Sneezy Was Also A Dwarf

Thai food makes me sneeze, evidently.
   So does the dusty inside of a disreputable muffler shop.
   And being in a ship on the ocean. But being in the ocean itself does not make me sneeze.
   Trying not to think about sneezing makes me sneeze. So does looking at a lit flourescent tube. Really.
   Picking my nose while driving my truck past the intersection of Third and Highland in Los Angeles made me sneeze more often than not. I have no idea why, but I did test it out and the results are better than chance.

I'm not an allergic person, no pet dander, no pollen, no milk products, no peanuts, no shellfish. As far as I know I'm not allergic to anything, never have been. I'm pretty sure it's because of all the dirt my parents let me eat when I was a kid. And yet, for some reason, those things I outlined above will make me sneeze. Every time.
   Why?
   Would someone tell me why I can walk into a Thai restaurant and sneeze immediately even though I haven't sneezed in days? Doesn't happen for a Japanese restaurant, or Korean, or Italian, or German, or even a McDonald's. But the moment I walk into a place where the waitresses wear brocaded full-length skirts, the sneeze is on.
   Is it psychosomatic? What trauma in my past life led me to associate sneezing with Mee Krob? Better yet, how the hell do I stop?
   This kind of makes me wonder, what other things do I do unconsciously, things that don't draw attention to themselves quite like a sneeze does. Maybe I stare into the refrigerator? Maybe I twitch when I walk past a fudge shop? I don't know! It makes me crazy. Or maybe I was that way to begin with.

Grease Is The Word... Ugh...

I've been trying to eat better lately, more healthy stuff, more veggies and less sweets. Trying to be good. But every so often you just gotta have a burger.
   Yesterday I went to a local place where you can get a great burger with your choice of a lot of different toppings, even specialty mayonnaise. You can also get sweet potato fries, regular fries, and onion ring things all on one plate. So that's what I got. And a 1/3 pound burger with Gruyere cheese, grilled onions, pickles, and guacamole. With pesto on the side. Made that one up myself. And it was goooooood... mmm - mmm.
   Then I went home.
   Climbing the stairs - because the elevator STILL isn't fixed - I felt the bloat. I had a little food baby in my tummy and it was kicking up a storm.
   I fumbled with my keys as the lethargy set in. I managed to get through the door before my eyes closed. The couch called to me and I answered. But I couldn't fall asleep. My food baby was tossing and turning, determined not only to keep me awake but to make me sorry I'd ever set foot in the restaurant. As I lay there in abject misery, paying for my twenty minutes of indulgence with hours of regret, I realized things had changed.
   I am worthless and weak. Time was I could eat two Big Macs with fries and a big-ass Coke, then do five hours of back-breaking work outside and never feel a thing. Now I eat a great non-fast-food burger with fresh fries and I'm laid out like Sonny Liston after he dared to face off against Muhammad Ali.*
   What a wimp.
   Next thing you know I'll start liking TV shows about high school glee clubs, and I'll probably start going to Broadway musicals. Hey, wait a second...


* this way-back machine moment brought to you by the Howard Cosell Memorial Sports Reference Foundation.

Talkin' Bout A Clambake

It's been a while since I've seen an Elvis movie. And by that I mean sat down and watched one, start to finish. Sure I've clicked through the channels and run across one now and then, but it's been so long since I've become absorbed in one. You know, let it wash over me and just appreciated it for what it was.
   So today I watched 'Clambake.'
   I gotta say, it's not bad, not bad at all. It is an Elvis movie, so he does sing about regular stuff. Like having a clambake, or painting a boat, or being a millionaire trading places with a pauper water ski instructor so he can find true love with Shelley Fabares. You know, what everybody sings about in their own lives.
   Made in 1967, Clambake was the start of Elvis's resurgence, the media storm that resulted in the black-leather Elvis Comeback Special of 1968. He wasn't as young as he was when he made 'Jailhouse Rock' and he wasn't as bloated and jumpsuited as he was towards the end, in the mid-70's. This was Elvis as most people remember him, in his early 30's and vital.
   Since it was made in '67 there is a lot of smoking in 'Clambake,' and themed jazz dinner clubs, and 'dancing' that looks as odd as it must certainly have felt. And the message is about young people trying to find themselves and make their own way in the world. Very much of its time.
   But it was fun. I didn't feel robbed of two hours as I usually do when I watch a more recent movie. And I felt good afterward, like my cares had been released, at least for a time.
   So if you're feeling down don't reach for booze, or food, or cheap sex with strangers. Or cheap sex with someone who owns a themed jazz dinner club, just find an Elvis movie and watch. It'll cure what ails you.

M&Ms, Lotto, and Pot

A while back - a long while back, if you want me to be honest - I knew a guy who was living beneath his station. We were both waiters, so the bar wasn't set very high to begin with, but Jimmy had ducked under. While I was still living with Mom and Dad, Jimmy was living with Dave and Heidi. Dave and Heidi like their pot, and Jimmy REALLY liked his pot. A lot. An awful lot, if you know what I mean. I envied Jimmy the simplicity of his existence. Get up, go to work, finish work, come home, spark a J, and fade off into oblivion. Next day, repeat as before. No real decisions to make, no real responsibility aside from his account with his dope man.
   Jimmy lived on three things: M&Ms, his daily ration of pot, and the absolute certainty that the next time around he was going to win the Lotto. I'm not saying that he was really, really hopeful that he would win, he KNEW the next jackpot was his. Every time. It was an amazing display of both hope and delusion, with perhaps a bit of desperation mixed in.
   He never won. Not once. From time to time he'd hit a few numbers and get a buck or two back, maybe win five or ten bucks once in a great while. But that didn't stop him from going back over and over and over again, each time secure in the belief that his luck would turn and he would end up the next easy millionaire.
   And I wondered about this. Was he being foolish or was he being hopeful? Was there a difference between the two?
   His situation was desperate, he rented a small room in a tiny house in a pretty crappy neighborhood. He worked as a waiter and had no formal education beyond a high school diploma. He had no girlfriend, and his prospects for improving his lot in life were dim. He was obviously hoping to shortcut the entire process with a big-ticket Lotto win, but he also just as obviously needed something to look forward to, some aspiration to hold onto to distract him from the harsh reality of the shambles his life had become.
   He wasn't so different than everyone else. Each of us may have a much better situation, more money, more friends, love, a good job. But there is always something missing, something more we feel we could be doing, something better just out of reach. There's always a lotto ticket we think we could buy to instantly erase everything we don't like and make it all just the way we wish it were. But we know in our hearts that nobody really wins the Lotto, not people like you and me.
   But people do win. Every day. So I'm thinking I need to be a little more like Jimmy, a little more hopeful, a little more optimistic. A little less stoned, obviously, and a little more driven to make the change I want, rather than just wait for it to happen by itself.
   Now, where's my bag of M&Ms?

Why Are All The Fire Trucks Here?

As I left the building this morning to go work out I heard sirens. With the way the sound was echoing down the various streets, I had my suspicions immediately about where they might be headed. When I rounded the corner by the cooking school I saw that my hunch had been correct: the fire trucks - all six of them - were outside the gym.
   I saw civilians leaving the building and fire fighters gathered around the entrance, so using my Batman-like powers of deduction I concluded the fire fighters had ordered the building evacuated. The fact that several of the people exiting told me that exact thing only confirmed my amazing skill at piecing together information. But I know how these things go, and the firemen weren't in any sort of hurry. No hoses, no ladders, no axes, no urgency meant no fire. So I wandered up to the front door to wait for them to re-open the building.
   Here's the scene - six fire trucks in the street with lights flashing, fire fighters in reflective gear outside the door, gym employees outside the door, gym patrons outside the door. You'd think that anyone arriving would be able to figure out the situation immediately. And you'd be wrong.
   I stood there for fifteen minutes and nine people - I counted - came up and tried the door. And they all seemed genuinely surprised when the gym staff told them the place was evacuated and that they couldn't go in. One guy in a business suit said, and I quote him verbatim:
   "Really? Was there a fire?"
   I guess he thought the fire fighters were having a pancake breakfast fund raiser? That the fire truck ten feet away - literally - was for the kids to play on?
   Just when I start having faith in my fellow man again, somebody comes along to knock some sense into me. Are people that clueless, or are they that self-centered that they think fire trucks and evacuations are for other people?
   Yeesh. Some people just don't get it. This is why reality television is still profitable.
   On the plus side, I know now where the lockbox for the firemen's keys is. If you keep your eyes open you notice a lot of stuff.
   And, for complete closure on that anecdote, the fire was caused by a short in a wall plug (I overheard the fire fighters' radio), into which was plugged a vending machine. With an extension cord.

Symbolically Speaking

I want a symbol, something that people could look and instantly know me.
   Everything memorable has a symbol. Apple has their logo with the bite taken out, Chevy has the bow-tie, NBC has the peacock, the World Wildlife Fund has that panda. Even the Nazis had their swastika, memorable doesn't necessarily mean good.
   So I need some kind of symbol. I could use it instead of a signature, like those red symbol things they use in China. Even better, I could plaster it across my chest like the red 'S' that Superman wears. See? Another instantly recognizable symbol.
   Problem is, I'm completely at a loss for a suitable image. I need something that screams 'me.' Not screams in a flaming, flamboyant way, don't get the wrong idea; I need something that screams in a manly, entirely hetero-appropriate way. Maybe a monkey wrench?
   Hmm... what says 'unemployed middle-aged white guy?' A sink full of dishes? An unmade bed? A guy asleep on the couch in his underwear?
   I'm willing to take suggestions.

Things That Worry Me Which Probably Shouldn't

I never run any red lights at intersections where they have those traffic cameras. It's not because I'm afraid of getting a ticket, though, I'm just worried about getting a bad picture.
   I've seen photos taken from those cameras, they're really sharp and in focus and capture the essence of the driver. Usually people I've seen look angry, a few of them look distracted. Some look gassy.
   I would be picking my nose. Which, while everybody does it, in a photograph is just gross. It would be just my luck to blow through one of those intersections and have the camera snap a frame while my index finger is two knuckles deep, tickling the base of my brain. I don't need to see that, and I don't need the DMV to see it either.
   Most people take great care not to be seen picking their nose, they usually do it in the bathroom where they do other icky but necessary stuff like flossing their teeth (you do floss,right? Every day?), popping zits, and other potty things. But you don't really need a mirror or any special tools to pick your nose; your finger just sort of creeps up there and gets to work. Which means that you can take care of business while doing something else entirely, like mowing the lawn or sculpting or composing a sonnet.
   Or while driving, as long as you have a window cracked to 'dispose of the evidence.' And don't get all uppity and protest that you would never do such base a thing as pick your nose at all, let alone behind the wheel. I do a lot of walking around my neighborhood, and I can see drivers just as easily as they can see me. And trust me, waaaaay more people pick their noses behind the wheel than you might think. Including you.

When Hef Is Gone

I don't want to alarm anyone, but at 83 years old and counting, Hugh Hefner is on the back side of his tenure here on Earth. He's going to be gone sooner rather than later, and when that happens, what's to become of the Playboy empire? The 'empire' is now pretty much reduced to the magazine - no more Playboy clubs - but that magazine is a cultural staple, everyone knows it and most people have leafed through its pages.
   I know that when I was younger I eagerly read all the interviews with Gore Vidal and Norman Mailer and absorbed all the advice on proper grooming and electronic equipment and the like. And the college football previews... I'm sorry... what's that? There may have been photographs of nude women in certain issues of Playboy? Really? Huh, how about that. I never noticed.
   I don't think anybody can underestimate the influence Playboy has exercised on American culture, coming as it did in the early 50's right after World War II and the Korean 'police action' ended. To say that the 60's as we know them would have been different without Playboy is an understatement, and the 70's was absolutely the Playboy decade, with its navel-gazing excesses and unrestrained permissiveness. Hugh Hefner and his magazine have, for better or worse, shaped the America we have today.
   But the question about what happens to Playboy without its founder remains. Since I am currently 'between assignments' I will volunteer, I will put myself in service to this country by taking the reins of the Playboy empire and running things as Hef does, three girlfriends at a time and all. That's right, I'm willing to make that sacrifice, I'm willing to put myself on the line for this country, to make it a better place by keeping the Playboy tradition alive.
   Time to get myself fitted for slippers and a smoking jacket, I'm ready to start work.

Straight Guys Who Like Musicals

We have a newcomer to our meeting tonight. Go on, stand up. Don't worry, it's okay, you're among friends.
   Hi, everyone.
    Hi.
   What do I... I mean... I never... God this is so hard...
   It's okay, really. You know what to do, you've seen it in enough movies, right?
   I guess so. Just... oh, God, what would my father think...
    We're ready when you're ready. You just have to make the first step.
   Okay. Whew.... okay. Hi, everyone.
    Hi.
   My name is Don, and I'm a straight guy who likes musicals.
   Hi, Don...
   It all started with Singing in the Rain. You know, with Gene Kelly? I saw it when I was a kid, couldn't have been more than eight.
    Statistics show that the younger straight guys are exposed to musicals, the easier it is for them to be hooked.
    What about gay guys?
    They're born with it. Like being able to color-coordinate things and having a fabulous design aesthetic.
   Makes sense. Anyway, it was on Saturday afternoon, you know? Back when there were only three channels and after cartoons there were either monster movies, Abott and Costello, or musicals.
    Those were the days.
   Yeah. Little Rascals sometimes, too. So I was eating a baloney sandwich, with the crusts because men liked the crust, but with Miracle Whip and cut diagonally because that's the way my mother did things, when I see this guy splashing around in puddles. My mother didn't like me splashing, but here was a guy on TV not only doing it, but singing while he was doing it.
    Gene Kelly. One of the best. Singer, dancer, and actor.
    No shit. Like the Brett Favre of straight Hollywood triple-threats. Brett Favre? Green Bay Packers? Two SuperBowls, one win? Nine-time Pro Bowler?
    Hmm... doesn't ring a bell.
    Played his first year for the Falcons?
    Oh! That Brett Favre!
   Yeah. So after that first taste, the first forbidden look at a grown, heterosexual man singing and dancing in a movie, I was hooked. I saw them all, An American In Paris, On the Town, Top Hat, Shall We Dance. All of them. But I couldn't let anybody know.
    Your secret shame.
   Exactly. Every Saturday I had to tell my friends I was grounded, or that I had to help my grandparents or something. It was hard, living a double life. I managed to suppress it for most of high school. But then in college a girlfriend dragged me to see the theater department's production of Guys and Dolls, and I was off the wagon. After that, it was anything goes. All That Jazz, A Chorus Line, The Lion King. Even... God help me... High School Musical. I'm so ashamed...
    It's okay. Really. We've all been there.
   Thanks. It's good to finally be able to talk about this. I mean... I thought I was alone. I thought I was the only one.
    You're among friends.
   A few weeks ago I went to see Wicked. Great show.
    You didn't go alone, right? Did you at least go with a girl?
   Absolutely.
    Was she hot?
    Like you wouldn't believe. Beautiful eyes.
    Nice rack? Hot ass?
   Well, you know, kind of the whole package... I'm not sure I should be telling you...
    Got a picture?
   No, but she has a myspace page... wait a minute. I'm not showing you guys!
    Well, we might like musicals, but we are straight.
   Yeah. Yeah. Thanks for understanding, guys. It's good to talk.
    Seriously, about this chick you took to Wicked, one a scale from one to ten...
   Aren't you supposed to have sugar cookies?

From My Bookshelf

To keep busy and yet not spend any more money, I’m re-reading some of my book collection. I may even splurge from time to time and buy a new book.
The Book of Vice by Peter Sagal of NPR’s Wait Wait... Don’t Tell Me!
Mr. Sagal goes on an exploration of various vices, from swinging (not the playground kind) to eating, to gambling. Right now I’m up to Eating, but eagerly anticipating Pornography. So far it’s funny - of course - and fairly creepy. Which is the point, I think.
Quote: '...so we can be certain, as we dig into our pork tenderloin with the demi-apricot glace, that the meat comes from an animal whose throat was cut by someone it knew and trusted. There are those who say that the ironic betrayal adds piquancy to the flesh.'