Tuesday, September 29, 2020
Taking Flight: College for Students with Disabilities, Diverse Learners and Their Families by Perry LaRoque
Tuesday, September 22, 2020
OK, so a couple things about pumpkin beer. First off, what the fuck? Whose stupid idea was this in the first place? Now don't get me wrong - I am all for culinary experimentation under the right circumstances. When I first introduced my Grampa's Extra Spicy™pickles made with fatalii peppers and a secret ingredient that there is no way in hell I'm going to tell you, lots of people said, what the fuck? But was more of a what the fuck, what mad genius came up with this incredible addition to our pickle panoply, and how is it possible that Vlasic has declined his offer to serve as a consultant, not once, not twice, but on three separate occasions? It would be like a publisher passing on this novel three times - inconceivable! Truly, is that company run by monkeys with pocket protectors or something? But back to the issue at hand, some guy was thinking about what might make his beer taste better, and he thought, I know! Let's throw in this gourd that people literally only grow to scare people or to obliterate with baseball bats. Stupider than the goddamn monkeys.
Also, let's do a little math, folks. Start with the date that you first see pumpkin beer on the shelves. If you're living in blissful ignorance, that was a few weeks ago. Go back another week for bottling and shipping. Then recognize the fact that on that date, there was not one fucking ripe pumpkin in all of North America. So I don't know what is going in that beer to make it taste like pumpkin, but I know what it isn't, and that's pumpkin. Just think about that for a minute.
I should acknowledge that typically, I don't drink beer at all. Not that I don't like it, but I prefer to drink out of the coffee mug that my granddaughter gave me for Christmas a few years back with a picture of her family. It has a big crack about halfway up from where I tried to chip my son-in-law's face off of it (mostly successfully), so now I can only fill it about halfway. And four ounces of beer never did anyone any good, which is why I pretty much stick to gin. At least in the morning.
But with all that said, I am not a someone to look a gift horse in the mouth, so when my son brought some pumpkin beer to share "in the spirit of the season," I did allow him to come in. After a single sip, I thought for sure that he had come to poison me like I always knew he would, but before I could even exclaim "You're out of the will this time for real!," he tasted it and assured me that the flavor was - I shit you not - exactly what they were going for. I swear to god, you would be better off making pickle beer with all the Vlasic pickles that should be taken off the market in the first place. Probably more lucrative too. Are you taking notes, monkeys!?!?
Saturday, September 12, 2020
It's the best time of the year again, folks. Pickling time! The time when culinary artists like myself get to shine, while the rest of you chumps suffer through jar after jar of Vlasic's monstrosities. Really, what kind of world are we living in where a company like Vlasic still exists? I know there is a lot of shit going on in the world right now, but after we deal with COVID, racism, and voter suppression, we need a pickle revolution in this country. The other day I poured myself a bowl of Rice Krispies, and then I accidentally fell asleep in my breakfast nook. When I woke up two hours later, they were still crunchier than a Vlasic pickle. You might as well just dip a banana in vinegar and leave the cucumbers for the rest of us. Jesus H Christmas.
Anyway, this year I told my granddaughter Tina she could do some canning with me, with two conditions. The first was that she read this book ahead of time so we could talk about something other than animal rights and her endless, nonsensical dreams. Tina, I don't give a shit what the centaur with your father's face represents! The second condition was also important, but I'll be damned if I can remember what it was. Curse my gin-addled brain. Anyway, my rabbit issue reduced my yield a bit this year, but I still had enough cucumbers for a couple dozen quart jars, and I had some new breeds of spicy peppers to try out, so I was hopeful of a good time.
But no sooner had we begun than my neighbor Margaret showed up at my door, uninvited (obviously). She said she had extra cucumbers that she would gladly give me in return for a taste of the final product [insert sinister grin]. I told her in no uncertain terms exactly what she could do with her extra cucumbers and reminded her what they used to do to spies in the Old Country. But then it dawned on me, how did she know I was low on cucumbers? Could she and Tina be in cahoots?
I didn't want to believe it, but I couldn't afford to take any chances. I got out my old metal detector that I used to use on the beach to avoid spending time with my family on vacations (noteworthy finds included a nearly complete set of dentures, a krugerrand, and a leg shackle with a bone still in it), and I gave her the full TSA treatment. She wasn't wearing a wire, as far as I could tell, but I'm not sure that proves anything. She did briefly stop talking during the search, so that was a win. When all was said and done, we ended up with 13 varieties of pickles, which was acceptable. The frisk and search may have put a damper on the bonding a little bit, but at least we both liked the book!
Sunday, September 6, 2020
A timely book, this, as the kids are after me about my will again. Now don't get me wrong - I am no billionaire, but I've got enough saved away to support my extended retirement. Granted, I didn't expect to live this long, so the coffers aren't as full as they used to be, but every time my son-in-law is over here (not that I let him through the door if I can avoid it), I can see him sneaking peeks at everything he'd like to get his hands on. Filthy rat. The most valuable things in my possession, of course, are my secret pickle recipes, but I'll be damned if anyone is getting their hands on those. No sir, I will take those to my grave, and you all can just eat Vlasic's abominations until you puke.
But anyway, Eleanor and I were always very responsible, and we've had a will in place for decades, and we've never changed it. The closest we ever came was when I talked to a lawyer to find out if there was a way to leave money to our daughter Rachel without allowing her asinine husband to use any of it. It turns out that such a thing is possible, but it is a hassle, and Eleanor thought it was "mean-spirited," if you can believe that. So everything just gets split evenly with no fuss. Of course, the kids don't know that, and therein lies the fun.
If you've ever read my reviews, you know that my kids frequently do things that piss me off. In fact, pretty much everything they do pisses me off, and I am a very, very patient person. I can give it back though too. One year, at Christmas Dinner, I was so sick of listening to my son-in-law Gerry mansplain Art Deco that I announced out of nowhere, "So, I have changed my will." Oh, what a moment. At first, they didn't believe it (they were right, of course), but soon disbelief gave way to anxiety, anger, accusations, and despair. It was beautiful! It was like I had regained the parental power I hadn't had since my kids moved out of the house. I refused to give them any details, and I took my leave. Best Christmas ever.
Since then, I have made it a point to announce ambiguous changes to my will every six months or so, and for a while, it was working like a charm. But sadly, like all drugs, it lost it effect over time. So a few weeks ago, I told them that I had dissolved my will altogether. And they went batshit crazy! Two points for me! The anxiety of not knowing what to do when I die (and that being such a realistic possibility at my age) seems to really be getting to them.
But this book brought up an idea I had not thought of. I could actually leave my entire estate (do normal people like me still get to call it that?) to a complete stranger. My last revenge! I don't imagine the fallout would be quite as extreme as in this novel, but it will be worth it just to see their faces (not sure how I manage that, but there must be a way). So, if you would like to be considered as a potential heir to my vast personal fortune, simply comment below as to why you are a deserving candidate, and also leave your name, address, bank account info, credit card number, PIN, mother's maiden name, internet passwords, answers to your typical security questions, birth certificate, SSN, a PDF of your thumbprint, retinal scan, and a signed affidavit with a notary stamp stating that all the above are given willingly, and who knows, you may soon be very rich!
Monday, August 31, 2020
This past Saturday appears to have been "National Independent Bookstore Day," if you can believe that. I mean, come on people, I love books, but do we really have to have an official special day for everything? How does this even happen? Do we all just inherently have the power to declare a day to be in honor of something, and then everyone has to buy into that? Can my neighbor Margaret declare that tomorrow is Snooping Self-righteous Old Hag Day, and then we all have to give her presents? Or can my son-in-law Gerry decree that next Friday is People Who Made Repeated Bad Life Choices Day, and then we all have to get dressed up and pretend that his life still has the possibility of turning out ok? My daughter says that every day is something now, so I looked up an important day in my life, September 26, and found that it is - I shit you not - National Situational Awareness Day. What the fuck does that even mean? All these special days are simply ridiculous, and they take the meaning away from actual important holidays, like National Pickle Day, which is November 14, so write that down.
In any case, Lawrence decided to take me to my local independent bookstore in honor of the day, and you will not be surprised to learn that I wasn't too happy about it. I don't really like going into stores, or being in crowds, or buying things, or interacting with people, or celebrations, so there wasn't a lot going for this. However, I did not want to overlook the fact that Lawrence was still willing to take me somewhere after the Flat Earther incident, so I reluctantly agreed.
I was predictably bored and annoyed at first, but then I saw this book - something by one of my favorite authors that I hadn't even heard about. The disgustingly cheerful bookstore lady explained that this was book was printed exclusively for Independent Bookstore Day and not available anywhere else. I told her that struck me as the stupidest promotion strategy I had ever heard. Why write something brilliant and then try to ensure that people won't buy it? Might as well write poetry. I had promised myself not to let Lawrence trick me into buying anything, just so couldn't think he had done me a favor that I would have to repay some time in the future, but then the idea of having a book that other people couldn't get started to settle nicely in my brain. So I bought one.
It's not a long book, so I went to the coffee shop next door (apparently, for some fuckers, it's already pumpkin spice season) and I read it. And it was great! I was briefly happy, but then it started to gnaw at me that lots of other people might also be reading my exclusive book and enjoying themselves. So I went back to the bookstore and bought all the rest of the copies that they had. And I was happy again! I must say that they make a beautiful pile next to my La-z-boy, and it is tall enough to hold my coffee mug full of gin at just the right height. And if the mug leaves a ring on a book, I'll just rotate that one to the bottom. Plus, I can flaunt them in front of my visitors, use them as bribes, or maybe even sell a few at a profit on Tinder, or whatever it is. As I was admiring my stack last night, it did occur to me that maybe the promotion strategy for this book was more clever than I had originally recognized. Touché, Mr. Towles. And Happy Bookstore Day, everyone!
Wednesday, August 19, 2020
Saturday, June 27, 2020
This is a work of utter goddamn genius, and it deserves a thoughtful, laudatory review. Unfortunately, it will not get one here, because as I write this, there are goddamn bunnies wreaking havoc on my garden! It should come as no surprise to anyone that bunnies are one of the most reviled animals on the planet. Equally destructive and unsightly, these crafty little fuckers are hell bent on ruining my day, which puts them in rather copious company.
I'm afraid I have to take some responsibility here. For a number of years, I have surrounded my garden with three-foot chicken wire, which was pretty effective. But it was getting harder and harder for me to reach over the fence and pull out a radish from the center of the garden, what with my bad back, knees, shoulder, ankles, and hip. Which is not to mention my bunions, which don't really affect my gardening, but still hurt like a bitch. So this year I went with a more alluring welded wire fence that was only two feet high, which helped me out some and looked pretty good, if I must say so myself. Which I must, because no one visits me any more and my neighbor Margaret just stares out her window looking jealous.
But, as you can see, two feet was insufficient. At first, the bunnies just ate the kale, and I didn't really care that much. I don't even like kale. No one likes kale! People just like the idea of kale - it's kind of like marriage. I only started growing it as a conversation piece for when my son Larry used to take me to his university events. That way he could say, "Good afternoon, Professor Pretentious Asshole, this is my father - he grows kale." And all the pompous yuppie professors would swoon and say "Wow! That's amazing! Lacinato or curly?," as if they knew the difference (lie) and then say shit like "Oh, Seymour, you really must try the creme brulee here at the faculty club. It is one of a kind!" (lie), and then pontificate about nothing for an hour and tell me what an honor it was to meet me (true), but they didn't mean it (so really, another lie). Of course, Larry doesn't take me to those events any more, but what do I care?
Anyway, when the kale was gone, they started in on the beans, and that was when I got my M1 Garand rifle and my hunting cap and went out to sit guard in the backyard. Ok - the rifle is a replica that I found at a flea market, but I didn't think the bunnies would know the difference. It was going pretty well, actually, until Margaret starting calling me Elmer Fudd, and I just couldn't bear to give her the satisfaction any more. So here I am watching them out the window, just praying that they don't get into my cucumbers, because if I can't make pickles this fall, I'm not really sure what the point would be any more. It's like that famous gardening quote: "First they came for the kale, and I did nothing. Then they came for the beans, and I thought, oh shit, I do not like where this is going. And then they came for the cucumbers, and it was evident that I truly and royally fucked." Or something like that.
Wednesday, June 17, 2020
I hate to disappoint you all, but I'm back. And I'm fine, or at least as fine as you can be at my age. So thank you for your messages of concern, but no, I am not sick; no, I was not attacked by my neighbor Margaret's goddamn yippy schnauzer; and no, Gerry, I did not "realize the stupidity of this entire enterprise." What happened was, my grandson sent me a health report from Breitbart News that said you can get COVID over the internet and that elderly people were particularly susceptible. This resulted in some very peaceful weeks of solitary reading in my La-Z-Boy, but it turns out that once again, Jackson is full of shit! Furthermore, that Breitbart guy isn't even a doctor! So I will add this to the list of things that young people don't know shit about, and against my better judgment, I will return to wasting the small remaining portion of my life on this damn machine.
Another thing young people don't know shit about is American history. As a mature adult, I have found that reading about American history is both depressing and infuriating. In this way, it is similar to reading about the American present and the American future. One particularly enraging aspect is how different we think we are now from how we were then. But politics at the birth of the nation is just today's politics with asinine accents. I promise you that anything that pisses you off about today's politics was happening in Washington's era. Politicians lying to the public? It's in there. Presidents complaining about fake news? Pandering to public opinion by repeated flipflopping on the issues? Scapegoating immigrants? It's in there. Supposed statesmen enriching themselves by exploiting people of color while unironically complaining about encroachments on their freedom? Looking at you, Jefferson. It's like a goddamn jar of political Ragu - it's all fucking in there! And we think our society is advancing.
I'll tell you one area where we are actually advancing, and that is killing each other. Given today's state of arms, the Revolutionary War reads like a playground skirmish. Half of military strategy appears to have been predicting the weather, which of course they couldn't do for shit. The war turned multiple times on this idiocy! The kidnapping of a general foiled by uncooperative river currents. The destruction of an army avoided by fortuitous fog. At one point, our army's major strategy was to stack hay bales so the enemy couldn't see what we were doing! These are our national heroes, people. When my kids were young, I once built a hay maze for Halloween, which I believe would have qualified me to be a brigadier general under Washington. I was just a few years too young, as it turned out. It makes you wonder where we might be if we had advanced politically at the same rate we did militarily. Or maybe you don't wonder that - what the hell do I know?
Friday, May 1, 2020
Thursday, April 16, 2020
Friday, April 3, 2020
Tuesday, March 24, 2020
Anyway, now we are social distancing, and it kind of feels like I died and went to Heaven. No knocks on the door, no obnoxious neighbors, no skateboarders on the sidewalk, just peace and quiet. Speaking of dying, before we received the beautiful, wonderful order that we were no longer supposed to interact with other people, I was at a funeral for a friend. Now first off, stop right there. Save your sappy sentiments for another day. At our age, you recognize death as a part of life, and the spirit of the occasion was generally positive. You'll understand someday.
However, having just read this book, I had some nagging thoughts. The newspaper (and my friend's family) said that he had died of natural causes, but Sherlock Holmes would remind us that things are seldom what they initially seem to be. I started looking around the room at everyone thinking, "Was it you?" I mean, killing someone our age is a relatively pointless endeavor, but my friend did have a well-curated collection of LPs, numerous bird feeders, and an expensive set of extra dentures. So the motive is obvious. The means wouldn't have been hard to come by either - a moderate bump from the side would probably have been sufficient. It could have been anyone, but when my son-in-law Gerry made a snide comment to me about wearing cargo pants to a funeral, he became the prime suspect!
First off, there is nothing wrong with wearing cargo pants to a funeral or anywhere else. I am at the point in life when function surpasses form on the priority list. And I needed all those pockets! One for my handkerchief, program, breath mints, list of people's names I was supposed to remember but didn't give a shit about, etc. One for a book for when my friend's daughter starts talking (Jesus Christmas, people, it's like a verbal Mount Vesuvius). One for garlic and a crucifix - hey, you never know what might happen when you get that close to a cemetery. And one for a bag of Takis (those things really are addictive, although in retrospect I recognize that the crunch factor and orange fingers made it possibly not the best choice for the occasion). The point is, why would Gerry be casting aspersions my way if not to deflect attention away from himself? Case closed, people. Now I just have to decide whether to go to the police or avenge my friend myself. Once social distancing is over, of course.
Monday, March 16, 2020
Well, it seems like all anyone wants to talk about these days is the coronavirus, and lo and behold, everyone thinks he's an epidemiologist now. You couldn't find this many armchair experts at an antique furniture convention! Every five minutes we are told to either panic or just relax, and it's starting to piss me off. Luckily, I never listen to anything anyone tells me in the first place. But I'll tell you one thing I'm tired of hearing - "No big deal, folks. It's only old people who are really at risk." Hey, fuckers, that's us! Who do you think is actually watching the news, instead of just reading people's tweets? Know your audience, for crying out loud.
The thought of contracting this virus is far less aggravating than having to listen to people talk about it all the time. The hysteria bubbling up from people's inner psyches makes me wonder about our resiliency as a species. You've got more chance of dying from being punched in the face over the last bottle of Purell at the store than from the actual virus. Yesterday I saw a pick-up truck drive by overflowing with Costco sized packages of toilet paper. What do people think is going to happen? Does coronavirus cause uncontrollable diarrhea now? Are they going to wrap themselves up like a mummy for protection? Can you eat that stuff in an emergency? Jesus.
One reason for all this panic is that people don't know actual hardship any more. All these young "adults" whose parents wiped their noses for them all through high school don't know what to do with themselves in an emergency. People like me could tell them a thing or two about hard times. Or maybe Hannah Owens, the plucky protagonist in this coming of age novel. She would handle this situation a lot better. When your mom dies abruptly, you get sent off to live as a housemaid, get stuck in a brothel, abused, cheated, threatened, and you still come out the other side, you don't freak out and go on a toilet paper shopping spree at the first sign of trouble.
So to summarize, could you please just wash your damn hands? And listen to the professionals. Last I heard, the recommendations were to stay at home and socially distance yourself from others. Sounds like a reward to me! Some generations were asked to protect their communities by going to war. You are being asked to play XBox for 2 weeks. We can do this, people.
Tuesday, March 3, 2020
So I get a call from my grandson after my last review, and he says that he and his friends want to know my story about shaving an elephant. Oh, I see. Now that you and your friends are off to college, I don't ever hear from you, I am as forgotten as PSY's followup single to "Gangham Style," and now you want something from me? Well guess what, snowflakes? Forget it! It's good to want things. So keep wanting. You can all go console yourselves with your collection of participation trophies, Fortnite, and your vaping parties, or whatever it is you do. Good to know you're reading the blog though - keep it up!
For the rest of you - want to know something else stupid Jackson and his friends did? Last weekend, they did something called the "Polar Plunge." Have you heard of this shit? A bunch of so-called adults cut a hole in a frozen lake and then jump in the water. On purpose! When I asked him what the point was, he said it was raise money for some charity I never heard of - Save the Despondent, Socially Stunted, Screen-Addicted Millennials or something like that. First of all, lost cause. Second of all, if there is a charity doing good work that you would like to support, how about you give them some damn money? Or volunteer? How the hell is jumping in a lake going to help anyone except by giving you a chance to show off your half-naked bodies on Instagram?
And get this, they are planning another one. And he wants me to do it! I think even suggesting such a thing is tantamount to attempted murder, because I am certain that if you put me in that lake, I will die. Even if I am not killed instantly by the shock, I can barely get my arms over my head these days, so swimming is pretty much a non-starter. To get to the point, I would rather get sucked through the Saint Louis arch and have to deal with a bunch of werewolves, vampires, and succubi, like the main characters of this book. Unbeknownst to them, they are Venators. Venators, for you newbies, are magic wielders and defenders of justice. Kind of like American Senators, only with actual power, capacity for independent thought, and a moral compass. I am hoping that in the sequel, Rune and Grey are released into the Senate to kick some ass.
But I do not have time to get angry about politics right now, because I am too busy still being angry at Jackson and his faux-philanthopist buddies. So here's an offer for you and your roommates, Jackson. Dig through the layers of moldy nacho cheese and hardened Ramen noodles on your couch, collect all your loose change and bring it over here, and together we can find an appropriate way to donate it to a good cause. And I will let you borrow this exciting book. And just maybe, I will tell you that story about the elephant. By the way, don't tell your mom.
Thursday, February 27, 2020
Guess what people - I grew a beard! Just goes to show that you are never too old to try something new. And what a beard it is! Noble, elegant, distinguished. It is a beard to put all other beards to shame. Think Harrison Ford. Or Sean Connery. Or maybe Harrison Ford playing the lead role in a biopic about Sean Connery. For a dissenting opinion, you can talk to my daughter Rachel, who told me I look like the Unabomber. But what the hell does she know? I bet she never grew a beard or met the Unabomber, so she can shut the hell up.
I am at least partially indebted to this book for this glorious, regal beard. This is the kind of adventure story in which everyone should have a beard - character or reader. In fact, the more the action grew, the more I imagined that everyone had a beard! Bards, wizards, servants, male or female, old or young - beards for all! In my opinion, it made the book even more exciting. I also appreciated the idea of replacing a monarchy with a democracy, especially since around here, we seem to be currently experimenting with the opposite. But dictatorships aren't all bad, I suppose. When I succeed King Trump, I will decree that all American shall don beards! And pickles will be named our national food! And our national drink will be gin in a coffee cup with the words "World's Best Grampa" misspelled on it. I am already ahead of the curve.
To be fair, this book is not the only reason I decided to grow a beard. Beyond the fact that I have scant purpose in life and literally no need to look respectable any more, it's fucking cold outside! Don't get me wrong - I try not to leave my house intentionally, but sometimes you have no choice but to go get the mail or yell at a teenager on a skateboard. My neighbor Margaret has her little schnauzer dressed up in a sweater that matches her overcoat again, which is a sign of two things. First, it is too cold to walk your dog. Second, my neighbor is an idiot.
The elephant in the room here is that my face is becoming virtually unshaveable. I have been diligent about this for a long time, but the writing is on the wall. The wrinkles in my face are starting to resemble the Mariana Trench. I may have to actually iron my face before shaving it from now on. The hairs themselves are thick enough to be used as toothpicks, and last week I used my cheek to smooth a wooden banister when I ran out of sandpaper. It's pretty much like trying to shave an elephant's balls at this point, which I can tell you is nearly impossible. But that, friends, is a story for another day.
Sunday, February 16, 2020
Well, it appears that I am not qualified to be a sheep herder. I was actually able to talk to a guy who runs a ranch in Wyoming, and I explained my predicament. He agreed that my neighbors sound like a bunch of assholes, and when I asked about his, he told me that due to his location, he has no neighbors. Could it be Heaven on Earth? I begged him to let me come, but he said that I wasn't qualified, not only due to my age (I think he smelled a discrimination lawsuit), but also due to my "lack of necessary skills, knowledge, and relevant experience." Well, damn. I told him that if you basically just sit on a horse all day, I am already a champion sitter here in my La-z-boy, and he told me that if I came out there and tried to do that job, "the land would destroy me." Funny, I told him, I just read a book about that.
It was a good book too! I was grateful to be included in this blog tour, as I don't think I would have found this one otherwise. But the theme was timely, the characters were compelling, and the plot moved quickly. I always like seeing bad people (read: most people) get their comeuppance, so I settled in for some nice schadenfreude as the Earth punished everyone. And I was reminded of battles with nature from my own past.
When Eleanor and I moved into this house, there was a big old stump in the backyard. Eleanor wanted to put it in the contract that the previous owner would have to remove it, but things got a little tense when I commented on the recent abysmal paint job and the cracks in the ceiling they had tried to plaster over, so we were worried that anything more might jeopardize the sale. I assured her that I could take care of it, and she gave me the look. And God bless her, she was right, as usual.
I started with my saw, figuring I could get the majority that way, as well as some roots. I have to admit that I didn't fully understand the depth, length, or width of the roots, and after losing three teeth (two on the saw, one of mine when I pulled too hard trying to get it unstuck from a particularly large root), I was pissed. So I got out my ax, and I went to town. After about an hour, I had made virtually no progress, but I felt better. It's always good for your mind to swing an ax at something, I think. Anyway, I thought I might be able to wrap a chain around it and pull it out with my car, but then I realized that I had axed away anything I might be able to chain it to. It was about that moment that I saw my new neighbor Margaret peering through her windows and laughing at me. Thirty-four years later, I have not forgiven her.
The next day, a friend stopped by with a housewarming gift, and he told me that he had removed a stump in his yard with dynamite and that he had a couple extra sticks leftover. Something primal and manly deep inside me was triggered, and I knew that this was the solution. What I did not know was that dynamite sticks are directional, and it actually matters what way they are facing when you blow something up. I ended up with a crater big enough to be designated as a lake in Minnesota, and the entirety of the former contents were splattered all over my newly (abysmally) painted house. HOWEVER, the stump was gone, and I painted the house an appropriate color. So, in the end, Seymour 1, Earth 0. Take that, Gaia!
Monday, February 10, 2020
Well butter my biscuits, did I ever get some, let's call it "feedback," after that last post. Apparently, some people don't see the obvious dilapidation of society all around us as clearly as I do. Some people think we all love each and march down the street hand in hand singing Kumbaya and eating apple pie every day. Hell, even my neighbor Margaret had to offer her opinion. She said that this is a lovely neighborhood, and we all get along and trust each other. Well, guess what Margaret? I don't trust you, and I don't trust your schnauzer either! Admittedly, that is beside the point, but I hate that damn dog. Anyway, I told her there was no reason for her to be reading my blog anyway, but she laughed and said it was "charming." I was infuriated. I assume she didn't read this, this, or this (Look Jackson, I can do hyperlinks!).
Anyway - if this neighborhood is such a perfect, trusting society, explain this to me. A few years ago, my granddaughter Tina was visiting, and Eleanor and I had just bought her some new roller skates. No, not roller blades, you idiots. Real, actual roller skates, like God intended. Why do people have ruin everything and call it a technological advancement? But that's beside the point. We just wanted Tina to do something other than talk to insects and squirrels all day, and she liked the roller skates, so one point for us! She asked if she could go skate around the neighborhood for a while and show her friend Sally.
So 20 minutes go by, and I start to think I should check on her. I am about 60% sure I know where Sally lives, so I walk up there, and there's nobody home. Another kid comes by on her bike, and I stop her and ask if this is Sally's house, and she confirms that it is. She must have gone somewhere else then. I figure Tina will come home when she's hungry and I so I walk home. Sound normal to you?
Lo and behold, the parents of the girl on the bike were about a block and a half behind her and observed our 10-second conversation. About 15 minutes later, Tina comes home in a panic saying that a woman had stopped her to warn her that a creepy old man had been sneaking around the neighborhood looking for little girls! She asked where Tina lived and told her to go home right away. Five minutes later, the woman shows up at my house to further expand on her warning, and when I open the door, she shouts, "It's you!" I politely explained that it was my damn house, so who else should it be? The look on her face told me that she knew she had fucked up, but she was so high on righteous anger and pathological fear that she told me her story anyway, only adding at the end that I must already know the story because it was me all along. I explained what had really happened and invited her to talk a walk, unescorted, away from my property. She did so.
So, the point is, don't give me any pie in the sky story about the state of society. I know what's up out there, and it's not good. Luckily, this beautiful book has given me a new idea. I now intend to move to Wyoming and become a sheep herder. It seems that sheep have a lot more humanity than humans. I have already sent some letters inquiring about positions. So if this turns out to be the last review I write, I'd like to thank you for reading it, and I hope you all have a nice life or whatever. AOM out.
Wednesday, February 5, 2020
Hold on to your seats, suckers! This book is an action-packed thriller, as a bunch of misfit heroes, laden with all kinds of emotional baggage, try to save the world from a bunch of vampires, multi-headed hydras, dragons, giant metal monsters that are beyond my gin-addled brain's ability to properly understand, and a plethora of multi-colored hellhounds. No small task as you might imagine. But what really gets in the way, beyond the myriad creatures from the abyss, is their lack of a sense of community. If they had just been able to get along better, I'm sure they could have closed the portals and confined these otherworldly beasts to other worlds. But that's just typical for society these days, isn't it? Let me share an example.
Now that I have become fluent with "electronic mail," my grandson put me on some kind of list where I get a bunch of stupid messages from everyone in my neighborhood. And you would not believe the crap people write. When I moved here, the neighbors all spoke to one another with their actual mouths. You would see everyone at school or neighborhood events, and you might spend a moment or two thinking before actually speaking. Conversely, I guess thinking before sending an email is not a thing.
The first message that came through was from someone claiming to be putting a fully functioning, never used ice cream maker on the curb for anyone to take. This was obviously a lie. I mean, who would do that? First of all, get off your ass and make some damn ice cream! Is it too much work for you? I hope you realize that that machine was explicitly made for lazy fuckers who can't be bothered to make ice cream the real way. And even that was too much to ask? Pathetic. Second, if you really had one that worked, wouldn't you give it to a friend instead of putting it on the street? Too lazy put dial the phone too, or just no friends? My thought on this ice cream maker was that it was broken at best, and a trap at worst. Sadistic child poisoners or something like that. I lumbered up there just to save the kids but it was gone before I arrived. I'll be scanning the obits even more closely than usual this week.
Then a message came through from someone "concerned about safety in the community." According to this armchair vigilante, someone was peeking over his fence to scope out the premises, then knocked on his door in broad daylight to see if anyone was home. He then left, but we should all be on the lookout! An hour later came a response that read, "That was me. I am your neighbor and have lived next to you for 10 years. I got some firewood, saw that your pile was low, and came to offer you some." And that pretty much sums it up, folks. We don't need vampires to destroy our communities - we are doing it ourselves! Any chance that portal is still open? I might prefer to take my chances on the other side.
Friday, January 31, 2020
It's a blog tour, folks! Dozens of people writing reviews of the same book, and you chose to read mine? I can't say that speaks highly of your judgement, but I am grateful to you nonetheless. As I was grateful to read this suspenseful murder mystery! Samantha Church, our cunning protagonist, faces a slate of obstacles in her quest to make sense of the circumstances of her sister's death, but believe it or not, as she gets closer and closer to the truth, she has to deal with the possibility that people won't believe her because of her own personal flaws. And that, my friends, is something I can relate to.
You will probably find it shocking to learn that I have often been accused of having personal flaws myself. And not all of these relate to my personal hygiene! I have at times been demeaning to others, especially people who deserve it, mind you, like my no-good son-in-law Gerry, who insists that laundry be sorted into 5 groups from light to dark. God damn it - don't you realize that all those fancy buttons are lies? The washing machine only does one thing, for crying out loud.
Also, my language is not always pristine, I have occasionally spoken ill of my neighbors, last week I told a cashier that I had a coupon for Metamucil that didn't exist and asked him to give it to me half price anyway, I once put bullion in my grandson's showerhead, I hate puppies, I am a bad listener, I don't understand how the internet works, I won't share my pickle recipes, I occasionally berate people in public with scant provocation, I have poor feng shui, and I tend to write run-on sentences.
And because of these trivial shortcomings, my opinions are often discounted unfairly. And yet, I am almost always right! When they came out with New Coke, I was in one of the first taste tests, and I told them if they thought anyone would drink that swill, they were a bunch of fucking idiots, and you know how that turned out. And no matter how many times I have told my family that we should invest in one of those underground bunkers because one day the whole world will be run by trigger-happy fascists, they never listen, and now look where we are. And I told my grandson that Golden Corral was the absolute last place he should take his prom date, but even after two liters of IV fluids, did he ever admit I was right? No, he did not.
So, the moral of the story is, don't kill people. And the moral of the review is, listen to me, damn it!
Wednesday, January 22, 2020
Tuesday, January 14, 2020
OK snowflakes - here's a dystopian thriller ready to obliterate whatever is left of your Adderall-riddled minds. Mr. Wind has created a world in which every single thing you do is recorded and available for viewing by anyone at any time. The sad part is that I'm sure a lot of you young people probably see nothing wrong with that! I mean, here you are, posting selfies of everything you eat, videoblogging yourselves picking your noses, and publicly rating every shit you take on a 5-star scale. But I am old enough to remember a world where dignity and privacy existed, and I found this book both spellbinding and terrifying.
I was going to call this book a futuristic cliffhanger, but the truth is - this future is not that far off! Look around you right now. Do you see the cameras? Look closer - they are watching you! The NSA, CIA, FBI, AAA, PETA, AARP, 4H, BBB, NBA, YMCA, LMNOP - they all want to know what you're doing. And why? Not for national security or anything like that - just because people are nosy fuckers, that's why.
The evidence is all around us. Just the other day, my son stopped by after his lecture at the university. After a nice discussion of how many holes in your shirt is appropriate for a professor and why he can't keep a girlfriend (perhaps two related issues), we talked about a book we were both interested in reading. Sure enough, just a couple days later, an Amazon package with no return address arrived with that exact book! How could that happen? Mr. Bezos - I know you are reading this, and while I appreciate the book, I will not be bribed! Did you know that if you sign up for Amazon Prime, they now insert a chip into your neck that can read your thoughts? It's amazing what people will do for a half-priced avocado at Whole Foods.
It's not just fancy technology that brings this on either. Wherever people exist, they will want to spy on other people. Take my neighbor, Margaret. I can see right into her dining room from my kitchen window, and half the time I look over there, she is just staring out the window at me, trying to see what I'm doing! And if I look from my upstairs hallway with my bird-watching binoculars, I can see her writing at her table, and I can make out little bits of it, and it looks like she is writing reports on my activities! Dammit Margaret - leave me alone! So enjoy this imaginative fiction for now, folks, because in a few years we'll be re-reading it as a documentary.
Monday, January 6, 2020
Jonathan Safran Foer wants us to stop global warming by no longer eating animal products. And unfortunately, he makes a pretty strong case that is difficult to argue with. But I'll tell you this - I am not about to let a bunch of facts and rational arguments stop me from eating delicious juicy steaks! I earned that shit, people! But I'll make all you crunchy eco-warriors a deal - I will offset my steak consumption by no longer taking showers. We'll call that a win/win! Showers are a hassle anyway, especially because my son-in-law never got around to installing that shower seat he told he would put in - thanks for nothing, Gerry! You're just waiting for me to fall, aren't you? Anyway, maybe every time I would have taken a shower, I'll just eat a steak instead. It's much safer. Besides, I truly doubt that I will be alive long enough to eat a number of steaks that makes any discernible difference to the climate. I'm afraid this is something that your generation is just going to have to deal with on your own. Thanks, snowflakes!
Also, I hope all you pinko tree-huggers realize that there is some sinister shit happening in the vegetable world as well. For example, are you aware of how mini-carrots are made? I always assumed that they had spliced the genes of a carrot with those of a chinchilla or a pygmy hedgehog or something - I mean, what isn't a GMO these days, right? But get this, those are just - I shit you not - regular carrots! This is the most shocking revelation since Soylent Green! Apparently, they just shave those normal carrots down until they're tiny, because Americans are too damn lazy to peel their own carrots or to eat something too large to put in their mouth all at once. The amount of waste inherent in that process is mind-boggling. And it is pretty sad to realize that mini-carrots are not an agricultural advance, but just the impotent, empty shell of a once-proud species, like a neutered dog or a moderate Republican. So don't lecture me about my well-marbled t-bone.
Here's the craziest thing that ever happened to me involving a mini-carrot (it was tough to narrow this down, mind you). One time, when I was pissed at Gerry (deservedly), I threw a mini-carrot at him across the room (you'll have to trust me that this was an appropriate response at the time). Somehow I missed, and the carrot landed in the garbage can and impaled itself lengthwise on the open end of an envelope, like it was getting a giant paper cut, and it stayed upright on the envelope on top of the garbage. OK, now that I re-read that, it doesn't seem as amazing as it did at the time, but at my age you don't always have such crazy stories, so cut me some slack, eh? And still, what are the odds of that happening? I bet if I gave you 100 mini-carrots, you couldn't do that once. Any takers? That's what I thought. OK, steak time.
Monday, December 23, 2019
It's becoming a bit of a personal tradition to read this book around this time of year. Some people have called me cold-hearted (bastard people, mind you), but this book does strike an emotional nerve at times. I mean, just to think of poor Jacob Marley, cut down in the prime of his earning potential, and by what even? It's a mystery. After a close reading, I bet it was a prostate thing - it would explain his demeanor when he returns as a ghost. It's the silent killer that no one wants to talk about, but here's a PSA - gentlemen, get yourself checked. I do it every year, whether I need it or not.
Anyway, this year I found this edition with the original typeface, and that was a nice novelty. The font reminded me of newspapers from when I was a kid. In the city, there was no paper delivery, so you had to go out and find a newspaper boy and buy a paper from him. The kids were a pain in the ass, and a weird lot too - always haggling about the price of papers, dancing around, and singing songs about New Mexico and stuff like that. Or maybe I'm crossing my memories with something, but in any case, it was nice when I moved out here and someone would actually bring your paper to your door. Now, of course, some guy just drives by at 40 miles per hour at 5 in the morning in a car with no muffler and chucks the paper out the window and you're lucky if it even ends up on your property, but hey, efficiency!
So I told my daughter Rachel that my Christmas gift to the family this year would be to not attend the big family Christmas dinner. I thought it would be a win/win, but Rachel told me with a straight face that everyone would miss me if I wasn't there, even Cousin Jim, the nose-whistler. I mean, Jesus - what the hell is up there that prevents him from breathing normally, and wouldn't you think that it could be removed? Do you think maybe someone stuffed a harmonica up his nose when he was a kid, and it's too close to his brain to operate? I can hear him from the other room even over the sound of my son-in-law pontificating about how walking the dog in the woods (for once) gave him a newfound perspective about nature and our relationship with the Earth. Damn it, Gerry!
So I guess I have to go, but I will not go quietly. My Christmas present to myself this year is the last jar of Ghost Pickles that I canned this summer (my spiciest ever!). I've been saving it for a special occasion, and I think this is it. My plan is to eat the entire jar in the morning just before I go over there, and then just let my digestive system take care of the rest on its own. Merry Christmas, suckers!
Monday, December 16, 2019
Ah, drugs. So useful for so many things. They are just right for scaring the shit out of your in-laws, making listening to Phish almost tolerable, getting into parties when you're too old to reasonably be there, creating temporary, artificial meaning in the midst of a purposeless existence, and in the case of Mr. Bigelow, facilitating one's exit from Mormonism. But just when it seems that he will be sucked forever into the underground Punk scene, there is a twist! Want to know what happens? Read the book, suckers! Meanwhile, let's talk more about drugs.
Here's one of the sad ironies about drugs. When you are young, when your brain is still not fully formed, when you have life goals still left to accomplish, kids to raise, and plenty to lose, drugs are everywhere! When I was in my twenties, I could hardly go to the post office or to an underground fight club without being offered drugs. They were everywhere! And it wasn't just the hippies either. The straighter the tie, the higher they fly! That's what people said anyway. And if I had a dollar for every schmoe I saw ruin his life with drugs, I'd have enough for a dimebag, at least.
But where would I get one? The flip side to all that is that once you have accomplished all you will in life, no matter how little that is, when you have nothing left to lose, no one to harm, no moral sensibilities left to offend, and nothing else to do anyway, the drugs are gone! I no longer get invited to parties where I can ask if anyone knows a guy, and if I went into the neighborhoods where I know people used to be selling, I would probably be dead before I was high, and that would defeat the whole purpose! What is a curious, very mature gentleman to do?
But there is some hope! Have you heard that they are starting to prescribe psilocybin to old people with "death anxiety?" They give it to people in supervised labs with whitecoat scientists guiding your LSD trips. I mean, can you think of anything more likely to kill a high than having to talk about it with a bunch of psychologists in the moment? And why are we not supposed to be anxious about dying in the first place? Off we go soon to perhaps something beautiful, and perhaps eternal damnation, and perhaps nothing at all, but hey, who gives a fuck, right? No worries, Mr. Psychologist, but if you really want me to feel better, maybe you could give me some privacy while I get my "treatment." And by the way - Jackson, if you are reading this, don't show your mother. It's embarrassing to have your own daughter give you "the talk" about drugs.
Saturday, December 7, 2019
Many thanks to both Dave and Kenneth for allowing me to be part of this blog tour. It is a privilege I hardly deserve, and a pleasure to read such a great book! I liked a lot of things about it - it had a novel idea, and it was a fast read with entertaining characters. It has action, humor, and nice tips on how to be evil, if that's your thing. And these all are reasonable things to say in a book review, right? More or less what you would expect? Certainly not "a bunch of snarky bullshit," as my son-in-law Gerry would have you believe. Are you fucking kidding me? This from a guy who didn't know that you can make corned beef hash without just getting it out of a can!
Some people can never get over their jealousy, that's their problem. Even when I did more or less give my consent for Gerry to propose to Rachel (I think my exact words were, "If you're going to do it anyway, then have at it"), he knew he could never really replace me as the top dog in her heart. And living so close just reminds him of his relative unimportance. If it were up to him, they would have moved to some hellhole like Arizona years ago, and I would never get to see my grandkids. And I can tell he's still plotting. Come to think of it, he would have been a much more successful devil's apprentice than that kid, Philip.
My relationship with my father-in-law was not like this. The first time Eleanor brought me home to meet her dad, I challenged him to Indian leg-wrestling. He kicked my ass seven times in a row, but he knew from that point forward that I wasn't afraid of him. And that was important later when I did things he didn't like, which was most of the time. But Gerry is so weak. You should have seen him when he came to ask for some help with a down payment for their house. We had already told Rachel we would give them the money, but when I gave him the line about how money was tighter than I thought these days, I thought he was literally going to cry. Pathetic. I still refer to it as "my house" sometimes just to watch him cringe. So I recommend this book to everyone, but especially to Gerry, who I think will learn some useful life lessons.