HELLOOOO NEWMAN: Laughter is your sixth sense
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.
Friday, 23 August 2013
Helloooo Newman: Why I Like to fsck
Helloooo Newman: Why I Like to fsck: It's now my all time favourite activity. I can do it alone and fall asleep after without any guilt. I can do it sitting, or standing, I ...
Why I Like to fsck
It's now my all time favourite activity. I can do it alone and fall asleep after without any guilt. I can do it sitting, or standing, I don't give a damn. I can do it with Sam and green eggs and ham.
You read it right. I love to fsck!
Ahem. Let me explain.
You just won't understand unless you own a MAC. What? You have a PC? Please see my next blog, How to Get a Life and Enjoy It.
For MAC users, fsck is salvation. Last week my MAC wouldn't boot. All I got was the grey screen and the spinning gear - spinning and spinning until I tore my corneas off.
I was on a deadline. And I couldn't access Disk Utility because the computer wouldn't boot itself in the butt. With a little ingenuity (something all MAC users have) I discovered a very helpful trick. No, not a visit to a prostitute. I mean a procedure, or a method for fixing my problem.
fsck. NO, NOT fcuk, although if you're more comfortable wearing fcuk, go ahead.
I'm talking single user mode. Start up your MAC and press "command-s". You will see a black screen with white computer type code stuff on it.
After the last line of type, enter this: /sbin/fsck -fy. This allows you to bypass the hard drive and the computer fixes itself. Well, most of the time. This will not work if you drop the MAC from a tall building.
There you have it. I'm not sure if you've ever fscked, but it is easy, fun and disease-free. fsck saved my butt - and that's all it did to my butt, folks. Wouldn't want to do it all the time. But boy, it's good to know it's there when I need it.
You read it right. I love to fsck!
Ahem. Let me explain.
You just won't understand unless you own a MAC. What? You have a PC? Please see my next blog, How to Get a Life and Enjoy It.
For MAC users, fsck is salvation. Last week my MAC wouldn't boot. All I got was the grey screen and the spinning gear - spinning and spinning until I tore my corneas off.
I was on a deadline. And I couldn't access Disk Utility because the computer wouldn't boot itself in the butt. With a little ingenuity (something all MAC users have) I discovered a very helpful trick. No, not a visit to a prostitute. I mean a procedure, or a method for fixing my problem.
fsck. NO, NOT fcuk, although if you're more comfortable wearing fcuk, go ahead.
I'm talking single user mode. Start up your MAC and press "command-s". You will see a black screen with white computer type code stuff on it.
After the last line of type, enter this: /sbin/fsck -fy. This allows you to bypass the hard drive and the computer fixes itself. Well, most of the time. This will not work if you drop the MAC from a tall building.
There you have it. I'm not sure if you've ever fscked, but it is easy, fun and disease-free. fsck saved my butt - and that's all it did to my butt, folks. Wouldn't want to do it all the time. But boy, it's good to know it's there when I need it.
Thursday, 22 August 2013
Helloooo Newman: Supreme Being for a Day
Helloooo Newman: Supreme Being for a Day: I'm slowly coming to the realization that people don't worship me the way Newman does. It's tough being a supreme being at hom...
Supreme Being for a Day
I'm slowly coming to the realization that people don't worship me the way Newman does.
It's tough being a supreme being at home and then having to walk among the ordinary the rest of the time. This got me thinking. How would I behave if I really were supreme being for a day?
Unlike our current supreme being, I'd take the first few days off instead of the seventh day. This makes a lot of sense. I would have enough banked sick days since I'm both the union and management, I wrote and negotiated the contract and I can bloody well do anything I want.
I would spend these days planning the universe. If you were having your dream home built, would you be happy that the builder starting building right away, and then afterwards consulted the blueprints? I doubt it.
Would you plan as you go along? Well, no. That there wouldn't be a plan because a plan is something you plan before implementing the plan.
So, what else would I do differently than the current Chief Executive God (CEG)? I certainly would have treated my one and only employee better.
The CEG's single employee and salesman was, of course, Jesus. As far as sales positions go, this one sucked big time. "You go and sell me, Jesus, and I'll be up here pretending I don't exist, okay?" Can you imagine being a sales man and there's no head office to report to?
I think Jesus even had a tougher time than Michael from The Office. Michael had a support staff and got laid out of the deal. He also had all kinds of different products to offer. People had a choice.
Not so with Jesus. There is no product. There is only a service. Salvation. You sign here, decrepit peasant, and this service might be delivered to you. That is, if we still like you when you die. This sale comes with a zero guarantee!
Think about the sales pitch that God insisted Jesus deliver. Be really nice and caring to the customer. Occasionally offer them a bath. Go light on the healings (they give me a headache), and there are absolutely no free pens or stationary. Then show the customer the terms of the sale - the Ten Commandments. As an aside, mention that if they violate any of the sales terms, they will forever feel the effects of a very hot fire on their skin and bones. This is convenient since peasants really are only skin and bone. Mention all this after the sale, if possible.
All this time, no customer was allowed to talk directly to the boss. Questions would not be answered, but you could pay in monthly instalments.
Incredibly, Jesus had some success. But most of his customers were poor, with none owning a BMW, but some having a late model donkey or goat.
And how was the chief salesman rewarded for this modest success? No, not with frequent walking points. He was "crossed" off the team. No set of steak knives.
Then he resurrected himself and promised to come back on the job some day. Personally, I think he quit and is working in one the many parallel dimensions scientists now say exist. I hear it's even sweeter than working at the LCBO.
So, what would I have done differently? I would have modelled things after a weekend at the cottage. Have the party first, here on earth. Then comes Hangover, which replaces the terms Heaven and Hell.
Yes, God got it backwards. God is Dog. Dog is Newman. Newman is the supreme being. Not me.
It's tough being a supreme being at home and then having to walk among the ordinary the rest of the time. This got me thinking. How would I behave if I really were supreme being for a day?
Unlike our current supreme being, I'd take the first few days off instead of the seventh day. This makes a lot of sense. I would have enough banked sick days since I'm both the union and management, I wrote and negotiated the contract and I can bloody well do anything I want.
I would spend these days planning the universe. If you were having your dream home built, would you be happy that the builder starting building right away, and then afterwards consulted the blueprints? I doubt it.
Would you plan as you go along? Well, no. That there wouldn't be a plan because a plan is something you plan before implementing the plan.
So, what else would I do differently than the current Chief Executive God (CEG)? I certainly would have treated my one and only employee better.
The CEG's single employee and salesman was, of course, Jesus. As far as sales positions go, this one sucked big time. "You go and sell me, Jesus, and I'll be up here pretending I don't exist, okay?" Can you imagine being a sales man and there's no head office to report to?
I think Jesus even had a tougher time than Michael from The Office. Michael had a support staff and got laid out of the deal. He also had all kinds of different products to offer. People had a choice.
Not so with Jesus. There is no product. There is only a service. Salvation. You sign here, decrepit peasant, and this service might be delivered to you. That is, if we still like you when you die. This sale comes with a zero guarantee!
Think about the sales pitch that God insisted Jesus deliver. Be really nice and caring to the customer. Occasionally offer them a bath. Go light on the healings (they give me a headache), and there are absolutely no free pens or stationary. Then show the customer the terms of the sale - the Ten Commandments. As an aside, mention that if they violate any of the sales terms, they will forever feel the effects of a very hot fire on their skin and bones. This is convenient since peasants really are only skin and bone. Mention all this after the sale, if possible.
All this time, no customer was allowed to talk directly to the boss. Questions would not be answered, but you could pay in monthly instalments.
Incredibly, Jesus had some success. But most of his customers were poor, with none owning a BMW, but some having a late model donkey or goat.
And how was the chief salesman rewarded for this modest success? No, not with frequent walking points. He was "crossed" off the team. No set of steak knives.
Then he resurrected himself and promised to come back on the job some day. Personally, I think he quit and is working in one the many parallel dimensions scientists now say exist. I hear it's even sweeter than working at the LCBO.
So, what would I have done differently? I would have modelled things after a weekend at the cottage. Have the party first, here on earth. Then comes Hangover, which replaces the terms Heaven and Hell.
Yes, God got it backwards. God is Dog. Dog is Newman. Newman is the supreme being. Not me.
Saturday, 17 August 2013
Helloooo Newman: Call Me Ishmael
Helloooo Newman: Call Me Ishmael: Its solid grey mass rolls arrogantly towards me. It stops dead before my feet, as if a decision is made. I hoist it up, much like the Pre...
Helloooo Newman: Call Me Ishmael
Helloooo Newman: Call Me Ishmael: Its solid grey mass rolls arrogantly towards me. It stops dead before my feet, as if a decision is made. I hoist it up, much like the Pre...
Call Me Ishmael
Its solid grey mass rolls arrogantly towards me. It stops dead before my feet, as if a decision is made. I hoist it up, much like the Predator creature proudly raises his prized human skull. I place it carefully on the stump.
I am going to split this log, come hell – or a visit from my relatives.
I know right away this log is going to be a toughie. It has a knot in it. Knots tie your axe up in knots. That's why we call them knots. But not too knotty for me, I believe.
I pick my line on the log to hit. Don't you take your eyes off that line. I raise the beast of an axe with surprising ease. Years of training kick in as smoothly as anti-lock brakes.
I swing the axe with awesome aplomb. Apparently, the first tree in history made of reinforced concrete.
The axe bounces back, easily to be confused with a child playing on a bouncy castle. I desperately look for some kind of sign that I actually hit the log. Smooth surface abounds. Thankfully, I'm distracted by a sound that takes me away from my failed first attempt. Newman is nearby licking his groin. I remember how wonderful country sounds are to the ears.
Swing number 2. Swing number 20. Hands are numb. Swing number 50. Swear words echo through nature. Even the blue jays are nervous. Swing number 100. The sun is beating me up. Slight damage to the log. Much damage to my ego.
I grab a water/juice mix and a towel for my soaking head. Suddenly I'm Rocky in the fight of my life. I just want to go the distance. ADRIAN!!! I LOVE YOU!!! No oscar will be awarded today.
This log is the stubborn one, not me. I will split it, maybe even into four pieces. This goal occupies every cell in my body. Nay, every electron and quark. Progress is ssssllllooowwwwwww, but still, there are a few kinks in the wood.
I am more determined than ever. Suddenly the log speaks to me. It's the black knight from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Taunting me. "Tis but a scratch. I've had worse. Had enough, eh? Just a flesh wound. Oh, I see. Running away, eh". Actually, just getting some water/juice mix, ass wipe.
Two hundred and fifty swings and I take another break. Then I realize it. The apt metaphor that fits this situation (the last metaphor, I promise). This log is my whale. My Moby Dick. I don't want to split this log. I have to split this log.
But why? Why can't I walk away? This log hasn't taken my limb. I could burn it as is. I am full of questions. Is this a testament to my character, or a sign that I wasn't swaddled enough as a baby? Is this just useless anthropomorphism, the assigning of human motives to logs?
I wish I were Ishmael, but I'm Ahab, and looking mighty drab.
My whale is still out there. Hurt but unsplit. More dangerous than ever. Soon. Soon this whale will be in two, or maybe even four…
Friday, 16 August 2013
Helloooo Newman: Feel the fear, and nap anyway
Helloooo Newman: Feel the fear, and nap anyway: I've been thinking a lot about emotions. This is partly due to my having Newman as a companion. Newman is all about emotions. Well, tw...
Feel the fear, and nap anyway
I've been thinking a lot about emotions. This is partly due to my having Newman as a companion.
Newman is all about emotions. Well, two emotions, really – fear and happiness.
Actually, Newman is only about emotions. That's because he has real trouble thinking. He tries by tilting his head when he's puzzled but it doesn't seem to work. So essentially he feels but imposes no thought onto emotion. I achieved this state of emotion without thought during my 50th birthday, moments before I passed out. All I remember of the experience is that it was wet, smelled bad and required a lot of laundry duty the next day.
So fear and happiness comprise Newman's entire emotional spectrum. These also happen to be two of the most primal emotions. Primal in that they are rooted way back in our evolutionary history before Dr. Phil was around to help us.
The funny thing about Newman is that he often follows rampant emotional episodes with a nap. When I get home from a long day of shopping for kitchen accessories or wall art, all I hear as I approach the house is Newman barking at a decibel rate of about 320. He doesn't know I'm there (I sneak up to the house a la Seal Team 6) so this means he has been barking for 4 hours.
When I enter the house, all this pent up emotion suddenly gets released, similar to poking a large hole in the Hoover dam and watching Vegas drown. Newman expresses this emotion by digging his nails into my skin and licking all my epithelials off. If I was murdered at this moment there would be little evidence for CSI Miami to examine. Presumably David Caruso would still pause, take his sunglasses off, and exclaim, "he's dead, Jim". That is, if Jim Kirk were his boss.
Naturally, after all this emotional diarrhea, Newman needs a nap. So he flops his weight down on the floor, recovering until the next emotional moment, like if I have to go to the washroom. He jumps up thinking (sorry, not thinking, hoping - an emotion) we are now going to play. No, we're not. We're peeing. Down on the floor again.
Well, this emotion and napping thing works for me too. Whenever I get depressed, I immediately nap. So let's say my weight is up a bit and I can't get into that bathing suit, or maybe a glue gun will no longer hold my shoes together, or the Argos just aren't playing as well as they use to, I get really sad. I nap.
Lately, I've been feeling those primal emotions that Newman feels, more specifically, fear.
My second biggest fear in life is that I am operating below my potential. My biggest fear is that I'm operating exactly at my potential.
My future really depends on me not operating at my full potential yet. I depend on this. It gives me hope. If I've reached it, there's trouble ahead.
There are still so many things I want to achieve. Stuff I want to learn. Or get better at. Suck on every moment of life more fully. Drill down to the nitty gritty of an interesting life.
Gosh, I'm tired. Think I'll nap. Reaching my potential will have to wait for another day. So will my fear.
Newman is all about emotions. Well, two emotions, really – fear and happiness.
Actually, Newman is only about emotions. That's because he has real trouble thinking. He tries by tilting his head when he's puzzled but it doesn't seem to work. So essentially he feels but imposes no thought onto emotion. I achieved this state of emotion without thought during my 50th birthday, moments before I passed out. All I remember of the experience is that it was wet, smelled bad and required a lot of laundry duty the next day.
So fear and happiness comprise Newman's entire emotional spectrum. These also happen to be two of the most primal emotions. Primal in that they are rooted way back in our evolutionary history before Dr. Phil was around to help us.
The funny thing about Newman is that he often follows rampant emotional episodes with a nap. When I get home from a long day of shopping for kitchen accessories or wall art, all I hear as I approach the house is Newman barking at a decibel rate of about 320. He doesn't know I'm there (I sneak up to the house a la Seal Team 6) so this means he has been barking for 4 hours.
When I enter the house, all this pent up emotion suddenly gets released, similar to poking a large hole in the Hoover dam and watching Vegas drown. Newman expresses this emotion by digging his nails into my skin and licking all my epithelials off. If I was murdered at this moment there would be little evidence for CSI Miami to examine. Presumably David Caruso would still pause, take his sunglasses off, and exclaim, "he's dead, Jim". That is, if Jim Kirk were his boss.
Naturally, after all this emotional diarrhea, Newman needs a nap. So he flops his weight down on the floor, recovering until the next emotional moment, like if I have to go to the washroom. He jumps up thinking (sorry, not thinking, hoping - an emotion) we are now going to play. No, we're not. We're peeing. Down on the floor again.
Well, this emotion and napping thing works for me too. Whenever I get depressed, I immediately nap. So let's say my weight is up a bit and I can't get into that bathing suit, or maybe a glue gun will no longer hold my shoes together, or the Argos just aren't playing as well as they use to, I get really sad. I nap.
Lately, I've been feeling those primal emotions that Newman feels, more specifically, fear.
My second biggest fear in life is that I am operating below my potential. My biggest fear is that I'm operating exactly at my potential.
My future really depends on me not operating at my full potential yet. I depend on this. It gives me hope. If I've reached it, there's trouble ahead.
There are still so many things I want to achieve. Stuff I want to learn. Or get better at. Suck on every moment of life more fully. Drill down to the nitty gritty of an interesting life.
Gosh, I'm tired. Think I'll nap. Reaching my potential will have to wait for another day. So will my fear.
Monday, 5 August 2013
Helloooo Newman: The Bible According to Newman
Helloooo Newman: The Bible According to Newman: I thought since I have practice writing a blog, I now have the creds to write a new version of the Bible. Do you think the Vatican will mind...
The Bible According to Newman
I thought since I have practice writing a blog, I now have the creds to write a new version of the Bible. Do you think the Vatican will mind?
Coming next in the Bible According to Newman…the real sins.
There are a lot of problems with the Bible as it reads now. Little things, like telling the truth.
There are so many chapters to the Bible. I would have one chapter and it would be called, "In the Beginning – What Really Went Down".
The first line of the original Bible reads: In the beginning, God created the heavens and the Earth.
Well, not quite. Here's what really went down…
In the beginning God tried to create the heavens and the earth. Wow, he blew it, so he tried again. He didn't see that it was good. Nonsense. He saw that it resembled a Carnival cruise ship. He tried again. Better, but not quite. He tried for 6 whole days. Then he took a day off and thought about it. Finally he was getting it right, felt how exhausting all this work was and decided we humans would need weekends off. Then, just as he was about to perfect it, the whole thing blew up in his face. We call this the Big Bang. He walked away from the whole mess and left an instruction booklet. A really confusing one. We call this the Bible.
Well, not anymore. We now call it the Bible according to Newman.
So, in the beginning, God had no practice creating universes. I really don't understand that. I would have at least jotted some diagrams down on a napkin (like they did in Spinal Tap), used a really good AutoCAD program, THEN put shovel to dirt, and afterwards bring in Mike Holmes to check it for foundation, plumbing, electrical etc.
Well, not anymore. We now call it the Bible according to Newman.
So, in the beginning, God had no practice creating universes. I really don't understand that. I would have at least jotted some diagrams down on a napkin (like they did in Spinal Tap), used a really good AutoCAD program, THEN put shovel to dirt, and afterwards bring in Mike Holmes to check it for foundation, plumbing, electrical etc.
Instead, we have an IKEA universe. Here are all the parts, mankind, you go ahead and make something decent out of it.
Coming next in the Bible According to Newman…the real sins.
Friday, 2 August 2013
Helloooo Newman: The Universe in your Backyard
Helloooo Newman: The Universe in your Backyard: I'm kind of a physics buff. I'd like to think I can speak for more than a few minutes on classical physics, the study of the huge un...
The Universe in your Backyard
I'm kind of a physics buff. I'd like to think I can speak for more than a few minutes on classical physics, the study of the huge universe, and quantum physics, the study of the microscopic universe. I was never good at studying anything in between the huge and the microscopic like, for instance, high school tests. Suffice it to say my GPA approached the size of a neutrino.
What I've noticed recently is the remarkable similarity between certain features of the universe and our good old home on earth. It's uncanny, really.
Consider the description of a common black hole. This is a collapsed star that is so dense with crushed matter that its gravitational pull is billions of times stronger than here on earth. It sucks things into it – even light – never to be seen again. And it grows bigger as it absorbs more and more matter.
This, to me, sounds an awful lot like a trip to a Florida buffet. I would say a good 40% of the Florida population are black holes disguised as people when they visit a buffet. Maybe other states, too?
This is not the only example of this phenomenon. I had a breakfast at Denny's that fit this description. To experience this phenomenon, please also visit the International House of Pancakes (iHop), and the much larger Interstellar/Intergallactic House of Pancakes.
Some scientists think sun spots actually influence human behaviour. For example, an active sun spot period is associated with the rise of Beatlemania. This explains why the original title of one of their most famous songs was "Here Comes the Sun Spot".
Now we are learning that the universe is hugely influenced by something we can't even see - dark matter. This strange matter that we can't see influences how the universe develops. And it's repulsive, as in it pushes things apart.
Well, this fits the description of at least two of my girlfriends. One girlfriend told me she was physically abused by her father and she appreciated it because it made her a better person. I quickly updated my passport, secretly moved to the Maldives for a time, and told her I would never disclose the location of her spaceship.
Everyone has heard of worm holes. Maybe some have even had some in their body. These are shortcuts in spacetime that connect one area in space with another far away. This is the HOV lane for the universe. You cannot go through them unless there are two or more people travelling at the same time.
Finally, there is the neutrino, which I mentioned above. The neutrino is a form of matter so small that trillions travel through your hand every second and never collide with any other matter. Hmmm, something so, so tiny that no one can see it? I once had a mirror on my bedroom ceiling that said, "objects are larger than they appear". But otherwise, can't think of any similarities here!
What I've noticed recently is the remarkable similarity between certain features of the universe and our good old home on earth. It's uncanny, really.
Consider the description of a common black hole. This is a collapsed star that is so dense with crushed matter that its gravitational pull is billions of times stronger than here on earth. It sucks things into it – even light – never to be seen again. And it grows bigger as it absorbs more and more matter.
This, to me, sounds an awful lot like a trip to a Florida buffet. I would say a good 40% of the Florida population are black holes disguised as people when they visit a buffet. Maybe other states, too?
Similar to a black hole is a neutron star. In fact, the neutron star is a star that failed the audition to become a full fledged black hole. If you were to measure out one teaspoon of “neutron star”, that teaspoon would have a mass of roughly one billion tons – around two times the weight of all the cars in the United States!
This is not the only example of this phenomenon. I had a breakfast at Denny's that fit this description. To experience this phenomenon, please also visit the International House of Pancakes (iHop), and the much larger Interstellar/Intergallactic House of Pancakes.
Some scientists think sun spots actually influence human behaviour. For example, an active sun spot period is associated with the rise of Beatlemania. This explains why the original title of one of their most famous songs was "Here Comes the Sun Spot".
They have found stellar clouds with ethol alcohol. This is identical to the alcohol found in beer. We could certainly use an Interstellar beer store here in good old Ontariariario. I'd prefer beer at the corner store but at least it's competition for the intelligently named "Beer Store". Doesn't get much smarter than naming beer stores here in Ontario.
Now we are learning that the universe is hugely influenced by something we can't even see - dark matter. This strange matter that we can't see influences how the universe develops. And it's repulsive, as in it pushes things apart.
Well, this fits the description of at least two of my girlfriends. One girlfriend told me she was physically abused by her father and she appreciated it because it made her a better person. I quickly updated my passport, secretly moved to the Maldives for a time, and told her I would never disclose the location of her spaceship.
Everyone has heard of worm holes. Maybe some have even had some in their body. These are shortcuts in spacetime that connect one area in space with another far away. This is the HOV lane for the universe. You cannot go through them unless there are two or more people travelling at the same time.
Finally, there is the neutrino, which I mentioned above. The neutrino is a form of matter so small that trillions travel through your hand every second and never collide with any other matter. Hmmm, something so, so tiny that no one can see it? I once had a mirror on my bedroom ceiling that said, "objects are larger than they appear". But otherwise, can't think of any similarities here!
Thursday, 1 August 2013
Helloooo Newman: Mr Allen, I presume?
Helloooo Newman: Mr Allen, I presume?: My neck is killing me. I think the vertebrae are bruised, or they are stacked up on top of each other and all the lubricating sinewy stuff...
Mr Allen, I presume?
It's all Woody Allen's fault. I was watching the preview for his next movie on the boob tube. It's called Blue Jasmine. Everything was going fine. Okay, another Woody Allen movie, his 437th I think. I probably won't see it, but that's okay.
Then it just caught my earlobe and worked its way into my brain very slowly - "Andrew Dice Clay". My head turned a la Regan in The Exorcist. Obviously I had inhaled too many WD40 fumes at the cottage. Maybe some chainsaw oil made its way into my cheerios.
Nope. Andrew Dice Clay is in Woody Allen's movie. Go ahead, read that line again. It's true. Well, tear me another universe. I'm leaving.
Andrew Dice Clay is to comedy as Donald Trump is to bosses.
What happened at the auditions? Did Andy Clay wear a life-like Anthony Hopkins halloween mask? Did he bring a bottle of chianti to complete the guise?
Two weeks ago I just got over the fact that Mr. Allen married his adopted daughter. Two months ago I stopped puking at the idea. Now this.
I guess I can give Andy a chance. But my body gave the shingles a chance once and it wasn't pleasant.
I don't know. I'd say Mr. Allen is really rolling the Dice this time.
Excuse my insensitivity, but I hope Carrot Top passes away before Mr. Allen's next script.
Tuesday, 30 July 2013
Helloooo Newman: Captain's Blog
Helloooo Newman: Captain's Blog: I wonder why the various captain's of the Enterprise in Star Trek didn't have a blog. The technology was certainly there. They alw...
Captain's Blog
The technology was certainly there. They always found time to keep an old fashion log. And they had way more to write about than I do. For example…
…I've never saved an alien civilization. I once helped a hummingbird that flew into our window and got stunned. Obviously his shields weren't up. As he lay there gasping for air, I gave an impassioned speech about the progress of bird civilization and the bright future ahead, as Kirk would do. The hummingbird was wondering why I was talking to myself and not getting him some water. I went to the replicator and said, "water, cold" and gave it to the bird. At first it gave me Earl Grey tea and I said, "no, no, no" and swore at it. It worked. But there was no final scene with the hummingbird thanking me and waving goodbye as I whisked away at warp speed. It pooped and left.
…I've also never slept with a female alien, as Kirk and Picard so often did. One topic Star Trek avoided was STDs. That's just negligent. We have lonely men in the space station right now and they have no idea of the danger they face. Did it ever occur to anyone that back when the Vulcans were uncivilized and rampant with emotion, they developed the pointy ears from an STD? The ears used to get pointy only when the Vulcans got excited. But they fooled around so often that the ears stayed that way. That should scare every man.
It's curious that the only captain who didn't sleep with alien life forms was a female - Captain Janeway of the starship Voyager. She was good looking enough for sure. She was also quite smart and well read. That might have intimidated the male aliens. Plus she was very busy ensuring the male crew members didn't develop pointy ears like the Vulcan's (wink, wink).
What really prevented Janeway from getting it on in space was competition from Seven of Nine, the human-turned Borg-turned human crew member. When standing abreast with Seven of Nine, Janeway looked like a piece of drywall in a uniform. Put another way, one could easily confuse Seven of Nine's chest with a solar system the ship should be orbiting.
So, this is how I think Captain Kirk's blog might have sounded:
Captain's Blog, star date 3.1415…blah blah blah (rounded off to the nearest decimal point):
Woke up with a smashing headache and a strange jellyfish-like creature with flowing blonde hair clinging to my manly man chest. A cigarette hung out of its limp mouth. Apparently we had a great time last night and now it is dead. Died from pleasure, like so many others.
I guess that's why the crew keeps calling me Kirk Diggler. It's from some old movie but I don't get it.
Walked to my computer. Damn internet is down again. Nothing on cable, as usual. Thankfully, I could get movies on my iCommunicator. But the roaming charges, oh man. It gets so tedious during those times between saving civilizations. But it gives me time to work on my next civilization-saving speech. And my all important acting classes. I'm-tired-of-talking-like-this-all-the-time.
Checked my phaser. Out of phaser ammo again. Ammo is so hard to get these days. Last week someone sauntered into the cafeteria and vaporized 24 people with an automatic phaser. Apparently he was demoted to cleaning toilet sewage that was leaking into the warp engines. Now they want to have background checks before you buy a phaser. Especially for illegal aliens. Out of my cold, dead Captain's hand, I say. Phasers don't vaporize. Lowly sewage cleaners do.
Oh, and now the ship has elected a mayor to run the day-to-day stuff. His name is Rob Ford the 123rd. You can just see it written all over the alien's faces. Why hasn't the human race progressed further than this?
Apparently he wants to build a bunch of new turbo lifts to parts of the ship no one visits. And someone caught him snorting dilithium crystals in the cargo bay. After that, thankfully, he accidentally beamed himself into space and now, apparently because he's so large, his body has taken up orbit around the planet as a third moon. His brother is stepping in as mayor.
Anyway, things aren't so bad. Had an awesome breakfast at a new restaurant started by Apple Computer. Amazing this company is still around. I should take my next alien whore there. It's called iHop.
Real easy, too. Once you have the app, they download a pile of pancakes directly to your stomach. No annoying chewing.
The future rocks, doesn't it?
Wednesday, 24 July 2013
Tuesday, 23 July 2013
Royal Infantigue?
Helloooo Newman: Royal Infantigue?: Do you suffer from Royal Infantigue? Are you ready to induce a coma so you can miss all the press about an omnipotent and omniprese...
Royal Infantigue?
Do you suffer from Royal Infantigue? Are you ready to induce a coma so you can miss all the press about an omnipotent and omnipresent royal baby?
I made a list of things that I found much more useful to do.
• watch the International Hooters Swimsuit Pageant on t.v.
• cut your toenails, mix up the clippings in a bag, and then try and match them with the right nail, like a puzzle
• watch Dog the Bounty Hunter, whose face inspires everyone to never have another baby ever again
• break into someone's house and do their laundry, fold it nicely and leave a bill
• sit in a sensory deprivation chamber and pipe in Don Pardo's voice on a loop saying, "it's Saturday Night Live"
• cover the roof of your mouth with peanut butter and try and say "Irish wristwatch" really quickly ten times
• call a friend and tell them you have a grand prize winning lottery ticket, they accidentally grabbed it when they were visiting and could they please find it so you can split it with them
• look at Newman's baby pictures
Have fun.
Monday, 22 July 2013
Helloooo Newman: National Enquirer Exclusive
Helloooo Newman: National Enquirer Exclusive: Ladies and gentlemen. We have obtained exclusive, never before seen photos of Newman, the celebrity dog from the Helloooo Newman bl...
National Enquirer Exclusive
Ladies and gentlemen. We have obtained exclusive, never before seen photos of Newman, the celebrity dog from the Helloooo Newman blog.
These behind-the-scenes photos show Newman preparing for another gruelling day of stardom. Isn't it just amazing the work that goes on to make Newman the professional he is?
Don't be shocked if you don't recognize him. He really needs his makeup and hair, just like Katy Perry does.
We hid a tiny camera on a millipede in this washroom and captured these exclusive photos of Newman at his celebrity spa. Having celebrity friends like Snoop Dogg and Dog the Bounty Hunter, Newman has to look his best at all times, except in the shower.
We approached Newman with these photos and asked him to comment.
Newman: "Ever since this blog has started my life has been hell. Bath after bath after bath so I can look all cute for the blah blah blog. But where are the royalties and the red carpets? The female poodles throwing themselves at my paws? The $1,000 rawhides?
Last week I caught a photographer hiding in a poodle's bum. He snapped just as I was going for the big sniff. I felt violated. I don't want to think how the poodle felt.
Stardom is tough. Dog eat dog. I think you people should know that. Next time you're out and about, hug a celebrity dog".
PS: Pictures provided by our roving reporter, Madeline.
Wednesday, 17 July 2013
Helloooo Newman: Is there a plan for you?
Helloooo Newman: Is there a plan for you?: I can't decide if the universe has a plan and if I'm included in that plan. Some events really convince me something deeper is goi...
Is there a plan for you?
I can't decide if the universe has a plan and if I'm included in that plan.
Certain events convince me something deeper is going on. Years ago I was travelling through Europe. I lost my plane ticket at a hostel. I can't remember the city - I think it was Saltzburg or Frieburg, pretty sure it wasn't Hamburg, although I wish it had been bacon cheddar cheeseburg, my favourite European city.Weeks went by, I replaced the ticket and forgot about it. Then one day I was in a lineup at the hostel in Luxembourg and began chatting with two guys behind me. Luxembourg is an absolutely beautiful city. The hostel is located in a gorge of lush greenery. This is where I bought my inter-rail pass so I could travel around Europe being treated like livestock for real cheap.
As I said, I began talking to these two guys. I had already tried talking to all the girls in the line with no luck. I definitely found it strange that every single girl in the line told me they were an undercover agent for Interpol and couldn't talk to me because it distracted them from apprehending a world renowned criminal by the name of Uri Loser. Strange name, indeed.
Back to the guys. I introduced myself and one of the guys says, "Paul Hardie? That name sounds so familiar…hmmm…did you lose a plane ticket a while back?" Turns out these two guys found my plane ticket. They tried to sell it for face value. Um, I'd like you to meet Uri Loser, guys.
It took me a few days to get over this "coincidence". Think of the population of Europe, people moving about every second, millions of small decisions being made, trains on time, early and late and a billion other things. How could this conceivably happen without a plan? The bigger question is where was this plan last week when I picked my lottery numbers? Or that day I was walking out of a bar and accidentally tripped this big greek guy. He looked so strong I was sure he was going to punch me in the soul. He settled on my eye.
Events like this make me think there's a guy in the sky, my guy, who's watching out for me. He's the man with the plan.
Why not reveal some of the plan to me? Or at least we could go over it once and I could jot down some major points. Then I would have known that mixing coke and scotch would make me vomit like a dying hippo. I would not have studied psychology, only to figure out that I'd rather remove old septic tanks from cottages than listen to other people complain about their meaningless lives. I keep myself busy enough doing that.
I think everyone should get a peak at THEIR plan. Maybe just a short synopsis in a pdf would do. I know, that's some 6.5 billions pdfs, but He must have secretaries. Could that many terabites crash the whole universe? Maybe the universe could do with a restart anyway.
Even if there is a plan, or plans, I have a few concerns with the whole notion anyway. Lots of things in this world with a good plan turn out horribly. The leaning tower of Pisa, for instance. Charles and Di's marriage. How about everyone traveling on the Hindenburg?
Why do plans differ so radically? Compare Pee-wee Herman, who went from t.v. star for kids to masturbating in theatres, and John Holmes, the porn star who went from masturbating in theatres to international movie star.
The universe as it is just doesn't make sense to me. If God is the architect, did He spill coffee on the blueprints? Why did He start at such a large scale? Why not build a small scale version of the universe and see how it works? What kind of AutoCAD program did He use? It took 40 architects just to build the CN tower. I think Mike Holmes, not the porn star but the reno guy, should have had a once over before he started the big bang.
If God is a teacher, where is He now? Does He have that many sick days stored up that He doesn't have to show?
If God is a politician, when is He up for re-election? What are the choices? How can He possibly win without appearing on CNN?
If God is the World leader, what does that mean for the G8? Are there 7 other Gods He must negotiate with? Are they all as sexy, muscular and heroic as Vladimir Putin?
If God is a healer, what ailments are covered under His plan? Can He cancel it for pre-existing conditions? Didn't He create those conditions?
Maybe God is like that guy on the t.v. show Cake Boss. If the universe is a very large cake, I want more icing. Or at least give me a corner piece. Make it a money cake. At any rate, why invent us while the cake is still baking? Finish the cake, put it on a nice tray and then bring us in. I know, I was never promised a rose on my cake.
So I'm still looking for my plan? Maybe another trip to Europe is warranted. I hope it's not on the floor of some theatre.
Friday, 12 July 2013
Helloooo Newman: Stink Bomb
Helloooo Newman: Stink Bomb: When I was younger, and I would like to stress here that I was much younger, I got into a conversation with a friend about the Vietnam war. ...
Dogs of War
When I was younger, and I would like to stress here that I was much younger, I got into a conversation with a friend about the Vietnam war. I suggested to my friend that instead of dropping regular bombs that explode, we should drop bombs of dog poo or bombs that explode and disperse really bad dog fart smells.
He told me that it wouldn't be effective because humans quickly adapt to vile smells and then the smells are no longer offensive. I wasn't so sure.
Well, last night I had the unique opportunity to test this hypothesis. I couldn't believe my luck.
First, a few words in support of dropping poo/fart (PF) bombs instead of regular exploding bombs. The most obvious advantage of PF bombs is that no one gets blown to pieces. Another day where no one is exploded is probably a good day. Sure, one's olfactory factory would shut down and you would probably never be able to enjoy food again since it would be associated with these bombs. But you could just cook with a lot more herbs. Or just eat the herbs straight.
I think the war would end much more quickly with PF bombs. When people's limbs are detached by regular bombs, it tends to create fear and resentment among the population. I can see the reason for that. On the other hand, if people are subjected to a really horrible smell all day, I would imagine they would get really grumpy and demand fresher air. The politicians would have to end the war to improve the air quality. With regular bombs, people are scared or dead. With PF bombs people are angry and are alive to demand change.
Incidentally, in a war using PF bombs, I suggest you buy stock in Febreze.
My arguments are based on the premise that my friend was wrong and your olfactory factory will not eventually sit by and put up with horrible smells. Then came the test.
Last night I drove up to the cottage alone with Newman (no other humans). I am having a guys weekend and I came up early to enjoy a day to myself. It's not often I get the cottage to myself and I was looking forward to the three activities I really enjoy - meditating, napping and sleeping. In that order. And sometimes all at once.
On the way up, Newman had to relieve himself. He couldn't sense my eagerness to get to the cottage quickly (I guess he couldn't read the 145 kph I was doing) and I reluctantly stopped. He pooed by a beautiful and fresh smelling farmer's field. There was a pleasant breeze and the faint aroma of cream of wheat.
But time was a ticking and I wanted to get back to the 145 kph. I threw Newman in the back seat and the bag of poo in the very back luggage compartment thingy. No, I didn't leave the poo on the grass in the middle of nowhere. I wanted someone else to be able to enjoy that cream of wheat.
As I drove closer and closer to the speed of light, I noticed a rather pungent smell. My good ol-factory was under assault. The poo bag, the PF, was working brilliantly. As vomit began to gather in my stomach and respond to this attack, I remembered I neglected to tie the bag completely shut. I was right about PF bombs. There was no way I was going to ignore this smell.
But I couldn't stop driving. I wanted to get to the cottage like a gamete to an egg, like salmon up a stream, like the Brat Pack to a bar.
So I focussed on the driving. Good thing because at one point a doe a deer leapt across the highway and if I hit her at my high speed I would be permanently sheathed in deer skin.
Then suddenly I noticed that I didn't notice something. The PF bomb. It had dissipated considerably. I wouldn't say it was pleasant, but I also thought, ya, I could put up with this if it meant winning a war. My good ol-factory was running smoothly despite the smell. My vomit had retreated.
The PF bomb didn't work after all. My friend was right all along. Back to war as usual.
He told me that it wouldn't be effective because humans quickly adapt to vile smells and then the smells are no longer offensive. I wasn't so sure.
Well, last night I had the unique opportunity to test this hypothesis. I couldn't believe my luck.
First, a few words in support of dropping poo/fart (PF) bombs instead of regular exploding bombs. The most obvious advantage of PF bombs is that no one gets blown to pieces. Another day where no one is exploded is probably a good day. Sure, one's olfactory factory would shut down and you would probably never be able to enjoy food again since it would be associated with these bombs. But you could just cook with a lot more herbs. Or just eat the herbs straight.
I think the war would end much more quickly with PF bombs. When people's limbs are detached by regular bombs, it tends to create fear and resentment among the population. I can see the reason for that. On the other hand, if people are subjected to a really horrible smell all day, I would imagine they would get really grumpy and demand fresher air. The politicians would have to end the war to improve the air quality. With regular bombs, people are scared or dead. With PF bombs people are angry and are alive to demand change.
Incidentally, in a war using PF bombs, I suggest you buy stock in Febreze.
My arguments are based on the premise that my friend was wrong and your olfactory factory will not eventually sit by and put up with horrible smells. Then came the test.
Last night I drove up to the cottage alone with Newman (no other humans). I am having a guys weekend and I came up early to enjoy a day to myself. It's not often I get the cottage to myself and I was looking forward to the three activities I really enjoy - meditating, napping and sleeping. In that order. And sometimes all at once.
On the way up, Newman had to relieve himself. He couldn't sense my eagerness to get to the cottage quickly (I guess he couldn't read the 145 kph I was doing) and I reluctantly stopped. He pooed by a beautiful and fresh smelling farmer's field. There was a pleasant breeze and the faint aroma of cream of wheat.
But time was a ticking and I wanted to get back to the 145 kph. I threw Newman in the back seat and the bag of poo in the very back luggage compartment thingy. No, I didn't leave the poo on the grass in the middle of nowhere. I wanted someone else to be able to enjoy that cream of wheat.
As I drove closer and closer to the speed of light, I noticed a rather pungent smell. My good ol-factory was under assault. The poo bag, the PF, was working brilliantly. As vomit began to gather in my stomach and respond to this attack, I remembered I neglected to tie the bag completely shut. I was right about PF bombs. There was no way I was going to ignore this smell.
But I couldn't stop driving. I wanted to get to the cottage like a gamete to an egg, like salmon up a stream, like the Brat Pack to a bar.
So I focussed on the driving. Good thing because at one point a doe a deer leapt across the highway and if I hit her at my high speed I would be permanently sheathed in deer skin.
Then suddenly I noticed that I didn't notice something. The PF bomb. It had dissipated considerably. I wouldn't say it was pleasant, but I also thought, ya, I could put up with this if it meant winning a war. My good ol-factory was running smoothly despite the smell. My vomit had retreated.
The PF bomb didn't work after all. My friend was right all along. Back to war as usual.
Wednesday, 10 July 2013
Is God Dyslexic?
Is He? The more and more I think about it, this would explain a lot about our lot in life.
Right from the get go, He got things backwards. It started with the big bang. This means everything is spreading apart. Today it will take you slightly longer than it did yesterday to get to work.
Does this make sense? Why not start with everything huge and spread apart and have it slowly come together? It makes commuting far easier over time. By the time we decide to build a new subway we won't need one.
It also brings everyone in the universe closer together. Right now things are so far apart we can only talk with our galactic neighbours every once in a while through the odd ufo sighting and abduction. These aliens could end abductions tomorrow if they were closer and the trip was easier and cheaper.
Suddenly all our problems would seem smaller because everything really is getting smaller. The size of the U.S. debt would shrink from 10 septajagillywillion dollars to something a little larger than Sarah Palin's brain. That's very small and quite manageable.
Things are just getting too large in this world. In Vegas the term "city block" means a block the size of New York or Chicago. That's pretty hard to walk when you've been drinking cheap beer 24/7. Imagine Sarah Palin with a normal sized ego. That would happen in this universe. You could read a shrinking A Tale of Two Cities in a few minutes and explain the themes at parties. Because the universe is getting smaller, there won't be room for the famous opening line, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times". This would contract to, "Things sucked, but not totally".
I suppose women would be disappointed in this universe. Certain important objects would be getting smaller and smaller. But they could do what I did when I was single. Put a mirror on their ceiling with the words "objects are larger than they appear" printed on it.
My wife has created this kind of a universe for herself. In our universe right now we all know that cause precedes effect. Swing hammer (cause) and the nail goes in the wood (effect). My wife has reversed cause and effect so now she gets mad at me before I do something wrong. This saves her time and allows her to get mad when it easily fits her schedule as opposed to waiting for me to actually do something wrong. Smart lady!
With cause and effect reversed, you could sit down for a meal and already be full. Then you could go through the menu and select the things you ate that made you full. Um, I had the watercress salad with the boiled chicken and parsnip puree. I did not have the deep fried, bacon wrapped meatloaf with a side of poutine smothered in rendered animal fat. Instant weight loss.
Yes, lots of things are backwards in the universe. Like the word Dog. More later on what the universe would look like if a Dog were in charge.
Right from the get go, He got things backwards. It started with the big bang. This means everything is spreading apart. Today it will take you slightly longer than it did yesterday to get to work.
Does this make sense? Why not start with everything huge and spread apart and have it slowly come together? It makes commuting far easier over time. By the time we decide to build a new subway we won't need one.
It also brings everyone in the universe closer together. Right now things are so far apart we can only talk with our galactic neighbours every once in a while through the odd ufo sighting and abduction. These aliens could end abductions tomorrow if they were closer and the trip was easier and cheaper.
Suddenly all our problems would seem smaller because everything really is getting smaller. The size of the U.S. debt would shrink from 10 septajagillywillion dollars to something a little larger than Sarah Palin's brain. That's very small and quite manageable.
Things are just getting too large in this world. In Vegas the term "city block" means a block the size of New York or Chicago. That's pretty hard to walk when you've been drinking cheap beer 24/7. Imagine Sarah Palin with a normal sized ego. That would happen in this universe. You could read a shrinking A Tale of Two Cities in a few minutes and explain the themes at parties. Because the universe is getting smaller, there won't be room for the famous opening line, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times". This would contract to, "Things sucked, but not totally".
I suppose women would be disappointed in this universe. Certain important objects would be getting smaller and smaller. But they could do what I did when I was single. Put a mirror on their ceiling with the words "objects are larger than they appear" printed on it.
My wife has created this kind of a universe for herself. In our universe right now we all know that cause precedes effect. Swing hammer (cause) and the nail goes in the wood (effect). My wife has reversed cause and effect so now she gets mad at me before I do something wrong. This saves her time and allows her to get mad when it easily fits her schedule as opposed to waiting for me to actually do something wrong. Smart lady!
With cause and effect reversed, you could sit down for a meal and already be full. Then you could go through the menu and select the things you ate that made you full. Um, I had the watercress salad with the boiled chicken and parsnip puree. I did not have the deep fried, bacon wrapped meatloaf with a side of poutine smothered in rendered animal fat. Instant weight loss.
Yes, lots of things are backwards in the universe. Like the word Dog. More later on what the universe would look like if a Dog were in charge.
Tuesday, 9 July 2013
Helloooo Newman: You had me at coffee
Helloooo Newman: You had me at coffee: I discovered a while ago what gets me out of bed in the morning. Coffee. Just coffee. I'm not talking about what motivates me to face ...
You had me at coffee
I discovered a while ago what gets me out of bed in the morning. Coffee. Just coffee.
I'm not talking about what motivates me to face the world, achieve things, build my career, and learn The Pussy Willow song on the piano. Rather, coffee is the immediate motivating factor that actually prompts my body to peel itself off the mattress, trounce downstairs and get my metabolism going.
The second I awake, the very moment I come out of REM sleep, even before I have to accept that the hot lady in my dream will not be marrying me, the first neuron to fire is a caffeine neuron.
If not for coffee, I can't see why any of us get out of bed.
Actually, it's caffeine. Coffee is just a nice delivery vehicle. Like Charlize Theron's body. It's a beautiful delivery vehicle for her mind, which is really why I coat my bathroom walls with her posters.
I'd be perfectly fine drinking Red Bull in the morning but it just doesn't fit into the white, middle class, 50 year old male thing to do. Red Bull is actually better than coffee in that it has 250% of the daily recommended B12. Once I drank two Red Bulls and half an hour later took a nap. When my body wants to nap, it naps. Even with enough B12 to power all the football, basketball and hockey teams in the world for several lifetimes, my body decides when it's had enough and nothin' gonna change dat.
My need for coffee reminds me of that Snickers commercial, the one where Joe Pesci bites into a Snickers and turns back into the real person. I'm not me without my coffee. I'm Mandy Manson, Charles Manson's little known, slightly less violent brother.
I can feel the life, the drive, the hutzpah flow into me as I drink my first coffee. It's too bad most of this drive ends up in the toilet bowl by the end of the morning. Otherwise I know I would achieve great things. Well, I'm kinda sure, anyway.
I remember once my sister poured this brownish liquid into my coffee cup. I drank it and then asked, "When are we having coffee?" I like it strong. She likes me to be quiet.
I'm not talking about what motivates me to face the world, achieve things, build my career, and learn The Pussy Willow song on the piano. Rather, coffee is the immediate motivating factor that actually prompts my body to peel itself off the mattress, trounce downstairs and get my metabolism going.
The second I awake, the very moment I come out of REM sleep, even before I have to accept that the hot lady in my dream will not be marrying me, the first neuron to fire is a caffeine neuron.
If not for coffee, I can't see why any of us get out of bed.
Actually, it's caffeine. Coffee is just a nice delivery vehicle. Like Charlize Theron's body. It's a beautiful delivery vehicle for her mind, which is really why I coat my bathroom walls with her posters.
I'd be perfectly fine drinking Red Bull in the morning but it just doesn't fit into the white, middle class, 50 year old male thing to do. Red Bull is actually better than coffee in that it has 250% of the daily recommended B12. Once I drank two Red Bulls and half an hour later took a nap. When my body wants to nap, it naps. Even with enough B12 to power all the football, basketball and hockey teams in the world for several lifetimes, my body decides when it's had enough and nothin' gonna change dat.
My need for coffee reminds me of that Snickers commercial, the one where Joe Pesci bites into a Snickers and turns back into the real person. I'm not me without my coffee. I'm Mandy Manson, Charles Manson's little known, slightly less violent brother.
I can feel the life, the drive, the hutzpah flow into me as I drink my first coffee. It's too bad most of this drive ends up in the toilet bowl by the end of the morning. Otherwise I know I would achieve great things. Well, I'm kinda sure, anyway.
I remember once my sister poured this brownish liquid into my coffee cup. I drank it and then asked, "When are we having coffee?" I like it strong. She likes me to be quiet.
I don't understand the fuss about the health effects of caffeine. Scientists say the universe is made of energy, and coffee gives me energy, so its gotta be good. In fact, I think the C in E=MC2, the famous equation by Einstein, stands for coffee. The universe is really an extremely large cup of coffee, way larger than the trenta size (31 oz.) at Starbucks. It all started from a coffee bean so tiny and concentrated with caffeine that if you lived then, you would be up all night. It exploded and developed into individual coffee galaxies, similar to those Tassimo packets. Human civilization is the coffee stain around the edge of the cup.
Speaking of creation, is coffee mentioned in the Bible? It should be. I wonder how many coffees Moses had before parting the red sea? You can't tell me he did that without some kind of stimulant.
What about in the garden of Eden. Why an apple? Wouldn't a delicious hot cup of coffee be much more stimulating? Then we'd hear, "Hey Eve, drink this nice, sweet, creamy coffee latte" instead of "have I got a nice, sour granny smith for you." Presto, they gain the knowledge that there's a Starbucks down the path. That's the only reason I can think of for them to leave Paradise.
We can assume, then, that God had an awfully large amount of coffee before creating the universe. Judging from the results, I have a few questions. Where, exactly, did He get His coffee? Did He go to Coffee Time? The place I go to for my deck stain? That's why we have the phrase, "Too much coffee, God?"
One sure sign that God had too much lousy coffee is that the universe is full of entropy. The law of entropy states that overall, the amount of disorganization in the universe is always increasing. Wait a minute, what? He creates a universe that's impossible for us to clean up? Hasn't He made things difficult enough as it is? Try doing your own taxes in a universe like that. It means cleaning my garage is a complete waste of time. Yet He created my wife, who insists that the garage be ready for catalogue pictures.
Maybe He should have spent more than 6 days creating everything. It takes me 9 days to assemble a simple IKEA desk. Maybe He used one of those cheap, annoying allen keys to tighten everything, kept dropping it and then said, "Good enough, I'm sure it's suppose to rock back and forth anyway."
I checked on Amazon. There are some 12,000 books about getting organized. He could have read one on the 7th day. He could have enjoyed a nice, smooth coffee while He read.
Maybe, just maybe, He napped during Creation. And so far there hasn't been a nice enough coffee to get Him to peel himself off the mattress, trounce downstairs and fix the universe.
Maybe He should have spent more than 6 days creating everything. It takes me 9 days to assemble a simple IKEA desk. Maybe He used one of those cheap, annoying allen keys to tighten everything, kept dropping it and then said, "Good enough, I'm sure it's suppose to rock back and forth anyway."
I checked on Amazon. There are some 12,000 books about getting organized. He could have read one on the 7th day. He could have enjoyed a nice, smooth coffee while He read.
Maybe, just maybe, He napped during Creation. And so far there hasn't been a nice enough coffee to get Him to peel himself off the mattress, trounce downstairs and fix the universe.
Friday, 5 July 2013
Helloooo Newman: Elevatorage
Helloooo Newman: Elevatorage: I am not a person full of rage. That's not my default setting, anyway. When I do get mad, at least it's not over trivial things. If ...
Elevatorage
I am not a person full of rage. That's not my default setting, anyway. When I do get mad, at least it's not over trivial things. If my mashed potatoes touch anything else on the plate I become apoplectic. Make my coffee weak in the morning and I'll take the coffee maker, grind it into a fine powder with my bare hands and sprinkle into a stronger coffee that I made by flying to Brazil, taking some coffee farmers hostage, trading them for coffee plants, grinding the plants in the plane engines as I fly back, adding a bit of water and drinking it through the eye sockets from the hollowed out skull of an ex-Starbucks professional.
Otherwise I'm fairly calm.
But there is one activity that really flings me into a rage - waiting for an elevator. I think I developed this when I lived at 88 Erskine Avenue in Toronto. This is a building with 29,000 floors and 4 lame elevators that barely haul your butt into the sky. I was on the 15,000th floor (might have been the 15th floor) and for a time I actually walked up to my apartment to avoid my waiting rage. I use the word apartment very loosely. Archeological site is probably more accurate. Coroners office in the sky. Petrie dish with a balcony. Abattoir on Erskine.
Yesterday I was waiting for an elevator at a friends apartment. After about 30 seconds of this, all those rageful memories came flooding back. Then I realized I'm only on the fourth floor. It didn't matter. Two minutes go by. I started tearing the walls of the building apart with my mind. Then I looked for the common signs that the elevator was near. The door shakes from the breeze of the passing elevator car. My hopes were up, but I'm still up on the fourth floor. I stared at the lit up button for what seemed like the age of the universe. Will it go out, signaling the arrival of relief? Five minutes on…
At this stage one reaches what I call the elevator investment stage. I could end this now and take the stairs, but I've invested valuable time and I want some return on that. Otherwise I've wasted my time waiting. So let's waste more time, so that I don't feel like I've wasted the time that's already wasted. I've never really understood the analogy of investing time, as if you're investing money. When I invest money, I hope to get more money back. When I invest time, I never get more time back. I can't put that time aside and use it later for an emergency, like finishing my taxes on time. Time is more like a battery. You carry a certain amount around with you and it wears out too quickly. Unless it's an Energizer battery. Unfortunately, you can't recharge your time battery, unless you believe in reincarnation. If you believe in that, you also believe you will win the lottery. But you're more likely to be killed by a falling battery than winning the lottery. Sorry.
It's going on 6 minutes now. I turn around. There it is, glittering in the otherwise dull light of the hallway. Something to occupy my time in a productive way. A mirror. I'm sure they put it there for the very purpose of relieving rage. I stare at my face and my mind wanders. I try and convince myself I look like Ryan Gosling. A simple hair fix is required. Failure. I try and convince myself I look like George Clooney. Failure. Brad Pitt. Failure. Danny Devito. Closer. That guy on the Oliver Jewellery commercials (money for gold). Success. I quickly make a mental note of places where I need to remove hair from my body, an important process as you age - ears, nose, lips…Do you ever notice people, like on the subway, who fix their hair. They move a few hairs around as if they are making some kind of major transformation to their look. There we go, now I can be out in public. Um, no. You look the same as it ever was.
Suddenly, I hear voices. They are coming from the hollow chamber of the elevator shaft and sound like angels coming to gently usher me to heaven, which in this case is DOWN, not up. The voices continue but that annoying elevator light doesn't go out. It's at that moment I realize what's happening. These angels are moving into the building and they are holding the ONE available elevator to move their crappy furniture. I want to tear the wings off these angels and watch them writhe in pain. I want to scissor-kick these angels to hell.
I settle for walking down 4 flights of stairs. Another investment gone bad.
Otherwise I'm fairly calm.
But there is one activity that really flings me into a rage - waiting for an elevator. I think I developed this when I lived at 88 Erskine Avenue in Toronto. This is a building with 29,000 floors and 4 lame elevators that barely haul your butt into the sky. I was on the 15,000th floor (might have been the 15th floor) and for a time I actually walked up to my apartment to avoid my waiting rage. I use the word apartment very loosely. Archeological site is probably more accurate. Coroners office in the sky. Petrie dish with a balcony. Abattoir on Erskine.
Yesterday I was waiting for an elevator at a friends apartment. After about 30 seconds of this, all those rageful memories came flooding back. Then I realized I'm only on the fourth floor. It didn't matter. Two minutes go by. I started tearing the walls of the building apart with my mind. Then I looked for the common signs that the elevator was near. The door shakes from the breeze of the passing elevator car. My hopes were up, but I'm still up on the fourth floor. I stared at the lit up button for what seemed like the age of the universe. Will it go out, signaling the arrival of relief? Five minutes on…
At this stage one reaches what I call the elevator investment stage. I could end this now and take the stairs, but I've invested valuable time and I want some return on that. Otherwise I've wasted my time waiting. So let's waste more time, so that I don't feel like I've wasted the time that's already wasted. I've never really understood the analogy of investing time, as if you're investing money. When I invest money, I hope to get more money back. When I invest time, I never get more time back. I can't put that time aside and use it later for an emergency, like finishing my taxes on time. Time is more like a battery. You carry a certain amount around with you and it wears out too quickly. Unless it's an Energizer battery. Unfortunately, you can't recharge your time battery, unless you believe in reincarnation. If you believe in that, you also believe you will win the lottery. But you're more likely to be killed by a falling battery than winning the lottery. Sorry.
It's going on 6 minutes now. I turn around. There it is, glittering in the otherwise dull light of the hallway. Something to occupy my time in a productive way. A mirror. I'm sure they put it there for the very purpose of relieving rage. I stare at my face and my mind wanders. I try and convince myself I look like Ryan Gosling. A simple hair fix is required. Failure. I try and convince myself I look like George Clooney. Failure. Brad Pitt. Failure. Danny Devito. Closer. That guy on the Oliver Jewellery commercials (money for gold). Success. I quickly make a mental note of places where I need to remove hair from my body, an important process as you age - ears, nose, lips…Do you ever notice people, like on the subway, who fix their hair. They move a few hairs around as if they are making some kind of major transformation to their look. There we go, now I can be out in public. Um, no. You look the same as it ever was.
Suddenly, I hear voices. They are coming from the hollow chamber of the elevator shaft and sound like angels coming to gently usher me to heaven, which in this case is DOWN, not up. The voices continue but that annoying elevator light doesn't go out. It's at that moment I realize what's happening. These angels are moving into the building and they are holding the ONE available elevator to move their crappy furniture. I want to tear the wings off these angels and watch them writhe in pain. I want to scissor-kick these angels to hell.
I settle for walking down 4 flights of stairs. Another investment gone bad.
Thursday, 4 July 2013
Helloooo Newman: Visiting Hannah, Montana
Helloooo Newman: Visiting Hannah, Montana: I wish Hannah Montana would stop singing. This would be my objective if I won a huge lottery. I would double her yearly salary and pay her t...
Visiting Hannah, Montana
I wish Hannah Montana would stop singing. This would be my objective if I won a huge lottery. I would double her yearly salary and pay her to be a mime artist. She could move to Vegas and do very well. Or maybe a full time spokesperson for Laryngitis Anonymous.
I'll certainly never visit Hannah, Montana again. Everyone there just yells into microphones. And when people grow up there, they have to dress like sluts so the world knows they aren't daddy's little girl anymore. It's such a clever debutante kind of thing. And the mayor of Hannah, Montana - Billy Ray Cyrus - doesn't seem to mind how his constituents behave. As long as they keep paying those huge taxes.
Toto, I hope we're not in Hannah, Montana anymore.
I realize the possibility that only readers with kids might know who Hannah Montana is. For those who have never been to Hannah, Montana, can I have your brain?
I'll certainly never visit Hannah, Montana again. Everyone there just yells into microphones. And when people grow up there, they have to dress like sluts so the world knows they aren't daddy's little girl anymore. It's such a clever debutante kind of thing. And the mayor of Hannah, Montana - Billy Ray Cyrus - doesn't seem to mind how his constituents behave. As long as they keep paying those huge taxes.
Toto, I hope we're not in Hannah, Montana anymore.
I realize the possibility that only readers with kids might know who Hannah Montana is. For those who have never been to Hannah, Montana, can I have your brain?
Helloooo Newman: What a Wonderful World
Helloooo Newman: What a Wonderful World: We live in a beautiful, wonderous and awe-inspiring world. But let's face it, we also live in a cruel, horrific and nutty world. How d...
What a Wonderful World
We live in a beautiful, wonderous and awe-inspiring world. But let's face it, we also live in a cruel, horrific and nutty world.
How do we deal with this dichotomy? We have dogs join our pack. I think dogs are the healthiest choice in this regard. Definitely vodka is not a good choice. From what my hazy memory tells me, anyway. Nor is escapist t.v. shows like So you Think you can Dance?, which was originally called So you Think you can Think? A good book or movie works, but they don't wake you up with a lick in the face and you can't tease them by, say, putting peanut butter on a part of their body they can't reach.
Dogs have a powerful influence on just about everyone. I bet you Jeffrey Dahmer, the sadistic cannibal killer, would not have eaten his dog, if he had one. I know, he still would have enjoyed pan fried human pancreas, but maybe more exposure to a dog, with the Dog Whisperer's help, would have eventually steered him towards calves liver, and then on to the healthier choices like subs from Belly Buster, an actual food place downtown. This "restaurant" is almost right beside an excellent and expensive Italian place called La Fenice. Been there several times. How did the La Fenice people react when they got the news from the restaurant doctor that a tumour, by the medical name of Belly Buster, was growing on their turf? Did they get a second opinion? "They are doing wonderful things for tumours these days", said the restaurant doctor reassuringly. The doctor goes on…"belly tumours often cause loss of appetite, so we can only hope that a few Belly Buster subs will have this effect on all the bellies that consume them. That way, we starve the tumour. Failing that, we slowly cut it out with your kitchen knives." Belly Busters really stands out on the street. So when people ask for directions to La Fenice, I think the La Fenice people have no choice but so say, "we're just west of Belly Busters. What's that, sir? Do Belly Busters participate in summerlicious?" The La Fenice people disconnect their phone.
What about Son of Sam, the New York gun killer? He was really bad. He shot people with a revolver called a 44 caliber Bulldog. How disgusting to besmirch the name of the honourable bulldog, even if these dogs look like they've been injured in a record press. Cute they are! I once saw a Pug and a Bulldog come face-to-face. They were both shocked, and with good reason. My God, I look like that? How much would that cosmetic surgery be?
Son of Sam claimed he took orders from a demon that possessed the neighbours dog. I told you dogs have a powerful influence. Of course this wasn't the dogs fault. It was that nasty demon. I wonder if the demon was there when the dog got fixed? A couple of extra snips and that might have taught him a lesson. Otherwise we would have had Max von Sydow reenact his priest role in The Exorcist, tie the dog to a bed and watch out for green vomit. Linda Blair would do those creepy sounds and talk about the horrible things the priest's mom does in Hell.
I don't think Charlie Manson would have hurt his dog. He may have carved a swastika in his forehead, but that could be cute if done properly. The annoying thing would be having to constantly trim the hair so people can see the swastika and know you are a completely psychotic, and proud, dog owner.
So I think dogs can help so many more people than the blind or the sick or the old. They help smooth out those crazy dichotomies in life. What dogs can't do is pass bylaws prohibiting Belly Buster tumours.
How do we deal with this dichotomy? We have dogs join our pack. I think dogs are the healthiest choice in this regard. Definitely vodka is not a good choice. From what my hazy memory tells me, anyway. Nor is escapist t.v. shows like So you Think you can Dance?, which was originally called So you Think you can Think? A good book or movie works, but they don't wake you up with a lick in the face and you can't tease them by, say, putting peanut butter on a part of their body they can't reach.
Dogs have a powerful influence on just about everyone. I bet you Jeffrey Dahmer, the sadistic cannibal killer, would not have eaten his dog, if he had one. I know, he still would have enjoyed pan fried human pancreas, but maybe more exposure to a dog, with the Dog Whisperer's help, would have eventually steered him towards calves liver, and then on to the healthier choices like subs from Belly Buster, an actual food place downtown. This "restaurant" is almost right beside an excellent and expensive Italian place called La Fenice. Been there several times. How did the La Fenice people react when they got the news from the restaurant doctor that a tumour, by the medical name of Belly Buster, was growing on their turf? Did they get a second opinion? "They are doing wonderful things for tumours these days", said the restaurant doctor reassuringly. The doctor goes on…"belly tumours often cause loss of appetite, so we can only hope that a few Belly Buster subs will have this effect on all the bellies that consume them. That way, we starve the tumour. Failing that, we slowly cut it out with your kitchen knives." Belly Busters really stands out on the street. So when people ask for directions to La Fenice, I think the La Fenice people have no choice but so say, "we're just west of Belly Busters. What's that, sir? Do Belly Busters participate in summerlicious?" The La Fenice people disconnect their phone.
What about Son of Sam, the New York gun killer? He was really bad. He shot people with a revolver called a 44 caliber Bulldog. How disgusting to besmirch the name of the honourable bulldog, even if these dogs look like they've been injured in a record press. Cute they are! I once saw a Pug and a Bulldog come face-to-face. They were both shocked, and with good reason. My God, I look like that? How much would that cosmetic surgery be?
Son of Sam claimed he took orders from a demon that possessed the neighbours dog. I told you dogs have a powerful influence. Of course this wasn't the dogs fault. It was that nasty demon. I wonder if the demon was there when the dog got fixed? A couple of extra snips and that might have taught him a lesson. Otherwise we would have had Max von Sydow reenact his priest role in The Exorcist, tie the dog to a bed and watch out for green vomit. Linda Blair would do those creepy sounds and talk about the horrible things the priest's mom does in Hell.
I don't think Charlie Manson would have hurt his dog. He may have carved a swastika in his forehead, but that could be cute if done properly. The annoying thing would be having to constantly trim the hair so people can see the swastika and know you are a completely psychotic, and proud, dog owner.
So I think dogs can help so many more people than the blind or the sick or the old. They help smooth out those crazy dichotomies in life. What dogs can't do is pass bylaws prohibiting Belly Buster tumours.
Wednesday, 3 July 2013
Helloooo Newman: Parallel Universe
Helloooo Newman: Parallel Universe: Physicists (string theorists to be precise) now posit that the universe has many dimensions and that possibly there are an infinite number o...
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