December 26

The day after Christmas always sucks.  Well maybe not always.  As a kid, I kinda liked it.  It was the day I could play with my toys, unsupervised and unguided.

“Rob, don’t attach fireworks to the plane’s wings.”

Yeah, the day after Christmas was always about some good alone time with some good ideas my toys that would be destroyed before the next Christmas. That’s how December 26 fell until I grew up: then it slipped this black funk on a snow-white calendar.

As adults, Christmas is the reason for the season and the goal of the holiday. We live for Christmas, but by 4pm Christmas Day, the Christmas spirit slumps over in a holiday overload coma. Come December 26, we’re back to work reconciling the fog that was Christmas.

December 26 is not even a real day though.  Arrive at any other weekday on the calendar, and you’re sloughing through a Hell-pile of work. Arrive at December 26, you’re in a limbo of ambiguity. This is that last week of the year. The time before New Year’s resolutions are set, and before the Christmas hangover has lifted. We’re left groggy, blind zombies wandering the last week of the year, until January 1, where we can start life anew.

“More brains…”

That’s one resolution. I rarely strive for it myself, but December 26 is the day I take stock and set my new goals. What I did right, what I did wrong, and what I failed to do at all. I think that’s the real reason the 26^th sucks, because if I’m honest, my goals and achievements never balance out. I’m always left lacking in the achievement column, and the goal-stocking pours over like apprentice Mickey’s sorcerer buckets. I’ve started all this planning, and as I dreamed, the planning took a life of it’s own. When I awoke, drenched, I swam through the reality of what I’d left unaccomplished.

When I was a kid launching my airplanes into the sky I knew that by this December 26, I would have won the Indy 500 and would be looking forward to completing my astronaut career next fall. That would mean my years as a rock guitarist would start next December 26.  Looking at how many of those dreams I’ve accomplished, each December 26 reminds me of how far I’ve fallen behind.

December 26 sucks because it’s the one day I’m honest with myself. New Years I make goals to make amends and dreams until the fluffy white wonderland of Christmas sleds past. After that, my lofty goals and big dream, pale in the stark light of December 26.

Thank God my life is more than the December 26 of what I’ve done. December 26 leads to December 27, and beyond. There is always the hope of what I’ve yet to do, and each year, I may not do what I’ve planned, but I’ve done something: I’ve given love—the true test of a year is not in the dreams realized but in the love given. So long as I can say I’ve done that, I can look to the New Year with the hope of redemption, and love to carry me into the next year, where I can plan big once more.

Yule Just Never Know

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas—well, without the snow and joy.  You know, it’s mall mobs and reindeer names you’ve never heard.

“…On @#$*! That’s my parking space!”

Yup, brotherly love abounds.  Sisterly love too.  The rest of us are left alone to fend for ourselves.

“No room at the Wal-Mart.”

Me, I’m done. I received my last package of gifts in the mail last Friday, and I mailed my last package of gifts last Monday. Shhh.  It’s for Mom and Dad. I can’t tell you what I got them.  You can’t keep secrets.

Ok, fine.  Let’s just say that it’s wrapped, starts with “g” and rhymes with “lift.” That’s all I’m gonna tell you.

Oh, I will tell you something else.  They’re not getting it before Christmas.  Nope. Even though I mailed it on time, the postal service won’t do it. 

How do I know this? Because the postal service re-gifted me with yesterday’s mail. I don’t even need to unwrap it. I know what was in it. I know my own handwriting. 

“To Dad and Mom”

What happened?  The postal service and I had a disagreement. They want to call my gift a “package” I want to call it an “envelope.”  It’s true, there is a package, but that package is small enough to fit inside an envelope. It’s smaller than a sheet of paper, and no thicker than a deck of cards.

Huh, that’s weird. The size of a deck of cards….and a gift…coincidence?

“You’re Aces Dad!”

I’m not tellin’. It’s a Christmas surprise.

My Christmas surprise was my parent’s gift in my mail.  I looked up the difference between an “envelope” and a “package.” It’s the depth of a dime and as much as Abe Lincoln.

“Hey! Let me out of this envelope!”

 He’d never say that. He wouldn’t fit in an envelope, no matter how much butter Mary Todd slathered him in. He’s also the difference in shipping price. Unless I want to get my package there before Christmas, for that I’ve got to find a way to cram Andrew Jackson in there too.

“Hey Abe! Merry Christmas!”

“Shut up, Andy, and get your elbow out of my back.”

“That’s not my elbow.”

Ok, sorry. Abe and Andy wouldn’t talk like that. I’m suffering Christmas frazzle. I’ve got to go back to the post office, thanks to Ben Franklin. No, it’s not gonna cost me $100 to ship. Ben was the first postmaster….never mind. I bet Ben could have gotten the package to my parents on time. 

“Speedy delivery Mr. Boyd!”

No, that’s Mr. McFeelie. He only had to deliver mail from one end of Fred Rogers neighborhood to the other. My enve—package has to go cross-country. And that’s gonna take Abe and Andy.

“Roadtrip!”

“Shut up Andy. You’ve got egg nog in my stove pipe”

“Well you’ve got stove pipe in my egg nog!”

“Eww!”

“You’re a killjoy Abe. If Ulysses were here, he’d know how to party.”

“Backatcha Andy.”

What? Abe said “Backatcha.” I mean he said “Four score and seven years ago” and made it sound cool. He totally knew “Backatcha.” He also knew the Gettysburg Address (87, for you four keeping score). What Abe didn’t know was how to get this package to my parents address without help. Neither do I.

“It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us…”

And why can’t you be there, at my parent’s house? You’re no help at all Abe.

What would Obama do?

Yeah, I ain’t touching that one, no matter whose Christmas it would make.

It looks like I’m stuck. I’ll have to take Abe and Andy and head to the post office to face the happy mobs. Or maybe I’ll just take Abe. I mean I could tell Dad that it’s the post office’s fault.

“I can never tell a lie.”

Oh George, if only I could get through Christmas with just you. Me, I’m gonna lie. The package was lost in the mail.

Shhh.  It’s a Christmas surprise.  Don’t tell my dad. Otherwise, I’ve got to involve Abe and Andy.

“It puts the lotion on its skin and crams itself in the package.”

“Shut up, Andy. You’re creeping me out.”

Hey you, RobBlog reader!  As I have Christmas plans, and I’m sure you do too, this will probably be our last get-together before Return Day after Christmas. May God bless you and your family with His peace and love, which surpasses all human understanding. Travel safe, eat well, relish every moment with those around you, and show love for those less fortunate. Thank you for allowing me these moments of distraction from your world’s pressing issues! I hope they’ve lightened the load.

Here's your gift Dad!

Merry Christmas!

Rob

On the Job

America is a nation of doers.  That’s right, if there’s a job to do we get it done.

“Rob, could you clean the bathroom?”

Usually.

Let’s face it. The “do” we do, we do for compensation. Whether it’s a paycheck, a good location, or incredible benefits. We “do” because we “get.” Cleaning the bathroom gets me nothing more than that yellow hue off the white bathroom tile. I’ll wear shoes.

When I work. I want the best benefits. That’s why I’m moving to Australia.

That’s because one of the best benefits of working is workers compensation.  If I’m at work one minute and then come-to in a hospital bed with my legs in the air, a cast on my groin, and a patched eye the next minute, I want to know I’m taken care of.

“What happened?”

“A freak copy machine incident. Wanna see it? It’s on YouTube?”

That’s why there’s workers compensation. A friend slipped on a fast food floor while mopping it: worker’s comp.  Another friend nailed his hand to a drywall panel: worker’s comp. A woman in Australia had bad motel sex: worker’s comp.

Ok, that’s not true. I mean, that she did have motel sex, and she did get worker’s comp, I’m just not sure the sex was bad. I’m just assuming that.  What I do know is that I’m so moving to Australia.

A 13 member Australian court found in favor of this woman, and now workers compensation will have to pay the damages. Why workers compensation? Because she was on a business trip, silly. If you’re hurt doing work activities, you get worker’s compensation.

And no, she’s not a prostitute, she’s a government employee—or she was a government employee. They seem to think motel sex is not part of the job requirement. They let her go. They clearly haven’t seen the American government in action. We have hotels specifically built to withstand government officials.

Australians don’t, or she probably wouldn’t have been injured. According to the Associated Press, “During the sex, a glass light fitting was torn from its mount above the bed and landed on her face, injuring her nose and mouth.”

Let’s go back. The light was torn from the ceiling. Just how do you accomplish that during sex? I mean I have a few ideas, but most of those require a generator, a harness and three 12-inch steel barreled bolts. Not something you’d do in a hotel—or at least that’s what I’ve heard. Either way, I take back what I said earlier: that doesn’t sound like bad sex to me.

So she and her partner tore down the light and it smashed her in the face. The AP report further states that, “She later suffered depression and was unable to continue working for the government.”

OK. So this is where I think she’s abusing the system.  If that had happened to any of us we’d have walked through the halls saying, “Yeah, the stitches? I got ‘em having sex. High five! Here, check out the YouTube video.” Depression just doesn’t sound right, especially not if you’re having “tear the lights from the ceiling” sex. Maybe Australians are doing it wrong.

Wrong or not, she filed a claim for damages. When the insurance company stopped laughing, they said, “no,” claiming that the sex was "not an ordinary incident of an overnight stay."  They concluded saying that in order for the injuries to be covered, the sex act would need to be condoned by the government to qualify for compensation.

In Australia, things are different.

“Excuse me, Mr. Jones, while attending the sanitation conference I’m planning a motel tryst with a whip and feathers.”

“Of course, Miss. Smith, so long as the feather come from a union facility.  Bring me a form 699-d. I’ll sign it and you can get on your way.”

I guess that’s the difference between Australia and the US. Their government condones sex acts.  Then again, the fact that they would be required to condone it kind of takes the fun out of the whole experience. It seems like a lot of work just to rent a motel for a few hours.

Maybe they don’t have hourly motel rental in Australia either. Wow, that place is upside down…

Still, unlike her American counterparts, this dissatisfied lover finally got her satisfaction.  The Australian court approved her claim. They said that the insurance would have paid her if her injuries came from playing cards in her room. It didn’t matter if it were sex or solitaire.

I’m sure her partner would disagree.

In the end, justice is done and another government worker is paid for having sex like a rockstar. I think I’m just fine with my American benefits. I mean who am I kidding? I’m a blogger. I don’t get worker’s compensation.

 

Blogging Angst

Tis the season I swore I’d write nothing about. As a blogger, I feel it is my responsibility to avoid certain topics. The vat of Rob knowledge is really more of a tall coffee spilled across the floor.  The little bit puddled in the paper corner when you pick it up is my brain on a good day.

That’s why I make it my responsibility to avoid non-blog issues. If you want grey matter, see a scientist. If you want grey news, read a newspaper. If you want a bubbling font of popular opinion, check out Facebook. Me, I’m just a blogger. I’ve got a tall cup of bold words meant to scald the tongue, but nothing more.

So when Friday morning opened tragedy season, I vowed to remain silent. I had nothing new to offer. My bitter sarcasm holds no place for those who will never view the Christmas season the same way again.

Yeah, no jokes work here.

Last Friday morning, twenty-six human lives were stolen, and twenty of those lives were barely old enough to read my blog, and all were still bright enough not to. When I heard the news I felt sick. I’m a sucker for potential. All of these twinkling Connecticut kids, had futures brighter than Christmas lights. The adults were already greater than a simple RobBlogger. They gave the greatest gift of all.

All my words could never equal that. That’s why I planned to do as I always do. I’d offer alternative holiday plans for those who were interested, and maybe leave some space for others to grieve in silence.

Fesivus for the rest of us!

Yeah, come Friday afternoon, the silent grieving never came. The first Facebook friend posts I read were not thoughts of concern or prayers of sympathy for the families and survivors of Sandy Hook. All I heard were cries for less gun sales or more gun rights.

Really?  Twenty-six families have nothing more than wrapped piles of Christmas reminders sitting under their trees and we’re shouting rhetoric about how their loss affects our personal gun rights? I thought I had better Facebook friends than that.

Apparently I don’t. 

The group of friends I surround myself with posted photos of dead bodies strewn before gunmen. They wish to fear me into the belief that taking away all the weapons is the only way to eliminate bloody horror, because crazy obsessed people are easily thwarted by signs that say “No guns sold here.”  Crazy people would never think of other destructive outlets to relieve their crazy.

“Oh, and Merry Christmas from the Dangles!”

My other friends post images of a sixteen-year-old’s wet-dream fantasy teacher in a tight black sweater holding a sub-machine gun. She’s informing me how instructors should all be armed, because clearly crazy teachers with non-altruistic agendas are as non-existent as Santa Clause.

“Teachers with guns? Yes, mistress…”

All my friends profess their ideology in the name of those murdered in Newton. This is the atrocity that forced me to break my vow of silence. See, It’s horrible enough that these events happened, but to push agendas in the name of those involved is even worse: it’s destructive.

My friends’ fight isn’t the victim’s fight. I’m betting nobody who died Friday got up and said, “I want to sacrifice myself in the name of armed Americans!”

I’m also pretty sure my friends’ fight isn’t the survivor’s fight. I once had a friend who was tied to a dead man for several hours while the police negotiated with the armed terrorists holding him captive.  His first thoughts weren’t for Americans with arms. In fact I think he’d have gnawed off his own arms if it had gotten him to safety. That friend kept his arms and his life, but going forward, what he needed more than gun debate was real friends, family, love and patience as he came to grips with what had happened. He needed people to listen to the real questions he asked.

“Why?”

That’s the reason I don’t like to blog about these things. I don’t have the answer in my little cup. I’m a superficial blogger. I like to ask neat little questions and pretend that my fluffy answers are really deep.

“Why?”

I don’t know.  Like my survivor friend, when it comes to this, I can’t even form questions beyond single words. I just know that we have a growing problem, and all this gun talk is distracting people from the real issue.

When I was a kid in school we didn’t have mass murders in school. We had bullies. We had violence. We even had students with guns. They were rare, but yes, they existed. Gun laws were lax, but we didn’t need Annie Oakley teaching music.

“SING!”

So what’s different? Our teachers smoked. Our students didn’t have cell phones. Beyond that, I’ve got nothing.

I can say that people generally aren’t that creative. We repeat what we see. After Columbine, we had a new blueprint for crazy angst outlets. Then the media provided instant fame for those willing to go the extra mile. Today is Monday and we’re still sorting through what we think we know about what happened Friday. Maybe we give them too much credit.

Remember Chesley Sullenberger? He’s the pilot who saved those people in the Hudson River airplane crash.  Do you know what I remember most about his day of glory? I remember the video footage of all those ships rushing to pull people out of the water: all those nameless boat captains doing what was right. Why didn’t they get more publicity?

We give notoriety for all the wrong reasons.  Most of us will remember Friday’s killer longer than we’ll remember Saturday’s death list.

“Why?”

I don’t know, but that needs to change. My heart goes out to all the parents, the husbands, and the wives of those who were lost and those who survived the Sandy Hook tragedy. I don’t have the answers, but I don’t have an agenda either. I pray that God eases the burden on your heart and that you never know such horror again.

And that’s as deep as this blogger gets.

If any friends would like to offer support or assistance, the following sites are taking donations.

Newtown Parent Connection

United Way of Western Connecticut

Newtown Youth and Family Services

Old Man Robby

I’m old.

I know I didn’t believe it myself, but the signs are all there.  They just didn’t line up in my head until today.

“Old man crossing.”

Gah!  I was young yesterday, at least until talking with my wife. A task I’ve heard has aged many men.  That would be talking to wives in general, not specifically my wife. I mean, yes, many men have spoken to my wife—that’s not to say—Never mind, I’m old, apparently the mind is the first thing to go.

Fashion sense too.  Not that I ever had any, but my wife has noted a recent decline in my abilities.

“My fashion sense is tingling.”

“No, that’s the corduroy fire between your legs, honey. Next time they should fit looser. ”

It’s getting to where all clothing I wear in public needs written approval, or it needs to stay home.  It’s almost like I’m regressing, not getting older.  I haven’t needed this kind of supervision since I was six and tried to wear my Superman Underoos outside my jeans.

“Put Superman back on the inside, Robby. The world is dangerous, and you must keep your true identity hidden at all times.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

Now My Queen is my wardrobe supervisor and she’s here to make sure there are no malfunctions.

“So what are you wearing to the wellness test tomorrow morning?” She asked me this on the phone last night. Probably to eliminate half my wardrobe before we got to the fashion show later.

I didn’t see why it mattered. The wellness test is just a series of basic health hoops our insurance company makes us jump through to make sure they don’t need to pay for anything later. What I wear won’t change how I perform.  It’s physical wellness, not bedroom prowess.

“I’ll wear a button down shirt and some jeans.”

“What about shoes?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes I’ll wear them.”

“No! Which ones?”

“Tennis shoes.”

“Ughh.” If there is a universal sound of disgust, this is it. “Ughh.” She repeats. She’s really disgusted.

“What?” I ask.

“Tennis shoes make you look old.”

And there begins the downfall of Rob. I always thought tennis shoes were youngish in a “Dare to be comfortable kind of way.” My Queen says no. It says, “ old as in I’m too cranky to wear anything else. And get off my lawn.”

Now I’m confused.  I thought I was young. Then again this is just one thing.  Maybe I’m overreacting. While waiting for the Pirate Queen to come home, I check the news.  I read about a guy in England who died going Gangnam style. He was about my age. He wanted to show his kids how cool he was, so he busted a Gangnam, which in turn busted his heart. Dad danced himself to death.

Now I’ve never done that.  Oh, it may look like I’m having a seizure, but every Rob dance move is quite controlled. Still, I did have to wonder. If a little Gangnam killed that man, what would it do to me? I get winded grabbing a beer from the fridge.

As I’m sweating my Gangnam age, my wife bursts in the door.

“Why didn’t you answer the door?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been knocking for the past ten minutes!”

“Uh..I didn’t hear you…”

Holy Crap! It’s true! I’m getting old!

Now I’m on full age alert. I will beat this old thing. I mean knowing it is half the battle, right? From there, it’s a matter of regression.

Today I took my first step in fighting my age: I went to the wellness test to see what they said. I took my second step too: I wore my Superman Underoos on the outside. It worked too! My Queen didn’t accuse me of being old at all.

We Only Hurt the Ones We Love

If you’ve read my blog, tweets or even Facebook posts, you know that I hate Justin Bieber as much as the next guy. It’s nothing personal. I just think the world could be a brighter place without his music, his perfume, his posters, or his face on every magazine, billboard, kiosk, and TV show. To me he is the epitome of all that is wrong with our celebrity embracing society.

“Wow Rob! Tell us how you really feel.”

I know, right? That’s a lot of blame to hurl an eighteen-year-old kid. He hasn’t even been alive long enough to earn that kind of venom. I get that, but he has made the most of the time he’s had. And yet, my hatred is not personal.  I know that it’s not his fault. It’s the chrysalis of media experts and marketing professionals protecting him and growing him into the butterfly that is Justin Bieber.

But enough about me, let’s talk about somebody else’s Bieber love. Like the guy who just hired two assassins to eliminate him and his bodyguard.

That guy’s love burns far hotter than my love. My love is more of the “stumble upon a time machine and transport baby Bieber to a remote island with Gilligan and the Skipper” variety. Death is so final, and could elevate Bieber in the minds to the likes of Lincoln, Kennedy, and Lennon.  I really don’t want that to happen.

“Beiber bless you.”

Yeah, no. So yeah, this guy hires two killers to take out the Bieber. He probably hired them because he couldn’t do it himself. See, unlike Johnny Cash, Beiber doesn’t do prison sing-a-longs, and our Beiber zealot is a ward of the state of New Mexico.

In a stroke of genius, our mastermind saved up his smokes and license plate booty and launched a devious plan. Our man behind bars hired himself a hired gun who knew the value of a pack of cigarettes and some free time.  He hired a recently released fellow prisoner who in turn brought along his adult son.

Ah yes. As anybody who’s watched an hour of TV knows, from here out, hilarity ensues and I don’t even need to make anything up. Although I should warn you, this is where the story starts to unravel. Not all the sources agree on what happened next and even a few news outlets are a little skeptical.

Me? Since when did I let a few facts bother me? But these are the closest thing to the facts as presented by several reporters who wasted their time so that I in turn could waste yours.

First, I’m not sure if Bieber was the original target or part of a Walmart assassination sale.  The father and son bonding team were supposed to kill “two witnesses,” then kill Bieber and his bodyguard. I’m guessing the “two witnesses” watched a previous crime committed by Mr. New Mexico.  Finding two witnesses to kill before having them watch the death of the Bieber and the bodyguard seems a little counterproductive. Either way (and I am no criminal mastermind), these seem to be the earmarks of an afterthought murder.

“You know what? Since you’ve already got the paisley tie and garden shears in the car, why don’t you kill Justin Bieber and his bodyguard too?”

Paisley tie and garden shears? 

Oh yeah, did I forget to mention that? Our assassins were going to use the paisley to bind, blind and strangle after they used the shears to cut off everybody’s manhood and feed it to the goats. Yeah, somebody’s been watching too much Game of Thrones.

It’s me. No goats popped up in any other reports. The manhood, on the other hand, was slung all over the news.

So, on the road to adventure, our outlet-murder-store drives to Vermont to commit their first parcel of crimes. Some reports say they used Apple maps and accidentally found themselves in Canada talking to the border patrol. Other reports say that our mastermind behind bars, his heart grew three sizes that day. He confessed his plot to the authorities. Either way you slice it, this story comes up nuts.

The important thing is that everybody was caught before anybody lost their manhood. Well except perhaps the man behind bars. See, he planned this murder not because he hated Justin Bieber, but because he loved him. He’s even got Justin tattooed on his leg. This whole scheme started because Justin never responded when the man tried reaching out.

Sometimes love makes us do stranger things than hatred.

Luckily for Justin, I still hate him.

Calander Roadkill & the Remains of the Day

12-12-12.

It’s all over.  No, I mean everywhere you look it’s 12-12-12.  It’s obviously not all over, as in “done” I’m still blogging.

Yeah, sorry bout that. Had the Mayan’s known, they would have ended the world a few years earlier.

Nostradamus knew. Yeah he said something about there being a man on a date writing things. 

“That’s Me!”

P.T. Barnum talked about me too, but it had nothing to do with the end of the world.  Or did it?

I don’t know. I guess there’s still time. The day isn’t over, right? There’s still time, so keep living like it’s the last day of your life. I mean, what if the Mayan’s watches were slow? It could have thrown the whole end of days thing out of whack. They didn’t have Swiss quartz…

So lets see…Prince said we’d end at 1999. He was a day ahead of the Millenialists. The world celebrated several more New Years after they told us it was all over.  We had a few religious leaders pull dates out of their—uhm…hats and several other prophets who said it would happen when America elected a black president. Well that happened too and we’re still here.

So I’m not gonna worry too much about the Mayans. Still, there is a part of me that wonders. I mean, what if they are right? Until the day is over, they got as good a shot at guessing the end of the world as I do. I mean, sure, they lived hundreds of years ago, but they invented a calendar. I’m lucky if I can set my alarm clock set for am or pm. What do I know?

I received several emails today. They put faith in the Mayans.

“Sale ends today!”

Ok. That’s a little foreboding. Macy’s is definitely more up to date on things than I am.  HSBC, they’ve promised to go honest. You can’t tell me they’d have done that if they thought there was more time left.  And then there’s the most damning evidence yet:

The Pope tweeted today.

Yeah, you can follow him if you like.

Me, I’m saying my goodbyes.

Oh, wait. What? The Mayan’s said 12-21-12? Oh great. Now my calendar is all out of whack, and I still gotta buy Christmas gifts, just in case.

Way to ruin a good doomsday.

Well at least I have something else to blog about.

Right to War

They’re warring in Lansing today.  For those of you not living in Michigan or not complete show-offs in your high school civics class, Lansing is the state capital.  For those of you who failed high school civics, the state capital is the town where a state’s elected people get together and bicker.  Michiganders call their bicker place Lansing.

Today the bickering isn’t really inside the capitol building, it’s outside, and in truth, it isn’t really bickering. The people outside aren’t arguing with each other. They’re of one mind.

“Rick is a Dick.”

Yeah, that’s what one of the signs read.  Rick is not the cute little raccoon from the Ranger Rick magazines we read as kids. I think we all can agree that Rick is no dick.  This Rick is Rick Snyder, the cute little Governor of Michigan, and there are those who are deadest in their belief of Rick’s dickey ways and the mob outside the capitol is an example of those dick believers.

They’re a rabid group of believers, shouting their mantra of “Kill the Bill.” And no, it’s not Tarantino movie night in Lansing.  This Bill is not a man; it’s a Schoolhouse Rock piece of paper.  You remember Schoolhouse Rock right?  The little kids blurbs between the cartoons trying to educated us with songs of grammar and math and yes, civics.   Remember the little roll of paper sitting glum on the capitol steps; worried he’d never become a law? Well this Lansing mob wants to kill him.

Why?  Because he represents something that they don’t want: the right to work.  See the mob on the capital lawn all has jobs that they’re not attending today so they can tell the Governor that not only do they think he’s a dick, but they’ll be damned if they’ll stand for him creating a law that gives everyone in the state of Michigan the right to work.

Don’t look at me. They can have my right to work.  I’m lazy. I say keep your work, keep your 30-degree appointments with the capital lawn, and keep your Rick the Dick. As for me, give me a down comforter and give me a nap.

Still, this group is rather rabid.  It’s so bad out there that the police are lined against the capitol building, rifles slung across their chests.  I can’t say that I blame them. The crowd’s yells of “Kill the Bill” seem pretty fervent.  The last time I saw a mob like that, Richard Denny ended up in the hospital.

“Can’t we all just get along?”

No, we can’t. There is a bill quivering behind armed police and we want him dead. I do understand the anger.  These people are union employees.  If Michigan becomes a right to work state, then the unions risk losing their grip on the government. If that happens, then some of these people could get negotiated into smaller wages because other people are willing to work (and can work) for less money. Smaller wages mean fewer perks for the family, and that brings down the Michigan quality of life. 

On the other hand, Rick the accused Dick is asking “What quality of life?” He believes that by giving people the right to work outside the union, he’s helping the state.  More people can work, and Union negotiation meetings stop looking like the torch wielding townies on the capitol lawn. In Rick’s mind the right to work will lead to less issues like the Hostess debacle, where Hostess folded because they couldn’t afford to meet the unions negotiating terms, and the union members left Hostess bakeries unstaffed until they could. Now everybody from Burgermiester to chief Twinkie maker to the king is out of work and we’ll never see them again.

So the storm clouds loom. Me I normally root for the least violent side.  I find that vehemence is usually the proud visage of fear on the face of ignorance. On the other hand, I watched the Pacquiao-Marquez fight this weekend. The blood is in the water and the sharks of mixed metaphors are all frenzied. From my armchair view, Michigan is bleeding money. Maybe this is what ignorance needs: a good punch in the face.

So as the two sides stand off, the rest of as watch, and wait, and pray that when this is all over, Michigan will be a place where we can take pride and raise our families, and bills are safe to walk the streets at night.

WOTF

What’s on the floor?

That’s a game My Queen and I play.  It’s a simple game, as the name implies. Although not implied in the name is that it also accommodates other surfaces. Counters, walls, ceilings, if it’s questionable and unsettling, it’s fair game in our little guessing game.

It’s a game for unlimited players, but there are no winners, and usually, yes, there is a loser.  And as you can guess, that loser is usually me.

“Sorry!”

Nope.  That’s a different game.  Usually nobody says anything more than, “Oh yeah” in What’s on the Floor. It was like that the time we played on our first Thanksgiving in our new apartment. 

That year I grilled the turkey.  Now I don’t grill the turkey using a rotisserie. My grill isn’t that big.  I use the V-shaped wire rack from the roasting pan. That way I can pick up the turkey and turn it as needed without it sticking.

I don’t want the turkey sticking to the rack either. So I spray that down with Pam. Holding the wire V-rack in the air, I spray it down good. Only when the can is almost empty am I satisfied that the turkey will never stick.

Continuing to the next part of my turkey task, I remove the bird from the brine bucket—sort of. Unfortunately, the bird didn’t want to leave.  I’m not sure how, but a wing clipped the bucket’s handle, and when I lifted, the bird, I also lifted the bucket. No problem, I try setting the bird and bucket down. Except somehow the bird-hold is lopsided and off balance: the bucket doesn’t want to sit flat on the floor.  If I’m going to set it down without sloshing salt water all over the floor, I’m going to need help.

“Honey!  Help!”

I guess I sounded urgent, because my beloved queen ran into the kitchen, and would have continued outside if she hadn’t slammed into the wall first. She tried to stop. Her socked feet quit moving and she tilted her body to make the adjusted turn, but just like Tom Cruise in Risky Business, she slid right on through when she hit the spot where I had sprayed Pam through my V-rack.

No stick surface indeed.

When she hit the wall, she dropped like a sack of yams, and of course gallant Sir Rob dropped turkey and bucket to check on his beloved lady. The bucket hit the corner and tilted all the way over. Water spilled, and a salty wave washed across the floor and lapped against My Queen’s prone body.

She looked up at me, eye’s trying to focus. “Darling, what’s on the floor?”

“Oh yeah…you’re gonna laugh.”

“I doubt it.”

So that’s our game. Like I said, it’s a wonderful game. Friends come over and play sometimes. 

“Uh, what’s the black spot on the counter and why is it moving?”

“Oh yeah…just run a bleached cloth over it.  It’ll be fine.”

Last night we played in the tub.  No, not a good game.  The What’s on the Floor game, and yes, as you guessed it, it was not on the floor but in the tub.

We have a special tub in our apartment.  The hot water pouring out of every other tap is hot enough to poach an egg. The bathtub water gets warm enough to slowly melt ice: when we’re lucky. The trick is, we need to run it for about a half hour first.

The water may be cold, but the pressure is good.  It comes out of the bath spigot fast enough to close the drain and fill the tub.  So while you’re warming shower water, you need to check the drain release every minute or so or you’re having a bath with your shower.

That was the case for my shower last night.  I forgot and the tub filled. Not too big of a problem.  I figure I can soak my feet for the first few minutes of the shower.  It’ll serve a double purpose.

As I say, we do play What’s on the Floor in our house, so I’ve learned to look before I leap.  Sure enough, there’s something in the bottom of my shower water. I can’t tell quite what it is, except that it’s a small oval of white plastic.

Feeling brave, I grab it by the sides and pull it out.  It’s the disposable head of My Queen’s razor.  Nothing scary about that. I go to put in on the side of the tub.

Now I’m never been too familiar with women’s shaving products.  I always assumed they were the same as men’s shaving products. I mean, comparing disposable razor heads, there’s wedge of plastic and multiple blades. The only difference seems to be that men’s blades have a white or green strip to ease razor burn and women’s blades have two pastel colored strips on either side of the blade. The strips are colored to match the razor handle, because women like things to match. My Queen’s razor and strips are lilac. I get it.

No I don’t. I’m a freaking idiot. There must be something special about women’s body hair, something abrasive and alien.  The two purple stripes on my queen’s razor? Those aren’t razor burn easers. They’re viscous varnish remover strips.

When I tried to set the razor head down, the purple stripes had turned to goo in my hands. Remember the movie Alien? Remember the weird sticky goo all over the walls? Paint is purple and slather it in strips on a razor and you’ve got the goo now warming my hands.

I’m just trying to get rid of the razor blade and I’ve got purple gummy strands stretching everywhere. They’re on my fingers. They’re on my hand. They’re on my other hand because I’m trying to get it off the first. I can’t shake off the purple snot, and it doesn’t ball like adhesive, it just squish stretches.

I rinse my fingers and eventually the stuff is gone. Taking with it a piece of my manhood. There’s still goo stretching from the blade to the side of the tub, but I ain’t going anywhere near that thing.  I don’t know what my wife shaves off her legs that requires warm purple goo. I don’t think I want to know. I just want to shower, and be clean again.

The remainder of the tub water oozes down the drain with the remainder of the purple goo before I allow my sensitive toes to step into the tub. By that time what tepid water is gone. The water stabbing me from the showerhead is about the temperature of Niagara Falls in September.

Taken aback, I jerk back, and find myself on my back on the bottom of the tub. My feet have no traction on the tub-floor. Even lying on my back, I feel my body slosh friction free against the tub.

As Niagara showers over my head, and birds and stars spiral my brain, I call out to my wife.  “What’s on the floor of the tub?”

“Oh yeah,” she yells from the bedroom, “be careful in there. I took a bath. There’s bath oil in the tub…”

I look to the left, on top of the toilet seat is a can of Pam.

Well played my love. Well played…

Rob & Rob

I’m beside myself!

No really, I’m beside myself and it’s creeping me out!

“Hi Rob!”

“Hi Rob…”

It’s like the machine in The Prestige.  OK maybe not. Maybe I’m being a little melodramatic. It’s nothing like that.  I just wish it were. 

See I’ve found some really cool elitist caffeine-junkie toys, and I see no way I can afford them.  The beside myself? Oh, that’s just wishful thinking.  I wish I were beside a rich RobBlogger, that way I could make my elitist dreams come true.

So what has my little self-indulgent heart going pitter-I-want-that pat?

Starbucks.

No, I don’t want the whole store, just a few items from their catalogue.  First, there’s this really cool $7 cup of coffee. Seven Bucks and that’s just the grande!  If you’re really indulgent, you can buy a bag of magic beans for $40. I’m really indulgent, but I have a wife who isn’t. She’s also not that understanding about my indulgence. I’ll stick with the grande cup for seven bucks, thank you fine bean huckster.

So why do I want this coffee? Cuz it’s $7! Keep up! I gotta see what a $7 cup of coffee tastes like. I’m sure it’s like unicorn rivers trickling down rainbow valleys though.

“For I am Cornholio!  I need TP for my bunghole!”

It’s gotta be magical. Nobody would pay that much for anything if it wasn’t, and nobody would charge for it if they couldn’t get paid.  If you don’t understand what I’m talking about, come check out my awesome Emperor Clothes. It’s like I’m wearing nothing at all…

Anyway, the other thing I want from Starbucks will help me afford my awesome $7 cup of coffee.  Starbucks is also offering a $450 gift card. With that card, I can either get 64 cups of miraculous brew or 11 bags to grind myself!

Or can I?

No.

See, here’s the thing.  The awesome $450 gift card is made of steel. Starbucks is charging $50 just for the cold metal pleasure against the leather folds of your wallet. And you probably can’t get it past the Airport security, so don’t even bother trying to use it at an airport Starbucks. Nope. This card is strictly for landlubbers who can’t work math.

That’s why I want it.

Unfortunately, once again, this is just why I won’t receive this pretentious gift from my Pirate Queen.

I do have one hope: they haven’t announced the lottery winner from Arizona. I have lots of family in Arizona; maybe I’m related!  That’s my dream, but nobody is returning my call. I’m getting a little anxious. Still, I’ve made sure to leave my Starbucks Christmas list on their machines, just in case.

So in the meantime…

I’m waiting…

And I’m beside myself…

Roman, Indians, and the Rocks Below

I remember when I was a kid. The only dangerous stretch of road I’d hear about was Dead Man’s Curve. Even though I didn’t live in California, this 90 degree LA turn was infamous for it’s potential death and destruction.

Dead Man’s Curve is a serious hairpin on Sunset Boulevard right below where all the rich people live. If you don’t make it, you either drive into Roman Polanski’s old house or you fly off a cliff. It’s perfect for keeping the rabble from the LA rich, and what better photo op? Look left while you’re airborne and you might see the Hollywood sign.  Say “dead cheese…”

“Rob Blog”

Close enough. A little RobBlog fun fact: When I moved to the LA area, I drove Dead Mans Curve. I wanted to speed. Once you break free of the traffic, there’s this great straightaway just before the curve. I seriously wanted to push the pedal to the floor and feel the LA smog through my hair.

I didn’t though. I wanted to live even more.

Now the most treacherous roadway everyone is talking about is this “Fiscal Cliff.” I have to admit, when I first heard the term I thought of a friendly tax guy at the end of the bar.

“Tell ya what Normy…”

Yeah, sometimes I’m too slow on the uptake. Or, maybe I’m just optimistic.  Is there a real difference? I wanted the fiscal cliff to sit and have a drink with me and tell me everything would be OK.

It’s not.

Well I mean it’s not gonna offer me a beer. I still believe things will be OK. At least for those people who take the fiscal cliff with a hang glider.  Those people will be just fine.  The rest?  Well remember those textbook pictures of Native Americans driving buffalo over a rock face into oblivion?  Well in this picture the politicians are the Native Americans you and me, we’re the buffalo.  We’re flying bull if we brought our hang gliders.

If you didn’t bring your bull glider, then at least you can take consolation in the fact that these political Indians are driving too hard and fast. Just like Dead Man’s Curve, they’ll never stop in time. They’re going over the cliff too.

“Oh look!  The Hollywood sign.”

“And Roman Polanski!”

“I got a rock.”

So what is this mystical hang glider I speak of? What will land us safely on solid ground? What is the answer to overcoming Washington’s doomsday woes?  I don’t know. It’s a metaphor. In their metaphor I’m going off a cliff. In my metaphor I’m flying away.

If life hands you lemons…make up lemonade.

And maybe that’s why politicians refuse to agree on this issue as time ticks off the fiscal bomb. “Fiscal Cliff” is just another hypothetical scare tactic. Nobody believes in the cliff. If they did, they’d do something. You know … like … stop.

Stop. Jan and Dean sang about Dead Man’s Curve. It was a great song until Jan actually went over the cliff, then he stopped singing.

Stop. Maybe we need the politicians to see a real cliff to stop, or at least get tied up in Roman Polanski’s hose. Let’s see how long they continue arguing about the semantics of red and blue plans before stopping to the face of a real threat. Red and Blue? We’re purple and pulpy when strewn over a pile of rocks. And purple pulpy things don’t get to say “I told you so.” Not even Barney the Dinosaur after the great toddler sugar riots of ’06.

No, this fiscal cliff is not a purple dinosaur. It’s a green game of chicken, because nobody takes the metaphor seriously.

And if they don’t why should I? I’ll just fly away on my hang glider.