A rope was in desperate need of a drink.
He stumbled into a bar and asked for a beer.
The bartender looked up and asked, "Are you a rope?"
"Yes, I am."
"Well, get the hell out of here! We don't serve ropes!"
Panting for a cold one, the rope soon found another saloon and again, with grace and determination, requested a beer.
"Your'e a rope, aintcha?"
"Well, yes I am but----"
He was suddenly staring at the barrel of a shotgun.
"Disappear and fast! We simply don't cater to no ropes! Never have, never will!"
On the verge of dehydration, the rope entered a third drinking establishment and was immediately confronted by one huge pissed-off server who bellowed out,"Hold everything! Are you a rope?"
Wisdom had taken its toil.
"No. I'm a frayed knot.
A beer was served.
Friday, September 27, 2013
Monday, September 16, 2013
FAMILIAL SYNCHRONIZATION
I, the romantic fool, getting more so as with older, just finished watching the season two finale of NEWSROOM.
As the sound of a delicious cover of Pete Townsend's "Let My Love Open The Door" embraced, captured and swept me away, tears began impairing my capacity to see. But my sensory abilities to hear and feel were more than enough to permit the appreciation of genius, which is what Aaron Sorkin is and has.
It's too detailed and dove-tailed for me to try and recap, but take it from me, the last few minutes of this installment was richly overflowing with emotional chords which should strike the heart of everyone who has one.
I'm a Pisces and therefore romantically cuckoo. I'll find love in every tender moment, for it is the oxygen of life. Accordingly, when Sorkin, who made his bones with the West Wing, goes for it, he usually hits a home run. Tonight, it was a grand slam. Biting wit, brilliant social commentary and political dissection all came together in a wind tunnel and rewarded faithful fans with a many splendored thing.
Loose threads were bordered, ambiguity was replaced with optimism and emotional punchlines were perfectly dealt to let you know what is always in the air.
But to the point of this post: I immediately reached for the phone to call my son and reinforce his conviction that I am sentimentally nuts. I blurted out, "Did you just see the Newsroom?" but was cut off before I could articulate the last word.
"I'll have to call you back," he stammered, "my eyes are full of tears."
My poor son's distance from the tree is indeed short. No DNA is required to ascertain his genes. I adore him. Much thicker than water. Joy of joys.
I'm very grateful. The Lord made room for two of us.
And about the power of love: Believe in it.
As the sound of a delicious cover of Pete Townsend's "Let My Love Open The Door" embraced, captured and swept me away, tears began impairing my capacity to see. But my sensory abilities to hear and feel were more than enough to permit the appreciation of genius, which is what Aaron Sorkin is and has.
It's too detailed and dove-tailed for me to try and recap, but take it from me, the last few minutes of this installment was richly overflowing with emotional chords which should strike the heart of everyone who has one.
I'm a Pisces and therefore romantically cuckoo. I'll find love in every tender moment, for it is the oxygen of life. Accordingly, when Sorkin, who made his bones with the West Wing, goes for it, he usually hits a home run. Tonight, it was a grand slam. Biting wit, brilliant social commentary and political dissection all came together in a wind tunnel and rewarded faithful fans with a many splendored thing.
Loose threads were bordered, ambiguity was replaced with optimism and emotional punchlines were perfectly dealt to let you know what is always in the air.
But to the point of this post: I immediately reached for the phone to call my son and reinforce his conviction that I am sentimentally nuts. I blurted out, "Did you just see the Newsroom?" but was cut off before I could articulate the last word.
"I'll have to call you back," he stammered, "my eyes are full of tears."
My poor son's distance from the tree is indeed short. No DNA is required to ascertain his genes. I adore him. Much thicker than water. Joy of joys.
I'm very grateful. The Lord made room for two of us.
And about the power of love: Believe in it.
Sunday, September 8, 2013
MAGIC TIME
It's 4:00 am, on an early Saturday morning. In about 90 minutes, the sun will make its appearance, innocently and without malice, and will bring to an end my favorite time of peaceful solitude. Most of the rest of the world is asleep, affording me the opportunity to ponder my plate, with everyday's problems in the shadowy back rows, much more tolerable and much less menacing than they will be when brought to full light by the center of hustle and bustle powered by the sun.
No surprises here. I'm always grateful for being able, without interruption, to size up my life in its present and foreseeable posture, during those magic hours when I can push away the things that vex and concentrate on dreams with which I am fully familiar and am prepared to embrace and deal with as they become real, which they most surely will. I am permeated with important information which makes me all the more ready to handle things in the uncompromising light of day. It's like charging my batteries without turning off my brain. When I fall asleep, just before dawn, there are no bad dreams to wrestle with, no negative thoughts to diminish the adventure which every new day brings. I have found that an optimistic attitude causes a thorough expedience of positive accomplishments. It's easier to climb a steep hill when my face sports a smile and I whistle as I walk. I find myself accomplishing good things becayse my positive energy of the night before has caught up and united with other vibes of confidence, coming from other people who have also spent a sleepless night in the serenity zone. You see, I are not alone. In a way, I am part of a non-criminal Ponzi scheme which gives and gets playthings from other members of the club. For we are good people who are eager to share our good fortune and ever present stress with others of similar ilk, if only we could find them.
Time to turn it off. Time to hit the hay. I've confronted several existing problems, wrestled with them all, resolved some, narrowed the scope of others and gone as far as I can, at this sitting.
I'm tired in a good way, like after a workout in a gym. My brained is as relaxed as it can ever be, dormant for the moment but always at the ready.
What have I accomplished? A little bit of slightly turbulent peace.
Temporary to be sure, for another day is about to signal its arrival with the sunrise.
And the entire process begins again.
Hey, that's life.
No surprises here. I'm always grateful for being able, without interruption, to size up my life in its present and foreseeable posture, during those magic hours when I can push away the things that vex and concentrate on dreams with which I am fully familiar and am prepared to embrace and deal with as they become real, which they most surely will. I am permeated with important information which makes me all the more ready to handle things in the uncompromising light of day. It's like charging my batteries without turning off my brain. When I fall asleep, just before dawn, there are no bad dreams to wrestle with, no negative thoughts to diminish the adventure which every new day brings. I have found that an optimistic attitude causes a thorough expedience of positive accomplishments. It's easier to climb a steep hill when my face sports a smile and I whistle as I walk. I find myself accomplishing good things becayse my positive energy of the night before has caught up and united with other vibes of confidence, coming from other people who have also spent a sleepless night in the serenity zone. You see, I are not alone. In a way, I am part of a non-criminal Ponzi scheme which gives and gets playthings from other members of the club. For we are good people who are eager to share our good fortune and ever present stress with others of similar ilk, if only we could find them.
Time to turn it off. Time to hit the hay. I've confronted several existing problems, wrestled with them all, resolved some, narrowed the scope of others and gone as far as I can, at this sitting.
I'm tired in a good way, like after a workout in a gym. My brained is as relaxed as it can ever be, dormant for the moment but always at the ready.
What have I accomplished? A little bit of slightly turbulent peace.
Temporary to be sure, for another day is about to signal its arrival with the sunrise.
And the entire process begins again.
Hey, that's life.
Monday, September 2, 2013
THE SHOWBIZ BUG
If it bites you, resistance is of no avail. You are hooked.
Such was my inheritance, as I grappled with the challenge of choosing my life's course. My family was steeped in the undeniable lure of showbiz.
My cousin was a self-ordained vocalist. It was tough getting work, so fierce was the competition which necessitated coming up with something new, something that would distinguish him from the mob of talentless wannabees. And he found it. The road to uniqueness. He discovered a vocal modulation progression which few, if any, before him had even dreamed about, let alone attempt to sing it. He would begin a ballad and surge higher and higher with each chord, until he had perfected the highest pitched vocalization known to man. Although musically groundbreaking, it followed the trajectory of a rocket, so that by the song's dramatic finale, he was singing notes which only dogs could hear.
My uncle was a vaudeville contortionist who, constantly striving for greatness, and always trying to make himself more limber, had his backbone removed, and replaced with mercury. And it relaxed him. At room temperature, he stood about five-nine. On hot days, he'd shoot up to six-six. He was doing just fine until that last cold snap. Shriveled to an inch and a half. Dragged away by the cat.
As for me, my work as a stand-up comic was short lived. You see, I was in deep denial of a memory problem. I would begin a joke soundly and with confidence, but then I'd forget the ending.
"Good evening tables and chairs, I was walking down the street one day when a guy comes up to me and asks if I'm looking for trouble. I stared him straight in the eye, flexed every muscle in my body, and said,"-------------(NOTHING, ABSOLUTELY NOTHING)----------." I just stood there, praying that the ground would open beneath me, allowing a plummet to China.
Desperate to resuscitate my career, I turned to dancing, forgetting or didmissing the fact that, since birth, I had been plagued with plantar fasciitis. The band would play the opening bars: dud-da-da-da-da-DA!, at which point I would extend my right leg out and DOWN (!) on the floor, scream out in pain and collapse, emotionally and physically. That's when I decided to try my hand at Brain Surgery.
"There's no people like show people, they smile when they are low
Even with a turkey that you know will fold, you may be stranded out in the cold
Still you wouldn't change it for a sack of gold, let's go on with the show."
Such was my inheritance, as I grappled with the challenge of choosing my life's course. My family was steeped in the undeniable lure of showbiz.
My cousin was a self-ordained vocalist. It was tough getting work, so fierce was the competition which necessitated coming up with something new, something that would distinguish him from the mob of talentless wannabees. And he found it. The road to uniqueness. He discovered a vocal modulation progression which few, if any, before him had even dreamed about, let alone attempt to sing it. He would begin a ballad and surge higher and higher with each chord, until he had perfected the highest pitched vocalization known to man. Although musically groundbreaking, it followed the trajectory of a rocket, so that by the song's dramatic finale, he was singing notes which only dogs could hear.
My uncle was a vaudeville contortionist who, constantly striving for greatness, and always trying to make himself more limber, had his backbone removed, and replaced with mercury. And it relaxed him. At room temperature, he stood about five-nine. On hot days, he'd shoot up to six-six. He was doing just fine until that last cold snap. Shriveled to an inch and a half. Dragged away by the cat.
As for me, my work as a stand-up comic was short lived. You see, I was in deep denial of a memory problem. I would begin a joke soundly and with confidence, but then I'd forget the ending.
"Good evening tables and chairs, I was walking down the street one day when a guy comes up to me and asks if I'm looking for trouble. I stared him straight in the eye, flexed every muscle in my body, and said,"-------------(NOTHING, ABSOLUTELY NOTHING)----------." I just stood there, praying that the ground would open beneath me, allowing a plummet to China.
Desperate to resuscitate my career, I turned to dancing, forgetting or didmissing the fact that, since birth, I had been plagued with plantar fasciitis. The band would play the opening bars: dud-da-da-da-da-DA!, at which point I would extend my right leg out and DOWN (!) on the floor, scream out in pain and collapse, emotionally and physically. That's when I decided to try my hand at Brain Surgery.
"There's no people like show people, they smile when they are low
Even with a turkey that you know will fold, you may be stranded out in the cold
Still you wouldn't change it for a sack of gold, let's go on with the show."
Sunday, August 25, 2013
1111
I'm not nuts. I'm not crazy. I am a rabid romantic. I am a magical thinker. To this day, I believe that I have not yet exhausted the experience of something extraordinary. There's at least one more "big" thing on its way.
Please read my prior post,THE PRICE OF TEA IN CHINA. It was my intent to comment on the state of the economy. But, towards the end, I began to get a bit preachy and mention things like being a good person and kind to each other, because "There's something happening here." Where this came from, what caused me to take this turn in the road, I had no idea. It just happened. And as I edited the post, just prior to pressing "publish", I liked what I saw and stayed away from the delete button. Self-analysis is much too complicated for me. I know a screwball when I see one. Until just now.
For several months, I have taken note of something unusual for me. I realized that when I would look at my clock radio or cable box, the reflected time would be 11:11. Not at every glance, mind you, but enough to play the lottery with various variations of this number. It quickly became apparent this theory was ill-founded. Yet, these sightings would occur with significant increased frequency, to the point where I would see 11:11 at least daily, most recently being a few moments ago. So, I googled it. And waddayano! It seems that I'm not alone.
The number seems to represent something spiritual, something good, something which emits positive vibes. The more I thought about it---and here's where the line between my subconscious and coockoosville becomes a bit bleary---the more I acknowledged my increasing awareness that I was becoming increasingly aware of the notion that something's happening to me---and it's really huge and really good.
I can't be more specific except to say that the most descriptive word that comes to mind is "serenity."
Go ahead and laugh but you'll be behind me.
This isn't a magic eraser which takes all of life's negativity off the board, but it seems to make it easier to deal with things and to put on a happy face.
My exploration into all of this shall, for sure, continue. In the meantime, I'll continue to think good things and maybe contribute to the universe in a positive way. I'm trying it and I'm liking it.
Thank goodness for computers, for I can't write any letters. Where I am, I can't possess anything sharp.
Stay tuned.
Please read my prior post,THE PRICE OF TEA IN CHINA. It was my intent to comment on the state of the economy. But, towards the end, I began to get a bit preachy and mention things like being a good person and kind to each other, because "There's something happening here." Where this came from, what caused me to take this turn in the road, I had no idea. It just happened. And as I edited the post, just prior to pressing "publish", I liked what I saw and stayed away from the delete button. Self-analysis is much too complicated for me. I know a screwball when I see one. Until just now.
For several months, I have taken note of something unusual for me. I realized that when I would look at my clock radio or cable box, the reflected time would be 11:11. Not at every glance, mind you, but enough to play the lottery with various variations of this number. It quickly became apparent this theory was ill-founded. Yet, these sightings would occur with significant increased frequency, to the point where I would see 11:11 at least daily, most recently being a few moments ago. So, I googled it. And waddayano! It seems that I'm not alone.
The number seems to represent something spiritual, something good, something which emits positive vibes. The more I thought about it---and here's where the line between my subconscious and coockoosville becomes a bit bleary---the more I acknowledged my increasing awareness that I was becoming increasingly aware of the notion that something's happening to me---and it's really huge and really good.
I can't be more specific except to say that the most descriptive word that comes to mind is "serenity."
Go ahead and laugh but you'll be behind me.
This isn't a magic eraser which takes all of life's negativity off the board, but it seems to make it easier to deal with things and to put on a happy face.
My exploration into all of this shall, for sure, continue. In the meantime, I'll continue to think good things and maybe contribute to the universe in a positive way. I'm trying it and I'm liking it.
Thank goodness for computers, for I can't write any letters. Where I am, I can't possess anything sharp.
Stay tuned.
Friday, August 23, 2013
THE PRICE OF TEA IN CHINA
Today, I went to the supermarket.
Not late at night, to hunt down and pick up a good looking frustrated housewife, meandering aimlessly in the banana section with that unmistakeable "my juices are flowing look", but to simply buy those staples necessary for my existence. Diets and Watson Gourmet Light Turkey Breast--one and a half pounds, sliced at #2. So you can readily take note of the fact that, whatever my choices look like to me, they are the not-especially-exotic fare for you swingin' cats.
I add to my cart, four of the most delicious beefsteak tomatoes, fit for a King that's me, complimented still further by two plastic containers of pre-washed romaine. I'm drooling as I live it. The last items added to ths cart are a fresh (soft) loaf of Italian bread, a jar of Mayo and, for desert, freshly baked cranberry muffins and a few small friut tarts----and man --I'm in heaven. Diet Ginger Ale goes well with the delicious t-l-t sandwiches about to be basked in a light bed of the real Mcoy mayo. Seven days a week of this presentment only makes me crazy for more.
Why, you might ask, did I have the turkey sliced at number 2? The answer is simple, you fool. If it's cut at lest than 2, the slices are unmannigable when you try to separate them for sandwich coverage. An old Indian Mafioso taught me that move, the failure to faithfully follow this culinary stroke often resulting in your being put on the 'Kill List" of every Super Market in town. So far, So good. Until you pass through pay register which lets you out. You've blown in the area of 60 clams, which, by the way, you wanted to buy but didn't because they were too much loot.
The moral of the story is that the price of food has gone haywire, even when buying the minimum necessary for survival. And, this portends bad times. You can fell it happening around you. The middle class is on the way out. There'll soon be just the haves and have-nots. These signs are everywhere.
Buy one suit, get three free. (If I bought a suit with two pairs of pants, I'd rip the coat.) The winter hasn't started but you see half-price sales in normally expensive emporiums.
There's something happening here
What it is aint exactly clear
There's a man with a gun over there
Telling me I got to beware
I think it's time we stop, children, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down
Rough times lie ahead.
Be a good person to yourself and your loved ones.
Be good to people, for they shall be your friends who support you as your good deeds which have gone around, begin to come around.
There are so many ways to enjoy life without being super rich.
I ain't hawkin' religion here, I'm selling the notion of being kind to each other. And the price is right.
Powerful forces for good begin just that way.
For, alas, I fear we are a half-step away from another recession.
Not late at night, to hunt down and pick up a good looking frustrated housewife, meandering aimlessly in the banana section with that unmistakeable "my juices are flowing look", but to simply buy those staples necessary for my existence. Diets and Watson Gourmet Light Turkey Breast--one and a half pounds, sliced at #2. So you can readily take note of the fact that, whatever my choices look like to me, they are the not-especially-exotic fare for you swingin' cats.
I add to my cart, four of the most delicious beefsteak tomatoes, fit for a King that's me, complimented still further by two plastic containers of pre-washed romaine. I'm drooling as I live it. The last items added to ths cart are a fresh (soft) loaf of Italian bread, a jar of Mayo and, for desert, freshly baked cranberry muffins and a few small friut tarts----and man --I'm in heaven. Diet Ginger Ale goes well with the delicious t-l-t sandwiches about to be basked in a light bed of the real Mcoy mayo. Seven days a week of this presentment only makes me crazy for more.
Why, you might ask, did I have the turkey sliced at number 2? The answer is simple, you fool. If it's cut at lest than 2, the slices are unmannigable when you try to separate them for sandwich coverage. An old Indian Mafioso taught me that move, the failure to faithfully follow this culinary stroke often resulting in your being put on the 'Kill List" of every Super Market in town. So far, So good. Until you pass through pay register which lets you out. You've blown in the area of 60 clams, which, by the way, you wanted to buy but didn't because they were too much loot.
The moral of the story is that the price of food has gone haywire, even when buying the minimum necessary for survival. And, this portends bad times. You can fell it happening around you. The middle class is on the way out. There'll soon be just the haves and have-nots. These signs are everywhere.
Buy one suit, get three free. (If I bought a suit with two pairs of pants, I'd rip the coat.) The winter hasn't started but you see half-price sales in normally expensive emporiums.
There's something happening here
What it is aint exactly clear
There's a man with a gun over there
Telling me I got to beware
I think it's time we stop, children, what's that sound
Everybody look what's going down
Rough times lie ahead.
Be a good person to yourself and your loved ones.
Be good to people, for they shall be your friends who support you as your good deeds which have gone around, begin to come around.
There are so many ways to enjoy life without being super rich.
I ain't hawkin' religion here, I'm selling the notion of being kind to each other. And the price is right.
Powerful forces for good begin just that way.
For, alas, I fear we are a half-step away from another recession.
Friday, August 16, 2013
THE MEDICAL WORLD
A less than brilliant friend of mine was waiting impatiently in the waiting room to see a specialist. He had used his influence to avoid a six month down-the-line first available appointment. The nurse, spotting him as a newcomer, approached him to ask a few preliminary questions.
"What's your name, sir?
He bellowed out, "Roger Adams."
She was startled by his thunderous tone.
"Please, sir, you'll have to calm down and speak more softly. This room is full of sick patients waiting to see the doctor. Now, what is the nature of your problem?"
Without in any way lowering his volume, the man screamed,"There's something wrong with my shlong!"
The nurse was beside herself and ran into the doctor's office, face flushed and body trembling.
"Doctor, I've been with you for over twelve years and I've never been so embarrassed. A man out there, when I asked what ailed him, hollered, at the top of his lungs and in front of all those people, that there was something wrong with his shlong!"
The doctor calmed her down and directed her to bring the man in, immediately.
When the man was seated, the doctor, in a scolding manner, said,"Look, Adams--when my nurse asks you what's wrong, tell her anything--your head your back--anything at all, but you don't tell her, in front of other patients, that there's something wrong with your shlong. You tell that to me when we're alone together. Get it? I mean, what are you--nuts?"
Two weeks later, the nurse again noticed Adams in the waiting area, cautiously approached him and whispered," Hello, again, Mister Adams, what ails you, today?"
Adams twisted nervously in his chair and answered, still on the loud side, "Oh, um, (he was awkwardly hesitating) there's something wrong (big pause) with my, ah, elbow."
"And what's wrong with your elbow?" the nurse asked, projecting pure pleasantry.
Whereupon Adams shot back, in screaming tone, "I can't pee through it!"
***********************
Poor guy, he was jinxed when it came to picking doctors. Word is that his primary care physician once treated a woman for yellow jaundice over a period of eight months before he found out that she was Asian.
*************************
And, finally, yet another acquaintance awoke one morning to find that he could not speak. When he tried, he could only emit a gargling-growling sound. "Argggggggwaa."
He presented himself to his doctor that afternoon, who, when listening to his voice, asked him to disrobe. and then began to smile
"I see your problem. Your penis is much too long for your body. It is pulling on your groin, which is pulling on your chest, which, in turn, is pulling on your vocal cords/ You'll have to undergo a surgical procedure to rectify the situation."
Six moths later, he saw the doctor on the street and gushed,"Doctor, remember me? I'll always be grateful to you! Just listen to my voice! Not a quiver, not a tremor. You cured me! But, I was wondering. In a ruptured appendics operation or when athletes have bone spurs removed, these parts are thrown away. In my case, what did you do with the section of my penis that you cut off?"
The doctor blushed, smiled, looked his patient right in the eye and said,"Arggggggggwaa."
***************************
As I said to the x-ray technician after swallowing some coins, "Do you see any change in me?"
****************************
And remember the difference between God and an orthopedic surgeon. God doesn't think he's an orthopedic surgeon.
"What's your name, sir?
He bellowed out, "Roger Adams."
She was startled by his thunderous tone.
"Please, sir, you'll have to calm down and speak more softly. This room is full of sick patients waiting to see the doctor. Now, what is the nature of your problem?"
Without in any way lowering his volume, the man screamed,"There's something wrong with my shlong!"
The nurse was beside herself and ran into the doctor's office, face flushed and body trembling.
"Doctor, I've been with you for over twelve years and I've never been so embarrassed. A man out there, when I asked what ailed him, hollered, at the top of his lungs and in front of all those people, that there was something wrong with his shlong!"
The doctor calmed her down and directed her to bring the man in, immediately.
When the man was seated, the doctor, in a scolding manner, said,"Look, Adams--when my nurse asks you what's wrong, tell her anything--your head your back--anything at all, but you don't tell her, in front of other patients, that there's something wrong with your shlong. You tell that to me when we're alone together. Get it? I mean, what are you--nuts?"
Two weeks later, the nurse again noticed Adams in the waiting area, cautiously approached him and whispered," Hello, again, Mister Adams, what ails you, today?"
Adams twisted nervously in his chair and answered, still on the loud side, "Oh, um, (he was awkwardly hesitating) there's something wrong (big pause) with my, ah, elbow."
"And what's wrong with your elbow?" the nurse asked, projecting pure pleasantry.
Whereupon Adams shot back, in screaming tone, "I can't pee through it!"
***********************
Poor guy, he was jinxed when it came to picking doctors. Word is that his primary care physician once treated a woman for yellow jaundice over a period of eight months before he found out that she was Asian.
*************************
And, finally, yet another acquaintance awoke one morning to find that he could not speak. When he tried, he could only emit a gargling-growling sound. "Argggggggwaa."
He presented himself to his doctor that afternoon, who, when listening to his voice, asked him to disrobe. and then began to smile
"I see your problem. Your penis is much too long for your body. It is pulling on your groin, which is pulling on your chest, which, in turn, is pulling on your vocal cords/ You'll have to undergo a surgical procedure to rectify the situation."
Six moths later, he saw the doctor on the street and gushed,"Doctor, remember me? I'll always be grateful to you! Just listen to my voice! Not a quiver, not a tremor. You cured me! But, I was wondering. In a ruptured appendics operation or when athletes have bone spurs removed, these parts are thrown away. In my case, what did you do with the section of my penis that you cut off?"
The doctor blushed, smiled, looked his patient right in the eye and said,"Arggggggggwaa."
***************************
As I said to the x-ray technician after swallowing some coins, "Do you see any change in me?"
****************************
And remember the difference between God and an orthopedic surgeon. God doesn't think he's an orthopedic surgeon.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)