Sticks And Stones Ain’t Got Nothing On This

I recently decided to research the term “Karen” because as an avid fan of YouTube, you could say that I was compelled to deconstruct the mythological expression. You could say that, but this post was mostly just about killing some time. Check that, murdering it. So I consulted Wikipedia, because nothing says “I wanna broaden my horizons with the least amount of effort possible,” like a Wiki search. And man, did I get so much smarter . . I mean dumber. Both.

I learned that the term may have started on Black Twitter, and I’m not gonna lie. I had no idea that was a thing. Does that make me a Terry? Yeah that’s the male equivalent of a Karen and I wasn’t about to research that one any further since my head most certainly would’ve exploded in the doing.

Turns out, Karen has a history. And I’ll refrain from making a snide remark about my own personal Vietnam of a relationship with a woman of the same name. Oh shit, too late! Anyways, the current pejorative is basically an (comm)ode to anyone who specializes in wasting someone else’s time and then makes a federal case out of it. It’s a toot to the bittersweet, a chupa to the cabra . . a laming of the shrew.

The term has become synonymous with drama mamas who insist on talking to a manager and bullying health-care workers and preventing neighbors they never knew existed from entering their apartment building and coughing on strangers and having Target tantrums and otherwise boring us with their inalienable right to be really fucking annoying.  It would, however, take several iterations before “Karen” came to achieve Instagram infamy. Wanna take a quick trip down mercury lane? N’kay . . .

Miss Ann– This term was used in the Jim Crow era. Black people would refer to white people who used their privilege as ‘Miss Ann’. If you ask me, this one would’ve made a really shitty hashtag. Miss Ann sounds like a nanny, or an elementary school teacher. And a virgin at that. Nah.

Barbecue Becky– The term “Becky” was born in the 1992 hip-hop classic Baby Got Back. And it might have stood the test of time if someone hadn’t added Barbecue to it along the way. After which it sounds like something you’d find in the American Girl Doll catalogue.

Cornerstore Caroline– I’m pretty sure this was the name of the bakery run by the final winner of “Cupcake Wars”. Not that I . . uh, ever watched that stupid show.

Permit Patty– Wait, I thought this was Peppermint Patty’s fun loving sister. The one who was written off the show after sleeping with Snoopy.

It was rumored that the 2019 tropical storm Karen possessed hidden meaning, mostly because it was hilarious to assume such a thing. I’m of the belief it was a crazy coincidence, and I’m fairly certain that if the meteorologist who named the storm had been reached for comment, he would have re-iterated as much to the media . . and his ex-wife’s lawyers.

And if you haven’t been sufficiently turned off by the idea that mean people everywhere have successfully  commandeered a common God given name, look whose bob the meme-ologists have decided to pin “Karen” to.

Kate Gosselin Old Hair | Blog Pendidikan

I don’t know about you, but if my name was Karen, I’d be furious at the thought that they’re profiling my ass with Justin Bieber head shots.

Rest assured, the derogatory nature of the term has its fair share of critics. Like for instance, anyone whose name is actually Karen. And anyone who happens to be married to someone whose name is actually Karen. And the Dalai Lama, him too.

Is any of this fair to all the Karens out there who are just trying to live their best lives without feeling the need to resort to using college nicknames when in public? Of course it isn’t. But society has always operated on a whim and a plier, so there’s that. Alls I know is that if some guy named Marc goes viral after pitching a hissy fit in a Whole Foods because his Prime account ain’t being recognized, I’m changing my name. I’ll go with something that is antonymous to controversy of any kind.

Geraldo . . yeah, that’s it.

 

 

 

 

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Good Housekeeping: Magic Dancing, Show Lists and Super Sunday’s Best

Imma do something I don’t believe I’ve ever done here on Sorryless and put Tuesday to its proper use with some housekeeping.

As you know, me and Dale had a great deal of fun with our Rushmore Series. And as so often happens, from that idea came others. This past Sunday, I might have hit on one of those others. It was supposed to be a stand alone post about a girl named Liz from Magic Dance. And then Dale asked if perhaps this might become a series. And so of course it got my mind working overtime. And speaking of overtime, with apologies to the re-worked 5-9 side hustle musical spill that made the scene this weekend, it only made me go looking for the first and best original song. Love that Dolly.

Anyways, yeah . . more Rushmore references. Go Dolly!

As for the official title of the Sunday series, I think Imma go with Magic Dance. It has legs to stretch in the form of a weekly jaunt, but please don’t ask me where it leads because the truth is, I’m only halfway through my second installment. But I have plenty of ideas jotted down, so stay tuned.

I’m always happy to take any suggestions you guys throw my way for a Friday shout out on Heroes. You can send them to my email or just put them in the comments. Either way works for me, and I’ll go read up on what you gift me. And as always, mochas gracias to you all for making Fridays such a fun place to be.

So . . Heroes on Fridays and Magic Dance on Sundays. Which leaves my Tuesdays open to whatever I feel like making ’em. And now that my blog housekeeping is out of the way, how’s about a short list of shows I dig on, with a couple that I really don’t? Sure why not . . .

The Wire- I finished this one a short while ago and I miss it every day since. Back in the day, a friend proclaimed this to be the best show on TV. Like ever. I shrugged it off as mere hype . . until now. Let’s just say it’s on my short list of favorite shows I’ve ever watched.

Hollywood- This mini-series on Netflix might be the worst show I’ve ever tuned in to. If given the choice of being water boarded or having to watch a full season (I think we lasted two episodes?), Imma drink up.

Cheers- I went back last year and watched the full series, seeing as how I had dropped the habit after like five seasons back in the day. I find it to be one of the best shows ever made. The setting belies all the many issues it took on, without being preachy in the least.

The Office- If 2020 was good for anything, it was binge watching shows I’d lost touch with back in the day. It’s pure genius, but I doubt it would pass muster in these overly sensitive times.

The Boys- I dug the first season, so I was excited to hear they were coming back. And then I lasted exactly one episode of Season 2. Meh. Maybe I’ll venture back to see if I was wrong about this.

Mr Robot- This one is strange. I loved the first three seasons, but after tuning into the first episode of the fourth and final season, I was less than impressed. As with The Boys, maybe I’ll tune in to see if it was simply a slow start.

Queens Gambit- Anya Taylor-Joy is why I got hooked on this story about a chess prodigy. It’s one thing to play a character who’s off their rocker and it’s a completely different thing to play a character who harnesses that rage, keeping it just below the surface. Taylor-Joy’s performance carries the day. And it got me playing chess again, so there’s that.

Reckoning- Ugh. That’s it . . just ugh.

Flack- My favorite new show of 2021. It joins Dead to MeGoliath and The Politician as the show I look forward to. Smart and fast moving dialogue, scenarios that make you go “Damn that’s wrong!” and a sexy ensemble? What is NOT to love?

As for Super Sunday’s best? My cats Jack and Wednesday got off to a dubious start by picking the Chiefs. Somewhere in the heavens, Mr. Speaker is shaking his head in disgust, seeing as he was 6-1 in Super Bowl picks. Regarding the game itself, we got Brady moving to Florida not to retire but to win another Super Bowl. And maybe it didn’t hurt nearly as much as the other ones because New England was watching right along with us Dolphins fans. But while Mahomes suffered his worst defeat as a pro (which is unbelievable in its own right seeing as he’s been in the league three years), he makes Caravaggio out of broken plays like few others ever could.

I tuned in to the second half with my frosty sidekick and some personal pan nachos, and so I missed the halftime show and most of the commercials. Of the ones I did catch, The Boss won my vote for the time being with his way back Jack Kerouac.

As for next year’s Super Bowl prediction? I have that other Florida team, the Miami Dolphins taking on the Matthew Stafford led Los Angeles Rams, who become the second straight team to play a Super Bowl in their home stadium. The road team Dolphins pull it out with a field goal at the gun 33-31. After which Robert Kraft moves the Patriots to the Sunshine State in a last ditch attempt to break their Super Bowl-less streak at three.

The 4th-ish Annual Sorryless Super Bowl LV Preview?! (Results May Vary)

Myth-busting Patrick Mahomes vs. Tom Brady: The five worst Super Bowl 55 narratives for Chiefs-Buccaneers | Sporting News

In the week leading up to the big game, Tom Brady announces he’s a vampire, after which author Stephenie Meyer offers to write a three-part life story. The Chiefs file suit, claiming European products are superior to American made- thus giving Brady an unfair competitive advantage. The Bucs counter by asking for Mahomes to produce his birth certificate, claiming he is actually a Martian. The Chiefs quickly drop their suit as a result.

League news goes heavy metal throughout the week, with one standout headline after another.

  • Texans QB Deshaun Watson is traded to CBS where he will star in a reboot of a long running series on the network. When he asks which series it will be, his agent replies “It’s Elementary, my dear Watson,”
  • Aaron Rodgers announces he is retiring from football so he can host Jeopardy and drink scotch. Simultaneously.
  • The Jaguars announce they will be moving to London, but are rejected. “We already have football teams that kick the ball around and don’t use their hands,” explains Prime Minister Boris Johnson.
  • The Los Angeles Chargers are bought by the Kardashians for $2.6 billion. Their name is changed to the Vuittons and they are relocated to a more spacious locale: The Kardashians’ backyard.

The game is being billed as the sexiest matchup since Brad Pitt and Angelina’s first date. And the first thirty minutes live up to exactly none of that hype. As the half comes to an end, Tony Romo is shocked by the scoreless tie and remarks “Nobody saw this coming!”. To which Jim Nantz replies, “That’s what she said” and is promptly terminated by CBS which puts out a statement decrying the remark. The network assures its viewers that degrading remarks about women will not be tolerated. The halftime show’s opening act then begins its set with “Bitch goes down for a dollah”, after which the Weekend takes the stage and performs for exactly that long.

When the teams take the field for the second half, it’s Tuesday afternoon and Mahomes is still AWOL. So is the Chiefs offense, which accumulates minus 81 yards and is trailing 2-0 after the referees chip in to buy Tom Brady’s team a safety. Brady promises the officiating crew seats in his cabinet when he becomes President.

In the fourth quarter, Tampa Bay scores twice; first on a twenty eight yard pass from Brady to Julian Edelman. The referees come together to review the play after KC objects to the fact that Edelman does not play for the Bucs and is actually seated two rows up in the north end zone. The call stands and less than a minute later Brady is sacked and loses the football before he can pull it back in. Nonetheless, after another review Brady is awarded a touchdown for pain and suffering in what is deemed the “What the Tuck Rule”.

Kansas City replaces Chad Henne with actor Ryan Reynolds. Andy Reid will later admit he didn’t realize Reynolds was even on the roster. “He’s a great locker room guy and he always brings donuts in, so I wasn’t asking any questions,”. Reynolds then proceeds to throw for 311 yards and three touchdowns before accepting a lucrative offer to become the Green Bay Packers new quarterback.

Tampa Bay storms back and leads 37-21 with thirty five seconds remaining. On the cusp of winning his seventh title, Tom Brady takes the snap and is about to kneel down when he breaks his hip. The Chiefs recover and call a timeout. As Henne runs back onto the field, Mahomes makes an appearance. He explains that someone placed a tire spike in the parking lot of his hotel, blowing all four tires. “It only took AAA eight hours to respond, which is record time for those guys . . .”

Bill Belichick produces tape from a spy-cam he installed in the parking lot that reveals the culprit bears a striking resemblance to Tom Brady. The quarterback denies all charges, claiming he was in his cryogenic chamber at the time of the incident. Commissioner Roger Goodell settles “Deflate-Gate 2” and “Spy-Gate 3” by removing the Chick-fil-A concessions from both the Patriots and the Buccaneers home stadiums. The inimitable Jason Whitlock will later opine, “Brady and his former coach now have more gates than a posh California suburb,”.

Mahomes enters the game and promptly throws a forty two yard touchdown strike, after which the Chiefs complete a two-point play to close the deficit to eight. The KC wunderkid then recovers the onside kick himself and delivers yet another forty two yard score. He follows this up by running in the two point conversion to tie the game . . . with his eyes closed, while running backwards, and reciting poetry. In Mandarin Chinese.

The Super Bowl goes to overtime and the Chiefs win the toss. Mahomes tosses his third forty two yard score in as many throws and Kansas City becomes the first team to win back to back titles since Brady and the Patriots accomplished the feat in 2004. The Bucs ask for a recount. Brady asks to be driven to a blood bank. Chiefs coach Andy Reid asks for a double cheeseburger with fries and a Coke.

Heroes Of The Week! (Super Bowl Edition)

Patrick Mahomes Is Conquering the NFL - WSJ

Can you believe January is almost gone? It just goes to show, time flies when you settle into a normalized way of doing business. Unless you’re one of those fun bunch investors who didn’t pass go with Game Stop stock until it went Yahtzee. And for their next trick, a Reddit group is going to buy the Green Bay Packers and sell Aaron Rodgers to Fox Sports.

Let’s get to the lineup . . .

We begin with the floor of this week’s episode and it comes out of Seattle. The Seahawks football team has offered yet further proof of just how out of touch the NFL still is when it comes to domestic violence. Their offensive lineman Chad Wheeler was arrested this week and charged with felony assault after strangling his girlfriend to the point where she lost consciousness. When she awoke, he expressed dismay at the fact she was still alive. The Seahawks response on Twitter? Nothing short of sickening.

Image

To be “saddened” rather than disgusted? And later to reference the fact that Wheeler is diagnosed as bi-polar by giving out a phone number? No and hell no. On that second count, his diagnosis has nothing to do with the criminal act he perpetrated on a defenseless woman. So let’s stop taking any team’s word for it when they promise to do right by families and women. They’re a corporate enterprise interested in their bottom line, and so once Wheeler has done his time, he’ll be a free agent. Remember that.

NFL Network's Nate Burleson talks Chad Wheeler arrest on air - Sports Illustrated

Conversely, big props to Nate Burleson of the NFL Network for going off script during a recent telecast and mentioning the Wheeler incident. It wasn’t a part of the show, until Burleson made it a part of the show. This wasn’t a small deal, to break from football talk on the league’s network and tackle a subject the league is still fumbling.

“It was heavy on my heart. As I was going through the show, I thought, ‘We haven’t touched on it and it’s been a couple of days.’ I wanted to make sure we handle every situation like this the same across the board,”

It’s a big deal, and it took a big man to stand up and not be silent. Thank you Mr. Burleson.

Vegan NBA Star Kyrie Irving Buys George Floyd's Family a House | VegNews

Kyrie Irving of the Brooklyn Nets has made it a three-peat at Heroes, becoming the first individual to make three straight appearances. Only this time, it’s for all the right reasons. He recently bought the family of George Floyd a home. The dude gives a lot of himself to others without advertising it and so of course he downplayed his beautiful deed by calling it his “service” to those in need. I call it a young man’s best self showing up when others need it most.

Reports: Gary Andersen headed back to Utah State

Head coach Gary Andersen was fired by Utah State last November, with $2.7 million remaining on his contract. Which meant coach was looking at a cool nine hundred thousand graham crackers a year for the next three years to not coach the Aggies. He could’ve booked passage on a month long cruise, or taken a European vacation, or even splurged on a couple court-side seats to a Lakers game. Instead, he told the school to keep their money.

“Waiving my contract is the correct decision and enables the young men and the program to move forward and concentrate on the rest of this season,” Andersen said. “Coaching is not about the mighty dollar. It is about teaching and putting young men in a position to succeed on and off the field. Success comes when all parties involved are moving in the same direction.”

Heroic? Probably not. Stoic? Absolutely. And with public institutions feeling the crunch nationwide, Andersen has done his part. (Big thank you to Frank “Beach Walks” Angle for this get).

6-Year-Old Lily Adeleye is the Youngest CEO to Have Products on Target Shelves

Dale over at A Dalectable Life chimed in with this beauty of a story about a CEO who’s got product on the shelves at Target. Oh yeah, and she’s all of six years old.

Lily Adeleye runs Lily Frilly, a girl’s fashion brand. Being Boss Lady runs in the family, seeing as her mother Courtney runs a haircare company called The Mane Choice. But this adorable young lady didn’t just want to help mom. She wanted to BE mom. And so the dreams of a child have been realized in a way that many adults will never attain. Which just goes to show what happens when you parent your children to follow their dreams.

I’ll wrap this puppy in a shiny bow-tie with a story that provided that light I was talking about just last week on these pages. I’m including the video because I figure it’s best to deliver this kind of story where you can read it and hear it and see it, especially that. And maybe it’s selfish on my part. Maybe I need to cover myself in this kind of good thing because truth be told, my cynical side can behave like a grizzly bear after fasting.

A handful of health-care workers in Oregon were in a bind. They were on their way back from a vaccination clinic when their ride came to a standstill on a snow covered highway. They had six vaccines in tow that were about to expire so they decided to run an impromptu clinic right there. They went from car to car, offering a free vaccination to anyone who wanted it until they had administered the last of their stash, with an ambulance on hand to make sure it all went off without a hitch.

Now, six vaccines may not seem like that big a deal in the grand scheme of things. But I’m sure there are six individuals out there right now who slept a little bit better as a result of this goodwill drive-through. Good is always a work in progress, made up almost entirely of divine patience, brick by beautiful brick, in the quiet of our everyday lives.

That’s how the grand scheme of things gets built.

 

Let’s Have Fun With Words!

16 signs that really shouldn't be spelled wrong · The Daily Edge

Bradyfullitis: A moderate to serious condition that affects the central nervous system. This comes about as the result of extended periods of exposure to Tom Brady. This condition affects more than ninety percent of the American football viewing public, with the exception of Tampa and New England. 

Electoral Dysfunction: A sign of a psychological dysfunction which is the result of acute megalomania. Symptoms include an inability to face reality or deal with its consequences. Those who suffer from this malady will create scenarios in which they imagine they have won an election they actually lost quite handily. Those most susceptible to contracting the sickness are Caucasian, entitled and delusional.

Kardashian-isms: Phrases that have no basis in self-awareness. Some examples (but are definitely not limited to). ” I’ll cry at the end of the day, but not with fresh makeup” and “The bigger the hoop, the bigger the ho”.

Swifteritous: The inability of a pop singer to come up with lyrics that do NOT involve an ex. 

Applebees-wax: Listening in on another person’s conversation while seated at a chain restaurant.  This comes about as a result of having to wait on your order for an hour, after which it’s too late to take your business elsewhere.

Wine-ification: The ability to rationalize your way through an entire bottle of wine. Those who engage in this behavior reason that once the cork is popped, the contents will go to waste unless they are properly imbibed. 

Google-octomy: Removing the urge to consult a search engine for answers. This procedure is oftentimes temporary in nature. 

Twitterology: The language of regret. Said to occur when a high profile personality hits “Send” on a particularly controversial topic. This behavior is immediately followed by a public relations created apology which begins with “If I offended anyone . . .” .

Campbelling: When a head coach plagiarizes “Dawn of the Dead” at his introductory press conference in order to show how tough he is. This will be followed by, you guessed it, more inept football by the Detroit Lions. 

Joe Exotica: Art that is intended to arouse an individual’s desire for trashy, exploitative nonsense. And yes, I watched all eight episodes . . .

 

 

 

 

North vs Mouth

“We are 75 million strong!”

It was the squeal of a Trump supporter, who was fashioned in the clownish ethos of a fat brimmed red hat that has become the new abnormal. He stood outside a federal building spewing words with the bad English of a snub nosed revolver, each participle killing Shakespeare all over again. And while I know his intent was to scare me, us . . . anybody who’s not down with high-jacking the Constitution, I was thoroughly unimpressed. I regard them as parasitical dipping dots with ’70’s haircuts, soulless eyes and a mindset stuck in the turn of the century. The 11th century.

I constructed a profile for the mole rat while considering his facile declaration, and then I came up with a nickname for the treasonous taco lab- Eggs Benedict. He possessed an oversized chassis that was underwritten by restaurants with drive-thru technology, so I figured him to be on four different prescription meds as a result. He was obviously a ladies man who had broken a lot of cousins hearts while working his way through Drivers Ed. A well read gent, he feasted on the classics; from Amazing Spider Man and Captain America to Archie Comics. His favorite quote was probably something like “Wherever I go, I’m home,” and his RV? Proved it.

But really, I didn’t come here today to bury the overgrown sandbag. I simply have a problem with his contention that there are seventy five million Trump Warriors set to do battle if posh gives way to shove it. And while I would love to call him out in real time, I’m sure he would be a tad bemused if I said I had a problem with his math. Especially since he considers math to be the gross smelling stuff his toothless brother cooks up in his double wide.

So Imma dish here on WordPress, with peeps whose IQ’s are well north of the Mason/Dixon, by calling out this 75 million troops claim as fake news. And here’s why . . .

The total number of people who went in a voting booth and came out dumber wasn’t 75 million, it was 74,222,958 votes. That’s more than three quarters of a million voters less than these Trumpists are claiming. Hey, after the way they tried painting a decisive Biden victory into a Chucky Cheese caricature, I’m not giving these ass-hats a single vote more.

So he’s already wrong, but wait . . there’s less!

Of the 74,222,958 Trump voters, a nice chunk of that gain from his 2016 numbers came as the result of the very same non-traditional voting that he was positing as fraudulent- early voting and absentee ballots. More than 100 million people voted this way, the majority of whom voted for Biden.

Say Trump only scored 25 million of those votes, that brings the “75 Million Trump Warriors!” number down under 50 now. Reason being, these peeps couldn’t even make it to the polls. How they gonna fight a civil war?

But wait, you say. By that reasoning, there are 75 million democrats who wouldn’t fight a civil war either. Welp, here’s the difference. Democrats didn’t show up because of the pandemic, so voting off site made sense. Republicans have assured us they don’t give a fuck about the pandemic, which means they were in no shape to get out to vote in the first place. And not for nothing, but most of the democrats who did vote in the non-traditional manner are young. And they’re going to be mighty pissed off if gaming and social media are taken away from them as the result of a civil war. And they’ll recruit their non-voter friends so they can get this shit over with as quickly as possible.

So now we have 49 million Trump warriors and let’s say 30 million of those voters are male, between the ages of thirty and forty-five. I’ll bet you half of that number look like my pal Eggs Benedict. Sorry, but all the firepower in the world ain’t gonna help if you have to schlep it without fuel and the meds to stave off the heart altering effects of said fuel.

We’re down to 35 million Trump warriors now, and maybe 20 million of those voters are women. Take away half of that number, because those are the Trump ladies who believe that a woman’s place is in the home. Or on target.com. Nope.

So we have 25 million Trump warriors left. And eighty percent of that total is going to fold their cards, lest they lose everything they’ve worked for, because that’s what will happen when society goes buh-bye.

5 million Trump warriors would be left standing in this entirely hypothetical scenario. And before they get the chance to yell “Charge!”, our friends from Mexico will be more than happy to throw down with the Trumpists. As will our friends up in Canada, who weren’t quite so kind in their judgements of the last guy in office here in the states. So yeah, they have five million and well . . we have the rest.

So when all is said and done, you’ll have a couple dozen assholes standing outside the White House with signs and bullhorns, trashing Biden and making plans for lunch. If you happen to be walking by and you spot a portly looking fellow in a red hat, could you do me a solid?

Tell Eggs Benedict I said hi.

 

A Brave New World

Remember the good old days?

Neither do I, but from what Billy Joel once wrote, they weren’t always good and tomorrow ain’t as bad as it seems. It’s the kind of perspective we need now more than ever, if only to keep our boots on solid ground while the stars tease us with promises we know they’ll never be able to keep.

The Millennium just turned twenty one, which means it can get its drink on. And I know what you’re probably thinking. Do we really want to meet another calendar year that’s low on inhibitions and high on unpredictability? I mean, doesn’t Tinder provide enough of that shit as it is? But I’d like to think the new year will have a better sense of humor as a result.

54 Funny 2020 Memes To Keep You Laughing Till 2021 - Funny Gallery

For a year that was supposed to be spot on when it came to vision and hindsight, 2020 was more Carter Hayes than Isaac Hayes; as in . . more fool than cool; a delinquent tenant whose ass has finally been evicted by Father Time. But not before it unleashed a voracious predator whose genomic weaponry put humankind in its place.

Within this prosaic mosaic of a tormented tapestry, humanity coped by baking bread and singing windowsill songs with neighbors. Our everlasting will became testament to that truth Aldous Huxley once wrote about in A Brave New World when he said that pain was a fascinating horror. To our credit, we prevailed when civilization became uncivil to our senses. Sometimes in spite of ourselves, but hey, it still counts.

We learned yet again that the world is forged in laws that are graceless and thieving. It fumbles the ball on mercy because it’s too busy swimming through the dredge that delivers us from ashes to ashes and dust to dust. As temporary acquaintances, we might not like to believe that the world is just doing its job the best it can, but it’s true. The details may seem extraordinarily brutal, but that’s only because we believed in the lies of poetry and wine when they told us we could live forever.

Thing is, Huxley ain’t walking through that door. And if he was, he would damn us for ever having been happy in the first place. Because he knew that happiness possessed the fleeting quality of that leftover penny in your pocket. That it’s only here to be gone, it only lives to disappear. And beneath that deceptive surface lies the truth. We make tomorrow happen not with sugary propositions but on the salt of our steps.

So, in the now, maybe happiness is not worth striving for when peace of mind will keep us steady inside the worst of storms. And maybe we have a tougher chin than we ever dreamt possible. And maybe we stop looking for the light to guide us through this dark echo chamber of tumbling madness, because maybe . . just maybe, we possess that light our damn selves. No, check that.

I know we do.

 

That Was Then, This Is Ow

Time was, the idea of change possessed an alchemized quality whose essence was the sweetly reckoned offspring of Bradbury. It screamed its fledgling lungs out in a beta operetta and we rode its song to sleep with dreams of a future replete with hovering highways, robot athletes and world peace, or nuclear annihilation. Either? Meet Or. And yet, there was an abiding charm to it all. And then 2000 happened.

Say you would have gone to Vegas at the turn of the millennium and laid down this bet . . .

That the Twin Towers would be gone. That Joe Paterno was no saint after all, his legendary name forever tarnished by a horrible child rape scandal. And Bill Cosby, America’s Dad, would be a convicted serial rapist. Donald Trump . . President. And oh yeah, a global pandemic would bring us to our knees.

No jinn joint in Vegas would’ve touch that crate of cray cray prime. And yet, here we are. With all of the above having Waffle Housed us into a braveless new world where every strange corner has become a dubious rendezvous. We’ve lost the thrill that used to be associated with mystery. In fact, sometimes it seems as if we’re downright scared of the prospect. Can you blame us?

So Imma write up a light beer What It Is for our weary minds to get drunk on. A dainty little duty free dance that regales in time machine wizardry, because I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of running from the stuff.

And to 2021, all I can say is . . have some mercy on us, will ya?

Back in the day . . . If you went viral, it was time to see a doctor.
Today . . . If you go viral, you’re famous. Or infamous. And sometimes, both.

Back in the day . . . If you enjoyed “Fifteen minutes of fame” it meant you were a temporary fascination.
Today . . . If you enjoy “Fifteen minutes of fame”, you’re a reality show star.

What Desperately Seeking Susan Got Right About Fashion | Vogue

Back in the day . . . Madonna
Today . . . Lady Gaga

Back in the day . . . You could catch your favorite musicians on MTV.
Today . . . You might catch your favorite musicians on TMZ.

Back in the day . . . A Walkman was space age shit.
Today . . . A Walkman is the shit that takes up space in your attic.

Back in the day . . . Dick Clark was going to live forever.
Today . . . Ryan Seacrest, it’s your turn.

Back in the day . . . If the President went nuclear, it was time to find a stocked up bomb shelter.
Today . . . If the President goes nuclear, he’s on Twitter.

Steve Grogan | The Patriots Hall of Fame

Back in the day . . . The New England Patriots were a quaint flea market of a football team with a cool logo that had as much chance of winning a title as the Red Sox.
Today . . . Boston sports teams have tallied 12 titles since 2000, which means they signed their souls over to Charlie Sheen.

Back in the day . . . There was a payphone on every corner.
Today . . . There’s a cell phone tower that isn’t nearly as dependable.

Back in the day . . . The New York Jets were a dumpster fire of a franchise. Even when they won, they lost.
Today . . . Okay, some things really never do change.

Back in the day . . . When you went to a concert and got fucked up, it meant you did some magical potions whose illegality made you feel as if you were somehow fighting the power.
Today . . . When you go to a concert and get fucked up, it means you went to Denny’s.

Back in the day . . . A turntable was the greatest music delivery system for music lovers.
Today . . . In my humblest opinion,  it still is.

Back in the day . . . Cameras needed flashbulbs.
Today . . . Instagram

Back in the day . . . When you didn’t answer the phone, it meant you weren’t at home.
Today . . . When you don’t answer the phone, it means you’re probably at home.

Back in the day . . . We looked back at the year that was with a melancholic affection.
Today . . . We’re sprinting to the finish line on this mofo of a calendar year.

 

No Virginia, There Is No Santa Claus (From The Archives)

I wrote this piece back in December of 2006 for a banana republic of a blog that loved getting itself in all sorts of trouble. We were a parody party, and we lampooned the hell out of life, liberty and the pursuit of breaking news.

Every now and then, I would take my way back machine for a ride when the news went cold. So it was one night that I took to skipping backwards in time, armed solely with my vagabond wit and a starched martini.

On this particular evening, I settled inside the year 1897, after which I got to stepping all over the words Francis Pharcellus Church once wrote. Church was an editor for The Sun, which was a big deal New York City paper back when Damon Runyon was a pup. Old Francis had no idea that a hundred and six years later some asshole was gonna spray graffiti all over his classic editorial. Don’t you just love progress?

Church’s piece was in response to eight year old Virginia O’Hanlon’s letter to The Sun in which the little girl asked if Santa Claus was in fact, legit. He responded with what would become a holiday classic titled “Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus”.

So . . of course I had to imagine what kind of response little Virginia O’Hanlon might have gotten if she’d been born in this day and age. The results were, umm . . less romantic. 

Dear Virginia,

Your little friends are right. They are the glorious progeny of a pragmatic generation. They understand the value of status and deride the notion of some antiquated alms giver delivering unto them their precious I-Pods. They do not believe except they see. A valuable commodity in this day and age; and one I would advise you to obtain. Their minds may be small, but their ability to filter out the ridiculous notion of a jolly old man bearing gifts is commendable. Indeed, they dare not marginalize the corporate benefactors that are their parents by spewing folly about Santa.

No Virginia, there is no Santa Claus. He does not exist as certainly as faith, hope and WMDs do not exist. Alas! How dreary would the world be if there truly was a Santa Claus! His existence would rob us our autonomy; our secularly gifted right to seek truth and define our uncertain world rather than color it with vagaries. Be warned, to subscribe to such a childlike faith is dangerous, one might even say prohibitive. Its nexus is borne of classic outdated American literature and ecclesiastical dogma. We should expect no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. Leave the childlike enabling to Hollywood producers.

I urge you dear girl, do not believe in Santa Claus! Just as you do not believe in fairies or honest politicians. You might contract with a privately owned security company to verify the hard wrought, commercialized fancy of red suits and magical sleigh bells. But imagine the cost of such an endeavor. And to what end? To simply disprove what is already common knowledge? Your sole discovery will lie in the fact that chimney sweepers are vastly overpaid. You will find no sign of Santa Claus. And then you will understand that the most real things in this world are those which you can wear, play and drive. Imagine how inefficient a world it would be if we gave credence to the unseen; think of the abject ignorance which would predominate our lives if we believed in miracles rather than science.

You dissect a nursery rhyme and you can see why non-fiction sates the publishing houses bottom lines. Because there is no unseen world where fiction holds dominion. Neither the wealthiest philanthropist, nor even the bi-lateral thrust of a UN-led invasion can unearth a place that does not exist. Let the evangelists proselytize about some supernal place; let the vagabond poets abscond to their sacred patch of merry. Resist the temptation to be led to Shangri-La. Is any of it real? Um, Virginia, of course not.

No Santa Claus! Thank goodness for that! Do not fret, nothing lasts forever- except for disposable diapers and Dick Clark. This vicious rumor which has scarred so many children and resulted in an incalculable number of therapy sessions will see its end. Ten years from now, Virginia, nay 10 times 10 years from now, when the world becomes an uninhabitable swamp thanks to global warming, there will be no Santa to fool our hearts and remind us of our dysfunctional childhood.

The Rushmore

In honor of the month long joyride me and Dale have been taking on the road to Rushmore, I just had to dish up some eats to go along with all the great music we’ve been poring over as we carve out some history, one note at a time. And so here’s a sandwich that I’ve attached its namesake to.

The Rushmore Sandwich:

The dream began with some fried chicken I’d made the night before. You know how some of the best sandwiches are made? Leftovers, and good ones. So the provocation became inspiration . . and then good fortune started riffing when my daughter made a delicious loaf of oat bread with sunflower seeds. Because once you have the bread, there’s no excuse not to go building something tasty.

My chicken has a first name . . .

And it’s breading, for real. Be eclectic, and really . . you can’t get more eclectic than Zapp’s Voodoo Potato Chips, ground into a fine mist and tucked across the surface. From there it was all disco.

Bread is more than just a classic rock band from LA . . .

It’s the quintessential piece of the sandwich puzzle. Without the bread, all you have is the leftovers. And that’s fine when you cook up a piece of chicken on the level of disco. But you want a side of dynamite to go with that magnificent ball? The bread . . has to bring personality. My daughter supplied with hers, as she’s been doing since she was a wee little lass. Girl has mad skills.

Come a knocking when you hear the rocking . . .

Because if you don’t have the bandmates, it’s not a sandwich for reals. So I had to create a succinct (or is that succulent? . .  let’s go with both) list of talented rhymers to go along with my main event rockers. And so muenster cheese supplied me with the creamy sidekick, without hogging the spotlight. Tomato, because I love the color and the cool, very much.

How do you top this? . . .

An egg. Everything, and I do mean everything- except peanut butter ripple- tastes that much better with an egg on top. It takes a sandwich from “Damn that’s good!” to “Damn! What’s my name again!?”. It’s seriously that importante . . .

Speaking of importante, how about that crescendo? . . .

Glad I asked. It happens after you’ve toasted the bread on a pan to achieve those delightfully seductive grill marks. And then you add your chicken and cheese and tomato and finally . . that glorious egg. Now, you can cook up the egg any way you wish but for yours truly, I like to glaze the yolk without taking away that sunshiny ooze that happens when you bite in. It serves as the condiment for this party, and it’s why I show you a capture open faced. And it’s also why the avocado didn’t make it in the doors. Besides, it looks so sexy walking in on Rushmore’s arm, doesn’t it?

What more can I say, other than . . .

Frites. Hand cut by yours truly and done to a crunchy turn. There’s no substitute for DIY when it comes to this side. So take the extra time, and you’ll be happy you did.

Welp, that’s it and that’s all till next time kids. Dish up and dine well.