Seafood and blogging...

I have been consistently inconsistent with my blog.  I'm like the person who says they hate seafood, yet lunkers down a pudding-thick tuna sandwich on white bread-white bread that will imminently fail due to the liquid content of the tuna medely, that usually includes pickles.  

And the person who eats this is the same person who thinks that "seafood" is disgusting?  I guess it's an appearance thing.  Run it through a flesh-chipper, slather it in mayo, and you're set.  

I'll never understand.  

The "Carolina Soft Shoe" and other maladies...

Her name was Vanessa. We worked shoulder-to-shoulder as colleagues in the business of high-priced, low-quality, sweat shop fashion. Shall we call it "Banana Republic?" It was any old anemic weekday when I noticed she was on her way back into the store. "Vanessa!" I mused unceremoniously. Vanessa's shift had ended about 15 minutes previously to my sighting of her, and yet, there she was-again. As it turned out, her short-bed 2-wheel drive Toyota truck wouldn't start.

"I'll help you, Vanessa!" I blurted expediently. Although I knew next to nothing about the inner workings of any automobile, I believe my urgency to assist was an innate reaction to the subverted necessity to glad-handle something more widely accepted as "manly," than the new line of camel blazers and cashmere knitteries located in-store.

Vanessa hopped behind the wheel and popped the hood. I was happy for the privacy the raised hood afforded me, as I'm sure it would have only taken a seconds glance into my empty eyes for Vanessa to know with a surety that she was better-off resuming "grinding" her starter, ostensibly.

My eyes were quickly lost staring into the dirty meanderings of Japanese genius. As I scoured for an easy place to grab and twist, my eyes locked onto the low-hanging fruit, that was the car battery and cables attached thereto.
"That might do the trick," I offered aloud, as though my cable twist constituted the 27 to 300 point check promised by used-car dealers(did it?). To my great astonishment, the truck turned over and fired up with a better-than-ever roar 'n' purr.
I was somewhat bemused by how blase` Vanessa was over our little miracle. I couldn't discern if she had always considered me a versatile utility, or she just didn't care if ol' reliable turned over-or not!
"Aren't you getting ready to go on a mission?" she obligatorily inquired in a presumable effort to reciprocate some degree of friendship.
"I went on a mission, you know," she continued, not waiting for me to say anything.
"Really?" I waited.
"Ya, but I came home early," Vanessa freely rolled. Not wanting to upset our delicate social breakthrough, I recklessly persisted.
"Why did you come home early?" Even as the question pursed my lips, I knew it was a colossal faux pas, if not a total breach of established civility. Although Vanessa did not make me wait long for her reply, every nano second working up to it had me relating more and more to "Ralphy," and his courageous effort to tell Santa what he really wanted before finishing his slide ride to the cotton-batting snow below.
"I got sick," she offered safely. Notwithstanding my safe recovery from near and total disaster, I decided to press things a touch further.
"Really," I regained confidence.
"Sick with what?"

"Bulimia." she heralded.

If there was a time for silence, I had already missed it, and yet, in that misfortunate moment all I had for her was silence--too little, too late. What had previously seemed like a pseudo-interested Vanessa was now a fully transformed, "Ok, I told you, so what are you going to do about it?" Vanessa. My mind scrambled like scout eggs in a dirty dutch-oven. I knew I had ventured so far into the outer realm of what is safe in common conversation that I no longer felt any gravity pulling back.

"Oh...a..ahh...um..." I stalled, "I thought maybe you got the Carolina Soft-Shoe from drinking some bad water, or something." I muttered with slurred speed. "Carolina Soft Shoe?" I repeated to myself, "Did I just say that? What does that even mean?" I further introspected, as I attempted to quantify the collateral damage.

Not to worry though...

Vanessa took care of it.

"Oh... I had that too." she concluded.

Whfeww! Here's to dodging bullets.

Tic Tac, sir?


So there you are, urgently searching the internet for something that is anything but urgent, when it happens... your eyes are assaulted by one or more of those repulsive teeth whitening web-ads. Eeheeyoo. Disgusto! What would otherwise be a supermodel-ish person, is obscured by teeth so yellow, that on a color wheel they are somewhere between that yucky liquid-lard you pump-squirt on your movie popcorn, and motor oil-after 3,000+ miles. The pictures used in these ads are far-gone unatural in color, relative to the person featured. It's as though, somewhere out there, there is a male or female who drives a ferarri, lives on a beach, is 4% body fat, retired at 29 with a "google" fortune, and yet, forgot to brush their teeth for the last 20 years on a diet of nothing but "milk duds" and AA batteries. The upside to these ads however, is that I can see what the likely outcome of pursuing the advertised teeth whitening will be (see list above). Finally, I am flummoxed for resisting the urge to move the arrow over the otherwise perfect person's mouth to remedy the egg-yolk anomaly. Doing so is reminiscent of playing "Oregon Trail" in the 97 degree computer lab at Manilla Elementary, pondering if you really could purchase 10 bicycles for the price of one computer as Mr. Giles roared, while explaining the gravity of computer appreciation/abuse. Oh by the way, I never could shoot fast enough to bag that antelope...you know the one.

Is that a Human Smell???

Anybody out there remember this Purple…Mammal?  Yep… It’s Grimace. Anyway, I think he’s a mammal, as he does appear to have hair. If we were judging his make-up and composition on the “animal, mineral, or vegetable” criteria, I know I would be willing to place his purpleness in the animal category. I guess if we are going to get technical, we would label Grimace as an anthropomorphic purple being. Although Grimace was a villain in his first campaign, his role was quickly reprised as to be a “good guy”--an integral part of the McDonald’s gang—whose clumsy antics provided a comedic component to the posse.
Oh, gone are the days when something purple and enormous were sufficient to satisfy your personal fantasy-land. If you are mounting a “what about Barney” defense to this thesis, all I can say is, at least they gave his purple-mass a few toe nails and spots. Grimace is somewhere between a gum-drop and a suppository in both shape and color. But before I relegate His perrywinkleness insignificant, it might be worthwhile to note that, with great expectancy I hurried to the Playland post-Happymeal to get inside Grimace’s gut, running hog-wild around the bars (see attached picture if I’m sounding medicated).

So what’s a grimace to you? By definition, a grimace is: "a noun, meaning an ugly twisted expression on a person’s face typically expressing disgust, pain, or wry amusement."  I am of the persuasion that the practical use of the word “grimace,” has grown archaic. Notwithstanding, it still has very specific uses limited to the facial contortions that occur responsively to malodorous smells. Point of fact, we recently acquired a piano—which I am convinced stinks like “Rice-A-Roni.” Even as I sit here working the keys of this instructive, I am grimacing at the pungent odor of the “San Francisco Treat."  There’s another smell issue to address... were the “Rice-A-Roni” smell coming off of a well intentioned stove-top, I would ride the rail down memory-lane to when mum and dad left us kids to ourselves with a box of R&R to stave off starvation during their “date-night” escape.  Whereas, it is NOT coming from a stove, but a piano, I am compelled to dry heave. It’s really messing with my mind. 

A grimace has ensued…

Someone to depend on…

Recent events at work have caused me to consider the value of a good wingman. You know… Goose & Maverick, Tango & Cash, He-Man & Man-At-Arms, Riggs & Murtaugh, John McClane and Carl Winslow (from TV’s Family Matters), Tom Hanks & the volleyball, etc.…which brings my attention to what might possibly be the greatest tag-team of all time—

Willow & Meegosh

In case time has challenged your ability to recall this esoteric duo, allow me to refresh your memory by saying that these two are undoubtedly the greatest Nelwins to ever showcase a silver-screen. Together, they are the ultimate in Nelwin courage, strength and endurance. While Willow is endowed with great wisdom and a sense of adventure, Meegosh adorns pure loyalty, and a generosity that could only be rivaled by an Elko slot-machine; together they prove that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

Whether the challenge be a mystical DaiQuini baby, trolls, Nokmore soldiers, Burglecut, or Brownies, these two stuck together and backed each other up better than a Ken Garff Hyundai.

Although many of us have unceremoniously consigned Meegosh to oblivion, let us take this opportunity to recall and espouse his virtues as a partner/wingman. Like many great wingmen in history, what solidifies Meegosh’s stature as a solid, is his given ability to be a strong leader himself. After all, good leaders are generally good wingmen. President Ronald W. Reagan summed it up this way: “There is no limit to what a man can do or where he can go if he doesn’t mind who gets the credit.” Surely Meegosh adhered to this creed as he helped Willow Ufgood care for Alora Dannon.

So… here’s to all of us Meegoshes out there. Even when you might feel like you are just a insignificant Nelwin, you have an ability that is uniquely yours… in fact, you might just be the only one who can help the Willow’s of the world defeat the Queen Bavmorda’s.

POSTLUDE:
Although Meegosh is a Nelwin, a Nelwin who did not go on to experience the cinematic success of his friend Willow Ufgood (Willow had critical roles in “Return of the Jedi,” “Ewoks, Battle for Endor,” “Harry Potter” series, and my personal favorite, the title character of “Leprechaun,” whose success spawned no fewer than 5 sequels), he is a great example of leadership and learning. I also think I saw Meegosh in the Washington, SeaTac airport (I’m serious).

It can only be Jared...

For the sake of good times past and present, I revisited the old bloggariaha.  In observing all two of my previous posts, I realized that the "Joe's Crabshack" I wrote about so tenderly, has not only been completely demolished, but has now become a "Jared" (you know, the "galleria of fine jewlery).  Signs of the times, perhaps?  Oh' well, kings to you, "Jared."  May business favor you more kindly than Joe's sea-yuck.  

In other matters, if I hear the term "bail-out" one more time... I'm gonna...  It's like "going green," or the instructive "Main St./Wall St." dichotomy.  I guess this is the lingo lubricant that enables us to metabolize politics as we would cheap chit-chatties about the weather, and so on. 

Waka-Waka!  

PS- Have you ever met your "Dwight?"  I recently met a, if not THE "Dwight."  To be fare, this person is kind of a Dwight/Anton Chigurh hybrid.  Oh... you don't know, or remember who Anton Chigurh is?  He is the paramount prototype sociopath from "No Country for Old Men" who kills everyone-EVERYONE!  It's the perfect medley if you think about it.  The Dwight character annoys and incites you, and then the Chigurh character shoots you in the head with a cattle-gun.  Because you are saturated in visceral fear of being dispatched via beef-bullet, you are reticent to confront the Dwight for fear of the Chigurh.  Stockholm syndrome, anyone?  Yet somewhere within, you consider the possibility that a good stern confrontation is just what the bi-polar ordered.  At any cause, this person is more of a friends problem then my own.  And let it be said, my sympathy is flowing on tap for my comrade.   His employment obligations require him to spend 9-12 hours a week in a vehicle with this person, and moreover, are exacerbated by having to share a room at a distant training course they are currently attending.  The relationship I have observed between the two--my friend::Dwight/Chigurh--is tantamount to the delicate relationship Mama Fertelli has with her son Sloth.  Mama realizes that if mistreated or mishandled, Sloth might end up throwing her off a pirate ship.  Sadly, however, I wonder if this Dwight/Chigurh will ever discover his Slothish, bone marrow potential for such noble deeds.  I digress.  To my friend, I leave you with this encouragement:

"Courage is being scared to death but saddling up anyway."  --John Wayne