. In the process we are turning this blue marble in the cosmos into a rather large microwave oven. Insane!
To me, the signs of our insanity are found in much smaller game.
I'm talking, of course, about cable companies. I have one particular company in mind, but I'd prefer not to name it (what the hell – Rogers).
A few weeks back Rogers suddenly, and without warning, vaporized my email account. It just stopped working. The bits and bytes of my account were crushed into bits and bytes and not even useful as party mix. And so my life followed along with it.
I am not a techno-insane wanna be, but I NEED MY EMAIL (emphasis mine!). I am so attached to my, well, attachments. I was hyper about my hyper text.
In terms more redolent of philosophy, I Link, Therefore I Am.
I was angry. Did I mention that already?
I was angry and felt powerless. Case in point. Last night I was at a bar drinking. I went to the urinal to rid my body of some water. Too late for the alcohol. It was fully absorbed into my brain.
Poured into the urinal were these preformed ice cubes. I love when bars do that. I suddenly found myself playing this sick game. The ice was Rogers Headquarters. My pee was slowly and methodically destroying this Headquarters. I would pick a spot, focus my weapon and watch the structure collapse helplessly.
The feeling of power was incredible. Oooo hahahaha. I guess people more in control of their sanity might imagine the ice was the polar cap and the world's fate was, um, in their hands (literally).
I stuck with the cable theme and destroyed the icy infrastructure completely.
Did I get sidetracked? At first, Rogers told me it was regular maintenance on my account. I guess that's okay. I didn't know my email account was an SUV, but I went along with it. Who the hell am I to skip an email oil change?
Then day 4 came along and Rogers realized they couldn't keep using the same bogus excuse.
Their next excuse was a real winner. They had none. The excuse closet was empty. No reason, no timeline for fixing, no responsibility taken, no signs of intelligent life.
This continued for 10 days. Needless to say, I had moved on to gmail. I was proud that I could let go like that and continue with a normal life. No therapy required.
I think my favourite conversation with one of the Rogers' pinheads centred around whose fault all this was. Rogers sells me the Internet, and along with it offers Rogers email. But, the pinhead cogently explained to me, Rogers doesn't support the email if it "breaks".
When they sell it, it's called Rogers email. When it breaks, it's someone else's email company (Yahoo, in this case).
Yahoo, I thought. Human insanity in all its mundane machinations.
Worry not about nuclear war. Focus on the melting ice.
The human race developed nuclear weapons that can destroy the planet and everyone on it. Stupid!
We developed a strategy called MAD (Mutual Assured Destruction) to ensure we don't destroy ourselves with these weapons. Nuke me and I'll nuke you - na na boo boo. Childish!
We rape the earth of her resources on a daily basis to live a good life, knowing it won't last. In the process we are turning this blue marble in the cosmos into a rather large microwave oven. Insane!
To me, the signs of our insanity are found in much smaller game.
I'm talking, of course, about cable companies. I have one particular company in mind, but I'd prefer not to name it (what the hell – Rogers).
A few weeks back Rogers suddenly, and without warning, vaporized my email account. It just stopped working. The bits and bytes of my account were crushed into bits and bytes and not even useful as party mix. And so my life followed along with it.
I am not a techno-insane wanna be, but I NEED MY EMAIL (emphasis mine!). I am so attached to my, well, attachments. I was hyper about my hyper text.
In terms more redolent of philosophy, I Link, Therefore I Am.
I was angry. Did I mention that already?
I was angry and felt powerless. Case in point. Last night I was at a bar drinking. I went to the urinal to rid my body of some water. Too late for the alcohol. It was fully absorbed into my brain.
Poured into the urinal were these preformed ice cubes. I love when bars do that. I suddenly found myself playing this sick game. The ice was Rogers Headquarters. My pee was slowly and methodically destroying this Headquarters. I would pick a spot, focus my weapon and watch the structure collapse helplessly.
The feeling of power was incredible. Oooo hahahaha. I guess people more in control of their sanity might imagine the ice was the polar cap and the world's fate was, um, in their hands (literally).
I stuck with the cable theme and destroyed the icy infrastructure completely.
Did I get sidetracked? At first, Rogers told me it was regular maintenance on my account. I guess that's okay. I didn't know my email account was an SUV, but I went along with it. Who the hell am I to skip an email oil change?
Then day 4 came along and Rogers realized they couldn't keep using the same bogus excuse.
Their next excuse was a real winner. They had none. The excuse closet was empty. No reason, no timeline for fixing, no responsibility taken, no signs of intelligent life.
This continued for 10 days. Needless to say, I had moved on to gmail. I was proud that I could let go like that and continue with a normal life. No therapy required.
I think my favourite conversation with one of the Rogers' pinheads centred around whose fault all this was. Rogers sells me the Internet, and along with it offers Rogers email. But, the pinhead cogently explained to me, Rogers doesn't support the email if it "breaks".
When they sell it, it's called Rogers email. When it breaks, it's someone else's email company (Yahoo, in this case).
Yahoo, I thought. Human insanity in all its mundane machinations.
Worry not about nuclear war. Focus on the melting ice.
Monday, 18 November 2013
Helloooo Newman: Am I Upworthy?
Helloooo Newman: Am I Upworthy?: Have you ever watched videos on upworthy.com? You might want to try. Some fascinating stuff here. I watched one video where this guy in ...
Am I Upworthy?
Have you ever watched videos on upworthy.com?
You might want to try. Some fascinating stuff here.
I watched one video where this guy in a car would keep going round and round a drive-thru restaurant and pay for the people behind him, who were, of course, complete strangers and not expecting a free meal.
Cool. Very nice of him. It's some kind of fast food burger joint, so I guess he's contributing to and encouraging obesity, heart disease, high blood pressure, heart attacks, diabetes etc.
But still, real nice of him.
This video gave me a great idea. I think it might be unique in its strategy and brilliance.
I'm going to find out who and where this nice guy is.
Then, when my daughter needs $5,000 braces, I will take her at the same time this nice guy takes his kid to the orthodontist. I will get in line behind him and hope to hell he pays for ME.
When this nice guy takes his kid to register at Harvard, I will be there behind him in the line with my daughter.
The Mercedes lot? That too.
Christmas, birthdays, wedding, all of it. I will stock this guy until he's broke.
Yes, upworthy.com is very useful to check out.
You might want to try. Some fascinating stuff here.
I watched one video where this guy in a car would keep going round and round a drive-thru restaurant and pay for the people behind him, who were, of course, complete strangers and not expecting a free meal.
Cool. Very nice of him. It's some kind of fast food burger joint, so I guess he's contributing to and encouraging obesity, heart disease, high blood pressure, heart attacks, diabetes etc.
But still, real nice of him.
This video gave me a great idea. I think it might be unique in its strategy and brilliance.
I'm going to find out who and where this nice guy is.
Then, when my daughter needs $5,000 braces, I will take her at the same time this nice guy takes his kid to the orthodontist. I will get in line behind him and hope to hell he pays for ME.
When this nice guy takes his kid to register at Harvard, I will be there behind him in the line with my daughter.
The Mercedes lot? That too.
Christmas, birthdays, wedding, all of it. I will stock this guy until he's broke.
Yes, upworthy.com is very useful to check out.
Saturday, 16 November 2013
Helloooo Newman: Avoid Pregnancy During Christmas
Helloooo Newman: Avoid Pregnancy During Christmas: It is, as my daughter often says, a true fact that I've never been pregnant. But I fully support pregnancy. The reason? Sure, because ...
Avoid Pregnancy During Christmas
It is, as my daughter often says, a true fact that I've never been pregnant.
But I fully support pregnancy. The reason? Sure, because babies are all cute and stuff.
My central reason, given my age, is that I need more people to grow up and work so they can pay for my pension with their money, produced from their toil.
So please, don't accuse me of being anti-pregnancy.
I do, though, think pregnant people should not be allowed to go in stores approaching Christmas time, or should avoid being pregnant at this juncture.
I was shopping yesterday and stores have a nasty habit of putting extra items in the walkways so that the space becomes very narrow.
I felt like a piece of plaque travelling through a narrowing artery, angry and on my way to damage the heart or the central nervous system.
I was squeezing my way down one walkway when I spotted a pregnant lady that I certainly hope had her doctor on speed dial, because she made Rob Ford look like Twiggy.
I apologize to pregnant ladies for the comparison, but I feel the description needed an extreme example. And keep in mind that, unlike some Torontonians, I would never repeat this comparison at a media scrum that is viewed by the entire planet. It's only for you lucky readers.
So I had no choice. I had to turn around and add about a kilometre to my trip through the store.
I had to spy down each walkway for pregnancies or corpulence.
It's a funny concept to create a hallway for walking and then put obstacles all along it.
Suddenly, I bump into a rack of Shamwows. That creepy guy on the commercial is staring right at me.
Of course I'll buy one. I totally forgot I needed it until my foot got caught under the display.
In reality, all those extra kilometres just made me tired. And when I'm tired I hate shopping.
Wait a sec, when I have lots of energy I also hate shopping.
Maybe it's just that I hate shopping.
Never mind.
But I fully support pregnancy. The reason? Sure, because babies are all cute and stuff.
My central reason, given my age, is that I need more people to grow up and work so they can pay for my pension with their money, produced from their toil.
So please, don't accuse me of being anti-pregnancy.
I do, though, think pregnant people should not be allowed to go in stores approaching Christmas time, or should avoid being pregnant at this juncture.
I was shopping yesterday and stores have a nasty habit of putting extra items in the walkways so that the space becomes very narrow.
I felt like a piece of plaque travelling through a narrowing artery, angry and on my way to damage the heart or the central nervous system.
I was squeezing my way down one walkway when I spotted a pregnant lady that I certainly hope had her doctor on speed dial, because she made Rob Ford look like Twiggy.
I apologize to pregnant ladies for the comparison, but I feel the description needed an extreme example. And keep in mind that, unlike some Torontonians, I would never repeat this comparison at a media scrum that is viewed by the entire planet. It's only for you lucky readers.
So I had no choice. I had to turn around and add about a kilometre to my trip through the store.
I had to spy down each walkway for pregnancies or corpulence.
It's a funny concept to create a hallway for walking and then put obstacles all along it.
Suddenly, I bump into a rack of Shamwows. That creepy guy on the commercial is staring right at me.
Of course I'll buy one. I totally forgot I needed it until my foot got caught under the display.
In reality, all those extra kilometres just made me tired. And when I'm tired I hate shopping.
Wait a sec, when I have lots of energy I also hate shopping.
Maybe it's just that I hate shopping.
Never mind.
Friday, 8 November 2013
Helloooo Newman: Rock Star Wanted
Helloooo Newman: Rock Star Wanted: I can't decide which is worse, contracting leprosy or looking for a job. Both have symptoms that are very hard to treat. Leprosy gives...
Rock Star Wanted
I can't decide which is worse, contracting leprosy or looking for a job.
Both have symptoms that are very hard to treat. Leprosy gives you disfiguring skin sores and bumps. Job hunting has symptoms such as fatigue, loss of self esteem, rejection, anger, futility, boredom, frustration, bewilderment, confusion, alcoholism, loss of appetite, resume envy, misanthropy, an urge to party with Rob Ford, phone fatigue, Google search fatigue…
This is a partial list of symptoms.
Looking for a job is a lot like speed dating. As you go through various interviews, you're meeting people you've never met before with the possibility of spending an awful lot of time with them.
And there's the possibility of screwing. Screwing around or getting screwed over.
A lot of the questions asked of you are the same too. Just make sure you change the answers where appropriate.
What do you like to do on your day off?
"I enjoy long walks in the park" could be changed to "I enjoy long hours toiling my butt away with brain-cremating work while you are off making little replicas of you and your blonde spouse in the back of your Escalade, parked in your semi-circular Post Road driveway".
I wonder who writes job descriptions. From the ads I've read, I would guess Bob and Doug McKenzie. In their basement.
I often see the request for a ROCK STAR. Excuse me, a what? Do I need to play an instrument at work? Should I come dressed as the latest incarnation of Miley Cyrus?
Gee, I'm not sure my tongue is long enough. Sorry, I don't do talentless skank.
One curious attribute a company demanded was to be "approachable". What am I, a tiger shark?
Did you interview the previous employee over an intercom?
One of my faves is "must be able to handle constructive criticism and rejection well". Yes, I have dated before. And I'm currently married. Requirement met!
Then there's the old 'be all that you can be': "Must be able to work on a team as well as independently". Must also be smart enough to do the job and dumb enough to stay.
I think this is my favourite job description:
Administrative Assistant/ Graphic Designer
The ideal candidate will have a mid to senior level graphic design background with an interest in administration.
Role and Responsibilities – Answering and directing phone inquiries, and, while you're at it:
Develop and administer content for multi-language website in HTML, FLASH, PHP, etc; translate into Spanish, German, Chinese, Japanese, etc.
What? Would I like to take a break from using my expensive Graphic Design and Translating degrees to answer your phones and type your letters? Golly gee, can I?
This is the job I would like to have:
Manager, Green Coffee at Smuckers
That's it? One particular bag of coffee only? I'm there.
I got an email from a headhunter, asking "I wonder if I can get IN FRONT of you for a few minutes to discuss blah, blah, blah". In front of me? I prefer if you get behind me so you can kiss my ass.
Why can't I just be a guy who shows up on time and does his work properly?
Both have symptoms that are very hard to treat. Leprosy gives you disfiguring skin sores and bumps. Job hunting has symptoms such as fatigue, loss of self esteem, rejection, anger, futility, boredom, frustration, bewilderment, confusion, alcoholism, loss of appetite, resume envy, misanthropy, an urge to party with Rob Ford, phone fatigue, Google search fatigue…
This is a partial list of symptoms.
Looking for a job is a lot like speed dating. As you go through various interviews, you're meeting people you've never met before with the possibility of spending an awful lot of time with them.
And there's the possibility of screwing. Screwing around or getting screwed over.
A lot of the questions asked of you are the same too. Just make sure you change the answers where appropriate.
What do you like to do on your day off?
"I enjoy long walks in the park" could be changed to "I enjoy long hours toiling my butt away with brain-cremating work while you are off making little replicas of you and your blonde spouse in the back of your Escalade, parked in your semi-circular Post Road driveway".
I wonder who writes job descriptions. From the ads I've read, I would guess Bob and Doug McKenzie. In their basement.
I often see the request for a ROCK STAR. Excuse me, a what? Do I need to play an instrument at work? Should I come dressed as the latest incarnation of Miley Cyrus?
Gee, I'm not sure my tongue is long enough. Sorry, I don't do talentless skank.
One curious attribute a company demanded was to be "approachable". What am I, a tiger shark?
Did you interview the previous employee over an intercom?
One of my faves is "must be able to handle constructive criticism and rejection well". Yes, I have dated before. And I'm currently married. Requirement met!
Then there's the old 'be all that you can be': "Must be able to work on a team as well as independently". Must also be smart enough to do the job and dumb enough to stay.
I think this is my favourite job description:
Administrative Assistant/ Graphic Designer
The ideal candidate will have a mid to senior level graphic design background with an interest in administration.
Role and Responsibilities – Answering and directing phone inquiries, and, while you're at it:
Develop and administer content for multi-language website in HTML, FLASH, PHP, etc; translate into Spanish, German, Chinese, Japanese, etc.
What? Would I like to take a break from using my expensive Graphic Design and Translating degrees to answer your phones and type your letters? Golly gee, can I?
This is the job I would like to have:
Manager, Green Coffee at Smuckers
That's it? One particular bag of coffee only? I'm there.
I got an email from a headhunter, asking "I wonder if I can get IN FRONT of you for a few minutes to discuss blah, blah, blah". In front of me? I prefer if you get behind me so you can kiss my ass.
Why can't I just be a guy who shows up on time and does his work properly?
Thursday, 7 November 2013
Helloooo Newman: Congratulations Kids for Making it This Far
Helloooo Newman: Congratulations Kids for Making it This Far: Children are the future. That's what they say. Of course, nothing exists in the future. Things only exist now. But let's not fuss....
Congratulations Kids for Making it This Far
Children are the future. That's what they say.
Of course, nothing exists in the future. Things only exist now. But let's not fuss.
When children are first born, we value them over and above everything. They are delicate, fragile and need to be taken care of.
So now you can't smoke in the delivery room, as my mom did when I was born. Is that whooping cough or smoker's cough? They didn't know.
When children are about 1-2, we drown them in educational paraphernalia like flash cards, The Teletubbies and Baby Einstein.
Einstein had a hugenormous imagination, but I doubt he ever thought one-year-old children would be watching videos of him and his famous equation, E=MC2.
This equation is quite beautiful. Almost as beautiful as our precious children. If you don't know already, the equation states that the amount of energy in an object is equal to its mass multiplied by the speed of light squared.
I remember the first time my daughter learned this equation because it coincided with the first time she decided to convert all of the energy in her body into a diarrhea poop on the floor. And just when we got her out of diapers.
As for the Teletubbies, well, I think Charles Manson, Paul Bernardo and Jeffrey Dahmer were all raised ingesting these creepy creatures.
As they get older, our children learn to transport themselves via bike. But when they first get on a bike, reaching speeds of maybe .0025 kph, having training wheels and us holding them, we still make very sure to secure their heads with helmets and knees/elbows with pads.
Obviously, we value these children very much. We will go to any length to protect them. Aliens watching us would conclude that the sole function of parents is to swath their children in comfort and safety.
But then, it seems, we take a break from caring.
From the age of about 5 to 18, what do we do? We pile them by the thousands into school buses. And not a safety piece of equipment in sight.
Seat belts? Grab a kid's hair and hope they have strong follicles.
Do you remember those school bus seats? I believe maxi-pads are nicer to sit on.
The rest is hard, bone-crushing metal. Travelling upwards of 100 kph. Will E=MC2 help them just before they slam into that tree?
When that bus does hit the tree, your precious children might as well be pennies freed from your jean pockets in the dryer. Loud and painful.
Probably more like kleenex. You know how it gets spread apart, torn up and bundled into little hard balls of so much flesh.
It's like we're saying, "Okay, children, we've taken you this far, and now it's up to you. You've been pretty damn comfortable up to now. What, you thought it would last forever?".
When they turn 18, we say, "Whew. Congratulations, kids. You've proved yourselves worthy adults. And now you get your safety equipment back. That's right, comfy seats, rear cameras, steel-belted tires, front airbags, side airbags, top airbags and please hand over airbags of money for all this".
Good luck, kids.
Of course, nothing exists in the future. Things only exist now. But let's not fuss.
When children are first born, we value them over and above everything. They are delicate, fragile and need to be taken care of.
So now you can't smoke in the delivery room, as my mom did when I was born. Is that whooping cough or smoker's cough? They didn't know.
When children are about 1-2, we drown them in educational paraphernalia like flash cards, The Teletubbies and Baby Einstein.
Einstein had a hugenormous imagination, but I doubt he ever thought one-year-old children would be watching videos of him and his famous equation, E=MC2.
This equation is quite beautiful. Almost as beautiful as our precious children. If you don't know already, the equation states that the amount of energy in an object is equal to its mass multiplied by the speed of light squared.
I remember the first time my daughter learned this equation because it coincided with the first time she decided to convert all of the energy in her body into a diarrhea poop on the floor. And just when we got her out of diapers.
As for the Teletubbies, well, I think Charles Manson, Paul Bernardo and Jeffrey Dahmer were all raised ingesting these creepy creatures.
As they get older, our children learn to transport themselves via bike. But when they first get on a bike, reaching speeds of maybe .0025 kph, having training wheels and us holding them, we still make very sure to secure their heads with helmets and knees/elbows with pads.
Obviously, we value these children very much. We will go to any length to protect them. Aliens watching us would conclude that the sole function of parents is to swath their children in comfort and safety.
But then, it seems, we take a break from caring.
From the age of about 5 to 18, what do we do? We pile them by the thousands into school buses. And not a safety piece of equipment in sight.
Seat belts? Grab a kid's hair and hope they have strong follicles.
Do you remember those school bus seats? I believe maxi-pads are nicer to sit on.
The rest is hard, bone-crushing metal. Travelling upwards of 100 kph. Will E=MC2 help them just before they slam into that tree?
When that bus does hit the tree, your precious children might as well be pennies freed from your jean pockets in the dryer. Loud and painful.
Probably more like kleenex. You know how it gets spread apart, torn up and bundled into little hard balls of so much flesh.
It's like we're saying, "Okay, children, we've taken you this far, and now it's up to you. You've been pretty damn comfortable up to now. What, you thought it would last forever?".
When they turn 18, we say, "Whew. Congratulations, kids. You've proved yourselves worthy adults. And now you get your safety equipment back. That's right, comfy seats, rear cameras, steel-belted tires, front airbags, side airbags, top airbags and please hand over airbags of money for all this".
Good luck, kids.
Helloooo Newman: Inventions that need inventing
Helloooo Newman: Inventions that need inventing: Someone needs to invent the ibrella right now. When it rains I keep wiping tiny water drops off my iphone and accidentally swipe web pages...
Inventions that need inventing
Someone needs to invent the ibrella right now.
When it rains I keep wiping tiny water drops off my iphone screen and accidentally swipe web pages.
Yesterday, without my realizing, I bought 3 grand pianos, two skirts, a pair of high heels and a dvd called Jason and his ArgoNUTS.
I already have the damn dvd.
When it rains I keep wiping tiny water drops off my iphone screen and accidentally swipe web pages.
Yesterday, without my realizing, I bought 3 grand pianos, two skirts, a pair of high heels and a dvd called Jason and his ArgoNUTS.
I already have the damn dvd.
Tuesday, 5 November 2013
Helloooo Newman: Who Wins the Race?
Helloooo Newman: Who Wins the Race?: Some of you may have noticed that when I use the term "human race", I actually write human's race. I borrowed this clever li...
Who Wins the Race?
Some of you may have noticed that I substitute the term "human race" with "human's race" in my articles.
I borrowed this clever line from a song. The only good song this band ever produced. The song is "I Melt With You" by Modern English.
As a matter of interest, this song first appeared in the movie Valley Girl in 1983, featuring a very young Nicolas Cage.
I prefer "human's race" because, except in remote places near the New Guinea rainforest, this life really is our race. For everything. A great job, high status, the smoothest beer, the wine with the best finish, the largest house, the most secure ego, skirts, the plumpest chicken wings, the lowest fat diet, time etc. We're all chasing something.
No doubt about it. And the more you convince yourself you aren't chasing anything, well, you know the rest.
One thing I really don't understand about the human's race is the worry over one's reputation when you are dead. The legacy.
Newsflash: you are not there to perceive or receive the accolades you are hoping for.
It's a bit like being told you will have a threesome with Charlize Theron and Amy Adams (something I aspire to, with or without their cooperation) but don't worry because you won't feel a thing under the general anaesthetic we will give you.
You're not really there to enjoy it, right? I suppose, on a technicality, you could brag at parties that you did engage in a threesome with Theron/Adams. That's something for sure.
But too bad, so sad, you didn't "really" have a threesome with them.
That is why I worry only about my reputation now. And so when Lou the piano student (from 2 articles ago) called me a poop, well, that really stung.
So I, just like Rob Ford, will try desperately to repair my reputation NOW. Hopefully I am a little better at it.
As for the human's race, we all finish at the same point. Either first or last, depending on how you look at it.
I borrowed this clever line from a song. The only good song this band ever produced. The song is "I Melt With You" by Modern English.
As a matter of interest, this song first appeared in the movie Valley Girl in 1983, featuring a very young Nicolas Cage.
I prefer "human's race" because, except in remote places near the New Guinea rainforest, this life really is our race. For everything. A great job, high status, the smoothest beer, the wine with the best finish, the largest house, the most secure ego, skirts, the plumpest chicken wings, the lowest fat diet, time etc. We're all chasing something.
No doubt about it. And the more you convince yourself you aren't chasing anything, well, you know the rest.
One thing I really don't understand about the human's race is the worry over one's reputation when you are dead. The legacy.
Newsflash: you are not there to perceive or receive the accolades you are hoping for.
It's a bit like being told you will have a threesome with Charlize Theron and Amy Adams (something I aspire to, with or without their cooperation) but don't worry because you won't feel a thing under the general anaesthetic we will give you.
You're not really there to enjoy it, right? I suppose, on a technicality, you could brag at parties that you did engage in a threesome with Theron/Adams. That's something for sure.
But too bad, so sad, you didn't "really" have a threesome with them.
That is why I worry only about my reputation now. And so when Lou the piano student (from 2 articles ago) called me a poop, well, that really stung.
So I, just like Rob Ford, will try desperately to repair my reputation NOW. Hopefully I am a little better at it.
As for the human's race, we all finish at the same point. Either first or last, depending on how you look at it.
Helloooo Newman: Cyber Baby
Helloooo Newman: Cyber Baby: I think my biggest fear for the human's race these days is that Miley Cyrus and Justin Bieber will procreate together. I know my fears...
Cyber Baby
I think my biggest fear for the human's race these days is that Miley Cyrus and Justin Bieber will procreate together.
I know my fears should be around warmth spreading across the globe, but have you ever thought of what the songs of Cyrus, Bieber, and then their "Cy-ber" baby blanketing the planet would do to the human intellect?
The prospect is chilling.
I read in a wonderful book called A Short History of Nearly Everything (by Bill Bryson) that, according to scientists, 50% of all the genes we carry around in us seem to have no purpose whatsoever. They exist just to reproduce themselves.
In the case of Cyrus, Bieber and Cyber baby, that means 150% of them have no function at all except to reproduce their music. The other 150% (they each get 100%, which is generous) is spread equally amongst them as such: 50% for looks, 50% for brain power, 50% for talent. That means about 16.75% of each of them is talent. My math must be wrong because that seems so high.
The awful truth we Canadians must come to terms with is that Miley Cyrus's current and highly original hit "Wrecking Ball" was written by a Canadian. I think this is kept secret to protect innocent Canadians and to hide the fact that the skank didn't write her own hit song, which really isn't her song.
I saw recently that Bieber was hit in the head with a water bottle in Brazil. He kept the private audience waiting for three hours. I would say he's lucky to be alive. Still, I'm into kindness these days so I have to admit that the water bottle thing is mean. Having said that, if I were at a Bieber brouhaha, which I would only attend if I were in a coffin or urn and taken there without my awareness, I think the urge to whack him with something would probably overcome me.
I am a huge fan of Youtube. I think it is the best resource around for spreading useful information about all kinds of endeavours, including music. And it's free.
I would be fully supportive of ending Youtube as a resource if it meant Cyber baby won't be able to spread his or her music.
Yes, the dark ages are looking more and more attractive.
I know my fears should be around warmth spreading across the globe, but have you ever thought of what the songs of Cyrus, Bieber, and then their "Cy-ber" baby blanketing the planet would do to the human intellect?
The prospect is chilling.
I read in a wonderful book called A Short History of Nearly Everything (by Bill Bryson) that, according to scientists, 50% of all the genes we carry around in us seem to have no purpose whatsoever. They exist just to reproduce themselves.
In the case of Cyrus, Bieber and Cyber baby, that means 150% of them have no function at all except to reproduce their music. The other 150% (they each get 100%, which is generous) is spread equally amongst them as such: 50% for looks, 50% for brain power, 50% for talent. That means about 16.75% of each of them is talent. My math must be wrong because that seems so high.
The awful truth we Canadians must come to terms with is that Miley Cyrus's current and highly original hit "Wrecking Ball" was written by a Canadian. I think this is kept secret to protect innocent Canadians and to hide the fact that the skank didn't write her own hit song, which really isn't her song.
I saw recently that Bieber was hit in the head with a water bottle in Brazil. He kept the private audience waiting for three hours. I would say he's lucky to be alive. Still, I'm into kindness these days so I have to admit that the water bottle thing is mean. Having said that, if I were at a Bieber brouhaha, which I would only attend if I were in a coffin or urn and taken there without my awareness, I think the urge to whack him with something would probably overcome me.
I am a huge fan of Youtube. I think it is the best resource around for spreading useful information about all kinds of endeavours, including music. And it's free.
I would be fully supportive of ending Youtube as a resource if it meant Cyber baby won't be able to spread his or her music.
Yes, the dark ages are looking more and more attractive.
Helloooo Newman: Do Children Gossip?
Helloooo Newman: Do Children Gossip?: They certainly do. And even about me, it's true. Yesterday I had the pleasure of hearing some gossip from a 6-year-old. One hundred ...
Do Children Gossip?
They certainly do.
And even about me, it's true.
Yesterday I had the pleasure of hearing some gossip from a 6-year-old. One hundred percent, Canada grade A gossip. And it was about little ol' me.
I was teaching Gus (not his real name), a 6-year-old, piano when he asked me if I taught his friend, Lou (not his real name).
It's true, I did teach Lou. If you've read this blog before you may have run into Lou. Lou is the charming student who wrote in his notebook, "I hat piano" and presented it to me. Lou meant "I hate piano" but didn't have the literary skills to get that across.
Anywho, a few weeks ago Lou's mom let me go (fired seems like such a harsh word to use) because, she said, Lou is not good at the piano (very true) and he is too busy learning how to spell. This is just one of many other career-oriented activities Lou is involved in.
I said to Gus, "Yes, I did teach Lou".
Gus responds, "Oh ya, and his mom fired you".
Yes Gus, and thanks for the encouraging words.
Gus continues…"Lou thought you were poop. And he told me you are always texting on your phone. But I don't mind if you text".
Thank you for your understanding, Gus. Obviously Gus had used the word poop many times before. He said it as casually as he would have told me a button was missing from my shirt.
Gus had another tidbit for me. "Lou is still taking piano with a new teacher. A girl".
Well gee, Gus, I guess the mom lied to me to get rid of me.
She could have just sent me a note saying, "I hat your teaching."
And even about me, it's true.
Yesterday I had the pleasure of hearing some gossip from a 6-year-old. One hundred percent, Canada grade A gossip. And it was about little ol' me.
I was teaching Gus (not his real name), a 6-year-old, piano when he asked me if I taught his friend, Lou (not his real name).
It's true, I did teach Lou. If you've read this blog before you may have run into Lou. Lou is the charming student who wrote in his notebook, "I hat piano" and presented it to me. Lou meant "I hate piano" but didn't have the literary skills to get that across.
Anywho, a few weeks ago Lou's mom let me go (fired seems like such a harsh word to use) because, she said, Lou is not good at the piano (very true) and he is too busy learning how to spell. This is just one of many other career-oriented activities Lou is involved in.
I said to Gus, "Yes, I did teach Lou".
Gus responds, "Oh ya, and his mom fired you".
Yes Gus, and thanks for the encouraging words.
Gus continues…"Lou thought you were poop. And he told me you are always texting on your phone. But I don't mind if you text".
Thank you for your understanding, Gus. Obviously Gus had used the word poop many times before. He said it as casually as he would have told me a button was missing from my shirt.
Gus had another tidbit for me. "Lou is still taking piano with a new teacher. A girl".
Well gee, Gus, I guess the mom lied to me to get rid of me.
She could have just sent me a note saying, "I hat your teaching."
Wednesday, 30 October 2013
Thursday, 24 October 2013
Helloooo Newman: Man Boobs
Helloooo Newman: Man Boobs: Readers should be aware that I am a male. While I consider myself a male that has progressed out of the Cro Magnon stage, nature made me a m...
Man Boobs
Readers should be aware that I am a male. While I consider myself a male that has progressed out of the Cro Magnon stage, nature made me a male and that means I am, by genetics and social training, part pig.
The pig part of me has always wondered what it would be like to have breasts. Would I do anything other than play with them all day? I think not.
Well, in the last few days I almost had a chance to find out what it would be like to have man boobs. And I don't mean the man boobs developed by consuming too many chicken wings and beer.
The last few days I have had a continuous headache. I believe it is caused by issues I am having with M, who you can learn about in an earlier blog. I will speak no further on M.
But I will on the breasts. Breasts are a marvel of engineering. So simple in design and very easy to use. I'm pretty sure Steve Jobs (and his team) at Apple had a hand in designing the breast way back. It is just too sleek and user-friendly not to be so. I would like to have been one of those hands, let me tell you.
What a laugh if Bill Gates got to the breast first. Males today would be caressing something resembling an appendix and these "breasts" would take many minutes to expand just so you could use them. There would be all kinds of incomprehensible security features in the way of enjoying them and, of course, once you finally got going and "using" them they would crash.
Excellent Job(s), Steve.
Back to the headache, Mr. Pig. I have been trying all kinds of different types of pain killers to try and get back to my joyful self. Nothing worked permanently.
In the past I have found that the gel caps work nicely. You shouldn't confuse these with the gel PACKS that are used in breast enlargement work. The caps are way too small for that.
Alas, my search of the house turned up some caps. I consumed them at a dosage that would more suit a Haflinger horse.
They started to do the job so I continued in my consumption. Two hours ago I reached for a handful of caps when suddenly my wife asked me what I was up to? Did she find my porn collection? Do I have a porn collection? As if!
She was concerned because the gels caps I was ingesting were not aspirin. Oh no they weren't.
They were a medicinal pill to treat menopause. When I heard the word menopause, I paused.
I suddenly felt 6 pounds heavier on my chest. These hormone boosters were coursing through my veins on their way to my nipples. My headache returned. But I also felt a tad excited. Think of the possibilities.
At the nursery school where I play piano every day all the children call me Mrs. Hardie. Suddenly that would make sense.
I'm still watching and waiting. I guess I'm in a bit of a competition with my daughter.
I wonder who will win?
The pig part of me has always wondered what it would be like to have breasts. Would I do anything other than play with them all day? I think not.
Well, in the last few days I almost had a chance to find out what it would be like to have man boobs. And I don't mean the man boobs developed by consuming too many chicken wings and beer.
The last few days I have had a continuous headache. I believe it is caused by issues I am having with M, who you can learn about in an earlier blog. I will speak no further on M.
But I will on the breasts. Breasts are a marvel of engineering. So simple in design and very easy to use. I'm pretty sure Steve Jobs (and his team) at Apple had a hand in designing the breast way back. It is just too sleek and user-friendly not to be so. I would like to have been one of those hands, let me tell you.
What a laugh if Bill Gates got to the breast first. Males today would be caressing something resembling an appendix and these "breasts" would take many minutes to expand just so you could use them. There would be all kinds of incomprehensible security features in the way of enjoying them and, of course, once you finally got going and "using" them they would crash.
Excellent Job(s), Steve.
Back to the headache, Mr. Pig. I have been trying all kinds of different types of pain killers to try and get back to my joyful self. Nothing worked permanently.
In the past I have found that the gel caps work nicely. You shouldn't confuse these with the gel PACKS that are used in breast enlargement work. The caps are way too small for that.
Alas, my search of the house turned up some caps. I consumed them at a dosage that would more suit a Haflinger horse.
They started to do the job so I continued in my consumption. Two hours ago I reached for a handful of caps when suddenly my wife asked me what I was up to? Did she find my porn collection? Do I have a porn collection? As if!
She was concerned because the gels caps I was ingesting were not aspirin. Oh no they weren't.
They were a medicinal pill to treat menopause. When I heard the word menopause, I paused.
I suddenly felt 6 pounds heavier on my chest. These hormone boosters were coursing through my veins on their way to my nipples. My headache returned. But I also felt a tad excited. Think of the possibilities.
At the nursery school where I play piano every day all the children call me Mrs. Hardie. Suddenly that would make sense.
I'm still watching and waiting. I guess I'm in a bit of a competition with my daughter.
I wonder who will win?
Helloooo Newman: Newman loves to run these days
Helloooo Newman: Newman loves to run these days: That's a strange title. Of course Newman loves to run. What would be all of a sudden about it? And what dog doesn't love to run? Exc...
Newman loves to run these days
That's a strange title. Of course Newman loves to run. What would be all of a sudden about it? And what dog doesn't love to run? Except, maybe, for those tiny lap dogs that love the feel of fur coats on their belly.
Unfortunately, I don't mean "run", I mean "the runs".
For about a week now, Newman has not been spitting out poop popsicles but more like poop shakes.
This means getting up 3-4 times a night so he can go and mix another shake outside.
Our expert sources tell us that eating rice might help. That would be plain rice. I gave him spicy rice. Nice.
So now it's PLAIN rice every day until this madness stops. The toughest part has been teaching him how to use chop sticks. Even I have trouble with this.
The thing that really irks me is where Newman chooses to drop a shake when he can't hold it long enough to get outside. He drops it under the piano every time.
Is this a message? A comment on my musical skills? My teaching abilities?
Why not go near the t.v.? There's lots of crap on the t.v. Or the garbage? Poop and garbage kinda belong together.
It reminds me of that Sesame Street game, which one of these things doesn't belong with the other. I happen to think dog poop (any poop, really) and my musical abilities don't go together, thank you very much.
Tomorrow, kids, we'll learn about the time Mr. Snuffleupagus had the runs. Now that's scary.
Unfortunately, I don't mean "run", I mean "the runs".
For about a week now, Newman has not been spitting out poop popsicles but more like poop shakes.
This means getting up 3-4 times a night so he can go and mix another shake outside.
Our expert sources tell us that eating rice might help. That would be plain rice. I gave him spicy rice. Nice.
So now it's PLAIN rice every day until this madness stops. The toughest part has been teaching him how to use chop sticks. Even I have trouble with this.
The thing that really irks me is where Newman chooses to drop a shake when he can't hold it long enough to get outside. He drops it under the piano every time.
Is this a message? A comment on my musical skills? My teaching abilities?
Why not go near the t.v.? There's lots of crap on the t.v. Or the garbage? Poop and garbage kinda belong together.
It reminds me of that Sesame Street game, which one of these things doesn't belong with the other. I happen to think dog poop (any poop, really) and my musical abilities don't go together, thank you very much.
Tomorrow, kids, we'll learn about the time Mr. Snuffleupagus had the runs. Now that's scary.
Monday, 21 October 2013
Helloooo Newman: Dog Raising Mistakes 101
Helloooo Newman: Dog Raising Mistakes 101: When a dog is very well behaved for a long period of time, it presents a real danger to the owner. I know it sounds contradictory, but thi...
Dog Raising Mistakes 101
When a dog is very well behaved for a long period of time, it presents a real danger to the owner.
I know it sounds contradictory, but this is the time to be on your guard.
As usual, it has nothing to do with the dog, but with human psychology. Or at least my psychology, as warped a sample as it is.
Up until now, Newman has been quite well behaved. Especially in the one activity that all dogs seem to get off on doing, which is rolling in the grass. if it weren't for the missing gonads, I guess that might be a roll in the hay.
Newman looooves to roll in grass. And not once have I ever, ever had to worry that he would choose any other grass than clean, fresh, plump grass.
This goodness is quite deceiving. It led me to believe, fall for, the idea that Newman is a human being and thinks like one too. A good, reasonable human being, of which there may not be many, but he is one of them for sure.
Your dog in no way whatsoever thinks like you. Write this wisdom on your walls, mirrors and forehead. Buy the t-shirt. Brand it into the backside of your dog. Say it to yourself over and over again while listening to Deepak Chopra pull you into a meditative trance and pick your pocket.
Keep an eye on Deepak while you're doing this. I once saw him in an interview wearing what looked like a $10,000 sweater with silk and gold and diamonds. Unusual apparel for a guy who says we're all just pure consciousness and consciousness doesn't need "things" to be happy. My consciousness once tried shopping at Holt's and left very depressed.
Sorry for the bad news, but your dog does not think like you and doesn't relate to anything you do. He or she just tries to follow incomprehensible rules in hopes of being fed.
Today Newman rolled in the plump grass. The two words missing here are clean and fresh. He now smells like a combination of pig vomit, rotting potatoes, skunk urine, ammonia and nail polish remover. I've smelled all of these one at a time, but never in a combo like this. I called Febreze to see if they'd put him in one of their commercials but they'd have to hurry because I'm putting him in the dishwasher. They declined on creative grounds.
Newman is happy as a clam smelling like death turned inside out. Surprising, but I don't think like that.
Your dog in no way whatsoever thinks like you. You've been warned.
I know it sounds contradictory, but this is the time to be on your guard.
As usual, it has nothing to do with the dog, but with human psychology. Or at least my psychology, as warped a sample as it is.
Up until now, Newman has been quite well behaved. Especially in the one activity that all dogs seem to get off on doing, which is rolling in the grass. if it weren't for the missing gonads, I guess that might be a roll in the hay.
Newman looooves to roll in grass. And not once have I ever, ever had to worry that he would choose any other grass than clean, fresh, plump grass.
This goodness is quite deceiving. It led me to believe, fall for, the idea that Newman is a human being and thinks like one too. A good, reasonable human being, of which there may not be many, but he is one of them for sure.
Your dog in no way whatsoever thinks like you. Write this wisdom on your walls, mirrors and forehead. Buy the t-shirt. Brand it into the backside of your dog. Say it to yourself over and over again while listening to Deepak Chopra pull you into a meditative trance and pick your pocket.
Keep an eye on Deepak while you're doing this. I once saw him in an interview wearing what looked like a $10,000 sweater with silk and gold and diamonds. Unusual apparel for a guy who says we're all just pure consciousness and consciousness doesn't need "things" to be happy. My consciousness once tried shopping at Holt's and left very depressed.
Sorry for the bad news, but your dog does not think like you and doesn't relate to anything you do. He or she just tries to follow incomprehensible rules in hopes of being fed.
Today Newman rolled in the plump grass. The two words missing here are clean and fresh. He now smells like a combination of pig vomit, rotting potatoes, skunk urine, ammonia and nail polish remover. I've smelled all of these one at a time, but never in a combo like this. I called Febreze to see if they'd put him in one of their commercials but they'd have to hurry because I'm putting him in the dishwasher. They declined on creative grounds.
Newman is happy as a clam smelling like death turned inside out. Surprising, but I don't think like that.
Your dog in no way whatsoever thinks like you. You've been warned.
Sunday, 20 October 2013
Helloooo Newman: Blow your own whistle
Helloooo Newman: Blow your own whistle: Whistleblowing is really trendy these days. A whistleblower is someone who works at an institution like the government or a corporation an...
Blow your own whistle
Whistleblowing is really trendy these days.
A whistleblower is someone who works at an institution like the government or a corporation and who reveals secrets about the institution to expose, as the great philosopher George Bush terms them, evil doers.
Whistleblowers use to do their business in secret. I refer, of course, to the famous Deep Throat, a la Watergate, who only did his business in underground parking garages in half light and had the gall to always be standing in the handicap space.
We all know Deep Throat helped expose Richard Nixon, who I would accuse of having had narcissistic personality disorder, except it's hard to assign him any personality at all.
The current whistleblower of the month is Edward Snowden, a young guy who I don't think even has to shave yet. He did not meet in parking garages, probably because he doesn't have his licence yet, or only has the licence that lets him drive with an adult, and he couldn't find anyone else who wanted to expose the NSA and then move to beautiful KGB Headquarters in Moscow.
Snowden made sure the first thing everyone knew was his name and face. I have mixed feelings about what Mr. Ed did. It certainly is startling that the NSA tracks how many junk emails I get on penis enlargement technology. This technology doesn't even work. On the bright side, I can add some NSA office spies as readers of this blog. Especially this article. Right now.
Anyway, who am I to judge Snowden and what he did? I just think that he might not be the brightest guy in the parking garage, if he chose to meet in one. Virtuous, yes. Bright? Well, let me see. He exposes the U.S. government for tracking everyone's every move, then moves to a country whose expertise lies in tracking everyone's every move, has been for many decades, and has resulted in many, many people disappearing throughout its history.
Life is all about priorities, I guess.
Now to my point. It's not to preach or give a history lesson. It's to express my outrage at the whistleblower in my own home. My daughter.
My wife was away this weekend at the cottage for a girl's weekend. On the topic of spying, I would have loved to go up there and track their every movement, but I didn't have the technology, a car.
Saturday night my daughter calls the cottage to speak to mommy. The conversation is very sweet, adorable, gosh darn cute. Until my daughter felt the need to reveal that the house is clean, except for the kitchen, which is a disgusting mess. This is a direct quote taken from my tapes of the conversation. Daddy has turned the kitchen into a nightmare.
That mess is called cooking, girl. No, you didn't save the world by revealing Kitchengate.
I am now sleeping in our parking garage.
A whistleblower is someone who works at an institution like the government or a corporation and who reveals secrets about the institution to expose, as the great philosopher George Bush terms them, evil doers.
Whistleblowers use to do their business in secret. I refer, of course, to the famous Deep Throat, a la Watergate, who only did his business in underground parking garages in half light and had the gall to always be standing in the handicap space.
We all know Deep Throat helped expose Richard Nixon, who I would accuse of having had narcissistic personality disorder, except it's hard to assign him any personality at all.
The current whistleblower of the month is Edward Snowden, a young guy who I don't think even has to shave yet. He did not meet in parking garages, probably because he doesn't have his licence yet, or only has the licence that lets him drive with an adult, and he couldn't find anyone else who wanted to expose the NSA and then move to beautiful KGB Headquarters in Moscow.
Snowden made sure the first thing everyone knew was his name and face. I have mixed feelings about what Mr. Ed did. It certainly is startling that the NSA tracks how many junk emails I get on penis enlargement technology. This technology doesn't even work. On the bright side, I can add some NSA office spies as readers of this blog. Especially this article. Right now.
Anyway, who am I to judge Snowden and what he did? I just think that he might not be the brightest guy in the parking garage, if he chose to meet in one. Virtuous, yes. Bright? Well, let me see. He exposes the U.S. government for tracking everyone's every move, then moves to a country whose expertise lies in tracking everyone's every move, has been for many decades, and has resulted in many, many people disappearing throughout its history.
Life is all about priorities, I guess.
Now to my point. It's not to preach or give a history lesson. It's to express my outrage at the whistleblower in my own home. My daughter.
My wife was away this weekend at the cottage for a girl's weekend. On the topic of spying, I would have loved to go up there and track their every movement, but I didn't have the technology, a car.
Saturday night my daughter calls the cottage to speak to mommy. The conversation is very sweet, adorable, gosh darn cute. Until my daughter felt the need to reveal that the house is clean, except for the kitchen, which is a disgusting mess. This is a direct quote taken from my tapes of the conversation. Daddy has turned the kitchen into a nightmare.
That mess is called cooking, girl. No, you didn't save the world by revealing Kitchengate.
I am now sleeping in our parking garage.
Smile, and the whole dog world smiles back
One thing I like to do, which I've never seen anyone else do (among humans, anyway) is smile at dogs.
That's right. I'll be walking along Bayview and there will be a dog waiting patiently while his or her owner is buying a half caf., steamed, not boiled, spritzer highball no-fat, trans-fat skim milk latte mixed with the latest probiotic and a side of actual wholesome food, like a thin wedge of biscotti. This is immediately followed by a visit to the health store, where they ingest a whole body and mind cleansing pill (20 pills in total) for $120.
I make eye contact with the dog and smile. And they DO smile back. I think dogs get it when you smile at them. They get the friendly connection you are trying to make. Certainly more so than the skin-covered human skeletons prancing around Bayview.
If I see a wild dog, I am very careful not to smile. I once read in a book about dogs, written by a dog, that if you smile at a wild dog, it sees it as a threat. That's because in the wild when you smile, it means you are baring your teeth. And that means fightin' time. There are no friendships in the wild. There's only me being alive, or you being alive.
There are no real friendships on Bayview either, really. There's only me having a big house, or you having a big house.
This baring teeth thing could never happen on Bayview. For one thing, everyone's teeth, including the dog's teeth, are so damn white. How could such friendly, white, expensive teeth be any threat?
No, I don't wave at the dog. I'm not a fool.
That's right. I'll be walking along Bayview and there will be a dog waiting patiently while his or her owner is buying a half caf., steamed, not boiled, spritzer highball no-fat, trans-fat skim milk latte mixed with the latest probiotic and a side of actual wholesome food, like a thin wedge of biscotti. This is immediately followed by a visit to the health store, where they ingest a whole body and mind cleansing pill (20 pills in total) for $120.
I make eye contact with the dog and smile. And they DO smile back. I think dogs get it when you smile at them. They get the friendly connection you are trying to make. Certainly more so than the skin-covered human skeletons prancing around Bayview.
If I see a wild dog, I am very careful not to smile. I once read in a book about dogs, written by a dog, that if you smile at a wild dog, it sees it as a threat. That's because in the wild when you smile, it means you are baring your teeth. And that means fightin' time. There are no friendships in the wild. There's only me being alive, or you being alive.
There are no real friendships on Bayview either, really. There's only me having a big house, or you having a big house.
This baring teeth thing could never happen on Bayview. For one thing, everyone's teeth, including the dog's teeth, are so damn white. How could such friendly, white, expensive teeth be any threat?
No, I don't wave at the dog. I'm not a fool.
Thursday, 17 October 2013
Helloooo Newman: A Surfeit of Choice
Helloooo Newman: A Surfeit of Choice: It's nice to have choices in life. For most of human history, humans have had a choice between a life that resembles death, and death it...
A Surfeit of Choice
It's nice to have choices in life. For most of human history, humans have had a choice between a life that resembles death, and death itself.
Some choices I don't understand. For instance, when you are watching a youtube video, a resource where I get most of my knowledge and experience from these days, you have a choice of watching the commercial before the exciting video, or skipping it.
Really? Is that a choice people wrestle with? Hmmm, well, I am looking for a date, so maybe that eharmony ad will finally get me going. If that doesn't work, I can always visit the fun site Cougars who look like John Mellencamp.
I really don't understand the strategy. Who is the target group of people that want to delay gratification with a commercial telling you Tim Horton's coffee is always served within 20 minutes? I could serve a pot of mud in 20 minutes, but it would still be mud. I suppose fresh mud would be more refreshing than dry, stale mud.
When men turn fifty, they are suppose to get rectal exams, or send their poop in the mail for a rectum test. But if the need for this rectum rendezvous suddenly disappeared - maybe some miracle preventive cream is found, or some hose device that betters your bowels - would I keep going for the exam? I guess some people would, now that I think about it. The same people who would visit the website mentioned above.
Would hospitals send letters giving you a choice of staying home and enjoying a nice steak dinner with your family or coming in to have fingers surfing in your butt? If yes, please check the box and also let us know which two fingers you prefer.
Some youtube video commercials make you watch 5 seconds before you can "choose" to skip it. That's great, because it could be a really important message that will improve my life immensely. I have found that I need about 5 seconds to make that determination. A bit of a tease, though. In the same vein, hospitals would tease you to come for a rectal rendezvous by promising that a pretty nurse with sexy, slender fingers (maybe dressed in sexy black fish net finger stockings and fingertip heels) will find your "P" spot.
I really hope we don't loose this important choice in life.
Some choices I don't understand. For instance, when you are watching a youtube video, a resource where I get most of my knowledge and experience from these days, you have a choice of watching the commercial before the exciting video, or skipping it.
Really? Is that a choice people wrestle with? Hmmm, well, I am looking for a date, so maybe that eharmony ad will finally get me going. If that doesn't work, I can always visit the fun site Cougars who look like John Mellencamp.
I really don't understand the strategy. Who is the target group of people that want to delay gratification with a commercial telling you Tim Horton's coffee is always served within 20 minutes? I could serve a pot of mud in 20 minutes, but it would still be mud. I suppose fresh mud would be more refreshing than dry, stale mud.
When men turn fifty, they are suppose to get rectal exams, or send their poop in the mail for a rectum test. But if the need for this rectum rendezvous suddenly disappeared - maybe some miracle preventive cream is found, or some hose device that betters your bowels - would I keep going for the exam? I guess some people would, now that I think about it. The same people who would visit the website mentioned above.
Would hospitals send letters giving you a choice of staying home and enjoying a nice steak dinner with your family or coming in to have fingers surfing in your butt? If yes, please check the box and also let us know which two fingers you prefer.
Some youtube video commercials make you watch 5 seconds before you can "choose" to skip it. That's great, because it could be a really important message that will improve my life immensely. I have found that I need about 5 seconds to make that determination. A bit of a tease, though. In the same vein, hospitals would tease you to come for a rectal rendezvous by promising that a pretty nurse with sexy, slender fingers (maybe dressed in sexy black fish net finger stockings and fingertip heels) will find your "P" spot.
I really hope we don't loose this important choice in life.
Wednesday, 9 October 2013
Helloooo Newman: I Hat Piano
Helloooo Newman: I Hat Piano: There's an old music teacher's proverb that goes like this: dying is easy, teaching kids piano is hard. Actually, it's a new p...
I Hat Piano
There's an old music teacher's proverb that goes like this: dying is easy, teaching kids piano is hard.
Actually, it's a new proverb because I just made it up, and actually stole part of it too.
Let's try another proverb. Those who can, do; Those who can't, teach; Those who can't teach, teach gym; And those can't teach gym, continually teach themselves that corporal punishment isn't allowed these days.
I really only have a few simple criteria that I think children should meet before they undergo piano lessons.
They should know their right hand from their left hand, and their ass from their elbow. And none of these body parts should be in their nose.
They should know how to spell. As I was explaining to one child the "concept" of middle c, like where it is located, I turned to him and saw him writing in his notebook.
That's cute, I thought. He's taking notes as I bring years of experience to my teaching moment.
"Can I see what you wrote?", I asked. He handed me the notebook. Chicken scratch, but I made it out. I hat piano, it said. Hmmm. He's expressing an opinion, but what does it mean?
My brain quickly rattled through all the words I know in the English language, how to spell things, various combinations of letters, the square root of pi etc.
I'm no dummy. This boy did very well, because there's only one letter missing. "E". Yes, at the end of hat. This cute boy wanted me to know he hates piano. I was very appreciative of his honesty and, I have to admit, a little raged that I wasted my limited breath on middle c.
I decided to make a game of it. "You want to wear a hat during piano?", I asked. Oh yes, I was teasing him big time. There's a price to be paid for not listening to the middle c lesson.
"NOOO", he chimed in with all the force of stampeding buffalo. But he would never actually say the words, "I hate piano". Very sensitive of him, if you ask me.
When I first had piano lessons, I could already spell, resist picking my nose in public and maybe even conjugate a couple of verbs.
Things have changed. Soon piano lessons will come with a free diaper change.
Actually, it's a new proverb because I just made it up, and actually stole part of it too.
Let's try another proverb. Those who can, do; Those who can't, teach; Those who can't teach, teach gym; And those can't teach gym, continually teach themselves that corporal punishment isn't allowed these days.
I really only have a few simple criteria that I think children should meet before they undergo piano lessons.
They should know their right hand from their left hand, and their ass from their elbow. And none of these body parts should be in their nose.
They should know how to spell. As I was explaining to one child the "concept" of middle c, like where it is located, I turned to him and saw him writing in his notebook.
That's cute, I thought. He's taking notes as I bring years of experience to my teaching moment.
"Can I see what you wrote?", I asked. He handed me the notebook. Chicken scratch, but I made it out. I hat piano, it said. Hmmm. He's expressing an opinion, but what does it mean?
My brain quickly rattled through all the words I know in the English language, how to spell things, various combinations of letters, the square root of pi etc.
I'm no dummy. This boy did very well, because there's only one letter missing. "E". Yes, at the end of hat. This cute boy wanted me to know he hates piano. I was very appreciative of his honesty and, I have to admit, a little raged that I wasted my limited breath on middle c.
I decided to make a game of it. "You want to wear a hat during piano?", I asked. Oh yes, I was teasing him big time. There's a price to be paid for not listening to the middle c lesson.
"NOOO", he chimed in with all the force of stampeding buffalo. But he would never actually say the words, "I hate piano". Very sensitive of him, if you ask me.
When I first had piano lessons, I could already spell, resist picking my nose in public and maybe even conjugate a couple of verbs.
Things have changed. Soon piano lessons will come with a free diaper change.
Saturday, 5 October 2013
Helloooo Newman: Shave and a Haircut-Two Bits
Helloooo Newman: Shave and a Haircut-Two Bits: You told me all the cutting and snipping was done. Will it grow back, Daddy? Will it? Please say it will.
Shave and a Haircut-Two Bits
You told me all the cutting and snipping was done.
Will it grow back, Daddy? Will it? Please say it will.
Will it grow back, Daddy? Will it? Please say it will.
Wednesday, 25 September 2013
Helloooo Newman: Messing with my Cred (update)
Helloooo Newman: Messing with my Cred (update): Well, it seems like M hasn't followed through with all the threats yet. I think M maybe took a page from the Obama book. Yes, I will bom...
Messing with my Cred (update)
Well, it seems like M hasn't followed through with all the threats yet. I think M maybe took a page from the Obama book. Yes, I will bomb Syria. Well, it'll be a really light and airy bombing, couple of days at best. You won't even hardly notice that we sent in missiles costing the taxpayer one million dollars each. Okay, we won't bomb them. But we still might, or might not…
Poor F. I 've seen F a few times and F always smiles and says hi. I smile and wave back, of course making sure M is at least a few blocks away. Or P (stands for pathetic, old grandmother).
When I say hi to F I kind of feel like the families in Romeo and Juliet, the Montague's and Capulet's. Families that aren't allowed to like each other because of incredible stupidity. Alas, poor F, I knew him well.
When I taught F piano, at the end of the lesson P would always check the clock very closely to make sure I taught for precisely 30 minutes. One time I fooled her and started to leave 2 minutes after I started. P is not a skilled "laugher", shall we say. She needs a continuing education course in humour and how to respond to it. I imagine she probably doesn't have much time left, though, speaking of watching the clock closely. Maybe when she was checking the clock, she was just checking to see if she was still alive. Poor P.
I think F will defeat the unfortunate parenting environment. I completely believe in F, even if F is only 6. I think F will probably move out at the age of 18, although I think it would be better if F left at, say, the ripe old age of NOW.
I am so glad the incident with M occurred. It reminds me that the most honourable trait a person can have is kindness.
Be kind. That's all there is.
Poor F. I 've seen F a few times and F always smiles and says hi. I smile and wave back, of course making sure M is at least a few blocks away. Or P (stands for pathetic, old grandmother).
When I say hi to F I kind of feel like the families in Romeo and Juliet, the Montague's and Capulet's. Families that aren't allowed to like each other because of incredible stupidity. Alas, poor F, I knew him well.
When I taught F piano, at the end of the lesson P would always check the clock very closely to make sure I taught for precisely 30 minutes. One time I fooled her and started to leave 2 minutes after I started. P is not a skilled "laugher", shall we say. She needs a continuing education course in humour and how to respond to it. I imagine she probably doesn't have much time left, though, speaking of watching the clock closely. Maybe when she was checking the clock, she was just checking to see if she was still alive. Poor P.
I think F will defeat the unfortunate parenting environment. I completely believe in F, even if F is only 6. I think F will probably move out at the age of 18, although I think it would be better if F left at, say, the ripe old age of NOW.
I am so glad the incident with M occurred. It reminds me that the most honourable trait a person can have is kindness.
Be kind. That's all there is.
Sunday, 22 September 2013
Helloooo Newman: Hangman's List
Helloooo Newman: Hangman's List: I made a short list of some of the most diabolical crimes an adult can commit in the 21st. century. 1. Allow your child to ride a bike wit...
Hangman's List
I made a short list of some of the most diabolical crimes an adult can commit in the 21st. century.
1. Allow your child to ride a bike without a helmet, even if:
• the bike has 12 sets of training wheels and the child is 3 inches from the ground
• they are not moving
• the bike has no wheels
• they are riding on 3 square miles of a marshmallow-like substance that is firm enough to hold the bike but soft enough that if they fall, they end up harmlessly in one of their favourite treats.
2. Raising children while you ride a bike yourself without a helmet, even under all the conditions of #1.
3. Take a child for a ride in a car without a child safety seat that has been inspected by NASA and tested on the space station.
4. Having a sick child and NOT visiting every medical website, contacting tele-health, assuming it's the brain eating amoeba, rushing to emergency and acting as if your child is the first that has ever had a fever and sniffles.
5. Allowing a child to engage in non-activity that doesn't prepare them for super human abilities later on.
6. Allowing your child to learn piano while you are in another room.
1. Allow your child to ride a bike without a helmet, even if:
• the bike has 12 sets of training wheels and the child is 3 inches from the ground
• they are not moving
• the bike has no wheels
• they are riding on 3 square miles of a marshmallow-like substance that is firm enough to hold the bike but soft enough that if they fall, they end up harmlessly in one of their favourite treats.
2. Raising children while you ride a bike yourself without a helmet, even under all the conditions of #1.
3. Take a child for a ride in a car without a child safety seat that has been inspected by NASA and tested on the space station.
4. Having a sick child and NOT visiting every medical website, contacting tele-health, assuming it's the brain eating amoeba, rushing to emergency and acting as if your child is the first that has ever had a fever and sniffles.
5. Allowing a child to engage in non-activity that doesn't prepare them for super human abilities later on.
6. Allowing your child to learn piano while you are in another room.
Friday, 20 September 2013
Helloooo Newman: Tongue Tied
Helloooo Newman: Tongue Tied: This morning I was exploring my tongue. In the mirror. It really is a strange sort of body part. You know how sometimes you say a word ove...
Tongue Tied
This morning I was exploring my tongue. In the mirror.
It really is a strange sort of body part. You know how sometimes you say a word over and over again and think about it really hard and it starts to lose its meaning? All of a sudden the word is just a group of letters. That's what happened to my tongue. Just a pound of flesh. No real purpose.
Since it lost all meaning, the tongue had to be compared to something, as we humans are wont to explain and categorize and compare everything. The best comparison I could come up with is to that of a leach. The tongue looks like a thick leach housing in our mouths, squirming around for blood. I wonder why we're so afraid of leaches when we carry one around in our mouths 24/7.
Tongue facts are always interesting:
• tongue cleaning is proven to prevent heart attacks, pneumonia, diabetes, infertility and first dates going down the tubes.
• women have shorter tongues than men - no comment.
• a blue whale's tongue is the size of an elephant, has a very good memory, and loves peanuts.
• it's fun to twist your tongue - try saying "Irish wrist watch" fast, or even once, after a few drinks.
• the rest of these interesting facts are on the tip of my tongue, where much of the bacteria in my body lives.
The tongue is so plain looking and pretty uncomplicated as far as design goes, but is amazingly important because we can't speak or swallow without it. The speaking function caught my attention. Far too many people in this world are allowed to use their tongues to speak nonsense.
I think we should issue licences to use our tongues for speaking. That way people who say really dumb things, like Kathy Lee Gifford (who wouldn't get a licence), would receive heavy fines or imprisonment if they used their tongue for speaking. They can use it for chewing and swallowing or whatever other purposes they can dream up, but if they utter one word, a tongue lashing, so to speak, it is.
There is, of course, a long list of people who wouldn't get licences, if I were running the licence office, that is. Just about every politician, on either side of the spectrum. I suppose the first person I would hunt down to revoke their licence is Anthony Weiner, in the U.S. Wow, I think I would keep Weiner and his tongue in separate jail cells for a while.
I'm amazed at the number of people who seem to think it's endearing or clever or interesting to show the world they have a tongue when their picture is taken. What is that? Perhaps they are dying to say something obnoxious, they can't because the photo doesn't record their voice, so their tongue wildly thrashes around in protest, reminding the world that, indeed, it had something important to say at that moment.
I think Miley Cyrus can be credited with bringing the tongue to new levels of grossness. I guess you can't really blame the tongue, though. It's Miley's brain, for lack of a better term, that controls it. I think she should give her tongue up for adoption to someone who can use it for a higher purpose. That would also stop the "singing".
I'm getting chest pains thinking about Miley Cyrus. Time for a tongue cleaning.
It really is a strange sort of body part. You know how sometimes you say a word over and over again and think about it really hard and it starts to lose its meaning? All of a sudden the word is just a group of letters. That's what happened to my tongue. Just a pound of flesh. No real purpose.
Since it lost all meaning, the tongue had to be compared to something, as we humans are wont to explain and categorize and compare everything. The best comparison I could come up with is to that of a leach. The tongue looks like a thick leach housing in our mouths, squirming around for blood. I wonder why we're so afraid of leaches when we carry one around in our mouths 24/7.
Tongue facts are always interesting:
• tongue cleaning is proven to prevent heart attacks, pneumonia, diabetes, infertility and first dates going down the tubes.
• women have shorter tongues than men - no comment.
• a blue whale's tongue is the size of an elephant, has a very good memory, and loves peanuts.
• it's fun to twist your tongue - try saying "Irish wrist watch" fast, or even once, after a few drinks.
• the rest of these interesting facts are on the tip of my tongue, where much of the bacteria in my body lives.
The tongue is so plain looking and pretty uncomplicated as far as design goes, but is amazingly important because we can't speak or swallow without it. The speaking function caught my attention. Far too many people in this world are allowed to use their tongues to speak nonsense.
I think we should issue licences to use our tongues for speaking. That way people who say really dumb things, like Kathy Lee Gifford (who wouldn't get a licence), would receive heavy fines or imprisonment if they used their tongue for speaking. They can use it for chewing and swallowing or whatever other purposes they can dream up, but if they utter one word, a tongue lashing, so to speak, it is.
There is, of course, a long list of people who wouldn't get licences, if I were running the licence office, that is. Just about every politician, on either side of the spectrum. I suppose the first person I would hunt down to revoke their licence is Anthony Weiner, in the U.S. Wow, I think I would keep Weiner and his tongue in separate jail cells for a while.
I'm amazed at the number of people who seem to think it's endearing or clever or interesting to show the world they have a tongue when their picture is taken. What is that? Perhaps they are dying to say something obnoxious, they can't because the photo doesn't record their voice, so their tongue wildly thrashes around in protest, reminding the world that, indeed, it had something important to say at that moment.
I think Miley Cyrus can be credited with bringing the tongue to new levels of grossness. I guess you can't really blame the tongue, though. It's Miley's brain, for lack of a better term, that controls it. I think she should give her tongue up for adoption to someone who can use it for a higher purpose. That would also stop the "singing".
I'm getting chest pains thinking about Miley Cyrus. Time for a tongue cleaning.
Wednesday, 18 September 2013
Messing with my Cred
When I wake up in the morning, as hard as that is for me, I assume that most people I meet will be nice and reasonable. I know, that's a very sunny, positive disposition I have, isn't it? And maybe because I expect this it happens more often than if I didn't expect it.
But every once in a while we all meet people whose sense of reason and proportion is so skewed you wonder who or what raised them. I had the great opportunity to interact with such a person.
This person is the parent of a former piano student. We'll call this parent "M". No, not from James Bond. M=messed up-wow. Kind of like the sham-wow, only not nearly as useful as this wonderful product.
I taught this student, called "F" (standing for "feel sorry for the upbringing") for about 6 months. F is really nice, clever, and a fast learner. We bonded immediately, enjoyed each other's company and made good progress on the piano.
M, as you might expect, saw things differently. M thought F was undisciplined, inattentive and childish (my words). F was 5 at the time.
This was a typical lesson: I would start the lesson and M was sitting 15 feet away watching and listening to every word, mannerism, flinch, impulse, quirk, movement, breath, laugh and smile poor little F exhibited. If F smiled a bit too broadly or laughed a bit too much or perhaps strayed from the topic for a moment, M would harshly interject, "F, listen to your teacher".
M encouraged me to be very firm with F. No laughing, no asking questions, no straying from topic in any way. Did I mention F was 5 at the time?
I guess I should state my teaching philosophy here. When I teach a 5-year-old, I do not call the class "piano university". I call it "let's have fun and learn some piano and hopefully over time something will click". I leave the Gestapo manual at home on my Kobo. Getting a 5-year-old to learn piano is like throwing wet kleenex at the ceiling. You throw a whole bunch, laugh at the absurdity of it all, and hope some sticks, dries and stays there.
When I talk to a 5-year-old, I try not to sound like a PBS newscaster moderating a discussion on geopolitics and the nuclear umbrella. I must confess this is deliberate on my part. I try not to sound like Henry Kissinger, but more like Robin Williams. I suspect if I talked to children in my Kissinger voice, they would reach for the nearest colour pencil and stab me in the middle C section.
So, a while back, M lets me go because F wasn't practicing enough. That's fair. I thought he was making good progress, but M didn't see it that way.
Then a few months after that M wanted me back. F had actually requested me by name. I was flattered, but hesitant. Not because of F. F is awesome. F rocks. M, however, rolls over you like a tank jacked up on a case of Red Bull. When M is not happy, that is.
We speak on the phone. I stated my terms in the tense negotiations. F is now 6, so there is very much at stake. A whole career, perhaps. Many important things are so uncertain in this world. I mean, will Syria actually give up their chemicals? Will M and I reach that happy place?
Um, not quite. I told M I can't teach under the previous conditions. M's brain kick starts. Anger neurons fire all at once. Those neurons are connected to M's mouth, unfortunately, so M can't stop talking. I can't remember what M said. I offered, "find another teacher" and hung up.
Ah, but I do remember what M said after that.
M, the parent, an adult, a grownup, a mature person, left me a voice message stating I should be very worried that M will be canvassing the neighbourhood destroying my credibility. Well, this hits me where I'm most vulnerable. I know many people on these comfortable, tree-lined streets look to me as a bastion of smart, cogent living. There are probably some exceptions, because I kind of remember throwing up on the front lawns of some of these houses after a late night at McSorley's. But then, have they connected the vomit to me? There's still hope.
I've saved that message (thanks to the evil tactics of the NSA for that). I encourage all readers to come over and give it a listen so you can see what it's like on the other side of reality and rationality. Free drinks are included.
This is why I love writing. It's very cathartic. I wonder what M does, cathartically speaking? Poor F. Poor L (standing for lame ass spouse).
I suppose M's catharsis is travelling the neighbourhood trashing my name. I doubt M refers to me as "P". Notice, though, that no one can tell who M really is. I hide identities because I'm a decent person on the right side of rationality.
I'll leave the scariest part of this sweet story for the end. It's not about me. No, no. This is not about me. It's about the children. The poor children.
L & M just had another child.
But every once in a while we all meet people whose sense of reason and proportion is so skewed you wonder who or what raised them. I had the great opportunity to interact with such a person.
This person is the parent of a former piano student. We'll call this parent "M". No, not from James Bond. M=messed up-wow. Kind of like the sham-wow, only not nearly as useful as this wonderful product.
I taught this student, called "F" (standing for "feel sorry for the upbringing") for about 6 months. F is really nice, clever, and a fast learner. We bonded immediately, enjoyed each other's company and made good progress on the piano.
M, as you might expect, saw things differently. M thought F was undisciplined, inattentive and childish (my words). F was 5 at the time.
This was a typical lesson: I would start the lesson and M was sitting 15 feet away watching and listening to every word, mannerism, flinch, impulse, quirk, movement, breath, laugh and smile poor little F exhibited. If F smiled a bit too broadly or laughed a bit too much or perhaps strayed from the topic for a moment, M would harshly interject, "F, listen to your teacher".
M encouraged me to be very firm with F. No laughing, no asking questions, no straying from topic in any way. Did I mention F was 5 at the time?
I guess I should state my teaching philosophy here. When I teach a 5-year-old, I do not call the class "piano university". I call it "let's have fun and learn some piano and hopefully over time something will click". I leave the Gestapo manual at home on my Kobo. Getting a 5-year-old to learn piano is like throwing wet kleenex at the ceiling. You throw a whole bunch, laugh at the absurdity of it all, and hope some sticks, dries and stays there.
When I talk to a 5-year-old, I try not to sound like a PBS newscaster moderating a discussion on geopolitics and the nuclear umbrella. I must confess this is deliberate on my part. I try not to sound like Henry Kissinger, but more like Robin Williams. I suspect if I talked to children in my Kissinger voice, they would reach for the nearest colour pencil and stab me in the middle C section.
So, a while back, M lets me go because F wasn't practicing enough. That's fair. I thought he was making good progress, but M didn't see it that way.
Then a few months after that M wanted me back. F had actually requested me by name. I was flattered, but hesitant. Not because of F. F is awesome. F rocks. M, however, rolls over you like a tank jacked up on a case of Red Bull. When M is not happy, that is.
We speak on the phone. I stated my terms in the tense negotiations. F is now 6, so there is very much at stake. A whole career, perhaps. Many important things are so uncertain in this world. I mean, will Syria actually give up their chemicals? Will M and I reach that happy place?
Um, not quite. I told M I can't teach under the previous conditions. M's brain kick starts. Anger neurons fire all at once. Those neurons are connected to M's mouth, unfortunately, so M can't stop talking. I can't remember what M said. I offered, "find another teacher" and hung up.
Ah, but I do remember what M said after that.
M, the parent, an adult, a grownup, a mature person, left me a voice message stating I should be very worried that M will be canvassing the neighbourhood destroying my credibility. Well, this hits me where I'm most vulnerable. I know many people on these comfortable, tree-lined streets look to me as a bastion of smart, cogent living. There are probably some exceptions, because I kind of remember throwing up on the front lawns of some of these houses after a late night at McSorley's. But then, have they connected the vomit to me? There's still hope.
I've saved that message (thanks to the evil tactics of the NSA for that). I encourage all readers to come over and give it a listen so you can see what it's like on the other side of reality and rationality. Free drinks are included.
This is why I love writing. It's very cathartic. I wonder what M does, cathartically speaking? Poor F. Poor L (standing for lame ass spouse).
I suppose M's catharsis is travelling the neighbourhood trashing my name. I doubt M refers to me as "P". Notice, though, that no one can tell who M really is. I hide identities because I'm a decent person on the right side of rationality.
I'll leave the scariest part of this sweet story for the end. It's not about me. No, no. This is not about me. It's about the children. The poor children.
L & M just had another child.
Friday, 6 September 2013
Helloooo Newman: I only have eyes for you
Helloooo Newman: I only have eyes for you: Well, I'm sad to admit it but it's true. Newman has serious intimacy problems. Oh, he's a normal dog in so many ways. He loves...
I only have eyes for you
Well, I'm sad to admit it but it's true. Newman has serious intimacy problems.
Oh, he's a normal dog in so many ways. He loves to play hide and seek (I hide, he seeks, gives up, lies down and forgets what he was looking for), he can shake a paw (although he doesn't quite get that the other paw is shakeable too) and last night he stood up on the counter and fetched a chicken wing bone from my plate. All signs that things are copacetic with Newman. I was upset about the chicken wing, though. I had already eaten it, which is fine, but I'm a little rusty on my emergency surgery skills to remove chicken bone shrapnel from a dog. This was not covered in any MASH episode I saw.
Real intimacy with Newman, however, is elusive. I measure intimacy through eye contact. In my view, you can never really achieve intimacy with a person or animal unless you can sustain deep, focused eye contact. This probably doesn't apply to Twizzles, our guinea pig. If you stare deeply into her eyes in a loving way, she will make a hissing sound that may or may not include spit in your face, grab a piece of her own poo and run into a corner to dine on it. All very exciting for her but not an intimate meal by any definition.
So when I am lying on the bed with Newman, I will come close to his face and look lovingly into his eyes. He puts up with this for about half a second and then promptly shuns my advances. Could it be my breath? That would be curious, since his breath reminds me of a skunk farting just before its body is sculpted to the road with tire treads.
My last dog, Cosmo, was quite high on the intimacy meter. I could stare into his eyes at a close distance for hours and he would stare back, completely forgetting about his itchy groin. But I could never really hold my breath under these conditions for more than a minute or so.
Perhaps Newman is shy and uncomfortable with intimacy. I have a great solution to overcome that condition. I learned this technique while I was starring in a play at university. That's right, I starred in a play. I stood in for Ryan Gosling, who wasn't born yet.
It was really a very powerful exercise, taught to us by the Director, a strange guy that as I think about it now should have been the offspring of a marriage between Dog the Bounty Hunter and Cameron Diaz. A strange breed, indeed.
The Director had two chairs facing each other, about five feet apart, and me and this cute girl had to stare into each other's eyes for 15 minutes. That's it. I was quite nervous because I didn't know this girl very well and I was a complete spastic, bumbling idiot around all girls. I couldn't rely on the normal 5-10 beers I needed before I could strike up a conversation with the opposite sex. At parties I would often end up speaking vomish, a language combining gurgled words and vomit. The only word out of the girl's mouth would be, "vamoose".
So during this exercise there was nothing between us but the eyes. But what an astonishing effect it had. When we finished I felt totally comfortable around this girl. I felt like I really knew her and could completely trust her. It was as if a long, deep conversation had taken place between us, without uttering a word. We were friends from then on, with nary a beer in sight.
I recommend you try this exercise if you are shy and nervous around someone. It works much better with the other person's cooperation, too. If you pick someone randomly on the subway or in a fast food joint and stare at them for 15 minutes, I'm not so sure it would be effective. They have to be voluntarily staring back at you, not calling the police for assistance.
So that's why the eyes are so important to establishing intimacy. Newman just isn't ready yet. I can feel that on an emotional level. I tried feeling things on an intellectual level and it was too hard.
I just might try the chair exercise with Newman. Although I suspect he'll react more positively to "vomish".
Oh, he's a normal dog in so many ways. He loves to play hide and seek (I hide, he seeks, gives up, lies down and forgets what he was looking for), he can shake a paw (although he doesn't quite get that the other paw is shakeable too) and last night he stood up on the counter and fetched a chicken wing bone from my plate. All signs that things are copacetic with Newman. I was upset about the chicken wing, though. I had already eaten it, which is fine, but I'm a little rusty on my emergency surgery skills to remove chicken bone shrapnel from a dog. This was not covered in any MASH episode I saw.
Real intimacy with Newman, however, is elusive. I measure intimacy through eye contact. In my view, you can never really achieve intimacy with a person or animal unless you can sustain deep, focused eye contact. This probably doesn't apply to Twizzles, our guinea pig. If you stare deeply into her eyes in a loving way, she will make a hissing sound that may or may not include spit in your face, grab a piece of her own poo and run into a corner to dine on it. All very exciting for her but not an intimate meal by any definition.
So when I am lying on the bed with Newman, I will come close to his face and look lovingly into his eyes. He puts up with this for about half a second and then promptly shuns my advances. Could it be my breath? That would be curious, since his breath reminds me of a skunk farting just before its body is sculpted to the road with tire treads.
My last dog, Cosmo, was quite high on the intimacy meter. I could stare into his eyes at a close distance for hours and he would stare back, completely forgetting about his itchy groin. But I could never really hold my breath under these conditions for more than a minute or so.
Perhaps Newman is shy and uncomfortable with intimacy. I have a great solution to overcome that condition. I learned this technique while I was starring in a play at university. That's right, I starred in a play. I stood in for Ryan Gosling, who wasn't born yet.
It was really a very powerful exercise, taught to us by the Director, a strange guy that as I think about it now should have been the offspring of a marriage between Dog the Bounty Hunter and Cameron Diaz. A strange breed, indeed.
The Director had two chairs facing each other, about five feet apart, and me and this cute girl had to stare into each other's eyes for 15 minutes. That's it. I was quite nervous because I didn't know this girl very well and I was a complete spastic, bumbling idiot around all girls. I couldn't rely on the normal 5-10 beers I needed before I could strike up a conversation with the opposite sex. At parties I would often end up speaking vomish, a language combining gurgled words and vomit. The only word out of the girl's mouth would be, "vamoose".
So during this exercise there was nothing between us but the eyes. But what an astonishing effect it had. When we finished I felt totally comfortable around this girl. I felt like I really knew her and could completely trust her. It was as if a long, deep conversation had taken place between us, without uttering a word. We were friends from then on, with nary a beer in sight.
I recommend you try this exercise if you are shy and nervous around someone. It works much better with the other person's cooperation, too. If you pick someone randomly on the subway or in a fast food joint and stare at them for 15 minutes, I'm not so sure it would be effective. They have to be voluntarily staring back at you, not calling the police for assistance.
So that's why the eyes are so important to establishing intimacy. Newman just isn't ready yet. I can feel that on an emotional level. I tried feeling things on an intellectual level and it was too hard.
I just might try the chair exercise with Newman. Although I suspect he'll react more positively to "vomish".
Thursday, 5 September 2013
Helloooo Newman: Life is not at all like a box of chocolates
Helloooo Newman: Life is not at all like a box of chocolates: "Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get." Forrest Gump Bollocks. First of all, you do kno...
Life is not at all like a box of chocolates
"Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get."
Forrest Gump
Bollocks.
First of all, you do know what you're gonna get in the box, if you just look at the damn chocolate chart. No one looks at the chocolate charts. They prefer to smell the chocolate, lick it, bite into it, x-ray it, perform surgery on it, and then put it back in the box if it's not to their liking.
For example, I've never known a person who eats the chocolate with the maraschino cherry in it. There must be a huge pile of these cherries rotting away somewhere. What the hell is a maraschino cherry anyway? Maybe they can't rot. I know they can do amazing things with plastics these days, but inside a chocolate? Why a cherry? Why not a maraschino paint ball?
Here's a product idea. These chocolate boxes should come with another, smaller box to hold the destroyed chocolates that are waiting for eager mouths.
Plus, there are lots of times in life when you know what you're gonna get. And with a little learnin' you avoid certain things. When I lie in the sun with cooking oil on my skin my body will later be served at Red Lobster. This will happen 100% of the time. That's a pretty good prediction rate.
When you're in Amsterdam and a pretty girl in a short skirt with a bow in her hair beckons you into a storefront, it's fairly certain she doesn't work for Disney. I'm not saying to avoid her. Just know that it will be a bumpier ride than Space Mountain.
These chocolates come in convenient bite-sized portions. I wish life's problems came like this. And what about those chocolate charts? Does your life come with a convenient chart every time problems crop up? Eeek, my daughter is getting high on foam insulation, her boyfriend has a swastika tattooed on his tongue and she wonders why the police haven't busted the school math lab. Boy, I think I'll pop the caramel/hazelnut chocolate in my mouth and watch my problems melt away.
Life is actually a rubik's cube.
It's a rubik's cube because solving life's problems is never a straight, predictable line. When you solve the rubik's cube, you have to tolerate some temporary disorganization in order to get to the final destination. You deliberately mix things up to get to the solution. Or at least you can't avoid the mix ups. If you get 3 blue squares in a row, sometimes you have to temporarily forego that row in order to solve the puzzle.
This is so much like life. It's incredibly frustrating. The rubik's cube has one correct solution and 43 billion billion wrong solutions. This is a good approximation of life, and completely describes my dating years.
When I try to solve a rubik's cube I want to take the contraption, put it in the microwave and melt it down, pour the hot plastic in my eyes and scream bloody murder.
So forget the chocolates and get a rubik's cube if you want to prepare yourself properly for life's journey. And don't count on any quick solutions.
Forrest Gump
Bollocks.
First of all, you do know what you're gonna get in the box, if you just look at the damn chocolate chart. No one looks at the chocolate charts. They prefer to smell the chocolate, lick it, bite into it, x-ray it, perform surgery on it, and then put it back in the box if it's not to their liking.
For example, I've never known a person who eats the chocolate with the maraschino cherry in it. There must be a huge pile of these cherries rotting away somewhere. What the hell is a maraschino cherry anyway? Maybe they can't rot. I know they can do amazing things with plastics these days, but inside a chocolate? Why a cherry? Why not a maraschino paint ball?
Here's a product idea. These chocolate boxes should come with another, smaller box to hold the destroyed chocolates that are waiting for eager mouths.
Plus, there are lots of times in life when you know what you're gonna get. And with a little learnin' you avoid certain things. When I lie in the sun with cooking oil on my skin my body will later be served at Red Lobster. This will happen 100% of the time. That's a pretty good prediction rate.
When you're in Amsterdam and a pretty girl in a short skirt with a bow in her hair beckons you into a storefront, it's fairly certain she doesn't work for Disney. I'm not saying to avoid her. Just know that it will be a bumpier ride than Space Mountain.
These chocolates come in convenient bite-sized portions. I wish life's problems came like this. And what about those chocolate charts? Does your life come with a convenient chart every time problems crop up? Eeek, my daughter is getting high on foam insulation, her boyfriend has a swastika tattooed on his tongue and she wonders why the police haven't busted the school math lab. Boy, I think I'll pop the caramel/hazelnut chocolate in my mouth and watch my problems melt away.
Life is actually a rubik's cube.
It's a rubik's cube because solving life's problems is never a straight, predictable line. When you solve the rubik's cube, you have to tolerate some temporary disorganization in order to get to the final destination. You deliberately mix things up to get to the solution. Or at least you can't avoid the mix ups. If you get 3 blue squares in a row, sometimes you have to temporarily forego that row in order to solve the puzzle.
This is so much like life. It's incredibly frustrating. The rubik's cube has one correct solution and 43 billion billion wrong solutions. This is a good approximation of life, and completely describes my dating years.
When I try to solve a rubik's cube I want to take the contraption, put it in the microwave and melt it down, pour the hot plastic in my eyes and scream bloody murder.
So forget the chocolates and get a rubik's cube if you want to prepare yourself properly for life's journey. And don't count on any quick solutions.
Wednesday, 28 August 2013
Helloooo Newman: Yesterday I slipped into my emotional speedo
Helloooo Newman: Yesterday I slipped into my emotional speedo: In the summer of 1992, shortly after I met my soon to be wife, we took a cheap trip to Cuba. I mean really cheap. $398 each all in. Yes, e...
Yesterday I slipped into my emotional speedo
In the summer of 1992, shortly after I met my soon to be wife, we took a cheap trip to Cuba.
I mean really cheap. $398 each all in. Yes, everything. Flight, food (near food, to be precise), drink, accommodation, and 3 hours of Communist Manifesto lessons.
Best trip we ever had. Even the day trip where they subjected us to a speech on the benefits of a communist lifestyle, the best feature being electricity and water for only one hour a day. Sign me up!
The last few days this week reminded me of one key feature of that trip. I forgot my bathing suit. Maybe it was that we rushed into booking and going on the trip. Maybe it was that I had one of my toenails painted. Maybe it was new found love. I'm not sure which.
Anywho, I had to buy a suit at the "resort" (a word that requires quotes when located in communist countries). This store was not to be confused with Sporting Life. They had one size and one brand of suit. I estimated the size was for an overly breast fed baby at best, and the brand was Speedo.
There was I, swimming with what looked like some thick branch bent in half in my mid section. Could have been a baby's arm. One could have been convinced that my body had been squeezed out of this piece of fabric, like play doh pushed through a mold. Not much else was left to the imagination.
Years later I heard that my visit was the first time Castro started to think maybe the communist lifestyle wasn't so cool. Some time after that his brother took over. Coincidence?
All these wonderful memories led to the birth of a new psychological term - emotional speedo.
Two days ago I slipped into my emotional speedo. I woke up feeling tight and cranky. All kinds of negative thoughts and emotions swirling around in my head like a Sharknado. Normally in this circumstance I would keep my mouth shut so as not to incur anybody's wrath. I am a strong male and I have a solid iron grip on my emotions.
Well, screw that. My emotional speedo squeezed out every negative thought I could think of and left nothing to the imagination.
I didn't censor my thoughts or emotions and I tried not to judge them either. I was Les Miz. After a day and a half of this, I felt great. What a release. What an emotional colon cleaning.
Now I'm back to my normal happy self in my two piece bathing suit. Because in the end you are as happy as you decide to be.
I mean really cheap. $398 each all in. Yes, everything. Flight, food (near food, to be precise), drink, accommodation, and 3 hours of Communist Manifesto lessons.
Best trip we ever had. Even the day trip where they subjected us to a speech on the benefits of a communist lifestyle, the best feature being electricity and water for only one hour a day. Sign me up!
The last few days this week reminded me of one key feature of that trip. I forgot my bathing suit. Maybe it was that we rushed into booking and going on the trip. Maybe it was that I had one of my toenails painted. Maybe it was new found love. I'm not sure which.
Anywho, I had to buy a suit at the "resort" (a word that requires quotes when located in communist countries). This store was not to be confused with Sporting Life. They had one size and one brand of suit. I estimated the size was for an overly breast fed baby at best, and the brand was Speedo.
There was I, swimming with what looked like some thick branch bent in half in my mid section. Could have been a baby's arm. One could have been convinced that my body had been squeezed out of this piece of fabric, like play doh pushed through a mold. Not much else was left to the imagination.
Years later I heard that my visit was the first time Castro started to think maybe the communist lifestyle wasn't so cool. Some time after that his brother took over. Coincidence?
All these wonderful memories led to the birth of a new psychological term - emotional speedo.
Two days ago I slipped into my emotional speedo. I woke up feeling tight and cranky. All kinds of negative thoughts and emotions swirling around in my head like a Sharknado. Normally in this circumstance I would keep my mouth shut so as not to incur anybody's wrath. I am a strong male and I have a solid iron grip on my emotions.
Well, screw that. My emotional speedo squeezed out every negative thought I could think of and left nothing to the imagination.
I didn't censor my thoughts or emotions and I tried not to judge them either. I was Les Miz. After a day and a half of this, I felt great. What a release. What an emotional colon cleaning.
Now I'm back to my normal happy self in my two piece bathing suit. Because in the end you are as happy as you decide to be.
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