Archive from June, 2007

Secrets?

These aren’t really dirty little secrets just stuff you may not know about me.
I was tagged by Kim a few days ago and owed her for not getting on my ass about the poetry tag I blew off a while ago.
Please pay her a visit and tell her I’m honestly trying to do right here.
(Aside from the fact she has an awesome blog and is one hell of a great writer)
Here then, are my 8 (11) “secrets

  • Purple is my favorite color.
  • I would take a bullet for my wife and daughters any day of the week.
  • I can tell the difference between a Cuban cigar and a counterfeit.
  • Dated two women on the same night in the same place.
    (Yeah, I’m a humdinger. Just ask my wife.)
  • Eaten 12+ pickled eggs on a dare.
    (I think the actual count was @18 but that’s another story)
  • I wear a purple “MindStrong” bracelet on my right wrist for Alzheimer’s research and may wear it for the rest of my life. (obviously in memory of my mom and dad)
  • I have a dark side that no one will ever know about.
    (Unless I start writing fiction.
    8-)
  • I make really amazing homefries. (once again, ask my wife)
  • I’ve never once made a disparaging comment about my wife in conversation. Ever.
  • I hate squirrels and try hard to flatten any grey furry-tailed creature brave enough to run in front of my truck. I’m still waiting for my first kill.
    (And the little bastards still owe me for about 500 bucks in birdseed)
  • I love shaving my coconut. The feeling of putting moisturizer on my skull afterwards is very close to absolute nirvana. Just ask my buddy Evyl.

That’s about it folks.
I have more secrets but I’ll hold you in suspense for now.
And yes, I drink directly from the milk carton at 3:15 A.M. after a trip to the bathroom.
Feel free to add a secret of your own in your comments.

~m

No More Goodbyes

My father has had a rough few weeks.
I haven’t mentioned it because truth be told there hasn’t been much to mention; until last Tuesday morning.
He experienced a seizure that lasted approximately a minute and a half.
The details of the event aren’t as important as is the possible impending neurological damage done.
His body has been a virtual wasteland of short circuits and genetically faulty wiring and I truly believe he’s had quite enough.
I want to believe the brain gets to a turning point when it tells the body, “It’s all over, pal, I can’t help you anymore.”

As with my mother, I’ve grieved for my father forever; all the time gone by and the man I knew vanishing more mysteriously than a David Copperfield illusion.
If this goddamned disease has taught me anything it’s that the ultimate reality
is the final release from the grips of this thing makes all things bearable once again. . . somehow . . . someway.

It’s the bottom of the 9th of a grueling doubleheader.
There are two outs and the count is 3-2.
I can see my father standing on a shamrock green outfield impatiently tapping his foot.

He’s thinking, “No more damn foul balls. Just get this damn thing over.”
And I’m in the stands holding a cold Fenway Hot Dog just waiting to finally take him home.
I will keep you all posted on his condition.
He’s currently listed on the DL . . .

 

~m

Jun 27, 2007 - fast food, health, Humor, Life, Media, Truth, weird    No Comments

Cleaning House

 

“Hey, Dave, what’s up with that healthy glow? What happened to your good old pasty, cadaver-like complexion?”

{Dave laughs}

“Oh, Bill. I had a nice and relaxing visit at the Clean as a Whistle Colonics Spa this weekend and man, I feel grrrrreat!”

 

In the not too distant future this could conceivably be a normal conversation at the office water cooler . . . or not.
I know, you’re wondering where the hell I’m going with this right?

Now and then I see an article in the paper that sends my “Pinch me, I must be dreaming” meter into orbit.
Yesterday, an article in the Metro on colonics sent me to Pluto.
Now I’m back to give you a report.

Colonics; the infusion of water into the rectum by a colon therapist to cleanse and flush out the colon

They better damn well use the Evian with me. {sniff, sniff}
In fact, make it a double.

It’s essentially an expensive enema for folks with nothing better to do with their money than, well, shove it up their bum.
I’m sure it has substantial health benefits and all that stuff but come on.
How far can something like this really go?
I get my prostate checked once a year and I still feel dirty 6 months later so from a psychological standpoint what in God’s name would one of these treatments do to me?
I’d have to sign up for rectal therapy.
Sheesh.

Anyway, it just struck me as an interesting service but how the hell could you promote it without laughing?

Maybe I’m ahead of the curve here but I’ve come up with a few choice names for establishments offering this procedure.
In a span of 20 minutes I came up with over twenty names (which was half the fun).
Here are a few names I really liked:

 

  • Roto-Colon, Inc.
  • Gee, my ass smells terrific
  • Coffee, Tea or Champagne enema?
  • Colon Blow Ranch {courtesy of SNL}
  • The Lush Flush Salon
  • G.I. Tract Joe’s
  • Colon Bowlin’ Cleaning Service
  • Tush Pushers Day Spa
  • Backdoor Genie
  • Tiny Bubbles
  • Hose Monster {free tattoo with 3 irrigation sessions!}

 

Feel free to leave me a name or two.
Once you get started, the names just kinda flow . . . like water

~m

ps.
For those wondering why I’m posting less frequently, I spend most warm summer nights out on the deck with a cigar and my favorite brew taking me away from the computer.
I truly live for this time of the year.

 

 

 

 

 

Jun 24, 2007 - Humor, Internet, Just For Fun, Science    8 Comments

Don’t know much about graphology

Found a cool way to end the weekend.
Click on the scientist-type guy above and take a handwriting analysis test.
It’s short and sweet and won’t take much time.
Be sure to wait for your results.
If they’re anything like mine you’ll laugh your little keester off.

~m

{57}

Reverse Zeppelin

This one is just too weird.
Click the “Stairway to Heaven” pictured above and give a listen to a segment of the tune
played backwards.
I realize it’s all about interpretation but I still think it’s pretty frickin’ creepy.
Check it out.
Have a serene weekend folks.

~m

Pearls of Wisdom

I love Dave Barry.
This is a list of 14 things that took him 50 years to learn.
Hysterical.

~m

  • Never, under any circumstances, take a sleeping pill and a laxative on the same night.
  • If you had to identify, in one word, the reason why the human race has not achieved, and never will achieve, its full potential, that word would be “meetings.”
  • There is a very fine line between hobby and “mental illness.”
  • People who want to share their religious views with you almost never want you to share yours with them.
  • You should not confuse your career with your life.
  • Nobody cares if you can’t dance well. Just get up and dance.
  • Never lick a steak knife.
  • The most destructive force in the universe is gossip.
  • You will never find anybody who can give you a clear and compelling reason why we observe daylight savings time.
  • You should never say anything to a woman that even remotely suggests that you think she’s pregnant unless you can see an actual baby emerging from her at that moment.
  • There comes a time when you should stop expecting other people to make a big deal about your birthday. That time is age eleven.
  • The one thing that unites all human beings, regardless of age, gender, religion, economic status or ethnic background, is that, deep down inside, we ALL believe that we are above-average drivers.
  • A person who is nice to you, but rude to the waiter, is not a nice person. (This is very important. Pay attention. It never fails.)
  • Your friends love you anyway.

ps.
thanks to all you folks that have checked out “Cats that look like Hitler
You’re making my blog stats go crazy! I love that!

Jun 20, 2007 - Cats, comedians, Quotes    5 Comments

Toasted

“If toast always lands butter-side down, and cats always land on their feet, what happens if you strap toast on the back of the cat and drop it?”

~(from the deep and somewhat whacked out mind of)
Steven Wright

Heartbreak Hill

When I was younger I spent most of my summer at a place we called ‘the Camp’, a bare bones — no frills house set on a hill deep in the woods of Boylston, Mass.

From the front porch you could see the ripples of the pond below sparkling in the summer sun; it was a pond we swam in, boated in and fished in (all we ever caught were kivers, pickerels and hornpout, hate them, they always swallowed the hooks).

I remember so many damn things about the place.
There was the musty funk that greeted you on that first visit after the eternal New England winter and there was the exposed wooden beams where my mother would hang wicker baskets and ‘past their prime’ life preservers that had changed from a vibrant orange to a washed out Abercrombie & Fitch melon color.
The old upright piano with real ivory keys and the authentic outhouse with a crescent moon cut lovingly into the door added to the ancient décor of the place. (and we used it)

On the screened-in front porch my twin sister and I slept on military style cots covered with the softest and warmest blankets known to man.
At night, the hundreds of bullfrogs on the pond would serenade us to sleep, their throaty calls drifting up the hill on the invisible fingers of the warm, summer wind.

My sister and I would talk of our secret dreams and hopes, the adolescent ramblings of curious children.
Some nights we even had the same dreams. Maybe that’s how it is with twins.

Most weekends were filled with a gathering of family and friends for an all day cook-out followed by a bonfire in the backyard, my personal signal to take out my guitar and sing a few songs.
I remember learning “Little Green Apples”, by Roger Miller to appease the crowd.
It was such a care free and wonderful time in my life that all but disappeared when the place got sold due to extenuating circumstances beyond my control.

Before it was put on the market I happened to be picking apples with the Pamela and the girls at an orchard that was a stone’s throw away from the place.
We left the orchard and took the turn towards the Camp.
They all knew where I was going.
And I just had to see it one last time.

Walking up the hill I caught a glimpse of the long dormant camp on the hill and my heart did a quick stutter-step and it surprised me.
There were so many sentimental moments locked deep inside this innocuous structure that it frightened me, the sacred ghosts of the past welcoming me back in a way I hadn’t expected.

The mind is a funny thing because the only thing I could think at the time was that my mother and father were so happy and healthy here – this was hallowed ground as far as I was concerned for a multitude of reasons.
I got out of the car and took it all in, every fiber of my being moving back in time towards the warm summers of my yesterdays.

It’s all still here, I thought, swallowing hard.

I was silent as I walked around the perimeter of the Camp soaking in all the weeping details; the chipping paint and overgrown weeds intensifying the loneliness and heartbreak of a place I could no longer call my own.

A part of me wanted to somehow embrace the little boy still inside me but I realized I’d grown far too old and jaded in my ways for that simple courtesy.

I asked Pamela to walk down the hill with the girls.
I couldn’t do this with my girls watching.

I stood on the porch where I’d spent so many star-filled nights dreaming about my up and coming wonderful life and I wept; I wept for a life that had turned out quite differently than I’d expected.
I’d lost so very much but then I thought about how much I actually gained.

What surprised me was that there were possibly more happy tears than sad ones.

The Camp was unexpectedly giving me back a precious gift.

I know that now.

I walked down the hill to the car and gave one more glance up the hill where I saw my mother flitting about watering her flowers in the sun and my father turning burgers on the decaying charcoal grill that he always talked about replacing.

He was drinking a can of Bud and laughing it up with old friends, just like old times.
And they were good.

As the billows of smoke from the grill moved past the front of the Camp, I could almost see the silhouette of a little boy on the porch waving goodbye.
In my heart, the Camp will always be there for me.
I only need to close my eyes and remember.

~m

 

 

Jun 16, 2007 - Family, hero, Love, Old Days, Truth    11 Comments

Father and Son

When we were father and son, the living was easy
More for me than it was for you, I’ve no doubt
Life changes and some boys grow into good men
while others mysteriously transform into wildfires; uncontrollable and dangerous but strangely beautiful, leaving in their paths of despair, black and charred earth

But sometimes, from that black ashen ground springs new life, emerald green, capable and bursting with hope

When we were father and son, little did we both know just how unprepared we were for the roads that lie ahead of us
But somewhere along the way we found the wisdom and grace to simply take care of one another, you and me

And we moved mountains, you and I
When we were father and son

And though I know you’ll never read this,
you mean the world to me, Dad
Happy Father’s Day – Mick

To Dads everywhere ;
May you be surrounded by all the people and things you love in your life.

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