Thursday, January 22, 2015

Frame n’ Complain

Though many would class me as a square by nature I have never been fond of foyers or family rooms full of framed photographs featuring my offsprang and extended hillbilly relatives. I have precious little hanging space as it is in this canary cage so why would I want to mess up my cell’s perfect white padding with a bunch of nail holes to show off moles, trolls, and lost souls? Anyway it is important not to scare away unprepared guests with sickening crime scene photos of cracks ON the wall before they are juiced with a jug of Visine and at least a sleeve or three of Dramamine.

As a matter of fact I hate oval frames or memorialized montage photo collections too especially if they are of ME, captured and preserved under glass mounted conspicuously for all to see. Who needs hallways filled with unrealistic representations of their kids when they smelled almost good and their faces were crease-less and mostly grease-free. No outsider really wants to suffer through anyone’s shrine to a perfect wedding where all of your friends look thin and the only crows feet to be found were actually on the rows of crows in the background as a Hitchcock omen of things to come.

I don’t think it’s that I am camera shy since even now as a graying ghost, I’m still willing to mug freely and be even more transparent and unappealing than I already am. Yes I admit it, I purposely tousle my tresses with intentions to impress-less, and cleverly forever-ly, never look my best-est. It’s probably just my subconscious defenses fending off the photogenically insane, from infecting me with desire for dull glossies to frame of irrelevant relatives and faces mundane.

So stuff your soft-filtered Lifetouch and uppity Olan Mills, ‘cause grouchy gazers of my ilk have had all their frames filled. Keep portraits hidden under fat flaps and between covers of books; cram them in locked albums, dark recesses, crannies and nooks. And please . . . extra caution from fast slaps is well advised; as an indignity penalty for any lasting, nasty snap framing, of pink baby backsides!

Thursday, January 15, 2015


As a TUFT guy invariably I spend some part of my day glaring and daring to make up the beds around this chicken shack. You would think after years of stuffing my face and making it soft and puffy, then I would be pretty good at fluffing up a roost or two into an oversized set of flannel jammies. But sadly no matter how much I wrestle and wrangle, sheets, pillows, bed bugs n’ blankets, I never ever seem to get the better when battling boxsprings all surly and thankless.

First I have never met a more frustrating feat of linen than that of the stinking ‘pucker-pointed’ fitted sheet. Even my Wally-Mart fat pants allow for more stretch, ebb, and flow than any fitted sheet will ever know. I mightily lay and splay to tuck the curly corners down, but invariably first one point gives way to bed-center then the opposite two, like an irritating elastic slingshot burrito-ing my view.

Let’s face it, it’s established fact that bulky, billowy sheets are just too big to wash, fold, and certainly place neatly back on any bed by one person much less a goof like me. Even ghosts have learned that lesson long ago and now usually prefer to appear ‘au naturel’ unless haunting a Klan picnic or some hooded terrorist hoe-down.  That’s why I probably need to recruit an army to spray Febreeze on bed linens and just leave them in place forever, or Velcro tiny pillowcase-sized chunks of fabric together to build my own right-sized sheet.

Ok, I know I’m probably not the best arbiter of boffo bedding unless you are talking about the stuff I pitchfork out for ballpoint PENned animals like myself. Yes for me less is more when it comes to laying down on the job, so you can keep your stuffed n’ puffed comforters and your haughty pillow-topped dead skin sacks for yourself. Like my oak barrel heat-hardened head, (except for those creaks under pressure), as long as you keep my crate warm . . . I think bare solid wood makes for sounder sleep anyway!

Thursday, January 8, 2015


I generally am not an envious creature since despite outward appearances, most people often have more complex and hidden weighty baggage than even I am able to stuff into my tiny overhead bin. Anyway my life has been reasonably charmed with good calories, chances, and a Teflon-tempered family willing to still walk me even when I gurgle, grouse and grumble.  So it’s sensible to just stick with my own known quantity of crazy and slog through a routine trying not to inadvertently break other people’s stuff or publicly scratch too vigorously, except when buying lottery tickets.

I will admit though I do gaze upon the neighbor’s ol’ yellow dog and at times admire his simple, unpretentious and seemingly perfect existence. Even with all of the positive support surrounding me I still have to constantly consider consequences and what people may think if I make odd choices or do unusual things. That’s not the case for that geezer-mutt next door since he doesn't care about shallow hidden whispers from others on the color of his coat, his mental acumen, health, and of course the enduring ripeness of his scent.

It would be great to just dash out to the border of the front yard, mindful of the underground shock-wire of course, and gleefully start yelling at door to door salespeople and politicians who dare approach? Who wouldn’t love the freedom when they get the urge to purge while on a walk, to just just stop, drop, and wrangle a rope or two to green up a neighbor’s lawn and lubricate their mower’s wheels. Life would be a lot easier if I could chew on furniture to brush my teeth, did not have to wash or even wear clothes, and got to lap up my coffee right from the floor rather than messing with putting it in a mug first.

Since I reckon I could get through puberty by the age of 2 and on to senior discounts by 3rd grade, even with the whole 7 to 1 aging thing, clearly a dog’s life is looking pretty attractive to me right now. Despite that few dogs work for the government, some do have a bad reputation for harassing postal workers, which I find unbelievable since I’m sure they ALL must be in the same union. Given the similarity of great lifetime benefits, low and slow work expectations moving papers from street to stoop, and walking around unshaven and hairy - how else could you explain it?

Thursday, January 1, 2015

Revolving Resolutions

Though New Years already has enough alcoholic baggage with it to make it my least favorite holiday, the expectation of realistic resolutions always makes it feel like it comes with homework too! You mean I have to wish for world peace, bacon flavored Pop Tarts, and robot servants and really mean it? I thought they taught us in school that clichés will take care of all ills simply by ‘dreaming big’ or ‘standing strong’ to achieve anything right?

Clearly that’s why there is little motivation to be the first one out of the gate in a confetti-driven stupor to resolve to do much of anything other than get out of bed and scratch - which I am rather good at by the way. If only the world would truly revolve around football, food, and parades, then all of life’s toughest problems could be figured out and dealt with on every January 1st.. That would leave the rest of the year left just to goof off and make / re-break the non-essential goals and impossible dreams that relentlessly recur and face us all in daily life.

Generally my resolutions fall into two categories – ideas that I am cursorily interested in but for only 5 minutes or less, and goals that I want to do for a lifetime but sadly will also do for less than 5 minutes as well. Oh sure every year I commit to ‘getting into shape’ but that’s NOT the type of resolution I should be making. The real mystery is whether my skin-sack's shape should resemble something akin to a tall n’ tan steak fry rather than the UH-oh-so familiar soft, ashen couch potato.

Honestly though, I don’t get melancholy over the relentless passage of time and the unfulfilled dreams of the previous year, since tomorrow’s literally a new day and change always happens. That is the one revolving constant that makes not just New Years, but ANY day just as good as any other for taking chances, making goals, and even missing marks. So for as many days as you keep on breathing, raise a glass, smile, and keep reaching for stars no matter how far away they may appear. Because I resolve one thing is certain – just like me, you’ll be making the same toast and jelly all over again - in just 364 and a quarter days!

Thursday, December 25, 2014

Christmas Stalking Showdown

Once again I did not get what I wanted for Christmas and it makes me cranky. Every year since I was a kid I have waited up late to try and catch Santa breaking and entering and once again he somehow gets by my defenses. Don’t get me wrong, I love almost everything he and the reindeer leave (except for those raisins on the roof), but it bugs me that no matter what macho thing I do he still gives me the slip (a frilly one from Victoria Secret).

I’m not sure what Santa has to fear from me other than I resemble Rudolph’s pal, the Bumble – except I’m a bit harrier and still have a few of my own teeth left. Oh he is probably just bitter because I refuse to let one of his creepy mini-minions, the elf on the shelf, stare at me all night while I sleep. Geez have a heart Santa, I already fend off spiders, mice, and bed bugs, around this dump – so is it any surprise I want to extend a middle digit to one of your little midget’s too?

Is it too much to ask that the graying fat man in the red and white jammies, other than me, use the back door without ringing the bell, just like the rest of my hillbilly clan-family. This year, simply so there won't be any mistakes, I even stuffed foam up my chimney to keep the chill out; and let me tell you that’s a lot more challenging than those thin thermometers. Yes I was really prepared this holiday with candy cane cameras, bright landing lights, and even a few cookie-claymore trip lines to give St. Nick  a sign it’s the right time to finally face ME - the grim wreather.

At this point I am starting to doubt if there is, or ever was a REAL Santa at all. I have actually been to the North Pole but I never saw a red-striped, bearded benefactor there or at any of the other three spikes which hold up my tent. Maybe all this seasonal stewing n’ stalking I am doing of St. Nick is a waste of time? Clearly I need to give up on hunting down Santa and his elusive elves and just concentrate on something far easier to swallow like the ‘Fountain of VERMOUTH’!